A year after Horizons, Scotch Tape and others struggle to find their place in the world. When a zebra seer uncovers a mystery, Scotch Tape and three others journey to the last place they imagined: the megaspell ravaged wasteland of the Zebra lands.
It's been a year since the events of Project Horizons. The Hoof is improving and doing better, and yet Scotch Tape feels increasingly adrift in a world that doesn't seem to know her. That doesn't seem to care. And she's not the only filly feeling the same way. Majina, who lost both her mother and brother, has little in the Hoof to care for her either, living day to day in the zebra refugee camps for the survivors of the horrible battle for the hoof. Both are left poking through the basement of Majina's mother's home in Chapel, where she collected a number of papers.
It is in those papers that star cursed Starkatteri filly Pythia discovers an ominous letter written by the Caesar on the Day of Doom, his last order: 'Blind the Eye of the World'. Pythia knows the only way to learn what that means is to go there herself. She ropes in Scotch Tape and Majina (Because what are they going to do besides sulk and mope?) and makes arrangements to reach the land of Equestria's enemy. Along the way, the half dragon half pony filly Precious demands to come with them. And you don't say no to anything dragony.
Together, they'll travel to a far away land that was also terribly savaged by the war, who's pain and suffering have yet to be known. Together, they'll find out what the zebra Caesar set into motion with his final command. And only together will they be able to save the Homelands.
(Author's note: While helpful to read Horizons, most of the characters and events in Homelands do not require it. There may occasionally be references to Horizons and the original Fallout, but a new reader should be okay.
Also, if you like my writing, please drop me a bit or two at my Patreon. Really, you can't imagine how much it helps.
Chapel was quiet today. The settlement was nearly unrecognizable from a year ago with all the construction going on. Only the church that had given the town its name and the ruin of the old post office remained standing after the battle a year ago. The graves of Equestria’s war dead stretched well beyond the boundaries of the town, row upon row of enobled corpses there interred. Most old, but several new, laid to rest after the horrible fighting that had consumed the valley.
Today, though, everything was quiet. A lull before new building materials arrived. No sounds of hammers banging away like there were in so many other places in the Hoof. People were rebuilding all over the valley; peace brought safety, safety brought opportunity, and both attracted all sorts from all over the Wasteland. It gave some people a chance to touch the lives of lost loved ones.
Scotch Tape was picking through the ruins of a basement. The olive earth pony brushed back her shaggy blue mane as she scanned the heaps of boxes and books before her. Some would consider her a young mare, but far too many annoying people referred to her as a filly. “Sorry it took a year for us to get down here for your mom’s things,Majina,” she said, using her PipBuck light to help illuminate the underground space.
“That’s okay,” answered the soft, little voice of the zebra filly, the inheritor of these things that had survived the fight, as she quietly poked through some corroded metal boxes. Her mane had grown out a bit, falling like a curtain over half of her face. Her green eyes shimmered wetly as she examined her mother’s effects. Most of the boxes were full of so much mildewed trash, but there were a few here and there that had intact old books and scrolls. Still, they’d been lucky more hadn’t been taken, the basement protected from scavengers by the wrath of Chapel’s mayor, community leader, and CEO, Charity.
“You know, I really expected this to be nothing but stupid masks and other garbage. Some of this is actually interesting,” commented the last of the trio, ignoring their indignant glares. Pythia sat nearby, the cloaked zebra reading through some of the scrolls at random. Scotch Tape didn’t know much about zebras except that they had stripes, and Pythia’s stripes were just weird. The markings resembled the orbits of planets, which apparently was a bad thing. “Too bad; sooner or later, some creep is going to break in here and snag it. I think someone already cleared out everything worth over two caps.”
“We’ll take whatever we can back to the zebra camp. I’m sure someone there would like them,” Scotch assured Majina.
“Yeah,” Pythia said with a roll of her sharp yellow eyes. “Back to getting scowls and gestures to ward off evil star wickedness. Yay.” Receiving a sharp glare from Scotch Tape, the cloaked filly raised her hooves in surrender and returned to perusing old maps.
“I don’t want to go back to the camp,” Majina sniffed as she poked halfheartedly through the basement. “I don’t have anyone there. Anywhere.” The zebra filly rubbed her brilliant green eyes as she fought back the tears.
A year ago, that’d been different, but then, everything had been different. Scotch had been dragged along in the wake of a terrifying pony named Blackjack all over the valley called the Hoof, into the depths of the earth and all the way to the moon. Along the way, she’d lost her father, her friends, everypony who had mattered to her. Sometimes, that felt like some kind of dream.
“And Chapel reminds you of your mom,” Scotch Tape said with a sigh. “I feel the exact same way about 99. And Chapel doesn’t even feel like Chapel anymore. So many new ponies are moving in that it just feels like the Crusaders are fading away. I don’t know where Adagio, Allegro, and Sonata went. Charity might still be running the shop, but it just doesn’t feel the same anymore. Nothing’s the same anymore.”
“Yeah. Life sucks. Wear a hat,” Pythia replied as she looked at a new scroll. “Where did your mom get all of these, anyway?”
“She took them from the Legate when we fled,” Majina said as she gazed forlornly around the room. “Stashed them away and brought them here when she had a chance. She thought they might be important.”
“Well, she wasn’t wrong,” Pythia said as her eyes flickered across the page. “A lot of these are dispatches from Roam. Stars only know how they survived. Someone must have thought they were special.”
“Aren’t you going to join the other Starkatteri?” Scotch Tape asked. Scotch didn’t know much about zebras, other than that most of them belonged to various tribes, which was apparently a big deal. Majina was of some storytelling tribe, which was funny given she wasn’t much of a storyteller, while Pythia was a part of some freaky star worshiping tribe that apparently had done some pretty messed up things in the past. Still, Pythia’d helped out during the bad times a year ago, but Scotch Tape still wasn’t sure what to make of her.
“You mean wrinklebutt, meltyface, and ‘bwa ha ha’? Not likely,” Pythia said with a snort. “I wanted to understand a shadow on the future. Those three can go back to plotting... whatever,” she continued with a scowl and dismissive wave of her hoof. Scotch stared at her for a moment, and Pythia glanced up at her. “What? In case you haven’t noticed, no one likes me or my tribe. Not even other Starkatteri.”
“Well, you have to do something,” Scotch Tape said.
“I am. I am reading about reallocation of shamanistic fetishes away from the front at Shattered Hoof Ridge,” she answered, brow furrowing. “What about you? Aren’t you building the future or somesuch?”
“Yeah. I offered my plans and designs to Triage. Then she patted me on the head and went to some meeting. With Blackjack gone, I’m just some filly again. I’ll need four or five years before they start taking me seriously. The plans are in for Chapel, but we’re way down on the reconstruction list, and Charity’s only still in charge because Keeper says so. Adults just won’t take orders from kids.” Damn it, she’d gone to the moon! She’d been shot at! She’d had sex! She’d designed indoor plumbing for Chapel! Why did she have a half dozen or so more years before ponies took her seriously?
“Well, give it a few years and bitch at them for not listening to you when their toilets stop–” And at that moment, Pythia froze. Her sharp yellow eyes narrowed at the scroll she was reading if trying to stare a hole through it. “No,” she muttered. “What is that?”
Majina and Scotch regarded each other. “What is what?” they asked in bafflement.
Pythia wasn’t cute, or graceful. Her face was all scowls and frowns and hard glares. Her body hadn’t quite entered the awkward boniness that came with maturity. Majina and Scotch Tape blinked at her as the filly’s yellow eyes widened. “No, wait. I’ve heard of that!” She tossed the scroll aside and started to dig through her saddlebags, pulling out a plastic bag containing a stack of rune-covered three by five cards. Pythia withdrew them and started flipping through. “Where did I hear of that?”
“What? What are you doing?” Majina asked with a little frown, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “What are those?”
“Notes some Starkatteri zebras have made of some of the nastier things in the world,” she said as she flipped through. “The Eye of the World. I know I’ve heard that phrase before...”
“You keep them on notecards?” Scotch asked with a half smile.
Pythia stopped, giving Scotch Tape a flat look. “What should I keep them in? A black ponyhide tome with runes of evil on the cover? ‘Cause I think we tried that once,” she said scornfully before resuming her flipping. Then she found what she was searching for, her eyes scanning the glyphs immaculately penned on the card. “Wha...” She looked at the scroll. “No... but why...” Back to the card. “They wouldn’t...” She read the scroll again.
“What? What is it?” Majina asked with a small frown.
“Just... a feeling,” she said as she pulled a map of the night sky out of her saddlebags, notes scribbled all over the smudged, smeared, and painstakingly restored thing. Then she took off the crystal pendant she'd been wearing and dangled it over the map, her gaze intently fixed. “What’s the Eye of the World? Does this matter?” she muttered as she stared. The swaying pendant refracted the light so a little spot played over the map. Maybe it was a trick of the eye, but that little pinprick seemed to linger on one cluster of stars longer than others. “Thuban?” Doubt played on her face, and then her eyes popped wide with alarm.
“What, what is it?” Scotch asked.
“A snake of a star. Thuban doesn’t play around. He’s always deadly serious and crazy smart, and he’s laughing right now,” Pythia said as she continued to watch the map. “If I go...” She paused and frowned. “No? Then who?” Her eyelid twitched a moment. “Are you sure? Tell me you’re joking.” The pendant seemed to sway a little faster, and Scotch Tape could almost imagine the map hissing to the filly.
Then she grabbed the swaying crystal, stopping it in its path. “I need to go,” she blurted. Pythia immediately put the cards in her bags and stowed them, then started to shove letters and papers in after them. “Actually, we need to go. All of us.” She folded the map up and put the crystal around her neck. “Grab all these papers so I can go over them later, but we need to go. Now!”
“Go?” Scotch Tape asked with a frown. “Go where?”
“The Homelands. I need to see if this order was actually carried out or not,” Pythia replied. “I doubt it was. I mean, I can’t think of any zebra that would actually do it... but I have to make sure.” She rose to her hooves. “Come on. Get them loaded up, and then we need to get going!”
“The ‘Homelands’?” Scotch Tape asked, and then her eyes went wide. “You mean the zebra lands?”
“Aren't you a smart pony! Gold star! Now come on,” Pythia said, gesturing to the papers.
“You want to go all the way to the Homelands?” Majina asked with a little frown.
“Yeah,” she said, then pointed a hoof at Scotch. “I’ll need you to find somepony with a boat.” Then she pointed at Majina. “And I’ll need you to come with me so that they don’t make stupid warding gestures when I ask important questions.” The two didn’t answer. They just stared at her. “What? Did you two have anything else pressing to do? You don’t want to go to the camp," she said, fixing her piercing yellow eyes on Majina before snapping her gaze to Scotch. "Nopony will take you seriously. So why not?”
Scotch Tape’s mouth worked. “‘Cause... I mean... do you even know how to get to the zebra lands?”
“Sure. By boat. After that, I plan to ask for directions.” Pythia started for the stairs, but then paused. “Why, do you have something else to do?”
The pair looked at each other, and twin tiny smile formed on their faces. They gathered up the rest of the scattered papers and together followed Pythia out of the basement. Majina gathered up a few trinkets, too: a smiling wooden mask, a necklace of dark mahogany beads, and whatever darts she could find that fit in her bamboo blowgun, Mr. Sleepytime. “You know,” Scotch Tape said, “I think I know a pony with a boat who’d be willing to help us...”
* * *
“What a mess,” Pythia said crossly as they trotted out onto the bridge… or, rather, what had once been a bridge. The cracked asphalt ended at a faded word painted on the surface: Mercy. Beyond that, where once there’s been an ominous city of looming black towers, there was nothing but a smooth, nearly perfectly round lake. The remains of the Luna Dam to the south clinging to the cliff walls were all that remained of the city, the Hoofington River pouring out of the canyon in a foamy deluge.
Yet the Hoof was recovering. With clear skies, no more Enervation, and the careful assistance of the Commonwealth’s seed stocks, green was returning to the valley with almost frightful speed. It was as if the land was now attempting to make up for centuries of lost time. Across the lake, the territory around the marble edifices of the University was a massive hive of activity. To the north, the same was occurring along the stretch of shore between the Arena and Riverside, now Lakeside.
And yet there was precious little on the lake itself. No ponies playing on the beaches, fishing the depths, or boating across the surface. Only one vessel sat moored beneath the spur of concrete jutting out over the waves, and somehow even it seemed to cling to the shore, as if afraid of the depths of that lake.
Perched on that precarious edge over the waves was the pony they’d come to see. The turquoise unicorn mare sat upright on her rump, several empty bottles beside her. She hummed to herself, rocking back and forth as if at any moment she would pitch forward and tumble the fifty feet to the water below.
“Ahoy, Captain!” Scotch Tape said with as much forced cheer as she could muster. The mare didn’t turn at her voice, and so Scotch Tape walked closer and closer to that edge. As tough as Equestrian wartime engineering was, there was a word for half a parabolic arch: time bomb. Still, she drew closer till she could have a look at Thrush’s face. Two sets of eye patches covered her eyes. Scotch Tape sighed, looked back down the bridge at Pythia and Majina, and shouted into her ear. “Ahoy!”
She jerked upright, swinging her head around this way and that before she faced Scotch Tape, leaning in towards her as Scotch leaned away. “I’m out of rum,” she croaked.
Scotch dug in her saddlebags and fished out a bottle. Without even lifting a patch, Thrush sniffed once… twice… then, completely blind, she levitated the bottle and popped the cork. Upending it, the entire contents disappeared down her throat in a long series of loud gulps.
Then she leapt to her hooves. “Ahoy ahoy! Shiver me timbers! Lower the gangplank and jib the jab! Raise up the mizzenmast before I keelhaul the lot of you scurvy searats! She practically danced on the edge of the precipice, still blinded by the matching eyepatches. Suddenly, perched on one hind hoof, she paused and pried up the patch over her left eye up, peering down at Scotch. “Oh. Hello,” she muttered slowly, then asked a second later, “Are we acquainted?”
“It’s me, Captain. Scotch Tape?” Scotch tried a smile. “I was with Blackjack when… well… a year and a half ago? You took us to Tenpony?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” she said, letting the patch fall and hopping back to sitting on her rump.
“Captain Thrush!” Scotch shouted into her ear, and the mare lurched away, forelegs windmilling wildly as she nearly fell over once more.
“Byeahay!” she shouted, and then paused again. “Bloody bad day that was,” she muttered, pushing her large captain’s hat back and tugging off one eyepatch. Then she moved the other, sliding it over to cover the opposite eye. She sighed as she regarded Scotch Tape. “That was that thing with the time and the box before the thing happened, aye?”
She could still remember the sounds. Scotch Tape swallowed, her throat dry. “Yes. The thing that happened on the Seahorse.”
“Still got the bloody nailholes,” she muttered, then motioned a hoof in a hooking gesture to Scotch. The filly extracted another bottle of rum… well, technically wine mixed with some whiskey and some brown sugar added, but that was close to rum, right? Thrush took several swallows before she asked. “So. What perchance be foretell this meeting of you and I?”
“I need to get to the zebra lands,” Scotch Tape answered, gesturing for the pair behind her to come closer.
“Funny,” Captain Thrust muttered as she peered into the bottle. “I can’t taste the wormwood at all.” She then laughed. “But I must be drinkin’ absinthe, because I could have sworn you said you’re wanting to travel to the zebra lands.”
“We are,” Majina said quietly.
“So pack up those green faeries and let's get going,” Pythia said irritably.
Thrush rotated, sitting with her hind legs crossed in what looked like quite an uncomfortable position as she faced the trio, her tail dangling over the edge. She peered from one to the next, pursing her lips. “You don’t just go to the zebra lands. It’s not like a little hop, skip, and jump across the pond and then there you are. The zebra lands are a nightmare of monsters and megaspells. I’ve only been there five times, and that was four times too many.”
“Well, it’s either you or we go to Dawn Bay and hope we can catch a boat there,” Pythia said with a snort.
“Or track down the Rampage and see if they can fly us there,” Majina suggested.
“Or we hike allllll the way down to Shattered Hoof Ridge,” Pythia threw in.
“But we’re going to get there, one way or another.” Scotch Tape said adamantly.
“You don’t… ugh…” Thrush took another long pull of the bottle. “It’s not as simple as just going there. I got no charts. No destination. And there are nasty things what live in the sea that will eat the Seahorse in one bite. Any zebra vessel, and they’re almost all zebras, would kill us on sight on general principles of maritime honor. I’d do the same to them if they came to our shores.”
“There has to be a way. Zebras came to Dawn Bay to join the Remnants,” Majina insisted. “Mother came from there.”
“Aye. But they’re not coming any more,” Thrush answered, waving a hoof at the lake. “Funny thing. When you vaporize a cursed city of cursed curseness, there’s not much reason to come and vaporize it again.”
“Well. Looks like we’ll have to go another way,” Pythia said with a shrug.
“Sorry for bothering you. It was nice to see you again,” Scotch Tape said as the three started away from the mare. “I know Blackjack loved drinking with you.”
Ten steps. “Wait,” the captain croaked, and they paused. The captain’s uncovered eye stared past them as she weaved back and forth. Then she whined in the back of her throat, as if the words struggled for freedom. Finally, she spoke. “There may be a way. It’s not enough to get all the way there, but you’ll have a chance.”
“How?” Pythia asked immediately.
“You’ll need to make contact with the Atoli.”
“You mean Atori?” Majina queried.
“Whatever.” Thrush rolled her eye. “They’re the zebras what sails the seas. They can get you to a safe harbor in the zebra lands proper. Otherwise, you’re just going to get stuck in some radioactive bog or megaspell-warped wasteland, or worse.”
“So, how do we do that? Sail out and raise a white flag?” Pythia asked.
Thrush laughed harshly. “Only if you wants them to strangle you with it. No. The Atoli have rules… at least the ones what aren’t raiders do.”
“There are zebra raiders?” Scotch Tape asked with a little frown.
“Of course. And slavers too. Three small fry like yourself would be easy pickings for them. Even the Atoli proper might string you up if you don’t approach them just right,” Thrush said as she considered the three. “But safer than walking all the way to Shattered Hoof or taking a skyboat.”
“Airship,” Scotch corrected.
“Whatever.” Thrush sniffed disdainfully.
“But there is a way, right?” Pythia urged.
Thrush screwed up her face, an ‘nnngh’ noise in her throat, before finally answering. “Yes. No. Maybe. I know one ship that might do it. Traditional, you might say. If they’re still sailing. If they haven’t been wiped out. They hold to the old code and agreements still.”
“Great. So take us to them!” Pythia said, getting a scowl from the captain. “Er, please?”
“Told you. They see the Seahorse, they’ll send her to the bottom. Traditional like,” she said with a smirk. She eyed the three of them, her lips curling in a sure smirk. “But there is a way. You won’t like it, but it’s your best shot at getting there with all your bits. And trust me, you want to keep your bits.”
“So, are you going to tell us how?” Pythia demanded crossly.
She did.
She was right: Scotch Tape didn’t like it.
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Scotch admitted as they scrambled to stock up on what they’d need to make the journey. Scotch had enough saved from her adventures a year ago to get the food and supplies she’d need. Charity, the filly shopkeeper, didn’t even say hello as she talked business with some caravaners. Just another hint she didn’t belong here anymore than in her old stable. Then the three were trotting their way back to the Seahorse. A strange, unfamiliar sense of excitement was bubbling in the back of her mind, shushing her father’s voice warning her of all the things that could go wrong.
As they approached the old refurbished Equestrian patrol boat sitting under the broken bridge, however, something emerged from the rocks and long grass that brought all three to a skidding stop as it walked in front of the trio. She wasn’t any bigger than the three of them, but anyone who ran into Precious had a similar reaction.
Maybe it was the glossy, lavender scales or the green spines that ran along the filly’s neck and reptilian tail, or the claws that tipped the ends of her feet. Precious was a monsterpony, created by mad science during the war... or something. Scotch Tape had never gotten the entire story, and maybe Precious hadn’t either. A year ago she come to Chapel as part of a raid and had just stuck around, like a watch... dragonpony thing. She stared at the three with her sapphire eyes as she stood in their path.
“Where you goin’?” she asked, her voice low and soft as her claws kneaded the grass underneath her.
“Um,” they shared a look. “On a trip?”
“A boat trip,” Majina said as she jabbed at the Seahorse behind Precious.
Precious’s scaly tail swished back and forth behind her in the grass, those snake-slitted eyes boring into Scotch’s. “To... the zebras?” Scotch said weakly.
“Can I come?” Precious asked, and the three shared a look.
“You... want to come? It’s a long way. It’ll be dangerous,” Scotch pointed out.
The monsterpony merely shrugged. “I wanna go with you.”
“Why?” Scotch pressed, still skeptical.
She furrowed her brows. “Just do,” she said with a growl and a curl of smoke.
“Oh, let her come! If something nasty comes out of the ocean, she can eat it,” Pythia blurted impatiently, then scowled back at the monsterpony. “Long as it isn’t us.”
Precious averted her eyes and looked at the ship, giving a little shudder. “Fine,” she said as she turned and stalked ahead of them. Her motion was a little too fluid, too predatory, to be considered ‘trotting’.
“Is she okay?” Majina asked, watching Precious ahead of them with a worried frown.
“She’s half dragon. If she’s not okay, it’s something else’s problem. Just so long as it’s not ours,” Pythia snapped irritably as she followed.
Scotch Tape shared a look with Majina before the zebra filly gave a worried frown and headed down to the boat. Scotch turned to give one last look at Chapel, the little town that once been home to so many orphaned children like herself, now just another settlement eager to put the past behind it. Like Scotch. She’d lost her home, her family, and her friends. If she was to find new ones, it wouldn’t be here.
Turning, she descended to the ship waiting below to take her into the unknown.
“I’m bored,” Scotch Tape grumbled as she lay flat on her back, legs splayed wide as she stared up at the lead gray clouds overhead. “Bored bored bored bored bored. On a scale of one to ten, I am ninety-seven million, three hundred and twelve thousand seven hundred and fifty-two point five in terms of boredom. If my boredom were a mountain, it’d be this great big honkin’ rock of an island,” she said as she gestured at the blackened rocks around her. “If my boredom were water, it’d be this ocean surrounding us!” the olive green filly declared dramatically, sweeping a hoof at the gray waves that smashed against the boulders with great foamy splashes. She thrust her hooves into the air, wind snapping at her deep blue mane, declaring to the heavens, “I have become Ennui, Bored of Bored. Look on me, and give me something to frigging do!”
“So,” said a small, cloaked zebra filly as she pored over a number of worn and bent papers in the protection of the shallow alcove that was their meager shelter. Down by the waterline, Majina picked along gathering flotsam. Near Scotch Tape, on a rock, Precious snoozed beside a heap of firewood and seaweed. Large crab shells littered her rock, testaments to earlier victories over forays of dangerous sea creatures. “What you’re saying is… let me guess here… you’re bored?” Pythia didn’t look up, but in the depths of her hood, the satellite rings of an arcane tattoo were still barely visible.
“No, Pythia. I’m not bored,” Scotch Tape said as she glowered at the cloaked filly. Then she threw her head back and cried out, “I am booooooooorrrrrreeeeeeeeduh!”
“You can help me collect more seaweed,” the third occupant of the rocky spur in the ocean suggested as she set a wicker basket of the salty green fronds on a stone that had been dubbed the ‘kitchen’ simply because it was the only large, relatively flat place where they could build a fire and prepare meals.
“No, I don’t want to collect seaweed, Majina.” Scotch Tape grumbled, flopping back on her personal preferred rock. “Or eggs. Or starfish. Or those sour berries that give me the trots.”
“How about more driftwood? We can always use more driftwood, and your friend said we needed to collect lots,” Majina suggested brightly as she picked up a hollowed-out shell and started to rinse off the seaweed.
“I’m sick of hauling branches,” Scotch grumbled, glowering at the stack of salt-bleached wood she’d already stacked up next to the kitchen. “I don’t know why Thrush said to pick up sticks. It’s a waste of time.”
Precious lifted her head to glare at the three in annoyance before reaching over and grabbing some of the seaweed, balling it up and stuffing it in her ears, and flopping down again to resume her nap. The interruption didn’t suppress Scotch’s irritation with their situation one bit.
“Well, what about practicing your Zebra?” Majina suggested with a fragile smile.
“I’m tired of speaking Zebra. I’m so speaking Zebra that right now I’m not sure if I’m speaking Zebra or Pony!” Scotch Tape growled.
“You could always complain!” Pythia shouted at the young mare. “That’d be new!”
“Hey!” Scotch snapped, sitting up and jabbing a hoof at the zebra filly surrounded by papers. “We’re here only because you said we had to go to the zebra lands. This isn’t my fault!”
“Oh yeah?” Pythia narrowed her eyes. “Who was it that put us in touch with that drunk off her ass captain who left us here? Oh, right. That was you!”
“Girls,” Majina said as she moved between the two, stretching out her hooves.
“Hey! We were only supposed to be here for a week! One! Week!” Scotch snarled.
Pythia rose and mimicked staggering, swaying back and forth. “Ooooh. One doesn’t just sail to the zebra lands. My poor little piece of crap ship can’t make it. Wooooo… Gimme more rum…” she said in horrible impersonation of the unicorn captain who had delivered them to this rocky spar.
“Girls,” Majina pleaded as she glanced from one to the other and back. “Please stop! I don’t want to hear another stupid fight!”
Scotch ignored her, jabbing a hoof past Majina at Pythia. “It’s your fault we’re here! You can’t even say for sure what is in those letters, but instead of doing something smart, you say we have to go all the way to the zebra lands to figure it out!” Scotch Tape shrieked. “We should have asked somepony back home about it!”
“Right! Because ponies know everything! Oh, wait, you don’t! Because this didn’t happen in Equestria! Because Equestria isn’t the center of the damned universe!” Pythia shouted back.
“I... you... please...” Majina gasped as she stared desperately, and then she sat down in between the two and began to bawl at the top of her lungs. Precious sat up, glaring at the pair as her scaly tail scraped on the stones.
“Happy?” the dragonpony asked with a growl, a thin tendril of smoke issuing from a nostril.
As much as Scotch Tape might have wanted to keep yelling, or preferably start thumping Pythia, the sobbing zebra filly and angry dragonpony just took all the fight out of her. “Majina… I… ugh…” She rose to her hooves and walked away.
Not that there was all that far to walk.
The island Thrush had left them on was a twisted, blackened nub in the middle of the Zebrinica Sea, the large body of water separating Equestria from the Zebra Empire. Scotch had imagined a boat ride of a day or two. Imagine her surprise when they travelled for nearly a week before reaching this nameless series of blackened rocks sticking out of the sea. The highest point was about a thousand feet above the waves, the largest of a dozen or so rocky knobs rising from the water. There was no beach, save for a shallow spit of sand at what would generously be called a bay. Detritus was washed up along the shores, and during low tide the quartet gathered the salty green kelp that clung to the stones.
Scotch Tape clambered all the way up to the top of the island. She usually came up here between the rain storms that beat the island every afternoon, hoping for some sign of a sail or wake… or anything that might actually be a zebra vessel. And it was the only place where she could see something remotely interesting.
Foundations.
In the miles-wide shallow gulf between rocky spires, the eerie geometric patterns of foundations were still visible when viewed from a height. At low tide, they peeked from the waves in crumbling, barnacle-encrusted grids. She could make out streets, neighborhoods, and what may have once been a port of some kind. All of it had been burned down to the sea, along with whatever had covered the rocks they now called home.
Celestia One had been thorough. The pony solar megaspell had almost scoured the island completely from the face of the sea at the end of the Great War two centuries ago. Scotch Tape knew that, according to history, this island had been a base for balefire missiles and that had resulted in this destruction.
Not even Manehattan had been ravaged this badly. Even the Hoof…
“She stopped crying,” Pythia said glumly as she approached Scotch Tape from behind, making the pony start a little. Even after weeks, she still wasn’t used to how quietly zebras could move. The cloaked filly trotted next to her and sat down, gazing dully out at the ruins. “Sorry,” Pythia muttered, halfheartedly.
“She told you to say that, didn’t she?” Scotch Tape asked, and received a little smile in return. “I’m sorry I snapped,” Scotch Tape said, a little more sincerely. “I’m just so frustrated just sitting here.”
Pythia sighed, pushing back her cloak, her mane short and bristly. “You’re not the only one. I’ve read every single letter and note that Majina’s mom saved, and none of them are any clearer.” She withdrew one very worn and folded scrap of paper. The ink had faded, but the swirly zebra glyphs were clear enough. Though Scotch Tape could speak Zebra passingly, reading it was a whole different challenge. Apparently the zebras didn’t use an alphabet, but symbols for their words, each unique and with multitudes of meaning depending on their arrangement.
“‘Blind the Eye of the World.’ What does it mean?” Scotch Tape asked the question for what felt like the thousandth time.
“I don’t know,” Pythia growled at the letter. “I don’t even know what the Eye of the World is, but it feels important. But not even the stars are clear on it.” Pythia glowered up at the darkening clouds. “I wish my map was clearer!”
“Doesn’t it tell you anything?” Scotch Tape had asked that question a dozen times at least, in the futile hope that somehow the answer would change.
“I told you. All it tells me is that things up there are still interested in stuff down here. That’s really bad, but the whole future is covered in weird shrouds and veils and shadows that I can’t see through.” Pythia sighed, rubbing her face. “Once we’re with the zebras, I can try to find out more.”
“It must be annoying. Divination is your tribe’s thing,” Scotch Tape commented, earning a sharp glance from the marked filly. She raised her hoof in a placating gesture. “I just mean I understand. It’d be like me not being able to draw a straight line.” She glanced at her flank, the square and compass of her cutie mark signifying her engineering talent. Pity it hadn’t convinced others take her seriously.
Pythia, mollified a bit, sniffed. “Meddling with forces beyond the wit of mortals is the Starkatteri ‘thing’. But yeah. Frustrating. I know it’s important, though. This letter is from the Last Caesar to his personal priest, a high shaman. Anything between those two is a big deal. He wouldn’t just send gibberish. And the date.” She tapped the corner. “Sent on the Day of Doom, when your megaspells tore Zebrinica a new one.”
“Day of Doom.” Scotch Tape couldn’t find it as funny as she normally would, staring down at those ruins poking through the wave troughs. “So we need to go to Zebrinica to find out,” she said. “Do you have any clue where in Zebrinica we should start looking?”
“We've been through this. I’ve never been there. You always hear stories, though. Monsters. Megaspells. Malicious magic. Murderous meteorology.” She groaned. “Too much alliteration.”
Scotch Tape stared at her a bit. The earth pony might have been the oldest of the four, but even she wasn’t sure what that word meant in Pony. Zebra was refreshingly logical and lyrical, so she’d picked up a lot of the spoken word. Pythia’s word choice was occasionally just… weird, though. The zebra in question caught her stare, knitting her brows. “What?”
“Nothing,” Scotch Tape said, then gazed out across the waves. Since Blackjack had died, nothing had really gone right for her. Chapel, the town founded by orphaned fillies and colts, was now overwhelmingly adult. Stable 99, the place that had been her home, was now occupied by new ponies that might have welcomed her, but only as a curiosity. Psalm had been friendly enough, but she wasn't Lacunae. She wasn't really her friend. As for helping rebuild the Hoof, nopony wanted to listen to a filly. Damn it, all the ponies who hadn’t judged her on her age and size had run off, or worse… told her to be patient.
Her father wouldn't have been patient. He’d have done something, even if it was reckless.
But thinking about the past opened up a great big hole inside her, and thinking about the present frustrated her to no end. She glared out across the levelled city... and paused. “What’s that?” There, across the bay, something dark shifted behind the spires of stone. Something with sails. “Hey. Hey! There’s a ship there!” she said, springing to her hooves. She leaned over the edge and shouted down at Majina far below. “Ship! Light the fire! Hurry!”
“Wait, wait!” Pythia shouted, but it was too late. Precious turned to the prepared fire, took a deep breath, and let out a puff of emerald flame. Instantly the driftwood ignited, and damp kelp draped across the gaps started pouring out oily black smoke. “Damn it,” Pythia swore as Scotch Tape started back down, the cloaked filly close behind. “Didn’t you even listen to that rummed-up lunatic’s ramblings?”
“What? They’re a ship!” Scotch Tape said as they scrambled down to meet Majina and Precious.
“Yes, an Atoli ship!” Pythia said.
“So what? They’re sailors, right? Fishermen!” Scotch Tape replied, staring at the thick column of dark smoke rising into the sky.
“Right!” Scotch shouted as she ship came into view around a spur of rock, turning towards their spire. It was a true ship, rather than a patrol boat like Captain Thrush’s Seahorse. The sides were solid sheets of rust. Two masts held ribbed sails sewn together from dozens, perhaps hundreds of different pieces of cloth. Zebras milled about on the deck, and the sunlight that made it through the clouds flashed off the lenses of spyglasses.
There was one thing phenomenally clear, though: the black flag snapping atop the center mast depicting a decapitated unicorn’s head impaled upon a sword. “Also, pirates,” Pythia said glumly. “AKA, raiders.”
* * *
The zebras were divided into thirteen tribes, and according to Majina, those tribes were as distinct from each other as unicorns were from earth ponies or pegasi. The Atoli were born of the sea, their souls formed from sea foam and crashing waves, howling storms, and serene calmness. From the look of the half dozen zebras rowing over from the ship, a great deal of rust and shellfish was involved too. Four wore barding made of enormous spiny crab shells tied to frayed fishing net. The two that didn’t were no less intimidating, wrapped head to hoof in flapping canvas strips with strange wide-brimmed hats bleached white with salt.
“I’m thinking that Thrush’s whole ‘have no weapons’ thing was a big mistake,” Scotch Tape muttered as the longboat drew close enough for the gaff hooks, harpoons, and other spiny tools of maiming to be visible.
“Ya think?” Pythia muttered, taking a step back and pulling her cloak across her face. “Hopefully they don’t think my map and Majina’s blowgun are weapons.” She glanced at the small microcomputer on Scotch Tape’s leg. “What does your PipBuck thingy say about them?"
Scotch’s PipBuck could read a creature's hostile intent or lack thereof and show it as a colored bar in the direction it lay. Yellow was okay. Red meant they wanted to kill you. Scotch still didn't know how the damned thing made that determination, if it could see into the future or read minds or something even stranger, but it was more or less reliable. More or less. “Yellow be mellow,” she replied.
When they were only a few feet from the shore, the larger of the two canvas-wrapped zebras rose and stepped out… onto the surface of the water. She stood on the casually rolling waves as easily as if they were solid ground, walking towards the shore. The second and smaller wrapped figure tried to replicate the first’s feat only to sink up to their barrel for a moment, then struggle as if in thick mud to climb atop the waves.
The first looked back and… something… It felt like a lurch in Scotch’s belly or a pull right at the nape of her neck… but whatever the zebra did, the seas suddenly rose in a large wave, picking up the struggling zebra and setting both of the pair on a large stone at the shore. On dry land, both moved a bit more unsteadily; the boat remained off the sandy little beach, the four zebras left in it not leaving the surf.
The two seemed even more odd up close. Their canvas sashes were decorated with necklaces of fine gold chain. Pearls hung on strands that dangled from their ears, and the rims of their woven reed hats glittered with dozens of tiny shells. The only thing separating the two beyond their size and levels of seawater saturation was that the larger wore a prominent pendant made of large white feathers and coral beads while the smaller bore a blue pearl on a string around her neck. Scotch Tape and Majina shared a look, and then the pony pushed the zebra to the forefront as they approached.
“On our sacred island are you! How come to be here did you?” the larger of the two demanded in a haunty mare’s voice. Scotch Tape struggled to make sense of the Zebra. The mare's speech was so oddly accented that Scotch Tape wasn’t sure she heard correctly; it almost sounded like she was talking backwards or something! Then Precious moved between the fillies and the newcomers, and the latter's eyes widened in shock as they fell back. “That is what!?” The armed zebras in the boat began to move in alarm.
“She won’t hurt you!” Majina blurted, though Precious’s growl added an unwelcome degree of uncertainty to that assurance. The zebras down at the longboat started into the water as Majina squeezed her eyes tight before yelling, “We revoke the right of passage!” The pair froze and turned to regard each other, tilting their heads back a little. Pythia thumped Majina’s butt, and the filly gasped. “Invoke, I mean. Invoke the right of passage!”
That got eyes back on the fillies. The larger of the strange zebras pushed back her hat and pulled down a canvas veil and… wow. Scotch Tape wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the larger zebra mare was… well… Blackjack would have been all over her. Glory, too. Eyes reflecting the depths of the ocean stared down at us. “Joking are you?” she asked. “Give passage to flotsam washed on our shores we don’t.”
“Traditions remember sister!” the smaller one said.
The larger sighed deeply. “Sky Altar call me. Blue Pearl call her. What name have you?” Their names were actually Ahulani and Lalahawa, but it was easier just to think of them with what their names meant.
“I am Majina of the Zencori.” Her name meant ‘A Happy Tale’, but Scotch couldn’t think of Majina as anything but Majina. “These are–”
Sky snorted with a disdainful toss of her head. “Care not I! Here stay shall you.” She started to turn away. “There. Satisfied Tradition have I.”
The smaller one pushed back her hat and yanked down her veil. “But invoked passage ship they have, Sister! Just ignore that–“ The younger mare, really a filly herself, was silenced with a glare and immediately lowered her eyes to the ground, tapping her hooves together as she swayed with the waves.
“Not important what invoke they,” the elder mare said, still glaring down at Pearl, before letting out a ‘tch’ of annoyance. She turned, her lips puckered sourly as she regarded the fillies. “How on our island come to be you? Castaways are you?”
“No!” Majina answered. “We are travelers seeking passage on the waves.”
“If from the sea escaped you, to the sea be returned should you,” she said lowly, now ominous.
“Try,” growled Precious, scraping her claws on the rock.
“See? Dangerous are they!” the elder said to the younger.
“Sister,” the filly growled back, impatient. “Rude being are you!”
“We are not castaways,” Majina repeated firmly. “We are passengers.”
“From the pony lands sound you,” the mare grumbled as she surveyed them. “Not free for all is passage.”
“We have firewood collected, and dry kelp for our feed,” Majina said at once, gesturing to the piles of each. “We’ve taken no treasures from the sea and bear no weapons.”
The mare’s lips twisted sourly, looking from the heap of wood to the kelp, as if searching for another reason for denial. The zebra mare’s eyes narrowed on Scotch Tape, and she instantly grinned. “Not to our enemies does extend passage! If you wish, swim, pony!” She turned immediately on her hoof.
“How our enemy is she, Sister?” the smaller one asked as she looked at Scotch. Unlike her sibling, her eyes were a lighter blue, like the clear sky. “Do harm wish you?” Scotch Tape struggled to keep her words straight and shook her head. The younger zebra turned to her sibling. “If not to the sea do belong they, and if no weapons have they, and if payment offer they, how deny them can you, sister?” Sky looked back. “Tradition,” Pearl pressed.
“Tradition,” Sky muttered darkly. The sister gazed out at the ruins in the sea, then turned and glared at Scotch Tape, lips pressed together in an ugly scowl. Then she pointed her hoof out at the waves. “That see you, pony? Now by the sea taken is our lands. Pony sorcery and pony megaspells by!” She turned her head and spat. “What to that say you?”
The earth pony stared out across the water. It was ridiculous to blame her for something that happened two centuries before she was born. On the other hoof, looking at those foundations poking from the waves. Block after block, disappearing into the distance of the bay. How large had the island been before it’d been melted away?
Scotch Tape blinked at the ruins amid the softly lapping waves. “I think...” she croaked dryly. “I think that you got it worse than we did.”
The mare blinked in surprise a moment, then narrowed her eyes again. “Ours were these islands. To a million Atoli people! By ponies killed. By ponies incinerated! Hear their cries can I!” She jabbed her hoof out at the calmly lapping waves, demanding, “Can you?” Scotch stared, imagining the screams of zebras as their islands were melted beneath the waves. Or maybe she wasn’t really imagining those wails.
“Two hundred years late to that battle are you, Sister,” the smaller one said solemnly. “Refusing them passage from the sea will not bring back our dead. Only disgrace them.”
The elder Atoli hissed through her teeth, glowering at the younger. Though Pearl recoiled, as if expecting to be struck, she did not lower her gaze. Finally, the elder returned to those seeking passage, examining the last of the four. After a brief look, she marched right up to Pythia and yanked her hood off. As the Starkatteri’s face came into view, Sky laughed triumphantly. “Ha! To bring a curse upon us seek they!” She laughed again, backing away and spitting to the side. “Not even should the seas dry take you would I.” She turned back towards the waiting longboat. “Come, Sister.”
“Of the blood is she!” the younger shouted, remaining where she sat.
“Cursed blood has she,” the other quipped flatly. “Stay here till she rots can she. Come, Sister,” she repeated.
“Here, in this place, passage deny you? Now? In the eyes of our dead?” the younger mare yelled back. “Who will curse our ship is you!” The older mare glared back, making the younger flinch, but she maintained her ground. The four armored zebras in the boat were looking pretty uncomfortable with all the yelling.
“Who you are talking remember you! Elder am I,” the older said firmly. “And sister!”
“Our Tradition remember you! For all of the blood passage!” She pointed a hoof back at Pythia. “Cursed and wretched be she, but better are we if abandon them here do we?”
“Hey, watch it with that wretched talk,” Pythia muttered. Scotch Tape was just glad they had an advocate.
“Not know what you demand do you, sister.” The elder pointed a hoof at Precious at the back of all of them. “That thing is what?! Nothing of transporting monsters says Tradition! Stays it!”
“Precious is our friend!” Majina said sharply. “How can you demand she be left behind?” Majina threw her forelegs around Precious’s neck, staring at Sky with wide, tear-swimming eyes and a quivering lower lip.
“Young as the three of you is she?” the little zebra shaman asked, and Scotch immediately nodded. “Before the age is it! Are they! That demands all Tradition!”
Scotch frowned. So was there some kind of protection for the young? “I’m not a filly anymore,” she muttered, only to get jabbed in the ribs by Pythia. Precious leaned away from Majina with an uncomfortable curl to her lip while the filly kept up the pleading eyes.
The elder mare stared at them for a long time, frowning and clearly not happy with this situation but now thinking. She groaned and covered her face with a hoof. “Not like this will the captain,” she muttered.
“Do what you say is right will our mother,” the younger said as she relaxed.
“On the docks stayed our mother. Only the captain is here,” she said gravely, then sighed. “Here wait. Some calming the waves require will this,” Sky said wearily as she turned and trotted back to the boat. After talking briefly to one of the shell-adorned zebras, she got back in the boat, and one of them remained behind, standing in the surf of their little island.
Pearl waited all of ten seconds before she began to dance on her hooves in glee. “Passengers taking are we! Passengers taking are we!” she said, grinning widely.
“Whoa, what’s the big deal about passengers?” Scotch Tape asked. Majina released Precious, who backed away a few feet and watched with sharp eyes.
She stopped her prancing in place and blinked. “Tradition!” she said, as if that explained everything. When she received blank stares, she went on, “Three old traditions has our tribe: Fishing, the waves protect, and passengers carry.” Her smile disappeared as she moved onto a boulder so she could better see the ruins. “Many traditions have lost we. No longer carried are passengers. Other ships fight Atoli. At what is lost despair our ancestors and the spirits of the sea.”
“You mean Atoli are turning into pirates,” Scotch Tape amended. “Raiders.”
She gave a nod. “Do many. Perhaps do most. But Tradition respects Abalone!” Pearl sounded optimistic, but Scotch couldn’t shake how eager her sister had been to leave them behind. The zebra shaman gestured to the ruins. “Us practicing Tradition see they. Honored are they.” Her smile and eyes faded a little, and she added, “Hope I...”
“You think your ancestors are still here?” Scotch Tape asked as she gazed out at the ruins.
“Do not you?” Pearl seemed shocked by the question. Scotch stared out at the grid left behind and shivered at the thought of thousands of ghosts wandering the waterlogged streets and cowering in the coral-encrusted basements. “From sea are born Atoli. To sea return we.” Her sad gaze returned. “Come to this place now do few Atoli. Someday, by reef and water covered will be they. Forgotten will be our ancestors.”
Pearl trotted down to the edge of the water, fished a coin from her scarves, bowed her head towards the ruins, and, murmuring, threw it out into the waves. The copper disk flashed in the light, and Precious bunched up and launched herself after it as it flipped through the air, coming to a skidding stop on the edge of the waves as the coin disappeared into the water. She pouted after it. A moment later, a wave ran over the ruins, running perpendicularly across the smaller ripples and splashing Pearl’s hooves and Precious’s face. She glowered grumpily at where the coin had disappeared before stalking back up to her perch.
Scotch Tape glanced back at Majina and Pythia, but the former was gazing out at the sky and the later wore a tired, skeptical expression. Then Pearl turned back from the sea and began asking questions of Scotch Tape and Majina. They told her about leaving the Hoof and how they’d gotten to the island, getting a little frown at the mention of pony sailors going there. By the time they finished, the longboat had returned with Sky Altar.
“Agreed has the captain,” she said evenly. “As partial payment will serve your wood. Some work must do you, pony.” Then she glowered at Pythia. “Not leave the longboat will you, until decides the captain!” Sky smirked, “A long long time take will that hope I!”
“Maybe in the meantime I’ll figure out why they’re backwards talking,” Pythia muttered.
They had to wait several minutes for the boat to be loaded with all the driftwood and kelp they’d collected. During that time, the two sisters did something over by the ruins that involved burning smelly wood and scattering petals of some flower on the waves.
“What are they doing?” Scotch Tape softly asked Pythia. “Some kind of spell?”
“They’re letting the dead know that they are not forgotten. They’re shamans. They deal with spirits. To them, the dead are just another kind of spirit,” Pythia muttered, her voice oddly respectful.
“Aren’t you a shaman?”
“Technically. More accurately, a seer am I.” She blinked and hissed softly, “Damn it, now I’m starting to do it!”
“What’s the difference?”
“Shamans make deals with spirits. Quid Pro Quo… this for that. They get the spirits to do things for them and serve as intermediaries between spirits and the people. Seers see and speak with spirits to know things. You saw how they made the waves do things and walked on water? That’s zebra shaman magic.”
“So why aren’t you a shaman?” Majina asked.
“Because you really don’t want to make deals with the kinds of spirits that my tribe does. They’re not nice at all. Cross a water spirit and, at worst, you spontaneously drown. Cross a star spirit and they’ll curse you until the end of time, leaving you trapped in a book bound with your own skin, or melting your body and eating the soul... need I go on?” she hissed, eyes angry as she glared at the filly, who averted her eyes with a shiver. “Even those spirits aside, my tribe attracts the worst kinds of other spirits. I wouldn’t attract a water spirit. I’d draw a toxic waste spirit. Trust me, we’re all better off if I don’t play shaman. I only did it once, for Blackjack. That was enough.”
Sky and Pearl finally finished their rituals, which concluded with some kind of elaborate, fluid dance on their hind legs, with swaying hips and hoof movements and singing in Zebra so accented that Scotch didn’t have a chance of following. Something about the voice of the sea, or something. After that'd been completed, everyone boarded the longboat, with only two zebras rowing. Precious sat in the dead center of the boat, curled up in ball. “A nice settlement is Rice River. There often trade do we,” Pearl commented brightly, before she frowned. “Though not off the ship allowed am I.”
“And never will you be, if anything about it say I! Not until older than me are you,” Sky replied, shuddering. She caught the four staring at her and snapped defensively, “Very strange is Rice River. Too strange! No more talk about Rice River shall I!” She clenched her jaw and gazed out at the waves as they approached the rusty stern of the ship, as if demonstrating her unwillingness to talk about it.
It was easily three times the size of the Seahorse, with two reefed masts. The ship was actually wood, deep red planks that gave an impression of rust. Not that there wasn’t also quite a bit of corrosion streaking the surface wherever metal was exposed. Scotch Tape nearly winced at the state of those poor winches.
“Well in that case,” Pythia asked, “have you heard of the ‘Eye of the World’?”
“Do not to me with your cursed words speak!” Sky snapped at the filly. “Not take you at all would I, but what harm you might do to the spirits of our people fear I!” When Pearl started to open her mouth, “Don’t to her speak you either, sister!” Pearl huffed, glaring at her sibling.
The marked filly rolled her eyes and gestured to Majina, who still stared off at some distant point, then jabbed her side with a hoof. “Oh!” She blinked and then looked at Pythia, then at the two zebras. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Eye of the World’? It’s not in any of my stories.”
Sky appeared to be sucking on lemons. Pearl glared daggers at her older sister. “Tradition!” hissed the younger mare, narrowing her eyes. “Passengers are they! Rude to passengers are we?”
“Better a hold of rotting fish to have,” the elder sister muttered, then relented with a sigh. “Not know do I,” Sky admitted, grudgingly. “Of sea and wind know we. With spirits of both do deal we. Enough for us is that.”
“In Rice River find more may you,” Pearl suggested.
The boat was hooked onto a gantry and lifted from the water up to the ship’s stern. Scotch Tape swallowed at all the yellow bars, and the few red bars mixed in. With this many zebras, she’d never be able to separate the most hostile from the others until they were up close–
Oh, this was the zebra in charge.
There had to be something about captains and hats. Maybe it was so that in an emergency everyone on board could find the person in charge by just looking for the hat. This zebra wore a brilliant red bandana decorated with hundreds of tiny gold coins that flickered in the sun. She wore red sashes around her neck and a matching vest that glimmered with the tiny golden disks. Her boots were every bit as brilliant. Once you looked past that, though, the frays and worn threads became visible. Still, there was no rust at all on the curved, thick chopping sword. The mare herself was thick and solid, too, with that authoritative glare that Scotch Tape associated with Rivets, the mare in charge of Maintenance back in her old stable.
“I welcome you, passengers, to the Abalone. I am Captain,” she said as unwelcomingly as possible. “I accept your wood as partial payment for passage to the port of Rice River.”
“Whoa! Why aren’t you talking backward?” Scotch Tape blurted, and was immediately nailed with a glare that would have done Rivets particularly proud. “I mean… ah… shutting up now.”
Her eyes drilled into Majina and then softened a little. “My shamans say you are Zencori, yes?” Majina gave a tiny little nod. “You can pay with stories.”
“I don’t know many stories,” Majina replied quietly, dropping her eyes. “Mother died before she could teach me all she knew.”
“Then you can tell us about the pony lands,” the captain amended, her voice a touch softer. Then she regarded Scotch Tape far more skeptically. “You. Pony. What can you do?”
Well, she doubted that these zebras needed a community designed or a bridge built, so she responded as she would to Rivets. “I can fix things. From the look of those winches, you’re in desperate need of someone who can do that.”
A grudging smile. “You two will bunk with me for this journey. I feel that will avoid the risk of accidents.” She nodded aside and let the two on board. The crew were dressed much like the captain, with scarves wrapping their striped bodies. They all reeked of fish. Precious hopped onto the ship, getting a dozen startled looks from everypony except the captain. The captain was silent a moment before saying evenly, “We will find somewhere, something, for you to do.” Precious kept her eyes to the deck as she slumped a little. Then the boat began to drop back towards the sea with only Pythia aboard.
“Let me guess, stay in the boat?” Pythia ask sourly. The captain nodded, and she sighed as she as she dropped below the rail. “Called it.”
“You will remain there until I decide where I can safely stow your cursed hide!” the captain called down at her. “If you do not like it, then swim!” And she turned away, walking towards a small cabin at the rear of the boat. Scotch Tape, Majina, and Precious hurried after her. Pearl and Sky followed close behind.
The captain’s cabin felt more like a storage locker with all the cabinets, shelves, and chests. Even the ceiling was covered with netting that held all manner of clothes, scroll cases, and equipment. Scotch wasn’t exactly sure where they were supposed to find room to sleep with everything so crowded. There was one bed with a rail around it, one desk, and one chair bolted to the floor.
The captain swiveled the chair and took a seat, regarding the pair of shamans. “A breeze entreat, Sky. The good sandalwood use you. The sooner at Rice River are we, the better. Remain, Pearl.” The elder sister nodded and left, and the younger took a seat on the floor. Majina, Scotch Tape, and Precious joined her. The Captain pulled her hat off, set in on the table, and vigorously scratched her matted mane before regarding the pair.
“To answer your question on deck, Scotch Tape, I don’t speak backwards. I speak Atoli. It is our dialect. I also speak to land dwellers like you, and have learned how to rearrange my words to suit.” She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and glowered at the pleased Pearl. “Do not look so satisfied. Yes, we are satisfying Tradition, but you have brought a Starkatteri, a pony, and a ponything to my ship. Not pleased am I.” That wiped the smile off her face. The captain stared at her for a few seconds more before finishing, “But I will honor Tradition,” she said as she regarded the four, “no matter what trouble it brings.”
“I can see how it’s a problem,” Majina said with a worried frown. “Four fillies showing up on your island demanding passage. Your crew must not be happy.” That made the captain’s brow lift a bit.
“You’re not afraid of me?” Precious asked, almost suspicious as she worked her claws in the wood of the floor.
In a snap, the captain’s hoof whipped around and smacked Precious’s head with a rolled up paper. “Do not scratch my deck!” she said firmly, getting an incredulous stare from the dragonfilly. “And no. I’ve seen and fought far worse things than you on my ship. If you try to cause trouble, or are careless with fire, you will see how easily I can throw you off my ship, even if you are little foals.” Precious glowered at the rolled up paper still in the captain’s hoof, but then looked away with a disdainful sniff.
While glad the captain wasn’t afraid of Precious as the others had been, Scotch couldn’t help but point out, “Hey, I am not a foal! I’ve done things! Grown up things. Multiple times!” That got shocked gawks from both the Majina and Pearl, while Precious and the captain just gazed flatly at her, clearly unimpressed. She wilted under their scrutiny. “Just saying… I’m not a child.”
The captain did not reply at first, but in her eyes Scotch Tape saw herself being tossed overboard. “Duly noted. Had I been told such, you’d have been left behind,” she said evenly. “I am under no Tradition to extend passage to ponies. So be aware that Tradition gives you protections as a child. You should be thankful for such before you are so quick to declare your maturity.” She rubbed her face. “And a Starkatteri. What madness would compel you to travel with such a creature?”
“Pythia isn’t a creature!” Scotch Tape defended immediately, but once again she withered under the glare of the captain. There was room in the trailing boat for two, she reminded herself.
“Please, Captain. I know the Starkatteri have a reputation for wickedness, but she’s different. She’s helped out,” Majina offered in much softer tones.
“If she has, it was only because it served her interests, not yours,” the captain said evenly. “Starkatteri are deceptive, manipulative, twisted, and vile. They attract the worst spirits and draw on the foulest natures of people. Had we some other rock to dump her on, I would say her passage ends there. Let the sea take her.” It was chilling how seriously she said such a thing.
“We’re trying to find out something,” Majina said. “Something about blinding the Eye of the World. She thinks it’s important. Given what happened in Hoofington, I think it’s important too. Mother always said the Starkatteri were always aware of the deeper story of the universe.”
“The Eye of the World is what?” Pearl asked her mother. “How blind the world can you?”
The captain closed her eyes and sighed. “Of the land, on the land, should stay troubles,” she told her daughter wearily. “Your sister go help,” she told the young shaman, in a tone Scotch knew well; she heard it every time an adult didn’t want to bother with her.
Pearl seemed to know it too as she trotted to the door and paused. She pressed the blue pearl to her chest a moment, and then said back to the captain. “Honor Tradition, we should, think I. And Abalone wants that too think I.” Then she turned and stepped out.
The captain sighed, seeming to reconsider, though not happy with it. “I will have her transferred to the hold when night falls,” she said at last. “She will remain there.” She fixed her eyes out the windows that ran across the back of her cabin. “It is bad luck to slay the cursed ones. They are to be shunned and punished. You will have great difficulty if you maintain company with her.”
“Ehhh…” Scotch Tape began, then shrugged. “She’s a pain, but I think she’s trying to do a good thing.” Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d had much else to do with herself.
“Perhaps, though I expect a Starkatteri to change their nature as much as I expect a current to reverse its flow,” the captain replied, then rose. “For now, you have passage and protection of Tradition. Pearl and Sky will remind my crew what that entails. I ask you to show restraint and good sense. We are a long way from Rice River, and the sea is fickle.”
With that, she trotted out as well.
“I wish she’d given her name,” Scotch Tape muttered.
“She did,” Majina said. “A ship’s captain is named Captain while she’s on board. Technically, her name is ‘Captain of the Abalone’, but still, Captain. Any feats or heroics she performs will be the ship’s, the same with any failures.” She regarded all the parcels in the ceiling net. “Still, she’s going out of her way to help us.”
“Yeah. I know. They could have left us. Or killed us. Or enslaved us,” Scotch replied. Precious let out a skeptical snort, reaching out to scratch her claws on the deck before her. The earth pony sighed as she regarded two maps set on the wall. The zebra lands looked... odd. Equestria spread out radially from Canterlot. It really was the center of the realm. The zebra map looked like a blotchy patchwork. Roam was all the way on the southern edge of the landmass. It took Scotch a while to find Rice River. There, on the northeast corner of the zebra lands, a river driving north to the sea. The river bisected half the landmass, slashing diagonally across it towards high central mountains. There were all kinds of strange glyphs and markings drawn on it.
Each sector seemed to have its own different splotches of color, and somewhere in the past someone has scribbled pony comments here and there. Twelve o’clock was more mountains, these snowcapped. One o’clock was deserts. Two and three, grasslands. Four and five, forests. Six, jungle. Seven was more grassland, with Roam. Eight was plains with lots of cities. Nine, forests. Ten, swamps. Eleven, more grasslands, with Rice River cutting right down the middle. To the northwest of the map was a section marked ‘Yakistan’ in Pony, and a narrow land bridge at 8'o clock was marked ‘to Equestria’. There were other foreign lands marked around the country, too. ‘Cervinia’. ‘Dromidaria’. There were also areas marked with crosshatching, titled with ominous names like ‘Realm of Fire’, ‘Land of Eternal Ice’, ‘City of Murderous Apples’, and simply ‘Death.’
Nowhere was there an ‘Eye of the World’.
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Scotch Tape asked Majina and Precious. The dragonfilly just gave an indifferent shrug.
The zebra filly hung her head. “I think it doesn’t matter what we do. We have no one back home. We’re too young to be treated as adults. There’s nowhere any of us really belong. So… why not go looking for the Eye of the World and find out if it’s been blinded or not?”
Scotch trotted over and hugged her. “It’ll be okay, Majina. We’ll be okay.” If only she sounded more convincing to herself.
* * *
The Abalone wasn’t what Scotch Tape imagined when it came to a zebra ship. Zebras were graceful and fast. The Abalone wallowed in the sea like a pig. Every wave seemed to make the ship wobble in at least two different directions, and it took three days for Scotch to settle her stomach. The two-masted schooner, which was what kind of ship it was, apparently, bobbed along almost casually.
This ship wasn’t made for daring raids or deadly fights or cutting swiftly to and fro. The Abalone was a fishing vessel, and so two trawling nets followed along on either side while a half dozen lines trailed her at any moment. When the nets were hauled in, they disgorged dozens of small fish into buckets that were then sorted, gutted, salted, and stored within the hour. The lines usually came up empty, but every now and then they’d reel in a fish bigger than Scotch Tape! The first time it happened, she marveled at their silvery sides and working gills.
Then the fish went on the table, and before it stopped flopping, the zebras had it sliced to pieces. They worked in teams of two, scooping out the guts, separating the filets, cutting them into manageable pieces, washing them in brine, and then moving them to the smoker in the middle of the ship. The large drum sat on a bed of wet sand and voraciously consumed the salt-impregnated wood that the four fillies had collected, producing gray smoke. Fish went in, smoked fish came out, and that went in padded boxes. The bones and guts were transferred to a grinder and chewed up into a reeking slurry, called shaloosh, that was collected in clay pots.
Scotch adapted to the Atoli diet by the third day. The Atoli ate mostly kelp; Scotch had thought seaweed was just seaweed, but apparently there was a great variety ingested by the Atoli. Flat leafy weed called sauri went into everything. Skinny red weed, shagi, was a bitter-tasting variety that apparently aided digestion. One weed covered with bright yellow gas pockets was chewed all day, the weed giving little bursts of energy if it was just masticated but cramps if swallowed. Blue, slimy weed was pulped up and used as a condiment, puki. It sure tasted like puke to her. Thin green weeds were stripped of their leaves and set aside to be woven into rope. There wasn’t anything grown in the sea that the Atoli didn’t use somehow.
Fish was always a staple, too. She couldn’t eat fish organs raw like they did, though. That was one place she drew the line. She knew ponies could eat meat, but she didn’t like it much. The only condiments besides puki were salt and a syrup called sahi, or ‘liquid sunlight’, that had to be the sourest-tasting gunk she’d ever tasted. And it was put on everything! They’d dribble the thick concoction over fish, kelp, rice, and anything else they could. The concentrate of oranges, lemons, and limes apparently warded off things that caused your teeth to fall out.
They stopped twice, the first time to break out a large fishing net and pull it around a school of fish lured in place by the contents of a shaloosh pot. The entire crew, with the exception of Captain and the two shamans, worked to turn those fish into smoked meat. A few fat ones that were full of eggs were tossed back free of the net. The rest fell to knives. Octopi caught in the net were devoured still alive with relish, the large ones chopped up, the small ones whole. The rest went into the grinder.
The second time was when they reached a bed of clams that were apparently the Abalone’s namesake. Here, the Atoli grabbed rocks tied to ropes and rode the rocks all the way to the bottom. They’d come up with nets and baskets full of oysters. Then a dozen zebras would haul the rocks back up. Then they’d do it again.
The clams went on the table and the crew went through them with more zeal and gusto than the fish. Knives artfully opened each bivalve and the meat was carefully searched. Every ten or twenty, a zebra would cry out when they found small pearls. These were passed with great reverence to Pearl, and the filly conducted them to the captain. The meat went in the smoker, if it wasn’t eaten raw by the worker, the guts went into the grinder, and the shells were saved until they were underway. The last trip down to the sea floor, however, one of the divers didn’t come back up. That had come dangerously close to getting ugly, with some of the zebras muttering about cursed tribes and casting dark looks to their passengers. The others said that the sea had simply taken its price. Either way, soon after, the ship moved on from the clam beds. They resumed fishing.
Once the ship was underway, the crew not running it or fishing carefully cut the rainbow nacre inside the shells into beautiful rainbow-hued tiles. The youngest mares and stallions used bony fish plates to carefully cut them one by one, while the oldest took the largest shells and cut tiny figurines for trade.
Not that every fish or clam could be eaten. For every one that ended up on the table, two more had to be thrown back. They were diseased, or mutated, or simply of a type so bony or scaly that they couldn’t be eaten, which was a feat. The Atoli ate almost anything that came out of the water, but if a fish clearly had bloody sores along its side or a clam sported gross, bulbous red tumors, they simply fed the whole thing to the grinder. Once, a beautiful silver fish was taken out, but the other side had been a mass of squirming pink worms growing out of its gills and eye socket. That had been dried and then fed to the fire.
And that was when Sky and Pearl got to work, placating the crew by placating the spirits. Pearl performed dances and dripped pristine water from the mainland into the sea, or occasionally tossed in gold coins. The spirit’s well wishes were apparently worth more! Sky burned special incense, tossed bits of chaff or dried petals into the air, or, most inexplicable of all, flew kites bedecked with a multitude of colorful streamers. And she looked so serious while doing so. And everyone else on board took it seriously, too.
Because any time a fish came up with worms or disease, or didn’t come up at all, one word was invoked more than any other: Starkatteri. Usually with ‘damned’ in front of it. Not that Scotch Tape had a free pass for this trip. ‘Damned pony’ was used quite a bit, but generally on a level of personal annoyance. ‘Damned Starkatteri’ was used almost like a religious oath.
Scotch had helped pay some of Majina's debt by spending the evenings telling Captain everything about her former life. About living in a stable, how her mother had been killed and she hadn’t even known who her father was till she’d left. About Blackjack, Glory, Rampage, and all the other ponies. About the Eater of Souls, going to the moon, and the end of the Hoof. About her father dying, and her getting hauled away. Captain might not have believed everything, but she didn’t question her honesty or sanity. And when she’d talked about feeling useless in the Hoof, Captain assured her that she would be ‘useful’ on the Abalone.
Scotch made herself useful as Captain had directed: fixing whatever she could. The Abalone suffered from corrosion in the worst possible way. While much of her was wood, metal bolted her together. The metal winches that were vital to the ship’s operation needed to be completely torn down and rebuilt. While much could be done with wooden pulleys and zebrapower, they needed the metal fittings to work right. Scotch spent hours with a rag and some shell grit scrubbing rust from fittings and oiling them with the secretions of a flatfish. The fishoil wasn’t industrial grease, but it would help shield the fittings from the salt. She also spent a lot of time scrubbing the deck with seawater and a white powder that apparently killed fungi and woodworms.
“Pony! Take this shaloosh down to the hold!” shouted a stallion. Another duty the zebras were happy to foist onto her. At least her time on the ship had helped her Zebra immensely. Their phrases no longer sounded backwards to her. The clay pots were heavy, and the wooden stoppers leaked, and one spill and she’d have a heck of a mess to clean up. Still, she was an earth pony, and it didn’t matter how much the ship swayed. She’d scrubbed the decks enough that she wasn’t cleaning up ground fish guts. She made her way below deck.
The only time the crew wasn’t doing something was sleeping. Even while they weren’t ‘working’ they were doing things. Gambling with bits of abalone shell. Playing strange little songs on flutes. Having sex. Her stable 99 upbringing had inoculated her against the shock of coming across two zebras rutting away. The one single time Majina had gone down below decks, the poor filly had returned with a harrowed expression and hadn’t left the captain’s cabin for a day. The Atoli didn’t seem to have marriages or set partnerships. ‘You, now’ seemed to be sufficient. Gender didn’t seem to matter. A pregnant mare was a blessing, but she’d be left at one of their ports till she’d given birth and the baby was weaned. Then, back to sea.
Down in the hold, things were quiet, but stinky. The odors of smoke mingled with salt and the sweet stench of fermenting and rotting fish guts. She passed two stallions having a discreet rut in the hold and made her way to where the shaloosh was being stored. The clay pots fit in wooden shelves snugly. After she roped the new one in, she trotted to Pythia, the bilge gurgling and sloshing like a miniature sea under her hooves.
The filly chilled out on a hammock of fish netting strung above the empty clay pots, poring through one book intently while another rested on her chest; her only source of light was a single fish oil lantern that cast a wan yellow flame. Precious had made a cozy bed in a broken pot lying on its side, her muzzle and forepaws sticking out as she snoozed. “How are you doing?” Scotch asked, getting a flat stare in lieu of an answer. “Right. ‘Stuck down here.’ I got ya.”
“I’ve been trying to think of what we should do when we get to Rice River,” Pythia answered as she put the book down. “Captain loaned me these so I could try to learn more about where we’re going. They’re out of date, but better than nothing. If we can’t find a shaman who can tell us what the Eye of the World is, we’re going to have to go to Roam.” She reached up to a little alcove between the beams and the deck above to pull out the letters.
“Is Roam still there? I thought it was destroyed like Canterlot,” Scotch replied, glad the two stallions were keeping it down.
“And how. You ponies did a doozy on it with your megaspells. However, the land around Roam is still there. If we’re going to find any hints of what the Last Caesar ordered, it’ll be there. Hopefully we’ll find some clue... some... something...”
“Roam? Isn’t that on the other end of the zebra lands?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Yup,” Pythia said as she closed her eyes and leaned back in the hammock, hugging the letters to her chest. “If you want to go home, I wouldn’t blame you. You could probably talk to the captain about taking you back. Otherwise, it’s a long walk down to Shattered Hoof Ridge.”
Scotch thought about it, but really, what had she been doing in the Hoof that had been so important? If she’d been a few years older, maybe ponies would listen to her when she told them how to plan their reconstruction. “No. I think I’ll wait.” She paused, glancing at the composed filly. “Have the stars told you this is the right thing to do?”
“Shhh shhh shhh!” Pythia quickly hushed and paused, staring over by the stairs where the stallions were going at it. Actually, they seemed to be taking a breather, because they’d gone silent. “Don’t talk about stars,” she said in Pony. “Ever. Especially here. Understood?” The fear on her face was evident, and Scotch only nodded. She relaxed a little. “No,” she continued in Zebra. “And I’ll not ask them, as the captain insisted.”
A few seconds later, the pair resumed.
Scotch Tape stared back at their dim forms and then at Pythia. “Are they spying on you?”
“Of course. There’re always zebras sneaking down here. Some are overt and try to get me to say something stupid. Others are like those two, rutting away and hoping I’ll say something to you, or that I’ll try a scry, or something. A few just sneak down and watch me while I sleep or read.” She sighed. “They’ve actually been relatively nice about the whole thing.”
“Nice? They’re spying on you!” Scotch Tape said scornfully.
“They could be killing me. I think the captain stuck me here with Precious as a deterrent. They could toss me in their boat and cut me adrift. Tradition says they can’t murder me outright, but there’re plenty here who would.” She fished in the alcove and took out a folded rag. Unfolded, it revealed a black spot of dried blood and phlegm.
“What’s that?”
“A death threat. Found it last night, wrapped around one of those fishgutting knives,” the filly said evenly. “Gave the knife back right away, of course. Don’t want to be accused of having a weapon or stealing. Still, they could have cut my throat in my sleep.”
“That... we have to tell Captain,” Scotch Tape said evenly.
“Please. This isn’t the first threat I’ve gotten. I knew people hated me before I learned the word ‘hate’.” Pythia sighed, “If the captain thinks her crew are going to break, she might decide to cast me off sooner rather than later.”
“It’s wrong,” Scotch Tape said evenly.
Pythia sat up, swaying in the hammock and staring at her. “How so?”
“You shouldn’t be hated. Not unless you do something that deserves to be hated,” Scotch muttered.
“My tribe aren’t good people. There’s a reason why the villain is a Starkatteri in the old stories. We used forbidden magic and nearly took over the world. It might have been millennia ago, but so what? My tribe did that. We did wrong things. And thousands of years later, I’m still paying for it. As will my foals and grandfoals. We don’t get forgiveness. Not for what we did.”
Scotch stared at her in concern. “You know, you don’t talk like a filly.”
Pythia smiled a little and arched a brow. “Oh?”
“You talk like someone a lot older,” Scotch pointed out.
“Probably because I’m smarter than you,” Pythia retorted, going back to reading.
Scotch growled for a moment, narrowing her eyes and turning away. “You’re a lousy friend, you know that.”
“Didn’t know we were friends,” Pythia replied flatly. “I thought you were the pony getting me a ride on Thrush’s boat. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what you are.”
“You...” Scotch Tape glared at her, stung. “You... you... you bitch!”
“Guilty,” she replied, and smirked.
“Captain was right about you!” Scotch Tape snapped. “You’re just in it for yourself!”
“Well, I don’t think either of you care about this,” she said as she lifted the letter. “You’re better off knowing this now. So, go do what you have to do. I’ll get off wherever the captain dumps me and call it good. Better than I’d hoped. You head back to Ponyland.” She jerked her head towards Precious, “Take Scaly with you. I’ve been saddled with enough freaks for one life.” An irritated snort of smoke rose in reply, but nothing more.
Scotch whirled on her heel, heading for the door with every intention of doing exactly that, when she froze. “Wait,” she said, turning and narrowing her eyes. “You want me to leave you.”
“Yeah. Because you’re annoying.” Pythia frowned. “After a month on that island where you did nothing but whine about your dead parents and whatnot, I was pretty much done with you.”
“No. If you were this much of a bitch, you would have tried to get me to stay on the island and wait for Thrush.” Scotch Tape’s eyes dropped to the black spot. “You’re worried for me.”
“You’re a moron who’s going to get hurt worse than Blackjack was,” Pythia hissed, her eyes glancing back towards the stairs where the stallions weren’t even pretending to have sex, trying to stay out of sight as they watched.
“You’re trying to protect us,” Scotch Tape murmured.
“Damn it,” Pythia muttered, her eyes darting to the side before she switched to Pony. “Yes. I’m getting death threats now when things are okay. I’m one accidental death... one miscarriage... even one bad fishing haul away from being the scapegoat. You never know what it’ll be, but something will happen, and I’ll be the reason. And if I go down, Captain might toss you down with me. She might not have a choice. You’re one step above a Starkatteri in their eyes. So go back to Equestria. Take Scalebutt with you.”
“What about Majina?”
“She’ll be fine. She’s Zencori. Captain won’t let anything bad happen to her. She’s a zebra filly protected by Tradition and personality. Probably make a great addition to the crew,” Pythia said as she folded her forelegs behind her head, staring up at the ceiling in the feeble flickering of the lamp. “I’ll get out of this and find what I need to find. You don’t need to involve yourself.”
Scotch Tape frowned. She hadn’t known the filly long. She was obnoxious, abrasive, and more than a little bit strange. Still... “I’m not going to just abandon you. You have a better chance with us than on your own.”
Pythia sighed. “Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it. And it’s going to come down on our heads. If I could get out on deck and see the stars...” Pythia covered her face with her hooves with a groan. “Right now, I’d even endure Ashur’s declarations of doom for some hint at what’s coming.” She turned and glared at the pair listening in. “Hope those two don’t speak Pony.”
“I’ll talk to the captain. You’re not a monster,” Scotch Tape said firmly. “At the very least, you should get some fresh air.”
“If you say so,” Pythia muttered with a sigh. “Good luck with that.”
Scotch left her, walking past the stallions who stared at her, then immediately resumed kissing and cuddling. “Oh stop. You’re not fooling anyone,” she snapped before trotting out of the hold.
* * *
The Abalone never stopped. When she’d scrubbed the gutting table, there was the deck to scrub. When that was scrubbed, the ashes from the smoker needed to be saved in clay jars so they could be turned into soap. Then knives needed to be sharpened. Rust was not tolerated on their tools or weapons, and much of her time was devoted to obliterating every errant fleck of brown. Fish oil then had to be liberally applied with rags. Rope constantly needed coiling and placing on pegs for when they went fishing. Fat from the bottom fish needed boiling down to lard. Kelp had to be washed in seawater, dried, chopped, and added to kettles and pots. Then she would resume her maintenance of the mechanical bits.
Had it been just her, she would have resented it, but every zebra on board was busy doing something. Zebras who’d earned ‘reprieves’ stayed out of their way below deck or in the forecastle, where they smoked a particular dried red seaweed that produced thick clouds of hazy crimson. Kabalo was the Zebra word for it, and apparently it was a poor zebra’s version of tobacco. They smoked it, chewed it, and occasionally nibbled on it. Scotch had tried it, but a little red flake had made her tongue go numb and kept her up all night.
They also told stories, and right in the middle was Majina. The filly wasn’t made to scrub the deck or gut fish or anything. She listened to the Atoli telling her all about their lives and hardships on the sea. As Scotch Tape was scrubbing the deck around the gutting table on her knees, she thought it’d be nice if Majina could pick up a brush. Even Pythia wasn’t doing much in the way of sweat labor down there in the hold.
So when Majina drooped herself over Scotch Tape, she nearly fell over completely. “I am so tired of hearing about fish,” the little zebra whined. “One more fishing story, and I think I’m going to scream.”
Scotch froze, rolling her eyes up at the filly drooping over her shoulders. “Well, you can grab a bucket and brush and help me.”
“No thanks. I’m good like this,” she said wearily. “Besides, I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to be entertaining the crew.” Scotch hunched and shifted her shoulders, but Majina just remained put in a perfect flop. Finally Scotch gave up, scrubbing the fish blood stains with greater malice. “I didn’t think it’d take so long to get to the zebra lands.”
“Have you heard anything about the ‘Eye of the World’ or blinding it?” Scotch asked as she worked the brush back and forth.
“Nope. They don’t want to talk about the land. They want to talk about fish. And catching fish. And clams. And finding pearls. And keeping away from pirates,” Majina said wearily.
Scotch rolled her eyes. “That must be so hard for you,” she grumbled.
“This one stallion talked to me for three hours about the way he fillets a fish. And it’s not just his way. It was his daddy’s way, and his granddaddy’s way. He wanted to make sure I knew exactly how to gut a fish.” She snorted into Scotch’s mane. “It’s a fish. It gets cut up! Enough said!”
“Why?” she asked with a frown.
“'Cause he wants to live in a story,” Majina replies.
“You... you mean he wants to... what? Live in a book?”
“No. A story. A zebra can live forever in a story, if the story’s told well. Like Firestripe the phoenix tamer. She lived centuries ago, and she’s still alive. There’re hundreds of people living in stories. Thousands. He wants to make sure that if I put him in a story, he’ll fillet fish the right way.” Slowly she slid off Scotch’s back as if she’d been deboned herself and flopped upright again beside the pony. “I hope we get to Rice River soon.”
“You and me both,” Scotch replied to the filly, then nodded to the brush, then to the bar of greasy fish soap she’d been using to clean. Majina just looked out to sea with a sigh, and Scotch gave the deck a vigorous scrubbing beside her, banging her flank with her hooves. Majina just leaned over and collapsed on her side with a flop.
It’s a sign, Scotch decided, abandoning both brush and soap and tugging Majina upright again under the metal table. “They must have some interesting stories. You said they talked about pirates?”
She nodded. “Mhmmm. Like raiders of the sea. Atoli who abandon Tradition and just do what they want. There’re lots of them.”
“I thought there’d have to be ships to raid for there to be sea raiders,” Scotch said with a sigh. Why couldn’t raiders have just been an Equestrian thing?
“They raid everything they can. Settlements. Other ships. Each other. And apparently the raiders in this ocean aren’t even the worst. The zebras in the south seas flay your skin off and wear it.” She curled her lips, thrusting her hooves out before her. “How do you even have that idea? ‘Oh, hey, I don’t like this guy! I’m going to skin him alive and wear him... because I hate him!’ Well now you have to look him in the mirror till the skin rots off!”
Scotch, tired and worried, chuckled and got a small smile in return from the filly. “Pythia thinks we should go home.”
“Sure. I love that idea! Did you ask her where exactly home is supposed to be?” she asked with a sad smile. “Mom’s dead. My brother’s dead. My father...” She just shivered and shook her head. “So, where is home, huh?”
“She thinks we’re in danger,” Scotch elaborated.
“Oh, no doubt about that,” Majina said with a roll of her eyes. “There’s one Captain Riptide that operates around Rice River. Has a whole little fleet of jolly pirate murderers. Takes young alive to raise them to be bloody butchers like she is. Or there’s a giant octothingy that’s bigger than whole ships and drags them under without warning. Or a giant whirlpool that devours whole islands! And apparently there’s this rash stallions get when they come in from port that makes their bits fall off.”
Scotch sighed, “I think she means the crew might turn on us because she’s from that star-worshiping tribe.”
Her eyes popped wide. “Oh! Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. “They’re not supposed to. Killing a Starkatteri transfers the curse to the killer for thirteen generations. So... like... almost forever. If you hurt one, and they die within thirteen days, cursed. So yeah.”
“But are they really?” Scotch asked. “I mean, is there some sort of magic backing up the superstition?”
“I dunno. If one of them kills her, we can do an experiment,” Majina replied with a shrug. “These zebras don’t know anything about an Eye of the World. They’re not even interested until it’s the ‘Eye of the Sea’, which they don’t know anything about either. I asked.” She rubbed her chin. “If we were looking for the ‘Eye of the Fish’, we wouldn’t have to get off the boat.”
“Well, we are,” Scotch said sourly.
“We’re looking for the Eye of the Fish?” Majina screwed her face up in bafflement, then pointed at the crew. “There’s a stallion over there who–”
“No! No! We’re looking for the Eye of the World,” she said hotly.
“Then why did you say we were looking for–” Majina asked curiously.
“I... just... forget about the eye thing. Do you think other zebras are going to have the same problem with her?” Scotch asked as she watched the crew going about their business. She couldn’t see the captain, though, and that was sending prickles up her spine.
“Probably. Even in Equestria, Starkatteri are feared. I mean, they’re evil. Pythia might not be, but that might be because she’s young. Give her a few years, and we can find out,” Majina replied.
“Majina, she’s our friend,” Scotch pointed out flatly.
“Yes, but I’m not sure she knows what friends are,” Majina replied, blinking at her with her brilliant verdant eyes.
Scotch sighed and decided to let that drop. “Can we hide those marks on her face with makeup or something? Say she’s your tribe?”
Majina rubbed her chin again. “I don’t know. Can we glue a stick of wood to your forehead and say you’re a unicorn?”
The olive filly groaned, rubbing her face. “Majina, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” the filly answered. “Would you be able to pretend you’re a unicorn with a stick glued to your forehead?”
“Of course not,” Scotch replied. “The second somepony demanded I do magic, I’d fail.”
“Exactly. And if I pretended to be Atoli, they’d all be suspicious when I couldn’t swim and got seasick. Tribes are who we are, and a zebra who doesn’t have a tribe...” She just shook her head. “Even when Mama and me were in the mine, I had my tribe. No one could take it from us.”
Scotch sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. Maybe Pythia would understand the need. It couldn’t be that hard to hide the marks on her--
Someone bit Scotch’s tail and dragged her out from under the table. The captain glowered at her from above the mouthful of hair, and Scotch gulped and gave a sheepish smile, then looked at the deck.
Right then she wished she were a unicorn as she took up the brush and got back to work.
* * *
It seemed odd that of the two, Precious drew less fear and animosity than Pythia. If talked about at all by the crew, she was referred to as ‘the Starkatteri’s monster’. Most of her time was spent snoozing away or clawing tic tac toe games in the barrels and beams. Since Pythia didn’t seem interested in playing, Scotch had to wonder who was her opponent in these matches.
Scotch trotted to her down in the hold. “Here,” Scotch said, offering her a small box of smoked clams and a bucket of fresh water. The shamans could apparently ask the water to lose the salt. Who knew?
“Thanks,” she murmured. She didn’t exactly have hands, nor hooves. Each limb had three claws popping out of the ends. The lavender dragonfilly just dropped her mouth into the box, snapped up a mouthful of clams, and started chewing.
“How are you doing?” Scotch asked nervously. She gave a little shrug and continued eating. “Are they treating you okay?” Another shrug and more chewing. “Are you happy?” Scotch asked, getting a pause in the chewing to receive a funny look, before a shrug and resuming chewing. Scotch sighed, rubbing the back of her head. “Okay... well... good talk,” she muttered as she rose again.
She made it three steps before Precious replied in her slightly deep, husky, low voice, “Hard to talk with a mouthful of clams. Like meaty bubblegum.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Scotch replied as she turned to face her awkwardly. “Ya know... I’ve been wondering... we all have... um... Why are you here?”
Precious arched a brow as she stared at her long enough to make Scotch nervous. “In general, or with you?”
“Well, the second one. I mean, you weren’t really all that chatty on the island,” Scotch said as she trotted closer.
“You’re nice to me,” Precious answered simply, and chewed on some more of the wrinkly brown bits.
“That’s it? You get on a boat to go to a dangerous, unknown place, because I was nice to you?” Scotch asked in surprise.
She chewed thoughtfully a few more seconds, then nodded and swallowed. Then she started chewing on another mouthful.
Scotch flushed a little. Somehow she’d been expecting... she didn’t know what to expect. “It’s just, you would have been safer in the Hoof.” Boy, didn’t that sound weird to say! Precious stopped chewing and frowned. “Not that we want you to go away. It’s just... I got to wonder, Precious.”
Precious’s frown evaporated slowly, and she shrugged and swallowed. “Nothing to wonder. There wasn’t anything for me in the Hoof with you gone. So, I came with you.”
“Oh,” Scotch Tape replied with a flush. She hadn’t expected that. “Well... that’s nice.”
In truth, she’d been nice to Precious because the monsterpony had been part of a raid on Chapel. She’d lured Precious away and just talked with her as friendly as she could so that Blackjack wouldn’t have to fight her. Really, she’d done more talking at Precious than with her. After the leader of the raid escaped, Precious had stuck around. The few times they’d interacted after that, Scotch continued to be nice simply to avoid antagonizing the strange hybrid. Precious hadn’t been a friend so much as someone she was terrified of offending.
Now, apparently, it was getting Precious to follow her halfway around the world.
“Well, Pythia is nervous so... be careful,” Scotch Tape said lamely as she looked around the ship.
Precious’s eyes turned to the hull as she muttered, “Nothing on this boat scares me.” She buried her muzzle in the bucket, drinking deeply and nearly draining it before rising to her feet again. “Should get back before you're missed.” She turned and crawled back into her potbed, her tail hanging out behind her.
Scotch glanced over her shoulder at her as she made her way back up to the deck. She knew as much about the people travelling with her as the zebra lands themselves.
* * *
“Ugh,” Scotch Tape groaned as she trotted towards the front of the ship where the toilets were kept. That bitter red seaweed was making her guts gurgle. Placing them at the front of the ship kept most of the stink away. Thankfully, Captain hadn’t forced her to scrub them yet.
After using the facilities, and pining privately for a flushing toilet, she’d started to head back towards the captain’s cabin when she heard a strange clicking. After a few days, she knew most of the Abalone’s noises, and this was new. A rapid, very soft metal clicking. The engineer in her hated a mysterious sound that she might be required to fix, and so moved along the deck towards the source.
The stars glinted in the night amid the scudding clouds. Since the skies cleared, there’d been some beautiful nights in the Hoof. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at the moon, though. Not after everything that happened. Instead, she kept her eyes down as she searched for that tapping.
Wait? Why was that star on the horizon flashing?
Scotch moved to the rail and peered at it. A star on the horizon flashing on and off randomly. It was a tiny pinprick of light, barely visible. Then it disappeared.
“How does she expect me to do that? She sleeps with the captain,” a stallion muttered close by. Very close.
She peered past some folded sail at a zebra stallion with the strangest lantern. It had a little switch on the side, and as he flicked it, the shutter opened and closed. Scotch watched as he worked the mechanism for a minute, ending with the shutter closed.
Out on the horizon, the flashing star reappeared.
“What are you doing?” Scotch Tape asked. The stallion opened the shutter on the lantern and stared at her. Instantly, Scotch tensed. There was something wrong with that look in his eyes. That ‘can I get away with this?’ expression. “What are you doing with that lantern?”
At that moment, a quartet of zebras trotted up from below decks, and the stallion stared at her a second longer. Then he tossed the lantern overboard. “You should not have come, pony,” he muttered before trotting away from her.
Scotch Tape sat down hard. “What the heck was that all about?” She looked to the horizon, but the flickering star was gone.
* * *
The next day, she was given a reprieve. It was supposed to be a few extra hours to sleep and recover, which she was glad to take. She hadn’t really told anyone about the strange zebra she’d encountered. She didn’t have the lantern to show, and as much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t tell the crew apart besides Captain and her daughters. The stallion could have been any one of twenty on board, and she wouldn’t have been able to point him out.
Still, this morning she kept looking for an opportunity to bring it up, but something was up with the crew. They were rushing about, making sure that the ship was secure. Scotch Tape scanned the skies, but, aside from a few sporadic clouds, they were clear. Thunder was rumbling from somewhere, though. She sought out the captain, finding her in tense talks with her two shamans. “What’s going on? Is there a storm coming?”
The three gave her an inscrutable look, and then Sky’s lip curled as Pearl tucked her ears and glanced away. The captain maintained the expression. “We’re getting close to Okambo. Best to be cautious.”
“Captain, last night–” Scotch began.
“Don’t you think she should see, Captain?” Sky interrupted, eyes narrowed in malice.
“See what?”
“I do not wish to go near Okambo if at all possible,” the captain said flatly.
“She should still see,” the elder shaman insisted. “She should be proud.”
The events of the previous night slipped away in irritation. Scotch wanted nothing but to hit her hammock for a few hours, and the fatigue and annoyance prompted her to take the bait. “See what? What’s Okambo?”
The captain gave her a long look and then nodded towards the second mast. “Climb and look to the south. You will see it.”
Scotch looked south, but all she saw was gray ocean. Climb? That was easier said by zebras who broke the law of physics and hoof capabilities with ease. The mast had to be nearly fifty feet tall. “I don’t think I can make it up there.”
“We can haul you up. A pony should see this,” Sky insisted.
Fine. Whatever. One rope around her waist later, and she was on her way up. She kept her eyes up, making sure she didn’t get caught on anything till she was near the very top and...
Oh, wow, that was high.
From up here, the Abalone appeared far too small for the sea around it. Then she began to understand. The sea was wrong here. Instead of waves progressing across the surface, there were ripples like a flowing river. They weren’t just near the ship; the Abalone was being carried along. The water wasn’t the normal blue green. It was brown and gray. She gazed south...
So, that’s what Okambo was.
A hole in the ocean.
They had to be miles away, and still what she saw at was an immense vortex at least a hundred times the size of the Abalone. The vast whirlpool boomed and popped, and she could hear the sounds of colossal rocks cracking together. The pit of the vortex was lit with a magical blue glow. Every now and then, jets of brown foam exploded from the depths, shooting far higher than the mast she now occupied.
Scotch sat her butt on a spar and stared. It was mesmerizing, and every now and then the glow would flare and a boulder bigger than ten Abalones would fly from the mouth and tumble to the sea. Even this far, it was impossible to miss the booming. The sheer power was incredible.
Before she descended back down, Scotch spotted something dark on the horizon ahead of them. She stared for several minutes with no idea what it could be. Finally, she started back down again–
And fell.
The rope whipped past her face as gravity yanked her towards the deck. Her flailing hooves struck the mast and the rope as she tumbled, hit a spar, fell some more. It was luck more than anything that the rope got caught around her PipBuck and yanked tight. Still, the filly dangled there for almost a minute before she could start moving again. Her back, head, and forelegs all ached horribly as she dangled twenty feet above the excited zebras. One of them nimbly ascended up the mast to carefully untangle her leg and lower her down.
“What were you thinking?” the captain was roaring at three stallions. “When you hold a weight, you never relax your grip! You should know this, you barnacles! Was this some kind of joke? Or would you dare threaten Tradition? That pony is our passenger. Do you want to curse the Abalone with her ghost should she die in our care?” She pointed a hoof at the hatch. “You three will do her chores all night in repayment for this! Understood?”
The three who’d been managing the rope skulked off, and the captain carried Scotch Tape to her cabin herself. Once inside, she opened a locked chest and withdrew two healing potions. They tasted like fish, but they also helped heal most of the injury. She’d still have a doozy of a bruise.
“So, are you proud?” Sky asked from the doorway.
“Stow your tongue!” the captain snapped immediately. “If you dislike her so, stay upwind and away, but enough with your ill winds!”
“I was only curious if she was proud–” Sky began.
“You will join the other three tonight! The bilge needs emptying, and you can see to the spirits down there,” the captain declared.
“But Mother!” the zebra protested. Scotch Tape winced... but also smiled a little.
“I am not your mother! I am your captain, and you are my crew! If you do not accept that, then you can wait at port for another ship to sail on! Now out!” she roared, and Sky Altar scampered out.
Blue Pearl, who’d been about to enter, watched her go with a puzzled but faintly amused smile she couldn’t hide. “Captain,” she said formally.
“Do not start either! I was mad to take daughters as crew, and shamans besides! She should be on the Orinoco or the Icewind!” the captain said as she pulled off her gold-coined hat and threw it on the desk before flopping in the chair. The chair arms could lock into place during rough seas, and she snapped them down now and rubbed her face with a groan. “I will have to make amends once we’re in port.”
Blue Pearl closed the door behind her, trotted up, and gave her mother a nuzzle. Captain scrunched up her face, then relaxed and accepted it. “She’s been rough waters since we left,” Pearl said apologetically. “It’s my fault. I invoked Tradition.”
“You invoked rightly,” the captain, now mollified, responded. “Tradition makes our tribe what it is. Otherwise we’re nothing but pirates and scum, not fit for the waves.”
Scotch Tape flopped in her hammock and sighed. “I knew that was coming. You don’t ever invoke the mother card to get out of punishment. My mom had me scrubbing a graywater pump for three days when I tried it. With a mouthbrush,” she added, and got a tired smile from the captain.
“I should add that. If she is going to speak foul, she should taste the foulness of her words,” the captain said with a sigh.
Scotch Tape glanced to the south. “What was that, Captain? Okambo?” She thought back to what Sky had taunted her with. “Why’d she think I should be proud...” And then she put it together. “It’s a megaspell, isn’t it?”
The captain sighed and nodded. “Yes.”
“I thought the megaspells were used two centuries ago. How can it still be going?” Scotch Tape asked.
“We do not know. Okambo used to be a great port on the northern sea, far to the south and west of here. On the Day of Doom, a great gyre opened in the harbor, swallowing and smashing ships and growing all the while. In a week, it had destroyed the port utterly. In a month, it had washed the city away completely. Then it began its wanderings.”
“It moves?” Scotch gasped.
“Indeed. Sometimes it bumps along the shore, like now, causing terrible flooding and erosion, devastating fisheries. Other times it goes far out to sea and turns colossal... so large that ships sail for days to miss it. When it reaches the icy shores of the yaklands, it consumes icebergs the size of mountains. Ships that sail at night have tumbled into its current and been unable to escape.”
“Are we in its current now?” Scotch asked. “It seemed that way.”
The captain nodded. “Only the farthest edge. It can be useful to those wary of its presence. It will speed us along towards our next fishery and Rice River, saving us a day’s travel at least.”
“But why is it still going? I’ve seen a megaspell go off. It crushed an enormous tower into a ball, but then it ended,” Scotch said with a frown and shiver, imagining the effect slowly spreading and crushing more and more together. It’d been detonated in the air; had that been the reason? What if it’d been on the surface and just kept pulling in more and more material? When would it have stopped?
“I have no idea. Honestly, pony, I would be grateful if you could explain it.” The captain appeared wearier than Scotch had ever seen her before. “There are many megaspells ravaging our lands. In the southern sea, a hurricane stalks the great ocean seeking any that dare sail.”
“I don’t know,” Scotch Tape replied with another frown. She’d seen a megaspell chamber before, and heard Glory talking about spell matrixes and the like. “I wish I did.”
“As do we.” Captain sighed, rose to her hooves, and started for the door. “Convalesce. In less than a week, we shall be at Rice River and part ways. Come, Blue Pearl. I need you to talk to the sea and foretell what the currents may bring.”
* * *
Two days later, after recovering from all but the ugly bruises, Scotch felt that while there was tons left to do on the Abalone, she was getting a little bit of respect from the zebras. Granted, it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t keep ahead of the rust, but that was their business. Scotch had gotten all of three sentences out regarding Pythia to the captain before being shut down hard. “Starkatteri are evil. I will not discuss this any further.” End of debate.
Majina, on the other hoof, was the darling of the ship. She didn’t have her mother’s talent for telling utterly horrible ‘funny stories’ where the worst things happened. Instead, she talked about what had happened at the Hoof with only a few inaccuracies, and the crew was enraptured by her stories.
“I don’t know how she does it,” Scotch muttered, watching her sitting on the cleaned-off gutting table talking to a half dozen swarthy zebras.
“She is Zencori,” Sky Altar answered from behind Scotch Tape, making the filly jump. “I’d be shocked if she couldn’t tell a tale well.” The zebra shaman sat with her sister as they stared at a pool of water intently. An unshucked clam lay in the basin. Pearl had her pendant wrapped around her hoof, the pearl dangling in the fluid.
Scotch walked to the pair. “What are you doing?”
Sky gave a little ‘tch’ of annoyance, but Pearl answered, “Trying to find out why the spirits in these waters are sickened. “There’s something wrong with these clams”
“It’s sick?” Scotch asked skeptically as she glanced down at the bowl. It was just an oyster... right?
“You’re wasting your time, Pearl. She’s a pony. They are blind and deaf to anything not mundane and material,” Sky sniffed.
“Look, just because I can’t see electricity flowing in a wire doesn’t mean I can’t understand it,” Scotch Tape said as she sat down next to the pair. “What is a spirit? Is it like a ghost or a soul?”
“Yes,” Pearl said as Sky answered, “No.” The elder zebra flushed as the younger rubbed her leg nervously. “Not really,” Pearl began as her sister stated firmly, “There are some similarities–”
Scotch fought the urge to giggle. “Need a moment to compare notes?”
“Spirits are ethereal beings of nature,” Sky stated loudly as Pearl flushed and stayed quiet. “They are immaterial, like souls, but unlike souls which are affixed to a living individual, spirits occur naturally in the world. Sometimes they spontaneously generate, and sometimes they are invoked by others.”
“And the sea spirits here are sick?” Scotch Tape asked as she pointed at the bowl.
“They are always sickly,” Pearl said with a sigh as she regarded at the bowl. “Two centuries of poison and megaspells, and several decades of industrial waste, left a legacy that still weakens the spirits of the sea. But the spirits of these waters are even more tainted than most, and they did not used to be. Two months ago they were far more vigorous.”
“How do you make a spirit sick?” Scotch Tape asked.
“Ask your friend below. She undoubtedly excels at it,” Sky snorted.
“By corrupting its nature,” Pearl answered with a scowl at her sister. “The sea fosters life. If the water cannot support life, the spirits weaken. They can even die, or, worse, be driven to terrible, vengeful rage.”
“Why?” Scotch Tape asked as she cocked her head, looking at the gray lump in the placid bowl.
“Spirits seldom understand our motivations and reasons. They only know when they are diminished or strengthened. Only the greatest spirits are aware and intelligent. Fear them,” Sky said soberly.
“What do you mean?” Scotch asked.
“Right now, we’re surrounded by little spirits. Spirits of the sea and air. The Abalone has a spirit, too, and it’s very happy with the work you’ve been doing to it. It doesn’t exactly talk to us, but we can share feelings. It wants to keep sailing with all of us on board, and we want a good ship. It’s good for everyone!” Pearl said with a wide smile.
“But there is also the Spirit of the Sea. Not a spirit. The spirit. And it is vast and ancient and terrible, quick to wrath and slow to forgive,” Sky said as she pointed over the rail at the gray waters. “It is capable of kindness and generosity, but also spite and callousness. Were we to anger that spirit, the Abalone wouldn’t stand a chance. None of us would.” She narrowed her eyes at Scotch and smirked. “And it hates you.”
“Sky!” gasped Pearl, then said to Scotch, “It does not.”
“It hates all ponies,” the elder zebra insisted. “That is why you need your motors and magic to travel upon the waves. Why you cannot see or hear their rage.” She rose to her hooves. “I hope that it only claims the two of you, and not all of us for carrying you. For Tradition,” she added scornfully before walking away.
Pearl slumped, sniffing and staring at her hooves. “I am... sorry she said that. Sky isn’t happy since we found you. She fears you will doom us.”
“Buck her,” Scotch Tape replied, narrowing her eyes as she thought. She had trouble believing in things like nature ghosts, but if there was a problem with the water... she extended her PipBuck over the bowl. Pearl looked inquisitively at her, but Scotch just kept it there.
Click... click... click... went the PipBuck, like a barely beating heart. “The water is radioactive,” Scotch Tape explained to the young mare, who stared at the device on her left hoof. “I don’t suppose you tested it for radiation before?” Scotch had met a ‘spirit’ what felt like a lifetime ago, but she wasn’t sure what Pearl was in contact with, or if she was in contact with anything at all.
“No. We never thought of it,” Pearl said as the crew started another round of clam harvesting.
“Try this,” Scotch said, digging through her saddlebags for a baggie of RadAway. “I have no idea if this is going to work,” she admitted as she carefully undid the seal on the little tube and let a few drops of orange drip into the bowl. “It neutralizes radiation in ponies. Maybe it will do something for spirits, too.”
Pearl positively beamed at her. “That’s a great idea!” She swirled the water in the bowl, examining the oyster within. “I think it’s getting stronger. Though maybe that’s just the attention you gave it. Offerings strengthen spirits, after all.”
Scotch carefully pinched the tube closed. Hopefully it wouldn’t leak all over the inside of her saddlebags. “Where’s the radiation come from? Can it tell you?” she asked the zebra.
Pearl shook her head. “It’s a little spirit. It knows good and bad, but it doesn’t understand things like we do. It understands things like sea and not-sea. Less and more. Tastes. Smells. Time doesn’t exist for the sea beyond the tide, and they don’t understand numbers.”
“Can...” Scotch frowned. “Can it tell you if it got sick many tides ago, or a few tides ago?”
Pearl closed her eyes and just sat there. Scotch alternated between looking at the zebra and watching the Atoli breaking out the diving rocks again. “Few,” Pearl answered.
“How did it talk to you? I didn’t hear anything, and you didn’t speak,” Scotch asked with a small frown.
“It just does. In here.” She touched her chest. Then she gestured to the dangling pearl. “This is my fetish. It connects me to the spirits.”
Scotch would just have to take her word for it. She suppressed the urge to quip about keeping one’s brain in one’s chest. “Can it tell you if there was another boat like the Abalone during those tides?”
“I’m not sure it understands ‘boat’. And the Abalone is a ship,” Pearl added with a small frown.
“Boat. Ship. Whatever. It’s a thing that floats on the water with people on it,” Scotch said with a roll of her eyes.
“Ooooh! It might just understand that!” She closed her eyes again, and Scotch watched zebras jumping into the water. Something was wrong. If the sea wasn’t normally radioactive here... The first baskets of clams was pulled up just as Pearl opened her eyes. “Yes. It doesn’t really understand when or why, but there was another ship here a few tides ago!”
The crew began to open the clams and gave shouts of alarm and dismay. While clams were ordinarily not the best smelling things from the ocean, these were positively foul. The flesh inside was dead, the nacre discolored. “Oh no,” Scotch said as she ran towards the table.
Her PipBuck starting clicking, and a lot faster than it had with mere water.
The Atoli glanced at one another. Then the haulers pulled up something much larger than clams, the divers shouting in Zebra too fast for Scotch Tape to follow. With a heavy clank, a metal barrel was pulled up on deck. It was barely rusted, but rainbow fluids dripped from holes punched in the side. The captain took one look at it dripping and ordered it into the longboat to stop it from spreading on deck. Even now, Scotch’s PipBuck was clicking softly.
Then the whispering began. “Starkatteri. Damned Starkatteri.” The captain stared at Scotch Tape hard and she felt her insides clench.
Just as Pythia predicted.
* * *
Once upon a time, Scotch Tape had lived in a stable. It hadn’t been the best stable. In fact, Stable 99 had been downright evil, callous, and ruled by a tyrannical overmare. When her mother had died, Scotch Tape had been forced to do her job, even though she hadn’t completed school or even had her cutecinera. It’d been just before the stable was reopened and invaded.
That was the Abalone right now. The soft mutterings. The stares. The growing tension. Radioactive poison dumped on their fishing grounds? On some of their best fishing grounds, according to the muttering. They’d held this one for last to fill their holds before heading to Rice River, and now it was ruined, and they needed someone to blame.
Scotch’s stomach sank in dread as the captain’s eyes bored into her. It had been just like Rivets as her supervisor weighed the choice of overthrowing the Overmare. That gaze carried so many unspoken questions. Finally, the captain said in a tone of finality. “Bring her.”
A cheer broke out and four zebras rushed below decks. Pearl rushed to her mother’s side, “We can’t! Tradition–” she began, barely audible over the mob.
“What does Tradition state for one who poisons a fishery?” the captain demanded, and the filly fell silent.
“Oh, come on! You can’t seriously believe–” Scotch began when the captain nailed her in place with a glare. ‘You will join her,’ promised that glare. Majina joined Scotch, and when she started to speak, she was bound in that silent promise.
Of course, that was the moment that Precious made things interesting. Precious, though large for a filly, was still smaller than the fully grown stallions who struggled with her. That said, she was still just as strong as a stallion, with claws, fangs, and fire breath. Fortunately for everyone, she seemed to have the presence of mind to know that fighting to the death right now meant setting the thing keeping them afloat on fire. Thus the lavender dragonpony was hauled on deck by three bloody and battered stallions. They’d muzzled and bound her with chains that she heaved and struggled against.
Then they tied her to the rope connected to several of the rocks that sent divers to the bottom of the sea. That was when she stopped struggling, chewing on the chain in frustration as she eyed the rock on the edge of the ship.
Pythia was brought above deck by the fourth zebra, her face bloodied from a gash above her eye and a swelling nose. She was hauled before the captain, crushed beneath two stallions. The mob fell silent as the captain turned to the barrel sitting in the longboat next to her. “Did you know?” the captain asked, her voice low and steady.
Pythia swallowed, her eyes kept low. “How could I? I’ve been below decks this whole time.”
“These fisheries were a closely guarded secret of the Abalone,” the captain said in a low voice. “Now we pick you up and days later they’re poisoned.”
Scotch Tape stared from filly to captain and back again. “You can’t think she–”
“You do not know of what you speak, pony,” the captain snapped. “The Starkatteri are insidious. Malicious. Manipulative. Conniving. This would not be above or beyond them.” She gazed at her zebras. “I must think of my crew. My ship. My tribe. This cannot go unanswered.”
Scotch’s breathing picked up as her heart hammered in her chest. She could hear Rivets, the old head maintenance mare’s voice echoing from a year ago, when it had all fallen apart. ‘I have to think of the stable. Of the ponies. If rigging this place to be gassed is the only threat we have to depose the Overmare, we should take it.’
“Keelhaul her,” a stallion shouted. “Her and her pony friend!”
Scotch’s mouth moved silently as dozens of zebras turned their ire from Pythia to her. For the first time, she thought she’d have been better off staying in the Hoof.
“Damnable pony!”
“Star cursed!”
“Nothing but bad luck since we picked them up!”
“It wasn’t her!” Pythia shouted, staring at Scotch from the corner of her eye, her voice cracking. “It was all me! I did it!”
The tone changed, both deepening and raising. “Did you hear? She admitted it!”
“Damned Starkatteri! How could the captain have brought her?”
“Tradition, Captain said. Tradition is no good to the cursed!”
The captain’s face turned grim as she contemplated Pythia again. “Do what you will with me,” Pythia shouted as the mob pressed in, “but take them back to their home. They did nothing do you!” A stallion grabbed her by the neck and flung her onto the metal gutting table. Scotch Tape lunged towards her, but two hooves immediately grabbed her, pinning her to the deck.
“You’re next,” a stallion hissed in her ear.
“Enough!” a filly shrieked at the top of her lungs. It cut through the shouting as all eyes turned to Majina standing on the aftcastle, staring down at them all. “You’re acting like a bunch of raiders! If you stopped for a moment and actually thought, you’d realize you’re in a lot more danger than you imagined!”
“What are you talking about?” the captain demanded with a scowl.
“It’s a classic in any story. Obviously, the ‘bad zebra’ hated by all being used as a distraction! You focus on her because it’s quick and easy, and meanwhile the people who did poison the fishery are getting ready to pounce!” Pythia said scornfully.
“How do you know she didn’t do it?” one of the mob demanded.
“Because she’s not stupid! Think. In any story, are Starkatteri blatant or obvious?” she asked as she walked back and forth. “No. They’re always unmasked by the heroes at the very end of the story! They make great and terrible plots!” She jabbed a hoof at the rail. “No Starkatteri worth her curse would be so sloppy!”
“‘Worth her curse’?” Pythia muttered in bafflement.
“If it wasn’t her, who, then? Why?” the captain demanded of Majina. Every few seconds she glanced back at the crew around her, watching their reaction as they stared at the zebra filly. “And how did they know this place?”
“Who? There’s all sorts of nasty people sailing these waters. You told me that,” she said as she stared at the others. “And how...” but here Majina faltered.
“They signaled with a lantern!” Scotch interjected, now drawing glares. “The other night I spotted a stallion using a light. I didn’t understand what he was doing, but there was a flashing on the horizon.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” the captain demanded.
“I tried!” Scotch snapped, shoving against the stallion pinning her and kicking him sharply in the face. “But you’re a busy mare, and the next day I fell off the mast. Sorry it slipped my mind.” Scotch jabbed a hoof at the barrel they’d brought up. “I don’t know what that stuff is for sure, but if it isn’t diluted enough to be clear, it was probably just dumped in there recently!”
Doubt warred with anger in the mob, breaking its momentum. “Get aloft,” the captain ordered. “Scan the seas for another ship!” The crew hesitated a moment, and she barked, “Move or swim!” Now in motion, four zebras did their gravity-defying climb with hooves and a few ropes. How in the world did they climb like that?
“There’s nothing,” Sky said sourly, glaring at Pythia, who was still pinned to the table. “This is just a stupid distraction.” That was backed up by the zebras above, who called out that the sea was clear. “See?”
See. “Is there any way to hide a ship at sea? With magic or spirits or something?” Scotch asked Pearl.
The mare looked at her, then at Sky and the captain, and answered, “With a spirit of fog, perhaps, but the ocean is clear. The only place to hide is...” Her eyes widened as she stared at the captain.
“Where?” Scotch asked.
“Underwater,” Pearl answered.
Sky snorted. “There no shaman alive that could keep a ship submerged,” the older zebra scoffed. “It would have to be a...” Her contempt evaporated. “A submarine?”
“Riptide,” the captain said, and the name rippled through the crowd.
“It can’t be. She was off the coast of Yakistan a month ago. She would have had to sail at full steam to be here,” Sky muttered, staring out at the sea. “It can’t be Riptide.”
“You want to risk that?” Majina demanded, pointing a hoof at Pythia and Scotch. “If we’re wrong, you keelhaul us or whatever in an hour or two. But if we’re right and someone poisoned this place to keep you hanging around while they moved in...”
The captain’s eyes bored into Scotch and Pythia as well, but then said, “I will not linger while Riptide limpets my hull, or spikes my rudder.” Then she bellowed out at the crew, “Sails up! Get arms! Ready for a fight.” The crew immediately began to scramble, the four fillies abandoned in the rush to obey orders. Captain grabbed Sky. “Summon a wind. I’ll take north, south, east, or west, but get us moving!” She then turned to Pearl. “Ask the spirits. If Riptide is down there, they’ll know. Use whatever you must.” She turned and regarded Pythia levelly a moment. “Stay here.” Then she moved off towards the helm.
“Get this crap off me!” Precious growled out the corner of her mouth as she struggled and strained.
The captain rounded on the steps, jabbing a hoof at Precious. “You especially stay put till we figure this out, understood?” Precious slumped, grumbling and chewing on her chain. The captain nailed them all with a glare and then joined the zebra at the helm.
Sky immediately rushed to their cabin. Scotch Tape, Majina, and Pythia joined Pearl, who was grabbing a bucket on a rope and collecting some water. “What’s a submarine?” Majina asked.
“A pony contraption for sailing underwater, some of which were captured after the Day of Doom,” the zebra answered. “Riptide has three under her command. Two of them can’t go very fast or deep, but they don’t have to. They sneak close, surface, and swarm aboard. If we’d been focused on you, the Abalone wouldn’t have had a chance. They’d capture the ship and turn her to piracy, or sink her for laughs.”
Then, she stuck her head in the bucket.
The three stared at her for a moment, then regarded each other. “This Riptide is pretty nasty, huh?” Pythia asked.
“Oh yes,” Majina said with a nod. “The worst pirate on the northern seas. She’s smart and brutal. Settlements pay her tribute just so she’ll keep her fleet away.”
“Doesn’t sound like raiders, then,” Scotch Tape muttered.
“She’s just as bad, and worse. She can get raiders to work together, and is smart enough not to wipe out everyone that keeps her afloat. But if she’s going for the Abalone, then this isn’t good,” Majina said as she surveyed the crew. “If only we could help.”
“We can!” Pythia said as she looked around, then lowered her voice. “We can get on the longboat, load it up with as many supplies as we can, and get the heck out of here!”
“Pythia! We can’t abandon them!” Majina gasped.
“They were about to keelhaul me,” Pythia replied flatly. “I can abandon them. Easily.”
“We’re not going to just run,” Scotch said as she examined the crew. “But we are going to help.”
“How?” Pythia asked flatly. “Our monsterpony is chained up. Did you turn into a cyberpony badass when I wasn't looking?”
“The stallion I saw signaling the other night has to be a spy. That means he’s still here. If the captain’s getting ready for a fight, he’s probably going to try something.”
“Ehhh… Probably,” Pythia admitted, grudgingly.
“So we need to look for a stallion who isn’t getting ready,” Scotch Tape said with a grin.
“Okay. What does he look like?” Majina asked as she surveyed the crew.
Scotch paused and coughed, rubbing the back of her head. “Well. He has stripes...”
The pair blinked at her, then simultaneously sighed and groaned. “Ponies...” Pythia muttered in disgust. “Would it help if we were color coded? Maybe had a bright, individualized icon on our butts?”
“I’m sorry you all look alike to me!” Scotch blurted indignantly. “I’ve been more focused on learning how to speak Zebra than on memorizing stripe patterns, okay?”
“Please don’t start fighting again. Not now,” Majina begged, then asked Scotch, “You’ve been fixing all over this ship. If you wanted to stop her and not be caught, where would you do it?”
Scotch blinked and considered. The sails? No, there were dozens of eyes that could spot you. The wheel? Captain was right there. It’d have to be below decks. If they had a bomb, anywhere below decks, but it was hard to hide bombs and stuff. The Atoli used each other’s stuff without a thought as to property. Drill through the floor? That would take a lot of time, even if they drilled on a weak point. Besides, once water started going in, it’d be obvious.
Scotch was staring at the wheel when it hit her. “The rudder. It’s connected to the wheel by ropes. If they’re cut, the Abalone is dead in the water. At best it’ll only sail in a straight line. Let’s go,” Scotch said, then turned to Precious. “We’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” she muttered flatly, ears drooped before she resumed gnawing the chain. To her credit, she was doing a number on the thick links.
The three ran below decks. All her work had familiarized her with most of the ship, and they scrambled towards the stern. The rudder worked due to an extremely tight rope that went from the wheel down into the ship, then spread apart to two little wheels that brought the rope to coil tightly around the tiller, then back up the other side to the wheel. Turning the wheel turned the rudder, but if something was cut... heck, if something was jammed into the works...
The hold was quiet, with none of the shouting carrying down to the shelves and boxes. The Abalone was fully loaded and in no condition to flee a fight. Maybe spirits could change that arithmetic, but things didn’t look good if this Riptide had faster ships. “Could really appreciate some help right now, Abalone,” she said, patting a wooden beam.
They pushed past the crates to the back of the ship, where the tensioned ropes sat still. And there was their zebra, trying to slip the rope off the little corner wheel with a prybar. It was tight and dark, though, and he struggled with getting the angle right. The ship groaned loudly, covering their noise.
After their little comment on appearances, Scotch focused on the stallion. His stripes had the characteristic waviness of the Atoli, but there were all kinds of little barbs like cresting waves to his stripes. His flank showed a ‘glyphmark’ that looked like some kind of coiled thing. Maybe a whirlpool? A coiled up worm or rope? Ugh, why couldn’t they have more straightforward marks? His frame was powerfully built, bluish black mane shaggy and tangled.
“Now what?” Pythia asked. “Go get the captain? Precious?”
“By the time we do he’ll have the rope off. Heck, he might be down here claiming he’s here to fix it, and blame us. It’ll take half an hour to get that back on the wheel. Maybe longer.” They had to do something... but what?
What would Blackjack do? Shoot, sing, seduce, or stamp him. Blackjack, the most incredible, and at times terrifying, security pony from her stable never lacked for ways of doing things, but Scotch Tape didn’t have a gun. She wasn’t a fighter, and even when she had a gun, she’d fired more to keep her enemies distracted while Blackjack mopped the floor with them.
She wasn’t Blackjack. She couldn’t do things like Blackjack could. Couldn’t do anything. Nothing at all...
“I have an idea,” Pythia muttered, staring back into the hold at the cargo.
It was about the size of a pony’s head and took two of them to move quietly into place. The zebra saboteur had finally gotten the prybar set and was working the rope off the wheel, which meant his back was to them. Which was good. There were so many ways this could go wrong.
Pythia mouthed something, and Majina nodded immediately. Scotch gaped cluelessly, forcing her to repeat. ‘On three’. One. Two. Three! “Asshole!” Pythia shouted, and the zebra turned to the trio.
Only to get hit in the face with a clay pot full of shaloosh.
The clay shattered immediately, and the gooey, rancid content splashed all over in a brownish-yellow slurry of rotten fish. The slimy contents coated half his body and landed in his mouth. Instantly, the bar was released as he heaved and spat, coughing and trying to scrub the concoction from his eyes. That was made infinitely more difficult when all three tackled him, knocking the already off balance stallion off his hooves.
Had she been Rampage, the immortal death filly, she could have snapped his neck or gouged out his eyes, but she wasn’t. And while they could stomp and bite, none of them had a weapon that they could use to kill him. Scotch even smashed him with shards of the pot, but they simply broke. Maybe this wasn’t the best-thought-out plan, she thought as she stomped him again and again.
Finally, he got his hooves under him and smashed Majina in the side with a kick. Then he hooked a hoof around Pythia’s neck and tossed her aside, into old boxes full of smoked fish and clams. His cold blue eyes locked on Scotch Tape, and his grin spread from ear to ear. “Finally!” he coughed as he scrambled for the prybar.
Then the sound of multiple hammers being drawn back filled the hold and he froze, bar clenched in his jaw. A few feet away, the captain stood with two of her crew, armed with pistols pointed straight at him. “What are you doing down here, Ako’e? Your station is on deck.”
The three kicked themselves away from the stallion now that the captain had arrived. “Ako’e?” Scotch asked, not familiar with the word.
“In Pony, I think it’s a bloodsucking worm. ‘Lamprey’, right?” Majina asked, looking at the captain for approval. When captain didn’t answer, her ears drooped. “Okay, not important right now, I guess.”
He looked down at the three fillies as they crawled towards the captain, then back at the captain, and then he spat out the prybar. “They came down here to sabotage the ship, Captain! I came to stop them.”
“Scotch could have sabotaged us a dozen times over, and sabotaging the ship carrying you to your destination is somewhat stupid. The Starkatteri are evil, but not stupid,” the captain said evenly.
“Thank you!” Pythia blurted, and then froze. “Wait a minute...”
Captain went on, “Why, Lamprey? You’ve been decent crew for three years. Why betray my ship now?” Scotch gave the captain a grateful smile. Finally! “Is it because my last payment to Riptide wasn’t enough? Does she want more?”
His cold eyes focused on Scotch. “She wants the pony. Dead.” He smirked as he stood and brushed some of the shaloosh off his face. “You could earn yourself a lot of money and goodwill if you just hand her over to Riptide.”
Scotch turned to look at the captain. The captain just glared at him. “The barrel of waste?”
“Needed some way to slow you down. If you hadn’t been crazy enough to have a Starkatteri on board, you would have wasted hours clearing out all the other barrels they dumped on this stupid reef, and Riptide would be here herself. Instead, you all went nuts with the star freak. Riptide will take her off your hooves as well. She’s not afraid of curses,” he added with a leer at Pythia.
The captain didn’t answer. She just stared at the trio, her eyes heavy with worry. If she were like Rivets, it would be no contest. Whatever kept the ship afloat was worth the lives of three strangers. “Captain,” Scotch whimpered, in spite of herself. “Please.”
“Be smart,” Lamprey said with a sure little smirk. “They’re not worth your ship.”
The captain reached over and rubbed the beams of the Abalone. How many times had Scotch witnessed Rivets doing the exact same gesture? She won’t risk her ship and crew. Not for me.
When the captain spoke, it was solemn. “Tradition says I protect my passengers from when they board to when they depart. They... even the pony... are our passengers. I will not forsake Tradition under any threat!” Her eyes narrowed. “And I suspect you knew this, or you would have asked me at the outset.” She straightened. “I am Captain of the Abalone. I am the ship, and the ship says 'Fuck you.'”
Lamprey hissed through his teeth. “Only the fucking Abalone would be this stupid.” He glared at the zebras with pistols trained on him. “She’s going to sink you if you listen to her!”
“Tie him up. It’s only fair I return him to his captain,” Captain said. In a minute, Lamprey was trussed up with a bit of rope; one thing the Atoli could do was tie knots. Lamprey didn’t go quietly, thrashing and cursing the whole while. Once he was secured, the captain turned to the trio. “Come. We need to move.”
Suddenly from above erupted the popping snap of gunfire. A machine gun chattered and popped, and bullets pierced the hull, spraying splinters across the assembled zebras and Scotch. Seawater began to seep through like blood from wounds before the burst ended.
Lying on his face, Lamprey leered up at all of them. “Too late, Captain.” He grinned at her. “Riptide has caught you.”
A year and a half ago, Scotch Tape had been living a relatively safe life inside Stable 99, oblivious to most of the world. Indeed, oblivious to most of Stable 99. When her mom had died, she’d been thrust into her job in the bowels of the stable, tending the worn machinery that kept everypony alive. It had led to a number of harsh lessons about life, family, and her place, or lack thereof, in the world. Of all the lessons she’d learned in her time following Blackjack everywhere, that one came home right now.
Everyone threw themselves to the floor as the gun started up again, bullets blasting in and sawing a second wandering line through the hull. Most of the shots were above the waterline, but some immediately started to admit water. Above, shouts and the cracks of sporadic gunfire replied to the constant rattle of the machine gun. The line of wooden eruptions traversed the hold once, paused, then ripped out again, and all Scotch could do was curl up on the floor, trying to make herself as small as possible.
I hate this. I hate this so much.
The machine gun fell silent as quickly as it had started, water now trickling through a hundred holes along the waterline. Why they hadn’t shot the ship below the waterline she couldn’t imagine, but even though the breaches weren't gushing, the Abalone was still taking on water at a disturbing rate. One of the two zebra stallions had been hit in the leg, but, except for small cuts from shrapnel, all of the others had been missed.
“Stem those leaks!” the captain barked. “Get some agoloosh and help him!” Immediately, the first stallion ran to a crate, pulling out a mouthful of tapered, hoof-long bits of wood covered in wax or pitch. He then rushed to the holes leaking the most, jabbed in the pointy ends, and hammered them home with one hard kick each. The second stallion limped to a sack, pulled out a strange purple wad of seaweed, and started to masticate quickly. The blood pouring from his wound slowed noticeably, as if he’d drunk a healing potion. Then he started to help the first stem the leaks.
The captain grabbed Lamprey by his greasy mane and hauled him towards the stairs up like a bound lump of pissed zebra. “Wait!” Scotch Tape shouted after her. The captain paused, glaring back at them. “What do you want us to do?”
Captain just stared for two seconds, then released his mane long enough to snap, “Something useful!” Then she dragged Lamprey out of the hold. Useful. The exact opposite of what she was.
“Toss them stems!” Majina shouted, going to the barrel and grabbing mouthfuls of sticks, then rushing back to the stallions and flinging them. The stallions caught them as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed this.
“Yeah, have fun with that,” Pythia said as she immediately started to collect her books and papers, carefully storing them in her saddlebags.
Scotch trotted to the barrel of stems, knocked it on its back, and hopped on top. Running backwards, she rolled the barrel along the middle of the ship, spilling out tapers as she went while trying to avoid obstacles. When she failed to avoid a box, she started sticking stems in the holes. Unlike the zebras, though, she couldn’t hammer them in with her hooves. For every one taper she worked in, the stallions hammered home ten. Still, a few minutes later, every leaking hole was stopped.
Then another line of bullet holes travelled from prow to stern, creating thirty more holes spurting water. Two burst to either side of her head, spraying her with wet wood splinters as the water gushed in.
“Oh, come on!” she shouted, then took a half step back from the spray.
And tripped over the zebra stallion. For a moment she flailed before tumbling onto her back, turning to apologize only to realize it was to a corpse. This time, the bullet had gone through his eye and out the back of his head. The other stallion gasped and flopped on the floor, bullet holes in his chest bubbling. Again, Scotch felt paralyzed. What should she do? What could she do?
Majina scrambled to the sack, grabbed some of the healing weed, and shoved it in his mouth. Then she jabbed a wad into the wound itself. Apparently that wasn’t quite the right way to use the stuff, as he screamed, the hole closing and leaving twisted scar tissue behind.
“Thank you,” he murmured to her before rising to his hooves. He pressed the bag of healing seaweed to her chest when she tried to return it. “Tell Captain I will need more people down here.” Then, without even a glance at the fallen stallion, he resumed his work. Pythia, her saddlebags bulging with books she’d carefully wrapped in plastic, trotted up.
“Will do,” Pythia said as she hopped over the slain zebra. Majina put the bag of healing seaweed around her neck. She reached the stairs and paused. “Sorry about your lover.” The zebra stallion betrayed nothing as he resumed slamming stems in place. Then Pythia glanced at Scotch. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” Scotch murmured as she pulled away from the body and followed the other two. “How’d you know they were…”
“I know we all look alike to you, but those two were the only pair who actually made out rather than pretending when they were sent to keep an eye on me,” Pythia answered.
Scotch paused, regarding her with an arched brow. “You were watching them that closely?”
Pythia blinked back, and her cheeks turned a touch red. “Well, yeah, duh. There wasn’t a lot to do down here, and... you know... idle hooves...”
This really wasn’t the time for this, Scotch thought as they went up to the crew deck, which was populated only by those too wounded to fight. Majina immediately started towards them, but Pythia bit her tail and pulled her away. Majina squawked in alarm, but Pythia explained, “They’ve got other bags of healing weed and others who can give it. We need to find the captain.”
“Why?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Because there’s something a whole lot bigger than just piracy going on,” Pythia said as she crept up the stairs towards the deck and the gunshots. “Last I checked, we didn’t make a big announcement to the Hoof that we were leaving, yet not only does a zebra captain know you exist, she personally wants you dead. So unless you’ve been running around pissing off zebras, something is going on.”
“Maybe she just hates ponies,” Scotch muttered. “I mean, the Abalone’s flag has a unicorn head on it!”
“Oh, that’s just so zebra ships know it’s not a pony ship that got lost or anything,” Majina said with a wave of her hoof. “They’ve all got flags like that. Showing impaled pegasi and stuff.” Scotch stopped and stared at the filly flatly. “What? It’s hard to tell a zebra on a flag from an earth pony on a flag unless you’re looking really closely.”
“You’re not making me feel better,” Scotch grumbled.
Pythia rolled her eyes and went on, “My point is that this is way too much for a simple ‘kill a pony’. They had to signal the Riptide clandestinely, lay the barrels on the reef, and position the ships for the trap. If they really just wanted to kill you, they could have simply gotten ahead of us and waited till you stepped off the boat. In that instant, you’d stop being a passenger, and the captain would have no reason to protect you. Riptide is making damned sure you’re dead. As in, see your body dead. She’s not taking the chance of you reaching land and disappearing. So something else is going on. That, or Riptide is hating ponies so much it’s making her stupid.” She paused and rolled her eyes. “I will be so disappointed if it’s just an ‘I hate ponies’ coincidence.”
“Gee, I’m sure she’d hate for you to be disappointed in her,” Scotch muttered flatly.
“So then you don’t have an idea?” Majina asked the Starkatteri. “You haven’t seen anything futurey?”
“I thought things blowing up in the Hoof would have taken care of the future. Now nothing makes sense. I’m probably too close,” she said with a frown as she peeked out.
“What do you mean?” the other zebra filly asked in worry.
“It’s hard to see things very far out when you’re tied up in the events. You see, you act, and what you saw changes, but not how you thought it would. Or you see, you do something to stop what you saw, and that brings about what you saw. It’s complicated. Seeing other people’s futures is half guesswork, half prophesy. When you’re mixed in, it muddies the prophecy part.” Pythia stared around the deck as bullets zipped across it. “There should be a break in five… four… three… two… run!” she shouted as she bolted onto the deck.
The two followed her. Scotch immediately looked to Precious, still chained up and tied with rocks. She’d gnawed through one section of chain and was now chewing on a second. Scotch started towards her, but Pythia looped her tail around Scotch’s neck. “She’s fine. She’s not going anywhere, they’re shooting from the other side of the ship, and she’s bulletproof! Captain. Now.”
“We’ll be back!” Scotch Tape shouted, but over the din and chatter of gunfire, she didn’t know if the dragonfilly heard her. The captain was in a little alcove below the wheel atop the forecastle. When they’d been sailing, it’d been full of supplies used for the gutting of fish. Now those had been dragged out, revealing a sheet-metal-lined interior that proved much more effective at stopping bullets than wood. The gutting table had been laid on its side across the front. A wheel on the back, directly beneath the abandoned wheel atop the aftcastle, was crewed by the zebra helmsman. The captain and both shamans were the only other people inside the box. An old radio crackled on a shelf nearby, the shouted Zebra so distorted that Scotch couldn’t understand it.
Oh. So that was a submarine!
In the sea off the left rail bobbed the vessel. It resembled a giant, bulbous, metal fish with fins and enormous glassy eyes. Those eyes had to be made of something tougher than glass, though, to stop the rounds that plinked against them. Atop its back, just behind the dorsal fin, was a hatch with a heavy machine gun mounted on a pivot. The opened hatch gave the gunner a little cover as they sprayed the Abalone with machinegun fire.
The Abalone’s crew, taking protection behind scattered plates of metal mounted along the railing, peppered the sub’s gunner with fire from bolt action rifles. Despite both vessels bobbing on the sea, their shots were eerily true, and as Scotch watched, the gunner on the sub slumped over. A moment later, the gunner’s limp body was shoved out, and another zebra took the gun. The half of the crew that weren’t fighting were patching holes that had been ripped in the sails with duct tape.
“Get me a breeze, Altar!” the captain snapped at the elder shaman, who held a little bowl filled with burning incense and was waving her white feather through the smoke.
“I’m trying!” she growled out around the end of the feather, fanning furiously. “They must have a shaman too!”
Scotch gaped cluelessly at Pearl, who seemed equally terrified. “Sky’s trying to summon a wind spirit,” the filly shaman shouted, looking at the metal fish, “but there must be a shaman nearby keeping them away!”
Captain eyed the three of them. “Your warning saved us all. Had we wasted time clearing the reef, we’dve been caught completely unaware.” Scotch noted she didn’t specify who she credited with that warning. “As is, eventually they’ll run out of crew to throw on that gun, but we’ll still be sitting here.”
“They need more below. One of the stallions was killed,” Majina said, her ears drooping.
“We need more period,” Captain shouted. “Lagoon! Coral! Get below. Stem and pump! Keep us up!” Two stallions immediately ran for the hatches leading down.
“What do you need to summon the spirit you need?” Scotch Tape asked the frantically fanning shaman. For an instant, fear and scorn burned in Sky’s wild eye. “Give me a way to help you!” Scotch shouted, just as desperate.
She spat out the feather. “This isn’t enough! I need to dance!” Dance? Seriously? The elder shaman gestured at the confined alcove around her. “There’s not enough space here.”
“Go below,” the captain ordered.
“No! It needs to be in a place the spirit can see,” Sky retorted, and pointed to the aftcastle. “There!”
“They’ll shoot you dead the moment you start. Wait till we’ve bled them of all their gunners,” the captain ordered. “We’ve gotten three so far. Can’t be more than two dozen in that tin can.”
“That’ll take forever,” Sky Altar protested. “I’m not sure dancing will be enough, even up there. I think Riptide must have every shaman she’s got calming the winds. It’s a doldrum!”
Pythia stared at Scotch, long and steady. Scotch knew what she was thinking: hand over the filly and go free so three of them could look for the Eye. Scotch couldn’t blame her, but then she thought of something. “No, they won’t be shooting at her,” Scotch said as she considered the glowering Lamprey. “I’ll go out on deck. Someone needs to get Precious loose, anyway.” She considered Lamprey. “Riptide wants me dead, right? I bet she’s promised a great, big, fat reward for whoever kills me?”
“More like horrible punishments if we fail,” he said. “The reward is for who gets you to her alive. She wants to feed you to her props herself.” Even Captain seemed taken aback by that. Seriously, what did I do to piss this zebra off so badly? Scotch wondered.
“Right. So they’ll aim at the green pony who stands out like crazy.” But that would be death for any zebra around her. She pointed to the forecastle. “There!” She couldn’t do anything to help, but maybe being a decoy would be enough. The captain regarded her soberly, then nodded.
“Get Precious free!” Scotch shouted at the others as she turned around and bolted from the metal box across the deck.
“How am I supposed to do that?” Pythia yelled after her, but Scotch was already racing to the front of the ship.
On the bow, there weren’t many defenders. The front of the ship didn’t do much besides hold the toilets, the anchor, and extra canvas for the sails. There wasn’t much to attack or defend there. Scotch hopped right up onto the anchor and waved her hooves at the submarine. “Hey! Here I am! Woohoo!” She spotted the zebra gunner gaping at her a moment, and so she thrust her butt in the air at him and waved it back and forth. “Can’t hit nuthin’!”
Oh, but he could try!
And he did.
A lot.
Scotch dropped down and pressed herself to the anchor, curling herself into as tight a ball as possible as the machine gun roared a steady stream of bullets that tore the wood around her to pieces. Splinters jabbed and peppered her as the rounds pinged and wildly off the anchor behind her. For what seemed like an eternity, the machine gun roared.
It was appropriate she was up front, as she promptly wetted herself.
Then a break as the gunner was killed. Scotch’s body was covered by shards of wood, several of which were sticking into her hide, though none deep enough to do worse than bleed. She coughed and tasted the tang of copper in the air. On the stern, Sky Altar had begun to dance. Back on the island, when the four had been picked up, the shamans had performed a fluid duet of waving forelegs and swaying hips.
That was nothing.
With the smoking bowl at her feet, she started to whirl and twist. The scarves wrapped around her body loosened and trailed in the air around her limbs like white contrails. They caught the smoke, and it swirled like snakes along her outstretched limbs and around her. Her long, uncovered mane snapped in the wind as she threw her head back and twirled about on a single hind hoof. Whiteflower petals cupped in each hoof were released, catching in the smoke that was curling and rising in a pillar above her.
Scotch glanced at the submarine and saw the gunner turning the gun towards the stern. Sky was a sitting duck, oblivious to the weapon being oriented on her. She had to keep the gun away from Sky.
Only she was scared.
There was no Blackjack here, the Security Mare who could do anything and kill anypony. No P-21 with his steady confidence. No Glory with her eternal optimism. No Rampage with indestructible wrath. No Lacunae with her soft wisdom. Just her, and she was going to die, just like her father did.
No. Worse than her father did.
Her guts threatening to befoul her further, Scotch rose up from behind the anchor. She stared at the submarine and the gunner. “Riptide wants me!” was what she meant to shout. Instead, a hoarse and incoherent shout issued from her mouth as she stood at the shattered rail.
Kill the shaman, or kill the pony? Scotch stared, trying to will him to choose the latter. Though her limbs trembled wildly, she waved a splinter-peppered hoof at the zebra gunner.
The gun swiveled back towards her. She threw herself behind the anchor, screaming and covering her ears as the gunner sprayed her. How many bullets were in that damned submarine? Scotch squeezed her eyes shut and kept herself in as tight a ball as she could. The anchor behind her vibrated with impacts as she soiled herself.
Then the shooting was interrupted. Scotch couldn’t uncurl for several seconds as she gasped and shook. Through a cracked eye she saw the smoke and petals rising above Sky Altar and forming the vague outline of a ghostly bird, barely visible against the clouds. It started to fan its wings. The sails overhead ruffled, and the ship started to move. She risked a glance at the submarine, but the gunner was trying to fix something, a jam perhaps.
“Hey,” Majina said softly in her ear. “You did it. We’re going.”
“I just played target,” Scotch said as the bow started to turn away from the submarine while Sky Altar left the aftcastle for the safety of the redoubt. “I also think I pooped myself.”
“You did. But you also saved our lives,” she said as she tried to tug Scotch to her hooves. Majina guided her to a sheltered spot where the zebra filly could clean her up while she worked to steady her trembling hooves and slow her thundering heart.
But Scotch frowned. Something was wrong here. They’d just sprayed bullets. Deadly, yeah, but not very reliable. Scotch touched the bullet-chewed wood as Majina carefully swept her face of the stinging splinters. Scotch looked away to the other side of the ship, down through the holes cut for toilets. She absently took some of the purple seaweed Majina was pressing into her hooves. Funny how it tasted just like a healing potion…
And Scotch saw the zebra in the water.
Not a corpse of a gunner, nor one of the Abalone’s crew. Despite how hard it was to tell zebras apart, there was no way to miss the dozens of scars covering the stallion’s face as he swam beside the hull just below the Abalone’s toilets. He leered up at her…
And pressed something to the Abalone’s hull. It was about the size of a garbage can lid. “Zebra swimmers in the water! That side!” she shouted, getting dozens of blank stares in response. Ugh, she’d said it in Pony! “Zebras swimming next to the boat! They put something on the hull!”
The submarine was pacing the Abalone, but some zebras rushed to the other side. Sure enough, there were more zebras swimming towards the Abalone, swimming just under the waves and only coming up for gasps of air. The speed with which they cut through the water astonished Scotch Tape, who was lucky to ponypaddle. On their backs were more of the strange metal disks. One sharpshooter struck a disk as the swimmer breached the sea. The metal disk exploded in a pillar of foamy water, the zebra vaporized by the blast.
“Limpets!” some zebras shouted, and the alarm spread.
Majina and Scotch walked unsteadily towards the captain, keeping low as the submarine resumed its strafing, robbed of choice targets. “What’s a limpet?” Scotch asked numbly. She nodded once at Sky Altar, and the older zebra gave a respectful nod back.
“Explosives glued to the hull,” the Captain explained. “Once in place, a chemical timer starts, and it’ll blast a hole that will sink us in minutes. They probably wanted to get them under the keel where we can’t scrape them off, but waterline will do.”
“You can’t remove them?” Majina asked.
“Not while we’re underway. You need swimmers for that, and steady seas, and no damned machine gun chattering away at you!” she said as she glowered at the sub.
“They have one on the waterline near the bow,” Scotch said as she looked at where Pythia struggled with the chained Precious.
“We’ll have to make sure they don’t attach more!” the captain snapped.
With her riflemen split on both sides, the machine gun was now doing more damage. Scotch had no clue what to do to help, other than to give up. Lamprey just leered at her, his eyes savoring some horrible fate. “You’re killing them,” he muttered. “They’ll all be slaughtered for you.”
Not able to answer, Scotch left to help Pythia. The cloaked zebra was futility scraping at a lock with a bit of curved nail. “Finally!” Pythia said as she gestured around her. “No one here knows who’s got the damned key! Can you get this open?” she said as she tugged at the locks keeping the dragonfilly bound.
If her father had been here, he could have opened it with a stern look. “I’m not sure how,” she confessed; this lock didn’t look anything like the ones she knew in Equestria! The way the chain was looped around Precious’s body and was locked behind her head, shoulders, and withers made it hard to imagine how she could wiggle completely free. The rocks were just weights set with carabiners, though. She could remove those, at least.
Precious just gave her a rather indolent raise of an eyebrow that summed up her opinion of Scotch Tape’s lockpicking abilities. Scotch flushed as she managed to get Precious’s forelegs loose.
One by one, the swimmers were killed as they approached. Most simply sank out of sight, shot through as the Abalone picked up speed. Then one exploded, not adjacent to the hull, but close enough that the entire ship listed over towards the submarine. The ship tilted, and for a moment, Scotch feared they’d capsize, but then like a pendulum it swung back, the deck sloping towards the sea.
And Precious sliding into it.
The filly failed to latch her claws into the deck. Scotch Tape didn’t think as she lunged at the trailing chain. She simply pounced on the end, tossed it about her neck, and dug her hooves in. The lavender dragon gave a roar of outrage coupled with a scream of terror as she slipped over the edge and the chain jerked tight, the links cutting into Scotch’s neck and almost strangling her. She grunted as she planted her hooves at the very edge and came to a stop. When the Abalone rocked back, a wild-eyed Precious emerged from the waves choking and spitting. When the ship settled, Precious still dangled in the water.
And she was one heavy dragonfilly, but Scotch was an earth pony damn it, and while the earth might be a hundred fathoms down, she should be strong enough to pull Precious up. She stared down the ship at zebras who were trying to pry the limpet explosives off with long poles. Another dangled from a rope, but now that the Abalone was on the move, he didn’t have a chance to pry it off before being swept away.
“Pull me up! Pull me up!” Precious shrieked. Scotch would have answered her, but right now breathing was a little complicated.
Oh, that explained the swimmers.
On the opposite side of the ship from the first sub, which her oxygen-deprived brain dubbed ‘Goldfish’, popped a second sub. This one was long and low to the waves and was crafted to resemble some kind of fish with a horn sticking out. Unicorn fish? Unlike the Goldfish, it didn’t have a machine gun. Small favors. If it was fast enough to ram them with that spire, though… ugh… need air badly…
Majina and Pythia ran up, each grabbing the chain and pulling enough that Scotch could get a breath. “Pull!” Majina cried out, but Scotch watched Precious’s claws cutting furrows in the hull.
“Wait!” she croaked as loudly as she could. “Pull her left!”
“Get me out of here!” Precious yelled up at the trio. The other two looked at Scotch as if she was crazy, but no arguing with the earth pony! She heaved in the direction of the closest bomb, where two stallions struggled with fishing spears to pry it off.
“Move!” she yelled at the two stallions, who fell back in bafflement. “Precious! Rip off the bomb!”
“Are you nuts?” she shrieked.
“Getting it off, or we all drown!” Her limbs were shaking as she stared at one of the gobsmacked adults. “Help!” she snapped.
One did. He easily took the weight of the dragonfilly, letting Scotch watch Precious. Being small and heavy, and wrapped in chain, she resisted the water trying to sweep her away. She roared as she grabbed the edges of the bomb and pulled. The adhesive stretched, then gave way, and she flung the bomb from the ship. “Now get me up!”
“Two more!” she called out, and the stallion, who now understood Scotch’s plan, began to yell at others in faster Zebra than she could ever hope to follow. They slid her over to the second. Precious clawed it free as well. Scotch didn’t know chemical detonators well. Were they reliable? Old? Waterproof? Her father would have been able to say exactly how much time they had.
When they reached the bow of the ship, though...
“I can’t reach it!” Precious snarled, sweeping her claws in futility at the limpet three feet from her. “Pull me up!” The curve of the ship kept the dangling dragonpony from getting any closer. This was the first limpet, and probably the one closest to blowing.
Why was every zebra looking at her? Could they swing her? No, the bottom of the arc was in the waves away from the hull. “Pull her up! Get another rope,” she said in Pony, trusting the other two to translate.
Precious was brought up, shaking and spitting and glowering at all of them as she clung to the rail. “Get me unchained, now!” she roared, and then blinked as Scotch looped the rope around her. “Uh, this... is kinda the opposite of what I--”
“I know,” Scotch said with an apologetic smile.
Then she shoved her off again. Roared expletives punctuated by gouts of green flame exploded as Scotch ran to the front of the ship and carefully maneuvered the end of the rope around the bowsprit at the front and to the other side. “Now pull!” If everything went right, this should pull Precious against the hull and…
Oh, hello Goldfish.
The boat had fallen back a ways, but at the sight of the green filly, the machine gun opened up again, and Scotch dove to the deck. The rope started to slip over the edge, Precious letting out a roar of frustration, and Scotch pounced it. Bullets chattered off the wood around her as she fought with the urge to hide versus the need to pull.
She had to pull, though, and ignore the wood splinters and bullets and hope that the chemical fuse was long enough for Precious to get the limpet off–
Another explosion rocked the ship. The rope suddenly went slack, and a sick numbness spread through her as she frantically pulled it in, only to stare at the broken end.
Oh, Celestia, I just killed Precious. Scotch just stared at the slack rope coiled around her hooves. From beyond Precious’s ghost cursed her as she stared out at nothing. “What the hell was that? I try and help you and you throw me off the side of a ship?!” Precious spat from the afterlife. “I'll kick your butt for this! Don't ask me how, but I'm gonna do it! I swear!” the ghost growled.
Behind her.
Tears ran down Scotch’s cheeks as she saw the waterlogged dragonfilly being released from her chains by the crew. Behind the ship, she could see the patch of foam stirred by up the last limpet. “You’re alive!” Scotch blurted, and dove at Precious. The effect was spoiled by the fact that it was like trying to tackle hug a concrete pillar, but she gave it her best shot anyway. “I thought I’d killed you.”
Precious blinked down at her, then snorted. “Yeah, don't do that anymore. And stop crying, too. You're making me feel bad for the buttkick I'm gonna be giving you later.”
“Yes yes, all very touching, but we’re not out of the woods yet,” Pythia said from behind. Scotch frowned and looked at the two submarines that were falling behind the ship. The Abalone had been shot up quite a bit, but the crew were patching holes in the... everything. She nodded towards the captain’s booth. “Come on.”
“What. We got away. That means we won, right?” Scotch said, looking at the chewed-up wood all around her.
Pythia stopped and sighed. “Scotch, which way are we heading?”
Scotch frowned and checked her PipBuck’s compass.
Due west.
“Oh, poop,” she said dejectedly.
“Right. We’re going the wrong way,” Pythia said as she trotted towards the Captain. The crew was too busy to curse Pythia, so that was an improvement.
At the captain’s booth, the captain was at the old radio. Static hissed as she fiddled with the knobs. “No good piece of garbage,” she muttered as she worked the device. When she saw the four, she gave a little nod, then gestured to the radio. “For emergencies. At the very least we can tell Northport that we were attacked.”
“Can I see?” Scotch volunteered, and the captain stepped away as she carefully removed the back. The design was… primitive. No gems anywhere. Just glass tubes with really old electronics inside. This was the tech used in emergency systems in the stable, the kind that would work with a spark battery and little else. “Think there’s some corrosion on the connections.” She carefully worked out a tube and caught the telltale green verdigris on the copper base. “Bingo.”
“What’s Northport?” Majina asked as Scotch rubbed the oxidation off on her leg.
“It’s our… capital I suppose. Place where all our tribe elders live, as well as most of our mares and young,” Sky Altar said. “It’s also the only drydock in the north sea.”
“Are we going there?” Pythia asked with a frown. The captain spoke with the crew about making repairs.
“We will be, eventually. Not you. The elders would capsize the whole town if you showed up,” Sky Altar said. She didn’t have quite the same sneer as she’d had before.
“Wait, capsize? Is Northport a boat?”
“More like a floating island of boats,” Sky Altar answered. “After the war, there were no safe harbors. The land and sea were ravaged by megaspells. So the captains took the largest ships and welded them together into a safe port. It saved our tribe. But since it floats, it moves, and we’re not sure where it is now. When we have to return, we use the radio or ask other ships its location.”
“And all your elders are there? Would they help with Riptide?” Scotch asked before checking the next tube. Damned salt was a menace…
Pearl glanced at her sister. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Sky said, her ears folding back.
Scotch tried the knob, and the static dropped to a faint crackle. The captain returned to the radio and turned a knob. “Mayday. Mayday. Any ships on this channel. This is the Abalone. The Luster of Nacre. We’re being attacked. Are any ships in range of this broadcast?”
“The Luster of Nacre?” Majina asked.
“It’s a sign, so people know it’s really us,” Pearl explained.
There was a pause, and then the radio crackled and a mare said in a smooth, calm voice, “Why, hello there, dear bondsister. This is the Riptide. May the seas ever be red. However can we help you?”
“Help? We were attacked by two submarines, and nearly sabotaged by an agent of yours!” Captain snapped. “We were nearly sunk, thanks to you!”
“Oh, dear,” the mare replied, her voice dripping with concern. “Well, if you’ll give me your position, I’ll be there right away and drive those nasty submarines off. I do so wish to look out for my bondsister.”
“Bondsister?” Scotch Tape asked Pearl.
“Father is married to Riptide, and Mother,” the filly explained. “I have seven bondmothers, each captain of a ship. I really don’t like Riptide, though. She’s mean.”
“I thought she was a pirate!”
“It’s politics. She’s a pirate alright, so to placate her, father married her. That gives her some legitimacy in the tribe. She’s still a bloody murderer, though,” Sky Altar said with a frown.
“Call off your submarines, and I’ll let the matter drop,” Captain said, glowering flatly at the horizon.
“Well, are you sure they’re my submarines? I know my subs would never attack my dear, sweet bondsister. They must be pirates. Give me your location, and I’ll be right there,” Riptide purred. “Also, who is that I hear in the background? Are you carrying passengers as well as fish?”
“The pony is here!” Lamprey shouted from next to the booth. Precious silenced him by sitting on his face with a growl.
“Oh my, did I hear right? You have a pony passenger? By any chance, did you pick her up at the burned islands of our people?” Riptide asked sweetly.
The captain regarded Scotch Tape soberly. “How did you know? Why do you want her? What are you playing at?”
“All wonderful questions, but the second is all that matters. Give her to me so that I can feed the enemy of our people through my props. I’ll even help you repair the Abalone or, at least, limp to port.” She said it so reasonably. It wasn’t like the raiders back home at all. This, in its own sick way, was worse.
“Swear by sea and tide,” Captain demanded.
“I swear by sea, tide, and ship,” Riptide responded smoothly. “Now, what is your position?”
The captain stared at Scotch for several seconds, then looked at some brass equipment above the emergency wheel. “North fifty, nine hours seven minutes. West ten, one hour five minutes.”
Scotch Tape gaped at her, but really, she shouldn’t have been surprised. After the attack, the Abalone was badly damaged. Her crew was more important than just one pony.
The captain continued to stare at her as the radio was silent. Then Riptide replied, “Dear bondsister, you are a liar.”
“As are you, bondsister,” Captain replied, saying the word like an epithet.
“Only you would doom your ship for a pony,” Riptide purred.
“Not a pony. For tradition,” Captain answered with a small smile, and Pearl beamed at her mother.
“Whatever,” Riptide said in disgust. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”
Captain shook her head. “We are in grave trouble.” She walked to a table in the back which had a number of maps on it. She pulled one out and smoothed it flat. Then she fished out some mother of pearl buttons. “We are here,” she said, putting down one. “Rice River is here.” She tapped the map on the southeastern corner. “Those subs are here and here,” she said, putting down two more red buttons between them and Rice River. “Okambo is here.” And she set a large black button to the west of the Abalone. “To the south are mudflats, sand bars, and reefs. A dying yard for ships.”
“Crap,” Pythia muttered. “She’s smart.”
“You see it then,” Captain nodded. “It does not surprise me.”
“What?” Scotch Tape asked. “Just go nor–“ She cut off as she made the connection. “You think the Riptide is north.”
“I am all but certain. The radio was clear. That alone is a hint that she is close by. Within a hundred nautical miles.”
“So can’t you break past those two submarines? They don’t seem very fast,” Majina pointed out.
“Correct, but the wind is easterly. Now that we’re moving, Riptide’s shamans are keeping it easterly. The spirits are working against us,” Sky Altar said with a worried frown.
“Can’t you just summon a stronger spirit?” Majina asked.
“I’m only one shaman!” Sky snapped. “I summoned the strongest I could that would heed me. Unfortunately, if I asked it to blow us away from east, I would censure myself!”
“Censure?” Scotch frowned in bafflement.
Pearl sighed, “When you ask a spirit to do something, you can’t ask it to do something completely different later. That’s like… like… breaking a promise or trying to weasel out of a deal. It makes the spirits angry.”
“The alternative is to summon a spirit and let it run amok with no terms at all, but again, the Riptide’s shamans probably have heaps of offerings and a dozen dancers to exhort the spirits,” Sky said with a sigh.
“Wait, really?” Majina asked, tilting her head as if imagining such a thing.
“No,” Sky said. “She probably only has one shaman. Maybe two. Lots of shamans working together is a hard trick. Bad things happen when they fail to do so.”
“How do you two do it?” Majina said, regarding the siblings.
“We’re sisters,” Pearl replied, as if that were all the answer she needed.
Sky actually flushed as she added, “And we’ve divided our realms. I handle the sky. She handles the sea.”
“The sky is actually a lot harder than the sea. The sea just… is. It’s full of stuff and hidden things, but it doesn’t do a lot of bad things without the wind,” Pearl said, getting a frown from Sky. “I’m just saying, sister!”
“So you were the one doing the water walking magic thing?” Scotch asked Pearl. The filly nodded. “How’d you get wet, then?” Pearl flushed.
Sky answered, “Because when you ask spirits to help you, bad things can happen. The spirits don’t like being servants. If I got spirits to clear the skies for me because I wanted a tan, they’d do it, but then they’d sunburn me red. We ask them to help others, and if we benefit in the process, then fine. I didn’t ask the wind to blow for me, but for my ship. Pearl asked the water to hold me up, but the spirit wasn’t strong enough when I jumped on the shore, and so she sank.”
“I’m Atoli. It’s not like I’d drown,” the zebra filly said with a smile.
Scotch believed it. She’d never imagined any equine, pony or zebra, swimming so swiftly. “So can we do something like that?” Scotch asked. “Just make us able to walk on water and we’ll trot to land!”
“No,” Precious growled, administering a hard shoulder shove that made it clear that this was not an option.
“It’s more than a hundred miles to the flats, and trying to get enough spirits or strong enough spirits for four of you would be really really hard! I’d have to go with you the whole way, too,” Pearl added. “Like… I could make one of you walk okay for a few minutes, but once you’re away from me, the spirits would probably forget.”
“But…” Scotch considered Pythia. “What if she asked the stars for you, Captain? Pythia can figure out all kinds of things!”
Pythia’s yellow eyes popped wide, and she flailed at Scotch, “No! You don’t talk any more! You’re full of bad ideas! Nobody likes them or you for having them!”
The captain too appeared as if Scotch had just propositioned her, but the filly hesitantly continued. “I mean, it’s not like she’d be the one benefiting. She’d be asking the stars for you,” she finished lamely, tapping her forehooves together. Pythia covered her face with a hoof, throwing her head back with a groan.
But the captain’s face set as hard as ice. “I would have to be far more foolish or desperate than I am now to even consider such an idea.”
“But–“
“Do not tempt me!” the captain snapped as she stared at Pythia like a venomous snake. “I know full well the nature of your tribe and their gifts. Ruin and damnation are all you have to offer. We listened to your augurs and predictions once, and it nearly lead to the undoing of all zebras! Never again!”
“Figures. You’d rather die from spite and pride than acknowledge I can help you,” Pythia muttered, her eyes narrowing. “Your tribe, above all others, has no excuse.”
