Celestia Sleeps In
Chapter 9—Mistakes
Admiral Biscuit

After Lyra left for the night, Octavia and Twilight finished the architecture section of the book. They moved on to the next section, which showed items that would be found in a typical house.

They hit the wall fairly quickly. Octavia finally went out and got dinner, while Twilight struggled to understand the drawings of transparent globes. There was a bulb-shaped one which had a coiled filament drawn on two supporting posts, as well as a similar short cylindrical device. Each of the two had a threaded base. There was also a drawing of a long white tube, which was cut away to show what went inside. However, since she was unable to read the text, she could come to no conclusions.

The next page was clearly illustrations of lamps and wall sconces, but instead of having a glass chimney, they had the same mysterious spheres in them. It was possible that the creatures had invented some sort of flameless light-producing magic, and kept it inside the glass sphere.

Her mind flashed back to Rainbow’s hospital room. There had been a lamp on the bedside which turned on and off at the push of a button. She remembered that there had been similar lamps in some of the high-class homes in Canterlot. She’d found them fascinating—one could push a hoof-friendly button on the base, and the lamp would go on or off.

“I was prepared for this,” she muttered, smiling unconsciously. Studying the lamps, she had learned they contained a pair of carefully-aligned copper wires which picked up energy from the leylines and transferred it to a precisely-shaped crystal—usually milk quartz—which then glowed. The button broke the circuit, leaving no path for the energy to take.

Could these globes work on the same principle? Each of them had two wires, supporting a thin spring. Even the cut-away tube had a spring in it. Might these creatures have discovered a way to use leylines to produce a glow from metal? Or, were they able to shape darker crystals in a spiral pattern somehow? She scribbled a note to consult with Pinkie Pie on the different methods of petriculture.

She was interrupted by Spike, who was bearing a letter from the Princess.

My dear Twilight Sparkle,

First, I wish to thank you for the magnitude of work you have performed for Equestria. Already, your letters have been copied and forwarded to professors at Canterlot University, who will begin speculating on what kind of culture this creature has. I am intrigued by the quality of its printing—Luna showed me the vast tome of its anatomy, and I believe such a thing to be beyond pony technology. It would take the best unicorns years to produce such a volume—and this creature freely gave it to Lyra. Such books—and other complex artifacts—may be a commonplace item for these creatures. Therefore, I am afraid I must issue a minor rebuke. Your letters seem to imply that you believe the creature—and its civilization—is inferior to ours. I do not believe this to be true, and will not, unless it is clearly demonstrated. I am given to understand that this Dale has shown great restraint and patience during the exchanges with Lyra. We are likely as alien to its experience as it is to ours. I understand that a logical scholar’s mind such as your own may cause you difficulties, but I wish to remind you of your experience with Zecora. I would be happy to send your friendship report back, if you need a reminder. While your theories are quite enlightening, if you cannot withhold judgment of the creature’s civilization, I am afraid I will have little choice but to find a cultural anthropologist from Canterlot University to take the lead position.

Finally, my sister has informed me that the star which orbits the planet is called Eratosthenes. When I asked her what that meant, she just smiled, and said it was a little joke. It may have been at my expense—she often did that when she named stars, I fear. However, I cannot remember any ponies named Eratosthenes. For what it’s worth, the name sounds Pegos.

Princess Celestia

P.S. I did decide to include a copy of your friendship report.

“Dear Princess Celestia: My friends and I all learned an important lesson this week. Never judge a book by its cover. Somepony may look unusual, or funny, or scary, but you have to look past that and learn who they are on the inside. Real friends don’t care what your cover is; it’s the contents of a pony that count. And a good friend, like a good book, is something that will last forever. Your faithful student, Twilight Sparkle.”

Twilight laid her muzzle down on her desk. She felt like she’d been bucked in the stomach. She was trying her best—she really was—but it wasn’t good enough. She’d never seen the creature, she’d never seen the world it inhabited; all she had to go on were its fantastic books and Lyra’s impressions of it.

A tiny part of her mind suggested that she should write a scathing letter back to the Princess, telling her that if she thought she could do a better job, she ought to just come out here and try. Of course, she never would—if she did, she’d no doubt find herself banished to the moon. She’d just have to try harder. She could start by going to lunch with Zecora tomorrow. Twilight had promised herself to spend more time with the zebra, yet other things always were coming up. In this case, perhaps Zecora could offer a different cultural perspective. Maybe even Gilda, if Rainbow knew how to get in contact with her.

She heard the front door opening, and hastily rolled up the letter from the Princess. She managed to levitate it into her desk just before Octavia walked into the main room, a sack of food gently gripped in her teeth.

“I fear I forgot my coin purse,” she explained, after placing the food on the table. “The waitress at the café was kind enough to let me take the meal on credit. Gossip gets around your town quickly—she knew that I was staying with you, although not why.”

“It does,” Twilight muttered, opening the bag. “If you saw any of the flower trio, you’d understand. Those three can overreact to anything. I think they’re more skittish than Fluttershy.”

“Fluttershy?” Octavia looked at her quizzically. “Do you mean the fashion model, Fluttershy?”

Twilight let out a long breath. She felt as if the foundations of her world were shaking loose again. “Yes, I do.” She held up a hoof before Octavia could speak. “I assure you, she’s not normally as confident as she may have appeared on stage. She’s a sweetheart—she really is—but she is normally quite introverted.”

“Are you certain? Because I seem to remember at the Grand Galloping Gala, she—“

“Quite sure.”

Octavia looked at her dubiously, before turning her attention to the food. “Please, take what you wish. I shall have whatever is left, and then I must return to the Oatfield Café to pay the waiter.”

The two ate their meal in silence.

The sky was fully dark before Luna finally arrived at the library. This time, she simply teleported herself above Twilight’s balcony—pointedly avoiding her bird feeder—and walked through the Prench doors.

Octavia bowed deeply, dropping her quill in the process, while Twilight gave a briefer bow.

“Twilight Sparkle, Octavia Van Clef. We are well-met this eve.” The alicorn quickly got to the point. “We found ourselves unable to sleep this day, thinking of the book on astronomy that thou hast received. We would have thee give us thy conculsions.”

Twilight’s eyes glimmered at the prospect. She levitated the book and her notes over, while Octavia patiently watched. The unicorn began with pages of calculations explaining the star charts—information which went over the musician’s head, but Luna was nodding thoughtfully. Her expression turned more neutral as Twilight explained Clopurnicus’ theory of stars, and became a distinct frown as she proposed that the creatures had explored their moon and other planets.

Luna gave Octavia a meaningful look. “We should like to speak to Twilight Sparkle alone for a turn of the glass, if thou wouldst be so kind.”

“I do have an errand,” Octavia said quietly. “I shall attend to it.”

As she walked out the library door, Twilight’s heart sank. It felt as if she was about to be rebuked again, and she had no idea why. She felt that her theories on the book were correct—in fact, brilliant. Nevertheless, she could hardly have expected to outshine Luna, who actually controlled some of the night sky, and who had probably personally known Clopurnicus.

“Thy professors, as well-intentioned as they may have been, have done thee a disservice, Twilight Sparkle,” the princess began. “We should have expected no less. We were aware that the astronomers at Canterlot University have only been practicing for but a single generation, but we are saddened that they know so little.

“We know not if our sister started the astronomy program as a means to keep us imprisoned in the moon, or if she intended to placate us upon our return by showing us that ponies were still interested in the night sky. Whatever she intended, she has failed.

“Twilight Sparkle, what we are about to tell thee must be kept in the strictest confidence. Thou shalt not repeat it, not even to our sister. If thou art unable to make such a promise, we shall hold thee in no contempt.”

Twilight shifted in her chair uncomfortably. On one hoof, she really, really wanted to know what Luna was about to tell her. On the other, she couldn’t go behind her mentor’s back, especially not with Luna. As a filly, she had often been warned that if she went astray, Nightmare Moon would gobble her up; a lifetime’s worth of cautionary tales weren’t so easily dismissed. Celestia may have forgiven her sister, but Twilight felt it was still best to be wary.

