Summer of My Human Soldier

by KFDirector

The Party

Foggy Night cleared his throat as he trotted into the council room. Comrade General Secretary Luna was sitting back on her flank, her regal mane flowing like the stars in the Milky Way, as she listened attentively to the report of the Defense Commissar. A few other commissars were also in attendance—nowhere near the full politburo, but most of them were not night ponies, the way the Premier was. She attended morning meetings as well, of course—she attended all of them, that Foggy Night could tell—but she engaged much more intently in the dark hours.

“As before, there are no new developments in the Texan Theater. Enemy armored columns and air forces are preventing a breakout by our forces, while the unicorns are keeping the Pecos and Rio Grande as effective barriers.”

“Quite acceptable,” Luna nodded. “Our enemies doubtless comprehend they would pay a high price to enter the Corridor, and we wish to give no pressing reason to pay it.” As long as the Gulf Corridor remained open, the Republic retained access to the Atlantic Ocean, even if only theoretical, at best, given the superiority of human sea power and the high price in pegasus lives to be paid every time a convoy of war materiel needed to get through the blockade.

The Defense Commissar continued. “We’ve successfully defended throughout the Rocky Mountain Theater as well, though we have no lasting offensive successes to report.”

Luna frowned. “None?”

“Nay. But the Pegasus Fifth Recon has yet to cross into enemy territory. They may succeed where heavier units have been bogged down. And finally, the Everfree Theater continues to be a nightmare.”

Foggy Night noticed the Premier shift uncomfortably at the word nightmare, and, more to the point, noticed the rest of the committee conspicuously not noticing her do so. It was not, of course, his duty to think about such things.

“The addition of griffin units has made no effect?”

The question itself, and the tone of genuine confusion in which it was asked, contributed equally to the awkward silence among the committee. Foggy Night glanced around the room for the face of a brave pony that might speak the truth, and, finding none, sighed and spoke.

“After Comrade’s order regarding the consolidation of all civilian griffins into reservations alongside the buffalo in the Salt Lick Desert, we have not had much success in recruiting griffins to the war effort, nor in enforcing conscription. In fact, the military police have been depleted in fighting the uprisings and riots which have resulted.”

Luna frowned. That was, of course, Foggy Night thought, the only real facial expression which one could make in response to a statement like that, but the sixty-four-thousand bit question was what would come next from her esteemed tongue....

“What wastrel gave such a vile order?! And what is this profanity of buffalo relocation of which thou speakest?”

The awkward silence once more reigned supreme on its throne. The Royal Canterlot Voice and the very question itself were again the kingmakers.

“Comrade General Secretary of the Lunar Republican Party; Premier of the New Lunar Republic: these orders came directly from you.”

---

“Come in,” Rarity called, in response to the slight knock on the door to her shop, her gaze not wavering as she focused her unicorn magic on the next line of stitches. The gentle hoofbeats in a hesitant trot told her she had not been mistaken in her visitor’s identity, as the threads pulled together. “Fluttershy, darling, so pleased you could make it. You’re sure you can spare a few hours?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” the yellow pegasus said, as she looked at the towering stacks of khaki fabric in front of Rarity.

“Are you sure?” Rarity narrowed her eyes in concentration as she carefully aligned an epaulette to the exposed shoulder of the garment. “I know how busy you can get, without any help from anypony these days. Such an awful lot of animals and just the one you.”

“Oh, um, it’s nice this way. I’d rather work a little harder and not have to supervise anypony.”

“A little? Fluttershy, dear, I saw the lights on at your cottage at three in the morning the other night. You’ve never liked the night.” She flipped the garment over and aligned another epaulette.

“I have a lot of nocturnal creatures to take care of right now. So, I can spend a few daytime hours here. Um, Rarity—you’re going to stitch right through—?”

“Ah! Good catch, darling!” The unicorn smoothed the fabric and corrected the problem. “Well, thank you for making the time. There! Another one done.” She drew out another short pile of pre-cut fabric pieces. “Honestly, aside from a few little things, what I really need is a foalsitter.”

“Oh—is Sweetie Belle here?”