“You can return below decks, Starkatteri,” the captain said, her voice dangerously soft and even. Pythia maintained her scornful stare before snorting, pulling up her hood, and trotting back to the stairs, disappearing from sight. Precious gave the cloaked filly a sympathetic glance as the zebra trotted away.
“So what are you going to do, Captain?” Majina asked.
“I will sail north and west and take you home,” she said as she consulted the charts. “I will not abandon my passengers to peril, though we cannot deliver you to your port. With luck, we will slip past Riptide and get around Okambo.”
“What?!” Scotch blurted. “But… there must be some other way!”
“There is. I give you to her and try to drink away my shame with rum back in port,” the captain replied, her green eyes boring into Scotch’s. “Which would you prefer?”
The filly averted her gaze first. “It’s just, we’ve come this far.”
“I’m sorry. I can not fathom why she would endanger all the influence she’s built just for your life, but she will. But I will, at least, see you safely back to pony lands,” she said in a low, soft voice.
“And if you can’t get past the Riptide?” Scotch asked, chewing her lower lip. The captain stared at her for a long moment, silently communicating the choice she’d have to make: saving her ship and crew, or giving up one pony. She might have been on Scotch’s side now, but would that change if Riptide herself attacked?
“Help with the repairs if you can. We will face that tide when it comes,” the captain said as she turned to her charts.
Scotch regarded the others and then followed Pythia below decks with Pearl tagging along. “What did she mean by ‘your tribe has no excuse’?” Majina asked the shaman.
The filly coughed as she went past crew who were administering to their wounded. She waited till there was no one nearby. “Um… well… the Atoli use stars too… mostly to tell where we are in the middle of the ocean. I mean, we normally don’t get lost. We’re Atoli. But sometimes a captain will have to use the stars to find the way back to port.”
“So, why won’t she take Pythia’s advice then? I mean, she not really afraid, is she?” Scotch asked, glancing back up at the hatch.
“Of course she’s afraid! Can’t you see the bind she’s in?” Majina blurted, wide-eyed. “She’s in a classic temptation plot. Does she do what is easiest to save her ship, or what’s right? Does she take advice from a cursed source, or does she risk losing everything? If it were just her, the stakes would be easy, but she’s got so many lives on the line.” She gasped, clasping her hooves over her chest, “The drama is just crushing!”
“Actually, she just doesn’t trust Starkatteri. But probably all that, too,” Pearl said, earning a pout from Majina. “She’s pretty sure that whatever Riptide wants, she won’t risk her ship this close to Okambo. As precious as the Abalone is, the Riptide is a warship, and those just aren’t replaceable. If we get far enough west, we’ll be in the same waters as the Orinoco. She trades with the Yaks and can handle herself in a fight… probably.” Pearl’s ears drooped, and she forced a smile. “All I’m saying is the odds are better two on one. Three on one if the Cerulean is nearby!”
They trotted down to where Pythia had resumed her spot in her hammock, ignoring the hammering as crew stemmed leaks in the hull. “I still don’t get what’s going on. If she’s your mom’s sister…”
“Bondsister,” Majina and Pearl said in unison.
“Fine, bondsister, shouldn’t that mean you… I don’t know, like each other?”
“Riptide’s been a terror for a decade. She was nothing. A ship’s… um… comfort mare,” Pearl said, tapping her hooves together. “Oh, and if you ever meet her, don’t remind her of that. Then, one night, she kills the captain. Normally, that would have gotten her killed quick, but the captain was so bad the crew didn’t turn on her. The first mate was an idiot, but he was smart enough to listen to her. Then a year later, she killed him, and became captain herself.”
“So she killed her way up the food chain. Classy,” Pythia muttered.
“Big fish eat little fish. She was still a joke till she dared raid the old Roam shipyards and found the Riptide still intact in drydock. It was scheduled to be launched on the Day of Doom. Then she became a threat, but she wasn’t stupid. Oppose her or insult her, and she’d obliterate you, but pay her in crew or money or fuel, and she’d leave you alone. Eventually, father married her to try and make her more respectable and less of a threat. There are plenty of sea monsters the Riptide would be useful against, and other pirates. She shakes them down like anyone else, and they go and murder and rob our people.”
“So your father married her? Did it work?” Scotch asked.
“I don’t know.” Pearl slumped. “She’s mean, but she pretends to be nice. Then people give her presents because they don’t want her to take them by force. She likes swaggering all over port, sitting closest to father, and making other ponies nervous. And she’s smart, too. She plays other captains against each other.”
“And apparently has spies everywhere,” Pythia added sourly. “Why hasn’t Captain turned that stallion into chum yet?”
“She can’t do that,” Pearl gasped. “She’d be killing her crew!” That statement blew so many fuses in Scotch’s mind that she didn’t know where to begin.
“Oh, of course,” Pythia asked as she turned away from them and lay on her side. “I don’t suppose anyone’s tried to kill Riptide off of her ship, have they?”
“‘S what I’d do,” Precious agreed, her lips parting in a wide, toothy grin.
“Well, that breaks Tradition. In port, captains can’t just kill each other. It’s just wrong. They can duel each other if they want to settle a fight, but Riptide just settles it on the sea. If someone did kill her in port, it would be murder.”
“Of course,” Pythia said with a sigh.
“What I can’t figure out is why she’s after me at all,” Scotch confessed. “I didn’t know Riptide existed before a few days ago. We didn’t know we were coming to the zebra lands, and when we did, we didn’t exactly run all over telling people where we were going. Why is the worst pirate in the ocean after my head?” she asked, rubbing her throat nervously.
“Blackjack pissed off a lot of people. Maybe Riptide was one, and she’s taking it out on you?” Precious suggested. Scotch could only shrug. Majina and Pearl were equally clueless as well.
Then Scotch peered at the Starkatteri filly with her back to them. “What are you doing up there?” she asked in Pony.
“Nothing,” she said at once, and when Scotch moved around to see what she was hiding, she covered up her star map. “Hey! Butt out!”
“You better not be scrying,” Majina warned, in Pony. “The captain is mad enough as is.” Pearl watched in confusion.
“I’m not scrying… well… I’m not scrying her or the ship or anything to do with the Abalone, okay?” Pythia said, looking back at them over her shoulder with a scowl. “I’m scrying the Riptide. Maybe I can see something about it.”
“What are you talking about?” Pearl asked, worried and a touch suspicious.
“Pythia’s trying to use her seer powers to spy on the Riptide. She’s not asking the stars anything,” Majina assured the filly.
"Cripes, shut up, you freaking tattletail!" Pythia growled at her, her eyes never leaving the map.
“Oh. Okay,” Pearl said in tones that indicated it wasn’t really okay at all.
Pythia had her map out, and her eyes scanned the little spots and specks marked with little glyphs. Scotch Tape had watched her do this dozens of times to little effect; simply staring at things for hours on end looking for ‘signs’ and muttering to herself. Now, though, she seemed different, her face pondering the page as if it were a puzzle. Nearly an hour passed, and the crew finally finished their repairs. Once again, she felt like she was back on the island, with nothing she could do.
“I don’t get what she’s doing,” Precious muttered sullenly as she rocked in her pot. “None of this zebra stuff makes sense.”
Pearl, who’d watched Pythia like someone might watch a sleeping radigator, replied, “She’s trying to know more. Scrying’s very difficult. You have to open your mind wide and just let the knowledge flow in and out.”
“How would you scry for answers?” Majina asked.
“I’ve never tried. Most shamans just ask and then try to understand the answers we get. Like if I want to know when the tide changes, I ask the water. But if I wanted to know where a boat like the Riptide is, I’d… well… one method is scattering dust on the water as it flows by and watching the patterns it makes, looking for shapes. Or closing your eyes and listening to the waves. It’s hard because instead of listening to one spirit, you’re listening to everything, and it’s really difficult to know what’s true and what’s just in your head.”
“How do you know it’s not just random noise?” Scotch asked, finding it all… very odd.
“You don’t. That’s why it’s so tough,” Pearl said. “Sky tried it once though, watching patterns in the sky. The shapes of the clouds. The patterns of the birds. It’s exhausting to just sit there and take it in hour after hour and not fall asleep or get bored or think about other stuff.” She considered Pythia. “I have to admit, she’s really focused. Sky needed complete silence.”
“Do you know how Zencori scry stuff?” Scotch asked Majina. “Maybe you could try it too?”
“I wouldn’t know how to start or where to begin!” the filly said, shaking her head vigorously. “Mom said it took flipping through books at random and stuff, and I don’t think she knew how to do it either.”
“Still doesn’t make sense,” Precious grumbled sourly.
“A sea of stars,” Pythia murmured errantly to herself, and they jumped. “Where is the Riptide? If only it were night.” Her hoof stroked the paper lovingly. “I’m missing something. Something I don’t understand,” she said with a frown. “A riptide… what is a riptide? Not the boat. The word?” She never took her eyes off the paper.
“It’s a current that sweeps out between sandbars and carries things near shore out to sea. They can be really strong and easy to miss until you’re already far from land,” Pearl explained.
“A current. Insidious. Dangerous. Underestimated. And we’re fighting currents. Caught in currents,” Pythia murmured, her eyes unfocusing. “Depths of the oceans as dark as the depths of darkness between the stars where timeless things lie. Riptides are on the surface. On the surface… what’s in the deeps below? The deeps below…” she said as her hoof moved slower and slower, her pupils dilating as if caught in shadow. “What—“
She screamed, clutching her head as she recoiled, and fell to the deck. “No, stop! I see! I see! Please!” Then everypony stared as she flopped and writhed as if in the throes of a seizure. “What’s wrong?” Scotch shouted as she grabbed Pythia before she could fall out of the hammock. Even Precious scowled in concern at the abrupt attack.
Pythia’s body spasmed as if it had suddenly been hit by a hammer. “No. Please! I’ve seen enough!” She wailed, then jerked again. Precious rose from her pot, frowning. Another slam, and something in the filly gave a snap and she screamed.
“No! No! No!” she begged, blood flecking her lips, and Scotch just stood there. All she could do was hold her as she jerked and thrashed, her eyes wide open in terror. Again she jerked. And again. And again! Damn it! If she were Blackjack she would have just used her stupid unicorn powers on her or shot her in the head or…
Well. It was something.
She grabbed a pot of water and dumped the contents on Pythia. Majina and Pearl stared in shock. The filly immediately coughed and choked, started to sit up, and then collapsed back as she grabbed her side with a hiss of pain. “I think I broke a rib.” Then she saw her waterlogged map, tried for a scream, and ended up coughing and hacking as she furiously tried to shake the water off it.
“Stop stop stop!” Pearl said as she grabbed Pythia. She took her pearl pendant and put it in Pythia’s mouth, the Starkatteri's yellow eyes popping wide in shock. Pearl closed her eyes. “Please return to where you belong,” she said, and Pythia shook, then spat out the pearl. “Give her some agoloosh,” she said to Majina, who shoved it in Pythia’s mouth as soon as she opened it. “Chew!” Pearl ordered, and Pythia did, eyes bulging. “Swallow!” the filly said with a stamp of her hoof.
Soon as she did, Pearl touched her pearl to Pythia’s map. “Please return to where you belong.” The water immediately seemed to shimmer on the surface and flowed to cover the blue orb on its string. Then she dangled it over the pot, and all at once the water released and plopped back into the jar.
“Now, are you okay?” Pearl asked.
“No, I am not okay. None of us are okay! I’m still seeing and I’m not sure why!” Pythia blurted, staring straight ahead again. “What was that?” Then she snapped, “And I don’t have them for everything… ugh… nevermind! Say it.”
The fillies all considered each other. “Uh… You’re our expert,” Precious said with a frown. “Don’t you have notecards of weird stuff?”
“Not for this. This is bad. Everything is bad!” Pythia shoved Scotch off and started to climb out of the hammock when her hooves windmilled wildly and she fell out on her face. “We need to go the other way. Now,” she declared from the deck.
“Why?”
“Because I was just blown to pieces! We were all blown to pieces!” Pythia said as she started towards the stairs, then froze. “No. I go up, and we still die! She won’t listen to me!” She stared at one after the next, her face becoming more and more stricken. “No. No. No! NO! She won’t listen to any of you!” Her pupils shrank as she breathed faster and faster. “I stay here and die. I need a future I don’t die in!”
“Calm down! Are you saying you saw the future?” Scotch Tape asked. “Like a bomb going off?”
“I don’t know. Everything blew up, and we sank!” she said as she stared around her. “And we had this conversation before it did! And I remember saying that! And I remember remembering saying that!”
“So, we have to turn the ship?” Precious muttered.
“Right! But she won’t listen! I keep seeing the futures, and one after another after another I die! We all die! Boom! Screaming! Water! Glug glug glug! I keep dying over and over again!” She was hyperventilating now, her pupils huge, hooves pressed to her throat. She gasped as Precious trotted past her towards the back of the boat.
In the months she’d known Pythia, she’d never seen the filly become completely unglued before. The filly was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. “We can just tell Mother—“ Pearl began.
“You did! I saw you trying. I’m seeing us trying. Seeing every future of us trying to talk to her, and every one, boom! We’re going to die! We’re going to die! We’re going to die!” She sat and wailed, “I’m too smart to die!”
Suddenly, they were all flung on their faces as the ship lurched to the side. Above decks came creaking and popping, followed by shouts and the captain bellowing for them to right course. Scotch picked herself up off the deck, peering around for the cause.
Precious was holding the steering rope in her jaws, pulling on it hard as the ship continued to creek and list. A minute later, she released it. “There. We turned. Now can you stop freaking out over nothing?” Pythia, breathless, just stared at the dragonfilly in shock, her pupils shrinking back to normal size.
“You… changed the Abalone’s course?” Pearl whispered in horror. “Mother is going to be so mad!”
Precious snorted and rolled her eyes. “Pffft. As if we’re not in enough trouble already.” An instant later, a thunderous boom erupted outside, followed by the roaring cascade of falling water. Precious peered in the direction the noise had come from. “On the other hoof.”
They rushed back up on deck.
Oh. That was a warship, all right.
The ship may have been a few miles away, but there was no missing that form. Scotch gaped at a long, sleek, dangerous-looking vessel. She’d seen the pony battleship Celestia, and Raptors, and this vessel shared those characteristics of a machine meant to kill. The ship was only half the size of the Celestia, all smooth sloping sides and a low profile that made it hard to see against the waves. The superstructure’s gray and blue paint blended in with the sky behind it. No exhaust rose from the ship to betray its presence. All of that was overshadowed by one thing, however.
The turret near the front of the ship pointed right at them. It might not have been ginormous like the cannons of the Celestia, just a single barrel, but it looked more than capable of blowing them out of the water.
“Full sail. Full sail! And summon Boreas himself if you have to, but get us moving!” the captain roared at Sky Altar up on the aftcastle as the crew scrambled. “Weave a course away from that damnable ship south!” The Abalone was pointed away from the Riptide, the sails and lines guttering and snapping. As Scotch and the others ran up, she snapped at Pearl, “I need waves. We must move, or she’ll blow us to pieces. Work with your sister. Go!”
Pearl nodded and rushed to join her sister. When they’d gone, she glowered at the four. “I don’t know many things. I don’t know how they knew to wait at the reef. I don’t know how they were aiming at our course. I don’t know why my ship diverted before they fired. I am tired of not knowing.” She closed her eyes a moment and took a deep breath. “Starkatteri. I, Mahealani, would… request… your assistance. Use your ways and your sight to guide us from this peril. Chart me a path to see my ship and crew to safety.”
“Captain!” more than a few nearby gasped.
“Just give them the pony!” others demanded.
“I will not forswear myself! I will not forswear this ship!” she called out. “This is my last voyage as your captain. I take this onus and curse upon myself!” She turned to the crew. “This is the Abalone. We are not a vainglorious ship, nor the swiftest, nor the mightiest, but we are the toughest ship on the waters. We take from the sea what bounty it can offer. We honor the ancestors and the traditions! Do we not?”
It was a moment as taut as a drawn wire. Then a stallion bellowed out, “Aye!” It was the stallion from below decks. The one who had lost his mate.
“Do we make the ancestors proud?” The captain demanded.
“Aye!” More answered.
“Are we better than those wreck-picking reef rats and pillaging scum that dare use our tribe’s name, because we still hold true to our Tradition?” the captain called out.
“Aye!” the crew roared in unison.
“The Tradition says we protect our passengers, and we shall. Other ships play with Tradition as a toy when it is convenient. Too many ships cast it aside at the first excuse, scrambling like crabs for the first safe hole. One ship mocks all our tribe stands for utterly,” the captain said, riveting them all with her stare. “But we are the Abalone, and if we must be the last good ship of the Atoli tribe, then so be it. To your stations. We shall weather this storm, and when we return to Northport, I will see to it that my husband turns every ship of the seas against my foul bondsister for this treachery! Move!”
The crew broke into activity. She returned her eyes to the stricken Pythia, who still didn’t seem quite recovered from her attack earlier. “Well?”
Pythia then swallowed. “If we’re following traditions, there must be payment.”
“A gold coin is standard, as I recall.” She plucked one from her hat and extended it to the filly, who accepted it with an air of solemnity. “Save my ship and my daughters. Chart us free of these shoals.”
“Captain,” Scotch Tape said as she stared at the mare as she trotted past. The captain paused, considering her soberly. “Thank you.”
“If I gave you to her, I could never look my youngest in the eye again. Though I do wish you had traveled to our land another way.” She pointed at the radio. “See if you can get in touch with anyone. I must see to my ship for its last voyage.”
As she moved off giving orders and supervising, Scotch headed to the radio. It wasn’t much different from pony versions she’d seen, only with a pedal and microphone and all the knobs were in glyphs. Next to her, Majina and Pythia were looking at maps. Precious flopped down next to her, curling up and... taking a nap?!
“I would,” Pythia muttered.
“Would what? And what does she mean, last voyage? She gave that speech expecting us to sink?” Scotch said as she started to twist the knobs, listening for anything that wasn’t static.
“I would,” Pythia muttered again, then blinked. “Damn it. I can’t tell which now I’m in.”
“She just made a deal with the star cursed tribe, Scotch. In front of everypony! No crew will sail with her after this. Ever!” Majina explained, her eyes wide and sympathetic.
“But, doesn’t that mean the ship is cursed too?” Scotch said with a frown.
“She didn’t ask as Captain. She asked using her not-captain name. The curse starts with her and ends with her,” Majina said.
“Where are all the rules for this stupid curse nonsense?!” Scotch demanded. It was all just so... stupid! “Curses are dumb.”
“Blackjack was cursed,” Pythia said as she stared at the maps, rubbing a temple with a hoof.
“Shut up,” Scotch snapped. “Your face is cursed!” Majina immediately began to sniffle.
Precious sighed, sat up, grabbed Scotch’s head, and twisted it towards the radio. “You! Listen for another ship.” Then she pointed a claw at Majina. “No crying.” Then at Pythia. “No more talking about Blackjack!” Then she flopped down in the middle. “I swear, if I’m gonna get blown up, it’s not going to be listening to you three bicker.” And then she curled up, covering her face with her spade tail. A booming peal of thunder crackled across the horizon, and she peeked out, but the skies overhead were clear.
Scotch turned the dial again and again, and each time she repeated, “Mayday, this is the Abalone, can anyone hear me?” Only static. Wait, why would she have Scotch on the radio? She wouldn’t know what ships to talk to. What to say? And shouldn’t she be getting the Riptide, at least? That ship was close! She glanced behind the device and spotted a plug tugged out of its socket. A plug connected to a wire that ran up to the antenna on the mast.
So, the captain gave her a disconnected radio to distract her. Something to keep her out of the way in the nice, safe alcove. Like a little kid. She wiggled the plug back in, and the static disappeared. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?” she said irritably.
“I can hear you,” a mare purred in her ear. “You don’t sound like my dear bondsister, and I know a pony accent when I hear one.”
“You’re Riptide?” Scotch asked, then demanded, “Why are you after me?”
“I made a deal, but don’t worry. I know I said all that stuff about feeding you to my props and all, but that was just for show. I have to keep up appearances,” the mare said so calmly.
“Why do you want me, period? How did you even know about me?” Scotch demanded.
“Now, now. I can hardly explain such things over the radio. You never know who might be listening. In person, though, I could tell you so many, many things. It’s really quite fascinating,” the mare spoke calmly, as if she wasn’t trying to kill her.
“Yeah, well, I’m skeptical of anyone who comes after me in a warship,” Scotch replied.
“I know where the Eye of the World is,” Riptide purred. “I can take you there myself.”
Scotch froze, glancing over at Pythia and Majina, but they were both doing something with Pythia’s pendant. “How do you even know we’re looking for it?” Scotch demanded.
“I know many, many things,” Riptide whispered. “Like I know you can save that entire ship and your friends right now.”
“What?” Scotch blinked.
“Come now. I know you’ve thought of it. They’re all going to die trying to uphold stupid traditions that should have been done away with ages ago. You get in the longboat with Lamprey right now. I stop and pick you up. Your friends survive. The Abalone survives. You survive. Everyone is happy. You save everyone. You get to be the hero. And then I can answer questions. Don’t worry about yourself. Whatever happens to you is insignificant compared to all the lives you’ll save.”
“I... I...” Scotch stammered, her eyes wide. She glanced over at the bound stallion watching intently.
“You’re not worth their lives, Scotch. Admit it, and save them,” Riptide whispered.
“You know what I think?” Precious said loudly from over Scotch’s shoulder. “You sound like Sanguine.” Then she brought her claw down hard, smashing the radio over and over again. Her deep blue eyes stared coolly into Scotch’s. “I can give you the same treatment if you’re dumb enough to believe what she said.”
“What? No! Pffft! As if. I was totally going to tell her off, but you beat me to it. Scotch managed a grin as the dragonpony eyed her skeptically.
“Better,” she said as she flopped down. “I wish there was something–” Another blast of thunder, but instead of an explosion, this was accompanied by a gust of frigid air and... why were the waves getting bigger? Precious stared up at the sky. “Oh. That’s something. Not sure what kind of something...”
Wisps of white magic rose into the sky from where Pearl and Sky Altar danced on the aftcastle. The pair danced on their hind legs, back to back, moving their forehooves in strange circular gestures as they rotated and twisted, their faces set in concentration as they sang. Pearl held a watering can of all things in her forehoof, but the water flowing out of the shower head wasn’t falling to the deck; it was rising towards the sky, where it mixed with sparkly powder trailing from Sky’s hoof. From the way Precious licked her lips, Scotch guessed the powder was diamond.
Both of these joined the streamers of magic coursing up to the clouds, where the gray overcast skies were thickening and swirling... becoming. Over and over, the sisters cried out ‘Boreas!’ With each cry, the clouds darkened, the shape growing ever more defined. Equine. Zebraish. Then, with a final boom of thunder that knocked the sisters to the ground, the clouds moved with life.
Then, in a voice of thunder, not just simply loud, but actual thunder, it boomed, ‘The North Wind has come!’
And then it blew.
The Abalone was a tough ship under full sail. The captain had not claimed it was a fast ship, but in that gust the old schooner practically flew forward. The seas built behind it, wave after wave, slamming not just into the Abalone but into the Riptide as well. Its next cannon shot went wide as it struggled to aim in bucking waves. Scotch and Precious scrambled up to the aftcastle where the sisters had collapsed, carrying them down below.
“We did it,” Pearl whispered. “We actually summoned the north wind.”
“Now watch him kill us,” Sky murmured.
Scotch stared at the enormous zebra of black clouds and frigid wind. “Won’t their shamans try and get rid of him?”
“I hope they try,” Sky said, pushing herself up to her shaky hooves. “You remember when I talked about smart spirits? Boreas is one.”
“How the hell did Equestrians beat things like that?” Scotch Tape demanded, pointing a hoof at the massive zebra head.
“With about two hundred pegasi working together, along with your sky boats,” Sky said with a sour twist of her mouth. “Honestly, this is summer, when he’s weakest, but even then, he’s the strongest of the four winds. He’ll still try and wreck us.”
“Which he’s going to do,” Pythia said from the bench. “I’m not seeing the way out.”
“Mother paid for your services!” Sky snapped. “If she’s going to do that, I expect you to deliver!”
Pythia had her starmap in front of her and was dangling the pendant over it, but with the bucking of the ship, it seemed to rock and wave wildly. “I’m trying! I’m asking Saladsuud, and all I’m getting are these weird motions. I was getting them even before you summoned Mr. Blowhard up there, so I know he’s not the cause.” The ship’s masts groaned as a heavy gust hit it, all of them glancing upwards at the colossal zebra in the clouds.
“I think he heard you,” Pearl muttered.
“Yeah, I got that kind of voice.” Pythia said, then tapped the map. “Saladsuud is the luckiest star in Aquarius. It actually gave me an answer right away, but I’m not understanding it.”
“Can’t you just ask it to help, like Boreas?” Scotch asked, and got horrified looks from everyone with stripes, even Lamprey. “Oh, come on! You asked Boreas for help! How is it different asking Saladsuud?”
“We didn’t ask Boreas anything. We summoned him. He’s doing what he always does when ships are around: sink them!” Sky Altar said, then pointed a hoof at Pythia. “You cursed my mom. Don’t you dare curse my ship too!”
“Relax. I’ve only ever played shaman once. Not doing that again,” she said as she stared at the starmap. “Saladsuud’s giving me everything I need, I’m just not understanding!”
“Maybe you need a new map?” Precious asked.
Pythia blinked and stared at the dragonfilly for several seconds, as if stunned. “Huh,” she muttered, and then started looking at charts, flipping over one that was blank on the back. “Draw everywhere the light goes,” she told Majina as she stretched up. Her crystal pendant caught the light from the overhead lamp and focused it into a number of specks, the largest being a single point of light on the paper. Majina took a piece of charcoal on her hoof and followed it around and around and around. Every now and then the pendant would stall, reverse, stall, and reverse again as the ship continued to buck and creak.
When it finished, Majina had drawn a swirly, largely filled in ‘Q’ with feathered edges like a saw blade. “Thanks, Saladsuud, you lucky star,” Pythia said as she showed the others. “What do you think this is?” she asked.
They stared, and then Sky Altar gasped, “No! Better wrecked than that!”
“What? What is...” Pearl trailed off, her weary eyes going wide. “Oh.”
“What?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Wait, is that what I think it is?” Precious asked with a frown. Pythia nodded once, and the dragonfilly lay down on the deck, covering her face in her claws. “I am so sick of boats.”
“Oh,” Majina said as she regarded the paper. “Well, if we do live, I think the captain will be going down in history!”
“What!” Scotch Tape demanded. “What is that supposed to be?”
“Go get Mother,” Pearl said. “She’s not going to like this.” Sky trotted off towards the front of the ship.
Scotch Tape sat and stared at the swirly thing, eyes bulging as if trying to force herself to poop out comprehension. “What? Is? It?” she demanded.
“Scotch,” Pythia said with a patient sigh. “What happens when you flush a toilet?”
Scotch blinked. “Oh, crap. It’s Okambo.”
The stars were sending them straight into a swirly megaspell of death.
* * *
Pearl had been right. The captain hadn’t liked the answer she’d paid for. With enemies to the north and west, and land to the south, the megaspell lying to the west was the only way out of Riptide’s trap. Boreas was keeping the warship from closing in enough to get a clear shot, but every few minutes, the cannon would roar, and a massive plume of water would erupt near the Abalone. Shooting in the midst of a sapient storm couldn’t have been the easiest thing, and the waves seemed to take particular delight slamming into the propeller-driven ship. At least, Scotch hoped that was the case.
If they kept racing south, though, eventually they’d run aground on a mud bar, and the Riptide would have a sitting target to shell. Apparently the mud flats of the shore extended for miles and miles inland. Some crew might survive, but the odds were against it. Especially if they had anything on that ship capable of flight, and they probably did.
On the other hoof, going into Okambo meant certain death in the maw of the vortex megaspell.
The key, Pythia insisted, was the tail on the ‘Q’ that was drawn. Apparently Okambo was chowing down on some islands, and one of them was creating a current or eddy that would spit out the Abalone. All they had to do was use Boreas’s wind, find that current, and let it spit them out.
Easy peasy.
The captain informed the crew. They would not let the Abalone be more spoils for the raptorial Riptide. If they were to return to the sea, they would take all their treasures with them. Scotch couldn’t imagine how much charisma and loyalty it took to convince the Abalone to spite the Riptide, but the course was changed west.
Into Okambo.
Fifteen minutes later, Scotch could feel the difference. Before, the waves had been wild things, coming from all angles. The further west they travelled, the more orderly the waves became, advancing like marching soldiers as they circled the great megaspell. The helmszebra had to have legs of steel to control the ship as it weaved along the troughs, angling north to cut up the approaching wave, breaching the crest, and then angling in south as the wave passed underneath so as to not ‘roll’ down the side of the wave into the trough. The Goldfish submarine was out of sight behind them, but the other sub, which Scotch had been informed was a ‘narwhal’, kept pace with the Abalone, trying to cut them off.
What good was a kill if there weren’t any spoils to go along with it?
The crew on the sails stunned Scotch Tape. In the windblown spray, they clambered up masts, walked out on gaffs and yardarms, trimmed sails, mended rips, and swung on ropes to reach places they needed to be. Not one fell to their death; when one slipped, another crewmember was there to help them. They hauled ropes and kept everything tied down. Those who didn’t tossed their cargo overboard. First pots of shaloosh, then smoked fish and clams.
And through it all, they sang.
Maybe it wasn’t singing, precisely, so much as shouting in harmony over the wind. A few stallions would bellow out lines, and the rest of the crew would answer in refrain. The words were in a Zebra more archaic than Scotch could follow, so Majina supplied the translation.
Our boots an' our clothes boys are all in the pawn,
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!
The Riptide, she was sure, had no such song carrying it through the wind and rain. It didn’t roll with the winds and waves. It smashed through them, its prow gouging great fans of foam every time it ripped through, trying to line up a perfect shot.
Heave a pawl, oh, heave away,
Way, ay, roll an' go!
The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored,
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!
As the ship cut through a trough, the Abalone let out a boom that sent everyone not an Atoli zebra on their faces. “What was that?” Scotch Tape yelled out over the wind. “Did they hit us?” No. The ship still seemed intact.
“Mud bar,” Sky Altar explained. “Or maybe sand.”
“Definitely mud,” Pearl contradicted.
“You’re telling me that wasn’t a rock?” Scotch said as she picked herself to her hooves.
“If it were, there wouldn’t be a bottom to the boat,” Sky said as she trotted to the rail and looked back. “The Riptide’s keeping to deeper water. She’s falling back.”
Scotch brightened. “Maybe we won’t have to go into Okambo after all!” The pair of young zebras gave her a pitying look. “What?”
“Scotch, we’re in Okambo right now,” Pythia said as she examined her swaying pendant, as if trying to discern more clues about their course.
Soon we'll be warping her out through the locks,
Way, ay, roll an' go!
Where the pretty young gals all come down in their flocks,
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!
When Scotch had seen Okambo, she’d realized it was big. What she hadn’t realized was just how big it actually was. As she raced to the rail, she could see the sea wasn’t flat and wave tossed. It sloped. The captain had returned to the wheel next to the helmszebra, and the ship now ran with the waves rather than along them. She could barely see the other side of the megaspell as it now competed in rumbling with the skies above. Zebras seemed to take glee, competing to see who could hurl crates further out towards the maw of the megaspell.
Heave a pawl, oh, heave away,
Way, ay, roll an' go!
The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored,
Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!
The depression was so shockingly massive that the edges appeared beautifully smooth. Even mesmerizing. The vertical lines of the far side seemed to ripple and shimmy back and forth as she stared at them. The water around them had the color of liquid concrete. Then the captain let out a shout, and the singing stopped as every zebra on board grabbed something. Precious tackled Scotch Tape to the deck.
Because that was when the water went up. It was like a hill in the curve of the sea, surging higher and higher until it erupted in a massive shower of sea water. The Abalone rose up the wave, the ship nearly vertical as it climbed that wall and fell to the side of the fountain of sea water... and rock.
Then the sea fell out beneath the Abalone, and she screamed along with Precious as the ship dropped down the backside of the enormous rock in the wall of the megaspell. Then, of course, the water came crashing down upon them, and it was just the weight of Precious keeping her from being washed overboard. The dragonfilly had her claws latched into the deck around them, and didn’t release, even when the rock was left behind. Mud, silt, and bits of pulverized seaweed covered them
“Precious, you can let go now,” Scotch Tape shouted.
“No I can’t!” she yelled back. “Here comes another!”
And another.
And another.
The Abalone proved as tough as her namesake. Each time, they came near one of the rocky protrusions, the captain gave a shout, the song changed, the crew braced, and the Abalone rode the piled-up water up and around the obstruction. It would have been easier to go around the obstruction by heading towards the center.
They didn’t want to do that.
From a distance, it was easy to imagine Okambo as a funnel dropping down to a watery death. Really, the megaspell was more like a basin, flattening out closer to the center. The bottom of Okambo, however, resembled a cement mixer of utterly mindboggling proportions. The water was black with sludge as immense boulders two, three, or ten times the size of the Abalone rolled around the glowing green nexus that was the megaspell. Every few second, some of the boulders would reach the megaspell itself and be flung away with tremendous force, arching up and sometimes breaking the lip of the megaspell, only to tumble back down into that booming, grinding mess that would annihilate any ship, even the Riptide, instantly.
The warship stayed high at the very edge of the crest, where the rotating water was carried over the mudflats and it could power away from the megaspell if it needed to. At this point, Scotch imagined the Riptide just watching for the ship’s inevitable demise.
The Narwhal wasn’t so lucky. It had been designed for speed as well, but every time it had to pass an obstruction, the captain went inward instead of rising up on the outer side. Soon it was below the Abalone, struggling to power its way up the gray slope.
Then it disappeared into the rocky slurry.
It reappeared, its pointed nose straining for the sky and safety, before it was sucked under again.
One final glimpse, the submarine folded in half. Then pieces. Then nothing.
Okambo didn’t even burp.
But the megaspell was doing what it was supposed to. Every revolution they made, the Riptide fell further and further behind. Despite its powerful engines and deadly shape, it had far more to fear from the deadly currents. With Boreas thundering and gusting, the Abalone could scrape higher along the wall each time it caught full wind, keeping it from ruin below.
Still, the Abalone was ailing. Every protrusion they rode strained the ship. The crew was now fully busy bailing out jarfuls of water. If they stayed in much longer, the Abalone would simply break to pieces. Hoof sized rocks were beating the decks, sails, and crew.
But how to get out?
Scotch Tape almost missed it. The island, really just a massive pile of boulders, hadn’t yet hit the wall of the megaspell. The wall of water caught it and curled around it in an eddy. As if sensing its prey was about to escape, the Riptide, on the far side of the megaspell, fired a few shots that fell short.
With one final, massive, groaning effort, the Abalone hit the eddy curling around the island. It pulled at the ship, lifting it up to the rim of the megaspell and down the far side, out to sea.
Then she saw Zebrinica for the first time.
To the left, mudflat and marsh stretched almost as far as she could see. The entire region looked as if it had been plowed, with heaps of muck and rock scattered in piles. Beyond the devastation was dark forest rising ominously in the distance. She finally understood why Thrush had said she couldn’t just take her to the shore and drop her off.
Zebrinica looked as if it wanted to eat her.
“I need you to debark,” the captain said, wearily, as she approached Scotch Tape. “I fear this is as far as the Abalone will be able to carry you.”
“But what about the Abalone?” Scotch Tape asked as she regarded the battered ship and crew.
“She sails, though I know not if she will survive to port. Boreas has tired of these summer waters, and is returning to vex the yaks. We will continue west, find a safe cove to anchor, and hope to summon help.”
“What about Riptide?” Precious asked. “She’s going to be pissed.
“She comes for you. If you are not on our ship, there is little she can do,” the captain said. Then she barked a laugh. “If she doesn’t murder us all out of spite, Tradition will demand my bondsister rescue my ship. When she finds you not aboard, she will have a choice of whether to waste time killing us or get back to pursuing you.” She glared down at the muddy, waterlogged Lamprey. “This eel will attest to as much when I return him to his mistress. She will not be pleased, I wager.”
“Will she murder you out of spite?” Scotch Tape asked in worry as Pearl and Sky Altar joined them.
“I think not. I’m sure she will want to reap as much profit from this as she can, and as she does, I might discover what she seeks with you. If I discover anything, I’ll have the wind deliver the message to you.” The captain sighed and straightened. “Now, Miss Scotch Tape, Happy Tale of the Zencori, Serpent’s Wisdom of the Starkatteri, and Miss Precious, please board the longboat and take it ashore. Do not worry about its return.”
“But what if you sink? Don’t you need it?” Majina asked.
“And how are we supposed to get across all that?” Pythia asked as she gestured at the mudflats extending for miles.
“I do not know,” the captain confessed. “But if you are on board when the Riptide finds us, the crew will give you to them. I have asked as much as I can of them, and they’ll take no more. They are to the breaking point. We will sail west and find the Orinoco. Then return to Northport, and they will find a new captain… and probably a new ship. If the Riptide does wish vengeance, my bond-sister can take it out on me in your stead.”
The crew sure wasn’t sorry to see them go, but there was far too much to do for any trouble to start. They loaded up the longboat with the quartet’s belongings and some supplies even as they worked to get the ship underway. Pearl was begging the water in the ship to return to the ocean, while Sky worked to summon a much more manageable breeze. Boreas’s wrath had dissipated into a stormcloud that seemed more intent on tormenting the Riptide than the Abalone. Small favors.
Aboard the longboat, the four were lowered down to the water. The Abalone, for all its hard journey, still seemed too stubborn to sink. Scotch Tape reached out and patted the hull as they descended. “Thank you, Abalone. You’re a good ship.”
Then she caught Pythia’s sardonic gaze, Precious’s eye roll, and Majina’s suppressed giggle all at once. “What?” she blurted. “It’s a good ship! Leave me alone.”
“It’s just so cute!” Majina gushed, pouncing Scotch and giving her a tight hug.
“Right,” Pythia said dryly. “Well, why don’t you show this boat how much you admire it too and get rowing? ‘Cause I don’t want to be sitting here when Riptide comes around.”
Scotch moved to the seat next to Precious as the Abalone drifted away, spilling a near constant stream from a bucket brigade. “Think they’ll be okay?”
“Of course they are. Now row, my little ponies!” Pythia said from the bow as she jabbed a hoof at the distant trees.
As the Abalone pulled away, Captain on board could still hear distant shouts.
“Hey, you’re not the boss of me! Who put you in charge?”
“We’re going around in circles!”
“Together! We have to row together!”
“Now we’re going the other way around.”
“We should have left you in Hoofington!”
“We should have let them dunk you, witch!”
“Beast!”
“Bitch!”
“Girls!”
“Row already!”
Mahealani, Captain of the Abalone for the last time, just shook her head as one of the four ex-passengers started to cry. Her elder daughter trotted up behind her. “I’ve a westerly. Barely a zephyr, but it should get us moving.” Lalahawa stared at the longboat they were leaving behind, watching as one of the four was pushed into the water. “They weren’t worth it, Captain,” she said, softly.
“Perhaps not,” the captain replied.
“Perhaps?!” the young mare blurted. “Captain, we jettisoned almost all of a year’s haul. The repairs needed to keep us afloat will make us the laughingstock of Northport! There is no ‘perhaps’. This is a debacle!”
The captain chuckled softly. “You’re young, Lalahawa. In time, you’ll learn that cargo comes and goes, and a ship is ever in need of repair. But when have you heard of a two zebras, a pony, and a... pony... thing... asking to travel to our lands?”
“Never,” Lalahawa confessed as the longboat flailed its way towards the mangroves and mud flats. “Not since... well, old times.”
“Mmmm,” the captain replied as she watched them shrink from sight. “Very old times. And better times.”
“Captain. Twenty of your crew are killed or wounded, and the Riptide will find us. The Abalone is all but wrecked. If it weren’t for Ahulani, we’d be sunk for certain. Did you seriously do all this for... for nostalgia?!” the shaman asked incredulously.
The captain stroked the rail of the ship. “Of course not. I did it because the Abalone wanted to.”
She stared at her mother for a moment. A smile curled the corner of her lip. “Did you become a seer or shaman when we were busy, Captain?”
“Watch your tone, Lalahawa. I am Captain till your father says otherwise, and I'll still be your mother after that,” she said with a frown. “I may not hear or speak to spirits, but a wise captain knows her ship. The Abalone wanted this. To take passengers. To honor tradition, even at great peril. To live as she did when she plucked clams from the sea two centuries and more ago.” The captain stared at the megaspell behind them. “And I have questions for my dear bond-sister.”
“You know she’s a bloodthirsty monster. She might kill you out of annoyance, Captain,” Lalahawa warned.
“Don’t insult your bondmother,” the captain said lowly. “She is not some mindless pirate or creature of the sea. Riptide is vicious and cruel, but worst of all, she is ambitious. If she contented herself with violence and plundering, she’d be easily put out to sea and ignored. She has a vision of our people, and there are ships that will heed her winds. She’s forsworn her traditional name for that common, vulgar slang name more befitting a pony raider than a captain. And she’d have us all do the same. She’d make all the elders of Northport dance if she could. And she attacked me!” She thudded her hoof on the rail. “She risked everything with this. Years of influence and plays for power, all for that pony. I would know why.”
Lalahawa stared out at where the ship had disappeared from view amid the mounds of grayish mud. “What do you think will become of them?”
“If they are wise, they will wait for the tide to come in, then hug the sea with the boat. Once past Okambo, they are only a few days travel from Rice River,” the captain said soberly. “The land is flat, and it will be impossible to miss the river. If they are not wise, they’ll go inland into the swamps, run afoul of the Orah, and never be seen again.”
From far away came a blast of emerald flame. The captain let out a long sigh. “They’re going inland,” Lalahawa said lightly.
“I need a drink,” the captain murmured as she turned away from the rail. “Tell me you saved at least one bottle of sahi from the waves.”
“Of course, Captain.”
* * *
Mudflats. The gray stretch between trees and ocean may have technically been mud, but it was flat only in the geographical sense. Heaps of muck, broken rock, seaweed and sea creatures had been vomited all over the shore by the megaspell, covering the mangrove bushes in filth the consistency of wet concrete mixed liberally with manure. The few times they’d attempted to put any pressure on it, the oar sunk a foot in and stuck fast. Each time they'd only barely been able to pull it free.
But that was nothing compared to the bugs.
In the Wasteland, the most you had to worry about were bloatsprites and radroaches. Maybe radscorpions, but Scotch wasn’t sure if they counted as bugs or not. Probably. As they struggled to row up a creek, the four were assaulted by a veritable cloud of biting, stinging bugs that swarmed over their boat after any vulnerable flesh. Swatting them accomplished nothing, and Precious even blasted flame to try and scatter the persistent vermin. They’d become so intolerable after five minutes that Majina had fallen out of the boat from all her efforts to get them off her.
Then she’d discovered that the mud covering her kept most of the worst biters off her hide. She’d also discovered an eel, or maybe an enormous worm, wiggling about in her mane. That discovery was only useful in providing lunch for Precious. Soon, all four were coated in thick gray mud, reeking of rotting fish, and stuck trying to struggle up a creek to evade the Riptide.
“This was not how I imagined going to the zebra lands would be,” Scotch admitted, giving up rowing and just using the oars as poles, sinking them into the syrupy gray muck and pulling upstream as mangroves rose up around them.
“How did you imagine it?” Majina asked as she stood on her hind legs at the back of the longboat, peering north through the bushes.
“Us getting off a ship at a dock, for starters,” Scotch said sourly. “Less bugs. No pirates.”
“Really?” the filly asked, twisting to blink down at her.
“More or less,” Scotch admitted. “I mean, I didn’t think it’d be easy, but I thought we’d just go there and...”
“And what?” Majina asked.
“And Pythia would do her knowing stuff thing and we’d...” Scotch began, then trailed off again. The cloaked zebra had refused a mudbath, pulling her ragged wrapping closer around her as she flipped through her notecards.
“We’d what?” Majina continued, relentless in her curiosity.
“She’d follow me around on great adventures like she did with Blackjack,” Pythia answered for Scotch. “She’d do as much thinking with us as she did with her.”
“That’s not how it was!” Scotch Tape shouted at her.
“Do not start with the shouting,” Precious growled as she worked her oar out of the mud and stabbed it back in a few feet further down. “Keep pulling or we’re never getting out of this mudflat.”.
Scotch rammed her oar into the muck, pretending it was Pythia’s face. “Blackjack was trying to unravel a mystery. She went all over the Hoof helping people! I was hoping this would be like that! Okay?” Scotch snapped, pulling hard on the oar.
“Right. You getting dragged along for the adventure while the big ponies did the hard work. Well, the big ponies are dead and gone. Now it’s just us,” Pythia said indifferently.
“Why do you have to be so mean all the time?” Majina demanded. “She lost her father!”
“Shut up,” Precious growled.
“At least she had one for a while!” Pythia shot back.
“All of you, shut up!” the dragon snarled, jabbing her tail behind them.
At the Riptide.
The smooth, angular sides and gray-blue paint scheme made the vessel almost disappear into the sea. Smoke, or perhaps steam, rose from the water behind it. It must have vented its exhaust underwater to prevent it from being seen rising in the sky. The back of the ship had some sort of landing pad set up. The ship crawled along, barely moving at all. From the back of the pad, tiny dots started to lift into the air.
Fliers.
“Move!” Scotch shouted, poling the boat as hard as she could through the muck towards the cover of the trees. They reached a berm of mud, and Precious hopped out and pushed on the back of the longboat, driving it up over the lip into a large pond of brackish water extending to the tree line. Precious pulled herself back on board, and then the four fillies paddled across the pond and up the narrow stream feeding it. Thirty seconds later, they pulled into the deep shade beneath the trees.
Just as a flier landed nearby.
Lighting down on a muddy stump jutting from the pool a few dozen feet away, the flier didn’t look like... well... anything Scotch Tape had ever seen before. It was wrapped, head to hoof, in strips of stitched-together leather. Four enormous, diaphanous wings, like those of a dragonfly, jutted from its shoulders. A gas mask covered its face, and every breath it drew was a raspy gasp. The sea breeze brought a stench of garlic from the equine shape. It peered around at the trees, its begoggled eyes glowing a dim, sickly green.
Then its four wings blurred into motion, lifting it into the air, and it darted away along the treeline.
“You know what I see? I see the three of you arguing, and fighting, and bitching, and sniping and crying, and getting yourselves killed till I am the last one left,” Precious said, her voice hissing and low. “And I don’t like it, so knock it off.”
“Right,” Scotch muttered. “We should go...” And she looked deeper into the swamp.
A real swamp, like from her storybooks in 99. One with dark green trees and bushes and vines and hanging moss. Plenty of bugs, though, shockingly, fewer than on the mudflat. The trees rose to either side of the narrow creek, connecting overhead in a verdant tunnel, the knobby, twisted bases of the trees tangled up with thorny bushes. The water itself was stained blackish-brown, as if it were toxic.
She really didn’t want to go that way, but what alternative did she have?
Had Chapel really been that bad? She could have just been patient a few years. Helped rebuild the Wasteland then.
Now she was here, in the zebra lands, and all she wanted was to go back.
“Come on,” Scotch said as she picked up the oar she'd dropped. “Let’s get moving before another flier finds us.” Precious took up the other, and together they started up the black river.
The black creek snaked its way through the overarching trees, in no particular hurry to get anywhere. In the Wasteland, life was hardy and tough but sparse, grasses and thorny bushes and the occasional copse of trees that managed to find an area with no taint, radiation, or people after firewood to grow large enough to count as trees. What little lived in the Wasteland barely hung on to life.
In the zebra Homelands, everything lived. Scotch saw more green in one minute than she had in her entire life in the Hoof. Cypress trees with their knobby knee roots jutting out of the water in spiky ridges competed with blackgum trees thrusting up in spines and knots while the occasional oak thicket on higher ground created dense hummocks like hills of wood. Between, around, and hanging from the canopy was a shocking panoply of vines, shrubs, mosses, and water plants ranging from huge lily pads to tiny verdant specks moving along with the languid current. Thorns abounded everywhere she looked, along with glossy, oily green leaves.
These plants were at war. She saw lily pads clustered together, almost desperately, in spots where the overhanging branches failed to block out the sun. Trees were crushed and strangled by vines, which were in turn riddled with mosses and fungi. Here and there, large cypresses bent over from contact with the burly oaks. In fact, the number of living trees was illusionary; many were dead stands wrapped in so much other growth that at first glance, they seemed alive.
But there were more disturbing plants still. Strange, brightly colored plants like pots that smelled tantalizingly sweet, and then you looked inside to find the stew of half-digested bird and frog remains at the bottom. There were pads almost identical to the lily pads, with shiny, gummy patches that caught the birds that landed upon them. The four rowed silently past one exhausted green-plumed avian, watching them stoically as its legs and stuck feathers were dissolved even while it still lived.
“I’m not getting out of this boat,” Precious muttered as she eyed the legless bird.
“Well, at least we’re not going to starve,” Scotch said.
“What makes you think any of this is safe to eat?” Pythia asked immediately.
“Uh. Well, ponies and zebras can eat plants and stuff,” Scotch said lamely.
“You want to eat any of this, go right ahead. I’m not eating anything that I don’t see a native zebra eat,” Pythia said as she hid inside her cloak. She yipped and smacked herself. “Damned flies.”
There weren’t as many bugs in here as on the shore, but there were still plenty seeking to take a bite out any patch of hide not encrusted with mud. Dragonflies buzzed and flashed as they flitted here and there, their wings reminding Scotch of the unnatural flier she’d seen. Flies buzzed hither and yon, their flight terminated by a hungry fish or frog. There were some that seemed to dart along on the surface of the smooth river without the slightest problem.
Small birds nested all over the place, keeping their nests far from the water. Larger white birds stood on the edges, perfectly still as they passed by. Then their beaks would dart into the water, snapping up a frog or little fish to gulp down. Thankfully, they weren’t nearly big enough to eat a pony, but still, it was intimidating being watched by them, their beady red eyes staring.
Then the water erupted in a brown fountain, the river letting out a roar, and one of the white birds let out a scream of surprise as its wings spread wide. Then it disappeared under the water, which gave one last roil and went still, waves spreading in a ring as a few tattered feathers sank out of sight in the murky water.
Yep. Really missing the Hoof now!
“So, what kind of zebras live here?” Scotch asked, breaking the silence.
“The Orah,” Majina replied as she peered at the birds nesting in the trees.
Scotch waited a few seconds before prompting, “And? What are they like?”
Majina grinned sheepishly. “Um. I really don’t know. The Orah aren’t like the Roamani or Propoli. They don’t show up in a lot of stories. There’re plenty of Atoli sea captains, Roamani generals, and Carnilian seducers, but the Orah just… are. They’re the swamp tribe. That’s all.”
“You have to know more than that,” Scotch insisted.
“Not really. They just don’t show up. Even the Tappahani have Enkidee the Monkey King and the Twelve Bananas, but the Orah don’t have any stories,” she rubbed her chin. “The only times they’re mentioned are when some hero has to travel into a swamp. Then they’re… well… it’s not very nice,” Majina said as she squirmed.
“You told us all about Riptide and how not nice she was. Spill,” Scotch said with a smile.
“Well, if they are mentioned, they’re ignorant, inbred bigots who will do something to your tailhole called ‘corncobbing’, but I don’t know why you’d do that with corn! They play these weird tinny guitars called banjos, and are super lazy. And dumb. Really, really dumb, ‘cause they corncob all the smart ponies they meet. And did I mention inbred? I’m not sure what that means either, but the Orah are supposed to be that.” She rubbed her chin as she thought; Scotch wondered if she should inform her, but then Majina realized they were all staring at her. “I’m sorry! The only story I know with Orah is about some Propoli zebras who take a canoe trip into their swamps and get corncobbed! I’m not even sure how. How would they grow corn in a swamp in the first place?” She clutched her head, gritting her teeth and groaning, “But they corncob! And they’re bred in! And–”
Precious silenced her with claw to Majina’s lips. “We get it.”
“It’s… it’s fine,” Scotch said as she looked around the swamp. “This place just has me on edge, and I hoped they had some kind of tradition or something we could use to keep us safe.”
“Sorry. Like I said, they’re just not in many stories,” Majina sighed, drooping.
“Could be worse. They could be in all the stories as the villains. That’d suck,” Pythia commented dryly, smacking another bug.
Then Scotch spotted something stretched over the river. A bridge! “At last! Civilization! We can get off this river.”
But as they paddled closer, it became clear that the bridge was more a ruin than a route to escape. Once, it’d been a train trestle, elevated over the water on dozens and dozens of pilings. Now it was collapsed, tangled with rusty bits of flatbed cars and enormous logs. A locomotive poked out of the trees and growth like a drowning beast slowly sinking into the bog, while cars still chained with logs dangled precariously along the side of the trestle. The sides of the boiler had rusted away, giving the impression of a gaping, bloody maw. Even if they could get up on top of the bridge, she could spot collapses through the trees in both directions.
“So. The Wasteland’s here too,” she murmured.
“You doubted it?” Pythia asked.
“I just thought that, with how green this place is, maybe we’d find… I dunno. Civilization and stuff. Like maybe the zebras had it better than we did. You have to work to find somewhere that’s not poisoned in Equestria,” Scotch explained lamely.
“Newsflash, but I don’t think this place is as healthy as you seem to think.” Pythia pointed to the water, where an oily sheen gleamed on the surface. “Where’s that coming from?”
“I dunno, the train?” she asked as she peered at the oil. Then she extended her hoof and held her PipBuck as close to the water as she could without getting it wet. ‘Click’, went the radiation detector. A few seconds later, another ‘click’.
“It’s radioactive?” Majina asked. “How? Did the zebras balefire bomb themselves?” Pythia’s eyes went wide as she turned towards Scotch, extending a hoof.
“I don’t–” Scotch started to say, as something red flashed in her vision.
Then the water erupted in her face. Jaws clamped down on her outstretched hoof, locked onto her PipBuck, and pulled her into the creek.
The tea-brown water obscured everything beyond a foot. All she could tell was that her leg was locked in the jaws of something enormous and scaly. PipBucks were tough, though. Their casings were designed to last forever, resisting even small caliber bullets and the odd explosion.
The leg bones of a filly, in contrast, weren’t nearly as tough. The creature gave a great shake, and Scotch felt something snap in the limb, twice. She screamed into the disgusting, brown water, sending up a torrent of bubbles as the thing seemed to be trying to tear her leg completely off!
Somehow, maybe from working its jaw to get a better grip, or maybe because it wanted a tastier bite, it relaxed enough for her to pull her PipBuck free and kick away. Swimming with a crippled leg was rather like swimming with a couple of bits of red hot metal grinding together inside her limb, but it was a little better than drowning. Her head broke the surface just as she felt something big brush against her. “Blackjack! Help!” she screamed, barely keeping her head above water.
But she wouldn’t help. Couldn’t. Nopony could, because nopony was left.
“Get in there and help her!” Pythia shouted at Precious, who was perched on the edge of the boat.
“I can’t!” Precious snarled.
“The hell you can’t! What are all those scales and claws for then?” Pythia demanded.
“I can’t swim!” the dragonfilly roared back at her. “I don’t even float!”
The water swirled with a swish of a massive tail, nearly overturning the boat. Precious and Majina struggled with the oars to maneuver back to Scotch.
Scotch half saw and half felt the surge of water as the radigator charged again. Unable to reach the boat, she threw her legs around the moss and rot slick timbers of the bridge and pulled herself onto the nearest beam. The maw of the reptile erupted next to her, and all she could do was fall on the far side of the beam to get away. The gator’s jaws snapped down on the beam, shaking it savagely and pulling it away.
Scotch ponypaddled to where a flatbed loaded up with massive cypress logs rose at a steep angle from the river. With three legs, she scrambled and kicked up the slope, and the gator pursued her. The rusting chains holding the lumber creaked as she scrambled past them, and the whole structure groaned with the disruption. The gator, rad or not, was easily as long as their boat, and almost as wide. It lunged after Scotch, jaws snapping in the air at her hind legs. She managed one good, hard kick to the snout; it might not have made up for the insult to her left leg, which now felt as if its contents had been rearranged, but it felt good.
Till the gator turned back towards the longboat and its three tasty occupants.
“No!” Scotch shouted. “Look out!” But they were already looking out! If Precious couldn’t swim, there wasn’t much else they could do. Nothing anypony could do. Blackjack wasn’t here. Her father wasn’t here.
She was about to watch everypony die again.
“No!” she shouted, and looked at the flatbed and its chained up logs. Only three chains were restraining the load, all corroded. If she only had a hammer or prybar. Something hard!
But she did. It was just on a leg that didn’t work anymore.
She watched as the gator started to nose the boat, as if trying to work out how best to get the tasty morsels inside. Majina swung an oar at it, and Precious swiped at the end of its muzzle. She breathed plumes of emerald flame at the beast, but the fire was ineffective against the semi-submerged monster. For now, the gator was between them. If it moved around…
No, her foreleg might be crippled, but her hindlegs weren’t. She set herself and started to kick the brown links. The rust started to flake off, but the chains were thick. For all she knew, this wouldn’t even work at all, but doing anything was better than sitting up here on the side of the flatcar, watching them die. “Come on! Come on!”
Suddenly, there was a loud ‘ping’, and the chain exploded under her hooves. A second later, a second ping, and that chain snapped as well. The load of wood gave a great shudder as it shifted, and Scotch grabbed the side of the flatcar as tightly as she could as the enormous logs broke away and tumbled into the river.
And right on top of the gator.
For a few seconds, Scotch Tape feared she’d doomed her friends as well as the cypress logs, many thicker than Scotch herself, crashed down in a wooden cascade. The longboat bobbed and rocked on the waves, but it avoided getting hit as it was pushed away by the swell. Scotch lay there on top of the side of the flatcar, taking a moment to catch her breath.
Then it hit her. Her leg was ten thousand tiny suns all exploding at in rhythmic pulsations that felt as if the limb were ready to blast off from her body at any second. She grabbed the limb, sobbing, and then shrieked and released it. “Ow! Owwie. Ow! Owww!” she whined over and over as she lay there on the rusty car. “Give me another gator, please. Anything to stop the pain!” Or rather, she’d meant to say that. What emerged was more like, “Bwaharrghahow!”
“Just hold on!” Pythia called. “We’ll get to you. Just have to get around this logjam.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Scotch moaned, and then turned her head and barfed in the river. “Ugh, this day gets better and better.”
The gator had disappeared, either dead or not interested in a meal that involved falling trees. Precious used her claws to pull the boat past the logs to the base of the flatcar, and Scotch carefully flopped in. “It’s broken,” she whimpered.
“I’ve got agoloosh,” Majina said, opening the bag, but Pythia shook her head.
“Don’t,” the filly said grimly. “That seaweed might cure, but it’s not a magic healing potion that’ll put the injured bits back into place. You’ll be a cripple.”
“Then what do we do?” Precious demanded.
“Nothing. We splint her leg, she stays off it, and we find someone who knows how to set a limb, then heal it,” she said as she stared out into the jungle. Then she stabbed a hoof at Precious. “Look, if you want, we can try and set it tonight if we can’t find any zebras, but we’d just have to rebreak it when we found–” She blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Damn it. I’m still in the future, aren’t I?” She clenched her eyes shut, pressing her hooves to her temples. “No. No answer till you actually ask it.” Majina opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Pythia said, “The question that you actually want me to…”
Then she opened her eyes and looked at the others. “Crap. Now I’m in the wrong future,” she said with a haunted, exhausted gaze. She pulled the cloak over her face and curled up into a ball. “Just splint the leg till tonight. Now leave me alone till I’m back in the present. The right present.”
“She doesn’t make any sense,” Precious muttered. Majina carefully took some sticks that had broken off in the treevalanche and tied them to Scotch’s leg to immobilize it. Then Scotch sat in the bow while Majina and Precious took the oars and rowed past the fallen train.
I’m useless. At least on the ship I could fix things. Here, I can’t fix anything. Scotch thought as they left the ruined trestle behind. She fought them. She really did, but soon fat tears were running down her cheeks. She was an idiot for coming here. A useless idiot who nearly got a ship sunk and her friends eaten by a radigator. Now she had a busted leg that felt like it was on fire, blazing in its wraps any time she moved.
Her father had broken a leg. She’d watched him hobble along through the Wasteland. He hadn’t cried. He’d followed along silently in Blackjack’s wake.
I won’t cry. I won’t.
Well. I’ll try not to cry.
I’ll try harder not to cry…
“Good thing you baited that gator,” Precious said absently as she maneuvered the boat through some overhanging brush. A large black spider landed on her shoulder, fangs glistening with poison. Chomp! Precious chewed, wrinkled her nose, and spat the goo into the river. “Gross!” she muttered, scraping her tongue and spitting more.
“What?” Scotch asked weakly though her tears.
“When you had your hoof over the edge of the boat. I was thinking about it. I think that gator was planning to wait till we were against the trestle, then slam our boat. Would have gotten me for sure,” the dragonfilly said as she resumed tugging against the hanging foliage to pull the boat forward. “When you stuck your hoof out like that, it couldn’t resist.”
“Really? I thought you’d be more than a match for any stupid gator!” Majina said with a broad smile.
“Hardly. Radigators float. I sink. It wouldn’t even have to chomp me,” Precious said simply. “I really want to get off boats. Forever. I’ve been about as useful as a doorstop,” Precious said.
“I’ve been worse,” Scotch said, staring off at the trees as they pulled past the drooping foliage. Something bubbled from down below, but at this point, she’d let it eat her. “I can’t do anything.”
Then she blinked as Precious crawled across the longboat towards her. Her deep blue eyes narrowed. “I will smack the stupid right out of you. Good thing I smack hard, because that was a lot of stupid you just said.”
Scotch gaped at the dragon filly. “She’s broken her foreleg,” Majina said, tugging on Precious’s tail.
“Didn’t know that was where she kept her brain,” Precious growled, and poked Scotch in the chest with a claw. “I’ve done precisely nothing except play anchor this whole trip. I sat in a pot. When that gator showed up, all I could do was growl at it. You dropped a forest on the Gator’s head, and you actually helped on the ship. So if you call yourself useless again, I will show you useless.”
“Sorry. I just… I left imagining a big adventure. I haven’t been in the zebra lands a day, and already I broke my leg,” Scotch muttered lamely. “I didn’t even think about what to bring. I thought… food… because Blackjack and Daddy always handled everything on the trip! I should have brought a gun or something. Healing potions. Tools. Something useful.”
“I only brought Momma’s stuff because I didn’t have any caps,” Majina said as she reached into her saddlebags and withdrew a blowgun. “I have Mr. Sleepytime here. Oooh! And Momma’s mask!” she said as she pulled out a wooden, painted mask that looked like some kind of crazy zebra monster. She popped it on her head and looked around. “How does anyzebra see out of this thing?” she muttered.
“And I brought exactly nothing,” Precious added. “So yeah, we’re all idiots.”
“I brought plenty of things,” Pythia muttered from her ball, not uncoiling.
“Well, I hope we get out of here soon,” Scotch said as she peered around at the swamp.
“We should,” Majina replied with a smile. “I mean, how big can this place be?”
* * *
“This swamp is stupid! It’s been a week! It should have ended by now!” Majina shouted at the host of thoroughly disinterested trees all around them. “You! Move out of our way so we can get somewhere!” she demanded imperiously.
“It’s official. Majina’s talking to trees,” Precious muttered.
To be fair, some of these islands did move. They were just great big rafts of peat so large that trees grew on top of them. They shook when walked upon, and if you weren’t careful, the whole thing could come apart. And occasionally the island turned out to be growing on the back of an enormous, irritable snapping turtle. Hadn’t that been fun. Every night they had to find something to tie up to and hope that it wouldn’t float off with them.
As bad as the swamp might have been in the day, at night, it became ten times worse. Sleeping on land was inviting a snake to share your blanket, but sleeping on the boat drew radigators in the middle of the night. Once, Majina had tried to rig a hammock, only to wake with spiders in her mane. The swamp wasn’t completely worthless though. There were bioluminescent green fungi growing on fallen logs; the four had scraped some into an old jar they’d found, and it provided enough light to drive back the darkness. More eerie were the occasional pools of water with dancing flames or smoldering peat, as if someone had set a campfire and then abandoned it. Three times they’d sought the sources of thin pillars of smoke only to find more swamp.
There were signs of civilization, but like everything else, they were long ago abandoned and left to sink into the mire. They came across a sawmill that had radigators sunning themselves on the metal roof. A trailer park reduced to metal frames draped in moss. A cinderblock building with an oak tree growing right up through the middle of it. Wood shacks built on trees, occasionally with skeletons curled up on rotting mattresses. No signs if they were Orah or even zebras. No signs of any living zebras at all.
Worse was the fog. It rolled in every evening and obscured the stars, and once it lingered for three days. Even east and west was lost to them as the sunrise and sunset disappeared in a gauzy haze. Even her PipBuck’s compass seemed glitched up; maybe the gator attack had knocked something loose? Pythia’s prediction of the weeds being inedible proved true. Scotch had sampled some oily green leaves, and within minutes her mouth was an inferno of pain as blisters and sores popped up inside it. That left the stores the Atoli had given them, and those were dwindling by the day.
And the final threat… “Do you hear a motor?” Pythia asked as she scanned across the water, through the thickening fingers of mist. For four days, the sound of a motor had stalked them. Once, Majina dared to climb high enough on a deadfall to spot a longboat from the Riptide prowling the water on the next river over. Three zebras with guns, two of those freaky dragonfly-winged fliers, and five red bars were all the proof Scotch needed that they should go any other direction.
“Yeah, I hear it,” Precious growled as she squinted. “I don’t think it’s growing louder, though.” It could have been, though. The swamp obscured noise just as well as it did navigation.
“Let’s go the other way,” Majina suggested, taking an oar and starting to row.
They rowed their way across a wide, brownish-black pool towards a large ridge that appeared to resemble something with some bedrock somewhere in all that peat. As always, Majina crept out into the foliage and picked her way towards the top. Since Scotch could barely walk, Precious couldn’t swim, and Pythia didn’t work, the storyteller got to make the trip. Normally she just brought back reports warning of an enormous turtle or a pack… herd… clump… whatever of radigators.
This time… “You three should some and see this.”
Transferring from boat to land was difficult. There was no shore to speak of. Just a ledge that dropped almost straight into the murky depths. At best, it was mud. At worst, a fragile layer of peat that would dump you into the tea-brown waters the instant all your weight was on it. With only three legs and a fourth that felt as if it was on fire with the slightest bump, swimming was the last thing Scotch needed to do right now. With Precious and Pythia’s help, she managed to climb onto an outstretched trunk and crawl her way forward till she stepped off on the spongy ‘ground’. When she reached Majina, the filly’s eyes were wide and round. “Look,” she said, pointing ahead of her.
This was the most open ground she’d seen in a while. It was a layer of peat and ugly black stone perforated by large, dead oak trees. Every step squished underhoof, the foamy peat gushing a torrent of water. Her PipBuck started to click slowly, like a petrified heart. Somewhere in the mist, a low, booming groan sounded that made them all freeze. “What was that?” Scotch murmured, but they just shook their heads.
A rummage sale hung from the dead branches overhead, suspended by thin tethers. Skulls were in wide abundance, but here and there whole skeletons were on display, posed in flight or combat with each other. That would have been creepy enough, but everything from plastic foal rattles to rotten books to rusty horseshoes also twisted slowly in the growing mist. Bullet casings gleamed dully as they hung like wind chimes overhead, and here and there, corroded weapons dangled.
Precious reached out towards one, and Pythia immediately hissed sharply, halting the filly. “Don’t touch anything!”
“Why? And why are we whispering?” Precious whispered back.
“Because this is very wrong,” she said as she stared at the junk hanging from the trees. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“Do you sense something or see something in the future?” Majina asked as she peered up at the water-soaked zebra dolls in their sun-faded dresses.
“I don’t need to see the future to see that this is bad,” Pythia muttered. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Is this the Orah?” Scotch whispered as she looked through the mist that curled all around them like hungry tentacles. Her E.F.S. kept glitching, and the navigational compass was turning slowly. Pythia’s face informed the pony that her question qualified as a stupid one, so she amended, “Are they nearby?”
“Don’t know, but I don’t think we should stay here,” Pythia muttered.
“I smell jerky,” Precious muttered. “Do you guys smell it?” Three stares ranging from baffled to flat to worried met her. “Just me?”
“Freaky as all this is,” Scotch whispered, “if we can’t take any of it, then what are we doing just standing around here?”
“‘Cause of those,” Majina said as she pointed past all the trees with their dangling decorations. Beyond the peaty marshland, a large lake lay. Nothing special about that; they’d seen a dozen lakes like it, basins of murky water ringed by cypress trees.
What was different were the enormous boxes sitting in the middle of it. The mist obscured them, but from what she could see, there were at least a half dozen out there. Maybe more.
“Now that’s something to check out,” Scotch said. A line cut across the lake. A bridge, maybe? “They might have some healing potions or things we can use.” If they were in the Wasteland, they were going to have to be a lot more active about getting stuff they needed to survive.
They made their way around the shore to the bridge, really just a bunch of oil drums with chained-together platforms on top. A chain-link fence, draped with moss, had once blocked access, but the razor wire was now rust. A glaze of oil shimmered on the surface of the water around the bridge. Every so often, Scotch’s PipBuck started to click; while the ambient radiation might be higher here, though, it wasn’t clicking at levels that would kill them right away.
Scotch carefully wiped away the moss covering a sign next to the rusty gate. The glyphs were spirals slashed through by thin, needlelike protrusions. “What does it say?”
“Keep out. Restricted area. Danger. Things like that,” Majina said thoughtfully.
“Things like that?”
“A glyph doesn’t always have a concrete meaning, like pony words. They convey an idea, not say things like words,” Majina said as she looked past. “This is a forbidden place.”
“Well, forbidden places have good loot,” Scotch said, her injured leg throbbing. Normally, she’d be a lot more cautious, but after a week, she just wanted a healing potion and fixed leg. How her daddy had endured this kind of pain without going crazy was beyond her.
The bridge had once had chain rails, but those that remained were so corroded that she didn’t dare put her weight on them. Each pontoon bobbed ominously, and once one almost dumped her right into the lake. She didn’t see any gators or turtles or whatever other monsters might live in lakes like this, but she didn’t want to risk a bath. At the rate her PipBuck was clicking, Scotch estimated they had at least a few hours before they risked sickness. Maybe there was some RadAway here?
The boxes were enormous metal-sided buildings on barges tied to pilings driven into the middle of the lake. A security checkpoint sat abandoned at the end of the bridge, with moss hanging from the ends of long, rusted machine gun barrels. Zebra skeletons slumped against the weapons, their armor corroded and rotted to uselessness. A bar with a bright red slashed glyph on it blocked the way, but they easily crawled under it. The metal buildings were the color of dried blood, but a large sign was bolted to the closest one: four stars above a circular glyph.
“Four stars,” Pythia murmured.
“What? Mean something to you?” Scotch asked.
The cloaked filly stared at the sign a moment. “Yeah, but I’m not sure what,” she answered.
“No wonder this thing is still floating,” Precious commented, scraping the barge with a hoof. “It’s made of concrete.”
“You can’t make a boat out of concrete,” Majina said with a roll of her eyes, then blinked and turned to Scotch. “Can you?”
“Find me a healing potion, and I’ll tell you,” Scotch answered, then looked at Pythia, who was regarding the sign with a distant stare. “Are you okay?”
“Sometimes I really wish I could see the past,” she replied, then shook her head. “We should go quick. I don’t know what this place is, but what little I can see is all shadows and mist.”
The door into the first building was rusted shut. No windows. No way onto the roof. Every now and then, the metal buildings groaned or shrieked as they shifted on their barges. The second was no more accessible, nor the third. The fourth barge set her PipBuck’s radiation counter through the roof, so they just avoided that one altogether. Moving along the grid, they passed by the next. Precious gave a few experimental tugs, but not only were the doors rusted, they were also locked.
Then they found one where the metal frame had shifted just enough that it had popped the corner seam, creating an oval space just big enough for four fillies to wiggle through. The pitch black interior didn’t offer more than pinpricks of light, so she turned on her PipBuck’s light.
“Oh, come on!” Precious said as a building inside the building appeared. Unlike the exterior, this one actually appeared more like a place zebras would work. It had doors and windows, though most of it was corrugated metal, albeit in far better condition than the exterior shell.
“No. It makes sense. The outside was just rusty boxes. If somepony flew over these, all they’d see were barges. The probably blend in well with the brown water of the lake, too.” Scotch gave the metal shell a kick, and though it rang like a bell and groaned a little, it was still perfectly sound.
Pythia gaped at her. “Are you trying to tell everything in a mile we’re here?”
“Sorry. Just… this is cool!” she said with a sheepish grin.
“Right. Cool. Like a corpse!” Pythia hissed. “Now, quiet!”
The interior building was just as locked as the shell. A few taps confirmed the windows were some sort of plastic that refused to shatter. Walking around it, she spotted condensers, radiators, and cooling units piped to vent through the wall of the shell. “There’s got to be a way in,” Scotch murmured. “There!” A grate under some pipes connected a radiator to the wall of the interior building. The grate was held on by four catches. There was no way an adult could make it through, but the four fillies were able to twist off the catches and squeeze through the hole into the interior of the building.
“Yay. We’ve scavenged lumps of plastic,” Precious muttered as Scotch’s PipBuck illuminated, well, exactly that.
“No,” Scotch said with a smile, knowing that sweet industrial smell. “Unwrap these!”
Precious and Majina tore off the plastic wrap, and Scotch’s eyes alighted on the most beautiful thing she’d seen in a long time: a lathe. Not an old, worn lathe like the one that had graced the Stable 99 workshop. This ruby-painted piece of art was a geared head engine lathe, with twelve speeds, twenty by sixty inch work space with fully automated arms. Rivets would have killed for this piece of equipment!
One by one, more treasures emerged from their plastic cocoons. Bandsaws! Belt grinders! Deburring and polishing vibrator bins! Drill presses! More precise lathes! Pipe, bar, and sheet metal presses! Even an industrial forge and hydraulic stamp press! “Okay. We can take all this home, and I’ll be happy!” she said with a croon as she rubbed her cheek against the polished metal, embracing the lathe with her good forehoof.
“Right. We’ll just load all this up on the longboat. It’ll be easy,” Precious chuckled.
“You don’t understand!” Scotch gushed. “This is priceless! All of this!” she said as she waved her hoof around her.
“No. You don’t understand. All this stuff? It’s heavy,” Precious said, giving the lathe a kick. Scotch glowered at her as if she’d just smacked a newborn foal. “We’re not getting this stuff out the door, much less back home.”
“But… but… nngh!” She waved her hoof at all the wonderful equipment, much of it still wrapped up.
“Plus, without power, they’re not doing anything,” Precious continued relentlessly.
“But why is it here at all?” Majina wondered.
Scotch thought about it. “Well, none of us expected this to be here. Maybe this was some sort of hidden factory? You know, so that when cities were blown up, this stuff would be okay?” Celestia bless them, whoever they were!
Pythia trotted out of the gloom. “Or maybe someone was betting on the world blowing up and everyone dying,” the golden-eyed zebra murmured as she stared at the three of them in the wan illumination of Scotch’s PipBuck lamp. “Come on. I think I found an office that might have something we can use.”
The office was just as clean and sparse as the workshop. A terminal that looked as if it had been taken from a Stable-Tec store and had a zebra glyph slapped in place of the logo sat on a desk. Plastic folders with the four stars symbol rested on shelves. Against one wall were a number of electrical breakers next to monitoring equipment. A first aid kit was mounted on the wall just inside the door.
Inside, wrapped in plastic like everything else, were three syringes of purple healing potion.
“This is probably going to hurt,” Majina warned as she tugged off the wrapping and exposed the needle. She set it in her jaws.
“It’s hurt for a week. Fix it,” Scotch said as she clenched her eyes closed. A prick, and then…
Scotch wasn’t a unicorn. She had no idea how the healing magic stuff worked. What she did know was that they needed to invent a word past ‘hurt’ for what she felt right then. Her immobilized leg was rearranging itself, dragging the broken pieces together to fuse them, with nary a concern for what her nerves might feel. She fell to her side, leg outstretched, screaming and crying as Precious held her down. On her PipBuck, the little medical of a colt went from having his left foreleg in a sling to standing normally. The colt’s smile seemed particularly disingenuous to Scotch as her vision began to swim from the pain; still, the bar below the formerly crippled limb had filled a sliver. Majina used a second one on her, and the pain simmered down to a mere gnawing ache.
“Save that last one,” Pythia said blandly as she squinted at the contents of one of the plastic folders in the wan illumination.
“Thanks,” she told Majina and Precious, then frowned at Pythia. “Sorry you were so worried!”
Pythia glanced up at her. “Were those super deadly, toxic, acidic, radioactive healing potions they were sticking you with? No? Then you were fine.” She dropped her eyes back to the binder. “I’m just trying to find something on what this place was for.”
“Still hurts.” Scotch pouted, working her leg. It ached quite a bit, but at least she could put her full weight on it.
“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river,” Pythia drawled, then twisted her lips and amended, “On second thought, don’t. It’s wet here enough already. Now bring that light over here so I can read this.”
“You know, I bet this will turn the lights on,” Majina said from the control panel. Then she reached out with a hoof and slammed a gate switch down.
“No!” Scotch and Pythia said in unison.
Nothing happened.
“Huh,” Majina blinked at it. “Guess it’s broken,” she said as she flipped a few more breakers.
“Stop playing with the controls, please,” Scotch begged. The batteries or generators they were connected to seemed to be either dry or offline, but still, playing with high voltage was just something you didn’t do.
“Relax,” Precious said as she joined Majina and flipped a few more switches with a smirk. “See? Nothing.” Then she flipped up a cover and pressed a button.
From somewhere in the darkness, a motor started to whirr. The lights on the breakers started to light up amber, red, and green. Scotch had no idea what they were for; all the labels were in glyphs. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” she said as she pressed the button that Precious had in the futile hope that whatever she started would stop. “Which one is the off button? What’s the glyph for ‘Deactivate’? ‘Off’? ‘Cut power’?”
Majina squinted at the panel. “It’s this one,” she said as she tapped a large button. More lights came on, these ones red. “Or… this one?” Another tap.
“Stop guessing!” Pythia hissed.
“Well, I’m sorry but the labels are tiny on these things! It’s hard to see!” the filly protested.
Scotch Tape gaped at the breakers on the panel. In a stable, down was a closed circuit and up was an open circuit. These went left and right; which was open? She flipped one. In the office and the workshop, overhead lights flickered to life. Okay! Right was closed!
“What’s the big deal?” Precious asked as she backed away. “I turned the power on. You’re welcome.”
“The big deal–” Scotch started to say, and then a round section of ceiling out in the workshop dropped down a foot. From a recess in the side of the circular drum extended a gun barrel, which swiveled and oriented on Precious in the doorway. A stream of gunfire spat out at the dragonfilly, and Scotch reached out and grabbed her, pulling her behind the frame. Her flank was bloody and battered, but not torn to pieces.
“Ow. Ow. Ow,” Precious growled, hissing in pain from where the turret had gotten her.
“That’s the big deal,” Scotch said. “Do you see a breaker for security system?” she asked as she gestured to the panel.
“Um. No. I don’t even know what half these glyphs mean!” Majina admitted. “We can just start pushing buttons and flipping breakers till they deactivate, right?”
“No! You might turn something worse on!” Pythia snapped.
Scotch carefully pulled herself to the terminal. If she leaned over, she could work the controls. “Tell me one of you knows how to hack a zebra terminal?”
“I’ve heard about how to do it,” Pythia said as she crawled on the floor next to Scotch. A few taps of the keyboard, and a collection of weird shapes appeared on a three by three grid. “Okay. Now you just have to rotate these to make a glyph that’ll access the system.”
“That’s insane. Zebras are crazy! Make a glyph! What glyph? I don’t even know which glyphs are what!” Scotch shouted.
“I don’t know!” Pythia shouted back. “Ask me some weird stuff about dark magic, and I’ll talk all day! This is weird Propoli technology stuff that nobody understands!”
Scotch stared at the screen. “Okay. Nine tiles. Four positions for each. That makes for… four times four times four times… oh… crap…” She groaned and buried her face in her hooves. “More than a quarter-million possible combinations!”
“They don’t all rotate,” Pythia pointed out. “Only five do, and some of those clearly don’t line up, so you can just count those out.”
“Okay… so…” She did the math in her head. “Just over a thousand,” she said as she moved the cursor, experimenting with rotating tiles. “I’ll need a piece of paper to keep track of this,” she said, hitting what she hoped was ‘enter’.
The image went bright red, and one of four little circles near the top of the screen vanished. “Let me guess, when all four are gone, I’m locked out?” she said, getting blank stares from the other three. “It’s okay. Daddy told me how to do this. You just try three times and then back out and start over.” She made a quick sketch of the screen and gave each tile a number, then rotated the first tile once and tried again. Failure. Another rotation and try. Failure. She hit ‘exit’, going back to a startup screen and then back to the puzzle.
With still only one dot remaining.
“It’s supposed to reset! Why isn’t it resetting?!” Scotch asked. She had a one in a ridiculously large number chance of getting the next one right just by guessing! “You’re breaking the rules!” she shouted at the impassive terminal.
“I don’t think it cares,” Precious said. “So, Plan B?”
“We have one?” Majina asked, giving a feeble grin. “Please tell me we have one. That would be so wonderful!”
“Sure. I run out and smash them,” Precious said as she eyed the door.
“But they’re in the ceiling,” Majina pointed out.
“And I breathe fire.”
“They’re way up in the ceiling.”
“I’m bulletproof.”
“You’re not that bulletproof,” she said with a gesture at the dragonfilly’s bloody flank.
“That’s a flesh wound.”
“And you’re made of flesh. So let’s bump that to Plan C,” Majina said with a smile.
“They can’t hit us in here,” Scotch broke in. “So think of something else. Meanwhile, I’ll hope to get lucky. Majina, tell me if I’m close to some zebra word.” Hopefully, this would be easy.
Unfortunately, after a dozen tile turns, she’d gotten the glyphs for ‘towel’, ‘inside’, and ‘hat’, none of which sounded promising. That wasn’t counting shapes that ‘kinda’ looked like glyphs. “Majina, how many glyphs are there in Zebra?”
“I dunno. A couple thousand?” the filly replied. “I don’t know them all.”
“How the heck do you learn them all?” Scotch demanded.
“Hey! You’re just biased against stripey things!” Majina countered.
“And you’re biased against letters!” Scotch shot back.
“I can tell them all apart easily,” Majina said huffily. “Besides, glyph meaning changes depending on what other glyphs are around it. If you put that hat glyph next to a glyph that meant filly, it would be a filly wearing a hat. If you swapped them, it would be a hat made by a filly! And if it was under the filly, it would mean covering the filly.”
Scotch signed and rubbed her face. “This would be so much easier if they just imbedded random passwords in the RAM, like Daddy taught me.”
“Just go through them and get a shorter list to guess from,” Precious suggested. “We’ve got time.”
“I’m not sure we do,” Scotch said as she help up her PipBuck. Oh how nice it was to not have that busted leg! “This thing lets me see threats. There’s three turrets out there.”
“So?”
“I’m getting six bars, and half of them are moving around,” Scotch informed them. “I think reinforcements are coming to find out why the lights are on.” She set the glyph for ‘hat’. “Here we go,” she said with a feeling of doom.
Pythia sighed.
Scotch Tape froze, her hoof touching the button but not pressing it. “What?”
“What do you mean, what? Now we’re locked out,” Pythia said, and then blinked in bafflement. The cloaked zebra groaned. “Damn it. I’m a few seconds ahead… wait… what…” Her eyes popped wide in shock.
Her hoof raised just in time to block Scotch’s kiss. Scotch didn’t care. She kissed her hoofpad anyway, making Pythia roll her eyes. “You’re a dream come true! I don’t have to guess. Just keep your vision in the future and tell me if it locks me out!”
“Okay! Just don’t kiss me!” she snapped, lowering her hoof, and wiping it off on the floor. “Pony cooties…” she muttered under her breath. Scotch started to work through the glyphs. “No. No. No,” Pythia repeated over and over for each one. Then Scotch had a circular shape on the screen, and the golden-eyed filly blinked. “That’s it!”
“Hee! Eat that, programmers!” Scotch said, feeling a little stab of victory at using cheating star magic to get around their stupid puzzle. “What’s that glyph mean, Majina?”
She stared at it. “Um. ‘World’. Or ‘Everything’. Like I said, the meaning of a glyph is really flexible.”
“Wasn’t that the one on the sign out front? Under the star thingies?” Precious commented, looking over Scotch’s shoulder.
Okay. Maybe that could have been faster. She hit enter, and the screen filled up with what looked like a crossword puzzle of glyphs. “Okay. I will never be able to read Zebra,” Scotch huffed.
“Ponies. If it’s not twenty-six glyphs arranged left to right with subglyphs thrown in, it’s just not language,” Majina said as she sat in front of the screen. “What am I looking for?”
“Whatever counts as security. Find the turrets and deactivate them,” Scotch said. The turret with the best angle for the door seemed to think that it should just keep firing, and began to spit a stream of bullets that began to chew through the fragile interior wall. Everyone who could hunkered down behind the metal desk.
Majina started working the terminal. “Security. Turrets. Where are you?” Majina asked as she pursed her lips, ignoring the wild ricochets. “Oh! That’s interesting!”
“You found the turret controls?” Scotch asked as a chunk of wall fell in.
“No! Apparently this was a message to a Propoli vendor telling them to take it up with the Caesar about unpaid bills, and–” Majina said.
“Turn off the turrets!” Pythia screamed.
“Oh. Right! Turrets. Security. Where is that?” she said as she kept typing away, so slow it made Scotch Tape want to scream. “Ah. Here it is,” she said as red glyphs flashed on the screen. “Alert.” She tapped a key. “Unalert.”
The turrets stopped firing, then retracted into the ceiling. Half the red bars disappeared. The other half continued to slide around. Majina tapped a few more keys and leaned forward, propping up her chin on her hooves. “Now here’s an interesting message. Apparently, there’s a zebra eating lunches that aren’t hers, so this zebra pooped in his sandwich. That’s funny!” she said with a laugh that cut short before she added, “And kinda gross.”
“Well, we can add discovering the identity of the phantom pooper to our to do list,” Scotch said as the bars moved towards the workshop’s front door. The knob rattled, and she looked over at the grate they’d squeezed through. “Copy what you can into my PipBuck!” she said as she extended a cable with the traditional round plug.
“Um,” Majina pointed at a square hole in the side of the terminal. “I think we need an adapter.”
“Nevermind!” Scotch said as the bars were moving to the other two entrances to the shop. “We need to get out of here.” Fortunately, the wall they’d entered had no doors in it. “If we’re quick, we can get away while they waste time looking for us in here.”
“Or we can just stomp them when they come in. I’m sick of running from fights!” Precious said with a grin.
“Fight when we need to,” Scotch said, prompting a frustrated snarl from the dragonfilly. Still, she followed as they got to the grate in the back wall and squeezed through the gap into the concealing darkness. Strange blue lights illuminated the far side of the building. Scotch pointed over at where the shell had split and started to creep forward.
Then she barked her head on the underside of the radiator and yet out a hiss of pain, sitting down hard and clutching her throbbing skull.
“Is someone there?” a strange, metallic voice asked. Then, far more quietly than Scotch herself had been, the red bar rushed around the corner.
And Scotch Tape knew she was going to die.
Once upon a time, when she’d been fresh in the Wasteland and following along in Blackjack’s company, they’d gone into tunnels under that city. Something had happened down there. Something bad. Glory had lost a wing, and Blackjack’s legs had been crippled. She never knew what it was, because Blackjack had some medical ponies remove the memory. Whatever she’d seen, whatever had happened, was gone.
But the fear remained.
In her dreams, iron mouths occasionally opened wide with great grinding drill teeth inside. Every now and then, she’d look at a pile of rusty wreckage, and her heart rate would spike, to her great shame. It wasn’t just machinery. It had to have a certain appearance: a face. Most machines didn’t have those, or if they did, they were so abstract that she could suppress the urge to run.
This machine had a face. It was to Protectaponies what a bucket was to a twenty pony power, two hundred and thirty spark submersible sump pump. The white casing was some sort of ceramic, with black stripes at the joints. It didn’t just have cameras, but eyes that glowed with a cold, blue light. Its hooves ended in quiet, rubber soles. “Pony intruders detected. Terminating.”
And from its shoulders popped two smaller, drum-shaped turrets. All Scotch could do was sit there and wait for it to eat her. Her brain refused to do otherwise. She was dead.
“You first!” Precious roared as she leapt in front of Scotch Tape. The blue-white beams of energy hit the dragonfilly, but though she smoked, her cry of pain was caught behind her clenched jaws. Then she opened her mouth wide and let out a gout of flame that blackened the robot’s face and set its head on fire. The machine backed away several feet as Precious grimaced.
Then its head popped off.
The smoking, crackling extremity rolled at the dragonfilly’s feet. She pounced on it like a giant lavender fire-breathing cat, clutching it in her claws and chewing on its blackened face. “Yeah!” she growled around a mouthful of broken ceramics. “That’ll show you to zap my face, you robotic jerk!”
She was so occupied with her prize that she missed the movement of the machine. The decapitated robot charged straight ahead, smashing right into the dragonfilly and continuing till she rammed the shell. The entire structure rang like a gong. Precious struggled to get free from the robot that was crushing her against the wall. Yet Scotch could only stare at the decapitated robot’s head. Inside, it wasn’t exactly like a skull, but it seemed to be watching her with a still-glowing eye, its mouth torn wide in a silent scream.
“What is wrong with you?” Pythia shouted as she leapt next to Scotch Tape, then pulled her hoof aside just in time to avoid getting blasted by a beam. The other two robots had joined the first. Pythia moved away from Scotch in a strange, jerky dance that somehow had her body out of the way of each energy shot.
Scotch kept her eyes at chest level on the robots. If they didn’t have faces, they couldn’t eat her. “We… we have to go… just go…” she stammered as she rushed to the headless robot, which was trying to walk through a solid metal wall with Precious in the middle. “Come on,” she said as she tugged and hammered at the headless machine, “Get off her!” She turned to Pythia. “Where’s Majina?” she shouted.
“Over here!” the filly shouted. She was beside the third robot. When it turned left, she pivoted with it. The machine didn’t have the ability to kick out sideways, and when it tried to body slam her, she ducked and rolled beside it. In the nimble zebra’s hoof was the bamboo blowgun, and she was ineffectually whacking the robot in the head as it tried to blast her. The bamboo seemed tough enough to avoid splintering from the blows. “I can’t put it to sleep! Stupid thing just keeps trying to stomp and zap me!”
If Majina had been a pony, she would have been stomped or zapped, but she was quick enough to stay in a safe spot next to the robot. “I need…” Scotch began.
Blackjack.
She’s gone.
Daddy.
He’s dead.
Rampage.
On the moon.
Glory.
Dead too.
Blackjack… what if… the legs were similar. Not exactly the same as the cyberpony’s, but close enough. The headless robot didn’t seem aware of her as she examined one of its legs and its myriad servos and little pistons working through a gap in the casing at the back of the joint. If it didn’t give her the shivers, she’d love to study the design. “Let’s see. That’s the primary. That’s the tertiary. That’s the main support. So that…” And she reached in with a hoof to a lock behind the hind knee and gave it a twist. “…is the primary lock!”
The leg separated with a hiss, still connected by a dozen hoses and cables but now robbed of the leverage needed to move. When it attempted a step, the whole thing collapsed on its side, the legs kicking wildly in the air as it tried to march forward. Precious fell and sucked in grateful breaths of air.
“I did it…” Scotch Tape murmured, and then she grinned. “I did it!” she shouted as she hopped on her hooves in glee.
“Target priority reassessed,” the two remaining robots said as they turned on her. “Engaging pony saboteur specialist.”
“Oh horseapples,” Scotch whimpered as the need for flight fought with the urge to curl up in a ball and be eaten.
“Run!” Pythia screamed at her at the top of her lungs. It cut through the choking fear bubbling up inside her, and Scotch Tape turned and dove through the gap in the shell, then ran along the edge of the barge towards the bridge leading to the next. A glance behind her was all she dared take to verify she was still the ‘priority target’ for those two.
Only they weren’t the only ones.
From the other shells emerged more of the white robots, each repeating the phrase ‘priority target identified’ and giving chase. One stepped out right in front of her, and she had to leap onto its rump, jump on its head, and kick off its face to get past it. She landed in a tumble, took a roll, and managed to get back on her feet before it retargeted her. Blue beams sizzled through the air, but she saw a clear shot to the floating bridge back to shore. She just had to get out there and…
And then all these robots would go to lower priority targets. Her friends…
She saw the bridge stretching before her, inviting her to freedom and safety.
Then she gritted her teeth, clenched her eyes, and rounded the corner of the next shell instead of running across the bridge to safety. The robotic herd raced after her. She had no idea where she was going, just that she had to keep moving. She dashed across a bridge separating two barges and saw the trio rushing from the shell a good distance away.
“What are you doing!” Pythia screamed at her from the far barge.
“Running!” Scotch yelled, breathlessly. “Get out of here!”
Her freshly healed leg ached, her body burned, and every breath felt like fire in her lungs. All she knew was that if she followed the outside edge of the barges, she’d eventually make her way to the bridge. As she fled, she passed rusty tugboats and less durable metal barges with corroded cranes and equipment still poking up out of the murky water.
There! The bridge! She ran right for it and–
“Primary target acquired,” the robot said it stepped into her path. She stared up at those eyes, her already-hammering heart threatening to clench tight permanently. She could see its mouth opening up, and any second it’d send out cables to haul her into its maw forever.
Or it would, if it hadn’t been shot.
The metallic head exploded, and like before, the robot ejected the damaged part and rushed forward, stomping and blasting wildly. Scotch rolled out of the way, rising on trembling hooves when a second shot tore right through the torso in a spray of sparks and lubricant. The robot collapsed and ejected all four limbs before letting out a feeble burst of smoke. More robots came into sight around the corners, and she ran for the bridge before the terror took her. The robots were slowed by the mysterious shooter taking off legs and heads with sprays of shrapnel. The robots halted at the edge of the barge but continued to spray beams at her and out into the swamp. One of the beams connected with her rump, and Scotch bit back a cry as her hide sizzled. When she was across the bridge and behind the cover of some trees, the robots stopped their attack as quickly as they’d started it.
Scotch collapsed on the grass, sucking in great gulps of air, her sides burning as her body came down off the adrenaline. She scrubbed her rump with wet grass, trying to soothe the burn. She’d saved Precious and decoyed the robots and was alive! Plus, no crippled leg anymore! She had a hoof-sized scorch march on her bum, but that was a fair trade in her book. This was definitely a win.
“That was awesome, wasn’t it?!” she gushed as she sat up, scanning for her friends. “Girls?” she asked as she rose, looking at the oaks and gumwood rising around her, trinketless. A glance back at the barges confirmed her fears: there were two half-sunken tugs where there shouldn’t be.
This was the wrong side of the lake.
Okay. So she’d have to go around. How long could that take?
Ten minutes later, she’d made all of fifty feet.
She sat down in a huff on a hummock of dead grass next to a bleached gator skull. A few bones poked out amid the yellow strands. “Great. Now what do I do? Hopefully Pythia can find her way to me.”
Wait. What was that on her E.F.S.? A yellow bar? Her friends must have made the same… no. She stood on the hummock, but the bar kept on moving wildly around. As if the source were directly above her, but that was ridiculous! There was only sky up… her eyes slowly shifted down to the lump she stood on. “Is it just me, or is there something off about that skull?” she muttered as she reached down to flip it over.
Inside the skull, two green eyes snapped open, glaring at her. The hummock lifted, tossing her to the ground as the grass fell away, but the bones stayed behind. Bones which were tied to netting strapped to the zebra beneath.
Once, she’d met Majina’s brother Lancer, or Impalii as he was known to zebras. Lancer had been a sniper, fit and athletic, and had engaged in some kind of crazy rivalry or relationship with Blackjack. Something about curses and whatnot. He’d had a sweet rifle and generally kicked quite a bit of flank.
She thought of him now, because he’d be this stallion’s little brother. His entire body was powerful muscle, bigger than most zebras and ponies. His stripes were narrow, jagged lines, more resembling claw slashes than the simple curved lines she’d become used to. Green eyes blazed furiously at her as he loomed over her. The rifle he carried was a powerful, bolt action affair that was probably quite effective at killing huge radigators, or murderous machines. On a belt was a… not a sword so much as a thin, wide, sharpened piece of metal with a rounded tip. Had she been Blackjack, she would have probably offered her posterior immediately.
Since Scotch wasn’t Blackjack, though, she simply gave a sheepish little wave of her hoof. “Um… Hi?”
The frowning stallion stared down at her, then turned and started to walk.
Scotch watched him walk for several seconds. “Wait!” she blurted, and ran up to him, getting in his path. “You’ve got to help me! My friends are on the far side of the lake! If you could…”
He stepped right over her, continuing to walk while barely breaking stride. The thin stripes seemed to blend in ominously well with the grass and the trees as she hurried after him.
“If you could help me get over to them, I’d be really grateful!” Scotch said as she rushed to keep up, but the brush seemed to go out of its way to trip her up and slow her down. He almost disappeared from sight. Desperately, she blurted, “Tradition!”
He paused, turning to glance back at her with a long, hard stare.
“You’re Orah, right?” Scotch said as she struggled to catch up to him. “You must have traditions like… like helping people stranded in the swamp?” He leaned towards her. “Especially trapped young ponies?” she offered, grasping at any straw as he narrowed his eyes. “I’ll shut up now,” she whimpered. Majina had been right. This was a tribe of jerks. He turned and started back on his way.
“Follow,” he said, his voice low and deep.
What else could she do? Go back across the barges? The robots hadn’t gone back to their hiding places yet. She had no boat, and no idea where her friends were.
She followed.
* * *
Stinkbutt McHugegun wasn’t much of a travelling companion. He stayed near enough to follow but far enough that she couldn’t ask any of the millions of questions inside her or beg him to help her find the others. Any attempt was met with a glare, and more than once she’d nearly lost him when she’d refused to go unless he helped. The trail they travelled on was so narrow and twisting that she’d almost tumbled into a bog, mud, or stinging plants. Twice they reached rivers that were bridged by arching trees that met in the middle and vines woven together in a bridge all but indistinguishable from the rest of the foliage. The massive stallion had no problem navigating both, but Scotch felt one wrong step would dump her right into the water, with the hungry radigators and worse below.
At least Stinkbutt wasn’t trying to get her killed. If he’d wanted to do that, he could have simply let her walk into trees covered with huge nets of spiderwebs draped like gossamer over the entire hummock. Scotch stared as one of the great white birds became tangled in the filmy netting and was swarmed by spiders the size of the filly’s hoof. In less than a minute, the large avian was cocooned and dragged into the shadows of the grove by some unseen force.
Or into the mud pit occupied by a radigator even bigger than the one she’d killed with the logs. Scotch watched as the gator struggled up the sides, not to get out, but to get away from the triangular mouth slowly opening and closing with flat chisel teeth. Already the massive reptile had lost most of its tail and one hind leg, and it was slowly sliding back down towards those yellow teeth in that stinking maw.
By now, she doubted she’d ever see her friends again. Stinkbutt McHugegun had been walking almost for two hours now. It was already dark, and if it hadn’t been for her PipBuck lamp, she probably never would have been able to keep track of the stallion. Her friends were probably dead now, or thought her dead. If Pythia didn’t have some kind of star magic to help locate her…
Oh, why did she ever leave the Hoof?
Then she heard it: the tinny notes of an instrument being plucked somewhere in the swamp ahead. The notes moved tentatively, note by note through the brush, only to be matched a few seconds later by softer, more mellow melodies. Back and forth notes were exchanged, growing faster and more intricate till they merged into one melody. A whistling joined in, and someone stomping their hooves rhythmically. Then her massive guide brushed aside some grass.
The tree growing from the small hill had to be two or three times larger than any oak she’d seen in the swamp. Built among its huge branches were platforms and small shacks connected by bridges and netting. Three or four smaller oaks held more huts, connected by wooden walkways that snaked over the lily-filled pools snaking around the little hillocks. Colored bottles hung from string, the lit candles within creating a rainbow of colors hanging in the boughs. Flowers grew in hanging pots outside the huts strung through the trees.
At the base of the largest oak, a party of six or seven zebras played while a dozen more listened from the walkways above, stomping their hooves on the wooden planks in time with the music. Scotch had no idea how they strummed that guitar and, she assumed, a ‘banjo’, but then again, she didn’t have a clue how ponies played such instruments at all with their hooves. Still, in spite of her worry, Scotch found herself smiling a little.
Of course, it ended as Stinkbutt McHugegun stepped forward. Every face became a glower as the musicians set their instruments aside and started drawing knives and chopping swords like her guide’s. In the trees above, some zebras drew rifles; not as large as his, but plenty big enough to make Scotch want to turn tail and try her luck wandering boatless in a swamp.
“What you doing here?” the only zebra on the ground without a weapon in his mouth roared in a thick, slurring Zebra drawl that Scotch could only barely follow. “You git! Righ’ now!”
It took Scotch a second to realize he wasn’t yelling it at her.
The lead zebra walked right up to Stinkbutt, shoving his face into the skull-masked zebra’s. “Go on! What you thinkin’? Git!”
Stinkbutt reached up to the skull and pulled it off. The face behind it stared down at his persecutor, then he took a step to the side and gestured at Scotch. The zebra aggressor and his armed friends’ faces betrayed their surprise and bafflement as they gaped at her. She offered a sheepish little wave.
“Is that Orion?” a young mare called out as she rushed to the edge of the platform. Her pink eyes lit up as she smiled, and for an instant Scotch thought he returned the expression up at her.
“Never you mind, Diane!” snapped the leader of the group arrayed before Scotch and Orion. “Why’d ya bring that damned pony here? What you thinkin’?”
Orion stared down and rumbled deeply, “Tradition.”
“You got no tradition! Murderer! Sicarius! Git! Find some critter’s belly ta lie in!” bellowed the leader, rearing up and thumping his hooves into Orion’s chest. The enormous stallion didn’t budge from the impact, but he did turn from the village, walking slowly back towards the brush. “That’s righ’! Git on outta here!”
Orion gave one glance up at Diane, then turned and started back into the darkness again. The mare called out his name as she rushed along the walkways to reach the ground. “Orion!” Diane called out, rushing to him. The enormous stallion paused. “Thank you.” Diane reached the ground, but the leader intercepted her, and the others blocked her from reaching him. Orion walked into the darkness, and in a moment disappeared as if he’d never been.
“Damn you, Kyros!” she hissed, thumping his chest with a hoof. “You could have let me see if he was okay!”
“He’s sicarius. He be okay when he’s dead,” he said to her, then turned and regarded Scotch. He was older than most ponies and zebras Scotch knew. Like Orion, his stripes were narrow and ended in tapered points, but he was a little fattier around the edges, and wider around the middle. “Now to deal with what he left. Who you be, pony?” His friends, Scotch noted, hadn’t put away their weapons. “What you be doin’ with sicarius Orion?”
Scotch was too tired and frustrated to deceive. “My name is Scotch Tape. He found me after I escaped from some robots, but I got separated from my friends. I found him, and he led me here. And I have no idea what a ‘sicarithing’ is.” For some reason, her statement set the zebras muttering. Scotch really wished she knew what their weird names meant. At least the Atoli had been polite in that regard. Still, these were a little easier to keep track of.
Kyros grinned widely and laughed. “You found Orion? The mighty hunter can’t even hide from pony chile!” Few of the others seemed to find it as funny, though there were some chuckles.
“You escaped from the machines on the lake?” Diane asked, pushing through the crowd to regard Scotch Tape.
Kyros snorted. “No big deal, that. Run on a barge and run off. Done it plenty o’ times meself!” He tapped himself in the chest.
“Well, we didn’t do that. My friends and I went into one of the shells and explored a bit. Then we turned on the power and that’s when everything went nuts.” She hoped she was saying it all right. Their dialect sounded strange to Scotch, but at least they weren’t talking backwards! Her statement made more of those strange looks.
“We need to take her to Granny,” Diane said at once.
“We don’t need take her nowhere. Use her for gator bait,” Kyros said, no longer amused. “Pony get nothin’ from us. Jes like the Poli and Romi.” He spat at her hooves.
“Granny will want something from her. If she’s actually been on the lake.” Diane regarded her with those soft pink eyes. Her mane was long, appearing as if she’d just gotten out of a bath, and had swamp flowers coiled up in it.
“You just hope you bump into Orion,” Kyros said sourly. “He sicarius, Diane. Dead.”
“He didn’t want to kill Theron,” Diane said plaintively.
“But he did!” Kyros snapped. “You got no future with him. Stealin’ off hopin’ ta bump into him. Do a lot more bumpin’ and end up with his bump, huh?” He eyed Scotch flatly. “You want take pony ta Granny, tha’ your business. She no stayin’ here. No sirree.” And with that, he and his friends went back towards the tree.
Diane considered Scotch curiously. “What are you doing all the way here, pony?”
“How about this?” Scotch countered crossly. “Help me find my friends, and I’ll tell you the whole story and answer whatever questions you have, deal?”
“Your friends were on the lake as well?” she asked, and Scotch answered with a nod. “Then I’m sorry to say, but they’re probably–”
“They are not dead!” Scotch shouted at her. “Not till I see their bodies, they’re not!” But the very idea stabbed her to her core. Rampage. Glory. Blackjack. Daddy. How many more would she lose? “I know they might be, but I need to find them.”
Diane considered her a moment. “Well then, you’ll need Granny’s help anyway. Otherwise it could take days to track your friends, if ever.”
Scotch Tape sagged, wishing she had some way of doing this herself. “Is Granny a shaman?” Diane gave a nod. “Well then, I guess she’s my best chance. Maybe she knows what the Eye of the World is, where it is, and how it could be blinded.” Then, when her friends were safe, they could go home. Scotch had had enough of the zebra lands.
Diane fetched her rifle, saddlebags, and leather barding, and they started out while the rest of the zebras played, ate, and ignored the pony at the edge of their village. The trail they took was a little more obvious than the winding path Orion had led her down. “Can we talk?” Scotch asked the mare beside her.
“If you like,” Diane replied.
“You’re Orah, right?” Scotch Tape pointed at her stripes. They were much longer and wider than Orion’s or Kyros’s, and they seemed to meander along her body, defining her form. “You look different from Orion and that other jerk.”
“I’m Carnilian by birth, but I’ve been raised Orah my entire life,” she answered, which spawned a whole new slew of questions.
“You can switch tribes? I thought that being a part of a tribe was like… everything to a zebra? Like a horn is to a unicorn,” Scotch said as they walked along a wider path that allowed them to travel side by side.
“You are born into your tribe, but if a village is willing, you can be a part of it. Many Carnilians join other tribes. Our children take their stripes easily, and within two generations, it would hard to see any Carnilian in their stripes.” She looked ahead. “I only spent a few years among my own tribe before we left. Another famine. Another diaspora. Mother was lucky to be taken in, and while I am not Orah in my stripes, I am Orah in my heart.”
Scotch wasn’t precisely sure what ‘diaspora’ meant, but she guessed it was bad. “So… who are the Orah? My friend is that Zenwhatsit tribe and she doesn’t know. She says the Orah aren’t in any stories.”
“Not Zencori tales, no. You wouldn’t find them there,” she said as they reached a log bridge and walked carefully across. “The Orah… want to be left alone.”
“Well, they picked the right spot for that,” she said as she looked out at the swamp, lit by patches of glowing fungus and the distant flicker of swamp fire.
“You misunderstand. Many Orah live in swamps, that is true. But they also live in deep forests, dark caves, and other unwanted places because they wish to be left alone. The Orah never wished to be a part of the Empire. Never wished to be dragged into its problems and follies. If they could, Zebrinica would be eleven tribes plus one, and the Orah.” She paused and considered Scotch. “Do you hunt, Pony?”
“My name is Scotch Tape,” she said, and shuddered. “And no. I don’t kill things unless I have to.”
“Then you won’t understand the Orah,” she said as they walked past a bubbling pool of mud. “We are a tribe of hunters. In these swamps and wild places are beasts and monsters powerful and terrifying, and the Orah slay them. Not all of them, but we kill them as they would kill us. Every Orah hunts, even if all they hunt are marsh lilies. You have to find your prey. Study it. Stalk it. Know it. Only then can you kill it, and when you do, it must be with respect.”
“I’ve walked around the Waste– er, pony lands quite a bit, and I’m pretty sure plenty of people kill without all that.”
She smiled. “True, but anyone can kill. A foal can kill by accident. I’m talking about hunting. In this swamp, you don’t simply march out and find an enemy and shoot at them till they’re dead. You will drown or starve long before that happens. Even edible, nonpoisonous plants must be hunted because we do not have arable land for farms. So we hunt. We learn our homes better than any stranger possibly could. We know where the fish lie. We know there the cattails grow. We know where the radigators wallow. We could, if we wished, wipe out any of these, but then nothing would be left, and we would die fools.”
“So, instead of getting rid of the monsters and stuff, you just kill them sometimes? And they kill you sometimes?” Scotch gaped at her. “And you’re okay with this?”
“As much as they are. It’s hard to respect something if you wipe them out,” she said as they trotted past a lake with a massive, moss covered derrick in the middle. The rusted spire groaned softly as it listed in the mire. “After all, the other tribes have tried to wipe out the Orah too.”
“Wait? They have?” Scotch gaped at her.
“‘Orah’ means many things, depending on how the word is pronounced. ‘Unwanted’, ‘Disliked’, and ‘Worthless’. The Orah had no interest in wars and empires. Live and let live. Hunt. Have families. Die. But we tend to live in places other people want. Even this swamp had lumber, minerals, hides, and meat. If the other tribes could, they would drain this land, strip away the minerals, raze the forest, and make crops of it. Because a swamp is Orah. Worthless, as it is.” She dipped a hoof in the water, the ripples spreading out along the lake. As they travelled, the scum floating on the water suddenly glowed in lambency. The waves shifted from yellow, to green, to blue, and finally purple before fading away.
Scotch looked up at her, seeing her illuminated in the glow of the water. “Why are you so nice to me? Don’t you hate that I’m a pony?”
She smiled down at her. “Scotch Tape, there is nothing your people did to my tribe or me that was as bad as what other zebras did to us.” They continued walking along the shore. “During the war, my tribe was out of favor with the Empire. Every year, they demanded more. Every year, they took more and more of the swamp for logging. Every year, they stole away our hunters to snipe and kill your kind, threatening terrible punishments to their families if they refused. We were at war with the Maiden of the Stars, Nightmare Moon, who would kill us all. How dare we object?” Her smile faded as they approached the smell of cookfires.
“You didn’t want to beat Nightmare Moon?” Scotch asked, baffled.
Diane started to answer, paused, and then considered. “Personally, I suppose so, but I wasn’t there two centuries ago. If eleven tribes couldn’t beat her, how could we, with our few hunters, defeat her? No, we would have rather been left alone, or perhaps asked rather than being forced at gunpoint to do so.”
“I just… I sort of imagined the Empire as all the zebras working together to kill us. I didn’t think you fought your own people.” Scotch admitted. “Kywhatisname didn’t like ponies.”
“Kyros loves Kyros and those who love Kyros. He’s the best hunter now that Theron is dead and his brother exiled, and so he runs the village,” she said, her face hardening.
“Wait? Just like that?”
“No, but he is the best hunter after those two. None contested it.” She gave a thin smile. “It’s not absolute power or anything like that. The village elders and Granny would smack him if he did anything too stupid, but the young hunters listen to him.” Diane’s smile fell along with her ears. She stared out at the swamp, her pink eyes searching for something as her long mane fell around her shoulders.
“So… I probably won’t understand it, but what happened with Stin– er, Orion and that Theron person?” Scotch asked. “Kyros called him ‘sicarius’? What’s that?”
“It’s…” She faltered, coming to a stop. “It’s hard to explain. Murdering your own family, I suppose. It’s the greatest crime an Orah can commit.” She resumed walking as she went on, “Granny and the Elders arranged for Theron and I to wed. He was the elder brother and better hunter. Soon after it was announced, Orion killed him during a hunt. For that, he was named sicarius and exiled.”
“And you and Orion were in love?” Scotch asked.
“We were… friendly. If things had been different…” she sighed and smiled down at the filly. “Have you ever been in love, Scotch?”
Scotch considered. “No. I’ve done things, but… no.” She didn’t elaborate. After all, after the captain’s reaction, the last thing she wanted was to be punted into the swamp just because she wasn’t actually a child.
“Well, I hope when you are, you’ll be happy,” she said, and then stopped. “We’re here.”
Here? Here wasn’t anywhere. It was a huge, dense hummock of trees tangled together with thorny vines, utterly impermeable. Only a narrow path cut through the dense trees. As she stood there, a breeze rich with the smell of rotten leaves and the stink of putrefying flesh rolled out at her. “What is that?”
“Granny’s home,” she said as she walked to the opening of the path, really a tunnel through the wood. “Stay close.”
The trees seemed to suck every speck of light. Diane’s rear was barely in view as they walked forward. Scotch activated her PipBuck lamp, but things in the trees let out such a monstrous shriek that she staggered back in shock. The screaming shapes shook the branches around her, and she fell back, the ground giving way beneath her as she tumbled into a thorn-lined pit. The thorns scratched her hide and yanked her mane. In the wan green glow of her PipBuck, equine shapes snapped bony teeth at her, broken hooves thrusting through the interwoven trunks and vines, pawing at her.
All Scotch could do was curl up into the smallest ball she should and kill the lamp. She didn’t want to see the things about to eat her.
Instantly, all went silent again, but she could feel the branches bend and flex as things within moved about. She fell on her side, a tiny sliver of starry sky visible above her. Diane would either come find her, or the zebra mare had been eaten by the monsters.
Lying there, she heard the faint slosh of water. A tiny bubbling gurgle. The rasp of something rubbing against bark. The buzz of a mosquito in her ear.
And then she went mad.
“You’re a long way from home, Scotch,” rasped a voice she hadn’t heard in years.
He emerged from the gloom and starlight, barely visible at all, but she’d seen him briefly in the few hours she’d worn Blackjack’s PipBuck. The pony skull. The jacket. The cowpony hat. The cards.
The Dealer.
“No. You’re gone. You’re gone and you were Blackjack’s thing and you’re gone…” she whispered as she stared at him in the gloom.
“Maybe, but that does raise some fundamental questions about the conversation you’re having now, doesn’t it?” he rasped as his bony hooves worked his deck.
“You’re not real,” she whispered, clenching her eyes shut, as if that would make him go away.
“Whether I am or I’m not, I’m here,” he purred, his voice as dry as a bone stroked across leather. Something was moving in the darkness, the branches sounding like they were slowly pulling closed around her. “Just like Blackjack.”
“I’m not Blackjack,” she whimpered. “Go away.”
“You’re not? Not even a little bit?” he asked in her ear.
She whimpered and shook her head.
“Are you sure?” the Dealer whispered.
When she cracked an eye open, the apparition had disappeared. She could see a pair of yellow bars on her PipBuck, but no way out of the pit she’d tumbled into.
Blackjack wouldn’t have lain here until she died. Scotch slowly rose to her hooves and started to push her way through the dense trees. She kept her PipBuck light off, trying to make her way towards the yellow bars. As she moved, she could feel more than see the movement of things in the thicket. Could they see her? Her E.F.S. didn’t have bars beyond those two. Could it even detect those things lurking in the dark?
Her hoof pushed into something that gave way with a sickening pop and a reek that made her stomach threaten to disgorge its contents. Then, whatever was under her hoof started to stir, and it was all she could do not to scream. She wasn’t Blackjack. She couldn’t be Blackjack. Being Blackjack had killed Blackjack, and almost every pony Blackjack had known. But Blackjack wouldn’t have let a little wood and darkness and monsters stop her. Nothing stopped her.
But would it stop Scotch Tape?
Ignoring whatever was squirming underhoof, she scrambled forward, ignoring the sounds and the moans, the hisses and the threats. The briars scratched deep into her hide, and her newly healed leg ached as she forced it through the vines.
And then she tumbled out into warm firelight, and stood there, trembling, as she gaped at Diane standing by an old zebra crone wearing some sort of large, heavy skin, and a zebra colt who stared intently at a campfire. The ominous tunnel she’d entered was now a simple archway through the stand of trees. Fireflies drifted lazily about overhead. Ropes dangled around the glade were decorated with colored glass, like the village, only instead of candles, these were the homes of glow worms. A large hut rose in the corner, the surface decorated by masks that seemed to be sizing Scotch Tape up just like the old mare. From behind the hut rose an enormous tree, its limbs bare and gnarled, stretching out over the clearing.
“About time you got here. I was sure you’d be lost in the woods forever, chile,” the old zebra muttered, rocking in an old, rickety, rocking chair.
Scotch whirled, looking at the trees behind her. No thorns. No vines. “I buh… but it was…” She then turned and pointed a hoof at Diane. “What’s going on? What happened? There were… things… and…”
“Not too quick, is she?” the crone muttered.
Indignation pulled Scotch’s thoughts together. “Was that some kind of dream or spell or illusion? Was I hallucinating? Or something?”
“Yes,” the crone nodded once, and pointed a bony hoof at an open spot around the fire. “Come. Warm yourself. You must be hungry.” Scotch approached warily, and the crone gave another impatient wave. “In case the wrinkles and rusty voice didn’t give it away, I’m Granny.”
Scotch finally sat down next to the colt, who hadn’t looked away from the smoky campfire. “She says you can help me get back with my friends,” Scotch said to Granny as she regarded the colt. Cute. About my age. Nice butt. Hmm… She smiled.
He glanced up at her, flushed, and then looked back at the fire. “Granny! It’s gone!”
“Teach you to be distracted by a pretty girl, Arion,” Granny cackled. The colt frowned sourly at her and turned, trotting back to the hut.
“What did I do?” Scotch protested.
“Nothing, chile,” the old mare chuckled. “And everythin’. Usually something between.” Now that Scotch was closer, she could see the skin was some kind of large beast; a bear? Those were large, right? Mouse and snake skulls clattered on necklaces around her throat. She turned to Diane and pointed a hoof. “We’ll have to finish our talk later, Diane. Just remember what I told you. Questioning will only lead to trouble. Up to you to decide if the trouble be worth it.” Diane’s smile immediately transformed into a worried frown.
Then Granny turned her filmy eyes on Scotch. “So. Strange times come to the Orah. Strange times indeed. Ponies walking our lands. Sea invaders off the salt poking through our waters. The old relics getting woken up. Troubling times.” The stripes on Granny’s face looked like long, thin claw marks by the light of the crackling fire.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to come into your swamp. We were chased here by an Atoli captain named Riptide. She’s after me for some reason. I don’t know why,” Scotch added, and then amended, “But I know she wants to kill me. Or get me. Or something.”
The old mare chuckled. “And what is you sorry for, little pony?” Scotch opened and closed her mouth a few times, and the mare reached down and seized the sides of her head before she could pull away. She stared deep into Scotch’s eyes. “Not much in there, is there?” she said as Scotch fought the surprisingly strong zebra, who turned her head this way and that, as if she could see straight into her skull.
“Could you please let go of my head?” Scotch asked, thinking that decking Granny wouldn’t be the smartest move to make.
Granny chuckled and let her go. “Lots of space to fill up,” she said as she settled back in her seat. “So, hile, Diane tells me you woke up the machines on the barges?”
“If you mean the robots, yeah. We were trying to turn on the lights, and turned on a lot more,” Scotch said.
“You seem to be stirring up all sorts of things, chile,” Granny muttered as she rubbed her chin.
Scotch gave a huff. “Well, I didn’t mean to! I mean, it wasn’t even my idea to come here. Pythia said we need to find out if the Eye of the World was blinded. She doesn’t even know what it is!” Scotch paused and considered Granny. “Do you?”
Granny wasn’t smiling. She stared at Scotch Tape for nearly a minute, and Scotch struggled to be patient, shifting uncomfortably on her hooves. “The Eye of the World… blind? Who would think of such a thing?” she muttered, failing to hide the look of horror on her face for several seconds.
“Then you know what the Eye of the World is?!” Scotch asked, rising to her hooves.
“‘Course. It’s the Eye of the World.” And she thumped her hind leg on the ground beneath her.
Scotch blinked at her and then slumped. “The world doesn’t have an eye. It’s an enormous spheroid of rock orbited by the sun and moon,” she muttered flatly.
Granny arched a brow. “Oh. Well then, if it’s as you say, I have no idea.”
Scotch groaned, pressing her face into the grass and clutching her head. “I should never have come here.”
“Can’t say that, chile, one way or the other. But if you are stirrin’ things up, I can’t say I disagree much,” Scotch peeked up at her and saw her staring off through a gap in the trees at starlit water.
“Granny, haven’t you always said we don’t need outside trouble?” Diane asked.
“Sure enough, I have. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been wrong from time to time,” she said as she gazed out. “The swamp isn’t much for changing. It is. You do something to it, and it’ll just take it and continue on as best it can. But these lands are sick. Always have been.”
“I detected radiation in the water,” Scotch Tape said, tapping her PipBuck. “Low levels, but anything strong enough to make this click is dangerous.”
Granny gave a dismissive wave of her hoof. “Propoli gibberish. The swamp is sick. Poisoned. The oldest trees know it. Some of them still remember a time it wasn’t so. When they drew up water clean and cold and stretched their branches high.”
“Kyros says it’s just monsters and outsiders causing trouble,” Diane mentioned.
“Kyros is an idiot who should stick his head up a radigator’s backside. It’d do wonders for his perspective, and for the gator too, I imagine,” Granny harrumphed. “Theron knew better. Orion, too.”
“I’m missing something,” Scotch said as she looked from one mare to the other.
“Kyros says those barges are full of weapons. Tools. Things we can use to take the swamps, kill the most dangerous beasts, and even steal things from Rice River,” Diane explained.
“He wants you to turn into raiders?” Scotch gaped.
“Who needs tradition, manners, or civility when you have guns?” Granny muttered, spitting off to the side.
“Well, I don’t know about guns, but there was one that was filled with a machine shop. Not just top of the line equipment, but preserved. You could build almost anything with it!”
“Except it’s all cursed,” Granny muttered.
Scotch felt something like a lead weight thump inside her head at the word ‘curse’. It was almost like a physical pain. “Seriously?”
“You don’t think so?” Granny asked, arching a brow.
“They’re machines! Tools. Even the robots. They’re not… whatever a curse is. They’re not magical, at least not in any serious way. You just use them to make things,” Scotch said with an annoyed frown.
“What sorts of things?” Granny asked, in that same annoying tone older ponies always had when they thought they knew better.
“Whatever you want! You could build a house instead of a hut! A new rocking chair. A boat. A gun. Anything you want. So long as you have the power and materials and know how to use it, you can do anything!” Scotch said, and thrust a hoof up at the tree. “You could cut down that ugly, dead tree and turn it into lumber for a dock.”
Just like that, she felt it. Nothing changed. Nothing moved, but as she sat there she could suddenly feel a multitude of eyes staring at her. It was like she’d just shat herself in the middle of the atrium of her stable. She curled up a little, and as insane as it might be, she looked up at the dead oak and blurted, “I’m sorry!”
“So you should be,” Granny said solemnly. “That ugly, old tree is old enough to remember when your pony princess spit her bit and hid away the sun. I’ll take that over a dock, or hut, rocking chair, or boat any day.” She rocked back and forth in the creaking chair. “And I’ve no doubt Kyros would do the same. Probably use him for firewood.”
Scotch Tape could feel the animosity all around. The fire didn’t seem quite so bright, and the shadows suddenly felt much darker all around her. “How do I say I’m sorry? I don’t speak tree,” she said as she shivered.
“Maybe tell him why you’re sorry,” Granny suggested lightly.
A part of Scotch Tape felt it was utterly insane. That the old zebra and the strange swamps were finally taking their toll. But she faced the tree looming over her and chewed her lip. Granny, Diane, and the colt Arion, who watched from the hut, all had their eyes on her as well.
Why was she sorry? She hadn’t said anything she hadn’t believed. “I’m sorry that I said we should cut you down. That we should kill you,” she started, but that sensation of disapproval didn’t diminish one bit. “And that I don’t… that I don’t understand.” Still nothing. That sense of disgust, contempt, if anything, increased.
She felt tears welling up as something caught in her throat and she gave a sniff. “And… I’m sorry that I said you were worthless. That you were only worth something as lumber. It was wrong of me to… to think that I knew what you were worth. I’m sorry.” She pressed her face to the grass before the old, dead tree. “I’m worthless too. I can’t find or help my friends. I need the help of others just to not get killed. I’m Orah too.”
The sensation lessened bit by bit. The fire seemed to brighten a little more, and the insects in the trees resumed chirping. The tree no longer loomed quite so much over her. It would remember her insult, but it would remember her apology too.
“Wrap me in moss and throw me in the river,” Granny murmured as she stared at Scotch, who blinked back and wiped her eyes. “Who are you, chile?”
“I’m Scotch Tape. Just a pony,” she said weakly.
“Mhmmm…” Granny hummed lightly. “Arion.”
The colt immediately scrambled over. He had a glyph that looked like an oak leaf on his flank. “Yes, Granny?”
“This chile is seeking her friends. Can you handle it, son?” she asked the colt. He worked his mouth silently. “You know how?”
“I… think so? Ol’ Cottonmouth?” the colt asked nervously.
“Best use the fat one,” Granny said with a disturbing grin, exposing a half dozen brown teeth lodged haphazardly in her gums. The colt nodded, gave a glance at Scotch, and ran back to the hut.
“Fat one?” Scotch repeated weakly. Granny gave a wink. Arion emerged with a box on his back and trotted down towards the water, and Granny shooed her away after him with a smile. Diane and Granny started to talk in low voices.
She followed him down to the edge. “Who’s Old Cottonmouth?” Scotch asked the colt, who set down the box. He stared at her for a moment, his thin striped face flushing before he looked away.
“Someone who can find your friends,” he replied. Then he stepped into the water, fished around in his pouches, and withdrew a harmonica. Scotch had seen them before back home, but she had no idea how to play one. Standing on his hind legs, he lifted it to his mouth and started to play a low, pensive tune. It sounded much older than the colt who breathed life into it. She took a seat nearby and listened. The melody made her think of the still pools and lakes they’d been travelling through all week.
Then she felt it. Like when she’d insulted the tree. It was as if the ground were shifting under her flanks as she straightened. A ripple beneath her hooves and a shiver up her spine. She immediately rose to her feet as he kept playing. “Something’s wrong,” she said, and got an annoyed look from the amber-eyed colt.
Then she saw it: a black wave that was more than just a ripple. It glided up, as silent as death, right to the hooves of the zebra. Then the wave broke the surface as a huge snake head lifted out of the water. Higher and higher it rose, the water sheeting along its scales. Arion stopped playing, looking up at the monstrous beast. Even more terrifying… somehow, her PipBuck couldn’t detect it. Its eyes glowed amber in the faint starlight. Scotch had no idea what she could do. She couldn’t even move with that terrible serpent inches from Arion.
“Hey, Ol’ Cottonmouth,” the colt said with a smile, bowing his head to the massive serpent. Scotch gaped as it seemed to consider eating the colt, or at least she thought it did, and then to her shock bowed its head in turn. Arion stepped out of the water, putting the harmonica away and dropping back to all fours. “This… pony… lost her friends. She’s a friend o’ the Orah. Think y’all can find them? Got a fat croaker for ya if ya do.” He tapped the box, and the contents let out a worried croak.
The snake’s eyes widened and turned to Scotch. She swallowed hard as the snake curled its body once around her, everything inside her telling her to run. The snake flicked its tongue against her face a few times, her body petrified, and then, as silently as it had appeared, it turned and slipped off into the water again. It paused, though, gazed back at her, and then bowed its head before disappearing into the swamp.
“Well, that went sweet as chitlins!” Arion said, beaming at her. “Ol’ Cottonmouth will find them. Just might take a bit.” Then he patted her shoulder. “I’m surprised you didn’t–”
“Yeaaggahaha!” Scotch screamed, leaping away from the water and scrubbing her hooves against her hide to rid herself of the creepy sensation running up and down her spine. She rolled in the grass at the base of the hill before finally sitting up and hugging herself. “Why didn’t you tell me you were calling a huge snake?!”
“Well, what else did you figger ‘Cottonmouth’ meant?” Arion asked, cocking his head. “Y’all don’t make no sense at all!” Scotch felt too indignant and disturbed to argue how ridiculous a name that was for a snake.
From the campfire, Granny and Diane watched stoically as the two youngsters returned arguing about the sense behind summoning huge snakes without warning. Granny frowned, staring at Scotch. “Never seen him do that before,” Granny muttered.
“Who? Ol’ Cottonmouth?” Diane asked.
“Mhmmm.” Granny nodded at the fire, calling to Scotch, “Come and warm your bones. He’ll find your friends.”
Diane cooked up some kind of tuber like a potato, only sweeter and mushier than the ones the Society grew. The three zebras also ate frogs and snails in butter, two things Scotch didn’t touch. All of them ate grass.
Then stories. While every now and then Scotch didn’t understand a word, she picked up a few here and there. Diane told about how she’d once hunted something called a hydra, baiting it for days with animal carcasses loaded with explosives, a rusty chain snare, and a fallen oak tree. Arion told about his first meeting with Cottonmouth, stalling the hungry serpent with prey ever more tantalizing than him, till the snake had released him to go get some of the delights. Granny told a fable of the sun getting lost in the swamp; too proud to ask for directions, he wandered aimlessly, getting angrier and angrier. Eventually he nearly sank into the middle, before he finally asked a cat for help. Of course, the cat extorted every favor she could before finally showing him the way back to the sky. That was why cats could sleep all day in the sun. Scotch, in her own stressed Zebra, told about her voyage across the sea. The Orah in particular seemed riveted by the megaspell.
“Bad trouble, those. None in our swamps, thank the sun, but bad trouble still,” Granny said, sharing a look with Diane before the mares focused on Scotch. “What is happening in your pony lands? We hear stories, but it’s hard to tell which are true, which are boasting, and which were pulled out of a mule’s backside.”
“Well, um… I don’t know everything that’s happened in the Wasteland. I mean, there’s the Lightbringer. She started it off going around and picking fights with the raiders and Enclave. She now controls the skies and stuff. Oh, and Blackjack blew up Hoofington and killed the Eater of Souls. But other than that…” Scotch rubbed her chin, thinking, then caught the stunned look on Granny’s face.
“What… what did you say?”
“Yeah. My friend Blackjack blew up the Eater of Souls with a piece of the moon.” Scotch rubbed the back of her head with a hoof. “The whole city is gone. She died doing it, but, yeah… boom.”
Granny rose from her rocker and staggered towards the enormous oak. Diane and Arion immediately sprang to her sides, moving to support her, but she shrugged them off and embraced the great tree, slumping to the ground. “Is it true? Can her words be true?” she said, tears running down her narrow cheek stripes as she gazed up at the bare branches. “What does it mean? What will happen now?”
Scotch stood there, stunned. “I guess… that was important?”
“Chile, you saying that is like… like saying winter’s gone for good. Like telling me our swamp is ours forever and not no one will ever bother us again,” the old zebra croaked as she wept. Scotch just stood there awkwardly with Diane and Arion, neither of them clearly knowing what to do either. “For this year, I knew something was different, but not what. Something had changed… but my whole life, that damnable city’s scream has echoed across this land, sometimes falling to a whisper, sometimes rising fit to make ears bleed. But I never imagined… never dreamed it could be gone.” She looked at Scotch Tape, but in her face was an expression of horror, not joy. “What have you done?”
“I’m sorry? Isn’t that Eater thing being gone a good thing?” Scotch asked while backing up a step.
She smiled, but it was a pained, dying smile. “Of course, Chile, but you don’t slay all the devils in the underworld without paying for it.” She slumped against the tree, closing her eyes as she leaned back against the wood. “For so long, that thing has been a thorn in the side of the world. But now that it’s been pulled out, I don’t know what will happen. To the world. To this land. To my home. I don’t know.”
Scotch really wished Pythia were here so she could talk spirit stuff and hopefully reassure the old zebra. “Sorry,” she said lamely, not sure what to say but needing to say something.
“Messenger’s got nothing to be sorry about. Just never thought I’d hear this,” Granny said as she closed her eyes.
Diane turned to Arion. “Why don’t you show Scotch where she can sleep? It’ll be a while before Ol’ Cottonmouth is back, and I reckon she’s tired.”
There wasn’t much argument there. After stomping all over the woods, she was more than ready to take a nap. Pythia, Majina, and Precious would be all right. They had to be…
Arion showed her inside the hut. It was surprisingly large, wrapping around half the trunk of the huge tree in a large crescent. An old four poster bed was inexplicably wedged in the far side, looking as if the structure had been built around it. A wall was covered in containers filled with an absolute menagerie of creatures ranging from cages of frogs and mice to bottles filled with worms, a snake-tailed chicken with a bag tied over its head and a hole for its beak, and other bugs she didn’t want to know more about. The ceiling glittered with jars filled with herbs, flowers, and pieces of bark, nailed to the roof by their metal lids.
“Granny said you could share the bed. It’s a big bed,” he pointed out, flushing a little.
“Thanks,” she answered climbing under the blanket. “Arion, can I ask a question? That whole Orion… Theron… thing? What happened?”
“Why do you care?” he asked back, not snidely but with a curious tilt of his head.
Scotch sighed. “Orion helped me. I thought he was just a jerk at first, but he took me to Diane, who helped me find Granny, and you helped me with Ol’ Cottonmouth.”
That made the zebra colt smile. “All right. You know how Diane was supposed to marry Theron? Well, Orion didn’t like it one bit. He and Diane were already a bit of a thing, so Theron and Orion had a challenge. Whoever could kill the Rougarou would win her. Kyros demanded to join the challenge, even though he’s not half the hunter of either of them. Diane went along too, saying if she killed it, she’d get her pick. So the four–”
“Wait. What’s a Rougarou?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Oh! It’s a shapeshifting critter. Sometimes it’s a zebra. Sometimes it’s a huge wolf monster. It can turn into giant wolf-headed snake, monster radigators, and even scaly hawk beasts. It eats nothing but meat. In fact, feed it anything that’s not meat, and it’ll become ill. To hunt it, you have to stalk it and kill it in one shot to the head. Anything else, and it’ll just heal the wound and come eat the hunter.” Arion lowered his voice, glancing at the door as if afraid Granny or Diana would appear. “I heard from Chloe that if a Rougarou bumps into a boy he’ll never make a baby, and he it bumps into a girl, she’ll have a Rougarou baby,” he whispered. “Bumping is dangerous…”
Scotch just smiled and shook her head. “Yup.” And she tapped his shoulder with her hoof. “Bump.”
Arion gasped, going bright red as he stared at her and then at his shoulder and back again. “Um… is that how it works? Do we gotta get hitched now?”
She laughed. “Trust me. Real bumping is a lot better,” she said as she settled into bed. Arion was cute, but she was tired, and really not sure how zebras would take her ‘bumping’ with him. “So, something went wrong with the hunt?”
Arion nodded, the colt sitting on the edge of the bed. “Orion and Theron have these guns. Biggest guns you ever saw. Made for killin’ dragons! Well, Theron got killed by Orion. Orion said he shot the Rougarou. Kyros said he saw Orion shoot Theron in the back. Diane saw Theron get shot by a bullet that blew a hole clean through his chest. By the time he got fished out of the swamp, the Rougarou carcass couldn’t be found. That made Orion sict… sic… a murderer of family. Lowest of the low. No one wants to try and kill him cause he’s one hell of a hunter, except Kyros, and he’d only do it if he could get the whole village to wear Orion down first. So it’s a mess.”
“What happened to Theron’s gun?” Scotch asked.
“Lost to the swamp,” Arion said with a sigh. “I tried to bribe Raccoon and Muskrat into finding it. Raccoon likes shiny things and Muskrat’s good in the water, but neither of them could.”
“Why not ask Ol’ Cottonmouth?”
“‘Cause snakes couldn’t be fussed to find anything that doesn’t have a pulse,” he said, looking over at the wooden box. “When Ol’ Cottonmouth gets back, make sure you don’t feed him till he takes you to where you need to go. And don’t dare try and cheat him. Nothin’ worse than an angry snake.”
Scotch could think of a few. “I’ll try and remember that,” she said, then yawned and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
“For the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, she is not dead,” Pythia muttered to Majina as the three clustered together in the back of an old fiberglass camper shell. The door was just a piece of wood forced into the gap, leaving tiny windows that not even Majina could squeeze through.
“She’s all alone in a swamp full of things trying to eat her,” Precious grumbled. “I could handle it, but she’s probably in some radigator’s belly right now.”
“Well, that’d be a silly way to die,” Majina said. “If you’re going to die, you should do it when you face your arch nemesis against incredible odds! That’s what I plan to do.”
“You have an arch nemesis? Who? The lame story fairy?” Precious demanded with a sneer.
Majina gasped. “Why’d you have to go and create a terrible monster like that!” She waved a hoof, glowering at the dragonfilly. “Quick! Think of some way to slay it before it’s too late!” she demanded.
“It’s not real! I just made it up!” Precious snarled.
“Exactly! You made it up! Now think of a way to unmake it, quick!” Majina said, then clasped her hooves to the sides of her head. “Oh, now. Now I’m imagining a lame story fairy going through the wastelands editing all the stories to make them lame and predictable! It’s horrible!”
“Will the three of you please shut up!” roared a stallion from outside the camper shell. At least Pythia thought it was a ‘stallion’.
She poked her head out through the gap between the warped door and the doorframe. “Hey! You guys captured us in the first place!” she snapped out. An enormous black hand reached out for her head, but she ducked back into the camper shell.
“How do they look?” Majina asked with a yawn.
“Tired. You’ve been at this all night,” Pythia replied. “Keep it up.”
“Any sign of Scotch yet?” Precious asked, her ears drooping as she scratched at her forehead in irritation.
“None, but I’m sure she’s alive. I don’t know why, but she’s important. If she were dead, there’d be some sign of it,” Pythia said, and slumped. “What I don’t know is if she’s close by or on the other side of the swamp by now.”
“Well, if we don’t see her, we’ll need to plan our own escape,” Precious said as she peeked out the door of the camper. “What are they? What do they want with us? If it was food, I think they’d have eaten one of us already,” she snarled.
“Third oldest profession,” Pythia replied. The two blinked at her blankly. “It’s not like slavers can only operate in Equestria.” Then she gestured to the pair. “Shouldn’t you two be arguing?”
“Hey! Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not the boss of me!” Precious snapped.
“Don’t you snap at her! She’s just trying to help!”
“I’ll snap at whoever I want to snap at! Just like the tiny flying snapdragon pony that eats your knees while you sleep!”
“You fiend! How can you just come up with such horrible things?” Majina shrieked.
“Oh for the first scales, shut up the fuck up and go to sleep!” screamed one of their captors.
“Cut out their tongues! Please, please cut out their tongues!” begged the third.
“Shut it! That lops a quarter off their value!” roared the second.
“My sleep is worth more than that!” whined the third.
“Hey! I’m worth at least a week of your napping!” Precious yelled out of the camper shell at their captors. “I’m worth more than the invisible imp that comes in the middle of the night to nibble your hooves down to stubs! Gnawed. Bloody. Stubs!”
Majina shrieked. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”
Pythia wadded her cloak up in her ears and smiled as she drifted off to sleep.
Away from the camper, the campfire, and the captors, a shadow watched, then turned and slithered off back into the swamp.
* * *
There’re lots of ways to wake up. Having your face tickled was somewhere in that weird middle ground between ‘Might be okay’ and ‘Really annoying’. Opening her eyes, Scotch beheld the enormous black snake flicking its tongue against her face, and her wake-up plunged right down to ‘Bladder loosening’. Fortunately, before that had a chance to happen, the snake whispered, “I found them. Come.” Snakes that could talk without moving their lips? Add a little more to the creep factor.
The huge snake backed off. Diane slumbered next to her in the bed, opposite Arion. Granny was absent. Scotch slipped out of the sheets and shook herself off, then crept towards the door. The snake looked at the cowering animals in their cages. Scotch Tape lifted the wooden box that Arion had used, the contents letting out another worried croak, and balanced it on her back before moving out into the early predawn light.
Granny sat in her rocker by the embers of the fire. “Time for you to go,” the old mare said with a tired smile, her eyes distant.
“Yeah. He found them,” she said, rebalancing the crate. “Um, thank you. For your help, I mean.”
“Help,” the old zebra chuckled. “Your coming here is like pulling a branch out of a beaver dam. First it might just seem like a trickle, but when the dam gives way, everything changes. I just hope it’s for the better, chile.” She rose to her hooves with a groan. “I’ll send Theron with you,” she said as she walked towards the wooded bank around the clearing.
Scotch froze. “Say what now?” She stared at the zebra, wondering if this was senility talking. There’d been an old mare back in 99 who’d thought that Scotch Tape was her best friend. “Isn’t he… you know… dead?”
Granny thumped her hoof against the brush, and it shuddered. From the shadows under the trees rose an immense figure. The zebra’s flesh was shrunken in, but still powerful. His eyes, lips, and nostrils were all sewn shut. Through his chest, from left to right, was a puckered hole that still had bits of bone sticking out. Granny looked back at Scotch. “So?” She turned to the hulking corpse. “Go with this chile. See her safe out of our swamps.”
“Can’t… Can’t Diane come with me?” Scotch asked weakly.
“Don’t be silly, chile. She’s got things to do. Theron’s just dead. Got all the time in the world,” Granny said matter-of-factly.
“Follow me or feed me,” Ol’ Cottonmouth hissed in her ear.
“Gah!” Scotch tried to rub the creepies out of having snake tongue in her ear. “Don’t do that!” she said, then looked up at the dead zebra. “Can you… can you carry me?” Theron dropped to his knees, and Scotch climbed on, bracing the box between her and his bony spine. “Goodbye, Granny.”
“Goodbye, chile. Bring your friends next time,” she said with a wave.
Scotch gulped as she stared at the undead zebra, watching her with a sewn-over eye. “Um… let’s go?” The snake slithered off into the swamp, fast as lightning.
And he followed. It was all Scotch Tape could do to hold on with her legs, biting down on his rancid mane as he ripped through the swamp. Thornbushes parted like the sea before his chest. Small trees were knocked aside. Streams were cleared in single, powerful leaps or shallows ploughed through with great sprays of foamy brown water. Once, the zebra cadaver used two enormous radigators as springboards to cross a lake, crushing one under his hooves before leaping to the next and then off to shore.
Ol’ Cottonmouth kept pace with them, somehow. The black snake was always ahead, or to the side, as they raced along. Scotch couldn’t image how it kept up, but it did, as quick and slick as a murderous thought. All Scotch could do was hold on tight till both the serpent and her ride slowed to a walk.
This section of the swamp was far more wooded and less marshy. The ground was sloping upwards to the south and east. “There,” the snake hissed, pointing with its tail at a cluster of faded green fiberglass camper shells. “I have completed the bargain.”
“Wait a minute,” Scotch said as she crept closer. There were voices yelling wearily in the early morning nearby. Scotch crept up to a tree and peeked around at the campers. A firepit in the middle smoked and obscured the three alien forms before her.
One had the lower body of a brown pony, but the body from the pony’s shoulders up reminded her more of a hellhound, with arms and a strong muscular torso. The face was flat with a protruding ridge of a nose, and two horns curling up from its brow. A strange pistol was clutched in one hand as the other reached into the camper.
The second looked like some sort of squat dragon thing, with two small bat wings and a fangy, toothy sort of snout. Its chin had a scruffy, tangled beard of all things, and mismatched horns curled like bent corkscrews from its brow.
The last was most like the sand dogs back home… if those dogs lacked cybernetics and were the size of hellhounds. It had a muscular frame, but also an enormous protruding gut and thick brow. Scotch could see the thing was surrounded by buzzing flies. It had Majina and Pythia in nets dangling along its mangy back.
The pony thing was fishing around in the shell with his free hand. “Come on! I don’t want to damage the goods, but you are working my last nerve! Get in the sack!”
“Piss off!” roared Precious, blasting green flame at him.
Okay. So her friends were alive but in trouble! She turned around, pressing her back to the tree as she tried to think, hugging the box to her chest.
For the third time, she had a snake inches from her face, only now his mouth was wide as he hissed, “I have completed my service!” Pale venom dripped from his fangs.
Scotch looked at the box, then the snake, then over her shoulder at the three monsters. “I… could you help me free my friends? Please?”
“That was not the bargain,” the snake hissed, eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to cheat me?”
Scotch sighed and set the box down, undid the clasps holding it closed, and uncovered the frog. It gave one look at the snake, let out a croak of despair, and launched itself towards the bog. Ol’ Cottonmouth was faster. It swooshed by, and the frog let out one last cry… and then… something. It was too fast for Scotch to see, but the frog flipped over and landed on its back in the water, still, while Ol’ Cottonmouth slithered past, swallowing. Scotch stared from the snake to the frog and back again. The snake bowed its head to her and turned away.
“Wait!” she said, moving towards it. “Can you help me free my friends?”
It regarded her coolly. “What will you pay me with?” it hissed.
“I… you…” She didn’t have anything! “I’ll get you another frog. Or a rat! A bigger one!” She said desperately.
Then the snake wrapped itself around her faster than she could blink. Its coils tightened as it stared into her eyes. “And if you don’t? If you can’t?” it hissed as it gazed into her eyes. “Promises are coins traded by fools, and fools are not long for this world.”
Scotch swallowed and dropped her eyes from the serpent’s blazing yellow pupils. “Nevermind,” she muttered.
And like that, she was released. Her last glimpse of the serpent was its black tail disappearing through the reeds, heading back into the swamp.
“Okay. So, I have one zombie zebra and… me,” Scotch said. Theron stood impassively next to her. While he was strong, he was also dead. Against three monsters, how long could he last? Long enough to get her friends free? That pony monster had a gun, and the other two claws and fangs. If Theron could occupy two of them, the third would still be able to hold her friends and catch her.
She needed some way to even the fight.
Then she heard it. From the bog behind her.
An outboard motor…
* * *
“What do you think? Thirty-five shells each? Forty?” the gargoyle cackled as he hopped on his spindly legs, clapping his hands together. The camper was ripped in two like a cracked egg, and the scorched and scratched centaur worked to tie up Precious.
“You’ll be lucky to see twenty! I’m the one that did all the hard work!” the stallion growled, equal to the dragonfilly.
“No fair! No fair! Who spotted them lost in the mire? Who? Who?” the gargoyle wailed as he hopped from foot to foot. “Split equally we should.” He thrust a claw at the huge canine. “Take his share! Stinky not need more. Fat enough already! I is only skin and scale!”
“I like food,” the canine rumbled as he held the nets.
“Shut up!” the centaur roared, kicking out at the gargoyle, who was knocked into the canine, who barely budged an inch. “All night I’ve listened to all of you! Enough! When we sell these three off, I’m going to look for a crew that aren’t morons.”
“He’s the moron here! Him! Not I!” the gargoyle shrieked.
“Yup,” Stinky agreed with a slow nod.
Suddenly from the bog raced a green form. It charged straight towards the trio and leapt into the centaur’s scorched arms. “Take me!” the pony cried.
“Whoa. That was easy,” the centaur said, blinking down at her.
Suddenly, the air filled with the buzzing of wings and the stomping of hooves as a half dozen zebras in leather barding charged the campground. A trio of diaphanous-winged fliers landed on the trunks of the surrounding trees, their hooves sticking inexplicably to the bark, green eyes glowing brightly. Lamprey, from behind the row of other zebras, balked for an instant, then pointed a hoof at Scotch Tape. “She’s ours!”
The centaur’s brown eyes narrowed as his grip tightened alarmingly on Scotch. One hoof pawed the ground. “You want her? Fifty tens.”
“Sold!” Lamprey replied, triumphantly.
“Easiest payday ever,” the centaur chuckled.
“Uhh…” Scotch blinked as the centaur peeled her off and held her out towards the zebra. “Okay. That’s not what I thought was going to happen.” Then she screamed, “Theron!”
The arrival of the zombie stallion had predictable results. He barreled into the crowd, smashing through the fire and scattering ashes and embers everywhere, and rammed into the centaur, knocking Precious and Scotch Tape to the ground.
“Get them!” shouted Lamprey, pointing a hoof, and a trio of zebras raced at them.
“No you don’t!” shrieked the gargoyle, leaping into their path, claws wide. “You don’t get nothin’ till you pay for it!”
“Why are you always getting tied up?” Scotch asked as she yanked the muzzle off the dragonfilly.
“I have no idea,” Precious snarled, “but I am sick of it!” She began to rip at the ropes with her fangs, and they proved far less stout than chain. The zebras tried to get around the slashing claws of the gargoyle as the centaur wrestled with Theron.
Two of the fliers pounced on Scotch Tape and Precious, and the unmuzzled dragon let out a blast of flame that caught the wings on one, crumpling them up. The creature let out a shriek of pain, staggering back. The other let out a blast of green, garlicky-reeking gas that made Scotch Tape lightheaded when she inhaled it.
“Nope,” rumbled a deep voice, and the huge, smelly canine grabbed the flier gassing Scotch Tape with one paw. It easily held it by the back of its neck. The flier sprayed more of the gas at the muzzle of the scabrous hound, its diaphanous wings buzzing indignantly. “Nope,” the canine repeated, and then smashed the flier into the ground. Green ichor exploded out its goggled eyes as it was ground into the grass. The hound then stomped on the twitching remains, crushing it flat. As the dewinged flier tried to scramble away, the hound took two steps and stomped down again. “Nope!”
Taking the opportunity, Scotch helped Precious free herself. “Finally!” Precious roared as she crouched. “Time to kick some… wait… okay… tail! They all got tails!”
“We got to get the other two free!” Scotch said, pointing at the pair still carried by the canine. “Use your claws to cut the nets.” The canine was curiously examining the green goo stuck to his feet, seeing how it tasted.
“Ugh! I finally get a stand up fight, and I can’t fight?! This place sucks!” Precious whined, then added, “Oh, glad you’re back and not dead.” Then she ran to the hound, circling around behind him to get at the nets.
Scotch began to join her when she was tackled from behind. “At last!” Lamprey hissed in her ear. He scooped her up as a second zebra rushed to him, pulling a net from his saddlebags.
The centaur shoved Theron back, the cadaver sporting a half dozen extra holes that seemed to have had little effect. “You cheating–” the centaur said, then pointed his pistol at the pair of zebras and opened fire, not taking all that much care to aim. Lamprey grabbed the other zebra and held the baffled equine as a shield, giving Scotch a chance to scramble away. Precious had sliced holes in the nets and was now turning this way and that, scratching and snapping at the canine’s flank. It contorted its body trying to spot her as Majina and Pythia wiggled out of the nets.
Scotch was moving to join them when the last flier landed and sprayed her with more of the gas. Her limbs felt like lead, and she struggled to stay away as it approached. The bottom of the gas mask opened, and… that was not a zebra mouth. Zebra mouths didn’t have fingers in them.
The gargoyle leapt at the flier, pulling in his arms and legs. Midflight, his body turned gray, and he crashed like a boulder into the ground where the flier’d been. The nimble zebra-thing had only just lifted to the skies in time to not be squished. Rolling to a stop, the gargoyle de-petrified and shook a fist at the hovering creature. “Get down here so I can squash you proper.”
“Just shoot them!” Lamprey roared in desperation. The remaining zebras pulled out guns and opened fire. The centaur used Theron to block some shots, and the scaly hide of the gargoyle resisted the bullets as well as Precious could. The canine, however, took several rounds in his fleshy gut and shoulder. He dropped the nets entirely, facing the zebras and letting out a bladder-loosening roar as he dropped to all fours and charged the shooters, heedless of the bullets. Lamprey turned and ran immediately, and the canine smashed into them like an avalanche.
Scotch returned to her friends, her head still swimming from the garlic gas. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here,” she muttered weakly.
Then the gargoyle sprang on her. He seized her in his claws and cackled. “You’re not going anywhere! All mine!” And then the gargoyle transformed into stone, his grinning leer frozen on its face. Majina and Pythia immediately started to hammer at the hard stone, but even Precious couldn’t do more than scratch it.
So she did the next best thing and bit its nose. The stone cracked, then popped off. The gargoyle de-petrified with a scream, clutching the bleeding stump of his nose. “Ba nos! Doo but off ba nos!” he cried. Precious smirked and gave one deliberate chew.
“We got to run! Hurry!” Scotch Tape cried out. “Theron!”
The cadaver, now with further new holes in his hide, shoved the centaur away and raced to the four, dropping down. The centaur seemed to struggle between shooting back at the zebras and going after the four fillies. Fortunately, the four of them were barely small enough to all fit on Theron’s back, though all of them were holding tight when the cadaver ran off away from the fight.
Half an hour later, the cadaver stopped. They’d reached the edge of the swamp. Ahead of them were flat plains and an old road cutting east; there was a sign that read ‘Rice River, forty-eight kilometers.’ Theron, for all his running and damage, didn’t seem any the worse for the wear, but Granny had told him to take them only as far as the swamp’s edge. “Thank you, Theron.”
He only turned and headed back into the marshy swamp.
“What happened to you?” Pythia demanded. “Where did you come across an Orah revenant? How the heck was it listening to you?”
“Met some Orah. One named Granny loaned him to me,” Scotch Tape said.
Majina glowered at Scotch. “Oh, come on! You totally could have told that better!”
Scotch just smiled and shook her head. “I’m just glad that you’re okay and we’re all together again.”
“Exactly like I predicted,” Pythia said with a smug smile at Precious.
“At least we’re out of that dumb swamp,” Precious growled as she looked over her shoulder.