Eyes narrowed, she looked at Princess Luna. She tried to remember the words of her brother’s oath, and make them fit what she was about to say. “Do you, Princess Luna, guardian of the night, give your bond that no harm shall come to myself or Princess Celestia as a result of this information?”

The alicorn stepped back. She had never been formally addressed by Twilight before. While it wasn’t quite what a noblepony would say, it was close enough.

“Twilight Sparkle, we give thee our bond that no harm shall come to thee.”

“Very well. I promise to not share your information with anypony.”

Luna looked at the bench opposite Twilight, as if she were considering sitting. However, she remained on her hooves.

“Thou dost remember the tales told around Hearth’s Warming Eve. We regret to tell thee such tales are mostly a fabrication. A heart-warming tale for the winter, promoting unity.” She waved a hoof dismissively. “Although there certainly are such creatures as Windigos, ‘twas not as simple a matter as members of the three tribes coming together in a cave and defeating them, bringing forth a new spring for a new land. ‘Twas instead years of war. The unicorn tribe, in particular, was convinced of its superiority. They had magic, and they controlled the sun. It was not until we and our sister wrested control of the sun from them that peace treaties were even possible.”

“Wait,” Twilight interrupted, eyes wide. “You’re telling me that you and Princess Celestia fought a war? Against unicorns? Why would anypony fight a war against their own kin?”

“We are gladdened that the lessons of peace and harmony have sat well with thee. The act of war art a terrible thing, but those were more barbaric times. We and our sister fought unicorns, griffons, and, sadly, each other. Thou art familiar with the tales of Nightmare Moon,” she said bitterly. “We only mention it at all because it factors into the history of astronomy we wish to share with thee.

“We knew Clopurnicus quite well, Twilight Sparkle. He was our protégé—much like thy role with our sister. He came to us just after the Unicorn Council had fallen. He had surrendered, rather than face the certain death that his defiance would have earned him. We were pleased to accept him as a student—our sister was very close to Starswirl the Bearded, and we had nopony of our own.

“We now know that some of his early interest was a ploy to allow us to accept him as an ally—and later as a consort—but he did eventually develop a real love for the night sky.” She sighed. “He had a friend—the glass-blower—who crafted the most cunning lenses. Clopurnicus and he made primitive telescopes, and utilized them to study our sky and our moon.

“At the time, we had no knowledge of distant stars. We could not control them; we could not even feel them with our magic. We studied the amillary spheres that the unicorns had left behind in their compound, and Clopurnicus made a startling discovery—one of the stars marked on the sphere was actually visible during the day, if one knew where to look.

“He then proposed a bold theory. What if, he said, the stars were made of the same thing that Equestria’s sun was? We knew, of course, that moonlight is but the sun’s reflection off our moon, but we knew not from whence starlight came, only that our magic could not influence it.

“We brought the idea to our sister, and she agreed to try and see if she could control the star. However, her magic just slipped away.

“Clopurnicus was undaunted. He proposed that she simply lacked enough magical energy to reach that star. He did not tell her that, for she would have been wroth. Instead, he began to commission better telescopes. He drew a map of the moon, and began identifying craters. At that time, we knew not what they were, nor how they had appeared.

“It was around this time that his mania should have become apparent, although we did not know until much later what he had been up to. One of his assistants was blinded in one eye attempting to study the sun through a telescope. He sent her away, rather than explain to us what had happened, and developed the filters which would allow him to study the surface of the sun.

“He also commissioned a larger telescope. Armed with his new knowledge of our sister’s sun—which he believed to be an eternally-glowing ember—he trained his telescope on the star which was visible during the day, the star which we had named for him. Rather than discover glowing embers, which he expected, he observed a small spot in front of the star.

“Months of observation led him to believe that this was a distant planet, with its star revolving around it, much like our own. He spoke with Starswirl the Bearded, who agreed to craft a spell which would allow somepony to teleport the vast distance to the planet.

“Clopurnicus was an impatient unicorn, we regret to say. He often experimented, and then adjusted his research to account for his failures, as he had done with his telescope filters. Before Starswirl finished his spell, Clopurnicus convinced another one of his assistants to teleport to the moon, just to see if such a thing was possible.

“She never returned. Clopurnicus stayed at his telescope for days, searching the moon for any sign of her, but none was ever seen. He thought she might have become stranded, and would arrange lunar rocks to reveal her location, or even send up sparks, but she did not. Starswirl finished his spell—the very same spell that our sister and Lyra have been using—wisely including a provision to return the caster to her place of origin if she does not consciously keep the field open. A second unicorn attempted the spell, and returned unconscious less than a minute later. She was cold to the touch, and we feared that she had died, but after a few minutes, she recovered. She claimed that the breath had been stolen from her body the moment she landed.

“He commissioned Starswirl to invent a spell which would provide a protective bubble around a pony. It was crudely done, but it worked. After months of exploration, we discovered that the moon was a dusty rocky place, where nopony would want to visit. The unicorn who had gone said that the view of Equestria was hauntingly beautiful. She was totally moonstruck, and when her explorations were done, she quit the small team of lunar explorers and became an artist.” Luna waved a hoof in the direction of Canterlot. “She crafted one of the windows in the palace—it was one of the few things our sister moved from the old castle.”

“So ponies have been to the moon?”

Luna nodded. “’Tis not all, we are sad to say. Years had passed since unification, and Celestia’s strength had grown. Our sister could carefully change the course of the sun, while still having energy remaining to perform other tasks. Thus, Clopurnicus convinced her to try and control the star again. She had—in the brief war with the griffons—managed to control a solar flare. It did not directly hurt them, but it did somehow affect their sense of flight, and they became disorganized. Some of the pegasi had a similar complaint, but they had grown accustomed to wearing metal armor—which apparently also confused their sense of flight—and they were easily able to defeat a contingent of griffons.

“He—we discovered this much later—had thought that he could impress Celestia by bringing something back from the sun. A brave, foalish volunteer cast Starswirl’s spell aimed at the sun. We later found out—from one of Clopurnicus’ assistants—that she returned mere moments later burned to death. He buried her in an unmarked grave outside the observatory, disguised as a flower garden.

“He convinced our sister to make a small solar flare on that distant star, and he and his assistants stared through their telescopes at that star for weeks, waiting to see a result, but they never did. We knew that there was an atmospheric delay that affected light, and Clopurnicus thought that distance might have an effect on this delay.

He became bitter—we should have seen the signs sooner—believing that Celestia had not cast the spell at all. He began to convince us that our sister held our night in no regard whatsoever, and sadly, we listened. We now know that we were already being subtly corrupted by evil, but we were unaware at the time. He was always by our side, and it seemed natural that we would choose him to lead our ponies into battle.

“After we fell, Clopurnicus fled to Zebrica, believing that his machinations in the Lunar Rebellion would forfeit his life, and to the best of our knowledge, he lived out the rest of his days there. If he made any new discoveries—or if he convinced any zebra volunteers to experiment—we have never learned aught of it.

“Upon our return, we searched the archives to discover what progress had been made in the field of astronomy during our long absence. Celestia had discovered Clopurnicus’ misdeeds—and appointed Tycho Bray to lead the Royal Observatory. To our sorrow, we learned that he ordered many of Clopurnicus’ notes and books burned, and had himself made no new discoveries, although he took credit for many of his predecessor’s. Over time, ponies grew disinterested in the night sky. They had already mapped it, and it remained unchanging. It had no effect on their lives, as far as they knew, and the distant planet which we had observed, the sun, and the moon were all uninhabitable and uninteresting. Tycho Bray came to the unfortunate conclusion that there were no other inhabitable planets, save our own.