“Ah, for me I meant, dear, for me. The Mayor dropped upon me these two beastly quotas, one for pegasus dress uniforms and one for earth pony desert combat fatigues. Well, I’m weeks ahead on the dress uniform quota—fine fabrics! Bold designs, lines, and colors! Yes, they’re, well, uniform, but I can take pride in the result, at least as much as I can anytime I produce something so prêt-à-porter.”

Fluttershy beheld again the quivering mountains of simple khaki fabrics, and felt she understood the problem.

“So of course I’ve gotten rather behind on the fatigues. No flair, no fuss, no embellishment, no fun. It’s been far too easy to set these down and go work on more of the dress uniforms, but now I’m running a bit short on time. No, I need a good friend who can work with me for a few solid hours and make sure I don’t get—”

The entry bell rang on the front door of the boutique. A rapidly approaching determined trot said that the new guest had felt free to let herself in.

“—distracted.”

“Hi Rarity!” A bright pink earth pony with a cotton-candy mane strode boldly into the back room of the boutique. “Oh, and hi Fluttershy!”

A muttered greeting and a softly mumbled one came in reply to Pinkie Pie. Rarity cleared her throat after a moment of internally cursing whatever accursed spirit was responsible for the infliction of irony upon innocent ponies like herself. “Whatever can I do for you, Pinkie Pie?”

“Need your help, Rarity! Planning a party for a human, and I need your advice. I want it to be super-special and super-cultured, so he feels right at home. You studied in France, so you’re totally perfect to help me with ideas!” The pink pony plopped herself atop one of the mountains of khaki fabric, somehow balancing perfectly.

“France...indeed....” In fact, it had been a summer abroad in Des Moines, Iowa, nine years ago. Rarity had been content, however, to tell others just the name of the city and its etymology, and not to correct everypony’s assumption of its location. Only the new librarian had ever batted an eye. “Wait, a human? In Ponyville?”

“Duh! Since earlier this week! You really need to get out more. I’ll bet even Fluttershy knows that!”

Fluttershy nodded. “He’s staying at Sweet Apple Acres.”

“Ah.” Rarity quickly applied her not-inconsiderable education to the facts at hoof. “A prisoner of war, then, a captive taken from the battlefield, brought here to work on the farm so the Apple family can meet their quotas. Officers cannot be forced to work and non-commissioned officers cannot be forced to work except as supervisors, so I assume he is of very low rank. Young, certainly not wealthy, quite likely no significant higher education.” She looked at Pinkie Pie, quizzically, who was shrugging her shoulders in response to Rarity’s analysis. “And American, of course. Why would you bring up France?”

“Because it’s...sophisticated?” Pinkie Pie seemed unsure of herself. Sophisticated was not a word Rarity generally would have used to describe a Pinkie Pie party, and indeed, this seemed like unfamiliar turf for her. Fortunately, Rarity had good news for the pink pony.

“Sophisticated it may be, but the human would probably be just as uncomfortable with that as you are, Pinkie. More your normal speed will be fine. You’ll need food he can eat, of course, and music to his tastes...”

“Like this?” Rarity didn’t see where Pinkie Pie could have been carrying any LP records, but she nonetheless had produced one, and was holding it up with her mouth for Rarity to examine.

“Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band—oh, no, Pinkie Pie, this won’t do—not at all! Oh, the Beatles were fine in their day, but really...you could do with something a bit more relevant, a bit more modern!”

Pinkie Pie frowned as she put the record back away—to where, Rarity couldn’t quite tell. “It’s really hard to get anything more recent! And besides, I dig their sound—”

Unicorn magic dropped a shoe box full of small cassettes in front of the earth pony. “These, I believe, are what you will be wanting.”

Pinkie Pie peered at the writing on one of the tapes. “KC and the Sunshine Band—well, they sound cheery!”

“Such passion! Such pizazz! And the lyrics—so risque! ‘Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight!’ This is music, this is art! And there’s plenty more in there where that came from. Oh, and here’s a delightfully scandalous piece, a commentary on American race relations. I can only hope some talented underground Equestrian artist adapts it to our local issues soon.”