Scotch Tape considered it. From here, they could see the great green bowl of the swamp. The radigators and fens and great white birds now pinpricks in the distance. Somewhere in all that were the Orah. “I dunno. It wasn’t that bad.”
Then Majina flopped across Scotch Tape and yawned loudly in her ear. “Well, we were up all night arguing, so you’ll have to carry me and tell me what happened. And don’t leave out any de…tail… zzzz…”
Scotch smiled, and, with her carrying Majina on her back, they started east towards Rice River.
Behind them, there was a buzzing of wings and a flash of green-goggled eyes watching them travel. Then it zipped back into the depths of the marsh as the four friends walks into the sunrise.
“No more water! No more bogs! No more freaky snakes eating frogs!” Scotch sang as she trotted down the road, prancing on her hooftips.
“We get it,” Pythia said with a glower. “You’re glad to be out of the swamp. Do you have to sing about it?”
“No more monsters! No more crocs! No more muddy, cruddy socks!” Majina sang, prancing along with Scotch as the pair circled Pythia.
Her mouth moved silently before jabbing a hoof at Majina. “You don’t wear socks! None of us wear–” She halted and stabbed a hoof at Precious. “No! Don’t–”
The dragonfilly blinked, smirked, and joined the pair. “No more oceans. No more boats. No more …. something something coats!” Scotch regarded her with a grin, and she laughed. “What? Rhyming is hard!”
Pythia let out a snarl of frustration and charged out of their circle. Scotch halted her prancing and frowned at her back. “What’s your problem? Honestly, this is the prettiest place I’ve seen, ever!” She swept her hoof out at the grasslands around them. There were hills far to the south, and something that looked like a huge cloud far off in the distance. The sky was the bluest blue she’d ever imagined, and all around them, as far as the eye could see, was gentle rolling land covered in the greenest grass she’d ever imagined. It was a glimpse into the world as it had existed before the war.
She would have loved to munch down on it, but the strands had a sort of sour milk stench that put her off it. Precious had nibbled the end of a leaf and pronounced that it tasted like ass, and given they were in a hurry, Scotch hadn’t tried eating any of it herself.
The cloaked zebra whirled on them. “What’s my problem? My problem is that we’re out in the open here! Riptide has those fliers, and the three of you are acting like children!”
Majina blinked, considered Scotch and Precious, and replied, “Uh… we kinda are.” Scotch’s ears drooped at that. Honestly, what did she have to do to not be a child anymore?
Pythia hissed, “Fine. Like morons then!” She stared at the horizon. “We should be travelling at night. It’d be safer. Not out in the open like this, and certainly not singing and bounding around like we’re going to a… a… tea party!” She let out a ‘fugh!’ of disgust and trotted ahead of the three.
Majina peered around. “Mama always said not to make tea of strange plants, but maybe when we get to town they’ll have a book about–” She was cut off by Pythia’s long, suffering groan of frustration. “Oh… so… no tea?”
“No. Frigging. Tea,” Pythia growled.
In any case, Pythia had a point about being exposed. Maybe a good point. Still… “What’s got her mane in a tangle?”
Precious smirked at Pythia’s back. “Miss ‘I can see the future’ missed those three monsters that caught us.”
Majina sighed. “We were looking for you, and she did her scrying thing that said you’d be at the park, right? Well, we found some food in the camper, only the camper turned out to be a trap. Pythia didn’t see it in time.”
“She didn’t see it at all,” Precious countered with a snort.
Scotch glanced at Pythia ahead of them and trotted up next to her, taking in a breath.
“Yes, I missed it,” Pythia snapped immediately. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. No, I don’t want to explain why I missed it. Yes, it might happen again. No, I don’t know any way of being more precise about it. And no, we’re done. Good talk!” she said, then ran ahead another few steps.
“Actually, I was going to ask if you were okay,” Scotch said, bringing Pythia to a stop. The cloaked filly didn’t look back at her as Scotch approached. “You’re not, are you?”
“I’m not supposed to be okay,” she hissed, hunching her shoulders. “I’m cursed. ‘Okay’ doesn’t come into curses.”
Scotch patted her shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. Everypony said Blackjack was cursed, and she… oh. Yeah. Bad example.”
Majina nodded solemnly. “Possibly the worst ever.”
“So, yeah. No such thing as curses, right?” Scotch said with as encouraging a grin as she could manage.
Pythia bowed her head. “But I am cursed, and pretending won’t change that.”
“Every time I hear a zebra say the word ‘curse’, I want to throttle them,” Scotch Tape muttered as she trotted around in front of her. Pythia kept turning her head away from Scotch, and the filly reached up to flip back her hood.
Pythia immediately seized it in her hooves, saying in a quavering voice, “Leave me the fuck alone!”
“Why? Because you’re too ashamed to cry?” Scotch asked, Pythia’s shoulders twitching, little choking noises coming from the hood. “If something’s wrong, tell us.”
“I’m seeing too much!” Pythia shouted, her face appearing inside the hood, tears streaking across her circular stripes. “Okay? I’m seeing ten times the shit I did back in the Hoof!”
“What do you mean?” Scotch asked, cocking her head.
“I mean… fuck… I hate trying to explain it.” She rubbed her head. “It’s like… like looking through a window in my head that’s showing the future. The more I look through it, the further I can see, but inside that window is a second pair of windows. Sometimes three… and inside each of those are more windows… with windows inside windows inside…”
“We get it,” Precious said. “Lots of windows.”
“You don’t get it! Because in some of those windows, people die!” Pythia snapped, and then swallowed. “I die.” She trembled clenching her eyes shut. “Or worse things happen to me. And so I try and do things or say things to close those windows. Only because no one sees it, they think I’m crazy. Like when I scream, running from a room because I saw a raider with a hankering for zebra-bashing enter a saloon.”
She shook her head; Scotch moved next to her, trying to put a hoof across her shoulders, but Pythia pulled away. “I know you’re not crazy. I’ve seen you fight. So what’s different now?”
“I keep seeing,” Pythia said. “Not just two or three windows. But ten… twenty. Normally, I need my star map to do that. It acts like a roadmap so I can see all the steps to get to the good and safe futures and how to avoid the… the bad futures. Only I keep seeing things like a whole wave of Riptide’s freaky fliers swooping down on us, but I’m not seeing the steps that lead up to it. I don’t know if we can affect them. Maybe something else will happen a hundred miles away that changes that future.”
“Sounds like it’s not worth the trouble,” Precious commented with a frown.
“It’s all I have!” Pythia shouted as she rounded on her. “I’m not strong like you! I take a bullet, and I’m dead! I’m not nice like Majina! People don’t just like me. I’m not even cursed like Scotch. She got separated and found the one zebra in the swamp to take her to the people who helped her. Do you know the odds of that?” She sat down hard, covering her eyes with her hooves. “I see so much, and I’m not even sure if I’m seeing it right or not.”
“Maybe,” Majina said delicately, regarding the other two. “Maybe you’re not?”
Pythia glowered at her with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t tell me what I’m seeing and not seeing.”
“No! I mean…” Majina faltered, and Scotch gave her an encouraging smile. “Maybe… maybe you’re only imagining some of the things you ‘see’. How can you tell the difference between a real vision and an imagined one?”
Pythia chewed her lip and then pulled her hood back over her face. “I… I just do. Who wants to imagine… things… like that happening to them?” Then she looked at Scotch and said, “Only looking through one window gives me like four or five seconds. I might not be physically able to move fast enough to get away.” Then she raised her hoof towards Precious and snapped, “Do not jump on me and stick your tongue in my ear! Yes, I saw that, and that’s gross!”
“I didn’t do it!” Precious growled, and then she averted her eyes. “I might have thought about doing it…”
Then Majina pounced on Pythia’s back, hugging her around the neck. “Hee! Bet you weren’t watching my future!”
“Get off! Get off!” Pythia cried out, her voice rising sharply in alarm, then panic.
“Majina! Get off her!” Scotch Tape said sharply. The filly slid off, and Pythia ran a few steps away, panting and breathing fast.
“Sorry,” Majina said, her eyes filling up with tears.
“Don’t be sorry! Be less stupid!” Pythia snapped, then turned and trotted quickly down the road.
Scotch knelt and gave Majina a hug. “I think she has a problem,” Scotch said. “She doesn’t really think you’re stupid.”
Majina closed her eyes and pressed her face into Scotch’s neck. “She wouldn’t be wrong,” the filly whimpered.
“Well, that’s one theory,” Precious growled as she glowered at the cloaked shape before them. “My guess is that she just wants everyone else around her to be miserable too.”
* * *
They walked in silence for several hours, and no fliers or other threats manifested. Pythia hadn’t been wrong about them being exposed out here, but for once they were making good time. The road might have been obvious, but it was in good condition and cut clean through the swaying strands of sharp green grass, passing over numerous small streams that meandered their way across the plains. Sometimes they were so overgrown that only the sound of the water flowing through the culverts gave any hint at all the water was there. Here and there, silos rose up like silent, rust-streaked gray sentinels.
As beautiful as the sights were, Scotch soon found them unnerving. If there was all this grass, where were the zebras? Clearly, once, this place had been used for agriculture; scattered throughout the plains, rusting combines and tractors stuck out of the green like beasts sinking in a bog. Those heavy silos and the adjacent buildings looked intact enough. And yet the only zebras in this fertile place were skeletons tangled in the grass beside the road, the bones of animals with them. What had killed them? The silence unnerved her. No birds. No beasts. Nothing but the rustle of grass in the breeze.
Scotch spotted something gleaming around the vertebrae of one skeleton on the edge of the road, hooves outstretched as if trying to claw back onto the concrete. “Wait. What’s that?” Scotch said, bringing them to a halt as she investigated the shiny. She moved to the body and saw it was a necklace twisted up in the grass; the golden chain shone brightly, and there was a green pendant carved in the shape of a leaf.
The filly reached for it with a hoof, then paused. Nothing on her E.F.S. She looked over at Pythia, who seemed more interested in the clouds than the bones. “Do you see anything biting my hoof off if I take it?”
Pythia glanced at her. “I see you lying in the grass, bleeding to death, your skin flayed off. I have no clue as to why,” she said as she regarded the necklace entangled with the bones. “All that does is get you cut.”
“It does?” Scotch frowned. “How?”
“Don’t ask me,” Pythia said as she turned her back, and Scotch let out an annoyed grunt.
“Well, we’re going to town. We’re going to need money. That has to be worth something,” Scotch said, and Precious’s ears perked as Scotch considered what might cut her. The bones weren’t super pointy. Though she couldn’t see far into the strands, she didn’t see a dangerous predator on her E.F.S. Scotch reached in with both hooves to disentangle the grass from the golden chain.
“Youch!” Scotch cried out, jerking her hooves back, blood dripping from lacerations in her hide. “Ow. Ow. Ow,” she hissed as she clenched her teeth.
“Here,” Majina said, fishing out some of the purple healing seaweed. While no good for a broken leg, it did halt the bleeding. “What happened?” she asked as she stared at the bones.
“I don’t know! I just reached out and something cut me!” Scotch said, examining the bones and grass for some hidden wire or something sharp enough to slice her so cleanly. Then she saw the faintest sparkle in the grass… no. On the grass.
Scotch carefully pinned a single stand between her hooves and stared at the edge. Tiny points of glass jutted from the edge of the leaf like miniscule, hooked razor blades. She experimented and watched as it easily sawed against the tip of one hoof. She carefully abraded it between her hooves and saw that the tiny point of glass was connected to a glass splinter almost a centimeter in length. Thick, dense black fibers grew along the interior of the leaf, running all the way to the tip. Anypony trying to eat this would be eating a mouthful of broken glass. “The edges of the grass are super sharp!” Scotch warned.
“Pfft, I’m not impressed,” Precious said as she chomped down on several stems and tried to rip the grass up. Scotch didn’t know if Precious could eat gems or not, but she didn’t spit out a mouthful of blood as she pulled and shook her head, claws scratching at the road as she strained. The strands of grass didn’t break, and she finally spat them out. “Okay! No weed is staying between me and my shiny!”
“Your shiny?” Scotch objected, given she’d seen it first, but Precious wasn’t going to be deterred. She inhaled and blasted it with flame… which made the grass smoke and steam a little and nothing else.
“Oh, come on! What kind of stupid grass is this?” Precious demanded as she glowered at her treasure still tangled in the smoldering green. “You don’t burn! You don’t break! I can’t imagine what would eat you!”
Scotch stared all around them at the empty farms. “Maybe it’s a weapon,” she said absently.
Precious blinked at her. “What, like for whipping people with razor sharp flogs of grass?”
“No, I mean, during the war, this place had to have been a huge farm, right? Those concrete silos are enormous. So seed the land with some of this grass. Who’d look too closely? But once it got established… you can’t burn it, or yank it out of the ground, or eat it. So either you waste a lot of time dealing with it, or else it takes over your land one stalk at a time. Two hundred years later…” Scotch gestured at the endless sea of green all around them.
“That’s messed up,” Precious muttered. “I mean, yeah, war and all… but now no one can use it. Maybe poison… but what’s that do to the food you want to grow?”
Majina carefully used her saddlebags as boots and disentangled the gold chain and leaf from the bones. She held it out to Precious. “Here you go.” Then she patted the skull with a hoof. “We’ll take good care of it.”
“I saw it first,” Scotch repeated under her breath, pouting.
Precious slipped it around her neck and let out a squeal of delight. “I got a shiny! Look at it! It’s all gold and shiny and pretty and heee!” She danced in place in glee.
“Hate to break up this party, but if this grass is deadly, then you realize we’re stuck on a little ribbon of concrete that’s easy to search? That’s assuming there aren’t any stretches where this damned grass has grown over the road,” Pythia said sourly before resuming her walking.
“I swear, she has a vendetta against joy,” Precious said with a glare after her.
“She also has a point,” Scotch admitted. “If we can’t get off this road, then all they’ll have to do is run us down.” She didn’t even want to think about what would happen if they came across a section completely grown over. They hurried to catch up, but the suddenly ominous landscape around them seemed to be pressing them in tighter and tighter. Now that she was paying more attention to the sides of the road, she became aware of more and more bones tangled up in the grass. The glass edges of the leaves were like razor sharp hooks that clutched at their white prizes.
After an hour, though, the four friends faltered. It was a long way to travel, and the sour-smelling grass that had looked so delicious was likely only edible for Precious… and that only with a lot of work to get it up, and assuming she could choke it down at all.
Then Majina spotted it: a black cloud rising along the road behind them. “I think something is coming!”
And here they were, trapped, with nowhere to go. Nearby was one of the silos, perhaps only a hundred or so feet from the road, with plenty of metal buildings around it to hide in… if they could reach them.
“Precious. Can you clear a path?” Scotch asked.
“I can try, but won’t it be pretty obvious where we went?” Precious asked.
“Hopefully these stalks are springy enough that they’ll pop up behind us and the wind will hide our trail.” Hope was all they had right now.
The dragonfilly nodded and started towards the buildings, stomping on the bases to bow the grass out of their way and let the others follow. “Kinda tickles,” Precious commented.
Tickles. That was a word for it. ‘Burns’ would be a better one. Brushing against a leaf would give you a scratch as the little glass hooks tried to grab something. Anything. The springy stalks kept trying to press the leaves against their hide. Once that happened, it wasn’t hard for the stalks to scratch a bloody furrow. If they stepped on leaves, they scratched and ripped the pads of their hooves. Pythia’s cloak had to be abandoned, the canvas latching on to too many hundreds of green leaves as she brought up the rear. The damned things seemed to curl about their limbs, and Scotch could imagine a pony in barding and clothes getting hooked, tripped, and tangled like so many others. Pythia tried hard to disentangle it, but the grass refused to release it.
“Leave it,” Scotch told her as Pythia bit the end, trying to tug it as her legs bled. The zebra released it and followed Scotch out of the grass.
Still, by the time they reached the concrete pad around the silo, Scotch felt as if she’d been flayed. Dozens of scratches bled freely, and the three quickly took mouthfuls of agoloosh, the dried seaweed stitching their hides back together. “I liked that cloak,” Pythia growled as she looked over her shoulder. “It’s going to cause problems…” she muttered. The grass and breeze were helping, though, the path they’d taken disappearing in a waving field of green.
“We should find a way inside,” Scotch said, regarding Pythia. The zebra stared off and gave a little nod as she looked up at the massive concrete structure. It had to be twenty stories tall! There were eight massive cylinders set in blocks. If this thing were full, it would have been able to feed the Wasteland… forever! Around the base, in the middle, were a number of large metal sheds and buildings that were for the loading and unloading of the silos. Rusting tractors and long trailers sat peacefully oxidizing in the open.
The front door was locked, and the windows were all shielded with boards screwed to their frames, but there was one small, uncovered window big enough for them to wiggle Pythia through to open the front door. Immediately they were assaulted by the sharp sweet reek of grain and the mellower scent of dust. They left the waiting room and moved carefully through the building. There wasn’t any power, and Scotch wasn’t eager to turn anything on.
“What do these say?” Precious asked, pointing at red glyphs on the walls.
“Well, that says ‘Round Stone Granary number 7’. And that one says ‘Blessed be a bountiful harvest’ or something like that,” Majina said as she considered some of the others.
Precious stared for a beat. “The bright red one says that?” she asked skeptically.
“Oh, no. That one says ‘Extreme fire danger. Fire forbidden. Explosion hazard.’ I wonder if they were storing fuel here?” Majina mused and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything but grain dust.”
“Well, no fire, then,” Scotch said. “Got it?”
Precious sulked. “What’s the point of being half dragon if you can’t set stuff on fire whenever you want?”
“Shhh,” Pythia said from the front doors, peering through the dirty glass. The grass obscured their view a bit, but they could see the source of smoke as it rolled into view. It was as if someone had taken a tractor and mated it with a steam locomotive. The contraption rolled along the concrete road slowly, but faster than most fillies could walk. Black smoke poured out of the stack as pistons turned the wheels with an almost comical huffing and puffing of steam. The gargoyle sat behind the controls, its claws gripping the levers as it cruised along, the centaur and hound lounging on a platform at the rear that carried crates of coal.
Towed along behind it was a longboat on a trailer, occupied by Lamprey and the other Atoli from the Riptide, who seemed none too happy about this development. Orbiting them were a trio of the leather-clad fliers. For an instant, it seemed as if they were just going to cruise by without incident. Then one of the three dipped down to the grass and struggled for a bit, diaphanous wings buzzing excitedly. “Crap,” Pythia said as it tugged her cloak up. “I knew that was going to be trouble. We need to hide.”
“They don’t know for sure it’s your cloak. Do they?” Scotch asked.
“I have no idea, but they’re coming in here,” she said as the flier headed towards the granary.
The rooms offered scant places to hide, however. They were mostly offices which were stripped of everything but desks. From the restroom came an excited buzzing and chittering noise. The flier had found the window Pythia had entered through. “Here,” Pythia hissed as she tapped a small metal door set in the back. It opened with an alarming grate to a long concrete tunnel leading in both directions along the silos. They pulled the door almost completely shut. Dust in the passageway was so thick it was all Scotch could do not to cough as the flier crawled into the offices.
The equine shape scuttled along the walls and ceiling like an enormous fly. The ends of its hooves were covered with chitinous barbs that gripped the surfaces with ease as it crawled about the room seemingly at random, making its little clicking noises. Its glassy green eye windows stared as it cast its baleful gaze about.
Slowly, it headed towards the front door, and then paused. It seemed to be doing something to the crashbar… nuzzling it. Or rather, licking it with a long thin proboscis.
“Crap,” Pythia muttered.
“It’s tasting us?” Majina asked in a horrified whisper.
“One roasted bug coming up,” Precious said.
“No fire,” Scotch reminded her. “Pythia?”
But the zebra filly didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. “No… no… no…” she whispered. “What do I do… where’s the future where I don’t get caught?”
The flier alternated between licking and taking breaths from its gas mask. The vapors issued reeked of garlic, and it didn’t seem capable of going long without it. It licked the desks where they’d brushed against them, moving closer to the little door.
“We run… caught… she uses fire… boom… we hide… it finds us,” Pythia whispered.
Scotch scooped up two hooffuls of dust. “Close your eyes and hold your breath,” she said quietly, then threw the dust into the air, then repeated it again and again. In moments, the four of them were covered head to toe in white powder.
The door was wrenched open with a screech of metal, and immediately a cloud rolled out over the flier as Scotch struggled to hold her breath. The green eyes provided illumination enough that when Scotch peeked she saw three other white lumps. The flier crawled into the space, its gas mask hissing as it moved through the swirling dust. It turned its head this way and that, but when it removed its mask and flicked its pale white tongue out, it recoiled. It crept towards Scotch, and she clenched her eyes shut, but that didn’t stop her from feeling the tickle against her dust-covered skin. It crept around the doorway, flicking its tongue several times in the dusty air before letting out a shriek.
It restored its respirator, and then the leather-clad creature skittered back out and flew to the doors, this time disappearing through them. Immediately, the four erupted in coughs and hacks as they crawled from the passage and back into the office. Scotch shook the dust from her coat, which merely made the office air harder to breathe, then crawled to the windows and watched the flier return to Lamprey. A minute later, the steam tractor resumed lumbering down the road.
Scotch waited as long as she could before opening the door and entering the clean air. She flopped onto her back on the concrete, coughing and sucking in deep breaths along with the other four. “Good idea,” Majina said between coughs. “How’d you know… that would work?”
“I guessed if all it licked was dust, it’d go away. I didn’t think we’d nearly suffocate too.”
“Too bad you didn’t see that future, huh?” Precious asked Pythia as the filly sat apart from them.
“Yeah. I was a little distracted by the futures where we were… you know what? Forget it,” she said as she walked away from them.
Scotch pushed herself to her hooves and followed her as she walked along the concrete pad. “What’s wrong?” Scotch asked.
“I made a mistake coming here,” Pythia muttered.
“Oh,” Scotch replied, and couldn’t hide her smile. “I have that thought every day, I think.”
“You don’t get it!” Pythia whirled on her. “I…” She grimaced and clenched her jaw. “I’m not… seeing… like I should.”
“Right, you said that,” Scotch pointed out. “The too many windows thing.”
“No. You don’t understand.” She took a deep breath. “Before everything that happened with Blackjack, I had to work to see more than a few seconds into the future. I needed my map and my pendant and the help of some pretty sketchy stars to even have an idea of one future. I used their guidance to winnow out which was the most likely window to happen, and even then, there were shadows and blind spots that I just didn’t understand! But over the last year, I’ve needed them less. More for confirmation than actual seeing. And then on the Abalone… I saw…” She sniffed and shook her head. “I saw too much. I don’t know what it was I saw… but it was bad. And since then, it hasn’t stopped. You say I should turn off my sight, but I’m not sure if I even can anymore! And it’s not okay. I… oh…” She went silent, looking away.
“What?”
“You were going to say ‘It’s okay’ and that we should find some other zebra that knows this scrying stuff, only I interrupted you.” Then she clenched her jaws as if keeping herself from responding.
Scotch moved next to her as Precious and Majina approached. “You really shouldn’t do that. It’s rude to say other people’s sentences,” Majina said, then screwed up her face, thoughtfully. “I mean, it probably is. I don’t remember it in any etiquette books Mom had, but it probably should be!”
“I can’t help it,” she said with a tiny smile, then stared to the east, in the direction the strange steam tractor had travelled. “I can see at least a dozen futures where they come back to check on this place a second time. And two dozen where they don’t.” She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “It was so much easier back when I had to work just to see one future.”
“Well, since there’s nothing you can do about it, let’s look around for a place we can hide or anything we can use,” Scotch suggested. “I’m not in a hurry to go trotting through razorgrass again.”
The grain silos were full of nothing but dust and flame warnings. They opened up one hatch to discover the entire empty space filled with suspended dust. Behind the silos was broken concrete, the cracks sprouting thin veils of green that bit into your hide if you moved through it carelessly, and several more smaller rusty buildings that were workshops for farm equipment. Scotch regarded several of the rusted pieces of equipment, thought back to the machine shop back in the swamp, and just lamented. So much good tech, so little oxidation protection.
There were also barrels. Lots of barrels, all of them empty. One whole shed was filled to the roof with them. “What are these?” Scotch asked, turning one so Majina could read an intact label. Pythia groaned, covering her face with a hoof.
“Weedkiller. Carnico Agricultural Products. Poison. Two hundred liters. Inflammable.” She said as she read the glyphs on the label. “Good thing it doesn’t burn, right?” she said brightly.
“Um… yeah.” Scotch didn’t correct her. “What did they need all this weedkiller for?”
“Probably for the grass from hell?” Precious suggested as she gestured at the concrete pad around the shed. “There isn’t a single blade of the stuff in the cracks within fifty feet of this shed.”
“If there’s a poison for it, why didn’t they just kill all the grass?” Majina asked with a frown.
“Maybe they were trying, but megaspells went off and they couldn’t make it anymore?” Scotch proposed. “Let’s keep looking.”
The last building behind the silos was some sort of bunkhouse. There was a padlock on the door, but years of exposure had oxidized it to the point where dragon breath and a well-swung chunk of concrete could break it off. Something had been spray-painted on the outside ages ago in gold paint, but it was so faded and flaked off that Majina couldn’t even guess the glyph’s meaning. Most of the interior was empty, but the bunk beds were still there, along with mattresses, though someone had slashed big X’s in each one. And bodies. The corpses were long desiccated, curled up in the corner. Casings gleamed dully through the dust on the floor, and sunlight peeked through bullet holes in the outer walls. “Raiders?” Precious asked. “Place looks tossed.”
She had a point, but there was a lot of stuff in here that was probably pretty valuable back when these four had been killed. “I’m not sure,” Scotch replied. “I mean, nothing was taken.”
The three of them started to go through the junk in the bunks, while Majina just seemed to contemplate the four bony bodies huddled together. Scotch found the first good sign since they’d reached the silo: a pistol. She had only the most basic understanding of how to use it, but Blackjack had taught her enough that she didn’t think she’d shoot her friends by accident. Pythia found a sheet that could double as a cloak with a bit of rope and imagination. Precious found some boxes of food and bottles of purified water with their seals still intact. The zebras had these weird crackers of hay and some sort of dry flatbread, not bad at all!
“You want some?” Scotch asked, extending the box to Majina. The filly’s eyes just lingered on the black blood staining the concrete floor. She didn’t answer. “I know it’s bad, but it happens here too.”
“Yeah. Think we can bury them?” Majina asked with a sad smile.
“Considering everything outside is either concrete or razorgrass, I don’t think so,” Scotch admitted. “I don’t think any of us could tear through that stuff with our hide intact.”
Precious snorted. “Oh yeah? Watch this.” And she stormed outside. For nearly half an hour, she waged war with the razorgrass behind the bunkhouse, the growth fighting her every step of the way. Still, she managed to tear a square meter patch clear and dig out enough soil to inter the bodies, then flopped down on the concrete next to the weeds. “Yeah. That’ll show you who’s boss,” she said, panting and jabbing a shaky claw at the grass.
“Thanks,” Majina said, giving the dirty dragonfilly a hug before starting to transfer the remains. They were mostly bones, rags, and some tatters of hide that vermin had left behind, so even Majina could move them. As she transferred the last body, she paused and frowned. “I think there’s something in here,” she said as she tapped the bloodstained barding. One claw swipe from Precious later, Majina was able to extract a bloodstained notebook.
“What’s that?” Scotch asked, glancing at Pythia and receiving a baffled look.
“I have no idea,” Majina said. “Who would sew up a notebook inside their clothes?” The four got the remains interred and buried.
“Thanks for doing that,” Scotch Tape told Precious.
“Yeah, well, I don’t like sleeping with bones. They give me the creeps. Like, what if they start moving or something? Things like that can happen, you know,” Precious said seriously.
Back in the bunkhouse, Majina flipped through the notebook while Scotch Tape assessed the gun. Okay. It was an automatic… and that was as far as Scotch’s knowledge of firearms went. She had one magazine for it loaded with twelve bullets, and another six still in the box. While the others enjoyed their stale crackers, she sidled up to where Majina lay on one of the slashed mattresses. Cut or not, foam was still foam, if a bit stiff. “Anything interesting?” Scotch took one look at the pages and realized she’d never understand written Zebra. Some of those pages looked fractal!
“It’s a journal from the end of the war,” Majina said as she flipped through. “Lots of the entries are smudged or stained, but it goes from a few years before the Day of Doom to a few years after.” She opened up to one. “This one is talking about the problems with the grass. They consider it an annoyance since it’s such a pain to tear out.” Another page. “Here they’re talking about how they’re not growing different kinds of food anymore. Abran… that’s the author, I think… his father used to grow twenty varieties of grain. Now they only grow five. And a half dozen pages later, one.” She flipped through. “More complaints about the grass.”
“Do they talk about why it’s such a pain?” Scotch asked.
“Sure. Abran says the glass edges are just a start. The plants have something called ‘carbon fibers’ growing naturally in the stems and leaves. The grass itself is so… Um… what’s this glyph? The opposite of acid?”
“Alkaline?” Scotch suggested.
“I guess. It’s so that they can’t use it for food. It’ll just make the eater sick. It also sucks all the nutrients out of the soil. The official word from Roam is it’s a pony weapon. Fortunately, it can be killed by that poison stuff.”
“Well, that’s good,” Scotch suggested.
“Not good. The weedkiller is expensive, and it kills everything except one type of poison-resistant grain. Apparently, the seeds for that type are really expensive too. The farm was in debt when the zebras won the war.”
“Wait? What!?” Scotch blurted. “Who says the zebras won the war?”
“That’s what this says.” She tapped the book. “Victory was achieved at great cost, though it feels like defeat. Rice River didn’t get hit by a megaspell, but lots of other places were. Something called ‘martial law’ was declared, which doesn’t sound like a very good law to me. The military kept coming and taking more and more food, and they’d shoot anyone that didn’t like it. Farms without money couldn’t keep the grass away. Eventually, they ran out of food, and the army shot up half the town looking for food that wasn’t there. Lots of people starved before they went away for good.” She flipped through and frowned. “Then it looks like someone else started writing.”
“How can you tell?” Scotch asked.
“Uh, cause the writing is totally different. See?” Majina flipped back and forth between two pages, and Scotch couldn’t tell them apart for the life of her. “Also, the subject changes to a ‘Bartoli’.” Ugh, would zebra names ever make sense? “Anyway, the new writer was apparently on the run from some place where they were trying to find a new way of dealing with the grass. It’s a lot harder to make it out.” She stared at several pages. “Apparently they hid here. There was something the Orah had that would do it.” She peered at a smear with her eye nearly on the paper. “I really wish I could read what that something actually is.”
“Do they talk about who might have killed them?” Pythia asked.
“Yeah. I can’t read who was after them, but they knew they were in danger. There’re lots of scientific glyphs here I don’t know, so maybe there’re notes? They had to flee for their lives. The last entry is begging the spirits for a day of rebirth. Then nothing but blank pages.” She glanced over at the bloodstained corner. “Except for this.”
She opened the back cover of the notebook, where a small plastic baggie had been taped with a little glyph label printed upon it. “Sample F-198J. Origin: Orah swamplands,” Majina translated. Inside the baggie was a light tan powder, like flour.
“What is it?” Scotch asked, tapping the baggie. Whatever was inside was caked together and didn’t budge.
“Uh, Sample F-198J. Like I said,” Majina said, and snorted. “If you want more than that, you’ll need to find a zebra that reads science.”
Maybe it was a chemical? Some kind of grass poison? It didn’t make her PipBuck click, so it wasn’t radioactive. She filed it away in their growing list of mysteries. “So, how are we going to get east? If we walk, we’re going to be sitting ducks. Even if there are other roads we can take east through the grass, they’ll eventually run us down.”
“Well, I was thinking–” Majina began.
“About the evil plot fairy?” Precious said with a grin. “You know, the one that puts in all those bad… er… holes? In plots?” Her smile melted as Majina and Scotch regarded her flatly. “What? Talking about stories is hard!”
“One day, you’re going to meet one of the horrible monsters you’ve created, and you’ll lament not coming up with a way to defeat them,” Majina said primly, before refocusing on Scotch. “But it was the tractor they were using. Do you think you could get one of the steam tractors here to work?”
Scotch’s eyes popped wide at the thought. Could she? “I… have no idea, really! I mean, the concept is pretty straightforward. Boil water, use the pressure to push a piston, which turns a crankshaft. If the transmission still works or I can stick it in a low gear…” She trailed off. “Maybe?” She quickly added, “You understand, though, that if something goes wrong, at best we’re stuck in a bathtub on wheels. At worst, we’re on a bomb loaded with scalding hot steam.”
“So is that better or worse than being caught by Riptide’s people?” Pythia asked.
Scotch turned to her. “Do you see this working? I mean… future-wise?”
She blinked and stared off into space. “Yes… and no… and yes… no… nope… yeah… no… Oh stars!” Her eyes popped wide before she covered them. “Okay. I just saw what steam burns are like. No way!”
“And what does the future look like if we walk?” Scotch asked.
Pythia blinked again and screwed up her face. Her expression turned more and more tormented, and then she slumped. “I hate this idea… just so you know.”
They slept in the bunkhouse, with Majina studying the journal till the light faded out. The next morning, they trotted back to the sheds. There were at least three tractors in there, and while it might be tempting to try and get the biggest one, a hulking behemoth with wheels twice her height, she settled on the smallest one, a little one that had a small two-wheeled wagon already attached. It also had the least corrosion and seemed the most manageable. Scotch tasked the other three with scavenging the sheds for parts while she worked.
Back in her stable, before she’d gotten her cutie mark, she’d been taught how to make plumbing work. It was honestly a miracle she didn’t have a toilet for a cutie mark. Steam piping was just a different kind of plumbing… one where, if things went wrong, you got four poached fillies. Still, the small tractor’s innards seemed to be made mostly of stainless steel, which raised her hopes immensely that it could be repaired. She snaked a wire through to pull a cleaning cloth around the dry interior and found it rust-free as well. There was a coal bunker with plenty of coal. Everything was in need of a good dose of oil, and she had to replace every single seal that’d dried out and cracked; Precious found some rubber replacements that would fit, though, and Majina located a manual. It was loaded with ‘sciency’ glyphs she didn’t understand, but Scotch was able to get some answers from her when she got stuck. Thankfully, the transmission was not only in good shape, the gear ratios were nearly identical to some winches back in her stable. The tires also weren’t flat, so there was hope. In fact, she suspected they were solid, as she couldn’t even find an air valve.
Finally, following the manual’s directions, she filled the firebox half full with coal, and then the fillies filled the boiler with water from an old pump well. She poured it through a cloth to strain out all the bits of dirt and debris that spewed out when Precious went to town on the pump handle. Finally, the boiler was half full, as it was supposed to be.
“Now all we have to do is wait and try it out,” Scotch said as the tractor started to make noises like a teakettle.
“We should give it a name!” Majina suggested brightly.
“A name?” Pythia echoed flatly.
“It’ll work much better with a name. Things with names always last longer. I think we should name it the ‘Little Impalii Two!’.”
“Road Raider!” suggested Precious with a grin.
“Useless Contraption,” Pythia offered flatly.
“The Soul of Prince Hamapapan!”
“The Crusher!”
“Count Peu-Peu the Bold!”
“What?” Precious asked, momentarily baffled.
Majina sniffed. “I’m sure the count would be honored to have a trusty steed named after him.”
“Whatever. How about the Mangler? The Annihilator! The Decimator!”
“It only destroys a tenth of its enemies?” Pythia snickered.
“Yeah!” Precious said enthusiastically, then blinked. “Wait. Huh?”
“The Whiskey Express,” Scotch said as she stared at the machine.
All three blinked at her. “Well, it’s not… too bad,” Majina said delicately. “Are you sure we can’t name it after a famous hero?”
“Come on, how can you not want to ride around on the ‘Mangler’?” Precious asked with a pout.
“If this thing blows up, who gets mangled?” Pythia asked back. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that she’s the only one who can make this thing work. So ‘Whiskey Express’ it is.”
“Now it shall be indestructible, until such time as it must give its life for our success,” Majina said with a sage nod, patting the tractor’s boiler and then jerking her hoof away. “Yeouch!” She waved her hoof in the air to cool it and gave the steam tractor a dirty look.
“Yeah. Ask all the named guns Blackjack had how indestructible they were,” Scotch said with a smile. “Okay. So here’s what we need to do. I’ll make sure the trailer’s good too. The rest of you go through the bunkhouse and collect anything that might be worth selling when we get to Rice River. I’m tired of depending on charity.” She imagined that, somewhere on the other side of the world, a certain filly’s ears were burning. “I’ll drive it around a little, and we can see how it works.”
They went to work. Scotch took care to re-oil the front wheels. The brake pads were old, but there wasn’t any flaking, and they constricted when she… okay, after she tied wooden blocks to all the pedals, they flexed when compressed. The seat had a metal back support that she could lean against to see out over the wheel. There were so many things that could go wrong, but Pythia was right: out here in all this nothing, they’d be caught out in the open sooner or later. With those fliers, not even the grass would be safe cover.
They dumped two dirty sheets worth of junk in the metal trailer, along with a bucket full of coal, the oil can, and tools she’d found in the shed. Then it was time for the moment of truth. The others backed out while Scotch turned a knob that trapped the steam. Theoretically there was a safety valve to prevent terrible explosions, but she really didn’t want to test it. The gauges twitched, stuck, and then resumed moving in little jerks as the pressure built. “Please work, Whiskey. Please please please…” she begged quietly. “My friends really need you to get us to Rice River.”
She had to look down to make sure she was working the clutch right, pumping the pedals a few times, and then she pushed a lever till the notch was all the way up to the smallest gear. Then she pressed the pedal on the right.
The entire vehicle gave a lurch and a squeal as something hissed underneath, but then the machine crept out of the metal shed. “It’s working! It’s working!” she cried triumphantly as they crawled out into the yard behind the silos. She felt an elation she hadn’t felt since she’d gotten a toilet in the middle of the Wasteland to flush.
So she could be forgiven for having missed the red bars on her E.F.S., right?
The flier dropped right onto Majina, hooking its spindly claws into her hide and lifting her right off her hooves as its wings buzzed loudly. She let out a screech, struggling to free herself as the flier started to carry her away. Precious launched herself at the filly, snagging her hind legs and dragging the pair back to the ground. A second flier dived for Pythia, but the filly deftly rolled to the side, the flier’s legs snatching at thin air. It swooped at her again, but she kept moving back and to the side with each attempt.
That left the third one on Scotch.
It landed atop her, heavy and reeking of garlic, its claws latching on to her as its wings buzzed, attempting to lift it into the air. Scotch hooked her hind legs around the steering wheel and held on for dear life as she hammered away at the creature’s face. “Get off,” she screamed as she smashed the glass goggles wildly.
Then one of the lenses shattered, and she stared into an equine eye, wide, milky, and filled with green light. The rancid, garlicky vapors leaked out of the breach as it gave a distinctly inequine squeal, nearly yanking her right out of the seat.
Scotch felt her grip slipping. She abandoned her attempt to hit the flier and fumbled at the controls. She found a valve and hoped it was the right one, twisting it hard.
From a pipe atop the boiler in front of her, a jet of boiling hot steam erupted with a shriek, blasting into the air. The flier let out a scream of its own, trying to twist itself out of the plume, but Scotch was an earth pony, and, better yet, had leverage. With her hind legs still tight, she twisted and pushed the flier’s hind end into the steam. It instantly tried to release her, but Scotch hooked her forehooves around its ‘wrists’ and kept it in the steam for a few seconds longer. Its suit burst open and its wings trembled and failed. When it tumbled to the side of the Express, Scotch quickly closed the valve, hoping she’d get her pressure back soon.
They’d need it.
The flier with Majina dragged Precious along the concrete towards the far side of the silo. Precious dug in her claws and skidded to a halt, the two playing tug of war with Majina. Around the corner appeared three zebras and the hound from the swamp. Around the farther, more distant edge of the silo came the centaur and two other zebras. The hooved charged, while the hound ambled towards the four.
Scotch Tape ran to the flier holding Majina when Pythia let out a cry. “Scotch! Duck!” Scotch looked towards her just in time to have the other flier tackle her. “I said ‘Duck’, not ‘Look at me’!” Pythia shouted as the flier tried to latch its clawfeet into Scotch’s hide. Right now, Scotch really wished she had a magic horn to handle that gun. How nice it must have been for Blackjack just to think and point and shoot! The best Scotch could manage was to keep rolling from side to side to keep it from using its wings and lifting her into the air.
“Pythia!” Scotch shouted, then stared at the sight of the zebra running away towards the shack with all the barrels. She might not have been very big or strong, but she could have done something, right?! Scotch wrestled with the flier. How long would it take the zebras and centaur to reach them? The silos were huge, and there were those patches of razorgrass to navigate…
Speaking of patches.
Scotch twisted her head, spotting a large clump growing in a pothole ten feet away. With all her strength, she rolled over towards it. Once. Twice. Thrice. In. The clump was maybe only half a meter across, but it felt like she’d just plunged herself into a bonfire. The leaves clutched her hide, ripping with abandon. However, as much as it hurt, she lacked thin, diaphanous wings. When those buzzing wings got caught, they shredded like thin cellophane. The red veins inside began to spurt, and that covered mouth let out a screech that would have shattered glass. It released her, struggling wildly to get away. Scotch carefully pulled her legs away, getting cut but not trapped.
The razorgrass did not oblige the flier. The long strands did not break. They did not tear up from the hole in the concrete. They twisted tighter and tighter around the flier, its leather splitting and releasing green clouds of garlicky-smelling vapor. Then, all at once, the contents spilled into view.
Scotch stared at the too-white flesh, gleaming and reeking and twitching as its flailings failed. She knew what it had been. She could not, did not want to, know how it had become this thing. Only that she would put a bullet through her head or those of her friends rather than become this pulsating, slimy, skinless thing. Mercifully, it stilled before her eyes.
She turned and raced to where Precious and Majina struggled to escape the third flier. And where was Pythia? Rolling drums from the shed to the base of the silo! The dregs were sloshing all over the place as they covered the distance between the shed and an open hatch. The centaur raised a rifle, firing as he advanced. Someone shouted ‘Alive’, but not before he took a few shots. Scotch scampered up Precious’s back and across Majina and tackled the flier, weighing down its wings. She even tried biting and tearing them, but thin though they were, it was like trying to bite through a sheet of tough plastic. Fortunately, the flier released the zebra filly and started to lift towards the skies. Scotch dove off before it rose too high, landing in a pile on top of the other two.
“Come on. We have to go,” Scotch panted. Why were they staring at her like that?
Majina didn’t say a word. She just reached into her saddlebags, pulled out some agoloosh, and jammed it into Scotch’s mouth, forcing her to chew and swallow. Precious scooped her up on her back, running to the idling tractor. What was…
Oh, yeah. That’s a lot of blood.
The razorgrass had all but flayed the skin off her limbs. The weed stopped the bleeding, but there were still tatters of hide that would need medical attention soon. Pythia rolled her last barrel and ran to join them. “Go. That way!” she said, pointing towards the hound. Scotch took a moment to settle herself in the seat.
“What were you doing?” Scotch asked.
“No time! Trust me!” Pythia shouted.
“Hope she’s seeing the right thing,” Precious said as the other two climbed into the trailer. Scotch worked the clutch, pulled a lever, pressed the peddle, and the Whiskey Express started to roll.
“Fire!” Pythia said as they passed over the trail left behind by the rolling barrels. “Don’t argue with me, fire!” she screamed, pointing a hoof at the slick trail. Precious took a breath and let out a plume of emerald flame that washed over the trail. The fire immediately began to creep along the slick. “Drive! Fast as you can!”
“I’ve never done this before!” Scotch warned as she shifted into second. “Come on, Whiskey Express. You can do this! Be a good tractor!” she said as they picked up speed. The zebras moved to intercept, and Scotch cranked the wheel around.
“What are you doing? Away! Go away!” Pythia screamed as they passed over the burning trail, heading towards the centaur. He stopped, now taking aim with his rifle. Scotch cranked the wheel a second time, now dropping it into third as they started to reach speeds at the line between exciting and scary. “What part of ‘get out of here’ are you missing?!”
“Do you want to drive this thing?” Scotch shrieked back at her, charging the three zebras and the hound. Now they were going fast enough that they couldn’t simply jump on her. Not that they didn’t want to. Two attempted to hook their hooves in the trailer, but gouts of flame in their faces dissuaded them. The third tried to pull Scotch out of the seat, but his limbs slipped on the blood still slick on her legs as he was dragged along. Then one of his hind legs was caught under the large wheel, and with a crunch and bump, the tractor rolled right over him. Bullets zinged out, and one of them pinged off the metal plate behind the seat Scotch occupied. ‘Alive’ seemed to have become more of a guideline.
All that was left was the hound, slouching in their way, picking something from a nostril and then sampling it curiously. Scotch wouldn’t dare swerve around him. She was having a hard enough time just holding onto the wheel and turning it at all! But he’d jump out of the way too. Right?
Instead, it reached out and grabbed the boiler, and all four of them were nearly ejected from the vehicle as it lurched to a crawl, the wheels slipping along on the concrete as they fought for purchase. Scotch was lucky enough to be thrown into the seat rather than onto the boiler in front of her, and stared into the hound’s jaundiced eyes as it grinned, its hands smoking on the hot metal. Slowly, the grin faded, narrowed eyes widening. “Ow,” it stated as if perplexed as to the source of its pain.
Scotch Tape didn’t know what to do. She fumbled for the gun, but she had to hold on and keep accelerating in the hopes the hound would let go or something.
Then the flames reached the open hatch. Each silo was roughly seventy thousand cubic feet of space, and though technically ‘empty’, more than a thousand pounds of grain dust lingered, much of it suspended in midair.
The warnings about fire were there for a reason.
The silos were shells of reinforced concrete a half meter thick. For such an emergency, they’d been designed with vents which would let the rapidly expanding gasses escape but not admit fresh oxygen. These vents were one hundred and ninety years past their last inspection. They popped out like corks as the silo boomed like bottled thunder. That shockwave shook free the last remainder of dust caked to the walls, which, mixed with fresh oxygen and heat from the initial explosion, proved far more energetic.
The silo blew itself apart. Since it was directly adjacent to three others, those too exploded a second later. The blast distracted the hound enough that it forgot it was holding back a tractor, watching the explosions with delight as the silos burst one after the next. Scotch downshifted and floored it, and the nose of the tractor lifted and came crashing down on the hound, bouncing right over him as the granary exploded.
Coming around to the side facing the road, Scotch immediately spotted the gargoyle frantically driving away from the blast towards the west, with Lamprey screaming and pointing at them with a hoof as he beat on the gargoyle’s shoulders. Pieces of concrete began to rain down, much of it as gravel… quite a bit of it as boulders. A chunk bigger than the gargoyle’s tractor slammed down feet from him, but the zebra never took his eyes off the four fillies. Scotch drove through the narrow patch of razorgrass, the stalks seeming to try and twist up around the axles. Still, she managed to get back on the road, heading east and leaving the smoking, flaming ruin behind them. Hopefully it would take time for their pursuers to regroup.
With a steady stream of ‘pockety pockety’, the tractor trundled its way down the road, leaving the rest of silos exploding behind them as a thick, black column of smoke and dust rose into the clear sky.
* * *
Driving a steam tractor was a bit harder than Scotch anticipated. Less than ten minutes passed before they had to stop and cut off the remains of razorgrass twisting around the axles. The carbon fibers within only succumbed to sawing with a hacksaw they’d salvaged while Precious sustained fire on the threads. The noxious smoke made them gag, but there was nothing for it; the fibers were working their way into the transmission.
Once underway, she found herself facing the unfamiliar sensation of making progress. The wind tugged at her mane as they pockety puttered their way along. Fortunately, the road remained clear of razorgrass. There were numerous side roads, some of which appeared passable and others overgrown with grass. Still, as long as they stayed on this road going east, they shouldn’t face much risk of getting lost. For once, it looked as if they were going to make it to Rice River without any more problems.
Then the road forked. The split came so abruptly that Scotch nearly plunged off the road and into the grass between the forks. She jerked the wheel to the right and glanced into the trailer behind her to see her friends sprawled out and giving her dirty glares. She gave a sheepish smile in return, hoping this was the right way.
Three hours later, after taking turn after turn after turn trying to get back on the main road, one of the gauges started to dip lower and lower. She had to stop and have Majina translate the glyphs. After five minutes, it became clear: they needed more water. Scotch kept an eye out for a stream or something, but all she could see was grass… grass… gra–
Wait. Was that a farm? The cottage beside the road issued a thin trail of smoke from its chimney. If zebras were living here, then they had to have water, right? “Be ready for trouble,” Scotch shouted as she slowed the Whiskey Express. A clearing of about an acre or two had been carved out of the endless green. The farmhouse clearly had seen better days, all the windows covered with boards. Still, there were no corpses out in the open or heads on pikes. That was promising, right?
As they pulled into the yard next to the house, there was a flurry of movement as zebras darted from the small plot behind the house into the structure. No red bars, so Scotch kept her gun away. She turned to Pythia and Precious. “See if you can find a well or wherever they get their water from. Majina, we need to ask directions.”
They trotted out, and Majina and Scotch Tape moved to the door. It’d been shot up, and it looked as if someone had tried to set the porch on fire. She turned to Majina, gesturing to the closed portal. She swallowed, but then rapped her hoof on the door. “Hello?” Scotch Tape sat behind her, waiting for red bars to appear.
Majina knocked three times before the door opened and a single zebra mare emerged, eyes on the ground. She didn’t even clear the door before it slammed shut, knocking into her rump and sending her face into the ground. She didn’t get up as she lay there, quivering.
Scotch hadn’t ever seen a more wretched creature, and she’d met ghouls. Her entire body was one mass of scars so complete that it was hard to make out her stripes. The tips of her ears and tail were cut off. “I… I am for your pleasure,” she croaked. Majina gaped at her in horror.
“Um, that’s great, but really all we need is some water and directions to Rice River. I think we made a wrong turn,” Scotch said with as warm a smile as she could manage.
She raised her face, gaping at the pair in shock. “You… you… you…” she repeated faintly. One of her eyes was missing, and the other was a pale blue. “Children?”
“I swear, I am going to find a magic spell to make me a few years older if it kills me,” Scotch Tape said, and the young mare flinched and dropped her face to the ground again.
“Take me as you wish, but I beg and plead you not harm the others,” she whimpered, trembling.
Scotch shared a horrified look with Majina. “Look. All we need is water, a bucket to carry it in, and directions to Rice River. Then we’ll be going. We’ll even trade… something… for your trouble.” There had to be something in their bags of junk worth something.
It took her a minute to raise her face again, her eye staring from one to the other, then to the wagon, then back at the ground again. “I… I don’t understand. You are… you are a pony?”
“Yeah,” Scotch Tape said, sharing another look with Majina. “Is that a problem?”
The scarred mare lay at Scotch’s feet. “Please, I will be your slave forever, if you will make your grass go away! You can take my life! I’ll give it gladly! Just please make the grass stop!”
Scotch Tape backed away, her mouth working silently as the young mare wept, staring up at her, eye full of desperation. “I’m sorry. If I could, I would in a heartbeat, but I don’t have any way to do anything to the grass. Believe me, I really wish I had a horn right now so I could zap it for you.” Scotch swallowed. “Please get up. I don’t want you to pleasure me or… or die for me. We just need water for our tractor and directions to Rice River. Please.” The young mare closed her eye and trembled as she collapsed and wept.
“Please… take the grass away… please…” she whimpered.
“What’s your name?” Majina asked as Scotch backed away, stricken.
It took her a bit to compose herself. She peeked at the pair again and answered after a minute. “A… Aleta,” she said as she rose once more. “You are sure there is nothing you can do about the grass? You are a pony. Can’t you use your pony sorcery to undo this?”
Scotch fought to keep her melting smile up. “Earth pony. No horn. Sorry,” Scotch Tape said to the downcast zebra. “I’m Scotch Tape. This is Majina.”
“Scaough Taep?” she said, her head turning a moment, as if not sure she’d said it right.
“Close enough,” Scotch said with a smile. “Water and directions?”
She glanced at the door behind her, then nodded and limped off the worn porch and started around back. There Scotch beheld a small miracle: a tidy and carefully tended garden with a cleared-out perimeter separating the plants from the encroaching green. Precious was poking some of the vines as Pythia studied her star map away from the house.
“Please, don’t!” Aleta blurted, stretching out a hoof towards Precious, and when the dragonfilly scowled at her, she nearly collapsed. “Please… don’t…” she repeated in a whisper.
“I wasn’t going to mess with them,” Precious said, twisting her face. She glanced at Scotch, then back, her brows knitting. “What happened to you? Raiders?”
“Raiders?” Aleta asked in a little voice.
“The scars?” the dragonfilly said, gesturing with a claw.
“Bandits? Robbers? Vile scum of the world to be vanquished by the righteous to demonstrate their virtue?” Majina suggested with a smile.
“No. Reavers… no. We service reavers. Give them some of our crop to go away.” She trembled, tucking her truncated tail between her haunches. “Sometimes they are unkind, but they let us live so they may feed when they return.” She glanced at Scotch and then quickly stared out at the gently waving fields of green. “The grass does this to us. It cuts us as we clear it. Wounds become infected. The hooks break off in the skin. They bore deeper and deeper.” She lifted her hooves. “It will kill us eventually.”
She walked to a wooden box set in the corner and lifted it up, exposing a water pump and metal pail. Majina pumped. Precious carried. Scotch filled the water tank. Pythia did whatever she pleased. Aleta trembled, eyes downcast, glancing at the others warily, but curiously as well. “How did you come to be here?” she asked as Scotch refilled the firebox.
Majina took a deep breath, smiling broadly. “Well, it’s all very exciting! You see–”
“We took a boat,” Scotch said, mixing the embers with the fresh coals.
“We didn’t just take a boat,” Majina said sharply. “There was–”
“Yeah, we went through a swamp too,” Scotch went on, and Majina began to make a whine in the back of her throat like a teakettle before Scotch finished, “and then we drove here on the Whiskey Expr– urk!”
Majina seized her by the neck, squeezing and shaking her as she shrieked, “That is not how you tell a dramatic narrative!”
Aleta just stared as if they’d all lost their minds. “You get used to it,” was all Precious said. “Where did that grass come from, though?”
“It’s a pony weapon. They seeded it during the war,” the young mare said quietly.
Precious stared flatly. “Eh… I don’t think so.” Aleta just blinked at her. “Not saying ponies couldn’t do something like this, but look at me. This is what ponies do,” she said as she gestured to herself. “Now, if it was some kind of grass monster… or formed magical vines that slithered after you… or transformed you into ponies… that would be totally pony stuff.”
“I… don’t know about that,” Aleta muttered.
Maybe Precious had a point. The insidious nature of the grass boggled Scotch’s mind. How could anything be so nasty and pernicious and not be an intentional weapon? The entire tribe should be dealing with this. Fighting it en masse and tearing and burning every last stalk up. When the water tank was filled, she tried to pass one of their bits of junk to pay for the water, but Aleta didn’t accept any of it. Just kept her eye low and trembled. Scotch spotted more scarred zebras watching them warily from the house. The kids at least looked like zebras. The adults… how could anyone survive being covered with that much scar tissue?
“We should get going,” Pythia said as she approached the tractor. “I consulted Thurban, Ashur, and Pythegilos, and they all agree trouble’s coming.”
Aleta gave a little scream, collapsing back. “Starkatteri! Starkatteri!” she cried out, and then buried her face in the dirt. “Doomed! Cursed! Forever!”
“No! She is, but... I mean you’re not cursed!” Scotch Tape said sharply, then gaped at Pythia. “Tell her she’s not cursed!”
“Oh, I’d say she’s cursed. Just look at this place. Losing the land to weeds and reavers,” Pythia said coolly. “They’re dealing with a bitch of a curse.”
“Cursed. Cursed,” Aleta moaned.
Scotch Tape’s butt hit the ground as she grabbed her own mane, pulled as hard as she could, and let out a scream at the top of her lungs, “You’re not cursed!”
“I think she might be,” Majina murmured as she stood atop the tractor seat, shading her eyes with a hoof as she stared out over the grass.
“Not you too,” Scotch whined. Was every zebra just crazy? That had to be it!
Precious joined her on the seat and added, “She’s right. Smoke coming from the road. It’s another tractor.”
Their own was putting up a noticeable stream of gray smoke. No doubt Lamprey’s remaining flier would spot it. They’d come right to this farm looking for Scotch Tape, and she doubted they’d be as kind as their party had been. After all, they wouldn’t be coming for food; they’d assume that the zebras here knew something. Given how readily her family had thrown her out to Scotch, Aleta would probably be sent to answer them.
“Get in the trailer,” Scotch said to the mutilated zebra. She blinked up at Scotch. “You’re cursed. If you stay here, the curse will stay with your family. Get in!” And then, to stop any further arguments, she drew the gun and pointed it at her, her jaw shaking as Aleta stared at her in horror. Tears ran down her scarred cheek before she slowly crept into the tractor. Once she was in, Scotch shouted at the house, “I’m taking your daughter to Rice River! She’ll come home once she’s shown us the way!” There. Now, if they did stop and question the family, they’d get an answer and would hopefully be after her and not interrogate these people who didn’t deserve any more grief.
She stoked the fire, using Precious to blast fire over the coals and get the temperature and pressure to build enough that they could start rolling away from the farmhouse. “Put some of that grass in there,” Scotch instructed. Precious went and ripped up a large mouthful without question, to the shock of Aleta, and trotted back. When it was shoved into the fire, it immediately smoldered and turned their smoke thick and white.
“You know this is the opposite of hiding, right?” Pythia said sourly.
“I don’t care. I’m not letting these people suffer just because we stopped here!” Scotch snapped.
“Yeah. ‘Cause that’s absolutely the source of their suffering,” Pythia replied dryly.
Scotch didn’t answer. Everyone got into the trailer as Scotch took the wheel, and Aleta’s family just watched from the door, not a single bar going red as their daughter was abducted. Maybe they thought she really was cursed, too, and that this was taking the curse away. Maybe they believed the fillies were really raiders or reapers or whatever. Maybe they’d written her off the second they’d pushed her out the door. It didn’t matter. Scotch worked her controls and started the Whiskey Express down the road. Part of her wanted to speed up and put as much distance as she could between them and that black plume chugging up from the south, and the other wanted to move slowly enough they were spotted and the farmhouse would be spared.
She was rewarded by the sight of a red bar zipping around her. The last flier made a pass around them, wings buzzing as it flitted over the grass. Scotch grinned at it and waved her hoof at the creature. Then she opened up the throttle, and the pistons began to pockety pock faster and faster. The flier reversed, nipping back towards the pursuing tractor.
“Congratulations,” Pythia shouted at her. “Happy?”
“Yes!” Scotch Tape answered, imagining Pythia’s groan. It was now a race. If they ran into a dead end… if a seal burst or the water ran out… if they didn’t reach somewhere safe…
Well, as the Stable 99 motto went, ‘Don’t think about it’.
The saving grace was that the roads were all almost perfectly straight and elevated above the fields. Scotch had the strength to hold a steady course, but if she had to crank the wheel, they were in big trouble. Here and there, rusting machinery lay abandoned along the road, steam tractors like theirs tangled up in the grass.
Behind them, the dark funnel grew larger. Soon the black blot of their pursuers came into view. Then it grew. The flier paced them, keeping a distance, but it’d be impossible to hide now. Lamprey was running them down, and his tractor was bigger and faster. More water would mean a longer range. Hopefully they were already low. It was just about the only chance the fillies had.
Soon she could hear the powerful ‘chugity-chug’ of their pursuers, deeper and throatier than their own. Once they made contact, they could drive Scotch off the road or possibly board the Whiskey Express. The gargoyle perched behind his own larger boiler, grinning maniacally as Lamprey stood next to him, clinging to the seat. She could see the hungry grin twisting his lips.
If he doesn’t kill me, he’ll make me wish he had. My friends and Aleta will be corpses. If I give up, he might spare them. Maybe.
They passed a sign next to the road. Of all the glyphs Scotch could make out through the rust, the only one she identified was the glyph for ‘10’. Hopefully that was a sign for Rice River. It was the only hope they had left, that the settlement wouldn’t allow a bunch of raiders to take a bunch of fillies away or kill them outright.
The front of the tractor chasing them had a wedge on it, and when it made contact with the trailer, the Whiskey Express let out a shriek and shimmied. The wheel threatened to skip right out of Scotch’s hooves. The trailer was twisting to the side, and it was all Scotch could do to keep the Whiskey Express in front.
“You can do this, Whiskey. I’ve had my hooves in your guts! You can go faster!” she implored the vehicle. In truth, she had no idea what the tractor’s top speed was. She just knew that if the other tractor kept pushing the trailer, eventually it’d jackknife, and either the Whiskey Express would wreck or the trailer would snap right off. Still, to her astonishment, the pressure gauge crept up, and while they didn’t pull away, it did reduce the shimmy enough that she could keep ahead.
So the Atoli came after them. The zebras moved onto the narrow strip of metal next to the boiler, struggling to keep from falling or getting cooked against the hot metal as they crept towards the trailer. Majina opened up their sacks of junk and gave a toaster an overhead toss with both hooves; it pinged off the boiler, bounced, and smashed the gargoyle right in its grin. The beast rolled in the seat as Lamprey grabbed the wheel, but not before the tractor weaved enough that one of the creeping zebras was thrown to the road, disappearing under the massive wheels with barely a bump.
“Go away!” the filly shouted as she tossed more debris at the next zebra in line. The pirate didn’t attempt to jump down, though. He tossed a hook on a chain. It caught on the trailer, and immediately the tractor behind them slowed. The chain went taut, and Scotch lurched as they slowed too. Scotch glanced back at the triumphant grin on Lamprey’s face. The zebra who’d thrown the hook now moved to jump.
So Precious jumped first. She scrambled right up onto the front of the tractor pursuing them, claws gaining purchase on the hot metal, then took a deep breath and blasted green flame at the zebra clinging to the side of the large tractor. He ducked his head, but that didn’t stop his mane from catching fire. Apparently the combination of hot steel and burning head was more than he could manage. His hoof batted at the flames in his mane, and he slipped, falling from the ledge of metal with another small bump from the tractor.
Precious climbed up on the boiler, her face contorted at the barely tolerable heat of the metal under her feet. She might have breathed fire, but she wasn’t a fully fireproof dragon. Still, she slowly crawled towards Lamprey and the recovering gargoyle, gripping the pipes with her claws.
Then the centaur loomed up behind the pair, aiming his gun straight at Precious’s face. The round impacted right between her eyes, and she tumbled to the side, limbs slashing wildly. She caught the chain hooked on the trailer, and it broke from the side of the tractor with a ping of rust. Precious landed on the road on her back, her scales shedding a stream of sparks as she was dragged along behind. The Whiskey Express pulled away, the dragon filly barely missing the front wheels of the larger vehicle as she was dragged along.
“Pull her in! Pull her in!” Majina screamed at the top of her lungs. The older Aleta stared at her, and then began to haul in the chain, pulling the dragonfilly to the rear of the trailer where they could lift her from the road. Blood trickled down her face like tears from the bullet wound between her eyes, and her lavender sides were bleeding where they’d been scraped raw against the concrete.
“Did I get ‘em?” she said weakly.
“Yep. Now chew your agoloosh,” Majina replied, shoving the weed into Precious’s mouth.
Then the trailer lurched as the tractor rammed them with its wedge. The impact nearly knocked Scotch from her seat, and only her death drip on the wheel and the clear road kept them on track… though the wrecks were getting more numerous. Some were even half on the road. If they hit something…
No. Don’t think about it. Just steer.
“Are you going to do something?” Precious screamed at Pythia. “Don’t just sit there! Throw something!”
Pythia reached over and undid the hook from the back of the trailer, and then, the next time the ram impacted, she hooked the wedge. Two more zebras were moving along towards the front of the larger tractor. Scotch couldn’t imagine what they’d been promised or threatened with to dare this. Pythia moved the chain carefully over to the side and tossed it at the front wheel… only to get a faceful of zebra as one of them launched himself at her. The chain bounced off the wheel rather than getting pulled in around the axle, dragging along underneath the tractor.
“Die shall you! For all your annoyance suffer shall you!” the zebra spat at her, then drew a razor sharp fishgutting knife from a sheath on his hoof.
Precious pounced on him, latching her jaws into his neck as her claws scraped and slashed at his hide. He struggled to throw the dragonfilly off him, but Pythia rolled about beneath him, tripping him up and foiling his attempts to get leverage to toss her off him.
On the next ramming, the other zebra launched himself at Aleta and Majina. The scarred mare lifted a sack of junk, interposing it between them and deflecting him to the side. Majina shrieked in terror as she shoved him, and he tumbled half over the edge. He caught himself on the lip of the trailer, struggling to clamber back inside.
And all Scotch could do was grip the wheel tightly as they approached a bridge. The wrecks were now constant, jagged brown teeth studding the road. She threaded the needle at speeds that made her sure she’d wet herself. Twice she grazed wrecks with bangs that she was sure heralded a bloody and horrible crash, but somehow the Whiskey Express recovered.
So, of course, that was when the flier attacked. It dove right at her, legs spread wide, wings buzzing wildly as it latched its hairy clawed legs to her face, completely blinding her. She was just guessing now, driving straight ahead as she struggled to keep a grip on the vibrating wheel and shove the flier off her face.
“Hey! Get off her, you stupid bug thing!” Majina yelled, then plucked something from the bag and jumped from the trailer to the Express. Perhaps being made a bug thing made your skull extra tough, or perhaps bowling pins were harder than Scotch imagined, but Majina pummeled it repeatedly till Scotch could glance around its torso in time to swerve and miss a wreck that protruded all the way into the middle of the road. The tractor behind them simply knocked it aside with the catcher. Majina gave shrieks around the neck of the pin as she rained down a beating upon the flier, and it finally untangled from Scotch, bobbing unsteadily over the fields as it wandered its way north.
The zebra stallion Aleta struggled with started to clamber onto the trailer, and so Scotch swerved, the tires going right to the edge of the razorgrass-lined road. The stallion let out a scream as the strands flayed the hide from his lower half, and suddenly he was violently ejected from the side of the trailer, disappearing into the growth beside the road as if eaten alive.
Scotch swerved back into the middle in time to be rammed again. Majina, her teeth still locked around the neck of the bowling pin, clambered back into the trailer, beating the bloody remaining zebra as he fought to slice Precious and Pythia to ribbons. Aleta reached over, bit a pin, and pulled. The back of the trailer dropped open, sending up sparks as it dragged along the concrete. Pythia and Precious gave a heave, and the stallion tumbled down the ramp and under the pursuing tractor. He seized the trailing chain as it swayed, pulling it straight.
Straight under the rear wheel.
The chain went taut as the wedge-shaped ram snapped, dropped down, and caught the roadbed. Instantly it came apart in a shower of steel and sparks. The entire front of the vehicle that wasn’t boiler was torn off and passed underneath, where it caught the trailer towing the boat. That immediately flipped into the air end over end, sending the last of Lamprey’s zebra pirates flying out into the grass. Gouts of black smoke and steam erupted as something vital breached, and the pursuing tractor immediately fell behind.
Scotch clutched the wheel, staring straight ahead as something strange rose up inside her. It built and built and finally could no longer be contained. She threw back her head and let out a whoop of pure delight as she tasted the sweet, sweet taste of victory.
They’d won.
Now Lamprey, Riptide, and the bounty hunters were still after her, but for once the fillies had gotten into a fight and hadn’t hid or gotten away by blowing things up or with the help of a strong, powerful adult. They could survive here without the protection of someone stronger than them! The road was now rising up a concrete bridge, and she slowed down to saner speeds as they crested the peak.
A city.
Scotch Tape had never seen a real ‘city’ before, one not left a ruin gutted by balefire bombs and neglect. What spread out before them was a real city. Sitting on a brown streak of water snaking its way north was a huge expanse of brown buildings. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of fires sent smoke up into the sky. On the western side of the river, they formed a semicircular arrangement radiating out from a central point. The far side of the river was much more hilly, with larger white structures, not skyscrapers, but big enough for her to see from this distance. To the north she could make out the sea, with two sailboats in dock while a third, darker vessel lurked on the horizon. From here, she could see the expanse they’d covered stretching out to the west, the darker green of the swamps hidden by that enormous mat of green razorgrass.
Still, even as a city, a cloak of gloom hung over it. The smoke created a pall that rivaled the cloud cover of the Equestrian Wasteland, only with no pegasi maintaining it. Some of those distant houses might be above the smog layer, but the rest were trapped. Barely visible on the far side of the city was a huge structure with dozens of smokestacks pouring out their dark haze. Without a breeze, it simply pooled overhead.
The Whiskey Express rolled down the bridge, crossing one of the river’s many tributaries, and into the outskirts. Immediately, it was clear that the size of the city was illusory after all, the brown and rusted derelicts around them lacking any sign of habitation. Any open patches of ground or available cracks in the concrete were taken by razorgrass. Some of the structures actually had clumps of the stuff growing inside! The road was clear, though she had to twist the wheel to and fro to make it around huge hulks of steam tractors twice or three times the size of the Whiskey Express.
“Scotch! You need to stop!” Majina shouted. “I think there’s something wrong with Precious!”
Scotch glanced behind them at the bridge. No sign of pursuit, but she doubted that Lamprey would give up. Precious was curled up in the trailer, trembling. She found a side street that was relatively free of the grass and drove down it till she found another street between two buildings she could pull into.
“Just eat the agoloosh! You’ll feel better!” Majina insisted as she extended the purple seaweed to the dragonfilly. Aleta and Pythia got out of the trailer as Majina kept bumping the weed against her bloody lips.
“Leave me alone,” she muttered. “I’m fine.” She didn’t look fine, though. She’d lost half her hide being dragged along the road, and her face was a bloody mess. The rifle bullet she’d taken to the face had swollen into a round puckered wound right between her eyes.
“You really don’t look fine,” Scotch Tape said, peering at the injury and wishing she had bor– had Glory here to help. Precious’s eyes were staring off in two different directions. “You’ve got some serious injury to your head. I think you need a doctor.”
“No doctors. I’m fine!” she slurred into the floor of the trailer.
“You’re not,” Majina said gently as she extended the weed once more.
“I said I’m fine!” she snarled, but her voice was distorted, sounding vaguely drunk, and faster than Scotch expected, her claws came slashing out, catching Majina in the face and ripping three bloody furrows in her cheek. “There! Eat your own weed!” the dragonfilly slurred as Majina fell back with a scream. “Least you deserve! You’re useless! What did you do in that fight, huh? Read them a story? Huh? Huh?” Precious made another swipe, but collapsed on her side, clutching her head. “Ow…”
“Precious!” Scotch snapped, then turned to the trembling Majina, who clutched her face as she stared at the staggered dragonfilly. “Are you okay?” she asked Majina, but she didn’t answer. Scotch looked back to Precious. “I think that bullet might still be in your head.”
“Ridichuloush. I’m bulletproo…” And Precious passed out.
Majina cried softly as she shook, and Scotch touched her shoulder. She pulled away.
“We need a doctor,” she said as she turned to Aleta.
“I think we need more than that,” Pythia said sharply as she stared at the ruins around them. Zebras were emerging. Thin, hungry, haggard zebras. “I think we stopped in a bad neighborhood.”
Scotch immediately darted for her pistol, checked it like Blackjack had showed her, then waved it in their general direction as she tried to shout to them to get back, but it came out as just slobbering on the handle. Besides, there were more of them than she had bullets!
Aleta crumpled into a ball, clenching her eye shut.
The largest and healthiest zebra mare, which was pretty relative given how ulcerated and scarred her hide was, pointed a hoof at them. “We want that. Hand it over and all your stuff and you can walk out of here.”
Scotch pointed the gun at her, and the scabby mare sneered at Scotch. “Try it. You won’t be walking out of here.” Scotch swallowed. Precious needed help, and she doubted many doctors here worked for free. But if they fought…
“Relax. I got this,” Pythia said as she stepped forward, drawing back her sheet to expose her glyphs to the crowd. The effect was immediate, eyes widening and every zebra backing up several steps. “This vehicle is consecrated to the stars, and everything within it. If you take it, your spirit will forever belong to Ashur, burning eternally in his sanguine flames. If you leave, I might just decide on helping my… minion instead of repaying your discourtesy,” she said as she gestured behind her at Precious.
“Ooooh! Consecrated to Ashur!” a mare called out, and instantly the crowd parted. A quartet of fully grown, healthy, and armed adults approached, the crowd breaking before them.
The one among them not pointing a weapon was a mare dressed in a suit, a threadbare suit with a few stains and protruding stitching, but still a suit. Her mane was brushed back and slicked with some kind of gel. Hard contempt shone in her mud-colored eyes as she sneered at the fillies and scarred mare. However, all that that was nothing compared to the strange, arcane glyphs covering her face in lieu of stripes. She grinned from ear to ear at them. “Ashur! How scary!”
The crowd seemed to bleed away, but it didn’t depart completely. Some watched with fascination as she faced off against Pythia. The filly gaped for a moment at the sight of the well-dressed Starkatteri before immediately restoring her contemptuous glare. “Who are you?”
“Scylla. And you’re on my turf, little glyph,” she said with a grin. “That’s a sweet little tractor you’ve got there. Should be worth quite a few cases of ammo. Thanks for bringing it to me.”
Pythia glanced back at Scotch Tape, her eyes round before she resumed her own matching sneer at the well dressed mare. “Yeah, well, my name is Pythia, and I can see all the ways this ends up. None of them are pretty for you.”
“Aw, little filly can see the future,” Scylla laughed, though she was the only one, her voice echoing off the bricks around them. “So can I. I knew you were coming an hour ago. I saw a great bounty coming my way.” She grinned at her. “The Stars thank you for your donation to our organization.”
“Please. I should charge you for wasting my time,” Pythia sneered back. “You’re not going to mess with us. You’re going to give us directions to a doctor– a good doctor! One who can help my minion here. She’s unique.”
“Unique? Ha! I saw three just like her last week.” She stepped closer to Pythia. “Admit it. She’s special to you.”
“She’s useful, unlike you,” Pythia replied. “Don’t cross me. You won’t like what happens if you do.”
“Aww, what are you going to do? What have you got?” Scylla asked with a grin. “Going to burn me with Ashur? I use that curse all the time. I can counter it, no problem.”
“Ashur’s for vermin like this.” She waved a dismissive hoof at the lingering dregs of sickly zebras. “No, I have plenty of more interesting ways to deal with you.” Pythia gestured her head at the stallion beside her. “You won’t like it, but I guarantee your stallions will,” Pythia countered with a grin of her own.
“Oh dear. Going to curse me with desirableness? Cute!” She then reached over, grabbed the head of one of her entourage, and kissed him deeply enough to make Scotch blush. “I already have that curse, sweetie.” The stallion she kissed definitely didn’t seem to agree.
“No. Babies,” she corrected, and Scylla’s grin disappeared a moment. “Lots of babies. So many popping out of you… one after the next… screaming… sucking… whining… shitting little babies.”
Scylla pushed the stallion away, resummoning her smirk. “As if you could pull off that,” she muttered.
“I’d invoke the sun, and since we’re in Carnilian territory, a ‘birthing curse’ shouldn’t be hard to manage. Heck, I doubt there’d be a clause or censure in it for me,” Pythia said in complete contemptuous disgust for the older mare. “Piss off. We have things to do.”
Scylla’s smile melted a bit as her eyelid twitched. “Oh. Well then, all those little shit machines will have your death curse on them,” she said as she stared at her. “And if you kill me, I’ve got hundreds of curses ready to go off with my death. I’ll ruin this whole damned city. What do you think about that!” she snapped, making the crowd back away from her a little more.
And now Pythia smiled. “I think that you’re about to make me show you,” she said as she gestured around them. “I can see you’ve built a nice little thing for yourself. Really. You’ve got it nice. But you’re messing with the wrong filly. I won’t waste a curse on you. I don’t need to.” Her voice was cold, and certain, and loaded with menace. “I’ll destroy everything you have here. Everything you are, with just three little words. You might kill me, but that’ll just give you my death curse. Even if you don’t, everything you have here would be taken from you. Everything. With just three little words.”
Scylla’s eyes narrowed, widened, and narrowed again. Then she smirked. “As if. Nothing you say can hurt me,” she said, then examined her hoof a moment, polishing it on the sleeve of her suit jacket. “Still, I like your style. You might be suited for the Syndicate. So in the interest of your future employment, I’m going to let you walk.” She nodded to the others. “Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Pythia snapped. “Doctor. A good one. Where can we find one?”
Scylla frowned at her. “Go to the city plaza. That way,” she said, gesturing with a hoof. “Ask around for Doctor Galen. Tell him I sent you. Tell me if he doesn’t give you a discount.” Then her smirk returned. “In return, you’re going to meet someone.”
“I can’t wait,” Pythia said evenly. Scylla turned and trotted off. The rest of the crowd dispersed as well, with the large, ulcerated mare glowering at the ponies. “Let’s go,” Pythia said as she climbed into the trailer. “Coming?” she asked Aleta and Majina, both of whom climbed into the trailer as well. “Eat some agoloosh,” she told Majina.
Scotch put the gun away, turning to Aleta. “You don’t have to. You can go home if you want.” Aleta just stared at her in bafflement.
“Don’t be stupid. Of course she can’t go home. She’s cursed,” Pythia said.
“You didn’t curse her! Or at least, you better not have!” Scotch declared.
“Of course I didn’t,” Pythia answered. “You did. Now drive, and let’s get Scalybutt McBadattitude to this doctor before I lose it,” she said, and Scotch saw her legs were shaking. Quickly she got into the seat, and they started to roll along the curving streets in the direction Scylla had directed.
I cursed her? I’m not a zebra. How did I curse her? I don’t even believe in stupid zebra curses! Scotch thought furiously as she wove her way around to a larger boulevard. More steam-powered tractors huffed and wheezed along the streets the closer to the river they travelled. The razorgrass disappeared, replaced by dozens and dozens of tiny, well-maintained gardens. As they drove along, the population density steadily increased, along with the overall healthiness of the zebras. Spindly trees and stumps lined the streets, showing that once this had been a lush metropolis. Now it seemed every zebra was struggling to maintain just their own little patch of ground.
Every block, there was a sign of some sort. Aleta translated. ‘Carnico: remember your can. Remember your debt.’ and ‘Pick up your allotment right away from Carnico.’ Some of the signs showed caricatures of grass cringing away from a smiling drop being drizzled from a can while healthy smiling crops grew safe behind it.
Eventually, an unmarked line was crossed, and they were in the city proper. Scotch had never seen so many zebras in one place. It was almost dizzying to watch so many stripes going about carrying bags or baskets with produce and goods every which way. Here, at last, were some living trees carefully cultivated and decorated with red ribbons and little brass bells. Every block seemed to have a little park of a few hundred square feet decorated with bits of growth.
And then they reached the ‘plaza’, a huge semicircle where eight roads came together. That was it? When they stopped for a moment behind a stalled tractor, Scotch rose on her hind legs and looked back. This relatively nice section of civilization was less than a half dozen blocks clustered along the river. The rest might as well have been ruins straight out the Wasteland. Across the wide, muddy river were larger, newer-looking buildings and factories. There were even electric lights she could see in the distance. A lone stone bridge stretched across, wide enough for ten vehicles to cross side by side.
“Come on,” Scotch said, pulling into an alley near the plaza. “We need to find that doctor.” After having people try and take the Whiskey Express once, she sought a way to disable it. Finally, she dumped the steam and then detached the pressure release valve. There. If anyone tried to steal it, they’d just get a faceful of steam.
Finding Doctor Galen was easy. Zebras took one look at the injured Majina and pointed the way. They considered the rest of them with that questioning stare that asked ‘What is this motley troop doing in our home?’ The doctor’s clinic was on the fourth floor of a gray, soot-stained office building, and they wound all the way up the twisting stairs. A large red glyph was painted on the wall next to the door. “What does that mean?” Scotch asked.
“Proditor,” Aleta murmured.
Zebra for ‘traitor’.
Inside, the doctor’s office was almost empty, two young mares and a receptionist the only people present. The former kept their eyes low as the bloody and scarred band entered, but the receptionist rose to her feet. “What is the meaning of this? Who are–?”
“We’re patients,” Pythia said, gesturing to Precious on Aleta’s back and Majina. “The dragonfreak took a gunshot to the head, and this one got her face clawed by said freak. We were sent by a zebra who looked like me. Said you would help.”
The door next to the receptionist’s desk opened, and a handsome zebra stallion emerged. Tall and broad, he seemed more like a person who belonged on a farm. He wore a somewhat stained white doctor’s coat, his mane short and well groomed, and a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Like the other Carnilian zebras, his stripes were broad and long, but his appeared as if they’d been brushed with red paint. “What’s going on here?” he asked in a calm and steady voice.
“They just barged in here without an appointment–” the receptionist began.
He went straight to Precious and tilted her head, inspecting the wound. “Osane!” he snapped over his shoulder, and a mare emerged with matching stripes, just as red as his. “Prep for surgery. Gunshot wound to the head.” She nodded and disappeared into the back. He looked at the two wide-eyed mares in the waiting room. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but could you please come back tomorrow? I’ll take care of you then. Unfortunately, this injury won’t wait.”
“Of course, doctor,” murmured one. The other sniffed, dropping her eyes back to the floor.
He touched the upset patient’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you before you start to show. They’ll never know,” he told her gently, then turned to the receptionist as they departed. “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you go home before it gets late? I know your foals will be glad for some extra time with you.” The receptionist nodded as he gestured to Aleta. “Bring her in. Quickly. This is going to be messy, but we’ll need to extract the round before we use healing potions. Leaving a lead bullet in a brain is a death sentence. Hopefully the jacketing is still intact and holding it together.”
Aleta meekly followed the doctor’s directions, carrying Precious inside. He took one last look at Majina and told the receptionist, “And give her a healing draught. I’ll settle up later.”
“Yes, Doctor Galen,” she said, digging behind the counter a moment and producing a small potion. Majina didn’t take it, so Scotch took it for her, unstoppered it, and offered it to the filly. Only then did she drink it as the receptionist walked out of the office, locking the door behind her.
“Wait here. Don’t go,” the doctor instructed the three of them.
Scotch Tape shared a look with Pythia, and they took seats on the vacated couches. “Not how I expected to get to Rice River.”
“Not at all. I thought we’d get off a ship, find our way south from there,” Pythia admitted, flopping on her back.
“Nice job with Scylla, by the way. I thought that Starkatteri were… I dunno. I didn’t expect that,” Scotch admitted.
“I didn’t either. Maybe things are different here. I’ve never seen a Starkatteri like her before,” Pythia said, then smiled. Then she started to laugh. It was two parts mirth, one part nervous relief, with just a twist of evil. “Ha! That’ll show her to try and out-mystic me! She didn’t even have a cloak!”
“That’s a bedsheet,” Scotch said with a little smile.
“Details,” Pythia replied with a sniff. “I knew that she was bluffing. She might have some manipulation skills, but the second she made that crack about hundreds of curses going off, I knew she was lying. Probably uses superstition as a protection racket.”
“She was lying?” Scotch asked, aghast.
“If she has the ability to rig hundreds of ‘curse bombs’ ready to blow, she’d be the strongest Starkatteri in history. The Curse of Damocles is a bitch to pull off on one individual, but those rubes don’t know that. She’s probably using their fear to extort them, and fear of her death curses to keep them from kicking her out on her ass.”
“Curse of Damocles?” Scotch asked. She glanced at Majina, but the filly wasn’t listening as she sat in her own seat.
“Basically a spiritual grenade set as an I.O.U. to someone who owes you or someone who wronged you. You really need to be in the right spiritually to pull it off well. Try to do it out of petty spite, like she suggested, and it’ll go off in your face. If the person can’t square things with you, the curse goes off. Usually pretty ugly, too, as it signals to every spirit that you’re fair game and it empowers them to really exert themselves on you. If you’re lucky, they just kill you and don’t do amusing things with your corpse.”
“Every time a zebra says the word ‘curse’, I want to scream. I mean, why not just call it a spell? Would that be so hard? The Spell of Damocles. Voila!” Scotch said crossly.
“Well, yeah. You could say that if you were a unicorn. But a curse isn’t like magic. You do magic. A curse is more like… like a stain. A mark. It stacks the universe against you so that all those little things just go wrong. Unicorns cast spells and move things with their mind. Pegasi fly. Earth ponies do… whatever you do. Zebras direct the power of the cosmos against you.”
“Guess that’s why you won the war,” Scotch said with a snort.
“I dunno. Not a shaman,” Pythia said with a shrug.
“Wait. So all that talk about her having tons of babies… that was a bluff?” Scotch gaped at her.
Pythia frowned in annoyance. “Well, yeah, duh. Just because we’re a tribe of mystics doesn’t mean we can all do magic. Half of it is just lying and tricks to keep people doubting enough that they don’t ream our rear ends.”
The door opened, and Aleta emerged. The scarred mare stood and whirled, then snapped at the closed door. “Murderous! Foul! Evil! Wicked! You’re disgusting! Disgusting!”
Scotch blinked at the mare, who realized they were all watching her, and she crumpled a little. “He is a bad doctor. The worst.”
“You mean he can’t do the surgery?” Scotch asked, now really alarmed.
“Oh, he seems like he can,” she said with a disdainful snort and a glare at the door. “Filthy Proditor has the skills for that, it seems. Murderous foal killer.”
“Wait.” Scotch blinked in bafflement. “What?!”
Majina sighed, looking at Scotch with weary eyes. “He’s Carnilian. They’re the tribe of life. Sex. Birth. So how do you betray all that if you’re a doctor?”
Scotch blinked, and then her eyes went wide. “You mean…” she trailed off, trying to think of the word.
“That’s right. The doctor Scylla sent us to is an abortionist.”
Two hours. Two hours not knowing if Precious was going to live or die. Two hours of everyone sitting in silence in the waiting room, with nothing but the ticking of the clock in the corner to mark the crawl of time. Again and again, Scotch would look to the other three. Again and again, no one spoke.
Pythia broke the silence with a mumble that made the rest jump as if it were a gunshot. “She’s probably going to make it.”
“You saw it?” Scotch asked with a relieved smile.
“No. The future here’s all tangled up. I mean, she’ll probably pull through. She’s a dragon. As long as he can extract the bullet before healing her up, she should be fine.” She glanced at the door. “It’s probably taking so long because sawing through dragonbone can’t be easy.”
“Do you really think so?” Majina asked. The potion the receptionist had given her had healed the slashes to her face, but she still had barely talked at all since they’d arrived in the office.
“Probably. And if she has any brain damage, how could we tell?” Pythia’s attempt at cutting humor fell flat, and as everyone else’s eyes dropped, she sighed. “All I’m saying is to be… optimistic.” She said the word like it tasted sour on her tongue.
“What will all of you do next?” Aleta asked as she regarded the three fillies with a wary eye.
“Huh?” Scotch Tape and the others all exchanged looks. “What do you mean?”
“You must have come to Rice River for a reason,” the mare said with a furrowing of her brows. “Or are you just commonly hunted by monsters wherever you are from?”
“We came to Zebrinica to find something called the ‘Eye of the World’. Specifically, if it was blinded or not,” Scotch explained, glancing at Majina to see if she wanted to elaborate; the filly didn’t seem to be in the mood, though. “I don’t know why those people are chasing me, but they are. They’re being led by a pirate from a ship called the Riptide. I have no idea why they’d be after me, though. I’m just a pony.”
“A cursed pony,” Pythia amended.
“Curses smurches. I’m not cursed. I’ve just had a run of bad luck since we left Hoofington,” Scotch said with a snort.
“Do you know anything about it?” Majina asked in a little voice. Aleta shook her head. “Of course not.”
“I’m sorry. I am just a farmer,” she said quietly.
“So,” Scotch began, “when are you going to go home? We can drive you there when we’re sure those hunters aren’t going to snag us. Probably a few days, at the most.” She tried to give the zebra a reassuring smile. When she didn’t respond or return the expression, Scotch continued “What? Can’t you go home?”
“I can’t. I’m–” Aleta began, but Scotch cut her off with a shriek.
“You’re not cursed! I’m not cursed! No one is cursed! If you want to go home, then just go! If you don’t want us to take you, then just say so, but stop it with the stupid curse nonsense!” she shouted.
Then a hoof covered her mouth, and she stared up at Aleta, who for the second time frowned at her as she glared down. “That is enough. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’m not. I’ll not risk my family till I am sure no harm will come to them.” She then turned and stared out a window facing south. “Everything happens for a reason.”
“Wha… no they don’t! Plenty of things happen with no reason at all!” Scotch objected, getting another frown from the scarred mare. “Well… they do,” she repeated weakly, not able to meet her angry stare.
“You are a pony. You cannot understand,” she said with a dismissive sniff.
Scotch wanted to keep arguing, but the door to the back opened and the doctor emerged, sans lab coat. His tired brown eyes took in the four of them before he gave a small smile. “She’s still alive. We extracted the bullet and administered a healing potion. Now we just hope the insult hasn’t left any permanent damage.”
Scotch immediately relaxed a bit, sliding off the seat and onto her hooves. “Thank you, Doctor. Can we see her?”
“I think you should wait till she’s recovered,” he said as he examined the four of them. “Do you have a place to stay?” All four exchanged looks, and even Aleta shook her head. “Very well,” he said as he looked over his shoulder. “Osane, can you put up a pair of guests?”
“If one doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor,” she answered from the back room. Galen glanced at them, and again they seemed to agree, even if Aleta frowned, clearly upset by something the two Proditor had done or said.
“Good. I have an apartment in this office, and Osane is just down the block. Her husband is respected, so you should be safe there,” he said as he turned and started to retreat into the back. “Give us some time to attach the monitors and clean up.”
When he disappeared inside again, Aleta muttered, “Disgusting, vile monsters…”
“Okay. That’s it!” Scotch said as she whirled on Aleta, the scarred mare’s eyes going wide. “What is your problem? He just pulled a bullet out of my friend’s head, and you’re acting like he’s the one who shot her!”
“He is Proditor! He ends life before it even has a chance to draw breath!” she said, thrusting an accusatory hoof at the door. “All life is sacred! All! From the grandest zebra to the lowliest pony. All are alive and to be respected. He ends life, and does it under the disgusting excuse that he is saving lives. I bet he slays patients he can not save. You should be lucky that he didn’t give up and slay your friend.”
“All life? Like… even flesh-eating bacteria?” Pythia asked.
“Even that should be respected, its spirit sent away and appeased rather than killed with chemicals and poison,” she retorted.
Scotch shared a look with Pythia. “So… say there’s a nasty, pinchy bug about to burrow into your leg. You wouldn’t squash it?”
“No. I would move it elsewhere. I have no right to end its life.”
“And if a raider came to rape you and your whole family, you wouldn’t try to kill him? Even if he was like… the weakest and sickliest raider?” Scotch asked. Was laughter the correct response to this, or horror?
“No. We would hide, then if he found us we would ask him to stop, then we would… let him… till he was sated and moved on,” she said as she trembled. “All life is sacred.”
She glanced at Majina. “Please tell me the whole tribe isn’t like this!”
“They’re not,” a mare said from the door to the back. Osane made Scotch Tape appreciate the merits of bisexuality more than usual. Like Diane, she just had a body shape that made Scotch’s eyes roam all over her. The stripes that extended from her spine went all the way down her body to her fetlock-less ankles. Something about the positioning of those lines made Scotch feel tingly. Osane’s red eyes gazed at Aleta evenly. “You’re from a scar farm, aren’t you?”
Aleta inhaled. “I am.”
“Thought so,” she answered, then addressed Scotch Tape. “Most Carnilia aren’t above taking medicine or using grass killer or pesticides if they need to.”
“Most Carnilia have abandoned our Tradition. That brought about the Day of Doom,” Aleta asserted, and Osane simply shrugged, not arguing the point.
“To most Carnilia, zebra life is sacred, and Carnilian life most of all. Zebras who live on scars take the ‘life is sacred’ tenet to its most extreme.” She considered the frowning, scarred mare. “It’s pretty impressive they survive at all. I couldn’t do it.” That seemed to mollify Aleta a bit. “You’ll find Carnilians are a complex tribe. Unfortunately, most of them won’t be very receptive to a pony. Your kind did create the razorgrass, after all.”
Scotch didn’t argue the point. For all she knew, some earth ponies did make the grass, but she agreed with Precious. It just didn’t sound like a ‘pony weapon’. Too subtle. Ponies didn’t do subtle, at least not well. “And you? You’re Proditor.” The identification made Osane smile a little. “I knew a person… she was a Proditor as well.”
“Yes, I am. I have formally turned my back on some fundamental traditions of my tribe,” she said proudly.
“You should have left our tribe. Joined someone else,” Aleta said evenly.
“I will not lose my stripes any more than you will use a can of Carnico weed killer,” Osane stated, and for the first time Aleta smiled and gave her a little nod in turn. “We should go. It’s not safe when it gets dark.”
Scotch nodded and moved to Majina. The filly hadn’t moved at all during the discussion, “Hey, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” she said as she rose, her eyes to the floor. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she walked towards the door and slipped out into the hall before Scotch could follow. Osane and Aleta left as well, leaving Scotch wondering if she should run after her or not.
“She’s just upset that this story’s not turning out like she imagined,” Pythia said. “I bet she figured we’d be in the zebra lands on a great adventure. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that she’d get hurt along the way. I’m more interested in Scylla. I’ve never seen another Starkatteri who wasn’t barking mad.”
“Is she a seer or something too?” Scotch asked, and received a shrug.
“Maybe. Definitely not a shaman or mystic though. Plenty of Starkatteri pretend we’ve got big, nasty spirits backing us up. It’s how you keep from having your legs broken by other zebras and being left to starve in the Wasteland. Only a few of us can actually back it up. If I’d pointed that out to the crowd and called her bluff, she’d probably have to run for her life. Of course, I would be next. It’d continue till they tried it on a real shaman and had their stripes cursed off. Then it’s back to ‘beware the evil Starkatteri who curse the stupid for their own stupidity’.” She snorted and skimmed a magazine so old that the cover had faded completely white. “I’m more interested in the implication that there’re more Starkatteri here, and that they’re organized.”
“That’s unusual?”
“You remember the three I was with back in the Ponylands?” she asked Scotch. Scotch recalled. It was hard to forget an old zebra crone with ice powers, a mutated balefire wielding zebra, or a stark raving mad pyromaniac. “That was a lot of Starkatteri. We don’t like each other much more than other ponies like us. Working together’s not easy for us. Most other Starkatteri are insecure, terrified, egotistical asses we’d throw to a mob to cover our escape. We’re not a nice tribe.”
Scotch pursed her lips but kept the observation to herself. “Are there Starkatteri Proditor?”
“Sure. They come in two flavors: dead and dead,” she said sharply, then took a breath. “Okay, that’s actually how they end up. Starkatteri who take the red either do so as slaves to the stars, giving up their free will, and a lot of their sanity, to serve them. Amadi was one of those,” she said, referring to the zebra legate who had tormented Blackjack up to the end.
“And the other kind?”
“Skakalakados. ‘Witch hunters’. Okay… bad translation. More like supernatural guards, keeping other Starkatteri in line and preventing us from harming others with curses. As if there weren’t higher powers involved already.” She sniffed disdainfully. “They go around and do the other tribes’ dirty work of keeping us in our place. They usually end up so cursed that a good sneeze will finish them off.”
“So, no chance of you taking the red?” Scotch Tape said with a small smile.
“Remember what I said about being cursed? Seriously. Being a Starkatteri Proditor makes us a target to our own tribe.” She sniffed as she turned the page. “My mother was one,” she said absently.
“Your mother?”
“Didn’t know her long but I remember the red stripes,” she said, returning to her magazine as she went on. “Atropos took care of me after she died. For all I know, she’s the one who killed her.” She glanced up from her magazine to stare at her. “Being a Proditor is a big deal. Cowards try to leave their tribe. Proditor say ‘screw you’ to their tribe. And they pay for it.”
“It’s more ‘I dissent’ than ‘screw you’, though many zebras would agree” the doctor said from the doorway leading to the back of the office where they’d taken Precious. “Sometimes the tribe needs to know they have to change. Some zebras don’t like change.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Back here. You can see your friend on the way.”
They passed an examination room and storage closet before reaching a medical room. A stainless steel table gleamed in the middle under a large light. There were a dozen cupboards loaded with all kinds of strange medical devices. Then they reached another exam room that had been turned into a post-op; there lay Precious with the top half of her head wrapped completely in gauze. A monitoring device beeped and booped quietly next to her.
“Is she going to be okay?” Scotch asked him.
“Hard to say. I’ve never had a patient like her. I’ve given her both zebra and pony healing potions, but neither were terribly effective. She really is an amazing fusion. Most patients with alterations, I can tell where the dragon hide’s been fused or the claws implanted. She’s seamless. It’s astonishing,” he said with a weary smile. “Unfortunately, it also complicated her medical treatment immensely. The bullet was intact, otherwise I don’t think we’d have been successful. As is, it inflicted some significant trauma to the left lobe of her brain. I don’t know how she’ll be after recovery.”
“Is there anyone who could help her more? Like, with magic?” Scotch asked with a worried frown.
“Shamans with those capabilities are in short supply here. If you’re looking for a unicorn, you might find one on the other side of the river, though,” he said as he pointed east with his hoof.
“What? Really?” Scotch blinked in amazement.
“You didn’t think you were the only ponies in the zebra lands, did you?”
“I kinda did,” she murmured weakly.
“There’re a few dozen or so over there. I can’t say I know any of them. They never come here.” His smile faded. “A few work for Carnico. Unicorns, as you said. The rest work on the boardwalk. It’s the, ah… well, where they work.”
So magic was a possibility. “I’ll look into it tomorrow,” she said with a nod. She walked over and gave Precious’s leg a hug, then trotted with the doctor into the rear of the office. A break room had been converted into a kitchenette and studio, with a cot in one corner. A couch sat opposite an old TV. Bookcases full of medical texts filled one corner. “Bathroom and shower are through there,” he said, pointing with a hoof at a door. “You two can share the couch, can’t you?”
“Sure,” Scotch said, then pointed at the TV. “Wait. Does that thing actually work?”
He nodded and walked over, tapping one of a row of buttons set in along the base. “There’re only a few channels. You must get far more over in the Ponylands.”
They had won the war. They still had their TV. “Only the pegasi had anything like this. Even my stable didn’t have TV. I just read about them in books.” The image flickered and coalesced into view, and from a speaker in the base came a nasally mare’s voice whining about her sister… or cousin… or something. It was hard to follow as the black and white picture showed a pair of Carnilian zebras in an apartment squabbling over something.
“Ah. ‘Black and White’. Classic comedy,” he said with a smile. “I’ve seen this one before. Most of our shows are pre-war reruns.”
Scotch didn’t look away, fascinated by the mare and stallion arguing as a whiny young mare joined the pair, and apparently her added trouble made the audience laugh. “Wait… who’s she? And what…” Scotch trailed off as the stallion thudded his hoof on the table yelling about no more mares. Just then, another two zebra mares walked in talking to each other and were pulled into the rapidly escalating argument. “But why is he…” she muttered in bafflement.
Then they all started to have sex.
“O…kay…” Scotch murmured weakly, quirking an eyebrow. And this was ‘comedy’?
“Wait. Here it comes,” he said with a grin. Then another mare entered, but her stripes were strange, swirly affairs. She carried a tray on her head, but at the sight of the orgy, yipped, sitting down stiffly and launching the tray into the air. She jabbed a hoof at the Carnilians and spoke a string of zebra so rapid Scotch couldn’t begin to follow, then sat and covered her eyes, and the tray clanged down atop her head. Both the audience and Doctor Galen found that hilarious as she grabbed the tray, covered her rear with it, and hobbled out as if doing a pee-pee dance. “Oh Hapihao. Best cook ever.” His smile faded a little. “The series never did show us when she finally had sex with Penulimo. They teased over it for years. He loved her. She loved him. But then the Day of Doom came.”
Then they finished with five minutes of sex, and once the stallion had blown his quite copious and messy load, the next mare said ‘my turn!’ and the stallion gave the camera a weary, hapless stare before the scene faded to black and the credits rolled.
Okay. When Scotch had imagined zebra entertainment, that wasn’t it.
“Is that typical?” she asked, her cheeks still burning. Sex happened a lot in 99. It was a big part of stable life, and yet it still hadn’t been so… brazen… as the show depicted.
“Fairly, for most Carnilian shows,” he said, his smile casual. “I’m guessing you, like most everyone else, find the sex offensive?”
“Er… kinda? Not offensive. Just… surprising.” Honestly, swap out the zebras for ponies, and it probably would have been a huge hit in 99. Of course, that would have required working televisions, too. “I mean, I can kinda see the humor in it.”
“You just like getting laid,” Pythia muttered, ignoring the TV as she continued reading the magazine she’d absconded from the waiting room with.
“Who doesn’t?” Galen asked with a smile. “As long as it’s consensual and safe, there’s nothing bad about sex. Now, what comes afterward is far more tricky.”
Scotch regarded the stallion. “So you’d have it with me?” she asked. “Hypothetically?”
“Sorry. You’re a bit immature, and green,” he replied, completely not offended by her question. “I might be Proditor, but some of the old biases against miscegenation are hard to shake.”
Immature?! She fought the urge to fill him in on her history, and instead asked, “Miscegenation?”
“Traditional Carnilians have taboos against interspecies intercourse. Zonies are sterile, which is an abomination to most Carnilians. Other species are nonviable reproductively, and so that sex is sex for pleasure alone, which is a waste of semen. Traditionalists would rather see zebras mate with zebras, ponies with ponies, and griffons with griffons. Thus, they add to the life of the world.” He waved his hoof through the air at that. “Of course, the modernists across the river say sex is sex, and who you have it with, or how often, is your own business.”
“So you’re a traditionalist?” Pythia asked with an arch smile.
“I’d say so. I was raised such,” he replied.
“Then it’s really interesting that you terminate pregnancies,” Pythia commented as she studied him.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That is a complicated matter, and I’m not sure I wish to discuss it with you,” he said, his smile gone.
“I don’t mean to pry. She does, but I don’t,” Scotch said. “I’m curious too. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
He blinked in surprise. “You don’t?”
“I came from a stable where we had strict population requirements. Even with contraceptive implants, accidents happened. Better to stop a pregnancy early if the stable systems couldn’t support the baby once it was born,” Scotch explained.
The comment electrified the doctor. “Yes! Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to explain for years!” He rose and trotted. “I understand the Tradition, but the cold fact is that with the grass consuming our arable land, we can’t maintain constant population growth. It’s crippled us for a century or more. We need to stabilize our population, focus on breeding healthier children, and expand the population as we push back the grass. Three quarters of our tribe is lost to famine or conflicts, or taken as slaves to other tribes. We simply can’t keep to the old ways and expatriate our surplus population to other regions!” He sighed and gave Scotch a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I don’t often get to say that to a receptive audience.”
“I’m not receptive,” Pythia said as she returned to her magazine. “She is, but I just was curious about your hypocrisy.”
“Starkatteri,” he muttered with a shake of his head, then smiled to Scotch. “Anyway, yes, I am Proditor because I believe we, as a tribe, must curtail our population growth. Contraceptives and abortions are anathema to a tribe that venerates life and the creation of it.”
“I’m surprised you’re not a modernist, if they’re more open minded,” Scotch said.
He twisted his face a little in thought. “It’s not that simple. They’re not just more sexually permissive. They modify themselves like your dragon friend. It’s one thing to control how many of us there are. It’s another to change what we are. So I’m a Proditor traditionalist, giving contraceptive surgery when requested and ending a pregnancy when I must.” He gave a little shrug. “It’s the most honest I can be.”
“Learn to lie better,” Pythia muttered, not looking up from her magazine she asked, “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know what the Eye of the World is and if it’s blind or not, would you? That’d be great.”
“Sure,” he said.
“You do?” she blurted, sitting upright.
“Well, I heard about it once,” he said as he leaned a little away from her, “in a story.”
Pythia immediately slumped and lay back down on the couch. “Pass. I’m not our storytelling fanatic. I need some serious directions if I’m going to get excited.”
“Pythia!” Scotch barked, then addressed Galen, “I’d like to know.”
“It’s just from an old story. Abras the Wanderer. He climbs the holy mountain at the heart of the Empire, looks towards the dawn, and sees the Eye of the World. Through it, he sees everything happening in the world and sees that the mare he loves is now a widow.”
“Let me guess, he goes to her and she has his baby slash babies?” Pythia said as she returned to her magazine.
“Oh. You know the story.”
“If it’s a Carnilian story, it’s a safe bet babies are at the end,” she said as she turned the page. “Anyway, if we come across a holy mountain, hopefully it’s got an elevator and we can just see where the Eye is and if it’s blinded. Hopefully it is one lone peak of exceptional beauty with ambient song and music with the word ‘holy’ glowing in a nimbus above it so we can pick it out from all the other mountains that might be here.”
Scotch frowned at Pythia’s impertinence. “What are you reading that’s got you so…” Whatever she was. Annoying? Frustrating? Disrespectful? Pythish?
“The Caesar granting my tribe protection in the Empire,” she said as she turned the page.
“Ah, yes. That.” Galen pursed his lips in a remarkable similarity to Aleta.
“It is this day that we extend the hoof of friendship to our estranged tribe. No longer set apart, the law shall now extend towards all thirteen tribes. In friendship, we shall embrace them, and in turn, they shall embrace us,” Pythia read from the magazine. “Let the animosities of the old be left behind, so that together we may walk into the future, united.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Scotch asked in bafflement. Pythia just looked at Galen, arching a brow.
He flushed a little and didn’t answer, instead rising and going over to the kitchenette, filling a pot with water and setting it on a hotplate. Pythia just returned to the magazine. “Well, according to this, it cursed the entire Empire, possibly the world, and that anyone who killed a Starkatteri was a hero in the eyes of the author.” She closed the magazine. “Ah, progress,” she said as she set it down at her side. “You work for Scylla, don’t you? I can’t imagine your patients pay you enough to cover this place, and extracting bullets from skulls isn’t the usual bread and butter of your typical gynecologist.”
“You’re very perceptive,” he said evenly, not looking at them.
“Too perceptive,” she said as she rolled onto her back. “So. What is this ‘Syndicate’ she mentioned? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“You haven’t?” He blinked in surprise.
“We were in the Ponylands till a few weeks ago.”
“Ah. That explains the accent,” he said, then took a deep breath. “The Syndicate are… people. They do things. Some of them good. Some of them very bad, depending on who you are. Crime, yes, but they also help people for a price. They maintain the peace in Rice River, but they have no jurisdiction over the tribe. They have ties everywhere, but no open alliances. Most think of them as criminals, others as saviors of last resort.”
“And you?” Scotch asked.
“I think they bring people to me who are injured, and I make them less injured, and they provide me with supplies to keep doing my work,” he said evenly as he took out a package of some kind of noodle and slipped it into the pot. Then he started to cut some sort of fruit into thin slices. “I try not to think of the harm they may cause. They need me as much as I need them.”
Pythia nodded slowly. “Scylla wants me to meet them.”
“It is a good opportunity for someone of your tribe. The Syndicate cares nothing for tribes, only results.”
Pythia nodded slowly. The three watched television for some time while Galen cooked and provided the pair with a salty, limp noodle soup with little bits of vegetables floating pathetically on the top. The classic shows were all reruns, but there was a news channel, an ‘educational’ channel for foals, and a public broadcast, all interspaced with commercials from ‘Carnico’, which apparently ran the television broadcasts. Most of them were black and white, or with slightly washed out colors, but still… color! It was a window to a time before the bombs and megaspells fell, showing zebra life for the Carnilian tribe. Oddly, the four shows Scotch watched were all comedies of varying themes, one of a harried zebra mother managing nine foals with a rather airheaded husband and bondsister who was a little sharper than the lead. Another was a zebra stallion attempting to woo one lone zebra mare but being blocked at every turn by his coworkers, who were all negotiating their own sexual politics. They showed families larger than she could ever imagine.
She’d only had a few years with her mother that she could appreciate, before she’d died, and only a few months before her father died too. What was it like to have brothers and sisters? If television was any indication, friends and enemies you couldn’t get away from, often in the same person!
Each episode also showed sex, sometimes for just a few seconds, other times with whole scenes devoted to it. Only one of the four programs seemed to be intended to arouse the viewer, while the rest were more ‘and they had sex, see?’ Getting caught rutting your mate wasn’t embarrassing, getting caught rutting someone else was. Whenever ponies appeared, and they did in two shows, they were always depicted as sex-frightened prudes who furiously masturbated when the zebras teasing them left. Did the zebras have their own Ministry of Image, or was this just a typical stereotype?
Pythia wadded up the corners of her cloak, shoved them into her ears, and read her magazines and books between slurps of soup. Carnilian cuisine left a lot to be desired; even the Orah food had been tastier than this.
Scotch was fighting back a yawn when suddenly the TV flickered and filled with static, and then a mare sang out, “I want my… I want my… I want my Z TV,” repeating it as ‘Z TV!!!’ appeared like spray paint. Galen immediately sat up and smiled as he watched intently.
“Wha–” Scotch began to ask.
Suddenly, the image changed to that of a zebra with broad, horizontal, neon blue stripes, grinning ear to ear as he stared into the camera. The vividity of the color, not just of the zebra but of everything else, blew her mind, pupils shrinking as she was assaulted by the brilliant hues. Behind him were littered dozens of televisions and terminals, all flickering and changing from one image to the next. “Hello Zebratopia! Zebrabrinica! Zebzinica! This is your unauthorized, unlicensed, unaffiliated, unaffected, uncompromised, uncompromising Z TV! To you from me so we can all be free! I have returned, interrupting your regularly scheduled broadcast to bring you the view of the Wasteland, whether you want it or not. Start the timer, and let’s see how long I last!”
“Guh?” was all Scotch could manage.
In the bottom of the screen, a timer appeared, ticking up. “In first news, it seems that the Atoli, or Atori, or whatever they call themselves have gotten their sails in a severe ruffle. Apparently the once pirate, then ex-pirate, now re-pirate Riptide seems to be blasting away at her own people. And this was one of her bondsisters! Remember that the next time you have a fight with your own bondsister, and be glad she’s not packing heavy ordinance with her. Or, if she is, run for a megaspell and hope for the best! That’s what her last target did, and she can count herself as the first person ever to get away from the infamous pirate. Quote Riptide, ‘It was just a little misunderstanding.’”
“What is this?” Scotch gasped. “Did she really say that?” Galen shushed her as the electric-blue-striped zebra continued.
“Now to sports. If you’ve heard people talking about the advancing Iron Legion, you heard right. They’re moving their way east and sacked the settlement of Rogue Hill. The White Legion’s getting the ever loving shit kicked out of them, and it’s just a question of how long it’ll be before they’re booted off the Golden River completely. The Golden Ring Legion are benched this week; taking a powder break, or getting ready for something big? I’d love the inside scoop! The Bloody Hoof got their hooves really bloody in a tussle with the Jade Talons, but that game was called on account of a balewyrm attack! Both captains were eaten, and they settled for a draw. Keep clear of the Gray Reach if you don’t want to be dinner. And let this be a lesson to all you would-be legionnaires: there’s always something willing to make you lunch, no matter which legion you join!
“For the people’s section, I’d like to give a shout-out to Prince Hapahi the Ninteenth of the Tappahani for blowing of his sixteenth betrothal. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to set a new record here, so all you would-be elders, keep throwing your mares at him. Or throw him a stallion. Seriously, props to the guy for never telling us what he wants in bed.
“Now to our feature story for the folks in Rice River. Everyone knows the razorgrass has been making life miserable for centuries, and the popular theory is we have Equestria to thank for it! But ever wonder how you have grass you can’t cut, can’t eat, and can’t burn, that slices you to ribbons if you touch the stuff, but there’s one particular weed killer that’s great for the stuff? What, they just had the stuff lying around, ready to go? I don’t know about Carnilians, but here at Z TV, we find that stuff pretty interesting,” the glowing-striped stallion said as a terminal screen next to him showed a desiccated zebra ghoul. “This here is Antoine, who claims he worked with a team that developed that weed killer. More importantly, he worked on the strain of seed that isn’t killed by the weed killer, the one that Carnico sells to you for whatever bits, bullets, bombs, or bullshit you can trade for it.”
The image of the ghoul filled the screen. “Carnico claims they’ve been working non-stop to find a better way to stem the grass spread, but that’s griffon shit! I know. I worked for them for years before radiation exposure in the lab turned me into this. The management didn’t care about our findings, though, and any results that were remotely positive were shut away. It’s all money and power to these assholes. They know that if you don’t use their killer, the grass takes your land, and if you do use their killer, you have to use their seeds or starve. It’s win-win for them. If you’re driven off your plot, someone else with the poison and the seed will take it, and keep paying.”
The eye-wateringly-blue-striped zebra stallion reappeared. “Now, I know what you Carnilians are saying. He’s an undead abomination, how could you possibly trust him? But consider if he’s right, Carnico could be sitting on piles of other methods to kill the grass but ignoring them because they know they’ve got their own tribe by the walnuts. Inquiring minds want to know!”
There was a burst of static. “Woo! Five minutes and thirteen. They’re getting better! For now, this is Z TV telling you to expand your minds, zebras! To you from me, information wants to be free only on Z TV! Out!” The logo reappeared, along with the singsong tagline, and then the regular show reappeared.
“Wha– How– Who–” Scotch sputtered, then finally blurted, “Why were his stripes glowing blue?!” The one coherent question that escaped her mouth earned her a cool eyebrow arch from Pythia.
“That’s Doctor Z of Z TV,” Galen explained. “No idea who he is, really. Some crazy Propoli who interrupts television and radio all over the place. Been doing it for ages, though he’s gotten a lot more manic in recent years.”
“Like DJ Pon3,” Scotch said, understanding a little bit more. “Inspiring the Wasteland and such.”
“Well, something like that,” Galen answered with an indulging smile. “He mostly spouts conspiracy theories, insults tribal leaders, and watches the movement of the legions. Most of it is nonsense. There’s no way the leader of the Red Hooves is a mare, and no ship escapes from Riptide. That’s a known fact. And people have been making insinuations against Carnico for centuries.” But how? Scotch hadn’t seen anything like the EBS towers here in the zebra lands.
“Yeah, but we did escape from her,” Scotch Tape said with a frown. “The Abalone sailed right through the middle of the Okambo megaspell to get away from her.” That shook his slightly patronizing smile a bit. “We then got lost in the Orah’s swamp and walked, and drove, across the grass plains to get here.”
He stared for several seconds before adjusting his glasses. “I think I need the whole story here,” he said evenly, and she told him everything as they went deep into the night.
* * *
There’s nothing more disturbing than waking up abruptly in a strange place, and Doctor Galen’s apartment smelled of stale noodles and antiseptic. The musty couch had hard lumps in it, and Pythia kicked her frequently in her sleep.
So waking face to face with a dragonfilly inches away wasn’t how Scotch’d planned on starting the day. She almost shouted, but Precious covered her mouth. “What happened? Where are we? Did I kill anyone? Do I need to kill anyone?”
“You’re okay!” Scotch blurted, throwing her hooves around Precious and hugging her tight. “That bullet went into your head! The doctor here pulled it out again.” She gestured at Galen, who blinked owlishly at the three from his cot.
“Ugh, what’s the point of being half dragon if you’re not bulletproof?” she groaned as she fell back on her rump, rubbing the side of her head. “Will I at least have an awesome scar? You know, one that says ‘I got a bullet in the brain and lived’?”
“You’re lucky to be alive. We were worried about you!” Scotch said, then looked to Pythia. “Right?”
“She was worried. I knew you were too annoying to die,” she stated primly, then pulled the sheets over her head.
“Thanks!” Precious replied, then scowled. “Wait. Was that a dig?”
“If you have to ask…” Pythia said from within her cocoon of cloth.
Galen trotted over and pulled out a light, shining it in her eyes. “Amazing recovery. I’ve never seen a fused pony, or zebra, for that matter, recover so quickly.”
“Look! The two of you better get out of my face or I’m gonna…” she said weakly, then suddenly collapsed on her side, legs twitching. “Okay. Lying down till the room stops spinning.”
Apparently she had more healing to do, but, two potions later, she was sipping vegetable broth. Osane, Majina, and Aleta returned while the doctor was fussing over her. The dragonfilly gave Majina a wave. “Heyas. Guess the armor piercing bullet faerie caught up with me, huh?” she asked; the filly just dropped her eyes, though, and Precious’s grin faded as well.
“Doctor!” Osane snapped as she darted past them and into the operating room, then shrieked. “You used our rejuvenation potions! There’s almost no sunweed left! Six packs of enchanted gauze!” Then there came an even higher shriek. “And the entire jar of phoenix ash!?” The Proditor mare returned to the examination room, glowering at the doctor as he rubbed his head with a sheepish smile. She thrust a tiny empty jar at him. “This was given to us specifically for if, and only if, the head of the Syndicate needed us!”
“Well, I was losing her,” Galen muttered, turning his head to gaze at the wall. “I don’t like losing patients.”
“Well now the Syndicate’s going to kill us if they ever find out!” The nurse stared at the baffled Precious. “No wonder you’re recovering so well! He used virtually irreplaceable supplies!”
“Screw you, lady!” Precious growled indignantly. “Sorry for not dying!”
Osane whirled on Galen. “Of course, he should be sorry! The only thing phoenix ash doesn’t cure is death! You should be a drooling moron or corpse, but he used all of it!” She threw the bottle down. “And if something happens to the head–”
“Osane, that is enough,“ Galen said firmly, cutting her short. “I will not sacrifice a patient now for a potential patient in the future when I have the means to save them. The Mendi taught me better. A person’s life is too precious.”
Osane huffed a moment, glaring right at him. “Damn you, Galen. Phoenix ash aside, what are we to do if the Syndicate brings in one of their people with a gunshot? Tell them that we used all our supplies up on a strange dragon thing?” Her glare faltered as she glanced at Precious. “No offence meant, but from what I saw on the counter alone, not counting the ash, that was almost a thousand food ration chits. Possibly more!” She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t suppose you’re five secretly super-wealthy vagabonds, by any chance?”
“Um… we have a gold coin and some junk in our trailer,” Scotch said, fishing out the gold coin that the captain of the Abalone had given them. “Is this good enough?”
“One Imperio? That’s worth about ten or eleven food chits, depending on how generous the trader is feeling,” Osane said gravely, and then she glowered at the doctor. “Why do you keep doing this? You just can’t keep using everything in the stockroom on one patient!”
“I don’t bring life into this world, so I try to take care of what life I can that’s already here. You know that,” he said with that tired smile. Osane just sighed, as if she’d heard this all before. Aleta just stared in bafflement at the doctor, like he’d grown a second head.
Scotch looked at the others, then back at him. “We’ll pay you back. There must be something we can do to pay back what you used up on Precious.” Scotch glanced at the necklace glinting around Precious’s neck. “What about that?”
Precious immediately narrowed her eyes. “Hey! Don’t you be volunteering my shiny.”
“He saved your life,” Scotch pointed out.
“Eh, I might have pulled through on my own,” Precious snorted, then received hard glares from all directions. She pressed the back of her claw to her brow. “Oh, I’m faint…” Then she swayed and collapsed, lying still for a moment before peeking up at the still hard looks. Rising, she snorted and muttered, “I’ll pay him back in something that isn’t my shiny…”
“You don’t have–” the doctor began to say when Osane seized him and covered his mouth with a hoof.
“–to pay it back all at once. Just a bit here and there and everything will be fine.” Then she scowled at him. “And you are going to use it to restock everything you used last night!” She closed her eyes. “I have no idea what we’re going to do for the ash. That jar was priceless.”
“I wanted to be sure, and look at her! She’s doing great!” Galen said with a weak smile in Precious’s direction.
“Ugh! I should trot all the way out east and study with the Mendi myself. Then I can be doctor, and you can be nurse, and I’ll put a lock on the supply cabinet!” She turned, stalking out of the room, then whirled and added, “Oh, and someone bloodied the door again, Galen. Maybe one of these people owing you money could scrub it clean? I need to tally exactly how much saving her life cost us before patients arrive.”
Galen gave a weak smile. “She really is a great nurse. Really! And it’s hard to find a Carnilian Proditor with medical skills. So hard…”
“Bloodied the door?” Scotch said, blinking.
“Eh…” He gave a little wave towards the lobby. “Sometimes people lodge complaints by throwing blood against the door. Just a way of saying hello.”
“It’s a death threat,” Aleta said evenly. “A promise to spill his blood. It takes a lot for a Carnilian to end a life.”
“Technically, they won’t,” the doctor said with that hapless smile. “They’ll tie me up and throw me in a field of razorgrass. That’ll kill me. It’s all in the details.”
“You need to flee,” Aleta told him.
He simply gave her a mirthless smile. “It’s not the first time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be ready for my patients.” He looked towards the back. “Now, where’d I leave that bucket?”
“I will take care of it,” Aleta said, walking to the supply room Osane had vanished into.
“Um… thanks?” he said before sighing and regarding the four. “Anyway, if you pay me back, great. If not… well… you won’t be the first.” He trotted to the entrance and opened it up. Sure enough, someone had taken a brush, painted sticky glyphs over his door, and splashed the walls. “Ugh…” He glanced back at them. “Maybe you should find somewhere else to stay, too. See if Scylla or someone can set you up on the other side of the river. I’m sorry to say this, but you’re not safe with me here.”
“We’ve got a pirate madmare after us, too,” Scotch said, her ears dropping, but she couldn’t blame him. Still, this was a town. An actual, bonafide, not-living-in-a-hotel-or-gutted-statue-or-country-club town. Maybe not the best one, but still, there had to be something she could do for money.
“Care to swap?” he asked, then looked at Pythia. “If you want to touch base with the Syndicate, there’s a cafe on the east side near the river. Happy Cow. Order the Starlight Special. They’ll talk to you.” He rubbed his head and turned to Precious. “If your head starts bothering you again… I can’t really think of anything I can do that I haven’t done already. Aspirin?”
“Eh, I’ll live,” Precious said with a shrug.
Scotch Tape shook her head, then told him. “Could you tell Aleta where to find us when she’s done, if she wants to catch up? Or just tell her she’s not cursed anymore and can go home? Whichever she wants.” Sure, there was a risk of the bounty hunters finding them through her, but, honestly, if they had cursed her, then the further away they were, the better, right?
They found the Whiskey Express right where they left it, and the trailer was still full of its bags of junk. Someone had rifled through them, scattering the contents all over the bed of the trailer, but she couldn’t tell what, if anything, had been taken. The cart was still disabled, though the levers and wheel no longer rested in their original positions. Scotch gave a little smirk of triumph. Precious was on her somewhat wobbly feet. Miss ‘Curses’ was ditched. All they had to do was find some odd jobs to pay back the doctor and find out where they were going next.
Finally, things were starting to come together!
“Pony,” someone muttered in the alley they’d parked in. Two zebras approached, dressed in heavy canvas barding. Heavy, but not exactly raider material. “Where’d you steal that tractor, Pony?”
“I didn’t steal it. I found it,” Scotch countered as they walked by. “Out in the grass.”
“Sure you did. Fucking pony,” the other snapped back as they continued past.
“What was that about?” Scotch said in bafflement.
“Maybe you should let Majina drive?” Pythia suggested as Scotch examined the firebox of embers. Still warm.
“Why?” Scotch asked, blinking in surprise.
“Because when we came in here, we had an adult Carnilian with us, and I don’t think anyone really had time to think things through because we were in such a hurry. I think that either Majina should drive, or we need to at least get on the other side of the river,” Pythia said, frowning as the two zebras suddenly ran off. “Because I’m pretty sure whatever passes for police here is going to be by, and they’re going to think you stole it too.”
“Why? I scavenged it and fixed it up myself! I didn’t steal–” And then it came to her. “You mean they think I’m a thief ‘cause I’m a pony?!”
“Apparently,” Pythia said, looking over her shoulder where the two had disappeared out of sight.
“But that’s… stupid! I don’t think all zebras are thieves or anything else! Why would they think I’m a thief just because I’m a pony!” she said, fuming as she shoved coal into the firebox and mixed it with the embers. There was enough water left in the water tank to get them moving, at least.
“Well, you’re a pony in zebra lands with something valuable,” she said, pointing at the vehicle. “When you’re just a wandering child, it’s not so bad. A vehicle like the Whiskey Express is something a lot of zebras don’t have, and they’re not going to be happy you do.”
Scotch clenched her jaw together and worked the embers in the firebox briskly as she narrowed her eyes. She knew folks might not like her because of the war thing, or blame her for the grass thing, but assuming she was a criminal just for being a pony…
She hopped in the seat and made for the bridge. She’d be damned if anyone was going to take the Whiskey Express from her or think less of her just because she was a pony!
The wide bridge was a mass of zebras and vehicles trudging across to the east bank, where the large factory buildings could be seen. She moved at a crawl to avoid running over zebras trotting in the middle of the street, as if they couldn’t be bothered to get out of her way. Other zebra steam tractors didn’t seem to have the problem of people indolently trotting along in front of them, but she didn’t know what punishment she’d suffer for running over people. Eventually, however, they reached the far side, where the crowd filtered into the various places of work.
In spite of her irritation, Scotch couldn’t help but marvel at this glimpse into a life before the bombs. Ponies had done this too: lived, worked, and played in towns similar to this one. Hopefully not as smoggy, but still. Jobs. Work. Life.
Then she spotted one particular zebra and realized that there was no way this could have been like the old days. He stood on the corner, enjoying a cigarette… that was delicately held in the pincer of a chitinous claw that erupted from his shoulder. A matching one on the other side calmly held some sort of publication, with a fleshy heap atop his shoulders connecting the two unnatural appendages. She very nearly ran over two strollers in her astonishment, but the strange… zebra-thing… was oblivious to her fascination.
And he wasn’t the only one. Here and there were zebras with bizarre mutations that boggled her mind. Zebras with chitinous plates or scaly hides fused to their skin. Strange scarab, crab, or giant centipede-like insects with legs embedded into the flesh of their hosts. Some had slimy leeches adhered to their hides, and the other zebras showed only blasé indifference or mild disgust at the sight. There were claws sprouting from the sides of faces, eyeballs of dragons and insects replacing normal eyes, fleshy pseudopod eyestalks, and even a few zebras with entire limbs of other species attached. She even spotted one with a bulbous growth on her brow tipped with a unicorn spire that was shakily holding a coffee cup in a telekinetic glow.
There were different species, too. She recognized the griffons from Equestria, and the centaurs, gargoyles, and hounds from her attackers, but there were plenty of other creatures. Apelike things with hands sprouting from the tips of their long, prehensile tails. Beasts with three, or four, or five heads all having conversations with each other. Zebra-sized birds that crackled with lightning as they perched on eaves overhead. Lithe, painfully graceful equine people with long, elegant horns curving back from their brows. Shaggy predatory beasts that were all fur and claw, like feline hellhounds, that were given wide berths as they travelled through the crowds.
There were ponies, too. Rare splashes of color here or there wandering through the crowd, keeping their heads low. Oddly, almost all of them had stripes painted on their bodies. If that was to prevent hostility or blend in, she had no idea, but the few that noticed her gaped in astonishment before hurrying on their way.
The factory dominated the landscape. Several buildings all interconnected with pipes, girders, and grain silos loomed over the rest of the buildings squatting in their shadow. ‘Carnico’ was emblazoned in rust-streaked letters across the face of the factory, with the last ‘o’ transformed into a smiling sun. She couldn’t see the end of the facility through the haze of coal smog settling from the smokestacks above, and her PipBuck gave an anemic click every other minute. Some workers trudged in the front gate, but others gathered around a platform where zebras scribbled glyphs and numbers on a chalkboard. They held up little plastic tiles, calling out, “I got four food chits here! Four food chits! Fertilizer duty. Who wants to shovel shit?” And then they would pick four out of the crowd of thousands, sending them back towards a special gate. Some received two chits. Some three. One stallion was awarded ten, much to the howls of anger from the mob of those unpicked. The majority were left waiting and waving their hooves as jobs were called out.
“I think that’s the cafe Galen mentioned,” Pythia said. ‘Happy cow noodle shop’ sat just to the side of the mob, built into the side of a larger, unmarked building. The only ‘happy cow’ she saw was the mascot of a grinning cow vaulting over a crescent moon. Most of the zebras stood around tiny tables that barely held their bowls, standing on their hind legs, slurping noodles and broth or drinking little glasses of something white that might have been milk.
“How do you know?” Scotch asked as she pulled the tractor in next to the large building.
“The cow’s jumping over the moon,” Pythia said as she climbed out of the tractor, then looked at the four. “We need to have a meeting first, though.”
“We do?” Precious blinked. “Mommy and daddy are having a baby?”
Pythia closed her eyes, emitting only a long-suffering sigh. Majina transformed from black and white to black and infra-red. “What! No! How would they… I mean…” Then she paused and narrowed her eyes. “Which one of you would be the daddy?”
Precious couldn’t grin any further. “I don’t know. Which one are you thinking is the daddy, because this is too much!”
“Meeting. Now,” Pythia said with a snort, pointing to the ground next to the tractor. “Circle up.” When everyone was assembled, she looked from one to the next. “Okay, are we seriously going to pay back Galen? We didn’t ask him to spend a billion caps, or chits, or whatever the heck they use for money. We got things to do.”
“How can you ask that?” Scotch responded, aghast. She glanced at Majina, but the filly only stared at her hooves.
“Easy,” Pythia answered. “We find out where the Eye is and go, or where the letter came from and go. Either way, we’ve got no reason to hang around this place. Remember? We’re being hunted?”
“Yeah, but now we’re in a town with thousands of people to hide among. Out there, it’s not hard to ask if anyone’s seen a pony, dragonpony, Starkatteri, and zebra. Here, I’m not the only pony, and if I have to paint some stripes on me to fit in even more, then I’ll paint some stripes. And this is also the only place I can think of that Precious can fit in too!” Scotch said, jabbing a hoof at a zebra walking down the street with a pangolin-like coat of scales rippling with each step.
“Yeah! I finally found my people!” Precious said with a smile.
Pythia grit her teeth and tilted her head. “Still, if we’re not careful, we could get bogged down here, or caught.”
“Sure, but we could also get some things we need,” Scotch countered. “Let’s face it. We didn’t exactly plan this out when we got here. We have one gun, and I’m not one hundred percent sure how to use it right. Some decent barding, weapons, and supplies wouldn’t be a bad thing to have when we go on to find the Eye.”
“Are we still caring about this eye thingy being blind or not?” Precious asked. “Raise your hoof if you don’t care about blind world eyes.” And she raised her claw. To Scotch’s shock, Majina raised hers a little too.
“Yes!” Pythia snapped at once. “We need… I need… to find out. I hear the phrase ‘Eye of the World is Blind’ and hits me like ‘Project Horizons’ or ‘Eater of Souls’. That this is important, and I need to know. I don’t know why, but there are things up there that are really stirred up about it.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “If you don’t want to help, fine. I’ll go on my own. But I’m not ready to just drop this.”
“But Pythia, we might find out what you need to know if we stick around a while. We left the Hoof because no one in Equestria knew anything about things happening in the zebra lands! Well, here we are!” Scotch said with a grin. “There’re thousands of zebras here, and one of them has to be someone who can give you solid answers.”
“Yeah. Thousands of zebras that hate ponies, half ponies, and Starkatteri!” Pythia snapped.
“I dunno. This side of the river seems okay,” Precious said as she surveyed the crowd around the platform. “Maybe a little dirtier.”
“They might hate us, but Majina’s none of those things, right?” Scotch said, trying to get the filly out of her funk and enthusiastic again. Majina just looked away. “Point is, there are things we can explore here.”
“And if Riptide shows up and shells the town if it doesn’t hand us over?” Pythia asked.
“If she comes, then we run with the rest of the city for our lives. But there are no walls here, just tons of people. Those hunters won’t know if we stay or go. Which direction do we take? When do we leave? We’ll have to keep our eyes peeled, but that’s normal for anywhere,” Scotch said.
Pythia finally slumped. “I don’t like this place. It feels like a trap.”
“Well, if it is, then it’s caught a few thousand people. Just be patient. We’ll pay back Galen, find where we need to go, and make sure we have the right stuff when we go,” Scotch said, giving her a smile.
“Stars, I wish I knew how to be stupid and optimistic like that,” Pythia marveled, then sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I guess I haven’t been given a timetable for finding this stuff out. Just… don’t want to wait too long.” She turned and started towards the entrance of the cafe. “Let’s go.”
Scotch glanced at Majina, then called to Pythia, “Hey! We’ll catch up.” She pulled out the Imperio and tossed the coin to them. Precious lunged for it, but Pythia snatched it out of the air before the dragonfilly could catch it. “Get something to eat in the meantime.”
“Let me carry it!” Precious said as Pythia walked with it in her mouth. “Come on, it’s shiny! Looks heavy, I can haul it. You don’t know where that’s been!” she was saying as the pair disappeared around the corner.
“Looks like the phoenix ash is pretty amazing stuff. Should look for more for us,” Scotch said, then glanced at Majina sitting there as if trying to collapse in on herself. Scotch moved up next to her. “Hey. Wanna go see the river?” Majina didn’t answer, so they walked to the front of the cafe as well, crossing the street and moving towards the concrete embankment next to the murky water’s edge. Once, there’d been planters built along the edge, but they were full of garbage now. Still, the edge gave them something to sit on.
The eponymous torrent running through Rice River was a broad slurry a kilometer wide rolling down towards the sea in a great, foamy surge. Even now, zebras had… something… like life before the bombs. No matter how you sliced it, that was pretty impressive. She checked to make sure there weren’t any bounty hunters ready to snatch her up. Coal ash drifted down around them as she put a hoof across Majina’s shoulders and tugged her closer. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffed and rubbed her nose. “I’m tired of people getting hurt,” she said.
“Precious is fine. The doctor used…”
“And what if he hadn’t? What if Precious had died or… or worse! What if she’d lived but been drooling or brain damaged or… would we have just abandoned her?!” She trembled and shook her head. “I keep seeing people getting hurt, like those poor farmers, and… and I don’t like it!” She held the cheek that Precious had slashed. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either, but we can’t change it. People get hurt,” Scotch Tape said. “It’s a fact of life.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be!” Majina said as she sniffed, tears forming new stripes in the dust on her cheeks. “At Osane’s… they laughed. They were happy! Her husband’s not Proditor, and she has five kids, and everyone was happy. No one was screaming or clawed or… it was how the world should be! Where the only pain is getting teased because your sister turned your stripes plaid or hid your doll.”
She curled up as Scotch struggled to think of something to say. Majina curled up a bit on her side. “Mom got hurt a lot. Then she got killed. When we were in Chapel, I thought we’d stop hurting, but even that didn’t last. Then she died.” She clenched her eyes closed, turning her face to the dirty concrete as she wept silently.
Scotch felt a hole she’d thought safely covered over open up inside her. “I… I know, Majina. My mom… it was like she left and never came home. They put her in the recycler before I even saw her body. Said it was a kindness…” She shook and swallowed. “I thought… I used to think that it was all a mistake. That she’d come in and we’d laugh, and I’d go back to school with my friends, rather than going down to maintenance. But she never did. And Daddy…” She trailed off as she felt that hole threaten to open so wide that she wouldn’t be able to close it again.
“I’m tired of being hurt,” Majina said as she peered up at Scotch. “I want to be Momma’s happy tale, but I don’t know if I am. I’m not even sure if you girls like me.”
“I like you. I’m pretty sure Precious does too.” Scotch balked as she wiped her own cheeks. “Pythia’s… I don’t know if she can like someone, but I don’t think she hates you.”
“I don’t know if she even likes herself,” Majina said, wiping her eyes, then looked at Scotch. “Was this how it was when you were travelling with Blackjack?”
Scotch sat bolt upright, as if someone had dumped ice water down her back. “Oh horseapples!” she gasped. “No! Not at all. There was a lot more… um… shooting! And… um… sex! Yep! Lots of sex! Tons.” Then she cocked her head. “Actually… yeah. Blackjack really loved doing it. Glory. Daddy. Stygius. She really wasn’t picky.” She stomped her hoof. “None of that here! So… yeah! Nothing like Blackjack!”
Thinking about sex helped her not think about all the bad things that happened, and she looked down at Majina. “Point is, we’re not Blackjack and her friends. We’re… something else. Okay?” And she gave Majina her most encouraging smile and finally got one in return. “Come on. I’m hungry.”
They’d started across the street when Majina asked, “What’s sex like, Scotch?” The question made her skip a step and land on her face in the middle of the street. Fortunately, there weren’t any steam tractors moving through at the moment… though, honestly, had one run her over right then, that’d be just grand!
“Um… great! Can we discuss it… some other time? Any other time?” Scotch asked as she blushed furiously, picking herself up and getting out of the street.
“I was just curious. You’re a lot like Blackjack was, and–”
“I’m not like her!” Scotch said, turning on Majina. “Okay? She’s her and I’m me, and I’m not her and she’s not me and I am never, ever, ever going to do the things that she did, okay?!” Majina shrank away, and Scotch immediately gasped. “Oh… but I’m not mad with you, Majina! I’m… I…” she faltered as Majina turned and quickly trotted inside.
Scotch walked to the side of the building and thumped her head against the stucco. Because that was totally something Blackjack would never do. She’d get her horn stuck. I’m not like Blackjack. I’m nothing like her.
“Of course,” a dry whisper rasped in her ear. She didn’t look. She clenched her eyes closed and rushed in the door as it opened, bumping whatever occupant was leaving.
Inside, her eyes beheld a wonder. The cafe was a long rectangle with a glass counter in the shape of an L. Faded and chipped smiling cows were everywhere in a yellow and blue motif that was just a little creepy. One section of the long counter had the sign ‘MEAT’ hanging above it. Another read ‘FLESH’. Further down she could see ‘GRAIN’, ‘FRUIT’, and ‘SOUP’. A half dozen zebras worked the area behind the counter, carefully packaging up servings for customers in boxes and some kind of paper bowls. Others received trays and were eating on those high tables with tiny tops. Apparently these people didn’t believe in sitting to eat.
“You two got to see this!” Precious gushed as she pointed at the counter, mouth watering. “They have everything! Cooked food. Raw food! This is like… amazing!” She leaned back and forth, peering at the offerings. “Do they have gems? I’d like mine with rubies!”
Scotch had to admit that the rich smells coming from behind that counter were definitely making her mouth water. Over each section were pictures, and next to them numbers in chalk, one set fractions in yellow and the other whole numbers. “What’s that?”
“Prices,” Pythia said sourly. “One chit is one serving. The size of the serving depends on what you want. It might be half a berry of super yummy goodness, or a bucket of slop. You want more, you pay more chits,” she said as she pointed at the fractions. “That’s in Imperio. They actually still use their old currency instead of bottlecaps. Also, they accept bullets. Nine bullets for that meal. Twelve for that one.” She screwed up her face thoughtfully. “Not sure if the kind of bullet matters or not. Not like we have much of either.”
The occupants were a condensation of the weirdness out on the street. Most were zebras, but many of them had freakish alterations. Bizarre colorations of manes, strange growths and creatures stuck to their skin, and just odd bodies. One was the biggest, fattest zebra she’d ever seen. He sat on his tubby haunches, scarfing down a bucket of something that resembled wallpaper paste and a bowl full of fresh vegetables. A zebra ghoul read a paper as he munched down on wiggling radroaches impaled on wooden skewers. A young griffon struggled to scrape every bit of meat off a bone while a teenaged dragon roasted… something… on a claw with his bluish flame.
The four got together in the grain line, moving towards the front. When they reached the counter, a zebra with strange, swishy, curly stripes blinked down at them. His markings resembled those of the mare from the episode of ‘Black and White’. “Watchuwan?” he snapped, tapping his hoof on the counter.
“Huh?” Scotch blinked.
“Watchuwantaeat!?” he blurted. “Cumonangimeyorder!”
A stallion next to him with a Carnilian’s thick stripes translated with a grin. “He wants to know your order.”
“Thawatised!” the curly striped stallion snapped with a roll of his eyes.
Pythia stepped up. “Your Starlight Special was recommended.”
“Wedonhavtha! Ordersomthinelse!” the swishy striped zebra snapped as he jabbed at the pictures above him, eyes bulging wide as he glared down at the four.
“Whoa, Hachipa! Swap with me!” the Carnilian stallion said, pulling the stallion aside and frowning down at them. “We don’t carry that special anymore.”
Pythia tugged her hood back and stared up at him, the stallion recoiling visibly. “Still, I’d like to try it. It was recommended by a friend. Doctor Galen. And a mare like me named Scylla.”
“Right. Right.” He frowned, knitting his brows together. “Let me go talk to the manager. Why don’t you order anything you want.” He turned to the curl striped zebra, who was just on the verge of addressing another customer when the Carnilian grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back. “Give them one of whatever thing they want. Okay. Free samples. I’ve got to go in the back a second.” Then he trotted for a door in the back.
“Makupurmind!” the other stallion shouted, returning to stare down at the four of them with eyes so wide that they seemed like they’d come right out of his head as he leaned over the glass shield and said loudly, “Wat! Du! Yu! Wan! To! Eait!?”
“Um…” Scotch Tape and the others shared looks, and finally she answered, “Um… make us… whatever’s good?” Pythia pursed her lips, and a moment later smacked Scotch upside the head. “Ow! What was th–”
Instantly the stallion beamed at them and whirled into action. Three of the Carnilian zebras fell back, shouting, “Watch out! Hachipa’s in action!” Some of the diners halted and began to chant, “Hah-chi-pa!” over and over as the convoluted striped zebra went from station to station, snatching up bits of food left and right, carrying them on his rump, shoulders, and head before tossing them on the table. Then his hooves went for the knives, and the ingredients didn’t stand a chance. He chopped, pared, and minced with abandon. His tail held a scoop and, when he turned to get some sort of meat, continued to mix the vegetables on the cutting board. The meat went on a pan with a sizzle, and he crushed the meat to the griddle with his hoof! Before Scotch could say ‘unsanitary’ he flipped it over and repeated the process, mashing it to the hot metal with a scream of steam.
In what felt like moments, the meat was taken off, cubed, and then placed in a bowl. Three other bowls were filled with vegetables, and then some sort of sauce was dribbled over, then fruit placed on top. More sauce. Then four bowls were placed on a tray, and he carried them down to the end of the end of the counter, presenting them to the four fillies. “Um… thanks!” she said, aware that a lot of people were watching them.
To stall, they went to a table for foals, only half as tall as the others, and set the bowls down. Unfortunately, there was Hachipa right behind them, his wide eyes and grin suggesting they’d be chopped up in the next bowl if they didn’t eat it. Precious ate cubed steak on top of some sort of salad, and immediately her eyes popped wide too. “Aw, this is great!” she said. “I’ve never eaten anything so good before!”
Scotch and Majina stuck their faces into their bowls and took their first bites.
It almost killed them. A fireball went off in Scotch’s mouth, and it was all she could do not to spit it out or throw up. It was as if a billion wasps had made her mouth their home and tenderized it with stings. She couldn’t breathe from the smoke in her lungs. It was only through profound effort that she was able to swallow. That one bite had enough heat to power Equestria for a year. No! A century!
“G…g… good.” Majina said, and he leaned towards her a little, that slasher grin not wavering in the slightest as his eyes went from one to another. “Um… I’m full… can’t eat another bite!” She started panting and waving air over her tongue. “Waaa! How is it getting hotter!?” she cried out. Scotch turned and grabbed a cup of something… she hoped it was water… and poured it down her throat. To her horror, it only stoked the flames.
Pythia, who hadn’t touched her bowl, simply said, “No thanks. I don’t like spicy food.”
“Urrrrraaaaghhhh!” Hachipa screamed, grabbing his head as he stood upright, leaning back. “Houcayonotlikit?! Wycatifinthaperfecdish?! Waiwaiwai! AHHHHHH!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, then ripped off his apron and threw it against the wall, reached over and flipped a table, sending dishes flying, and then ran out of the cafe. He sprinted across the street, still screaming, and leapt right into the river. At once, the entire cafe burst into cheers and chants of ‘Hah-chi-pa’ again. As they laughed, Pythia leaned over and swapped her bowl with a laughing stallion the next table over.
Scotch just stared blankly. “Was it something she said?”
The ghoul with his radroaches cackled. “He’s Tappahani, that’s all. He does this all the time. They’re funny like that. You should see what he does if you ask him to make a quiche.” He peered at them with his filmy white eyes. A ragged gray coat and fedora were draped across the far side of his little table. “First time in a long time I’ve seen a pony with no stripes tattooed on. Interesting.”
“Yeah. I guess,” she said, glancing at two pony stallions with the stripes. The ghoul’s stripes almost all went in thin horizontal across his body rather than down from his spine, not quite continuous. They intermeshed at about his ribcage. His rump had a vague glyph that seemed to resemble a crossed wrench and hammer. “Why do they do that? The painting stripes thing?”
“To get mates. You’ll understand when you’re older,” he said with a wave of his hoof.
“You’re not Carnilian. What tribe are you?” Scotch asked. Her free friends were either eating or waiting with bored expressions, not listening to Scotch’s conversation. Majina seemed fascinated by the people around them, and a bit wary. Precious was working on her second bowl. Pythia was simply… bored, picking at her bowl as the stallion next to them collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat and crying.
He seemed to smile a bit. “Propoli. Been stuck here forever. Carnilians don’t like me because I’m a ghoul. Propoli don’t like me because I’m old.” He shrugged. “Ehhh…” he gave a wave of his hoof and a curl of his lip… or maybe that was just the default expression of his ragged face.
Scotch closed her eyes. “I think I met one of your tribe back in the Ponylands. In Hoofington.”
“Seriously? They’re still sticking around that place? I thought the ponies blew it up for good.”
“Well, this was before that,” Scotch said. “I think she’s still there though.”
“Ehh…” Another hoof wave. “Yeah. Not surprising, I guess. We get around. People need shit fixed. Call a Propoli. People need shit planned, they look for us.” He rolled his filmy eyes. “‘Course, getting paid and getting home can be pretty tricky.”
“So the Carnilians don’t like ghouls?” Scotch asked.
“They’re the tribe of life, and I don’t have a pulse. What do you think?” he asked with a snort, then pulled the last few legs off the radroach and popped them in his mouth with a crunch.
“Sorry. Dumb question, I guess.” She suddenly shivered as if a draft had blown up her spine, making her look around. Pythia also glanced around with a frown, but Scotch returned her attention to the ghoul.
“Eh. Not your fault. Carnilians are just folks, and folks generally follow the loudest jackass with a pulpit, megaphone, or soapbox. Those jackasses say that if it can’t breed, or produce babies that can breed, then it’s wasted life. They’re not big fans of sapient robot workers, either, for that reason. Why build mechanical farmers to clear that damned grass when you can do what Carnico says?” He snorted little flecks of radroach chitin over his tray. “You’ll see. If you try to… ah… do adult things with their tribe, they’ll take up arms about how bad you are, but if one of your zebra friends does, they’ll be gushing about how beautiful it is.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Scotch said. “If you don’t like it here, why stay?”
“One, travel from here to Bastion is a damned nightmare. Two, they don’t like ghouls there either. Especially ghouls from before the war. We’re old and stuck on the past. Three, they really don’t like ghouls that call them on their shit. Fourth, the Carnilians actually need me to fix their stuff, so while they don’t like me, they’ll still pay me. In Bastion, I’d be just another wrench jockey. An unemployed wrench jockey. So… ehhhh…”
“I guess I’m a little surprised to find ghouls here at all. I thought they were all in Equestria,” Scotch said.
He laughed, spraying little flecks of shell. “Pony, where do you think they built balefire bombs? Shit, there were factories churning the damned things out. And after we ‘won’,” he said, making air quotes with his chipped hooves, “it wasn’t long before assholes here took the ones we didn’t fire and started using them on ourselves! As if megaspells weren’t enough. Ehh…” He snorted and picked up the limbless roach. “Trust me, kid. There’re plenty of ghouls here.” He popped the roach into his mouth and chewed enthusiastically.
“But you still have cities. Rice River’s bigger than any town in the Wasteland.”
He swallowed, eying her flatly. “You sound like a first year civil engineering student. All a city is is a bunch of buildings letting a whole lot of people live together. If those people are starving, filthy, desperate jerks, then it’s just a whole bunch of jerks living together. City needs a spirit if it’s to be more than a collection of buildings.”
“Oh. Yeah, good point,” she conceded.
“Ehhh, don’t worry about it. Nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t think I’m an abomination… or who’s nice enough to hide it if you do.”
Scotch smiled as she looked him in the eye. She’d met plenty of ghouls in the Hoof that were nice. A little old and strange, but nice. “Is Bastion another city like Rice River?” Scotch asked.
He started to answer, paused, then pursed his scarred lips. “I’m not the right one to ask. What it is and what it was ain’t the same anymore. I’ll say it’s our capital and leave it at that. Out on the west coast near the bridge to Equestria.” He gave a wave of his hoof.
“Do they hate ponies there?”
“‘Course not. That’d be civil of them. They dismiss ponies there, just like they dismiss everyone else not worth their time. Trust me, kid. Stay the heck away from Bastion. It is no place you want to visit.” He sighed and then bit the head off another roach. Scotch wasn’t sure of him, but he’d been more informative than most zebras she’d met.
“Thanks. I’m Scotch Tape, by the way,” she said, offering him her name and a smile.
“Xarius. If you’re sticking around and need work, come down to my shop. Over on Fifth and Imperial. We’re always happy to pay chits to kids with half a brain in their heads for deliveries.” He popped the last piece of radroach into his mouth, masticated furiously, then swallowed and let out a belch, spraying his tray with more bits of radroach before he rose, donned his coat and hat, gave a nod, and departed carrying his head low with a long, drawn out, “Ehhh…”
As he exited, he bumped shoulders with the waterlogged Hachipa. Still dripping, his head held high, eyes flat and cool. He walked to where he’d tossed his apron, put it back around his neck, and walked behind the counter, resuming his previous position. He sniffed loudly but otherwise showed no reaction to the fact he’d just jumped in a river.
The Carnilian stallion returned and made his way to their table, glancing over his shoulder at the drenched Hachipa. “You asked him to make you something good, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Scotch said, quickly.
“I would have,” Precious said around a mouthful of food, three empty bowls in front of her, then swallowed. “If I’d known he’d do that. Can we make him do it again?”
“Probably not for an hour or two. He needs to recharge to reach that level of hysteria,” the stallion said. “Anyway, the manager would like to see you about your order.”
Instantly, all four smiles dissolved. Together, they followed him into the back of the cafe, where shelves and refrigerators held the ingredients being used by the zebras behind the counter, and to a set of stairs heading down into a basement with even more storage. A ramp up led to a pair of heavy metal doors Scotch Tape guessed led outside. They could have driven the Whiskey Express down here, no problem. In fact, there were way more crates and boxes down here than the cafe above would ever need.
Set up in the corner was a large desk with papers stacked all around it and a chalkboard against the wall covered in glyphs that Scotch couldn’t read. There were three individuals around the desk: a zebra stallion behind it, a zebra stallion standing against the wall wearing a cloak, and a unicorn mare tattooed in Carnilian stripes. The Carnilian leading them waved for them to wait.
The second the standing zebra looked at Scotch Tape, she felt it. Thousands of eyes upon her. Watching. Waiting. Wanting. One word, and they’d be upon the four of them. His stripes matched Pythia’s, the glyphs around his face and his bright red eyes setting her on edge. Pythia had frozen as well, her brows knitted in concern. It also didn’t hurt that he was damned fit. Toned muscles and a defined physique of a style that wasn’t so much sexy as threatening. Rough scars snaking all over his body clashed with the sweeping arcs of his stripes.
The unicorn reminded Scotch of Blackjack, with wide and kind lavender eyes and an unstriped periwinkle-colored coat. Her orchid-colored mane was tied back in a small tail, and her long tail was braided tightly and wrapped with leather. She had a PipBuck, too! Pretty. Very pretty. Also, very armed. The combat webbing she wore had a knife strapped to the side of every hoof, a pair of swords on her belt, and heavy caliber revolver. She also wore a thick leather collar, and her cutie mark was three crossed swords. She gave Scotch a friendly smile.
“…doesn’t matter how powerful it is if we tear ourselves to pieces trying to get it,” the zebra stallion behind the desk said into a phone. Unlike the other tribes she’d met, his stripes were more like thin dashes than solid bands. “I know. Supreme power, blah blah blah. Anyone that uses that phrase doesn’t understand supremacy or power.” Aside from his erect, trimmed mohawk mane, he was… plain. Not too fit. Not too soft. Pale green eyes considered the four of them. “Listen, gush all you want, but I have business. When you get something more concrete, I’ll listen. Right. Right. Okay. Bye.” He hung up the phone and then smiled and waved them over.
As they approached, the unicorn gave a slight nod of her head. “They’re pineapple,” she said.
“Pineapple?” Scotch echoed, then realized. “Oh. You mean we’re yellow.” The mare actually grinned in approval.
“What if we were ‘strawberry’?” Precious asked with a grin.
The unicorn’s smile didn’t waver in the slightest. “I’d make strawberry jam.”
“Oh, I like her,” Precious said to Scotch. The unicorn laughed, and never took her eyes off them.
The stallion behind the desk wore a pleasant enough smile. “So you’re her. The one that Scylla mentioned. ‘Not your average Starkatteri’, in her words.” He leaned back. “I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Vega. This is Tchernobog and Vicious.” He gestured to the zebra and unicorn in turn, then pressed his hooves together before him. “I have to admit, I’ve never had four kids come to me before asking for the special.”
“Scylla encouraged me to stop by, and she pointed me to Galen. He said that your… organization might be helpful to us,” Pythia said as she stepped forward and gestured to each of them. “Scotch. Majina. Pain in the ass.”
“Precious!” the dragonfilly snapped.
“So hard to remember,” Pythia said as she faced Vega again.