“More recently, our studies into the nature of Equestrian magic have lead us to the conclusion the only certain types of pony are gifted with the sight which allows them to see magical fields, while also maintaining the range of long-sight vision necessary to augment the lenses in a telescope. It is our understanding that only the unicorn offspring of a unicorn and earth pony are able. Clopurnicus must have made this discovery as well—we know that his sire was an earth pony, much to his mother’s shame.

“Clopurnicus made great discoveries,” she concluded, “but he was a bad pony. We caution thee to not let thy emotions sway what thou knowest in they heart to be a wrong path to follow.”

A polite knock at the door drew the attention of both ponies. Luna nodded at Twilight. Octavia was standing outside the door, patiently waiting.

“How long have you been here?” Twilight asked.

“Only a few minutes,” she lied. “I spent rather more time than I had expected at the restaurant. Your charming town has so many interesting ponies.” She cleared her throat gently. “Is it acceptable to come in now?”

“Yes, we had just finished our private discussion.” Octavia was glad to see that Twilight’s expression looked cheerful. When she had brought the dinner, she could clearly see that something had upset the unicorn, but whatever it was had passed. “We were about to go out on the balcony and look at the stars.”

“Indeed we are,” Luna confirmed. “If thou wishest, thou art more than welcome to join us.”

“I would like that.” Octavia shook her coin-purse from around her neck and set it on the table. She looked over at the stack of language notes that she should have been transcribing, but she was hardly going to miss the opportunity to have the Princess of the Night lecture on stars.

“Follow us,” Luna said brightly. “We have so much information that we can share.”

Octavia meant to politely take her leave earlier, but Luna’s knowledge of the night sky was understandably encyclopedic, and the alicorn was enthralled by the prospect of her semi-captive audience. Twilight unsurprisingly absorbed the new knowledge with a passion.

Finally, after Luna had moved around a small constellation of her stars for them, she suggested that they go inside and finish with preparations for tomorrow. She and Twilight began discussing what lessons Lyra and Dale should learn the next day—debating spiritedly—while Octavia dragged Lyra’s saddlebags over to pack them for the next day.

She began by neatly stacking the books and notepapers, sorting them into two piles which both weighed nearly the same amount, and occupied the same volume. She knew that an unbalanced load was uncomfortable; it was something she dealt with every time she carried her cello.

When she had finished sorting the materials—leaving room for the pages of notes that Twilight and Luna were currently busily writing—she suddenly remembered that she should probably make a lunch, too.

A few minutes in the kitchen yielded a sandwich and celery, along with a couple of apples. Even though they were months past harvest, an earth pony’s inherent magic continued to imbue the fruit long after they were plucked from the tree, keeping them fresh as long as minimal care was taken in storage. Sweet Apple Acres’ new hoof-made storage cellar had even made the news in Canterlot, since it meant their marvelous apples would be available year-long. The ones in Twilight’s kitchen were probably the apples which didn’t meet the quality standards for export to Canterlot, but they were still far superior to anything that a unicorn or pegasus could hope to grow.

She reached into Lyra’s saddlebags to get out her lunchbag—most ponies carried a small cloth bag for food—and was mildly surprised to find that there was already something in it.

Octavia frowned at the carefully-wrapped cupcake. In and of itself, such a thing was too gaudy—something that no ‘proper’ pony would admit to eating—although that was hardly any of her business. What was more disturbing was the note pinned to it—written in a shockingly pink crayon. Sharing food is the bestest way to make new friends, it boldly proclaimed. It looked like the kind of thing a foal would write, and it was clearly something that shouldn’t be sent to an auspicious meeting.

Octavia shifted her weight uneasily. It could have been written by a foal. She didn’t think Lyra had any, but she wasn’t sure, and it was hardly her place to ask Twilight. In a rural town like Ponyville, bastard foals weren’t uncommon, and they were often enough raised by rump herds—usually a pair or trio of unattached mares—a practice which had fallen out of favor in Canterlot, where lineage mattered. If Lyra had a foal—and if it had written the note—it would not be her place to remove it. On the other hoof, if somepony else had written the note—somepony like the hyperactive baker—it could only shed a poor light on their society.

It wouldn’t hurt to re-write it, she decided. I’ll ask her in the morning if she has any foals who might have written such a thing. She scribbled out a brief note on a piece of scrap paper, and fastened it to the cupcake. Satisfied, she began loading the saddlebags.

When she had finished, she hefted them, making sure they felt balanced. As she set them back on the table, the buckle caught her eye. The rivets were loose on one side, and she could see loose hairs trapped in the joint. It was the kind of thing that would only take a tinker a few minutes to fix, and it seemed odd that Lyra hadn’t bothered. It had to be uncomfortable—it was clearly pulling her fur out. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of thing which could be fixed at this time of night.

By now it was almost routine. Dale got up, stretched, unzipped his tent, and stood up outside, the chill pre-dawn air motivating him to dress quickly. He pulled on clean clothes, laced up his boots, and staggered to his camp table.

This time, he’d switched to the burner before he went to bed for the night, so it only took a moment before a propane flame was warming his kettle. He started himself off with a cup of yesterday’s coffee—which, thanks to the magic of a thermos, was still a little warm—while he waited for the water to boil.

A granola bar provided all the energy he needed for the morning, but he wanted to make sure that he had plenty of food for the rest of the day. Working in the half-dark, he made his last roast beef sandwich, before switching over to peanut butter and jelly. He threw in a handful of blueberries, a bag of trail mix, and a tube of Oreos.

When the water boiled, he dumped in a generous measure of instant coffee and stirred up the brew, before pouring it in his thermos. He shut off the burner, but didn’t worry about emptying out the rest of the kettle. He could re-heat it tonight, and have it with dinner.

Dale rummaged around inside the tent, finally finding the book on geometry and the book of speeches. He was also planning on going through more of the visual dictionary. Hopefully, they had managed to translate some of it on their own.

He finished by stuffing his notebooks and pens in the backpack, then tucked the weapons in. They stuck out the top, but that couldn’t be helped. He grabbed his camelback, checked his pocket to make sure he had his water-purification tablets, took a last glance over his camp, and headed down towards the beach.

Dale was surprised to find it unoccupied. The last time, Lyra had beaten him here. Perhaps she wasn’t on as tight a schedule this time.

He took the opportunity to arrange the weapons, then sat down to wait.

Lyra finally made it out of her house. Bon Bon had been sound asleep. Lyra hoped the earth pony wouldn’t be upset she hadn’t said goodbye, but she looked so peaceful Lyra hadn’t wanted to wake her. She’d eaten a bowl of leftover hay fries—probably not the best choice for breakfast—before heading to the library.

Twilight had also been asleep, but Lyra’s insistent pounding had at least rousted Octavia. Bleary-eyed, she had still had the presence of mind to come downstairs and open the door. Lyra had to stifle a laugh at the sight of the normally perfectly composed Octavia with bedmane and no bowtie.

“You just missed Luna,” she muttered, as she struggled to help Lyra put on the saddlebags. “She left barely an hour ago.”

Now Lyra stood alongside the reservoir. Two pegasus guards—probably the same ones as before—helped her onto the barge, then took the anchor ropes in their mouths and dragged her about to the midway point.

They both flew off at a forty-five degree angle, anchors weighing them down. They went to the full length of the rope before dropping it in the water, then flew back and repeated the process with the stern anchors.

This time, Lyra remembered to cast the voice-altering spell before she even left.

It was still fairly dark out, but she could clearly see where the pegasi had stacked surplus clouds off to the side, where they wouldn’t interfere with their sightlines. As she watched, a guard dragged a roaming cloud over to the pile, where he neatly arranged it with all the others. It must have been the last, because when he was finished, he flew up to the top of the cloudpile and then walked away from the edge.

She saw a few flashes of light signals from the forest, answered back by light signals from the clouds. One of her escort pegasi had landed on the barge, and was watching the clouds intently, while the other kept hovering a few feet back from the bow.

