Archives of the Friendquisition

by Inquisipony Stallius

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“Welcome to Applemattox.” Fyzzix called from the cockpit. Her Solar Majesty had just crossed into what was vaguely considered the township’s limits. The Magosus checked his instruments again; they and the moon were the only sources of light in the cockpit. Fyzzix didn’t really need either of them, however, as he was always directly interfaced with the craft while he piloted. The data fed through his uplink cable directly into the back of his head told him more than his eyes could ever hope to. “According to the most recent records available, there isn’t anything resembling an aerodrome for us to land in. What would you like me to do?”

“Cut your running lights,” Caballus said as he poked his head in. “Then set us down outside the town proper. After that, land somewhere out of sight, like a nearby ravine or valley, if you can find one. Keep a low profile. If we need you, we’ll call.”

Fyzzix didn’t even look up. “Scanning geography. Don’t take too long, Cab. My atmospheric data indicates this region is very prone to sandstorms.”

“Will that be a problem?”

“I’ll say!” Fyzzix laughed. “Have you ever gotten sand in your servos? I tripped and fell at the beach once, and my machine spirits still haven’t forgiven me for it. There aren’t enough Sacred Oils or Catechisms of Cleaning in all of Cloudsdale to get a sandy mechadendrite with cracked enviro-seals working again. Then again, if I were to remove the enviro-seals and replace them with a next generation anti-particulate casing…”

Ignoring the rambling Meq-priest, Caballus returned to the crew compartment with a smile, where the rest of the team was suiting up. The Inquisipony had been unable to relax at all on the three-day flight, and had spent the sleepless hours checking and rechecking his equipment to take his mind off his flying phobia. He couldn’t even keep himself occupied by looking out the windows, as there was nothing to see but stars.

Even if it were daytime, there would still be little point. The landscape surrounding Applemattox was scrub-country, an arid wasteland able to support cacti, rock farms and little else. The town itself was on fairly flat land, and it effectively marked the farthest reaches of Equestrian civilization on the edge of the Palomyna sector. Beyond it, the terrain became increasingly broken, the environment increasingly hostile, and the locals increasingly unpleasant. Mequestricus Explorators had taken surveys from the air of these “Rocklands,” as they were known, but few ground expeditions had ever been launched, and fewer still had ever returned.

It strained Caballus’s imagination to understand why anyone would choose to live in such a place. Roughshod’s answer had suggested there would always be folks seeking a place to live free, away from the constricting social rules and oppressive toil of life in developed society. Mystic had bluntly called them all yokels and fugitives, as though only the foolish or desperate would willingly subsist in such a backwater. There might be some merit to both theories, Caballus pondered.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Roughshod asked, breaking the Inquisipony’s reverie. “Find the local watering hole, ask the bartender about Tier, maybe pick a fight with some shady characters, and have Sweet Pea wait outside in case we need backup?” Fastening the last strap of his flak armor, he stretched and flexed until it sat just right on his frame, then slipped his overcoat over it.

“I always have to wait outside,” Mystic pouted. She puffed her loose forelock in protest, and then swung her cloak over her saddlebags.

“Hey, if the plan works, why change it?” Roughshod countered with a smug grin.

Caballus raised an amused eyebrow. “I don’t know, Roughshod. I think she did rather well back at the Pet Emporium. Maybe it’s time to switch things up.”

“Well... maybe something a little different, sure,” the larger pony said, gazing out the nearest porthole at the mote of light on the horizon. It had been steadily growing as they neared Applemattox. But after a moment, Roughshod’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second…”

---

“I didn’t mean that I wanted to wait outside!” Roughshod complained.

The three approached what could charitably be called a drinking establishment. As best they could tell, it was the largest and most popular of the half-dozen or so saloons in Applemattox, and was still barely more than a dirty hole-in-the-wall wedged between two storefronts on the main street. Bright lights and raucous music spilled out onto the streets all around it, and a sign hung over the swinging doors identified it as “The Hitching Post.”