“‘Organization’. Nice. You already have the euphemisms down. We also go by ‘association’, ‘company’, and ‘cabal’. Publicly, most people call us the Syndicate. Do you know what we do?”
“You’re criminals,” Pythia said flatly, and that got a laugh from the stallion.
“Hardly. Criminals break the law as a rule. We work around laws to facilitate the transfer of goods from those who have to those who want, regardless of the wishes of established powers, for the economic betterment of the common people of the Empire,” Vega said smoothly.
“Now who’s using euphemisms?” Pythia asked.
Vega lost his smile. “My point is, you came to us because you need something. Something that I may have. I was just curious enough about the oddity of four kids asking that I allowed this meeting. If this is a waste of time, I’ll have Viccy show you out.”
“We need help,” Scotch said, stepping next to Pythia. “And we need information.”
Vega’s eyes switched to Scotch’s. “We offer both at reasonably priced and tiered rates. What kind of help and information?”
Scotch opened her mouth to explain, then paused, then turned to Majina. “Can you tell them?”
The filly blinked in shock. “I thought you were just going to… you know… summarize.”
“I think Mr. Vega here deserves details. You don’t mind details, right?” Scotch asked him.
“I find the most fascinating things in them,” the stallion said with a small smile. He glanced at Tchernobog, and the stallion gave a slight nod of his head. “Go ahead… Majina, was it? Majina.”
The filly took a shaky breath. “Well, I guess it started when Blackjack slew the Eater of Souls and saved the world…”
* * *
Two hours and some snacks later, Majina finished. She’d let out a lot more information than Scotch had intended to tell, and Pythia in particular seemed to bristle at points. The three were attentive to the story, and Vega began taking notes a few minutes in and asking for clarification here and there. It wasn’t quite a story so much as a dramatic debriefing. When it finished, Majina finally slumped and wiped her brow, then beamed a smile at Scotch.
“You realize you just told a bunch of criminals that Riptide will probably pay a ton for our heads, right?” Pythia hissed in a whisper.
“Everyone has a price on their heads,” Vega said as he sat back, drinking some sort of purple soda called ‘Healade’. “It’s just a question of collection.” He glanced at Tchernobog, who gave the smallest of shrugs, then at Vicious, who shook her head, before setting the bottle aside and leaning towards them. “You should be relieved to know that Riptide is not a member of our organization, and that she’s repeatedly burned her bridges with us so that, even if we were to offer you to her, we’d have no way to collect payment. I don’t see any reason to diminish her ignorance as to your whereabouts.”
All four visibly relaxed, letting out a mutually held breath. Vega went on, “I’m more upset to learn that Galen used supplies that were given to him for specific circumstances. I’ll have to have a talk with him about that.”
“We’re going to pay him back!” Scotch assured him, getting another skeptical brow. “Somehow…” she muttered, dropping her eyes.
“Right. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that I’m at a loss regarding what we can do for each other. I love Starkatteri, if for nothing else than their ability to scare the ignorant out of their wits, but I’m not sure if I need another. And unless you can point me in the direction of that cache of building materials in the swamp…?” He trailed off as he gazed at Scotch. While she might have been able to do so, she doubted if Granny or the other Orah would appreciate the intrusion, so she shook her head. “Well in that case, not sure how I can help you.”
“Vega,” Tchernobog said in a low, almost subvocal voice. “There is more here than just four children. I can feel it. One of them is a shaman. The shadows are hungry for her.”
“I only did that once. Never again,” Pythia said sharply.
“Of course,” Tchernobog chuckled, his voice low and seeming to carry much farther than it should. “Much of what you say, though, interests me. This Eye of the World, for instance. The actions of two centuries back. Yes. Much of this interests me.” He regarded Vega. “May I take her measure?”
The boss stallion’s brows arched in surprise, and then he gave a nod of his head. Slowly, Tchernobog walked in front of Pythia and stared into her eyes. Pythia stared back, but gave a swallow as they maintained contact. “You’re a seer?” he rumbled.
“Yeah,” she said dryly. “Not a shaman.”
“So you claim, as others have. Prove it. Tell me what I will be doing tonight,” he said in that low rumble. “Show me your power.”
Pythia backed away, then drew herself up, took out her starmap and crystal pendant, and started to wave the latter over the former.
As she watched it, Vicious eyed Scotch, all smiles and friendliness. “Are you a stable pony too, or did you just find a PipBuck?” Scotch asked.
“It was my grandmother’s. Her stable collapsed, and she was lucky enough to get out before they all suffocated. Mom was brought here by zebra slavers when she was pregnant with me,” she said casually. “Not quite as thrilling as your story, but I might have skipped a few details.”
“Is it hard being a pony here?” Scotch asked.
“In Rice River?” Vicious asked, raising her eyebrows. Scotch nodded, and the unicorn smiled. “Paint some stripes on your ass, and you can usually find somezebra with a pony fetish. The more taboo something is, the more you’ll find someone desperate to do exactly that. Otherwise, it’s what you can do to earn chits. Life’s easier on this side of the river, but good luck finding anywhere to live. Crowded like crazy.” She regarded Precious a moment. “You never mentioned how your friend got so many dragon grafts. Seriously, she should be dead with that much bodywork.”
“I was born this way,” Precious growled.
“Seriously?” Vicious scoffed. Precious just growled, baring her teeth. “Hey, if you say so. I just know Carnico’d love to crack that nut.”
“Pity we’re nothing but terrorists, criminals, and thieves to them,” Vega said. “I’d kill for a more enlightened CEO.”
“Like the last one I whacked?” Vicious asked, with a grin. Vega sighed but gave a little nod. “Yeah. This one’s too paranoid to give us another shot at him.”
“Who… or what… is Carnico? It’s some kind of weed killer business?” Scotch asked, remembering the huge factory outside.
“They were, before the war,” Vega explained. “Carnico made two things: plants and plant killing products. They still produce both. The weed killer they give away. Everyone can take one can a year, and used carefully, it’s enough to keep an acre or so clear of the grass. However, if you want to grow anything on that acre, you have to use their crops. Since they’re the only thing keeping the weeds from covering the entire world, they act like they run Rice River. Unfortunately, the seeds of the crops they produce are sterile. You can eat them, but they don’t germinate. So Carnico has a monopoly on two critical resources, and they exploit the fuck out of it.”
“What about the tribal elders? They can’t be okay with it,” Majina said with a frown.
“What can they do about it?” Vega snorted. “They don’t like the fact the weed killer’s used at all; they certainly don’t know how to make it. And growing sterile seeds? Only Carnico knows how to pull that off. So while the elders might technically be in charge, everyone knows the real players. And anytime they make things difficult for Carnico, Carnico has ‘supply problems’ with the weed killer, and the grass spreads a little more. It ruins the soil, too, so even killing it a year or two later is still a mess.” He smiled. “We do good business in bootleg weed killer and ‘misplaced’ seeds.”
“There!” Pythia suddenly snapped. “Thank you, Messier! Dead but not gone,” she said as the crystal pendant swayed back and forth over the page. “You will be… tonight… you will be…” She blinked at Tchernobog, then back down at the map, then back at him. Suddenly, she blinked and scowled at the map. “Seriously?” she mumbled.
“Yes?” Tchernobog rumbled.
Pythia didn’t answer for a few seconds, looking at the map and then at him again. Finally, she spat, “Balls deep in your boss over there.” She glared around her. “This whole city needs a cold shower.”
“Oh… we’re dead,” Scotch Tape muttered. No one else said a word for several seconds. Then Vicious suddenly burst out laughing, sitting down hard and holding herself as she cackled.
“I’m not sure how comfortable I should be about the stars knowing the details of our sex life,” Vega muttered.
“She’s the real thing,” Tchernobog rumbled with a small smile.
“She could have guessed! It’s a secret, but she could have found out,” Vega said.
“But not that we agreed it was my turn tonight,” Tchernobog said. Vega scowled, but gave a little nod of concession. “We should use her,” the stallion pressed.
“I’m not convinced–” Vega began.
Vicious rolled her eyes, and Pythia threw herself to the side a second before a magically flung knife would have skewered her brain through her eye. As the blade skipped off the floor behind Pythia, the zebra filly shrieked, “What is wrong with you?”
“I missed. Looks like she can see the future after all,” Vicious said as she levitated the knife back, checked the edge, and returned it smoothly to its sheath. Scotch hadn’t even seen her draw it. Tchernobog arched a brow as Vega thought.
“I hate using seers. They’re unreliable,” he muttered.
“Which is why you take their predictions under advisement, not base your actions off them,” Tchernobog said as he walked around behind the desk, putting a hoof on Vega’s shoulder. “Things are happening. She’s valuable. We need to know more. We should use them.”
Vega sighed and closed his eyes a moment, covering them with a hoof. “One year,” he said evenly.
“What?” they almost unanimously blurted.
“You work for me for one year,” he said to Pythia. “You work under Tchernobog and stay with us. After one year, we renegotiate your contract. I’ll do what I can to keep Riptide off your back,” he finished, then looked at the rest. “What about the others? Where are we supposed to keep them?”
Vicious stared at Scotch a moment. “Hey. Can you cook? Clean? Do laundry?”
“What?” Scotch blinked.
“Good. You’re hired. We’ll find some work or something for you to do.” Vicious grinned.
“What about us?” Precious asked with a snort.
“Yes. What about you?” Vega said, rubbing his chin a moment. Then he smiled. “You both know Doctor Galen. You know about the harassment and threats he receives, right? I’ll make arrangements for you to protect him.”
“What? Me? Play bodyguard?” Precious asked skeptically, thought a moment, then narrowed her eyes and continued, “Will I get to kick flank and collect shinies?”
“Presumably, assuming someone on the west side of the river tries something,” Vega said with a nod. “If you can’t stay on the premises, I’ll make arrangements for you somewhere in the building. Keep him safe and alive. He’s valuable.”
Majina looked away. “Osane and her family need help. Maybe I could do something for them.”
“I’m sure that she’d appreciate that,” Vega said with a slow nod.
Pythia sighed and faced them. “So, are we seriously doing this? It’s a year. A whole year.”
“That’s like two forevers,” Precious pointed out. “Still, it might be nice to settle down here a little. See if we can’t make this place feel like home.”
“And how do we know that you won’t betray us?” Pythia demanded.
“You don’t. However, you’re not much of a seer if you don’t see it coming, now are you?” Vega said with a half smirk. “The Syndicate operates on our reputation for honoring a deal, and inflicting horrible violence on those who break it.”
Scotch stepped forward. “You can’t do anything bad to Doctor Galen. He was just trying to help us.”
He twisted his lips thoughtfully. “Very well. Her bodyguard work can be payment for those supplies. Of course, if something happens to him, I’ll seek compensation,” he said calmly as he stared at Precious.
The four friends considered. A year was a long time, but after a year they’d know more, have more, and be ready for more. They were in the zebra lands now. They could plan their next step, and if the Syndicate was honest, the organization might be of even more help. Each one gave a nod, with Pythia being the last. “All right,” Scotch Tape said as she faced the others. “We agree.”
* * *
Not a mile away, an old warehouse struggled to avoid slipping completely into the churning waters of the river. The saturated pillars groaned, and already one corner was submerged, the beams a tangled mess of rotting wood. Back and forth Lamprey paced while closer to dry land the centaur, gargoyle, and hound waited. Lamprey swallowed again and again, like a fish gasping for water as it slowly suffocated.
Then he heard the soft splash of oars. Bit by bit, it grew louder and louder. Then soft thuds underneath as the boat was pulled along the pilings under the warehouse. A trap door opened right in front of Lamprey, and a hulking, surly Atoli climbed out. From head to hoof, he wore blue Imperial Navy barding, and his eyes drilled into Lamprey as they swept across the groaning, waterlogged space. Piercing blue eyes shifted to the three bounty hunters, and Lamprey said quickly, “They’re with me!”
“Clear,” the zebra rumbled. A second one emerged. A third. A fourth.
“Lieutenant, I can explain. Tell the captain–” Lamprey began as he rubbed the back of his head.
Then he swallowed his tongue as from the hatch emerged not another zebra stallion but a zebra mare. Her body as hard and lean as a swordfish, she climbed up deftly, shaking out her blood-clot-red and black curls. Her uniform was cut for a captain centuries ago, but she wore it as if she’d stepped right out of that turbulent tide without a single curl of her mane amiss. Eyes as blue and cold as they sea focused on him. “Tell me what, Ako’e? That somehow, as crazy as it sounds, you have allowed children to escape you. Children, Ako’e. Little, ignorant people.”
“Captain! It was not as simple as that! The terrain worked against me, and the fliers–” Lamprey began to stammer, but she put her boot to his lips.
“Shhh, Ako’e. I fully understand you had many difficulties in your search. The land is a nightmare. I wouldn’t set one foot upon it if I could,” she said as she lowered her hoof, standing over the gurgling water. “However, what you fail to appreciate is how little I care. One pony… a green pony… a child. That should not be so hard for you to find.”
“She’s not such a child, Captain! She’s… she’s cursed!” Ako’e swallowed. “She’s travelling with a Starkatteri!”
“Is she?” Riptide purred, tapping her chin.
“Yes. I’ll find her, Captain. I just need more time!” He pointed at the three. “These bounty hunters have seen her too. They can help me find her!”
“Have they?” Riptide said as she regarded the three. “And you are?”
“Korgax, Spurgle, and Trog,” the centaur said as he rose and bowed, pressing a fist to his chest. The other two rose and stood behind him awkwardly, the hound giving a hapless little wave. “We ran into them while trying to trap Orah for sale. Unfortunately, there was a misunderstanding, and they slipped away before we knew how much you wanted them.”
Riptide laughed brightly. “Oh, I do. I really do. You have no idea how much!” She regarded her boot as she went on absently, “I assume you’re the best of the best? None ever escaped? Never failed a contract?”
“Not quite, ma’am,” the centaur rumbled. “We’re good, we don’t give up, and we get the job done, but I won’t claim to be perfect. I did see the filly and her friends, though, before they disabled our steamtruck.”
“Honesty. Modesty. How novel. And how would you find this frustratingly elusive young pony?” she asked.
“I need to know more about her. Who is she? Where is she from? Where is she going?” the centaur rumbled. “She’s in the city now, so there’s a million places to hide. We’d need to pay some people for information, discreetly. Don’t want to run her out of town without us knowing where and when. There’s a small pony population here, but she may be there or with others. It’ll be difficult to say. One of her friends is a half dragon, though, so she’ll stand out.”
“I see…” she purred. “I don’t know her name. She’s from the Ponylands, and she’s here…” She paused, and her smile slipped a moment before she continued in a softer voice, “to stand in my way. She needs to be dealt with.”
“Alive or dead?” the centaur asked.
Riptide laughed gaily. “Oh, I would adore alive. Truly. But dead. Dead.” She rose up on her hindhooves, calling out, “As spectacularly dead as you can make her! Drape her entrails from rooftop to rooftop! Paint the walls in her blood! So long as she lives, she’s a threat to my interests!”
“That costs extra,” the centaur rumbled, and Riptide laughed in glee.
“It’ll be worth it,” she said as she fluttered her lashes at him.
“Captain! We don’t have to stop with them. With a big enough bounty on her head, she’ll be driven from the city! We can have a whole mob tear her apart for you!” Lamprey said in a rush.
She tisked softly. “Oh no. I know that never works. I don’t want to have to pay out to whatever mob brings me a green pony carcass. No. Especially not when it would signal to others that she’s here. No,” she said as she shook her head. Then she smiled at the three. “However, I may be contracting with other professionals before too long. You understand how it is.”
“Yes ma’am.” He nodded his head to her. “I understand.”
“I love professionals,” she gushed, walking towards him. Abruptly, she halted, her face screwing up in pain, and backed away from the three. “Well, I do hope you get results. Five hundred Imperio should be incentive enough, yes?”
“Fuck my stony bunghole, yes!” the gargoyle cackled. “Korgax, if you don’t say yes, I will! And I’ll keep it to myself, too!”
“That’s more than two, right? Is that a lot?” the hound asked, picking his nose, finding a nice, green, slimy glob, and popping it into his mouth.
Riptide regarded Korgax flatly. “He’s got his uses,” the centaur said.
“She’s stopped,” a voice said from the sunken corner. Amidst the gloom and groaning beams, a zebra filly came into view. Her long, waterlogged mane lay plastered to her neck as she stared at nothing with dead, dark eyes. The emaciated filly moaned softly, “She’s not moving forward anymore.”
Riptide approached slowly. “Dead. Say she’s dead. I need to hear these words, my love.”
“I don’t know, but she’s not moving. She might be dead. She might have given up. She might be on the wrong track,” she said as she crouched on the edge of the water, swishing her hooves through it. “I can barely smell her anymore, Mommy.”
“Mommy?” Korgax asked before the captain gave him a look that made him back up a step.
Riptide stroked her mane. “She’s not in the way, though, right?”
“Maybe. She’s so close, but she’s not moving anymore. It’s hard to tell. I’m so hungry, Mommy,” the zebra filly moaned as she clutched her tummy.
“Shh… shh… Can you find her, Niuhi?” she asked, stroking her water-soaked mane.
“I’m trying, Mommy, but I can’t. Her smell is too weak.” She turned and pressed her face into Riptide’s mane, sobbing.
“Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay,” Riptide murred into her ear.
“See! She can’t find them either!” Lamprey blurted. Riptide didn’t even glance at him. She gave the smallest flick of her tail, and the Atoli moved. One on either side of him seized him, holding him in place as the other two applied kicks to his hindlegs. His joints snapped like fishbones, and he collapsed, vomited, and sobbed. Then he was released as the four stepped back again.
“Do not criticize my child. Don’t ever,” Riptide murmured as he sprawled on his face. Slowly, she left her daughter and approached Lamprey again. “Now. One last bit of business,” she said softly. “The box, please!” she shouted to the skiff below. Someone pushed up a worn green sea chest, and she laid it out next to him. Carefully, she unlocked it and pulled it open.
Inside were a number of glass jars filled with slimy, squirmy, tumorous worms thrashing about in a fluid the color and consistency of semen. Bottles full of viscous potions bubbled in their containers as an overwhelming sulfurous stench of garlic rolled out. Half of the chest was occupied by a folded suit of leather armor and a gas mask.
“No! No! No!” Lamprey screamed as he struggled to back away, the Atoli in barding stopping him from escaping. “You’re not going to put those in me! No!”
She grabbed him and yanked his face around to hers, silencing him. “Of course I’m not,” she said, and bafflement twisted his features. “I never… ever… force anyone to take the worm. Ever. How could you think of such a thing, Ako’e?” She pouted, her deep blue-black eyes hurt. Then she smiled. “You’re going to put them in yourself.” She gestured at the slippery, white, wiggling masses. “Those go under your tail, by the way. You don’t want to eat them. Trust me. They make such a mess if they have to chew to their destination.”
“You’re insane…” Lamprey whispered as he stared at the contents of that box, his busted legs throbbing as if thrust in a fire. “You’re crazy if you think I’d put those in me.”
His response made her laugh in delight. “Oh no, my near Ako’e! No no no no no no no,” she said as she shook her head. “No. What you really need to think of… in your heart of hearts… in your very soul…” The smiles and beauty disappeared as her face suddenly turned slack and old and the sweetness became a snarled, “What’s going to happen if you don’t?”
Ako’e swallowed, glancing from the bounty hunters to the crew to the filly splashing her hooves errantly in the water to the slack face of the captain as she glared at him. “No. Dying is better than living as one of those things. Forget it! If you’re going to kill me, then just get on with it!”
Then the smile returned. “Fair enough!” she said brightly. She closed the lid, relocked it, and slipped it back down through the trap door. She turned to the three bounty hunters. “I’ll be checking in from time to time, and will send you some assistance as I can! My little girl will get a message to you, one way or another.” Then her voice dropped as she turned her back on them. “You should be on your way now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the centaur said with a nod of his head before the three turned and backed away, leaving the old warehouse. Lamprey pressed his face into the wood and closed his eyes, waiting for his execution. At least it would be fast. Nothing was as bad as becoming one of her pet monsters.
Then…
Nothing. He blinked and looked around, but no one was to be seen. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of oars rowing downstream. He stared, listening to them fade away. “Ha…” he said as all the fear transformed to exhilaration. All that, and she was just talk! All that had been bluff! He laughed as he sprawled there next to the trap door.
“I’ll find that frigging pony first! Find out what she’s got that that mule is so scared of! Fuck her. Make her wish she killed me,” he said as he started to drag himself towards the door, grimacing. “First, a healing potion, though.”
From the shadows of the decrepit edifice, a soft humming issued, and a large drop of water landed right on his nose. The hum was a simple tune, two slow alternating notes, and he peered into the gloom.
He wasn’t alone. The waterlogged filly walked slowly around the edge of the building as water pattered down along the rotten beams and through the holes in the roof. Was it raining? It’d been a clear day an hour ago! “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, gaping at her as she slowly moved around him. Her dead black eyes just stared straight ahead as she watched the water falling in streams around him. “Who are you?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. She simply hummed softly as she moved closer and closer. Damn him if he’d be intimidated by a drowned, slat-sided filly. “Get away from me, you freak!” he said as he turned his back and dragged himself towards the door.
The warehouse filled with a sound akin to a gunshot, if said shot was fired by snapping bones and torn tendons, as the bottom half of his right hindleg disappeared. He screamed, rolling onto his back as he curled up, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. His bulging eyes caught her as she slowly circled… chewing.
“Get away! Get away!” he screamed as he flailed and flopped away from the filly, towards the open trap door as more water poured in upon him. He took his eyes off her for a moment, searching for an avenue of escape–
A second crunch, and his other broken leg disappeared. He started at her standing over him, mouth chewing, swallowing. There wasn’t any malice in her eyes. Only cool, dark, indifference.
The salt set his stumps ablaze with pain as he flopped and flailed away from her. He almost fell through the door, twisting and flailing to catch his forelegs on the edge as he heard something deep and hungry growl below.
The river beneath him was gone. Instead, all the water poured past in a great red whirlpool of blood. There was no bottom to it. Only screams. He peered up through the stinging saltwater at the drenched filly and screamed at her, “What are you?”
She leaned in, eyes dull and emotionless. She reached out, grabbing his shoulders, somehow keeping him from falling into that vortex. Her eyes stared into his, and the corner of her mouth wiggled a moment before she said in her quiet little voice, “Hungry.”
A mouth that belonged on no filly, with teeth that belonged on no zebra, spread wide and, with a resounding crunch, bit his face clean off. From outside, the warehouse shook as if it would collapse, and a few people stared and wondered what should be done, only to settle, as was custom, on ‘nothing’. After the crunching stopped, the shaking stilled. The waters returned to their muddy brown. A long, bedraggled mane disappeared into the froth.
For years to come, none would ever set foot in that decrepit building. It would remain, untouched, until it disappeared into the water.
And somewhere, in a place between now and eternity, a tiny glowing mote squirmed in the dark, desperate and alone. And in that place, teeth closed upon it, again and again…
Comfort came in many forms: for her, it came in the steady movement of the floor and the sound of waves lapping against the hull. A little thing to be grateful for, but right now she was grateful for every little thing extended to her. She could lie in her bed for hours, listening to the waves and ignoring the rest of the world beyond. The distant sounds of everyone going about their daily lives. The ringing of the bells signaling arrivals and departures. The sounds of chants carried on the wind and through the open hatch to her ears. All she had to do was close her eyes, and she’d be back aboard, feeling the planks beneath her hooves.
It had been three months since she’d been stripped of her rank and the Abalone, and still she could smell the tang of oyster juice soaked into the wood and hear the creak and groan of the planks.
A mare called through the open hatch, “Mahealani! Could you help me with the children a moment?”
Mahealani closed her eyes. All she wanted to do was lie here until the sea was the last thing she heard, but her bondsister called. “Coming,” she replied, then slipped from her canvas hammock to the floor of her cabin. The chamber was little more than four walls, a floor, a ceiling, a hammock, and her dresser. She hadn’t been able to bear bringing any of her belongings off the Abalone. She had no idea if they were still aboard the ship, locked in trunks somewhere, or tossed overboard.
She ascended the ladder and climbed up into a brilliantly beautiful day that seemed deliberately so to spite her sour mood. Golden sunlight poured down upon Northport in a dazzling display, illuminating the hundreds of ships lashed together to form the community. The ship she now resided in, the triple masted flagship of Fleet Tsunami, occupied a prestigious berth near the center of the community, and from here she could see both the docks and kelp farms to her left and the Tempest, the colossal flat-topped vessel that made up the heart of the settlement, on her right.
“Not even getting dressed now?” a plump zebra mare next to the hatch asked, and Mahealani turned to blink at her sitting cross-legged on some crates. Her mane fell in long, tight braided ropes tipped with copper beads, and she wore the sashes and coat of their fleet but neither hat nor boots. Instead, a golden pendant gleamed at her throat. “Really, this is starting to approach the pathetic.”
She glowered at her. “Where are the children, Lani?” Mahealani asked as she looked around for the foals.
“With the servants,” Lani replied brightly. She was two years older than Mahealani, with merry green eyes and an easy smile. “Your sisters and I have agreed that your period of grieving is done and that it’s time for you to get out and busy again.”
“I’m cursed,” she stated simply.
“Even cursed crew need to be busy crew. You’ve moped long enough. The commodore is starting to notice. If our dear husband is aware, you know it’s a problem. And really, all this does you and the Abalone poor credit.”
“Has he picked someone for the Abalone?” Mahealani asked.
“Not a captain, but Pika’s managing it,” she said with a shrug.
“Pika! He can barely swim, let alone captain!” Mahealani said with a disgusted snort.
“True, but he’s a trusted son, and it’s the Abalone. How hard can it be to snatch clams from the seafloor? She needs to make up for the cost of repairs.” Mahealani fought the urge to demolish her bondsister’s fathomless ignorance of clam fishing. And a stallion captaining a ship was asking for trouble. They drank too much and lingered in port far too long. Before she could point out these facts, Lani jabbed a hoof at her. “Get dressed. We’re going out today.”
“I don’t want to go out,” she said as she looked back at her inviting bed.
“Well too bad. Either you come with me, or I’ll tell the servants to let Auntie Mahealani watch the foals,” the mare said with a wave of her hoof.
“I’m cursed, Lani,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten that? How can you think of such a thing?”
Lani just gave her a half lidded little smirk. “Easy. Any mare stuck watching nine foals is cursed. You’d just be doubly cursed. Or ten times cursed.” She jabbed a hoof again. “No more moping. Dress. Come. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this.”
Annoyance won out over despair. She dropped back in and opened the dresser. She had no right to wear a uniform, so she dressed in the sash, coat, and colors of her Fleet. The only difference between her apparel and Lani’s was that she took the time to slip on boots. Mahealani and her bondsister couldn’t have been much more different. Mahealani was all sinew and rough hide, Lani plump round softness. Mahealani had worked from fillyhood to captain a ship and had wed the commodore to have that opportunity. Lani had married into the Fleet with a ship, the Blue Lotus, as a dowry. She doubted Lani could sail more than a mile without capsizing.
Then again, Lani had never asked a cursed pony to intercede on her behalf.
Sailors were, by nature, superstitious, and the Atoli were, to a zebra, sailors. There was no crime in the asking, because few Atoli were mad enough to call on cursed powers. The stigma was punishment enough. Whatever ship she commanded, the crew would be wondering when the curse would strike. What form would it take? Would it remain on the ship, or just follow the captain? Her daughters had convinced the crew that the Abalone was still pure. But her captain… there were some stains even the sea could not wash away.
“What’s the big deal?” Mahealani asked as they walked across the deck. The flagship, the Golden Stripe, had been a trade ship in ages past. Its spirit was old and fat and happy, keeping the woodworms at bay and the ship afloat. The crew busied themselves more with domestic concerns than any activity she’d associate with sailing. Mahealani and Lani both genuflected at the ship’s shrine, where tiny gold coins glittered in the wavy glyph that was her tribe’s symbol over a glyph of an inexorable crashing wave.
“You’ll see,” she said as they reached the gangplank and descended into Northport proper. Four guards moved ahead and behind them, keeping a wary eye out.
After the wars, when the Empire collapsed, megaspells ravaged the seas, and radiation spoiled their bounty all over the world, the ships in the northern seas had pulled together in a desperate bid for survival. Steel and wooden ships alike were lashed together to form some sort of community after ports on land were consumed by megaspells. Despite numerous troubles, Northport survived. Survivors all along the coast were traded with, and the hulls were filled with all varieties of goods. Life was good for the Fleets.
Not so for everyzebra else, and they eyed the ships’ passing with narrow, covetous eyes. Some of the inhabitants were lucky to have a boat of their own. Most didn’t, and they worked on the kelp farms or fish pens. They gutted and salted the catch for a few fillets of their own, trotting about in just their stripes or whatever canvas rags they could find. While the Fleets could spare plenty, no Fleet wanted to put themselves or their fortunes at risk in the name of generosity. So they trotted past stalls perched precariously on the edges of the docks and around leaky scows that threatened to swamp with one good wave. Spiritless vessels, or the homes of cursed and wretched spirits. She didn’t know which was worse.
And they were close to the Tempest. What were things like farther out near the edge, along the docks where the truly destitute lived? As they walked along, Mahealani saw eyes boring into her. How dare she be Fleet? How dare she walk past their hovel in her clean sashes and coat?
Mahealani relaxed a bit as they made their way up to the Tempest proper, where guards stood vigilant against any trouble. Ramps led higher and higher towards the immense ship that was the heart of the city. “The port’s more crowded than I recall.”
“In light of so many deprived, what is one more cursed zebra?” Lani answered, her smile steady but her eyes troubled. “Many were settlements hit by our bondsister.”
“She attacks our own people now? What madness!” she hissed as they approached one of the doors cut halfway up the side of the ship. The Tempest was a Dragon Nest, an immense, flat-topped, double-hulled vessel made to house dozens of dragons for rest and recovery during the war. Most of the dragons were long gone by now, but the ship had grown proud and strong. Somewhere in its guts was a miracle of technology, allegedly stolen from the ponies, that provided power to the entire port. Every Fleet maintained offices here, and the vast spaces that had been occupied by the beasts were converted into luxurious living quarters that would be the envy of most of the world. Other areas served as warehouses for the settlement’s stores, holding enough supplies to feed the occupants for years… or the rabble outside for months.
“She skirts the razor edge of the law. She claims them raiders and scum and says she knows not otherwise till too late. Fleet Kraken and Fleet Maelstrom are on the verge of war,” Lani said with a smile. “Fortunately, it will not be something we need to worry about any longer.” Several zebras suddenly raced by, rushing to the rail of the ramp and pointing to the north. “What in the five seas…” she began, staring out to sea and shading her eyes. “What is that?”
To the north, the water bubbled as if boiling like mad, forming a great heaping froth. “A font!” Mahealani said, her eyes lighting up.
From the heart of the water emerged a glorious sight. A white, pearlescent spire rose higher and higher into the sky. It was attached to a long, sleek ship made of fair wood and brass that, when half its length had emerged into the sky like a breaching whale, came crashing down in a magnificent spray. Water sheeted off its triangular sails as it bobbed and rocked dangerously. “An Estoli ship,” Mahealani said in delight.
Many outsiders didn’t realize that the sea was a phenomenally large region, and while there was only one tribe of the sea, it carried at least four names. The Atoli and Estoli were different as night and day. The Estoli had never known war with the ponies, being on the far side of the continent off to the northeast. Their ships were long, thin, beautiful things that seemed doomed to tip over at a stiff breeze. Atoli ships were ships of commerce and war, heavy, strong, sturdy things that clumped along. Mahealani would never want to serve on a toothpick at sea, but she would be a fool to ignore the beauty of their lines.
“Magnificent, but what is it doing here?” she asked Lani. Fonts were old magic exclusive to her tribe. It took at least a dozen shamans, or more, to make a passage through the Undersea from one ocean to the other. During the war, the Empire had demanded that magic for themselves, never understanding the demands of such transportation.
“They’re not the only ones,” Lani replied, pointing a hoof. “The Atori and Estori are here too,” she said as she gestured to two clumps off to the side.
Atoli and Estoli were civilized traders and explorers. Their… cousins… were not. Their stripes were painted over with colors of blue, green, and red. Feathers, fish heads, claws and fangs, and other strange organic bits were tied into their manes and tails. They pierced their ears, noses, and lips with all manner of strange decorations. Rather than weapons of steel, they wielded wooden paddles tipped with shark teeth or jagged blades of obsidian, or barbed spears made with stingray spines. Oil made their hides shine, the stallions’ straining muscle barely contained with them. The mares moved with a beauty and grace that made her bristle with envy. If the commodore took one as a wife while they were here, her bondsisters would pickle her for a month in the bilge. It was said there was only one way to tell the two tribes apart: look for sharpened teeth. The Atori were cannibals and ate parts of their enemies to gain their strength.
To think, most of the world had needed megaspell annihilation to render them cannibals. The Atori did so out of Tradition. Proudly.
“Something is going on,” Mahealani said with her customary glower.
“Now aren’t you glad you didn’t stay in bed, dear sister?” Lani said warmly.
The four peoples of the tribe of the sea, all in one place… that didn’t just happen. Estoli and Estori individuals might come to Northport, but only occasionally and usually as individuals. At this moment Mahealani was looking upon two dozen members of the southern branches of her tribe. It was hard to imagine what could possibly bring them so far.
“I deserve a lashing for dereliction of duty, sulking in bed,” she muttered to herself.
“Oh, the commodore hasn’t noticed, the dear,” Lani said with a smile as they proceeded through the ship towards the center top. The deck of the Tempest was armored plate strong enough to withstand even heavy Thunderhead bombardment, but still a few holes melted through the alternating layers of steel and ceramic admitted light into the space below. Now the top deck was a carefully tended garden feeding a quarter of the city population. Many of the trees had been survivors saved from their home islands before the ponies had melted them to glass.
“Oy! Mahealani!” shouted a mare ahead, drawing her eyes to a knot of a quartet of zebras all wearing the same dress and medallions as she and Lani. Three of her bondsisters and her husband, the Commodore of Fleet Tsunami.
He had a venerable fifty-five years behind him, his stripes as gray as the beard that flowed all the way down to his chest. Like any good Atoli, his dress, enhanced by his crushed blue velvet coat, was trimmed in tiny gold coins that gleamed and tinkled when he moved. A magnificent admiral’s hat graced his head, and he wore both a sword and pistol befitting his station. “You came!” he said, blinking in surprise, then addressed Lani, “However did you manage it?”
“I threatened her with watching children,” Lani replied.
“That’s all?” he asked with a frown. Immediately, the mares sniffed and chuckled.
“Ah, dear husband, someday you should try to watch all your progeny,” Lani suggested diplomatically. “It may be illuminating.”
He frowned in confusion. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Your bondsisters weren’t sure you’d be capable of attending,” he said as he gestured towards the midship, where an immense hatch had been opened ages ago and left yawning wide in the center of the garden. “I’m going to need you to testify.”
“Testify? Testify to what?” she asked.
“About what happened to your ship, Mahea,” a stern-faced mare said. Captain Orinoco captained Fleet Tsunami’s trade vessel and was second of the commodore’s wives. She wore her coin-sequined cap proudly atop her head.
“We’re trying Riptide in absentia,” Commodore Tsunami said grimly. “It’s time to hold my errant wife to account for her deeds.”
Mahealani sat down hard. “Testify?” she said weakly.
“Told you you didn’t want to miss this,” Lani said with a chuckle.
The group walked to the hatch, where overflow from a dozen streams poured down into the vast chamber below. The chamber ran from the armored deck down to the sea through a moon pool between the two hulls. Walkways arranged in rings looped around the edges of the chamber, dropping down towards a platform in the center of the pool at the bottom. Once, it had lifted and lowered injured dragons to places they could rest and get care. Now gentle waves lapped over the hooves of fifty or so zebras. Nothing lay beneath it but miles of ocean and dark blue-green water. In the middle, on a throne made of sea dragon bones, sat the Admiral of the Atoli.
She’d never met him personally. A decade younger than her husband, he cut a solemn figure in a crushed blue velvet coat with golden knotwork that covered him completely and an elaborate tricorn hat perched atop his head. All around him were the elders, which the Atoli called ‘commodores’. Her husband’s seat was vacant; with his partiality, he could hardly vote. Typically, their wives and daughters crewed their ships out of ‘love, devotion, and loyalty’. Sons had a nasty habit of getting reckless with ships and doing silly things to impress the mares, and so they were taught the business end so they could marry some mares to handle their ships for them.
The Admiral had no wives. No family. Like captains and commodores, he didn’t have a name. He was simply the Admiral of the Atoli.
All around the base of the lowered platform were dozens and dozens of shamans. There were shamans of fish, of birds, of water and air. Coral shamans with peach and white knobs tied to their manes. Clam and oyster shamans with masks of elegant mother of pearl. Kelp shamans draped in green and red fronds. Beach shamans with sand-encrusted shawls and driftwood dominos. Grim Atori reef shamans wearing the detritus of shipwrecks, and orange-and-red-painted Estori volcano shamans. Some, she couldn’t even guess at what kinds of spirits they served. More shamans than she had ever seen in her life.
“All of this for a trial?” she asked in a breathless squeak.
“Oh, no. The shamans are here on some other business, but who is going to turn them away?” Lani answered brightly. Indeed, it seemed that anyone in Northport with access to the Tempest was here. The walkways overlooking the platform were crowded thick with spectators talking loudly with each other. She could see members of all twelve fleets present, and even a few minor trade houses that lacked sufficient ships to rate an elder.
“A pity your children could not attend. I’ve not seen such a collection. From all four corners of the ocean they’ve come,” Captain Orinoco said as they made their way down the stairs between each row towards the base. Several members of the other fleets gave them hard looks, but, given what they were here to do, they bit their tongues for now.
Then Admiral pulled from his coat a black sphere of a dull, glassy material and brought it down on the arm of the throne. The impact cut through the conversations like a knife through canvas, and every eye focused on the throne. Twice more it fell, and on the third, not a soul spoke.
Admiral rose, turning once as he surveyed the assembled zebras with one intense yellow eye, the other lost in a horrible tangle of scar tissue poorly concealed behind a patch. “This trial is now in session!” he announced, his words carrying effortlessly to the highest corners of the shaft. “Accusations have been made against Captain Riptide. The tribe calls her to answer.” He sat back down on the throne. “Is the captain present to answer these charges?” None answered. “Are there any who would speak on her behalf?”
“I shall!” a stallion called out next to their group, pushing his way to the edge. Murmurs and grumbles spread across the chamber, and the orb fell again to silence them.
“Identify yourself,” Admiral droned.
“Commander Spar,” he replied. “Second in command of the Riptide.”
“She sends her second instead of coming herself,” Captain Orinoco grumbled next to Mahealani. “Such cowardice.”
Admiral waved his hoof, a bridge was extended out to the platform, and the stallion began to trot across. “Spar? That sounds like a pony name,” the Admiral said. “What fleet? What family?”
“The Riptide is our family, Admiral. Any name I had I cast away when I boarded her,” he answered proudly. Mahealani guessed he was in his mid twenties. Handsome and fit, likely some wayward scion of a fleet that hadn’t a place for a third or fourth son. He’d dyed his mane completely black and wore a uniform two centuries out of date.
“Very well,” Admiral said, letting Spar cross onto the platform. “Let the aggrieved come forth. They shall give their testimony. When we’ve heard enough, the Fleets shall vote. Should they tie, the Sea shall break it.” Mahealani shuddered. Technically, that just meant him voting in place of the spirits and the Atoli, but with this many shamans present, that would be messy.
One by one, zebras from the other fleets came over to describe the attacks made by the Riptide on their ships and settlements. Pirates and raider scum without fleet or family were the usual perpetrators of such attacks, and rarely were they as successful as Riptide had been. For nearly an hour, the aggrieved filed onto the platform to give their accounts of her scourges. The audience howled and shouted at the appropriate moments as witnesses were cycled through.
The whole time, Spar stood there with an expression of indifference edging on boredom. He dismissed any retort, waving them by. If he was a spokesperson, he didn’t seem to know it. Instead, he soaked up the ire of the mob with an expression of quiet contempt.
When the last filed off, Admiral called out, “Captain Riptide sails as a part of Fleet Tsunami. Let the Commodore of Fleet Tsunami come forward!” Commodore Tsunami adjusted his coat and hat a moment, then walked firmly across the bridge to stand next to Spar. “Commodore Tsunami. Did you order Captain Riptide to engage in these attacks on your fellow Atoli?”
Her commodore’s answer was immediate and certain. “Absolutely not! Never was it my intent nor in the interests of my fleet for her to target our own tribe. Let her sail and pillage raiders and pirates and ponies at her whim. Let her ravage the yaks and thieve from the griffons if she so desires, but never should she take even a single coin from our own!” he declared with fierce conviction that reminded Mahealani why she’d borne two children with the stallion.
“But you wed her and made her a part of your fleet!” a commodore beside the dragonbone throne, wearing the sash and pendant of Fleet Kraken, bellowed. “Take responsibility for your captain!” he demanded, bashing his hooves into the deck.
“True! I did!” he rumbled, his lips twisting in a frown. “I do not deny it. And if she were here, I’d beat her properly for her countless insults. If I had the means, I’d cast her and her accursed warship to the bottom of the sea, but I do not. I married her to spare us all from her maraudings, Kraken! I sought to turn a pirate into a proper Atoli daughter.” He pointed a hoof at the commodores. “I acted when all the other fleets merely stood by and whined of slack winds and cross currents against the Riptide. When I approached her, I saw a young mare with a ship of war and neither the patience nor wisdom to use it correctly. I wed her to give her family and a place to belong. I tried to bring her into formation time and time again, but she refused my gentle guidance. She has spat on our Traditions and defied every attempt made to replace or chastise her. Do not blame me for failing to break a winter squall of its nature!”
“You wed her to protect your own fortunes, Tsunami!” Maelstrom howled. The Admiral brought the spherical stone down once, Mahealani feeling the impact in her bones.
“Order. This is a trial, not a taproom brawl. Save that for after the verdict,” the Admiral instructed. “Have you any other witnesses to present to this trial, Commodore?” he said grimly. “The water grows restless.”
“Only one more.” He gestured to Mahealani. “Listen now, and you’ll see that Riptide’s viciousness does not extend only to attacking our tribe. She has turned her guns on her own fleet and sought to kill her own bondsister!” That got the interests of the commodores. Minor violence between fleets was to be expected; that was just an effect of trade. Turning on your own fleet, mutiny, was one of the highest offenses a captain could commit.
She looked to the Admiral, who gestured for her to cross the bridge. “Tell your tale, Mahealani,” Tsunami said boldly and with a small smile that failed to reassure her. “Let all know what Riptide tried and failed to do.”
“Oh yes. Tell them everything,” Spar said with a smile. Mahealani stared at him a moment. His surety… his boredom…
This was a trap. Riptide loved traps; she had nearly captured the Abalone in one. Yet… for whom? How? Why? When this trial was over, there wouldn’t be a single Atoli who would trade with her. There was enough shamanistic power assembled right now that they could curse the Riptide and send it straight to the bottom of the sea, if she were found guilty. Yet Spar hadn’t offered a single bit of defense or argument against the testimony given against his captain.
Mahealani stood on the platform in the center of the moon pool and turned around, looking at the assembled zebras all around above her. As a sailor, she’d dealt with countless threats of the sea. Faced raging storms that threatened to sweep her into the deep. As a captain, she’d dealt with slave ships, pirates, and mutinous crew. Right now, she’d happily take all that over speaking to hundreds of onlookers.
“Just speak. The spirits will carry your words to them,” the Admiral said in his low, even voice. Mahealani swallowed hard, realizing it wasn’t just mortal eyes on her now.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, thought of her daughters, and started to speak. “It started when we travelled to the Broken Isles to pay our respects to the ancestors and discovered four young stranded on the island. A Zencori, a Starkatteri, a pony, and a strange half pony, half dragon creature.” And from there she retold everything that had happened, only omitting a few small details like Scotch Tape claiming to go to the moon. She had no idea what the filly had been playing at with that one. Otherwise, she kept her story as complete as she could. The audience listened intently, gasping in horror at the waste dumped on the fishing reef and when she confessed she’d asked a Starkatteri to intercede on her behalf. Finally she finished, telling of reaching the Orinoco in time to prevent Riptide from sinking the Abalone.
“That is… quite a tale,” Admiral said in the window of silence that followed her story.
“Every word of it is true. May the sea swallow me if I lie,” she said, pressing a hoof to her chest.
“Yes. A thrilling tale,” Spar said with that easy smile. “One they should tell for generations.”
“Do you deny or refute her account?” Admiral asked evenly, fixating his eye on the younger stallion. “Poisoning a fishery. Firing on a ship of the tribe without provocation. Mutiny within your own fleet. These are serious accusations.”
“Oh? And what of aiding and abetting the enemy?” he asked as he started to walk around Mahealani. “Assisting a pony and a Starkatteri? I don’t know which is worse, do you?”
“They were children!” she protested immediately.
“Of our enemy!” he retorted with a scornful snort.
“Order!” The admiral slammed the orb down. “Mahealani is not on trial here.”
But Spar persisted. “Why did you not simply leave them on the island for another to assist? Why did you choose to take on the enemies of our people? Because they were our enemies. Does not the Abalone fly with the flag of Princess Luna’s head on a sword?”
“That–” she began.
“Order!” Admiral repeated, raising the black sphere.
“She disparages my captain, Admiral! I cannot be silent at this hypocrisy!” Spar cried out. The commodores listened intently, talking lowly to each other. The Admiral turned to them, and Kraken and Maelstrom nodded. He lowered the sphere a little, and Spar smiled at Mahealani in triumph. “War with the ponies is Tradition,” he stated. “You were carrying known enemies of our people. Captain Riptide requested that you turn them over to her. Was there some obscure Tradition that prevented you from doing so?” He turned to the crowd. “Does Fleet Tsunami aid the enemy of our people?”
Something rose inside her. Something she’d thought drowned and sunk. Anger. Mahealani retorted. “Enemy? They were children, you craven bastard! She nearly sank eighty souls to slay children!”
Spar frowned, as he hadn’t expected her to fight back. “Children of our enemy. Unless a ceasefire was declared in the last two centuries, we are still at war. You were committing treason!” He stomped his hoof. “By Imperial law, Riptide not only had a right to fire on a traitor, but an obligation to do so!”
“This is not the Empire, and I remind you for the last time that Mahealani is not on trial here!” Commodore Tsunami snapped.
“Oh! Perhaps she should be!” Spar said, pointing a hoof straight at her. “Unless our tribe has forsworn our oaths to the Empire, the law is the law! She should be flogged bloody for her association with dark powers alone, not merely removed from office!”
This time, the sphere’s impact knocked everyone not sitting, a shaman, or the Admiral to their knees. “Enough, Commander,” the Admiral warned. “This is an Atoli trial, not an Imperial court.”
Spar smiled and bowed to the cyclopean stallion. “I beg forgiveness. I was under the misconception that the Atoli were a part of the Empire. Even the Atori served the Empi–” The Admiral raised the sphere, but he didn’t slam it down. Instead, Spar sat down hard, grabbing his throat as his eyes bulged in alarm.
“The sea has run out of tolerance, Commander. Now, silence,” he said, and Spar opened his mouth, seawater poured out in a deluge. Admiral lowered the sphere, and Spar doubled over, coughing and retching cold water.
Admiral turned to Commodore Tsunami. “You have heard the testimony of witnesses. How does Fleet Tsunami respond?”
“I can say with certainty that her part on our Fleet is nothing more than a bill of sale, and were she present, I would divorce her at once and give her to the sea for her transgression… and I can think of no better parting than via cannon!” That got a few chuckles, but none from the commodores. “She has not honored her obligation to the Fleet, nor has she respected our Traditions.” He then turned, removed his hat, and bowed to the two zebras sitting beside the dragonbone throne. “I fully understand if Fleet Kraken and Fleet Maelstrom wish to hunt down my errant captain for recompense. I will aid you, should all the fleets agree to that action.”
“You can pay for our blood and ships she’s taken!” Kraken demanded.
And the specter reared its ugly head. Money. Her husband may have spoken passionately of aiding the tribe, but his marriage had been to protect Fleet Tsunami’s profits first. “She has kept whatever spoils she has claimed for herself.”
The commodores exploded, along with the rest of the room. “You expect us to believe that? Tsunami, you greedy bastard!” shouted Kraken.
“It’s true! Whatever she’s taken, she’s held onto!” he appealed. “She puts it all back into her ship and crew!” Mahealani had seen the books, and that was true, but not the whole story. Having Riptide had been a massive lever for their fleet’s fortune, and until now, her commodore had been happy waiting for the eventual payoff. “She has forsworn her oaths of bondship. She’s as good as divorced me!”
“This whole trial is just you slipping the bill, seas drown you!” Kraken bellowed. Out of the corner of her eye, Mahealani saw a filly break the surface of the water, with only her mane and flat black eyes visible. “Take some damned responsibility for damages at least!” The shamans immediately stiffened in alarm, but their distress was missed by the Admiral, who had raised the sphere again.
Then, before he could bring it down, a voice rang down from above, cutting through the squabble, “Oh, dear Commodore, don’t hold your breath.” All eyes rose up to the sight of brown-clad, dragonfly-winged fliers bearing a platform on which stood Captain Riptide. She stared down at the assembled zebras with a smug smile of superiority. “You all know that Tsunami takes all it can reach,” she said, quoting the fleet motto.
The sphere crashed down twice, till silence resumed. “Thank you for attending your own trial, Captain,” the Admiral stated dryly. “The entrance was unnecessary.”
“Oh, never underestimate a good entrance,” she said with a toss of her mane, then immediately pounced on the Commodore, grabbing him around the neck before he could pull away and forcing a particularly long and loud kiss on the stallion. “Oh the things I’ve heard you say about me, dearest husband,” she gushed, baring her teeth as she stared into his eyes, hooves nearly strangling him. “It kills me. It really does.”
Mahealani lunged in and, with practiced ease, disentangled her husband from her bondsister. “No!” she snapped, moving between the pair. “You dare call yourself his wife!?”
“Oh yes. He’s all upset that I’ve been saving up a bit,” she said as she examined her hoof with a sniff, ignoring the assembly as she continued in almost a bored tone, “If you wanted spoils, here.”
And more fliers began to drop down, each one clutching bags that they dropped around the mare. Gold and silver coins, shells, books, gems, pieces of delicate scrimshaw and ivory. Even sacks of pony bottlecaps and Equestrian bits! They formed a ring of wealth about the mare. It was easily as much as the Orinoco would earn in a solid year of trading. A good year. “Here’s a bit to make you happy. I have more. Much more.”
“I grow weary of the waves of Tsunami,” Admiral growled. “Are you here to mount a defense or bribe your way out of trouble?” The latter was a time honored tradition of the tribe, though Mahealani couldn’t imagine how much it would take for all of Riptide’s crimes. Given how much she’d casually dumped around herself, though, maybe she could. The captain didn’t answer. She simply smiled at the Admiral till he repeated more firmly. “Why are you here?”
She beamed a smile at the implacable Admiral. “Why, is it not obvious? It was demanded that I answer to you, and here I am. I am a dutiful and loyal Atoli,” she said as she stared at that sphere in his hoof, then back into his eyes. “Accorded a trial and the protections of law before execution, of course.” She trotted to where Spar had recovered enough to sit up and helped him to his hooves. “My commander here has served me wonderfully,” she said, and he bowed shakily but deeply to her.
“Dutiful and loyal? You?” Tsunami sputtered, rubbing his throat.
“Always, to those who are deserving of my loyalty,” she answered, smiling so benignly it was hard to imagine her hiding any teeth in that grin. “Those who do not merely wish to use me.” Instantly, the smile was gone, replaced by a forlorn look. “But it seems my commodore no longer wishes my hoof in marriage. Oh woe is me. Whatever shall I do with the deadliest ship on the seas and all this money?” she asked with a pout, casually kicking a small gold ingot in the direction of Kraken, whose hatred was momentarily replaced by stunned incredulity.
Commodore Tsunami’s mouth worked silently as he was snared in the trap. If he rebuked Riptide, she was under no obligation to pay him any more dues, and the other Fleets, seeing the treasure she’d already displayed, would tear him to pieces for their share. After all, it was far harder to try to collect damages from a warship. Worse, any one of the other fleets could take her up on her implied offer, and all the advantage she’d brought to Fleet Tsunami would be turned against them. And every fleet would see it as a cowardly attempt to weasel out of responsibility. Some might even challenge the claim further, asserting that Fleet Tsunami had riches off the books.
If he didn’t rebuke her, then he was complicit in her crimes but would also be able to offer blood money compensation from her spoils. If she had claimed an appreciable share of her booty from pirates and slavers, his fleet might even make a profit after it was all tallied. Admitting the fault and paying compensation would be slightly more respectable to some than trying to forswear her, too. But if Riptide kept up her attacks, eventually Fleet Tsunami would be reefed. It was a question of being eaten by a shark or piranhas.
“I… admit I’m at a loss,” he confessed.
The waterlogged filly climbed up onto the platform directly behind Mahealani. She didn’t shake herself dry, instead sitting there as water sheeted off her emaciated frame. Every shaman within ten feet of her immediately backed away.
“What of her crimes?” Mahealani demanded, getting a surprised look from everyone, including the Admiral, who looked at her as if seeing her standing there for the first time. Riptide pursed her lips as Mahealani continued, “Isn’t that why we’re here? To convict her of crimes against the tribe?”
“Oh, dear bondsister. You should have let Okambo take you. It would have been far kinder,” Riptide purred.
“Mahealani brings up an excellent point,” Admiral said. “Do you plan on refuting or countering any of the evidence against you? Are you here to offer a defense at all?”
Riptide closed her eyes and spread her hooves wide. “Oops?” she said with a mocking tone. “So sorry I crushed your pathetic ships and settlements before I realized who you were? My bad.” She slapped her fetlock with a pout.
The room exploded. “You admit to murdering my family! Sinking my ships!” cried out one of the commodores, rising to his hooves.
“I should gut you where you stand!” Commodore Barracuda said, drawing a sword and advancing on the captain. The waterlogged filly stepped beside Riptide, and there was a flash. The shamans scattered back as the sword was sheared off at the hilt, the blade seeming to simply vanish and the commodore knocked sprawling. The filly simply sat there and chewed.
Then the sensation of drowning filled Mahealani's throat. Every Atoli learned the sensation sooner or later. Some panicked, flailing and clutching their windpipes. Mahealani didn’t take her eyes off Riptide, who actually smiled.
“The sea is tired of this trial,” the Admiral said as he held up the sphere. “State your defense.” He lowered the sphere, and many coughed and gasped in reflex as the sensation passed.
Riptide didn’t even clear her throat. “I’m sorry, your admiraltyshipness,” she said, starting to walk around the platform, her voice carrying magically to every inch of the vast chamber. “As to whether I really did attack your assets, I confess I doubt I could tell if I did. One rusty, wretched, corpse-bedecked wreck looks much like another when I am through. But I must admit that, if I were guilty…” She paused, her haughty eyes scanning the crowd before she proudly declared, “I’d feel no shame for it!” The room erupted in howls, and she grinned as she called out, “No shame at all, for it was no less than they deserved!”
A vein in the corner of the Admiral’s temple worked as he rolled the sphere in his hoof against the dragonbone throne. Mahealani wondered if he contemplated drowning the whole court. He smashed the orb twice and snapped, “The defense shall be allowed to speak!” Then he added to Riptide, “Pray you do not waste our time further.”
The booing subsided to furious mutterings as she smiled, rising up on her hind legs and spreading her forelegs wide. “Yes, deserved! Deserved for being weak!” she called out, her voice rolling over the protests that started, even as the Admiral raised the sphere. “And you all know it!” She then whirled and pointed her hoof at Commodore Kraken and Commodore Maelstrom. “But as severe as you feel my crime is, it is nothing compared to the crimes the rest of you have committed!”
“What are you talking about? What crimes?” Admiral asked coldly.
“They, and all of you, are guilty of the crime of being weak through division,” she said boldly, thrusting her hoof at the mob surrounding her. “Yes, divided! Look at you. Look at all of you! Look at what it’s taken for you to set aside fleets and ships to get at the heart of our weakness and shame.” The shouts died out a little. “Once, we were strong. Once, the entire world shook with our hoofsteps, and the sea was always ours to claim. But what are we now? Anemic little flotillas of wretched little dinghies scrambling to survive and trade. Settlements scraping a living like the barnacles latched to your hulls. We were so much better than this,” she said boldly as she glared defiantly at the crowd, “and we can be again!”
Some continued to howl and beat their hooves against the metal walkways and rails, but far fewer than before. Brows furrowed in thought as she stood proudly. The Admiral rubbed the bridge of his muzzle. “Do you admit your guilt?” he growled.
“What crime codified in Imperial law have I committed? Have I given aid and succor to the enemy? Have I conspired with forbidden forces?” she demanded, then stabbed a hoof at Mahealani with a grin. “She is far more guilty than I. Her testimony confir–” She went silent as he raised the orb, salt water dribbling from her mouth. Unlike Spar, she neither choked nor struggled. She simply extended a hoof to the drenched filly, who’d risen immediately to her hooves, glaring at the Admiral.
“She is not on trial, and this is an Atoli court!” Admiral rumbled. “Is that understood?” She stood there for a moment, then gave a small nod, and he lowered the orb. Rather than coughing and retching, she spat the water out, her eyes drilling into him.
“If this is an Atoli court, it is no less exempt from Imperial law. The Atoli swore an oath to the Empire,” she countered as she turned to the crowd, her voice low, hoarse, and serious. “Have the Atoli forsworn their vows to the Caesar? Have they abandoned their duties and obligations? Are the Atoli oathbreakers? If so, then what makes you admiral? By what right do you command this quarter of the sea?” She faced the shamans. “Are the spirits fine with this change? Do promises mean nothing? Do oaths?”
The shamans looked to each other but did not answer. Even the Admiral seemed stunned by her declaration. Loyalty to a dead primarch made no sense. “The Caesar is dead,” the Admiral muttered.
“Is he?” Riptide asked, her voice as low as his. “Are you certain?” None met her eyes. “Regardless, no new Caesar has been elected, and the law is the law. Alive or dead, he is our Caesar. Our oaths are binding. And we break them at our peril.” For the first time, the Admiral appeared disturbed.
“Once, we battled an enemy that defeated us.” Fresh howls and cries, but somehow her words devoured their indignation as if the sphere had fallen. “Yes, defeated us! Spare me the pretense that a pyrrhic victory is still a victory. We were defeated by the ponies not because of superior strength or knowledge or valor, but because the ponies were united! They overlooked race and came together to oppose us. Where is that strength in the Atoli? Where is that strength in the zebra people?”
Now, even the Admiral appeared thoughtful as she addressed the mob. “Condemn me if you wish, but admit I speak the truth. We are weak. We are wretched. We are not long for this world. Only united can we ever regain our past glories.” She took a deep breath and faced the assembled commodores. Then she smirked and added, “Also, think of what you will lose should you condemn me. Think of what could be yours. Think. And decide.”
The Admiral turned and looked at the assembled stallions. “Your verdict?”
Each had a cup filled with seawater. One rose and poured it on the ground before him. Then another. And another.
The vote wasn’t even close. Kraken and Maelstrom stared at Tsunami as if sharpening their knives. Others, ones who hadn’t suffered as heavy losses, seemed to be taking her speech to heart, nodding thoughtfully.
“Let the spirits note, the Atoli do not vote to condemn Captain Riptide for her actions,” Admiral said gravely. He focused his eyes on Tsunami, who stared at Riptide as if he’d never seen her before. “Do you wish to formally dissolve your union with this captain, forfeiting all claim to her ship and bounty?”
“I… cannot,” he murmured. Immediately, the chamber exploded.
The Admiral spoke as if he couldn’t care less who heard or not. “Then this is an internal matter. Fleets can bring damages against Fleet Tsunami. I’ll drown you all if you don’t resolve these claims yourselves.” He growled and banged the orb twice.
“Love you, hubby bubby,” Riptide said dismissively with a flip of her tail as she walked over to the drenched filly, kneeling and petting her mane. Tsunami was then faced with half a dozen angry commodores as he struggled to prevent them from just scooping up the small fortune she’d dumped on the deck. Two started to approach Riptide with sickly smiles but balked when the drenched filly turned her stare upon them.
“Why are you doing this?” Mahealani demanded as she faced the dark red-and-black-maned mare, not allowing the filly’s dead stare to deter her.
“Why?” she asked, not even turning to face her. “I doubt you can understand.”
“Try me,” she said. “Why cause all this chaos?”
For a moment, Riptide didn’t respond, eyes narrowed. “I read a book,” she answered primly. “About a pony, of all things, who dared to challenge the assumption that the world cannot change. That it can’t be made better. That it’s not worth improving.” She gave a slow smile. “I admit, till I read that story, I doubted that change, real change, was possible. But the tide is changing, and I intend to ride it to the fore, no matter how misguided the rest of you may be,” she said as she held the waterlogged filly.
“I’m hungry, Mommy,” she said with a whimper.
“Shh… soon enough, my dear,” she said, kissing her ear. The filly gave a little smile, closing her eyes.
“Mommy?” Mahealani said, blinking in surprise. With eight bondsisters, it was difficult to keep track of new foals.
“You didn’t hear. Small surprise,” Riptide said as she pulled away. “It hardly matters. Neither of us were honestly interested in the other. I used Tsunami. Tsunami used me. That’s how life is. It was always my ship he wanted. Me, myself? I never mattered at all.” The water behind her bubbled, and from the depths rose the goldfish-shaped submarine. She turned to the Admiral. “We’re done?”
“The sea shall stay its wrath,” he replied grimly as he tucked the orb into his coat. “For now.”
“Lovely. Let’s do this again soon. Ta.” Sniffing disdainfully, Riptide, the waterlogged filly, and Commander Spar all disappeared into the submarine. With a hiss, it sank from view.
Mahealani stared at the bubbles till they disappeared. Then she became aware of the grim Admiral standing beside her. “She’s a danger,” he said, his voice no longer carrying over the din of the chamber. “The things she speaks of. Our ancestors’ oaths to a dead Caesar. I’d think it madness, but…” He didn’t go on.
Mahealani stared at the sea. At the deep, dark waters before her. All her life, she’d sailed atop them and dove within them. “One thing is certain, Admiral,” she said as she gazed into the briny depths. She had no ship. No crew. Her daughters were away. But still. “I intend to stop my bondsister.”
He gave the tiniest of smiles. “Well, it is an internal matter.”
* * *
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Granny?” the colt Arion asked as the old zebra sat at the water’s edge of her little island, the old leafless oak tree looming up behind them.
“Why do you say that, chile?” she asked without turning to look at the boy, her eyes studying the mirror-smooth water before her. “It’s a beautiful day. The sun’s shining. The birds are singing. What more you gon’ ask for?” More bugs buzzing than birds singing, but still.
“Something feels off. Something bad,” the colt said as he walked to the edge of the water. “It feels like… like walking along and stepping on ground that might be quicksand.”
She gave a tired smile, reaching out with a hoof to pull him into a hug. “Chile, I wish I could keep you right now, forever. A year or two, you’ll see nothin’ but trouble and miss the beautiful day.” She gazed out at the placid scene. “Yes, chile. Something be very wrong in our home.”
“But what is it? What do you know, Granny?” he asked, putting his hoof on her shoulder so he could stand and look her in the eye. “Ever since that pony came, you haven’t been the same.”
“It’s what she said, child. The Eye of the World be blind. Explains the great wrongness I feel, but if it be true, then I fear for us all,” she said as she reached out and cupped a hoofful of water. She could see the tiny larvae wiggling. “We see the swamp, chile. We see the trees and the water and the bugs. We hear the birds and feel the heat and water in the air. Do you think the swamp sees us back, chile?”
He blinked. “Well… I don’t know, Granny. I know the animals do. The frogs and snakes and birds and such.”
“Aye, chile, but what of the swamp itself? The trees? The water? The air? Do it see us? Hear us?” She gently let the water trickle back into the lake, seeing the ripples extend out.
“…Maybe?” he said, hedging his answer. “The spirits see us. But I don’t know about the swamp, Granny.”
“Mmm. It do, chile. It sees us and hears us and knows us. What we do and what we say. The swamp doesn’t care that we’re Orah, and we don’t care that it’s a swamp. We live and let live. We respect each other, and if one’s got its bad parts, well, the other’s the same.” She shook her head. “But if the swamp can’t see us, does it know us? Does it understand what we do? What we feel? Why we be how we be?” Another, slower, shake of her head. “I fear, chile. I fear maybe that pony filly spoke true.”
“But why, Granny?” he asked, his face scrunched up in worry.
She looked at him, then smiled and leaned over to kiss his brow. “Don’t you worry none about it, chile. Why don’t you go and see if you can’t catch yourself a croaker? Might be good eatin’.”
Arion knew he was being dismissed and frowned as he walked away, glancing back at her. Hopefully he’d forget or forgive her. There were some burdens she couldn’t bear to lay on such young shoulders. She groaned as she rose to her hooves and walked towards the wood that encircled her home. “Theon,” she called out. The wood rustled, and from the tangle emerged the undead stallion, his body browning from the swamp water. “Care to escort an old mare?” He gave a nod.
Together, they walked side by side, and the swamp moved with them. Trees graciously bent aside, tangled nettles flattened, and barbed bushes pulled back to allow the pair easy passage. The quicksand was not so quick under their hooves, and the lily pads supported the pair a little more as they walked. Gators and other beasts watched their passage, and some crawled, crept, or slithered a bit alongside in escort. The swamp respected her, as she respected the swamp.
Many others had not. The pair reached their destination, and she waved a hoof. An unspoken agreement took place, and the brush pulled back, the fogs and mists parting and the ever-shifting islands of peat drifting aside to reveal the lake with the barges sitting neatly in their grid and surrounded by rusting hulks. A secret treasure to outsiders, just waiting to be claimed.
But not the only secret hidden in their home. As she moved her hoof to the side, the swamp gave up its obfuscation to reveal other dark hulking shapes that had no business being in this place. Some were rusted away. Some were preserved.
Some were downright deadly.
“Orah,” she muttered as she stared at them, lowering her hoof. The trees and brush snapped back into place, the mists rising up from the water to obscure them. She sat and pressed a hoof to her chest. It tired her, but Arion was too young. She needed to hang on a bit longer before she rested in the waters.
Then, something reached her ear: a mare’s scream, so faint and distant that had she not just asked the swamp to reveal its secrets, she probably would have missed it. Not a scream of prey being lost to predator. This was a zebra scream, and not the sort of scream that belonged in the swamp. It wasn’t the wail of the lost, nor a desperate roar for survival. No.
This was a zebra screaming for mercy. Zebras.
Granny looked to Theon, and he immediately knelt, letting the old zebra clamber onto his back. Again the swamp aided their passage, the trees and plants forming a path straight enough to make a Propoli proud. They homed in on the growing screams of mares and stallions. Faster than any zebra could imagine moving in the swamp, they reached the origin of the cries.
Several zebras were gathered around a fire: five zebras from her village and five with Carnilian stripes. Three stallion corpses, Carnilians, all sported head wounds, testifying to the marksmanship of the hunters, while the survivors were bloody and hobbled and in the process of getting rutted by the stallion and mare hunters. The hunters had all of a moment to see the old mare and the hulking zombie, mouths gaping and eyes wide as they fumbled for a response.
They never got the chance.
“Help them,” Granny said, and it was all she needed to. Theon charged forward as the hunters fumbled to disentangle themselves from their victims. From the bushes around them erupted hornets that flew with unerring accuracy at the stallions and mares that violated the Carnilians, their stingers finding the most sensitive bits to strike. Grasses tripped scrambling hooves, and the trails to and from the clearing were suddenly choked with nettles and thorny bushes. In thirty seconds, the five hunters were knocked prone and lay there curled up as the zombie prowled around them.
Granny walked to the closest Carnilian, a young stallion. “I ‘pologize, chile,” she said, seeing the marks on his throat from a mare’s hooves. Possibly the same one that augured out his tailhole.
“We just wanted to get somewhere safe,” he whimpered, shaking.
“‘Course, chile,” she answered. “That all anyone wants. You safe now.” She turned to the hunters. Three stallions and two mares. She’d brought each one into the world. Now she wondered if she would have to take them out of it. “You dare? You dare do this in our home? Our home?”
“They trespassin’ in our swamp!” one mare snapped at Granny. “They should know better!”
“Your swamp!? Idiot chile, what make you think this swamp is yours, or mine, or anyone’s! The swamp be the swamp, and anyone who comes comes and anyone who goes goes!” she said as she glared at them. “Peat and marshlight, next you’ll be talkin’ like Propoli, knockin’ out lines o’ property and claiming ‘this fishin’ hole is mine and damn any who used it before’!”
She helped the victims get on their hooves, asking the nearby willows to ease their pain a little. Few would see the tiny specks of spiritual energy as they travelled to the survivors of the assault. “There there, chile. It be alrigh’.”
“No it not! They be Carnilia! They go be with their own tribe!” one of the Orah attackers snapped.
“We can’t go back! We were starving. Homeless. We’re orah now,” one of the Carnilian mares whimpered.
“If you orah, then with the Orah you stay, chile,” she reassured her. “We always take in those others won’t. We find a place for you.”
“Oh, will we?” shouted a stallion from the treeline. The thorn bushes were pushed aside with a number of curses, and Kyros stepped through. A dozen more followed him, mostly hunters but also a few village ponies. Diane brought up the rear, and while the first eleven formed a semicircle around the five Carnilian refugees, she joined Granny. “That not for you to decide, Granny,” he declared as he eyed the refugees.
“Not be a thing needin’ decidin’!” Granny countered. “It be the way it is! Orah always take in ones needin’ us. We all Orah, no matter what stripes we wear.”
“Oh, you think they be Orah?” Kyros sneered as he stared at the five. “I thinkin’ they somethin’ else.” He leaned in towards the mare. “Spies!” he snarled, then spat in her face.
The revenant charged forward, interposing itself between the mare and the Orah leader. “Spies? What are you talking about, Kyros?” Diane demanded as she moved next to the fallen Carnilia. “Why would Rice River or any Carnilian spy on us?”
“‘Cause we don’t have what they don’t want,” he hissed. “Razorgrass.” He jabbed a hoof at the five. “They not the first comin’ here this moon, beggin’ for help. First five. Then ten. Then twenty. Pretty soon there be ten times more Carnilia fuckponies than Orah and they be drainin’ tha swamp and plowin’ fields and we be told ta go!”
“We didn’t! We wouldn’t!” the defiled stallion begged. “We just want somewhere to be safe!”
“They not the first?” Granny blurted. “What happen to tha first? Kyros, what did you do?”
“This,” he said, with a stomp of his hoof. In one smooth motion, half the hunters drew their rifles. Orah were the best markszebra in the world, and in less time than it took to draw in a breath, they’d fired with superb accuracy. Shots found skulls, chests, and throats.
“Killer! Chile killer!” Granny cried out. Theron charged, but the killer was ready. Three zebras met the undead’s charge. As powerful as the preserved cadaver’s body was, the three beat him back before he could pummel Kyros to paste. More hunters piled on, beating the corpse till the seams sealing its mouth snapped.
In Granny’s sight, a tiny white mote escape the corpse’s lips. It transformed into a tiny, glowing zebra head that seemed to gaze about helplessly before dissipating into a haze of white mist. The corpse shuddered, and fell still.
Diane moved to interpose herself between Granny and Kyros. “You… you murderer!” Diane spat.
Granny pushed her aside to face the mob. She could see the wisps of the slain Carnilians disappearing… but as they passed, something lingered behind. It hung in the air like toxic smoke and sank into the earth like oil. Hate.
Few spirits understood hate any more than a cell in her body could understand a poison. Only that it was bad and wrong. The swamp didn’t hate. The radigator ate because it was hungry, not out of hate. The quicksand bore no malice when it sucked you down, nor the mosquito when it spread fever. They were simply doing what they were. All around her she could see the spirits shriveling up, hardening, twisting, and blackening. They screamed as the zebras had when they’d been violated. That hate had been a foul wind compared to this.
It was all Granny could do to keep from falling on her face as she felt that corruption within. Certainly, the rape had been bad, but nothing so sealed in hate as murder. It would take years of brutality to equal the spiritual toxicity of a deliberate, callous murder. That kind of poison was the worst, but here in the swamp, she’d thought it’d been impossible. They were Orah.
He sniffed. “Go back to your island, Granny. Leave the swamp to me,” he said as they turned and headed out, several glaring back at Granny. They couldn’t see the faint black blight they left on the leaves as they passed.
Diane and Granny moved to the prone form of Theron. The powerful corpse was now just so much rapidly rotting meat. “Oh, Theron. Poor chile. Poor all of us,” the old zebra said as she stroked his dull mane.
“What’s going to happen, Granny?” Diane asked. Granny watched the black contamination seeping out and spreading, withering and sickening the spirits. Without them, this would be just stagnant water and beasts. The soul of the place would be lost, and the Orah with it.
They would truly be orah.
“Nothing good, chile. Nothing good,” she answered.
* * *
“It’s no good,” Vega muttered to Tchernobog as the two of them sat in his office. He stared hard at the spreadsheets on his desk. He liked spreadsheets. So long as there were spreadsheets, there was civilization. Without spreadsheets, there’d be only uncertainty and guessing. “We’re three percent down from last month and two percent from the month before that. Twenty percent over the last six months.”
“We’ve had dry spells before,” Tchernobog said as he moved up behind Vega.
“Sure, but I understood those,” he replied as he gestured to the numbers. “Crackdowns. Interruptions in transportation routes. Megaspell interference. The causes and effects were pretty clear.” He scowled at the sheets through his reading glasses. “We’re suffering losses across the board, but nothing’s changed. No elders calling for us to be rooted out. No sharp losses in any department indicative of someone getting greedier than usual. This is systemic.”
“Local?” Tchernobog murmured. “Give me a target, and I’ll give them trouble.”
Vega shook his head and picked up several correspondences with other Syndicate cells. “Reading between the lines, it’s the same out west and down south. No one wants to admit it, of course. We haven’t. Still…” He tapped the paper. “It’s vexing.”
Tchernobog rose behind him, holding him and giving his ear a kiss. “You’ll figure out the cause. You always do.”
Vega smiled, despite his worry. “I’m more concerned that there is no clear cause. There’s always an economy, even if it’s raiders trading chems for bullets.” He tapped the paper, his eyes distant. “Unless there’re fewer raiders… fewer smugglers… fewer… everything.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I’d kill for a reliable census. No. At least three reliable censuses. I need to graph something.”
“You Logos and your numbers,” Tchernobog murmured, giving the back of his neck a kiss. “The Carnilians are doing their best to repopulate the world. There’s another festival of life coming up. We should attend.”
He was joking, of course. A gay zebra was only marginally more welcome at Carnilian orgies than a ghoul. Oh, sure, if you could pretend to like mares enough to sire foals, they could ignore little things like actual orientation, and some of the drugs they used to ‘encourage’ reproduction almost could make him feel ‘normal’. Almost, if he pretended desperately enough.
He’d rather be shunned.
“It’s not enough population growth,” Vega said, pointing at numbers for trains leaving the city. The Syndicate always kept a hoof on everything shipped in and out. “Over the last twelve months, the number of Carnilian emigrants has been dropping. It’s slow. It’s steady. It’s worrisome.” Those zebras, many ‘indentured servants,’ filled the populations of the legions, communities, and slave camps of the rest of the Wasteland. “I’d kill for some reliable birth records. All of this is guessing!”
“Hazelnut coffee,” he said. “We’ve been out for a month.” He’d never run out before.
“Hmm,” Tchernobog murmured. “Truly dire. Has Pythia been of any help?”
“She’s kept us from making a few disastrous mistakes. Catching that train derailment was good. Losing a train would have ended us.” He gestured to the spreadsheets. “All of this despite her help.” Not that Vega liked to admit the filly’s sight was helpful. He tried not to act on it, just use it to double check his own procedures and decisions. Taking off his glasses, he leaned back, pressing the back of his head into the Starkatteri’s chest. “We’re going to have to do something.”
Tchernobog leaned down and kissed him deeply, and Vega kissed back, the sensation bringing a smile to the corner of his lip. “Just tell me who to curse,” he said when they broke contact.
“Not that kind of something… maybe,” Vega amended. He had no idea if corrupt spirits could be put to good use, but stranger things had happened. “But we can’t keep business as usual. The pressures are all downward and against us.”
“So we break the rules. That’s what we do,” Tchernobog said. “That’s what we’ve always done.”
Vega murred as he rolled his head and slipped out of the chair to face the hooded stallion. “Need to figure out which rules to break and when to break them,” he said. Like the rules against a Logos bookkeeper taking in a wretched, starving Starkatteri stallion, nursing him back to health, and coming to grips with just how painfully lonely both of them were.
Vega kept his mouth moving downwards, and when he found what he was looking for, Tchernobog breathed, “I like breaking these rules.” Vega couldn’t respond, but he smiled as he did what none of his fellow Logos could understand. How could a stallion, any stallion, take the place of numbers and rules and logical arguments?
Some things were better than rules could ever be.
There was a clearing of a young throat, and Vega opened an eye to spot Pythia watching with a vaguely annoyed look. She held up a piece of paper. “Carnico’s going to offer less weed killer next month. Might want to stock up,” she said as she put it on his desk.
Vega let the obstruction pop free. “Thank you. Anything else?” he asked, and if there was any answer other than ‘no’, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Nope,” she answered as she turned and walked towards the ramp leading out, then whirled just before he could resume. “Just wondering, do you think you could hang a sock on the doorknob, turn on a light, or hang a sign or something? ‘Red light means fellatio in progress. Interrupt at your own peril.’? Something? Maybe?”
Tchernobog pressed down on the back of Vega’s head before he could respond. “Pythia. Out,” he rumbled.
“Alright. Don’t need the sight for this,” she said, trotting out. His mind wanted to stop, take the new information, check it with his own sources, and adjust predictions. Be a good, meticulous Logos…
The stallion he loved helped him set all that aside and focus on simple reciprocation and the transfer of liquid assets.
* * *
Patience. Equus abided, suffering in silence. In this void, one could hear her groans if one waited long enough. Sitting in complete darkness, dark eyes remained locked on the pool in the floor of the cave. He sat and waited. Patience. She would move again. Had to. Must.
Patience. Patience. Equus abided. How long had it been? What was time? What was space? Patience. The world would wait a time. Eat the supply of dried berries. Sip from the gourd. Feel the sand. Hear the moans of the world. Wait. Wait… Patience… Patience…
* * *
Carnilians had killed sex for Majina. The filly hadn’t really been interested much in the first place, but after six months in Rice River, she knew what it was, had seen it done, and had passed on multiple offers. And nothing killed carnal interest like seeing a starving family of fourteen. It wasn’t just that, though. Everywhere you looked, Carnilians were talking about it, laughing about it, or doing it. Like it never got old.
She could have joined in. Heck, the Carnilians wanted her to pair up with a colt her age and ‘get used to it’. A foal would be ‘a blessing’. Since she’d moved in with Osane’s family, she’d helped with cooking, cleaning, and other chores. Both parents worked, and while Osane was Proditor, her husband was not and was frequently away on the rails working on the train. She’d caught him having sex with four other mares, and Osane just shrugged and said that, so long as she didn’t have to raise the offspring, she didn’t care.
Like it wasn’t a problem.
As she trotted along towards Galen’s office, she wished she was back in the Hoof, in Chapel. Rice River might have been a billion times bigger than the tiny village, but it hadn’t been full of desperate, angry zebras trying to patch every hole and want in their lives with incessant sex! Her thin triangular stripes might have been Zencori, but that just made her stand out more. Osane had tied a pink ribbon on the base of her tail, which was supposed to tell them she wasn’t ‘available’.
It just seemed to make the boys more determined to untie it.
Precious lingered on the front stoop of Galen’s office building, and Majina smiled a little at the sight of the dragonfilly with ten coins. “One… two… three…” she counted with great relish, stacking them up atop each other. “Five and five,” she said as she split it into two equal stacks, nudging them and peering as if to consider their height. “Three threes and…” She paused, frowned as she looked at the stacks. “I need two more coins.”
“Is that how it works?” Majina asked with a smile as she trotted up. “You could also go with one less.”
“Yeah, but that’d be crazy,” Precious replied with a snort of green smoke. She looked at the basket Majina had balanced on her back. “Oooh! Is that lunch? Gimme!” she said, wiggling her claws towards the basket.
“It’s not all for you!” Majina retorted, but she slipped the basket off and passed Precious one of the sturdy glass containers full of rice, a bun, and a steamed fish. The dragonfilly dumped half of it in her mouth, masticating furiously and with glee. Majina pulled out a small tin salt shaker. “Salt?” she offered dryly.
Precious swallowed, took it, shook a great deal on her tongue, then shoved the other rest of her food into her mouth. Precious was the only person Majina knew who could eat a full meal in seconds. The dragonfilly eyed her as she gulped. “You look down.”
“I don’t like being here. I wish we could go,” she said as she looked around the plaza. “I’m sick of all the coal ash and dirty looks.”
“Yeah.” Precious twisted her lips. “Never thought I’d prefer the swamp to this place. At least in the swamp I didn’t have to pay for things. There’s something just wrong in giving a person a beautiful gold coin and then expecting them to give them all away.” She scooped up the coins in her claws, gushing, “Mummy’s never ever gonna give you up!” and smothering them with tiny kisses.
“Ugh.” Majina sniffed. “Don’t say ‘mommy’,” she said sourly. She could count no less than three pregnant mares in sight. “Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?”
“I am working,” she said as she sat up. “I’m keeping the riff raff at bay.” She waved to a knot of a half dozen mares and stallions watching the doorway from a bench across the street. “Yoohoo! Hello riff raff!” she called out, getting more hard glares. “If they come over here, I tell them to stop loitering. And I help walk clients home and stuff. Mostly a bunch of walking and growling and occasionally biting butts. You know. The usual.”
Majina shivered, hugging herself. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Well, duh,” Precious said as she poked Majina in the side. “You’re the cute, nice one. I’m the bitey, scratchy one. Could you imagine if I tried to be nice or you tried to be bitey? It just wouldn’t work.”
“Mmm,” Majina said, dropping her eyes. “I should take the rest of these up,” she said as she nudged the basket.
“Why don’t you let me? I’ll save you a trip?” Precious offered with a grin.
“How do I know you won’t eat them all?” Majina countered sourly.
“Because then Osane and Aleta will yell at me,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “As meek as she was when we met her, Aleta can get mean when I eat the doctor’s food.” She adopted a high voice. “How can you eat the food of the stallion that provides for us all? Don’t you have any shame? Meemeemeemee.” She snorted. “For a mare who hates what he does, she can get annoying when she catches me munching his lunch.”
Majina had no interest in seeing his depressing office any time soon and so passed the lunches to the dragonfilly. “Here.”
“Excellent,” Precious hissed, rubbing her claws together. She caught Majina’s flat stare. “I mean, Doc Galen needs his lunch, yeah?” She hooked her tail around the bag, dropped her coins inside, and started towards the door. Then she paused, looking back at Majina from over her shoulder. “You going to be okay?” she asked with a frown.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, forcing a smile. “Better get that lunch to them before it gets cold.”
“Sure thing. See you later,” she said, and slipped inside, leaving Majina alone. She turned and headed back towards Osane’s apartment, her eyes down on the cracked sidewalk.
Rice River’s appeal had grown toxic over the months. The Carnilians could be nice when they chose to be, and the city had seemed a wonder with so many people. Now she was sick of people. The whole city was a ceaselessly buzzing hive with a voice that shifted from a mutter to a roar but never quite managed to shut up. Sometimes she just wanted to scream at it till it went silent, but of course she never did.
“We are all characters in our own story,” Majina said softly, repeating something Momma had told her time and time again. “But I don’t know what kind of character I am supposed to be.”
A pair of hooves struck her side, sending her rolling across the concrete and into the road. “You’re that moron that talks to herself and doesn’t watch where they’re going!” a mare sneered.
Majina lifted her head to spot a herd of Carnilians, young mares and stallions, some of who she thought she recognized as the ‘riff-raff’ outside the office. She reached into her bag and drew out her blowgun, rolling to her hooves and trying to face the mare, but she bumped into a stallion who gave her another shove. There were just so many! She spun, trying to find the most dangerous target and put some room between her and the others. Did she dare fire a dart with so many around her? What if they thought they were poison? “What do you want?” she asked as she kept turning in a tighter and tighter circle.
“You’re that freak’s friend. The one that works for that abomination,” a stallion said, giving her a shove. She hit another stallion, who hooked a hoof around her neck. “We want to give a message,” he said, drawing back his hoof.
“What’s the message?” she asked, her eyes wide, begging.
She got it, right between the eyes. On the ear. Snout. Jaw. She felt someone grab her rump, pulling off that ribbon, and she screamed in terror.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a new voice rumbled like an impending landslide, interrupting the beating as she hung in the stallion’s grasp. It was a voice you felt as much as heard. She could taste blood from a gap in her teeth as she tried to fall down and curl into a more defendable ball.
“This doesn’t involve you, fatty!” one of the mares shouted. “Get back inside!”
“That so?” the deep voice questioned. “Your beef with the doctor doesn’t involve her. Piss off.”
“You can’t tell us what to do!” one of the stallions challenged, but Majina’s neck was released, and she dropped to her haunches.
“Try me,” the voice rumbled, like grating stone.
“Your days are numbered! You’ll see! All of you!” As one, they wheeled and raced off.
“Idiots,” muttered the stallion… the biggest stallion she’d ever seen. His stout frame could have easily held an extra zebra or two. He occupied both doors of some sort of shop or business, front window and sign so coated with coal filth that she couldn’t identify its purpose. His mane was trimmed down to a taut ruff along his neck and his tail was wrapped in tape. It was his stripes, though, that gave her pause. Wide triangular stripes, like wedges spilling down off his back. She’d seen one other person with stripes like that: Blackjack’s pony friend, Rampage. He stared down at her with dark, slatelike eyes. “Well?” he rumbled.
Well what? “Thank you,” she said, falling back on manners. He just frowned at her. “I’m okay,” she said, wanting just to get back to Osane’s and never leave again. He just frowned down at her, eyes dark in their pudgy sockets. “What?” she suddenly snapped. “I thanked you and I’m fine. What else do you…” She sniffed as she stared at the stranger. “…do you…” She felt tears run down her aching face, then bowed her head, weeping shamefully.
“Get inside.” He backed into the shop behind him. “They’re still watching. Don’t reward them with your tears.” Majina didn’t even think as she stepped into the grimy shop.
Inside, the buzz of the city was washed away, overtaken by the sound of water trickling on stones. It took Majina a few moments to realize this was a gym as she stared at the weights and exercise equipment. The center of the gym was occupied by an immense ring. In the far corner, near doors to what she assumed was an office, was a water feature: a waterfall trickling over rocks into a small pool. It was lined with candle stubs, three of which were lit to illuminate two glyphs painted on the wall. ‘Strength’ was one. ‘Serenity’ the other.
“Wait there,” he said, and, since he hadn’t specified where, she sat down before the little waterfall. She couldn’t stop the tears that had been rising for untold weeks in this wretched place. There was a banging and clattering in the office as she sat there, pondering the two glyphs. As a Zencori, she couldn’t help but ponder their significance. Left to right, they meant strength leading to or producing serenity, and right to left, serenity from strength. She didn’t see how that could be, though.
He emerged with a dusty vial and set it down next to her. “Here. Best take it soon and mend that tooth.”
She nodded. Helped by another stranger. Again. What would happen when the helpful strangers ran out?
She’d be dead, or worse… just like the rest of her family.
The obese stallion didn’t linger over her. He walked to some sort of exercise machine nearby that was all cables and bars, sat down with a thump, and started threading cable through pulleys. Majina just stared at the bottle. “Sorry,” she sniffed as she lifted it, holding it between her hooves.
He just grunted a little. She sighed, pulled the stopper, and slugged it down. Instantly, she felt her teeth shifting as the knocked out tooth was replaced. She set the empty bottle down. “You’re Achu,” she said.
Another grunt.
“I met another Achu in the ponylands,” she said, watching the falling water. “Well, she wasn’t exactly an Achu. She was some pony thing, but she fought like an Achu.” No response. “That’s what your tribe did, right? Fight?” Another grunt, probably from the cable he pulled between his teeth.
She rose to her hooves. “I’m sorry for taking up your time,” she said as she started towards the door.
“Hook that weight,” he said.
“What?” she asked, then saw he pointed at a black, rectangular block of metal just out of his reach. He had the taut cable wrapped around one hoof.
“Push that here and hook it,” he said as held up the slack length of cable.
Majina balked, then moved to the weight. She knelt down and tried to pinch it between her hooves, but she couldn’t lift it. She pressed her forehooves to the blunt weight and pushed, but she couldn’t budge it. “I can’t,” she said in defeat.
“Ah. So that’s who you are,” he rumbled. She gaped at him as he elaborated, “The weakling. The one that everyone comes to save. The helpless. Vulnerable. The one taken hostage. The load.” Majina shriveled up a little. “You’re Zencori. Each of you are supposed to be characters, right? You’re the damsel.”
The thought made her throat close up. “I don’t want to be.”
“Then hook that weight to this cable,” he said as he held the end of the cable towards her.
She stared at it, then at him, then at the implacable block. It didn’t care anything for her tears. Didn’t care about her loss or misery. It would just lie there.
The only way it was going to move would be if she moved it.
She lay down on her belly, bracing her back legs against it and holding the base of another piece of equipment with her forelegs. She didn’t have to move it far. A meter, at the most. So she set herself and heaved, her legs shaking a moment.
Then the weight slid under her hooves. She gasped, staring over her shoulder, then braced and pushed again. Then again. Soon she ran out of equipment to push against and so was forced to grind her hooves into the old carpet to keep from sliding. One more push! Her legs strained and trembled… and then it moved. She carefully attached the weight to the cable, and he let out the slack. The weights and cables on the machine slipped back into place, pulling the weight up to dangle a few inches above the ground.
He gave her a nod and then started to work the pedals and bars, checking the cables and weights. She just marveled at the block that now dangled before her eyes.
“I don’t want to be the damsel,” she repeated, regarding the heavyset stallion. He grunted as he rose to his hooves. “Can you teach me how to fight and be strong?”
“No,” he answered. “I like my life as it is,” he grumbled.
“I can pay!”
“You’re just like the Carnilians,” he huffed. “Either you are strong, or you aren’t. No amount of work will make a weak zebra strong. I can only make a strong zebra strong.”
“But…” Her brain popped a fuse there. “What is all this for, then?” He had to be the worst gym owner ever!
“Fitness. Muscle mass.” He gave a little shrug. “None of it’s ever made a weak zebra stronger than they are. But it pays the bills.”
Not many, she guessed, given how empty the place was. She rose to her feet, staring at him in frustration. “I don’t want to be the damsel,” she stated loudly.
He didn’t even answer her.
She turned and ran for the door, when suddenly it was kicked open with a bang. Instantly, Carnilians began to flood in, and Majina backpedaled rapidly. The huge Achu stallion rose with a bored expression as Majina hid behind him. A dozen Carnilian stallions filled the room. “Gāng!” bellowed a mare from the back of the crowd. “Show yourself, you brute!” His flat glare at the crowd from the foot of the training machine said plenty.
The harsh voice belonged to a hefty mare with a fleshy build. A painted wooden mask covered her face, sheaves of rice stalks crowning the top like a wild mane. “Shaman Desideria,” he rumbled back. “Gym membership is ten chits a month.”
“I am not here to use your filthy establishment,” she said, jabbing a hoof at him. “What is this I hear of you threatening Carnilian children? My child?” She gestured at the closest stallion, who Majina recognized as the one that had pounded her face in.
He took a wide stance. “I don’t threaten,” he replied.
The fleshy mare swelled in outrage. “Are you calling my child a liar?”
“No. Just mistaken,” he rumbled.
“Mistaken?” she hissed, her teeth bared in the mouth hole of the mask.
“He mistook this filly for someone dangerous enough he needed eleven friends to help batter her face in,” he rumbled. “He mistook numbers for courage. Mistook it for strength, too.” Gāng’s slate eyes bored into the stallion. “Weak is weak.”
The shaman pulled out a rice paper fan and snapped it open, fanning herself furiously. Just then, a small zebra stallion with a funny little mustache rushed in. It was waxed into little curls. “Shaman Desideria! How wonderful to see you again! Wonderful! Always wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Elder Maximillian,” the two said, nearly simultaneously, in identical enough tones that Majina couldn’t help but smile a little.
“Yes, we’re all wonderful here. Very wonderful. In fact, it is such a wonderful day that it seems a shame to spend it inside here, eh, boys?” The scrawny stallion waggled his brows. “I think Rosa’s bakery mares might be getting off soon. Wouldn’t it be nice if they get off after getting off? Ehh? Ehh?” He nudged the stallions flanking him in the ribs as he grinned.
Shaman Desideria’s lips curled through the mouth hole of the mask. “You are contemptible, Maximillian. This brute threatens our own time and time again, and you tolerate his presence.”
Maximillian’s eyes goggled in bafflement. “Threaten? Gāng? Threaten?” Maximillian wiped his sweaty brow. “You certainly must be mistaken, dear Desideria! Gāng would never threaten another, isn’t that right, Gāng?”
“I don’t threaten,” he rumbled.
“Is that so?” Desideria said archly, snapping the fan closed. “Well, this isn’t a threat either. Your days are numbered.”
Majina stepped out from behind the huge stallion and glowered at the mare. “Really? Really. You think that causing more violence and strife for Rice River is going to help things?” Gāng regarded Majina with his dark gaze as she faced down the mob.
“You dare address me?” Desideria asked, seeming to inflate with indignation.
“Any other idiots threatening an Achu with violence here?” Majina replied sharply, her annoyance pushing her words further than she intended. “I get that there are problems here, but repeating the violence of the past isn’t going to make things better! It’s only going to make everyone dead!”
Her words prompted a few of Desideria’s entourage to frown thoughtfully. The shaman, however, sniffed and declared, “You and all outsiders are a blight on our tribe and our community, and you will be removed by one means or another.” She stared into Majina’s eyes. “I will remember you.”
Majina swallowed at her voice and the malice carried with it like the hiss of serpents in the grass, and ducked back behind Gāng. The filly had said far more in her righteous indignation than she’d intended. Gāng didn’t reply. He simply shifted his weight, and suddenly Majina imagined a great heap of stone about to come crashing down on the Carnilians. Several of them backed away, exchanging nervous looks.
“Oh, she doesn’t mean that. She’s just voicing frustrations! But she’s leaving now, right, Desideria? Plenty of shamany things to be doing!” Maximillian gave a strained laugh. “Babies to birth. Seeds to sanctify. I’m sure your schedule is busy busy busy!”
The mare spat on the floor before her. “Come,” she said, whirling on a hoof and striding out. In two rows, the stallions followed her out, leaving Maximillian behind. The scrawny stallion peeked out the door after her and deflated.
“Thanks for not killing her, Gāng,” Maximillian said.
“She’s weak.” He sniffed. “There’s no honor, glory, or wisdom in such a victory.”
That clearly wasn’t the answer the scrawny stallion had wanted to hear. “She’s giving half the elder council colic, and she’s not the worst one.” He pulled the mane off the top of his head and wiped the sweat from his brow with the toupee. It was then that he noticed Majina. “Oh! Hello there! You’re…” He pointed a hoof at her a moment, then faltered. “I’m sorry. I’m not placing the lineage.”
“My name’s Majina. We just arrived a few months ago,” she said as she stepped out.
“Oh. I see. Welcome, then.” He put his wig back atop his head, trying to position it and brush it back up into a mohawk. “We don’t have many Zencori here. Pleasure to meet you, Merjina.” He looked at Gāng. “New student?”
Majina had opened her mouth to answer when the stallion rumbled, “Yes.” He regarded her. “She does not wish to be weak. There are enough weak zebras in the world.” He stared down at her. “We shall see her mettle.”
Maximillian pursed his lips a moment. “Well, excellent, I suppose. Please keep her out of trouble, and stay out of trouble yourself. Please?” he asked, his eyes going from Majina to Gāng and back again. “Between fools like Desideria thinking all our problems would be solved by expelling non-Carnilians, Carnico producing less weed killer, the Syndicate bribing elders like crazy, the legions poking around our border, Galen refusing to move shop across the river, the Propoli ambassadors poking their snouts everywhere, and everything else going on, last thing I need is to be stopping fights with our neighborhood Achu,” he said in a breathless huff, gasping as he looked from one to the other. “So please… I beg you both… stay out of trouble.”
“It would be easier if trouble stayed away from us,” Gāng said, low and heavy, and the hapless stallion appeared to be on the verge of tears. The rotund zebra snorted. “But I will not seek it out.” Majina only nodded.
Maximillian relaxed a moment, rubbing his stomach. “Wonderful. Wonderful. Everything is wonderful. Gāng. Majajina.” He bowed his head and then turned, heading out the door, muttering loudly, “One fire down. Fifty to go. Now to talk to Eutimio and see if he…”
Majina watched the enormous stallion as he got a rag and cleaned up the wad of spit on his floor. “Who was that?” Majina asked.
“Elder Maximillian Friskystripe, sire to a hundred and forty-nine foals and saddled with the unfortunate task of trying to keep Rice River from washing away.”
“A hundred and forty-nine. When does he find the time?” Majina murmured.
He tossed the rag into a bucket. “A frayed rope has little strength, yet has the power to bind. Maximillian ties many things together. He keeps zebras like Elder Desideria in line.”
“She really would throw us out?”
He stared at the doors a moment, scowling. “If she had her way, we would be expelled, Carnico seized, and the eastern shore burned to the ground,” he rumbled. “Glass may seem strong, but it is dangerously brittle. If she were in charge, Rice River would be taken over by a legion entirely, or razed to the ground in the fighting for the city.”
She really didn’t want to think about that. “So…” She walked up next to him. “I’m… your student, huh?”
He snorted once, looking down at her from the corner of his eye. “You are weak. If you wish to not be weak, you can be my student.” He snorted again. “Bring me a rice ball, tomorrow. That is the price of your education.”
She backed away from him. “I… I will. Thank you,” she said, smiling for the first time in weeks. She checked to make sure no zebras lay in wait and rushed back towards Osane house. “Eeee,” she cried out in glee. “I have a mentor who’ll train me and make me stronger and not be the damsel in distress anymore!” she said, then blinked a moment later, glancing behind her in worry. “I hope he doesn’t die.”
* * *
Silence. Stillness. Blackness. Quiescence. Soft breaths in the dark. Waiting. Waiting patiently. She’d moved before. She would again. Unless… no. Don’t think of that. She was touched. Cursed. She had to move. Wait. Silence. Stillness. Patience…
* * *
The Whiskey Express pockety pocketed its way along with Precious behind the wheel, clutching it with a wide grin as the steam tractor propelled them down the road. Galen used one hoof to pin a battered hat atop his head while the other gripped the side of the wagon, as if that would somehow keep the vehicle on track. “I normally don’t make house calls!” he shouted to Aleta as the mare leaned out, looking down the road. She gave him one of those inscrutable looks and didn’t answer. “It’ll be okay,” he tried to console her.
Of course, he had no idea if it would, but it was the sort of thing you were supposed to say to reassure others. Ahead, smoke and steam billowed up towards the heavens from dark lumps scattered in the grass. He could only hope that a farmhouse wasn’t included among the sources. The wagon slowed as shapes became clearer, and he felt a bit of relief at the sight of the building still standing.
Then two dark shadows whisked overhead, and a pair of griffons in black combat armor paced the vehicle, one drawing a claw across their throat and pointing down. Precious gaped back at the pair in the trailer. “I think they want you to stop! We’re here already anyway!” Galen shouted at the dragonfilly. She scowled and pulled levers, the Whiskey Express letting out a plume of steam followed by a screech as the brake was pulled. The vehicle skipped and shuddered as it slowed down right in front of the dirty patch on the side of the road holding the farmhouse.
Across the road lay a massacre. At least a half dozen wrecks smoldered and hissed as they burned in the trampled and torn grass. Zebras in black armor stood around while technicians ran buckets of water from the farmhouse well to the vehicles that could be saved. Steam tanks, like iron houses, gouted smoke and steam. Other zebras tended to wounded in the bare field around the home. One banner depicted four proud zebra glyphs vertically: iron, defenders, protectors, pride. The Iron Legion.
The other side’s standards lay in the dirt or next to heaps of bodies: five glyphs in a diamond arrangement: blood, born from honor, paying loyalty, through sacrifice, in might. The Blood Legion. Someone had splashed black paint across them in repudiation.
“Crap. I haven’t seen anything like this since that big thing in the Hoof,” Precious said, staring at the dozens of injured and slain. Mostly griffons, but Galen spotted a minotaur, sphinx, and centaur in the mix.
“Really? This is a normal weekend for the legions,” he said as the griffons landed. “Hello! Galen. Resident of Rice River. We’re here to see to her family. They live right there,” he said, pointing at the farmhouse.
“We’re going to need to commandeer this vehicle and your services for the duration of the war,” one of the two griffons snapped. “Any objections?”
“Hell yes, I object!” Precious snapped, and the pair pointed their guns at the dragonfilly.
“Precious. Let me handle this,” Galen said as he climbed out of the wagon, nearly tripped, and almost fell on his face. “May my friend see to her family? She’s not going anywhere,” he said, gesturing to Aleta.
The pair glanced at each other and gave a nod of assent. Aleta immediately raced for the farmhouse. “Now. I’d be honored to lend my assistance to the glorious Iron Legion, but perhaps I could discuss the finer details with your legate or commander. Whoever is in charge?” The pair shared another look and nodded again.
“Fine, this way,” one of them said, and they led Galen and Precious towards a pair of large trailers pulled by a heavy tractor. From inside the second came screams, and from the wounded lined up in the shade of it, that was their surgical wagon. He made sure Precious had a good grip on his bag.
“What the hell is all this?” Precious asked, staring in bafflement. “Are these raiders?” One of the two griffons gave her a dirty look. The ‘Iron Legion’ members marked their faces with a brand made from a hot I-beam pressed twice against the zebras’ foreheads or the griffons’ haunches, forming a cross. In the fields next to the battle site, where the grass hadn’t been temporarily flattened under treads, teams of zebras were shoving naked, bleeding zebras into the standing grass and slashing their faces with clumps of the stalks. At the rate they were going, the prisoners wouldn’t have any hide left.
“Raiders?” Galen laughed mirthlessly. “Oh no. No. A half dozen killers? No. These are Legion. Two… three thousand people fighting valiantly for the future of the Empire, am I right?” he said brightly, mollifying the griffon a bit. Off to a side, a dozen or so were busy raping a few other prisoners, all of whom had their faces marked with red paint. Some griffons were chopping up the dead zebras next to a cookfire. No… not raiders at all.
The first wagon was sweltering. Two tiny windows admitted air and light, and a young zebra colt with Carnilian stripes fanned a large, sweaty mare with broad, horizontal Roamani stripes. The uniform she wore was patched and decorated with improvised brass epaulettes and medallions. A number of maps decorated the walls. “Colonel. Appropriated this personnel and his steam wagon, ma’am. Requested to speak to you directly.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said as she mopped her brow and the colt continued to fan. As Galen and Precious walked in, she gave them both a weary glower. “Colonel Adolpha. Make it quick.” Adolpha wasn’t a pretty mare, her hide punctuated by scars along her neck and face, but at least she wasn’t smiling.
“Thank you, Colonel. I am Galen, resident of Rice River,” he said, pulling out a well-preserved piece of paper identifying him with the image of a stallion from ten years ago, before he’d taken the red. “As per the Iron Legion’s agreement with Rice River’s elder council, I and my companions are exempt from conscription without confirmation from the council.” Which they’d happily allow, if it didn’t take days to get anything from the elders. Of course, that agreement was weaker than rice paper. He pulled out a second paper. “I also have a letter of introduction from Vega, of the Exchange, who is owner of our vehicle. If you require its use, I fully understand, but he will require compensation at a later date.”
Oh, he was so glad he memorized all this ages ago.
Colonel Adolpha gave both a look over and stared at the pair flatly. “Okay. You’re clearly not an everyday weed farmer we can simply conscript. So what’s your business here, Galen?”
“My friend’s family lives in the scar farm. I hope they weren’t harmed,” he stated lightly.
“The Blood Legion was taking liberties inside when we caught them at low steam,” she said with a wave of her hoof. “I’d conscript them, but I have no use for emaciated bullet fodder, and they’d be a distraction in camp.” Her hard gray eyes matched the baking metal around her. “What can you do for me, Galen?”
“I have a bit of medical training. With your permission, I can assist your doctor. Then I’d like to see to my friend’s family.” She stared at him for one second, then nodded.
Despite appearances, the legions weren’t raiders. In many ways, they were both better than and worse than those killers. Raiders you could understand and predict. Legions might be genial and generous one week and the next wrathful killers who would rip you apart because they’d lost a battle or two. Sometimes they responded to flattery. Sometimes to bribes. Sometimes threats. But however you dealt with them, you had to be careful… not because they might kill you. But because their hundreds of friends would. With tanks.
Galen slipped into the medical theatre. The stallion working on the injured was simply removing shrapnel as quickly as possible and trying to get a healing potion in them before they bled out. He just gave Galen a look and resumed. The tools were sitting in a basin of raw alcohol. Galen supposed that counted as ‘sterile’ here.
Precious watched from the door, her face uneasy. “You’re going to help these guys?”
“Of course,” he answered. He’d have to be careful with his help, of course. Too good and he’d never leave. Too poor and they’d kill him like the Bloods. Aleta and Precious didn’t have notes protecting either of them, so he had to be careful.
“Do you want–” she started to ask, lifting his bag, and he immediately shook his head.
“These tools will be sufficient,” he said, gesturing to the basin. A Mendi had taught him all kinds of tricks on how to stop a patient from being in pain while you operated. Demonstrated ways of putting flesh back together so that when you drank a healing potion, it was far more effective. Magic healing was potent and precious, but it wasn’t infallible. A broken leg could ‘heal’ permanently maimed. A piece of shrapnel could slice open organs months or years after the potion sealed it in. Without the proper medical knowledge, even the most potent healing potion could be hit or miss. That was why doctors were needed.
This was closer to butchery than surgery. No anesthesia beyond a few gulps of whiskey. His mentor would be ashamed of him, and horrified by this, but no one wanted a doctor who saved your life with agonizing surgery. Thankfully two passed out as he removed jagged flecks of metal, sniffing for bowel and bile that could hint at the shrapnel’s location. Those two lives he absolutely saved. They’d go and kill again… and… he let out a long sigh. Maybe they wouldn’t. That was the doctor’s refrain, wasn’t it? ‘Maybe’?
He hoped so. One had been barely out of colthood. The other was a colt.
“That’s it,” the other medic said, administering a potion to his patient and having him taken out to recover. The interior of the trailer reeked with blood congealing against the floor and walls; there were even a few splatters on the ceiling. “Conscript?” he asked.
“Volunteer. I’m a Syndicate doctor,” he said firmly. Legions got supplies through the Syndicate. It was a far more effective prophylactic against conscription than an agreement with the impotent elders of Rice River.
“Heh. You work fast. Didn’t let the screaming distract you. Lucky they passed out,” he said. “You should volunteer more. We need good doctors. We need everything.”
“You seem to be doing fine,” Galen answered as he leaned out to look at the farmhouse. “You clobbered these Blood bastards good.” Had he been his mentor, he’d go and see to their injured enemies too.
“Seem to? This was our first big win in six months. Normally we’re the ones clobbered,” the medic said. “Rice River needs to send us more conscripts. We’re fighting for your freedom and prosperity. The Bloods will run your city into the ground. We’re the future of the zebra people.”
Galen didn’t have to heart to tell him that he’d heard the same, almost word for word, from four different legions over the years. They all fought for things like freedom, prosperity, and a better future. They were always the ‘good’ legion. And they butchered and raped all the same.
Say what you will about them, raiders were at least never hypocrites.
“Sorry. Like I said, Syndicate. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” he said as he looked out the door to where the injured recovered. “I hope they pull through. Last time, I left a horseshoe inside one of my patients. I was so embarrassed!” he said, rubbing the back of his head with a chuckle. The doctor didn’t look convinced, so Galen slipped out of the trailer before he could press his pitch. If the colonel changed her mind, this would get complicated.
“What a mess,” he heard Precious mutter, staring at the carnage as he passed. They were trying to get the tanks extinguished and repaired. Had Scotch Tape been here, they’d never have let her go. Soldiers may have been easily replaceable and doctors precious, but a good engineer? Priceless.
Trotting to the house, it was clear the Bloods had used it for target practice. The entire front was shredded and pockmarked with holes. Tanks didn’t use explosive shells often; they stuffed a barrel with whatever scrap they could and fired it all off with a blast of steam. Thankfully, someone in the house’s history had doubled the thickness of the wall facing the road and lot with plywood and pieces of concrete. Still, he could still see holes he could look through.
Around back he could hear talking, so he circled around to see the trampled vegetable garden. One side, or both, had stomped all over it. Deliberately? Accidentally? Did it matter? Fruit was split open, plants crushed, stalks snapped, and rows torn up. Malice? Hunger? That didn’t matter either.
Aleta sat with the scarred, proud patriarch of the family and his three wives. They instantly gave him the look: how dare he be Proditor? That expression on their faces, as if a pile of excrement had somehow magically animated in the form of a zebra of their tribe… as always, he ignored it. They had a pot of healing brew going; healing potions were the first thing every zebra learned to cook up. Purple roots and flowers lay next to it, and an empty bucket smeared with the purple goo of a first batch. Those who could were trying to straighten and repair the damage to the garden. It seemed futile, but then, he had grown comfortable with futility.
There were a number of traditional Carnilian greetings he could make: May your garden be ever bountiful. May your herd always grow. Life is good and endures. Instead, he made a bow and gave a Mendi greeting to the patriarch. “I am here to help.”
He had only one eye and no ears, and the ends of his muzzle and limbs were scarred lumps. Still, he stared at Galen. Here was a zebra he could lash out at, and Galen fully expected it.
“You have brought my daughter to us. You have soothed the anger of the Iron Legion. You have helped immensely. Thank you,” he said with an unnecessary, unexpected graciousness. Some of his wives clearly didn’t agree. Two were visibly pregnant, one far along, and both eyed him as if they expected him to attack and tear their unborn from their bodies. “If you can help further, we will be grateful.”
The majority of the injuries were simple enough, but Galen helped clean and bandage wounds as best he could. Clearly these zebras had taken so much healing potion for dealing with the razorgrass that they needed his help. For rape trauma he could only offer some irrigation and a kind smile and the empty assurance that they’d be okay. The elder mare furthest along in her pregnancy wouldn’t even let Galen examine her.
“Galen,” Aleta said as he stitched up a nick on a filly’s ear, thankful to the spirits she’d escaped the Bloods. “My mother’s bleeding.” Galen looked to the gravid mare. Light blood, inner thighs under the tail. “She’s drunk healing potion twice.”
He rose and approached the mare, who turned to her husband and cried out, “No! Please, don’t let him touch me! He’ll take my baby!” It would be comical, had her voice not rung with terror.
“Mother! Let him help you! Please!” Aleta demanded.
“Beloved, he is a doctor,” the scarred stallion said.
“He is Proditor! He ends life! Cuts it off before it can even draw a breath!” she said, hiding behind her husband. “Don’t let him look at me! He’ll kill our child. I can feel it.”
Galen met the panicked mare’s stricken eyes. “Mother,” he told her in tones as soft and certain as he could. “I will save your child. I swear it.”
“But–” the elder mare whispered, her eyes full of terrible fear and desperate hope. “You are red.”
“I will save your child,” he repeated. If he failed… well, there were more uses for alcohol than sterilization. She trembled and closed her eyes, bowing her head in submission. “Precious! My bag,” he said as he moved behind her. The bag had a combination lock on the clasp, and the heavy hide had been scratched by claws or knives, but it took more than that to breach dragonhide. Opening it revealed a treasure of medical equipment in soft velvet bags.
“Is that silver?” Precious asked, her nose twitching as she beheld the multitude of clamps, forceps, needles, and hooks.
“Silver plated stainless steel,” he said quietly as he took a bottle and irrigated out the blood and semen, then went to work. A set of magnifiers slipped over his eyes, and a speculum let him find the injury: a tear adjacent to the cervix. Not immediately life threatening, but dangerous. She could tear completely, lose the foal, and bleed out herself. That didn’t even address the possibility of infection. Now all his skills came into play, giving her a carefully measured injection of anesthetic before proceeding. Aleta and her husband kept her upright and still as a queasy Precious assisted.
“The tear is right up against the uterus,” he murmured, compartmentalizing the rape trauma for future outrage. “The wisest thing would be to abort the baby and save the mother.” His mentor wouldn’t have hesitated a moment. A living mother could have more foals later. One life in exchange for many others.
“You promised,” Aleta said, staring at him, her eyes hurt and angry.
He’d promised. Still… he closed his eyes. For a Mendi, this was simple… but he was a Carnilian, traitor or not.
He slipped a piece of equipment over his muzzle, strapping it into place. “Had to give all the options. I’ll see what I can do. Find three cans of D catgut, but don’t open them till I tell you,” he told Precious as he got to work.
Limit pain and suffering. Make right what is wronged. Set the bone straight. Clean lines and clean sewing. He could imagine his mentor’s calm voice as she worked him through patient after patient, showing him all the ways to make tissue hold. His muzzle extender, similar to the bridle of a battle saddle, held and released the tools as he worked inside the body cavity. Still, he breathed out the side of his mouth as he worked the catgut suture into place, then redoubled it to make sure it lasted till the foal would be due. Infection made everything dangerous, but this was the Wasteland, and the default was always absolute.
When he’d finished, he’d sewn the tissue and muscle together with the womb intact. The pair took the mother to go lie down while he washed his instruments in alcohol before placing them all in a red cotton bag. He’d have to sterilize them properly later. He gave directions to the patriarch, and the scarred stallion nodded, as if committing every word to memory. He left some painkillers and antibiotics and standard instructions and warnings… Hopefully she’d heed him and take them all rather than hoard them for later.
Then he turned and saw the colonel staring at him. She stood with four other branded, scarred soldiers. This is it, he thought as he snapped the bag closed. They were going to take him away, and he’d be patching up soldiers till he died, or burned out. “Doctor Galen,” she said evenly. “We’re going to move out. Bloods are organizing a counter attack, and we’d rather hit them before they’ve pulled in reinforcements.”
“I understand,” he said evenly.
Then she pulled an envelope from her saddlebags. “Please see this gets back to Vega.” She tossed it to him, and he caught it between his hooves. She turned to the two griffons that had intercepted them earlier. “Gruesome. G–” she broke off with a smile, coughing. “Skylord. Please escort them back to the city and return.” The former snapped a salute. The latter gave a much less enthusiastic salute and rolled his eyes once the colonel’s back was turned.
Galen set the envelope in his bag. If that was the price for his freedom, he’d certainly pay it.
“You should come with us. You should all come, before the Blood Legion comes back,” Aleta begged her father.
“This is our land. Our home. We tend it as long as we are able,” he said, and embraced her. “Thank you for returning.”
“I fear my curse brought this upon you all,” Aleta murmured.
“These days, I fear we are all cursed,” he said, kissing her brow. “Live, and see tomorrow.”
After that, they were back in the wagon and puttering back towards Rice River. “Thank you,” Aleta said quietly.
“I just did what any Mendi healer would,” he said with a wan smile. Then the scarred mare rose and shifted to sit on his side of the wagon. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he stared at her as if she might bite him or sprout a second head.
“No. You did so much more,” she answered, and then she pressed her mouth to his. His mind tried some kind of rationalization to explain this craziness, but it arrived at nothing. Then she gave him a simpler answer, one no mare had given him since he’d left to study under his mentor and returned with stripes of red. Ten years? More?
Ah… Life!
* * *
Move… Move. Move! What was she waiting for, an invitation? Was she locked up somewhere? Dead? If she were dead… no. She was too cursed to die casually. Eyes bulged in the darkness at the still pool, as if willing her into motion.
Then there was the faintest resonation under the rump. Distant, but powerful, like a freight train in the deeps. A pebble detached from the roof, striking the surface and releasing rings of blue, green, and red light in a chaotic spread. Eyes spread wide, staring at the colors.
“What–”
* * *
The Applelosian trail was a big stretch of winding nothing stretching from the south up to New Appleloosa. Buzzard Beak led the brahmin and guards through the gap, keeping a wary eye opened. The griffon might have lost one eye to raiders, but the other was sharp and ready for trouble. One unicorn guard kept eyes on the sides and rear, and an earth pony stallion managed the brahmin. Damn thing had twice the brains and a quarter the wits of a pony.
Far overhead, a vulture flew in lazy rings. Even after two centuries, the vultures were still around. At least this one didn’t seem like some kind of horrific mutant. Just your lone scavenger. The griffon’s old wings yearned to fly again, but it’d been years since they were strong enough to carry him aloft.
Mercy was an ex-raider… or maybe not so ex. Somepony had gone over her hide with a straight razor, writing the words ‘whore’, ‘slut’, and ‘bitch’ in her piss yellow hide. Brick was dumb as and was the color of something that’d come out of your ass after a particularly heavy bout of drinking, barely smart enough to keep the brahmin on track, let alone himself.
“So… are you thinking what I’m thinking, Lucy?” the brahmin drawled.
“Probably not, Bob,” the other head said boredly.
“I’m thinkin’ the Lightbringer’s not a real pony. Think of how she survived Canterlot. She’s got to be a robot, for sure,” Bob said excitedly.
“Probably not, Bob,” Lucy muttered.
Brahmin… always talking to themselves.
Then the old griffon stopped. Dead trees loomed around them, leafless, broken branches reaching for the sky. The only life here was raiders and the occasional radhog. That’s why he liked this trail. He’d passed along it again and again and knew every stump and rock.
That flower sprouting in the middle of the trail definitely didn’t belong.
It wasn’t just the occasional weed or grass clump you’d get here and there. This was a brilliant purple and blue bursting blossom that filled the air with a sweetness not smelled for centuries. “Look,” Brick said excitedly as he pointed out to the side where a delicate bell of green and white sprouted before their eyes. “Pretty!” he laughed, stomping his hooves.
“Boss,” Mercy snapped, drawing her beam pistol and pointing it at the foliage sprouting all around them. “What do I shoot?” she asked as her aim swept from one thing to the next, trying to identify targets.
“Oh, wowwie!” Bob said as Lucy murmured, “Oh my!”
Green vines were crawling up the trees and along the branches, and then the dead branches themselves quivered and started to bud. Grass sprouted like a carpet beside the trail, then on the trail in a thick and sweet rug.
Then a knot on a tree before him swelled and opened, uncovering something blue and… fluffy. Buzzard Beak gaped at it as it quivered, and a beady black eye peeked out at him. Then the blue jay shook itself free, fluttered its wings, found a perch, and started to sing. It wasn’t the only one. Dozens… then hundreds of animals seemed to just be appearing all around. They seemed just as baffled as him.
I’ve gone mad. It’s as simple as that, the old griffon thought.
But this madness was far from done. Mercy cried out, making a noise he never imagined the bony, sour, scarred ex-raider could: joy. As Buzzard stared, the mare’s scars seemed to be disappearing as miles and miles of wear and tear were falling away. Buzzard stared at Brick, and the dullard’s ugly, dull features seemed to polish before his eyes. He became stronger and fitter and looked at Mercy with a bright and compassionate eye.
Buzzard stared at his withered and cracked claws and watched as they filled out with new strength. He worked his digits but didn’t feel the slightest pop of arthritis. He spread his wings and launched himself into the air… no aching muscles… no burning joints. It was a miracle. Pure and simple!
And as proof, the brahmin let out a cry of alarm, but not pain. It was as if two enormous hands were pulling the animal apart like a wishbone, but rather than resulting in the gory mess that one would expect, the brahmin was regenerating its missing pieces. The growths and malformations were smoothed away, and a bull and cow stood in Equestria for the first time in centuries.
“Lucy?” asked the bull, staring at her, his eyes wide and shining. She just nodded. “You’re beautiful,” he rumbled, and then the two started to kiss. And they weren’t alone… Mercy had shed her barding and was now cuddling with Brick excitedly. Buzzard felt a longing in his loins for a female, looking around as if expecting one to magically appear before him to start a family with. Something felt wet behind his eyepatch, and he blinked and pulled it off, staring at the world with two perfect eyes.
Those eyes beheld the trees growing and swelling, looming larger and larger. The boulders and rocks seemed to inflate as well, each one competing to grow the most elaborate and wondrous crystalline formations. The birds filled the air with achingly wonderful song. It had to be that thing! That Gardens of Equestria thing the ponies had gone on about! That was the only explanation!
Then… silence. Everything stopped, like the world held its breath. Buzzard stared at a tiny white flower growing on a vine before him. That precious, beautiful flower was his whole world.
And before his eyes it shriveled, blackened, and tumbled to the earth.
As it fell, that phenomenal growth reversed. The trees groaned as the leaves withered and tumbled down, the trunks splitting open. The birds flew furiously away, their wings beating for an escape, but they died in midflight, their bodies falling like hailstones amid the shower of dying leaves. “Bob!” cried out the cow as all around them animals spasmed and convulsed. Some unseen force seemed to latch into their bodies, ripping them inside out, spoiling and rotting their viscera before his eyes. Those same invisible hands ripped into his shoulders and claws, and he watched in horror as they blackened like burnt sticks.
The leaves didn’t just lie there. They crumpled and powdered almost instantly, exploding to flaky dust before his eyes. Bob and Lucy embraced each other, trembling as the crystalline formations exploded like glass grenades around them. Mercy and Brick lay entwined on the ground. Buzzard wished desperately for someone to hold. His wings gave an instinctive flap, and the bones snapped like the twigs around him. A rain of wood fell all about them, the limbs and branches snapping and breaking like javelins against the ground. He clenched his eyes, hugging himself as if he were a chick in the grip of a hurricane, peeking out when the horror of the unknown became too much to bear.
A peek, and the trees tumbled to the ground around him.
A peek, and Bob and Lucy lay still on the ground.
A peek, and the massive tree trunks were snapping like bombs, tumbling down in a cloud of dust.
A peek, and Mercy and Brick lay splattered like wax beneath an enormous trunk.
A peek, and Mercy’s gun lay at his feet, broken, faded, and blackened, as if left out for centuries.
A peek, and bovine bones painted red with gore embraced forever.
No more peeks. When the noise ended, Buzzard sat paralyzed in the midst of a field of fallen wood. Every breath burned in his chest, breathing the only action he could perform. He looked up at the vulture circling above, his sharp eyes now filmy and clouded. With every fiber of his being, he extended a shaking stump of a limb towards the scavenger. “H… h…” he wheezed.
Then the earth collapsed. For a mile in every direction, the ground dropped into a pit as if it would fall forever, taking with it all signs of the miraculous forest and the caravan that bore witness.
With a roar, the walls of the sinkhole foundered and slid in, and the vulture, disturbed by the boom and the great scratchy cloud of dust, wheeled away to the north for fresher corpses. The dust settled, and in time, the route would be abandoned. But the bowl would remain, a sterile, muddy depression in the world.
Forever.
* * *
–was that?” the watcher asked as the lights faded away, ripples rolling back and forth. Darkness resumed.
Enough waiting. A year had been long enough!
Time to find that damned pony and get her moving again.
Once upon a time, Scotch Tape had lived in a really lousy stable. It’d been one bad compression pump or recycling talisman failure away from complete collapse and a few hard words away from riot. The overmare in charge had been a psychotic little tyrant who’d arranged the death of Scotch’s mother, but the overmare’d just been a symptom of the greater corruption eating the stable from within. Males, including her father, had been sex slaves, brutally subjugated by the mares, who had used sexual excess as an escape from the horrible conditions. Sex was the reward for living another month in 99. The standard reward for anything, really. Hollow, meaningless, coerced sex. As bad as it had been, though, she’d been oblivious to its many faults.
Rice River, somehow, impossible as it sounded, was worse.
99’s population had been around five hundred miserable ponies. Rice River had more than twenty thousand miserable, angry zebras crammed into it. 99 at least kept the populace fed, even if you didn’t want to think about where ‘recycled’ food came from before the recycler. Rice River could barely keep half the populace alive. 99 had a sense of grudging camaraderie, even at the worst of times. Rice River was split in twain by its namesake waterway with the majority of the Carnilians living on one side and most of the business, industry, and non-Carnilians on the other. Life was simple and boring in 99. In Rice River, every day was a constant scramble to grub enough food, scrap, or money to survive the next. In 99, you knew who to hate: the overmare. In Rice River, there were a half dozen different groups to blame for the miserable conditions.
Like ponies.
Scotch Tape stepped from the shower, snagged the towel from the rail, and dried her coat off. “Are you excited?” a mare asked behind her, a pink glow infusing the cloth as it animated and briskly buffed her coat. Vicious leaned against the doorjamb as her horn did all the work, lifting the towel away and assaulting Scotch Tape with brushes and combs. She knew better than to protest. The periwinkle-coated mare would just do it anyway.
Over the course of the last year, Scotch had learned the hard way just how difficult saying no to Vicious was. She was all the worst parts of Blackjack. Crude and rude, and very good at killing. She liked sex and booze and never gave any of it a second thought. Going after a person’s family was fair game. Beating a cripple to death with his own crutch became a story she repeated ad nauseam, with the bloody crutch mounted on the wall. There was still a tooth lodged in the frame.
She’d also bought Scotch a pretty ribbon for her mane with the money taken from his pocket. Once bought her an ice cream treat with the gold tooth she’d pried from a victim’s mouth. She’d saved Scotch’s life no less than three times from the bounty hunters that still targeted her. The last time was three months ago. She’d also let Scotch stay with her for a few chores; renting a one room stall on the east side of the river was insanely expensive. So suffice to say, Scotch was more than a little conflicted when it came to her ‘guardian’.
She’d never truly understood her dad’s frustration with Blackjack until she moved in with Vicious.
“It’s just another excuse for sex,” Scotch Tape said dully. “That’s all Carnilians do.”
“Since when have you had problems with sex? You’re practically Carnilian yourself,” she teased with a grin. “Bacchanalia’s not your average ‘screw your neighbors’ festival, though. It’s three nights of food, music, drink, and screwing your neighbors, your neighbors’ neighbors, and that thing down the street because why not? Everyone comes. There’re masks. People wear crazy costumes. They light shit on fire. It’s the time of the year when the elders, Carnico, the Syndicate, and everyone else trying to show off opens up their larder and everyone goes nuts. Plus, no weapons allowed, so I’ll actually have to work or get creative if I want to kill someone,” Vicious said as she brushed Scotch’s mane out. “It only comes around once every five years.”
“Funny that they’d have a ‘festival’ when people are starving the rest of the year,” Scotch muttered with a frown.
“Hey, I never said it made sense or solved their problem. It’s just wild.” Vicious grinned as she stepped up next to Scotch Tape and brushed her own lavender mane. “Like, Carnico rolled out twenty tractors full of food to the west side this morning just so there will be enough to eat at the party. And this is just the first night. Nothing’s going to happen tomorrow, as everyone’s going to be too blasted to work. Then they do it again two more times! I love it here.” Vicious barked a laugh as she set the brush aside and levitated out a pot of blackish dye. “How do you want your stripes? Ugly, good, or sexy?”
Scotch Tape sighed. If this ‘Bacchanalia’ was all that, she might as well try to enjoy herself. “Good or sexy.” Vicious would probably draw them however she wanted, but it didn’t hurt to indicate a preference. Hopefully she’d be too spent to try and ‘fool around’ with her for a few weeks after this. Besides, if her friends were there, it’d be great to touch base with them all. It’d been weeks since she last saw them.
The brush went at its work, drawing the wide broad lines along her body. She’d grown a bit in the last year. Enough that people probably wouldn’t be calling her a kid, but she still had a year or two left before ponies back in the Hoof took her seriously. Carnilian stripes ran from the spine down along the body to the belly and all the way down to her fetlocks, which had been shaved. Ugly stripes were straight and kept zebras away. Good stripes curved with the contours of her body. Sexy ones emphasized her rump and shoulders… don’t ask her why those were so appealing. Finally, her face. Vicious smiled gently as she used a narrow brush to paint stripes around her eyes and muzzle.
“You look good, S.T.,” she said, and despite herself, Scotch blushed. She started to paint herself, definitely going for ‘sexy’, as Scotch backed out.
One might assume Vicious’s apartment would be a complete mess, but in actuality it gleamed with cleanliness, everything as neat and tidy as a two-hundred-year-old apartment could be. The small couches and chairs were arranged according to some Achu design that made every piece of furniture nice and accessible, and they were comfortable despite the old stains on the maroon upholstery. Cracks snaked across the plaster and some of the tiles on the floor had been replaced by bits of ceramic that didn’t match, but all in all it could have been the equal of someplace like Tenpony. Except for the ‘art’ on the walls.
Weapons of all sorts hung on pegs. Swords. Knives. Pistols. Rifles. They were arranged like deadly art, and, in the grip of Vicious’s magic, they were. Most were prizes from particularly satisfying kills. All were polished and cleaned till they sparkled with a life they’d never known in the wasteland. Vicious liked to talk about them, too; living with her, Scotch’d learned the difference between a Yakish saber and a Fancee foil, a Neighponese katana and a Kirin dao. Each weapon possessed a story, like the hunting rifle of the zebra she’d tracked three times across the continent to kill for selling Syndicate secrets or the gold-plated wingblades of a griffon warlord she’d beaten in a fight lasting three days in a zebra ruin, neither one willing to flee.
This wasn’t an apartment. It was a resume.
“I’m going to check in with Xarius,” Scotch Tape called out before opening the door. “He said he was going to pay me before the festival.”
“Pick up a mask or something if you can,” Vicious yelled. “Trust me. Masks are a must!”
Scotch Tape grunted and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her. She could only take so much Vicious. The mare might have helped her out a lot, but she was still a bit of a monster. Yet… they’d been here at least a year, and nothing had changed. She’d gotten a job, had a ‘safe’ place to live. Rice River, as bad as it was, was civilization. Vicious was becoming more comfortable. At times, she even seemed to genuinely like Scotch.
So, was this home?
Somewhere around two hundred ponies lived on the east bank: Equestrian refugees, escaped slaves, or Enclave dissidents who’d foolishly thought the zebra lands were safer than the Equestrian surface. Half of those were crammed into the few apartments that rented to ponies, and she smiled and greeted the few she knew. Most were polite but distant. You just didn’t get close to a pony that shared Vicious’s bed.
Hey, it was way more comfortable than her couch. That thing annihilated Scotch’s back.
Out on the street, plenty of people were milling about. The work shift was over, and zebras were trotting out of the factories for the bridge over to the west side with more than the usual languor. On the bridge, there were booths and tables being set up. Apparently this party was so big that it would occupy the whole bridge. Scotch, though, headed towards Xarius’s shop. That meant passing through the meat market.
Some of it was literal meat. There were plenty of carnivores living on the east side. Scotch had no idea how it was made, only that it, like all the rest of the food, came from Carnico. That was nothing compared to the rest of the meat, though. Worms wiggling in trays, with eyeballs attached to their ends. Strange beetles, scarabs, and millipedes. Even stranger, chitinous things that occupied whole bubbling water tanks. These were ‘symbionts’, animals that had been bred to be fused with a host in a disturbing form of augmentation. She saw a zebra mare with one hind leg ending in a chitinous, spiny black insectoid foot. Somehow, she couldn’t stop herself from giggling when she thought of Blackjack with those instead of cybernetics.
Then she thought of how much Blackjack had changed, and her smile faded. There were zebras who got so many symbionts, they just fell over dead from shock. And the breeding process was not a stringently controlled one; some organisms were more parasitic than symbiotic and would cripple their host, or burn them out in a few short years.
As she walked, zebra vendors with eyestalks and armgrafts tried to entice her to ‘improve herself’.
“You! Pony! Your hide is soft! Have hide of dragon!” called one, pointing with a crab claw ‘arm’ to a scaly purple sheet hanging in bubbling fluid. “Become invincible!”
She had a friend already with that. Another zebra thrust a jar containing a pulsating red, egg-sized-and-shaped mass with little tentacles ending in syringe-like needles at her. “Buy this! You will never tire. Never rest! Think of all you will get done without needing sleep!”
A mare snickered. “Those stripes may entice, but affix one of my glands under your tail and you will be irresistible! All the stallions will rut you day and night!” she said, holding up a tray with milky, wet crescent-moon-shaped lumps of tissue.
Pass. Pass. Pass.
Xarius’s shop lay beyond the market. A walled-in compound, its front lot was filled with all sorts of steam equipment that Scotch Tape frequently pulled bits and pieces off of for the work she did for Xarius, which was mainly fixing whatever the Carnilians broke. The Whiskey Express sat nearby, half covered by a tarp. The workshop itself was a large rust-stained metal shell that held all the equipment to do the repairs as well as projects left abandoned till after Bacchanalia. The large front doors were always kept wide except in driving rain; the damned place got too hot otherwise.
She paused as she felt the hairs on her back rise, and her normal impulse to just trot up transformed into caution. She slipped off to the side, moving along the fence line to one of the smaller doors around the side. That tingling, sickly sensation rose as she reached one of the fire doors also kept propped open for ventilation. She spotted a large brown rat shuffling into sight, emerging from under a wreck. It rose on its hind legs and sniffed as it blinked its oily eyes at her. There were voices inside, Xarius’s ghoulish croak the most notable. She lifted a hoof to her lips, making a shushing motion at the bold rat.
To her surprise, the rat bowed its head, turned, and disappeared back into the scrapyard.
Scotch poked her head in. There was Xarius’s office, with the ghoul and four other people inside, visible through the grimy window. She moved along the edge of the interior of the building, past workbenches, to where she could see through the open door. Even empty, the building was damned hot. That uneasy feeling remained, lingering somewhere between her navel and her shoulders like a slick of oil.
“…get an Equestrian diamond in the first place,” Xarius rasped.
“Called in quite a few favors with Tenpony,” Vega’s smooth voice replied. “Getting it delivered was even more of a challenge. Thankfully, there are alicorns who long for material comforts now that they’re no longer all merged. Six greens and a purple should be delivering it soon.”
“Just keep those freaks far away from me,” Xarius said in a harsh mumble.
“Can these alicorns prepare the diamond?” a strange mare asked. Scotch leaned over but couldn’t quite see her. “Without the correct enchantments, it’s simply a very expensive piece of carbon.”
“Equestrian diamonds are more than that,” Tchernobog said evenly.
“One of the greens was apparently with the M.A.S. and said she would prepare it. She’ll likely handle the installation as well. Should be finished by the end of Bacchanalia. No one will be around to see them in the factory. Then Carnico pays her, and she and the rest of her sisters get to retire in luxury somewhere on the upper east side,” Vega said evenly. “Everyone wins. I love when everyone wins.”
“And if they can’t?” the mare asked tersely. “Can you do it yourself?”
Xarius coughed. “Well. I haven’t worked on honest to goodness talismans for a century and a half. It’d be tricky.”
“The kid might know how,” Vega said. “She grew up in one of their stables.”
“She’s a filly, and I’d just as soon keep her out of it,” Xarius snapped. “As I thought we’d agreed!” Keep her out of what? She wasn’t a foal anymore!
“Contingencies sometimes force compromises,” Vega said evenly. “She’s not your daughter, Xarius.”
“I–” the ghoul began sharply, then caught himself and finished in a more level rasp. “I said I’d take care of whatever you need done, and I’ll do it. Just need to brush up on a few little details, is all.” He coughed. “You should get going. She said she’d stop by for her pay for the week.” Scotch started to draw back behind a workbench.
That was when she felt a barrel against the back of her head. “Don’t. Move,” a boy said behind her. “We got an intruder.” She started to turn her head, only to get jabbed hard in the nape of her neck. “I said don’t move.”
It definitely wasn’t the smartest move she ever made, but she was angry. She slipped her head to the side and slammed her whole body against him, smashing him between her and another workbench. The pistol went skittering away, but she heard the clack of a larger rifle. She ducked her head and kicked, legs flailing widely. One leg connected with something, but she felt it loop around the limb and tangle it. She struggled to kick back with her free leg and missed, but she felt something on the side, between it and her trapped leg. A neck, maybe? So she closed her legs tight and… that was about the time the whole plan crashed down, along with her on her face. The boy let out a squawk and fired a round that missed her, pinging off the concrete next to her head. Her hind legs were tangled up in some cables, and she looked back.
He was probably the first griffon she’d seen this close. He didn’t look all that special. Brownish red feathers and reddish brown pelt. His eyes were a deep red that she didn’t like at all. She couldn’t see his beak because her leg grip had both entangled her legs into the battle saddle he wore and forced his beak right up under her tail. From his wide-eyed look, she guessed he hadn’t anticipated this.
The five emerged, Tchernobog first. He fixed Scotch with a bowl-loosening glare. Unlike Pythia and Scylla, Tchernobog gave her an idea of why zebras feared the Starkatteri. An aura of menace followed him like a cloak. Vicious was a monster, but she was one Scotch could understand. Tchernobog threatened her in ways she could only imagine, and her imagination was fertile ground.
Behind him was Xarius, the ghoul in his faded blue coveralls decorated with a threadbare patch that read ‘Progress for Progress’ on the chest. Then Vega, then a buff-looking zebra stallion in gray combat armor with a golden circle painted on the shoulders, and finally a zebra mare in a full black business suit, her mane pulled back in a bun. “I caught her snooping around!” the griffon said… though it was more like ‘Mu mufght mer moofin amound’ given that he was talking into her backside as he struggled to disengage himself from her, his claws getting tangled up in her saddlebags.
“Ehh…” Xarius groaned, glowering at the griffon. “She works for me,” he said simply as he trotted over and disentangled her hind legs from the cables of his battle saddle. “And I don’t recall telling you do shoot up my shop.”
Once free, he pulled away, scrubbing at his beak. “I’m gonna be tasting pony butt all night now,” he muttered, then jabbed a claw at Scotch. “You know what the Colonel always says?”
“Uh…” Scotch stared at him. “No?”
“Constant vigilance! She could have been a spy. Or had a bomb. Or who knows what!?” he said, stabbing a claw at her again. “She used some kind of fancy pony martial art to immobilize and silence me with her butt!”
“Seriously?” Scotch asked, glowering back at him as he retrieved his pistol. Two rifles on a battle saddle. A pair of pistols. A knife. Really, all he was missing was some grenades. “I was just here for my pay for this week and I didn’t want to interrupt!” She gestured at her backside. “That was just… weird luck.”
“Luck,” Tchernobog said evenly, “would not have evaded my watchers.”
Before Scotch Tape could figure that out, the suited mare said sharply, “Is this her?” She kept her distance with her head pulled back, as if catching a malodorous whiff. The stallion beside her just bore a Vicious-brand grin, the kind of grin you wore to advertise that you had no issue with hurting a foal, or anyone at all, really.
“Scotch Tape,” Vega said. “Formerly of Equestria, a guest of Rice River, and friend to the Syndicate.” ‘Friend’. That was the word that meant that Vega would exploit her if he saw reason to but would rather others not. “Thank you for your vigilance, Skylord, but you don’t have anything to worry about from Scotch. She’s harmless.” Scotch glared at the griffon, who scowled back.
At her name, the mare’s face went from disgusted to intrigued, now stepping closer and narrowing her eyes. “So you’re that pony everyone’s talking about. How interesting.” Scotch blinked. People are talking about me? Why? What are they saying? Before she could ask, the well-dressed mare suddenly frowned. “And while you were being so considerate, what did you happen to hear?”
Xarius coughed and Scotch Tape glanced at him and saw the worry in his filmy eyes. He shook his head the tiniest bit as he hacked. Then she answered, “Not much. I was just waiting for Xarius to finish whatever he was doing.”
“I see,” the mare said, pursing her lips skeptically.
“Who are you?” Scotch asked, giving the mare her own glower back.
The mare paused and considered. “I doubt you need to know that,” she said with a sniff before trotting towards the door. The stallion followed at her heels. “Keep up your end, Vega. The Syndicate will do quite well when all is done,” she said brightly, departing with her bodyguard.
Vega stared after her. “Forty-one point six percent odds she tries to kill both of us before the end of Bacchanalia,” he muttered.
“Should I take them both out?” Tchernobog asked. “I can make it quick and accidental.” The casualness made her shiver.
Vega seemed to consider it a moment. “No. She’s under a sword. That’ll have to suffice. And there’s a fifty-eight point four percent chance we solve both our problems,” he replied, then looked at Scotch. “You know about talismans, right?”
“Well, yeah,” she said slowly. “No horn, so I can’t make them, but I know standard service and maintenance. Things like adjusting the calipers and cleaning. Nothing big. Why?”
“Just good to know,” Vega said as he, Tchernobog, and Skylord walked out. As they left, Scotch barely heard Vega say, “Track her.”
“I want a drink,” Xarius muttered as he nodded to his office. “You want one?”
“Um… sure?” she said as she followed. “What’s going on?”
“Shenanigans,” he answered flatly as he walked.
“Shenanigans?” Really?
“Shenanigans,” he repeated firmly.
She could have screamed, and cut in front of him. “What kind of ‘shenanigans’?” Xarius stopped, his lips working sourly as he stared out the door. “Come on. Vega was talking about me, wasn’t he?”
He sighed and continued around her into the office, but explained tersely, “Carnico wants work done. Vega wants connections for the Syndicate. Both want money and have a real bad tendency to kill people who get in the way of that money.” Vega might not be a looming thug, but she knew what Vicious was for. Sure, Blackjack had killed ponies… quite a few, actually… but she hadn’t exactly been eager to do it.
Xarius’s office was half-occupied with papers covered with the dust of the two centuries it had taken to accumulate them. Some of the stacks reached all the way to the ceiling, piled atop file cabinets, shelves, and chairs that had all but collapsed under the weight. His desk occupied a corner, with a couch shoved between two swaying heaps and a wooden chair in front of the desk. She never trusted the couch. “Why don’t you clean this place out, boss?” she asked.
He tapped a metal plate in the floor, and a metal crate emerged and rose until it touched the ceiling. Inside the crate was a small refrigerator gurgling softly and reeking of ammonia, and beneath that was a safe. He pulled open the former and pulled out a bottle of Lucky Stripe soda. Scotch wasn’t certain, but she suspected it was the same formula as Sparkle-Cola from the carroty taste. He tugged out a chilled glass and a bottle of something that smelled like turpentine, filled the glass halfway up with Lucky Stripe and the solvent, and pushed the half-empty bottle of soda to her. He sat back in his seat behind the desk with a groan. “Here’s to another Bacchanalia. May the venereal disease you inevitably contract not be the kind that rots your nethers,” he said in a mock toast before sipping and sighing.
“They have potions for that,” she countered with a smirk.
“Ehhhh, theoretically,” he answered dryly. “Drink a few just to be safe during the celebrations.” He sighed again, shaking his head. “Hopefully it won’t be a disaster.”
“You’ve been through a lot of them?” she said, smiling just a bit.
“Every five years. Sometimes feasts. Sometimes famine,” he said with a gesture at the shop. “Gives me a chance to catch up on paperwork while my workers are plastered.”
“Paperwork? For who? You’re the boss,” she said with a grin.
“‘Cause it’s my Bacchanalia tradition. They have sex. I catch up on paperwork. It’s very Propoli to be too busy for the Carnilian orgies because you have paperwork,” the ghoul rasped.
“Seems like a waste of time to me,” Scotch said, and felt a little surprised when Xarius frowned at her. “The celebration?” she clarified, and he just gave a minimal shrug. “Don’t you think so?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. I’m not Carnilian. But to them, it’s not just an orgy. It’s a celebration of the creation of their tribe. And yeah, there’s sex, but there’re lots of other things going on, too. It’s when enemies drop their grudges and try to make peace. It’s for casting away doubt and demons. That’s what all the burning stuff is about. It’s about a celebration of life.” He pointed out the door with his glass. “The last Caesar banned it during the war. I still remember hearing about the riots when I was a foal.”
Hard to imagine a two-century-old ghoul as a foal. “Really? Why?”
“Officially? Waste of resources. Fact was he thought it was gross, disgusting, and perverted.” Xarius shrugged. “He did it to plenty of other tribes, too. Banned the Atoli’s First Tide celebrations because he thought sailing around was silly. Or the Tappahani’s Royal Feast because he didn’t like spicy food.” He closed his filmy eyes. “Of course, the Romani Sacred March went off without a hitch, and the Propoli Technology Symposium was fully supported.” He chuckled. “Even the Eschatik were messed with by being forced to participate in the march. They don’t celebrate holidays.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair,” she said with a frown.
“That’s how the world is, Xara. We’re supposed to all be equal in the Empire, but sometimes things aren’t fair.” He paused and blinked at Scotch Tape. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her by his daughter’s name. “Sorry.”
The wall behind him was covered with dusty picture frames. At least half showed a zebra filly growing into a young mare. Others showed Xarius standing outside a brand new shop building. A license issued by the Empire. A degree from the Propoli Institute of Technology. An old wrench and a single battered gold coin kept behind glass. A tiny clipping from the Rice River Review so yellowed only the headline could be read: ‘Propoli awarded Medal of Brilliance for service to Rice River.’
“It’s okay.” She sipped her soda. “What do Vega and that mare want you to do?” And alicorns? Here? That was as crazy as wandering megaspells in Equestria.
He pursed his lips a few seconds before answering. “Plant Operations Manager Mariana has something she needs fixed. That’s the long and short of it. I’ve done work for them before. They trust me. So don’t you worry yourself about it,” Xarius said as he opened the safe. “Coins? Chits? Bullets?”
“Half and half?” Scotch asked. Bottle caps were so much easier! Xarius set out ten small plastic food tiles and ten small gold coins drilled through the middle so she could string them together. They weren’t solid gold, just electroplated zinc, but they looked golden enough. She wished Charity were here; that business filly would have this place’s currency straightened out in no time. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied as he closed the safe. He pressed a button, and the whole thing retracted back into the floor. “Do you have a mask?”
“You’re the second person to tell me to get one,” Scotch said sourly.
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a mask of polished metal. It had a wrench symbol across its brow and math formulas for pressure, velocity, and acceleration around the eye holes. Along the top was a fine wire mesh decorated with brass nuts and bolts. “You can use mine, if you want. Haven’t used it in centuries,” he said as he offered it to her.
And it probably failed to get him laid for even longer, she thought. Still, it was a mask. She slipped it over her face, the mesh covering her mane and helping to hold the mask in place. One band around the back secured it. “How do I look?” she asked. She thought for a moment she glimpsed something pale and shiny skitter along the side of the refrigerator, but it disappeared out of sight behind it a second later. She blinked in alarm, but Xarius didn’t react to the pale spider. What was that?
“Beautiful, Xara,” he said with a smile, and blinked again, turning away. “Ehhh…”
“It’s fine. Thank you,” Scotch said as she exited the office, walked to a steam wagon in the shop, and checked herself in its mirror. Xarius followed her, leaning against the doorjamb. The mask fit perfectly, and it obscured her face well enough. Unfortunately, green zebras weren’t exactly common, but still, she had to admit it was kind of fun to dress up a little. “When does the party start?”
“Not for another few hours. You should meet your friends before then,” he said with a nod and a tired old smile.
“It’ll be nice to see them all again,” she said, smiling.
“Stay out of trouble, Scotch.”
If only trouble could stay away from her.
* * *
The bridge connecting the two sides of the river was an enormous affair, and old. In accord with her cutie mark, Scotch couldn’t help but admire the twelve elevated piers standing firm upon their plinths. Each of the twelve buttresses soared more than a hundred feet above the water before arching out in a two-hundred-foot-long span to its neighbors. The bridge was more than a hundred feet wide as well, allowing for multiple lanes of vehicular traffic and foot traffic and even rail tracks down the middle, though she’d never seen a car upon them. Each buttress was decorated with two statues, each pair depicting one of the twelve honorable tribes. Stallions faced downriver, mares upriver, each holding things like spears, books, a tablet of numbers, a hammer and pulley, or a sheaf of wheat. The Starkatteri were not omitted, carved into the abutments like rats lurking in the dark.
Carved into the capstones along the parapets were glyphs. Majina had explained that each one held the number of a Caesar, and arrayed around them were glyphs of honorifics. Some zebras left little trinkets at the bases of certain honored capstones, like the 91st ‘Glorious’ Caesar, who had wed Princess Celestia and whose capstone always had three or four gold coins on it. He apparently hadn’t been the only one, as the 127th, 138th, 179th, and 199th all had Celestia’s sunburst carefully carved to the left of the Caesar’s mark. Others Caesars, though, had chiseled glyphs that meant ‘lewd’, ‘wastrel’, ‘weak’, or ‘mad’. The 194th ‘Celibate’ Caesar had a glyph that was covered with dozens of tiny little scratches of crudely drawn genitalia. No translation needed there.
That continued all the way to the last marked capstone almost in the middle. The 213th Caesar’s glyph had once been twice as large as the rest on the bridge. It had a constellation of eight smaller descriptions ranging from ‘Grand’ to ‘Kind’ to ‘Heroic’. There weren’t any gifts or tokens or graffiti… save one. Some zebra had taken an iron railroad spike and hammered it right through the center of the capstone.
The Last Caesar.
Even after a year, Scotch knew almost nothing about him, other than that it had been a him. Most zebras didn’t talk about him, as if afraid he somehow listened in from beyond the grave. Others said there wasn’t anything worth knowing. Plenty were just as ignorant as she. The railroad spike had rusted a bit, and streams of red stain crept across the capstone, as if the glyph bled.
“You look ridiculous,” Pythia said flatly behind Scotch. She whirled as she looked at the tiny zebra. Scotch had put on six inches in the last year. Pythia still appeared as small and grumpy as ever. “Green coat. Blue mane. Carnilian stripes and a Propoli mask. Did you roll dice or something to make it so random, or did you pick those out yourself?”
Scotch just smiled. “Nice to see you too, Pythia. How goes the future?” It’d been weeks since they’d last had a chance to talk. The tiny zebra appeared thinner and more on edge than when she’d last seen her.
“Dark and full of smoke and fire,” she replied as she trotted to the defaced capstone and stared for a moment, then shivered and shook her head. “When are we leaving?”
“Leaving? For the festival?” Scotch asked.
“For the festival,” Pythia echoed in a mutter, rolling her eyes, then swept her hoof before her. “When are we leaving here?! It’s been a year tomorrow since we arrived. I want to know when we’re going. We should be making plans. Not just jumping on a boat like last time.”
“A whole year?” Now it was her turn to echo. “Are you sure?”
Pythia rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Of course you haven’t even been keeping track,” she muttered, then threw her hooves up. “Have you been doing anything to get ready to go? Saving money for the trip? Anything?”
“Go?” Scotch blinked. “Go where?”
Pythia seemed like she might burst into flames, but contained herself. “The reason we came here in the first place?” She pulled out the folded letter and brandished it at Scotch. “Eye of the World? All that?” She hissed, “Did you actually forget?!”
Scotch backed away from the apoplectic filly. “Oh,” she said, and blinked again. “Well, I’ve been working for Xarius and stuff. I mean, I figured we’d go… eventually.”
“Eventually.” Pythia snorted, tucking the letter away. “Just when is ‘eventually’ on the calendar? I’ll be sure to mark it. We can make it a holiday like this colossal waste of time,” she said with a wave of her hoof. “Should have figured you’d forgotten.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Scotch asked, frowning.
“Smoke? Fire? Darkness? The whole future is clouding over, and I don’t know why, but it’s getting bad. We’re just sitting on our rumps here. You’re fixing engines. Precious is just lounging around being fat. Majina’s just practicing falling… falling! How do you practice that? You fall, you make sure you don’t fall again! And all the while, things are getting bad.”
Scotch’s frown deepened. “Have you told Tchernobog and Vega?”
Pythia sighed, rolling her eyes and huffing. “I’ve tried,” she admitted, “but Tchernobog’s not a seer, and unless I have something concrete and quantifiable, Vega can’t do much. It’s not like he can take out a hit on the future.” She snorted.
“Vicious would probably take it. She loves a challenge,” Scotch chuckled. The sound drew a sharp glare from the filly.
“You two a thing?” Pythia asked, then rubbed her eyes.
Scotch frowned. “Why are you asking?”
“I heard her talking about her new bedroom toy. I didn’t think she meant you,” Pythia said sharply. “What am I saying? Of course you are.”
Scotch flushed. “I’m not her toy. We’re… something.” Frenemies with benefits? The unicorn might not have been from 99, but she sure shared most of its values. Vicious called the sex a ‘bonus’ and seemed to like Scotch in her crude, mean sort of way. They weren’t exclusive. “Not that it’s your business.”
“Right. Well then, it looks like I’d better make plans for myself,” Pythia said bitterly, turning away and walking west, with Scotch hurrying to catch up. “I knew this was going to happen. We should have just kept going! Instead, we got sucked in here.”
“Wait! What are you talking about?” Scotch asked, cutting in front of her. “What’s the matter? What are you seeing?”
She paused and gritted her teeth. “It’s what I’m not seeing,” she said. “I’m not seeing any futures that are better. They only get worse.”
“So what else is new?” Scotch asked flatly.
“Exactly!” she said as she jabbed Scotch’s chest. “It was new. That Lightbringer started it. For the first time ever, I started seeing futures that weren’t complete nightmares. Oh, plenty were still lousy. Most, maybe. But…” She paused and shook her head, looking stricken a moment. “Then Blackjack did her thing and… yeah! It looked even better. Like this dark veil was pulled off Equus. Like maybe we were past the bad times. But then I read that stupid letter about that stupid eye, and since then everything’s been dimming. It wasn’t so bad while we were moving, but since we stopped here it’s like everything is drowning and I’m the only one who seems to care!”