Finally, the standing guard nodded. “They’re all ready, Ms. Heartstrings. Give us five minutes to be gone, and good luck.”

She felt the raft dip as he launched himself, then was all alone.

She counted slowly, to make sure she’d allowed plenty of time. One last check for red signals, and then she cast the spell.

Dale had never seen her arrival until this morning. The sky was quite light now, although the sun still hadn’t risen. He was sitting on the bluff—he had decided to return there after he had placed the weapons.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned towards the beach. A faint white glimmering will-o-wisp was dancing around about three feet above the beach, and while he watched, it suddenly stabilized, then instantly expanded into a glowing purple hemisphere with a loud pop. He actually felt a small pressure wave, but noticed that the few leaves which were lying on the sand inside the bubble didn’t move at all.

A glowing white shape materialized inside the bubble, which quickly darkened into the familiar form of Lyra. She looked around, saw him, and moved toward the side of the bubble.

He watched her lean her head down for a second, as if in concentration, before she passed through the bubble. She walked towards the area where he had placed the weapons.

When she got there, she stopped and tilted her head under her belly. He couldn’t tell what she was doing, until her saddlebags slid off sideways. Paying him no attention, she rubbed a spot on her stomach—which seemed a very human gesture. Dogs and cats usually scratched with their back legs. It took him a moment to realize why: she had far more flexibility in her forelegs than a normal quadruped.

He watched her nose open her bag and remove a rolled paper, followed by the visual dictionary, her chalkboard, and a large cloth sack.

He figured that they had reached the point where they were friends—or at least, not unknowns—and casually walked down the beach towards her.

When he got close, she looked up at him, and said—well, he wasn’t quite sure what she said, but it ended in ‘Dale,’ and her manner of speaking suggested it was their version of ‘good morning.’

“Good morning, Lyra,” he replied, taking a seat.

She laid the visual dictionary in front of him, and began carefully flipping through the pages. He noted, with some surprise, that there were several bookmarks in it. They must have translated it, but want clarification on a couple of points.

Finally getting to the page with the bookmark, she shoved it towards him, clearly making sure that he saw the picture.

He saw it clearly. He had seen it the instant she opened the book, in fact, and felt his heart sink. It was a drawing of a horse. And the look on her face was almost the same expression as his mother had worn when he’d ‘had some explaining’ to do.

Celestia stood on the balcony, focusing her horn on the sun. She delicately adjusted it, carefully setting it on the day’s track.

“For once, our night held some excitement,” Luna said quietly, walking behind her.

“Really?”

“Quite. A misbehaving pegasus was brought before us. She had been causing a disturbance—apparently, addled by drink—and broke a merchant’s window. Our thestrals apprehended her.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be the duty of the Canterlot patrol ponies?” Celestia tilted her head slightly, making the minute adjustments required before the sun broke the horizon.

“She flew towards our tower,” Luna replied, her voice defensive. “Thus, she fell under our purview. ‘Twas most challenging, as we had not reviewed the laws in many years. However, we did reach a fair judgment. We ordered our guards to strip her primary feathers and toss her off our balcony.”

Celestia’s head snapped around so quickly, she almost lost control of the sunrise. As it was, ponies in Baltimare were treated to the rare sight of the sun jerking above the horizon before it stabilized.

“You did WHAT!” Celestia’s eyes were wide. “Luna! That’s barbaric!”

“The laws art still on the books,” she lied.

“That was a unicorn punishment, back in the days of the Unicorn Council. Luna, how could you do such a thing?”

“She may still glide without them, and they shall grow back, eventually. It will be a reminder not to drink spirits.” Luna turned, jerking back as the balcony doors slammed in her face.

“We do not torture ponies anymore, Luna. We do not pull their feathers out, we do not strip their shoes or bind their pasterns.”

“Really?” Luna looked her sister in the eye. “But you still put blocking rings on unicorns.”

“So they don’t use their magic to escape!”

“Dost thou suppose that is all a unicorn’s horn is for, casting spells? Dost thou not know the natures of the three magics?

“An earth pony broadcasts and receives energy from the leylines primarily through her hooves. A pegasus, through her wings. A unicorn, through her horn. Broadcasts and receives, Celestia. If thou art worried about escape, use a sink. Blocking a unicorn’s horn is just a very slow, cruel way of killing her.” She blasted the doors open with her horn and stormed through Celestia’s room, paying no attention to the crash as one of the doors fell off its hinges.

When an answer wasn’t forthcoming, Lyra tapped the drawing of the horse again. Maybe Dale didn’t understand. She had assumed that he would instantly make the connection, but perhaps she was giving him too much credit. The drawing didn’t really resemble her—it certainly didn’t have a horn—and there was always the challenge of trying to extrapolate three-dimensional details from a flat drawing. Had he not spent time trying to explain the giant anatomy tome to her, she probably would still have no grasp of its meaning.

He finally touched the drawing, and pointed to her. “Lyra is horse?”

It sounded almost like what she and Octavia had decided that the word printed in the book should sound like. She was about to nod, but the fact is—she wasn’t exactly a horse. She was a pony. She hated to give him the wrong impression. Her ancient ancestors had been horses. But how to express this?

She rummaged through her notes, while he watched with interest. Finally, she wrote two lines on her chalkboard, representing his number 1, and put her addition sign between them. Next to it, she wrote his number 2.

To make sure he got it, she tried again with 2 + 2. She left the answer blank, looking at him. He held up four fingers.

Next, she sketched two stickponies, with the addition sign between them, and drew a small stickpony in the results column. Then she drew an arrow from the small stickpony over to a second large one, and repeated the math, implying the passage of generations.

She wasn’t sure if she was being entirely clear, but she was hardly going to fill the board with drawings of stickponies, either. Hopefully, he got the idea. She tapped the first drawing, and said, “Horse.” Then the last. “Lyra.” After a minute, he nodded.

“Dale horse here?” she asked. They had worked on here and there last time. It was a vague understanding—it might be more proper to say that they had discussed here and not-here, since anything that wasn’t on the beach within reach was—for their purposes—considered there.

He seemed to be contemplating the idea. Finally, he shook his head. “Dale no horse here.” He pointed towards the water. “There, no come here.”

She considered this carefully. Given the very limited vocabulary they shared, it was impossible to be absolutely certain what he meant, but it seemed that either a horse couldn’t get across the water, or he didn’t know any.

Well, they had hoped that he might bring a horse. Once their communications had improved, they could probably try to arrange a meeting. They would have to use Dale as an interpreter, unless horses spoke the same language as Dale’s species. Even if they didn’t, he would probably have the sense to find a bilingual horse.

She looked at the visual dictionary again. There were a lot more words that she wanted to know, and a lot of items which were begging to be described, but they could all wait. Their limited number of verbs was one of their biggest obstacles, and one she hoped to address. Adjectives were also going to be a focus for her today.

Both Twilight and Luna had prepared a list of verbs and adjectives which were goals for the day. It would not have surprised Lyra to know that after Luna finished her astronomy lesson, she and Twilight had stayed up almost until the first light of dawn, preparing lists of useful words and the best way to teach them. Unsurprisingly, many of the suggestions revolved around magic. While it would be interesting to get in a discussion of magic with Dale, there were a lot more pressing issues to deal with.

As she wiped her slate clean, she wondered why Dale hadn’t thought to bring a chalkboard of his own. Its utility was obvious. She could understand him having overlooked it the first time, but why hadn’t he found one for the second meeting? Could it be that his kin hadn’t invented them? She would have to leave hers—she could always get another before their next meeting.

Lyra had just glanced at Twilight’s notes when the first raindrops fell on her back. She looked up in surprise. She hadn’t been paying all that much attention, but still—how could she have missed the clouds being moved into place?

The sky had turned a dull grey, and she could see the leading edge of the cloud formation was almost directly overhead. She watched over the lake, but saw no signs of pegasi—or anything else—moving the clouds.