“Play That Funky Music—Wild Cherry. Rarity, where did you get these?”

The unicorn tossed her curly mane with her hoof and batted her eyes. “A lady has her sources. It’s not impossible to get a few choice pieces past the censors, if one has the right friends and the right tools. Do take care of them as best you can. Oh, and you’ll also be wanting this.” Ponykinesis carefully set another box down, atop Pinkie Pie’s back, this one containing a large mirrored ball. “Positively essential for any modern human party, I assure you. When did you say this soiree was to happen?”

“Tomorrow night!”

Rarity pursed her lips, as her attention went back to the piles of fabric that demanded attention. “Drat and blast. Not even enough time to produce a few quads of platform shoes, much less a proper leisure suit. And I don’t suppose Sugarcube Corner has a supply of amyl nitrite or Quaaludes?”

Pinkie shook her head in confusion.

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers. For now, he shall have to content himself with this much. Next time, Pinkie Pie, you absolutely must give me earlier notice! I won’t have anyone thinking we’re a bunch of uncultured hayseeds in Ponyville simply because I haven’t had the time to produce pastel bell-bottoms for your guests. Will there be anything else?”

“This has been a great help, Rarity! Thanks!” The pink pony carefully made her exit, carrying the disco ball and the box of cassettes on her back.

Rarity sighed. “Delightful. Fluttershy, darling? For future reference, that was almost precisely the sort of distraction I was hoping you’d help me avoid. Can we give it another go, now?”

“Um...will you be going to the party, too?” Fluttershy pawed at the floor with her hoof.

“Well, if I get this work done, then I rather suppose I must? And of course we must go together. ‘tis a risky thing to attend one of Pinkie Pie’s parties unescorted, she might foist all manner of madness upon you. Oh, and we can meet the human, too, see what he’s all about.” Rarity knew, from experience, that humans were all different sorts, just as ponies were, but from the look in Fluttershy’s eyes she could tell that her pegasus friend was thinking of them more as creatures. She’d likely be disappointed, but at least she wasn’t thinking of them as monsters—the poor dear didn’t need any more stress in her life, as to have some horrid beast—like, say, a dragon—living just up the lane. “Come on, dear, we shan’t have time either way if I can’t at least make a dent in these uniforms.”

---

A cloudless night over the Wyoming territory it may have been, but there was precious little of the waning crescent moon left to cover—this Sergeant Meadow Song (5th Pegasus Recon, Easy Squadron) appreciated. That the stars were also not bright, Meadow Song did not, because that was caused by light pollution from the nearby human town. The sooner his detachment could put distance between them and this settlement, the sooner he could breathe a little relief—but rendezvousing in hostile territory, in the darkness, in radio silence, required a careful choice of landmarks, and the Wyoming landscape was not always kind in this regard.

The pegasus ponies who had already arrived were taking their forage in silence, scarfing down local grass and guzzling from the river whose name Meadow Song was not able to find on his maps. He did a quick headcount—counting himself and the useless commanding officer he had mentally nicknamed Captain Queeg, twenty-two ponies.

Two short. And it had been long enough past the scheduled rendezvous that it was time to get concerned...the Sergeant quietly rose into the air on his wings, peering above the cottonwood trees to see the skies around him. Relieved, he saw two shapes flying towards him from the south—one the standard pegasus sort of shape, the other blocky but all-too-distinctive.

He lowered himself down, meeting Corporal Thunder Lane and Private Horse Power as they came in for their landing. The enormous white-coated private had some kind of makeshift black rubber bit lodged in his muzzle, while the gray-coated corporal merely wore an exasperated look on his face.

“Twenty minutes late, Corporal,” Meadow Song muttered. “What happened?”

“Nothing, Sergeant,” Thunder Lane sighed, as he quickly unfastened Horse Power’s bit with his wing. The white pegasus snorted irritably, spitting out the black rubber, and trotted off to the riverside. “Sarge...Horse Power’s losing his damned mind.”

“Implying he had much of one to begin with.”