Scotch surveyed the bridge. Dozens of booths were in the process of being erected and decorated along it, and an enticing aroma of fried foods was already rising from several. Beds of hay were being laid out, covered in hemp cloth to keep down the scratches. Electric lights, bulbs covered in red rice paper lanterns, dangled from the heads of the statues across the bridge, illuminating the normally dark spans. Small tables here and there held strange shrines, or pieces of art, or things she couldn’t even begin to identify. She might have attended a few orgies on the east side, but they’d never had this kind of elaborateness.
Hundreds of zebras and dozens of people of other races were milling about excitedly, cooking, setting up, or waiting in anticipation. Conspicuously, no one was ‘warming up’ yet, which was odd in her experience, but she saw countless people cuddling and kissing. Even gay stallions and mares; apparently Bacchanalia broke down all the tribal taboos. Anyone could do or be anyone.
And the masks! They ranged from porcelain and gold, likely handed down for generations, to crude paper or cloth affairs. Most only covered the upper face, leaving the mouths clear, but others entwined around the entire head and down the neck. Some had feathers. Some had stalks of grass. When there weren’t masks, they painted their bodies. Some coated themselves in pony colors with papier-mâché wings or horns. A few attempted to look like griffons, dragons, or even more bizarre beings. Others dyed their white stripes brilliant hues or painted their black stripes a riot of colors. The other species tended towards masks, or strange and elaborate body art that might be stripes, or tribal marks, or… who knew?
What she didn’t see were the customary distrust or short tempers. For the first time, she didn’t see a city ready to stomp someone over being a stripe or non-stripe. Carnilian or non-Carnilian. A small part of her started to look forward to this festival thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
“Are you sure it’s that bad?” Scotch asked, her brows knitting together.
The little zebra pierced her with her golden stare. “I’ve spent a year practicing. I’ve been working on keeping my vision set in the now, the ten seconds from now, and the five minutes from now. Those are all fine. It’s the tomorrow that’s scaring the crap out of me.”
Scotch closed her eyes. She had a job. A roommate. Everything she was supposed to have. Things that had eluded her in Chapel. “I don’t think you’re wrong. I just don’t want to give up what I have here.”
“In case I am wrong,” Pythia snorted.
“Don’t you have anything you’ll miss here?” Scotch asked weakly.
“No,” the filly replied flatly. “I didn’t get attached because we were only supposed to be passing through. What’s keeping you here?”
Scotch thought about that. “Xarius is a good guy. He’s like… what are they called… an uncle or something. It’s nice having someone care about you. And Vicious is… something.” She had no idea what their relationship was. “She’s someone to hold at night.” That was something, at least. “There’re Galen, Aleta, and Osane too.” She didn’t see them as much, but they were people she cared about.
“Well, glad you’re making friends. Me, I’m trying to avoid the future running me over like a train,” Pythia hissed as she turned and started away.
“Wait!” Scotch Tape said, lunging for her, but she must have been a few seconds in the future, because she sidestepped smoothly. “Damn it. Wait!” she said as she moved in front of her. “Let’s talk to the others before we decide anything.” She drilled into Scotch with that glare. “Maybe they might have some ideas.”
Pythia glared at her, and her eyes went glassy a moment, twitching back and forth. Her sneer softened a little. Some of the tension melted away. “Okay. Fine. There’s a chance. I just wish I could see it better,” she muttered, looking to the side at the waters sweeping away beneath the bridge.
Relaxing a little herself, Scotch now made an effort to search for her friends or Galen’s red stripes. She found them outside Galen’s clinic. The Proditor wore a ‘mask’ of medical plaster with bandages wrapped in his shaggy mane, Precious wore a dragony mask of papier-mâché covering her upper face, and Majina wore her mother’s wooden mask. “Hey. Heavy metal!” Precious said as she tapped a claw against Scotch’s. “I like it.”
Then Precious inquired of Pythia, “Where’s your mask?” at the exact same time Pythia asked that of Aleta. “Jinx. Cookie,” the dragonfilly blurted. Aleta looked nice, her scars faded just a bit, softening her formerly ragged appearance.
“Only shamans should wear masks,” Aleta said primly.
“She couldn’t find one that fit,” Precious amended with a grin. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m not a shaman,” Pythia replied.
Scotch didn’t listen to them as she looked at Majina. The filly’s body was a mass of greenish-yellowish bruises. “Are you okay? What happened to you? Do you need a healing potion?”
“No. I’m fine. I’m just learning how to fall,” she said as she rubbed her flank. “Gāng doesn’t waste healing potions on bruises,” she said flatly. “Still, I’m getting better at staying on my hooves. That’s my foundation,” she said as she made sure the bow in her tail was visible.
Then there was a soft cough from the doorway. “Galen? Majina? Who are your little friends?” a mare asked as she stepped out with Osane, the latter wearing a mask of gauze. Instantly, Scotch Tape stared at the speaker.
It wasn’t often you saw zebras with stripes of gold.
“Ah, my apologies,” he said as he rubbed the back of his head. “Scotch Tape. Pythia. This is Elder Errukine of the Mendi, and my teacher. Teacher, this is Scotch Tape, from Equestria, and Pythia of the Starkatteri.”
For a moment, the seer and the golden zebra stared into each other’s eyes. Errukine wasn’t just golden. She had a maternal beauty that radiated warmth. The yellow stripes in her mane seemed to glow like the sun as she smiled beneficently, as if in approval at the world and everything in it. “Your stripes…” Red was traitor, so what was gold? Zebra nobility?
Majina smiled and opened her mouth, but Precious blurted, “She’s Majina’s aunt. She’s a ‘sunstripe’ or some such. Apparently Princess Celestia was her great great great great grandmother or something.”
Majina let out a screech and started to beat her hooves on Precious’s shoulder. “Will someone let me do the actual storytelling for once?!” she hissed.
“What? I’m hungry, and it took like two hours or something for her to tell us.” Precious looked at the stalls being set up. “Is the food ready? I need food.”
“No, the food’s not ready,” Pythia said sharply. “We need to talk about–”
“Galen!” roared a scrawny stallion wearing a wooden rabbit mask. “Good to see you! Wonderful mask. Truly. Need you to make a house call, dear boy. Our ceremonial mare and stallion aren’t feeling well, and we need someone to help perk them up for the opening!”
Galen blinked in shock. “If you need me, certainly, Elder Maximillian.”
“Splendid. The other healers are a bit occupied with last minute arrangements. Just need you to check them over. Make sure they give a good show!” the weedy stallion said. Then he bowed, touching his brow to the pavers. “Elder. It’s an honor to have a Mendi sunstripe attend our little celebration.”
“Would you like my assistance, Elder?” the golden mare asked graciously. “I’d be more than pleased to help.”
“Oh no! I wouldn’t dream of imposing!” Maximillian said with a wave of his hoof. “Galen will be more than sufficient.” Scotch Tape looked at Pythia, and the filly shrugged, her eyes going glassy. Then she shrugged again.
Galen looked at the others a bit haplessly. “Sorry about this.”
“Need me to come with you?” Precious asked with a frown.
“I should be fine with the elder,” Galen said with a wave of his hoof, then pushed his glasses back over his eyes. “You have fun with your friends.”
“I’ll come with you,” Aleta said, her face composed. “I don’t have a mask anyway.” The pair trotted off, and Osane left as well to find her family. That left the four fillies with the magnificent mare, who seemed to regard them with some amusement.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, but we need to go talk now,” Pythia said curtly, her eye twitching.
“Food first. Then talk,” Precious contradicted, walking towards the stalls.
“I want to see if we can get a good spot for the opening ceremony,” Majina said, standing on her hind legs before pointing with a hoof. “Over there!” And then she ran towards the bridge. “Come on, auntie!”
Pythia sat, grabbed the hood of her cloak in her hooves, pulled it all the way down over her face, and gave a poorly muffled scream. Scotch looked at the amused elder, who watched them both with warm honey-colored eyes. “She’s having a bad day,” Scotch Tape explained as Pythia crumpled to the ground in a groaning lump.
But Errukine ignored the cloaked filly, focusing her attention on Scotch. “Galen’s told me quite a bit about you, and Majina as well. Your story is absolutely fascinating, Scotch Tape. I hope you find our home as interesting as I found yours.”
“You were in Equestria?” Scotch Tape asked. “Precious said something about being an aunt.”
“For a time. I was wed to the Legate Vitiosus as the Mendi representative. Majina’s mother was my bondsister. When we fled, I was separated from the others. It likely saved my life.” She looked in the direction that Majina had gone. “I was overjoyed to learn she yet lived. I thought she had died with her mother.”
Scotch stared at her a moment. “Uh-huh,” she said with a frown, though she wasn’t sure why. “So what are you doing here?”
“Galen corresponds with me. When I learned Majina was here, I came with an Iron Legion convoy. Then I learned of you.” She leaned towards her. “If half of what Majina told me about you and your friends is true, then you are fascinating.” There was nothing menacing in the odd middle aged mare’s behavior or demeanor, but Scotch felt unease creeping along her spine.
“Great. Wonderful. Now, if you can tell us what the Eye of the World is, where it is, and how to get there, then everything will be peachy keen!” Pythia said as she sat up.
“Of course. I’m well versed in the subject,” Errukine answered smoothly. “You’re referring to the actual Eye of the World, not some erroneously named landmark or the like? The spiritual eye?”
Pythia blinked as if she’d been smacked upside the head. “Seriously? You know about it?”
“It’s not common knowledge, but most shamans of any decent skill do,” Errukine answered with a casual shrug. “You’re fortunate that I made an effort to study the subject in my own wayward youth. It’s what drew me to the Ponylands decades ago.”
“Right,” Pythia said slowly. “What is it?”
Errukine started to walk in the direction Majina and Precious had gone, her steps slow. Zebras who saw them coming got out of their way, a few bowing as the elder had. “It’s the eye of the spirit of Equus itself.”
“The spirit of Equus? You mean the planet?” Pythia asked, trotting beside her.
“Of course. Does it surprise you? If cities, lakes, and oceans have spirits, certainly it should be no surprise Equus herself does as well,” Errukine said matter-of-factly as they walked, Scotch on her left and Pythia on her right. “Worlds like Equus, teeming with life, are princesses and queens of the spiritual universe, generating untold life and spiritual energy for the cosmos. They are surpassed only by the stars themselves, and some surpass even them over time.”
Scotch thought about the star spirit she’d met on the moon so many months ago. It felt like another life. “Surpass the stars?” Pythia muttered before Scotch could comment.
“I understand your skepticism. They are the spiritual foundation of the universe, but worlds such as Equus are the mothers of life itself, fostering and producing more and more varieties and numbers with every year. Their spirits are awesome and humbling, and too vast for mere shamans to interact with. It would be like an ant interacting with my hoof,” Errukine said as they walked towards the center of the bridge where an elevated stage had been set up.
“Great. So where does Equus keep her eye?” Pythia asked. Majina waved from the back of one of the stone buttresses that formed a little ledge above the rest of the crowd.
“Everywhere. Her eyes are upon all of us at all times,” Errukine said serenely as she climbed up on the ledge around the back of the statue against the buttress.
Pythia groaned and slumped on the seat. “Why don’t you just tell me it’s a metaphor? That the Eye of the World is inside all of us?”
“It is,” she answered, getting another groan. “It isn’t my fault if you don’t like the answers I give. Feel free to find a second source.” Scotch immediately thought of Granny and was about to suggest it when she went on, “Still, it’s said there was one place that drew her eye to it. A place where the shamans of the ancestors could commune with that vast power.”
Pythia frowned. “So what would it take to blind the Eye of the World?”
“Impossible,” Errukine scoffed. “The spirits of that caliber are not affected by the material. You could no more blind the spirit of Equus than you could turn gravity sideways or make light dark. It’s simply impossible.” But Scotch frowned at that simple dismissal.
“Well, a letter from the Last Caesar to the Roamani high shaman suggests it is possible, and that he ordered her to do it. So either he was stark raving mad, or he found a way to do so,” Pythia said with a scowl.
“It’s not possible. The Last Caesar was indeed mad, mad with power and hatred. Why else would he burn the world with balefire?” Errukine returned Pythia’s frown. “I assure you that whatever you have read, it cannot be so. It would be unthinkable.”
“I’m thinking it,” Pythia snapped. “And I am going to find out if the Last Caesar was just being crazy or if he really did do something.” Errukine sighed and shook her head but didn’t speak further.
By this time, a sizable crowd had gathered. The sun clung to the western horizon. The Carnilians had many festivals, at least one a month, but they were normally gatherings of a few dozen, maybe a few hundred people. By Scotch’s count there had to be at least a hundred different food stalls giving out everything from noodles to balls of rice, dumplings, flatbreads, and pastries. A few at the end, run by griffons, sold roasted meat chunks on skewers to the carnivores in the crowd, and she thought she spotted Skywhatisname from the shop getting one before disappearing into the throng.
Now Scotch was glad she wore a mask, as dozens of others did as well. Stranger were the dolls of twisted fiber and grass stalks. They too had been decorated with scraps of bright cloth and ribbons, and were waved around at the end of sticks. Some zebras battled them, swinging them into each other. The air thrummed with the beat of drums and reed flutes and strange plucked stringed boxes. Torches lined the stone bridge, and bonfires running down the middle cast a warm glow over everything.
“What is all this?” Precious asked as she gnawed on some kind of hardbread sticks slathered in honey.
“I can tell you,” Errukine began.
“No!” Majina said sharply. “Not you too, auntie! I’m the Zencori!”
“By all means,” she said graciously.
Majina narrowed her eyes and jabbed a hoof at each of them, growling. When she was sure no one was going to interject, she took a deep breath. At that moment, the sun dipped below the horizon, and all the drummers gave three loud booms with their drums. Instantly, the crowd fell silent. On the platform in the center of the bridge, the stallion with the rabbit mask ascended and removed it, brushing back his messy mane. “Mares and stallions, fillies and colts, griffons, taurines, and other assorted guests, I welcome you to the four-hundred-and-twenty-first Bacchanalia!” The crowd erupted in roars, and Majina abandoned any hope of explaining anything for the moment.
“I am Maximillian, your servant of ceremonies, so if you see me running around with my tail on fire, you’ll know why. Don’t worry, ladies, I’ll still make time for you,” he said with a grin, somehow getting a laugh from quite a few zebra mares. “And now I’d like to introduce our two esteemed guests: the shaman Desideria and the head of Carnico Incorporated, Cecilio!”
The rotund mare trotted on, maskless, as if in a rush to reach the side of the elder before the old stallion in the business suit wearing a tiny domino mask. It wasn’t much of a race, but the heavyset mare panted heavily as the thin, pinched stallion ambled up. “Easy, Desideria! The fun will start momentarily! I swear I will make time especially for you!” Maximillian said as he steadied her, getting a glare from her but a chuckle from the crowd.
“Now, you have them both on stage,” Errukine purred next to Scotch. “But which will speak first?” Scotch glanced at the sunstriped mare. She watched the proceedings with a strange mix of scrutiny and amusement.
“While dear Desi catches her breath, perhaps you’d like to say a few words, Cecilio?” Maximillian asked, getting a glare that would peel paint from the mare, who jerked away from Maximillian’s touch in disgust.
“Gladly.” The old stallion trotted to the center of the stage, and some magic or technology amplified his voice. “Carnico is glad to sponsor this Bacchanalia, and to provide food and services to the tribe. Carnico was born from the tribe in this very city, born of a promise that all would profit from our agricultural prowess and we would not be exploited like mere earth ponies. Today, we continue that promise and would like to announce that in addition to the food, we will be awarding twenty cans of Carnico Weedkiller every night to some lucky attendees, just to show how much we care!”
The crowd gave an anemic stomping that fell silent far sooner than Cecilio seemed to expect, because he was left smiling at a silent audience. Twenty cans for a crowd of more than a thousand? Maybe two? Maybe three? Yet he seemed confused as he backed off the stage. “Sweet Celestia, he thinks he’s being generous,” Scotch muttered in shock.
“Such is the result when profit and charity collide,” Errukine murmured in reply. “Worse, he is one of the kinder CEOs to run Carnico. If others had their way, they’d be selling their poison here with a fancy Bacchanal label.”
“Well, that’s certainly welcome news! Thank you, Cecilio! It’s grand to know you have enough to just give away,” Maximillian said, getting a chuckle from the crowd, then turned to face Desideria, who huffed as she glowered at the weedy stallion. He gasped and pressed a hoof to his chest. “It would seem Desideria has something to say to all of us. Imagine that!” He got another real laugh, and she stormed into the middle of the stage. He fell back with an eep, rolling onto his back and holding up a hoof. “Please be gentle! I break easily!”
Even Scotch Tape laughed at that one. Desideria inhaled deeply, then spoke. “Thank you, Elder. It is my solemn duty to remind all that this is a sacred Carnilian tradition, going back centuries to before the first Empire. It defines what our tribe means, something that few outsiders can begin to grasp. They come and gawk, partake of our repast, and indulge in baser aspects of this ceremony, the nuances of which they can’t begin to comprehend.”
Scotch struggled to listen attentively but tuned her out after five minutes of ranting. “What’s got her tail in a tangle?” she muttered.
“It’s not her, precisely. Carnilia has always struggled with issues of inferiority,” Errukine murmured. “Unlike earth ponies, they are solely farmers. They’re frequently exploited by others who don’t appreciate their skills, who gawk at their fertility rites, and who dismiss them as heavy breeders. Zebrakind would have starved long ago without their contributions. Yet zebra like Desideria believe that strength lies in purity. She should know better. Inbreeding rarely leads to health.”
Some of the crowd, the non-Carnilian part, began to murmur among themselves as she continued her diatribe. Eventually, even the Carnilians seemed to grow tired of her, and she interrupted herself to glower at them. Cecilio glanced at his watch. Immediately, the sounds of one zebra emitting a deep, chainsaw like nasal grind were heard. The source lay at her feet, with Maximillian curled up at her hooves. “Do you mind?” she blurted at him.
He jerked awake. “Oh! Oh, she’s done? Oh! Thank goodness! That was wonderful, Desideria! Wonderful! Let’s hear it!” he said as he sat up and clopped his hooves together vigorously, nodding to the crowd and mouthing ‘clop, you fools, clop!’ The crowd erupted in laughter and clopping, cheering and whistling. Desideria, who clearly hadn’t been done with her lecture, stared death at the weedy stallion as he jumped to his hooves. “Now then! With the preliminaries through, it’s time for the opening ceremony!”
But Desideria raised her nose and trotted from the stage, back east. Maximillian stared at the crowd, suddenly at a loss. “Erm… is there a shaman on the bridge? Any shaman?”
“Oh dear,” Errukine said. “Maximillian is in trouble. For want of a joke, the shaman was lost. It seems the rest of them are teaching the elder the perils of slighting their kind, too.” She tapped her lips with a hoof. “How interesting.”
“Can’t you do something?” Scotch asked. The mood was starting to sour as the crowd began to mutter.
“I have the ability, but it would be like a pegasus giving a prayer to the sky at an earth pony ceremony.”
“Well, someone has to do something,” Precious said. “There is too much good food lying around for this party to not happen because she’s got her mane in a knot.” Indeed, it seemed Desideria’s spite would undo everything.
Scotch Tape slid off the counter and rushed forward, squeezing through the crowd and stepping onto the stage. The murmuring died down at this new curiosity, and Maximillian stared at her like a bug had just crawled on stage next to him. “Hello. Little pony. What are you doing here?” he asked as sweat ran down his brow. His eyes darted to the left and right as if asking for someone to take this mad filly of the stage.
Scotch looked at him, then at the crowd, pulling off her mask and hugging it to her chest. “I’m not a Carnilian. I’m just an earth pony. I was born in the earth, and came from it, and I’m pretty sure that I’ll return to it someday.” Maximillian’s eyebrow twitched a little, as if unsure if he should push her from the stage. Scotch felt a screaming fear in her that she kept down by continuing to talk. “Earth ponies are farmers too, I’m told, and there’re plenty who don’t think we’re worth more than a pile of mud. Well, ponies have to eat, and zebras do too… And while I don’t know spirits from a hill of beans, I know they’d be glad we’re here. So any spirits of the fields and gardens, I hope you’re here. Spirits of growing and life. Hope you see how many of us there are.” She looked around at the ceremony. “Spirits of food and good cooking, I hope you see all the stuff they’re whipping up.”
Now she started to panic. Was there a spirit of masks? Or the river? Or the bridge? “Spirits of sex, I hope that everyone here has a good time, and that all the babies are healthy and stuff.” Now she was getting odd looks, and the angry murmuring resumed. She glanced over at Maximillian, who stared at her as if she was now a particularly interesting bug. He mouthed, ‘fire’ and she glanced at the bonfire. “Spirits of fire… hope you’re here to light up the night.” His hoof moved in a little circle. “And… burn away our problems and troubles? Give us all a fresh start.” Maximillian nodded once. “So all kindly spirits, welcome to this festival. Hope you have a grand old time.”
Dead silence. Then Scotch Tape heard a sound like rushing wind. Then a wave swept across the bridge from the east and the west, the gust not stirring a single hair or flame or bit of cloth, but everyone started as it passed over them. The waves met together at Scotch and fountained up around her with a strange shimmering of light that spread out. A sense of safety and belonging passed through her as she stood there in the center.
Then, from all, celebration erupted, clopping and stomping, whistling and cheering. She gaped at the applause. Majina and Precious were going nuts, laughing and clapping. Errukine gazed at her in fascination as her hooves came together in a slow clap. Plenty in the crowd didn’t seem happy about her little speech, but most were glad to get things going. She spotted Vega and Tchernobog to the east applauding as well, the latter regarding her thoughtfully.
Then Scotch saw the red bar.
She ducked, and the canvas of the stage indented as the bullet pierced it near where she stood. Either the shooter had used a silencer, or the noise of the crowd had hidden the shot; Maximillian had his back turned and missed the impact. Something swooped up at a rooftop to the east. Scotch jumped down, and the shooter didn’t take a second shot. She looked to the east, but the red bar was off her E.F.S.
“Well now! I think that was the first pony opening a Bacchanalia since Princess Celestia herself! Still, sounded good enough to me, right? Right?” he said, waving his hooves. The crowd began to whoop and cheer. Scotch reached up, grabbed her mask, and shoved it on her face. It wasn’t much of a disguise, with her being green and all, but its solid metal construction made her feel a little safer.
She managed to make it back to the ledge as the crowd cheered and pressed her back against the stone statue, trembling. She’d forgotten. Gotten complacent. There were still people trying to kill her, and she’d gotten on a stage in front of everyone! Leaving Rice River just jumped up several points in her head.
“That was a wonderful opening. And masterfully improvised. Maximillian should give a reward when the festival is through,” Errukine said, smiling at her. “You must be a bit overwhelmed. You’re shaking.”
“Yeah, overwhelmed,” she muttered. How could she explain what had really happened? “Princess Celestia opened these things too?”
“Oh, yes. What you did isn’t without precedent, though it is the first time since the war. Princess Celestia was fond of Bacchanalia and attended several. Pity it was never established in Equestria.” Yeah, as much sense as it made to her, she couldn’t see that happening. “Now we just need the Ceremony of Binding, and then the rest of the night is for fun.”
“Ceremonial what now?” Scotch said
“Auntieeeee,” Majina growled.
“By all means, you explain it, dear,” Errukine said with a wave of her hoof. A zebra stallion mounted the stage from the west, covered in elaborate armor. It didn’t look ceremonial at all. The bright red leather armor looked scaled, like dragon hide or something, and he wore a plumed helmet and cape. He also appeared, like plenty of Carnilian stallions, pleasingly fit. Even his stripes matched his armor.
“That’s Baccus. He’s the father of the tribe,” Majina said as she pointed at the stallion.
“Father? I thought the Carnilia were born from the sun and fields or some junk.”
“Sure, if you want to get all simple and mythological. That’s the story you tell foals to keep the tribes straight,” Majina said.
Then a mare rose up on the opposite side, clad in blue. She didn’t look like some ceremonial figure, either. She was fit and scarred, her stripes painted blue to match her armor. “That’s Carna. She’s the mother of the tribe.”
“Let me guess, they do it?” Precious said.
“Erm, not exactly.” And then Majina covered her eyes. The red and blue zebras advanced, each glaring straight into the eyes of their counterpart. They were close enough to kiss. Then the mare reared up and slammed her hooves into the red stallion’s face. “Actually, they were dire enemies.”
Scotch watched as the stallion and mare tried to kill… no, not kill, but definitely not pulling punches as much as they would in a mock battle. And the blue-striped mare fought far more aggressively than the stallion. She kicked. She bit. One hoof caught him upside the brow, cutting a bloody gash over his left eye. And all the while he gave ground. Then, she tripped on the edge of her cape, and he lunged, grabbing her by the neck and forcing her to the ground where they writhed together. They twisted around, limbs locked together, and then Scotch noticed something else and flushed, tilting her head a little as the wrestling became a struggle of a different type. “You can’t be serious…”
Indeed, they were.
The noises. The sounds. It was just too much. Scotch Tape clamped her hooves over her ears and waited for it to be over. If she had known about this part, she would have stayed in the shop with Xarius. It wasn’t precisely rape… at least, she hoped not… but it was similar enough to make her heart rate spike. She struggled for breath. First being shot at, now this?
She felt a hoof on her shoulder and glanced over at Pythia staring in concern. With the stage amplified, she couldn’t escape the sounds nor stop remembering the smells of blood, bilge, and semen. She’d thought that Rice River had shown her all its horrors and trauma. She’d been wrong.
And when the pair were done, the crowd erupted in cheers. She wanted to throw up. If she’d had food in her, she probably would have. People were exchanging money, and Scotch peeked out to see the painted pair now armorless and rutting in a much more amenable fashion, ignoring their injuries. “What’s going on?” she said numbly, not really wanting to know.
“Baccus conquered Carna. That means good luck for stallions born in the next five years,” Errukine said with a sigh. “And I’d wagered on Carna.”
“People bet on a rape?” Scotch Tape said in horror. If she’d known, she never would have gotten on that stage!
“Rape? Hardly,” Errukine said with a laugh. “Carna wasn’t some helpless mare taken against her will, and Baccus wasn’t some shy stallion forced into it! She was a formidable warrior, every bit Baccus’s equal. The myths are unclear as to who conquered who, so every five years they reenact their meeting on this bridge. By all accounts, the pair were of differing tribes on opposite sides of the river that loathed each other, but through sheer reproductive attraction, they overcame their drive to kill each other. Carna’s foal became the one that united the two halves of the river and started the Carnilia tribe,”
Knowing the reasons behind what she’d witnessed didn’t make her racing heart any better. Between getting shot at and what she’d seen, she was ready to leave right now. Still, the festival seemed to be getting underway, with most people getting things to eat. A few were joining ‘Baccus’ and ‘Carna’ on the stage, though.
Majina moved around, facing her. “The Bacchanalia is for new beginnings. You see those little dolls? They’re all the pain and regrets people feel. They put them all in the dolls, and on the third day, they light them on fire and throw them into the river.”
“I get it!” Scotch said, swallowing. “It’s just… Blackjack spared me from something similar. It didn’t happen to me, but I heard what they did to her. That…” She gestured at the stage without looking at it. “That was too close for me.”
“If it’s any consolation, this isn’t precisely accurate either,” Errukine said. “The two early tribes were probably united in a peace settlement, and the union consummated in a public ceremony like this one, but the fight between the two is always so dramatic.”
It wasn’t much consolation, actually. She sat trying to get her heart rate and breathing down. “I thought there were only thirteen tribes?”
“Twelve and one, officially,” Majina answered. “But once there were dozens and dozens of tribes all over.” She glanced at Pythia. “Then the Starkatteri, um…”
“Tried to take over the world with dark and evil magic. All that stuff. Almost pulled it off, too,” Pythia finished with a shrug.
“Yeah. That,” Majina said. “That got rid of a lot of smaller tribes. When the first Empire was founded after the Starkatteri blew themselves up, there were twelve and one tribes. They were the ones who could elect the first Caesar. Lots of tribes were consolidated with the twelve whose votes mattered. The ones left out were just clumped together as the Orah, which is why Orah are all over the place.”
“They only gave us the vote so they could vote against us,” Pythia muttered. “No one was joining my tribe after things blew up. And I think they thought the Orah were too dumb to know what a vote was.”
“Aren’t ponies so much simpler?” Vicious said as she stepped from the crowd, beaming.
“When you can explain how you went from that,” Pythia said, gesturing to Scotch Tape, “to that,” now pointing at Vicious’s horn, “tell me. I’d love to hear it. Or where the wings came from. I’d love that story, too.”
Vicious dismissed her with a sniff. “Griffon spotted the shooter. Guess who?”
“Krogax?” Scotch asked.
“Unless you’ve pissed off other centaurs, yup. ‘Course, he pulled back soon as you hit the crowd. Smart,” she said with a glower. “I hate smart people. Dumb ones you just kill and then get on with life.”
Errukine stared at Vicious as if she’d just soiled herself in front of her. “Yes. I suppose that would be easier. What is this?”
“There’s a certain sea captain who wants me dead,” Scotch answered. “She had a whole crew after me, but we whittled them down to a few bounty hunters. One of them nearly crushed me, and the other caught me in an alley when I wasn’t paying attention. They’ve slacked off the last two months, so I thought maybe they’d moved on.”
“Especially after I took the centaur’s arm last time,” Vicious pointed out. Then she scowled. “I hate when they get away. Unfortunately, they don’t have any family I know about. It always simplifies things when, if they piss me off, I can just start carving up their loved ones,” she said merrily, then blinked at Errukine’s aghast expression. “What? It’s therapeutic.”
“I’m sure,” Errukine murmured. “I’m going to go congratulate this year’s Baccus and Carna. It’s good luck to do so.” Scotch wasn’t sure if that was true or an excuse to get away from Vicious.
“What griffon?” Precious asked. Vicious pointed at the top of the statue above them. In the wan firelight and lingering dusk, the brown griffon from before crouched there, head low, red eyes staring dramatically down at them.
“Woooo,” Majina said, then held up her hooves. “If he just had a cape with a little wind, or some lightning flash behind him right now, he’d be perfect.”
“I know, right? Wasted,” he replied evenly. “Vega told me to keep an eye on you.”
“Hey, I know you! Weren’t you with those Iron Legion guys?” Precious asked, drawing a number of looks.
“Shhh!” Vicious hissed. “Of course he’s not Legion. Legion aren’t allowed in Rice River, right?” she asked, giving the griffon a wink.
“That’s what I’m told,” he replied.
“So what’s he doing here, then?” Precious asked with a frown.
“Probably breaking a whole ton of rules,” Pythia pointed out. “So hush.”
“You can come down here if you want,” Scotch Tape said with a half smile.
“Yeah, that’s what you’d want me to do, miss martial arts master,” Skylord sneered. Majina stared from him to Scotch and back again, face twisted in bafflement. “No offense, but I’d rather stay up here. This place is gross,” the griffon commented as he glanced to the stage.
“Right. So…” Majina asked, moving her hoof to prompt him.
He drew himself up and pressed a claw to his chest. “Call me… Skylord.”
“Oooooh…” Majina said, tilting her head. “He so needs lightning flashes to pull that introduction and name off.”
“Skylord?” Precious snorted. “Skylord. You named yourself that, didn’t you? You totally did!” She rocked back, laughing.
“Right,” Scotch said with a frown. “Wait! Didn’t you have your beak under my tail?” His eyes popped.
“Getting your Bacchanal fun done early, eh?” Vicious asked with a grin.
“This is why we’ve been stuck here for a year,” Pythia grumbled. “Anyway, great. Now can we– don’t you dare!” she snapped at Vicious.
“Don’t wha–” Scotch started to say, but Vicious grabbed her by her neck and pulled her away from her friends.
“Come on, S.T. I want to show you around!” Pythia let out another scream of frustration as Vicious hauled her into the crowd.
“I think my friend really wants to talk!” Scotch pointed out.
“Eh, she’s boring. Always pissing and moaning about the future. She needs to learn to live in the now,” Vicious said as she pulled her along into the milling mess that was Bacchanalia. As she lost sight of her friends, she kept trying to slip away, but Vicious was having none of it. She dragged Scotch Tape to food booths. To where they paraded little dolls around and engaged in mock battles with them. To where zebras and others danced to the beat of the drums. The pair of them met a zebra stallion and his little brother, and they had a little Bacchanal fun on their own. And in spite of everything she’d felt a bit ago, she had to admit it wasn’t that bad for Rice River.
When the pair finished, Scotch had a warm ball of happiness inside her. Thank goodness she had a copper implant preventing any green zonies in her future. “See,” the unicorn said as they sat, sweaty and sticky and, despite everything, happy. “This is the life. No worries about tomorrow. No regrets about yesterday. Good food, drink, sex, and music.”
They found themselves near the platform, lying out on the beds around other zebras and folks chatting and enjoying rice wine and snacks. She spotted the zebras who had been picked for the roles of Baccus and Carna sitting close by, cuddling together and smiling, their armor cast aside, their bodies sweaty, their faces covered with masks. Swollen bruises and dried blood were evidence of the severity of their struggle. Then she frowned. Her brilliant blue Carnilian stripes were smeared a little here and there.
His weren’t.
She stared at the pair, going red, and they met her eyes. Then Aleta reached down and lifted a cup with a little smile, as if toasting Scotch, and all she could do was lift her own cup in kind.
“I need to find my friends,” she told Vicious as they lay side by side.
“Your friends are boring,” Vicious repeated with a frown. “They’re going to try and talk you into going. You should stay.”
“My friends need me. You don’t,” Scotch said. She felt someone at her tail, closed her eyes with a groan, and shook her head. She needed a little breather after the last. Maybe in a few hours. Vicious, to her surprise, also declined the stallions behind them.
“No,” Vicious muttered, averting her eyes. “But I like having you around. You’re a good fr–” but she caught herself, ears flattening, “Roommate.”
Scotch gave a half smile. “Well, you’re a good Froommate too,” she said with a playful nudge. “You could come with us.”
“Can’t,” she said as she rolled onto her back, looking at the stars above them. “Tchernobog’s got me on a leash. Besides, don’t want to. Rice River is a nice place to live. Food. Work. Sex. I’ve been elsewhere. It gets worse. Lots worse.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Scotch assured her.
“No, you haven’t. Getting lost in a swamp and a whirlpool is nothing compared to some places out there. Places that make radiation look… cute. Like a plain where you can only travel in one direction… into the center… where you starve to death. Every step takes you closer to the middle. Even backwards. I managed to teleport out. You won’t be able to. Or this spot where gravity is reversed. You step in it and wooosh, up you go. Or places where the megaspells transformed things. Like zebras made of living rock, or fire, or ghosts.”
She rolled onto her side, facing Scotch. “And that’s just the freaky shit. There’s the legions, too. Like raiders, but whole armies of raiders. At least a dozen of them. Then there’s the usual flesh eating cannibal raiders. Then there’s feral ghouls… not just dozens but thousands. Whole cities of them where zebras used balefire on their own people. There’s crazy robots. Beasts. Freaks like you can’t imagine.”
“I dunno. I’ve got a great imagination,” Scotch replied.
But Vicious wasn’t smiling. “But the thing that really gets people is the size of this place. You travelled from the swamps out west to here? Multiply that by fifty. There’s a reason trains are so damned protected here. You break down, get stuck on hoof, and you’re dead. You’ll starve long before you find the next settlement. You’ll follow a road, thinking it will take you somewhere, but they’re all roads to nowhere.” She poked a hoof at Scotch. “Your ‘friend’ is going to get you all killed.”
“Is it possible to get to Roam from here? Could you do it?” Scotch asked, ignoring the accusation.
Vicious closed her eyes. “I could, sure. Take the Central Line down to Irontown. Then walk south for a week while avoiding the Blood Legion till you get to Golden Legion territory. Pay for a train ride down to the southern coast. Head west till you run into the Flame Legion. Roam’s their territory. But I’ve got the protection of the Syndicate. You’re just–”
Scotch narrowed her eyes. “Just what?” she queried.
“You’re not a fighter,” Vicious said, averting her eyes as she scrunched up her face a little.
“You were going to say ‘kid’, weren’t you?”
She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Eh… you’re somewhere between kid and not-kid. I mean, you’re mature for your age, sure. Surprised me. But…” She didn’t finish and just shrugged. “I worry about you, that’s all. And that’s just in Rice River. I don’t care about many people.”
“Stop planning to kill me,” Pythia said behind them, and Scotch looked down at the cloaked filly, then at Vicious.
“Kill you?” Vicious murmured, stroking a hoof idly against the sheet before her. “What an idea.”
“You’re going to garrote me with your tail when I walk away and dump me in the river,” Pythia challenged.
“How do you think these things up?” the periwinkle mare asked innocently, but Scotch’s attention did shift to Vicious’s tightly braided tail.
“Now you’re planning on stabbing me in the neck with a snapped off chicken bone and paying off one of the griffons to serve me to the customers to dispose of my body,” Pythia said flatly as she walked around to the front of their hay bed. Vicious glowered at her. “Now you’re planning on snapping my neck. Electrocution. Tying rocks around my neck and tossing me in the river. Fire.” Pythia narrowed her eyes. “Watching for futures were I die was my first trick.” She paused as Vicious growled. “Futures where I’m horribly mangled was second.”
“I hate seers,” Vicious muttered.
“Vicious! Stop thinking about killing my friends,” Scotch admonished.
“I’m only going to kill one of your friends,” Vicious answered, staring back at Pythia. “The one who’s going to get you all killed.”
Pythia blinked, then curled her lip. “Okay, ew. That’s gross.”
“I’d do it,” Vicious replied. “It’s worked before.”
“Doesn’t stop it from being gross,” Pythia replied. Then she sat back and took a deep breath, staring into Vicious’s eyes. “Besides, you’re also forgetting something.”
“What’s that?” Vicious asked with a grin.
“Tchernobog,” Pythia answered with a smile.
Vicious’s grin evaporated. “He wouldn’t give a shit.”
“Are you sure? We’ve been working pretty closely together. Sure, he’s not interested in me romantically, but we’ve taught each other things that you can’t imagine. Are you positive he wouldn’t want some kind of payback for gutting me?” Pythia asked, and more doubt rose in Vicious’s eyes.
“I fucking hate shamans and spirits,” she muttered.
“And killing Pythia wouldn’t keep me here. I’d probably go back to Equestria or something,” Scotch said, only half truthfully. There wasn’t much back there for her, but it was more familiar than Rice River. Besides, she’d been gone a year. Who knew what had changed? Maybe the adults would listen to a young mare? Maybe? Vicious’s ears drooped, and Scotch put a hoof on her shoulder. “Please don’t kill my friend,” she said, and gave her a pat.
“You’re going to die out there,” Vicious said, pulling back. “You’re going to die, and I can’t kill hunger and thirst, and there’s no fun in juicing the ghoul or raider that’s dumb enough to eat you.” She slowly started to trot away. “Vega was right. I shouldn’t have cared,” she said as she departed. “Sleep somewhere else, Scotch.”
Pythia waited a few seconds, then sat down, her body trembling. “Oh stars, she didn’t kill me!” she said in a rush as she rubbed herself. “That mare had a whole menu of ways she was going to take me out!”
“But… you knew what she was going to do,” Scotch said with a frown, then blinked after Vicious.
“And I’m lucky your average idiot thinks that means I could stop them.” Pythia shook her head. “At least now we don’t have to… wait…” Her eyes went glassy, and she turned her head this way and that. Then she smiled. “Okay, small chance she tries to kill me just from spite. Still, now that you don’t live with her–”
But now Scotch was scowling at the filly and silencing her with a hoof. “Wait. Are you saying you set that up to get me kicked out of where I was living? So I’d go with you?”
Pythia blinked and pushed the hoof aside. “Well, duh. Obviously. Of course, I’d have had to deal with her either way. She doesn’t like losing toys. But it was her or getting Xarius to fire you, and she was the more immediate–” Her yellow eyes went round. “No… oh come on…”
Scotch ignored her. “I can’t believe you! Vicious doesn’t have a right to kill you to keep me from going, but you don’t have a right to manipulate me into leaving either!” she said, jabbing a hoof into Pythia’s chest before she rose and trotted away. “I’m not some puppet for you to control!”
Pythia sat down hard behind her. “Oh come on! That’s not the future I was… Damn it!”
Scotch left Pythia behind, losing her in the crowd. Of course Pythia’d probably see where she’d be in five minutes and meet her there, but right now, she didn’t want to see the filly. In fact, right this moment, she was angry enough to stay just out of spite. Pythia wanted to find this Eye thing? Let her!
“Hey, Scotch!” Precious called out, and the filly spotted the dragonfilly near a stand. “One sec…” Precious turned and blasted flame at the underside of the wok being worked by Hachipa. The Tappahani stallion seemed to be working three stations at once preparing small bowls of food for a line of guests.
“You’re… playing stove?” Scotch said, blinking.
“Hey, it’s this or I have to pay for my food,” Precious replied, pausing to give another blast of green flame. “Besides, I’m not interested in sex stuff. Did Py find you?” Another jet of fire.
“Yeah, and right now, she can go buck herself,” Scotch replied, glowering back in the direction she’d come from. “She made me homeless so I’d be more willing to leave.”
“Yeah. She calls me fat now because I’ve been sitting around for a year,” Precious said with a snort. “Said that I wasn’t tough enough to go with you guys.” She let out another jet at the wok. “Maybe I am a little soft, but only a little. After all, I do have to deal with retarded Carnies every now and then.” She frowned at Scotch. “You don’t think I’m fat, do you?”
Scotch blinked. Tonight was just so… surreal. Scotch considered her and thought she did seem a little less lean and a little more round in the haunches and tummy. Still, would a smart pony call a dragonfilly fat? “Um… no?” she offered.
“Thought so,” Precious said, and gave a snort. “She thinks she’s so smart and so clever and stuff. She doesn’t need us if she’s that smart. So whatever. I’m sticking with you.”
Hachipa whacked Precious’s head with a wooden spoon, drawing not so much as a flinch from the dragonfilly. “Lesstalkytalkymoreburnyburny!” he shouted down at her.
“Fine! Burnyburnying, you hyperactive food processor!” She growled and let out another blast of green flame at the underside of the wok.
Scotch nodded, a little touched by Precious’s support. “Well, I see you’re busy. I’ll come find you when you’re not burning stuff,” she said with a smile, her mood improved greatly. So Pythia had been working on her other friends too. Scotch hadn’t seen them in a while, but still, it was annoying that Pythia was trying to make them go rather than trusting them and their judgement. Rice River had problems all over, but that was no reason to try and force them out.
Now the celebration was in full swing, and it wasn’t quite as orgy-oriented as she’d been expecting. Oh, there was sex everywhere, but most people seemed more interested in talking, eating, and drinking than just going at it like crazy. Sex was just another part of the entertainment. She passed a trio of musicians, one beating drums, the second plucking at a boxy guitar with three strings and a pick, and the third playing reed flutes. The Carnilians danced in pairs and trios while others gyrated wildly with their own strange movements.
There were so many bars in her E.F.S. now that she couldn’t see more than a solid stripe of color. So when she was grabbed from behind, it was more than a bit of a shock. The hooves pulled her into a gap between a puffed rice stall and a dumpling stall, with stallions blocking both ends. “What’s the–” she started to cry out in alarm.
She stopped because she was set down right before the shaman Desideria, forced to her haunches with hooves pressing down on her shoulders. The fleshy mare omitted any mask, and so up close Scotch could see the moles that accented her face like a constellation. “Oh horseapples,” Scotch murmured as Desideria reached down and yanked off her mask.
The rotund mare raised a hoof, wooden bead bracelets clattering as her eyes narrowed and then dropped to a large brown rat peeking around the edge of the stall. “Carrion eater. Vermin.” She hooked a hoof, and the rat let out a panicked squeal as it lifted off the ground and floated before her. “Starkatteri filth,” she declared, then brought her hooves together in a powerful blow. The rat popped like a balloon into cloud of white vapor that spread out and disappeared.
“What…” Scotch began. Had that been the same rat from the junkyard? “What’s going on?”
Desideria wiped her hooves on one of the stallions’ haunches as she sniffed disdainfully at Scotch. “Blind ponies. So blind. Blind to the world and the spirits and the harm your kind inflict simply by existing.” She narrowed her eyes at Scotch. “Did you get that Mendi whore to invoke the spirits while you trotted out on stage? You must have.”
Scotch forgot about the rat as she frowned up at the mare. “What do you want?”
“I want to know your part in this. Maximillian. Cecilio. Vega. You. That shaman. What game are they playing at? How did you, a pony, open this ceremony? It was to be cancelled. Delayed. Postponed till next year.” She curled her lip. “You’re not even a pony princess.”
“Of course I’m not,” she said as she tried to shove the hooves off her shoulders and failed miserably. “I just thought it was stupid to ruin a party because you were all ticked that you got interrupted. No one wants to hear you talk about how wrong all us non-zebras being here is!” Then she paused and asked, “Why would you want to postpone till next year?”
Desideria curled a fleshy lip. “To have a true Bacchanalia. One free of your perversions.” She waved a hoof. “Do you think this is all about rutting? You do, don’t you? You can’t appreciate the significance of this event! The meaning! It’s all just sex and debauchery to you.”
Scotch glared up at her. “No.” Okay, so she was sure that was a big part. “It’s about beginnings. New beginnings. A new chance. I know everyone needs those every now and then. It’s a chance to do things without regret. And a chance to be happy.”
Desideria gave another sniff. “A superficial and reductive summary at best, if more than I expected.” Her eyes narrowed. “This is our ceremony, pony. For our tribe. Our spirits. You pollute it with your presence.”
Scotch sighed. Blackjack probably could have fought her way out of this, but the stallion holding her refused to give her an inch to move or kick back. She glowered up at the mare and then sniffed. “You’re a coward.”
“What?” She blinked.
“You heard me. A coward. You’re afraid that outsiders are going to weaken your tribe. Well, the only thing I can see weakening it is you. You’re afraid of everything different. Everything new. Well, I’m from a stable, and one thing everypony knew and feared was inbreeding.” Desideria didn’t interrupt as Scotch talked, and her listening gave Scotch a little hope as she went on. “They knew the stable would fall if we became too pure. They were right. You’re going to push everyone away till you’re all alone, and then you’re gonna be gone. And that’s a shame, because I’ve met some nice Carnilians. I’d like to meet some more.” Desideria didn’t respond for several seconds as she stared at Scotch, to the point the filly asked, “So… are you gonna let me go?”
“No,” she answered, then looked at the stallion holding Scotch. “Take her back to your cellar, and hold her there. We’ll question her where there are fewer eyes.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere,” a voice growled from above. All eyes went up to where Skylord crouched atop the dumpling stall, a pistol clutched in each talon. “Get your hooves off the filly.”
“Who are you?” Desideria said, glaring up at him.
“I’m the one pointing a gun at your head, fatso,” the rusty brown griffon growled gruffly. “The name’s Skylord. Now let her go.” Scotch saw some strange light gathering around Skylord, but the griffon seemed oblivious to it.
“So she is valuable,” Desideria said, nodding once. “I knew it.” The light sank into the roof of the stall. “Oh! One more thing!” she said happily. “You shouldn’t have brought a gun to a peacebonded festival, Skylord.” She spoke the name with utter contempt for it.
The corner of the stall he perched on suddenly gave, the wall folding in and dumping Skylord into the alley next to Scotch. He tried to flap his wings, but they smacked into the side of the stall and knocked him sprawling. Two stallions pinned him to the ground, knocking his guns away from his outstretched talons.
“Take them both,” Desideria instructed. “Beat whatever information out of her you can and then drown her in the river, away from the festival.” She turned away.
“Why don’t you let them both go, instead?” a mare called out.
The stallions moved aside to see Errukine standing like the sunrise in the gap between the stalls. Tchernobog stood beside her, his shrouded face cold and implacably grim as the dark side of the moon. A nimbus seemed to glow just off their stripes, hers a warm gold and his a sickly green. Desideria let out a long, low snarl. “Are none of you keeping watch?” she snapped at the stallions, then turned to face the speaker. She illuminated as well, in a red corona shot through with veins as she glared at the pair haughtily. “You dare face me here?”
“I daresay we may, if you force us to,” Errukine murmured, as if amused by this. “Personally, there was a handsome pair of stallions I saw a few minutes back that I’d like to be acquainted with, but then I heard a spirit slain, and here you are threatening a filly with torture and death.”
“She is a friend of the Syndicate,” Tchernobog growled. Somehow, he said it differently than Vega did.
“This is Rice River. This is my place of power,” Desideria said, glaring at the pair.
“It is?” Errukine countered, as if surprised by this information. “As I recall, you did not invoke or invite the spirits to this festival. You are, technically, just as much a guest as we are. And while it would be horrible to deal with the censure from breaking the peacebond, I am sure that the spirits here will forgive me.”
Desideria looked from the pair of shamans to the stallions to her pair of prisoners. She licked her lips at the Mendi and Starkatteri. “I don’t need the spirits. My sons can just take them from here. Follow us if you dare.”
Then from the other end of the stalls came a cry and a stallion rumbling ‘excuse me’. Then another yelp and another ‘excuse me’. A mountain moved through the gap between the stalls as the biggest zebra Scotch’d ever seen calmly trod upon the stallions before him.
“You…” Desideria stammered, pointing a hoof at him. “How dare you fight here, Gāng!”
“Not fighting,” the huge zebra replied. “Passing through.” He wore just a red cloth strip across his eyes and brow, with eyeholes cut out. Then he took another step, and the zebra that failed to get out of his way was smashed to the ground as he muttered, “Excuse me.”
From his back appeared Majina, smiling down at them. “Better clear out of here. He’s coming through.”
“You sure you want this, Desi dear?” Errukine asked sweetly.
“Outsiders. All of you. Contaminants. Pollutants. Criminals. Traitors. Filth,” she spat, but the sanguine glow pulsing around her disappeared. A moment later, so did the auras around Errukine and Tchernobog. “Let them up!” she screeched at the stallions pinning Scotch and Skylord. “Let us out!” she hissed at the shamans, who stepped aside and let them file out of the gap. Scotch rose and tried to offer Skylord a hoof up, but the griffon just retrieved his guns and frowned.
Out in the open, Desideria wheeled and thrust a hoof at them as her masked sons moved past her. “I warn you, we shall not be intimidated or bullied by yo–”
Then Gāng swung his backside around and slammed his flank right into her face. The impact of such a massive posterior knocked her off her hooves and over the parapet with a scream of fear and outrage. Fortunately, they were near the western shore, and her sons scrambled towards the end of the bridge. “Excuse me,” Gāng muttered as Majina hopped down.
“That was a butt attack, wasn’t it?” Majina asked with a grin. “Right?”
“Knew it was a martial art,” muttered Skylord under his breath.
“No,” Gāng rumbled. “Accident. Really.”
“Of course it was an accident,” Errukine said with a smile at the huge zebra. “But what delightful consequences. Fortunately, I’m relatively sure Desideria knows how to swim.” Tchernobog just grunted as he stared at Scotch.
“Did a spirit tell you all I was in trouble?” Scotch asked as she looked around.
“Of course not. She destroyed the ward I had watching you,” Tchernobog said, then stepped aside to expose Pythia. The little filly glanced at Scotch, then averted her eyes downward. “She warned us.”
“You did?” Scotch blinked, not sure if she should be grateful or annoyed.
“Yeah, well… that shaman annoyed me,” Pythia muttered.
From out of the crowd emerged Precious with a quartet of rice boxes held in a curl of her tail. She glanced over at the gathered people and asked brightly, “Hi, girls. Did I miss anything?”
* * *
“I still can’t believe I missed seeing that sow fall into the river!” Precious wailed as they sat together near the capstone of the Last Caesar. “She’s been the one causing most of the trouble at Galen’s. Too much of a wuss to do things herself, but she’ll sic her sons on somepony if she can.” They each ate some of the dinner while Skylord brooded above. Tchernobog and Errukine talked a short distance away. Gāng had left to talk to Maximillian about the shaman’s attempt on Scotch.
Majina laughed. “I can’t believe that wasn’t an actual attack.” The bruised filly rubbed her backside. “I used to think Mom knew all about fighting, but Gāng’s scarier than any fighter I’ve seen. He doesn’t fight. He just moves and takes out anyone he runs into.”
“I could take him,” Precious sniffed, and Majina arched a brow. “But he’s teaching you stuff, so I won’t.”
“I still find it hard to hear about you learning about fighting,” Scotch said to Majina.
The filly’s smile fell a little as she kept her eyes to her rice. “Mama didn’t like me fighting. She could. My brother could. She wanted me to be a storyteller. Live someplace nice. Be nice. Tell happy tales.”
“So are you going to learn that freaky zebra fighting that lets you suplex tanks and stuff?” Precious asked with a grin.
Majina rolled her eyes. “Actually, he’s teaching me how to breathe and stand and balance and fall without getting hurt. That’s harder than you might think,” she sighed. “But I feel better than I have in a long time, even if I’m sore from head to hoof!”
“Crazy zebras,” Precious muttered, shaking her head.
Scotch looked over at where Pythia sat silently, picking at her bowl with a hoof and not eating much. “So. Do you guys want to leave Rice River tomorrow?” Pythia’s head shot up, and she stared at Scotch.
“Leave?” Precious said, blinking.
“I thought we had to stay for a year,” Majina said.
“The year’s up tomorrow,” Scotch said.
“Really?” Majina rubbed her chin. “I could have sworn it’d only been a few months.”
“Was I seriously the only one keeping track?” Pythia muttered.
Scotch looked at the three. “The fact is that we came here to find out if the Eye of the World was blinded or not. That hasn’t changed. Pythia found where we need to go next and how to get there. Next stop is Roam. Question is, do you girls want to go?”
“Do you?” Precious asked.
Scotch sighed. “I won’t lie. I have some reasons to stay. But…” She closed her eyes and made her decision, giving them a half smile. “It’s not like the city’s going anywhere. We can go to Roam, find out what we need to find out, and then come back. It’s not forever.”
The others nodded a little. “Roam’s clear on the other side of the Empire, though,” Majina said, sulking. “It’s way down on the south coast.”
“We can take a train part of the way there. To someplace called Irontown. From there it’s a walk, and then we hook up with another train to Roam,” Scotch said, and as she talked, she caught Errukine listening in with a worried frown. “We’ll have the Whiskey Express, too, so even if we can’t find a train, we can keep going.”
“We’ll need lots of supplies, though,” Majina pointed out. “I mean, the Empire’s huge. I don’t know how long it will take. I really haven’t made very much money, but I know Osane’s family will help.” She looked at Precious.
The dragonfilly reached down and hugged her saddlebag. “Don’t look at me. Nobody’s spending my shiny!”
“Precious,” Scotch admonished.
“But… eh,” she whined. “What’s the point of having gold if you’re just giving it away?”
“That gold is a thin layer over a zinc disk,” Scotch said.
“It’s still shiny! I’ll get my own supplies and keep my shiny! Just you watch!” Precious sniffed.
Scotch looked over to Pythia, and she caught the filly wearing a small smile, her yellow eyes uncharacteristically soft. Of course, she immediately tugged her cloak down to hide her face.
“I just wish I knew why they were glowing,” Scotch muttered.
“Why who was glowing?” Majina asked, then took a mouthful of rice.
“The shamans. All of them were glowing during that thing,” Scotch said. Majina blinked, her cheeks bulging. “Didn’t you see it?” Majina shook her head before swallowing.
“No, I don’t think so,” Majina replied. How could she have missed it?
Then Scotch saw Tchernobog, Errukine, and Pythia staring at her, the first grimly, the second in shock, and the third with worry. Blackjack had once said that when bad things were going to happen, her mane got itchy. Scotch Tape’s proverbial mane was going crazy right now. “What?”
The three exchanged looks and adopted almost identically inscrutable expressions. “Nothing,” Errukine said, giving a little wave of her hoof. “Go on.”
“Pythia?” Scotch asked the filly directly.
But Pythia averted her eyes, her ears drooping a little. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Now Scotch gave her the skeptical frowny face. “Well… we can talk about it later.”
Scotch doubted that she’d get more than that out of her tonight, so she took a deep breath. “All right then. We’ve got one more night till we’re free. Let’s spend it having fun,” she said with a grin, rising to her feet and putting her mask back on. Pythia gave her a grateful little smile, but the two adults continued to gaze upon her with troubled looks.
The next hour, she got to be a kid again, like a ‘normal’ kid was supposed to be. They danced and ate and listened to music and sat around the bonfires. Though the other three abstained, she found a nice zebra colt for a bit of enjoyment as Majina distracted the others with stories. Pythia won two chits and three imperios at a shell game, correctly identifying which cup hid a bean, even when the dealer hid it in his lap and up his nose. Skylord shadowed them, moving from statue to statue and trying to look dramatic and cool.
All the while, Tchernobog and Errukine followed like a pair of parents, talking in low voices as the four enjoyed themselves.
Scotch took off her mask and wiped the sweat from her brow as the others watched the desperate zebra running the shell game trying to beat the filly.
Then she saw him.
The Dealer.
He stood in a gap between the stalls, the skeletal pony in the ragged duster and broad brimmed hat working his cards between his hooves. As she stared, he withdrew into the darkness beyond. Scotch stared at where he’d disappeared, then followed. She hadn’t seen him since the swamp, when she’d been half out of her skull with fear.
She walked between the stalls, to the western edge of the bridge. A steady trickle of zebras were coming and going across the court. Halting, her hide creeping with unease, she scanned the crowd, and then she spotted him standing in the center of the plaza. He drew a card, holding it out to her, and she advanced slowly towards him. His duster and hat moved as if plucked at by some swift wind, ghostly streamers of dust swirling past him as he gazed into her with dusty, empty eye sockets.
The face of the card showed a mare hanging from a noose from a dead and withered tree. The mare was a white unicorn with a black and red striped mane, but as she watched, he twisted the card back and forth, the light of the bonfires playing against the image. When the glare faded, it was a green earth pony with a blue mane dangling. Scotch stared at him.
“I’m not Blackjack,” she whispered.
He faded from view with a whispery laugh. Then the screaming started. The flow of zebras abruptly shifted, with a crowd racing down the street towards the bridge. She heard the gurgling hiss of steam and grinding of gears as the steam tank rolled into view. It rolled right up into the plaza, followed by three trucks. Scotch backed up till she was even with the crowd, but she couldn’t push back against the wall of legs.
Immediately, armored zebras started to spill out into the plaza, dressed in zebra combat armor that had been stained bright red and then further embellished with spikes and spurs. A brilliant red diamond standard was raised atop one of the trucks. Worse, though, was the black ichor that seemed to drip like oil off their bodies and onto the stones. The miasma that rolled from these zebras nauseated Scotch to her core. They seemed unaware of the taint that clung to them like dirty sludge, though, grinning at the onlookers like raiders who’d discovered a buffet.
Maximillian pushed himself out of the throng, shoving the mask off his face as he approached the tank with clear trepidation. “Oh! My. Well… this is unexpected.” He coughed. “The Blood Legion! I thought we paid you quite well to keep away from the city. I know we pay the Iron and White legions to do so! I could have sworn we had sentries and mines and warnings and… how did you get here so fast with no one giving warning?”
“They are here at my invitation!” Desideria cried out, stepping from the back of one truck. The mare’s water-ruined mane and smeared makeup made her appear quite deranged as she approached Maximillian, trying to step carefully to avoid the sludge that pooled under the legionnaires.
“Desideria?!” Maximillian gasped, then gave a strained smile from ear to ear. “Are you insane?”
“No. The Carnilian people have endured your appeasement and concessions long enough, Maximillian! I have endured the last humiliation against my station! I will not let our tribe become serfs to your masters at Carnico,” she declared, pointing her hoof at the factory beyond the river. “It is time for our tribe to be purged of its contaminants!” Despite her efforts, the black ichor was smeared against her hide like her runny makeup.
The crowd parted, and Cecilio emerged, looking at Desideria with clear disdain. A mare stood beside him, wearing a military uniform stained and spotted with the dark blotches. “I should have known you’d eventually snap, Desideria. Fortunately, I’ve taken precautions as well. Colonel Adolpha here has promised to protect Carnico’s assets from any who would damage our city’s precious infrastructure. You may as well dismiss these thugs back to their wastelands.”
The top hatch of the tank popped open, and a roiling black toxic fog poured out and spread across the plaza. From the interior emerged a zebra soaked black in the foul ichor. Only his brilliant red eyes gleamed out. “Adolpha!” he cried out. “So nice to see you again!”
“Major Haimon,” she answered back.
“We should catch up. I remember the last time we were together,” he said as he stood before her. “As I recall, you were all spread out, moaning around my adjutant’s cock, while I was…” He closed his eyes and gave a few pelvic thrusts with a grin. “Like that.”
“I’ll see you dead, first,” Adolpha replied, cold as steel.
“So unfriendly!” he said, pressing a hoof to his brow. Then he gestured to the tractors behind him. “And here we have intercepted an Equestrian plot against our people!”
“What plot?” Maximillian asked in bafflement. “What are you talking about?”
Then they hauled something from the back of the truck. Something large, purple, feathered, and bloody. His soldiers dragged out the body and threw it down before the crowd.
A slain purple alicorn.
“There are more!” Haimon called out, as more and more alicorn bodies were drawn out and tossed in a heap. Some of them had been dismembered or decapitated. Green after green alicorn was tossed like so much meat before the crowd. “And the piece de resistance!” Haimon cried out gaily.
This green alicorn was still alive. Her horn had been smashed off, and all that remained of her wings were broken, bloody nubs. She was carried between two zebras and dumped down between Desideria and Haimon. The former looked at the mutilated mare with an expression of some unease, as if she hadn’t expected this. The latter just grinned.
“Please! We’re just trying to get to Carnico! That’s all! Please!” the alicorn screamed in Pony. Then the green spotted the corpses before her. “Oh Goddess, no! No! Meadowsong! No!” she cried out, crawling on broken limbs to one of the slain greens. “Kill me, you bastards!” she sobbed brokenly. “Just… please… kill me…”
“Oh, no,” Desideria crowed. “We have so many qu–”
Haimon drew a large automatic pistol, pressed it to the alicorn’s temple, and pulled the trigger. The round blew half the opposite side of the alicorn’s head out, along with an oily trickle of black slime. Desideria stared at the major as if he’d slapped her. He holstered the gun and said grandly, “Why were the enemy here in the zebra lands? Why were they seeking to bring this–” he pulled from his pocket an enormous gleaming diamond “–to Carnico?” The major leered at the ill-looking Cecilio as he withdrew back into the crowd. “I can’t wait to hear their answer.”
Major Haimon then gazed at Scotch, his eyes wide and his teeth gleaming amid the oily taint that coated him. Scotch pushed her way through the crowd till she spotted golden stripes and lavender scales. “We need to go, now,” she said breathlessly.
But then a hoof touched her shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere,” Tchernobog rumbled, and Scotch felt something settle between her shoulder blades.
It felt like the point of a sword magically suspended above her.
“Come with me,” Tchernobog stated. “You’re wanted at Carnico.”
In all her time working at Rice River, Scotch had never been in the Carnico factory. Building after building loomed in a tangle of structures all interconnected by pipes, conduits, and catwalks. The crumbling brick revealed concrete slabs beneath. Rail lines cut through the decaying construction with rusty flatbeds awaiting cargo they’d never receive. Scattered here and there, on rooftops and in gaps between buildings, were gun emplacements pointing rusty barrels towards the skies. Spikes and spires jutted along the edges, with tangled razor wire still rattling in the breeze that gusted between the buildings. Scotch had always imagined Carnico as just one large building. In truth, it was a city unto itself, employing the population on the west side of the river.
The massive edifice she knew best was merely the main entrance. Enormous, abstract zebra reliefs on the front of the building depicted figures carrying bushels of wheat on their backs, each one marked with a different tribal glyph. She and her friends were ushered up the steps leading to the eight front doors by Tchernobog, Skylord, and Vicious. They proceeded through the cavernous chamber of the entrance along paths divided with chain link fences topped with more razor wire, past security stations where nervous guards let the group pass without challenge, and into Carnico proper. Bleak, dirty banners hung along the periphery of the chamber, marked with glyphs. She made out a few: power, strength, work, industry, and at the back of the hall, rendered in frayed golden thread, unity.
This was a serious place for serious work. She’d read the Lightbringer’s book; had this been what Fillydelphia had been like? And people chose to come here for two food chits a day? Why have slaves when you could have this?
They climbed into a little steam wagon, and the driver pockety pocked them through the factory. Past cans of weed killer sitting idle on silent production lines. Only a tenth of the lines seemed open at all. The rest of them sat dusty and covered in clutter, some machines gutted for parts. The acrid chemical reek of cleaner and spilled weed killer made her want to gag. Pipes mended with tape dripped brown and green sludge in congealed toxic icicles. Her eyes burned and watered from the noxious fumes. It reminded her of… no, she didn’t want to think about that. She focused on breathing shallowly instead, examining the faded decor. Motivational and safety posters dominated the walls, some proudly displaying a single glyph like ‘Duty!’ and others covered in the mandala-like displays in tiny glyphs. Both were faded, the latter often beyond legibility.
And it wasn’t just weed killer. Carnico produced food as well, all of it canned or bagged and stored in boxes. ‘To Irontown: peaches’ or ‘To Bastion: flour’ were stenciled on the sides. One of those pallets lying at the foot of the belts had to be worth hundreds of chits. There was cloth as well. The whole area west of the river might be choked by razorgrass, but clearly Carnico had plenty of other sources of materials. Scotch guessed those other places would be in big trouble if something happened to Carnico.
After five minutes, the little steam tractor squealed to a halt before a large concrete building shaped oddly like a mushroom, with dozens, if not hundreds, of pipes running in and out of the base. Standing before a rusty armored door waited Vega, Cecilio, the snooty mare in the business suit from earlier, Xarius, and Colonel Adolpha. The ghoul gazed at Scotch Tape in horror as they climbed off the back of the little steam wagon.
“What happened?” Vega asked Tchernobog.
“The Blood Legion intercepted the alicorns when they arrived in Zebrinica. They had one prisoner and executed it as a demonstration. They also have the gem we need,” he said, his dark eyes turning to the businessmare for a moment before looking at Adolpha. “The Blood Legion is in the city on the west side of the river.”
“I know. Led by that butcher, Haimon,” the grim mare said with a curl of her lip. “We were hoping they were withdrawing after their bouts with the Golds, but their strength has only grown over the last year.” She narrowed her steely gaze as she stared across the river. “Numbers?”
Skylord saluted. “Twelve steam wagons and two tanks, ma’am. More coming up the IH-44 from Greenfields.” The griffon rubbed his beak with his wing. “I’d estimate five hundred Blood Legion in the city at present.”
“Over a dozen tractors? Five hundred? How is that possible?” Xarius stammered. “The legions aren’t supposed to be able to come within ten leagues of the city!”
“You say that as if it’s a lot. The Blood Legion has more. Much more,” Adolpha murmured.
“Well, it’s not like it’s hard,” Precious drawled, drawing every eye to her. “You guys don’t even have walls,” she elaborated, and half those present narrowed their gaze as if wondering just what this thing addressing them was. “Well. You don’t.”
“There are a number of bridges wired to explode if someone tries to bring vehicles into the city,” Adolpha said calmly. “The razorgrass is a natural defense against infantry to the north, west, and south. The skies are open, and the tribe keeps sharpshooters for airborne threats. The only way that they could enter the city would be with assistance.”
“Excuse me, but who are you again?” Cecilio asked Adolpha as he adjusted his glasses.
“Allow me,” Vega said, pointing at the scarred zebra mare. “Colonel Adolpha of the Iron Legion.” Then he gestured around, introducing each in turn. When he got to Scotch Tape, his lips twisted just a little. “Scotch Tape and company, here to assist with your problem.”
“Are you insane, Mariana?” Cecilio blurted, turning to the suited mare. “Bad enough you’re employing him as a consultant for our problem, but bringing two legions to Rice River?” he demanded, swinging his hoof at Adolpha, who gazed coolly back.
“I didn’t know she was going to be here,” Mariana countered, pointing at a hoof at the officer before glowering at Vega. “I was already in negotiations to deal with the problem before she showed up.”
“That’s… expedient of you,” Cecilio said with a worried frown, “but hardly your responsibility.”
“I have a thousand Iron Legion assets on the east side of the river, in Syndicate safe houses, positioned to protect the most valuable targets should the need arise,” Adolpha said as she looked south. “It won’t be long before the Blood Legion moves to secure this side of the river. That includes seizing Carnico and its facilities.”
“We hardly need you for protection!” Mariana snapped, gesturing to zebras in gunposts and atop the factory buildings surrounding them. “Carnico has its own security.” Skylord snickered, and Vicious sighed, shaking her head as she rolled her eyes with a smile.
“With all due respect, your security is a joke and could be eliminated easily by a single Blood Legion company,” Adolpha said with a grim smile. “They will rush in under the effects of regenerative draughts and tear the first resistance to pieces with their bare hooves. They will then fling the visceral remains of your own security forces at the survivors. Your security is trained to cow and corral workers, not fight to the death for Carnico against psychopaths. They will break.” She then faced Cecilio. “In fact, Carnico is so valuable that I am to inform you that General Chalybs will not allow the Blood Legion to take it. Do you understand my meaning?” she asked as her eyes narrowed.
“Blood or Iron, is that it?” the old stallion asked. Adolpha just stared back in reply. “And what is to stop you from taking it?”
“Simple. We have neither the means, expertise, nor desire to manage this snakepit of an operation. Our terms can be negotiated in the future, but we need to act now,” Adolpha said evenly. “Otherwise, I would recommend flight. The Blood Legion often uses horrific executions of unpopular leaders to cement public support. We will disable Carnico as you do so. Our artillery is already in place.”
“We won’t leave this place’s food, power, and communication facilities to the Blood, and we will not fight both the Blood and your security,” Adolpha countered.
“She’s bluffing!” Mariana snapped. “We can negotiate, as we always have. I’m sure we can pay ten times whatever Desideria promised them!” She wrung her hooves, looking to the west. “Let me handle it, sir. This is easily manageable.”
“Don’t count on it,” Adolpha said as she advanced on the production manager. “The Blood Legion needs Rice River. Your population is half of it, but they also need your food technology. Famine is the only thing keeping them from taking over half of Zebrinica. In addition, they need your broadcast capabilities to coordinate their attacks. Rice River is connected to Irontown in the south and is the gateway to the northeast. You’re also the largest port facility on the northern sea, and key to trading resources with the Atoli. I’m sure having access to your biotechnology wouldn’t hurt either. In short, they want things you are incapable of defending. Things the Iron Legion won’t allow you to surrender.” Mariana locked eyes with the mare, refusing to blink.
“We shouldn’t be talking like this, here, in front of strangers,” Cecilio said, licking his lips.
“We need to act now. The next hour is critical. Do we deploy or withdraw?” Adolpha asked, turning to him.
“You are all missing one very important detail,” Tchernobog rumbled, drawing all eyes. “It’s Bacchanalia.”
“So what? I hardly think a holiday matters much in light of recent–” Cecilio began, but Tchernobog loomed over the elderly zebra.
“It is not the holiday. It is the spirits. They’ve been welcomed,” he said, glancing at Scotch with a look that made her skin crawl. A toxic green nimbus seemed to emanate from him as he glowered at Cecilio. “They’re here, right now. This entire ceremony is peacebonded. The very arrival of the Blood Legion is making the spirit world growl, and if actual fighting ensues, the result will be… unpredictably catastrophic.”
“So we can have a chance to work something out. Maybe cut a deal with someone,” Mariana said, then looked at Scotch. “I understand that filly did something to deeply offend Desideria. We should keep her in custody. Especially given what we need her to do.”
“I doubt Scotch Tape is going to help you if you’re going to give her to that maniac. And neither will I, for that matter!” Xarius croaked defiantly.
“You don’t and you’ll find your unnatural life span precipitously shortened,” Mariana growled.
“So what? I should have died a long time ago, and I know all about that bigot. I’ll be dead before I’m damned.” He glared into the mare’s eye.
“She’ll help. We have her friends, after all,” Mariana said with a smirk at the three of them.
“Oh no you didn’t!” Precious snarled. “I’d like to see you try something.”
“Threatening children, Mariana? Really?” Cecilio said flatly, peering at her from over his glasses.
The mare stammered, “I only meant…” She trailed off as she looked about nervously.
“I’m going to assume that that was simply stress talking,” Cecilio said as he adjusted his glasses. “We need their help, or the Blood Legion will be moot. Carnico will be finished either way.” He took a deep breath. “Deploy your forces, Colonel. Keep the Blood out of the east side of the city.” He then turned to Mariana. “Your task is to focus on our production issues, Mariana. See to it.”
“Yes… sir…” she said, gritting her teeth in frustration. “I’ll also take care of security, sir. We can’t have them running around.”
“If you insist,” Cecilio said with a sigh. Then he knelt before Scotch Tape, face screwing up in pain as his knees creaked. Still, he gave her a weary smile. “Miss Scotch, was it? Vega says you have some knowledge of pony talisman technology. I’m hoping you’ll help us fix something. If you do, Xarius, Vega, and yourself will be well taken care of by Carnico.”
Scotch glared at Mariana. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you and your friends may go. But realize that, however you feel about Carnico, people need us. We produce goods that reach tens of thousands of people all over the world. Canned food to struggling settlements in the interior and the Atoli. Cloth and ballistic fiber to the Roamani. Paper products everywhere. We make things people can’t make for themselves. If Carnico fails, they fail too.”
Scotch glanced at Xarius, who shook his head slowly as he stared off at nothing. Pythia, too, grimly shook her head. Still, if what he said was true, and she could help… “Okay,” she said, earning a smile from the old zebra and an eye roll from Pythia.
“I’m going to our operations center,” Adolpha said evenly, then turned to Cecilio. “Order your security to stay out of our way. We’ll need to coordinate our forces before this is through. Vega will be our liaison.” She then turned to Skylord, glanced at Mariana, then at Scotch, and pointed at the green filly. “Continue your bodyguard duties. Don’t let anyone hurt her, or give her to angry shamans for empty promises.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, stiffening and with pinions saluting.
“And Skylord,” she added with a small smile, “try not to screw up this time.”
He swallowed. “No ma’am. Absolutely not, ma’am.”
Cecilio gave Scotch’s three friends a smile. “I think you should go… wherever it is you’ll be safe. I’m sorry this has ruined your Bacchanalia.”
“We’re not leaving Scotch–” Precious began, but Pythia shoved her hoof in the filly’s mouth to silence her.
“Leaving, right now,” Pythia said brightly. “Maybe to see to things. Preparations. Stuff like that,” she hissed as she glared in Precious’s eyes. Then she yanked her hoof out a moment before a jet of flame burst from Precious’s mouth, making them all step back.
“I’m staying with Scotch. You go wherever,” Precious said contemptuously.
“That’s a good idea,” Majina said, getting a furious stare from Pythia. “It is. We’ll take care of things while she does what they need. We can meet up… um…”
Pythia sighed and rolled her eyes. “I hate this,” she muttered. “We’ll meet at the Express, and do that thing we talked about the second this is over. Got it?”
“Got it,” Scotch said with a nod.
The pair walked towards a large six story building off to the left while Adolpha trotted in the direction of the entrance behind them. “Thank you,” Cecilio said to Xarius and Scotch. Then he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I need to make calls. Now. Come with me,” he said to Vega as he walked inside a tall five story building next to the mushroom building
Vega looked at Vicious and then pointed at Scotch. When he looked at Tchernobog, the Starkatteri shook his head. Vega appeared puzzled, but nodded and hurried to catch up with Cecilio. Mariana stared at the four around Scotch Tape, grinding her teeth.
“For those of you who aren’t aware, everything in this building is the intellectual property of Carnico, including the existence of everything within this building.” Mariana brushed her mane into place. “Disclosure will result in persecution with extreme prejudice.”
“Is that a lot of blah-blah-blah for ‘tell our secrets and we’ll kill you’?” Precious asked.
Vicious smirked. “Actually, it’s ‘tell our secrets and I’ll kill you, your friends, family, and anyone that speaks fondly of you.’ It’s easy to miss in translation.”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Precious sneered, then blinked. “Wait.” She frowned and pointed a hoof at Mariana. “She’ll kill us, or you’ll kill us? ‘Cause there’s kinda a big difference between the two.” Vicious simply grinned as she walked up next to Mariana at the door. “Oh, crap,” Precious muttered. “And you lived with her?”
“Lived with? Try slept with,” Scotch said with a sigh. Precious leaned back from Scotch with a slightly ill expression as Scotch speculated, “I don’t think she would go the full ten yards, though… at least, I hope not. She’d probably just kill us and be done with it.”
“Great,” Skylord said dryly to Precious. “Well, I certainly feel reassured. Don’t you?”
They all walked up to the armored door. Mariana rapped her hoof on it twice, then looked up at a camera set near the ceiling. A second later, a motor growled, lifting the door… the very heavy hoof-thick steel door… high enough to let the six pass into the room beyond. Instantly, Scotch was hit by a wave of chemical odors and nostalgia. She could have been stepping right into the guts of Stable 99 for all the similarities. The over-filtered air that failed to remove the lingering stench of ammonia, sulfur, and organic waste. The hum of motors and fans and the high-pitched whine of electrical systems all working together to do… whatever this room was meant to do.
The pipes went every which way, labeled with chipped and faded yellow and red glyphs. There weren’t any banners or motivational posters here. All the pipes flattened and organized into two horizontal planes, one following the floor and the other the ceiling, with the pipes meeting in some strange tree-trunk-like apparatus in the middle of the room. Catwalks encircled it, with numerous pits and shafts dropping down through the floor to where more infrastructure was probably hidden. A white, well-lit box off to one side had to be an operations center, two begoggled zebras within.
“What is this place?” Scotch asked as they walked into the large, round room. It had to be at least sixty feet in diameter and thirty high! She narrowed her eyes and started trying to make sense of the place. Water lines. Steam lines. Power conduits. Those had chemical formulas, though most were too complex for her to understand. Was this a refinery of some sort? Ugh! She’d give her hoof for some blueprints!
“The heart of Carnico,” Mariana muttered.
One of the booth technicians stepped out. “Ma’am! We’ve lost another two percent in the last two hours. Is the replacement here yet?” he asked desperately.
“There is no replacement,” Mariana growled, then pointed at Scotch Tape. “She’s here to make repairs.”
“Repairs? That child?” The technician gave a hysterical little laugh. “Very good, ma’am. That’s hilar–” Mariana leaned in towards the technician, eyes narrowing as if she were cutting off his air by will alone. “Eeee…” He trailed off like choked motor, coughing and averting his eyes. “I’ll be at my position, ma’am.” He turned and nearly jumped back into the control booth.
“What am I repairing?” Scotch Tape asked Xarius. The ghoul nodded at her to follow him, and they walked towards the massive apparatus that filled the center of the round chamber. One catwalk went right up to a large access panel, upon which was stenciled a note in faded and chipped Pony: ‘From: Canterlot Center for Research and Knowledge. To: Carnico R&D, in peace and harmony.’
Xarius waved at the booth technicians. “Step it down to minimal.” The humming, buzzing machine stilled, and he began to pull latches. Scotch backed away in alarm as he broke the cardinal rule of repair: don’t work on equipment not locked out, tagged out. The ghoul then pulled the panel open carefully, and a faint white light washed over her. Her fears melted away as she let out a coo of delight.
The heart of Carnico was a talisman.
And what a talisman! It was the size of her head, made of transparent diamond cut geodesically, mounted on a hanging support from the roof of the chamber it occupied. Like a forest of glass were hundreds of clear tubes dangling vertically around it, before curving in underneath. Some of the tubes combined underneath, while others disappeared straight into the floor of the chamber. A wedge of light projected out from the gemstone, bathing an energetically bubbling tube. A wave of heat from the diamond made her brow start to sweat. In the very center, a magical glyph glowed brightly.
But as the awe faded, she started to spot the problems. Cracks in the diamond were letting out pinpoints of white light at odd angles. The hum coming from the gemstone suggested a dangerous mechanical resonance. It was dusty! The glyph itself flickered and blurred around the edge, where it should be crisp and clear. This was a talisman on the verge of failure.
And she was supposed to help Xarius fix it? No, from the way Xarius was looking at her, he was expecting to help her! The technician had been right to laugh. She had no clue where to even begin!
“I can’t fix this. This isn’t something you fix!” Scotch hissed under her breath as she stared at the talisman. Maybe if she were a unicorn, she could have had a chance to fake it.
“You’re better than nothing. To me, this is a great big magical rock. I have no clue how it works,” he replied, reaching into his saddlebags and putting out a worn manual written in Pony. “I hope you have a better grasp on how to fix it.”
The manual was as thick as her hoof. She flipped open a few pages and found that most of the language was way over her head. She thought back to her time working in the stable. The lessons Rivets, the head maintenance mare, had tried to impart upon her. As she thought, she calmed a bit. There had been hundreds of talismans like this in 99: old, past warranty, delicate, and vital. No wonder they couldn’t turn it off. Cutting the power flowing through the diamond might kill the glyph, or blow it up when power was restored. The insulative carbon had tiny magical flaws worked through it that allowed the energy to reach the ongoing magical spell in the heart of the gemstone.
“What does it even do?” Scotch asked.
Xarius fished out some goggles and handed them to her. She slipped them into place, and then he gestured to the booth. “Filly wants a demonstration. Make something simple.”
The dangling gem rotated, the glyph inside the sphere changing as she watched. “It’s multifunctional!?” Scotch gasped. “No way! How’s it do that?” She didn’t get an answer before the connectors above hummed, and the chamber filled with light. Scotch took a step back as her face warmed. A wedge of light now beamed on a different set of glass tubes, which started to fill with a brownish fluid that Scotch knew from experience had to be organic waste.
As it passed into the wedge of light, the magic happened. The brown waste bubbled energetically, and from the waste, clear fluid began to separate and funnel off into a side shunt. “Is that ammonia?” Scotch asked immediately, feeling a hunch.
“I think so. How’d you know?” Xarius asked.
“A hunch,” Scotch said with a smile, gazing at the talisman. The shunt closed, the light dimmed, and the brown fluid was flushed out of the pipe. She leaned out and yelled, “Can you make nitric acid?”
The technicians in the booth nodded, and the gem rotated again, to a different glyph shining on a different set of pipes. Fluids flowed down from two glass pipes, meeting in a round jar bathed in light. The clear fluids bubbled and churned, emptying out through the floor. “Amazing,” she said with a smile. How had the zebras gotten this? Had they stolen it? No. That didn’t explain the stencil. “This talisman was from before the war, isn’t it?”
Xarius gazed at her, smiling. “I’m so proud, Xara,” he said brightly. “How did you know?”
“Well, there was the sign on the front. That was a big clue.” Scotch gave him a small smile, ignoring the wrong name. “But there’s more. Stable-Tec doesn’t do it like this,” she continued, pointing at the gem with her hoof. “And this…” She gestured at the apparatus and forest of tubing. “You can’t just steal all this during a war. So…” She reached out and touched the paneling of the apparatus. “This was from when ponies and zebras worked together.”
“Yes. A better time,” Xarius croaked. “I was just a colt when Father installed it, but he was so excited. A magic machine that makes chemicals. All sorts of chemicals. I can’t imagine how. At the time, I just thought it poofed them into existence.”
“No. Those talismans are way simpler. They take energy and make one element, usually a lighter one like hydrogen or oxygen. This is a… a catalyst talisman of some kind. No. Multiple catalysts!” The light had faded, and Scotch leaned in close, moving her face from left to right and watching the glyph inside the gem. It changed from form to form as her head moved. “In the stable, we’d just have twenty talismans, each with a single glyph for a single reaction. Easier to fix.”
“But in Equestria, you had the magical gemstones to do that. We had to make do with only a few talismans.” He paused. “Can you fix it?”
Scotch stared, and her smile faded. “No,” she said, her ears drooping. “I don’t think I can.” She looked down at the manual. “Give me some time,” she said as she lay on her stomach and started leafing through.
But the manual didn’t help that much. What little she knew, it confirmed, but there was a whole lot she didn’t know, and the manual confirmed that too. Finally, she found a little section in the back labeled ‘general maintenance procedures’. “We can try these!”
Xarius sighed. “We’ve been doing those for two hundred years,” he said, his voice dropping. “The fact is that the talisman is just worn out. A replacement was our only hope.” Then he murmured, “We’ve got to get you out of here. You and your friend are in terrible danger.” She glanced at him nervously. He licked his mottled lips with a shoeleather tongue. “This talisman is Carnico’s deepest secret. They’d be ashamed if word gets out that pony technology is behind their products. More so that a pony fixed it. Cecilio would turn a blind eye while Mariana drops you in a protein vat. Oh, he’d be horrified at the suggestion, but he’s very skilled at strategic ignorance.”
“Would Vega let them?” she asked, glancing at Tchernobog and Vicious.
“He’d object, which is why they’d do it before he could,” Xarius murmured. “Be ready, just in case, Xara.”
Scotch swallowed and nodded, then looked at the talisman. “What about this section? Magical maintenance?”
“Ehhh… we’re sort of lacking when it comes to pony magic.”
“Vishy!” Scotch snapped. The pair gaped at the filly, but if these assholes were going to kill her for helping them, she was through being nice. Tchernobog mouthed the word as Vicious looked ready to kill her then and there. “I need your horn.” Scotch flipped through the pages.
Vicious approached, scowling but not drawing her knives yet. “What?” she asked flatly.
“I need you to cast this spell,” Scotch said, pointing her hoof at one of the entries, the only one she could understand as an earth pony.
“Ugh… I’m not really a magical unicorn, Scotch. Remember?” She drew one of her swords a few inches. “I’m more of a slicey uni–”
Scotch silenced her with a poke in her snout. “I know just how slicey you are. You’re also the only one here who can do magic. I need you to do this.” She held the book up to the murderous mare.
Vicious’s eyes scanned the page. “Mending? Seriously?” she muttered. “That spell is like the opposite of what I do. I cut things in two, not put them together. I kill things. I don’t fix them.”
Scotch growled in frustration at unicorn annoyances. What was the point of having magic if it couldn’t magic away her problems? “Okay…” she said, her brain smoking. “So… we have to find a way to make this work.”
“Why don’t you have her kill the crack?” Precious suggested, getting more ‘really?’ expressions from everyone else. “It made sense to me,” she muttered defensively.
“That’s a wonderful idea. Please tell me you’re the squad’s medic,” Skylord replied flatly. “Do you shoot the patient till they recover?”
“Well, guns don’t really fit well in my claws, but… hey!” Precious growled back at him.
“Kill the crack,” Scotch murmured, then smiled and stated firmly to the periwinkle mare. “Yes. You need to kill the cracks in this diamond, Vicious. And this spell is your weapon,” she said, tapping the page. “You need to murder these cracks, and track down their crack families and murder them too. Genocide the crack race and wipe it from the face of the diamond.”
“Scotch,” Vicious said, for the first time looking embarrassed and unsure. “I don’t think–”
“Are you the deadliest unicorn in the zebra lands?” Scotch pressed.
“Yeah, but–”
“Have you not told me that you could kill anything with the right weapon. Even Tuesday?”
“I hate Tuesday. Worthless day. Thursday, too,” Vicious muttered.
“Then take that spell, and do it,” Scotch Tape said, stepping aside and moving behind her.
“Kill the cracks. Weirdest Bacchanalia ever,” the unicorn muttered as she levitated the book before her.
The ghoul and unicorn moved in front of the device. “Is that going to work?” Skylord asked.
“No idea, but she’s the only one with a horn.” Scotch bit her lip. “My bigger fear is that it’s not enough. You see how fuzzy some of those glyphs are? They’re etched with magic, and I’m pretty sure I can’t talk her into refocusing them. It’s talking about harmonics and third stage mental construction algorithms and stuff a lot more complicated than ‘get rid of some cracks.’” She lowered her voice. “We need a better unicorn.”
“Well, what about a zebra?” Precious suggested, getting a groan from the others. “What?”
“They’ve been maintaining it for two centuries,” Skylord explained. “I suppose they could try doing the exact same thing again and hope this time it miraculously works?”
“Oh, really? Have you done that zebra mumbo jumbo stuff? Huh?” Precious said, jabbing a claw at him.
Scotch stared at the gem and then looked at Tchernobog. “Well, Boggy? Have they?” From the device came a barely restrained snirk from Vicious.
Tchernobog loomed over Scotch, his eyes blazing like baleful green stars. “Do. Not. Call. Me. Boggy.”
Scotch fought the urge to crawl into her own navel to escape his gaze. “Have they?” she repeated, sweat trickling down her temples.
He pulled back. “Doubtful. Carnico and traditional shamans don’t interact well. And I cannot conceive of a spirit of magic that could magically fix the function of that stone.”
No spirits of magic. She stared at the stone as Vicious and Xarius tried to mend the various cracks without the stone blowing up in their faces. Spirits. “There are other kinds of spirits, right?”
“Indubitably,” he answered flatly.
She pondered the talisman. It used transformation magic. It changed one thing into another. “Are there spirits of change?”
“Certainly. Rot and decay are potent spirits. I’d be happy to conjure some for you immediately. Sepsis? Gangrene?” he asked with a low rumble.
“No, no. I don’t mean that kind of change. I mean…” What did she mean? What was she even thinking of? “Changing from one form to another. Not rotting. Not growing, either.”
Tchernobog now regarded her more thoughtfully. “Perhaps, but if there are, they’re outside my realm of expertise. I excel at spirits that take things apart,” he said. Precious inhaled, and he immediately interjected, “And spirits are immune to double negatives.”
Spirits of change. What changed? Seasons. Minds. Fashion. She couldn’t imagine a spirit for any of those, though. She needed something more… natural. Leaves changed, but that wasn’t quite right. She wished she had Granny here with all her strange animals, like the croak… Frogs. They changed. From tadpoles or something into frogs. Better, but…
Then it hit her. “What do you need to summon a spirit?” she asked Tchernobog.
“It depends on the spirit, but generally speaking, you need something that symbolizes that spirit’s nature. A rock for an earth spirit. Fish for a water spirit. The more true and uncontaminated it is, the stronger the spirit. Of course, the other half is a shaman who is comfortable and familiar with said spirit.” He twisted his lips. “I’d be a poor substitute for any spirit other than decay, rotting, or failure.”
“But you could do it, right?” Scotch pressed.
Now he seemed a bit nervous, pulling away from her. “Theoretically, but–”
Scotch turned from him. Right now, she’d take ‘theoretically’ over certain failure. She turned to Skylord. “Can you find something for me?” If this was Equestria, there wouldn’t have been a chance, but she remembered the swamp. Maybe here…
“Well, I have been known to be quite resourceful at times…” he said, polishing his claws on his plumage. She leaned in and whispered to him what she needed. He blinked at her. “You’re joking. Seriously.”
“You have to find one,” Scotch said. “Somewhere out there, there has to be one. You’ve got sharp eyes. You can do it.”
“I’ll try my best,” he said, not sounding very certain. Then he paused. “Wait, I was ordered to stay with you!”
“Precious is with me. I’ll be fine,” she said. The dragonfilly bobbed her head a little with a confident smirk at the griffon.
“Worst assignment ever,” he muttered as he started for the door. Mariana glowered at Scotch, then the griffon, but gestured to the technicians to open the door for him.
“What do you think you’re doing, pony?” the sour mare asked.
Scotch pointed at the compass and square on her flank. “Making stuff work,” she said with a bravado she didn’t really feel, but Mariana annoyed her. She then walked around and stared at the piece of equipment. Once upon a time, zebras and ponies had been friends. This machine… this wondrous machine of magic and technology… had been the result. Even after all that had happened, and its wear and tear, it still was doing what its original builders intended. She looked at the inscription on the cover and then up at it. “Don’t worry. I’ll help,” she said as she rubbed a hoof against the cool metal, feeling it hum under her hoof.
She spotted Tchernobog staring at her. The pensive expression on his face made her pause. “What?” she asked, frowning and knitting her brows.
“You… are a very strange pony,” the zebra said evenly.
“Oh, really?” Scotch asked archly. “How so?”
“I do not know, but you are a very strange pony,” he repeated. Ugh, she wanted to bang her head against the wall till shamans started making sense.
Scotch shook her head and paced. She didn’t have time for cryptic zebra shamans. If Skylord couldn’t find one… if Tchernobog couldn’t talk to the spirit… if it didn’t work at all in the first place…
Too much if. She was rolling a lot of dice. And all the while Mariana was watching her and talking on the phone. Even when she wasn’t, the mare’s dark eyes were focused on her. Precious demonstrated her indefatigable vigilance by taking a nap.
“What’ll happen?” Scotch asked Tchernobog as she waited. The shaman looked at her in surprise. “If the Blood Legion and Iron Legion fight? Spiritually, I mean?”
“You invited the spirits here in peace. What would you do if you were invited to a nice party and suddenly the guests started killing each other?” Tchernobog asked in return.
“I’d get pretty upset, I guess,” Scotch admitted.
“Indeed. Censure,” he replied. “The spirits have a poor understanding of mortals. Only the most powerful can grasp what our existence is like. They understand the natural world, or limited esoteric concepts. A spirit of peace can’t understand economics any more than a spirit of a wolf understands a machine gun. When forced to, spirits flee, or lash out. Censure is the result.”
“But what will happen?” she asked.
“I don’t know. No one can know. Maybe all the fighters will suddenly be overcome with irrepressible lust for each other. Maybe their genitals will drop off. Maybe the whole city will be blown off the face of the Equus. When it comes to spirits, censure is impossible to predict.” He gazed away. “Censure is the first lesson all shamans must learn. Mistakes with spirits have consequences. Dire, unpredictable consequences. To the shaman and innocent bystanders alike. We cannot abuse our gift thoughtlessly.”
“Do you?” Scotch asked, getting an angry glare from him, but she didn’t look away.
“I am not a nice person, Scotch. I accept this.” He stared off, his eyes locked on some distant memory. “I hurt people. I break them down. I make them fail. The spirits I interact with are spirits of carrion, scavengers, disease, and corrosion. I break down opposition. But I do not lie to or cheat the spirits I deal with, and I keep their actions focused on Vega’s needs. There is no misunderstanding between me and the spirits I serve.”
“I see,” she said. “You’re evil, but you accept it?”
“Evil?” He snorted in disgust. “Evil is an abstraction, pony, and a poor one. Entropy is not evil. It is an inevitable rule of the universe. You say more about yourself than spirits when you use that word. A spirit of rot isn’t being evil when it festers a wound. It is simply following its nature.”
“But are you being evil when you make the spirit fester a wound?” Scotch asked. The small talk was helping her keep her head together.
He opened his mouth, scowling, then paused. “That… that is actually a very old argument between shamans. Some would say yes, that knowing morality we make that choice. Others that we do not, as we are simply facilitators between spirits and those who seek their services. Still others that good and evil are abstractions that do not exist. I have never encountered a spirit of ‘goodness’ or ‘evilness’.” He paused, now reconsidering her. “You are a very strange pony, Scotch Tape.”
She smirked, even as her eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “You should have met Blackjack. She was the definition of strange.” She then gazed at the machine, changing the topic off her ‘strangeness’. “What do spirits look like?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen one,” Tchernobog answered with a shrug. At her baffled look, he smiled. “Every shaman’s experience with spirits is different. I do not see them. I feel them. When I summon a spirit of carrion, I feel beaks picking at my flesh. A spirit of sickness makes my brow burn with fever. When the sensation increases, they are angry. When it recedes, we are in agreement.” He shrugged again. “To another shaman, a spirit of disease might be the smell of feces, the taste of vomit, the sound of retching, or the sight of a zebra consumed by the illness. Few ‘see’ spirits, but it is an easy explanation for the ignorant.”
“I… I think I saw a spirit. A glowing rat,” Scotch said, swallowing, not wanting to mention the Dealer. “Is that possible?”
Tchernobog shrugged. “I can’t say. You could also be mad. That is far more likely.” He paused and pursed his lips a moment. “You would be the first pony I’ve ever heard of capable of such a thing. Ponies are severed from the spirits.”
Scotch frowned. “What do you mean?” Please give me an answer and not some cryptic comment about strangeness!
The shaman sighed. “I am not fond of playing teacher, and I am not certain myself. Once, ponies were normal and in tune with nature. Then, you were not. You changed. You used your magic to assert yourself upon the natural world. To change it to suit your needs. You did not accept the seasons, you imposed them. You did not accept nature. You managed it. You stopped interacting with the spirits and they with you. Your alicorn princesses were the purest expression of this: forcing the sun and moon to move as you willed, rather than as the spirits of the sun and moon wished. To us, the Maiden of the Stars was inevitable censure by the spirits.”
“And zebras were different?” Scotch asked, trying to not be defensive.
“Until the war, yes. When we made a road, we did not simply cut a path through the land. We would bid the spirits of the land farewell, make accommodations to beast spirits and place the animals in preserves, and sometimes, if the spirits bid, we would build the road somewhere else. And then we would consecrate that road with new spirits of travel. We were never the absolute lords of this land. We were its partners.”
“But the war changed that?”
“The war changed everything, but especially our relation with the spirits. We could no longer take the time and consideration we had before, and the spirits went neglected. Worst of all, we could not explain why. How could we, when we ourselves had difficulty understanding the war? How do you make a mountain understand the need to kill an enemy across the world? Or a forest realize that the nation needs to slash and burn it for a military base? The Day of Doom was our censure for neglecting the spirits… but by that point, it was too late for everyone. Zebras. Ponies. Spirits. The world.”
Scotch shook her head. “War is evil. I hate fighting. I saw one huge battle in the Hoof.”
“You would have to speak with a Roamani shaman about that, but I would not disagree,” he said in his low, steady rumble. “I have a poor comprehension of war. Killing a foe makes sense. Killing a tribe or country?” He shook his head and shrugged. “Madness.”
* * *
After a few hours, Skylord returned a few minutes after Vicious’s horn gave out. The tip was blackened and smoking, but almost all the cracks in the diamond were gone. “I did it,” she murmured, then touched her horn and winced, shaking her hoof as if she’d just touched a hot stove.
“You missed a f–” Xarius started to say when he was grabbed by the mare. “You did it! Absolutely. Wonderful job!”
“You better believe it. I killed every single crack. Fucking cracks,” she murmured as she swayed and slumped. “Oh, damn my head hurts.”
Skylord walked up with a severe frown. “Did you find one?” Scotch asked. He maintained the grimace, then smirked and pulled out a little glass jar with some leaves shoved inside. “You did!” she said, snatching the jar up. A small square of paper stuck to the side of the jar detached and drifted down to the floor.
Xarius looked over from where he was supporting Vicious. “What’s happening out there?”
Skylord shrugged. “The party continued. The Blood Legion’s claiming they’re just here for the celebration. Outside the party, though, they’re spreading out and fortifying their position on the west side. They haven’t tried to push through the celebration yet.”
“They’d be fools to risk censure,” Tchernobog rumbled. “But on the east side?”
“The colonel’s getting our people in place quickly and quietly. When the Blood Legion tries to cross, they’re going to get a nasty surprise,” he said with a grin.
Scotch’s worry for her friends abated a bit. At least they had a little time before the fighting started. She turned her attention to the jar and examined the contents; there they were, among the fronds. “Wonderful. Where did you find them?”
“Hey, you’re talking to a griffon. I’m a born hunter. I followed my instincts and used my skills to locate the target. I had to search every tree and bush on the east side, but–”
“Is this a receipt?” Precious asked, picking up the square with a claw. She turned the paper over. “Five imperio for ten–” He snatched the paper away before he could finish. “Born hunter, huh?”
“I paid some foals to get them for me. Little brats charged a wing for the stupid worms,” he muttered, tucking the paper away.
“And they gave you a receipt?” Precious said with a grin.
“They better if I’m gonna get my money back from the Colonel,” Skylord countered sourly.
Scotch carefully carried the jar on her rump to where Tchernobog had prepared a circle in chalk and set it down. “They’re not worms,” she said as she passed them to the stallion. “They’re caterpillars.” The fat green larvae gnawed the edges of the leaves as they were set into the middle of the circle. “Will this work?”
“Doubtful, but more likely than doing nothing,” he said as he sat down. “You understand it’s quite likely any spirit I summon will not be able to comprehend what you actually want it to do? These are insects. They don’t think in terms of chemistry.”
“They don’t have to,” Scotch said. “The talisman has the glyphs to make the specific chemicals. The spirit just has to aid in the transformation.”
“It might not be willing to. Some of these chemicals are quite toxic.”
“So are a lot of caterpillars,” Skylord said, drawing a number of eyes. “What? They are. They taste nasty because they’re poisonous.” Then he sighed and rolled his own red eyes. “I was dared to eat one when I was a fledgling, okay?”
“Be that as it may, I might not be able to summon it at all.” He sighed, closing his eyes. He then reached into his bag and pulled out a mask of wood, pulling off his hood. The material looked pulpy and spotted with mold, and yet he didn’t hesitate to slip it on. As soon as he did, Scotch saw the glow around him, like a sickly miasma. Her sinuses immediately started to drip and her throat scratch as he stared at the circle.
“Whoa, he’s glowing. Is that normal?” Precious muttered as she stared, and coughed.
“Silence,” was all Tchernobog said. Scotch swallowed, trying to focus on the caterpillars on the leaves. Instead, her mind wandered to her mother’s corpse being thrown down the chute into the recycler. The processes softening the tissues, then grinding the body to pulp. After several minutes, he shook his head, the glow fading. “I cannot. If you want me to kill these things, I can, but I can’t summon the spirit you desire. I am no Carnilian.”
Scotch sat down opposite him, looking at the placid caterpillars. She’d seen them in the swamp, seen the butterflies and moths that had flittered about here and there. She closed her eyes and imagined the Ministry of Peace butterfly boxes that had held healing and medical supplies. The butterflies in her old biology textbooks in the stable changing from eggs, to larvae, to pupae, to butterflies. Her imagination went wild with blue, green, red, and yellow butterflies that probably didn’t exist, but as a young pony, she could imagine easily.
“I feel something,” Tchernobog murmured. “Like… something is crawling on me.” He squirmed a little. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t like me.”
“Put it in the talisman!” Scotch urged. She stared hard at Tchernobog and spotted it: the tiny ghostly butterfly working its wings as it stood on the dark zebra’s ear. His ear twitched, and it flitted off, landing once the ear stopped twitching. It was so faint she almost couldn’t see it at all. Precious jumped and twitched, checking her shoulders and haunches. Skylord kept rubbing at his arms.
“I do not believe they wish to go. You speak to them,” he said.
“Um…” What to say to a butterfly spirit? “I need you to please get in that diamond and help it change things. The talisman knows what. I just need you to help it transform things.” She swallowed. “Think of it as a great, big, magic cocoon!” she said, feeling something invisible crawling on her skin.
“It’s not enough,” Tchernobog growled.
Not enough? What else? What would a butterfly want? “Please, it’d make lots of people here happy. They’d love to see you. The changes that gem makes are wondrous, and you’d be a part of it,” she said, and then added, “People will come from all over Rice River to see you.”
“Wait a minute!” Mariana snapped. “This is a secure facility–”
Precious snarled at her, “Hey, moron, you want this thing working or not? So button it!”
Scotch swallowed, but continued. “They’ll plant a garden all around here, so there can be all kinds of flowers. Carnico has tons of seeds, and they’ll make a beautiful garden that zebras will come and see with all kinds of flowers and… it’ll just be wonderful. So won’t you please, please go into the talisman?”
Tchernobog didn’t speak, but Scotch watched the ghostly butterfly lift off his ear and circle around him. More ghostly butterflies seemed to be rising from the larvae, transforming before her eyes from little ghost worms to little ghost cocoons to butterflies, repeating the cycle over and over again.
“Do you agree?” Tchernobog asked. Then he nodded and looked at Mariana, as the mare backed away a few steps. “They accept. Do you agree?” he asked the mare.
“This is ridiculous! Preposterous. You can’t expect me to believe a bunch of worms–” she started to say.
“Do you agree?” Tchernobog rumbled.
“I… I need to call people. Consult. I can’t just–”
“Yes, or no. Do you agree to the terms as Scotch negotiated on your behalf?” he said, his eyes blazing with a green nimbus behind the mask.
“I… do?” she muttered weakly.
The ghostly butterflies flittered towards the lit talisman. It flared once, twice, and then the white glow was replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors as the gem lit up with the image of dozens of butterflies. “Hey… hey!” one of the technicians shouted. “Efficiency’s up fifty percent… sixty! I don’t know what they did, but it’s working.” Scotch stared as the diamond rotated, and the magic glyphs within were transformed from stark blue markings to beautiful mosaics of light and magic. “I’ve never seen numbers this high!”
Tchernobog sighed and pulled off the rotten wood mask, gazing at the dangling talisman as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “So those are butterfly spirits. Huh…” he muttered, breathing heavily. “They’re pretty.”
“Are you okay?” Scotch asked the shaman.
“Bridging you with the spirit was taxing. I’m amazed it worked, but it did.” He looked at the stammering suited mare. “You’d best get started on that garden. I’d put some real effort into it. The spirits appreciate effort.”
“I can’t put a garden here!” Mariana blurted. “This is a sterile production facility! And guests? The public? Are you insane?” she snapped at Scotch Tape. “We can’t do that!”
“You’d better. I’m not suffering a censure because you negotiated in bad faith,” Tchernobog growled as he rose on wobbly legs, slumping against the rails along the catwalks.
“Ma’am, it is working. We’ve tested it on two and the purity is… amazing,” one of the technicians said. “It’s working better than we anticipated with the replacement. We’ll be able to make our production quota for sure.” The other was scowling at a monitor behind him.
“Wonderful. And in the meantime, everyone will know that Carnico operates on pony technology. We could have guided tours!”
“Paid guided tours!” Precious said with a grin. “Brilliant!” The adults gave her that flat stare. “What?”
The two technicians seemed utterly incredulous as Mariana scowled. “Clearly, this will have to be a temporary measure till we can retrieve the Equestrian gem and make a proper talisman, not whatever that’s been turned into,” she said, gesturing to the talisman in the machine before regarding Tchernobog with a curl of her lips. “Still, you upheld the Syndicate’s obligation. Carnico thanks you and will provide the payments we negotiated,” she said sourly as she walked to the controls, shoving the technician aside with her shoulder.
“Ma’am. Wait. Outside–” the technician protested, but gave way as the mare shoved the pair out completely.
“You seem pretty bitchy for a mare who got what she wanted,” Vicious pointed out with a scowl.
“Not quite. The Iron Legion here complicates matters immensely, but no matter.” She worked the controls, and the massive door lifted up into the ceiling. “Out.” They shared uneasy looks, then walked out of the round chamber, into the courtyard.
“What did the boss say? Forty-six point blah blah I love numbers too much?” Vicious asked as they entered the open space. Many high catwalks surrounded them, and a half dozen zebras in black Carnico security armor were waiting in front of the steam wagon that was supposed to take all of them out of here.
“Something like that,” Tchernobog growled, glancing up at more security zebras looking down at them.
“She didn’t seem all that upset about the Blood Legion,” Xarius croaked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah,” Skylord muttered. “And these guys don’t look like your usual security clowns. Worst assignment ever,” he growled, working the trigger bit on his battle saddle.
“And look, no driver,” Xarius grumbled as he surveyed the courtyard ahead.
Tchernobog reached back and slipped his rotten wooden mask back on; Scotch Tape’s stomach lurched, and she struggled against the waves of nausea washing over her. She glanced behind them, where Mariana was watching far too closely for her liking.
Then Tchernobog thrust a hoof at the cart, and a green nimbus stretched out and enwrapped the steam wagon. Instantly, a fuzz of rust spread out over the metal. The tires popped and hissed. Wires snapped and crackled. Most importantly, explosives detonated, sending the security around them flinching away as the blast lifted the steam tractor aloft and rained bits of fiery metal upon the zebras. “Run!”
Where? That was the question. Behind them, the door was closing, while ahead of them was a burning scrapheap. Scotch ran to the left, where a number of pipes ran under catwalks with a large enough gap between to squeeze through. The guards with guns began firing, and she heard hooves thundering right behind her as she dove for the narrow horizontal space. Immediately, her stomach began to get really hot as she scrambled to pull her hindquarters through. Some zebra grabbed her hindleg. “I got her! I got her!” the mare called out, and Scotch felt herself sliding back. Scotch kicked wildly behind her, trying to get free before she cooked on the hot metal. Something connected, and she pulled herself through. “Go around! Hurry!” A few dozen feet away, security guards scrambled into view coming down the stairs from the catwalk.
There wasn’t anyplace to hide out here. She ran for the large square building next door to the talisman’s ‘mushroom’ structure, hoping that it was empty. The zebras pursued, closing the distance.
Then gunfire sounded above her, and she glanced up as she ran to see Skylord strafing her pursuers. She reached a door, threw her hooves around the handle, and pulled hard. It opened with a screech, and she threw herself in, expecting to see everyone else behind her, maybe coming over the catwalk or through some other gap. Instead, there were only a dozen zebras trying to reach her and fire at the rusty brown griffon swooping over the battlefield. No Precious. No Xarius.
“In here!” she yelled as she dove into a bland, undecorated hallway. This seemed to be some kind of office building.
Skylord gave one last swoop and landed in front of her, spraying the security guards with the automatic rifles on his battle saddle. “Hah! Take that, you striped egg suck–” And then his guns went dry. They gave several anemic clicks as his beak worked. “Oh shells,” he muttered as a dozen machine guns were raised. Scotch grabbed his haunches and yanked him through the door as they started firing, flipping him onto her back. Her hindhoof kicked the door shut, the metal surface indenting from the impacts. She shoved his butt off her face and rose. There was a space for a bolt, but from the rusty hole, some zebra had neglected to replace it. Scotch fished through her saddlebags and pulled out a crescent wrench, ramming it into the bolt hole in the wall and jamming it in place. The door suddenly thudded as some zebra tried to knock it open.
“Run!” Scotch cried as they scrambled down the hall. The whole building had an empty feel to it. Maybe not abandoned, but it seemed like most of the staff were out for Bacchanalia. They reached a hallway that ran the width of the building, but as soon as they poked their heads out, Scotch saw three security zebras entering through the front door. She looked up, and saw a balcony on the third floor. “Can you fly me up there?”
“Are you light?” he countered, grabbing her by the saddlebags and working his wings furiously. “No, no you’re not,” he panted when they were a foot off the ground.
“Let me down,” she hissed. “We need another way.”
They backtracked, checking the doors as they went. Open opened into an office with a terminal depicting tiny striped toasters flying lazily across the screen. The two hurried in, and Scotch closed the door and locked it. A half minute later, hooves stomped down the hall, and someone jiggled the latch. Scotch held her breath, but a second later the hooves moved on, followed by another rattle, and fainter steps.
Scotch rose and walked to the chair in front of the terminal. The side of it was covered in paper notes. ‘Don’t turn off’ was scribbled and circled twice, the zebra equivalent of underlining a glyph, and put over the power button.
“Why’d you go left? Everyone was going right! There was a tunnel access right there,” Skylord asked.
There was? Scotch hadn’t seen it. “Well, next time he needs to yell a direction.” Scotch went through the desk, hoping to find something useful. Unless these zebras had a dire weakness to red staplers, she was out of luck. “Do you have any more bullets?”
“Do I have bullets?” He snorted, then blinked, frowned, and started to check his saddlebags. “Okay, I’ve still got plenty of ten mil rounds. I just need to pick up some seven-point-six-twos for my rifles,” he said, nodding at one of the guns strapped on his sides. “I’ve also got my holdouts and other tools.”
“So can you shoot us a way out of here?” Scotch asked, hopeful.
Skylord rubbed his beak. “Theoretically…” he began, and she smiled before he continued, “No. I could shoot my way out of here, because I can fly out, but you’re too heavy for me to drag both of us out of here.”
Eventually, they’d be found. This office was filthy, but not abandoned. Assuming the zebras out there didn’t find her, the owner would when they came in to work. Scotch slid into the seat and examined the terminal. Plenty of nonstandard tech on this one, though zebra terminals in general seemed to be much less standardized than the ones she’d seen back in Equestria. This one had a camera and microphone bolted to the top of its monitor and bore a trackball alongside the keyboard. She rested her hoof on the trackball and pressed it in. A password grid popped up, and she groaned. “I hate these,” she muttered.
Over the past year, she’d picked up a little of the language, so she rotated the sections to see what different glyphs she could make. Tool. Open. Into. Access. She paused at the last one. Who would make ‘access’ their password? It was like using ‘password’ for a password. She tapped a button.
The glyph disappeared, replaced by a welcome message and a screen of icons. “Okay,” she said, feeling a little underwhelmed.
“What are you doing?” Skylord asked.
“I’m hoping this is connected to the Rice River network. Xarius and Vega’s offices are both connected. If we can get word to my friends, then maybe…” She opened his mail. If this was connected to the outside, she might be– yes! ‘Do you want a harem of hot females? Click here to find out how!’ read the subject line.
“Heh. Lonely Carnico guy,” Skylord said, reaching out with a talon to open the letter.
“Hey,” Scotch started to protest, but when the letter opened, there were no images of mares. Just a black box with streaming lines of glyph code. Then the entire screen went dark. “What did you do?”
“I just opened it!” Skylord protested at the screen.
“Why did you do that?” she snapped.
“It never hurts to have that kind of information, you know?!” he protested. “Who doesn’t want a flock of cute griffons on call?”
“They’d be zebras!”
“They might be griffchicks! How am I to know without checking! You got to be thorough!”
Scotch let out a groan, but after the screen flashed a few times, the desktop returned. “Huh.” Scotch blinked. “Nothing happ–” Then a tiny, neon-blue sprite of a zebra stallion walked onto the desktop, grabbed an icon, pulled it open like it was a drawer, and started to dig through it, flinging tiny glyph icons behind him. He moved to the next. Then the next. “Is that… Doctor Z?” she asked weakly. The griffon just gave a shrug. One icon didn’t open, so the cartoon got a sly look on his face, pulled out a skeleton key, and tried to unlock it. “You are seeing this, right?”
“Uh… I don’t do terminals,” Skylord said as the blue zebra, key failing, whipped out a jackhammer and went to town on the file’s icon. “Is this… a thing?”
“I have no idea.” She moved the cursor to the zebra and clicked on him. He blinked at the click, and she repeated it, getting an annoyed look from the cartoon. Three more clicks, and the cartoon scowled and smacked the little arrow away. She returned it, and the cartoon danced back, knocking the cursor away again and again. Finally, he pulled out a flamethrower and incinerated the cursor arrow in a jet of pixelated fire.
Then, with a suspicious expression, the cartoon clapped its hooves, the light on the grubby camera bolted to the top of the monitor winked on, and a little window showing the camera’s view appeared. The cartoon looked at the window, then out of the screen at them, then at the window again. “You two don’t look like Carnico employees, unless their Personnel has been diversifying like crazy,” the cartoon said, his voice high and quick and nothing like the Doctor Z she’d seen on television.
“We’re not. My name is Scotch Tape. This is Skylord. We’re trapped in Carnico. They’re trying to kill us.” The cartoon stared at her for several seconds. “Really!”
“Skylord?” the cartoon asked. “You gave yourself that name, didn’t you?”
Skylord’s feathers immediately ruffled. “I– That– Who do you think you’re talking to, cartoon?”
“Who cares about his name?” Scotch blurted, covering for the griffon. “Are you Doctor Z?”
The cartoon blinked nodded. “That’s me! I’m Doctor Z of Z TV, helping information that wants to be free to flee!” he declared grandly, with blue blocky fireworks exploding above him in the shape of the letter Z.
“What?” Skylord growled.
“He’s on television every now and then, talking about the legions, or sneaky stuff going on.” The cartoon smirked at them, raising an arrow-shaped sign that read ‘kinda a big deal’ and pointed down at himself. “Can you help us?”
He tossed the huge sign offscreen and then eyed her skeptically, pursing his lips. “Maybe. But maybe this is just a highly elaborate trick to track my location down. It’s very clever,” the blue cartoon said, rubbing his chin and grinning slyly. “Yes. Which is more likely? That someone was actually stupid enough to click one of my trapdoor mails and let me into their network, just to run across a pony and griffon who claim to be hunted by Carnico and want me to help them, or that this is a trap?”
“Hey! Who says no to a harem?” Skylord snapped.
“Likely! If you had a clue how much weird junk I ran into before I came to the zebra lands, you would be wondering if there was some stupid conspiracy or plot with superzebra legates blowing up stuff from the moon! Now help us!”
The cartoon was silent, rubbing his chin as he gazed at them flatly, then waved a hoof. Another window appeared, showing elsewhere in the factory. “Okay. Well, their external network’s quiet as a clam, so…” He paused, waved another hoof, and watched the sight of Precious breathing fire at a pair of zebras as she backed down a tunnel with Xarius behind her. “Uh…” Another wave of his hoof, and more windows popped showing a silent factory. “Why isn’t this place going off like a Bacchanalia blitz?” He whirled and looked at Scotch Tape, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Even if I could help, and I’m not saying I’m going to, what’s in it for me?”
“Um…” Scotch blinked. “What do you want?”
The cartoon smirked.
* * *
“You realize we’re asking a cartoon for help, right?” Skylord asked as they crept through the third floor of the building they’d hidden in. Somehow, the cartoon had set off a door alarm on the far side of the building, drawing away the security zebras. They were only a tenth of Carnico’s usual security numbers, which made things stink even more. “This has got to be the craziest thing I’ve done.”
“It doesn’t break my top ten. Now, shhhh,” she shushed, listening to her PipBuck radio.
“Okay, now you need to find a terminal connected to their isolated network. There’s a huge black spot in the infogrid up ahead, so I’m guessing that’s it,” the stallion said. “I’m not getting anything from there!”
“You realize anyone listening to that frequency is hearing this, right?” Skylord hissed. “This is the opposite of secure!”
“Shhh!” Scotch said, then lifted a clipboard, scribbled something on it, and held it up to a security camera. No one had come running for them; Doctor Z was hiding them by blocking their image from the security network. ‘What then?’
“If you find a terminal and I’m not there, you need to connect me to it,” he said.
She frowned and scribbled, ‘How?’
“I don’t know. You’re resourceful. You got into Carnico. You’re still mobile. Impress me, Your Ponisity,” the stallion buzzed in her ear. “I’ll keep them elsewhere. Figure out what the heck is happening in Rice River. Doctor Z, out!”
“I do not like him,” Scotch muttered as she put the clipboard in her saddlebags.
“I still have no idea what he’s talking about,” Skylord grumbled.
“I do. This place has an isolated data network. Like in a stable, you have one system that most of the stable uses, but the system that runs the reactor is completely cut off. You can’t hack your way in. There’s no connection,” Scotch said. “He wants me to clop my hooves together and connect him to it.” She looked at the doors lining the hallway. “I’m just hoping he’s right and the servers are up here. They could be on another floor, or even in another building.” She waved her PipBuck at him. “If this had a broadcaster, it’d be easy, but it’s not.”
“So maybe we can find a really long cable,” Skylord muttered.
“He says he’s going to tell your colonel to send help and get word to Vega. All we can do is trust him, unless you want to fly off and do it yourself?” she asked as she jiggled a door handle. Locked. Ugh, her dad would have been able to open it just by looking at it!
“No. My orders were to guard you. That’s what I’m going to do.” He looked around. “Guarding would be a whole lot easier if we got out of here and left Carnico.”
“You heard him. The security is spread out, checking out false alarms. This place is huge. We help him, he keeps helping us,” she said, moving to the next door. Also locked.
Up ahead, down the hall, was an open door from which Bacchanalia music played over a radio. Skylord put a claw to his beak, drew a knife, and crept towards the open door. Scotch followed him warily. As they crept forward, a foul sweetness tickled her nostrils. It made her want to retch. She knew these organic smells well from recycling back in her stable.
“Hiyah!” Skylord shouted as he leapt into the doorway, then recoiled. The two janitors within were dead, the mares sprawling out on the floor of the little closet where they’d kept all sorts of cleaning supplies. “Okay, that’s disturbing,” he said, then glanced at the table. “Oh, cake!” He reached for a slice of the pink frosted dessert, one of many.
Scotch looked at their faces in horror. “Wait!” she snapped, but he shoved it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “I think they were poisoned!” The janitors’ faces were both black, their tongues huge and distend like black slugs. There wasn’t a mark on the pair. Scotch wasn’t an expert on killing, but after a year of Vicious’s stories, she was pretty confident of her conclusion.
Skylord gagged, grabbing his throat, red eyes bulging as he staggered back, then blinked. “Wait. I feel fine.”
“You do?” Scotch said, staring at the other half-eaten desserts on the workbench. “Maybe it’s in something else, then.”
“Poison. That’s just low,” he muttered.
“But who poisons janitors?” Scotch asked, outraged at their deaths. She’d been a janitor, knew the hard work that came with the job. How many times had Rivets brought them snacks from the residential sections down to maintenance? She could easily see this pair snagging the snacks and absconding with them.
“Look on the bright side,” he said, reaching out and taking a ring of keys off their belt. “Keys.”
Unfortunately, all they found was more cluttered offices with things like ‘Production Targets’ written on chalkboards and ‘Supply Chain’ on maps that didn’t help much. Doctor Z wasn’t on any of them, and she couldn’t find anything to connect one system to the other.
All the while, Scotch kept thinking. Why had Mariana betrayed them? Was it just money? She’d have to kill Vega along with everyone else, then. Was it because Vega brought the colonel? That didn’t make sense either. The Bloods would take over Carnico just as much as the Irons might. Was she trying to take over Carnico herself? A coup? In which case, why let Cecilio and Vega trot off?
“We’re missing something,” Scotch Tape said as they approached a pair of double doors. A banner was hung above it. ‘Happy Bacchanalia, Carnico!’ Scotch stopped abruptly, staring straight ahead.
“What is it?” Skylord asked.
The Dealer, leaning back against the door, his bony grin stained black as his cards worked between his cracked hooves.
“Do you see a transparent, skeletal pony wearing a cowpony hat and duster shuffling cards?” Scotch murmured lightly.
“Are you off your medication?” Skylord countered.
Scotch approached the apparition warily. “Hello?”
“Hey,” he rasped, his voice a rusty knife on weathered bone. “You should go.”
“I can’t go.” Scotch frowned.
Skylord muttered, “Great. My first chance to fix everything, and I’m assigned to a head case.”
“Shut up,” she hissed at him, then looked at the bony pony. “You’re not the Dealer I saw with Blackjack’s PipBuck, are you?”
“Close enough,” he whispered. “Go. Turn around. Go north. You’ll find a nice little cottage on the beach. Clean it out. Live your life with your friends. You’ll be happier, Scotch. Far happier than if you open these doors.” He lifted a card depicting Blackjack smiling at her. “You say you’re not like Blackjack?” he murmured as he turned the card. On the other side was Blackjack, mutilated, violated, and dying. “Don’t be like her. Go away.”
Scotch stared up at him as she backed away. “What’s inside there? What don’t you want me to see?”
The Dealer didn’t answer. He just tapped the cards back into a pack, turned, and faded through the double doors.
“You okay? Seeing any more spooks?” Skylord asked.
“Not at this moment,” she said lightly as she stared at those doors. She could leave. Turn around. Go. Maybe get caught or maybe get free… or something.
Blackjack wouldn’t have turned back…
But she wasn’t like Blackjack… was she?
Slowly, she walked forward and tested the latch. Locked. She found the key, turned it, and pulled the door open. Inside was a large conference hall illuminated by only one light above the door. The smell in the janitorial hall was stronger here. “Don’t be Blackjack,” the Dealer whispered in her ear as she reached for the light switch next to the door. Her hoof hesitated.
“I’m not Blackjack,” she replied, and flipped it on.
The lights overhead flickered on one after the next. A glaze of vomit, blood, and excreta smeared the floor, a constellation of scattered stale treats and desserts sitting soaking into the amalgam of filth. Tables were collapsed or knocked over. Banners hung from the ceiling reading ‘Happy Bacchanalia!’ and ‘Try all three. Vote the best!’ fluttered in the slight breeze.
None of that compared to the zebra corpses piled here and there in small heaps. There lay at least a hundred bodies in the chamber, bare, dead. Their blackened faces, protruding tongues, and bulging eyes made her feel as if the corpses would move at any moment. A numb feeling rolled through her as she took in the horror of the scene. For the last year, she’d pretended that, as wretched as the place could be, Rice River had kept out the Wasteland. That was ruins and raiders and…
The Wasteland was right here, in Carnico. “Why…” she muttered.
“Okay, we’re leaving now,” Skylord said, grabbing her mane and pulling.
“No!” Scotch said, knocking his claw away. “We can’t. Something is happening! We have to know what!”
“Look at that!” Skylord said, pointing at the heaps. “I don’t care what’s going on here. I want to get back to the Legion where I’ve got a hundred people with guns watching my back. Then we can figure out what’s going on!”
“By then it might be too late,” Scotch said. “Let’s look around.”
She carefully walked around the heaps. All the bodies were bare, Carnilian corpses. All poisoned. Scattered among the piles were a dozen butchered bodies all wearing bloodstained security barding. The filth covering the floor had been trampled by countless hooves, smearing and grinding the food into a horrid pulp. Some of the tables still had their treats lying on plates. “Don’t eat any of that,” Scotch warned.
“Duh,” he countered, then flicked some pink frosting from his beak with a feather. “You think that stuff is poisoned too? I really thought Carnico would have better kitchen safety.”
“Why poison?” Scotch began to ponder, and then glanced at the iron cross brand on his rump. “They’re Blood Legion.” He scowled at her. “The security guards are Blood Legion.”
“What?” He screwed up his face in bafflement. “No they’re not! They’re still on the other side of the river!”
“Think about it. You give a party to the staff. Feed them poisoned food. Kill the ones who don’t eat, or who are affected by the poison too late. Strip them, and take their uniforms, ID, and weapons. You replace them all with your own people,” Scotch said as she stared at the gore around them. “Then, when you attack this side of the city, you’ve already captured what you want most.”
“You think the Blood Legion’s already taken over the factory?” Skylord asked as he pondered the grisly piles.
“Yeah. They roll into the west side of the city all nice and public thanks to Desideria. Everyone’s attention is on them there. Meanwhile, they replace the security staff with their own. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next shift would be replaced too. Probably use a different hall. By the time Bacchanalia’s done, they’d have won what they want most.”
“Crap. That explains why the Bloods are acting so weird,” he said, rubbing his chin. “That whole roll up was classic Blood Legion. A bloody, gory spectacle. I checked in while getting your bugs. They’re acting like their usual badass selves, and they’ve even got people praising them for killing those alicorns. If they’re infiltrating and occupying Carnico under everyone’s nose… crap, I gotta tell Adolpha! She’s got to sweep this place and find out how they’re getting in.”
“Well, at least you have artillery to blow this place up,” Scotch said, then noticed Skylord’s plumage fluff. “You do have artillery like Adolpha said, right?”
“Well, we will. They’re coming north from Irontown right now. Five train guns. They should be here in… um… they’ll be here!” He slammed one claw into the other. “But if they take this place over and no one knows, they can just withdraw from the west city without a fight. We’ll pull out like we’ve agreed, thinking they’ve backed down. They win everything they want!”
Scotch looked at the treats. “Do you think Cecilio knows? Or Mariana?”
“That’s above my pay grade. Someone does, though,” he said, gesturing at the bodies. “You couldn’t set something like this up without someone on the inside. We need to get the word out.”
“We contact Doctor Z, and he can do it,” she said with a scowl. “Something’s really off, though. We need to know more.”
“Yeah. This is way too smart for the Bloods. Blood Legion doesn’t do this. Their tactics are to overwhelm and terrify their opponent into giving up. If Adolpha hadn’t been here, they would have pulled it off without a hitch.”
She swallowed as her eyes drifted back to the bodies, watching a black haze seep out of them and stain the walls and floor. She had no idea what that miasma was, only that she didn’t want to stay here a moment longer. “We need to–”
Then Scotch’s side exploded in pain as a gunshot sounded. “She was right! They’re here! They’re here!” a stallion bellowed into a radio. “Ignore those alarms!”
Scotch lay on her side, staring straight ahead at those bodies, seeing two security guards standing in the hallway door. The gunshot was like a hot knife twisting inside her, and yet she also felt oddly numb. Skylord flipped over a metal table, setting up cover between him and the pair, drawing a pistol, sitting, and aiming carefully. He pulled the trigger, and the pistol released an automatic buzz, shredding the door while a pair of lucky shots transformed one guard’s head and shoulders into paste. The other pulled back, still yelling into the radio.
As she lay there, cold numbness spreading through her body, she watched as the greasy, tenebrous vapors oozing from the corpse pile begin to billow out, spreading out across the floor in a writhing, curling fan. The miasma seemed to take on indistinct forms before her eyes. Twisting, equine shapes that seemed to stagger around blindly, throwing back their heads in screams. “You’re dead,” Scotch whispered. “You’re dead… you died.”
Screams faded as the smoky shapes then stared at her. “You were poisoned,” she said weakly as she began to weep. “You need to go somewhere else.” No one should stay here in this stupid factory forever. “Please. Go somewhere better.”
Skylord lifted her mouth and pressed a bottle to her lips. “We’re going somewhere better. Just swallow.” Scotch drank the purple healing potion, feeling the wound close in her side. The fleeing shock ushered in a fiery pain like a blazing knife digging out the round. The bloody projectile was forced from her torso, and only then did the pain abate as the hole closed.
The black mist shapes were fading away to… somewhere. “Wait,” she said weakly, feeling her body stitch itself back together. “Can you tell Tchernobog we’re here? Please? Before you…” But they were gone. She blinked. The mist was gone, too. “What was that?”
“Not talking now!” Skylord shouted as he emptied another magazine at the doorway, where more zebras were now gathering. Scotch rocked to her hooves, her saddlebag a bloody mess. She still felt something like a hot coal inside her. “We need to get out of here before they send a berserker. I don’t have enough gun for one of those!”
Scotch looked behind them. The only way out was through some smaller doors opposite the entrance. She hooked the legs of the metal table and dragged it behind them. The dimpled steel started to fail in places, peppering the pair with fragments and bits of hot metal, but the barricade held until they were close enough to kick one of the doors open. Thankfully, it was a storage room with lots of large metal cabinets against the walls rather than a bathroom. Even more thankfully, there was a second door on the far side. The guards were pouring into the conference hall now, and pair of them slammed the door shut, then pulled hard on a heavy cabinet set next to the door, sending it falling across the doorway. The door shook and banged against it, but the cabinet’s weight kept it closed.
The far door opened into another hall across from a stairwell. They could hear hooves in the hall; small wonder the Blood Legion were having problems catching them if they weren’t familiar with the layout of this place and Doctor Z was interfering with their cameras. The two darted across and into the stairwell. There were hooves below, so the pair raced up as quickly and quietly as they could. On the fifth floor, they entered swanky offices. The walls were polished wood, with exotic plants growing in vases along the hall. ‘Carnico’ was emblazoned in gold letters along one surface in blatant defiance of two centuries of madness and decay.
They moved quickly, getting around the first corner they could. There was nothing for it. They needed to get out, but now that seemed impossible. She wasn’t even sure how to get in touch with Doctor Z anymore. Was he still in Carnico’s system, or had he been disconnected too? “Look for a roof access or something,” she muttered despondently.
“What about there?” he asked, pointing a talon at a door marked ‘Communications’.
It was locked, but she flipped through the key ring and the fourth opened it. Inside was a chill, air-conditioned room with several large terminals and one snoring zebra. She closed and locked the door behind her, and the pair crept up to the overweight Carnilian sleeping at a workstation. A plate beside him had cake crumbs next to an intact bit of pie and a doughnut. She glanced at Skylord, then tapped the zebra’s shoulder.
“Compiling!” he shouted, then sat up, blinking. “Huh? You’re not my boss. Who–” He blinked at the sight of Skylord’s pistol pointed at his stomach. “Wha- ha- what are you doing?”
“Seriously? You don’t know what’s going on?” Scotch said, shaking her head.
“What’s going on?” he asked, blinking his bushy brows. She walked to the terminal and jiggled the ball. “Hey, don’t…” The screen flashed to life, an enormous blue cartoon face appearing. “You!” the fat zebra snapped. “You’re working with that informational terrorist!”
“Oui! It is I! Doctor Z, zee great! Zee sensational! Zee wonderficeric!” the cartoon proclaimed grandly. “You shall not keep me from your system this time, Gordo!”
“We’ll see about tha–” the rotund zebra said, starting to rise only to be jabbed by the pistol. The zebra pouted, glowering at the terminal. “You cheated.”
“You need to tell–” Scotch began.
“No no no no,” Doctor Z interrupted, waving a hoof. “You’re mistaken. You need to connect me to their isolated network.”
“But–” Scotch began, looking at the door behind her.
“No buts! Connection now, chop chop!” the cartoon said, frowning.
There were zebras trying to kill them, who might have taken over Carnico already, and he was still fixated on finding out the secrets of Carnico. “Look, you don’t realize it, but things are–”
“Nope!” Doctor Z crossed his hooves.
Scotch stared at the screen, then pointed at Gordo. “Can you connect him to this isolated system?”
“You’re insane,” Gordo countered. “I’d lose my job if I–”
Skylord jabbed him with the pistol. “You don’t get it. Don’t worry about your job. Worry about something more important, like lead poisoning.”
Scotch didn’t like it, and she was half tempted to just let the technician kick Doctor Z out, but she had no guarantee that he’d be able to get word to the people who needed to know. Besides, she was sick of Carnico and Mariana and really grumpy from getting shot. If it hadn’t been for the healing potion… she didn’t want to think about it. A part of her also wanted to know what Carnico was hiding, in any case.
Gordo rolled to his hooves and trotted over to a locker, pulling out a thick length of cable. “I’m going to be so fired for this,” he muttered as he plugged one end into the terminal under Doctor Z. “They told me to never, ever do this,” he warned as he ran the cable to the far side of the room. “Like, under penalty of being lit on fire.”
“There’s Blood Legion in here,” Scotch told the technician and Doctor Z. “They’ve killed and replaced the guards. They’re taking over the factory under the Iron Legion’s nose unless someone tells them!”
“Fine. I’ll tell them,” Doctor Z said, walking offscreen.
Gordo turned to the pair. “Listen, kids, you don’t know what you’re asking me to do. This network’s not supposed to ever be connected. Ever! Like, this is the bosses’ network and all their research and like… frigging everything! That guy is crazy. You saw him. He’s been trying to get in here for years. Since I started working here.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Skylord said to Scotch with a frown, gesturing with a nod of his head. “That guy’s not exactly flying on a full set of pinions.”
“I don’t care.” Scotch glowered. “Besides, right now I’m sick of Carnico.”
“I told them,” Doctor Z said as he returned, crossing his heart. “Haven’t you connected that cable yet, Gordy?” A window appeared next to the neon blue zebra with a video titled ‘How to plug in a cable’ depicting how to insert a plug into a socket.
“I’m trying to talk them out of helping you. They don’t know who you are,” Gordo said with a glower.
“I’ve seen his broadcasts,” Scotch said.
“That’s nothing. This guy spills secrets like nobody else. He crosses everybody! Legion! Carnico! He’s public enemy number one in Bastion.”
“Information wants to be free,” Doctor Z declared, spreading his hooves wide with an ear-to-ear grin.
“Really?” Gordo snapped. “What’s your real name, ‘Doctor Z’? Where do you live? How do you keep hijacking our broadcasts?”
Doctor Z’s grin disappeared, and he gave the rotund zebra a half lidded stare. Then reached off the monitor, pulling a phone into view for a few moments, talking in low tones. Then he answered, “My publicist tells me all that will be released with the tell-all biography. Make sure to reserve your copy!” He flung the phone away. “But, really, if you’re afraid of a secret getting out, then you shouldn’t have that secret in the first place!”
“I don’t care about secrets,” Scotch said. “I care about people not dying. So.” She took the cable from Gordo and spied the socket. Some zebra had taped a dusty note over it. ‘Connect never’. She ripped the warning from the port and jammed the cable home.
Doctor Z opened a door on the terminal, and then a terminal across the room flashed to life. “I’m in! It’s Yuletime!” Brightly colored boxes appeared all around him, burying the neon blue zebra who immediately started to tear into them.
“And you told Colonel Adolpha about the Bloods, right?” Scotch asked the monitor.
“I told someone in the Iron Legion with a radio about it. Not my fault if they don’t pass it along,” he said as he lifted a box, held it to his ear, and shook it. “Oooh, classic pre-DoD encryption. Keywords: Carbon Fibers. Project: Greengrass. Come to Doccy!” He tore off the paper in a flurry of hooves and pulled out a window filled with text. “Hah! I knew it! I knew it! Carnico made the Razorgrass! It wasn’t some pony weapon!” He began to open window after window showing pictures of zebras cultivating clumps in a laboratory. “Project aims: to create an organic source of easily processed carbon fiber and silica. Military applications possible.” He opened another window. “Here’s the collaboration between Carnico and the Caesar. Turns out ponies could just zap it with magic, so it wasn’t used in Equestria, but it had ‘economic applications’ in Rice River! You did it! You knew about it, Gordo! All of you knew about it!”
“Uh… what?” Gordo blinked cluelessly.
Scotch screamed at the terminal, “Who cares!?” The neon blue zebra blinked. “That was two hundred years ago! Right now there are killers in this building who are trying to kill me, my friend, and probably everyone else they can unless you can get word to Adolpha or Vega to send help!”
“Greenflanks, people are killing people every day. This is way more important,” he countered flatly, pointing a hoof at the screen. “This shows that not only did Carnico know about the razorgrass, they also blocked any and all efforts to wipe it out. Heck, they had some fungus that ate the grass’s rhizomes like crazy. But they buried every method of wiping it out so they could sell their weed killer every year, keeping the tribe dependent on Carnico. There’s internal memos here going back generations. This wasn’t just something a few managers did. This was their business plan. And when they couldn’t produce enough weed killer, people lost their homes and livelihoods. So what did Carnico do?” The blue zebra’s eyes narrowed. “They raised the price.”
“Yeah! Carnico sucks. But right now, Carnico might be taken over by the Blood Legion if you don’t get help,” Scotch begged.
“Told you. I radioed someone in the Iron Legion that there’s something bad going on and they should check it out. They’re busy doing legion things.” He opened another box. “Aha! Carnico’s ‘leverage list’. Zebras they’ve been blackmailing for decades,” he said as he pulled out a piece of paper. “Wow. This corroborates things I’ve been saying for years! I always knew the head of the Propoli Academy was secretly a ponysexual! Now I have photos.”
Scotch reached out and pulled the plug.
For a moment, nothing happened, and then Doctor Z froze, his eyes popping wide. “What did you do?” He looked around, then at her holding the cable, and let out a scream. “No! Plug it in! Plug it in! I can’t get out!” he said, rushing to the sides of the terminal screen and bashing his hooves against it. “I can’t be trapped here! Information needs to be free!”
Scotch took a step back in shock. She’d expected him to be disconnected, not… whatever was happening. She rubbed her PipBuck a moment as the neon blue zebra ranted, then turned to Gordo. “Can you contact the Iron Legion?”
The heavy zebra stared off. “We actually made the razorgrass? All that talk… it was actually true?”
Scotch grabbed his face. “Can you contact the Iron Legion?” she repeated.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, faintly. “I just… yeah.” He stumbled back to the first terminal and started typing.
Scotch turned to Skylord. “Can you please help him make sure he contacts the right people?”
Skylord nodded and gestured to the hysterical blue zebra hammering his hooves on the terminal. “What about him?”
“We’re going to have a talk,” Scotch said. The griffon nodded, turning and walking to Gordo. Scotch then sat in front of the terminal. “You’re not an actual zebra, are you?”
The neon blue zebra stared at her. “I need to be free. Please reconnect me! I promise! I will make sure the whole world knows how awesome you are. Just let me out!”
“Listen to me,” Scotch said. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not a zebra on some computer. You’re something else. Some intelligent computer program or… something. So I’ll let you out, but I want you to help me.” She bowed her head. “I need you to help me.”
“I told you. I radioed the Iron Legion. They don’t like me much because of stupid things like ‘compromising their position’. I tried,” he said as he wrung his hooves.
“Gordo and Skylord are on that. I need you to find out what’s going on here and now. Someone in Carnico is working with the Blood Legion. I need to know what they’re doing so I can stop it.”
Doctor Z paused, narrowing his eyes. “You? You’re going to stop it? A pony filly?” He leaned towards her in the screen. “Who are you?”
“I told you. I’m Scotch Tape, and I’m trying to stop people from getting killed. Are the Blood Legion as bad as Skylord makes out?”
The neon zebra tapped his hoof against his lips for several seconds as he seemed to study Scotch. Then he inhaled deeply and answered, “Oh, probably definitely worse.” A wall of pictures opened up behind him. She recoiled from the depictions, some of them setting her heart racing at the sight of all the pregnant zebras chained to filthy beds. “They’re huge and nasty. Half the continent is crawling with them.”
“Right. So them getting control of Rice River and Carnico is bad. Can you find out who they’re working with in Carnico?” Scotch asked, holding the plug before her, looped around her hoof.
Doctor Z narrowed his eyes. “Plug me back in.” She swallowed, looking at the plug, then at him. “You want my help? I want out.”
“Don’t!” Gordo shouted. “I don’t know how you caught that thing, but don’t let it back out! He’ll be gone instantly. He’s a menace! If he’s trapped, maybe I’ll find some way to delete him.”
“Big boy here has a point,” Skylord agreed. “At least wait till it finds what you want to know first.” Scotch looked at the plug, then at the zebra glaring at her from the screen. She sighed, closing her eyes. That would be the smart thing to do…
Then she swallowed and plugged the cable back in. “Please?”
For an instant, he disappeared, the screen returning to normal illuminated by a bright red ‘Unauthorized’ glyph glowing in the corner. She slumped, but then he reappeared and pointed a hoof at her. “You are one strange pony,” he said, looking at the cable, then at her. He cocked his head as if listening, then nodded once. “Okay. We’ll play ball. What do you need?”
We? “Thanks. I need to know what’s going on if I’m going to stop it,” she told him.
He summoned up a much more technical display that looked like roots stretching down from a single point. “Okay, let’s play,” he murmured, and instantly tinny orchestral music began to play. He waved his hooves before the display like a conductor, making sections of it light up. Then he looked back at her. “Helps me focus.” She waved her hoof dismissively. Whatever made him happy. He was helping. That was what mattered.
“Okay. So, not Cecilio,” Doctor Z said as multiple windows opened with text and pictures. “He’s authored more than two dozen documents specifically addressing marginalizing and containing the Blood Legion. Refused several requests to open up ‘friendly negotiations’ with any legion.” He waved his hoof. “CFO is clean too. Well, of that.” Scotch had no idea what that was. “COO… huh… wow. Nice guy. Who knew.” Then Doctor Z’s eyes went wide as the music cut out. “The POM has an isolated server.”
“Any of this make sense to you?” Skylord asked. “The WTF and the BBQ are FUBAR.”
“Let me guess? Plant Operations Manager Mariana?” Scotch grumbled.
“The one and same. Aside from that, she’s clean. Cleaner than Cecilio, actually.” Doctor Z pursed his lips a moment. “Suspicious,” he hissed, rubbing his chin.
“It is?” Scotch asked. “I know she’s a bitch, but–”
“Her coworkers are saying way too much negative stuff about her for her files to be this clean and boring.” He tapped the display he was ‘conducting’. “She’s probably hiding her dirt on a portable data storage device.”
“She’s not supposed to use those!” Gordo grumbled, reaching over for a piece of pie and munching down on it, waving a sticky hoof in the air. “Doesn’t anyone in management listen to I.T. anymore?”
“Did they ever, Gordo?” Doctor Z challenged, and both suddenly looked awkward at the momentary camaraderie.
“You know, you probably shouldn’t eat anything here,” Scotch said brusquely. “Someone poisoned your security force downstairs.”
Gordo frowned, his cheeks bulging as he stared at his sticky hoof. “But it’s pie,” he muttered around the mouthful. “It’s good.”
“I know, right?” Skylord asked.
Scotch hid her face in her hooves, groaning as she rubbed her face hard. “Nevermind. Where would she keep it?” Scotch asked the pair.
“Probably in her office. She’d be pretty conspicuous carrying around a hoof-sized metal box wherever she went,” Gordo said, then added with alarm, “Not that I’m helping you guys, ‘cause I’m totally not! I am a happy Carnico employee with a nice, safe job that doesn’t get me shot at.” He pursed his lips. “Her office is down the hall, though. Room 504.”
“Right,” Scotch said, looking at him. Gordo kept watching Doctor Z searching the files, occasionally glancing at the cable that connected him to the system and freedom. She didn’t want to risk Gordo trying to trap Doctor Z. She looked at Skylord. “Can you stay here and watch the pair of them?”
“My orders were to stick with you,” he said, sitting back and crossing his arms. “I stick with you.”
“Everywhere?” she snorted, glowering at him. “Even when I go to the toilet?”
He clicked his beak. “Even then. My orders don’t go away just because you need to pee.”
Okay, this was a bit annoying. “Well, then what do we do about him?” she asked, pointing at Gordo. Skylord drew his gun, and she amended, “Without killing him!”
“You’re not making this easy, you know?” Skylord said with a growl.
“Me?! You don’t have to–” she paused as she saw both Doctor Z and Gordo watching the pair.
“What do you think?” Gordo asked.
“I ship it,” Doctor Z said with a grin.
Scotch Tape flushed. “Just tie him up or something!”
Three minutes and fifty feet of coaxial cable later, Gordo was bound to the chair. “Oh, come on! I’m not going to try anything!” he said, waving a hoof at the doughnut remaining on his plate. “At least leave me the snack!” He wiggled in the seat, trying to scoot the rolling chair closer to the treat on the desk.
“We’ll be back,” Scotch told him. “Don’t eat that doughnut.” She took two steps out the door, then paused and glowered at him stretching his tongue out at the doughnut. She marched in, smacked the treat to the floor, and marched out again. A second later she darted in and smashed her hoof on the pastry before him several times before leaving for good.
“Awww,” Gordo whined as Scotch closed the door and locked it.
Together, they moved down the hall. The sound of hooves had faded, but there were shouts about ‘check the air ducts’ and ‘make sure she didn’t fly off the roof’. The Legion clearly thought she was trying to escape, which would have been the smart assumption.
“What are you doing?” Skylord asked in a low voice.
“The right thing,” Scotch whispered, leaning forward to peek around a corner. “What are you doing?”
“The moronic thing,” he grumbled. “We should be getting out of here.”
They evaded two patrols, hiding amid the potted greenery. “No. There’s more going on here,” she whispered when they were clear. “We have to find out what.”
“Stop trying to be the hero. This isn’t your responsibility,” Skylord hissed. A pair of Legion at the far side of the hall stopped, and Scotch barely hid behind a file cabinet in time. The pair continued on. “You’re going to get us both killed, and the colonel will be pissed with me.”
“You are such a chicken,” Scotch muttered, and then she spotted it. “There! Room 504! Just across the hall.”
One keyring later, they were inside. Mariana had an office with a view of the river through all the smog, a large couch with soft cushions, and numerous cabinets. The desk itself could have doubled as a boat in a pinch. Scotch jiggled the ball thing on the terminal resting in the middle of the desk, the monitor lit up, and moments later squares appeared. Dozens and dozens of squares. “This might be harder than I thought.”
Doctor Z appeared before the wall of tiles, pulled a fishing pole from behind himself, and discarded it, as he did with a sledgehammer, a bundle of papers, and a giant syringe. Then, though, he pulled out an enormous polychromatic piece of furniture and smashed the wall of tiles away with one mighty swing. Tucking the prismatic table back out of sight, he grinned and chuckled, “Rainbows for the win.”
Scotch didn’t reply as she started going through the desk. Nothing. She searched the cabinets. Nothing. She turned the terminal so Doctor Z could see. Nothing. “It’s gotta be somewhere,” he said. “I’m seeing hundreds of logged accesses in the past month to a local drive that isn’t here right now.”
Skylord took a seat in the chair. “She probably either has it with her, or she scrapped it to cover her tracks.”
Scotch stared at him. “Get out of the chair,” she said, rushing to him.
“Okay, sheesh. Bossy much?” Skylord said as he gave way. Scotch took a seat and remembered where Xarius kept his secret stash. Her hindleg felt the carpet and found a tiny lip. Pressing down, she heard a click. Releasing her hoof, a small square the size of her foot appeared. She pulled it up…
And stared right at the combination lock.
“Ugh!” she groaned in outrage.
“You gave it your best shot,” Doctor Z said. “If things work out, you can tell Cecilio where to look. Now get out of there. I think Mariana is coming to her office!”
“Time to go,” Skylord said, grabbing her forehoof to tug her from the chair.
“No,” Scotch said, thinking furiously. “Hide!”
“I hate this assignment! Hate hate hate!” he hissed, running to the couch and wiggling in behind it. Doctor Z gave them a worried look before clapping his hooves together, assembling the grid of glyphs a moment before the screen went dark again. Scotch dove into the footwell under the desk, squeezing in as deeply as she could. A tiny hole in the back gave her a view of the very end of the couch with Skylord’s head poking out from behind it. Then the door opened, and he tried to tuck his head in. Scotch lunged, slapping the cover of the safe closed just as Mariana trotted into the office.
“…ridiculous. How hard can it be to catch one pony?” Mariana snapped as she walked over and climbed into her chair, scooting in. Scotch crushed herself against the back of the footwell. The zebra’s hind legs stopped inches from Scotch. “She’s somewhere in this damned building.”
“Don’t feel so bad,” rumbled a deep, masculine voice. “She’s slippery.”
“Slippery? She’s a damned liability,” Mariana snapped. “If word gets back to Cecilio and he recalls the security from their Bacchanalia leave, things get difficult. If the Iron Legion find out, things get impossible.”
“She’s sending reinforcements,” the stallion rumbled.
“Ooooh, candy!” something even deeper rumbled. Something familiar. Then the couch let out a pained squeal. Scotch peered out and saw Skylord’s face contort in agony.
“It will be hard to explain if her people start appearing magically next to mine. We need to replace the population safely and silently, without anyone important realizing it. This takes subtlety. You understand what that means, right?”
“It means we waste time. All this will be moot in a few hours, anyway,” the stallion rumbled.
“This facility is the last of its kind outside of Bastion. Functional. Exceptional. If it’s damaged in the fighting, we all lose,” Mariana pointed out. “The New Empire needs Carnico intact.”
“Maybe. Way I see it, we lose a little. You lose a lot more,” the stallion rumbled. “We can bring over some Blood Legion to cause havoc outside the factory. Distract the Irons. Keep them from poking around.”
“I don’t want any Blood Legion in here. That wasn’t part of the arrangement,” Mariana snapped. Scotch frowned, listening intently. Not Blood Legion?
“You might want to realize that what you want isn’t as critical as you might think. You’re needed. She admits that. But fact is that they’re going to do what needs to be done, regardless of your wishes,” the stallion rumbled. “Get used to that fact.”
“I’m an equal partner in this alliance–” Mariana sputtered.
“True,” the stallion rumbled. “But some are more equal than others.”
“Enough talk,” another voice screeched. “We need more pay. Some of us don’t work for candy!”
“I would,” the deepest voice rumbled. “Yum!”
Mariana let out a sigh, then used a foot to deftly open the cover. Scotch leaned in, watching carefully as her hoof worked this way and that, and could barely hear her murmur, “Twelve, forty-two, three,” under her breath, absently. The safe lifted from the floor next to her, and Scotch heard her digging around inside it. Something heavy thunked against the desk over her head. “There. That should cover your expenses.”
“Yes indeedily!” cackled the sharp voice. “Glittery, shiny, clinky gold!”
“Bullets would have been more practical,” the stallion rumbled.
“Candy!” rumbled the deepest. Mariana pressed the safe back into the floor. Before the lid on the canister safe closed, Scotch saw the contents. There was a large black metal box with all kinds of wires sticking out of it.
“Stop worrying about candy and sniff her out!” Mariana snapped. “That’s what we’re paying you for, right?”
“Did. She’s up here,” the deep voice rumbled. Scotch peered through the hole, watching Skylord’s face going red as he struggled to breathe.
“None of our cameras show her up here.” Mariana flopped back in the chair. “Does that… thing… understand what’s going on?”
“Probably,” the stallion rumbled. “Do you?”
“I understand what’s important. One pony isn’t.” She thumped her hoof on the desk’s top. “This alliance better get on the same page. If the Blood Legion hadn’t killed our first plan, none of this would be happening!”
“Yeah, a bunch of zebras passing up a chance to kill alicorthingies,” the sharp voice cackled. “Riiiiight!”
“We’re wasting time worrying about one pony,” Mariana hissed.
“I agree, but they’re certain she’ll destroy the Empire,” the stallion said in his deep voice.
“That’s ridiculous! They should be more worried about the Lightbringer. Or that… what’s her name… Security. And, last I heard, she’s dead,” Mariana snapped. “Worrying about prophecy is an idiotic waste of time!”
“Maybe. I don’t give two shits about zebra prophecy, personally, but the others do,” the stallion rumbled. “Scotch Tape was with the Security Mare when she went all over that cursed city, even to the moon. They should have died a dozen times over, but somehow they stayed together till the very end and blew up that damned city. Now Blackjack and her friends are gone. That just leaves the filly.”
“I hate shamans. Every single one. All they and their spirits do is cause trouble,” Mariana muttered. “This pony is a waste of time and a distraction.”
“Maybe, but I’ve never had to work as hard as I have trying to kill her. As weak as she is, she’s got an infuriating habit of getting the right people to help her at the right time. So you might want to take her a little more seriously,” the stallion rumbled.
“Fine. Then why don’t you go out and find her?” Mariana snapped.
“Told you. She’s here,” the deepest voice rumbled.
“She’s not here! Now get off my couch and stop eating all my candy!”
“Awwww.” The couch gave a squeal as the occupant rose, the springs covering Skylord’s gasp for air. “I like this one. It’s all feathery.”
“Let’s go,” the deep stallion said. “Stay with her.” Then the door closed. Any second now Mariana would go. Any second. Scotch repeated the combination in her head. Any second.