She looked at Dale accusingly. Everypony knew when weather was coming—the schedule was published months in advance. Occasionally, there were corrections, of course. Weatherponies tried their best, but the clouds wouldn’t always cooperate. Most often, the rainfall came up short, because the clouds ran out early or blew away, but shipments had been known to be delayed.

This had all the feel of a scheduled rain, though. There was no reason that he couldn’t have warned her. She could have waited a second day. Looking at his face, though, he seemed just as surprised as she was.

She couldn’t stay here, of course. A wet chalkboard was of no use to anypony, and she didn’t want the books to get damaged, either. Dale seemed to have the same idea, because he was hastily stuffing his notebooks back into his backpack.

“Ground power?”

Calley looked out his window. “Disconnected.”

“Exterior lights?”

“On.”

“Windshield wipers?”

“Off.”

“Pitot 1 and 2 heat?”

Calley reached up and flicked the switches. “On.”

The captain continued the checklist, while Calley verified each item. It was, undoubtedly, the most boring part of any flight. They were sitting on the ramp, everybody was ready to go, and here they were burning daylight running through pre-flight checks.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, he reminded himself. A prudent airman always did a thorough pre-flight check, because it avoided nasty surprises later in flight. Especially in the kind of weather conditions that they flew in.

Finally, the pilot announced that they were clear to taxi. Which meant another checklist. Sighing, Calley pulled out another card. He hoped the CVR didn’t pick up the sigh. If something went wrong, he’d hate to have that show up on the transcript.

Dale moved to the edge of the trees, and Lyra followed. He should have listened to the weather report. He wasn’t going to tell her to go home. She would probably stay dry in her bubble, but he probably couldn’t go in there—scratch that—even if he could go in there, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that trusting—not yet.

They would probably be reasonably sheltered by the trees, as long as it was a brief rain. She probably wouldn’t really be bothered by the rain, anyway. Horses stayed out in the rain all the time, and she was apparently half-horse. Did that make her a mule?

But they couldn’t go through the books. They’d get wet—even though they’d dry, eventually, it seemed kind of risky. He could hardly take notes in the rain. If he had felt-tipped pens, he could have, but ballpoint pen would just rip the paper where it was wet.

And what would she think? He would be an awfully poor host if he just let her stand out in the rain. There was nothing in his camp that she shouldn’t see. He’d made certain to leave anything which might be construed as dangerous at home. He wasn’t planning to invite her into his tent, anyway. That would be a new level of awkward.

The dining fly would keep the rain off. He’d stacked plenty of firewood inside, so if the weather got really unpleasant, he could always start a fire.

For a moment more, he hesitated. Was it dangerous to leave the bubble behind on the beach like that? But it was raining—nobody would head out to the island in the rain. Nobody ever went out to the island.

He motioned for her to follow him. She picked her saddlebags up by the backstrap with her mouth.

“We’re going to fly out towards the Fox Islands today,” the captain informed them over the intercom. “There’s a rainstorm moving in. Calley, I want you to get a feel for the controls in the rain.”

“Ok.”

“We’ll fly around for a bit, then we’re going to radio back to base, and they’re going to send a rescue boat out. We’re going to try and find it. If the weather’s calm enough, we’ll use the basket, but I don’t want to do anything risky. It’s just practice.”

Calley nodded. If they were headed out on a rescue, they’d try to use the rescue basket if they thought they had the slimmest chance of success. On a practice mission, the only lives at stake would be their own—and the crew of the rescue boat—and then only if they made a mistake. “Got it.”

“You have the controls,” the captain said, turning to Calley. “Take her up.”

“I have the controls,” Calley repeated. “Tower, this is Coast Guard chopper sixty five sixty two, taking off.”

“You are clear, sixty-two.”

“Roger, cleared for take-off.” Calley glanced at his rotor speed, quickly checked over all the other gauges—just to make sure nothing had changed while they were taxiing—then slowly moved the collective lever, adjusting the throttle to keep the helicopter’s rotor speed optimal. He felt a slight bump as the wheels left the pavement, and then they were in flight.

Lyra shuddered as they entered the forest. It felt wild and untamed—much like the Everfree, and the leaden sky gave it a gloomy cast. Still, Dale was moving confidently enough, so he wasn’t worried about predators, and the early scouts hadn’t reported any large creatures, so it was probably safe. On the other hoof, the early scouts also hadn’t reported creatures like Dale, so she did wonder how thorough their scouting had actually been.

The path wasn’t very wide, and it wasn’t much of a path, either. No attempt had been made to clear the stones and roots which crossed it. More than once, wet foliage skidded across her barrel, and she watched Dale occasionally duck under low-hanging branches. Fortunately, her shorter stature kept her from having to do the same.

He finally reached a small clearing, where she could see several structures. He moved deliberately to a pavilion, while she stayed at the end of the path for a moment, examining the compound carefully. She mostly trusted him, but it was still wise to take precautions.

There was a hemispherical blue structure at one end of the compound, and a pavilion nearby. A table sat under the pavilion, with a very odd chair next to it. Like all the structures in the camp, it seemed to be made of cloth, and of flimsy construction. Each of the buildings had ropes pulled tight to the ground, obviously to stabilize them. However—even to Lyra’s untrained eye—it was apparent that if he had simply used larger supports, he wouldn’t have needed the guy lines. There were certainly enough trees around to build a real house, so why had he settled on these?

As she moved into camp, she became even more confused. The blue structure looked almost identical to what Bucky Fuller had called a domehouse, but it was made out of fabric, with a second layer pulled taut overtop of the whole thing. She looked at it closely, but it was like no fabric she had ever seen. The weave was incredibly tight, and what rain was getting through the trees just beaded up and rolled off of it. She sniffed at it. It smelled like Dale, with a few other scents she couldn’t place.

He was waiting inside the pavilion. Lyra was thankful for that—it had four open sides, and in a strange environment, she felt more secure if there was an easy escape route.

She took her time examining the pavilion, too. The spindly supports seemed to be made of metal, although it was a type she had never seen before. She knew that unpainted metal rusted, yet he seemed entirely unconcerned that it was sitting out in the rain. Of the metals she knew, only gold and aluminum stayed untarnished in water, and both of those were far too expensive to have been used as a construction material. There might be some alloys that had similar properties—it was just another question to ask when she got back home. Alternately, it could be a strange new material that ponies hadn’t discovered yet, or could be made up of an element that didn’t exist in Equestria. She wondered if there might be some way she could get a piece to take back to an alchemist.

She put her saddlebags on the table—very awkwardly, since it was almost at muzzle-height. Even the table was strange—instead of being made out of wood, like a proper table, it was a slippery white material. There was a slight gloss to it, although it wasn’t wet at all, and didn’t appear to have been varnished. It reminded her a little of cream cheese. A green bottle stood in the center, with a kettle on top of it.

Puzzling over the strange buildings in his camp, she stepped back outside the pavilion to shake off whatever water she could.

Dale watched in amusement as she shook herself off like a dog, before he sobered. Judging by her close scrutiny of camp, she was confused by his living conditions—and why wouldn’t she be? They had gone through the visual dictionary, and they must have examined the section on architecture. There weren’t any pictures of Eureka tents there, though. He sighed. Here, he’d been trying to convince them that he was part of an advanced civilization, and the first view of what they’d take to be his home was a primitive camp. If she looked inside his tent, she’d see no running water, no electricity, no heat—and he simply lacked enough vocabulary to explain it to her.

I’m bringing a computer or tablet next time, he decided. I can show them pictures of my house, of my car, of everything. I can show videos. I can play sound clips. I’ll just have to figure out a way to get around the RF field.

She came back into the dining fly, and looked around curiously. He noticed that her face was barely above the surface of the table—certainly not the best position for learning. He considered offering her his camp chair for a moment, but there was no way she could sit in it, unless she sat on her rump, human-style. Such a posture was probably anatomically impossible, although humorous to imagine. I could fold the legs of the table in and we could work on the ground, he thought, before he noticed the cooler. A relic of years past, it was a steel Coleman that probably could have supported one end of his car; it would have no trouble with her weight.