“Oh quit whining, you big baby,” Mystic teased, “The Princess only knows how much smoother this will go without you looking for extra trouble. We might not even need backup this time.” She knew that Roughshod relished his frequent opportunities to indulge in a little “self defense,” and was annoyed at how he took for granted that her magic would always carry the day when a fight got out of his control.

“I wasn’t whining,” Roughshod grumbled under his breath. The kid was still too inexperienced, he thought. This wasn’t some sleepy tavern in the heartland; it was a breeding ground for criminals and outlaws, the kind who shot first and didn’t ask any questions at all.

Then again, he thought, she had been excelling in her combat training, having all but mastered the basic hoof-to-hoof techniques he’d taught her. Not to mention she was one of the more powerful unicorns he’d ever seen in a fight, in terms of raw abilities. I’m sure the kid can handle it, Roughshod decided, and I’m just worrying too much.

Maybe.

“You still sure about taking her in, Caballus?”

The Inquisipony had to stifle a chuckle. “We’ll be fine, Roughshod.” He had expected the big guy to get a little overprotective. It was his job after all, and it was those protective instincts that Caballus had come to rely on ever since Roughshod had joined his retinue. “It’ll be good practice for her. Heck, maybe someday I’ll get to wait outside and let you two get beat up by the bad guys.”

Roughshod gave a begrudging shrug of concession as the three had arrived at the saloon doors. He leaned against the wall outside, where he was to stay until he was needed. “Watch your back in there, kiddo.”

Mystic paused, and gave him a solemn nod. Then she followed Caballus through the swinging wooden doors.

The interior of the Hitching Post seemed surprisingly spacious to her, larger than the front of the saloon had suggested. Even still, that space was packed full, ponies surrounding every table and jammed into every nook and cranny. Mystic scanned the herd, trying to take in as much as she could about these frontier folks. As far as she could tell, they were all Earth ponies, without a single horn or wing in sight. Most were dressed either in the leather getups of ranch-hands or the plow harnesses of farmers. A few others had the slightly finer vests of businessponies, shopkeepers and bankers, while those huddled in the less well-lit corners bore bandoliers and bandannas. But almost all of them, nearly to a pony, were wearing those ridiculous Western-style hats.

The space in the room was equally crowded with noise. Ponies laughed and joked, all trying to talk over one another. Many tables played host to some form of gambling, where every turn of the card or throw of the dice brought new cheers and moans. Some of the less well-mannered and more intoxicated of them hooted and hollered at the waitresses roaming the room, refilling their drinks. A piano somewhere in the back belted out a merry ragtime tune, adding to the cacophony and further drowning out individual voices. Several times, Caballus had to stop to make sure that Mystic was still behind him. She seemed a little… overwhelmed by all the bustle, bumping into chairs and tables as she followed his weaving course toward the bar on the back wall.

Mystic noticed Caballus’s concerned look, and tried to compose herself. It wasn’t the crowds or the noise that was bothering her, though. Those were nothing new. It was the glares she was receiving from ponies that she passed by. It seemed as if everypony she passed stared accusingly at her, making her more uncomfortable with every passing moment.

So distracted, she almost jumped when Caballus was suddenly standing next to her. “Put your hood up,” he said, leaning in close enough to be heard over the din. “They’re looking at your horn.”

Mystic realized he was right, and quickly drew the hood of her cloak over her head. The unicorn spent so much time in the company of friends that she had forgotten how most of her kind were viewed by the Equestrian masses; with suspicion, sometimes even outright revulsion. Even in the cosmopolitan society of Hippopolis, she’d sometimes caught disapproving glances, and heard fretful whispers behind her back. Those she had learned to shrug off. But stories of “witch-hunts” by superstitious mobs in less-civilized areas started to worm into her thoughts, and her imagination did little help to ease her fears. She kept her head down, and tried to avoid drawing any more attention.