“He’s getting worse. He doesn’t even form sentences anymore. Just ‘yeah’. And he isn’t even saying it at the right times. We were just flying our route, over a farmhouse, when ‘yeah’. Screamed it. Whole buncha lights came on, and we had to book it south. And when we were in the clear, invisible in the night, he saw this semi-truck driving up a back road, and just dive-bombed straight at it.”

“So you stopped him.”

“Like hell I did! I just helped him out of the rubble afterwards, while the driver was running off screaming. He still had a piece of the rear axle in his teeth, and, yeah, more shouting. ‘Yeah’. I gagged him with a piece of tire, so we could have some kind of stealth for our final approach.”

“By Luna...” The pegasus sergeant buried his face in his hoof. “He’s endangering the mission. ‘Chemically perfected super-soldier’ my arse.”

“What are we going to do, Sarge?”

“Call all the ponies—except the good Captain and Power himself, of course—to a meeting an hour before last watch. I’ve got an idea.”

---

Applejack squinted out the front window of her home. The sun had fully cleared the Ponyville horizon, and for the first morning since his arrival on Wednesday—which admittedly only made a three-day-old habit—there was no sign of the human in the Apple family kitchen, as a breakfast of hot oatmeal was hitting the table.

“I know he’s got to get the day off, but I’d reckoned he’d want breakfast.”

“He gets the day off? We don’t get the day off...” Apple Bloom grumbled.

“Well, we’re a family, and this is our farm. We’ve got to work all the time, and we can make a few hours off here and there when we can. But this isn’t his farm, and there are important rules that protect folk like him, and it ain’t our place to go breakin’ them.” Mildly chastised, Apple Bloom returned to her oatmeal. “Still, he can’t just run off. Big Mac, can you check up on him?”

The big red stallion nodded as he set down his empty dish, and, taking just a moment to wipe his muzzle on a towel, strode out into the farm.

The human’s pallet in the hayloft—a place he swore he found comfortable, and a place far enough removed from Apple Bloom that Applejack felt safe keeping him—was empty, though not long cold. The odor was easy enough to follow, and Big Macintosh did so, at a steady trot, down to the well, then a short hoof past a vegetable garden, and then to a pond, where the morning mist was still hanging. The human was nearby the pond, on his knees, his eyes closed, his hands folded; silent.

Big Macintosh sat back on his haunches, characteristically silent himself, and waited, meditating on the sun, the lake, the mist, and the breeze.

After about twenty minutes, the human got up on his feet. “Good morning,” he said.

“Eeyup.” Big Macintosh nodded. “Get yer’ prayin’ all done?”

Dexter nodded.

“Good. It’s a private thing, and ah didn’t want to interrupt if ya had more.” Dexter shook his head. Big Macintosh nodded again. “AJ was just worried ya hadn’t been to breakfast.”

“Ah. Sorry. In my—ah, family’s tradition—Sunday, ah, prayers, have to happen before eating.”

The stallion nodded again. “Like the Mexican humans.” He started trotting back towards the farmhouse, and Dexter was following.

“Yes. Not quite all the same traditions, but the same beliefs.”

Big Macintosh thought about this. “D’ya believe in fightin’? Ah’ve heard a bit about them beliefs, and can’t figure if they do or don’t.”

Dexter scowled. “According to the draft board, we believe in ‘just war’. That we believe that it’s okay to hurt and kill if the cause is just.”

“Sounds like ya think that’s hooey.”

“It may have been true, once upon a time. And defending your family, or those who can’t defend themselves? Absolutely. But in the modern world, with machine guns and napalm and atomic bombs and tanks and pre-emptive strikes and collateral damage and mutual assured destruction and strategic bombing and blockades to starve civilians, I can’t see that there’s any such thing anymore as a ‘just’ war.”

“Didja tell them that?”

“I did. They had one of their experts ask me a bunch of questions, and I answered them, and at the end they said my beliefs were ‘insufficiently founded in religious training and-slash-or insufficiently opposed to war in any forms’, and told me to report to boot camp.”

“And ya did.” To Dexter, the stallion sounded—disappointed, disapproving, disgusted. But perhaps that was projecting his own opinion of himself.