He dragged it over next to her, noticing as he did that she side-stepped away from him. Not far—certainly not far enough to be insulting—but she clearly wanted to keep a small buffer between them.

He placed it opposite his own camp chair, and—to make sure she got the idea—sat on it. Then he got up and moved away, to let her try.

She paced around the cooler, carefully. He watched her sniff at the seam between the lid and the body of the cooler. Can she smell the food inside? Finally, she put a hoof up on the lid, and slid it back and forth experimentally, perhaps to see what the top was made out of, and if it would support her weight.

She carefully climbed up on the lid, watching the placement of her hooves. Dale suddenly realized that he’d put the cooler the wrong way—the hinge was parallel to the table, when it should have been perpendicular. He’d forgotten to account for the difference in her anatomy.

She seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because she got back off the cooler. She grabbed a handle in her teeth and rotated it ninety degrees. She nudged it with a hoof, to make sure it was stable, before trying to mount it again. This time, she climbed up onto the lid with much more confidence, settling herself down in the unnatural-looking half-rising stance she’d used on the beach. It looked kind of like some yoga pose, no doubt with a mystical name like ‘Breath of Fire.’

It was interesting just watching her move. While her walk and trot were very equine, she also appeared to have adopted a few dog mannerisms—such as the way she shook her fur off and the way she sniffed at things—and everything she touched with her forehooves reminded him of a cat, for some reason. Even her sitting position looked more cat-like than anything. Despite the obvious physical impossibility of getting there, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find her draped across a tree limb, dozing in the afternoon sun.

She was already pulling materials out of her saddlebags, so he began taking things out of his backpack. Apparently, she was quite task-oriented.

“What is that?” Calley pointed out the windscreen. Off in the distance, a faint magenta glimmer could occasionally be seen through the sheeting rain.

“I . . . don’t know.” The captain looked at the flight instruments, as if they would provide any clue. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He considered it carefully. “It’s probably nothing,” he concluded. “Maybe it’s a light on a ship that just looks funny through the rain.”

“Do you really believe that?” Calley squinted towards the west again. “I’ve never seen anything quite that color before.”

“No.” He turned his head—an instinctive, although completely unnecessary gesture—and instructed the crew in the back to raise the basket. “Once the rescue basket’s secured, let’s fly over and take a look.”

“Fires sometimes burn funny colors, if there are chemicals involved,” Calley offered. “Could that be what we’re seeing?”

“Doubt it.” The captain had picked up a set of binoculars and was training them towards the glimmer. “It’s either on North Fox, or just offshore. Only a small boat would get that close, and it sure wouldn’t burn with a magenta flame. There’s nothing on the island that would, either. Not unless Al-Qaeda’s using it as a terrorist training ground, or Dow’s got a chemical dump there nobody’s bothered telling us about.”

“You’re thinking farther north,” Calley reminded him. “The water stays deep right up to the island—no shoals at all until you’re on top of it. And the shipping channel runs between the island and the shore—what if it’s a ship that had a fire and lost the radios? It could have drifted to the island—might even have been grounded on purpose, if they still had steering way.”

“Basket is secured and door is closed,” the rear crew reported.

“All right.” The captain sat silent for a moment. “Calley, take us in slowly. If anything looks hinkey, I want to back off.” He switched to his radio. “Coast Guard, this is Dauphin sixty five sixty two. I’ve got a—well, we don’t know what it is, but it’s on or near the southeast shore of North Fox Island. Have you got any indicators of a ship in distress?”

“No, negative.”

“We’re going to go investigate.” He let up on the transmit button. “I’ve got a funny feeling about this.”

“Pardon?” He hadn’t hit the intercom switch, so Calley could barely hear him over the steady thump of the rotor.

The captain shook his head, and transmitted again. “Tower, sixty two, tell Charlevoix to stand by with rescue boats. We will be off the southeast shore of North Fox Island.”

“Understood sixty two, stand by with rescue boats.”

The strange beep caused Lyra to look up in surprise. She’d heard the noise occasionally, but had never been able to pin down what it was. It must have been a signal to Dale, since he raised his left arm and looked at the bracelet on his wrist.

He began to move the writing materials aside, before taking a bag out of his backpack. A strong fruity smell immediately drifted across the table, and Lyra’s stomach grumbled.

It must be lunchtime. She pushed her own notes clear, and pulled her own lunch out of her bag. Somepony at Twilight’s had made it—she wasn’t sure who.

Emptying her lunchbag revealed a cucumber and chrysanthemum sandwich with the crusts cut off, a bag of celery, two shining apples, and a garishly bright pink-frosted cupcake, with gem sprinkles.

Delicately pinned to the cupcake with a toothpick was a note. It is always good manners to share good food with acquaintances. The writing on the note was smooth and elegant unicorn. She had suspected that Pinkie had somehow sneaked the cupcake in, but if she had, the note would have been scribbled in crayon, and probably would have exploded in streamers when opened. This note looked official.

Lyra regarded it thoughtfully. She vaguely remembered that she and Twilight had discussed sharing food with Dale quite early in the planning process, and Twilight had been concerned it would be risky. She had suggested that Dale might not be able to eat pony food at all. To Lyra, the idea had seemed kind of silly. Dragons, griffons, zebras, mules, and even diamond dogs could eat pony food with no trouble; even the less-sapient species such as cows and sheep did. The only food that a pony couldn’t eat was a gem, and that was just because it wasn’t in their nature to be able to chew them, but they did no harm when they were ground up finely like the sprinkles on the cupcake, and they added a little bit of zest.

This note must be from Luna, she concluded. The anatomy book had been whisked to Canterlot, and the smart ponies at the university had looked through it, and deduced from the drawings that Dale could eat pony food. She had no doubt gotten the cupcake from Sugarcube Corner, and included the note because she hadn’t had a chance to mention it before Lyra left for the night.

While she was thinking, Dale had placed his food on the table, too. There were two sandwiches—one which appeared identical to the one he had eaten the day before, and a second, which smelled strongly of fruit. He also had a bag of mixed nuts, raisins and brightly-colored circles, and blueberries. Once again, all of his food was contained in the strange clear bags.

He put the tube in his mouth again—a behavior she still couldn’t understand—and swallowed a few times. Suddenly, he stopped, midway through whatever it was he was doing, and pulled it loose. She saw a few drips fall on the table.

He carries around his water! He had some kind of a water jug on his back, and a straw that he could sip from whenever he was thirsty. It was brilliant—it was just the kind of thing she needed. It would be so much more convenient than a cup with a straw, especially for a remote location like this.

He got out of his chair—leaving his food on the table. He walked around beside his domehouse, and came back with a blue container and a small metal cup, which looked like it was made out of the same material as the pavilion poles. There was a wire handle on one side—a convenient holding point for him, not so much for her hooves.

He poured water out of the blue jug and placed it next to her. Without thinking, she grabbed the handle of the cup with her horn, and lifted it up to her muzzle, intending to take a drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him take a few quick steps backward, holding the jug in front of his chest, as if to ward off evil.

She frowned, setting the cup back down on the table. He had reacted the same way when she had started to move the marbles. At the time, she’d thought that she had inadvertently made an offensive or threatening gesture with the marbles, but his reaction had been almost exactly the same this time. It couldn’t be that he hadn’t intended her to drink the water—he had clearly provided it for that purpose.

He maintained his position, although he had relaxed his grip on the water jug slightly. Watching him carefully, she lifted the cup slightly above the table. He tensed again, although this time he didn’t move away.

She set the cup back down, and floated a celery stalk free from her lunch. As it slowly drifted towards her mouth, she could see his eyes were following it very carefully indeed. Lyra set it back on the table.