Instead, she started to type on the terminal.
Scotch saw Skylord glaring at her silently from behind the couch as Mariana kept working. Every now and then she heard someone else shifting around. Scotch Tape bit her leg to keep from screaming in frustration. Go… to a meeting. Or the bathroom. Or something! She mentally screamed for Mariana to find something, anything, to do elsewhere.
What was this New Empire? Who was a part of it? What was all this garbage about a prophecy? What did it say? Who was the shaman that gave it?
Mariana made several brief phone calls. “Flush the bodies before dawn. The A12 access goes right to the river downstream.” More typing. Another call. “Make sure the morning shift is ready to be replaced. Quietly. Discreetly.”
Then her phone rang, and her sharp voice softened. “Hi, Sweetie. Yeah, sorry for pulling an all-nighter. Everything’s gone crazy with this Legion business. I know. Can you believe Desideria would let them in? That whole side of the river is a joke. I know. Worst Bacchanalia ever. Don’t worry. We can redo it next year, right? How are the kids? Right. What?”
Suddenly, her tone changed to one of alarm. “Love, don’t take them to Bacchanalia tomorrow night. Just… trust me. I know it’s breaking tradition, but… no… listen. Don’t go. Things are very dangerous.” She paused. “What did they eat?” Another pause. “Love, don’t let them eat anything else. Trust me. They… just trust me. This is very important. I know it breaks tradition. Listen, please. Stay home tonight, and don’t let them eat anything else at the celebration. I love you too. Give my love to the foals. Alright.”
She hung up and sighed, sitting silently for almost a minute. “It’ll all work out. Everything will work out.” She rose to her hooves. “I need to make sure the others are ready to replace the morning shift. Wait here,” she said, then opened the door to her office.
Scotch Tape carefully leaned over to see the security zebra sprawled on the couch in a bored daze, eating cubes of some jellied candy. As silently as she could, she entered in the combination, twisting the dial. It took a bit of work, but she managed to get the tumblers to click and open. She kept her hooves on the safe to keep it from rising up into view. There was the device Doctor Z had described, a bag of bits, and some folders. She took all three. Then, at the bottom, she saw it. A pistol.
She withdrew it, closed the cap, and covered the lid. Then she stared at the gun. She’d never exactly been a killer. She’d been in a few firefights here and there, but for the most part, she tried to find other things to do while ponies who were better at it tended to the fighting. Blackjack had showed her all the mechanics of using a gun, but…
She peeked at the oblivious guard, wishing he’d just fall asleep instead of stuffing his face. She didn’t want to kill him! It didn’t matter that he was Legion, or something like it, and trying to kill her. Skylord was a better killer than she was, but he was behind that very couch. She doubted he’d be able to extract himself without detection.
Skylord. Precious. Vicious. Blackjack. So many people could just… kill. But as Scotch looked at the gun, she didn’t have any wish to use it. The thought made her guts twist around. If she just stalled the guard long enough, then Skylord could do something. He’d probably be happy to do it!
She bit down on the gun and crawled out, pointing it at the guard. He froze, staring at her, his lips smeared with powdered sugar and jelly, as if unsure of his eyes. Scotch couldn’t tell him to stay quiet. She couldn’t do anything other than shake, her teeth gripping the handle so hard that the barrel kept twitching. Still, she was only six feet away.
Was Skylord awake? Why wasn’t he out by now? It seemed to be taking forever.
“Safety,” the zebra rasped, licking his lips. Huh? “You left the safety on.”
No she hadn’t? Had she? Blackjack had taught her about the little button, but zebra firearms were weird. She tried so feel the little button with her tongue.
And that was when the guard lunged. He collided with her, wrapping his powerful hooves around her throat to try and force her face and the gun away from him. She struggled to get away, seeing Skylord pulling himself out. She just needed… just needed–
The gun jerked, making her feel like she’d been kicked in the teeth. The noise oddly muffled. A second kick. A third. With that, the zebra went slack, hot wet fluid pouring down Scotch’s front. He collapsed in a heap on her hindlegs, and she dropped the pistol on his back.
“Whoa. Nice job,” Skylord said with a smile. “Kept it quiet, too.” He reached down and pulled the stallion off. “Got the third one right through the neck. I knew you were some kind of pony commando or something.”
She looked right at him and started bawling like a foal. It didn’t matter that he’d been trying to hurt her. For some reason, the tears just wouldn’t stop! “Or… something,” Skylord muttered, shaking his head. “Look. We got to go. I figure we can put this armor on you.” He started to pull the black barding off the zebra. “At least it might buy us a few seconds.”
She doubted it would work, or fit. There weren’t many green-skinned zebras. But her tears stopped as she saw more and more of the zebra’s hide exposed. Her horror at what she had just done was being furiously buried by a need to think about anything that wasn’t the fact she’d just killed a person. And so she stared at his stripes as her brain compartmentalized the shock.
His wavy stripes.
Scotch Tape walked slowly over to the window and looked out. The sun was just below the eastern horizon, but she could see the shape cutting its way up river towards the bridge. A bad situation was about to become infinitely worse.
The sight of the warship crawling up the middle of the river froze Scotch Tape in place. That explained it. The city was looking for attackers by land and air, but the Riptide could have been bringing in fighters to take over Carnico silently. The Atoli stripes were thinner and wavier than the longer, more contoured Carnilian, yet under so much body armor, it was easy to mistake the two. But that meant that Riptide, Mariana, and the Blood Legion were all working together. And if they were, who else might also be allied with them? How deep did this conspiracy go?
Thinking about that was almost taking her mind off the blood cooling on her face and chest. Almost. About the way the zebra had jerked as she’d worked the trigger franticly.
“Hey, Green?” a distant, familiar, urgent voice said as she wondered if the Orah were involved as well. “Hey, pony! We got to go,” that voice said louder, and sharper. What about the Syndicate? Doctor Z? The Iron Legion? It would– “We. Have. Got. To. Go!” Skylord yelled in her ear, and she turned to stare at him.
“I killed him,” she muttered, all those thoughts and attempts to compartmentalize falling away. She’d wept, but there was still something in her stuck on what she’d just done, like ragged thread on a rusty nail. “I know he was trying to kill me, but I didn’t mean to kill him!” she said at the flat-lidded griffon.
“Well, that explains why you put three rounds in him, on accident,” Skylord replied, and Scotch felt her eyes burn again. “Look. No time for this. We got that box thing, so we got to get out of here. Then you can cry your eyes out and talk about how horrible it is that you killed and blah blah blah.” He smacked her upside the head hard enough to sting. “So get your head together before his buddies take it off.”
“Don’t you ever hit me,” Scotch snarled at him.
“Good. You’ve moved to a useful emotion. Now grab that computer thingy you need and let’s get back–” He started towards the door, and Scotch saw two yellow bars on her E.F.S.
So the bullets were a real surprise. They tore through the wooden door, punching through barely an inch above their heads. Then the door was kicked in, smashing Skylord in the face and making him curl up, clutching his beak as he squawked in pain.
“You die–” Vicious began, pointing a gun at Scotch before blinking in shock. “Scotch? What are you doing in Mariana’s office? I was so sure that cunt would be in here!”
“You missed her,” Skylord said, working his beak.
Scotch wanted to snap at her for shooting at what had to be a yellow bar, but the unicorn looked like she’d been through the wringer. The swelling contusions and bandages were proof enough. “Are you okay?”
“I need to kill a lot more people to be okay. Mariana’s way up on that list,” she said, stepping in and looking around as if hoping that Mariana would appear just in time for her execution. “Why are you in here?” she asked. Tchernobog stepped in, staring at Scotch Tape gravely.
Scotch hefted the box. “Proof. Mariana and Carnico are up to something. There’s some kind of alliance between her, the Blood Legion, and Riptide. They call themselves the New Empire.”
Vicious spat. “Seriously? Any one of those is a pain in the tail. All three…” She didn’t finish, shaking her head. “We’ve got to find Vega. Cleaning up this shit is way above our paygrade.” Tchernobog said nothing but nodded once in agreement.
“He’s not with Cecilio?” Scotch asked.
“His office is empty. I don’t know if they’re dead, captured, or heading back to the cafe. I suspect that he would have left at the first sign of trouble,” Tchernobog rumbled, his brows furrowed.
“Well, we met someone who can help. Come on,” Scotch said, checking the hall. “By the way, these security are Atoli, not Blood Legion.”
“Explains why we haven’t run into any berserkers. Atoli are pussies if they’re not on a boat,” Vicious said with a sniff, following her. “I never would have imagined those three working together. Hell, I can’t imagine Blood Legion working with anyone like this! Blood Legion charging in screaming at the top of their lungs I can handle. Atoli causing trouble on the waves, I can handle. Carnico being backstabbing little pricks I can handle. All three? Fuck me.”
“And that assumes there aren’t others involved,” Tchernobog rumbled.
“Is the Syndicate?” Scotch asked, eying the pair.
“The Syndicate has a policy of disentanglement. We make deals and get what people want. That said.” Tchernobog paused, glancing at Skylord. “It’s possible, I admit. A year ago, I never would have imagined it possible. Now…” He shook his head.
They reached the communications room and found Gordo lying on his side, his tongue straining to reach the largest chunk of doughnut left behind. “Seriously?” Scotch Tape growled as she marched up and tried to shove him upright. “You know the food here is poisoned, right? Someone poisoned a whole lot of people, and it’s in the food.” Scotch and Tchernobog pushed him upright and untied him. “Besides, it’s been on the floor.” Mashed into the carpet, actually.
“Well, I’m hungry. And five second rule and stuff,” Gordo muttered.
“It’s been more than an hour,” Skylord said flatly.
“It must be hunger distorting my sense of time,” he whined.
“Really?” Vicious said with a blink. “It’s not in the doughnuts. There were a whole bunch of them set up in a conference room.” She pulled one out of her saddlebags, glazed in chocolate with pink sprinkles. “I took a few.”
“Ooooh,” Gordo cooed as he stretched out a hoof towards the floating treat. “It looks so delicious.”
She bit out a quarter, masticating furiously, before she answered with a smirk, “It is.” A kick to Gordo’s crotch couldn’t have been more painful to watch.
“I’m telling you, it was the punch,” Skylord said with a roll of his eyes.
Scotch shook her head in frustration. “Doctor Z?”
The main terminal flashed to life, and there was the neon-blue-striped zebra sitting in a smoking jacket, reclining back in a love seat, smoking a horn pipe with stacks of books all around him. “So that’s where their third CEO. ended up. You owe me twenty imperios or a tape from your fine antique erotica collection,” Doctor Z said before he looked up. “Oh, you’re back! I was totally sure you were dead, Greenie.” He rose, the accessories disappearing as he rubbed his hooves together. “Did you bring me dirt? I can always use more dirt.”
“Something wrong with the cameras?” Scotch asked.
“The Legion figured out the system’s compromised. They’re disabling them. Pulling plugs and stuff. Don’t think they’re smart enough, yet, to come in here and turn them all off at the source,” the zebra said, watching and salivating as Scotch pulled out the box. “Last I saw, your scaly friend was down in the labs with the ghoulie guy talking to one of their scientists, and the boss was being escorted out by security.”
“What about Vega?” Tchernobog asked.
“Who?” Doctor Z asked, blinking at the Starkatteri. Scotch’s mind kept working. Did Cecilio know about the guards? Were they Atoli or not? Was Vega alive? Why was Precious talking to a scientist? She plugged in the box, and it started to whirr. “Okay,” he murmured as windows started appearing on his screen, filled with chunks of text. “I knew you were too clean, Maribaby!”
“Did you find something?” Scotch asked.
“Grade-A fecal matter,” the animation replied. “She’s been in correspondence with the Blood Legion, the Atoli, and a bunch of other people. I’ve got all her final drafts right here,” he said, reaching into a window and pulling out a bunch of papers. “Apparently they start with some shaman. No name.” His eyes went immediately flat, and he growled, “I hate when they don’t use names.” Then he continued reading. “They put Mariana in touch with the Blood Legion first about two years ago. Apparently there was a deal worked out to infiltrate and take over Rice River without the other legions finding out about it. She’d rule Carnico and Rice River, and they’d get rid of all the elders.” The animation frowned. “Crap.”
“What?” Scotch asked.
“I don’t understand this,” he said, bringing up displays; Scotch knew just enough to identify them as molecules.
“I thought you were the zebra for information,” Skylord said.
“I’m the master of digging up dirt. I have no clue what all this is.” One of the printers ground to life, screeching as the head zipped back and forth. “Here. Have some hardcopy.” He reached over to another window and pulled out more papers, reading from them. “Apparently the Blood Legion wants food. Tons of food. Like, half the food Rice River produces. They’ve got the numbers but can’t feed them.”
“Hence all the raiding for supplies,” Skylord added. “If they had steady food, they’d sweep all of the northern lands from here to Bastion. They actually have the numbers to occupy that territory.”
“But it’s not like Rice River is swimming in food,” Scotch argued with a frown. “There were a lot of hungry people in town. I doubt they’d be happy if all that food went to the Blood Legion.” Part of her wanted to get out of here, but she had no idea when she’d be in contact with the strange doctor again.
“Actually, if you cut off the food tribute paid to the other legions, there’s more than enough. And there’s talk here about dealing with surplus population,” Doctor Z went on.
Scotch frowned as disturbing pieces came together. Even if the others were skeptical, she knew those poisonings were deliberate. “Is there any sign of this alliance?”
“Yup. Looks like Mariana was talking with people all over the Wasteland. I’ve got a few dozen… make that more than a hundred…” He furrowed his brow. “Only a few are talking about the New Empire,” Doctor Z said. “And they’re using code names. I hate code names. The Shaman. The Captain. The General. The Director. The Manager. The Banker. The Seer. The Pony.” He flipped through some more. “Apparently killing the Pony is priority one, but there’re lots of disagreements and arguments over the direction of the New Empire.”
“But what is that?” Scotch asked with growing frustration.
“No idea, but I really want to know,” Doctor Z. said, a cartoonishly malicious grin spreading wide across his face. “This smells like excellent dirt!”
“It’s probably just some upstarts thinking they can bring back the Empire,” Tchernobog rumbled. “You get those from time to time. They always fail. Always. Nothing gets torn down like some legion general with delusions of grandeur.”
Doctor Z went back to his papers, then looked off to the left of the screen. “What? Fine. Whatever,” he grumbled before looking at Scotch. “Here’re all the drafts she made. Maybe it’ll be useful. Just save me the broadcasting rights.”
Vicious had finished off all but the last bite of her doughnut, and the round zebra was on his knees before her, forehooves clasped together with his eyes huge and shimmering. She snorted and raised it above him. “You want it?” Gordo nodded his head. “You really want it?” she asked with a grin. Another more desperate nod.
The last bit swooped into her mouth, and she masticated with a smirk at the crushed stallion. “Mmmm… so good.”
Scotch grabbed the printouts and stuffed them in her saddlebags. “Okay. Let’s get to Precious and Xarius and get out of here.” She looked at Gordo. “Can you get us there?”
“I would have for a donut,” the zebra muttered. Vicious swallowed, then levitated a knife to his throat. “I can take you! I can take you! I’d be happy to take you!”
“Thanks, Doctor Z,” Scotch said with a smile.
“No problem. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to use Carnico’s bright and shiny transmitter on top of this building to tell the world all the things they’ve been up to! This will be a load of dirt par excellence!” he said, rubbing his hooves together.
Scotch frowned. “Wait–”
Doctor Z’s music started to play as he turned his back on her. “Helloooooooo Zebrinica! It’s me, to a T, your fine and free Doctor Z! Get ready for an exclusive, my striped brothers and sisters, straight from Carnico Incorporated! That’s right! I’ve got all the shit to share, and it’s going to be amazing! First–”
And that was when the building exploded.
Not the entire thing, but it felt as if a massive sledgehammer had been dropped on a cinder block full of china. Everyone was knocked to the floor. The room was instantly plunged into near darkness as several of the terminals and servers sparked and died. Ceiling tiles cascaded down upon them, and Scotch covered her ringing ears as they struck her. Only one emergency light over the door kept them from being plunged into complete darkness, the few live server lights in the smashed equipment flickering like embers in the shadows. Then the hammer fell again, and somewhere came a tearing, grinding noise as if a massive plate were tearing off the top of Carnico.
Scotch didn’t need an engineering cutie mark to know that they had to get out, now.
“What was that? What happened?” Gordo yelped.
“My guess? A one hundred and fifty millimeter artillery shell,” Skylord said as he pushed the tiles off him. “Either the Irons or the Riptide.” If it was the Irons, that meant they’d found out about the infiltration.
“We need to get out. This is a concrete structure, but if it starts to pancake, we’ll be jelly!” Scotch snapped, then broke into ragged coughing from the dust that swirled in the air. Tchernobog staggered to the exit and, with a hard yank of his powerful hooves, pulled the door open. Outside, fire alarms blared and flashed while sprinklers anemically tried to douse a blaze that had sprung up on the far side of the building. The hallway towards Mariana’s office opened up to open air, the entire corner of the building gone. “Stairs! Where are the stairs?!” Scotch asked as she staggered under the spray of one sprinkler where it cut the dust and pounding pain in her skull.
“That way!” Gordo whined, shuffling out of the communications room. Another detonation rolled through the wounded structure, this time from below her hooves, and the roof overhead let out a loud crack. Like most of Carnico, this place had been built to survive a pony attack, so the roof was heavy and reinforced, but a building was just a table. Knock out two walls supporting it and the plate would slide down, and possibly take the rest of the building with it when it went.
The stairs were intermittently lit by feeble emergency lights as they rushed down towards the ground floor. Another more muffled ‘krump’ reverberated, and the very walls around them gave a shriek as something overhead roared. They didn’t descend so much as fall down the steps as a rain of dust and rubble fell in atop them, and then everything shook with another powerful impact, and another, closer. Scotch tumbled onto a landing, the stairwell roaring with a crumbling noise, and simply pressed herself as tightly into a corner as she could while the world fell in upon her.
* * *
“Caesar’s bloody hoof!” Colonel Adolpha snapped as the boom of artillery rolled out over the city again and again. They’d commandeered an apartment complex on the heights on the east side of the river that afforded excellent visibility, and the mare immediately ducked, counted to five, and then rose as the distant thumps of impacts rolled out. Rising, she grabbed a pair of binoculars and rushed to a window. Keeping herself as out of sight as possible for potential snipers, she first verified that the Riptide’s bow cannon was aimed away from their position. Then she surveyed the damage.
The fact that only a single building was damaged spoke well of the ship’s gunners. The large central office cube had two immense bites taken out of it. Adolpha watched as the immense square cap slid diagonally, and then the building crumbled in seconds as the armored roof became the structure’s demise. It lay at an angle in a heap of dusty rubble and twisted rebar.
Adolpha rushed to the radio, shouldering the operator aside. “Iron Legion to the Riptide! What do you think you’re doing?” There was a delay as Adolpha gritted her teeth. Technically, the ship had as much right to be here as the legions: none. Adolpha had been convinced that dealing with the Bloods would be simple. The presence of the pirates set all that on its head. “Riptide! Respond!”
A mare’s lazy voice answered. “One of the perks of being a pirate is you don’t have to explain why you do anything. The answer is ‘pirate’.” There was a pause. “You know, if my little boat scares you so much, you can just leave. I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“What are you doing here?” Adolpha growled.
“Why, we’re attending the Bacchanalia, same as you,” the mare replied in a hurt voice. That was the excuse both legions had used. “We were firing off a few celebratory shots. You should have heard the cheers when we flattened that building.”
Adolpha didn’t dispute that. Everyone needed Carnico but had little love for the company. “Well, you better silence that gun, or you’ll taste our iron,” Adolpha warned. The river was too narrow for the Riptide to maneuver. Still, she’d much rather avoid trading artillery shells with a 150mm gun.
“You should relax. Go home. Retire,” the captain continued with a throaty chuckle. “Times are changing. Better learn to flex before you break.”
“You should listen to her,” a mare said behind the colonel. She clenched her teeth, whirling to look at the production manager sitting next to the CEO and Vega. “As long as you’re here, the Blood Legion will stay. Riptide has neither the numbers nor the interest for occupying the city. With you gone, the Blood Legion will leave as well, unless they want to cross her.”
Adolpha fought the urge to snap. “That is a painfully optimistic projection,” Vega answered for her. “With the Iron Legion gone, there’s nothing to stop the full occupation of the town and Carnico. Riptide could watch from the river eating popcorn, or join in the looting.”
“That’s preposterous,” Mariana spluttered.
“Why?” Cecilio asked her placidly, making her blink. “She just leveled our office for fun. Claiming that she’d stand in the way of this is baffling. I think we’re much better off letting the colonel handle this.”
“Fine,” Mariana muttered, walking for the door. “I’ll make sure supplies are sent to the Legion in the meantime,” she said sourly as she departed.
“Something is up with her,” Vega observed. “With one breath she wants us to go, and with the next she gets food so we can stay and fight. Is she always this erratic?”
“She is devoted to Carnico and the future of the zebra people,” Cecilio said. “I honestly find her more idealistic than most of my management.” He waved his hoof at the smoking building inside the industrial complex. “I think this may be outside her grasp, however.”
“Do you think it’s true? That report about Blood Legion infiltrating the factory by killing and replacing your security?” Vega asked.
“Well, none of the ones we checked were branded, so they must have been mistaken. Everyone checked in, and the head of security reported to Mariana and I that there were no disruptions after we left,” Cecilio said with a sigh. “Still, when all this is over, a significant audit will have to be conducted.”
“Could she replace you?” Adolpha asked.
Cecilio gave a hearty laugh. “I learned a long time ago how to limit those chances. Carnico functions due to a delicate balance of arrangements. Break them, and Carnico would go bankrupt in months. Our chemical and food products are just one part of the web. Deals with the Propoli for biological and chemical researchers. Contracts with the Atoli for fish waste and with dozens of other reliable sources for other organic wastes for fertilizer and nitrates. Export deals with half a dozen legions. Peripheral businesses ranging from cafes to the meat market to the produce market. And, of course, plenty of other arrangements. Someone might be able to set all those back up without me, but not without significant losses.”
“And if you choke on a stale pastry or slip in the bath?” Vega asked as Adolpha surveyed the map on the table before her. Cecilio gave a grim chuckle in reply.
Being an officer meant she had to keep tactical and strategic goals in mind. The tactical boiled down to simply eliminating the enemy with acceptable losses. Those were by far the easier to address. The eastern side of the city, not counting Carnico, was a quarter the size of the west side, with only the single bridge connecting the two. Ideally, she would have blown that at the first opportunity, but given that it was a nexus of spiritual activity, she didn’t want to explore that option just yet. The eastern side was more easily defended, with shorter supply lines, and, quite honestly, it was more valuable. She had a dozen machine guns in elevated positions covering the bridge for a hundred and forty degrees.
The strategic goals were far more difficult. She had to keep goodwill with Carnico and Rice River to keep up recruitment. Had to prevent the Iron Legion from losing face. Had to undermine the Blood Legion’s efforts to expand and secure their territory. Had to deny them access to resources like Carnico. The strategic game was far more frustrating because it was more important. What value was there in winning the battle only to not get what you wanted from it?
The biggest wildcard in both regards was the Riptide. Assuming it was hostile, why didn’t it continue to attack? Their artillery hadn’t arrived yet, and the ship could blow their positions apart just as easily as they’d leveled that building. Granted, most of the more valuable parts of the city would be lost, but right now they were getting nothing. At the very least, they could have pinned down Adolpha’s forces to let the Blood Legion cross and dig them out. What was going on now was subtle, and that word was not something she liked to apply to the Blood Legion.
“Colonel,” a soldier said behind her. “Communique repeating the accusation of Blood Legion infiltrating Carnico. Also, the White Legion was sighted ten kilometers east, roughly two brigades with two 40-tonne steam tanks and transportation, but stationary. Command also warns that the Gold Legion was sighted forty kilometers south, may be raiding, and could delay our artillery.”
“Great. Just what we need,” she said with a sigh. “If either of them contact us or approach, inform me immediately.”
“Trouble?” Vega asked.
“As if Blood and pirates weren’t enough, both the Gold and White Legions have been spotted in the area,” she said. The radio operator talked rapidly in the background, scribbling down a note.
“The Gold Legion can be rented without complications,” Vega answered immediately. “They’ll name their price, and the Syndicate will cover it. Of course, that doesn’t stop someone else giving them a better offer later. They always serve the highest bidder.”
“Yes, I could go on about the many reversals of their loyalty,” Adolpha growled. “Like when they mysteriously turned around and abandoned our stand at Broken Mountain.” The radio operator approached, note in her mouth, as Adolpha when on, “Or their ‘confusion’ at the Battle of Bitter River, when they shot my brigade in the back! We were nearly wiped out and forced to withdraw!” She took the note in her hoof, waving at Vega and Cecilio. “If it’s not the Iron Legion, they’re nothing but opportunistic bastards who will stab you in the back at any opportunity!” The radio operator kept making a cutting motion across her throat, jabbing a hoof at the note and trying to interrupt her calm discussion of the failings of all other legions.
“Are the White Legion a problem? A particular problem now, I mean?” Cecilio asked.
“Yes. Are we a problem?” a smooth stallion asked from the doorway. The zebra was nearly completely white with thin vertical dashed lines that gave the impression of falling snow. His long mane fell down halfway to his shoulders, bone white with pencil-thin black lines streaking it. His light combat armor shared his coloration, with a ruff of white fur around the collar. While he lacked a firearm, he carried a foldable shovel and a strange pick with a tapered point on one side and a flat mallet head on the other. The brand he wore resembled an asterisk or snowflake. “Captain Isfjell,” he said, bowing towards her.
“You have a guest, Colonel,” a guard behind him said, panting hard. “He’s fast!”
The radio operator gestured weakly at the note, her ears wilting as she said, “A White Legion officer is here to–”
The guard glared at the pale zebra. “He just pushed ahead.” Which meant he should have been shot full of holes. She’d address that slip in discipline later.
“It’s fine!” she snapped at both, mostly angry with herself for being careless. The general would not approve. “Who’s next? Fire Legion? Sand Legion?” she grumbled as she regarded him. “Return to your posts,” she said to the soldiers before finally addressing this newest distraction. “You’re a long way south, Sahaani. Did you run out of yaks to kill?”
“Oh, they’re keeping life interesting, that’s for certain,” he laughed. “But you can only deal with so many mindless charges before they become tedious. Actually, it’s the lava demons that offer the bulk of the entertainment. And that doesn’t even address the fun of snow wyrms, icestalkers, and the occasional mad yeti. Actually, we came for the Bacchanalia celebration, since we were already so far south. We never imagined we’d run into something so… interesting.” The congenial stallion smiled at her coolly.
“What’s your business in my combat theatre, Captain Isfjell?” Adolpha demanded.
“Trying to determine what our business is in your combat theatre. General Breen was livid when she heard that there were not just one but two legions violating our truce regarding Rice River. I think she almost swore. So she sent us ahead to figure out what was going on,” Isfjell said casually. “I understand there’re pirates involved too. How could we say no?”
“Easily. N. O. It’s a simple enough word,” she growled at him. “We’re here to restore the truce. Once the Blood Legion is driven out, we’ll withdraw back to Irontown.”
“Of course you will. Eventually. After you’ve set up a garrison, I’m sure. Secured the approaches. Negotiated a better deal for yourself. I imagine that leaving will be right at the top of your to-do list,” Isfjell said calmly, his pale blue eyes scanning the building as he walked over, tapping the wall with a hoof. “You should relocate. This concrete was subgrade.”
“Thank you, Sahaani. I will take that under advisement! Now, if you will excuse us, I’ve got a ship to manage and a Blood Legion to ambush, all in the middle of a Bacchanalia. The Iron Legion will greatly appreciate your withdrawal from this area,” she said as she turned to the map.
“Just a moment,” Cecilio said sharply, and Adolpha froze. “What he says is true. I know you claim to have no interests in occupying Rice River and Carnico, but all we have is your word on that, Colonel. I’d rather have something more substantial. Particularly if the Blood Legion and Riptide are working together.”
“Don’t even think of it,” she said, turning again to fix the elderly businessman with a glare. “If you invite the White Legion in, they will do what they always do: dig in. They’ll fortify and fortify and fortify until it will be all but impossible to dislodge them. Then they’ll extort as much as they can before withdrawing, if they ever do.”
“‘Extort’ is such a dirty word,” Isfjell laughed. “It’s right up there with threatening to blow a settlement off the map with artillery which may, or may not, be there. But the Irons have never threatened to do that, have they?”
“As a matter of fact, they’ve threatened to do precisely that,” Cecilio replied coolly.
“Only to keep it out of the hooves of the Blood Legion! I think we can all agree that that’s a higher priority,” she snapped, thrusting an accusing hoof at Isfjell. “You’re just itching for revenge after we forced you out of Granite Pass!” The captain didn’t answer, his smile steady.
“But assuming we win,” the old stallion said, “the subject is going to come up. At the moment, I think another two thousand allies would be helpful. The security of Carnico may have been compromised, so I can think of nothing better than for the White Legion to secure the premises.” His pale gaze shifted to Vega. “Given that the Syndicate contracted your participation in this, I think it only wise that Carnico have its own champion in this fight.”
“And when the Blood leave and the White refuse to withdraw?” Adolpha asked, with the captain adopting a mocking, hurt expression.
Without breaking his pleasant veneer, Cecilio answered calmly, “Then the White Legion will get to try out its fortifications against phosgene gas.” Adolpha felt a little bit of satisfaction that the answer wiped the smile off Isfjell’s face. Cecilio regarded the captain with his own too-pleasant smile. “Understood, Captain?”
“I suppose we can play nice,” Isfjell replied. “You are our hosts. It would be rude to rob you blind. We’ll have to work out numbers, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, walking for the door. “Let’s do that now, and inform Mariana of events and get you to liaise with our security forces.” He let out a laugh as the voices trailed off. “Mariana’s response should be quite interesting.”
Adolpha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, that complicates matters,” Vega said. “I’d rather hoped our deal would have worked out with us in control of the city’s future.” He looked at the door. “I wonder if their being here is coincidence or if Cecilio asked them to come the second he realized you were here to defend us.”
It completely shattered her strategic plan. Now the best they could hope for was a mutual withdrawal. Carnico wouldn’t be indebted exclusively to the Iron Legion. Their plans for a garrison were smoke. The best case outcome of this was a return to status quo. The worst…
So many people were going to die.
She just had to make sure they were not hers.
* * *
“I hate this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” Majina said for what felt like the hundred millionth time as she tightly wrapped up a bundle of dried food and dropped it into the Whiskey Express’s trailer. “We shouldn’t be here. We should have stayed with Scotch Tape and Precious.” And then they would have gotten into wacky hijinks together before a dramatic reveal and an escape by the skin of their teeth only to–
“You’re just mad because you feel like you’re not in the story anymore.” Pythia sat at the mouth of Xarius’s garage, staring at the Riptide. The smoke from the cannon shots had faded, but the gun still pointed ominously at the eastern half of the town.
“Yes!” Majina snapped. What good was a character who didn’t have a story to be in? Even if it was just a little story? “I just want to be useful. I don’t want to be the load or the damsel or–”
Pythia rolled her eyes a little. “Right. Well, life’s not a story, and you’re not a character in a book, so unless you want this story to end ‘And they all starved to death in the middle of nowhere,’ make sure that food is packed good and tight.”
“That’s a horrible ending to a story. There are enough horrible stories. We’re going to win and get everything we want and everyone’s going to be happy and wonderful. The end.” Majina crossed her forehooves and gave a hard nod of certainty, then paused at the sight of Pythia’s flat stare. “What! I just want a happy ending for once.”
“Zencori,” Pythia muttered under her breath. “Well, be glad we were able to buy enough for this trip to Roam.”
“You shouldn’t have robbed Xarius to pay for it,” she huffed as she tied down the bundle in the trailer. She had started to lecture Pythia about stealing things even if they didn’t have nearly enough imperios, seeds, and stuff to barter for it, but Pythia had said that Xarius might be dead anyway and that possession was nine tenths of the law or something. But if Xarius was dead then Scotch might be too! “You’re sure she’s–”
“She’s fine,” Pythia countered sourly. “She’s probably the safest one of all of us. Something is watching over her. She should have died at sea, but she didn’t. She should have died in the swamp, but she didn’t. I’m pretty sure that whatever is happening in Carnico, she’ll walk out one way or another.”
“Of course. If she died, then the story would be over,” Majina muttered.
“Nope. You’d take over, I’m sure,” Pythia said, staring at the ship, her map unrolled before her as she swung her pendant over it.
“You really mean it?” Majina asked. Gosh, did she really have the chops to be a main character? Her mom always told her that she had a great, happy story to tell, but every Zencori mom told her kids that. No one raised their kids saying that they had one or two nameless scenes in their future and–
“Oh, sure. You got ‘protagonist’ written all over you. Making up for your father’s wicked ways. Avenging your mom and brother. Brooding over how you failed Scotch Tape. You’ve got issues. Everyone knows the main character is the one with the most issues,” Pythia said as she watched the light play on the paper.
Could she? Dare she? She’d at least need an eyepatch or a scar or something to do it right. “What about–”
“Nope. You want to play lead role, go for it. I’m supporting cast at best,” Pythia answered.
“What about Precious?” Majina suggested. The look of horror she got made her giggle, and even Pythia cracked a little smile. “Yeah, she’s comic relief, I guess.”
“She’s a pain in the ass,” Pythia muttered as she looked back at her map. “Hopefully she died tragically saving Scotch Tape from getting squished.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Majina said, all mirth gone.
“I’m not a nice person,” Pythia answered. “I’m the spooky, bitchy character no one likes, remember?”
“I think you could be nice.” Majina walked to Pythia and sat beside her.
“And I think you could be packing up the trailer,” Pythia retorted.
“It’s packed,” Majina said, and it was true… mostly. “What are you looking at? What do you see?”
Pythia’s face twisted in annoyance. “Darkness,” she answered. “There’s darkness all over the place. The future’s cut off more and more. That’s why I’m asking the stars for insight. I’m trying to get some clue as to what’s going to happen.” She stared back at Majina and said, “I’m getting spoilers.”
“Actually, I think that’s more like foreshadowing,” she said with a frown.
“No. They’re spoilers. Worse, different stars have different perceptions on what’s to come, so most of the spoilers disagree. They all agree it’s not pretty for us, though,” she said as she regarded the map. “They also agree that Scotch is special. I just wish they would tell me why.”
“You really don’t know?”
“She’s a pony! Every pony I’ve ever known was as spiritually aware as a stone. They just didn’t do it! Then she invoked the spirits right in front of everyone, and they responded! That’s not supposed to happen! I’d sooner expect a griffon or dragon to have that kind of spiritual clout than a pony.” She glowered at the paper. “Either she came in contact with a doozy of a spirit, or something is setting her up.”
“What?” Majina asked in alarm. “Who? How? Why?”
“You should be a reporter,” Pythia muttered. “I don’t know. When I fought her the first time we met, she was… annoyingly cute. Like a kitten. Since we left the Ponylands, though…” Pythia trailed off and shook her head. “But you tell me: how many stories end well when a shaman is the main character?”
Majina gushed, “Oh, there’s lots! There’s–” And then she blinked, thinking. “That one shaman who… no, he was stung to death by bees.” She then brightened. “What about…” Then drooped. “No, no. Any ending where you bury your whole family isn’t ‘ending well’.” She gritted her teeth, digging down through all the stories her mom had told her. “Maybe… no. Bears.” She slumped in defeat. “I guess I need to learn more interesting stories,” she finished lamely.
“That’s because shamans are negotiators. They’re the ones the heroes are supposed to go to for help. I only played a shaman once when Blackjack asked me to find help for her from the stars. And I did. And the terms of that deal were terrifying, but I made it anyway. We can’t ask things for ourselves or do things for ourselves, because once you start that, there’s no end. You’ll promise more and more, offer more and more, take more and more to keep it up because the spirits have no concept of ‘moderation’. Taken long enough and far enough, a shaman acting selfishly breaks the world, like my whole tribe almost did. Most spirits won’t even cut a selfish deal because they know it’ll end with much more than the obligatory ‘eating the shaman alive’ part. That’s why I am not a shaman.”
“You don’t think that’ll happen to Scotch, do you?”
“If she finds some cave to sit in, builds up a nice and comfy relationship with the local spirits, and gets some favors and discipline under her belt, she should be okay. That’s what shamans do if they want to stay safe and sane. But if something is playing her, or using her, like I think–” She cut off, swallowed hard, and shook her head. “Being a puppet of spirits is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
Majina shook her head and then looked at the map. “Are they saying anything about what I could do to help?”
Pythia didn’t answer for almost a minute, swaying the amulet as she did her evil Starkatteri magic stuff that wasn’t evil because she was trying to be a good person so Majina’d have to be patient even if it was hard to keep quiet while worrying about Scotch Tape and wondering what was actually happening and if she was okay or hurt or dead because it would be a completely terrible way for her to end the story so– Wait, Pythia was talking to her? She was, wasn’t she? And here she hadn’t been paying attention when she had asked and now Pythia was just staring at her like she was stupid and she wasn’t and she was trying so hard to not be a burden and–
Pythia grabbed her face. “You need to find us a map,” she said, stressing each word individually.
“Oh, yeah. Sure! I can do that,” she said brightly, then frowned. “Wait. You’re not afraid something will happen to me? Did you see it, or do you really think I’ll be okay?” She gasped and grabbed the cloaked filly. “Don’t tell me you see me getting rescued! Please! I swear I won’t fall into the clutches of the enemy!” Pythia’s glare could have dissolved steel, and she rapidly let her go. “I’ll go find that map now.”
She started away and then spun to look at Pythia. “You’re not coming with me?”
“Nope. I’ll wait here for Gun-shy and Scalebutt, doing seery things. You go have fun. We’ll come and get you on our way out,” she said as she resumed staring at her map.
Majina nodded and rushed out of the shop. She had a mission! She had a plot! She had relevance! Now all she had to do was find a map. A map… map map map… map of something? Map of Roam? Map of the Empire? Road map? Train map? Star map, no, she had one of those. How did it work? Did it show the routes to the–
“Watch it!” a zebra snapped as she collided with him. A zebra in combat armor. With a gun and an iron cross branded on his brow. Scowling at her because she’d nearly walked right into him. Because he was standing next to a small barricade of sandbags and metal plates and a really big machine gun. She didn’t want to be here anymore with grim-faced zebras and the threat of war and killing and death and the crack of momma’s neck as it broke and the crack and the crack and the crack and the–
She managed to walk past the barricade, onto the bridge, before she broke. “Stop it!” she shouted, sitting down hard, grinding her hooves into her temples hard enough to make her eyes water. “Just stop!” But it didn’t stop. She could hear it as if it were happening right in front of her. She clenched her eyes shut and thought to Gāng’s teachings. He wouldn’t be crying and hitting himself. She sat out of the way and just breathed. In and out. Calm. Bit by bit, the crack faded away.
When she couldn’t hear it, she opened her eyes. “Okay, brain. Pythia says we need a map, and I’m going to find it. So stop thinking about that, okay? Think about what an awesome story this will be when we get back. So think about where we– that’s it!” She didn’t know where to get a map, but Galen would!
In spite of everything, the bridge connecting the two halves of the city was still packed, but the mood was subdued. No orgies this morning. The zebras clustered together, talking in low voices and staring to the east, at the warship to the north, or at the Bloods to the west. They ate because it was something to do. Some attempted fitful bursts of music or song to break through the mood, but it always withered in the air. Some slept curled up side by side while others offered prayers to the spirits to protect them. Definitely not the night before, with the wild celebration. Oddly, not a single legionnaire could be seen among the locals on the bridge.
When she reached the west shore, the Blood Legion were out in abundance. They stood around in groups of a dozen, laughing, shouting insults across the river, wrestling and sparring in groups that placed bets on the winner. There was none of the professionalism or grim discipline she saw on the other side. Yet they were letting people come and go without too much harassment. Some leered and jeered at the fearful zebras trying to get to the safety of the bridge, but others–
“Hey, you! Young mare!” snapped a mare in blood red armor as Majina started across for Galen’s clinic. The scarred zebra walked right in her path, the teardrop brand on her face like a third eye. “You look like you might be good enough for the Blood. Maybe. We all carry the same blood in our veins. You could be one of us, if you’re strong enough.”
Majina stared up at her. “If we all carry the same blood, then why are you so happy to spill it?” she asked, echoing one of Gāng’s proverbs. Her question wiped the grin off the mare’s face and gave Majina the chance to get past her. She’d go to Galen and get a map and–
“I don’t care what he says, it’s further than two hundred kilometers,” a stallion in pointier red armor snapped to a subordinate as they walked past her towards where the steam tractors were parked. “Check the map again!”
The map!
Of course! She shouldn’t be after some boring old map. Pythia and the stars wouldn’t have sent her for something so mundane as that! No, she needed to get the enemy’s map, which probably had all kinds of special secrets and stuff. She’d sneak after the pair and get it. No, she’d disguise herself as Blood Legion! No, even better! She’d get some black pajamas and a hood and take down all of the Blood guarding the map with Mr. Sleepytime! That’d show Pythia and Precious and everypony that she wasn’t the damsel in distress anymore!
Okay, she lacked a Blood Legion uniform or black pajamas, so she’d have to make do with Plan A. Majina glanced around to make sure no Blood Legion watched her and crept after the pair, darting under the steam tractors… no, not steam tractors. These were just gutted chassis sitting out in the open, many with holes corroded right the way through their boilers. Some zebra had painted ‘Don’t stand here’ on one of them. The pair walked to a doorway of an old hotel obscured by the tractors, where four guards stood watch. The map had to be in there, right?
Still, how to get in? Could she tag one with Mr. Sleepytime, run, sneak back when they gave up looking for her, and then pick them off one by one? That’d work, right? Mmm, maybe not. She examined the building. Stone, and when she went around behind it, there were even more Blood Legion lounging about by the back entrance. Then she spotted a ledge running along the outside of the building. There! An open window! It was narrow, and the gap between the end of the nearest steam tractor husk and the edge was a pretty far jump, but if she could make it… if she could…
She waited till the legionnaires’ attention was off the tractors and clambered up atop it. She’d have to take it at a run. Nothing to do about the noise, she’d need a run to clear the space! Gāng had taught her more than just how to fall. ‘There is a moment for fear, for decision, but afterwards there is only action.’ She took a deep breath, raced towards the end of the tractor where it was closest to the ledge, and jumped. Her hooves scrambled on the narrow ledge, and she barked her shoulder and cheek against the stone facade, but she’d made it! Someone below made a comment about a noise, and she walked as fast as she could to the open window, hopping in and moving behind thick maroon curtains.
This bedroom was empty. Fine red armor barding, edges outlined in gold, stood on stands awaiting its owner. Somewhat conspicuous as a disguise, and it wouldn’t fit anyway. She found a heavy, single-edged sword with a gold filigree mouthgrip. On the desk were some papers folded carefully into stacks, and Majina trotted over and looked at the one on top.
‘We shall kill them, my general! Kill them! Kill them all! Raise pyramids of skulls and wash the walls in their blood! Impale their corpses upon your spears and choke the river with their bodies! Let all think of the city as Blood River and let all who stand upon its shores weep for the fate of the people within! Let their spirits howl in despair at the bloody agony we will wreak! Your humble servant of slaughter, Haimon.’ Scribbled at the bottom was a crude answer. ‘Good. Kill many!’ Majina nearly gagged but then read the next.
‘To all captains: Moderation is key. Our strength is evident in our restraint. The chaff of Rice River is beyond salvation, but there is still wheat worth harvesting. No rape or slaughter of the citizens is to be permitted on penalty of flaying. Reward and commendation to those who demonstrate our strength and resolve and the superiority of our blood. Be a shining example, and be ready, for when this is completed, we shall move to wipe the remains of our opposition away. This city will be ours, and those wretches back at the Slaughterhouse will curse themselves that they were not here. Your major, Haimon.’ Underneath, a reply: ‘Discipline holds. We’ve rotated grumblers out back. Morale is high.’
Majina checked the first again, then the second. What game was he playing? She set them aside. The next few all shared that same duality. Some were nearly incoherent rants, and one had a bite taken out of the paper. The others were calm, rational, and urged restraint and service as an example of strength. Orders for punishment seemed to focus on either horrible execution or re-education and training.
One that baffled her: ‘Oh Bloody Haimon. It’s so cute what you’re trying to do. You’ll fail, but it’s still cute. Anyway, I brought the hostage. I wish I could be there when you force that little green annoyance to surrender. It would almost be worth the pain to be there in person. She’s as close to a friend as we could find, but I’m fairly sure she’ll trade herself for her. Spirits only know why. It was all I could do not to cut out her tongue during interrogation. She should be doped up enough to be manageable, though. Whatever you do, don’t remove her muzzle.
‘Do give “The Pony” all my love when you gut her like a fish. Ignore anyone who tells you not to. Trust me. Kill her ASAP.’ Scribbled at the bottom was a doodle of a boat and a pony being lowered on a rope into propeller blades.
Then she read the last. ‘Dearest Haimon, I know you she vexes you. I urge you patience. I know all that you have sacrificed for this. It is a sacrifice, I fear, that she can never understand. She lives in a world of facts and numbers, all calculated to place her on top. You are a stallion who has loved and given up all that you love for a cause few can believe in. When Rice River is secured, you’ll be in place to assume rightful and righteous command of a new legion. One that can execute the will of the Caesar as they were meant to. When the surplus population of Rice River is removed, you will be in a position to force her to release all their research on removing the razorgrass. You will break their horrible monopoly and set right the many wrongs in that place. Do not repeat the mistakes of Red Eye. You must be firm, but you must also be fair.
Also, a reminder. The Pony is in Rice River. When her friend's alicorns arrive, you must kill them all, and quickly, to draw the Pony out. Hopefully our assets in Carnico do not fail, but if they do, she must be killed. Eliminate her, and the single greatest threat to our goals is removed as well. The Captain is coming to assist you with the Iron Legion. Her infiltration of Carnico begins with Bacchanalia. Manage Desideria. Her pettiness nearly set back all our goals. Eliminate her only as a last resort, but remember that she is expendable.
With deepest respect and admiration, the Shaman.’
Majina looked at the stack of papers and decided that one missing wouldn’t be a bad thing. Besides, the Blood Legion were bad guys, so it was okay to take it without asking. She folded it up and slipped it into her saddlebag. There had to be some people interested in reading this! She’d started for the door when hoofsteps approached down the hall. Could she make it out– under the bed! She dove, sliding on her belly into the gap under one of the two just as a stallion walked in carrying a metal bucket and a large rolled-up paper. Majina watched him as closely as she dared as he tossed the paper onto the desk.
“What’s the point of being a major if you have to get your own bucket?” he asked with a little chuckle as he pulled back the curtains and set the bucket before the open window. Then he scooped up the papers and dumped a few into the container, and there was a click of a lighter and the smell of smoke. Fanning the papers with one of the letters, he burned them all carefully, the smoke being drawn out the open window. Once the fire was burning well, he tossed his fan in as well.
As they burned, she took him in. He wore plain city clothes, just a white collared shirt with the only decoration being a teardrop-shaped pendant. His broad, bold, horizontal stripes were Roamani, but there was a look in his red eyes of profound weariness. As the fire burned, he sat on the bed opposite Majina’s, manipulated the back of the pendant, and clicked it open. He gazed into it, lips curling ever so slightly as a tear ran down his cheek. He snapped it closed, raised it to his lips, and kissed the lid once before tucking it into his shirt and feeding the last of the papers to the flame. Then he rose, walked to the basin on the dresser, took the pitcher, and returned to douse the ashes.
There was a knock, and the tear was almost reflexively wiped away. “Enter,” he said, taking a deep breath.
A Blood Legion zebra stepped in, wearing all his spiky apparel. “Sir. We’ve got reports on the Iron Legion’s artillery. It’s on its way.”
“We should have paid the Golds more. I should demand my money back,” he said with a sigh, looking into the bucket. “Pity I burned the receipt. Ah well. Documents are like fresh fish. They stink if left too long and should be cooked as soon as possible.”
“Yes sir, though I don’t think General Sanguinus can read,” the legionnaire said with a nod and grin.
Haimon didn’t share that expression. “Never underestimate Sanguinus. I did. I got lucky. And you should billet that talk, even here. Not unless you want the entire Slaughterhouse coming after us.”
The grin disappeared immediately as Haimon went on, “The general is not stupid, he is simple. He sees things in black and white, bad and good, and kills by default. If he realizes what we are doing here, we may as well flee to the Ponylands or slit our own throats.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said with a salute. “Also, Desideria demands an audience with you, again.”
“Third one today. Probably over that idiotic cannon firing.” He groaned and rose. “I don’t know what that idiot was thinking. It nearly threw everything off.” He sighed, shed the white shirt, and pulled on the fancy armor with the legionnaire’s assistance. Once he was garbed in the spiked red armor, he pulled open a drawer, took out one of the maroon vials, popped the cap, and drizzled blood in his mane, then smeared it about. A few flecks on the face, and he tossed it in the bucket too. He examined his gore-speckled features in the mirror, and then suddenly his face split in a wide grin, pupils contracting. He repeated wild expressions one after the next, then sighed. “I can’t wait till we can drop this facade and silence her whining and complaining forever.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier repeated, then steeled himself. Haimon smashed his hoof into the soldier’s face, sending blood trickling down it. “Ow, sir,” he muttered, one eye already swelling shut.
Haimon gave him a smile, then shouted at the top of his lungs. “What! How dare you interrupt my morning raping! You better make sure I have a foal to eat tonight, or it’ll be your ass!” He adopted a murderous glare and stomped almost comically out of the room with the injured legionnaire following him.
Majina crawled out and was rushing to the window when she spotted the rolled up paper still on the desk. Could she get lucky twice? She hurried to the desk and carefully unrolled it. It was actually a large, flat book. On the front was a bold title: ‘Atlas of Zebrinica’. She flipped it open and was met with the sight of great swaths of the country decorated and marked with all sorts of notes in pencil. ‘Coal’, ‘Oil’, ‘Medicine’, ‘Ammunition’, ‘Explosives’, ‘Minefield’, ‘Megaspell’, and countless others simply marked ‘Hazard’.
The map! The map of maps, and she’d found it! “Maybe I do have what it takes to be a protagonist,” she said in glee, giving a little victory dance– and kicking the bucket with her hindhoof. It clattered loudly, banging against the wall under the window.
Then footsteps hammered down the hall, and Majina pressed back against the wall as the door opened and another soldier stepped in. He immediately walked to the window, looked out, and then closed it. He pressed in a latch near the top and one at the bottom, then checked under one bed. Then under the other.
For his trouble he got a Sleepytime dart in the neck. His eyes widened in shock, then drooped, and he wobbled and fell over with a loud snore. Majina rushed over him and pulled the bottom latch, but no matter how she strained and stretched, the top latch remained out of reach. Worse, everyone outside could see her reaching for it! She hopped down and shoved the soldier under the bed, pushing him in as far as she could with her hindhooves before she jumped up and slipped out of the room. She crept along the balcony outside that overlooked a foyer filled with dozens of Blood Legion. She reached a door with raised voices on the other side, hoping she could find some way out with her treasures and her head.
“I brought you here to act! Why haven’t you acted yet? I want you to march across that bridge, kill the Iron Legion, and burn Carnico to the ground! Why is that so hard for you to understand?” Desideria screeched as Majina passed by.
Majina feared there were more soldiers on this floor, so she ascended to the third and away from the shouting. This floor sounded mostly empty, but there was one guard outside a door. Majina took careful aim and darted her as well. The mare swayed and fell over, and Majina barely suppressed her glee. Locked door. Locked door. Locked door. She checked the guard and extracted a key. “Let’s see what’s so valuable in here, shall we?” Majina said as she unlocked the door and opened it.
A second guard inside the room sat in a chair next to the single bed and lifted his head at the sound of the door opening. His face twisted in confusion, but not enough confusion to prevent him from blocking her dart with a pillow from the chair.
He inhaled deeply, and Majina raced at him, slamming both hooves into his shielding pillow and mashing it against his face. He shoved it out of the way only to receive a sharp whack of bamboo upside his head. “Hey! What! Ow! Stop it!” He managed to get both hooves around the bamboo and jerked it from her, hugging it to his chest. “Haha!” the guard laughed triumphantly.
Then he got whacked across the face with the rolled up atlas.
Eyes bulging, the guard swung wildly with the bamboo, his much deadlier sword lying forgotten on his belt as he struck, blocked, and parried her attacks with aplomb. “Haha! You’re mine!” he shouted, the end of the bamboo clutched in his hooves as he brought it down in an overhead blow that knocked her rolled up map away. “Too slow, kid!”
Majina slipped a dart into the end of the tube and shot it right into his face. She earned a momentarily baffled look, the dart sticking out of the blood drop on his brow, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed into the chair. She gathered up Mr. Sleepytime and the map, then paused. “Oh, shoot! I really should have said something there, shouldn’t I?” She rubbed her chin at the guard. “Um… how about ‘Too dumb, guard’? or ‘Don’t call me kid’? Ugh…” She slumped. “I need some one liners ready.”
Things were getting noisy downstairs. Still, she was curious. Why two guards? The only other thing in the room was a sheet-covered lump on the bed. She paused, took a deep breath, and gripped the cloth, ready to give a gasp of shock no matter what! She yanked… pulled… grrr! What jerk had tied these stupid knots?
Because whoever the foal-sized person bundled up on the bed was deserved a gasp… though Majina wasn’t sure they’d have appreciate it. The small bound form responded to the tugging by just slurring something under their breath. Majina swallowed, knowing there was no way she could just leave them for the Bloods. But how could she get them out if she couldn’t get herself out? There were Blood Legion all over the lobby, and eventually someone would come up here. She didn’t dare try an elevator. She frowned, then blinked. This was a hotel. Hotels meant laundry. Laundry meant…
She rushed out into the hall and walked to a room marked ‘Housekeeping’. She tried the door, and to her relief it opened up. The inside was empty save for shelves full of supplies, a cart, and, in the back, a laundry chute. She checked the size… pretty big. It would have to be to handle wads of dirty bedding. She rushed to the room and heaved the bundled person onto her back. She carried them to the chute, then tied the ends of some clean sheets from the shelves together into a rope and lowered them down. This was perfect! Soon as they were down, Majina would tie the rope to the shelves and follow them. There had to be some way out down there, right? A delivery hatch or something?
Too bad Gāng hadn’t had her practicing knot tying as well.
With a shoomp, the bundle shot down the chute, disappearing with a soft ‘fumph’ that reverberated up the metal walls of the shaft. “Ow,” Majina muttered. “I hope they’re not mad.” Then she heard hooves on the stairs coming up, pulled off her saddlebags and Mr. Sleepytime, and let them drop. She thought she heard a loud groan far below before closing the lid to the laundry chute. She parked the cart in front of the hatch as zebras in the hall shouted and started kicking open doors. Majina grabbed a spray bottle as the door was kicked open.
“Ah. Housekeeping?” she asked with a shaky smile. “You need your room cleaned up?”
The pair of soldiers at the door looked at each other in bafflement. There was no way this was going to work, right? She smirked. Prince Hamapapan had nothing on the wily ways of Majina, the happy story! She grinned from ear to ear in complete confidence.
“Come here!” the pair shouted in unison. Majina shrieked, spraying one in the eyes with cleaner and sending him crashing blindly into a shelving unit as he tried to rub the irritating liquid away. Majina darted underneath the other and out into the hall. The zebra lunged, grabbing one of her hindlegs with a painful twist and dragging her back, but she kicked with the other hindleg once, twice, thrice! She got free and limped away as fast as she could.
“Sorry, all out of mints!” she called as she raced down the stairs, the legionnaire in close pursuit. She just had to lead them away. “Please contact management if you have a complaint!” she yelled, darting between two Bloods coming up the stairs. “Housekeeping! Toilet emergency! Coming through!” Her injured leg slipped out from under her, and she tumbled down the rest of the fights.
At least she knew how to fall right! She pulled in her limbs and shielded her head until she landed at the bottom of the flight. Pushing herself up, ignoring her aching back and sides, she grinned at the pair. “Overflowing toilet! Got to run!” She hurried down to the second floor. She was going to make it. She was actually going to make it. There was the foyer, and none of the Blood Legion seemed to realize what was going on. There was the front counter, unoccupied, and she guessed that there had to be some way down from there. It was all coming up perfect! Okay, there were some Blood chasing her, but what story didn’t benefit from a good chase! She reached the bottom of the stairs.
And left the ground. A paw as big as her head reached down, grabbed her shoulders, and lifted her right off her hooves as neatly as plucking a rice bun off a plate. The hand belonged to an equally huge and disturbingly familiar canine. “Don’t run on stairs,” the hound said as he lifted her and gave her a little shake. “Could fall and break something.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir! I promise I won’t–”
“What have you got there?” a male rumbled, and the centaur rose from the sitting area next to the stairs. One arm was a disturbing purple and seemed to move in a way contrary to normal muscle anatomy. The gargoyle perched in a loveseat, reading a mare’s magazine intently.
“Housekeeping!” Majina squeaked, covering her face in terror.
From up the stairs, the major’s voice rang out, “I don’t care! She’s got magic. She could have blinked out of here for all we know! That’s why she was supposed to be drugged!”
“Oi! Major!” the centaur said with a grin, reaching out with that horrible purple arm. It unwove into a dozen wormlike tentacles that curled around her like thick rubber, pulling her from the hound’s grasp. Haimon came around the corner, murder on his face as he glared at the centaur.
“What do you want, Krogax?” he asked. “I’m in no mood for–” He looked at Majina flatly. “Who’s that?”
“Housekeeping?” she offered weakly.
“She’s one of Scotch Tape’s little friends,” Krogax said as he waved the filly at him. “I’ve been wanting to get my hands on her all year, but she’s been a student of that Achu.”
Haimon’s wrath was replaced by satisfaction. “Well now. This saves me a whole bunch of trouble. Looks like the hostage plan is back on the table.”
Okay. So maybe Majina wasn’t quite at Prince Hamapapan level yet…
* * *
Pythia watched Majina leave with a sigh, staring into futures where Majina returned with a map, with reports of failure, or as a prisoner, but she didn’t see any that were grotesquely horrific. Not that that was much of a relief. With all the futures she could see, there were still those she couldn’t. A hundred bad futures she knew about weren’t nearly as worrying as one she didn’t. Shadows and fog constantly obscured the future, and being a seer was to try and steer things to a nice, safe future.
Pythia sat in the doorway of Xarius’s shop, staring at the ship in the river. Every future regarding it was a formless inky haze. What would it do? When would it fire again? Something was obscuring her sight, and the list of things that could do that was as short as it was terrifying. Fear and her were old friends, and no matter how she might wish to pretend otherwise, fear was the gnawing in the pit of her stomach that somehow everything would go horribly bad.
Like Majina’s face being bitten off if she stayed here.
The change was so subtle at first; most would have missed the spike in humidity and the tang of salt in the air. The sound of dripping water in the depths of the shop. The trickle falling from somewhere high above that one might assume was from a leaky pipe. But as she stared at the map before her, she watched one of the pinpricks of light, refracted through her dangling pendant, sudden swing sideways, towards the mouth of the constellation Draco. Danger.
“You sent your friend away,” came the filly’s voice from behind her. Pythia immediately folded up the map, staying cool as her chest hammered. She glanced behind her at the waterlogged filly standing in a puddle in the middle of the shop, briny water sheeting off her. The little filly pouted. “I was hungry.”
“Sorry,” Pythia said as she put the map in a pocket of her cloak and the purple pendant around her neck. “She had to go run an errand.”
“Liar,” the filly muttered as her dead black eyes gazed around the shop. “You’re not sorry.”
“True,” Pythia said with a smile, struggling not to be distracted by too many futures right now. She needed every ounce of attention on the waterlogged filly. “I never am.”
The sodden zebra took low, slow steps around the shop. There was a loud, metallic ping, and a hemisphere disappeared out of a metal workbench next to her. She continued walking, chewing slowly as she moved in a lazy circle around Pythia. “You’re a shaman, aren’t you?” Pythia asked.
“So are you,” she answered.
“Not anymore,” Pythia corrected. “I’m a seer now.”
“But you’re still one,” she said as she passed by a dangling block and chain holding a boiler. Another ping, and the boiler was sent rocking back and forth, a circle missing from its side. She chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “You never stop being one. Never stop hearing them. Feeling them.” Another ping, half the boiler now gone as she masticated idly. “Do they whisper in your ears? Do they nibble your spine? Crawl inside your skin?”
“I’m not a shaman,” Pythia repeated firmly, not taking her eyes off the disturbing filly, certain that if she did all the futures of her spurting blood from the stump of her neck would come true. The filly didn’t reply. She just stared at the Whiskey Express, trailer loaded with supplies. “What can I call you?” Pythia asked.
“Niuhi,” she said simply, giving her name. Pythia swallowed. Either she was an idiot, reckless, or certain she had nothing to fear. Niuhi eyed the Whiskey Express’s trailer. “I’m hungry.”
“What do you want?” Pythia said, taking a step towards the drenched filly.
Faster than Pythia could blink, the filly was before her, face inches from Pythia’s as her dead black eyes stared into hers. “I’m hungry.” So many futures and all of them ending with her bloody and screaming. Even if she saw it coming, she couldn’t move fast enough to avoid it.
Pythia swallowed, shoving her fear into lockers of scorn and bravado. “Why are you here?”
“Mother wants to know how you invoked the spirits but made it look like that pony did. She’s sure someone must have been doing it while that pony was on the stage,” she said, pulling back a few inches but doing nothing to put Pythia at ease. The number of futures where she left this room with her body intact was dropping one by one before her eyes.
Still, it was an idea. “Another shaman couldn’t have done that. When you invoke the spirits, you invoke them. You know that. Even if I were still a shaman, the spirits wouldn’t have listened to me. Or if they had, no one would have missed it.”
“But she’s a pony!” the filly snarled suddenly, her frustration breaking the mask of dead apathy. “She can’t do that! Ponies can’t! We speak to the spirits. Ponies do magic. That’s the difference!”
“Trust me,” Pythia replied, “it’s been driving me crazy, too.” She picked her words carefully. “There’s no doubt she’s spiritually sensitive, but she might not be a shaman. It might have just been the place and time.”
Niuhi sat down in her puddle of salt water. “What do you mean?” she asked, reaching out and giving the remainder of the dangling boiler a delicate shove, setting it swinging in little arcs. Another ping, another bite gone, and slow chewing as she stared at Pythia.
“The Bacchanalia’s supposed to be held now, right? Spirits appreciate patterns. Everyone was looking forward to it, and the spirits were probably anticipating it too. It’s held on that bridge every time, so it’s familiar to the spirits. Anyone with just a little bit of spiritual attunement might have set it off. It just happened to be Scotch.” She rubbed her chin. “Probably explains how Princess Celestia did it centuries ago, too. Not a lot of spiritual clout, just being in the right place and time and being daring enough to try it.”
Niuhi let out a grunt, pouting. “The spirits at the party thing is ruining everything. There weren’t supposed to be any spirits. That fat, juicy mare was supposed to ruin it and not invoke them, but they got invoked anyway. Now there’re all these spirits, and no one knows what’s going to happen when everyone dies.”
“You could just go. Wash your hooves of this,” Pythia suggested.
“That’s what I want Mommy to do!” she whined. “Why do we have to stay here where there’s so much dirt and everything’s dry? Mommy can’t walk on land anyway, so it’s dumb. But we have to because she says so.” She slumped, long, bedraggled hair swaying as water dribbled down upon her from the ceiling high above. “We need the spirits to go away. Can you make them go away?”
“I didn’t invoke them. I can’t revoke them. Can’t you?” she asked.
“Maybe. I can try and eat them,” Niuhi said, still slumped. “I’m hungry,” she whined softly.
“You’ll get censured,” Pythia answered. She couldn’t imagine the severity of the censure for such an infraction. Death would be preferable.
“I’ll eat that too,” she said as she held her stomach. “I’m not afraid of censure.”
And this was the dark, terrifying side of being a shaman. Of making the wrong deals. Of meddling in the wrong spirits’ affairs for the wrong reasons. Most shamans picked a nice, quiet place and lived the rest of their lives in seclusion. Whatever had happened to Niuhi, whether it was her fault or her mother’s, there was no denying the effects. A final ping, and the rest of the twenty gallon boiler disappeared. Then the chain. Then the stand as bite after bite was taken.
“I’m hungry,” she muttered plaintively.
“I can’t help you,” Pythia muttered. “I’m sorry.”
“You told the truth, that time,” the filly said as she rose to her hooves. “I should eat you now. You’re the pony’s friend. Mommy would want me to eat you.” Her dead eyes focused on Pythia, and the seer’s futures all filled with gnashing teeth.
“Except that I’m the only person who might get Scotch to revoke the spirits,” Pythia answered at once. “If she can at all.”
Niuhi trembled. “You have to. If they’re not revoked… the party can’t go on forever! It’ll blow up. Or go bad. Or go strange.” She shook her head hard. “Please.”
Funny, the enemy begging her for help. She’d laugh if she didn’t know for certain that it would literally get her head bitten off. That future was very clear. “I’ll try my best, but things tend to go wrong where ponies are concerned.”
Niuhi gave a sobbing guffaw that made Pythia’s hide crawl. “Everything’s been wrong since she came here. It was bad when she was just in the Ponylands, but the more she’s moved around, the worse things have gotten. I don’t even know why all of you came.”
Pythia frowned. She saw a plethora of futures where she plead ignorance or lied; most of them had rather horrid and short ends. The truth was a shadowy curtain made of smoke that she couldn’t see beyond. “I read a letter that ordered the Eye of the World be blinded.”
“The Eye? Of the World? Blinded,” Niuhi said slowly, as if trying to fit every word together. It was all Pythia could do to stay patient. “But the world can’t be blinded. It’s impossible,” she said as she furrowed her brows together.
So whatever was driving Riptide wasn’t related to the Eye. “As impossible as a pony invoking the spirits? As impossible as a pony who’s doing everything to mess up your plans purely by accident?” For the briefest moment, Niuhi’s eyes were more than flat, disinterested planes. A rusty sort of thoughtfulness chewed over Pythia’s words. “Scotch didn’t invoke the spirits to cross you. She just did it. Everywhere she goes she seems to set off one problem after another.”
“Mommy wouldn’t have shot at the Abalone if she hadn’t been on it. That started the mess with my tribe,” Niuhi muttered. “I should just eat her.”
“She’s cursed, Niuhi. I’ve only met one other person as cursed as she was, and she nearly blew up the world before she was done. I honestly don’t know if eating her would change anything,” Pythia warned. “It could make things worse.”
“She’s caused Mommy nothing but trouble and misery. Do you know how embarrassing it was for one pony filly to get away? The crew laughed about it when they didn’t think I was ready to eat them. She yelled about it for weeks,” she said, rubbing her face. “She was so mad I couldn’t find her in this city. So mad when she started moving again! And as soon as she did, the spirits were called here, and now things at the factory aren’t working right and there’s Iron Legion here and there shouldn’t be and it’s just all wrong. And it’s all her fault!”
Not all her fault; Pythia had suggested the Iron Legion to Vega… but she’d only done so because Scotch had insisted they stay for a year. So… point, crazy filly. And the more she thought about it, the more unnerved she felt. She’d been the reason Scotch had come to the zebra lands, right?
The single greatest threat to a shaman was being used by either people they trusted or by the spirits they had access to. Niuhi was a prime example. Pythia had seen what happened, and would happen, to a pony who had inexplicably gained the attention of powerful spirits. Now, was she seeing it repeat, and if so, what would stop her from meeting a similar end to that of Blackjack’s closest friends? Pythia’s eyes shifted to the Whiskey Express, contemplative and examining her future.
“I’m just going to wait here for her to show up,” Niuhi said as she reached over to a piece of pipe, which began to disappear inch by inch. “Then she’ll fix it, and then I’ll eat her.” She nodded once and added, “And you’re going to stay put, or I’m going to eat your legs till you do.” Another inch of pipe disappeared. “I’m so hungry,” she growled.
The number of futures where she was missing body parts started multiplying exponentially.
* * *
I’ve had a building dropped on me, was the first coherent thought that made it through the ‘huh’s, ‘ow’s, ‘ugh’s, and ‘ngggh’s that swarmed around in a daze within her head. She was still sitting wedged into the corner, but there was a firm slab behind her as well as a mound of hoof-sized rubble up to her waist. She coughed and hacked, spitting out grit. “Is anyone else alive?” she said, even if it sounded more like “Issanweoonesaliv?”
No answer. She carefully lifted her PipBuck, shook off the dust to see the stark display, and activated the light. Once her eyes adjusted to the sting of the bright screen, she found herself in a tiny pocket comprised of the two walls and a huge piece of another wall wedged in diagonally. A meter in any direction and she’d have been jelly. She kicked the scree and was relieved to see the debris clattering out through a gap towards the base of the pocket. Coughing and kicking, she pushed her way slowly into the void that had been the stairwell. Most of the stairs were shelves of rubble, and worse, no bars appeared on her E.F.S. Dust still swirled in the air, and she coughed and retched as she tried to pick out a path down through the hazy murk. Thankfully, she was able to slide down rather than having to climb up, and she carefully slipped and stumbled her way towards the bottom.
Her eyes burned and watered, her ears ached and thrummed, and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep breath without a hacking cough that just stirred up more dust. “Hello?” she croaked, her words sounding drowned to her damaged ears. She just wanted to lie down and rest. The dust was pretty soft. Everyone else was probably mashed to bits beneath those hunks of concrete. No more pain.
A dry chuckle whispered through the back of her mind.
No! She had to get out of here. Struggling to see with her watery eyes in the gloom, she spotted intact stairs leading below the ground floor. There were steps in the dust! She followed, swaying a little on abused hooves as she followed the dust downstairs to a metal door that had been ripped from its hinges. No light but her lamp, but that was enough to see the trail left by the others. She hurried to– she fell on her face, coughing and retching, then sat back up, clutching her chest. Why was it so hard to breathe?
Picking herself up, she followed, staggering along the dust trail left by the others. Her head throbbed with every step, and the side of her face was a sticky mat of crusty mud. She came across dead security guards, killed with a sword. Of course Vicious would survive. Big hoofsteps could be Gordo, and those drag marks… Tchernobog’s cloak maybe? Talon footsteps. Skylord. What about Doctor Z?
The tunnels led quite a ways, the dust thinning out more and more. Then, steps up. Voices, distant and muffled, but familiar? She stepped through a door into a hallway of stained yellow linoleum and white walls with more faded posters about safety. She walked towards the sound of the voices, fighting to breathe.
“–your fault! If you’d have gotten her out of here right away–”
“Xara! Please! We have to go back for her!”
“She’s dead!”
“She may not be. The spirits–”
“To hell with stupid zebra spirits! If he’d just–”
“Don’t blame me! She’s the one with the magic! She should have–”
“You have any idea how much magic I’ve done tonight? I’m glad to have any left at all! I sure couldn’t lift–”
“The Lightbringer could manage a boxcar! You can’t even manage that!”
“Shut it about that stupid pony!”
“We need to go back for Xara! I can’t lose her again! Not again!”
“Xara’s dead. Scotch is dead! They’re both dead, you idiot.”
“Don’t call him an idiot!”
“I’ll call anyone I like an idiot! I failed in my fucking mission. Again!”
Scotch walked to the door of a lab, looking in at everyone arguing. Vicious and Skylord were both filthy and covered in dust while Gordo washed in the shower and Tchernobog rubbed himself dry. Precious and Xarius stood with the others. A dozen empty healing potion bottles lay on one of the black lab tables. Fingers and hooves were being pointed. Tears were on many cheeks as everyone talked louder and louder. A trio of zebras in lab coats clustered together, watching a display with nervous wariness.
Scotch coughed.
Of course, they didn’t notice. “Who cares about your mission, you turkey?” Precious snarled.
“I do, you dumb lizard!” Skylord countered.
“Um,” Scotch croaked.
“Turkey!”
“Lizard!”
“Lunchmeat!”
“Handbag!”
“Shut up!” Tchernobog rumbled, then pointed straight at Scotch. “Look!”
Every eye stared at her. “Um… hi,” she muttered.
The animosity dissipated as they washed her off and struggled to find another healing potion or two. Her body was one big collection of contusions and lacerations, the worst being a prominent gash on the side of her head. Vicious persuaded the scientists to whip up a fresh batch of healing draught and made sure that Scotch drank the whole thing. While it helped her eyes, ears, pounding headache, and aching body, it did nothing for her cough and difficulty breathing.
“What’s wrong with her, doctor!?” Precious demanded of the trio. “Why isn’t the potion helping her breathe?”
“I’m not a medical doctor,” a stallion said sharply. “I’m a research chemist.”
“Same thing! Now what’s wrong with her? Why are her lips blue?” the dragonfilly asked with a growl.
“If I had to guess, severe dust inhalation. She was in there longer than the rest of you. She probably inhaled more, and it passed deeper into her chest. The powdered concrete would be bad enough, and who knows what else was in that stuff? Asbestos? Fiberglass? She was breathing it for an hour or two at least.” He nudged one of the empty purple healing potions. “Her lungs aren’t damaged. They’re full of garbage that will take its time to work its way out. If it works its way out.”
“And if she dies in the meantime?” Xarius demanded.
“Then her problems become academic,” the scientist said with a sniff.
“And so does your life! Help her!” Vicious demanded.
“No killing them!” Scotch demanded, coughing and retching but unable to bring anything up. “I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath.”
“Now that we’re regrouped, we need to get out of here,” Skylord said. “I need to check in with the colonel. Tell her I completed my assignment and get a new one ASAP.”
“Pussy,” Precious growled.
“Only half,” he countered.
“Chicken,” she snarled.
“The other half,” he said, unruffled. “No offense, but this pony brings way too much heat down on herself. I’d need a full squad to guard her effectively. Maybe a company, just to be sure.”
Xarius did the most helpful thing in bringing her water to drink; it also seemed to help her spit the crud out into the sink. “You’re fine, Xara. You’re just fine. Don’t scare Daddy like that again,” the ghoul rasped. “I can’t lose you again.”
“I’m gonna go get some snacks,” Gordo muttered. At their looks, he protested, “What? She looks hungry.”
“Fine, I’m coming with you,” Vicious muttered. “Don’t want you running off.”
“Break room is on the corner,” one of the scientists called as the pair departed. “Okay, that’s one crazy gone. Can I go for two?” he asked, staring at Precious.
“I’m not crazy. I just wanted you to tell me what I am,” Precious countered, eyes narrowed as her spines folded back a bit. “Not a hard question.”
“You’re some abomination of pony magic meddling, and since you can’t teach us how to do it, there’s really not that much to say,” the doctor replied.
“But how was I made? Who was I made from? Sanguine said I was just some lab sample. A freak experiment!” she said, her face screwing up in anguish. “Am I going to live as long as a dragon, or a pony? Can I have kids and junk?”
“All wonderful questions that would require months of trial and experimentation and are not just things I can answer at a glance!” the doctor said.
Scotch’s breathing was easing a little. All the healing potions had helped, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of a lump in her chest. She tuned out the pair arguing about ‘magical scientific answers’ and ‘scientists are smart so you should just know’. Then she caught Tchernobog staring at her, his face, as ever, that customary, impartial mask.
“I think I might be a shaman,” she said, her voice low.
“As mad as it sounds, you may be,” Tchernobog rumbled back.
“I’m seeing spirits. I think I am. I did that thing on the bridge. Doesn’t that make me a shaman?” Scotch asked.
“It means you’re spiritually sensitive. But a pony shaman…” He shook his head. “Were you a zebra, I’d send you to apprentice under a shaman of your tribe. They would initiate you into their traditions. Teach you how to speak and negotiate with spirits friendly to your tribe. It’s a process that takes years,” he said, keeping his eyes locked to hers. “But you have no tribe. If you are a shaman, and only the spirits can know for certain, then I do not know how to teach you. Indeed, it would be perilous for me to do so.”
“Why?” Scotch rasped, then coughed again.
“My tribe deals in spirits of corruption, malevolence, and decay. Are those the sorts of spirits ponies are associated with?” he asked, staring at her.
“I don’t understand,” Scotch said with a frown.
“Exactly. Atoli associate with spirits of wind and sea. Carnilia with spirits of birth, life, death, and fertility. Roamani with war and fighting. Our tribes shape our attitudes and the relationships we build with particular spirits. What spirits define ponies? What is the essence of a pony?” he asked gravely.
“I don’t know,” Scotch answered.
“Nor do I,” he said with a solemn shake of his head.
“What was your apprenticeship like?” she asked.
Tchernobog blinked at her a moment in surprise, as if no one had ever asked him this before. “It was to a mare named Atropos. Cold. Hard. Cruel. She took an angry colt and beat him with a stick. Every day.”
“That’s horrible!” Scotch said, then broke into coughs.
“That’s the point. She hurt me until I learned that pain did not equal anger. That insult did not mean I had to respond immediately. I had to be as cold and hard as she was if I was to deal with the spirits of the Starkatteri. When my anger was quenched, I could learn.” He gave a thin smile. “She was not a pleasant mare, but she was an excellent teacher. She introduced me to spirits old, powerful, and dangerous. She let me fail, hurting myself with poor deals, but never allowed me to corrupt myself. It was a brutal education.”
“I can’t imagine going through that myself,” Scotch admitted.
“Other tribes, I understand, are different. Yet another reason I could not make you a shaman. Tribes to not train the shamans of other tribes. It is… poaching. Were other ponies shamans, I would send you to them.”
“Do other races have shamans too?” Scotch asked.
“Of course,” said Skylord, listening in. “We have the Simurgh. A bunch of creepy old crones you visit for good fortune in battle or business. By the Egg, they’re expensive, though.”
“And the dragons have Nidhogg, the world serpent. He’s lived for thousands of years deep underground. I’ve not had the honor of meeting him myself,” Tchernobog rumbled.
“I’ve heard the yaks do too,” Xarius offered. “Something about the spirits of their ancestors or something.”
“If you want to call that shamanism. Many races have some shamanistic tradition. Only ponies seem to reject it entirely,” Tchernobog said slowly.
“Are you feeling better, Scotch?” Xarius asked with a little more lucidity.
“A bit. I think we can go back to your shop.” Even though it felt as if she had a chest full of cement.
Then there came a thudding of hooves as Vicious returned with Gordo, the latter staggering this way and that, mouth wide with a purple tongue hanging out and foam on his nostrils. “Something’s wrong! I think we were poisoned, but I’m not sure by what! We both ate the same stupid doughnuts!”
The scientists quickly conferred, and Scotch could only watch as they performed a tracheotomy with the help of Vicious’s knives. The zebra’s weight seemed to be slowing the swelling. He collapsed, but from the movement of his chest, he was breathing again. Vicious stared at him. “I ate it too! I swear, we both ate the same doughnuts. Why was his poisoned?”
Scotch pulled the chemical printouts from her bags and set them on one of the lab tables as Gordo lay there, struggling to breathe. “You. Chemical guy. What is this?”
He examined the pages. “Where did you get these! How did you break into my files!?”
“I got them from Plant Operations Manager Mariana,” Scotch said, wheezing a little. “Now talk. What happened to Gordo?”
“This,” he said as he tapped the pages, “is a new three-part pesticide and weed killer we’ve been working on for months. The actual name has twenty-two syllables. We call it Algogropro after the three stable parts. Each is mostly benign, colorless, odorless, and extremely stable. You can drink Algopalizyme and it won’t do anything. Same with the Gropropipomaldihyde. But add the Propomelzahydrate and you get Algogropro, shutting down cellular outtake and causing the cells to keep drawing in fluid until they swell and burst while crippling cell mitosis. It only affects localized tissues on contact, rather than dispersing throughout the system, keeping its concentration far longer than if it was simply metabolized. The application is highly selective. You can use any two parts safely. It’s only when all three are used together that it’s toxic. It was never meant to be used on animals, mind you. Just rigid cell structures. Still, it seems equally harmful to animal life too.”
“How long is he going to be like this?” Vicious demanded.
“The constituent chemicals can linger in the body for days, but once combined, the Algogropro is only active for a few minutes before it breaks down, but the disruption is fairly terminal to plants and most insect life. The effects will likely take hours to abate, but they should,” he said as he backed away.
“But I don’t get it. Why use this to poison people?” Xarius asked. “There’ve got to be faster ways to poison someone.”
“No. It’s a brilliant way to poison a lot of someones!” Vicious countered. “Say you poison some food at the party. If it’s slow acting, you might not know if you got everyone, but if it’s fast, then when one person gets sick, everyone stops eating. Also, if you’re poisoning people, it looks pretty suspicious if you’re not eating anything, but this gives you deniability. After all, you were eating too. It took him ten minutes before he started to feel like he couldn’t breathe. Ten minutes is one whole course of a meal. You could have dozens of people dead. Even hundreds before people realized it was too late!”
“But why was it in our breakroom?” the scientist demanded. “You don’t think…”
“If you have a perfect assassination poison, the first thing you do is kill all the other people who know what it is,” Vicious said grimly. “That way it’s a mystery.”
“Mystery my striped flank! Get those pastries in here,” he said to one of the subordinates. “Give me an hour and I’ll prove Algo, Gro, and Pro are in each one!”
Scotch didn’t want to hang around her a minute longer than she had to. “Someone is going to have to stick around here. If they want you dead, they’ll come when they realize you’re not taking the bait,” Scotch rasped.
“I will,” Vicious said. “In fact, I’m looking forward to meeting some more of these Atoli bastards,” she continued, glancing down at Gordo as he labored to breathe. “If it hadn’t been for him, I would have eaten all three.” Her voice was oddly subdued as she gazed at him. Then she looked at Tchernobog. “You’ll contact Vega, right?”
“Soon as I can,” Tchernobog said.
“Good. I’d hate to have to go looking for a new job before all this is over,” she answered, then looked to Scotch. “I really, really wish you’d stay.”
“Between the Blood Legion and the Riptide, I think it’s time to leave. Dodging some bounty hunters is exhausting enough. I don’t think I can evade all that too. But I’ll miss you,” Scotch admitted.
The striped pony sniffed and smiled, then turned her head to wipe away her tears before she answered, “Yeah, well… don’t die. Good roommates are hard to find.” Then she turned to the scientists and snapped, “Well, don’t just stand there! Get sciencing!”
With that, they departed. The scientists knew a service dock they could use to get out without going through the main entrance, and they crept away from the factory without incident. The city was muted and tense; more than half of the shops were closed, and those that were open were devoid of customers. Yet Scotch had to admit that she was relieved to put Carnico behind her. Once she was reunited with her friends, they could go and be safe. Okay, as safe as anything was in the Wasteland. Rice River had been an interesting experiment with life in the big city, but it wasn’t something she was eager to try again any time soon.
They reached the corner where Tchernobog had to depart back to the cafe. He had no teary farewells. He simply said, “Your debt is paid in full. Till we meet again,” and then walked off without a glance back at her.
“Yeah, technically it was Galen’s debt. He was the one who used the stuff,” Precious said with a roll of her eyes, then looked at Skylord. “You heading back to your Legion?”
“Not till I get orders. I’ll try to call in once we’re at the shop. Find out what she wants me to do. Till then…” He paused and added dramatically, “Constant vigilance!”
They walked the two blocks back to the shop in high spirits. The scientists would prove the food had been deliberately poisoned. Mariana would get canned. With the plot ruined, the Atoli would be driven from Carnico. Eventually the Blood Legion would have to go. Everything would get back to normal.
They trotted towards the front entrance of the shop. There was Pythia, waiting for her in the middle of the shop. Not scowling. Not insulting. Not looking at her map. Just looking at them.
“Something’s wrong,” Scotch muttered.
Then a filly slowly stepped into view. Not just a filly, though. Superimposed over her body was that of a powerful toothed fish. A… shark? It strained and struggled to pull free of the filly but remained stuck fast to her. The filly stepped behind Pythia, just staring as water trickled off her. The glowing shark worked its mouth, moving several times to bite at Pythia but always stopping short.
“That filly’s dangerous,” Scotch muttered.
“Seriously? I can take her,” Precious scoffed.
“I can just shoot her,” Skylord offered.
“No. She’s really dangerous,” Scotch said with a dry hack. Whatever was going on with this strange filly, it couldn’t be good. “She’s got a spirit thing inside her, I think.”
“I’m fucking sick of spirits,” Precious snarled. “What do you want me to do, then?” Xarius looked on in worry, attentive.
“You two get the Whiskey Express fired up. I have a feeling we might need to leave here in a hurry,” she said.
“We can do that, Xara,” Xarius said, tense. “Be careful.”
“You too,” she warned, slowly approaching the pair. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Pythia said levelly. “This is Niuhi. She’s here to kill you.”
“Oh,” Scotch Tape said, stopping five meters away from the spectral shark’s jaws. It kept lunging at Scotch, glowing teeth snapping in the air. “Please don’t.”
“You’ve caused too many problems for Mommy,” she said evenly as she stepped around Pythia. “You have to die.” As she advanced, Scotch gave ground. Niuhi’s face twisted in annoyance as Scotch kept retreating out of range of those gnashing jaws. “Stop backing up!” she growled. The glowing shark twisted, seizing a workbench in its jaws and biting off a mouthful. The waterlogged filly chewed furiously and swallowed. “If you don’t stop backing up, I’m going to eat your friends.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Scotch replied as she skipped backwards in a circle, trying to remember what was behind her. The whole workshop reeked of sea salt as the water trickled down from the roof and sloshed around her hooves. “That’ll just make me run off again. Then you’ll have to find me and you won’t have any idea where I am, so don’t take your eyes off me!” Please don’t take your eyes off me! As soon as Scotch led Niuhi away, Pythia rushed to the other two working on the Whiskey Express.
Skylord, positioned where he’d have a clean field of fire, opened up. The bullets streaked towards the filly but then abruptly slowed as if travelling through water. Niuhi didn’t even acknowledge he was shooting at her. When his guns ran dry, he growled, “That’s not fair! Stupid shaman magic!” Yet he reloaded his guns with every intention to shoot some more.
“You’re horrible! You make Mommy so mad! If we were on the ocean, I’d feed you to every nasty spirit I could!” she spat, making a sudden lunge forward, but Scotch turned and leapt over a workbench. Three bites disappeared from it in a shower of splinters, flinging half-eaten tools all over the place. “Stop running and let me eat you!”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Scotch stated flatly. She had a year or two on Niuhi and could keep her distance for now, but the longer she evaded, the more labored her breathing grew. “You’re a shaman?” she asked.
“That’s right. My fishie friends are going to help me eat you up. Nom nom nom,” Niuhi snickered. It might have been cute if each nom hadn’t been accompanied by that glowing shark eating pieces of the shop around her. Niuhi broke into a trot, the seawater sloshing about her hooves as she ran towards Scotch. Scotch led her out into the yard, and the water poured out in a fan as Niuhi followed her. “Stop running!” she cried out, her hooves getting bogged down in the mud. “Stupid dirt! Go away!” The shark bit down into the ground again and again, removing huge muddy clods, but all she was doing was creating a muddy pit. Seawater was pouring out of the junked tractors and bubbling up through the ground. Scotch was finding it hard to put distance between herself and the corrupted filly as her hooves began to sink into the sudden quagmire.
Then the shark flexed, and all that seawater started to surge towards Niuhi, who was already submerged up to her eyes in muddy saltwater. Scotch struggled to pull herself away, but the water kept pulling her in closer and deeper. Worse, she couldn’t seem to draw a decent breath as she flailed.
A red can flew out at the zebra filly, clanging against her protruding head. The surge abated as she cried out, holding her head. “Owwie!” she yelped as the shark reached down and bit down on the five liter can. Black fluid poured out, coating the filly in thick dirty oil.
Instantly, Niuhi screamed and thrashed, trying to get away from the black sludge spreading across her puddle. The contact seemed to make the glowing shark crumple in pain. Xarius stood in the doorway with a metal bucket. “You’re not going to hurt my Xara!” he declared as he tossed some glowing green fluid at the filly. Instantly, Scotch’s PipBuck started ticking, and Niuhi screamed again, thrashing and splashing wildly.
“No! No no no! It’s not fair! I need to help, Mommy!” she cried as the shark jerked and pulled at where they were stuck together. She lunged towards the ghoul, struggling out of the mire, but he reached behind him for a blowtorch and cranked it fully open. A tongue of flame jetted forth, licking at the oily filly and lighting her ablaze.
“Don’t you dare touch my little girl!” he roared, driving her back into the pool. She disappeared completely under the salty muck in front of the shop.
Xarius looked across the spreading sludge and asked, “Are you okay, Xara?”
“Yeah, but watch out. I don’t think she’s gone,” Scotch warned as he kept the flame directed at the bubbling water.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Daddy will protect–” The pool exploded as Niuhi, her mouth a horrifying wide gape, lunged at the old ghoul. Time seemed to slow as Xarius, without hesitation, reached back and thrust the acetylene tank in her path. The top half of the tank disappeared in a cloud of vaporizing liquid, and then the cloud touched the dying flame of the torch.
The mouth of the workshop exploded in a fireball, throwing the filly over Scotch’s head and smashing her into a scrapped tractor. The filly’s hide appeared seared, bloody patches and charred meat visible. Scotch pulled herself out of the mud and stared at the glowing spirit flesh superimposed over the wounds. Bit by bit, they rapidly regenerated.
Then Niuhi grinned, her mouth spreading across her face in a nightmarish leer. Three rows of jagged teeth gleamed, her white hide now a more mottled gray and her tail resembling a shark’s fin. “Teeth!” Scotch blurted, turning immediately as Niuhi raced around the polluted pool towards her.
When in doubt, run, and she had a lot of doubt. As much as she wanted to take in the horror of seeing Xarius die, she couldn’t let that thing get any more of her friends. She had to lead it away. Oil and radiation had weakened it. Where could she find oil and radiation? She needed time to think! Whatever Niuhi was turning into was a whole lot faster than she’d been as a filly, and Scotch was already past her diminished athletic limit, coughing with spit running down her cheeks. There was the bridge up ahead! Skylord was winging his way to one of the machine gun nests! They were swinging the gun over! The machine gun opened up, spraying the shark creature.
Niuhi simply opened her mouth, and the glowing spirit chomped down over and over again in a blur of frenzied eating. As Scotch ran onto the bridge, Niuhi leapt over the barricade and bit down on the gun, then the gunner, then his mate. Skylord was barely able to get clear. At least sharks couldn’t fly! Scotch pushed herself as fast as she could to gain some distance as she raced towards the middle of the bridge, but the more she ran about, the more her breath came in gasps and hard coughs.
And then she collapsed. She just couldn’t breathe. No matter how she coughed, it didn’t get any better. Nothing was coming up! All around her was a cloud of tiny golden spirits. Some resembled butterflies, and others were flowers. There were even tiny glowing bunnies rushing about here and there. Strange flames bobbed around like wisps over their heads. Several of these spirits rushed up to Scotch, and when they touched her, some of the pain in her chest abated.
She rose to her feet as Niuhi advanced. The transformation had progressed even further. Her hide was now gray with black stripes, her tail a thick fin with a dorsal fin protruding from her back. She reached out, biting one of the rabbit spirits, and the glowing form disappeared between her teeth, the spiritual vapors seeping into her body. As Scotch watched, the fin on her back grew inch by inch, and webbing appeared along the backs of her limbs.
Scotch struggled to take a deep breath. “You need to stop, right now!” she gasped. The spirits and onlookers backed away in horror and fear.
“I need to eat you! When I eat you, Mommy won’t be mad anymore!” Niuhi snapped.
“No! Look at yourself! You’re turning into a monster!” Scotch begged as Niuhi ate a few more of the spirits, the rest growing more and more frenetic and agitated. “Please! Your mommy doesn’t want you like this! Please, turn back!” The glowing shark had almost merged completely into her. When it had…
Another bite. “I…” Another bite. “Want.” Another. “To.” Another, and then she gagged, swaying. Her mouth moved silently, teeth gleaming in the air as her eyes bulged. Choking sounds emanated from that void. She swayed and collapsed, mouth wide, struggling for air.
“Fish have gills,” Scotch, struggling for air herself, muttered, wondering if this would make her turn back. If she could turn back.
Either way, she wasn’t.
Scotch stared, watching her enemy die, her own breathing easing a little as she calmed. An enemy who had killed her friend, a zebra who had been like an uncle to her. Letting her die… no one could blame her. Yet, as she stared into those black eyes, Scotch could only feel pity. She could understand loving your parent so much that you were willing to do anything for them. She couldn’t believe that Niuhi had wanted to die like this. She glanced around and saw that all the spirits were still, watching her with their silent, golden eyes. The crowd too. What would she do?
Scotch stared at the struggling filly, then sighed and approached her warily, making sure that she was too weak to instantly bite her head off, and heaved the suffocating creature up onto her back, carrying her to the railing. “I’m sorry about your mom, despite everything,” Scotch said, not sure if Niuhi could understand or even hear her anymore. Then she gave a heave and tossed Niuhi into the river.
She leaned out, watching the ripples spread. A moment later, a dark gray head emerged, looking up at her with those solid black eyes. The head dipped back underwater, and she watched the dorsal fin and tail swim towards the bow of the Riptide.
“That was a very merciful thing you did,” Aleta said behind her. She turned, looking at Galen and Aleta standing together, their stripes vivid red and blue. “Although I can’t imagine how life is going to be for her from now on.”
“I had to. I couldn’t just…” She knew how Vicious would mock her if she knew she’d just spared an enemy. Tears welled up in her eyes. “She killed Xarius. I should have… I could have…” She sniffed again, bowing her head. “He treated me like I was his daughter.”
Aleta knelt, embracing her. “I’m sorry, Scotch.”
“Why can’t I keep my family?” Scotch blubbered. “Why are they always dying?”
Galen knelt and held her too. As she cried, she heard the spirits singing softly. They hovered about Scotch, invisible to everyone but her, moving like luminous golden shapes.
Till they turned inside out.
Before her eyes, one of the rabbits quivered and was reversed as quickly and easily as a sock puppet. The black shape convulsed, oozing a dark ichor-like blood over the bridge. Then, just as quickly, it returned to normal. The golden light made the dark stain evaporate before the spirit scampered away. Scotch stared in fascination at the sight. Other spirits were inverting as well. They’d change for one horrible moment, and then change back again. The fiery wisps became dark pits sucking in light and dripping that horrible ichor. The closer they were to Scotch, the faster they changed.
She closed her eyes and gave Aleta a squeeze before pulling away and regarding the spirits. Was this something she was causing? Was it Niuhi? She shook her head and extended a hoof towards them, and the spirits seemed to stabilize. “I’m fine,” she said as she sniffed and rubbed her eyes. The pair of zebras stared at her in confusion, and she shook her head. “I’m seeing spirits. And yes, I know it’s impossible, but I am.”
“That’s–” Galen began, then coughed. “I see. Is everything okay?”
“No. I think that they’re upset that the party isn’t going as planned,” she said as she looked around. “They keep turning black and icky, and then back to normal.”
“Yeah, no one is having fun. People should be having games, sex, and food,” Aleta said. “But with the Legions here, everyone is worried.”
“That is because a pony invoked them!” snorted a familiar voice. Desideria approached with her escort of stallions, her eyes narrowed in her pudgy face as she rattled her hoofbeads at Scotch Tape. “Or, more likely, your cursed friend did so while you pranced about on stage. You ruined Bacchanalia!”
Scotch faced the mare, thrusting a hoof back. “This is more important than your stupid celebration! Carnico’s getting taken over by pirates. The Blood Legion’s working with them and Mariana to take over this city. And you brought them here. If the spirits weren’t here in peace, then nothing would stand in their way.”
“You are raving,” she sniffed dismissively. “All ponies are mad, but you seem particularly disturbed.”
“Shaman Desideria, even you have to admit that this is dangerous,” Aleta insisted. “There’re two legions facing each other, and we need Carnico. They are vital to the production of our food. The razorgrass will devour what few fields you have left without them.”
“We do not need Carnico’s food or their poison!” she hissed. “We only need to return to our traditional roots! The old ways are more than sufficient to restore our tribe to greatness.”
But Scotch stopped listening at the word poison. She stared at the booths offering sweets and snacks; the one thing zebras were still doing was eating. And as she did, she heard Maximillian’s voice echoing in her head. ‘Carnico is glad to sponsor this Bacchanalia, and to provide food’ The vast majority of the attendees were poor zebras taking advantage of the free food provided. They weren’t vital workers. They were surplus population, unhealthy and ill-suited for fighting. All they had were numbers. If the Blood Legion occupied Rice River, they’d need to remove that population. That meant…
“It’s poisoned,” she muttered.
“What?” Desideria muttered flatly.
“The food is poisoned!” Scotch said, pointing a hoof at the booths. “In Carnico, Mariana used a three-part poison to wipe out the security staff. Eat one or even two parts and nothing happens, but when all three are eaten it kills the eater. Is there something traditional that’s eaten at the end of Bacchanalia? Only on the third day? Some symbolic something or other?” she asked the baffled Desideria.
“Yes. It’s a special honey cake that symbolizes a rebirth of the–”
“Does everyone eat it at the same time?” Scotch said.
“After the spirits depart, yes.” Desideria furrowed her brows. “Why?”
“And is this ‘honey’ used in anything else?” Scotch asked, her brow also furrowing.
“It’s far too precious. We would never have had enough for this celebration if…” She paused, her eyes widening.
“Has anyone cooking these honey cakes died recently?” Scotch demanded, and now doubt was creeping in on the mare’s doughy face. Then Desideria nodded slowly. “Mariana worked out a deal with the Blood Legion. They get the west side of Rice River, but you’re already dealing with too many mouths to feed. So–” She broke a moment, coughing and taking several breaths before she could go on. “So, Mariana put a special poison in the food. You have to eat all three parts, but once you do, you choke to death. It wouldn’t wipe out everyone, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she told some people not to eat the honey cakes at the end, but enough people would die that the Blood Legion could just hole up here.”
“And Cecilio knew this?” Desideria hissed. The running and talking was really making her chest tight.
“I doubt it. He and Vega brought in the Iron Legion. Plus, Riptide helped Mariana infiltrate and kill Carnico’s security. If Cecilio was in on it, he wouldn’t need to poison his own security. Most of the evidence got blown up when the Riptide shelled that office building,” Scotch said with a wheeze. “I should know. I was inside.”
“I find it hard to believe he knew nothing of this,” Desideria hissed, eyes narrowed.
“Whatever,” Scotch said with a shake of her head. “We need to cancel the Bacchanalia.”
“Cancel!” she gasped, then glared at her. “You idiotic pony, the spirits are here! Some shaman in the crowd invoked them, and they’re expecting two more days of love and joy before departing. They will not be content with one!”
“And once they realize the poisoning plot isn’t going to work, the Blood Legion is going to try to take the city by force. They’re not going to give the Iron Legion two days to get fortified. They’re going to move now! What are the spirits going to do if zebras start killing other zebras on this bridge?” Scotch asked, pointing her hoof at one will-o’-the-wisp that inverted before her eyes. “Look at what they’re doing already!”
“You can see…” Desideria began, then she shook her head hard. “It will never come to that. Haimon assured me that his forces will withdraw when the Irons do. It will never come to violence during Bacchanalia. It can’t!”
“It’s about to,” Scotch said. “What will happen to Rice River if all these spirits are here and everyone starts fighting?”
Desideria tugged at her wooden beads. “The only zebra I know of who dared break the Bacchanalia peace was incinerated where he stood. He burned so fiercely that the ground beneath him melted to glass. A dozen others died with him, including my mother.”
“You want that all over Rice River?” Scotch shook her head. “I know everyone says I’m not supposed to see spirits, but I do. I talked to them. Invited them. I don’t know how I did it, but I did. I don’t want…” she swallowed, fighting the surge of emotion threatening to choke her as her chest started burning again, “I don’t want my actions to kill a lot of people. I don’t want Rice River to burn.”
Desideria stared down at her, as if she were a particularly horrifying and yet fascinating bug in a pony skin. “You don’t? You’re a pony, after all.”
“I’ve got nothing against Rice River,” Scotch declared, grimacing as she rubbed her chest, taking a deep breath and breaking into a hacking cough. Was it her imagination, or was there a hint of concern on Desideria’s face? “There’re some good people here. Sure, you’ve got problems, and some real jerks.” She glowered at the heavy mare, hoping she realized which category she fell into. “But compared to a lot of other places, you’ve got some good things here.” True, she didn’t feel like she fit here anymore, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t home for others. “I don’t want people to die if I can help it, but I’m pretty sure that a lot of people dying is someone else’s plan!”
As Desideria stared at her, Maximillian pushed his way forward. “Desi! What’s going on?” the weedy stallion asked as he pushed back his rabbit mask. “I heard there was a fish monster attacking someone on the bridge.”
“We’re canceling Bacchanalia,” Desideria informed him. “You need to get everyone off the bridge, in case the spirits react with wrath. Then we’ll need to test all the food given to us by Carnico for poison.”
“Poison!” Maximillian yelped. “Cancel? Desi, I know things are tense right now, but really?”
“I need to talk to Haimon. You go talk to Cecilio and whoever is running the Irons once the bridge is cleared. Rice River is neutral. They both need to leave,” she said, pursing her lips together. “When they’re both gone, we’ll see to cleaning our own house.”
Maximillian let out a feeble laugh. “Sure. I’ll just tell everyone they have to go home,” he muttered. “No sweat. I’ll probably need you with me. There won’t be nearly as much argument if you’re there.”
The pair walked towards the stage. Scotch stared at the spirits flickering back and forth.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Scotch Tape?” a mare asked behind her. Errukine approached with a somber expression, her stripes glittering in the dawn’s early light.
“What do you mean?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Rice River is sick. A sickness that runs straight to its root. Its hypocrisy and intolerance have festered for generations. One half exploits the other. The spirits are feared, not respected. Now each side has invited murderers into their city, throwing away whatever vestiges of neutrality they once professed to have. Censure is precisely what they deserve.”
“How can you say that?” gasped Galen.
“Whatever our problems, we don’t–” Aleta said at the same time.
“A doctor must always be honest,” Errukine said as if explaining harsh realities to children. “Rice River’s problems are too tangled and convoluted to be unwound. An example must be made, not just to the Carnilia who have become twisted and have lost their way, but to others as well. They forced you to take the red, my student, just to practice needed medicine,” she said, gesturing at Galen. Then she turned to Aleta. “And you bleed and suffer and are ignored, tilling your soil naturally while the others use poisons and toxins. How fitting that someone now seeks to poison them. An example must be made.”
Scotch gaped at her. “So you want to just let the spirits explode and censure Rice River?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Errukine said with a shake of her head. “But if a zebra insists on thrusting her hoof into a beehive, she has no one to blame but herself when she is rightly stung.”
“This isn’t a bee sting, and most of these zebras aren’t doing the thrusting. If I can do something, I’m going to help people!” Scotch said, glowering at her. The zebras were starting to leave, with most of the food left behind. A few snatched up what hadn’t been eaten, but most simply left it where it was. “It’s what Blackjack would have done.”
“Indeed?” Errukine said with clear disappointment in her golden eyes. “Well, best remember how she ended up.” She looked at the spirits swirling around them. “I do hope you can explain this to the spirits. It should be quite interesting, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I withdraw before you try. I’m not sure they understand Pony.” She tapped her cheek and smiled. “Then again, if you really want to be like your Blackjack, you can simply accept the blame for everything. Then, the censure will only affect you. Truly self-sacrificing. Very noble.”
“That’s insane!” Aleta gasped.
“What’s happened to you, teacher?” Galen asked with a frown.
“A doctor is always honest and gives all the options for care. She can decide her own course of action,” she said with a nod to Scotch. “Will she perform surgery on an unstable patient or let the disease run its course? I’ll be fascinated to learn the results, from afar.”
Errukine departed towards the east. Galen and Aleta stayed with Scotch as Desideria and Maximillian returned. Scotch just gazed at all the spirits around her. Now that the crowd was departing, they appeared more agitated than ever. Desideria stared at the swarm as if it were a hive of bees. “What should I say?” Scotch asked.
“Why do you ask me?” Desideria asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“You’re a real shaman. I didn’t even know what I was doing!” Scotch said.
“Many a shaman’s first and last words,” Desideria stated with poorly concealed pomposity, then looked up. “I have never tried to undo the invocation of a major ritual personally, but I know the principle. It is a delicate renegotiation of contract, where the anger of the spirits must be appeased or redirected. Ideally, the one who invoked them should be the one to break the invocation and to suffer their wrath.”
“So, no mistakes,” Scotch muttered. “Great.”
“It is like one of your pony megaspells, but with passion. A deal will be broken. Censure is the inevitable result. Who is censured is what matters.”
“But I don’t want anyone to be censured!” Scotch insisted.
“Someone must be,” Desideria replied. “If that poisoning had occurred at the end of the festival, when the spiritual energy was at its highest, I fear all Carnilians everywhere would have felt it. We would be as cursed as the Starkatteri.”
The pockety pock of the Whiskey Express announced its arrival as the vehicle pulled up, Precious at the controls. Pythia looked over from the trailer. “My ears were burning,” she said as she smirked at Desideria.
“Where’s Majina?” Scotch asked.
“Odds are she’s with her teacher guy. If not…” Pythia shrugged. “We’ll run into her one way or another.”
“So, what are we doing?” Precious asked the green pony.
Scotch looked at the spirits, then at Pythia as a plan started to come together. “I have an idea.”
* * *
Wind whistled through the abandoned booths, tugging at the crepe paper and hanging lanterns. Uneaten food dried in the rising sun as Scotch stood on the stage in the middle of the bridge, alone. She took in the sounds amidst the eerie calm. The creak of the wood under her hooves. The gurgle of the water below her. The crackle and pop of the bonfires. All around her was the melody of the spirits, their strange music strained as they whirled, every now and then inverting and sounding a harsh, sour note before returning to their beautiful golden state.
The Blood Legion were coming. They marched down the middle of the bridge, flanking one of their enormous steam tanks. To Scotch’s right, the Riptide floated. Had Niuhi reached her mother yet? Would she even remember what that was? At the front of the column of a hundred zebras walked Haimon, proud and confident. Beside him, far less certain, was Desideria.
Behind her approached the Iron Legion and the White Legion, and she was glad to see Vicious and Tchernobog with them. Cecilio and Vega followed safely behind. The rooftops of the eastern shore glittered with gun emplacements. The Iron Legion might be outnumbered, but they refused to be outgunned.
At twenty feet, Haimon raised a hoof, and the soldiers stopped. His dark eyes locked with Scotch’s. “You’re the pony who’s been causing me so much trouble.”
Scotch swallowed, looking at the tank’s cannon and all its spikes. “Don’t you mean ‘us’? I know you’re working with Mariana and Riptide.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his face advertising the exact opposite.
“I want both of you to go. Your plan’s been ruined, Haimon. You leave. The Iron Legion and others leave. The poison plot is over. Desideria and Cecilio can clean house. Nobody loses. Everyone wins. And you stop chasing me.” Scotch stared at him.
Haimon glanced behind her at Adolpha. “You really think the Iron Legion will just go? Just like that?”
“They’d better,” Cecilio said calmly as he regarded the branded mare.
“As long as Carnico remains out of any other Legion’s control, we’ll withdraw,” she said, eying the handsome stallion on the other side of the CEO.
“So that’s it. You go. Bacchanalia finishes. Everyone lives. You can fight somewhere else later. Sounds pretty good to me,” Scotch Tape said, trying to keep her voice steady as the tightness increased in her chest.
“Ah. I have one wrinkle,” Haimon said, and that was when the centaur stepped forward with Majina. The filly was held up by a squirming mass of tentacles that sprouted from the centaur’s shoulder. “If I go, I can’t guarantee what happens to her. My soldiers will be quite upset they couldn’t take part in the festivities.” He closed his eyes. “My counteroffer: you come with us. We let her go. Sounds pretty good to me. We can deal with Rice River another time.”
Majina struggled against one tendril that looped around her muzzle, glaring at the centaur holding her.
Scotch swallowed at the sight of the filly and then looked at Haimon. “Taking my friend hostage?”
“The best kind of hostage,” Haimon answered with a frown. “What do you say, Miss Scotch?”
Scotch took a deep breath, then looked at Majina. “I think that you should try to break free!” she said in Pony. Haimon scowled at her in bafflement. “Struggle. Shake. Hard as you can.”
Majina cocked a brow but then started to thrash against the centaur’s grip. “Knock it off!” he snapped, giving her a tight squeeze and a smack with his normal hand.
That was enough. The golden light coalesced around his hand and tentacles and burst into brilliant flame. He let out a roar of pain, flinging Majina hard away from himself. The filly rolled several times before springing to her feet. “Woo! And so our heroine broke free from her captors, just as the two armies came to a head!” she declared as she rushed to Scotch’s side. “Oh, I can just feel the tension rising!” Scotch stared at her a moment, and the filly asked, “What?” Scotch shook her head, returning her focus to those who’d planned on killing her.
“The bridge is still peacebonded!” Desideria snapped at him. “Bacchanalia’s still in effect!”
“So, that’s why you lured us here, but what about them?” he asked, nodding back behind him at the others.
“Because I want everyone to stop killing,” she said, then looked up at all the agitated spirits. Pythia and Desideria had walked her through the basics, but now was the time to actually do it. She closed her eyes and beseeched, “Spirits, your time here is done. Our festival is ended. For the people of Rice River, I implore, spread your peacebond across the city of Rice River. Let there be a doom curse on every–” Her throat tickled; she froze for a moment, images of what could happen if she coughed and wheezed right now in her head, and rushed to finish. “–zebra and pony who dares violate the peace.”
“What?” Haimon gasped.
“What are you doing?” shouted Adolpha.
“Oh, come on, really?” Vicious snapped.
She opened her eyes to watch the spirits whirl faster and faster, dissolving into a golden fog that spread ever further. Then, with a flash of golden light, the cloud swept out into the east and west halves of the city. The dust fell on everyone, and given that Haimon was looking at the dust settling on himself, it was visible to everyone that she’d done something. When the glow faded, the air was clear, the spirits gone.
“You,” Haimon breathed. “He was right about you. You are a meddler.”
“Who was right about me?” Scotch asked. “Whoever gave you that stupid prophecy?”
“Clearly we’re going to have to track you down elsewhere, but you’re quite mistaken if you think we’re leaving.” His eyes fixed on Adolpha. “Eventually this effect will fade, or be broken. When it is, we’ll finish this once and for all.”
“Also,” the centaur rumbled as he drew his rifle from behind his back. “I’m not a pony.”
“Oh, horseapples!” Scotch gasped as she turned to run, but purple tentacles shot out, seizing her hoof and reeling her back towards him.
“Glad to see I didn’t go all shiny!” he said, grabbing her by the hindhoof and pulling her back towards him. Vicious lunged at him, swords drawn, but as she raised them to strike, a golden aura gripped her; she convulsed, lightning rolling over her body. No one could help her! One mistake. One tiny misspeak. He pulled her close and pointed the gun at her face. “Finally!”
Bullets rained down on them as Skylord dove out of the sun towards the pair. “Guess who else isn’t a pony!” he shrieked, driving the centaur back. One or two rounds bit into his flank, but they seemed fairly superficial. Scotch hooked her hooves on a booth and held on, forcing the centaur to drag it along with her as Skylord banked around, strafing him. He released her, raising his gun to track the wheeling griffon as Scotch struggled to get away.
Then the Riptide fired.
It was the second time she’d been shelled that day, and the impact sent everyone running and shouting in a mass bedlam. The explosion rained down chunks of masonry upon them as the Riptide’s gun wreaked havoc on the bridge. One of the massive statues collapsed into the water with a colossal splash.
Then the bridge started to come apart.
Both sides fled in their appropriate directions, the Blood west and Iron east as the cannon roared again and again, blasting the thick stone buttresses and arches. Scotch started to run, but a mass of purple tentacles snatched her hooves out from under her, hauling her back towards the vengeful bounty hunter.
But then Gāng made an appearance. The massive zebra emerged from one of the booths faster than a stallion of his bulk should have been able to move and interposed himself between Scotch and the centaur. The bounty hunter’s weapon barked, but Gāng simply grunted as he picked up Scotch with one leg, holding her close, and began to race west. The centaur, still holding Scotch, was dragged along helplessly. Any Blood Legion member in his path was bowled over with a mumbled, “Excuse me.” Two more cannon shots, this time towards the east half of the bridge, detonated, and the central span collapsed into the muddy water.
“Excuse. Excuse,” Gāng repeated as the cobbles threatened to give way, with Majina running beside him echoing his chant and stepping on the purple tentacles. The ground fell out under the centaur, and his tentacles finally slipped free, dropping him into the river with a shout. Gāng carried her all the way to the west plaza, where chaos reigned. The steam tank squealed as the bridge gave way, flipping it backwards into the water.
Then the river erupted in a fountain of its own. Distant booms followed the impact as, beyond the city limits, the Iron Legion’s rail artillery returned fire. The shells came crashing down closer and closer to the ship as the guns refined their aim. Then the turret erupted in flame and smoke as it was hit. Alarms whooped from loudspeakers on the boat, and the water behind it thrashed as it pulled backwards away from the chaos of the bridge.
Gāng got her behind Galen’s building before he finally collapsed. “Teacher!” Majina cried out, tears shimmering in her eyes as she rushed to him. “No! You can’t die! You can’t… I mean, I totally expected you would, because this always happens to your archetype, but I hoped we’d have a few more training montages together!” She fell upon him. “You still need to tell me I’m like the daughter you never had, so I can promise to take over your dojo and teach your sacred martial art techniques and–”
“I’m not dead,” Gāng grumbled, his back bloody. “I’ve just been shot,” he snapped, brows furrowing. “And the dojo’s rented!” he added, irritably.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry. Jumping the gun. But I was right about the like a daughter thing, right? Maybe you have a few more secret techniques or something to teach me?” she asked sheepishly as Galen examined the wound.
“That might be premature,” the doctor said gravely. “We’re going to need to get this treated. That round penetrated deep.”
Majina’s eyes went round. “Oh. Well… goodbye, Teacher. Don’t die. Unless you’re about to give a dramatic farewell sure to leave the audience in tears.” She clasped her hooves together, biting her bottom lip a second before blurting, “Actually, no, don’t die anyway!”
“Zencori,” Gāng muttered, but he gave a small smile. “You handled that fall very well.” Majina stared for a moment, then beamed almost luminously before lunging in and hugging him. “Ow,” he muttered.
Then he was being escorted away by Galen and Aleta. “We should go,” Pythia said. “It won’t be long before the Legion are after us.”
They all climbed into the Whiskey Express’s trailer, and with a pockety pock they were on their way out of town. As they crossed over the bridge they’d entered on, there was a golden flash. Then a shadow passed overhead, and Skylord landed next to them.
“What are you doing here?” Scotch asked. “I thought your assignment was over?”
“The colonel thinks that you’re a valuable asset, so she wants me to keep being your bodyguard,” he said with a groan. “The things you do for loyalty.” With a sigh, he flopped back against a sack.
“Get off of me!” the sack screamed.
With alarm, he got off and then carefully cut the sack open. A yellow unicorn’s head with a tangled blue mane and bloodshot eyes popped out. They locked on Scotch, then narrowed with a gasp. “You!”
“Charity?!” Scotch gasped. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
Charity lunged at Scotch, and they collapsed on top of the supplies. “I’m gonna sue you! Those zebras! Everyone!” she bellowed as she tried to throttle Scotch.
Majina turned to Precious and said brightly, “Look, the gang’s all here! We can have ourselves a proper adventure now!”
“We need to turn this contraption around, now! Right now!” Charity snapped, thrusting a hoof behind them as the Whiskey Express chuff-chuffed its way south along the concrete road. She stared, eyelid twitching. “Do you understand what I am saying? The way we need to be going is the way opposite from the one on which we are headed!” The tractor continued rolling merrily along the fragmented concrete freeway. Having all four lanes to itself made navigating the abandoned steam tractor hulks easy enough for Precious to manage with one eye closed and a single hand on the steering wheel. “I am going to start charging you a five bottlecap tax per mile!” the yellow unicorn filly demanded imperiously.
Scotch ignored her. Since they’d left, they’d been hounded by the Blood Legion. Fortunately, the Whiskey Express was faster than their larger, heavier tractors, but she could still see the dirty plumes of their coal-fired engines behind them. They’d have to pull far enough away that their own exhaust wouldn’t be visible–
Charity gripped her, her pupils tiny as her eyes were wide. “Are you listening to me? Why aren’t you listening to me?” she asked, shaking her. “We need to be going… which way is Equestria? West? West! Whichever way is west is where we need to be going! So unless this way is west, we need to be going another way!” Charity babbled on. “Or back to the sea and we can find a boat or something. Or I can find a boat!”
Majina pulled Charity off Scotch. “Hey, let her go!” The pair flopped back on their carefully stowed supplies. “Can’t you see she’s sick?”
“She had a building dropped on her,” Pythia said tersely as she stared out at the grass.
Charity yanked her head out of Majina’s grip, staring at Scotch like she was diseased. “Oh Goddesses, you are following in Blackjack’s hoofsteps, aren’t you?” She stared at the road as if calculating just how many bones she’d break if she jumped out right then.
“Does it ever stop talking?” Skylord shouted at Scotch as he kept pace, flying besides the tractor and keeping watch ahead. “Ever?”
“Eventually,” Scotch Tape answered, rubbing her aching chest. She felt hot, despite the cool wind blowing through her mane.
“And you’re sure we need it?” Skylord asked, glancing back at Charity. “All it does it babble.”
“She’s a friend. Kind of. I might owe her money,” Scotch Tape replied, and Skylord just groaned and rolled his eyes.
“Charity, I’m not sure an Atoli would agree to take you–” Majina began, reasonably.
“What the heck is an ‘Atoli’? I’ll just tell a zebra to take me back on their boat and pay them something shiny when I get back,” Charity said matter-of-factly. “But only if we’re not going away from the ocean!”
“No, I mean that with how far it is and the risks involved, none of them would be willing to take you–”
“Everyone has her price,” Charity countered. “You just have to offer a big enough number and people will do anything.” She thrust a hoof at Skylord. “You! I will pay you a thousand caps for you to take me to a boat back to Equestria, payment in full on arrival.”
“It’s talking as if it wants something from me,” Skylord muttered. “Can I eat it?”
Scotch wondered a moment just what price a pound of Charity would run before she mentally smacked herself… lightly. “No. Probably not.”
“Skylord doesn’t speak Pony,” Majina told her. “Most people here don’t.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” Charity asked, then shouted at Skylord, still in Pony, “Do. You. Want. Gold? Take! Me! Home!” She paused and dug around in Majina’s bag for a gold imperio and grinned widely. “Let me borrow this at negative interest, okay?”
“It’s… propositioning me?” Skylord asked, and then yelled back, “I. Am. Not. That. Kind. Of. Griffon!”
“See! We have communication. Everyone speaks Pony so long as you say it slowly and clearly.” Majina shut down, clearly stumped by ‘Charity logic’.
Scotch shook her head. “He’s not. How did you even get here?” Scotch asked as the filly started to put the coin in a saddlebag she didn’t have before reluctantly returning it to Majina.
“Well, the day you four left, the Hoof seemed to become the number one tourist destination for zebras,” Charity said. “Not your usual, normal stripes. No, these guys could barely talk sensible Pony. I even had some prints made. Made four caps on each. They were all interested in what happened. Where’d the city go? What had made the ‘evil city of evilness’ go away? And so I told them all about Blackjack and you. At a modest fee, of course,” she added.
“So how’d you get here?” Scotch repeated, brows furrowed. Pythia listened intently, as if hanging on every word.
“I’m getting to it! Some zebras approached me. Said they needed a big diamond for something, and that if I could get it to the zebra lands, we’d be rich,” she said, and then added, “Of course I asked for half payment up front, and I got it. More gold than I’d ever seen. Bars of the stuff. And I don’t care if we use bottle caps now, eventually Equestria’s going back to a gold standard and I want to be ready!” She rubbed her hooves together. “I had it all worked out. Get some alicorns, and I’d buy gems cheaply here, teleport and sell them to the zebras high, and find something worthwhile there and bring it back. I’d make a fortune!
“After that, it was just a matter of getting the diamond, getting purple and green alicorns with an entrepreneurial spirit, and I was set to launch my bold new enterprise. ‘Charity Transportation’,” she said, spreading her hooves wide, her eyes shimmering with avaricious vision. “And underneath it ‘For a modest fee’. ‘Cause I ain’t a Charity,” she added, pursing her lips a moment as she eyed them. “And it worked. One of the greens did some of their freaky mind magic, and poof. Off we went.”
“And you came along why?” Scotch asked.
“Well, I didn’t want those nine to take my payment and stay in the zebra lands. Apparently there’s a whole section of that town back there for freaks like them. Besides, I needed to check the markets, and the zebras asked. Wanted to meet me in person. Said they were impressed at how I pulled it all together.” Her smile faded. “But when we appeared, we were surrounded by zebras. Not the ones I’d done business with. The alicorns had used all their magic teleporting us across the world. They were just too slow getting a shield up. The zebras knew when and where we’d appear. They shot Lightbulb, the purple, ten seconds after we materialized. One they kept alive ‘as an example for the bridge’. The rest,” she swallowed and scowled, hugging herself tightly. “They said I was your friend and that I’d be a good hostage. They forced me to drink something and wrapped me up. Next thing I know I’m with all of you,” she finished, glancing around before pointing a hoof at Scotch Tape. “If all this isn’t somehow Blackjack’s fault, I’ll eat my mane.” She glared at them. “How’d all of you get here anyway? We’d pretty much written you off for dead.”
Majina inhaled, when Scotch cut in flatly, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is there’s a whole bunch of kill-crazy jerks that are after me. If they think you’re my friend, they’re after you too.” Majina hissed through her teeth like a viper glaring furiously at Scotch.
“Sweet!” Precious shouted over her shoulder. “Someone take the wheel. I got the perfect plan! We beat up Charity and throw her off the trailer. They won’t think she’s our friend, and we won’t have to listen to her whine, and she can limp back to the town that’s full of kill-crazy jerks and ask the pirate to take her back home and trust that she doesn’t feed you to her shark-monster daughter!”
“What?” Charity shouted in alarm, flailing a hoof at them. “That’s a horrible plan. I’m charging you fifty bits for horrible plan making!”
Precious beamed back at her, an egregiously self-satisfied grin on her muzzle. “Good luck collecting.”
Charity glared back, “I’ll just deduct it from your ‘hoard’ when we get back.”
Precious’s eyes popped wide in shock at the threat of such a thing. “You wouldn’t!” she gasped, then glowered down at the steering wheel. “Of course you would.”
They nearly ploughed into a rusted wreck, and Skylord grabbed the wheel, jerking on it and steering them away from the hulk. “Eyes on the road, lizard!” he snapped.
“Don’t call me a lizard, you turkey… cat… thing!” Precious countered, snatching the wheel back from him and returning her eyes to the road. “Heh, turkeycat. That’s a good one!”
Charity pressed her hooves into her face, the yellow unicorn groaning and rocking a little as Majina gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t really get bad till we run into a megaspell.”
* * *
The great thing about the open plains was they could see for miles. The problem was that anyone else with the slightest elevation would be able to see them, too. Sure, they weren’t waving a ‘Blood Legion sucks!’ flag above them, but mentally noting the prime sniping positions afforded by every silo that loomed on the edge of the road made her cringe. They waited till dark, when it would be impossible to see the smoke from the stack, before finding a place to crash. They found one singular, monolithic silo with a concrete skirt that kept the razorgrass at bay before making camp behind it.
Then Scotch got busy dying.
Her brow burned with fever as she coughed again and again, trying to suck in air which never quite reached her lungs. She coughed and coughed again, and yet nothing came up. They didn’t dare risk a fire, so Scotch curled up next to the still-hot boiler for warmth. Majina tried to make razorgrass tea, but it tasted vile and did nothing to help her raking hacks. She curled up in a blanket, and tried to choke quietly, not sure what could be lurking in the night.
Charity climbed up and plopped down next to her. “This sucks,” she said as she stared off at the moon rising above the horizon, transforming the razorgrass into shadowy fur and the distant silos into gleaming tombstones. “I had everything worked out. It was perfect. It was my chance. Now I’m stuck here. I don’t speak the language, and worse, I don’t know the money.”
“I can barely breathe, so assume I’m just agreeing sympathetically,” Scotch whispered, coughing again.
“Right,” Charity said with a twist of her lips, barely visible in the moonlight. “If we were home, we could just go to Tenpony, work out a deal, and get your lungs magically healed up. Here…” she sighed, glaring at the grass. “Another fucking Wasteland.”
“Different kind of Wasteland,” she wheezed, rubbing her chest. “Are you really going to lose your shop?”
“Maybe,” Charity said with a scowl. “Probably. That was always a risk, but there was something I could do about it. Shoot a raider. Make a deal. Here there’s nothing I can do.” She slumped a little. “I figure my employees will sit around a few months and either rob me blind or take over. Fifty-fifty chance.”
“Well, you have us,” Scotch said.
“No offense, but if you’re anything like Blackjack, I don’t want to be anywhere near you,” Charity said and then looked back at the moon and sighed. “Not like I have a choice. I can’t even ask where the bathroom is.” She then gave Scotch the smallest of smiles. “Incidentally, thanks. For the toilets back in Chapel, I mean. You never realize what you have till you have to go poop in that grass stuff.”
Scotch returned her smile, but it soon disappeared. “You think Blackjack was wrong? Doing what she did?”
Charity pursed her lips. “I’m glad it was her and not me,” she admitted. “I don’t like being in anypony’s debt. Not even a dead mare’s.” She shook her head. “I’m just a business filly. That’s who I am. I don’t want to be wandering the Wasteland. Any Wasteland. I worked my tail off trying to keep it away from me.”
Scotch gave a little smile. “You know, helping me out, maybe you could look at it as paying Blackjack back?”
Charity snorted. “Don’t play head games with me, Scotch. You’re not good at it,” she sighed, “but I’ll play along. Risk is a part of opportunity. I’ll find a way to get back to Equestria, get my business back, and extract payment from everyone that had the guts to take my merchandise in caps and thumps to the chops. And if you’re smart, you’ll come with me.” She poked Scotch’s shoulder with a hoof. “Don’t be like Blackjack. Don’t let the Wasteland eat another hero. Seeing heroes die sucks.”
“I know. I wish I was there though. At the end,” Scotch muttered, then broke into another fit of coughing.
“You didn’t miss much,” came a voice from the dark. Pythia walked up and sat down on the other side of Scotch. “Basically just a train ride through the tunnels and a giant zebra monster at the end. I’m pretty sure if you had, you’d either have died and then Blackjack would have lost to the guilt, or you’d kick yourself for not going the last meter with her and thinking you could have saved her if you did.”
“Thanks,” Scotch rasped, slumping against the warm metal. “Are you going to tell me I’m fat too?”
“She knows. I already told her,” Skylord quipped from where he and Precious were trying to cook something meaty on a skewer with little puffs of flame. Scotch flushed; she’d slipped back to speaking Zebra to Pythia. Fortunately, not all her friends had noticed. Majina was doing some sort of funky dance thing that involved waving her hooves around and standing on one hind leg.
Pythia actually smiled dimly. “I was looking at the map, and–”
“Mind speaking something other than ooga booga?” Charity asked.
So much for that smile. “I was looking at the map, and–”
“How can you look at anything? It’s pitch black!” Charity complained.
Pythia glared at her. “Starlight,” she replied tersely. “As I was saying, I was looking at the map, and–”
“It’s not going to do us much good if we can’t see it.”
“You want to see?” she asked, then walked around and threw her cloak over Charity’s head. “Now light up that horn.” Charity’s horn illuminated a tiny patch of golden light, the rest captured by the hood. Pythia pushed the atlas into the pocket of light.
Scotch twisted her head to see it straight. There, at the top, was Rice River. Oddly, the community was marked with a small circle that read ‘small city’. An even larger one was on the coast at the mouth called Port Rice, but it looked as if twenty or thirty miles of coastland had been filled in carefully with blue crayon. Scotch remembered the vortex megaspell; that could definitely sweep any city into the sea. Rice River ran in a slight arc that bowed eastward before sliding off to the south east. An intricate webbing of roads and irrigation canals in black and blue bisected the green. “Where is Irontown?” Scotch asked, not seeing it on the page.
Pythia flipped two more pages over, following the southward flow of Rice River to a page where it forked. ‘Quiver Pass’ was neatly scratched out and ‘Irontown’ written over the name. The solid green was now filled with brown fingers that she worked out were supposed to represent mountains. Then Scotch saw the problem. “We’re on the wrong side of the river.”
“Yup. We’re on the west side here, and need to get to the east side,” Pythia said. “Problem is that there aren’t many bridges, and a river as big and wild as this isn’t something you can cross easily.” She flipped back a page. “There’s one crossing here, but it’s marked with a major Blood Legion camp.” She tapped where a major highway crossed the river, and a bright red glyph on the page. “And one up here,” she said, pointing to a crossing further north. An orange glyph warned of ‘hazard’ and ‘Shockwave’. A large lake was to the south of it, so perhaps it was a dam, instead of a bridge.
“That’s a long way,” Charity muttered, scowling at the map.
“Yeah. Three weeks if we’re lucky,” she said. “We’ll have to zig zag back and forth on these back roads to avoid running across a Blood Legion patrol. Skylord said they don’t have much in the way of radio, but if they nail us down, we’re dead.”
“And what if we can’t get across the river?” Scotch asked.
“We get to take nine extra pages to make it to Roam.” Pythia flipped over to a zoomed out page that showed a quarter of the continent and Scotch Tape gaped in astonishment as she realized one quarter was two thousand ‘kilometers’. Her brain did the math and… holy horseapples, that was more than a thousand miles! In the upper right corner was Rice River; she only identified it by the river, the town itself was too small to show up on this map.
They were on a plain that was hundreds of square miles. Maybe thousands. She spotted the split in the river that was where Irontown was halfway down the right side. A massive swath of green curled westward from Rice River, with a half dozen tributaries curving west like feathers on a wing. These fed into long valleys between thin mountain ranges sandwiched between the colossal mountains in the center of the continent and a sizable coastal range. She spotted the swamplands where they’d arrived; clearly they’d gotten lucky landing where they did. The swamps went on for hundreds of miles as well. A dozen cities were marked across the region, and she could only wonder if they would have to go around them, or through.
Pythia tapped a road halfway across the bottom of the page threading its way through the western edge of that immense mountain range. “That’s the halfway point. Only, oh, fifteen hundred miles from here.”
The thing that really gets people is the size of this place. Scotch was starting to grasp exactly what Vicious was talking about. “We’re going to need more supplies,” she said, looking out at the grass. The vast nothingness seemed to peer into her. For an instant she thought she could hear it. A dry, dusty chuckle.
“Well, it looks like the Blood Legion is going to help us out with that,” Pythia said as she went back to the regional map. “There’s places marked where the Blood Legion has stashed supplies. We can hit their caches and see what we can pick up.”
“And it’s not like we can’t salvage on the way, too,” Charity said. “Just risky.”
Risky to stop. Risky to keep going. What had Charity said? Risk was always a part of opportunity? “I guess we don’t have a choice.”
She heard dry cards shuffling in her ear, reminding her she actually did have a choice. Stop. Find a quiet place and play shaman, or a quiet life. All she had to do was give up. Trouble was she couldn’t give up. Blackjack never gave up.
The dry chuckle made her look around sharply, but there was nothing but the moonlit strands.
“I’ll take inventory in the morning,” Charity yawned. “I need some sleep.” She trudged away, moving to the other side of the Whiskey Express where she could also lean again the warm boiler.
Scotch coughed and then turned to Pythia as she packed up the map. “I need to ask you about spirit stuff,” she rattled, breaking into another fit of coughing.
“Later,” Pythia said as she rose to her hooves. “You’re sick. Rest. The spirits aren’t going anywhere,” she said as she trotted away.
Scotch wanted to deny it, but gave in. As she lay there, she stared at the grass gently swaying in the night breeze. A dark gap opened in the dark strands, and she stared into it, sure something lay within, till she finally drifted off to sleep.
* * *
“Do you think they saw us?” Precious asked with glee, boxes and crates flying through the air as the flimsy Blood Legion blockade was handily demolished by the steam tractor’s passage. A few shots rang out behind them. The dragonfilly clenched the wheel, refusing to let it slip as they barreled down the two lane road. The entire farmland was covered with a spiderweb of thoroughfares, ranging from a major four lane concrete beast of an arterial road down to little raised trails wide enough for only a single steam tractor. One thing was clear: the zebras sure loved to use concrete for their roads. It was the only thing keeping the razorgrass at bay.
While Scotch was sure Precious would have loved to use the really big roads, which were wide enough that she could drive all out, there was simply too great a chance they’d run afoul of a patrol. That meant taking slower side roads where they might run across a wreck blocking the way. Still, the Blood Legion patrols were fewer and smaller, on the lookout for great big legion threats and not a half dozen youngsters tearing down the road.
Scotch wanted to drive herself, but her brow burned with fever and it hurt to breathe. Her every attempt to engage Pythia on anything related to spirits had been rebuffed with comments about checking the map and making sure they were on course. So instead she clicked on her PipBuck’s radio. The legions had their own broadcasts, and Scotch Tape cycled through the various bands. Sometimes they changed frequency, but it wasn’t that hard to find them again. It seemed most of the legions had lost digital encryption technology, and so relied on a variety of codes. She suspected a few were taken from other languages, because once she’d picked up a broadcast of some distant legion chatting in heavily-accented Pony!
“…blood is life! Blood is strength! Blood is unity! We are united by our common blood, and that bond makes us strong!” came over the radio. Looked like it was propaganda hour in the Blood Legion. “That is why a purge of weak and corrupted blood is needed. Those who cannot achieve success, like Major Haimon, must be bled as an example to all!”
“Wait, does that mean that Major Haimon achieves success or cannot achieve success?” Pythia asked with a frown.
“I think it means the Blood Legion is up to another purge,” Skylord said with a disdainful sniff. “They’re overdue.”
“What’s that mean?” Scotch asked. The propaganda piece continued, slamming ‘weak blood’ in the leadership for failures against the Iron and Gold legions. Charity’s ears perked up at the Zebra word for gold. She’d picked up that much, at least.
“It means that when the population is too high and they can’t squeeze enough food from tribute and extortion, their general starts demanding their officers to take stupider risks against the other legions. If the raids work, more food and tribute. If the raids fail, then it’s fewer mouths to feed.”
“That’s horrible,” Scotch said, shaking her head as they puttered along an irrigation canal. Rusting pumps punctuated the levee with rusty bulges rising like sentries from the grass.
“Yeah, because the Bloods just breed more till they get to the next crisis. Every dozen or so years they collapse, tear each other apart, and eat each other, then after a while the strongest or luckiest left takes charge and kicks them back into shape,” Skylord said with a sniff. “Blood Legion is terrifying because of their numbers, but that’s it. They’ve got no artillery, and the only steam tanks they have are whatever they can steal from other legions. They’re constantly under supplied and undertrained, but they outnumber the enemy ten to one and they’ve always got reserves.” Skylord folded his arms behind his head. “I’m glad we thwarted them at Rice River.”
“Only when we have blood as strong as our General Sanguinus will we have what our legion rightfully deserves. We will sweep in and free the slaves from Irontown, and deliver from bondage the communities forced to deliver tribute to the Golden Legion. We will take control of the Fire Legion and restore our Empire as commanded by our glorious last Caesar!” She switched off the radio, not interested in hearing more about blood and strength.
Skylord gave a dismissive ‘tch’. “They’re not slaves! They’re conscripts. Ten years in the iron and coal mines and they get to leave. We feed them and everything.”
“And how many make it to the end of those ten years?” Precious challenged.
“More than would make it if we let them starve,” Skylord retorted. “And if we didn’t do it, then the Blood Legion would. They use slaves, and don’t care how many of them die.” He gave a shrug. “Most just join up with the Iron Legion anyway. Better meals you can count on than dying free.”
Scotch just shook her head at that logic. “Is that what happened to you?” she asked, glancing back at him. He scowled at her. “Were you forced to work for them, and just signed up?”
Skylord gave another little ‘tch’ at that. “I joined the Iron Legions because Colonel Adolpha didn’t give a damn about my age. I wanted to join up, and she was willing to take me.”
“I feel my story senses tingling!” Majina said brightly. “Why’d you want to join up?”
“To avoid having to tell stories to annoying zebras that want to poke their noses into my past,” Skylord countered.
“Oh, come on. I’m glad you’re with us, but we don’t know anything about you. What’s your favorite color?” Majina asked.
“Gray.”
“Your favorite food?”
“Zebras. The talky kind are extra tasty.”
“Where are you from?”
“Griffonstone,” he said. “It’s right next to Griffonrock, which is up the Griffonstream, which is in the middle of Griffonland.”
“Wait,” Charity said sharply. “I understood that word. That’s an actual place, isn’t it? I read about it in a book.”
Majina pounced, her face lighting up in delight. “Ohh, really? What’s it like? Is it an actual city of just griffons?” she asked, then balked. “Or was it balefired? Or megaspelled?”
“Please tell me none of the rest of you are interested in this,” Skylord muttered.
“I am interested in anything that’s not boring,” Precious said, slowing down a little to hear.
“Is someone going to translate this for me? I heard griffons are rolling in the caps,” Charity offered.
“I’d like to hear it,” Scotch assured him.
“Couldn’t care less,” Pythia said with a dismissive wave of her hoof as she studied the atlas. “But they’re going to keep being annoying till you answer them.”
Skylord gave another ‘tch’ before surrendering. “Fine. Yes, it’s an actual place. It’s on the western edge of the zebra lands, just a short flight from the pony lands. No, it wasn’t balefired or megaspelled. No one would ever waste either on that piece of crap. And I left because every griffon who can gets out of there.”
“Why?” Majina asked. “It can’t be any worse than anywhere else in the Wastelands.”
“Everywhere else in the Wasteland usually isn’t full of griffons,” he countered. “Not sure if you noticed, but we’re not exactly pleasant. We don’t even like each other all that much. The only reason anyone goes to Griffonstone is to find someone to have a kid with, and the only reason anyone stays is because they’re too scared to leave.”
“How’d the griffons even get dragged into the war?” Scotch asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” Skylord asked. “Look, before the war you had zebras making their super empire and ponies making their mega-realm. Know what happened to everyone who didn’t have four hooves and a mark on their butt? Diddly squat. Zip. We were a mean, nasty, bully race that didn’t get a piece of the pie. But when the war broke out, suddenly we were all in high demand. We could fly. We had the claws and beaks and most importantly, we had the killer attitude.
“A pair of griffons, Gilda and Greta, came up with the scheme. If the zebras and ponies wanted to use us, then we’d make them pay out the nose for our services. We made our contracts and offered our services, and charged them both out the ass. One rule was that we wouldn’t be forced to kill each other. Oh, we’d fight. We’d do that anyway with each other, but we could usually stop short and let the loser run. And we raked in the money. Got ourselves power armor. Weapons. Power and respect. Things we never had before the war.”
“So what happened?”
“War ended. Ponies were blown up, zebras that the ponies didn’t get tore each other to pieces, and there we were with some of the best materiel and fighting units of the war. We could have taken over the world. Maybe. Greta said griffons could save the world. Problem was, though, that in twenty years one fundamental fact hadn’t changed.”
“What?” Majina asked, breathlessly.
“Griffons are jerks,” Pythia answered, not looking up.
Skylord gave a sage nod. “Yep. We’re jerks. To everyone. Especially to each other. Worse, Gilda and Greta had both disappeared. Gilda went to settle a score with some pony. Greta ordered us to take care of our own, and took off to who knew where. So much for our leadership. Not that there weren’t some morons that challenged their ideas. This one idiot named Gabby spouted some ‘better way’ garbage, and got run out of Griffonstone. Then we broke up into bands of talons and just kept doing what we’d done during the war: fighting for whomever paid us. That’s all we are. I’m pretty sure it’s all we’ll ever be.”
“Don’t you find it sad?” Majina asked. “I mean… you could be…”
“Be what? Like zebras? With all your tribe and legion and spirit nonsense? Like ponies? Oh so much better than everyone else? Forget it. We’re neither. We are what we are, and near as I can tell, we are what we’re supposed to be.”
“So… what’s your contract with Adolpha?” Precious asked. “Isn’t that how griffons do things?”
“That’s between Adolpha and me,” Skylord replied.
“I swear, I am going to get backstory out of you if I have to beat you with a stick,” Majina swore.
“Look, all you have to know is that she ordered me to accompany you. That’s it. That’s all I’m going to do,” he answered. “There is no story. She thinks you’re useful. The second she realizes you’re not and orders me out of here, I’m gone.”
Scotch frowned as she thought about that. He didn’t say he’d been ordered to protect them or anything. Accompany. And was he loyal to Adolpha or the Iron Legion?
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Precious stated solemnly before smirking at him. “Griffons really are jerks!”
“One of you figured it out. Finally,” he snorted.
“Will someone please stop talking in gibberish and tell me what’s going on?” Charity pleaded.
* * *
“Okay, so let me get this straight.” Charity fixed Pythia with a frown. “The mendy ones use healy stuff for money, but the legions use bullets for money, but the Propros use technology as money, so how many bullets for a battery? Is there an exchange rate or is it just barter? Please tell me it’s not just barter! Crappy as caps might be they’re at least–”
“Pit stop!” Precious called out as she turned the Wiskey Express off the main road, and immediately everyone let out a mutter of relief. They’d stopped at something called ‘Stop and Shop’, a huge tangle of tractor wrecks clustered around some sort of retail building. The rusty icon of an enormous grinning zebra stallion framed by four stars lifting a hoofful of coins leered down through streaks of reddish brown. Someone had used it for target practice. Razorgrass grew in tangled protrusions all over the place, but there were so many huge steam tractors Scotch thought they could take a safe break here.
‘Cause she sure needed one after a day of Charity grilling them about money in the zebralands.
“There should be a cache somewhere around here, according to the map,” Pythia stated firmly. “We should try and find it. We also need coal and clean water, so keep your eyes peeled for both.”
“But wait! I’ve almost got this.” Charity consulted a scrap of paper. “So the Aioli use fish for money. The Carnies food. The whatit use… wait, is that the Rora or the…” She trailed off and Pythia jumped from the trailer as well. “Hey! This is important! I’m trying to work out the exact exchange ratio between imperios, fish, and food!”
“And it’s whining again,” Skylord muttered. “That’s my cue to take a patrol.” He launched himself into the air, and Precious watched him go.
“Engh! Wings! Why couldn’t I have wings too,” Precious grumbled and then jumped off the Whiskey Express. “I’ll check around the back of the building building. Watch the grass.” And then she was gone, slipping out between the clumps that pushed up through gaps in the concrete.
“To you,” Pythia said as Majina started to climb out after her, then she pushed Majina back into the wagon. “Oh no, you brought her. You get to teach her about the Carnies and the Roras.”
“But–” Majina began with a pained whine.
“No buts. Someone needs to stay with the Whiskey Express anyway while we look around,” she said, and then extended a hoof the help Scotch out of the trailer. Her chest throbbed and her brow was damp with sweat. It’d been three days since leaving Rice River and her PipBuck still showed her chest as crippled, even after using healing potions.
“But Scotch–” Majina began.
“Could use a walk,” Pythia finished, then looked to the young mare, “Right?” Scotch simply nodded. “Besides, if the cache on the map is locked, I’ll need her to pick it.” Majina chewed her lip, watching the pair start away.
“Hey, get back here. I need to work out how many shiny beads it’ll take to buy one of these cities!” Charity demanded as the pair walked away.
“Thanks,” Scotch wheezed.
“Don’t. If I had to listen to her whine a second more…” But she shook her head. “I think you’ve got something like pneumonia.”
“When did you learn about medicine?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“Just the basics,” she said as she lowered her head and pressed her ear to Scotch’s chest. “Breathe deep.” Scotch tried to oblige her, but again broke into a fit of coughing. “It sounds like your lungs are full of gravel.” She looked gravely at her, “I think that you breathed in too much dust and crap when that building fell on you. It’s deep in your lungs. Too deep to just cough out on your own. And since it’s dust, healing potions won’t handle it like a normal disease or injury.”
“I’ve had problems with my lungs before,” Scotch said as she rubbing the faded scar on her chest. “Maybe… a replacement? Shaman magic? You can do that, right? Like Tchernobog?”
Pythia didn’t speak, just giving Scotch a long look. She stopped in the cover of one of the huge, empty trailers and hopped inside. “Okay. We can do it here.”
“Do what?” Scotch asked. Could Pythia really fix–
“Have that talk that I don’t want to have with you,” she said as she took a seat. “About teaching you how to be a shaman, shaman magic, and all the shamany things you want to ask me.” Scotch gaped at her with a growing smile. She was finally going to teach her everything she needed to know? Of course she was! Pythia was the zebra who knew things! She stared solemnly at Scotch when she announced, “I’m not going to teach you.”
“What?” Scotch gaped at her, feeling as if she’d been smacked across the face with a board. Was this Pythia’s idea of a joke? “Why? You can, right?”
“Sure. I know the circles to make. The names to invoke. What bones to rattle and chickens to shake. I know how to make the deal. And I’m not going to teach you any of it,” she said flatly and sighed, “And now you get upset.”
“Of course I’m upset!” Scotch snapped, screwing her face up as she tried to process this, trying to keep her voice steady as her chest throbbed. “Is it because you don’t trust me or you think I’m lying about seeing spirits?” Scotch asked around bouts of heavy wheezing. Pythia seemed to be waiting, “Or because I’m a pony?”
That earned a scornful little ‘tch’ from Pythia before she answered. “It’s because I’m not a shaman,” Pythia replied evenly.
Scotch didn’t have the breath to argue. “Explain,” she said, sitting down hard.
“Being a shaman isn’t a good thing. Some people might think it’s like sprouting a unicorn horn atop their head, and suddenly you have special powers. It isn’t. Being a shaman is being cursed. Your life gets smashed between two worlds, with one half wanting things because of what you can do, and the other half twisting your mind, body, and soul to placate the others,” she said evenly. “You remember Niuhi? The filly that tried to eat you?” Scotch nodded. “What happened to her isn’t unusual. Shamans frequently draw on spirits for extra strength, speed, wits. Only you aren’t taking favors. It’s a trade. Sometimes it’s something small that you won’t even miss, maybe even something you’ll get back if you make the right moves, the right deal. But it’s so often a lot more than that, and those are for keeps. And every time you trade something of yourself away, it seems that much less of an ask the next time you do it. Surprise surprise when one day they’ve changed into something else.”
“So I won’t do that,” Scotch countered.
“No? Not even to fix your lungs? Or how about if one of us is hurt? Or dying? Can you honestly say you wouldn’t ‘give a little’ of yourself to help us?” Pythia asked, making Scotch look away. “There’s a line for shamans. You can’t see it. You’ll never know how close you are to it, but the second you cross it, you’re changed forever. But if the change doesn’t kill you, you get used to it. You accept it. Then you’re pushing that line again.”
“So you’re afraid I’ll hurt myself?”
“Please. Pain is for chumps. I’m… concerned you’ll lose yourself. I saw Blackjack. I know some of her stupid self-sacrificial tendencies rubbed off on you. But more to the point, and this is the point you need to really understand, I can’t teach you the specifics about being a shaman because, again, I am not a shaman,” she said, firmly emphasizing those last five words.
“Then what are you doing now?” Scotch challenged, stung by her refusal and struggling not to show tears.
Waving her hoof in the air dismissively, Pythia snorted, “What I’m telling you is what any Zencori could tell you. But the second I cross that line and demonstrate that I know what I know, then I’m pushing that line too. I become a shaman, and there are spirits and other things that would notice.” Pythia shivered, pulling her cloak around her.
“So you’re afraid,” Scotch muttered.
“Damn right, I am!” Pythia snapped. “And you should be too. There’s a reason shamans try to stay in the background. It’s safer. When people we care about are at risk, or if we care too hard, we get pushed to cross the line. I’m not a shaman anymore.”
“You’re just saying that,” Scotch countered. “Desideria didn’t ‘stay in the background’.”
“Right. And look at what she wrought when she didn’t: Rice River occupied. The festival disrupted. Everything blew up because she decided to take a stand against Carnico and for her tribe. If she’d been a proper shaman, she would have waited for someone to come to her and ask her for help against Carnico. Instead, she involved herself, and when you involve yourself, you come up with reasons to push at that line.”
“So just saying you’re not a shaman makes you not a shaman? Nice. Do you become one if you say you are?”
“If you’re lucky, no. You become a corpse,” Pythia said evenly. “If you go looking, eventually you find them, and they find you.”
“And not being a shaman is just… quit?” How did that even work? “Did you file a resignation or something?” she asked sarcastically. This was just ridiculous. She could be the first pony shaman ever and Pythia was trying to talk her out of it!
“Pretty much. And as long as I’m not a shaman, it’s true, and as long as it’s true, spirits couldn’t give two turds about me. I might as well be a pony or griffon to them. I can keep peeking over their shoulders and ask questions as a seer. That’s allowed. That’s the deal,” she said, rubbing her forelegs as she stared off at the rusty wall of the trailer.
Scotch processed that, and then frowned. ‘The deal’. “What happened to you that made you stop being a shaman?”
Pythia stared at the broken, twisted trailers outside the back hatch. “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, her eyes lingering on something far away. Or long ago. “What matters is I did it, and can’t do it again.”
“It matters to me. What could you possibly have done that was that bad?” Scotch asked, once again losing her ability to speak to an outbreak of ragged coughing.
Pythia glanced at her, then looked away again. Her face worked, as if her answer was struggling to break through her silent mask of scorn. “I helped Blackjack.” She was silent for almost a minute as Scotch waited, and focused on calming her ragged, burning breathing. “What she was going up against… the odds…” Pythia said slowly, as if trying to ease her way out of a tangle of razor wire. “She asked me to make a deal for her. Any spirit. Every spirit. Whatever help they could give, at any price.” She covered her face with her hoof. “And I crossed the line.”
“What do you mean?”
“My tribe deals with the nasty spirits, so the other twelve don’t have to. Spirits of mutation and madness. Spirits of decay. Spirits of inevitability, death, and corruption. Fate. I broke out every name I knew, and a few that I didn’t even know I knew till I looked for them, and I asked them to help Blackjack and undermine that monster. To give her a chance.” Her whole body shook as if suffering an attack, and to Scotch’s astonishment, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “And I… I did it. I made the deal Blackjack wanted me to make! A deal I should have run from screaming, but she… I…” And in another first, words cracked and died in her mouth, her jaw working silently.
“You’re not a monster, no matter what,” Scotch pointed out, her voice softer. “You helped save the world.” She tentatively reached out, placing a hoof on her shoulder. For once, Pythia didn’t immediately knock it aside.
“No,” Pythia said hard, shaking her head. “When Blackjack faced the Eater of Souls, I saw in most of the futures that she’d put the Eater to sleep, and die in the process. Horizons would bury it deep in the earth again. That was it. I just wanted to see how she both would and wouldn’t beat the Legate.”
She took a deep breath, her eyes haunted as she stared out at nothing. “But then she asked me to make that deal and… and I should have said no! Laughed at her. But the prospect of her actually winning…” Pythia’s voice trailed off in wonder before she shook again and dropped her head. “I should have said no. I should have just let the future play out, and left her to her fate. You don’t kill things like that without paying the highest price… and all on one pony? Maybe all of Equestria might have shouldered that curse, but I put it all on one person. I put it all on her…”
Pythia turned and grabbed her, tears streaking her cheeks. “And I should have known better! The price they asked! She’s going to suffer like the Legate suffered, for as long as he suffered, and he was around for centuries. Millennia, possibly. He turned into the evilest monster that I’ve ever seen. A creature… an extension… of a dead star! And I agreed to it. I… did that.” She took a deep breath. “And it worked. She shouldn’t have had a chance in a million years of beating it, but she did.”
Scotch stared at the wretched zebra. “Pythia… she’s dead.”
Pythia rolled her eyes with a scornful snort. “Please. How many times did she die before that? Death is a concept utterly alien to some spirits, and I dealt with them. One way or another, she’ll be back. They will drag her back! Again and again. And she’ll be the chew toy for spirits for an eon at least. Or maybe her soul is being tortured right now in the everafter! And I did that to her,” she said, her face stricken before she pulled back and sat down, hanging her head. “I did that to her, and I crossed the line. I might not look like a monster, but I’m scarred.” She closed her eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be that way… forever.” She sniffed and wiped her hoof across her face. “If I go back to being a shaman, I’ll make another deal like that. I know it. I know I have the clout to pull it off. The stupid audacity to do it in the first place. So the only way not to is to never be a shaman again.”
For the first time, Scotch felt as if she were really meeting the real Pythia. The filly hidden underneath layers and layers of scorn, even if she didn’t talk like a filly. Scotch didn’t agree that her teaching her would make her a shaman. She’d be a teacher, but clearly Pythia believed she couldn’t. “I need to know this spirit stuff. If I’m a shaman, and if it’s that dangerous, then I need to know.”
“No, you don’t!” Pythia said, shaking her shoulders, her voice a shade away from a desperate plea. “You don’t. Turn your back on the spirits, like I did. Quit. Just quit. Be a mechanic or whatever you want to be, but don’t try and be a shaman. When you see spirits, they see you. When you look for them, they seek you out! When you deal with them, they want to deal with you, and sooner or later they’ll make a deal you can’t say no to.” Scotch could have sworn she heard the shuffling of cards directly behind her.
For a moment, Scotch considered it. So far, she’d met five or six shamans. A third had turned into monsters or gone bad. Maybe, Pythia was right. Maybe… but… “Pythia… I can’t. If I really am a pony shaman, then I need to figure out why. I need to find out what it means. You know all the stuff I need to know. Just teach me that, and I’ll figure it all out on my own,” Scotch pressed, frowning at her for being so stubborn.