“I...am not a courageous man. Not all of us can kick a tree through a windmill.”

Big Macintosh sighed, embarrassed over the memory. “S’pose not.” He opened the door into the farmhouse. “C’mon, get some breakfast.”

---

Foggy Night came to a halt. One did not simply keep trotting down the corridors of the capitol after hearing words like “I say, is this treason you speak?” come round the next corner.

The first voice he recognized as belonging to Commissar Fancypants. A competent, effective unicorn in Foggy Night’s department; were more like him, Foggy Night would feel comfortable retiring, knowing that the nation would not fall to pieces.

“Nothing like that. My aunt is just...stressed. Exhausted. The Party may need to find interim leadership.”

Aunt? Ah—that second voice was that of Commissar Blueblood, born a prince or duke or somesuch. His title had not survived the Lunar Revolution of ‘69, though the colt himself obviously had. Foggy Night stayed and continued to listen.

“This is hardly a time to be switching leaders, chap. Bit of a war on, you may have noticed.”

“That makes it precisely the time! We’ve seen time and again what happens when mad men and mares are permitted to continue ruling in war.”

Foggy Night had enough of this. The cunning thing, he knew, was to listen for as much blackmail as it took, but he would not risk Commissar Fancypants getting swept up into a conspiracy—the Republic could not lose still more competence to these power games. And so, at this, he rounded the corner himself.

“Your language could use more precision, Comrade Blueblood.”

The younger unicorn gave a start at Foggy Night’s appearance, though Fancypants seemed quite unfazed, as he did at most things. “Comrade—”

“You are concerned for Comrade Luna’s health? As we all are—long may she live!” All three unicorns, on instinct, raised their front right hooves in salute. As the salute ended, Foggy Night came closer still to Blueblood. His horn warmed with a black ponykinetic glow, and then a field appeared all about Blueblood’s body, drawing the young unicorn’s face directly next to the elder’s, providing a suitable space for the low volume in which he spoke. “You little foal, keep your treachery out of my department. We may just about get around to being able to run this nation if you nobles could stop trying to overthrow it!” The elder’s magic, like his mind, was an ability undiminished by age, and he casually hurled the former Prince against the wall. Foggy Night’s voice rose anew. “Come, Comrade Fancypants. I need to have words with you about Ponyville District.”

Trotting down the hallway, the two paid no heed to Blueblood as he staggered back to his feet, and similarly ignored his muttered promise of vengeance.

---

Sergeant Meadow Song and his wingpony came in for a landing at the reservoir, pleased to see twenty ponies—including Corporal Thunder Lane—waiting for him. Most of the pegasus ponies were drinking their fill from the lake, though a few kept their heads up, keeping watch for any humans who might chance by.

“A hundred and sixty miles of nap-of-the-earth in eight hours,” the sergeant said, satisfied. “We didn’t set any records, but not bad. Still,” he coughed loudly, approaching the drinking ponies. “We’re going to have to get a move-on again, quickly. It’s a hundred miles to the armory in Scottsbluff, and we need to hit it while our intel is still valid.”

“But Sergeant,” Thunder Lane asked, in an exaggerated tone, “Captain and Private Horse Power haven’t made rendezvous yet.”

“Well, Corporal, that’s terrible, but our mission is critical. Fortunately, I fully understand our mission parameters and am capable of serving in the officer’s absence. We’ll just have to hope the two of them can catch up to us in due time.”

One of the drinking pegasus ponies lifted his head. “Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”

The troops shared a laugh.

“Now then, let’s move, fillies.”

---

“Thanks for humoring us and comin’ along on your day off,” Applejack said, as the three Apple siblings and Dexter walked through the streets of Ponyville. “Pinkie Pie can get a bit—well, silly, with her parties, but she does really mean well. Probably just some balloons, plenty of cake and punch, a few old records, maybe bobbing for apples.”

“Bobbing...for apples, ma’am?” Dexter asked. “That a normal pony game?”

“Yep, we play it often enough at parties.”

“It’s kind of cheating for ponies to play it, isn’t it? You lift everything with your mouths, just about. It’s only really a challenge for humans to play.”