Twilight says that the books are magical, she thought. We don’t know if Dale—or his kin—made the books or if he traded for them or stole them. However, since all the books appear to be relevant to our learning, at the very least, he knows what they are and what they’re for. If he meant to impress us with a stack of books that he didn’t understand, they wouldn’t be on any particular topic. And just because we can’t understand some of them doesn’t mean he can’t.

He might not know how they’re made, but he must know that spells go into their construction. The only spells more basic than telekinesis are light spells. I haven’t seen him use either, but he surely must know what they are.

In Ponyville, it’s not considered a social faux-pas to stick your muzzle right into your food or drink. Unicorns don’t, but the more rustic earth ponies—like the Apples—often do, since they can’t comfortably use silverware. They don’t always use mugs for drinks, either. I’ve seen Berry Punch drink right out of the communal bowl before. Since these creatures have useful talons—or as they call them, hands—like Spike, maybe it’s rude to use magic. She resolved to be more careful—it was something the Princess had warned her about, and it appeared it offended Dale, too.

She leaned down and lapped up some of the water. It had a very faint chemical taste to it, although she couldn’t place it. It reminded her of the doctor’s office, though. It was some kind of—disinfectant? Does he purify his water with potions?

Now that she thought about it, she had never heard of a zebra caster—they were exclusively potion-makers. Maybe the reason Dale seemed uncomfortable with overt displays of magic was because his kin were potion-makers, too.

We assumed that they used spells to make the pages of the book white, but what if they instead used potions? What if they don’t even know about spellcasting? It was a frightening thought. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be unable to use magic. Everything would be so difficult.

She finished her drink, and he refilled her cup. She didn’t drink from it right away; instead she tilted her head towards his chair. He seemed to get the idea. He put the water jug near her, before walking over to his chair and taking a seat.

She had gotten used to the different ways he sat at the beach, but his chair was a novel piece of furniture. He rested his arms on two strips of fabric that had obviously been designed for that purpose—when she first saw them, she had wondered if they were to keep him from falling out of the chair. They seemed to help him keep his back straight—when she’d sat like that, it was difficult to avoid slipping off the bench.

He took a sandwich out of its bag, but before he could take a bite, she decided to push the cupcake over to him. While it wasn’t the best etiquette to start a meal with dessert, in this case it would probably be acceptable. It was better to make the offer early, before he was full.

Dale was surprised when she pushed the cupcake over to him. He had seen her studying a note attached to it earlier—it had been pinned to the side of the cupcake with a short toothpick. He had cringed when she pulled it out with her teeth, although it was certainly better than using her tractor beam on it.

It looked like an ordinary cupcake. It was piled high with frosting, and covered with colored sugar. Oddly, there wasn’t a paper wrapper on the bottom, but he remembered that his mother used to make them that way.

“Dale food?” he asked, looking for confirmation. He wasn’t sure if they had taken differences in biology into account or not. There might have been a picture of a cupcake in the visual dictionary, but if they thought it should be made out of plaster—or poison—he would be in real trouble. It seemed unlikely—but it was best to be careful.

“Lyra give Dale eat food,” she confirmed, nodding. Then she made motions with her front hooves which were obviously meant to mimic the way he ate, in case he didn’t understand.

Still he hesitated. Was it plausible that they could have figured out his digestive system so quickly? As far as he knew, they hadn’t taken any tissue samples—or anything else—from him. What tipped the scale was his memory of fixing a German lathe—using the German instructions—in the machine shop. It didn’t really matter what language it was in; a schematic was a schematic. There was surely enough information in Grey’s Anatomy for them to know what he should eat, and there were surely enough experts studying it. He took a bite of the cupcake.

Dale was not a cook. He did well enough—he knew his way around the kitchen—and if it came in a box with instructions printed on the side, he usually managed to make something palatable. He rarely made any desserts, though; his ignorance of the intricacies of baked goods was profound. Frozen dough came out of the oven with a rubbery consistency, and his one and only attempt at brownies resembled hardtack. To be fair, he was usually missing one or more vital ingredients, and his attempts at creative substitutions usually fell far short of the mark.

That having been said, he certainly knew a proper dessert. His mother and grandmother had handled stress by baking, and they did it the traditional way—there were no artificial ingredients in his mother’s cookies.

The cupcake fell into that category. The dough was exactly the perfect consistency, and the icing was the buttery-sugary goodness that he remembered from his youth. It was flavored of mint and something else sweet, although he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t something he had ever eaten before—he was sure of that—but it was something he had smelled before. The powerful odor of the mint covered it up completely, unfortunately. The only downside was the sandy consistency of the sprinkles—despite their appearance, they weren’t granulated sugar; instead, they were much harder, like nonpareils.

He finished the whole cupcake before wondering if he was supposed to have shared it. However, Lyra didn’t look displeased, so she probably had meant for it to be for him.

Obviously, he should reciprocate. He looked at his two sandwiches thoughtfully. He could offer her either. Of course, terrestrial horses were herbivores, so the roast beef was probably not an option. He looked at it guiltily—was he offending her by having it? But what if she was insulted if he chose? And how could he assume that they weren’t omnivores? He’d never seen a terrestrial horse eat a sandwich of any type. He didn’t even know if they would eat a sandwich, if offered one.

Maybe it was customary to only exchange desserts. He had Oreos; he could give her some. He could give her the whole tube—his waistline would thank him. Again, he ran the risk of insulting her by only offering some of his food.

The best solution is to offer her everything, he decided. He would cut his sandwiches in half, offer her half of his blueberries, half his gorp, and half a tube of Oreos. She could decide what she wanted to eat.

As he began cutting—with a plastic butter knife—he watched her carefully. She seemed to get the idea, because she started separating her food, too. Dale decided he was fortunate that her sandwich was already halved—he had a brief, terrifying vision of her lasering it in twain with a beam from her horn.

He pushed half his food towards her, and she did the same. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any plates, but the surface of the table was clean enough.

Dale looked at the food in front of him. He hoped that one of the celery stalks wasn’t the one she’d floated in the air, but there was no way to tell.

He picked up the sandwich, examining it over carefully. The bread seemed home-made out of whole grains. It reminded him of the artisan breads that the local deli carried—the ones where a loaf weighed as much as a brick. The filling appeared to be cucumbers and flowers. A thick white sauce kept the sandwich together.

He took a bite. It was—odd. The dressing was too salty for his taste, and had some kind of weird spice in it. The bread was good, though. It was a little yeasty, but very filling. Much to his surprise, the flowers were hardly noticeable, either as a flavor or a texture. They seemed to be overpowered by the herbs that were mixed into the dressing.

He finished the sandwich, and moved on to the celery. It tasted exactly the same as regular celery. It was odd that the leaves were still on it, though, but he decided to eat them, too. When in Rome, do as the Romans. Technically, she was in Rome, but maybe the saying didn’t hold true in alien-encounter situations.

The apple was another matter. It was as big as the biggest GMO apples he’d ever seen. It lacked the waxy-fake probably painted-on shine of store-bought apples, but the color was almost perfectly even. He got the impression from looking at it that it was freshly-picked.

On earth, of course, apples weren’t in season. The freshest ones he’d be getting would have been harvested a few months ago in the southern hemisphere. In the hydroponic gardens on a spaceship, though—every day was probably in season. He’d never heard of anyone growing a hydroponic tree, but there was really no reason why it couldn’t be done that he could think of. In low-G, fruit might even grow larger than normal.

The apple was unbelievably good. He couldn’t remember ever having tasted an apple this good. If someone had told him that the apple had mystical properties, he would have believed them. Every quality of apples was there, and it was perfectly proportioned. If they wanted to sell these on Earth, they’d make a fortune.

Midway through the apple, he suddenly remembered that Lyra was eating his food. He looked up at her, curious what her reaction to his food was.

Celestia sat at a table in the small room behind her throne, a thick book of legal precedent open in front of her. Her face was as impassive as ever, but her mind was racing. So far, today had been an absolute disaster; problems had been piling up faster than she could deal with them, and not a single one could be delegated.