After what seemed to Mystic like an eternity, but was likely only a minute, the pair stood at the bar. It took a few moments—and eventually showing a few coins—for Caballus to get the bartender’s attention, but the old grizzled pony nodded in their direction as he finished up pouring another group’s round.

Another pony sauntered up to the bar just next to Caballus, between him and the bartender, and also signaled for service. The dusty, striped poncho he wore appeared to be draped over a couple saddlebags on his back. He was turned away from Caballus, so the Inquisipony couldn’t see his face, but his neck was orange and the end of his tail that hung below the poncho’s hem was striped black and red. The mane that wasn’t covered by his black-felt gaucho hat had identical stripes.

Just as the bartender made his way over and Caballus prepared his questions, the new pony interrupted. “Excuse me partner,” he said with the local drawl, “but I’ve got me a couple things I’d like to ask you.”

The old barkeep gave the pony a leery look until a few coins appeared on the counter.

“I’m looking for somepony,” the stranger said, just loud enough for Caballus to eavesdrop, “a Rogue Trader, yellow fella, been seen ‘round these parts every so often.”

The bartender’s neutral expression didn’t change, and though Caballus’s interest had been violently piqued, neither did his. “There’s lots of folk who pass through here. Some of ‘em are yellow. Most don’t say whether they’re Rogue Traders or not.”

“His name’s Tier,” the pony specified, “Tier Ver Kaufer. Mustache, fancy-pants Lipizzaner. I’ve got a powerful need to get a hold of him. Been told somepony around here might know how.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him before.” The barkeep’s answer was given with a carefully practiced shrug. “Not for a while, though.”

The stranger dropped a small coin purse on the bar and slid it across. “Well, why don’t you go ask if anypony’s seen him lately?”

The older pony gave a slight nod, picked up the bag in his teeth and walked through the doors behind the bar. The stranger turned and leaned his back on the counter while he waited, and let his eyes wander the room. Caballus was surprised to see the pony looked quite young, probably only a few years older than Mystic. But the side of his face that had been turned away from the Inquisipony was revealed to be covered in scar tissue, and the left eye replaced by a large augmetic lens.

While the stranger quite literally scanned the crowded room, he suddenly paused and frowned. With a snap of his neck, he stared straight at Caballus, meeting his gaze as if he had sensed he was being watched. It startled Caballus, but he held in his surprise, betraying nothing to the stranger.

For a tense moment, both ponies glared at one another. The orange pony’s real eye narrowed, and his biotic one adjusted, the lens focusing on the figure before it. He took one step backward, then another. Tipping his hat to Caballus, he began to slowly, cautiously, make his way toward the front, giving the Inquisipony a wide berth. He glanced back every few paces, every time meeting Caballus’s unwavering stare.

“What are you-” Mystic began, having missed the entire silent exchange, but she was cut off when Caballus grabbed her. They were halfway across the saloon by the time he slowed down enough to explain.

“That pony, the orange one in the poncho. He was asking about Tier, and I want to know why. Come on.” The Inquisipony’s tone and face made it clear that he wanted to move quickly, without discussion.

“Which pony?” Mystic asked, looking around. Caballus turned back around to find the stranger gone. His eyes darted across the room, searching for him. There were so many ponies in the crowd, so much activity, he couldn’t discern any trace of his target. Finally, he glimpsed a striped pattern disappearing through the doors the barkeep had used behind the counter. The slippery bastard must have doubled back to take the employee exit, Caballus cursed to himself. And it had almost worked.

He pulled Mystic back to the bar, taking less and less care not to disturb the ponies they passed by as they played catch-up. With a bounding leap, he jumped the counter, to the dismay of the waitress behind it. “He went this way,” the Inquisipony told Mystic, who had just cleared the bar herself. The two barged through the doorway, entering the Hitching Post’s cramped kitchen. In seconds they dashed to the back door of the saloon and burst out into the night.