“Well, now—” Applejack pushed open the door to Sugarcube Corner, and the group froze to a halt under an assault of light and sound.

“♪Whatchu doin’ in the back? Aaaah!
Whatchu doin’ in the back? Aaah!
You should be dancing, yeah!♪”

“What in tarnation!” Applejack held her hoof in front of her eyes, blocking a strange glare. A blast of fog rolled out the door, at about Apple Bloom’s level, sending the filly into a coughing fit.

An ominous shadow appeared within the fog.

A pink head emerged from the shadow.

“You made it! Welcome! Come on in! Ooh! You’re the human!” As the farmponies stumbled into the fog-choked room, averting their eyes from the glinting, rotating ball, Pinkie Pie bounded up into the air, bringing her momentarily to eye level with Dexter, and then did so again. “I’m Pinkie Pie!”

“So I gathered,” Dexter said, dazed. “Chris Dexter. Nice...discotheque.”

“Oh, you recognize it! I was worried it wouldn’t feel enough like home for you!”

The human walked in, taking the place in. There was a disco ball, there was a DJ booth consisting of a card table with a tape deck on top and a row of woofers and tweeters beneath, there was a banquet table loaded with snacks and punch, there was a fog machine, and there was a dance floor; and he could see that, if the lights were on, it would be a perfectly normal room—the storefront for a family business. If not for the fact that the DJ was a sunglasses-wearing unicorn with an electric blue mane, he easily could have pictured himself in the basement of his best friend from high school.

“It…it is home. Thank you.”

The pink pony gave a mighty squee as she leaped up again, her impossibly fluffy mane somehow acquiring even more bounce. “Now come on! I’ve got to see you dancing!”

And that was how Chris Dexter found himself under a disco ball, in the fog, surrounded by the onlooking faces of a dozen curious ponies, with nothing left to lose.

Never known among his human friends for the smoothness or rhythm of his moves, only for the confidence and determination which he put into him, he found himself with one advantage: ponies were, on average, far worse dancers than even he. He did benefit of course from having arms, which, as agile as the front legs of some ponies could get, were far more suited to the classic moves of the disco hustle.

What felt like an hour and was closer to two songs later, he leaned against a wall, drinking a tall glass of punch—improvised from a measuring cup, as pony cups were impossibly shallow for his use (being meant to be carried and drank directly with the mouth, rather than with hands). Setting the cup down for a moment to wipe his brow, he noticed the gaze of a purple unicorn mare. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she started.

“Oh! So sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.” She trotted closer to him, gazing carefully at his face, despite her words. “My name is Twilight Sparkle. I’m the librarian here in Ponyville, and it’s so good to finally meet you.”

“Is it?” Dexter scooted his back down the wall, so he could bring himself closer to eye level with her. “Miss Applejack mentioned something about how I should’ve been working for you instead of her.”

“R-really?” The unicorn seemed taken aback. “Why?”

“Oh, just about how I’m probably better at learning than farm work. Still, I think I’ve been a bit of a help to them.”

“Oh...” She laughed weakly. “That’s good. I haven’t gotten to know her as well as I’d like.”

Dexter thought he saw her horn glow, and twitched. “Do you…need something?”

“Me? Oh, no—no, I just...do you mind if I cast a quick spell on you?”

“Very much, yes.” Dexter climbed to his feet.

“It’ll just take a second, I promise!”

“I’m really not comfortable with—”

The horn flashed, and his vision was filled with white.

Comments

[KFDirector]

I sincerely doubt any sane civilized person likes the idea of human slaves, of course. Nor am I all that fond of war. I just seem to have created a strange story featuring an ensemble cast of ponies, drawing from some unpleasant ideas (though Hogan's Heroes could get away with it), and seeking a happy ending.

If no one enjoys it, well, I kept in practice.

[Fernin]

I find the storyline and the world you have developed to be interesting. I am enjoying the story despite the fact that I believe pacifists to be on a moral level equal to that of those who refuse vaccination for themselves and their children, so you're obviously doing something right.

Pray, continue.