Take Twilight Sparkle. As her mentor, Celestia felt it was her duty to personally correspond with the unicorn—especially since she was being carefully groomed. Fortunately, the unicorn was almost completely oblivious to Celestia’s grand plan—strangely, for all her curiosity, she had never once wondered why her personal foal-sitter was a princess. Moreover, it had never occurred to her that Celestia could easily have gotten the dragon to move on, nor had she wondered how it was even conceivable that Celestia didn’t know what parasprites were.

Naturally, she made mistakes, and Celestia fixed them with gentle nudges in the right direction. She always tried to steer her on the correct path—Twilight had great potential, but if not carefully guided, she could easily go rogue. It wasn’t unheard of, even among Celestia’s personal students. There had been a few occasions where Celestia had questioned the sanity of her protégé—especially after the incident with her Smarty Pants doll. The good news was she seemed to be learning from her mistakes. Cadance had taught her some stress-relief techniques which also seemed to help, and her friends had done wonders at keeping her in line.

But she worried about leaving Twilight in charge of the whole alien encounter operation. She had jumped at the chance to send Octavia to Ponyville, since the earth pony seemed to have a calming effect on Twilight. She would have sent Luna, but she was worried about her sister—especially after this morning’s display on the balcony.

That was her second problem. Not the broken balcony doors—craftsponies were already fixing them. She needed to discover if it was true that blocking rings tortured unicorns. If so, she was going to have to ban them. Over a millennia of precedent, and just now she learned that they were cruel. Why nopony had brought it to her attention before was unfathomable.

She was going to have to find the poor pegasus that Luna had captured the night before. Oddly, she hadn’t been able to find any record in the guard’s logs—or the patrol ponies’—of such an incident, and her sister hadn’t even written down anything about it, either. There was no record whatsoever of her nocturnal activities, and none of the palace staff could remember seeing her anywhere. It was as if she hadn’t even been in the castle. That was another thing she was going to have to investigate personally—she couldn’t just ask the commander of the Royal Guard to find out if her sister was torturing ponies. You mean if your sister is also torturing ponies, since you apparently are, her traitorous brain corrected. That would start all sorts of rumors, whether it was true or not.

She sighed deeply, wondering if Cadance’s breathing exercises would help her, too. Her thoughts were interrupted by a page showing in the dean of Canterlot University.

“Dean Bright Star, how pleasant to meet you in my antechambers.” Her troubled thoughts faded as if they had never been, as the princess smiled broadly at the dean.

In response, she bowed deeply—too deeply. It was overly formal for such an informal meeting; such displays of supplication usually meant that bad news was coming.

“What progress have you made on the anatomy book which Princess Luna presented to the college?”

“None whatsoever, your highness.” The earth pony looked at her with pleading eyes, and Celestia thought she could see tears forming. “The department heads—they argue about where we should begin.”

Celestia silently sighed. She could imagine the scene—a dozen pompous heads of department, with no more sense than any of the nobleponies, arguing passionately about who had the greatest entitlement to the book, and accomplishing nothing as a result. It was a wonder they got anything done at all, and a marvel that their students could even find their way across a street without asking for directions and permission to continue.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning. When you reach the end, stop.”

“Is that an official decree?” The dean looked at her hopefully. Celestia had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. This was the kind of thing she had intended to get away from on her brief overnight vacation; instead, it had spawned a whole league of new problems.

“I would imagine such a book might be organized systematically, and different department heads might be able to focus on only one section. I will authorize you to hire however many unicorns you need to make copies, which shall be distributed to the various professors as you see fit.” Celestia nodded to her ever-present scribe, who began writing a royal order.

“Thank you, your highness.” The dean bowed, and turned to take her leave.

She made exactly one step of forward progress before crashing into the servingpony who was bearing Celestia’s lunch.

For the barest fraction of a second, Celestia envisioned banishing them both—and it was possible that her thoughts had somehow been obvious to them. Both ponies were groveling on the floor, covered in salad, tea, and cake. It was the most pitiful display of obsequiousness that she had ever seen—it was difficult to say whether they were more sorrowful for the sad state of her lunch, or their own welfare. The servingpony’s lamentations were moving, and the dean waxed lyrical while describing the qualities of the ruined cake. Finally, she could take no more and ordered them to go to the baths and clean themselves off.

As she rushed back to her throne, stomach grumbling from her missed lunch, she wondered if the day could get any worse.

Lyra looked at the two sandwich halves thoughtfully. One of them smelled like fruit, while the other clearly had some kind of carrion on it.

She had no desire to eat the carrion-sandwich. She wasn’t totally against the concept—there were any number of small animals which lived around Ponyville that happily subsisted on meat—and she was certainly aware of the griffon’s preferred diet. Since they were sharing food—it seemed to be important to Dale—she had to eat it. She would insult him if she didn’t.

The question was, should she eat it first, or second? If she ate it first, he might come to the conclusion that it was a food she preferred, and he would offer it to her the next time they met, as well. On the other hoof, the strong fruit smell wafting off the second sandwich might clear her palate after she ate the carrion sandwich, which would be more comfortable for her.

Fortunately, there was a tried-and-true method of solving such a dilemma. She closed her eyes and placed her hoof on the table, then began chanting to herself. Eeenie meenie miney moe. Catch a griffon by the toe. If she squawks, let her go. Cautiously, she opened her left eye and sighted down her foreleg. Fate, it seemed, had chosen the carrion sandwich.

She took a small bite, and chewed it slowly. She tried not to think of what kind of creature it might have come from, instead focusing her mind of the smooth flow of her maestro’s rock garden. Some sort of stringy bits got caught in her teeth—much like the celery was prone to do—but she ignored them.

The meat was tender, which was surprising. She had always imagined that it would be tough and stringy. Hadn’t they been taught that predators had sharp, ripping teeth? It was chewy, but no more than a dandelion salad. It seemed drier than she would have expected, too.

The sandwich also had a stale piece of flavorless lettuce, the worst piece of cheese she had ever tasted, and an oily dressing which did very little to enhance the flavor. She wondered if Dale had any sense of taste at all. A moment later, she chided herself. It was unfair to assume that—judging by the face he was making as he ate a stick of celery, her food wasn’t all appealing to him, either.

She polished off the second sandwich half more quickly than the first, although it had the unfortunate property of sticking everywhere in her mouth. The sweet bean-like butter on the sandwich acted more like glue than anything else she’d ever eaten. It seemed vaguely familiar, but the oiliness of the butter and the potent jelly prevented her from identifying it. Lyra finally had to take a couple of sips of water to swallow it.

A sniff of the loose mix that he’d put on the table confused her even more. The nuts smelled almost the same as the mysterious spread on the sandwich. She knew that the properties of a food could be changed by processing—did they mash up these nuts and mix them with butter? Perhaps he could even bake with them—as smooth as the spread was, they would have to be ground as fine as flour.

The raisins were no mystery, and the little chocolates reminded her of home. The weak letter on each one would be the sigil of the maker. Bon Bon often put blue and yellow stripes on her candies, matching the colors of her cutie mark.

She finally got to the round cookies. Each one had a name written in strong letters. The pattern of the cookie was quite complicated—clearly, a craftspony spend a lot of time making these. They all looked the same, which meant she had a mold, but that still added an extra step to the baking process. The creamy filling was pretty good, but—like everything else Dale had brought—it tasted a little too oily.

Her lunch complete, Lyra looked up at Dale. She felt a pang of guilt—she should have been watching his reaction to her food—but his food was so novel, she couldn’t help but try and analyze it. She had to admit, the carrion wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all, and she wondered if the sushi that her maestro had once offered her would have tasted as good.

If it weren’t for all this rain, this would be quite pleasant, she thought. Like a camping trip in the woods.

Author's Notes:

As always, check out my blog entry for this chapter, which can be found here!