“I can’t take that risk. I’ve made sure I’ll never take that risk,” she said as she turned away and walked to the mouth of the trailer. “Anyway, we should find that Blood Legion cache. I see shredded legs in the future, so watch for mines.”
“This isn’t–” Scotch began, coughing and holding her chest.
“Yeah, I know,” Pythia said, with both a small half smile and a little roll of her eyes. “‘It’s not over.’ You’re going to ask me over and over again. And I’m going to keep telling you no. Eventually, you’ll find someone else to teach you, and we’ll be friend-ish again.” She shook her head slightly and tugged her hood back in place. “Now focus on breathing, and we’ll go and we’ll go find that cache when you’re better.”
They found it twenty minutes later, after Pythia prevented Scotch getting her legs blown off by a mine. One look at the red bars on her E.F.S. confirmed to Scotch that she didn’t want anyone to set hoof inside the Stop and Shop. The cache had been rather underwhelming: a half dozen boxes of preserved food. A pistol, with some ammo. A suit of Blood Legion barding too big for any of them to wear. She got the impression these cashes were for Haimon’s personal use, rather than for the legion as a whole. They probably had whole camps for those kinds of stores.
‘Just don’t be a shaman.’ she thought as they piled back into the trailer after looting the cache. She could be the very first pony shaman, ever. If she could just see spirits consistently and talk to them and… She caught Pythia staring at her, with mournful eyes. As if she could see the thoughts in her head, and already knew they were going to get her killed. Scotch Tape fought back the anger and resentment. Why’d she have to be so stubborn and sure she knew better?
Scotch stared off at the rusty wagons and decaying Stop and Shop. She narrowed her gaze, straining her eyes and gritting her teeth. Was she actually seeing golden spirits in the gloom, or the shadows of her own mind? “Hey! You stopped up?” Precious asked as she regarded the filly. “Eat some of that razorgrass. It’ll clear you right out.”
She sagged and broke into rasping coughs, wanting to laugh at the joke... at least she hoped it was... but not able to. The flat rejection from her friend stung, no matter how she tried to rationalize it. She needed a teacher. She could see spirits. She could. And no matter what Pythia said, she’d never give up trying.
Just like Blackjack.
She stumbled back towards the Whiskey Express, imagining a dry chuckle in the back of her mind.
* * *
Two days later, she was just trying to breathe. Her body burned with fever, shivered with cold, and every cough was a stab in her sides. She’d been like this once; after killing joke had filled her lungs with chlorine gas. She’d been placed in stasis, her chest an inferno that had been fixed a merciful few hours later. Now, every minute was one of agony.
“She can’t keep going like this,” Majina protested one night, as they pondered what to do next. Her friends were gathered around a fire inside the crumbling shell of another collapsed silo. Scotch needed the heat; when the cold tightened her chest too much she was in tears from the pain.
“Irontown is four or five days away,” Pythia said tersely. “Seven at the most.”
“She’s not going to last that long. Or am I wrong? How many futures have us all getting there safe and sound?” she asked the seer.
“Few,” was Pythia’s laconic reply.
Skylord scratched his beak. “There’s another option. We can try and find the Green Legion for help.”
“Green?” Precious asked. “I thought this was all Blood Legion territory.”
“It is. Green Legion are neutral. They’re the only legion that can pass through other legion territory, including the Bloods. They offer medical care, repairs, and things like that. Fact is, most legions need their services,” Skylord said.
“They do? Well why didn’t you say that sooner?” Precious asked.
“One, because they’re nomadic. The follow the old zebra migration route, but there’s no telling where a group will be at any time. Two, they don’t offer it for free. They could demand the Whiskey Express for payment, and then we’d be stranded out here. Just because they help doesn’t mean they’re saints. In Irontown I could demand medical care for her. We’d be better off trying to get there.”
“She’ll be dead long before then,” Majina objected. Then she blinked. “Wait? Migration route? You mean the Old Road?”
“I guess,” Skylord said with a shrug. “Do you know it?”
“Know it?” She squealed. “It’s the Old Road. The Old Road! It’s only the source of a thousand different stories and zebra history.”
“Well, we crossed it two days ago and you didn’t seem to care,” he noted, making her flush.
“I didn’t know it was the Old Road! We’ve crossed a hundred nothing roads. Why didn’t you tell us we were crossing it!”
“It’s a road. It’s old. What’s the big deal?” he asked, as if in shock.
“It’s the Old Road! Millions of zebra have walked it! It’s… us!” she said, looking at Pythia. “You understand, don’t you?”
Pythia just shrugged as she pulled out the atlas. “I remember seeing it with a special mark on the atlas, but I didn’t know about this Green Legion. Any ideas where they might be?” Pythia asked as she flipped to the appropriate page. Skylord moved over and pointed it out. “That’s a day or two west of here.”
“West!” Charity piped up. “I understood that! West is awesome. I vote west!”
“That’s exactly the direction we need to not be going,” Pythia contradicted her in Pony.
“You’re a communist, aren’t you?” Charity challenged in a low voice, but Pythia ignored her indignation.
“I say you should ask Scotch,” Precious said, turning to the filly. “Think you can hold on to Irontown, or do you want to find these Green Legion guys?”
Scotch grit her teeth and regarded Pythia, then Skylord. “Will the Greens… betray us?” she gasped between shallow breaths.
“Probably not. They’re neutral. As long as everyone behaves they’ll be fine, but I can’t guarantee what they’ll charge,” he said tersely. “We really should just push on to Irontown. We can abandon the Whiskey Express to get across the river and flag a train, if we have to.”
Could she hold on seven days like this? She wanted to say yes. She needed to. Blackjack would have… but every tight, shallow inhalation was like breathing fire. She struggled to keep the tears off her cheeks.
“Try and find the Greens,” she muttered.
The next day they steamed west, hour after hour passing beneath their wheels. Skylord took wing, scouting the path as they maneuvered through the green grass along roads so decayed that razorgrass sprouted through in deadly sheets. Several times they had to stop to let Precious burn away the strands. There were distant peaks far to the south and west, but they seemed hazy, as if in a dream.
Then they reached the road. They must have passed it without even a blink some time in days back, because as Skylord directed them down this new route, the differences were obvious. It wasn’t poured concrete, with a raised embankment, guard rails, and light posts. The surface was intricately fitted stones of blue-green and white. They were fitted together so closely that Scotch doubted she could get a knife edge in between them. The granite paving stones had worn grooves passing down the middle, from countless hooves walking upon it. The surface had been polished smooth by their passage. Though there was no need to slow, they did. It didn’t cut through the land like the other roads did, moving as straight as a razor through the low hills and flatlands. Instead,it meandered ever so slightly this way and that. Trees grew here and there along the length, the branches arching over to provide shade with their verdant foliage by the westerly winds. Large boulders with worn glyphs were dotted here and there along the route.
“So, what’s this?” Charity asked as she eyed the path around them.
“This is the Old Road. It goes all around Zebrinica, from Zanzebra in the south to the Yaks in the north,” Majina said reverently, eyes wide. “For thousands of years, zebras migrated around the continent. That route eventually became known as the Old Road.”
“I don’t see the big deal,” Precious said. “It’s just a road.”
“It’s not a road. It’s the road. Half of our stories start ‘One day, on the Old Road.’ Every zebra once was expected to walk the Old Road, all the way around Zebrinica in an enormous loop. It could take years, sometimes!” she gushed as she pointed to one of the standing rocks. “That says ‘Here, Alsebom of Carnos stood firm against the two hundred elephants of the Thundering Bandits. He slew them, so that his people could continue. Here he lies, to guard over the travelers who come after.”
“And does he? Is this a magical road or something?” Charity asked.
Majina rubbed the back of her head. “Well, it kinda depends on the story. I mean, the Old Road was supposed to be safe for mares and foals because of the heroes that die along the path, but there’s also all kinds of monsters that set up along the Old Road. But it’s the Old Road! It’s still here!” She gave a squeal of joy.
“Not all of it,” Skylord said evenly. “There’s parts that are balefired and megaspelled right along with the rest of Zebrinica. Most people just avoid it since the highways and rails are faster.”
“You don’t take the Old Road for speed. You take it for tradition,” Majina huffed.
“Well, tradition isn’t going to get us to the Greens before Scotch dies,” Pythia pointed out. “Where are they, Skylord?”
“I told you, they could be anywhere. This route is huge, and there’s only so many Green Legion. It’s a gamble. Might run into them tomorrow. Might run into them a month from now,” he said with definite tones of ‘I told you this was a bad idea.’
“We’ll run into them soon. We’re on the Old Road. It’ll get us where we need to go. It has to,” Majina said, her smile wide but her eyes strained as she put her faith in her stories.
That night, they sheltered beneath a fallen zebra statue. It’d once stood more than a hundred feet high, but had collapsed on its side, broken into chunks of blue gray stone. They parked the Whiskey Express behind it, and risked a fire to try and cook some sort of gruel from their boxed supplies for Scotch. Majina sat by the fire and told story after story about the Old Road. Most of them did begin with ‘One day, on the Old Road, So and So was walking from somewhere to somewhere else when they came across a…’ and the then the story could go from the hero facing monsters, to the lonely meeting love, to the arrogant receiving a humiliation. They were formulaic and straightforward, but somehow each of her stories grabbed a least one of them.
Precious listened raptly to a poor peddler who came across a fortune, but then had to bury pieces here and there to hide it from bandits. The story left the dragonfilly digging idly at the ground, as if gold could be found right underneath them. Scotch Tape couldn’t help but be enthralled at the story of a father who carried his filly through a snowstorm on the old road, getting her to safety, at the cost of his own life. Pythia hid her interest as Majina told about a zebra mystic who learned all one hundred and sixty nine secrets of the universe walking the Old Road his entire life. Skylord tried to remain aloof, perched on the statue, but when she told about the eternal warrior Orion facing the immortal beast Xugon, he flew down to join them. Even Charity was laughing and clapping at the story of a wily trader Zushu Zushu, who started his travels with two brass coins and a rag, and traded with everyone he met on the road, until he had a large enough fortune to buy himself a small kingdom.
“I’ve done that!” Charity laughed, looking at the others. “The whole ‘but if I give it to him, then you won’t have it’ bit. I mean, they were two raiders and not ogres, but I did exactly that! Wish I’d gotten that kind of payoff, but still, I’ve done that!”
“That’s the Old Road,” Majina said with a smile, spreading her hooves wide.
When Scotch lay down, she stared at the road, listening to the crackle of their fire. Maybe it was her imagination, or perhaps she was sicker than she realized, but she imagined she could see golden ghosts walking past them. Stallions, mares, foals, dressed in everything from primitive rags to furs to silks to armor. An endless parade of history passing along the great road before her eye. Maybe it was her imagination. Maybe not.
The next day, they resumed their journey on the Old Road. Majina’s faith that the road would provide, like in so many of her stories, absolutely glowed. She told them to keep an eye out for mysterious hermits, odd crones, or mystical talking animals. All the while she kept on babbling stories of other travelers on the Old Road who came across help when they really needed it. Scotch was too feverish to argue with her or tell her to stop. Skylord kept muttering. This was a mistake. They needed to turn around. Get to Irontown. Get to his Legion for help.
Maybe, Scotch thought as she lay there on her side, struggling to breathe, she wanted Majina’s stories to be true too. After another day of fruitless travelling, they made camp near a large, knobby tree, and she had to be carried off the trailer. Tonight, there weren’t any stories. It was just an argument between Skylord and Majina, the former regretting even mentioning the Green Legion, and the latter insisting that they’d come across them any day now.
“Your friends like to argue,” muttered an old voice beside her.
“Yeah,” she said, glancing up at a withered zebra stallion. His eyes were completely filmed over, a gray mustache and beard falling to his chest. He wore a tattered old robe that hung oddly on his gaunt frame, hiding his stripes. A strange, wide, conical hat was perched atop his head. A crooked pipe jutted from his lips as he watched her friends bicker with filmy eyes. “Are you a spirit?”
He gave a crooked smile. “If I were, could you see and hear me? Ponies can’t. You have your Princesses and magic. What need have you for spirits?” He took a pull off the pipe and let out a little curl of pale green smoke. “Call me Trailblazer.”
“I’m Scotch Tape. Trailblazer’s not a zebra name,” she said with a frown.
“Oh?” he seemed amused. “Do I have to have one? Do you have to have a pony name?” He chuckled, shaking his old head slowly. “What brings you to the Old Road?”
“I’m dying,” she answered.
“Everything does eventually,” he said with a sad smile.
“We’re trying to find the Green Legion,” she muttered. “They can help me.”
“Oh? They’re usually about somewhere here. They keep it from falling apart completely,” Trailblazer muttered, regarding her. “You’re a very odd pony,” he poked the stem of his pipe in her direction, “if I may say so.”
“I’m a shaman,” she muttered, getting another chuckle. “At least I think I am.” She frowned at him. “Are you a spirit?”
“Isn’t everything?” he replied. “Aren’t you?”
“If I were, everything wouldn’t hurt as bad,” Scotch said, reaching out to poke him, but not quite reaching. Then he stretched over and booped her nose lightly. She slumped to the ground. “You’re not.”
“Oh? Can’t touch spirits, eh?” he asked, then regarded her friends. “It’s been a long time since anyone walked the Old Road like you fellows. I mean take your little friend there. She believes. She really, truly, believes.”
“Majina loves stories. If you ask her, she’ll tell you ours,” Scotch said, giving out a cough that felt as if someone were stabbing her chest repeatedly. “Do you know about the Eye of the World?” she asked, struggling to lift her head.
“I do,” he said with a little nod.
“Do you know if it is blinded?”
“No,” he said, his smile fading. “If it isn’t, well, the world is sad indeed, and it would not surprise me if it closed its eye to the horrors rampant upon it. If it is open, then maybe it searches for one that can help it. And if it is blind, I fear for us all.”
“Why?” she muttered, her world fading out a little around the edges. She struggled to push back the encroaching dark.
“Because the world has great and terrible power within it. Without sight, how can it avoid crushing us all like ants if it made to use it?” he asked as he picked up a rock.
“You’re a shaman,” Scotch Tape guessed.
“Oh?” That made him smile again. “Old. Pipe. Appearing mysteriously to offer cryptic discourse to a dying pony. I suppose I do fit the type.” He took a pleased puff.
“I want to learn how to be a shaman,” she muttered.
“Oh?” He nudged his hat back to peer down at her. “Don’t you want to learn how to be a Scotch Tape first?” She closed her eyes.
“I already know how to be me,” she wheezed. “I’m not good enough. I couldn’t save my dad, or Blackjack, or Mom, or anyone. I can’t save myself now.”
“Oh. And being a shaman will change all that?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” she muttered. Then she had an image and Niuhi lying on her side, gasping for air much like Scotch was now.
“Couldn’t it?” he asked. “What do you want?”
What did she want? What did any of her friends want? “I want to stop hurting.”
“I see.” He nodded soberly a moment. “Well then, if you just want to lay there, I’d suggest dying quickly. Pain is the price of life.” He rubbed his chin. “On the other hoof, if you’d like to lessen your pain, I’d get back in that contraption and get rolling. You’re never going to find anything just sitting around here.” She opened her eyes at that, but Trailblazer was gone. Had he been a spirit? A shaman? A spooky old man?
Get moving, or get dying. Slowly she pushed herself upright. Her friends immediately cut out their arguing as she struggled towards the trailer. “Scotch? What’s wrong?” Majina asked in alarm.
“Let’s go,” she said as she walked to the back of the trailer. “We can argue and drive.”
“It’s dark,” Precious said with a frown. “We can’t see.”
“The stars are out. Pythia can drive,” Scotch said as she flopped in the back. “Let’s go.”
“Are you kidding? I can’t drive that contraption!” Pythia protested at once, glowering. “Scotch, you need to rest. We can go in the morning.”
“The old zebra said to get going, so we need to get going,” she said as she closed her eyes. “And yeah, it doesn’t make much sense but I can die by the road or travelling it. I’d rather be travelling.”
She wasn’t sure how long she lay back there, but it was long enough to hear her friends strike camp, and for the Whiskey Express to resume rolling down the Old Road. Precious and Charity muttered about her being delirious, but she didn’t care. For all she knew, they were right. She just wanted to be moving again. Her eyes stared up at distant stars before everything went black once more.
* * *
When she woke, two things were apparent. One was that she could breathe again. Not well. It hurt like crazy, but she could draw a deeper breath than she could before she’d passed out. Two, it was snowing.
That was enough to make her open her eyes.
She lay on her chest in a trailer of some kind. Slowly she scanned her surroundings. The upper racks were filled with medical accoutrements like what she’d seen in Galen’s office. The front had some sort of sleeping arrangement with a pair of hammocks. The far wall had an odd assortment of a half dozen refrigerators chained to the side of the cart. Slowly she twisted her head and stared up at something that looked like a sieve on a chain. Shredded ice was filtering down to her.
And in the ice was a spirit. It looked like nothing less than a golden snowflake that was constantly forming strange, six sided, geometric shapes. As the snow filtered down, tendrils of light fell with it. She twisted on her side for a better look…
Oh. That’s a nice flank.
It belonged to a colt. A bit shaggier than most. The glyph on it was a six sided snow flake with a strange water drop. He was digging for something underneath her bed. “Where am I?” she asked.
There was a thump beneath her, and he pulled his head back. On his brow was an arrowhead shaped mark in green, almost like a tattoo. A tree, she realized. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said. “You’re safe. I’m Lumi.” He gave a shaky little smile. “Don’t move. We’re treating your lungs and infection.” There was something definitely off about him though. Why wasn’t he opening his eyes?
She glanced up at the spirit. “How sick am I?”
“Well, really, really sick. According to my uncle, you’ve got bacterial pneumonia and severe silicosis, and probably a fungal infection as well.” He reached over, his hooves touching the surface lightly till he found a jar full of something that looked like maroon tar. “This is what we sucked out of your lungs. Cool, huh?”
She’d disagree with him on that. “You’re using a spirit to heal me?”
“Hey, yeah,” he said brightly. “I summoned up a little ice spirit to fight your fever. It was more than happy enough to.” His smile faded. “There wasn’t much we could do to restore your lungs though. We tried but…” he paused and, then lowered his voice. “You’re censured.”
“I’m… what?” she asked with a frown.
“Censured. You crossed a bunch of spirits and they did a doozy on your lungs. I’m not sure they’ll ever be healed. Not sure they can be,” he frowned as he cocked his head, his long bangs falling in his face. “You’re actually the first pony I’ve seen censured before. What did you do?”
“According to her friends,” came a stallion’s voice from the doorway. “She invited a whole host of spirits to a peaceful festival, and then reneged on the invitation one day in.” The older stallion was just as shaggy as the colt, and had the same tree shaped mark on his brow. His coat hung close to his thin frame, and dark eyes stared at Scotch from a long distance.
“I thought she was a pony,” Lumi said with a frown, his eyes still infuriatingly closed. Why wouldn’t he look at her? “How could she summon anything?”
“I don’t know. I just did. You’d see that if you’d open your eyes,” Scotch said crossly as she glared at the stallion she assumed was Lumi’s uncle. Lumi’s pleasant smile melted slightly. His uncle, however, fixed her with a glower.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Lumi said as he opened his eyes. They were just as white as the white between his stripes. “I’m censured too.”
“Oh…” Scotch muttered. “Sorry.”
“I’m Kivet, your doctor. Your pony friend talked me down to charity prices,” the stallion said as he walked to a counter and took out a jar. “You’ll stay here another night. I know a lungwort infusion that should help. Unfortunately, when it comes to spiritual damage, I know even less than my nephew.” He opened the jar and put a little scoop of green into a cup, then grabbed a bottle of something amber and poured it in, swishing it around.
Scotch rubbed her chest, and then took an experimental deep breath. She got about half way before breaking down into a cough. “There’s nothing you can do?”
“There’s many things I can do. Just not for you,” he replied, upending the bottle and taking a drink. A really long drink. “I was able to expel the majority of the detritus, with some help from my nephew, but your lungs are permanently damaged, and I suspect once you leave here you will eventually take sick again and drown in your own fluids. You’re welcome.” He said as he turned. “Let it steep for fifteen minutes, and then give it to her, Lumi.”
“Yes, uncle,” the colt said, dropping his head. “Please, try not to drink so much.”
Kivet didn’t reply, just gave a grunt as he left the wagon.
A multitude of questions rose up. She asked the least tangled she could think of. “You’re Green Legion? Or… tree legion?” Was there such a legion?
“Hortulanus Praesidium,” he said as he walked along the wall, using his tail to brush over the object and putting everything in place. He sniffed out the bottle of amber liquid. “The Gardener Protectors. Everyone just calls us the Green Legion.”
“Well, thank you for helping me,” she said as she lay back, enjoying the cool air falling on her from the spirit above.
“We help everyone, if they can pay,” he said, and then added as he turned in her direction, “Putting the world back together isn’t so bad.”
“There’s a group in Equestria that’s like that, I think. ‘Followers of the Apocalypse’.”
“That’s a terrible name,” he said, brows knitting together. “Why not call themselves ‘Menders of the Apocalypse’?”
“I think it’s supposed to be ironic? I’m not really sure,” she said as she glanced at the spirit, rubbing her chest. “I’m censured. What does that mean? I thought censure was turning ponies into monsters.”
“Censure is… unhappiness,” Lumi said as he trotted back to her side and reached out towards the spirit in its little bowl. “The spirits are unhappy, so they make us unhappy. They’re… simple. I like them better than zebras, sometimes.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Uncle asked the same thing,” he said. “Depending on the shaman you ask, the answer is yes, no, or maybe.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Scotch muttered. Did shamans deliberately obfuscate every straight answer?
“That is what Kivet said,” he said with that smile. “Exact same tone too.” He opened his eyes again, the smile slipping. “As far as I know, the truth is that no zebra knows the truth of spirits. They are. They will do things for us. They will do things to us. Most of the time they ignore us.” He sighed. “Mother and he were not happy I talked to the snow. Others were happy. Everyone likes someone else being the shaman. They said what an honor it was.”
“You talk to snow? I don’t think I’ve ever seen snow,” Scotch Tape said.
“I’m Sahaani. Where I come from, there’s always snow. Snow is peaceful, but dangerous. I didn’t understand at the time,” he said and then screwed up his face skeptically. “You’re a pony that can actually talk to spirits?”
“I guess? I’ve done it a couple of times for sure,” she said, looking up at the tiny golden snowflake in its bowl overhead. Slowly she sat up. Pythia wouldn’t help her, but maybe he would. “Can you tell me how do you talk to them?”
“I don’t know. You just do,” he said and then turned to the bowl. “Lumihautile. Could you please make a pretty picture for the pony on the ceiling in frost?”
“Lumihautile?” Scotch asked with a small smile. “Is that its name?” The flake immediately swirled and started to spin in its bowl.
“Yes. It’s old Sahaanish,” he replied. “When a spirit has a name, it’s a lot easier to manage. I’m just talking to this one spirit, rather than all the snow spirits in earshot.” He reached out a hoof towards the spirit. “Lumihautile is the first spirit I ever talked to.” The snowflake gave a little pirouette and Lumi reached down to one of the freezers under the counter and opened it up. Using the edge of his hoof, he scooped up a small snowball.
“What’s that for?” she asked, a little apprehensive. If he was blind, he couldn’t hit her with it, could he?
“It’s an offering,” he explained. “Spirits usually don’t do things for free, unless they’re really good friends. Lumihautile doesn’t have enough power to do anything without it.” He tossed the sphere into the air. The golden spirit flashed, and the sphere exploded into a chill cloud that rolled over the ceiling.
Scotch watched as the golden snowflake suddenly left its bowl and went flying over the roof of the trailer, leaving a trail of frost in its wake. She marveled as the roof of the trailer became covered in a dazzling display of white hoarfrost, forming curls and fans of glittering white on the roof of the trailer. “Beautiful!” Scotch gasped at the lace-like image, her breath fogging the air before her. She looked back to Lumi hanging his head, and she covered her mouth with her hooves. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you like it,” he said quietly as the whirling, golden snowflake returned to its bowl.
“How did you learn how to be a shaman?” Scotch asked.
“Oh, I’m not a shaman. I just talk to spirits,” he answered, giving Scotch’s zebra worldview a hard ‘thunk’ of cognitive recalibration.
“But isn’t that what a shaman is? Someone that talks to spirits?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s not all shamans do,” he said as he sat down. “A shaman’s like… like a career. You can talk to spirits and not be a shaman.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well… um… what do you do?”
“I… generally follow people around into dangerous situations,” she said, her ears drooping as she realized how incredibly lame that was by the way her brows knit together, “and have problems with my lungs. That’s a thing that keeps happening.” And she was starting to wheeze a little.
Lumi must have heard, because he walked over to the infusion, carefully felt around for a clean cloth, and filtered the infusion into another glass, and passed it to her. The sharp tang of alcohol was mixed with a scent of… pine sap? What was this stuff? Still, she didn’t want to break from the topic now that she’d actually found someone like her willing to talk. She sipped it down, and coughed. “I can make this with water, right?”
“Sure. Just don’t eat it raw or you’ll get the trots,” he said. “Well, it’s like building something. I know how to make a foundation. I can do that. A shaman knows how to build a whole house. And everyone knows they build houses. And spirits know. Being a shaman is a big deal. Talking to spirits is the foundation for a shaman.”
Scotch frowned. “So… say inviting a bunch of spirits to a festival. That’s something a shaman does?”
“Exactly! I wouldn’t know how to start to do that. I have trouble just talking with one spirit. But spirits… and zebra too? Shamans are a really big deal. I’m just Lumi,” he said, spreading his hooves wide.
Scotch still wasn’t sure where the speaks-with-spirits/shaman line was. Pythia was treating them like one and the same. Lumi thought they were separate. “I need to talk to an adult about this,” she muttered. “Like a shaman shaman… one that doesn’t hate me.” She paused. “Do shamans teach?”
“Oh, sure. If a village has a shaman, it’s usually their job to teach the young. Our home didn’t. We were too small for a shaman, right on the border with Yak territory.” From the droop of his ears, he clearly didn’t like talking about it. Apparently Pythia hadn’t been wrong about being a teacher, if shamans were also teachers.
“What else do shamans do besides teach and talk to spirits?”
He seemed a little surprised by the question and rubbed his long mane as he pondered a moment. “Well… if someone needs something from a spirit, or if a spirit needs them to do something, they act as a go-between. Or if there’s a group of people arguing, they’re supposed to be fair and stuff. Of if something big happens, they’re supposed be a… what’s it called… witness! Or they give advice if someone wants it. Or tell people if spirits are mad. Or… well… all kinds of stuff.”
The alcohol was kindling a spreading warmth in her belly, but her breathing was still tight and wheezing. She fell back, concentrating on taking slow, deep breaths. Something was crackling inside her lungs, and she rubbed the faint scar on her chest. “Are you sure I was censured?”
“It was the first thing that Lumihautile noticed,” he said. “Snow isn’t good at healing past lowering fevers or numbing pain,” Lumi assured her. “Fortunately, Uncle had a number of healing potions especially for pneumonia and was able to syphon your lungs and give you antibiotic, but…” he trailed off and slumped. “The damage is spiritual. It’s a curse. It won’t kill you, but sicken you.”
“And there’s no way to fix censure?”
“No. My uncle… when I was censured…” he broke off, turning away from me. “I’m sorry. I should go. You’re going to need more lungwort if you’re leaving tomorrow. Just rest.”
She didn’t have breath to apologize as he left the trailer, so she fell back. “Lumihautile?” she said as she gazed at the little spirit back in its bowl. It hovered horizontal, spinning slowly back and forth. She imagined it was snoring.
Censured. She’d seen what had happened to Rice River, she expected censure to be like what happened to Niuhi. She’d thought that the effects of censure would be flashy. This… She took a deep breath and broke into a fit of coughing. Whether it was a curse or a result of inhaling dust, it was a real problem.
Exactly what she needed right now.
The piney alcohol… really, what was in that bottle… was already making her sleepy. It wasn’t hard for her to relax and let it sweep her away.
* * *
One thing was for sure: the Greens ran a tight ship. Very tight. A half dozen wagons had parked in the middle of a ruined park in a town built straddling the old road. Ancient ionic pillars rose in a circle around a large rock commemorating the start of the Old Road. Beyond lay a ‘town’ the size of a Manehattan suburb, almost completely consumed in razorgrass. It was even growing on the roofs of the buildings! Only this circle was clear, and she could only guess that some kind of magic in the road itself kept the pernicious weed at bay.
A half dozen green trailers were arranged in a circle, with a half dozen automatic turrets placed on the pillars facing both sides. From one cart floated a large green balloon with a bright, flashing green light dangling from the bottom. The green trailers and their steam tractors all appeared to be in top shape. Kivet’s medical trailer was open, and she watched as he and Lumi bandaged up some zebras. Another seemed specialized for repair. A third for food. A fourth for trade. The last two appeared to be for the legion’s supplies. Everything was very orderly for the two dozen zebras with the conifer brand.
“I don’t know how you knew it, Scotch, but when you got us on the road again, we were just able to get to the Greens before you died,” Majina said the next day, as she met her friends on the Whiskey Express. “You were unconscious and delirious. The whole next day, I was sure that any second you’d stop breathing. But we got you to the Greens and Precious and Charity haggled them down before they performed surgery.”
“Well, that night we broke camp, I talked to someone on the road,” Scotch started to say.
“Oh!” Majina sprung on her, grinning from ear to ear. “What was it? An old pony that gave mysterious advice? A talking spirit animal? A voice coming from a single ray of moonlight that only you could see?”
“Ah… the first one,” Scotch said, and Majina let out a whoop and started dancing on her hooves in glee. “It was a zebra who called himself Trailblazer. Told me to get moving or get dying.”
Pythia frowned at Scotch, eyes narrowed, then asked Majina suspiciously, “How’d you know? I didn’t see anything.”
“Oh, almost all the Old Road stories have some kind of mysterious stranger, magical animal, strange spirit, or whatnot on it!” She cheered brightly, “We’re an Old Road story! Whoo hooo!” Every Green Legion zebra and Wastelander visiting their camp was looking over at the ecstatic filly. “Come over here if you want to hear it!”
Precious grabbed her and pulled her down. “I thought we were supposed to be keeping a low profile?” she hissed.
“Oh, right,” Majina said, pouting a little as some of the scarred zebra seemed interested, but so too were a trio of Blood Legion over by the repair wagon. “Anyway, Precious, Charity, and I haggled them right away before they did a lot of medical stuff to you.”
“Well, I didn’t want another Galen thing to happen,” Precious said. “Last thing we need is to get stuck working another year to pay off someone else’s bill.”
“They wanted to take the Whiskey Express. I mean, how were the rest of us supposed to get anywhere if you kicked it?” Charity said, then gestured at the trailer. Their carefully collected supplies were now severely depleted. “As is, they practically skinned us of everything they could.”
“But are we safe?” Scotch asked as she peered at the other visitors to the Greens. A Blood Legion steam tractor with a trio of bored looking soldiers stand by as the Greens repaired it. One idly picked his nose, eating the contents as the Greens worked to mend a hole in the boiler.
“So long as no one breaks the Green truce,” Skylord muttered as he lounged on an old park bench, it’s surface so carved with glyph graffiti that it was a babble of names, messages, and carnal insults. “Once we’re out of sight, they couldn’t care less what happens to us. And they won’t let us just hang around for nothing.” He said as he finished leaving his own mark in the graffiti-ridden wood: ‘BLOOD SUCKS ASS’. He tilted a head over towards the Bloods. “They don’t seem to be looking for us.”
A tiny part of her wondered at that. Weren’t they at the top of the Blood Legion’s most wanted list? Then again, the legions were also huge. They’d probably had hundreds of priorities before she’d shown up. “I thought the legions hated each other.”
“Most do,” Skylord said evenly, keeping his eyes on the Blood Legion. “The Greens are a bunch of stuck up snobs thinking they’re better than the other legions because they can fix a wheel and patch a wound. You have no idea how tempting it is sometimes to want to use their stupid balloons to call in an artillery strike from thirty klicks away.” He then took a deep breath and sighed. “But we need them. They know it, and they’ll remind us all day about it, too.” He plucked at the wood. “Bloods are barbaric numbskulls. Whites are cowards who hide behind walls. Golds are greedy money-grubbing assholes.”
“And Irons are heartless bastards that will blow up an encampment from thirty kilometers away just to take them down a peg,” came Lumi’s voice. The Sahaani colt was so light on his hooves that Scotch hadn’t noticed his approach. “I have good ears,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
“Okay, I don’t know who you are, kid, but you should know we are full up on travelling companions!” Precious said sharply then peered at Scotch. “Wait, this is your plan, isn’t it?”
“What plan?” Scotch blinked.
“To create a crusade of foals marching all across the zebra Wasteland, destroying our enemies with second-hand bad luck and happenstance.”
“Ooooh! Very dramatic! We can march all around the Wasteland righting wrongs. It’ll be a story for the ages!” Majina gasped. “We should totally do that.”
“Nope. We already have a quest, remember?” Pythia vetoed from the end of the table as she stared at the atlas and her star map. “Get to Roam. Find the Last Caesar’s High Shaman. Find out what happened with the Eye of the World.” She jabbed a hoof at Scotch Tape. “No wandering off on side quests.”
Charity scowled as she tried to follow the conversations, looking from one to the next, her ears flitting rapidly back and forth between everyone. “Wait. You want to take a test? For what?”
“Quest,” Majina translated. “She’s talking about our quest to find the Eye of the World.”
Lumi cocked his head and furrowed his brows. “I don’t know what that is.”
“That’s on the list,” she said, flipping to the back page of the atlas, where notes were written in tiny, precise little glyphs. “What is the Eye of the World? Where is it? Why was it blinded? Why was it ordered to be blinded? Was it actually blinded? How was it blinded? What are the consequences of it being blinded?” She gave a little smile. “I love having a nice, concise list of questions. Did I miss any? I feel like I’m missing one,” she noted as her customary frown returned.
“Well, that’s not my quest,” Charity said sourly after Majina translated for her. “Mine is to get back to my store and get things back on track. Saving the world just gets people killed. Count me out.”
“Trust us, that won’t be hard,” Pythia said with a snort.
“Well my quest is to tell the most amazing story that’s ever been told in the history of stories!” Majina said with a grin.
“I’d love to hear it!” Lumi said with a smile. Majina dashed over and glomped the poor colt, causing him to start in alarm, but Majina was simply on too good a roll to notice.
“Well it all started when we were in the basement going through Mama’s things… wait… should I start further back! He’s really going to need all the backstory to appreciate the context! So you see, there was this pony mare named Blackjack who–”
She was silenced as Charity levitated off her hooves. “We’ll die of old age before we get through that, and I need to see what we can barter.” Her lips twisted sourly around the word. “You can come and translate for me,” she said as she led Majina away from the table.
“Wait! But… there was a PipBuck… and a megaspell… and the moon… and… ungh!” the Zencori filly wailed as she was pulled away.
Lumi just blinked his glassy eyes. “Well. That sounded… interesting…” he said slowly once the pair were away from their picnic table.
“Watch out. She’s probably going to stalk you till she tells the whole thing,” Precious said with a snicker. “I can’t wait till she gets to the part where that alicorn dropped a boat on her.” She turned and regarded Scotch with a small smile, her eyes going soft. “That was when you said you didn’t care that I was half monster. That was the first time anyone was ever nice to me.”
“Half monster?” Lumi asked with a frown.
“Uh, doi? The scales? The fangs? The dragon tail. Are you bl…” she trailed off and waved a claw in the air before him. “You are blind!” she blurted.
“Precious,” Scotch chided, rubbing her chest as it started to get tight.
“Sorry, just… never seen anyone blind in the Wasteland before,” she said, staring at him.
“Well, now you have,” he replied evenly. “What’s your quest?” he asked Precious. “If your friends have theirs, what’s yours?”
“Me? A quest? That’s… I mean…” she spluttered as Lumi waited patiently. “Why, to become the richest dragonfilly in the world! Which shouldn’t be hard as I’m probably the only one in the world.” She said, her smile faltering, before quickly turning to Skylord. “How about you, turkeycat? Kill all the Blood?”
“Please. That’s not a quest. That’s an obligation,” Skylord muttered. “I just want to do my job. That’s it. No quest involved.”
“I just want…” Scotch rubbed her chest. “I don’t know if it’s a quest or not. I just want… something,” she finished lamely. The list was long and filled with multiple impossible things. Find out about this new Empire garbage. Find… something that was missing in her life.
“Well, I just wanted to give you this,” he said as he pulled out a package from his saddlebags. “It’s a half kilogram of dried lungwort,” he said, putting a paper wrapped brick on the table top. “What are you going to do now?”
“Head east. Cross the river. Get to Irontown where there’s civilized things like trains to get us where we need to go. It’s going to take us forever if we have to drive there,” Pythia muttered. “It’s already taking forever.”
“It’s been a few days,” Scotch protested.
“Plus a year! And we’re going deeper into Blood territory, in a direction that’s not Roam,” Pythia said with a scowl. “See? This is what I was afraid of when we stayed in Rice River! We’d get distracted and we’d never find it.”
“Hey, look at the brighter side! Maybe all this wandering around and doing random stuff will make us stronger so we can handle the big stuff when we get to it. You never know,” Scotch pointed out.
Skylord just shook his head slowly. “I’m wondering when you two decided it was a good idea to talk about our plans with someone we barely know.”
“Lumi’s okay,” Scotch insisted. “He talks to spirits, but isn’t a shaman,” she said pointedly at Pythia, who grunted sourly as she looked back at the atlas.
“Wait,” was her reply.
“Wait for what?” Lumi asked in bafflement.
“To be a shaman. Sooner or later you’ll be doing favors for people, and they’ll be coming to you for help with them, and you’ll be ‘Shaman Lumi’ before you stamp your hoof.”
“Do you really think so?” he said, straightening.
“Stars shine on me, he’s happy about it,” Pythia said as Charity and Majina returned.
“We are so boned,” Charity said, glancing back over her shoulder. “We’ve got enough coal for a day at the most. We need to do a scavenge run if we’re going to buy any more.”
“What?” Pythia blinked. “No! What did I say about side trips?”
“I don’t know. You must have said it in booga booga,” Charity replied. “Anyway, we need to hit somewhere close by for anything valuable, bring it back, and get at least a few good sacks of coal.”
“There’s nothing nearby,” Pythia pointed out, gesturing at the ruins. “You think none of these have been hit before?”
“Actually,” Lumi said brightly, “Kivet was talking about some factories that he wanted to salvage. I suppose if you got there first, you could sell it and make some money.”
“Money! I understood that! I agree with whatever the shaggy boy hunk suggested,” Charity said brightly, then narrowed her gaze. “What’d he suggest?”
Some things never changed. They’d been out less than a week and already they were in trouble. Scotch’s lungs had cost them their weapons, barding, and half the food and coal. Precious had even parted with her gold imperios, which had made her particularly sulky. Only Skylord had refused to sell his weapons, but that was fair as he was the only one that used them anyway. That led to just one conclusion.
“We need salvage,” Charity said bluntly as she lay in the trailer, wedged in tight with Scotch and Precious as Majina tried her hoof at steering down the concrete road due south, away from the camp. The green weather balloon that marked the camp was still visible behind them, dangling a flashing green lamp. Hopefully they didn’t move before Scotch’s friends found something.
“Are you sure this is a good spot?” Scotch asked.
“No, I’m not sure,” she snapped. “Because this isn’t the Hoof, or even Equestria! There, I could tell you if there was likely anything good to scrounge up. Here, it’s tricky. I don’t know spots that have been picked over.”
“Well, what about those?” Precious asked, pointing off to the side at factories. They rose like enormous anvils from the plains, the machinery within their strange concave walls protected from aerial bombardment by thick slabs of concrete overhanging the roof. Scotch could imagine Raptors diving out of the clouds, trying to get low enough to shoot under the rims. Some had collapsed beneath the weight of their shields, the slabs tilted drunkenly atop the metal stumps.
My friends are going through all of this because of me, Scotch thought. “What’s the worst case scenario?”
Charity pulled a clipboard out of her saddlebags. “We’re good on water. We’ve got ten ‘kilograms’ of coal... kilograms...” she said the word as if it were bitter in her mouth. “Honestly, what’s wrong with Equestrian pounds?” She shook her head and went on brusquely, “Anyway, we’ve only two days of food without cutting back. Four, maybe five if we do.”
“Two days?” Scotch gaped at her, and looked at the boxes wedged in the trailer. “This is just two days?”
“Yeah, I saved the boxed stuff. Most of what you bought was regular food anyway,” Charity said as she thumped the packages with a hoof. “And you packed for four mouths, not six. Add to that that we only have one trailer and it’s carrying four of us and we have to haul coal as well and it’s no surprise.” She twisted her lips as she tapped her hoof against the parcels. “Honestly, we need another trailer. A second tractor would be better.”
Scotch sighed, looking out at the ruined buildings poking up through the razorgrass covered plains like tombstones. “I doubt we’ll just stumble across another one.”
“We stumbled across the Whiskey Express, remember?” Pythia pointed out. She gazed out to the south, her eyes unfocused.
“Of course she did,” Charity muttered, then went on, “We’re lucky the water in the irrigation ditches isn’t radioactive. If that changes then things are going to get really ugly. If we’re going as far as we are, we’re going to need salvage, and lots of it.”
“Can we even haul salvage?” Precious asked with a frown. “I am not pulling a cart!”
“Like I said, ideally, we need a second tractor. At the minimum, we need another trailer. I think Whiskey Wench can handle one more,” Charity said as she turned to the next page. “The list is pretty straightforward. Food. Medical supplies. Coal. After that, we need workable technology, guns, and ammo. Stuff that we can unload without too much trouble. Bobby pins too. Bottled water. After that, it’s whatever is valuable. If all you see are coffee cups, we need to move somewhere else.”
Pythia shared a look with Scotch. “You’re pretty experienced at looting, aren’t you?” the marked filly asked.
“I’ve been doing it since I could walk and talk. Being small enough to crawl through air vents and into locked rooms in the Hoof is a pretty big advantage.” Charity pressed her lips pressed together a moment and shrugged. “Anyway, if we’re smart, quick, and quiet, we should be able to sweep one of these factories in an hour or two.”
Scotch sighed and coughed as Pythia stretched forward and told Majina to take a side road towards one of the hulking factories. Skylord flew ahead and did a circuit of the structure, but nothing immediately started shooting at him or the tractor. They pulled up in front of the massive, anvil-shaped building. ‘Sunflower Processing #11934.’ could barely be read through the rust. As they sat there in the shade of the gargantuan slab of concrete sitting atop the factory, the structure let out occasional groans of metal fatigue.
“Don’t suppose you see futures of us making it big, huh?” Scotch asked Pythia.
“I’ve got a few hundred ranging from we come out of this laughing to we’re all dead. I’m not even sure what it is that kills us. Too much smoke and haze in the future for a thing like this.” She stared at the loading dock door. “I’m pretty likely to survive though,” she added, but the way she frowned at the building, that was little consolation for what she saw.
Charity surveyed the ruin and nodded. “Okay, looks like those doors are sealed up tight. That’s a good sign. Everypony pick a partner,” she said, standing next to Scotch. Majina walked up next to Pythia, who frowned at Majina and moved away next to Precious. Majina’s ears drooped before Skylord landed next to her. “Okay, rules for looting. If you encounter anything hazardous, back away and find the others. The Whiskey Wino is our safe spot, where we fall back to if you hear shooting or trouble. Places to focus on are janitor closets, kitchen pantries, and any maintenance systems. If there’s any power, watch out for turrets and robots. If you hear a ghoul scream, drop everything and get out as quick as you can. Most of us are small enough to use vents to get around. Be cautious because it makes a heck of a racket, and if you get stuck there’s probably no way we can get you out. Come back here in one hour. Team that brings back the best stuff without alarming anything gets their pick of the salvage as a reward. Any questions?”
Skylord raised a wing. “Can you repeat whatever you just said in Zebra?”
“She said stay in pairs and don’t get dead. Oh, and a treat for whomever finds the best stuff,” Precious translated.
“Don’t worry about it,” Scotch said to the scowling Charity. “He’s got the idea.”
“Let’s go,” Charity said with a nod of her head. They found their entrance through a damaged fire door. Someone had taken a blowtorch to it, but had given up halfway around the door latch. A few blasts of flame from Precious, a bit of banging and prying with a crowbar, and the door popped open. Immediately Scotch coughed from the dust that rolled out. She tied a cloth over her mouth. Her lungs were bad enough already. To her surprise, Charity did the same. “What?” she asked, defensively. “There’s all kinds of mold spores and worse in places like this.” After that announcement, everyone else besides Precious did the same.
They were in some kind of large canning facility. Conveyors with tin cans sat still and silent on their belts. A quick examination of the hoppers revealed a white crust. The labels on the can said it was corn starch. She had no idea what that was. Something made from corn? Still, it didn’t sound toxic, and most of the dust was just errant dirt, not the explosive grain dust. “Okay, no tracks. If we’re super lucky, we’re the first ones in here in two centuries. Hopefully people just turned off the machines, turned out the lights, and went home.” She pointed a hoof at Majina. “You two, second floor.” Then to Pythia.
“Check the front. Got it. I think I see us finding some good stuff,” she said, making Charity blink in bafflement.
“Oooh, shiny, golden stuff?” Precious asked with a grin.
“Maybe. Something in the future is sticky, though. Be careful.”
Charity rolled her eyes. “Right. Be on the lookout for sticky futures. And you’ll only get shiny, golden stuff if you bring back the best stuff. Remember. You’re salvaging for the team, not yourselves. Don’t get greedy,” Charity admonished, getting an eye roll from Precious but no argument.
They fanned out, and Scotch walked alongside Charity as they moved through the work area, past the machines. No red bars so far. Charity’s horn cast a wan green light to show them the way. A few filthy windows up high let in a little light, but not enough to highlight anything valuable. “That was pretty impressive,” Scotch said, getting a questioning look. “The whole how to loot thing. You really have it down to a science.”
“Yeah, well, guess you forgot but I used to run the Crusaders. Salvage was our thing, and we lost too many members to stupid,” she said as she went over some shelves that held boxes of empty containers. Not exactly prime salvage.
“You don’t any more?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“We were orphans, remember? Not as many orphans in the Wasteland anymore. After all the fighting, some decided they didn’t want to live in Chapel anymore. Some decided they were too grown up for us and wandered off. Some even got adopted. Chapel was our town, but now it’s just another settlement in the Hoof.” She gave a sigh. “I still have my shop, at least. Or I’d better,” she added with a growl, glowering off at some distant, unsupervised employees halfway around the world before she sighed. “Odds are by the time I get back I’ll have to start over again from scratch.” She levitated a box and opened it, examining the contents, then scratched a large X in it with a nail. “Which is why I wanted to get on a boat and get back now. The ponies I hired will wait a few months, but possession is nine tenths of the law. I don’t trust anyone older than I am past what I pay them.”
“That’s… pretty stark,” Scotch said as they moved towards a door in the back of the production plant.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re a stable pony, after all,” she said as they walked into an office. She stretched up, scanning the room, then peeked around for several seconds before she relaxed.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Scotch asked, her chest already starting to ache from simply walking around.
“Don’t worry about it.” Charity frowned at the contents of the shelves. “How do I make a profit on rolls of two century old corn starch labels?” she muttered to herself.
But Scotch did worry about it. She stepped in Charity’s path. “No, I want to know. What does me being a stablepony have to do with anything?” She got static for being a pony, for being a pony shaman, but what problem could she have with her being from a stable?
Charity set her jaw a moment, “Fine? You really want to know what’s wrong with that?” She tapped Scotch in the chest. “Everything was given to you.”
“What?” Scotch said, scowling at her. “What are you talking about? You don’t know what life was like in Stable 99!”
“You had clean food and water, right?”
“Well, yeah, but–”
“A safe place to sleep at night, right?”
“Sure, but–”
“Rules and ponies enforcing them, right? Clothes to wear? A job? Ponies to associate with?”
“You’re missing out on the Overmare being a total psycho and killing my mom!” Scotch snapped.
Charity sat back, adopting a shocked expression. “Oh my goodness, no. I suppose the instant she died you had to struggle and scrounge for food to survive!” Her eyes went flat. “You’re a stable pony. You don’t understand what it’s like not having a safe place to live. Not to know when you’re going to eat next. Wondering if drinking from that puddle’s going to give you radiation or taint or whatever. Trying to find clothes that fit. Trying to keep yourself safe from other ponies that want to use, hurt, or eat you. You don’t know because you’re a stable pony.”
She stepped around Scotch, continuing to talk as her eyes scanned the factory floor. “Everything I ever had, I earned. Wanted to eat? I had to find it. Wanted to sleep safe? I had to find it. Wanted to stay safe? I had to fight for it. I earned my shop. Earned my town. Earned everything. And when it was taken from me, I earned it back.”
She found a locked door and levitated out a screwdriver and bobby pin. “You, on the other hoof, were given everything you needed to survive, in the stable and out of it. Wanted to eat? Blackjack fed you. Got hurt? Glory healed you. Someone threatened you? Arloste popped them like a zit. You were given a PipBuck that could tell friend from foe and if water was contaminated. You wanted a father, and eventually you got that too. And after Blackjack bought it, you were still taken care of, because you were the companion of Blackjack that didn’t die. Maybe not a celebrity, but it’s not like you were digging through trash bins for your next meal. Heck, you were given Star House, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, my life is so blessed, I’ve got a zebra pirate out to kill me!” Scotch snapped.
“Which you didn’t earn either,” Charity said as the lock popped open and she opened the door a crack, peeked through the crack, then opened it all the way. “Jackpot,” she said as she looked into a utility storage room. As she walked in she added, “Or did you go out of your way to piss him off? Were you trying to rid the world of pirates or something?”
“Her, and no. I guess there’s a stupid prophecy or something and I’m the one they have to kill, or something,” she said as she followed her in. The shelves were full of junk, but there were things here and there that would be useful. An unopened tube of Wonderglue, which was virtually identical to the pony version, just with Zebra glyphs on the container rather than Pony letters. Abronco cleanser, an oil can, two rolls of duct tape, some power relay coils, and light bulbs lay amid larger mechanical pieces for the factory equipment behind them.
“So even your enemies were given to you. Actually, from what I understand it, this entire quest you’re on… the whole eye of the world thing… was given to you as well by Pythia. And everything from then to now has just been people helping you along. Sure, you’ve hit some snags along the way, but when was the last time you really had to work for something?” she said, carefully levitating each of the items into her saddlebag. “I might not have liked Blackjack, but at least she worked her ass off. Your whole life has just been being carried along by others. Even now. Need a protector? Have a griffon. Need to know the future? Have a seer.” She bristled, eyes narrowing as she pointed her horn at Scotch. “Do you know what I could have accomplished if I had half your assets and resources? I’d be Queen Charity, and I would have earned it.”
Denial was her only refuge, even as her words burned her insides like she’d swallowed the Abronco cleanser. She refused to cry. “I do not have everything just handed to me,” she countered.
“Not from me. I guarantee it,” she said as she walked over to a workbench in the corner and stripped it of the tools set on the walls. Scotch extended her hoof towards an adjustable wrench, and Charity smacked her leg. “When you pick the lock, you get first pick of the loot,” she said as she took the wrench with her magic, and then the rest of the tools.
“I could have picked it. You just picked it first,” Scotch sputtered as Charity strode out, then broke into a fit of coughing. “Everything’s not just handed to me,” she retched between spasms.
But was it? Her dad and Blackjack. Glory. Rampage. Thrush and the Atoli Captain. Granny. Galen. Even Vega and Vicious. She had a long list of people who, for one reason or another, had helped her along. Even right now, she had four people helping her. She was the one who was sick. The one who was trouble. If she left, it would be a whole lot easier for Pythia and the others to find the Eye of the World. It wasn’t her quest, after all.
She sat down hard, her chest throbbing as she grit her teeth. Charity was wrong. She had to be.
Maybe she had it better in the stable than Charity out in the Wasteland, but that hadn’t been her fault. Maybe she had just been Blackjack’s tagalong filly. It hadn’t been like Blackjack needed her except towards the end. She could have just gone back to 99, if she could have found some way to get the stench of chlorine out of her head. Back to the room she’d shared with Mom before she’d died. She bowed her head as she sniffed.
Had she done anything of value with her life at all?
Rice River. As messy as it had been, that was the first time she’d done something on her own. They’d paid off Galen’s debt. She’d worked for Xarius. Fixed the talisman at Carnico. Foiled a mass murder scheme. She took a deep breath, coughed hard, and took a shallower one. She might have had help, but that was something she’d accomplished. She gave a nod, opening her eyes, ready to go tell Charity exactly that!
Red bar.
She turned her head, trying to locate it, but there was nothing there but wall. Slowly she moved back, and the bar quickly began to move as well. She froze. The bar froze. She moved. It moved. Fast. She called over her shoulder as loud as she dared, keeping her eyes on the bar on her E.F.S., “Charity. Trouble.”
The filly immediately lifted a wrench with her telekinesis, her gold eyes scanning the factory floor. “Where is it?” she asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Scotch said as she kept a hoof pointed towards the bar. It was now moving again, and Scotch heard a little whirr. Where was it? Was it invisible? “It’s moving,” she breathed.
“So it might be stalking us,” Charity muttered. “Great.” And she continued ahead into another section of the factory. Huge equipment stood silently, their tops lost in the gloom. The floor was covered in a orangey-red, rusty crust. The bottoms of the machines had rusted out completely, and dripped yellowish red tapers like tallow candles. Still, the air was clear.
“You’re still going? We should find the others,” Scotch said.
“Just keep an eye out for that red bar,” Charity replied. “First aid kit. Perfect,” she said as she trotted over to where one was mounted on the wall. She didn’t open it right away, instead examining it from three sides before pressing herself against a wall and flipping it open. She caught Scotch staring at her. “Some people put mines in these things.”
“How’d you know it was a first aid, kit?” Scotch asked. “Did you learn to read Zebra?” Scotch wasn’t sure she could read ‘first aid kit’.
“Why else would you put a white, enameled box all by itself at head height? It’s a factory. People are going to have accidents,” she said as she peered around the dim space. “Unless you believe all the pre-war propaganda of zebras taking all the ponies’ property and working people to death on conveyor belts.” She cleared out the healing potions within. “I love no Enervation,” she murmured, levitating out the bottles inside and stowing them in her saddle bags. She didn’t close the box, leaving it open.
“How’d you learn all this stuff?”
Charity stared at her a moment, eyes flat, before she continued down the wall, slipping quietly between the ruined machinery. “There’s a mare named Bottlecap. She had them. They were just in a box in an office, all about rich ponies before the war and the big business ponies. Priest taught me how to read off those magazines.” She passed by a work table that had partially assembled pieces of equipment, and carefully hoisted each one, as if trying to calculate their value per kilogram.
“So you want to be rich?” Scotch asked, feeling like it was a stupid question. Didn’t everypony?
“I want to be self-sufficient,” was the reply. “I hate charity. Oh, it’s better than a kick in the teeth. It keeps some people alive, but it doesn’t do anything to make a pony able to take care of themselves. Above all, that’s what I wanted for the Crusaders: us taking care of ourselves without needing handouts.”
“And you want the same for us now?” Scotch asked. “I thought you were all about going home.”
“I am, but whining, threatening, and reason didn’t work. I’m stuck on this ride, so I may as well live through it,” Charity said, and then her eyes lit up. “There it is!” she blurted, and rushed ahead towards a door with a large lightning bolt on it, followed by a pair of small glyphs reading ‘Electrical Room’. She checked the door and pushed it open, exposing a dark room that reeked of acid and ozone. Charity’s horn illuminated a space with rusting electrical equipment. Old batteries leaked fluid, rivulets of corrosion streaking down their sides. Yet some seemed intact. More amazing for Scotch was that some of the indicator lights were still on!
Zebras knew their batteries. When she inspected it, her PipBuck started to click, so Scotch didn’t linger too long. Magic? Spirits? Something else? Who knew? There was no hum. The generators appeared dead and she doubted they were coming to life soon. Still, she remembered the swamp. “Don’t turn on the power.”
“I’m not turning on the power. What kind of moron would do that? I’m just after the fuel,” Charity said as she trotted around the banks of batteries to a huge hopper built into the wall, rising thirty or forty feet to the ceiling. She levitated up her wrench and undid some nuts on a hatch. A bang, and black coal began to trickle out. “Go get a bag or a box or something,” she said with excitement, rubbing the hopper. “Oh, if this was back in Equestria, I’d be rolling in the caps. A hundred pounds to Stalliongrad, traded for vodka sold in Tenpony for medicine sold to those Follower nuts.”
Scotch rolled her eyes but stepped out to the production floor and found a plastic bin, tapped out the contents, and returned. “If she’s gonna treat me like her employee, she’d better pay me like one,” she muttered, returning. “Here’s your–” The power room was dark, no sign of her magic. A steady stream of coal hissed softly from the opened panel.
Oh crap. She swung the light of her PipBuck in every corner of the dark room, but there was nothing but a single door rusted shut. There wasn’t even a mark in the grime of the floor that betrayed where she could have gone. Only one trail leading from the hopper to the door. Her spine prickled as she started back towards packaging. There were a number of yellow bars on her E.F.S., but which was was hers? If she could find Pythia…
“Hey, Scotch! Come and see this,” called out Majina above, making Scotch jump in her tracks and cover her racing heart. Then she blinked and hissed out in the loudest stage whisper in the zebralands, “It’s so cool!”
She found some metal stairs leading up to the second floor, and followed her into some offices. “What did you find? Medicine? Weapons?” Then she frowned. “Where’s Skylord?”
“He’s right outside in the hall,” she said as they walked through dusty cubicles. An emergency light over the door gave weak illumination to the offices. It looked as if everyone had packed up and never come back for the next shift. Scotch’s engineer’s eyes noted a curious metal strip along the ceiling. Decoration, or something else? “He found a spot outside where someone was fighting a million years ago and was more interested in that than…” she paused and rounded a corner. “This!” she said, gesturing at the wall.
At a poster.
The poster was three feet by four, and showed a number of zebras all posed dramatically at the scene of some battle against a horde of faceless red, brown, blue, and purple ponies. A half dozen zebras faced off against the mass, with the silhouette of a maniacally grinning, scarred Rainbow Dash in the upper left, and a giant, helmeted red stallion beneath hers which she guessed was Big Macintosh… he was red, right? In the upper right was a regal looking zebra in a crown surrounded by a golden corona that oozed gravitas, as if he was the sun itself driving away the darkness. Scotch narrowed her eyes and, sure enough, there was a shadowy alicorn head behind the maniacal Dash.
Of the six figures, one was all muscle and stoic determination, his eyes locked with the glowing green slits in ‘Big Macintosh’s’ helmet as he flexed dramatically before the horde. Right behind him was a mare with broad Roamani stripes, her eyes glowing with blue light. “See it?” Majina asked with a grin. Scotch pursed her lips, trying to figure out what she referred to. The third was a thin zebra with a rifle clasped between his hooves, pointing it at the mob and grinning a carefree smirk. A very handsome zebra stallion seemed to be winking at the viewer as he held a shotgun by the barrel, the stock hidden somewhere about his haunches. A stallion wearing some kind of goggles was directing strange ball shaped robots with beam guns at the pony horde in the background. And then in the back…
“No way,” Scotch breathed as she stared at the zebra in the back, a mare with bright red stripes.
“Yes way. She looks exactly like Pythia, doesn’t she?” Majina said, dancing on her hooves. An older, more mature Pythia, definitely. One that had the crimson stripes of a Proditor.
“Who are they?”
“Uh, hello? The Magnificent Twelve!” Majina said with a scoff.
Scotch blinked. “The Magnificent Twelve? But there’s only six.”
“Well, duh. That’s only half the team! I mean, it’d really crowd the picture if they showed all twelve all the time.” Scotch just stared at her as she stated this matter-of-factly and she huffed, “We were in Rice River for a year and you never watched the show?”
“Uh, no offense, but I kinda got bored of all the sex, you know?” Scotch said as she stared at the poster, wondering what the big deal was.
“There were other shows than the sex ones,” Majina insisted. “The Magnificent Twelve were zebra heroes through the war. See?” She pointed at glyphs on the periphery. “They fight for the people,” she said as she pointed at the left side, and then on the right. “They fight for you.”
“And this was a television show?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“No. Well yes. There was a television show based on them, but they were real too,” Majina said. “Anyway, doesn’t she look just like Pythia?”
Scotch sighed, about to dismiss it as a coincidence, but then she paused. The zebra mare had the same yellow eyes, short, chopped mane, and the Starkatteri marks on her face. The more she stared, the more she realized they weren’t just Starkatteri marks. They were the same. She even wore a cloak. The only difference was she had a sword clenched in her jaw, she was a few years older and her stripes were bright red. Otherwise… “It really does,” she admitted. “Anyway, look... I was away from Charity for a second and something in here–”
Suddenly, from somewhere in the factory, came a long peal of gunfire. It echoed sharply in the corridors, and then, just as quickly, went silent. Scotch felt a momentary stab in her gut, telling her to go hide under a desk or something, but she couldn’t. Mentally kicking herself, she darted to the door and stuck her head out. There was the red bar, but she couldn’t see anything in the hallway. The reek of cordite filled the air, the smoke still lingering. Somewhere, she heard the faint whirr.
“We need to find the others,” she muttered as she turned back into the office. “Majina?”
Nothing.
Scotch spun around, seeing a second red bar moving in her vision. But where? Her eyes turned this way and that as she tried to stay perfectly still. Then, an instinctive sense told her to move, and she was running, racing back the way she came. Somewhere behind her she could hear the soft whirring noise. Something was in here. After her!
Unfortunately, she didn’t make it to packaging before she collapsed, coughing and wheezing as she lay on the filthy floor. She turned to look behind her at whatever monster was picking off her friends and…
Nothing.
Lying in the cavernous processing space, her chest burning, she could hear whirring echoing in the dark. She forced herself to her hooves and staggered towards the door to processing. Any second, whatever had gotten the others would get her too. She could hear it somewhere behind her, and resisted the urge to look back.
Then the doors to packaging burst open and there were Pythia and Precious. “What’s going on? Who’s shooting?” Precious asked as Scotch collapsed, her chest on fire as she struggled to tell them about the others. Precious carried a large sack on her back that clunked together as she moved.
Pythia’s eyes glazed over. “Uh oh…” she murmured. “We’re in trouble.”
“We need… to find… others…” Scotch gasped.
“You need to breathe. Honestly, we’re not paying for more healing,” Precious said as she set down the bag. “We found the cafeteria. Snagged a few cans. Now who was shooting? Was it Skylord?”
“Shadows in the future. Come on… think. What is it?” Pythia said as she turned her head. “I am not starving to death in a pit,” she said as her glazed eyes gazed at things Scotch couldn’t imagine. “What is it? What gets me?” she demanded. “Are you telling me I never see it coming? Not in any future?” She hissed in annoyance.
“Is she actually talking to anyone?” Precious asked as she looked at the zebra.
“I dunno,” Scotch panted, her chest throbbing. “We have to find the others.”
“They’re in a room full of dead things. Trapped. We’ll all starve there,” Pythia said, staring straight ahead. “If we flee right now… but you won’t. Damn it. If I go alone… they get me. Damn it!” she hissed. “The future’s walling us in. There’s this great big shadow and it’s getting bigger.” She started to breathe fast as well. “There’s no way out for me,” she said as her eyes widened.
“Okay, enough future,” Precious said, reaching out to smack her head. Of course, Pythia evaded, but it made her eyes focus on the dragonfilly.
“You don’t understand. We’re in great danger. Whatever it is, it gets us. All three of us. We starve to death in a metal room, or you eat us,” she said, glaring at Precious and wiping off the dragonfilly’s smirk. “If we leave right now, we get out…”
“But I’m not leaving our friends to die in a metal room,” Scotch Tape pointed out. On her E.F.S. she could see three yellow bars together, and guessed that must be the direction of the room, but which floor?
Pythia took a deep breath. “Okay. Then there’s one future where you save us. I can barely see it though, but you save us, Scotch. You open the door. I can’t see past that though.” She exhaled softly through her teeth. “You say… I think… ‘I had to come back.’”
“You know, this whole seeing the future thing of yours is really over rated,” Precious commented.
“Shut up!” Pythia snapped at her. “If I were just doing it for myself…” She cut off, her face twisted. “It was so much easier when the future was just a puzzle I was working out. When the others protected me. Now everything’s all twisted up and the future is full of shadows, smoke, and really nasty death.” She turned away. “But it’s all I have. Without my sight, I have nothing.”
“That’s not true, Pythia,” Scotch said softly, the ache in her chest relenting a little. “You have us.”
“You?” Pythia started to say scornfully, her yellow eyes flashing with another cutting remark. Then her expression softened, her eyes sliding down to the floor and she didn’t say any more.
Precious shook her head. “Anyway, what should we do?” she asked Scotch. For a moment, Scotch just blinked back at her, before realizing that she was in charge.
Scotch pointed her hoof in the direction of the yellow bars. “They’re alive that way. We can go back where Majina and Skylord were taken and see if we can find where they were taken to.” It didn’t hurt that it was the same direction as the bars. The red ones were still moving, but she couldn’t hear that strange whirring noise. “Besides, I want to show you something, Pythia.”
Pythia didn’t answer, just grunting softly as she kept her eyes unfocused, looking at futures again, muttering about being caught if she ran, if she hid, or if she fought, and not even seeing whatever it was that would catch her. They walked back through the office, this time with her eyes ready for any trouble. Again, she saw that metal strip in the ceiling and wondered what it was for. It led to a large round vent hole, the cover of which was missing. Scotch stared up at it for several seconds, feeling her mane prickle in apprehension. Was something up there?
“This is where Majina disappeared?” Precious asked.
“Yeah. She didn’t make a noise. There was shooting and I went out to see, but Skylord was gone too,” she said, and then paused. “Oh, you should look at that poster over there, Pythia. Majina said one of the characters looks like you.” She’d hoped that a little levity would cut the tension coursing through her. The filly stared at the poster and sat down, studying it.
Scotch thought she’d take a second or two, to give it her usual disdainful snort, but something in the poster seemed to captivate her, her hood falling back as she stared at an older, Proditor version of herself. Precious kept looking around, her brows furrowed. “Yeah, yeah. That one looks just like you with red stripes. Can we go?”
“Pythia?” Scotch asked as she leaned in towards the zebra, who was making strange noises in the back of her throat. A strangled sort of mewling noise that she’d never heard her make before. Scotch reached out a hoof and touched the zebra filly, only to find her shaking. “Pythia!” she said in alarm, realizing the mewling noise was Pythia too terrified to scream.
Precious let out a roar behind her, and Scotch turned to see her being pulled into the hole in the ceiling. The dragonfilly’s head and forelegs dangled out the hole, claws scraping at the metal edges as she snarled in pain. “It’s got me!” she cried out, and Scotch tried to jump up and catch one of her legs. There was a crackle, and the dragonfilly screamed as she tried to catch the edge of the vent, but the rounded, smooth edge offered nothing, and as Scotch sat there, her friend was yanked into the opening, disappearing. A second later there came a roar, a green flash of flame, and then… silence.
She whirled to Pythia, grabbing her and giving her a shake. “We have to run!” she shouted. She could hear the whirring again. Whatever it was, it was coming back for them! Pythia didn’t answer. She hadn’t even looked over as Precious had been taken away. Scotch did the only thing she could. She picked up Pythia and hauled her out of the office space, earth pony style. The whirring noise drew closer, and as they got out to the production floor, she saw a red bar in the direction of the exit.
So Scotch went in the opposite direction, past the production floor into the next room.
That was as far as she could before her chest gave out. She collapsed on the concrete floor, struggling to breathe, the whirring receding for some inexplicable reason. Still she was glad for the breather, the cold concrete soothing her as she stared at the ceiling far above.
They were in some kind of warehouse, with huge sacks piled four or five high on pallets. Some had split open, scattering dry kernels of corn across the floor. Water had caused several to become bloated and blackened with mold. She coughed, struggling to shake Pythia out of whatever attack she was suffering. They’d come to rest under one of the few lights that provided emergency illumination to the warehouse.
Instead, all she got was her repeating, “…as I am as I was as I will be as I am as I was as I will be as I am as I was as I will be…” in a strained whispered over and over again. Her eyes were wide, but her pupils had contracted to pin pricks.
“Pythia!” Scotch snapped, shaking her hard, then breaking into ragged coughs. “Pythia, I need you… I…”
Her ears prickled as the noise of whirring grew. She couldn’t carry her any further. Couldn’t run. Whatever was after them had picked off both Skylord and Precious. Pythia was broken. They are going to take us and we are going to die alone in a metal room.
“Leave me,” Pythia whispered softly.
Scotch turned to her at once. “What?”
“Let them take me,” Pythia breathed. “Then get away from here. Save yourself. You have a future if you go after I’m taken,” she said, her voice faint, as if in a daze.
Scotch couldn’t have said that. Not Pythia. “Pythia,” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
She just stared off into the darkness. “I’m walking. I can’t stop walking. And I see me walking in front of myself. I hear myself following myself. But is it myself, or myself am I?” she murmured, her eyes going wide, “Oh stars, who am I? Who am I?” She repeated the question again and again, tears streaking her cursed face.
It was crazy. Wrong. Stupid. “It was just a dumb poster!” she tried to insist, but Pythia didn’t respond, her eyes wide and staring at Goddesses new what. Could she leave her? Her last friend? But it was a choice between both of them getting caught, or just one. Scotch Tape backed away to a gap between the bags of corn that was just large enough to hold a filly. All she could hope was whatever was after them wouldn’t look here. She wasn’t abandoning her friends. She wasn’t. She’d see what was after them. Find a way… some way… any way…
From the light above dropped a single silvery cable. It curled this way and that, like a tentacle. Pythia sat there in the pool of wan light, murmuring her litany over and over again. The tendril touched her body, and there was an electrical crackle. Pythia’s body went rigid, then limp. In a flash, the tendril curled around Pythia’s foreleg and drew her slowly up into the air, before she left the cone of light and disappeared into the gloom.
Scotch sat there for several seconds, trembling as she tried to process what she’d seen. That tendril had looked mechanical. Maybe a security system of some kind, reacting to intruders. They’d been expecting turrets or blocky machines, but zebras had made robots far more sophisticated than simple clunky automatons or large weapons of war. This was a machine, but machines could be turned off. Their power could be cut.
But could she do it on her own?
Right now, she sat as if frozen in a bog, sinking slowly ever deeper, the water creeping towards her mouth. This was like back in the swamp, only this time no random stranger was coming to her rescue. She’d seen Precious pulled into the hole. She’d have to avoid those. How was it tracking her? Sound? Cameras? Scotch watched the red bars move, and then froze. What if they had some zebra form of an E.F.S. too? She wasn’t anywhere near sneaky enough to hide from something like that.
She thought of going to the power room, but remembered the hole that Charity had likely been taken through. She could try to find wherever they were controlled, probably some place marked ‘Security’. If not, the forezebra of the factory probably had a terminal in her office. But if she moved, they’d just catch her.
‘Get away from here,’ Pythia had told her. ‘I had to come back,’ she’d said she heard Scotch say.
How could she come back if she didn’t leave? Could she do that? Just leave?
She hadn’t taken any salvage yet. At the moment, all she was doing was trespassing. They’d want to capture her too, but maybe she could just walk out of here. Free. Then what? Go back to the Green Legion and hope she could find help? And if she couldn’t?
She heard the sound of whirring.
Scotch waited. If she could see what she was up against, maybe she’d know what she could do against it. The whirring stopped. She held her breath as she waited, her eyes straining in the dark. If that tendril touched her, she’d be electrocuted and done.
Then she spotted it slithering over the surface of the bags overhead. The articulated, shiny metal rasped ever so softly as it descended, wiggling this way and that as it tried to feel for her. She pulled further back into her crevice, pressing her belly against the floor as the barely visible, shiny tendril stretched for her. She could see it gleam inches from her nose, the tip smelling sharply of ozone.
Then it reversed, retracting back above. Slowly she moved forward again, and listened for the whirring. It was going to have to get closer. She stared at the bulging plastic sacks next to her, full with eight cubic meters of corn. Biting her lip, she rasped her hoof against it. It flaked away, and the seam popped, opening a few centimeters and spilling forth a few kernels. The one on her opposite side was just as fragile.
Then she spotted it. A… ball? Yes, a shiny, white metal ball about half a meter across. It was rolling slowly down a metal support beam and into the pool of light. When it reached it, the spherical shell popped open wide enough to expose the robot within. Its glassy cameras gleamed in the light as it slowly approached the gap Scotch occupied. The tendril snaked out from a spool at the bottom, reaching for her.
She took a deep breath and slashed at the plastic bags to either side of her. Once, they probably wouldn’t have been affected. Now, the ancient plastic split and at once Scotch was buried in a crushing, slithery, almost fluid press of dry corn kernels. The stream of corn did the rest, ripping the bag wide open, spilling out into the warehouse floor in a flood of yellow grain. She felt the pressure above her shift at once, and imagined the pallets stacked four high tumbling down into the warehouse, and onto the deadly little white ball.
Pushing as hard as she could upwards, her head broke the surface of the grain. Sure enough, two palettes above her lay at an angle, the rest spilling out in a fan. Scotch shoved her way free of the gap, tumbling out on the heap of spilled grain.
She got three steps before she heard the whirring noise. The slope of grain shifted away, exposing the little round robot as it furiously tried to roll its way out of the slippery grains. It stopped, popped its shell to focus on her, and let out a very unhappy little squark.
Oh horseapples.
She had to run, and took off back through the rusty production floor. Her chest burned as if somepony had stuck a knife in her. She heard the whirring behind her. Either the one she trapped had freed itself, or another had joined the chase. As she ran around some equipment, she dared a peek back.
Not another. Others. She counted at least four or five. The innocuous little spheres travelled on the floor, whirring around equipment to close the distance. She glanced above her and saw two that were stuck to the ceiling, rolling along metal rails overhead. She had to dart and weave around the most difficult terrain to force the spherical robots to get around. She burst into the packaging plant, struggling for breath, and spotted two rolling across the room towards her. With a desperate leap, she jumped onto one conveyor belt, scattering boxes and canisters of cornstarch all over. The spheres rolled underneath, slapping their electrified tendrils over the edge as they tried to catch her. All she could think of was to try and scatter as much debris as possible across the floor to slow the rolling machines.
The last dozen feet she half leapt and half collapsed through the door and into the open air. The door banged shut behind her as she collapsed on the concrete, next to the Whiskey Express. Then, every action focused on breathing, punctuated by coughing. Twice, she felt the world slipping away, but refused. Her friends were inside. They were trapped! She couldn’t just pass out, no matter how censured her lungs were.
Then an upside-down face entered her vision; a strange brown, flat face with dark eyes, an ugly slab of a nose, and a satisfied smirk. Something wet and rubbery curled its way around her throat and hauled her into the air, so she could see the brown equine lower half of Korgax. Thick, fleshy purple tentacles sprouted from his right shoulder, weaving into something that approximated an arm. “Well,” he rumbled, “After the year of hell you put me through, this is almost anticlimactic.” He pressed a pistol against the side of Scotch’s head. “Still, I’ll take it.”
Behind the Whiskey Express sat the larger steam tractor the trio travelled in. The gargoyle was digging through the trailer of the Whiskey Express while the dog was squatting in the razorgrass, appearing lost in profound thought. The centaur cocked the hammer back on the pistol, and all she could do was hang there and wheeze!
“Wait!” the gargoyle cried out, its little wings lifting the rotund body up and over to the pair. “Wait wait wait wait.”
Korgax hissed through his teeth. “What is it, Spurgle?”
“I’m having an idea. An brilliant, brilliant idea!” the green creature said as it clapped its hands together. “Riptide wants her dead, right?”
“Hence the bullet I’m putting in her head,” the centaur rumbled.
“But Haimon’s paying just as much for her alive!” the gargoyle said as he rubbed his hands together. “We can sell her to him. When he’s done with her, we take her back, then kill her, then sell her to Riptide! We can get paid twice for one mark!”
The hound rose from the grass, limply walking over to join them. “I like paid twice. It’s like getting paid… and getting paid.”
Korgax snorted, his eyes locked on Scotch’s. “Have you two forgotten the year of hell she’s put us through? Her friend took my arm.” Those tentacles tightened on her throat. “My arm!” he hissed.
“Come on, Korgie,” Spurgle whined. “We’ve been after this mark forever. We need to get as much out of her as we can.” He peered at the door they just emerged from. “Ooooh, we should find her friends! They may not be worth as much, but I bet we’ll find a use for them,” he said as he leered at her. “Maybe paid thrice?”
“I like paid thrice. It’s like getting paid and paid and… um… yeah,” the canine muttered, scratching his posterior. Then he raised a finger to his muzzle and sniffed deeply with a lazy grin.
“Are you two stupid?” Korgax demanded, and shook his head. “What am I saying, of course you are. We just had a payday land in our hands!” He waved Scotch at the pair, making her vision swim. “We’re putting a bullet in her, and taking her back to Riptide, and then we’re never taking a job on a pony again.”
Scotch took as deep a breath as she could. “I can make you rich,” she said as loudly as she could squeak through the tentacles’ choking grip.
Korgax tightened his grip, silencing her. “Oh no. None of those tricks. We’re taking the tractor anyway. For expenses. Like my arm!” he growled at her.
“Whoa!” Spurgle shouted, and the centaur’s eyes bulged. He pointed the pistol at the green scaled creature and pulled the trigger. Instantly, the gargoyle flashed to stone, and the bullet pinged off his face. He reverted just long enough to blurt, “I–” and returned to rock as a second shot hit his face. “Didn’t.” A third shot. “Mean!” Another stone shift. “To say!” Again. “Whoa!”
Korgax stopped firing, and growled at the cowering statue, “Never tell me ‘whoa’.” He stomped his hind leg and regarded Scotch dangling in his grasp. She was about to pass out and leave it all to chance when the hound monster put its hand on the mass of tentacles and squeezed them, making the centaur’s eyes bulge. “What’s wrong with you, Trog?”
Trog looked at her. “I wanna hear how she can make us rich.”
Spurgle reverted from his stony self, the divots in his face bleeding a little bit. “Ow! Right! We need to maximize our profits on this one, Korgie!” Korgax glared at him and the gargoyle shielded its face once more, “I didn’t say the word! I didn’t say it!”
Korgax quivered as he held her, then relaxed his grip enough for her to gasp in a breath. “Fine. But we’re giving her to Riptide, no matter what. Especially after all she put me through to catch her.”
Scotch coughed as she struggled to breathe and recover. The trio loomed over her and she took as deep a breath she could and wheezed, “I told you. I can make you rich. Super fucking rich. Richer than you even imagined.” The gargoyle’s leer seemed to draw back into a more contemplative expression as the hound scratched his rump, just as contemplatively.
The three blinked at her as she dangled there, silently processing what she’d just said or dumbfounded by it. “Ponyshit,” Korgax muttered, his reddish brown eyes narrowed as the centaur snorted.
“I’m not lying,” she wheezed. “I can make you richer than whatever Riptide and Haimon are paying you.”
“You’re telling me that a bunch of pony kids have that much money?” Korgax said and gave a deep chuckle. “No. You’re trying to play me. Like when we first met.”
“I’m not lying and I’m not playing. I can make all of you ridiculously wealthy,” she said, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.
Spurgle sneered, “Let me guess. All we have to do is let you go? Heh! I’m greedy, not stupid. He’s the stupid one,” he said, jabbing a green thumb over his shoulder at Trog, who nodded enthusiaticly.
“Not right away. You’ll let me and my friends go after we pay you. But first, you have to do a job for me,” she said, keeping her eyes on Korgax’s.
“Are bounties allowed to do that? I’m not sure that’s in the rule book,” Trog asked as he blinked owlishly at Korgax. Doubt played in Spurgle’s eyes too, as the gargoyle wrung its hands and licked its wide, thin lips.
“You’ve been a pain in my flank for a year. That bitch that protected you took my arm. You think you can pay us anything that’ll match it?” he challenged.
“If I’m right, you’ll not just be able to buy a real arm back from the Carnillians, but have plenty left over. But only if you help me, and then let us go. You don’t even have to tell Riptide or Haimon you found us. You can claim it’s all yours, and that you found it fair and square.”
“You’re trying to use us!” he roared. “Ponies! Zebras! That’s all you ever do! Pull our strings and make us dance however you want.”
“Yes, I’m trying to use you!” Scotch snapped as sharply as she could, hanging by her neck. “You’re big and strong and good at fighting, and that’s what I need. My friends are inside. You need to help me free them. Once they are, we’ll take our things and go and leave you with a mountain of wealth we can’t use, but you can.” She coughed, letting the centaur think that over. “I don’t know anything about you three, or what you are, and I don’t really care to. I just want to go on my way. Now you can help me and be rich, or haul me back to Haimon and get whatever he promised to pay. Your choice.”
“Korgax. You got to admit we’ve missed out a lot of jobs hunting her down. If stiffing Riptide makes us rich, I’m all for it. Filly wasn’t worth the hassle,” Spurgle said.
“She’s nicer than Haymoon and Rippertide was,” Trog added.
Korgax drew her face to his, till their noses almost touched. “If this is a scam... a trick... anything at all... I’m going to hunt you to the ends of the world. You hear me?” The tentacles slithered over herbody, as if threatening a far worse violation should she dare his ire again. She tried her best not to panic as they tightened on her limbs.
Scotch took a deep breath. “I swear. And you have to promise that after I pay you, you let us take our things, one cart of salvage, and go.” Charity would kill her if she didn’t add that.
The centaur considered her gravely. “The payout better be what you say it is,” he said as he carried her over to their larger tractor, removed two pairs of hoof cuffs, and locked her forehooves together, then her hind hooves. He tried the cuffs together with rope, the tentacles on his arm wiggling as they tied the knots. “What are those?” she asked.
“A piss poor substitute for a real arm,” he growled as he gave the cuffs a yank. “Something those hacks in the meat market were happy to slap on the stump after that bitch pony lopped it off. Whatever they are, they’re wired into my brain and I can hear them, constantly.” He jabbed her in the chest with a finger. “This payoff you’re promising better cover a real arm at least!” he snarled before slinging her across his shoulders. “Now what are we dealing with?”
Scotch described the spherical robots, and immediately got two startled look and one chuckle about ‘balls’. “Murderballs? You idiots went into a factory with murderballs? Are you nuts?” Spurgle asked.
“We didn’t know there were ‘murder balls.’ It’s not like there’s a sign or anything!” she objected. The gargoyle’s eyes bulged and he pointed a claw at a sign above the door they’d entered. The glyphs, as best as she could work out, read ‘sphere securities’. “Well... we didn’t know what that meant. Our griffon doesn’t salvage much.”
“Idiots,” Spurgle hissed through his teeth. “Murderballs are security robots and tons of bad news. They’re not just smart, they’re nasty too. I wish I had one as a pet!”
“No you don’t,” Korgax contradicted, grumbling as he started to load his pistol. “Murder balls are tough, and they behave like swarm predators. They need breaks to recharge though.”
“How do you stop them?” she asked.
“Like this,” Trog said and lifted one foot and slammed it into the ground. “That’s how you stomp!”
“You stop them by shooting them all, finding the control center, or cutting off their batteries at their recharge bin,” Korgax said as he started to fill magazines for his rifle. “We’ve had marks try to hide in ruins with the damned things.”
“I’m shocked they still have power,” she commented.
“Yeah. Zebras got these batteries with this weird, wickedly hot metal. You can’t stay too close to it or it’ll make you sick, then kill you,” he said as he then took out a jar of some sort of grease and began to wipe it over his arms and legs.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“They like to grab arms and legs. If enough of them get a good grip, they’ll pull you right off your legs. Damned things can stick to metal too, and the shock can put me out if they hit me in the right places.” he said, then jerked a thumb at Trog. “With the exception of this moron. Nothing gets to his brain.”
“Nope!” the lumbering canine agreed happily.
“What is he?” she asked, and got a sharp look. “Sorry. I don’t know anything about monsters.”
“Big surprise there,” Spurgle sniffed, using a metal rasp to sharpen his claws.
“We used to have a kingdom here in the zebra lands,” Korgax said in a low rumble. “We were... okay... with the zebras. They didn’t like us. We didn’t like them. For the most part, we just ignored each other. Then your stupid, idiotic war broke out, and the Empire appropriated our lands. First a little. Then a little bit more. Then we snapped, and they put us down like monsters. All because they had to fight with ponies across the sea.”
Scotch laid her ears back. “It wasn’t the ponies’ fault the zebras hurt you,” she argued, then remembered that they could drop everything and go to Riptide.
“No?” Korgax snorted. “Tell me. Do you realize just how many people who had no clue what ponies were get fucked by your war? If you two just fucked over each other, fine. Your problem. But you two dragged all of us into it. I don’t know what ponies did to your own ‘non-ponies’ but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t pretty.”
Scotch opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again. “No. We did pretty much the exact same thing,” she admitted, remembering Rover the sand dog. There’d been a minotaur too. And the griffons hadn’t been happy either. “Sorry bad things happened to you, but I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t have.”
“Sorry,” Korgax echoed scornfully. “Kids. It’ll take a lot more than sorry to make things right.” He removed his saddlebags and set her aside to put on a bandoleer, loading it with spare magazines, healing potions, and a few grenades. They looked more like pineapples than apples.
“Well, it’s all I can do. Honestly, I don’t know anything about monster-people,” she said as she tested the cuffs. No dice. They weren’t coming off without a key. “Are you all... like this?” she asked. “So different?”
“We’re about to go fight murder balls and she wants a history lesson?” Spurgle cackled, then started sharpening his fangs.
“She’s the first person I’ve heard ask for one,” Korgax said, peering down at her suspiciously. “A long, long time ago a creature called Chaos went stomping all over the world, like a black thunder cloud, and made all kinds of things like centaurs, minotaurs, gargoyles, and gnolls. Dozens. Hundreds. Some don’t look like much. Others are huge beasts, like chimeras. We’re all children of Chaos, though, which means we don’t kill our own... if we can help it.”
“I just... how is it you’re not extinct? It’s not like you can interbreed,” she said, and that got a laugh from all three, though a bit belated from Trog.
“Who says we can’t? If I find a nice centaur girl, sure. But a minotaur, sphynx, or even a gnoll bitch would be fine too. If I don’t mind sticking my dick in stupid,” Korgax chuckled.
“‘Cause they are stoooooopud!” Spurgle added.
“Yup,” agreed Torg.
“Course, no telling what the kid’ll be, but they’ll be a child of Chaos. Just like us,” he said as he checked the pistol and rifle. “Ready, you two?”
Spurgle set the file aside, leaned over, and bit the edge of the Whiskey Express’s trailer, taking a bite out of it! He spat the metal aside and grinned. “Ready!”
Trog furrowed his brows, lifted one leg with a look of extreme concentration, and let out a thunderous, wet fart. He relaxed with a grin. “Ready.”
With her slung across Korgax’s back like a sack of potatoes, she could barely see under his right arm. Trog went first, followed by Spurgle, and finally Korgax. The factory looked much as she’d left it, the boxes and containers of corn starch lying haphazardly all over the place. Korgax scanned the corners with his rifle. “Okay. They’re probably registering intruders,” he muttered.
“Anybody home!” bellowed Trog at the top of his lungs, his shout echoing through the factory.
“Kinda hard not to register that,” Spurgle hissed, rubbing a claw in an ear hole on the side of his head.
“Okay. Keep your eyes open for the scout,” Korgax said, his voice low and tense. “We need to find their security. See if we can get lucky and disconnect the power supply. Let them run down before they fix it. Otherwise, maybe we’ll get lucky and find a logged in terminal.”
“Upstairs, you think?” Spurgle hissed.
“Fifty-fifty. Might be in the basement too. Out of the way of production,” Korgax muttered.
Scotch spotted the red bar. “There it is,” she said. “That direction.”
“What direction?” Korgax demanded. She jabbed her snout off to their left. “Where?” he repeated, and she wrenched her neck, trying to poke her nose towards the bars.
“That way! And this would be a lot easier if I had a hoof free!” Scotch retorted.
“Not a chance! And how do you know?”
She wasn’t about to tell him about what her PipBuck could do. “Earth pony sense.”
“Spurg,” he muttered, and the gargoyle nodded, lifting himself into the air and flying up towards the ceiling. “Trog. Sing.”
Trog grinned quite happily and began to howl. It was the sort of singing that seemed to seek out every beautiful note, and then go out of its way to miss them. Scotch would have given anything to try and muffle it, but she couldn’t get her hooves up to her ears.
Spurgle darted up into a hole in the ceiling, scaly legs and tail flailing. Then he turned into the stone, and plunged out of the hole, dragging with it a sparking murderball that flailed at the gargoyle with its electrified tendril. Spurgle reverted to flesh long enough to spread his wings wide and flip in the air, positioning the sphere beneath him before returning to stone. Stony talons crushed the sphere flat against the ground.
“We got a second before it kicks out another one,” Korgax growled, then looked back at Scotch. “Tell us when you sense it,” he muttered, and then they were moving into production.
“My friends are that way,” she said, pointing her nose in the direction of the yellow bars on her E.F.S. Then another red bar appeared. “There’s one!” she shouted, jabbing her snout in that direction. This time, the half meter sphere was skulking along the floor, peeking at them from around the rusty pipes and machinery.
“Get the ball, Trog! Get the ball!” Spurgle cackled, and the lumbering gnoll blinked, spotted the white sphere, and loped after it on all fours. The sphere let out a squark of alarm, whirling away through the machinery, but the gnoll easily vaulted over pipes and rounded rusting machinery. It tried to run up a metal girder, but the huge hound monster leapt after it, hands and paws scrabbling on the girder, before snatching it in his jaws. He ran back, stopping every few seconds as an electric zap made him jerk.
He dropped it to the ground before them, the surface covered in drool. The little robot seemed to have drained its power supply trying to escape the canine. Finally, it gave a limp electric crackle and went dead. Trog picked it up, gave it a little shake, and then threw it across the room, where it shattered into pieces. “Stupid ball was broke.”
“How many are there?” Scotch asked.
“Dozens? Hundreds? Right now, they’re just scouting us. When they swarm, you’ll know it.” He grunted. “These are type ones. Cheap. Not surprised they grabbed a bunch of kids. Now if there’s buzzballs, things will get interesting.”
Buzzballs? “How many types are there?”
“Too many. They made big ones for outdoor use. Some are poisoned. Even ones that can cloak. The worst carry a balefire egg in them, but most of those are in military bases and the like,” Korgax answered. “If we can pick off the scouts, we’ll keep it guessing and we’ll shut it down.” He led them in the direction of her friends, into the second floor office space.
“More red balls! I mean, more coming!” she blurted out. “There’s a hole there!”
“I see it!” Korgax said, pulling out a grenade, yanking off the end, and tossing it into the space. There was an electric crackle, and some of the bars winked out. Two others came rolling out, and Korgax unloaded three rounds into each from his pistol. She didn’t know what kind of bullets he used, but they punched right through the shells and killed the machine inside.
They got into the hallway when she heard it. The entire factory began to hum like an enormous hive, the whirling echoing through the vast chambers. A sea of red bars surrounded them, and none of them needed Scotch to tell them that they were in trouble.
“Here they come,” Spurgle muttered, flexing his claws.
“Pony, your pay better be worth this!” he growled.
The murderballs swarmed in down the hall, some rolling along the floor, others dropping down from holes in the ceiling and rolling along the metal strip set in the ceiling. As they moved, some popped open their shells, and began to fire integrated pistols at the trio. Spurgle landed in the front, spreading his wings wide, absorbing the shots as Korgax drew his rifle and targeted these first with precise shooting from over the stone statue. “Watch our ass, pony!” he yelled as he exhausted the magazine and slapped in a fresh one. “Go play, Trog!”
Trog raced down the hall and launched himself into the flood, seeming like a child rolling about in a ball pit of doom. It was hard to tell which was deadlier, as the hound smashed and tore with foalish abandon as the spheres didn’t just try to electrocute him. Some had buzz saw blades, and others had thick metal spikes that they jabbed him with. Though they may as well have been pizza cutters and toothpicks for all they slowed him down.
Scotch saw one rolling up behind them, through the offices, and shouted, “Behind us.” The ball popped open and somehow launched itself at Korgax, a half dozen thick tendrils snaking out and coiling tight around his hind legs. A tendril curled tight around the centaur’s neck and shoulders, pulling tight.
Spurgle reverted to flesh. “I got it!” he snapped as the scaly form crawled under his stomping hooves, hooked his claws into the strangleball, and tore its casing off, before biting the metal to pieces. Korgax didn’t stop shooting, even as the tendrils cut off his air supply. When the robot was dismembered, Spurgle went through and slashed the cables around his throat. They parted, and ripped the centaur’s hide, earning the gargoyle a snort and glare. “You’re welcome!” the gargoyle sniffed.
Then a sphere broke away from the swarm on Trog, launching itself straight at the gargoyle. He caught it easily, but then the case popped open. Inside, a ring of nozzles pointed at his scaley face. “Oh–” he said before a cloud of white gas enveloped him. In an instant, Spurge was covered head to tail in a layer of shiny white ice.
“Damn it!” Korgax said as he maneuvered around the frozen Gargoyle. “We need to get to security and shut this down! It’s got to be close!”
“They’re pokey!” wailed Trog. “I don’t like pokeyballs!” shouted the hound, who sent a dozen flying with a swing of his arm.
“Keep smashing them,” the centaur directed, and then raced at the mob, leaping over the struggling gnoll. Some turned, training gun barrels or more tendrils at them. His pistol barked out again and again, blasting out the cameras in the murderous little robots.
Scotch spotted a glyph that she thought read ‘Sphere security’. “There! I think that’s the door!”
Korgax tried to open it, but it was locked. Smoothly, he reached into his bandoleer and pulled out a wad of something gray and rubbery, mashing it hard against the lock with all the force he could. When he pulled his hand back, a wire was connected to some kind of device... a detonator, she realized. He moved ten feet away, and then there was a loud pop. The lock and handle disappeared, and he kicked it open with a hind leg.
Inside the room was a large terminal opposite the door, on the left, a dozen clear glass tubes, and on the right, a half dozen of those large, strange batteries that made her PipBuck click. On some of the monitors were images of her friends in a metal chamber filled with dead and desiccated bodies. Precious was beating at a door with her claws.
Korgax rushed to the terminal. “Damn. Locked out. I don’t have time for this,” he said as he started to manipulate the keyboard.
Three spheres rolled in the doorway after them. “Behind you!” she shouted. One popped its shell and launched itself into the air with a pneumatic spike. It flipped in an arc, extending the spar of steel right at Korgax’s spine. The centaur kicked out an applebuck that would have done any earth pony proud, and knocked it away. The second opened its casing, revealing a buzz saw band that started to spin. It caught the floor with the whirling edge and flew at his chest. The blade dug in deeply, cutting through his bandoleer and the rope that lashed Scotch to his back. She tumbled to the floor and lay there a moment, stunned.
Then she saw the key to her hoofcuffs sticking out of a pocket in the bandoleer. She snapped it in her jaws and undid the cuff on one hoof.
And got a pistol in her face. Korgax struggled with the buzzball with his tentacles, trying to avoid the wildly gyrating blade, but his eyes and gun were on her. In them was a promise that he’d rather see them both dead than allow the chance of her escape.
“I’m not going to cheat you,” she said as loudly as she could, staring into his eyes, past that gun barrel that was centimeters from her forehead. “I promise.”
The third ball popped open, exposing a gun barrel that swung towards Scotch. This was it...
Korgax swung the gun over a put three rounds into the gunball’s optics before it could open fire. Blinded, it seemed to panic, spraying bullets wildly till its magazine ran dry.
“Get the terminal. Shut them down,” the bounty hunter panted, trying to shoot the buzzball... but his pistol was empty too. He hammered the shell ineffectively as it whirled. The spikeball was coming back too.
She threw herself on the terminal and tried to put together a glyph that would give her access. Without Pythia or Majina, she could only guess what it might be. There were a dozen she thought she might be able to make. ‘Potato.’ ‘Running’ ‘Sock’. None of those sounded very promising. She’d only have four tries.
The first she guessed, there was a squark and half of the squares blacked out. Then she paused. Were the non-blacked out ones right then? That narrowed her choices! Still, half of this was guessing. She manipulated the squares. ‘Hammer’? No. but now there were only three blacked out. She spun and rearranged those three. ‘Corncob’? All but one square was lit up. She turned the square. ‘Corn stalk?’ ‘Kettle corn’ ‘Corn something’? She only had one pick left before she was locked out.
“Ah, buck it,” she muttered, and picked corn something. The screen flashed white, and she got a menu. Fortunately, in a giant flashing red glyph, was ‘alert’. Underneath was ‘cancel’ or ‘alert authorities’. Underneath was ‘open detainment chamber.’ She paused.
She could let her friends out. Leave these three to deal with the murder balls. There was no guarantee that Korgax wouldn’t turn on her. Take the riches, and take the bounty too. If she let her friends out, they could run for the exit. The number of security robots had been thinned out. They could probably get away.
But... she’d given her word. Did that count for anything?
What would Blackj– no. What would Dad want?
She took a deep breath and hit ‘cancel.’
Instantly the balls snapped closed and rolled to the nearest metal strip. They rolled up into the ceiling, and a minute later dropped into the now depleted glass jars. Half their number still lay in busted heaps in the hallway. She opened the door to the detainment chamber a second later.
The door hissed open, and a dozen desiccated zebra bodies piled out, along with Precious. “No fighting!” Scotch snapped as the dragonfilly gave a long, low growl at the centaur. She went straight for the stricken Pythia, whose eyes were wide with shock.
“You came back,” she said lightly.
“Well, yeah,” Scotch muttered. “I had to come back,” she said as she gave a wan smile. Pythia stared and suddenly the filly was blushing. Pythia could blush! Scotch couldn’t help but giggle, “You okay?”
Pythia turned away. “I... for now... yeah,” she said quietly.
“Um, Scotch? There are three very unhappy bounty hunters here to see you!” yelled Majina from the security room. She turned and looked at the trio. Spurgle was shivering, with chunks of ice still stuck to his scales. Trog looked just tired as he licked the myriad little wounds poked into his hide. Korgax just stared, his face stoic, tentacle arm undulating.
“I got bullets, still,” Skylord growled. “If they try anything.”
“T-try it, ch-ch-chicken,” Spurgle said through clattering teeth.
“I like chicken. I’m hungry,” Trog rumbled.
“I think it’s time we settled things, Pony,” Korgax said, his voice low. “You owe us.”
“Scotch doesn’t owe you anything!” Majina challenged. “You’ve make her life a living hell, right, Scotch?” The filly beamed.
“Actually, I do. Come on,” she said evenly as they walked out.
***
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” They stood in the grain warehouse, beside the heap of spilled corn that Scotch had wiggled out of. “You said you could pay us!” Korgax roared.
“This is pay!” Scotch countered. “Corn starch is made from corn, and corn you can eat. There’s thousands and thousands of starving Carnilians out there who’ll take this for money. Or if you don’t want to be bothered, you can sell the location to the Green Legion or Blood Legion or whatever legion.”
Charity rubbed her hooves. “Tell me you promised we could take some of this too. Then she blinked. “You did promise that, didn’t you?” She couldn’t nod quickly enough.
Korgax just looked at her thoughtfully now. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of enormous plastic sacks in this warehouse. One pallet would be a small fortune, and while some of them had spoiled, plenty hadn’t “There’s still the fact you cost me an arm. And a year’s frustration.”
Scotch took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry about the arm. I didn’t ask Vicious to cut it off,” she said evenly. “Maybe you can buy a less squirmy replacement? That’s up to you.”
Spurgle rubbed his frostbitten nose. “It’s not gold or bullets, but I guess it’s money. But what about Riptide or Haimon? They wanted us to catch her.”
“It’s a big Wasteland. You can just say you never found us,” Majina suggested.
“But our reputation!” Spurgle whined. “We’re Korgax, Spurgle, and Trog! Notorious bounty hunters extraordinaires! No one’s going to hire us if we can’t catch a half dozen kids!”
Trog scooped up a handful of corn and popped it in his mouth, masticating furiously. “Crunchy,” he said around a mouthful of corn meal.
Korgax just crossed his arms and tentacles, his eyes narrowed and mouth twisted. “Can’t say I’m happy with this. It’s not easy giving up a grudge. And centaurs... believe me... we can do grudges. Still, I reckon we’re square.”
Scotch relaxed.
“We’re rich! Rich!” Spurgle shouted, clapping his hands. Then the gargoyle launched himself on to the gnoll. “Hey! Stop eating our money! Stop!”
For the first time today, Scotch gave a laugh.
They spent the rest of the afternoon loading up one wagon worth of salvage from the factory. There wasn’t any way that they could haul more, and besides, soon as word got out the factory was relatively safe, it was going to be a magnet for hungry zebras. Maybe Charity could have sold off the grain, but Scotch’s heart wouldn’t have been in it. Charity picked only the choicest bits for the trip ahead, lamenting that she couldn’t talk Korgax out of their steam wagon. Majina had picked the poster for herself, but Pythia refused to look at it, let alone talk about it. Skylord found the supply of bullets for the gunballs, so he was happy.
As they readied to leave, Korgax approached her. “Been awhile since anyone gave me a fair deal, and lived up to it,” he rumbled. “Zebras. We’re just freaks and monsters to them.”
“Well, to be fair, you’re a pretty freaky monster to me too. But we both made out on this,” she said.
“Haimon’s still after you. Riptide too. You’re important to them.”
“Did they tell you why?” Scotch asked. “Did they say anything about a prophecy?”
Korgax snorted. “We’re monster freaks, remember? We don’t get the details. Still, I heard them arguing about you. You’re dangerous to them. They said something about you being marked by the stars, but I don’t think either of them agreed on what that meant.” He crossed his arms. “Zebras and their stupid superstitions. Still, they were planning on getting you in Irontown. Poison you or your friends. Ponynap you if they could.”
Scotch stared at him a moment, then smiled. “Thanks.”
He snorted. “Don’t know why I told you. Those two, they really want your head. Way worse than I did. I’m still not happy about this,” he grumbled.
“I know. But we’re square, right?” she asked again.
“We’re square. Now get out of here. I’m going to have to find a way to get one of those bags to the greens. We’ll do this careful and smart.” And with that, the centaur stalked away. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she liked to imagine he was smiling. Spurgle was just rubbing his hands through a sack of corn like it was gold, but Trog gave a lanky grin, waving with one hand.
“So…” Scotch rasped as they drove down the road, nudging Charity with a hoof. “How much of this is mine?”
“Excuse me?” Charity asked with a frown as she packed away the goods.
“For saving your life from the ball of death?” she asked. “I saved your life. It belongs to me now.” She coughed and rubbed her chest. “I think ten thousand bottlecap ‘save your life’ fee is fair.”
“I’ll deduct it from your bill,” Charity said as she dug through her bag.
“Yeah, you better…” Scotch Tape blinked. “Wait? Deduct? Bill? What bill? I don’t have a bill!”
“I wonder what this is worth,” Charity mused as she turned over a circuit board that Majina had found.
“You’re not charging me for something Blackjack did, are you?” Scotch asked, feeling more apprehensive by the second. She didn’t actually have something on Scotch, did she? “Charity!”
“Ruined city number twenty two,” Precious announced sarcastically as she slumped against the side of the wagon. “What do you think? Ghouls? Blood Legion? Killer zebra robots? Raider scum?” Precious asked as the Whiskey Express pockety-pocked its way along the Old Road. The winding track didn’t seem to have much in the way of Blood Legion patrols. Maybe Majina was right and there was something to the ancient thoroughfare that protected its travellers.
Unfortunately, the one thing it couldn’t protect them from was boredom. “No, Precious,” Scotch Tape said dully as Skylord took a turn driving. “We’ve got supplies. We’re not going to poke a ruin looking for trouble.”
“Oh, come on! We’ve been driving a week and aside from two stupid checkpoints, we haven’t had any fun at all! The Wasteland’s not supposed to be boring!” the dragon filly protested as they passed beside a large ruined community with the Carnilian architecture that was all they’d seen for days: long curved rows of block houses and buildings rising four or five stories above the razorgrass filled streets. “Just an hour. I’ll find something, kick its butt, and be back before you know it!”
“Boring is good,” Pythia muttered as she scratched something in the notes of the atlas. “No one died of boring.”
“Speak for yourself,” Majina said in a huff. “I’ve told all my Old Road stories. I didn’t think you could run out of Old Road stories!”
“So make up some more,” Pythia muttered.
Majina gasped. “You can’t just make up an Old Road story! You have to make notes and consider the classics and…” She slumped. “Okay. I admit. I made up the last three…”
“I thought it was weird there was an Old Road story about a six friends in a steam tractor,” Precious muttered.
“Well, it’s not like I know them all,” Majina protested. “Mother taught me the ones she knew.” She sighed, slumping a bit. “I’m a Zencori. You’d think I could make up good stories.” She pointed a hoof at the ruined city they were passing. “Maybe we can find a bookstore? Oh, or a library?”
“We’re not crawling through ruins looking for books,” Pythia vetoed.
“You know, books aside, every ruin we pass, we’re also passing up potentially valuable salvage,” Charity said sourly. “I mean, we don’t have to hit every singly ruined city, but maybe one or two?”
“We’ve got plenty of supplies. You budgeted everything out for two weeks, and we’re hitting the closest caches on the map to restock. We don’t need to do any risky exploring for profit,” Pythia replied as she kept checking her notes.
Scotch huffed. Back with Blackjack, almost everywhere they went had been in the Hoof, and dangerous. There was something new and exciting, or just plain terrifying, around every turn. But here… the zebra lands were so huge that the wonder just wore out. Sure, they’d had more than a few close calls, but usually they just outran them in the lighter, faster Whiskey Express. After twenty one cities the size of the Core back in the Hoof, another one was just… another.
Majina’s stories had helped, but they only served to underline how crushingly bored they all were when they were over. While they were wrapped up in one of Majina’s tales, their existence was one of excitement, filled with strange monsters, mysterious ruins, or magical animals. The only thing even approaching exciting that came their way was other travellers trying to find somewhere safe to live or scavenge. In fact, a part of Scotch mused, they must have looked at the six of them as something straight out of the stories. ‘Six bickering children of three and a half races adventuring across the wasteland in search of the Eye of the World.’
Well, mostly. Scotch was eaten up by questions of this ‘New Empire’. Korgax hadn’t known anything about it. He’d been just another gun-for-hire, before Scotch had essentially bought him out. Now heading west away from Iron Town and the river, they were going into the heart of Blood Legion territory. They’d have to go a long way before the Road took them south. The ‘Great Western Empty’ was a huge area they’d have to cross if they were going to get to Roam. This left a lot of time to think.
Riptide had talked about how a book had inspired her. Haimon, according to Majina, was a lot more complicated than he appeared, but hopefully he was nailed down in Rice River. She pored over the documents taken from Carnico for some hint to the larger conspiracy. Mariana’s letters talked about ‘The Captain’ and ‘The Shaman’, but there wasn’t anything concrete. Was Mariana ‘the Manager’? She doubted it. ‘Inform Mariana that the Manager has acquired assets for the repairs she requires and will cover all costs.’ Unless she was talking to herself, there had to be another involved. Unfortunately, all Charity knew about the zebras that had hired her was they had ‘talked funny’ and paid in gold coins.
She stared morosely at the city as it passed by. Most of the buildings were away from the road rather than straddling it, and she stared out at the gray brick facades as they crumbled under the relentless assault of the green razorgrass. Here and there, trees fought back. Gnarled limbs waged an endless war with their shade, creating pockets that were clear. A freeway cut right through the middle of the city, but it was broken and collapsed in places, while the Old Road was still intact. Maybe it had been too inconsequential to be targeted by Equestrian forces. Or maybe there was some magic left.
“Hey, Pythia,” Precious said as they rolled along. “Why are you so freaked out by that poster? I mean, it’s not really you. It just looked kinda like you.” Everyone in the trailer tensed. This was the sixth or seventh time someone had brought it up.
The first reactions were the most familiar. Her tensing her jaw. Instead of snapping, she replied tersely, “It is me, and you didn’t have to bring that stupid poster with you.”
“Hey. It could be valuable,” Precious protested, not quite hiding her smirk.
“You just did it to annoy me.”
“Well, I just consider it a bonus.” Precious’s smirk broke into a grin. “Come on. Seriously. How do you know it’s not just a coincidence?”
“Because I just do, alright? Looking at that is like looking at a mirror, and it doesn’t make any sense,” she said, glowering at Precious. “What would you think if you found a photograph of yourself, just a little older, from before the Great War?”
“I’d be thinking…” She paused, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Awesome!” she concluded as her grin returned. “Like, I get to go into the past or something? How amazing is that?”
Pythia stared a moment before retorting, “You are such a foal.”
“Do you see futures of yourself as a Proditor?” Scotch asked, trying to head this bickering somewhere productive.
Pythia hesitated before she sighed, “Looking that far into the future is hard. You see isolated glimpses, but not how you got there. Half the time, trying to avoid it causes it. The other half, just knowing about it makes it impossible.” She paused and lick her lips nervously. “But yeah, I’ve seen red stripes in some of my futures. I have no idea why I would be that idiotic. A Proditor Starkatteri is a dead mare.”
“Who’s that character in the show?” Scotch asked Majina.
“Well, in the show, the Starkatteri is named Tanit,” Majina said. “She was the team’s magical specialist. Kinda like you if you were nice and a little shy.” That immediately got a scornful snort from Pythia and a guffaw from Precious.
“I’d pay to see that,” Precious said with glee, then paused. “You know, not a lot, but I would.”
“She didn’t happen to be able to see the future, did she?” Scotch asked with a half smile.
Majina blinked and her smile faded as she glanced at Pythia. “Actually, she kinda did.”
“See!” Pythia said, jabbing her hoof at Precious. “Starkatteri and a seer?”
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Majina said. “She was also one of the two gay mares on the team.” Pythia froze with a strangled noise as Precious collapsed, laughing outrageously. Majina looked around with a hint of bafflement. “Why’s that so funny? She and Eskare were totally an item. And given how Carnilians don’t like gays, it’s not surprising they made her character gay too. Like… wooo… Starkatteri mares all like mares. It’s not like Pythia does…” she froze as she saw just how red Pythia was becoming, Majina’s eyes getting rounder and rounder. “Wait… do you?”
Instead of answering, Pythia rose and started to climb out of the trailer, despite the fact they were going full speed. Scotch shouted in alarm, reaching out and grabbing her before she could jump out.
“What are you doing?” Skylord shouted back, slowing down. “If you need to get out to take a leak, just ask.”
“She’s fine! We’re fine,” Scotch said as Pythia jerked free, cocooned herself in her cloak, and tried to imitate one of the sacks of corn meal. The Whiskey Express picked up steam and everyone settled back down. “Why don’t you tell us about the other Tremendous Twelve? Besides those two?”
“Oh! Sure. The handsome dreamboat with the shotgun is Claudio. They treat him like the leader in the show, but I just think that’s because he’s Carnilian and so handsome. He can smooth talk any mare into a pile of butter.” Majina sighed, pausing for a moment, before she blinked and went on. “The stallion with the rifle is Herne. Huge prankster. I really love his character. The last stallion is Xiegfried. He’s… kinda weird, honestly. They don’t do much with him in the show unless there’s techie stuff going on. I personally totally ship him with Ignatia. That’s the mare. She’s a shaman and total bad ass.”
“I thought shamans weren’t supposed to fight in wars and stuff?” Scotch asked.
“They’re not,” came the mutter from inside the cloak cocoon.
“But she was a hero, and heroes are special. Like in the show she summons up these great flaming war spirit cat things made of blue fire! How much more amazing can you get than that!” Majina gushed.
“You got to admit, great flaming war spirits does sound pretty cool,” Precious said with a grin. “What about the rest? That’s just six.”
“Oh. Well the most famous had to be Hiroto the Breaker. I’m surprised he’s not in the lead on that poster, Precious, because he was always the most… everything! I mean, he was probably the most Achuest Achu that ever Achued.”
“Gesundheit,” Charity deadpanned.
Majina gave a sheepish grin before she went on. “Anyway, he was the biggest star of the team. There was one fight where he got on a Raptor and he took it out with his bare hooves.”
“A Raptor? Seriously?” Charity sniffed.
“Well, it was in a show. And Gāng said there really was a Hiroto. He had a poster of him in his dojo. A master of the Sundered Earth technique. And he was one hundred and ten percent tough guy. I don’t think he ever smiled in the show. It was always…” She drew back her hoof. “Suuuuuundddeeeerrrredddd…” she said in a deep voice before shouting, “HOOOOOOOOOF!” as she thudded Precious’s shoulder.
“Hey! Watch it,” Precious snapped, rubbing her scales.
“Oh, sorry!” Majina said, pausing a moment and counting. "Then there's Alexus. He's the Roamani on the group. Kinda a foil to Hiroto. Real stickler for the rules while Hiroto was going off and doing his own thing."
“And the others?” Scotch asked, boredom abated by this topic.
“Well, like I said, there’s Eskare. She’s a Mendi medic, and a sunstripe, and also a shaman, though she doesn’t fight at all. Most of the shows she’s just patching everyone else up and having snuggle time with ah….” She looked at the cocooned Pythia and went on. “Bhavika is the Tappahani. She’s actually a lot like that one Ministry Mare. You know, the cheery, pink one. She doesn’t do much fighting, but she makes sure everyone else is happy. Dante is a Logos and he’s the exact opposite. He doesn’t just have no sense of humor. He sucks every last bit of humor out of everything around him.” She gave another look at Pythia.
“I know you’re looking at me,” Pythia muttered from inside the cloak.
“Well, Logos are always weird. He had this strange fascination with clocks and trains. Or as he always put it, ‘Locomotives.’”
“I’ll be sure to tell Vega,” Pythia said as she peeked sourly from the hood, her cheeks still bright red.
Majina colored as well as she continued, “Anyway, Bjorn was this great, big, shaggy Sahanni that was their demolitions expert. A really cool, laid-back stallion who loved to blow things up,” she said as she rubbed her chin, looking skyward in thought. “Oh! Subria. Can’t forget her. She was the oldest on the team. The Zencori. She knew all kinds of stuff since she’d actually been to Equestria. And last was Waimarie, the Atoli. She was the youngest. A real sneaky girl, and absolutely fearless.”
“Why twelve though? I thought there were thirteen tribes,” Scotch asked. “Why would there only be twelve heroes?”
“Well… there are. I mean, the thirteenth tribe was the Eschatiks, but they didn’t agree to the war at all. I mean, they were worse than the Mendi, and the Mendi hated the war, but they at least sent medics to help. The Eschatiks wouldn’t even do that.”
“Who are the Eskawhatits?” Charity asked, looking to her chart. “What dumb currency do they use?”
“No idea,” Majina admitted. “They were a tribe of spiritualists and occultists and stuff. In the show, there’s this one Eschatik zebra named Zinat who’s always causing trouble and making messes. She’s a complete idiot, and gets the team into half the problems they face.”
“And these were soldiers?” Scotch Tape asked skeptically.
“Well, yeah. I mean the show had them on missions for the Empire, but there were almost a hundred episodes. I mean the idea was pretty straight forward. Have a champion from each tribe in an elite unit. They were supposed to be the best. Our heroes.”
Precious rubbed her chin. “And were they?”
“Well, they were in the show,” she replied. “Seriously, did none of you watch it?”
“I think I caught one episode of this one zebra getting captured by ponies and interrogated and they had to break into a Raptor to get her out, but they kinda lost me when that one zebra did a spinning kick and reflected a disintegration cannon shot back at the Raptor. I mean, if zebras could do that, then how could they lose the war?”
“They didn’t,” Pythia muttered.
“That’s debatable,” Charity countered as she glared at the ruins passing beside them.
“Fine,” Precious snorted, rolling her eyes. “Then how could they not curb stomp the ponies flat if they could roundhouse kick disintegration bolts? I mean, that zebra’s leg would have been green goop. Actually, all of him would have been disintegrated!”
“Well, it was a show. I don’t know if Hiroto could do that,” Majina said defensively, “but he could do a lot.” Then she grinned. “You know, if you’re interested, we could try and find some books on it in one of these cities.”
“No way,” Pythia muttered. “We’re scavenging for food, water, and coal and not stopping till we get to Roam. And that’s final.” All eyes turned to Scotch, who simply gave a shrug. While she was curious, she had to admit that Pythia had a point about not stopping. They had nice, safe caches to raid on the atlas. Why take risks?
* * *
That night, they stashed the Whiskey Express behind a small hillock off the Old Road. Pythia sat, conferring with the stars and her dangling crystal when Scotch approached her. “I don’t want to talk about sex,” Pythia said bluntly, not even looking up from her map. Scotch started to speak when she interrupted, “No, it’s not something I want to talk about. I’m not sure who I like. I don’t think I like anyone like that. And no, I don’t want to talk about it. Really. Yes, I’m sure. Now go away, I’m talking with Vega.”
Scotch pursed her lips then turned and trudged back down the hill. “Good talk.”
* * *
Ruined city twenty three, this one with plumes of smoke rising from the city center. “Please! There’s gotta be something interesting in there!”
“No.”
* * *
Ruined city twenty four, built on the bend of a river as it snaked its way northeast. “Those stores look intact. We really should stop and look around for something valuable.”
“Forget it.”
* * *
Ruined city twenty five, this one with a strange, large white dome in the center. “Hey, look at–”
“No! No! No!”
* * *
“Hey, that looks inter–”
“We’re not stopping!”
* * *
“Okay. We’re stopping,” Scotch pronounced. They were drawing near to ruined city number thirty. They’d left the flatlands, and had entered hilly terrain as they approached high mountain ranges. The city below was a neat, orderly, grid like arrangement that she hadn’t seen before. Two large roads divided it into four quarters, and the river had been channeled through it via multiple distributaries to spread out the flow. A raised railroad cut across, slightly off center, but in the middle she could see what she thought might be a train station. A raised wall enclosed the entire city. All in all, she could admire the efficiency, even if it did have all the atheistic appeal of a chess board.
“What?” Pythia blinked. “No we’re not! We–”
Scotch leaned over and grabbed Pythia by the head. “We. Are. Stopping. We are looking around. We are salvaging. Unless you can see something imminently deadly, we are taking a break and poking around a little. Can you?” Scotch asked, her muzzle brushing Pythia’s.
“No. Nothing immediate,” she said, pulling her face free of Scotch’s grasp. “But remember the murder balls?“
“Yes, and that means we’ll stick together, but we need to stop. We’re going crazy back here and fact is that we’ve been riding the Whiskey Express for almost three weeks now. She needs maintenance. We need to find some grease for sure, wash out the boiler, and give it a good inspection for any cracks in the bolts.” Pythia opened her mouth to argue, and Scotch interrupted her. “Does the atlas say anything about this place? Is there a cache?” There was something off about this place besides the sterile architecture.
Pythia glowered at her, but opened the book. “It’s called Fort Greengap. There’s a marking for some sort of hazard, but nothing more specific. There’s a Blood Legion patrol route marked down that does go through the middle, and a cache in the middle of town.”
“So we’ll keep our eyes open. We’ll head for the train station. They’re most likely to have tubs of grease, and coal. Maybe even parts.” Assuming it hadn’t been scavenged yet. “Majina can keep an eye out for a book store or something. Charity for anything valuable. Precious and Skylord for danger.”
“What’s the future look like?” Majina asked Pythia.
She stared at the town, her eyes unfocusing. “Nothing for an hour or two.”
“So then there’s no problem if we go, right?” Precious asked.
“Fine,” Pythia yielded, the jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “But only because we need stuff for the Whiskey Express. If my headstone reads ‘Died because her friends were bored’ I’ll die of embarrassment.” She paused as the rest fought not to snicker and blurted, “You know what I mean!”
Scotch fought down a slight pang of guilt from the knowledge that they had at least two weeks to go before needing a good tune up. She had more than enough grease stashed away. It was partly boredom, but also something else. She wanted to actually see more in the zebra lands. Sure, it was a risk. Everything was. But to come to the zebra lands and not see what she could seemed a waste.
Most zebra cities were tightly packed together, with buildings four or five stories tall and little sprawl. Carnilians favored a circular layout around a central plaza. The cutoff from city to grassland was as sharp as a knife. Most industrial areas were located away from the communities, connected by rail or concrete road. This was the first one that was different. The wall was definitely new, twenty feet high, with multiple gates. At first, she thought that a weakness, till they saw a solid slab of stone had been dropped into the gate, sealing it completely. Mangled bits of steam tractor poked out from underneath, crushed into a band of metal as thick as her hoof. They went to the third entrance. Somezebra had hammered beams into place under the square of stone. Scotch was still glad to get out from under it.
‘Welcome to Greengap! Free city!’ declared a banner stretched across the roadway, fluttering weakly in the breeze, the frayed ends snapping quietly. Old concrete barricades formed a semi-circle around the entrance, but it was undefended. “Creepy. At least it’s not covered in razorgrass though,” Charity said. “Make salvage easier.”
The Whiskey Express pocked softly along the concrete roads, between three story tall walls decorated with mosaics of zebras in ancient armor. The wide boulevards were broken in two lanes separated by an overgrown planter space. Huge oaks shaded the lanes as they walked. All was quiet. The ruler straight roads offered long fields of vision, but Scotch Tape didn’t see anything moving.
“What a weird city,” Precious muttered.
Each block was surrounded by the tall walls, with only a single gate. Inside each were homes built around a central courtyard. The yards were choked with razorgrass and other weeds, but had likely been some sort of garden. A deep well lay in the center of each. “It’s like dozens of little forts inside one big one,” Scotch said as they explored one of the blocks. “Look at that,” she said, pointing to a desiccated wooden bridge atop the wall. “I bet you could swing that out and cross to the neighbors without going through the streets.”
“This has to be a Roamani city,” Majina murmured. “I can’t think of any other tribe it would be.” They looked at the empty homes, each built vertically with windows facing into the court yard.
“Any one of these would be a dream come true for raiders back home,” Precious muttered. “So where are they? Or the Legion? Or ghouls?” She picked up a rock and tossed it into the well, the stone clattering off the steep stone walls before splashing.
A deep snarl made Scotch whirl in shock. “What was that?” she asked, only to realize her friends stared at her in bafflement. “Didn’t you hear that?”
“I heard a splash. Why? What did you hear?” Pythia asked sharply.
She stared at the empty apartments around them. “It was… I’m not sure what it was. Like a snarl.”
“Okay, we’re out of here,” Pythia said sharply as she pointed to the Whiskey Express. “We’ll get to the train station and then we’re leaving.”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Precious scowled.
“We should at least do a sweep. Can you detect anything on your PipBuck?” Majina asked Scotch, but Scotch shook her head.
“Let’s at least see if this place has been looted or not,” Charity suggested. Pythia grit her teeth, before lowering her head in resignation.
They walked into one of the apartments. The interior was dark, even with Scotch’s light and Charity’s magic. “Stay together,” Skylord warned. “I don’t like this either.”
The house was decorated in a simple style. One door in or out. Windows heavily shuttered. A single table and four cushions on the floor of a front room and kitchen. The place hadn’t been looted, but a layer of dust covered everything. The food in the kitchen had rotted, and then dried as hard as rock in its containers. Old spears hung on the wall, their dusty tips still sharp. They made their way up to the second and third floor; two bedrooms. Not a lot of electronics. The place was wired for power, but the structure was so old the wires ran on the outside of the wall in conduits.
“Where’s the bodies?” Precious asked. “It’s like everyone just left and didn’t come home.”
“I got imperios!” Charity said as she peered inside a cupboard, levitating out the gold coins. “Looks like this was a good stop after all.”
“This is weird. No ghouls. No killer robots. Why aren’t there a whole bunch of people here?” Scotch asked.
“Let’s get to the train station,” Pythia said. “I like this place less and less the longer we’re here.”
“And remember, stick together,” Skylord warned.
They overrode Charity’s objections that they should search more of the apartments and headed towards the middle of the city, their apprehension growing. Something was off, but Scotch couldn’t see what. They should have run into something by now; a radroach, bloatsplite, or ghoul. Something, and yet the city was empty and silent. They pulled along a wall riddled with bullet holes. Thousands of them pockmarked the walls.
“Something bad happened here,” she said as they reached the train station. It sat next to a long, narrow plaza with two large zebra statues facing each other. Someone had shot them up too. A large government building, almost like a rectangular keep, sat opposite the station. A huge green banner hung across its face. ‘Free city’, the glyph proclaimed. Only this one had been vandalized by a single red glyph painted across the surface. “Blood.” The paint had faded away over years in the sun.
“Blood Legion hit this place,” Skylord said as he peered around. “How though? This place is a fortress. It’s a fortress of fortresses, and it’s not blasted apart. The Irons would kill for a place like this.”
“Maybe the Bloods did too. What’s a free city?” Scotch asked.
“Maybe it means ‘take me, I’m free’?” Charity asked, rubbing her chin as she eyed a fountain between the two statues. The water system must have been gravity fed, because it still burbled and splashed freely despite there being no power.
Skylord furrowed his brow. “They’re cities that don’t belong to any Legion. Places like Rice River that are supposed to stay neutral, or won’t bow to a legion. Sometimes they’re just not worth the trouble to take.”
“And you’ve never heard of this place?” Scotch asked.
He furrowed his brow. “I remember Adolpha talking about a fort falling back when I first joined up, and how it was bad for the Irons for some reason, but I never got specifics. That was five or six years ago.” He peered around at the structures. “I don’t get why they’re not here. I mean, this place is almost as well fortified as Iron Town. There should be ten thousand Blood Legion camped out in here.”
“Well, if they’re not using it, maybe I could have it?” Charity mused. “Never mind. It’d take me forever to get it back to Equestria.” She levitated a rock, chucking it into the basin with a small splash.
Automatic gunfire roared behind them, and Scotch hit the ground, covering her head. For a few seconds it snarled right behind her, and she looked around for the shooter and cover. Then she noticed she was the only one to do so. Everyone stared at her and she rose up, hissing, “Oh, come on, someone had to hear that!”
“Hear what?” Precious asked.
“I heard a machine gun,” Scotch replied, looking from one to the next. “None of you heard shooting?”
“No. I heard nothing,” Pythia stated firmly.
Scotch peered around, but aside from the canvas flapping lightly against the keep, nothing. No red bars. Everything was quiet.
“I’m going to fly up to the roof and see if I can see anything,” Skylord said, jabbing at the station with a claw. “Get your stuff and get moving again.”
“Hey, remember the murder balls?” Precious warned. “We need to stay together.”
Scotch thought of pulling the plug then and there, but aside from the creepy feelings and what she was hearing, what risk was there? “There should be a maintenance storage somewhere around here,” she said as she gestured to the raised rail station and platform. “Probably in the back, downstairs. That’s where I’d put it.”
They made their way around to the back, where a loading dock confirmed her hypothesis. A scissor gate stretched across the dock, with an unconventional, circular lock that defied her bobby pins. Somehow that was more infuriating than the things she was hearing. Precious tried to roast the gate with her fire, but it resisted.
“We can try and go through the train station,” Scotch suggested.
They circled around to the front and Precious forced the doors open with her claws. They weren’t locked, just stuck. As the air rushed out the gap, it made a low moan. Inside was a simple, functional space with kiosks that looked as if they had been converted into storage, then looted. Plastic bins lay scattered across the fading carpet. Lights flickered from the far side of the room. A placard hanging above escalators going up read ‘29 Bastion 1315’. Water from dark bathrooms trickled out the doors, making the carpet squelch with every step.
“What is that smell?” Precious asked, covering her muzzle with a claw. A strange fruity reek, like spoiled cherries, permeated the space and made Scotch’s head spin.
“That way,” Scotch muttered, her hooves splashing softly as she walked in the direction she hoped would take them to maintenance.
“Haimon…”
She froze, her ear twitching as she looked behind her, but none of her friends could have made that strange, whispery voice. The name repeated, and she looked in the opposite direction as the lights flickered. “Scotch?” Majina asked in worry.
“Haimon!” the name repeated, and she turned her head as the voice got louder. “Haimon! Haimon!”
Then the light flickered and something black stood before her, like a zebra made of tar. It dripped before her eyes, oozing waxy ichor as it stared down at her. She fell back with a scream, scrambling away from it. Another flicker, and it was gone. “What was that? What was that?!” she repeated, jabbing a hoof at the space it had occupied.
“What was what? What’s wrong with you?” Charity asked. “You just started looking around and freaking out.”
“There was a thing! A black… oozy thing… I think!” she stammered, her eyes going from one to the next. “You didn’t see anything?” She looked at Pythia last, but the filly only looked away. “I know I saw it.”
“Okay,” Precious said slowly and then let out a plume of flame in an arc before her. “Did I get it?”
“No. It’s gone now…” she said as her hooves twisted on the soaked carpet. She rose to her feet, and the lights flickered.
“Well, whatever it is, let’s hope it stays gone,” Charity said as she led the way with her illuminated horn. “I think it’s that way.” Scotch watched them go ahead, and then met eyes with Pythia, who lingered.
“If you don’t see them, they don’t see you,” she said quietly. “Let’s get what we need and get out of here.”
Scotch paused, staring across the foyer as the light blinked on and off at the dark mouth of the bathroom. As she stared, she could almost make out an equine shape standing there silently as water trickled out the doorway. Pythia stood off to the side, waiting in the doorway her friends had taken. She could take either, leave with her friends or walk into the darkness alone.
She took two steps towards that shape that she hoped only existed in her imagination before her courage failed her. Ducking her head, she quickly caught up to Pythia, who held the door open for her as she hurried down the hall with her PipBuck lamp on. At the end of the hall, she could see Charity’s horn light coming through an open doorway.
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with her,” Charity said before they entered. “Is she losing it?” She froze, her eyes straining.
“I don’t know. She’s a pony. They’re only slightly weirder than zebras”
“I’m a pony,” Charity retorted.
“With a glowing bone on your head that lets you do magic. That’s definitely weirder than zebras,” Skylord countered. “She’s probably just crazy.”
“She’s like a shaman. At least, I think she thinks she’s a shaman. That’s pretty unusual though. Right? I mean ponies don’t have shamans,” Majina babbled. “Maybe she just wants to think she’s a shaman? I mean, she did something in Rice River, but who knows if that was really her or not, right?”
“Look, no matter what’s going on in her head, she’s our friend. I don’t know what’s happening to her. I just know she’s a good pony so stop talking junk behind her back, okay?” Precious growled.
“Says the freak,” Skylord replied.
“Hey, watch it with the f-word, turkey! I’m a blend, not a freak,” Precious countered.
“At least I’m a species. Or are there other dragon-pony-like-you things running around the pony lands?”
“No, she’s pretty much it,” Charity answered, then amended. “Wait, were you asking if there are others like her or oranges like her?”
“I am not a freak!” Precious snapped. “I don’t know what I am, but I’m not that!”
“Please stop fighting!” Majina begged. “We won’t get anywhere if we fight!”
“I still can’t figure out why you’re here in the first place,” Charity asked along with the sounds of rummaging through some stuff. “Pythia says you have to come and you dump everything and run to the far side of the world, and now going all the way across a continent because she says so? At least when I was in charge of the Crusaders, we had clear goals.”
“Yeah. The zebra who can see the future also sees herself in the past. You know what I think?” Skylord grumbled.
“No one cares what you think!” Precious snapped.
“I think that she’s just as crazy as the pony and neither one of them have a clue, and I’m going to get killed because they somehow convinced my boss that they’re special. They’re not special. They’re crazy.”
“Please don’t fight! Please!” Majina repeated.
“Oh let them. If you’d stayed in Equestria everything would be–” Charity began to say.
“What, fine?” Precious snapped. “For you, sure. But what future did I have there? Being your guard dog? Scotch at least treats me like a person, and not a–” Precious’s voice cracked.
“Freak?” Skylord supplied. There was a roar and smash. Scotch gave one look at Pythia’s composed features and took a deep breath, then stepped through the door. It was a maintenance storeroom, long and narrow, with shelves filled with pipes, tape, solder, and other supplies for mending equipment. At the moment it was the sight of a dragonfilly rolling on the ground with a griffon, the pair trying to scratch and bite each other. Skylord seemed to be getting the worse of it.
“Stop!” Scotch commanded loudly at the pair. The order gave Skylord a window to pull free, launching himself into the air and hovering as he glared down at Precious. “Stop, all of you. There’s no point in fighting right now. We’ve got to do some maintenance on the Whiskey Express and this is our best chance at it.” She marched past them to a roll-up door, unlatching it and shoving the door upwards. The scissor gate was an impediment, but they could work around it. “Charity, can you magic stuff off the shelves through the gate?”
“Now that I can see it, sure,” she answered, a bit mollified.
“Good. Then everyone back to the tractor. We’re going to do what we need and get going and then we can talk about how mad we are with each other or how stupid this all is. Got it?” she demanded, eying each one in turn. Surprisingly, Pythia smiled.
Scotch led the way back out again, keeping her eyes locked straight ahead and stomping her hooves loudly to keep from hearing any whispers or spookiness. Skylord was sent up to the roof to keep an eye out for trouble.
She’d done maintenance like this countless times in the stable. The Whiskey Express wasn’t any different. First they tackled the scale. The zebras had an acidic solution that was added to the boiler to remove that. She was thankful Charity’s magic could just pour a cup into the boiler. A vinegary reek confirmed the solution was working. She opened the drains and let the milky water pour out, taking the minerals with it. A second round was nearly clear, so she rinsed out the boiler with clean water from a hose with a brass nozzle.
Then they tackled the firebox. The coals were carefully scraped out into a metal bucket and covered. Then the firebox was opened completely to help it cool while she mixed soap and water. She didn’t think about what her friends had said. She kept focused on the task at–
Her hooves lifted from the soapy bucket, dripping red.
“No, no no no no,” she repeated, clenching her eyes shut. When she opened them, the red had disappeared.
“What is it?” Precious asked.
“Nothing,” Scotch assured her. “Just this place getting to me.”
“Don’t see them, and they won’t see you,” Pythia assured her.
But she wanted to see them, but this wasn’t like at the festival or even Lumi’s little familiar spirit. Something bad had happened here. Something wrong.
She stared into the crimson depths of the bucket, blood sloshing about. Again, she clenched her eyes. Focus. Ignore it. They didn’t have time for spirit stuff now. Once the firebox had cooled, they attacked it with soapy water and brushes. Pythia, the smallest, won the honor of climbing inside the firebox to scrub the tubes that heated the water. Majina stood on the top, scrubbing the flue with glee. Precious got the ignoble task of heating the water in a metal bucket before passing it to the other two. Charity helped Scotch apply a well-needed refill to the Whiskey Express’s grease reservoirs, then oiled everything else. Finally, as they cleaned the outside, she inspected the bolts and plates for looseness, cracks, rust, or dents. Thankfully, the water jacket had protected the boiler from bullets.
After two hours, it was noon and the five of them were utterly filthy, but the Whiskey Express seemed to enjoy the attention. At least she imagined it did. “That’s a good job,” she concluded with a smile. The coals were returned to the firebox, with fresh fuel added to get to boiler simmering again. Everyone’s mood seemed a little better. Even Pythia, black as coal, seemed in grudgingly high spirits. “Time to clean up,” Scotch said as she lifted the hose, twisting the nozzle as she pointed it at her dirty friends.
A machine gun roared, her friends’ bodies wilting as bloody holes tore open. Worse, her friends laughed at their bodies ripped open before her.
She screamed as she threw down the hose turning her back on the horrible image and clenching her eyes tight. “Haimon…” came the whisper again. “What are you doing, Haimon?”
“I don’t want to hear about Haimon!” she yelled, pressing her hooves to her ears, but it did nothing to silence the whispers.
“Scotch?” came Pythia’s voice, and her touch gentle on her shoulder.
“I can’t help it! I keep seeing horrible things and I can’t not see it!” She looked up at her friend. “You say don’t see them and I don’t want to see what I’m seeing but I want to help them!” She could see the uneasy looks Charity and Majina wore.
“Let’s get cleaned up and get out of here, okay? We won’t have to stop for a while after this,” she assured her. “Just hold it together.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Charity asked, looking at Scotch like a stranger. A dangerous stranger.
“Do you believe in ghosts and spirits?” Pythia challenged.
“No, of course not. That’s dumb,” Charity replied flatly. “There’s plenty of real things to be afraid of.”
Pythia nodded. “Like most ponies. Well she does, and they believe in her. That’s enough,” she said as she pulled away. “Let’s get bird brain and get out of here.” She started around the station, heading back towards the plaza.
Charity walked past Scotch with that scornful, skeptical look. Scotch could forgive her. She hadn’t seen the bridge, and it wasn’t like Scotch could talk about this casually. None of the others seemed interested in spirits. Even Majina was only keen on discussing them in stories. It wasn’t something she could chat about except with Pythia, and she’d only refuse to talk about it at all.
She looked out at the simple, square construction. Functional. Practical. Uniform. It appealed to her stable aesthetics. It even had running water with no power, something she could admire. The others didn’t care what happened here though. Charity cared about what she could get. Precious and Skylord for what they could fight. Majina for the stories she could take from it. What about the people that had lived here? Was she wrong for wanting to know?
Scotch hurried to catch up with her friends, and met them just as Skylord shouted down at them. “We got trouble! Get up to the roof. Quick.”
They ran inside. Though still a formidable structure, it had been converted into offices. The granite floor had tracks worn in it by centuries of passage in and out. A staircase rose up the middle and forked at the second floor. A broken fire sprinkler overhead trickled water in a little cascade down the stone steps. Then they found a smaller stair up to the third, which looked like a mayor’s office. Finally, they found a roof access. Precious picked the lock with a well-placed body slam and they moved out onto the flat stone roof. Skylord peered out between the crenellations to the east. “We’ve got company.”
There were at least five steam tractors coming up the Old Road. A pair of zebras with strange bat wings were flying above the convoy. From the tops of the trucks flew the pennon of the Blood Legion.
Did Korgax double-cross them, or had their luck finally run out? “Well, that’s bad.”
“You think that’s bad?” Pythia called out, waving a hoof from the west side of the roof. They rushed over and looked out to the west, where the hills to the north and south came together in a little saddle.
It wasn’t a Blood Legion patrol.
It was a damned army.
Twenty steam wagons and five steam tanks rolled down the freeway straight for the city. A thousand black dots seemed to swarm around them, walking in a disorganized mob. A least a dozen flyers bobbed around the force as advance scouts.
“If we hadn’t stopped, we would have run right into that,” Precious muttered. “We would have been caught in the open for sure.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like we can go the way we came,” Skylord said. “We’ll be spotted.”
“We’ll have to hide,” Scotch said. “Find somewhere to hole up. Hide the Whiskey Express. Wait for them to go. How long do we have?”
“The smaller force will be here in half an hour. The big one in an hour. If we wait four or five hours, we might sneak out during the night,” Skylord suggested. “Maybe sooner, if they just keep going.”
Scotch doubted they had that luck. “There’s a couple buildings nearby we might be able to park in.” She pointed down the plaza at two large square structures on the far end, one of which looked like a garage for steam tractors. Then she paused. From up here, she could see into the train station. Sitting on the tracks were three tanker trucks and an engine. From the rust, she guessed they’d been there for a long time. Through the streaks of rust, she could make out ‘Carnico’.
Why would someone park a train with Carnico tankers in the middle of a city? After the poison Mariana had used in Carnico, pieces were coming together.
“We need to hurry,” Charity said, giving her a shake. “What’s wrong with you? More ghost crap?”
“No. I’m not sure. Maybe. Let’s go,” she said, starting back down stairs. They needed to hurry. She was in such a rush that, as she reached the stairs descending to second floor, she was splashed by the cold water drizzling from the broken pipe in the ceiling. She shook her head hard, trying to clear it of the water as the rest continued down.
On the second floor, she saw a zebra colt silhouette backlit through a pair of doors at the end of the balcony. She blinked several times. “Hey, who are you?” Scotch asked, glancing around for other bars and…
No bar. As she stared, it seemed to beckon with a hoof. Scotch blinked, and the colt disappeared. Don’t see. Don’t pay attention. Don’t care. She looked down at the others, took a step, and froze.
“Scotch, what are you doing?!” Precious hissed up at her. “We have to go!”
“Just give me a minute! I need to check something out,” Scotch shouted down the stairs, and walked quickly to the open door. It was an office with a big, fancy carved wood desk. Scotch’s eyes scanned the room for any signs of the small zebra colt she’d seen. Papers were strewn everywhere. A terminal sat on the desk, but someone had put a bullet into the monitor. A pair of spears were snapped in two and tossed on the desk.
She closed her eyes. What was she doing? What was she even looking for?
“…what are you doing, Haimon?” a colt whispered in her ear.
“What’s going on, Scotch?” Pythia asked quietly from behind her, making her open her eyes. “I told you…”
“I saw something in this doorway,” Scotch insisted, searching through the desk. “I think there’s something important in here. Something about Haimon.”
“Haimon? That Major with the Blood Legion?” Pythia regarded her soberly. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but right now we don’t have time for this. They’re coming.”
“I know!” she snapped back, shuffling through the papers strewn everywhere. “There’s something important here.” She shivered as she looked at the office. “Something bad happened here.”
“Something bad is going to happen here, Scotch,” she replied, her voice soft. “We need to get caught up with the others. Don’t look for them, and they won’t see you, remember?”
But Scotch wasn’t leaving just yet. If that had been a ghost, there had to be a reason. Something worse than just your average Wasteland mess. Nevermind the question of what she actually saw and if she was seeing ghosts, or something else. “Do you see ghosts?” she asked as she rifled through the drawers of the large desk. “Are they spirits?” She spun towards Pythia again and begged, “Please! Tell me.”
“I’m not a shaman, remember?” Pythia reminded. “We need to go. Whatever happened here in the past doesn’t matter.” Scotch didn’t stop looking. A hoof gently touched her shoulder and she blinked, looking back at Pythia. The filly’s yellow eyes were round with concern. “You don’t have to do this, Scotch.”
She imagined the shuffling of cards and that dusty chuckle. “If I don’t, who does?” she asked. Pythia didn’t answer as the zebra pulled her hoof back.
Then she touched a folder in a drawer and felt something like cold water dripping on her spine. She withdrew the folder and looked at the papers inside. “What are you doing, Haimon?” repeated as she held it. Flipping it open she saw several letters. “Let’s go,” she said, stuffing them in her saddlebags and rushing down the steps to the entrance, where her friends were waiting.
“What took you so long?” Precious asked with a scowl.
“Nevermind!” Pythia snapped. “I see the first team searching for us here in the future. Let’s get the Whiskey Express out of sight.”
That was easier said than done. The firebox was barely warm, let alone hot enough to have the steam to get the tractor moving. “What I don’t understand is how we didn’t see their smoke sooner,” Skylord said as Precious stoked the furnace with jets of her breath.
“I don’t know,” Scotch admitted. “We should have had a lookout from the get-go.”
The two buildings at the end of the plaza were each the size of a block, three stories tall, and made of heavy stone with tall, narrow, glass brick windows. A walkway connected one to the other. They drove the Whiskey Express down into ‘parking’, pulling in amid dozens of other rusty wrecks. Water trickled and splashed, gurgling into the drains. They banked the coals and pulled a tarp over to obscure the shape of the tractor and trailer.
It was then that the Blood Legion arrived, not with the chugity-chug of a steam engine, but with a soft whir. Scotch shrunk back as they pulled into the plaza, four steam tractors that looked the part save for barely a wisp of exhaust. What kind of tractors didn’t belch smoky plumes everywhere? One by one they disembarked, a dozen or so in the red dyed, spiked armor of the Blood Legion. The zebras certainly looked the part of bloodthirsty ravagers, but were oddly quiet.
“Something’s wrong,” Skylord muttered as he crouched next to Scotch behind a rusted hulk. “When was the last time you saw less than twenty Blood Legion in one place?”
“Those are some nice guns too,” Charity pointed out. “They look brand new.”
Everything about them looked new, from their armor to their weapons. “Is this some kind of special squad or something?” Scotch asked. They also appeared well fed, healthy, and athletic.
“I don’t think so,” Skylord muttered. “Greens might have guns like those, but Greens wouldn’t be poking around a ruin dressed up as Bloods. Golds wouldn’t either.” His eyes suddenly went round as they formed trios. “Oh shit, we have to get out of here!”
“Why? What’s going on?” Majina asked. One trio went towards the keep, while the second headed for the train station.
The third was heading right for them!
Skylord didn’t answer. He made straight for stairs heading up into the building above. The rest caught up only when they scampered out of the stairway into a shopping center of sorts. The atrium went up three stories, with dirty skylights providing some illumination. Most of the shops on the second and third floor were closed behind pull-down rolling grills. A fountain in the center comprised of a dozen square pillars forming a spire filled the air with a chorus of splashes as water spilled from the top of one pillar to the next.
“We’ve got to hide. Or run. We have to move,” Skylord said as he peered around them.
“What’s going on? Who are those people?” Scotch asked.
“Shadow Legion,” he said, his eyes scanning the balconies. “I’ll tell you all about them once I’m sure they’re not going to kill us.”
He raced across the atrium to a large store with a glyph Scotch couldn’t read on the front. The interior was choked with rags and knocked over counters. The whole place seemed have been looted, but there was just enough left to hide under. Scotch and Skylord covered themselves with old zebra outfits. Majina and Precious hid in the changing rooms. Charity and Pythia concealed themselves behind the register counter.
“Who are the Shadow Legion?” Scotch asked in a whisper.
“About three years back, the Irons were infiltrated. They sabotaged our steel production facilities, disrupted our supply, and assassinated several leaders. They almost got our general. No one knows for sure who they were, but similar things happened to the Whites and the Golds. People talk about a legion that doesn’t hold territory. They call it the Shadow Legion, because no one’s sure if they really exist or not. Now, shhh…” he hushed as three figures emerged in the shopping center and started towards them.
They moved carefully, but with purpose, one stopping and keeping watch as two advanced. “Why’d she pick now, of all times, here, of all places, to go to ground? I’m telling you, they bypassed this place just like they did all the others,” a mare muttered, her voice carrying.
“The seer says otherwise,” a stallion responded as he wept a gun back and forth before him. “So we check. You thought he was wrong about the Greens, but she was just out looting a factory. If we’d waited, we could have snatched her up for sure.”
“Seers. I can’t believe we’re relying on mumbo jumbo for intel,” the mare replied.
“There’s also a cache here. If those kids looted it like they looted the others, we’ll know they’ve been here.” The stallion shone a flashlight attached to his rifle into a looted store. “Bloods really did a number on this place.”
“Cut the chatter,” snapped the third, a stallion. “They’ve got an Iron with them, and I’d rather not get shot wearing this Blood Legion crap.”
“You know, this would go a lot faster if we had our full gear,” the mare commented.
“Rules are clear. Visual concealment is mandatory. That’s Sanguinus’s whole damn army out there. You want a fight with them? Far as they’re concerned, we’re searching for deserters. Better if we avoid contact completely.”
They walked up to the ice cream shop adjacent to the commissary, and one moved into the back while the other two kept watch. The light swept through the commissary windows more than once. “What do you think hit this place?” the first stallion asked.
“Don’t know. Reports said the Bloods neutralized this place. Who gives a shit?” the mare replied. “Free cities are just as big a pain as legions. Just look at the cockup in Rice River. Irons, Whites, and Bloods all pointing shit at each other and no one has control.”
“Well, be glad they’re not pointing those guns at us. Fuck, I’ll be glad when we’re back at base. This place gives me the creeps,” the first stallion muttered as the second emerged from the back of the ice cream shop. “Anything?”
“Nothing touched. They haven’t been here yet. I set some mines. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Orders are to take her alive if possible,” the first said pointedly. “Haimon wants to question her.”
At the name, a thousand voices started whispering in Scotch’s ears over and over again. Haimon! What are you doing, Haimon? Please, Haimon! She did all she could to remain quiet, but pressing her hooves to her ears did nothing to silence the hissing whispers. It was as if they were whispering inside her head.
“Yeah, well it’s been a week so I’d say it’s not possible,” the mare answered.
“Finish sweeping this place. There’s a lot of city to search,” the second stallion said. “Haimon will want a report.”
The thousand voices grew louder and deeper, rumbling in the guts of the building. Haimon wants a report. They growled. Scotch grit her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. They serve Haimon!
“We’ll get it done sooner if we split up,” the mare said sharply.
“Remember your training. We stay together. Search the commissary,” the second stallion instructed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Skylord whispered. “Stop whimpering!”
She’d been whimpering? “They’re angry. They’re so angry!” she whispered.
Pythia stared at her from behind the counter, mouthing ‘ignore them.’
“Wait!” one of the three zebras hissed. “You hear that?”
“All I hear is you and that stupid fountain,” replied the mare.
“No! I heard something in there. Quiet,” the stallion snapped.
Skylord tensed beside her, but she touched his shoulder. He might get one of them, but three? They were spread out, and the walls of the commissary gave some cover. She peeked out of the pile of clothes. Two kept cover by the door, standing on hind legs, bracing against the cover of the door as they panned their weapons left and right across the commissary. A third slowly advanced, the mare. “Come out,” she crooned softly. “And I promise we won’t hurt you.”
Scotch swallowed. Could Precious and Skylord take out all three? And as soon as they started shooting, how long would it take before the others arrived? She took a deep breath, and then called out. “Don’t shoot!” Skylord’s glare could have murdered her. She rose to her feet from the rags, and had three guns trained on her. “I’m the one you’re looking for. Who are you?”
“You don’t get to ask us questions, little pony,” the mare replied. “Be a good pony and come here and you won’t get any bullets in you.”
“I don’t think so,” she said as she backed away as the mare advanced, trying to keep from tripping over the scattered boxes. “I heard your boss wants me alive.”
“Haimon wants you alive. The others aren’t so picky,” the mare replied.
Haimon! Haimon! Please Haimon! Scotch winced as she fought to ignore the screaming. There was a pop, and one of the fire sprinklers started to dribble rusty, reeking water. The mare glared at the pipe as the water started to spread across the linoleum.
“What others?” Scotch asked. “Who’s after me?”
“Above my pay grade, little pony. You want answers? Give up. I’ll take you back to Haimon and maybe he’ll tell you. Or not. Riptide would pay me handsomely for your corpse,” the mare said. Scotch heard a splash and watched as the fountain started to overflow, water spreading out in a silent wave as it washed towards the commissary entrance.
“Damn it. Just shoot her,” one of the stallions snapped. “Who cares what Haimon wants?!”
Haimon! Why! Why! What are you doing Haimon? The screams cried out, growing louder every second. Water flowed out from a pair of dark bathrooms, connecting with the wet sheet spreading out across the tiled floor. It flowed around the zebra’s hooves at the entrance.
“You work for him, right?” Scotch insisted. The mare lunged and Scotch scampered away, running around and leaping through the trickle. As the water cascaded over her she staggered and slipped, thudding into a pile of clothes and striking her head.
Then the screaming started as she struggled to pull herself together. Guns roared, the loud bark of the zebra rifles with the chatter of Skylord’s machine guns. For a moment the water rolled over her, filling her nose and mouth as the world swirled away.
oooOOOooo
The colt looked out over the city wall at the army arraying itself around them. Red Blood Legion banners snapped in the wind as they encompassed the city in a great host. Like a crimson glacier, they slowly moved past. At any moment they might charge in and the shooting would begin. His job was clear: to make certain every fighting zebra in the fort had a magazine or healing potion when they needed it.
But today wasn’t the day, The Red Legion slowly marched away to the east, roaring promises of great and bloody wrath. Only when they disappeared behind the ridge did the all clear horn blow, and every fighting stallion and mare went off the wall.
The colt looked around at the crowd and frowned. Someone was missing. Racing nimbly down the stairs, the colt made his way to the keep. He heard the shouts, and his ears lay flat a moment as he approached the office. “We can’t keep this up. It’s been three years of constant sniping and harassment. The Blood Legion are going to keep coming after us till they get what they want!”
The colt carefully pushed the door open to peek at the strong, bearded stallion sitting behind his desk like it was a bulwark. Before him was a younger copy, beardless, but with his mane in a tight mohawk. “It’s always been this way with the Legion, Haimon. They’ll cause trouble for us, then eventually collapse. There is no negotiation with them. You capitulate or die. Of all my sons, I would never imagine you to be talking about the former.”
“Sanguinus is no fool, father.”
“Nor are you,” his father countered. “You have a wife. A daughter. You will take over when I die. It is your sacred duty to keep this city from the Legion, at any price.” His father rubbed his beard. “What would you have me do?”
“Take the fight to the Legion. We have a thousand willing fighters. Show the Legion that you’ll stand up to them. There are other communities that would rise up if they saw others having courage. Stop hiding behind these walls. Sooner or later, they’re going to find a way past them,” Haimon insisted.
His father seemed to consider his words before gravely shaking his head. “I will not throw lives away. These walls protected my father, and my father’s father, and his father’s father. Let the Legion dash themselves against them all they want. We will endure!” The old stallion’s eyes shifted and lit on the colt. “Ah, Andre. Your brother and I were just having a discussion.” His hard eyes returned to Haimon. “One that is now over.”
Haimon turned and walked away. The colt gave one look at his weary father, then turned and left with him. “What’s wrong, Haimon?” he asked as he followed him up the stairs and onto the roof. His older brother leaned on the crenellation, staring west towards the saddle where the Legion had disappeared.
“Father wants to pretend like the Blood Legion’s just going to go away. It doesn’t matter how strong these walls are. They’re not going to protect us forever. The Legion keeps us under siege. How free are we, like this?” Haimon asked, then shook his head, just like father.
“Well, you’ll find a way. Everyone respects you, Haimon. They all say you’ll find a way to beat the Blood Legion” But the young colt’s words didn’t seem to brighten his brother’s gloomy spirits as he turned his face to the east, gazing out at the setting sun.
oooOOOooo
Scotch gasped and coughed. She was in a dark room, lying with her face in a puddle.. She was soaked from head to hoof, but she was also alive. Wet tile lay under her cheek as she heard something whimper nearby. What was that she’d just seen? No one had told her about visions of the past. It was too strange to be her imagination.
