Rebuild civilization on the way 58%
Much could be said for the Equestria that Twilight and her friends built as the Canterlot soared off towards the promise of a distant Flotilla.
At first they had regular communication with their robotic comrades. Twilight used that opportunity to interview Node on every subject relevant to their integration with the Flotilla, if and when they ever reached them. As the days turned to weeks and then to months, messages passed less and less frequently, until all they exchanged were letters. Those with loved ones changed to steel and silicon had to say their goodbyes.
That was only the first of many difficulties to overcome, however. The first leg of their journey was one of abundance, where they could always find the raw materials and spare parts for any project or desire, no matter how silly it would later seem. The structure of the Canterlot could not get any wider than the sail, but it could stretch forward as long as they wanted, so long as it remained structurally sound.
Over the next decades, more modules grew out of the station, spindly flowers grown from the rocky medium of the mountain Canterlot had once been. With so many to wake, the space and life-support needs of the station had to expand by an order of magnitude.
That meant many sacrifices, and fundamental changes to the structure of pony society. Most foods were a waste of nitrogen and water, and their seeds were confined to the freezer. Protein-enriched algae crackers became the staple of civilization wheat had once been, and showers were replaced with a light spray of sonically agitated mist.
But for every problem they encountered, ponies found solutions. Sometimes that meant sacrificing luxuries for the greater good, and other times it meant new opportunities for invention. While searching for new material, ponies hollowed Canterlot all the way to its structural supports, spinning a weave of restructured rock and changeling slime that would’ve been inconceivable only decades before.
Creatures lived—forming new relationships with the survivors and eventually having children of their own. By the time they were having their own foals, things that had once been the staples of space travel were now seen as unimaginably selfish waste.
Lifetimes came and went. Some of those original explorers and refugees elected to remain as mechanical creatures, an option Twilight made available to all. Most creatures of Canterlot were far too invested in the religion of their dead planet, and refused. Fluttershy was the first to go, insisting that she would “blow herself up” if Twilight tried to go behind her back and convert her anyway.
“Discord said he would be waiting for me,” she croaked, one of the last things she ever said. “Don’t take that away from me, Twi. You have… plenty of doctors.”
Pinkie didn’t last a year longer, Hunger’s long torment finally ended. Applejack and Rarity didn’t last much longer. Instead of committing herself to the void, Twilight gave Applejack her wish of permanent residence in the Contingency. If nothing else, it meant Twilight could always visit and converse about what was gone.
Half a lifetime around the phenomenal magic of the shield stretched Rarity’s life beyond most unicorns. The contingency inspired her too, though like most fashion it failed to live up to her view of what the construct should be.
“I believe I’ve done all I can for Canterlot,” she announced, the day she died. “There are so few who remember Equestria anymore. It was so much more than this dreadful place—I believe I finally have the solution.”
“You do?” Twilight asked. She looked across Celestia’s desk, worn smooth now by so much use. Her friend had changed so much in the last century—though she was withered and feeble, she’d aged with elegance, and parts of her had changed to the same teal crystal as most of the shield matrix. “We can’t start living the way we used to, Rarity. I know you hate algae—”
“Not that,” she waved a dismissive hoof. “I mean, partly that. You realize how many different schools of art just don’t exist? I realize scarcity makes that difficult, and I don’t propose we change it. But I think Applejack found the solution before we did. There is only one problem: The contingency wasn’t built for ponies. Its simulations are enjoyable enough, but they are heaven to the Signalers, not us. Spike has been instructing me… I believe I’m ready to travel there and begin the work of rebuilding Equestria.”
Twilight’s eyebrows went up. “You mean… permanently?”
Rarity stopped on the edge of the desk, resting a withered hoof there. “Darling, I appreciate your kindness, but look at me. Even if we still had moisturizer, there’s no helping this. But worry not, I will make no attempt to poach your crew. I merely think the Contingency should serve as a… kinder alternative, to what you offer with the mechanical virus.”
It was. In the next few years, it proved the more resource-sensible alternative as well. Mechanical bodies were great from crew that Twilight simply couldn’t do without, but having thousands of ponies who could barely contribute just used up valuable metal and components their starship needed. As the generations passed and creatures grew more comfortable with their own robotic friends, those willing to convert began to vastly outstrip the ones who elected for pointless death.
So she had to phase it back, offering the Contingency to most creatures and robotic conversion only for those Canterlot needed most. In time she found a tactful way to recycle those who couldn’t contribute, allowing them to join their many friends and still-living family building greater and greater civilization within the virtual fields of the Contingency. Node was incredibly smug about it in her letters, whenever Twilight mentioned it.
There were a few creatures who crossed from the virtual Equestria growing in the dataspace, and the real Canterlot growing within their thaumic highway. One of those was Rainbow, the only one of Twilight’s friends to convert. Twilight could always count on her when the Canterlot needed her security chief, but somehow always found Rainbow on the farm with her wife when she wasn’t needed.
Only Spike remained with her every moment of their voyage, her stalwart companion through every threat the Canterlot faced. When an unknown plague swept the ship, when systems failed or food was scarce, he was always there. Sometimes he gave helpful advice, but just as often he served as Twilight’s single point of continuity with the world that had been.
It was with him she found herself, many centuries later, standing on the damaged bridge of an ancient starship still nestled in their hull.
“I keep expecting to find her on a salvage list,” Spike said from behind her, switching something on the wall. “Bridge emergency illumination online,” Starlight Glimmer’s ghost said, and faint red light shone all around them.
Twilight looked up from the captain’s chair, one hoof still propped on the old plastic joystick. It barely moved anymore, and wasn’t connected to anything. It still felt comfortable in her grip, like hugging an old friend. “Didn’t have the heart,” she whispered. “I gave up the engines, the crew quarters, the life support. Can’t I keep something sentimental?”
Spike shrugged, his mechanical body settling into the sensor chair. After so many years of travel, he’d abandoned the Signaler design Node had given him, and instead chose something that resembled the dragon he’d been. It had purple scales and only one set of arms, along with vestigial wings. It probably wasn’t half as big as Spike would’ve been if he were still alive, but… there weren’t any dragons alive on the Canterlot. Only unhatched eggs kept chilled in storage even now, for a hatching they might never receive. “Don’t let me tell you no. That’s not why I’m here?”
“What is it?” Twilight looked up from the controls, ears flattening with dread. “We’re out of indium too, and we have to find another new substrate for—”
He cut her off with a claw. “Not that. We just got a transmission. I thought you might want to see it.”
“I didn’t think we were due for another message from Node,” she said, fumbling in her satchel for a tablet. They were far lighter and slimmer than they’d once been, with screens that rolled for storage and unfurled as they opened.
“We aren’t,” Spike said. “It’s not from behind.”
Twilight nearly dropped the tablet. She managed to hold it steady long enough for the transmission to display.
There were images first—so many starships that in places Twilight could barely see the backdrop of space behind them. Then there were more images—a complex orbital relationship of tiny red stars, contained in mirrors that expelled their energy outward to drive the Flotilla along. Some even had planets, all brought to the Flotilla instead of fleeing in a single ship.
Then came the message. A little annotation warned that she was reading a translation, though at least Node had given them enough that she didn’t have to guess.
We see you coming, survivors. To you from all who live, welcome home.