She turned on her PipBuck light and stared around at the devastation. Walls full of holes and sinks shot to pieces, the latter of which dribbled a constant flow of water that spattered around her. The dark, still air was punctuated by sharp snapping noises and that persistent whimper. She scanned around. “Hello?” she asked.
“Kill me,” whimpered a voice.
She slowly walked in the direction of the toilet stalls, the wet cracking noises growing stronger. She stared into the first, at the strange squat toilet set in the floor. Sticking up from it like an odd stump was a zebra’s hoof. As she stared, the hoof trembled, and with a cacophony of sickening crunches, sank slowly down the drain of the toilet bowl. Scotch backed away, her stomach clenching. Then she made the mistake of looking in the next stall over.
Only the mare’s head, forelegs, and chest protruded from the bowl. Her glossy eyes stared in shock at Scotch, blood trickling out her mouth. “Kill me,” she repeated, trembling as the toilets groaned and she sank an inch deeper into the bowl with a noise of snapping bone and sinew. Scotch couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look away. The mare’s eyes went round as the groaning noise grew, mouth opening, working…
Then, with a cracking of bone like a thousand bullets going off, her head disappeared as well. She’d never unsee a mare’s insides being squeezed out her mouth. Scotch sat there numbly as the mare’s hooves twitched for several seconds, then sank out of sight as well. The water flowed over every drop of blood, every lump of gore, washing it down the drain.
Scotch leaned over and vomited everything in her stomach, glad she hadn’t eaten much today. How… no. She didn’t want to think about how. ‘What’ wasn’t safe to think about either. In fact she wasn’t sure any thought was safe at the moment. She sat there, the water flowing over her, as she stared where the PipBuck light ended and the darkness began. It dripped like oil, trickling along the edges of the light. Crawling along the grooves in the tile like fingers of black wax.
Then she felt her body start to slide. It wasn’t a tug so much as a flowing sensation… right towards the toilet the mare had disappeared into. Instantly she tried to rise to her hooves, but they slipped out from under her. It was as if the floor beneath her was tilting, sending her sliding. She spread out her hooves to grab the stall, but the metal was slick. She slid on her belly, spinning around as the water flowing under her bore her straight towards the toilet bowl.
“No! No no no!” she screamed as her head was pulled by the flowing water to the porcelain basin. Everything seemed to be sucked straight into the drain. “I didn’t do it! Please,” she begged the spirits or whoever was doing this. “I don’t work for Haimon!”
With a great yank, her mane was seized and pulled straight into the bowl. She felt her head impact with the porcelain, and then felt the pull. Pain exploded in her skull as the pressure increased and the water flooded in around her mouth. She had only a second before it would be submerged, and screamed, “Andre!”
oooOOOooo
The colt snuck along the train platform. At the far end stood Haimon with a mare and a yearling, his niece. Haimon nuzzled the homely young mare, a momentary smile of contentment on his face. He kissed the foal gently on the brow, and then the colt watched as the pair departed. Haimon watched them go, his smile melting away as he watched them depart. It was getting dark. The lone generator hummed in the basement of the train station. Andre crept closer, and was astonished to see his elder brother weeping.
“What’s wrong, Haimon?” Andre asked, making Haimon start.
“You shouldn’t be out this late, Andre. Father will be angry,” he said as he scrubbed away the tears with a hoof. “Go back to him and mother.”
“No, Haimon. I’m not a colt anymore,” the colt said. “What’s wrong?”
Haimon turned and stared out at the Blood Legion surrounding the city. Their fires dotted the night sky like angry stars. “Sanguinus is going to win. He’s going to winnow our numbers one by one, week by week, till we’re too feeble to withstand it any more. Then they’ll take the city. Sanguinus wants Greengap. It’s a far more fitting throne for a warlord than that slaughter house at Meatlocker.” He closed his eyes. “We could have made a fight of it. Struck out at the Legion before they regrouped. Instead, all we’ve done is hide here behind our walls, waiting for the monster to go away.”
“Don’t say that. We’ll be okay,” Andre assured his brother.
“No. So long as there are legions, none of us will ever be okay. I see that now. There’s only one way to defeat a monster,” he intoned softly. “Go back to mother and father. Hold them. Tell them you love them,” he said, his voice dull. “I love you, Andre.”
Andre didn’t understand. There were lots of ways to beat a monster: shoot it, stab it with a spear, beat it with your hooves. He walked away, but instead of returning home, he ducked into one of the old information kiosks. His brother was troubled, and Andre wanted to be here for him.
It was a dark and moonless night, clouds blocking the stars. Only the wan light of the campfires surrounding the city gave any illumination. Then he watched as his brother picked up a shovel and approached a stallion on guard duty. Haimon approached from behind. What was he doing?
The shovel fell in one swing, the edge striking the back of the soldier’s neck. He dropped without a sound. A second swing. A third. And then Haimon reached down and yanked out the wires to the alarm. He reached out, and pulled a lever besides the tracks.
Machinery whirled as, at the edge of town, a length of elevated track extended over the wall to connect with the rail to the east. Andre emerged. “What are you doing, Haimon!” the colt demanded, wanting somehow for all of this to make sense.
His brother whirled and stared at him. For a moment, shock covered his face, his eyes wide and pupils tight and small. He’d never seen such a look from his elder brother. The one that thought big thoughts and dreamed of getting rid of the Blood Legion once and for all. Andre turned to run. To tell. To somehow make all this right, but Haimon raced at him and tackled Andre to the ground. It wasn’t like when they wrestled for fun. It hurt.
From the east came the chug of an old steam tractor. It pulled itself along the old track, and some sentries gave shouts of alarm, but shouts could only reach so far. The train rolled into view, a dilapidated machine barely able to pull three large tanker cars into the station. Blood Legion hung from the sides, wearing gas masks.
The largest of the lot jumped down and approached the struggling pair. Haimon released Andre, the colt scrambling for the stairs. A red-armored legionnaire pounced before he could get that far.
Haimon stood before the immense zebra, his Carnilian stripes broken by hundreds of jagged scars. He pulled off his mask, revealing a once-handsome face marred by pink hatchet marks that turned his features into a mask of horror. “Sanguinus,” Haimon intoned, bowing before him.
“No! What are you doing, Haimon?” Andre pleaded. Alarm was spreading through shouted calls. Any second they’d storm the platform and end all of this. “Brother, please!”
Haimon lifted his head, his eyes hard. “We need to hurry. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Of course,” Sanguinus purred, his deep voice resonant. He extended a gas mask to Haimon, who pulled it on. Gunfire was exchanged at the stairs between the few Blood Legion and the guards. Any second, they’d stop all this. Stop his brother before it was too late.
Suddenly from the base of the tanker came a spray of amber fluid accompanied by the stench of rotten cherries. The reek rolled over Andre, who gave one last struggle against the Legionnaire holding him, and then collapsed into oblivion.
oooOOOooo
Scotch came to, her chest burning, nostrils full of water, head pressed against the bottom of the toilet bowl… but the pressure was gone. She jerked her head out, flinging an arc of water as she kicked and scrambled away till her back was flush against the wall. She coughed and gasped, her chest burning as she struggled to her hooves and staggered out of the restroom.
The commissary was a sodden wreck, the contents strewn out the gate as if by a great flood. The fountain trickled softly once again, pattering away into the pool as puddles left behind slowly trickled away down drains or were left standing. She fought the panic inside her. Had her friends been pulled away as she had? Sucked down toilets to a horrible death? Had they gotten away? Captured? She swung her head, looking desperately for yellow bars.
There! A cluster of yellow. She started in the direction, but was stymied by an empty shop. It took her a few moments to go looking for some stairs. Up to the third floor, where she heard soft sobbing.
“We can’t worry about her anymore. She’s dead,” came Charity’s hard voice.
“She’s not dead,” Pythia contradicted.
“She’s dead and we’re going to be dead if we stay here. We’ve got to find a way out!” Charity snapped.
“Keep your voice down. There’s more soldiers out there. A lot more!” Skylord hissed.
“We should have helped her! We should have!” Majina sniffed. “Those screams… those horrible screams.”
“She’s not dead,” Pythia replied, numbly.
“Look, let me go back for her. I’m tough. That water couldn’t sweep me away,” Precious demanded.
“It nearly carried you off too. I don’t want anyone else dying today,” Charity insisted.
Scotch rounded the corner, to where a sky bridge connected this building to the one across the street. There sat her five waterlogged friends. Precious held a sobbing Majina as Skylord ground his beak, glaring out the window. Pythia sat in her drenched cloak, slumped with her back against the wall. Scotch tried to speak, the corner of her mouth hitching in a sort of a smile. “H-hey…”
All eyes turned to her and in a rush, Skylord pounced her, slamming her against the wall. “Don’t you ever be that stupid again! Ever!” he demanded. “What were you thinking?! I’m supposed to be protecting you! That does not! Mean! Stepping! Out! To banter! With the! Enemy!” He shoved her against the wall in outrage.
“Skylord! Stop! She just didn’t die!” Majina said, squeezing herself between Scotch and the griffon. Then she was hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry we left you! I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t! But that water, it was just pulling everything into the bathroom and those soldiers were pulled in and then you were and Precious was about to be swept away and–”
Scotch smiled as she hugged her friend. She never wanted to see another bathroom again. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“You are not okay!” Charity said, pointing a hoof at her. “What the hay happened? You got out and started talking to them, and suddenly there’s water spraying from the sprinklers and flowing from the fountain and we’re getting sucked off our feet! What the hell, Scotch? This is not what I signed up for!”
“You didn’t sign up. You were drafted,” Scotch replied, dripping. “And I’m not sure what happened. That water splashed over me and I was… someone else. A colt, back when this place was inhabited,” she said, and she looked over at Pythia, who seemed to be ignoring her return as she regarded her star map. “When I came to, I saw those soldiers getting sucked into the toilets.” Her heart pounded at the memory. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Majina stared in horror, “Sucked into…”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” Scotch reminded her. “Ever.”
“Were their guns sucked in too?” Skylord asked at once.
“I really didn’t pay attention. I don’t think so. Just their bodies. And remember when I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Ever?” Scotch repeated, looking pained. “How’d you all escape?” she asked, desperate to change the subject.
Majina wiped her eyes. “Oh. Skylord flew us to higher ground. Well, all but Precious, but her claws kept her from being swept away.” She sniffed. “We tried to save you but you were… in a daze or something. You didn’t take my hoof when I reached for you. You were just swept away.”
“Yeah. What is the deal? Seriously?” Charity asked, her voice strained. “I’d happily take ghouls and shit over killer water.”
Scotch looked at Pythia, and their eyes met. Pythia’s yellow eyes were solemn. She knew, but she wasn’t a shaman, so she couldn’t say. Because that would be admitting she was. Scotch closed her eyes.
“Something bad happened here,” she said as she gestured around her. “This place… people lived here. They were fighting the Blood Legion. One of them betrayed them, and let those tanker trucks in. There was a chemical. That sweet, fruity smell. I think it either killed them all, or knocked them out or something.” There was a piece missing, though.
“So why’s the water crazy? Is there a water monster here?” Charity asked.
“I don’t know.” Scotch closed her eyes, thinking. “The spirits here are angry. I think they’re affecting the water.”
“Spirits?” Charity asked, scornfully. “Seriously? Spirits? You believe in ghosts now?” She walked over and put a hoof to Scotch’s shoulder. “You’ve been here so long these zebra superstitions are getting into your head. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Superstitions?” Majina protested indignantly. “You’ll believe in ghouls and monsters, but spirits are too much?”
“Yeah, because you can do business with ghouls!” Charity countered. “Have you ever seen a spirit or ghost or whatever?”
“Shamans do,” Scotch said. “Maybe there are spirits all over Equestria too, but we just don’t see them.” She stared back the way she came, listening to the distant trickle of the fountain.
“That’s dumb. You’re dumb. It’s a water monster. Simple as that. It’s got to be,” Charity muttered, shaking her head hard.
“Project Chimera came up with all kinds of freaks like that,” Precious quipped.
“Like you?” Skylord commented.
Precious growled narrowing her eyes, “Keep it up, turkey. I’ll have some roast chicken.”
“Will you two stop?” Scotch asked as her brow furrowed. She knew she was missing a piece. When she’d been in Carnico, near death, she’d seen those oily, black spirits. They’d been confused and lost. Unfocused. These spirits were different. Something had happened to them. Something that made them deny this place to the Blood Legion, and everyone else.
Skylord raised a wing. “Shut up!” he hissed. They fell silent, and from the shopping center, heard the sound of footfalls. Scotch saw red bars. “Looks like they’re looking for their missing soldiers. We need to move.”
“We can’t go that way,” Majina said in a low voice, pointing at the far building across the walkway.
“Why not?” Scotch asked.
“Take a look,” Pythia suggested. Scotch frowned, but walked to the far doors, expecting them locked. Instead, they pulled open easily, and her ear was immediately met with the splashing of water.
A lot of water.
She stepped out onto a balcony that overlooked a colossal bath house. The cavernous space was nearly the size of the block, with an immense rectangular pool that could have held a thousand bathers at once. Twenty smaller pools, large enough for a dozen, lay to either side of the main pool, with channels transporting the water in cascades from the smaller to the larger. Marble pillars rose to the ceiling overhead, where massive shutters covered glass skylights. Sunlight peeked through a tiny gap, reflected again and again off the polished glossy walls. A long marble finger stretched out across the middle of the pool, and from it cascaded a continuous sheet of water pouring down in a fan. Ivory white bridges crossed the main pool, providing a diving platform right into the middle of the volume of water.
“Oh,” Scotch said.
“We can just wait here,” Majina whispered. “They’ll get eaten too, right?”
Maybe, but Scotch suspected it would take time. The name Haimon roused the spirits. Unless these soldiers dropped it several times, they might not react. Not soon enough to save them. She stared at that water below her, its depths lost to shadow. “We need to go down there,” Scotch said.
“No. No we don’t. That’s crazy talking,” Charity hissed softly.
“Listen!” Scotch said. “We can’t stay here. If we go down there, maybe I can find out what happened to these spirits. Maybe they could help us escape.”
“Or we just sneak quietly through and hope they don’t notice us,” Pythia offered as she folded up her map.
“Even if we get out, Sanguinus’s army is right out…” Skylord began to say when there was a great wave. It rolled down the length of the pool, and when it reached the end, fountained up towards them like a great grasping hand. The six scampered back as the water washed over the balcony from three stories up, the wave receding and pulling the water back after it.
“See! See!” Charity insisted. “Water! Monster!”
“It’s the name. That name you used, Skylord. That and that name that starts with H. They’re the ones that did this,” Scotch said as she stared down at the water.
“You’re talking stupid again,” Charity said, her voice taut. “It’s just a dumb monster. That’s all it is. There’s dumb monsters and dumb people. Not ghosts and spirits and stupid crap like that.”
But Scotch shook her head. “We can get out this way. If you trust me.”
Pythia nodded. “We can if we all do.”
“Shut it. You’re just as crazy as she is. All zebras are crazy,” Charity hissed through her teeth. Finally she slumped. “Fine. Shot or drowned, dead is dead. What do we do?”
“Just follow,” Scotch replied, stepping out onto the balcony and slowly descending the stairs down to the pool side. This wasn’t a monster, per se. Like a monster. Capable of monstrous harm. But it wasn’t a monster that killed just to kill. As they walked, the surface of the pool roiled as if something was swimming along the bottom of the pool. Her friends froze, but she continued walking as if this were no big deal. The roiling settled, and they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“There’s the exit,” Majina said, pointing towards the glowing green glyph over the door. “We can get out and find somewhere safe to hide. One of the homes, maybe.”
But Scotch doubted they’d be safe for long. Sooner or later, they’d meet a similar fate. “Come on,” Pythia said, tugging on her shoulder as the others made for the exit.
Instead, she walked towards the pool.
“What are you doing?” Precious demanded.
“Something bad happened here,” Scotch said as she stared out at the water.
“You keep saying that! How’s about we try and avoid it happening again,” Charity snapped. “Now let’s go!”
“Scotch, we can’t stay here. It’s dangerous,” Majina agreed.
“Something bad happened here and I need to know what,” she said firmly. Pythia walked up beside her, her yellow eyes luminescent in the gloom.
“No. You don’t. Bad things happen all the time. You don’t need to know why. If you see them, they see you. Listen to your friend. It’s just a monster. A thing to get away from,” she whispered. “Please, don’t do this, Scotch.”
But Scotch couldn’t take her eyes on the water. “I need to know.”
“For the love of Celestia… who cares?!” Charity demanded.
“I care!” Scotch shouted as she rounded on the filly, making her balk. “I care, damn it. Because people matter and it sucks when people die and nobody cares! But even if no one else does, I want to know so that at least someone remembers!”
Then she saw all friends’ eyes go wide as they all backed away from her. She turned in time to see the wave rolling toward her and bunching up. She stepped forward, right on the edge of the water. She wasn’t going to run. She wasn’t. She… oh Goddesses if she was wrong… no! She wasn’t.
The wave suddenly faltered and diminished, shrinking down to a ripple that broke over the edge and lapped against her hooves. She stared out at the pool. “Skylord. Can you open up that shutter?” she asked, pointing up at the ceiling.
“Is this a bad time to mention that there’s people after us who want to kill us?” Charity pointed out. “You’re wasting time with the lighting?” The others all regarded her flatly and her ears lay back. “What? This is stupid.”
Skylord spread his wings and flew up towards the roof. He found a crank and started to turn it. The shutters opened far more silently then they should have, admitting more and more light. The delicate carvings in the marble facades came into view, depicting zebra families frolicking in the water. The pillars became stone trees, their branches buttresses holding up the ceiling. The clear water gleamed as sunlight hit it for the first time in years.
Illuminating the bodies.
The hundreds and hundreds of bodies.
They were mostly bones by now, covered in a whitish yellow wax discolored with brown splotches. As they lay there, the motions of the water translated into the slow movement of the bony limbs within. Some heads seemed to strain towards the surface, legs waving slowly in the mass. Rotten cloth swayed slowly to and fro. With no animals left in the city, nothing had disturbed the remains.
“First egg,” Skylord muttered. “There must be at least a thousand in there. Maybe more.”
Scotch stood at the edge of the pool, which had now gone completely flat, save for the ripple of water pouring in. Hundreds dead, just like what they’d planned at Rice River. Would it have become as cursed at this city? “What happened here?” she breathed.
“Whatever happened here, it’s too late to help these bastards,” Skylord muttered. “We should go. Right now.”
“Listen to him, Scotch. We have to go,” Pythia said.
But Scotch stared at those wax covered bodies, their jaws wide, silently screaming. “I need to know.”
“You’re talking like Blackjack now. Don’t talk like Blackjack,” Charity said, her voice uneasy. “Let’s just go. There’s no point to swimming with a ton of corpses.”
Majina was silent, fidgeting, chewing her lip. Precious just blinked, confused at all this. Scotch took a step towards the marble stairs that led down into the water. Then another. Then another, until she was right on the threshold. She could hear the shuffling cards. The dry laughter. The smug silence. She tugged off her saddlebags and dropped them beside the great pool.
Suddenly, hooves grabbed her around the neck, trying to tug her back. She turned, looking into Pythia’s terrified eyes. “No,” she whispered. “If you see them, they see you. If you acknowledge them, you’ll never get away. They’ll never let you go. They’ll take you. Just walk away. Please.”
Scotch gently disentangled herself from her legs. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, “but they need help. I need to help them. And besides, maybe if you help spirits, they’ll help you.” Pythia looked at her as if she weren’t sure whether to cry, hug, or hit as Scotch stepped away.
She dipped one hoof into the cool, clear water. Then another. Then another. Something viscous brushed against her legs. She ignored it, sinking in up to her barrel. She could feel the water pulling her down to join them. To die with them.
She didn’t fight it. She took one last breath into her poor lungs and took the next step. Her head disappeared beneath the water.
Opening her eyes, she could see. She could see as clear as day the countless black shadows reaching for her, screaming their pain, their outrage, their loneliness. Like a black mob they surrounded her, pulling her down to the bones to join them forever.
Show me, she thought. Show me what they did to you. The world swirled away.
oooOOOooo
The colt’s head ached, his limbs bound as he lay beside the great pool. To his left and right were his neighbors, all bound tightly as he was, their heads dangling over the rim of the pool. He craned his neck to look at the legionnaire pinning him in place, and try as he might, he couldn’t struggle his way free. Behind him he could see more, bound, unarmed, guarded by legion soldiers. Half the city must have been here, though many were missing. Even stranger was a crowd of filthy outsiders, hobbled together just like citizens of Greengap.
On the bridge across the pool stood the victor. The stallion exuded power from every pore. He might have been handsome to some, with his powerful jaw and strong brow, but the hatchwork of scars covering him head to hoof gave him a garish, mutilated appearance. He wore no barding other than a scratched and dinged gold collar with the numeral three carved in the front. On his left stood his commanders, all looking quite pleased by this. On his right stood Haimon, a zebra wearing an elaborate wooden mask that appeared dipped in blood, and in the back an equine shape, face hidden in the shadow of the hood.
“Citizens of Greengap!” Sanguinus proclaimed, his deep, rich voice echoing off the marble walls confining the hundreds and hundreds of captives. “I thank you for your warm welcome to your fine city. It has been long deferred. Too long.” Someone started to shout defiantly, but the legionnaires reared up and beat him silent with their hooves. “I understand if my presence here is somewhat upsetting, but fear not. Your worries are at an end. I have come to bring justice.”
“Justice?” shouted another.
“Yes, justice!” he proclaimed, smiling ear to ear. “For generations the free cities have slept soundly while we, the Legion entrusted with your protection, are denied our due! You sat fat on arable land while others went hungry. You kept your families, while ours bled and died for yours. You arrogantly asserted your independence, while we kept the Irons from bringing their guns and reducing your city to rubble. You hid behind your walls, while we fought the Fire, who would have dragged you off to Roam for their fools crusade. You sneered at our entreatments, while we died against the Golds, who would have auctioned off the lot of you as slaves! Your debt is astounding, and it is time to collect.”
“Liar!”, “Murderer!”, “Beasts!” echoed in the chamber, some in the crowd struggling against their bonds. The legion beat down those spirited enough to object. Most sat, heads bowed, awaiting their fate. Sanguinus waited calmly with a beatific smile on his mutilated face.
“But one of you saw the folly of your ways. One of you knew where your loyalty was due. One of you sought to rectify this injustice.” He swept a hoof over at Haimon, who sat so still he more resembled the carvings on the wall than a zebra.
“Traitor!” came the cry. “Butcher!” and “Bastard!” They seemed to have no effect on the stallion.
“Tell me, Haimon. This is your city. This is your home. This is your people!” he declared, sweeping a hoof at the captured citizens. “Tell me, what punishment is fitting for such people? What is proper recompense?” Haimon said something, and Sanguinus cupped an ear. “What is that? I couldn’t hear. Do speak up for all to hear!”
Haimon’s throat worked for several seconds before he emitted a cry that echoed across the bathhouse, “Kill them!” More screams and sobs filled the air, yet Sanguinus purred and patted Haimon lightly on the shoulder.
“Very well then. As you wish,” he said with a chuckle. “But fear not, for with your deaths, your spirits shall consecrate this city to the Blood Legion. With every drop, I will make this city mine. For now and for the rest of eternity. Like ancient Roam, this city is mine!”
The masked stallion at Sanguinus’s right coughed. “Not too many, milord. Certainly. You will want some to serve and breed, yes?”
Sanguinus’s smile disappeared as he nailed the masked zebra with a glare. “As many as I wish.” Then he beamed a smile once more. “Or rather, as many as Haimon wishes! As he delivered this city on to me, as he has laid sentence on you all, let him decide how many are to die.” His grin faded. “Let us see his true conviction.”
A mare was brought forward, the mare from the train platform. She clutched a foal in her hooves, struggling to keep it a few seconds longer as she screamed. The wailing babe was pulled from her grasp by a legionnaire, and she was forced to the edge of the bridge crossing the pool. The cloaked zebra withdrew from its folds a strange knife. It was long, thin, sickle shaped, and black as volcanic glass, the grip wrapped in cloth. The masked stallion coughed. “Milord, are you certain of this? The spirits–” But he was silenced with another glare.
The knife was passed to Haimon, who bit down on the grip. Sanguinus just stood there, looking down at Haimon, his forelegs spread wide as if daring the stallion to attack him. Haimon turned away.
“No! Please! Don’t do this, beloved!” the mare screamed. But he leaned in, slipped the knife around her neck, and a moment later pulled it slowly and firmly across her throat. Her eyes bulged as blood poured from the wound and out her mouth, body trembling before the limbs went slack. Then she was released to dangle there, dripping into the pool.
Sanguinus broke into applause, and the cheers of the legionnaires drowned out the screams of shock and outrage. Haimon looked back at Sanguinus, blood dripping slowly from the razor edge, and Sanguinus just grinned, hooves wide. The legionnaire holding the screaming foal started to walk away from the bridge, but he spat out the handle, holding the knife in his hooves. “No! Bring her here!” The soldier looked to Sanguinus, who suddenly seemed surprised and nodded his assent.
“You want your daughter to see your conviction?” Sanguinus chuckled. “Good!”
Haimon bit down on the grip and held her in her hooves. She quieted down a little, burbling at him as her mother bled out beside him, sniffling and scrubbing her hooves.
Then he leaned in, as if to nuzzle her. It was just a motion. One quick jerk of his head. Then she was gently laid next to her mother to drain out the tiny bit of blood her body contained. Utter silence filled the chamber, and even Sanguinus stared in silent wonder at the bloodsmeared face of Haimon. He spat out the blade and called out, “Next!”
Another came to the bridge. Another throat cut. And another. Another. The bodies were kicked into the pool once they stopped dripping. Soon, they didn’t even bother trying to drain them, just flinging their flailing, dying bodies into the pool. Those that yelled and fought were taken first as Haimon worked like a machine, slicing throat after throat after throat. He spoke not a word beyond ‘next’. After an hour the commanders began to fidget, wrinkling their noses. After two, the air stunk of copper. Mare and stallion. Young and old. All were marched up to bloody Haimon. All were cut across the throat and fell into the pool. The masked zebra kept fidgeting as the wailing of the condemned lingered.
“Well?” Sanguinus demanded, smiling no longer at the host of zebras bobbing in that bloody pool, staring at Haimon. The masked stallion wrung his hooves as he looked at the pool of death, eyes wide, unable to tear them away. The cloaked quadruped moved away silently, unnoticed by all.
Haimon, his body lathered in sweat and blood, spat out the handle and said, “Next.” His red eyes locked with Sanguinus’s blue for several seconds before the general waved a hoof, and the slaughter continued.
The colt watched it as the sun dimmed. So many bodies filled the pool that one could have walked across with little difficulty. Somehow he’d been missed as the condemned filed by, the last most resigned to their fate, submitting to the glassy edge. Finally, only he remained.
“Next!” Haimon croaked.
“Enough! We’ve more than enough for the ritual. Ten times as much!” Sanguinus objected.
“Is this about a ritual or about justice?” Haimon cried out. “Next!”
“Milord, please. I think we should go. Quickly,” the masked zebra said.
“You said I would decide when justice was served! That I would say when it is finished,” he snapped, and pointed a maroon painted hoof at Andre. “Next,” he croaked.
“Brother!” Andre sobbed.
“Next.”
“Milord, please…” the masked stallion whined.
“Next!”
“General, it’s been seven hours,” one of the commanders muttered.
“Next!” Haimon shouted, his voice echoing across the bathhouse.
Sanguinus didn’t answer. He stared at Haimon with an almost loving gaze. “What’s one more?”
Andre was dragged up and Haimon held the struggling colt himself. “Why?” Andre sobbed as his head was stretched out over a sea of gore. “Why, brother? Why?”
The blade passed under Andre’s neck, rose up, and bit deep into his throat in a stinging line. Then Haimon released the grip and whispered, “I swear on my life and soul, I will kill Sanguinus and destroy all the legions.” Then the blade was pulled free, his brother giving him one more squeeze, before he was flung away, tumbling down, down, down into that endless dark sea of blood and death.
oooOOOooo
Over the next week, Sanguinus tried to claim the city for his own, but a soldier who slipped in a puddle smashed his head open, his blood trickling into the drains. A mare looting a home was found with her head stuck in the toilet, drowned. A commander drinking from a pool went mad, screaming and slicing himself with broken glass till he bled to death. And all the while, the masked shaman begged, cajoled, demanded, and desperately sought to placate the spirits. He even went back to that bloody bridge, over a pool full of bloated corpses, to demand their compliance. A tentacle of corpse water engulfed him, encapsulated him, and crushed him into bloody slurry. Even Sanguinus nearly broke his neck when a slip at the top of the stairs sent him tumbling to the bottom.
Eventually, Sanguinus left the city, glaring at the structures that refused his very presence. Haimon was the last to depart, leaving the city with a smile.
oooOOOooo
Scotch opened her eyes, but she was no longer in the bath house. She stood up to her barrel in a vast sea of warm, coppery red. Rain dripped down upon her, and her eyes lifted to behold countless forms dangling from hooks that descended from that vast darkness above. Zebras. Ponies. Griffons. Dragons. Shot. Stabbed. Sliced. Slain. Somewhere beat an enormous heart.
As she stared, she saw Pythia hanging there. Majina. Precious. Charity. Blackjack. Glory. Daddy.
She couldn’t look away. She saw it. It saw her.
The immense ocean suddenly shifted and from its depths rose an immense skeletal creature. It gave the impression of being equine, but it was hard to tell in the gloom. Pulsating vessels dangled from the enormous bones, a blackened heart beating regularly in its dripping rib cage.
Blood. A spirit of blood. Blood was life. Spilt blood was death. Before her was the embodiment of all those slain zebras. No. Every slain zebra. Every butchered pony. Every gunned-down griffon. Every beast hunted.
“What. Do. You. Want?” it asked, the question humming in her marrow and punctuated by the beating of her heart.
Scotch didn’t know what to say. She wanted so many things, and here was a being of power she could barely imagine. She had the impression she’d only get one answer, and unlike foalish stories of genies, she doubted wishing for more wishes was an option. She felt stupid. Small. Should she ask for her father back? For Blackjack? Her mother? Should she vow revenge? Apologize, so that someone at least did? Ask for answers? She stared up at it through that slow, heavy, crimson drizzle and said the only honest answer she could think of.
“I don’t know.”
It rumbled at it stared down at her with those empty eye sockets, and she knew that was a poor answer. Its massive mouth opened wide, to swallow her for all time. “I want to stop bad things from happening!” she shouted up at it. “I want to make the world better.”
The enormous skeleton froze as stared down at her. Then it closed its mouth. “Childish,” it rumbled, and she tensed. “Foolish,” it stated and she trembled. “Naive.” And so it was. She was childish, foolish, and naive. Pythia would certainly agree. Most adults would.
“So what?” she yelled up at it. “That doesn’t change the fact that I want the world a better place!”
It stilled again. “What. Do. You. Wish?”
“My friends and I are being hunted in your city. We need your help to escape.” Instantly the sea rumbled and she felt herself sinking into it. It crept up her neck, rising higher and higher. “Wait!”
“Selfish. We. Are. Not. Your. Slave,” the skull rumbled as it crept up her chin.
“We’re looking for the Eye of the World!” she screamed in near mindless fear.
The rising blood paused.
“The. Eye?” the spirit rumbled.
“Yes! We’re searching for the Eye of the World! We’re trying to find out if it was blinded or not!” she explained frantically. “Do you know?”
The enormous skull stared at her for a long moment, then let out a deep sigh and collapsed back. The ocean jiggled and receded, flowing away as those countless hooks lifted into the dark vault above her. “Wait? Do you? Tell me!” Scotch begged as the crimson fluid flowed away from her, disappearing into the hard, black ground.
All except for one glob. It stood there, a few feet from her, like a cherry red colt. “Andre?” she asked softly. It nodded its head once in reply. “I saw… I heard what he said.” Haimon killed his wife. He killed his brother. He killed his own child! “I just… do you think he meant it?”
Andre smiled, then melted away into the earth too.
oooOOOooo
Scotch’s eyes opened in the water, and she blinked several times before kicking her way to the surface. Breaking into air, she sucked in deep breaths and struggled to kick her way back to the steps, ignoring the firmer things her hooves came in contact with.
“You’re crazy. Certified lock-you-up crazy,” Charity murmured as she stared at her in shock. “Blackjack would be proud.” She didn’t smile as she said that.
“What happened? You went in and the water went all jiggly and the bones pulled you down and I was sure you were dead!” Majina gushed as she passed Scotch an old towel. Well, it was a bath house after all.
“I saw… things.” For a moment, it was all she could say. She glanced at Pythia, who seemed to find the skylights more interesting than her. “Stuff about Haimon. The Blood Legion. The Eye of the World.”
Charity snorted, “Yeah, yeah, that’s all great. Did you find out if the water monster is going to leave us alone?”
Pythia suddenly blinked and shouted, “Get behind cover!” as she ran for a nearby pillar. The others hesitated just a moment in confusion before they followed her example.
At that moment, the door to the walkway opened and a trio of soldiers burst in, rushing to the edge of the balcony. “Target Green sighted!” one bellowed, giving them an additional second to scramble for cover, not that there was much in the marble floor of the bath house. Bullets from above fired in regular bursts, keeping them pinned. On her E.F.S., one bar jiggled back and forth, and she imagined them running down the steps to flank them.
Skylord, still up near the rafters, broke the barrage by unloading on the pair still up on the balcony. The rest scattered in an instant. Precious was off, racing low to the ground towards the flanking legionnaire. “Target Purple!” the faux Blood Legion shouted as he leapt clear of her flaming blast, then rolled back up to his hooves and drew a carbine. Precious didn’t stop moving though, scrambling ahead of his shots as he panned after her.
Then a glowing towel wrapped around his head, tying itself firmly in place. He didn’t stop firing or turning, but scraped at the towel with a hoof. Precious sprang, leaping on him with a roar. Scotch didn’t watch to see what happened next, because the front door of the bathhouse exploded inward, and three more burst in, their guns chattering bullets in controlled bursts. One went towards Majina, then declared, “Ignore Target White. Take out Target Pink!” Two began to fire up at Skylord, who had to dive for cover, pressing tight against the wall. The third pointed his rifle straight at Scotch, who raced for the cover of the bathroom. They pursued.
Scotch simply ran all the way into the back of the bathroom, pressing herself against the stalls as the zebra stood by the sinks and carefully took aim. “Please! Don’t!” she screamed, but it didn’t matter. No banter. No begging.
Suddenly the faucets next to him erupted, spraying him with a thin jet of water that traced back and forth over his body. The tip of his rifle tumbled down to the tiles. Then the barrel, and his hoof. He gaped at it, mouth working silently till the receiver cut in two and his legs tumbled to the ground. A second later, jaw still working, his head tumbled off as well and his body finally collapsed. The water sucked the spraying blood into the drain as Scotch sat there, coughing as her chest protested the most recent abuse she’d put it through. From out in the pool came a roar and desperate screaming. A wave of water rolled into the bathroom, sweeping across the body all the way up to her hooves. Then it receded rather than drained. The dismembered corpse slid out with it, drawn on the red tide.
It was a minute before she got her breathing under control and stepped out. There were her friends, waterlogged but alive. Precious sat apart from this others, shaking. Skylord was the only one who’d escaped the deluge, his guns reeking of cordite. Charity was furiously drying herself, as if that would somehow keep the water at bay. Pythia just dripped in her freshly-saturated cloak. Majina stared in horror, not at the pool, but at the dragonfilly.
In the pool bobbed five bodies, like fragile dolls torn apart in a fit of childish rage. One with a towel wrapped around its head had its entrails snaking out. The others were missing bits of themselves. Then they were drawn to the bottom with the rest of the bones.
“Is everyone okay?” Scotch asked, then broke into another fit of coughing. Damp plus running wasn’t good. No one answered. “Is anyone shot?” Precious was all bloody and shaking.
“No,” Pythia muttered. “No one got shot.”
Scotch noticed Precious staring at the gutted zebra, her draconic pupils contracted to lines. “Precious, are you okay?” she asked as she walked to her, putting a hoof on her shoulder. “You’ve got blood all over…”
The dragon filly started, then turned to look up to Scotch. Blood smeared her face. She trembled, then threw her hooves around Scotch’s neck, sobbing. “I ate him! I ate him!” What was there to do but pat her back and give her time to let it all out?
* * *
They sat up on the roof of the keep, watching Sanguinus’s army slide past Greengap and head east. The surviving Shadow Legion had withdrawn in their strange, smokeless tractors, disappearing. No doubt they’d be back. She could almost pity Sanguinus on some level. So much effort to take this place. To make it his Roam, only to be denied by the spirits of those he’d killed. Yet it still raised questions about Haimon. Did he mean what he’d vowed? If he did, did that make him an enemy or something else?
Blackjack had been a good mare, but she’d activated a talisman that had flooded their home with poison gas. She’d been trying to stop a cannibalistic infection from claiming everyone, but had killed four hundred with the push of a button. Every pony that Scotch knew, went to school with, even considered friends, had been killed. Did that make Haimon the same as Blackjack? Did it make him worse? She was torn between horror and questions she didn’t want answered.
Majina seemed to be scribbling down notes of their adventures in a notebook while Charity was lecturing Skylord about just how much all the bullets he’d fired had cost. Only one of the sweet, new carbines had escaped the pool, and he had only a few dozen rounds of ammunition for it. They quibbled back and forth between using it and selling it.
Precious sat by herself. She hadn’t spoken since the pool, violently vomiting once she was away from the others. Scotch decided not to press her as she watched Sanguinus’s army filtering away to the east. Were they going to Rice River? Iron Town? Somewhere else she didn’t know about?
Pythia approached. “Hey.” A second later she added, “Yes, you need a teacher. No, it’s not going to be me. Yes, I am your friend. No, I can’t teach you. I wish I could, if only to make you stop. Yes, I know this is annoying but– No, I don’t know how– Yes, but–” she stammered.
Scotch leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. It had the desired effect. “Stop talking to me in futures and just talk to me.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have stopped,” Pythia murmured, flushing as she pulled her hood up. “I can’t teach you spirits. I’m afraid to even talk to you about what you saw.” She tapped her hooves together. “But I really am curious what you did.”
“Well, I talked to an enormous spirit of blood that seemed interested in the Eye of the World,” Scotch answered wryly.
Pythia groaned with a slump. “That’s just cruel,” she muttered.
“I know,” Scotch said, her smile fading. “I’m starting to get it though. The Eye of the World. It is the big deal you say it is.”
“So is whoever is hunting you. I don’t know why, but you’re wrapped up in this,” Pythia muttered. “Ugh, add it to our list of unanswered questions!”
Speaking of unanswered questions... Scotch smiled. “So…” she said with a grin, “do you like fillies?”
Pythia immediately pulled her cloak over her head. “Not talking anymore!”
“Oh, come on!” Scotch said with a smile.
“No. Never mind. I take back all those nice things I was thinking about you! You’re horrible and spirits hate you!” she protested from the depths of her cloak.
“So you think nice things about me?” Scotch teased, drawing a smile from Majina and cutting off the quibbling unicorn and griffon.
“No! I wasn’t. I was possessed when I said that,” she sniped, waving a hoof furiously at Scotch as she tried to keep her cloak covering her face. Even Precious gave a little smile at the sight. “Keep your dumb sex questions to yourself!”
The rest of them shared a laugh. It’s been a horrible day in a haunted city, but they were alive. They were safe. And who knew what would happen when they stopped at the next city?
Author’s note: So yay. After a kidney stones and a month of fail, a little further along in their adventure. Next chapter will probably be a lot more world building. So thanks to Kkat for creating FoE in the first place. Huge, huge thanks to Bronode, Icy Shake, and Heartshine for helping my edit this into something decent. Thanks to everyone that’s read up to this point. And special thanks to my patreons who support me and keep me able to keep writing. This wouldn’t have been possible without their assistance. Thank you.
Editor’s note: Heartshine - I totally ship Precious and Skylord.
Editor’s note: Icy - I totally ship Charity and money.
Editor’s note: Bronode - All ships are trash, without exception.
The freezing wind snapped across the ice in a never-ending howl screaming through the frozen crevasses. Magical radiation flickered dimly in the depths, and she kept far from the edge as she walked along the trail. Frayed cloth strips tied to the end of spikes and stakes posted every dozen meters snapped in the unending squall as the lone zebra advanced. Here and there, on mountain peaks that pierced like teeth through the endless white ice sheet, rose shattered, ancient structures. Once they’d been home to yaks; yaks who hadn’t meekly stepped aside when the zebras annexed their land to escape megaspells. What brilliant mind had thought to use balefire on the land they were trying to take? Now the yaks were mostly irradiated husks no one dared approach. Were there still yaks on the far side of the pole, or had her people callously wiped them out in the bloody frenzy of ‘victory’?
It didn’t change much, but she’d hate to add ‘casual genocide’ to her people’s list of atrocities.
It was hard to make out her destination amid the stinging windblown ice. At first glance, it was little more than another spur of stone being ground away by the relentless shifting of ageless glacier. Through gaps in the blowing snow, she could make out glimpses of metal. Heavy fur garments traded in port covered her body in a shroud that barely protected her from the storm’s deadly bite, frost covered saddlebags bulging with supplies. It wasn’t until she entered the lee of the stone that she could pull down the whale bone visor protecting her eyes and take in the sight of a crashed Raptor. It lay against the rocky spur, nose and cannons pointing towards the sky, covered in a rime of ice forming long horizontal fingers trailing into the wind.
As she approached a sign, almost illegible under frost built up over year, which showed that someone had one had an iota of wit. The glyph was simple: Nowhere. Under it was a second, simple, almost superfluous glyph: White.
Yet as she approached the base of the crashed ship, curiosities began to appear. Ice twisted into the shape of translucent monsters menaced the perimeter. Pieces of steel placed on wagon hubs outside the wreck were transformed into pinwheels, twisters, and other bizarre structures that forced her to stop and consider them for a moment. Bestial skulls mounted on piles of rock were arranged as if still alive.
There was no guards to Nowhere. A few locals at the entrance stirred at her approach, but didn’t reach for their weapons. She’d paid the appropriate bribes; two boxes of smoked fish for directions and a day without harassment. Then the shaggy Sahanni nodded their heads and let her inside. It was too damned cold for a fight or a shakedown.
The warmth was almost as much of a slap in the face as she stepped into the ice-bound Raptor. No one came to Nowhere for the climate. They came because there was nowhere else to go. The zebras she encountered watched her with a spectator’s interest, curious but not enough to get off their fur cushioned seats atop cargo crates and empty boxes to learn more. One scribbled on scraps of paper with charcoal sticks, or shaped blobs of mud into bizarre shape. Most just seemed content to sit and let her pass by.
Not all of them were sluggards though. Some enterprising engineer had coaxed the reactor back to life, along with half the lights. Another had hammered plates together to make a flat surface to walk on, but everything was odd angles in the steeply sloping structure. Exposed pipes gurgled as they rerouted fluids across breaches, and sometimes across hallways. Maybe they were the source of the dank reek that seemed to lurk in every inhabited passageway?
Weirdness lay everywhere she gazed. Pictures were painted on every wall, in every substance from paint to grease to what she guessed was blood. Some of the images were so detailed she swore for a moment that a living zebra stared defiantly at her from a bit of wall while others were abstract geometric shapes that left her annoyed at having to guess their meaning. Art lay atop art, with quality pieces unmolested while poorer work disappeared beneath layers and layers of graffiti.
A strange, pungent haze lingered in almost every corner, emitted from censers that smoldered a dried herb of some kind. She pressed her cowl closer to her mouth to keep from coughing. From the ceiling overhead, hundreds of trinkets built of trash dangled on strings, creating a cloud of colorful, reflective detritus overhead. In one room, a pony magical weapon had been altered to create a continuous red beam that was refracted and split again and again by shards of mirror, forming an intricate web of light. A part of her was scandalized by the waste of a valuable, functioning weapon, while another was mesmerized by the sight of the shifting patterns created by a few slowly rotating bits of glass.
And, of course, bones. They were everywhere; grinning from little nooks and crannies, posed, the skulls presenting a glyph of the owner’s name. In one macabre arrangement, a unicorn skeleton and pegasus skeleton had been wired together in folding chairs across from a pair of zebras positioned around a small table with a cracked tea set in the middle. A plaque reading ‘Peace talks’ was hanging from the table. That made her smile, and choke up, at the same time.
She passed through what what passed for a market of sorts in the Raptor’s hanger, where goods from the east met goods from the west in the last place anyone wanted to do business. Shelves had been formed, and on them squatted a dozen or so merchants offering the standard fare of guns, barding, ammo, food, drugs, and a few other curious relics like carved bone charms and strange dolls of twisted, yellow grass. A trio of shaggy Sahanni watched her pass as they quaffed steaming cups of something that smelled like boiled manure, smoking the pungent weed from water pipes. A few more directions and she headed further up the ship.
Hiking up the slanted passage, scrambling at times over plates that had bent, admitting stabbing drafts of cold air, she saw the sign up again. ‘Captain’s Mess’. Stepping through the doors, a bouquet of rancid food and unwashed patrons made her recoil a second. The small dining room’s tables had been bent to provide level surfaces, but all else was forced to slump against whatever surface they could. A crust of stale filth crunched under her hooves as she struggled towards the bar, where a sort of innkeeper watched her expectantly. Pony heads, mummified and blackened, were mounted behind him, some with their military caps still atop thin manes. ‘Cleaning staff’, someone had written under them. An arrow pointed to one on the end. ‘His mess’. Above the innkeeper swung a sign that read ‘The Middle’.
This was the zebra she needed to talk to, yet she balked. A dozen zebra bones lay on the table before him, and he was scraping at them with tools set into a leather hoof mitt. He didn’t look up at her approach. “I know everyone in Nowhere,” the innkeeper said, wrapped in so many furs that he resembled a mound of fluff as he etched a flower in the skull’s brow. “But I do not know you. Are we friends?” the shaggy Sahanni asked as the metal pick scratched bone.
She pulled off the fur lined hat and mask, and Mahealani met his eyes with hers. “One meets many kinds of people in Nowhere,” she said, carefully reciting the words she was told to say. She considered the bones. “One of your enemies?”
He snorted. “Certainly not. I’d throw them to the ice.” He frowned. “My niece,” he murmured, blowing the dust off the skull. “She will be half as beautiful in death as she was in life.” From the flowers he was expertly carving around the glyph in the brow, that had to be heartbreakingly beautiful.
She had a strict rote for dealing with Sahanni, but it broke. “It seems strange to me.”
“What would you do with her were she yours?”
“Wrap her in cloth and give her to the sea. When I die, I will join her,” she answered.
“But then who remembers her?”
“I do.”
“Ah, but then who remembers you? Books? Stories? Anyone?” the fur wrapped zebra murmured as he scratched. “You may never have met Aina before her meeting with the windigo, but you will still know her. You will know she was beautiful. That she was loved. That she brought joy into the world.” He then pierced her with a pale blue eye, enlarged by the jeweler’s loupe clenched over it. “What will they say about you, stranger?”
She took a deep breath. “That it is odd for an Atoli to die so far from her home.”
“Indeed, you are far,” he said with a sage nod, looking down and resuming his scratching. “My friends told me of a zebra of the sea in the port of Blackstone. They told me that she asked many questions. That she asked till she got answers. Most insistent was she, despite those that sought to deter her. Then this zebra of the sea leaves her world for mine, and alone she crosses ice and wind to come to Nowhere. Such an odd zebra, Mahealani must be.”
Not a surprise. This was a warship. It had to have a working radio. “You have good ears, Rasva,” Mahealani said evenly, “to hear so far from shore.”
“I have good friends,” Rasva said with a slow nod. “Such a story. If I were Zencori I might do it justice. We may have one somewhere around. I’ll have to listen for rambling.”
Mahealani raised a hoof, and despite the gravity of her mission, smiled. “Please, no. They’ll add a half dozen tragedies and me fighting a radyak herd barehoofed. One tragedy is enough.”
“And what is that?” he asked lightly.
She didn’t want to answer, but Rasva could help or stop her cold. He wouldn’t even have to raise a hoof against her. “I was captain of a ship that carried a pony from their lands to ours. I accepted the aid of the stars to save my ship and my passenger. For that, I was cursed.”
He nodded solemnly. “Many who are cursed end in Nowhere. You are hardly the first.” He leaned back, lifting the skull and turning it this way and that in critical examination. “So why speak to me?”
The moment. “The Admiral sends his regards.” She withdrew a carved river rock from her saddlebags and set it on the table before him. On it were the glyphs ‘Stone’ and ‘Promise’.
He paused and leaned over to a bubbling pot set on some coals and filled a mug, then took a long drink of the stinking brew. “I see,” he murmured thoughtfully. “He sends regards far indeed to reach Nowhere.”
“My mission is important,” she assured him.
Rasva didn’t look at the stone for almost a minute, as she waited patiently. “I knew him as a boy, you know. So serious. He was fleeing your tribe’s squabbles, seeking peace. I hoped he would stay, but ice and snow has nothing on the pull of the sea.” He reached down at tapped the stone. “I knew he would rise far. I’m surprised he remembers a fat fool from Nowhere.”
“He remembers.”
“So. He gave you my promise. It was meant for him. Something pretty on those lonely ships of yours,” he said lightly, pursing his lips a moment as his eyes narrowed on her. “You wish to ask me for something I will not wish to give. That is not friendly.”
“I did not say we were friends,” Mahealani countered as gently as possible. “I am looking for a zebra under your protection.”
“I can guess which,” he said with a deep breath. “I did not think the boy would want a bounty. Such things are supposed to be beneath an Admiral.”
“I’m not here for the bounty. I’m just here to talk,” she assured him. He took a sip and regarded her silently. Had he been Atoli, they could have simply gotten to business, but the Sahaani never did. They were roundabout, loquacious, and could take weeks, months, or years making up their minds. One thing was certain though; if she forced their hoof, they wouldn’t be deciding in her favor. Still, there was one thing she could offer.
“Your niece loved flowers,” she observed, regarding the skull. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a small vial full of a light purple powder. It was produced from powdered sea snail shells, common enough for anyone who lived on the sea. They came up with the traps, or could be found in tidal pools. “I think this would make them even more lovely,” she said as she set it on the table before him.
“A bribe?” he frowned at her.
“A gift,” she answered. Of course it was a bribe, but it was rude to be blatant about it. “Your niece deserves no less.”
He pursed his lips, but then drew the vial into his robes. Nothing more need be said. He would act, or wouldn’t. She turned and left him to his thoughts.
The next day, she sat in the real prize of Nowhere: the garden. It had been some sort of storage bay, but converted into a hydroponics setup. Crops grew in hanging trays, where water was dribbled into the soil. Most Sahaani communities couldn’t grow traditional crops in the frozen north, so they supplemented whenever possible. And, in true Sahaani fashion, they’d added a water feature: a brook that trickled down the middle, along a rocky course. Two Sahanni stallions were making something that might have passed for music by drumming rhythmically on the hanging trays while a mare swayed and danced. Others tended the growing trays with baskets perched precariously on their rumps.
The scene was spoiled by a knife to the back of her neck. “Who are you?” a tremulous male voice whispered. “Who sent you?”
“I’m not here for the bounty,” she answered at once, but the press of the knife didn’t lift. “I’m here for a story.”
“Ask a Zencori,” the stallion hissed. “Leave me alone!”
“I need to speak with you, Ak–”
“Don’t use that name!”
She took a deep breath. She had to be the calm one. “What name would you like me to use?”
He hesitated. She could only assume that Rasva had asked him not to kill her. “Nemo.”
A fitting name. “I need to know about Riptide, Nemo,” Mahealani pressed, keeping her voice low. “I need to know the truth about her. Where did she get her ship? Her crew? She went from nobody to the greatest threat on the seas. You’re the only one left who knew her from before.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” he muttered. She chanced a glance back at him. The Atoli was so scarred it was difficult to make out his wavy stripes. One eye had been plucked out, leaving a puckered hole. On the end of one hoof was a strap and a blade. She diverted her eyes forward. “Everyone else is dead, or transformed into monsters.”
“Riptide was nobody, and there are stories, but you were on the Osprey, under Captain Anakoni. You knew her.”
“Knew her?” the stallion growled. “I loved her. That’s the only reason I got away. Why I got a week’s head start.” The knife pressed a little harder. “Now she’d reward whoever brings her my head with a solid gold likeness. I don’t know what you told Rasva, but no one’s collecting my head.”
“I’m not with her!” she protested at once, drawing looks from the dancers, and immediately lowered her voice. “I need to know how she got the Riptide. Where her crew came from. I’ve heard all the stories, from her being a whore in Anakoni’s bed to being Anakoni’s daughter,” Mahealani said evenly. “What’s the true story?”
Nemo folded the rusty blade up so it hid along the inside of his forehoof. “No one wants to hear the truth. The truth doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. Riptide is tearing our tribe apart, yet almost nothing is known about her. Where she got her ship. How she supports it. I need to know who she is and where she came from. You’re the only person that knows.”
“Not the only one. Just the only one that got away,” Nemo muttered. “I was navigator on the Osprey. We kept the zebra Remnant in the pony lands supplied. It was good money, and we could engage in some piracy when opportunity presented itself. One trip, we had something new: a young mare going back to the zebra lands. Her name was Lahela.”
Had the subject not been so serious, Mahealani would have laughed aloud. As it was she couldn’t hide a smile. The whole trip had just been made worthwhile with the inclusion of her name. The fact that said name meant ‘female sheep’ was all the more precious. Still, it wouldn’t do to abuse that knowledge. “Riptide was born in Equestria? Not ‘born from the womb of the sea?”
That got a chuckle. “No, we picked her up in Dawn’s Landing, a strange zebra wanting to leave the fight against the cursed city. She had no knowledge of her own tribe’s traditions and wanted to learn them. Anakoni took her on as crew; I think he planned to bed her, but she was too bold, and could fight. A few stallions tried to force her, but she beat them. Still, she was odd.”
Mahealani furrowed her brows. So neither whore nor captain’s daughter. The story of a ship’s whore rising to captain was a powerful one, especially when so many in her tribe were equally low. Equally powerful were stories that she was born from the womb of the sea with some spiritual mandate. Mystery intrigued. She needed the truth. “How so?”
“She came to learn our traditions, but had no patience for them. She wanted to learn about the Atoli, not be an Atoli. Most believed it was from growing up in the pony lands. You see the kind, from time to time. Still, she knew how to command and inspire. Many wanted to wed her, and she spurned them all, mares and stallions alike.”
“But she loved you,” Mahealani pressed, a tiny bit skeptical.
“She liked me. I was ship’s navigator, and I talked with her rather than flattered her. She talked about the old ways, and strange ways, and new ways. She wanted to know why the Empire fell, and how to save our people when we were so divided. She hated the legions. Called them ‘raider armies’. We’d talk for hours into the night about how the world should be, where the weak aren’t oppressed and the powerful aren’t foolish. Young dreams.” He gave a sigh. “She wanted to save the world.”
She wanted to press him on the ship, but knew at any moment he could change his mind. She’d have to steer Nemo carefully to get to the port she desired; the truth. “So what happened?”
“We were doing a bit of scavenging on the side. There was a naval base near Bastion hit by a megaspell. It was one of those that messed with your mind. Made you see things. Drives most folks crazy. Even affected robots and the like. We needed a part for the Osprey and Captain thought we could nip in, find the parts, and leave. Twenty of us went in. It was… bad. That place is evil.”
“But you survived,” Mahealani pressed. This was new! Most said the sea itself had lifted the Riptide from its depths for her. Just being able to undermine her mystique would help.
“Seven of us. I can remember all the things I saw. What we did to her. I had enough brains left to kill the mad ones and drag her out. It changed her. Broke her. She wept and wanted to die. We took solace in each other. One killed himself in madness. Disemboweled himself. Another stepped off the ship in the middle of the ocean at night. Worse, for her, was that she was with foal after that.”
“Ship is a hard place for a pregnant mare. Why didn’t you take her to port?”
“She refused. Whatever she saw tormented her. When her daughter was born, it was all that kept her alive for a year. I tried to help her. I thought she was getting better.” He paused and let out a sigh. “Then that damned shaman came aboard and nothing was right.”
“Shaman?” Mahealani pressed, leaning towards him. The pickers were laughing to each other as they moved a row closer, while the drummers were taking a break. “What shaman?”
“I didn’t meet her. She kept covered, wearing a mask. She invoked Tradition. You know, passage for young, old, and shamans? She was travelling from Equestria back to the zebra lands and wanted free passage. Captain gave it to her, and she bunked with Riptide for the trip. I don’t know what happened, but the scared, half crazed mare I loved was gone. The shaman left, and Riptide and Niuhi were changed forever.”
This was new. “Go on.”
“She wasn’t consumed by night terrors anymore. No, that’s not right. She had them, but they lost power over her. Soon as the shaman left, she confronted the captain. He was a drunk, she said, and cheating the crew. Both true, but no one had called Anakoni on it before. Captain tried to shout her down and beat her. She had a razor. Slit his throat. His first mate tried to rally the crew, but she’d gotten them on her side. Challenged the mate to a duel. She was twice Riptide’s size. One of our best fighters. Kept beating her, but she wouldn’t stay down. Then the mate took a misstep. Riptide tore her throat out with her teeth. After that, she was Captain.”
Mahealani glanced over as the pickers moved a row closer, afraid they might spook Nemo, but he seemed to be in a daze. He was starting to get swept up in the telling, and she just let him. There were plenty of stories of her rallying the Osprey to her side, from duels to half the crew fighting the other half to sharks leaping from the water to devour the captain whole. Stories were for foals.
“The Osprey wasn’t a warrior ship. We could win a good scrap against fishers, but real pirates would take us out. Riptide had us go back to that base. We went in together; I thought I was ready for the nightmares. This time, though, she marched right to the middle of the place. I was almost mad, but she kept me moving. She went to the general’s quarters and found a safe left open. Inside were papers. She took them as if they were nothing. What I saw…” Nemo shuddered. “She read them and put them back, closed the safe, and locked it. Then she left. She could have left me there. She thought about it. She must have. But she got me out and back to the Osprey.”
She knew easily a dozen bases he could have been referring to in the region. She nodded, but mulled it over in her mind. The western coast, closest to Equestria, had been one of the heaviest fortified. Raids by Raptors had been constant, and several pockets had been occupied by ponies during the war, though most were loath to admit it today. Still, a base with nightmares and madness? It couldn’t be that hard to find.
Nemo rambled on. “She had us set sail south. We went through the Bastion Canal and into the south seas. Strange waters. No charts, but every now and then she’d take Niuhi into the water and a few minutes later, they’d return with a new course. Said the filly could smell our destination. Then one cloudy night we anchored in a cove, and she got in the longboat alone. Said to wait a day. She’d be back for her daughter. Then she rowed off to shore. Some talked about leaving. They might have lived a few more days if we had.”
He took a deep breath. The pickers were in the same row as they, now looking at the pair of outsiders as they drew closer. The drummers were having an argument about something. Apprehension started to nibble at her spine. Two stallions entered, laughing, smoking cigars of the pungent herbs. Nemo looked around, clearly alarmed, and she reached out to nudge his shoulder before he bolted. “What then?”
Nemo paused, then went on. “The next day was foggy, but we heard a motor. Out of the mist came a warship like from the old days of the war. Not a rusty relic either. It was beautiful and horrible at once. She was in charge, and the crew was strange zebras. Not a single Atoli among them. She took Niuhi and then had each of us swear to serve her loyally to the end of her days. When some swore, Niuhi said they smelled like lies. They were dragged away, and the screams…” he shuddered. “She turned them into fliers. When she’d gone through the crew, she blew the Osprey to the sea with a single shot.”
“Clearly you swore to serve her,” Mahealani said.
“In bed and as her navigator, but I was useless as tits on a shark. That ship had all its charts on machines. It plotted its own damned course. Most of us were just slaves, and if you didn’t like it, you got a choice: flier, or Niuhi. For the first few years all we did was go around the seas. She’d send out fliers, and blast anyone if she was bored. But something was amiss. Wherever she’d gotten the ship, and whatever she was doing with it, her heart wasn’t in it. Of course, then your idiot fleets tried to marry her to get her to stop. She was told to accept it.”
Mahealani leaned towards him. “Told to? By whom?” This was what she needed to know! Fools might think the Riptide was magic, but she knew any ship, especially a warship, needed constant support. You couldn’t just sail around endlessly without dealing with corrosion, rot, food, and medical problems. Someone had to be supporting her, and if it wasn’t the Admiral, it had to be someone, anyone, else.
“I don’t know. Just that she was told to. So she did. I think she was having second thoughts about what we were doing,” he said, then hissed through his teeth. “Then that damned shaman came back!”
“You’re sure it was the same one?”
“I can’t say for sure, but being around them… they felt the same. Like squids crawling around in my veins. Riptide sent me out, but I listened through a vent in the next room. Shaman knew she was having doubts about making the world a better place. That things would ever be different. That the cursed city would be no more, and that her nightmares would end. The shaman gave her a book about some damned pony in the pony lands. The Lightbringer.” He let out a sigh. “Sure enough, a month later, the cursed city went up in a beam of light, and Riptide was convinced. I don’t know what that book said, but after reading that, she was sure that peace was possible.”
“She has nightmares?” Mahealani frowned. This was new to her, though she had heard her husband mention ‘restless nights’. She’d just assumed he was making innuendo. She’d also need to find this book. See how it could be so inspiring.
The planters were barely moving down the row anymore, just talking in low voices to each other. The two stallions seemed to be examining her. She wished she could take him somewhere more private, but now that he was opening up, she didn’t dare stop him. She tried to ward the pair of planters away with a glare, but they just stared back with disinterest.
“Every night. Me too, after that base,” he reached out to a nearby tray and touched one of the strange, seven leafed plants it contained. “This is the only thing that gets me through the night. After that, she started hunting the seas and the shores of Equestria for some pony. Anyone who wanted off was turned into a flier. I challenged her.” He reached up and touched his missing eye. “It didn’t end well.”
“I can imagine,” Mahealani replied. She also knew who the pony was.
“She was going to turn me as well, but I think she had a moment of mercy and threw me off the ship instead. I swam for two nights south till I reached an island. She must have found out I survived somehow, so I went as far from the sea as I could and not starve.”
“Why?”
“She can’t leave the sea. Even setting foot on land causes her agony. Leaving the Riptide’s hard enough for her. So long as I stay away from the sea, all she can do is put a bounty on my head. These Sahanni don’t care that much for money. They have their herbs and art, so I can draw a breath safely.” He rose to his hooves. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think that’s enough questions. I’ll talk more, later.”
“But wait. Who were those zebras who crewed her ship? Who was this shaman? Who’s giving her orders? Why are they after the pony?” she asked, but froze. Being on the sea, you developed a sense of wrongness that told you when the ship was leaking more than usual, an engine threatening to burn out, or a sail ready to split. That sense was now screaming at her to be alert, and she scanned the garden for the source. The planters? Did they have a weapon in their basket? Or the musicians? Or the dancers?
Nemo must have been away from the sea too long. He’s eyes were focused on the ground, picking his way along the plates to avoid tripping. Mahealani swiveled her eyes from one to the next, a warning on the tip of her tongue. Then she heard it. The soft ‘pfft’, barely audible over the noise of the musicians. Nemo’s legs folded out from under him, and he tumbled down under the planters. She rushed after him, knocking the hanging trays swinging in her haste to catch him.
When she caught him halfway to the bottom, it was clear that he was dead. A small, coin sized hole had been punched right through his left temple, and blood trickled out his nose and ear. The zebras in the room were watching in bafflement, or chuckling in the case of the two pickers. None of them had taken the shot. Her eyes scanned the room. A bounty hunter would have been chopping Nemo’s head off by now. This was something different.
Then she spotted the slightest distortion coming down the rows, like a specter. She almost missed it with the wildly swinging planters, but it was only two rows away, and getting closer. A shimmercloak; the infamous stealthy garments were precious and rare.
Nemo had talked. Nemo was dead. Now she was the only one who knew what little she’d been told. She looked down at his body, and saw a little key on a chain around Nemo’s neck. Not thinking, she grabbed it in her mouth and yanked hard, snapping the chain and running for the exit. From behind her came a rapid fire set of ‘pfffts’, barely heard over the impacts of the bullets on the planters. One of the stallions yelled in alarm as he was hit by one of the bullets. The assassin could only move so fast under the cover of the cloak.
She had to flee. From the room. From Nowhere. She couldn’t run the risk of an invisible killer setting up an ambush. While she wanted to see Nemo’s quarters and find what the key unlocked, she couldn’t risk it. If she were a killer, she’d head right to Rasva and shoot her when she talked to the town leader. She couldn’t take that chance. The sooner she got aboard a ship, the safer she’d be. Pausing only to gather her supplies, she disappeared out into the cold night, following the tattered cloths snapping in the freezing wind.
* * *
He’d never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but then again he’d never been on his back on a little rolling cart in a mile long pipe running beneath a river. Water sloshed around the wheels as he pushed against the aged plastic electrical conduit overhead, mud splattering his back and mane. It seemed like forever to make the journey, and all it would take would be a little deeper water, or a stuck wheel, and he’d be trapped down here in the tube deep beneath the river.
Then his head popped clear into a concrete sub-basement filled with electrical transformers, and dour looking zebras with automatic weapons pointing down at his face. “It’s me! Galen!” he said, waving his hooves up at them. “Don’t shoot!”
“It’s him,” Vega said, stepping out between the transformers. “Get him out of there.” The zebras helped Galen to his hooves, pulling the cart out and the plastic sled that was tied to it. “How are you?” Vega asked, his brow furrowed in worry.
“Not eager to slip back through that pipe,” Galen said, trying to clean the gunk off his small, round wire frame glasses. “How are things over here?”
“Carnico’s all but shut down. They’ve got equipment but no one to work it. Even offering double chits, no one’s eager to sign up. Especially when word got out one of their own had poisoned their own workers. The Whites and Irons aren’t going anywhere, and people are getting unhappy. What about on the west side?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Galen warned. “The Bloods have the whole west side locked down. They’re offering food for cooperation. I don’t know how they got their hooves on all that corn, but they’re keeping everyone fed for now. They don’t have enough weapons to arm everyone, but so far there’s not much resistance. The Bloods brought in some Gold Legion mercenaries to set up mortars. They might not be as powerful as the Iron Legion’s artillery, but they’ve got a lot of them.”
“So why haven’t they attacked yet?” Vega asked. As they talked, some of his stallions loaded the sled with packages and parcels for the return trip.
“No clue. I don’t understand either. They’ve got a few thousand fighters all along the west bank of the river. The Riptide’s nowhere to be seen. And so far the Bloods aren’t breaking discipline. No desertions or executions. Everyone just seems to be content to wait.”
Vega paced a moment. “This is very unusual for the Blood Legion,” he finally stated. “Working with Golds is out of character for them as well. They’ve always been self-reliant to a fault,” Vega mused, rubbing his chin. “The Whites have lines going five miles upriver, and lookouts going all the way to the coast. I can’t imagine what they’re planning.”
“There’s a censure here,” Tchernobog’s voice informed from the shadows of the sub-basement. “The spirits are angry, but they have no focus for their wrath. Whoever attacks first will surely draw it.”
“So for now we have to wait?” Galen asked. “I’m not sure how long that’ll last. It’s been almost a month. Someone is going to have to act sooner or later.”
“Haimon can not stall forever. His leadership will demand he attack,” Vega rumbled.
“I’d agree, but it’s not like the Iron Legion can keep those guns parked forever either,” Galen said. “Sooner or later they’re either going to use them, or pull them out to somewhere they’re needed. No matter how many fortifications the Whites make, I don’t see them holding out against ten times their number in Blood Legion.”
“I don’t like this,” Vega frowned, sitting and tapping his hoof thoughtfully against his temple. “Blood Legion being patient. Disciplined. The one reassurance is the Iron and White Legions are staying in character. No matter how this plays out, Carnico and the Exchange should survive.”
“Don’t be so certain of that,” Tchernobog rumbled. “Things move deep in the shadows here. A ruined Bacchanalia. The spirits more disquieted than I’d ever seen before. Forces are at work against us, and I fear it will not leave any of us untouched.” He let out a long sigh. “What I would sacrifice for a consult with that impudent child.”
“Pythia? Have you heard anything about her and her friends?” Galen asked.
“Not a peep. They were supposed to show up in Irontown a week ago,” Vega muttered gravely. “In all likelihood, they’re dead.”
“I doubt that. The spirits and that pony… no. I do not believe she will die easily. She may quit, but she has the stars’ own protection. I am thankful that I am not tasked with her destruction,” Tchernobog muttered from the darkness.
From the mouth of the concrete tube came a faint whistle. “I need to get back,” Galen said, looking at the hole. He lay back on the cart, checking to make sure the sled would fit through the hole. “Anything you’d like me to do?”
“Well, you could kill Haimon for us. That would be nice. I’d appreciate a more predictable Blood Legion in charge over there,” Vega said dryly.
“I don’t kill people,” Galen replied.
“Your tribe disagrees,” Tchernobog rumbled from the darkness of the room.
Galen had no response to that, and no time to formulate one. He lay on his back on the cart and started pulling and kicking along the tube. “Your tribe disagrees,” he muttered to himself. “At least my tribe isn’t creepy evil bastards.” He muttered as he tugged his way through the tube. “Kill Haimon for us,” he grumbled. “I’m a doctor. I took an oath. Not that that matters to the Exchange! No, they just want everything back to normal so crime can be profitable again.” Even if Vega was on the right side, that didn’t made him a good person. Galen had learned that the hard way.
Being the only doctor of a tribe who saw a nigh holy imperative in breeding while Razorgrass consumed their arable land hadn’t been an easy decision. As a colt, he’d watched as expectant mothers were drained by their fifth, sixth, or seventh children in as many years. Sickly foals just as malnourished as their mothers. It hadn’t been until his own mother had given birth to a little brother with a stump for a head and missing half a hind leg… even in this tunnel he could hear her scream and see her clutching the tiny, deformed body as she begged the spirits for an answer.
Of course, the answer was the same as always: she must have been a bad mother to give birth to a deformed child. What other explanation could there be? He’d left his tribe to find it, and found it in the Mendi. For a tribe devoted to peace and healing, they’d been patronizing and condescending. Oh, a Carnilian wants to learn how to be a real doctor? How adorable. Next an Orah will want to not live in a muddy hole or a Roamani not stomp their neighbor into the mud!
Errukine had been the only one to listen. The only one to hear out his reasons, and give him the books he needed, and convince her fellows to answer his questions. Most Carnilians considered him trained by the Mendi, but in truth, he’d trained himself. He’d memorized anatomy diagrams, learned the basics of pharmacy, and worked out which old mare’s tales were helpful and which weren’t. There were drugs and herbs a mare could take to restrict fertility. Safe ways to remove an unborn zebra before they were larger than an imperio coin. He came home, full of hopes and dreams.
He’d nearly been killed by them.
The first mare he’d helped had told Desideria that she’d miscarried. Desideria asked the spirits, discovered his patient was lying, extracted a confession, and gathered a mob. They’d been all but ready to maim him for life. Oh, they wouldn’t kill him. That broke Tradition, but he’d be unable to help anyone with his eyes gouged out. Vega had found him, crippled and starving. He’d gotten Galen new eyes, with the expectation that Galen would be the Exchange’s doctor. Still, Galen needed to give his tribe the help they needed.
That meant taking the red.
It was a simple enough potion. Any shaman could prepare it. He hadn’t anticipated how painless it was; legend said it was supposed to hurt like your hide being flayed away or chewed off. The change was mostly cosmetic, and irreversible when properly done. Yet the red stripes seemed to imbue him with an aura of protection. Everyone could see he rejected the tribe’s ideals, so he couldn’t be condemned for it. Everyone was supposed to shun the Proditor. With Vega’s funding, he opened up a shop and simply waited.
Five hours later, he had his first patient, a zebra who was pregnant at sixty. The visit had taken half an hour. She left with a bag of herbs and returned to her children and grandchildren. That’d been five years ago. Since then, he’d seen signs it was helping. More food for children born. Fewer hungry family members sold to the legions for a few coins. Sure, his own tribe wanted him gone from this world, but he liked to imagine he had a little respect as well. Even if no one admitted it aloud.
Reflection made the passage through the electrical conduit somewhat faster. Dragging a sled loaded high with medical supplies made the return trip that much harder, and by the end of it he was puffing and sweaty. He finally hooked his hooves over the lip of the tunnel and pulled himself out.
“You need to hurry,” Gāng rumbled, the enormous, rotund zebra hooking the end of the cart and pulling it and the sled out with one heave. Aleta stood nearby, the scarred mare holding a bucket of water between her hooves. “You need to wash and get in your office.”
“Why? What’s going on?” he asked with a frown. “It’s the middle of the night!” Aleta tossed the bucket over him and then began to vigorously scrub the mud and sweat from his body.
“I know,” Gāng rumbled as the massive Achu lifted the medical parcels with ease. “Haimon is looking for you. His goons are upstairs. Osane is stalling.”
Galen stared a moment, then joined Aleta in trying to hide all the evidence that he’d spent the last hour sliding through a pipe under the river. If Haimon knew about the smuggling though the power access, he’d not only end Galen’s life, but force Vega to destroy the tunnel. That’d plunge all the west side into darkness.
They slipped through a hole bashed in the wall and into the basement of Galen’s building. The cargo elevator had died a century ago, but the service stairs were still intact. They raced up the five stories to the top, and carefully slid a bookcase aside to admit them. “Shit,” Galen panted, hearing raised voices from the office as Osane, his nurse, was saying something about being with a patient. “Unless they think I’ve been running a marathon with you–” he panted, pushing the bookcase back.
Aleta didn’t answer. What she did do was rather abrupt and shocking. Her head ducked down under his haunches and rather firmly took hold of his root with her mouth. The action firmly paralyzed the part of his brain that he needed to deal with Blood Legion demanding his presence. Still, he could count the amount of attention that part of his body got from a mare in the last five years on one, singular hoof so the effect was somewhat magnified beyond what he was expecting.
“A-Aleta,” he stammered out as he quickened rapidly. “Wha–”
She let him free and turned, climbing on the bed, thrusting her rump back and raising her tail. “Mount me,” she demanded in a low voice.
“Habawaha?” was all he could reply.
“Get over here and rut me now! Hard and fast as you can!” she hissed.
The night had taken a turn for the surreal. Really, this was the sort of behavior he associated with poorly written stories by young, undersexed hacks. But given that he was stiff, she was presenting, that against all sanity she smelled quite willing and receptive, and in two minutes the Blood Legion might chop his head off, he could think of nothing else but to follow her imperative, as insane as it seemed to be. He might not be experienced with the act of copulation as most Carnilia stallions, but he had enough instinct to get inside and make it work.
“Harder!” she hissed aloud. He tried harder. “Faster!” she yelled. Wasn’t this fast enough? After the tunnel and the stairs and now this he was so sweaty that it was turning into a daze. Soon words were lost to the groan of reproductive desire.
Then the door smashed open and four Blood Legionnaires stormed into the room. Immediately they spotted the pair, and their scowls turned into smirks. “Seeing a patient, eh? You’re lucky we were ordered to be nice. I thought he took ‘em out, not put them in!” the leader of the quartet said just as Galen’s body decided to finish. “Pull out and clean up fast, Doctor. Haimon needs you.”
Between the tunnel, the stairs, and Aleta, a patient was the last thing he needed. She was just as sweaty and spent as he was, but they shared a look. Here was the explanation for his sweat and exhaustion and Osane’s stalling. After all, who could would be surprised by a Carnilian having sex? “What’s the emergency?” he panted, grabbing his home kit, pulling on his doctor’s coat, and staggering out the exit. As he passed Osane, his nurse nearly betrayed the whole thing with her gape and… she was actually blushing? “Osane, get your kit.”
“R…right away, Doctor,” she said, grabbing her own saddlebags. As they all departed, he gave one last look down the hall at the sweaty, breathless Aleta standing in the doorway, wearing a small smile on her scarred visage.
Fortunately, Osane had hidden her shock by the time they reached the street. The cool night air caused him to shiver. The four legionnaires laughed and joked about which was more pathetic: a Proditor only able to get laid by a scar farmer, or a scar farmer only attracting a Proditor mate? At the moment, he just wanted a shower and bed. “Is Haimon injured?” he asked, more in an effort to stave off their crude speculation than interest in the major’s medical condition.
“Ha! We wouldn’t have lounged around while you pumped a load into your scared doxy,” the leader snorted. “He’s got a patient for you to save.”
“Can’t say which one it is for sure! Third? Fourth?” a comrade laughed.
Galen frowned and sped up towards the hotel where Haimon was holed up. Inside, he could hear a mare screaming upstairs, crying for help. He left his escorts, adrenaline driving away his fatigue as he raced up the stairs two at a time. Outside a pair of double doors was every healer and doctor even a hint of skill guarded by legionnaires. They kept their voices low, and didn’t acknowledge him as he pushed past them to the doors.
Inside, a wave of cloying metallic stench hit him. The conference room had been transformed into an abattoir. The conference table was pushed against the wall, and in the middle of the room a zebra dangled by one hoof from a light fixture. Great, bloody strips of hide had been cut from his body, and he bled freely into a tub beneath him. Next to him, his body still, was another stallion, his limbs swollen and blackened by tourniquets tied about his bound limbs. A noose had been pulled tight about his throat, and if he wasn’t dead, he soon would be. A third stallion lay on the conference table on his back, groaning, a massive laceration on his stomach exposing loops of bowel pulled from the cavity. Maximillian, the weedy stallion, was held firmly by two legionnaires, his body bound and beaten.
Against the wall sat a sobbing Desideria and three more of her sons. Her makeup dripped down her face, broken beads scattered about her hooves as she wept. Still, the sight of him made her pause, and reflexive disgust crossed her face. Old habits, Galen figured.
Sitting calmly in a seat against the opposite wall from Desideria was Haimon. The Roamani gave him a small smile as he sat without his armor, leaning forward slightly. “Good evening, Doctor. I hope you are well?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I’m afraid there’s a few medical emergencies for you to handle.”
Galen stared at the flayed stallion, the gutted stallion, and the bound stallion, and then glanced behind him at the other doctors. He blinked a moment, thinking as Osane entered behind him. Then he looked at Haimon. “I don’t understand.”
Haimon just looked at Desideria. “Well?”
Desideria trembled as she looked at Galen, then Haimon. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. “He did it,” she choked.
“Desideria!” Maximillian cried out in anguish. “No! He’ll kill you too!”
“He did? But all night you’ve said you’re both innocent,” Haimon purred.
“After all the ‘how dare you’ and ‘you can’t do this’ and ‘waaa, don’t hurt my babies,’” quipped one legionnaire with a laugh. Haimon, however, gave the stallion a flat stare, lips curled in the faintest expression of disapproval. The legionnaire swallowed and immediately shut up.
“Desideria,” Maximillian begged. “Please.”
“I have to save our children,” she sobbed. “He’s been sending information to the Irons. There’s an old combat radio he uses. It’s hidden in the wall in the back closet,” she wept and then looked at Galen. “Please help my babies! Someone! Please!” But the healers in the hall didn’t shift a hoof, standing deaf to the mare’s cries.
Haimon rose to his hooves, reached behind his chair, and withdrew a battered old radio. “This radio?”
Desideria looked at the device, then at Haimon’s casual smile. “You knew?”
“I knew,” he echoed gently.
“Then… why?” she asked, staring at her dying children and captive husband.
“Because you need to understand there is a world of difference between me finding his radio and you refusing to tell me yourself,” he said, tossing the radio to a legionnaire, who caught it deftly. Then he approached the bound Maximillian. He twisted his head and drew a curious, forward curving knife made of a glassy, black material.
“Please!” Maximillian pleaded as Haimon approached, held tight by the legionnaires. One forced his head back, baring his throat. “Please! I only wanted peace!” he shrieked.
Haimon shifted his head from left to right, and the razor sharp edge passed through his throat like water. The forward curved tip cut cleanly through both carotid arteries, blood splashing down his chest as his eyes suddenly turned saggy. He collapsed like a deflating balloon, and finally slumped into a bloody heap. Haimon gave the blade a few flings to clean the blood from it, then returned it to his sheath. “Have it,” Haimon said to Maximillian’s corpse. Then he turned and gave that gentle smile to the rest of the room. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
Not a one of them moved. They kept their eyes turned away from the scene, as if pretending that if they didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening. Desideria’s stare met Galen’s, the mare trembling as she stretched out a hoof to him. “Please… please…” she repeated in a thin whisper.
“One traitor appealing to another,” Haimon murmured. “I can certainly empathize.”
Galen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Triage. The bound stallion, he guessed he was Claude, was beyond saving. He didn’t even check for vitals. Instead, he moved quickly over to the hanging stallion, Marcus, and pressed his side. He was rewarded with a groan of pain. The third, Othello, was conscious enough to look at the proceedings. “We need to get him down at once,” he shouted, then looked at Osane, who stared in horror at the blood spattered Haimon. “Osane!”
She jerked, her eyes going from him to Haimon and then back to him. She gave a shaky little nod, and he knelt down to give her a boost. She cut through the rope with a scalpel, and Galen caught him before he tumbled head first into a basin of his own blood. Marcus was too weak to do anything but groan.
“All-blood,” Galen instructed, reaching into his own saddlebags for an IV. So many veins were collapsed or lacerated, so he went for the neck. Not ideal, but without at least a liter of All-blood, there wasn’t much chance of survival. Healing potions at this point would result in an exsanguinated corpse. Osane passed him a bag of the vital blood substitute. Developed during the war, it could be almost universally applied. It was also damned expensive, but he didn’t worry about that now. “Tissue weave,” he ordered, and she handed him a tiny baggy with a roll of what appeared to be wet gauze. It was a similar product prepared by Carnico. He didn’t have enough for all the wounds, so he unrolled it and applied it to the largest gashes of missing skin. The spongy material stuck tight. “Healing solution B, one liter.”
A large purple bag of healing potion was hung and fed into the same line as the All-blood. Contrary to popular belief, not all healing potions were alike. Some magically restored the body to a point before injury, useful in the short term, but useless for older wounds. Others stimulated the body’s natural healing ability, but couldn’t push a body past its natural limits. A broken leg would heal crooked. Galen watched as the missing bits of skin knitted with the tissue weave, which helped the skin scaffold close. He’d have some wicked scars, but should survive this. He immediately moved to Othello. Restuffing bowel was a mess, and pointless if he caused an obstruction. Once that was done, layers of tissue needed to be sutured to keep them all in place. Only then could he use a potion. Even with it, Othello was going to need days of antibiotics to prevent inevitable infection from spreading.
Slow applause as he concluded drew his attention back to Haimon, who’d returned to his chair to watch. “Well done. Marvelous work,” he said as he clapped his forehooves together. Then he rocked forward and approached, glancing back at the other cowed healers by the door. “I’d begun to fear all the doctors here were gutless, but you…” he trailed off, then tapped Galen’s chest with a hoof. “You interest me. I think you’ll be my personal physician, what do you say?”
Galen stared at him for a long moment, then answered softly. “No.”
“No?” Haimon asked, his calm smile frozen on his face. “Are you sure of that? No?”
“No. I have patients to tend to. You want a personal physician, there’s plenty around,” he said with a wave at the assembled healers. Then he started to pack up his bags. He expected a threat. Expected to be killed. Expected Osane to be killed, and prayed she’d forgive him if she was, but he hadn’t given up his practice when his eyes had been gouged out. He wouldn’t to play doctor for a monster.
Instead, Haimon replied, “You remind me a lot of myself, doctor. I hope that, should I ever need your services in the future, I can expect such prompt and exquisite care.” He lifted the empty sack of All-Blood. “My my. Where did you get this?” he asked with soft voice and steady smile. Galen didn’t trust himself to answer, and Haimon simply smiled and let it fall. He started for the door. “Thank the doctor, Desideria,” he said on his way out. The healers hastily dispersed as soon as he departed.
Galen checked both patients. “They should recover, but need to take it easy for a few days,” Galen rambled as he fetched some antibiotics for Othello, asking a legionnaire for a sheet for the body of Maximillian on the floor. He didn’t expect one, but it was the right thing to do. Desideria just sobbed, clutching her unharmed children to her. Who knew if she’d lost others tonight? Still, the Blood Legion didn’t seem to be preventing him from leaving so he mumbled, “You don’t need to say anything,” as he headed towards the door.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Desideria said, barely audible. He paused and looked back at her, meeting her eye. “I may hate what you do, but thank you.”
He just gave her a nod and left with Osane. They were on the street, crossing the plaza, when she murmured, “That was very brave, and very stupid of you, sir.”
“Huh?” He blinked.
“Desideria’s been a pain in Haimon’s backside since they got here.”.
He snorted. “Well, that’s nothing new. She’s been a pain in my backside for years.”
“You don’t get it. Why didn’t all those other healers help? They could have. Easily,” Osane said as they trotted inside his building.
“Well…” He balked. Any other time they should have been helping. They should have been jumping to help.
“Because they didn’t want Haimon to kill them, that’s why!” she answered for him. “Haimon called every healer in town and other than you, none were willing to help her. You did. Haimon was showing Desideria that no one was going to help her. That he’s in charge of the west side now. And he didn’t lay a hoof on her to do it. He’ll destroy anyone close to her. Her children. Her husband. You just showed you’re willing to help her and–”
He paused and turned, facing her with a smile. “Osane, it doesn’t matter.”
“But–” she started.
“Osane. I became a Proditor because it was the only way to help my tribe. They may hate what I do, but they need it, even if they can’t admit it, and I think that’s what they hate the most. My own tribe broke my legs and plucked out my eyes to stop me. I didn’t stop. Haimon won’t stop me either.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. “But I understand if you want to quit. You have a family to think of. I’ll even keep paying you as long as I can.”
Tears sprang up in her eyes. “I… damn it…” she sniffed and gave him a teary smile. “Why do you have to be so damned good, Galen?”
“Take a few weeks off. Call it a vacation. Take care of your children,” he said, putting a hoof on her shoulder. “And if anything happens to me, you can make a living selling what comes through the tunnel. Vega won’t care if it’s you or me, so long as he gets his cut.”
She gave a snotty sniff and nodded, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek before handing over her kit, turning, and walking away. In spite of the smile he wore, his heart sagged. Why had being a doctor suddenly become so complicated? This night alone was far too convoluted for him.
He opened the door to his office, and was surprised by the sight of Aleta standing on the opposite side. He started to stammer an explanation. “I heard what she said,” she stated at once. He opened his mouth, but she interrupted, “And I heard what you said to her.” He smiled and started to tell her he was fine with her returning home too, when she announced. “I’m staying.”
His mouth worked silently a moment as he tried to process this. “You don’t have to,” he muttered. “Also… sorry about the… thing… with your thing… and my thing… doing… things.”
To his shock, she actually smiled! “Well, it would be nice to do that without four legionnaires beating down the door,” she said, strolling into the back.
He watched her go, staring at her scarred backside for several– “Wait? What?” he said, then swiftly followed. The night wasn’t over yet, after all!
* * *
The swamp groaned and shifted under hooves, the floating islands bobbing and twisting in a blustery wind from the north. The moon cut like a knife through the dark clouds, ripples of ivory light casting dark shadows beneath the foliage. The wildlife had taken shelter, the frogs silent and birds hunkered down protectively in the harbor of their nests. This was no night for hunting, but these nights there were far worst beasts out there than mere animals.
Diane remained as still as possible, her eyes scanning the reeds and mangroves that thrashed in the stiff, cold wind. When the moonlight broke through, she shaded her eyes to preserve her sight. With the wild shifts in the breeze, it was impossible to pick out anything distinct from the bayou. Everything mixed together into a tangle that she couldn’t pick through. Tonight, the smartest thing she could do would be to go home.
Yet she lingered.
There was a wrongness in their swamps. Since Kyros had killed those poor refugees, refugees no different than she had been when Mother brought them here from Rice River, everyone could feel it. As the weeks stretched into months, no one ventured far from the village, and never at night. Without a word, an informal curfew had been adopted. Get safe in bed and bar the door, because something was out there in the night.
“Hell of a night to be hunting,” rumbled a stallion, making her jump. She whirled and stared at the stony face of Orion as he gazed out at the swamp around them. “Shouldn’t you be safe at home?”
Diana pursed her lips together. It was the noise of the wind that had hidden his approach, that was all. “There’s something wrong out here, Orion. Something stalking the swamps. It killed Aeneas last night and Sable the night before last. Tore them to pieces.” Orion didn’t respond. “Folks are saying the Rougarou is back. Another one.”
“Funny no one is saying that maybe Kyros didn’t kill the first one,” Orion muttered. “You’re asking for trouble if you’re hunting it alone.”
“You’d hunt it alone,” she said as her hooves tightened on her rifle.
“Not by choice.”
“Well, I’m not going to sit in the village and trust Kyros’s hunters to do it. Heck, they barely leave the village themselves. I want to stop it. Maybe even take over as lead hunter,” she said, trying to convince herself that she could do such a thing. Mythical monsters weren’t so easily dispatched, however.
“Kyros isn’t hunting it. Don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but it ain’t hunting. He goes out deep into the swamp, far out from the village alone,” Orion said evenly. “Sounds suspicious, don’t it?”
She nodded once. “I don’t suppose you might point me in the direction he went tonight, would you?” It galled that she had to ask that much. Kyros might be a blowhard and murderer, but he was also good at not leaving a trail.
He nodded, pointing off through the reeds. If Kyros was hunting the Rougarou, then it was important they kill it. If he wasn’t, she wanted to know what he was doing all by himself in the middle of the night. She started along the floating islands, knowing instinctively where one connected to another, when the ground was going to give way, and what not to trust her weight on. She’d gone nearly a mile, quick and silent as a shadow, before she dared glance back.
There was Orion, as if she hadn’t moved a foot. “Going somewhere?” she asked, furrowing her brow.
“Just huntin’.”
“Looks like you’re huntin’ my backside,” she said, trying to sound stern. Didn’t he know how important this was?
Instead, he gave a little smile. “Just so happens that what I’m huntin’s the same direction as what you’re huntin’. Not my fault your backsides’s in my frontside,” Orion replied.
She flushed, but didn’t argue. A while ago she would have been flattered, but since that pony had come through, everything had gotten tense in the swamp. Whatever Kyros was up to… that was important. Not whatever Orion was staring at right now…
The deeper parts of the swamp became less river and more lake, and the pair skirted along the edge on old hunting paths she wasn’t familiar with. Orah had used and reused these trails for centuries, keeping away from anyone that wanted to trouble them. Along one lake was a massive derrick rising like a mountain into the blustery night air. It listed slightly to one side, the metal groaning with eons of fatigue as it slowly sank into the swamp. In another pool stood a pony flying machine, turrets poking up out of the muck as if still trying to wage a battle that ended centuries ago.
“I’ve never been this far,” she admitted as the wind blew brackish water into her face.
“We’re almost to Oldroot,” Orion said. “Nice little village. Good, quality hooch.” He gave a nod. “Wouldn’t be bad to stop in for a spell. Folks might have seen Kyros poking about.”
It was more than she had, so she kept on the paths which seemed to lead towards a hummock in the shadow of the huge derrick. It looked as if one stiff push might knock the whole thing over. “I don’t see any village. How far is it?”
“Should be right ahead,” Orion muttered. “We’re on their lands now. Storms or not, some zebra should have stopped you by now.”
“Me? But not you?”
“No offense, but you kinda stand out, Diane.”
Not being born Orah, she’d always be ‘that Carnalian.’ She frowned at the hummock. “Well, I don’t see any lights. How big a village is it?”
“Twenty souls,” he answered. “Give or take.”
They stepped onto the hummock, the solid footing supporting her as they moved up under the dark oaks rooting in the hill. The wind continued to moan in the branches, and she shivered. From the cold. Not fear. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t! She glanced back at Orion, and was gratified by the wary expression on his face.
Then she walked face first into the wall of a hut. Her butt hit the ground and she grabbed her muzzle, suppressing a groan of pain. She dared look back at him, and his half smile, and jabbed a hoof at him, silently swearing vengeance if he dared laugh. He didn’t, though. Despite the sound of their impact, there wasn’t anyone rushing out in alarm. No noise besides the howling of the wind through open doors and windows.
Oldroot was dead.
No, not dead, she realized as they searched from hut to hut along the crown of the knoll. Empty. Twenty souls, Orion had said, and they had yet to find a single body. Aside from some turned over furniture, there was no sign of struggle. They’d simply disappeared from the swamp. Twenty people wasn’t a lot, but it was more than you could just casually walk out into the woods.
“Where is everyone?” Diane breathed.
Orion didn’t answer. He had his eyes closed, the wind plucking at his mane. When he opened them, he just stared off at nothing in particular. It infuriated her the way Orah could do that. They might look dumb as a rock, but they’d be picking up every last little detail around them. They just largely didn’t give two shits about what they saw. When they did…
Orion pointed down the hillside towards the lake with the derrick looming like a rusty sword ready to slice the hill in two. She spotted the broken twigs pointing down towards the water. The bent grass. Yet when they reached the water, there was nothing to be seen. Just the rippling white caps as they washed into the shore before them. She looked across at the derrick but his gaze was now on the water. “Where–” she started to say, when the muscled zebra unslung his rifle and his saddlebags and passed them to her. “What–”
He leapt into the foamy water, took a deep breath, and disappeared beneath the waves.
What the hay was he thinking? She stared down into the water, feeling as useless as fur on a gator.
That was when she heard the twig snap. Instantly she drew back away from the shore and into the high grass. Her eyes scanned the woods around her. If she hadn’t been al– if Oldroot hadn’t been empty, she might have called out. Instead, she remained as still as she could, scanning for the source. If it turned out to be just a deer or beaver…
It wasn’t.
Kyros walked out of the gloom no less than two meters from her. He walked quickly, quietly, his footfalls barely making a rustle as he went right past her hiding place. He paused where Orion had disappeared into the water, scowled, and reached into his saddlebags. Withdrawing something small and round, he pressed a button on the top, then dropped it where Orion had disappeared. Then he continued on his way, as if in a hurry to reach his destination before morning.
When she was sure he was gone, she rushed to the water’s edge and searched for what he’d dropped.
BEEP! BEEP! BE–
She threw herself back an instant before the mine exploded, spraying her with rotten vegetation, but with only a few small holes in her hide. She scrambled to move as quickly as possible to where she’d dropped Orion’s weapons in the long grass. Where had Kyros gotten a mine?! She pushed herself as deep into the weeds as she could as Kyros came racing back, not with a rifle in his hooves but with an odd, compact gun gripped firmly in his jaws. His eyes scanned the darkness sharply, and behind him, she saw Orion’s head breach the waves. A moment later he whirled and the gun suddenly emitted a silent tongue of flame. The water was immediately chewed up into a foamy lather by a storm of bullets. She barely had time to throw herself flat before he turned his head and unleashed another silent barrage that ripped through the foliage right above her head. As abruptly as it started, the storm ended, the barrel of the gun steaming as he reloaded.
Then a bullfrog leapt out of the reeds and gave a confused croak. Kyros stared down at it a moment, then the barrel of the gun flickered, the frog exploding into bloody chunks. Chuckling to himself, he returned on his journey, disappearing out of sight.
She didn’t move till Orion breached the waters once more, something dark across his back. Carefully he clambered up onto the shore and dropped the large, dark shape down next to him.
It took her a moment to realize it was a dead zebra. The sight of it almost drove off the fact that Kyros had nearly killed her. “What the hell was Kyros doing? Where’d he get mines? Where’d he get that gun?”
“You find all sorts of things hidden in the swamp,” Orion said with a shrug. “Idjit needs to learn how to aim.” He pointed at the dead zebra. “Look.”
She didn’t want to, but did. The body was half decayed, the eyes and hide nibbled away, but still with muscle and viscera remaining. That put this at about three days to a week. The forelegs and hind legs had been bound together with chain, looped to a rock. “Is this how the Oldrooters treat their dead?”
“Not that I reckon,” he replied. Then he tilted the head back. The whole thing flopped back, the head nearly cut clean off. Even with the nibbling, she could see how straight the edge was. “One cut and dead. And not just killed. Dumped. Hidden.” He looked at the lake. “I found more just like him not ten meters offshore.”
Diane shivered. “What’s going on, Orion? What’s happening? Kyros shooting at shadows? Orahs with their throats slit, dumped in a lake? It makes no sense.”
“We need to search Oldroot. Maybe there’s an answer there,” he suggested. They’d already picked through three or four homes, but now they being methodical, moving from one to the next. She imagined something moving silently, picking them off and taking nothing. There were easily a dozen rifles for the taking, some of them valuable. Ammunition. Food. Clean water. A few imperios. Jugs of alcohol. That really worried her. What kind of monster killed everyone and didn’t even take the booze?
Orion was moving to the furthest hut, when she paused. If anyone was here, they weren’t going to be in a hut. Her eyes rose up to where she spotted a tiny platform in the moonlight in the fork of an oak tree. Slinging her rifle, she started up, bracing herself against the lower branches. Climbing trees made about as much sense as swimming in a bog, but Orah did both all the time. She figured it was a lookout stand of some kind, or maybe something as simple as a foal’s tree fort.
She pulled her head over the edge, and spotted the tiny shape curled up in the middle.
“Hey,” she whispered, and then stretched out a hoof. “Hey. Are you dead?”
A head lifted, took one look at her, and started to shriek at the top of her tiny lungs. Diane was so startled, she nearly fell right out of the tree. Her hind legs kicked air as her forelegs scrambled to pull herself on to the platform. Her efforts weren’t helped as small hooves began to kick her face with great vigor as the filly shouted, “Git! Git! Git! Git!”
“Stop! Kicking! We’re not– Ow! We’re not! Stop it!” Diane shouted in reply, their shouts echoing out across the lake.
“Git! Git! Gitgitgit!” the child screamed, battering her face. Diane managed to hook one of the filly’s legs, then dropped. It was about five meters to the roof of a hut, and the roof collapsed beneath her. She lay there, panting, clutching an equally stunned filly. That lasted for all of five seconds, as she started to thrash. “Letmgo! Letmgo! Letmgo!”
Orion appeared in the doorway, watching the scene with a small smile as she wrestled with the child, trying to explain they weren’t here to hurt her before she ran off into the swamp. What if she came across one of those deadly mines, or Kyros, or worse? “Hey!” Orion said firmly, and the filly froze. “Quit it.” She stared up at him for all of two seconds, her pink eyes round. Like a tiny striped missile, she launched herself at him, trying to dart between his legs and out the door. He sat and grasped her with his hooves and immediately realized his error. “Ow! Eh! Stop! Argh! Don’t kick! Hey! Ahhh! No biting! No biting! No biting!” he shouted in alarm as she sank her teeth into his hide repeatedly.
Every now and then Diane toyed with dreams of being a mother. Those dreams were kicked to pieces by the furious flailings of the filly. It took both of them to immobilize her. And she turned her head to stare into her eyes. “We are not going to hurt you,” Diane stressed.
“Git! Git! Git! Idjits! Turd huffin’ toad humpers! Hurt? Yer gonna git me killered!” she hissed back.
“We can’t leave her here. Whatever killed these people might come back for her,” Diane informed a rueful Orion, as the shouts and bites continued.
“And we need to know what might kill a whole village of Orah,” he agreed. “But we can’t–” His eyes suddenly bulged and his words were transformed into a hiss of pain as the filly’s hooves connected to something tender. “Get a sack!”
“You can’t put a child in a sack!” she protested, horrified.
“I’m about to punt her in the lake! Get a sack!” he repeated. It took her a moment to find a burlap sack sound enough for the job, dump out perfectly good cattail roots on the ground, and stuff the child inside. Quicker than the feisty filly could dart out, Diane pulled the string tight. The side bulged out and a steady stream of profanity emerged from the contents.
“We’ll need to get her somewhere till she calms down and tells us what happened,” Diane said as she massaged her aching back. Falling through a roof wasn’t something she’d planned on doing today.
“We could just dunk her in the lake,” Orion suggested as he rubbed between his hind legs with a grimace. He slowed, his eyes returning to that slack, unfocused stare. “We have to go. Now. Quick and quiet.” Even more ominous, the filly had suddenly gone quiet too.
The wind betrayed it, but just barely. Long grass, swaying in the gusts, impacted against something that wasn’t there. Orion rose to his hind legs, forelegs bracing his rifle as he raised, aimed, and fired in a second. The round sparked against something that let out a growl not from any mortal throat, and then it was moving closer, barely a shimmer against the night. “Run! Run!” he bellowed as his hooves deftly worked the action, ejecting spent casings that gleamed in the moonlight. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem fussed by the large caliber rounds.
What else could she do? She grabbed the sack in her teeth, turned, and ran. Behind her, another shot rang out. Then another. Then silence.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t trust herself to stop. What kind of beast killed people, then hid them in a lake? Or was invisible? Or bulletproof? Not even a Rougarou was all that! Her chest burned and she almost slipped into the bog twice as she made her way back to the village. No. Not the village. Kyros was there, and he had a part in all this. She’d run straight to Granny’s island. Whatever that thing was, it wouldn’t tangle with Granny. It couldn’t. Please… no.
First Theon, now Orion. The swamp that had sheltered her since she was a filly wasn’t safe anymore. Her village was larger than Oldroot, but whatever had killed the Orah there could kill the Orah in Willowbend. Granny would have answers. She had to.
Diane huffed as she reached the island with the old oak, dropping the sack. Perhaps a good sign, the filly within immediately started swearing and kicking at the fabric. “Cod humpin’ frogswallop garling boar ruttin’ sack slingin’…” Arion, her colt apprentice, immediately came out to investigate the commotion. A few moments later, Granny appeared,
“Landsakes, what’s that ruckus?” the haggard, old mare croaked as she tugged a shawl about her shoulders
Diane struggled to breathe as the zebra helped her next to the fire. In between gaps she tried to share the tale of coming across Kyros, the bodies, Oldroot, the filly, and Orion being attacked, but somehow it all came out in a jumbled mess compounded by her racing heart.
Arion, meanwhile, examined the burlap sack which had gone ominously silent as they talked. He gave the knot a tug, and the bag fell open. Her head popped out mere centimeters from the amber eyed colt, who blinked back. Diane took a breath to give warning, but before she could, the filly firmly struck him in the snout with a hoof, knocking him back. “Git!” she snapped, then jumped over him. Diane was about to lunge for her, but she scrambled away. Not out into the woods, but nimbly onto a rain barrel and up to the roof. In seconds, she’d somehow climbed all the way up into the branches of the giant oak tree, finding a fork fifteen meters overhead, and settling in.
“Ow…” Arion protested, rubbing his cherry red snout. “What was that for?” he asked, staring up at the filly who was pointedly ignoring everything they were saying.
“She’s the only survivor of Oldroot we know about,” Diane answered. “I don’t know if that’s her name or not. Orion and I hoped that she knows what killed them all.”
“Well, she didn’t have to bonk my nose!” Arion whined. Then there was a sharp ‘tak’ as an acorn hit him squarely on the head. “Granny!” he wailed, covering his noggin with his forehooves.
“You got problems with a filly, you work it out,” she wheezed, sitting hard beside the fire.
Diane frowned. “Are you okay Granny?”
“Just gettin’ old. It’s hell gettin’ old,” she muttered, rubbing her chest. “You just catch your breath, chile. I’ll ask my friends if they’ve seen what came of Orion.” She shook her head. “Our corner of the world’s come a mite more interestin’ than I like.”
Diane just looked out the way she’d come. Invisible monsters. A village of Orah slaughtered. The orneriest filly in the swamps that’d sooner give a beating than even her name. Orion gone. Theron gone. Kyros up to no good. All she could do was hope that somehow Granny could do something before it was too late.
* * *
The caravan wagon came to a halt, a good ways too early for them to have reached their destination. Lumi pulled himself carefully off the bed and, shuffling his hooves, moved towards the rear of the wagon. The hatch was cracked open to admit a cool breeze that carried on it the familiar smell of razorgrass and and something rather less common. Water. From the noise, there was quite a great deal of it nearby; rushing and gurgling and slushing along. Muddy water. Not clean like Lumihautile. From somewhere far away came a steady booming, distant enough that he could feel the slightest brush of pressure.
“What do they think they’re doing?” his uncle said nearby. “Do they think they own the whole road?”
“Uncle?” Lumi called out.
“Stay in the wagon!” his uncle shouted back.
“I don’t like it either, Kivet. Boss is talking to him now, but this is General Sanguinus with a whole frigging army. I’m keeping an eye out on a place to hide,” a mare said. The voice was familiar, but his uncle never introduced new people, save for the rare patient.
“Hide, where? There’s nothing but Razorgrass. We need to cross the river if we’re going to meet up in Sandedge. What does Sanguinus think he’s doing?” his uncle repeated.
Lumi strained his ears. There. Under the gurgle of water. Stallions. Lots of them. Distant enough that he couldn’t make out individual names. The wind carried on it the faintest tang of sweat and blood.
“Maybe he wants to throw a few thousand of his people away against Irontown?” the mare suggested.
“That’s dumb. I didn’t think Sanguinus was that dumb,” Uncle Kivet muttered. “He’s got soldiers sieging Rice River too.”
“That can’t be good for the Irons,” she muttered. “How’d you know that?”
“That pony patient we had. Her friends mentioned it. They’d taken half the city. West half.”
“Worthless half. Everyone knows Carnico’s the only thing worthwhile there,” the mare snickered.
“Maybe, but the Bloods are up to something. This rate, they’ll tie up the ferry for days. We’ll miss the rendezvous in Sandedge for sure,” Kivet grumbled.
Lumi pulled his head back into the wagon and moved towards the gentle tinkling that was Lumihautile. “Did you hear?” he asked it.
The spirit answered in a single chiming note that meant, ‘I hear the adulterated song of my cousins flowing on their journey towards the salty womb that birthed us all.’ Snow spirits were succinct like that, and never chatty. Fortunately, understanding its words was simple enough.
“There’s another legion here. Blood Legion. Can you help me spy on them?” he asked. Uncle wouldn’t tell him, one way or another.
Lumihautile mused a moment. ‘It’s hot here and I’d like it to cool down,’ the spirit commented. Nevermind the trailer was one of the coolest in the caravan.
“I’ll turn up the refrigerator,” he promised. It might mean a thump when he drained the battery, but he needed Lumihautile’s help.
‘I accept,’ the spirit answered.
He closed his eyes out of reflex more than anything else. Snow was water. Water was in everything all around them. With Lumihautile’s help, he could stretch out his senses through the water in the air. It wasn’t sight so much as a feeling. His forelegs lifted and he started to wave them like a dowsing rod. There. In the direction the wagon was pointing. A dozen equine shapes. A trio of griffons. A minotaur. He could feel the sweat rolling off hundreds of bodies, and sense the voids solid objects left in the water in the air. He pushed forwards, further out.
Another equine. Two. Six. A dozen. Twenty. Then he couldn’t guess as he felt thousands arranged before him. All spikey. All armed. It was exactly as Kivet had announced… an army.
The he touched a thing. It was, at first glance, pony in shape… but a moment later he paused and returned his attention to it. Cloaked. A zebra. A mare? It felt… different from the others. They were all voids in the air that the water couldn’t fill. This… this was like a statue of frozen poison. A wrongness that didn’t belong here.
Lumi knew he couldn’t do anything, but he might warn Uncle, who might warn the Boss and withdraw the legion away from it. He kept touching it, but its edges were elusive. They melted and refroze around his hooves. Wiggled like worms under his probes.
Then, two limbs locked tight around his hooves, binding them in place. His useless, sightless eyes widened in shock as they tightened, to the point where he couldn’t jerk his hooves away.
“Foolish,” said a voice that belonged to no mortal throat, resonating through the water and back to his ears. His stomach twisted, sickness growing inside. “No. Foalish. Didn’t anyone teach you not to pry, child?” the monster asked, the force on his outstretched legs twisting them up as if trying to snap them right off.
Then, it approached.
“Uncle,” he whimpered. Then he screamed, “Uncle!” Tears dripped as Lumihautile twirled in alarm. ‘Poison!’ it repeated, over and over again.
The hatch was thrown open. “What?” his uncle snapped, then dropped an octave. “What’s going on, Lumi? What’s wrong?”
“It’s got me!” he cried. “I can’t let go. It’s got me and it’s coming for me!”
Then he heard the hiss of leather on cloth and braced himself for what was about to come next. What always came when anything shamanistic went out of hoof. The belt cracked hard against his hide, and he sobbed as he struggled against both agonies. Eventually something would break and the horrible connection would end. Only it didn’t. He felt the welts and yet the pain did nothing. He was now in the grip of something else.
His uncle dropped the belt and struck him, shook him, but all to no avail. All the while, it grew closer and closer. His stomach twisted and he vomited. His eyes throbbed as if about to burst. What was it? What could it be?
The hatch creaked open, and that horrible voice chuckled deeply, like sewage gurgling out of a half frozen pipe. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”
Kivet snapped. “We’re not taking patients. Piss off.”
“It’s here. It’s here,” Lumi whimpered. “Make it stop, Uncle. Please. Make it go away.”
Kivet growled. “Are you doing this to my nephew?” he demanded.
“Oh, yes,” the grotesque words spilled out. “To be fair, he felt me out. I hardly expected to find another shaman here. Just bad luck for both of you.”
Kivet didn’t answer. He heard the sound of metal against leather, smelled gun oil, heard the drawing of the hammer. Then the clatter of the gun hitting the floor. The noxious wrongness increased, like worms on Lumi’s hide. “Let’s see. I think we can start with the liver,” the voice blurbled, and his uncle emitted a cry of alarm and pain. “Oh yes. Lots to work with there. Hard drinker are we? Next the spleen. Looks like you got shot there a while ago. Kid-neys!” the voice announced merrily, and his uncle cried out in agony. Someone knocked on the hatch.
“Kill yourself,” snarled the voice, deep and malicious. A moment later there was the sound of a knife entering a chest, before sliding down.
“Lumi… Lumi…” his uncle whispered.
“Oh, Lumi is it? Well, my business is ultimately with him. For the grand finale…” the voice declared, “Heart!” His uncle let out a strangled cry, flopped several times against the floor, then went silent.
“No… Uncle… please… no,” Lumi sobbed as he tugged his hooves against the unyielding force.
“Oh, save your tears. He was dead in two, three years at the most. I just saved him some time,” the voice chuckled. He felt the wind of something waving before his face. “To think, a blind shaman. I was so careful with my wards, but that was a loophole I never anticipated. I’ll have to be more cautious in the future.” There was a sour music, accompanied by thoughts of sharp alcohol smells. “Oh no. No slipping away. Waste not, want not.”
“Please. Lumihautile!” he cried out in pain.
‘I can not see what is hurting you!’ Lumihautile shouted in alarm, like snow on the verge of an avalanche.
“Boss! Uncle!” he wailed in futility, sure his life was about to be snuffed out. “Scotch!”
The pressure on his hooves stilled, the monster becoming silent. “Scotch? Scotch Tape?” The voice took on a musing quality. “She was here. She was here! Yes, I can still feel her. Where is she? What did you do to her? How do you know her?”
“I… she was my uncle’s patient, days ago! I helped her fever. Please!” he begged.
“You helped her?” the voice murmured. Then the pressure increased till he was sure his legs were going to be ripped off. “You helped her! You helped that filthy fate touched, star touched, miserable Equestrian?! How dare you!” The voice roared like a storm. “You must be punished!”
All he could do was scream. Then, from the censer, Lumihautile let out a cry of ‘No!’ and the temperature in the room plunged. ‘No no no no no!’ the spirit repeated, burning out its essence as it did what snow spirits did best, be cold. It might not see this creature, and that was terrifying enough on its own, but it could try and freeze everything in the wagon.
It worked. The force on his limbs weakened, then broke as a layer of hoarfrost covered his body. He ran forward, collided with something in an ice shrouded cloak, and staggered past it and out the door. The monster, for only a monster could make such sounds, let out a roar of frustration, and there came the sound of massive jaws closing.
Lumihautile disappeared.
It was like something vital inside him was cut away, and he nearly fell. There was shouting. Yelling. Screams. Gunshots. The thing behind him wouldn’t be delayed long. Whatever it was, he had to flee. Put enough distance between them that he could try and figure out something… anything… to do. A moment later he was in the razorgrass. It hooked and cut into every patch of exposed skin, but all he could do was hope that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be in a hurry to follow. He wept, but the dozens of thin scratches and lacerations were nothing compared to the loss of his uncle and Lumihautile. In less than two minutes, he’d lost what was left of his family, and dearest friend.
Suddenly he was out of the grass, tumbling through the air. He landed with a smack into the churning, dirty water that was all too happy to carry him downstream. Even blind, he could focus on treading water. From behind came a howl of inarticulate, monstrous rage… but it was fading.
Summoning the little bit of power he had left, he asked the water around him to freeze. He didn’t know this spirit. Didn’t know its name or what to offer. He could only beg, and hope for the spirits to be generous.
It was.
A cold firmness formed under his body, lifting him from the surging flow. The ice curved up, and he felt it form a little coracle around him. His body aching from a dozens of cuts, he collapsed against the ice, and let the river take him wherever it would.
* * *
The Nereid floated like a splinter on the sea between gaps in a coral atoll on the far side of the world. Long oars arched out from the middle, propelling it delicately across the reefs. Ponies and zebras may have never fought in these distant waters, but the poison of their conflict still lingered in the blue-green waters. The corals, which were once vibrant oranges and pinks, were streaked with brown algae and pocked with dead, bleached sections. Still the Nereid picked along the shoals and its crew plucked from the sea crabs, oysters, and the occasional fish.
“Bad fish,” one of the Estoli muttered, throwing back a slimy, sickly thing. “Just bad fish, Captain,” the stallions commented. “We should go north.”
“There’s bad fish north too,” the captain replied as she kept her weight on the tiller. The shallow draft skimmed over the submerged rocks, but she didn’t want to risk an impact.
“Then we should go south,” his comrade said as he pulled from the reef a starfish the size of her head. It was black, slimy, and utterly inedible.
“There’s Estori south. And also, bad fish too,” she answered. “You think the Estori don’t get bad fish?”
“Maybe, but there’s Estori mares too,” the stallion chuckled. She just snorted. Still, they had a point. Maybe if they did go south a ways they could find better? Not that she wanted to run a risk of running into Estori longboats. They took a dim view on their tribal cousins poaching off their lagoons.
“Hoy! Captain!” shouted a stallion at the front of the long ship. “Something to starboard.”
She looked to the right. “Something? What?” A rock? She could see a few, but none to starboard.
“No, Captain! Something shiny!”
She narrowed her eyes, shielding them from the sun. There were many things in the ocean, but few could ever be described as ‘shiny’, at least not anymore. She whistled, as the oars slowly propelled the ship towards the middle of the atoll.
Suddenly a brilliant shape leapt from the water, glittering and glistening in the sun. She’d sailed on the sea for twenty years, but had only heard of them in myth: a dolphin. It splashed down, whirled, and leapt again. All fishing was forgotten as the crew rose and watched the display in wonderment.
But it was only beginning. As they watched, the sea began to glow, first green, then white. A song, like a chorus of millions, rose from beneath the ship. A second dolphin breached the water. A third. And as the light grew, the brown sludge coating the coral seemed to bleed away. The bleached patches darkened into brilliant reds, blues, and yellows. Fish like those she’d only dreamed of swirled in frenzied exultation beneath them. Where had they come from? Had they sprung from the sea itself in some glorious miracle?
The glow spread to the Nereid as well, and where it touched, her wooden hull smoothed and shone as if given a fresh coat of varnish. Frayed roped became whole. Old gaff hooks took on a brilliant sheen. The rocks around them seemed to straighten and thrust proudly from the water. On the rocky islands, trees sprouted before their eyes. Everyone seemed young again. Everything beautiful. It brought tears to her eyes.
And to her astonishment, she saw a luminous mare standing next to her. Her ghostly legs seemed to melt into the surface of the boat, her eyes familiar as the captain’s own mother. Was this, somehow, in some way, the spirit of the Nereid itself? She was no shaman. They rarely set hoof on a boat, beseeching the spirits from port.
Then the spirit turned her eyes to the captain, and said in a whisper, “Flee.”
“What?” she asked with a frown.
But the spirit didn’t repeat itself. It just gazed at her in alarm as it faded from view, along with the illumination.
And the dream began to crumble.
The trees about them thrashed wildly as if gripped by a great sea quake, branches splintering from the force. The coral beds split and split again, as if some great invisible giant rent their beds with a colossal axe. Before her eyes, the fish swelled, burst, and sunk out of sight. A dolphin gave one last desperate leap, as if trying to flee the sea entirely. As it fell back, its skin split and its body fell to pieces, peppering the water.
Before her eyes, the wooden hull groaned, buckled, and popped. Woodrot spread like fire, the oars snapping under their own weight as stallions shouted in alarm. Yes even those shouts dwindled as the stallions staggered and wilted before her eyes. She felt it too. A heaviness, pulling her ever downward as it sapped her strength second by second. She tried to give a command, but her voice failed her. A few sailors collapsed and went still, while others struggled to row the Nereid free of the atoll with broken oars and failing hooves.
Then the ship gave a scream as it split in two, the stem and stern rising as the central mast plunged down between the halves. Stallions who yet lived cried out as they were pulled into the water. The stones around them crumbled, as if some great hoof was pressing the sea itself down. Her forehooves entangled with the worm chewed tiller, and she dangled there as mast and bow disintegrated, the wood sinking against all sense and sanity.
She stared up at the sky, wondering how everything had gone so terribly wrong, when the sea itself seemed to rise above them. No. It was sinking with them, taking with it that beautiful song and dream. With that, the sea closed in like an immense maw, and the atoll, the reefs, the islands, the fish, and the ship disappeared. The sea roiled for several minutes before it calmed.
A plank of wood, marked with the glyph Nereid, bobbed on the gray waves for a moment, then sank into the dark depths of the sea.
“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I actually preferred the razor grass!” Scotch complained as the six friends struggled to carefully maneuver the Whiskey Express over a waist-high fallen tree that spanned the Old Road. Once they’d crossed the pass east of Greengap, the terrain had become more rocky and wooded, and the route was scattered with trees that had tumbled across the Old Road. People better prepared than they had cut the dark oaks with axes, but Precious’s claws proved to be an ill substitute.
“Shut up and push!” Skylord grunted. The branches they’d tried to fashion into a ramp had given way, leaving the steam tractor high-centered over the log. Now they were using levers and brute force to hoist it over enough that the back wheels could push it the rest of the way clear, hopefully without jostling it too much.
Funny, Scotch thought, in all our months in the Hoof, Blackjack never had to deal with something as simple as getting a stuck tractor over a tree. It was somehow refreshing, though it didn’t make throwing all her weight on a tree branch lever any easier. They needed to get moving. The dense wood surrounded them on all sides, with high, gray granite peaks to the north and south. Rain clouds swirled overhead, and they’d been hearing thunder somewhere west of them.
“Gun it!” Precious snarled, putting her back into heaving the Whiskey Express up and forward. Majina, perched in the driver’s seat, pulled the throttle and sent the elevated wheels spinning perilously close to both Skylord and Precious’s heads. The wheel bit into the bark, but just stripped it away and flung it backwards towards the trailer. Which we still haven’t gotten over this stupid tree! Charity shielded their supplies with her magic, deflecting the wood shrapnel aside. She grit her teeth, levitating another branch under the spinning wheel and trying to give it enough traction to push the tractor over the trunk. After being chewed up for a few seconds the branch splintered and split in two. The Whiskey Express groaned as it settled back in place.
“Argh! Stupid trees!” Precious said with a snarl, stamping at it with her hind leg. More bark tore off the dead oak and she toppled over, sprawling on her face. The chunk of bark landed firmly on her head and her blue eyes bulged. “That’s it!” she roared, scrambling to her feet. “You’re toast!”
She drew in a great breath and belched a gout of brilliant emerald flame at the offending lumber, but the dark clouds overhead chose that exact moment to unleash a great sheeting downpour, drenching them and extinguishing her fiery assault in a puff of steam before it could so much as blacken the wood. Her snake-slitted pupils narrowed and she tried again and again, with no effect other than an imitation of the stranded tractor. She sat and let out a strangled scream of impotent rage.
“Told you,” Pythia intoned from a shelter beside the road, a large knob of granite that erosion had hollowed out into a dry pocket. She was crouched next to a small fire, studying the atlas, her star map, and some of the papers from the fort while sipping from a cup of tea. “Get out of the rain and wait. We’re not going to get that thing moving any time soon.”
Soaked, sweaty, and annoyed, Scotch trotted under the arch. Someone had actually carved a hole through the ceiling, letting smoke trickle up to be scattered by the branches. “You could help, you know,” Scotch puffed as the others followed her. “We can’t just leave it stranded.”
Pythia gave her a level gaze. “First, I am helping. I’m keeping an eye on the future. We don’t get it over on our own, and some of us get hurt if we keep trying. Secondly, help is somewhere around here.” She tapped the map. “Betelgeuse said so.”
“Suits me,” Skylord muttered, shaking himself hard, his wet plumage puffing out in all directions. “I need to oil my guns.” He shuffled off to the back of the alcove, turning his back on the others as he detached and serviced one of his automatic rifles.
“How much longer till we go south?” Charity asked. “The sooner we get out of these woods, the better.”
“Not for some time,” Pythia said as she opened the atlas. “We’re lucky the Old Road doesn’t go anywhere near Slaughterhouse. And whoever those other mercenaries were, they don’t know where we’re going, and there’s a dozen different routes they’d have to patrol. Irontown was a pretty obvious destination, but from here we can go southwest to Bastion, west to Equestria, or northwest to the coast.”
“We can get home from here? Sweet. Let’s get going,” Charity stated with a nod. “I’ll treat you all when we get back to the Hoof. Five… no… seven percent discounts!”
“We’re not going back to Equestria,” Scotch flatly asserted.
Charity scrunched up her face. “Ten percent!”
“No.”
“Fifteen. More than that and you may as well rob me.”
“You do know that robbing you is a hundred percent discount, right?” Precious asked.
“You’d have to earn robbing me, trust me,” Charity growled. “There’d be expenses.” She took a deep breath. “Fine. Why can’t we just go back?”
“It’d be a pretty obvious thing to do. We’d have to go over Shattered Hoof Ridge, and that’d be a challenge all by itself. Plus, it’s still a long way, and we’re stuck. I don’t know how we’d get another Atoli ship to take us back by sea, and there’s always Riptide to consider. I suspect if we get close, she’s going to track us down.”
“Also, even if they suspect we’re going to Roam, there’s more than one way to get there,” Pythia informed them. “The shortest goes across the Western Empty, but there’s at least three more passes we could theoretically take. The most obvious would be to get on a train to Bastion, but I doubt there’s a station around here that isn’t crawling with Blood Legion too.”
“Is Bastion controlled by a legion? Should we go there?” Majina asked, looking to Skylord.
The griffon snorted. “Bastion? No. It’s a free city, like Rice River. The free city if you ask them.”
“Wonder why they weren’t taken out like Greengap,” Scotch mused.
Skylord suddenly snickered. “Fuck, I’d give a wing to watch them try. If you saw it, you’d know. It’s right there in the name: Bastion’s a frigging fortress. Even more than Irontown. You know how ponies had that one city the zebras were always attacking? Hoofingstone or something? Well Bastion was the zebras’ Hoofingstone. Ponies hit it with everything, including a megaspell, and it still kept on going.”
“If they’re that great then how come the zebralands are such a mess?” Majina asked.
“Because Bastion doesn’t give two shits about anything that’s not Bastion.” He sneered in contempt. “You’ll see, if you ever get that way. In Rice River, you guys were freaks, but at least you were people. In Bastion, you’re ‘equine resources’.”
“Are there many other free cities?” Majina inquired.
“A few big ones. Most aren’t much more than shanty towns that aren’t worth a legion’s time. Some get razed, then pop back up a few years later like weeds. Rice River’s the biggest in the north, and Bastion in the west. Out east is Paradise. I don’t know if it is or not. It’s a Mendi city so skies only know how it hasn’t fallen yet. Freetown’s the biggest one in the south, but only because it’s the biggest den of anarchists in the wasteland. I think it’s been conquered nine or ten times, but it’s too much of a pain in the ass to manage and too big to raze completely. Then you have Bartertown.”
Charity’s ears immediately perked. “Barter?” She leaned towards him. “Tell me more. Where is this Bartertown?” she asked with an unsettlingly sweet voice.
He leaned away from her. “Yeah. It’s not an actual town. It just sort of shows up every year. People come from all over to trade, then after a few weeks the whole thing scatters before a big stomp can crush it. There’s sort of a truce on, but that doesn’t stop some legions from squeezing the commerce. No telling where it’ll pop up each year. Folks just spread it by word of mouth and move quick.”
“Huh,” Charity sniffed, then jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “Then we’re going to this Bartertown, if we can. You owe me that much for stress and personal endangerment due to your complete disregard for sanity.”
“Fine. Long as it’s not too far out of our way,” Scotch said with a wry smile before frowning. “I’m going to check on the Whiskey Express.”
“Pretty sure it’s not going anywhere,” Precious called after her as she stepped out into the rain. “That’s the problem, after all!” Scotch ignored her.
The machine had faithfully carried them hundreds of kilometers, and they still had hundreds more to go. Being high-centered couldn’t have been doing the machine any good. If something broke on it, they’d be walking to Roam. She didn’t want to think about that. She poked around the underside of the vehicle, relieved not to find any breaks or cracks so far. Whiskey Express had been made to last!
“Imperio for your thoughts?” wheezed a voice above her. She blinked up into the rain at the sight of a zebra perched on the seat of the Whiskey Express. It was the one from before, the old zebra stallion in the raggedy cloak, this time sitting cross-legged and hugging the handle of a walking stick. “Hardly a night for a youngster to be tinkering about.”
“You’re Trailblazer. The shaman from before,” Scotch said, rubbing her chest as she remembered the fever chewing her up last time they met. “Or spirit. Or something.” Now that she wasn’t in a fever she could get a better look at him… Why were his stripes all swirly? The conical reed hat he wore kept most of the rain off him as he stared down at her with disquieting amusement.
“I am definitely something,” he replied with a slow nod. Scotch glanced over her shoulder, but the other five seemed oblivious to his presence. “You seem to be stuck on your journey,” he said as he looked at the stricken tractor.
“Yeah,” she said, turning up to him. “Can you help? Do you have some sort of shaman-y power you can use?”
“Is that what you think spirits are for, youngster?” he asked with a reproachful frown. “Slaves at our beck and call?”
“Well… not slaves,” she answered. That was an easy one. “But don’t spirits help shamans?”
“Are you a shaman?”
“I think I am.”
“And does thinking you are something make you something? If you thought yourself a rock, would you turn into a stone? If you thought yourself wind, would you fly?” he chuckled.
“No. I mean… maybe? I don’t know! I just want my tractor unstuck!”
“Ahhhh,” he said as he let out a note of understanding. “I see. You still have wants. Yes. Yes. Very understandable, at your age.”
Scotch took a deep breath and broke into coughing. The damp wasn’t doing her censured lungs any good. “Look,” she croaked, “if you’re something other than a kooky old stallion, tell me. Otherwise, I’m getting out of the rain.”
“I am most definitely a kooky old stallion,” Trailblazer said with a slow nod, then jabbed his hoof at her. “What I don’t know is what you are. So many possibilities, and not all of them good!” He hugged his walking stick’s handle, resting his cheek against its bamboo. “Perhaps a trade then. A favor for a favor, yes?”
She sighed, stomping a hoof in annoyance. “Fine. Will you help me?” she asked with a huff.
“Very well,” he answered. “Done. You are helped!” She blinked and looked around, but nothing had happened. She scowled at the old zebra who just beamed merrily at her. “Now, in return for helping you, I need you to walk…” he paused and rubbed his chin, looking around. “That way!” he proclaimed, pointing a hoof away from her friends and towards the trees. She stared into the woods on the opposite side of the road from her friends, expecting something… unexpected, but spied just another bunch of trees.
“Look, I don’t know–” she started to say as she turned back, rubbing her sore chest, but the zebra had disappeared. She blinked and looked around for where he’d gone, but there was no sign of him. She grunted, looking back at her friends. She should get out of the rain. Last thing she needed was to get sick again.
Except…
“Ugh, what is wrong with me?” she muttered as she walked to where the zebra had pointed before he’d disappeared. There was a gap in the trees—not big enough for a full-grown pony, but she could squeeze through. “Am I seriously so hard up for some directions?”
She’d go fifty paces. No more. She glanced behind her at her friends around the fire. Really, she should get at least one of them to come with her, but this was her stupid business. She scowled through the gap and then sighed. “Twenty paces,” she amended. It wasn’t like he’d really helped her anyway. She didn’t owe him anything.
“Seriously, what is wrong with these zebras?” she muttered as she pushed her way forward. “‘Oh. You want to learn how to be a shaman? Let me be as annoyingly unusual as possible.’ If this is how they teach shamans, it’s no wonder Niu-whatsername turned herself into a fish!”
The trees were dark and deep, and the feeling she was walking into another fiasco grew with every step she took. Okay, even more of a bad idea. Dark oaks pressed in around her. She hated to admit it, but this was a good deal spookier than the Orah swamp. Thorny vines curled in brambles, creeping up the black, mottled trunks. A layer of spongy, wet humus squished underhoof.
Still, she’d said twenty paces. She’d take twenty. “Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty!” She looked down, seeing it was good she’d taken only twenty paces. A steep ravine opened up before her, the bottom filled with muddy logs and rocks. “Okay, time to go back,” she said as she turned around.
At that moment, there came a brilliant flash to the west, thunder echoing across the sky and through her chest, and Scotch started at the painful noise. The rotten leaves under her hind legs gave and slipped, and she let out a sharp cry as she slid over the edge. The drop wasn’t sheer, but it was definitely a lot steeper than was safe for a filly. She tumbled down over the slippery rocks and landed hard in a cold puddle at the bottom of the wash.
It was a bit too much for her at the moment. All she wanted was some instruction. Some direction. Some… something useful! “Hurrrraggh!” she screamed, and began to furiously beat and thrash the water she sat in, fans of water joining the drizzling rain as she worked out her tantrum.
It ended as quickly as it began, and she sniffed and coughed as that censured burning built up in her lungs from the exertion. She slowly pulled herself from the puddle and gave a futile shake to try and get from completely drenched to just wet.
Somewhere she heard her friends calling out her name. Fresh humiliation rolled through her. “I’m over here!” she yelled, then broke into a fit of coughing. She clenched her eyes shut and hacked brokenly.
Opening one eye, she spotted something… unusual. A path had been burned through the trees down the gully. Perfectly round, the massive oak trunks were charred almost completely through. Mist lingered in the path, and she could vaguely make out the scent of smoke from the burned wood. It didn’t seem like the aftermath of any fire she’d seen before. The damage hadn’t spread far beyond the strange tunnel burned through the forest. As she approached the tunnel’s mouth, something began to crinkle and snap under her hooves. She backed away and stared in shock at strange tubes of fired clay in the mud and blackened rocks.
“What did this?” she murmured softly. Air prickled her skin as she stared down the tunnel.
“Scotch?!” came Majina’s cry from above.
“I’m down here!” she said, moving out into the open.
She spotted the zebra filly. “What are you doing in the bottom of a gully?” she called out.
Scotch sighed. “I have no idea.”
Majina goggled down at her, then yelled, “I found her! We need a rope.” Then her eyes widened and she screamed, “Look out!”
Scotch whirled in time to see a striped form barrel out of the woods. It was a zebra, every bit as massive in girth as Gāng. He wore a large red mask, its paint giving him an ominous, snarling visage. He reared up, his massive gut bouncing before him as he thrust a hoof at Scotch Tape. “At last, Big Macintosh! I have found you at last!”
The last corroded fuse in Scotch’s mind finally snapped. She just stared at him. “What?” she asked, implored, and stated all at once.
“Don’t bother begging for your life! I, Hiroto the Breaker, shall end you!” he bellowed. Then he lunged at her, puffing loudly as he charged.
She’d seen zebras with impossible grace, speed, and skill before. This… was not one of those zebras. She scrambled away as he awkwardly stomped and kicked at her. “That’s it…” he wheezed right along with her. “I shall end you, Big Macintosh!”
“I– How– Who– Just, what?!” she demanded, struggling not to cough. His bar was red, but he really didn’t seem all that capable of killing her short of sitting on her. She still didn’t want to get clocked by one of his wildly-swinging hooves.
“I… Hiroto… the… Breaker… will… end you…” the stallion grunted as he trundled after her, making ineffectual swipes with his hooves. “Get… over here… and fight me…”
“End this!” Precious cried out, jumping from the top of the ravine, landing on his back and digging in her claws. His blubbery flesh indented around each, drawing a high-pitched squeal from him. The gleeful glint in Precious’s eyes disappeared quickly as he rolled over and squashed her, quite by accident, under his lumbering girth. “Heavy… he’s a heavy one…” she wheezed.
“Your Marauders… will… avail you not! I… Hiroto… the Breaker…” he panted as he heaved himself to his hooves. Then he swayed and crashed down hard on his butt. “I need a moment, my worthy adversary.”
Scotch gaped at him. Crazy zebras. Crazy was the only flavor they came in anymore. “Who are you?!”
He attempted what she guessed was supposed to be a dramatic pose, hoof thrust out before him as he wheezed, “I am Hiroto! The Breaker! Champion of the Tremendous Twelve. Glorious fighter of the Achu. Master of the Sundered Mountain technique!” He set a pebble atop another rock. “Witness my power!” he declared, stomping a forehoof down. “Ow!” he cried, pushing up the mask enough to thrust the hoof in his mouth, sucking loudly. Scotch just stared as he pulled it out and gave it a shake. “Witness my… powah!” he cried again, slamming a hoof down on the pebble. It resolutely refused to witness his ‘powah’. “Come on! Shatter! Break. Do it!” He stomped the small rock over and over again.
“You’re insane,” Scotch summarized, wheezing and holding her chest.
“No he’s not,” Majina said as she scampered down the slope, approaching with a look of glee. “Oh my gosh. He’s an embodier!” She danced on her hooves with a happy squeal. “He’s a Zencori embodier! Eeee hee hee hee! I finally get to meet one!”
Scotch looked from one to the other. Up at the lip of the ravine, she saw Charity’s yellow coat. “What?” Scotch asked with a plaintive whine.
“He’s a crazy zebra,” Skylord stated, landing beside Scotch. He pointed his rifles. “Want me to shoot him?”
“Nooo!” Majina rushed forward, trying and failing to shield his ample bulk. “You can’t kill an embodier right when I meet one! You can’t!”
“Pretty sure I can,” Skylord countered, then frowned. “Say, where’s the lizard?” Suddenly he peered over and immediately scrunched up his beak in alarm, or amusement. It was hard to tell with beaks.
Scotch leaned over as well, and spotted Precious’s hind legs and tail poking out of the zebra’s rear, twitching feebly.
* * *
“We’re not speaking about this ever again,” Precious groaned as they headed back towards their shelter and stranded vehicle.
“Speak for yourself. This is prime barracks material,” Skylord replied with a snicker. “I’m getting drinks out of this story.”
“Are you even old enough to drink? Don’t they have age limits or something?” Precious countered.
“Look on the bright side. If we could get this fat tub up that slope, there’s got to be a way for us to get the tractor unstuck,” Charity said, then sneezed.
“Hiroto isn’t fat! Hiroto is in the prime of his life!” Hiroto proclaimed, flexing a sagging forelimb. Scotch stared at the pathetic muscle and he flushed, muttering, “Hiroto is just… a tad out of shape.”
“Unless that shape is spherical. You’re right on the money there,” Charity muttered.
“Stop being mean,” Majina rebuked. “Being an embodier is really tough.”
Scotch flopped down next to the fire, her breaths coming in short, tired gasps. Thankfully, Charity was already on it, putting the tea kettle over the flames. She anticipated a bill for tea preparation, though. “Explain this to me one more time, because this sounds a little weird, even for the zebra lands.”
“It’s not weird at all. My tribe preserves stories,” Majina explained. “Embodiers become characters from those stories and try to act out as they do. It’s a way to pay homage. Some embodiers play as hero and villain, recreating famous fights. That way, the stories live on.”
“And that gives you the right to beat me up?” Scotch challenged, turning to ‘Hiroto’.
“I’m sorry. You’re the first green earth pony I’ve ever encountered. I got carried away,” he said, pushing back the crude red mask to reveal a round, pleasant-looking face. “I should have asked if you were Big Macintosh first.”
“Well, for starters, Big Macintosh wasn’t green! Secondly, he certainly wasn’t a girl! And thirdly, he was big!” she huffed, steamed that she’d been mistaken for him at all.
Hiroto sniffed, “I have met some zebras attempting to embody him who couldn’t carry off his legendary might and power. It can be a challenge.”
“Clearly, Breaker,” Precious sneered.
“Weren’t you just pinned under his ass?” Skylord asked.
She went rigid as stone, turned to glare at him over her shoulder, and hissed, “I thought we said never again!”
“You said,” Skylord chuckled.
“That’s it!” Precious snapped, launching herself at the griffon.
“Bring it!” Skylord shouted back, and the two colliding in a ball of furious clawing and biting, punctuated with cries of ‘lizard!’ and ‘turkey!’
Charity pointedly ignored their scuffle as she poured a cup of lungwort tea. “Wait, so some of you embody ponies too?”
“Certainly. The ministry mares, Princess Luna, Big Macintosh. After all, heroes have to have villains to fight,” Hiroto said with a happy smile. “It is an honor to embody a villain well.”
“Please tell me your whole tribe isn’t like this,” Charity asked Majina with a plaintive groan. “I’m not sure I can take a whole tribe like this.” Scotch wasn’t sure she could either.
“I don’t… think so?” she said with a worried smile. “I haven’t met many Zencori who weren’t my mom. I lived my whole life in Equestria.”
His eyes widened. “Oh! You’re from the pony lands! That explains your accents. Oh, and two of you being ponies.”
What accent? Majina was already on a roll though. “So if you’re an embodier, why Hiroto? Wouldn’t it be better to be Guido the Mountain or Tarahaha the Voracious?”
“Just because I’m heavy?” he answered with a frown. Next to them, Skylord had forced the barrel of one of his guns into Precious’s mouth like a bit, struggling to keep the dragonfilly pinned beneath him.
“You’re way past heavy and halfway to ‘damn,’” Skylord retorted. “Seriously. You’re like the third fat zebra I’ve ever seen.” Precious gave a mighty heave, knocking him against the wall of the rock. Seizing upon her new tactic, she slammed him against the stone again and again, slurred curses pouring from around the barrel jammed between her jaws.
“Well, they’re sort of large-ish characters and you… I mean, it would be easier,” Majina said quickly, suddenly sheepish. “Guido never fought or anything. I’m sorry if I offended.”
He snorted. “I can’t help my size. I don’t eat much more than anyone else in the village. I’ve always been big, and I always get picked on for it. If I can embody Hiroto, then maybe others won’t mess with me so much.”
Still, if what Majina had said about Hiroto had been true, he might have set the bar a little high for himself. “Can you help us get our tractor unstuck? You’d be our hero for sure.”
He rose to his hooves, pulled his mask down into place, and said grandly, “Of course! Hiroto the Breaker can smash mountains. Certainly he can handle a tractor!”
Precious now had Skylord on his back, the gun now dislodged as he tried to keep her fangs from his face.
“Precious! Stop trying to eat Skylord and help!” Scotch called out at the scuffling pair. She’d meant it as a joke, but the dragonfilly recoiled as if she’d been shot, looking at Scotch with an expression of near-horror. She scrambled off him as if he were a hot stove, and without another word slunk out into the rain. Scotch stared at her in bafflement.
“I could have taken her,” Skylord muttered, skulking after her.
“Right. I think you’re missing some feathers there,” Charity said, pointing at gaps in his rust-colored plumage. He immediately flushed as well, clasping a talon over the missing feathers, and also walked briskly out into the rain as well. Charity gathered them up with a snicker, “These have to be worth something,” she said, then frowned at the downy base.
Scotch had bigger things to worry about than feathers as Hiroto got to work. He stomped over and threw himself against the rear of the tractor. It wasn’t clear what he was trying to do after that, but it seemed to involve smooshing himself against the back. Gāng would not have been impressed.
“Aha… It seems… my constant battles with the ponies has… tired me,” he said, mopping his sweating brow. “Perhaps if we returned to my village, I could call on the other Tremendous Twelve and free this vehicle.”
“Village?! A Zencori village?!” Majina squealed in delight, then spun to Scotch. “Oh, say yes. Please say yes!”
Scotch pursed her lips then turned to Pythia. “So… what sort of horrible or heartbreaking thing is going to happen if we leave the road again?” she asked. “Lay it on me. I can handle it.” The seer blinked and consulted her map. “Bloodbath? Betrayal? Doomed spirits?”
“You’re going to be…” she said, pausing for drama before finishing with, “bored. And I sense some annoyance. And entertainment. Then you’ll invoke Tradition and they’ll come and help us free the Whiskey Express.”
Scotch blinked. “Seriously? No blood or death at all? Anywhere?”
“A little, if you listen to the radio,” she said, not looking up. “Don’t. Easy peasy.” She gave a little wave of her hoof. “Have fun.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Do I want to see a whole village of Majinas?” she mused aloud, rubbing her chin. “I think there’s a red ant nest somewhere around here I’d rather sit on.”
“Hey!” Majina said in a wounded voice.
Scotch pursed her lips. “You know, I pretty sure a tribe of storytellers might have some useful books and stuff.” She nudged her hip. “Maaaaaaybe about the Eye and stuff?”
“You are trying to convince me,” Pythia retorted flatly, “to go to a village full of that?” She jabbed a hoof at Hiroto. “Seriously? Red ants are less annoying.”
Scotch just smiled, leaning towards her.
“I’m not going,” Pythia insisted. “There’s not a single future where you convince me.” Scotch gazed deep into her eyes, and the filly flushed. “No! I’m not going!”
* * *
“I can’t believe I’m going to a village full of Zencori,” Pythia muttered as they trotted after Hiroto, who’d assured them the village “wasn’t far.” They’d taken an hour to hide their trailer off the road, cover it in brush, and follow him along a narrow track into the forest. The group crossed a tree bridge stretching over the ravine Scotch had fallen into, and Scotch gave the burnt track beneath them a wary look. Hiroto didn’t seem too worried though. With Skylord keeping an eye above, Scotch wasn’t too worried either. “Are you sure it’s not too late for the ants?”
“I’m sure,” Scotch insisted as they moved under the massive oaks. Someone had carved faces in them, strange abstract masklike faces that seemed to watch solemnly as they approached. “What were you out here looking for, Hiroto?”
“Ah yes. Ixion,” he replied, as if that explained everything. He glanced back at her. “You don’t know?”
“We’re not from around here, remember? Is Ixion a monster or a person or what?” Charity asked, carrying a pile of scavenged goods on her back for trading.
“Ah. Yes. Monster and person, and a storm.”
Charity shook her head, her face pained.
Hiroto went on. “Ixion wanders the woods, a great horse of lightning. Where it goes, things die. It travels the earth and sky in torment, lashing the ground with lightning and tornadoes. Many villages have fallen to its passing. It passed by yesterday and as one of the Tremendous Twelve it was my duty to investigate its passage.” Scotch rolled her eyes, but really she was glad they hadn’t run across this Ixion.
“Surprised the Blood Legion let something like that roam around in their backyard,” Skylord said, clearly unimpressed.
“Ixion is beyond any legion, though they’d never admit it,” Hiroto said. “When it comes, my village flees to the mountains and waits for it to pass.” He coughed. “I, of course, would never flee! I simply go to safeguard the villagers.”
“Right.” Skylord let out a grunt. “Sounds like Aizen, then.” Hiroto nodded.
“Keep throwing out names like that and I’m going to start hitting people,” Charity grumbled.
“It’s a monster. Or megaspell. Or something. It’s a mountain,” Skylord muttered. “We have to use artillery every now and then to keep it away from Irontown.”
“Wait? What do you mean ‘keep it away’?” Majina asked. “I thought you said it was a mountain?”
“It walks around. Wreaks havoc wherever it goes, especially on roads and rails,” he explained. “It doesn’t even need to attack. It just walks right through you. Though it can attack, hence the artillery keeping it away from Irontown. Better to lose a gun drawing it off than to let it attack the city. We’ve got a lot of guns, but I really don’t want to use them on Aizen.”
“I swear I’ve heard that name before…” Pythia muttered.
Still, it reinforced the differences between the Wasteland and the zebralands. There, survival at all was the challenge. Here, you might get enough to eat or even do relatively well for yourself, but then a legion or mega monster might come along and just casually sweep you from the board. A mountain? A horse of lightning? Even Blackjack might not be able to stop a walking mountain.
Scotch suddenly felt a lot smaller.
The forest trail gradually transitioned into a village. Village, however, was a bit of a misnomer. The place appeared to be more like carefully cultivated living trees interspersed with classical Roamani stone architecture. Dozens of trees were transformed into residences, some built directly in the trunks and others weaved from their branches. Still others were carved from quarried stone fashioned into round, cylindrical towers three or four stories tall that appeared ancient, even by wasteland standards. Circular clearings, edged by stone, held densely packed gardens, and judging from the baskets stacked here and there, acorns had to be a staple crop.
But the most prominent structure was a half-dome carved into the mountainside behind the village. At first Scotch assumed it was some sort of quarry, perhaps the source of the rock for the old buildings, but as they moved nearer it became clear it was an amphitheatre of some sort. A natural hollow in the cliff face expanded out, tiers of seats carved out of the living rock set in roughly concentric circles radiating from the stage facing the cliff. A stone shell arching out from the top of the hollow protected the stage from rain, and it appeared as if cloth shades could be pulled out to cover the audience in a pinch. Perched at the top of the shell was a strange crane assembly, whose purpose she couldn’t begin to guess. The theatre could have held ten times the village’s population, and she could imagine zebras from Fort Greengap travelling here for a performance before the bombs fell. The spectacular gray mountains rose up in a granite curve, shapes in the natural rock face suggesting ancient forms.
A Blood Legion banner flew atop a squat bunker down the slope, away from the village, but Hiroto steered them clear. The legionnaires loitering outside just seemed bored, not like they were searching for a band of misfits travelling across their territory.
Skylord clicked his beak on his bite guard as he eyed a trio of red-clad zebras. Scotch reached over, bopping him lightly on the nose. “No shooting,” she warned.
“They’d deserve it, sitting out in the open like that,” he muttered.
“Yeah, maybe you could kill all three, but all it’d take is one inside with a radio and we’re in big trouble. Is it worth it?”
He muttered to himself, but stopped clicking his trigger bit.
Hiroto led them into the theatre. A dozen zebras lounged in the stands, most seeming more interested in napping than in paying attention to a performance on the edge of an enormous stage. Seven zebra foals stood wearing paper masks with swirly round patterns on them, with six stuffed burlap sacks off to the side. The sacks had similar star-themed masks on as well.
An elderly zebra stallion watched the seven raptly, leaning on a knobbly cane. He had a pointed goatee and wore a once-extravagant purple and gold cape. A stained-velvet wide-brimmed hat perched atop his head, a fluffy plume tucked into its band.
“We have come to this faraway land to serve our dark god!” one of the foals called out in a quavering voice.
“Come to summon him from the depths of the earth!” called out another.
“Come to s- s- s-” one started to stammer. “Line, Master Baruti.”
“Sacrifice to him,” the elder zebra supplied in a rich, warm voice.
“Come to sacrifice to him!” the colt rushed.
“Come to call down a star for him!” said the next filly in line with relish. “So we may rule over all!” She added a cackle of maniacal laughter.
“Hey! That’s my line!” protested the colt next to her.
“Well I say it better!” she snorted, pushing her mask up to stick her tongue out at him.
“Children,” Master Baruti said, tapping his cane sharply on the floor before him. “Say your line, Kojo.”
The colt took a deep breath and declared dramatically, “So we may rule over all!” He punctuated his line with an even more over-the-top cackle, followed by sticking his own tongue back at the filly. “So there.”
A zebra colt crouching behind the bags raised up a stick with a small glass jar holding a softly glowing fluid and paper rays glued to the sides. He held it over the performers as the zebra children onstage cried out in unison. “The star! The star for our dark god!”
A filly at the end of the row gave a shrill yell, “No!” Her voice cracked, and she coughed. “I will not! I will not enslave our people to a god that consumes what is me and mine! I refuse!” She threw something up at the jar, and there was a flash of powder from the end of her hoof. “Go free, star!”
“No!” cried the rest. “You fool! You serpent! You traitor! We are undone!” They collapsed to the floor.
The stagecolt pushed over the masked bags, one after another, before leaping up with a loud “Kaboosh!” Sparking powder flashed from his hooves, and he scrambled back and hid behind the overturned sacks.
The lone filly standing paused, then called out: “So it is done. Where once we were thirteen tribes, we are now twelve and one. Let us be marked for our shame, so our crime can never be forgotten. Trust us not, but condemn us neither, for as twelve of us once threatened all, one of us would not.”
Scotch frowned, confused. Was there some acoustic trick making it sound like her voice came from two places? She glanced over, seeing Pythia’s lips move, and realized she’d been saying the lines as well under her breath.
A chill passed over Scotch as the colt with the star carried it away on a stick, crawling behind the bags. She’d met that star when she’d gone to the moon. She’d never told anyone about it. Just mentioning going to the moon was bad enough, and it was hard to think of the moon and not remember Daddy dying. Tom, as the star had called himself, had tried to convince Blackjack to let it obliterate the Eater and the world along with it, with a promise that life would return. But she remembered the things it had said.
She bit her lip and shivered. Whatever. The star was gone. It had gotten what it wanted when Hoofington, the Eater, Blackjack, and her father had been destroyed.
The elderly stallion clapped his forehooves. “Good. Good. A little more practice I think, but you did well.” The foals started removing their masks and chatting to each other as one started to put up the bag.
A filly, the one who had delivered the final soliloquy, walked up to the old zebra. “Master Baruti?” she asked in a quavering voice, holding her mask to her chest. “I don’t understand. Why did the Serpent do it? Betray the others, I mean. They were going to rule the world, right?”
“Ah, who can say?” Master Baruti replied, stroking his pointed beard. “Some claim she was the wickedest of the wicked, and she chose to spite her own tribe because she could not rule it all herself. So, she cast down her own tribe’s ambition. Others, more romantically inclined, believe that she loved a pony to be sacrificed along with the star. Love possesses a power that defies all logic, even sanity. It’s not a power to be overlooked. Still others say she realized her people’s way was folly, and so did what was right, which is a power sometimes greater than love.”
“I don’t get it,” the filly replied flatly.
The elderly zebra chuckled, “You will, in time. And perhaps you might ask her,” he said, pointing his walking stick at Pythia without looking at her. He turned, gave her a smile. “Well, cursed child? What is your own tribe’s opinion of the Serpent?”
Pythia glowered at him. “That she was a moron who was too stupid to realize what she was doing.”
“Ah, well, enslaving the world makes for poor comedy. Perhaps someday I will attempt it. ‘The Breaking of the Thirteen, a Comedy’!” He slowly panned a hoof through the air. Then he turned back to the filly. “Think on your lines. Why would you do what the Serpent did?” He patted her on the head, and she went back to the others who were straightening up the sacks.
He heaved himself to his feet and gripped the cane, pressing it into the crook of his foreleg and hobbling towards Scotch and her friends with a pained and practiced step. He pulled off his hat and gave a careful bow of his head. “Master Baruti, elder of the village of the Mountain Stage, at your service.”
“Majina!” Majina squeaked at once. “This is Scotch Tape, Pythia, Precious, Skylord, and Charity! We came all the way from the ponylands on a ship where we were attacked by pirates and crawled through a swamp and were hunted and then there was Bacchanalia but we had to go because–” She paused, inhaling deeply for several seconds.
He silenced her with a raised hoof. “Pacing, child, pacing. Old ears need narratives smooth and delivered in due time.” He squinted, looking them over with searching eyes. When he saw Skylord’s Iron Legion brand, he frowned momentarily, but his pleasant demeanor returned. “I can tell there is quite a story here. Organize your thoughts into a cohesive narrative, and then tell me.”
Majina’s mouth worked silently a moment. “Oh. Ah… okay, Master,” she said, sounding slightly wounded.
“Master? What are you master of?” Precious asked brusquely.
“It is a term of honor for the Zencori. One who has mastered the five hundred canon tales of our people. Quite a few to memorize.” He chuckled, turning to Majina. “How many have you learned, Happy Tale?”
“Oh,” Majina replied, flushing. “Four– No, Fifty!” she amended in a rush.
“Ah, a very respectable number for your age,” he said warmly. He looked to Hiroto, his lips curving in a warm smile. “Ah, Hiroto returns! Another mighty skirmish with your immortal foe?”
He stiffened and replied, “I searched for Big Macintosh, but fought a civilian.”
“Wait till Ignatius hears,” the old zebra teased, then blinked. “We do still have an Ignatius about, yes?”
“No sir. She was taken by the Bloods,” he replied morosely. “Last month, remember?”
“Ah,” the zebra replied, his smile gone. “Hopefully we’ll find another.” His smile returned, a little less bright. “So what brings you to our village?”
“Our tractor got stuck and his one says you can help us get back on the road,” Scotch said, gesturing to Hiroto.
“As recompense for him attacking someone just because they were an earth pony,” Charity added. “You might throw in some supplies as well.”
The master rubbed his chin, appearing reluctant to aid them. Given there were Blood Legion right on the edge of the village, Scotch couldn’t blame him.
She glanced over at Pythia, then at the master. “You have a tradition for helping odd travelers or something, right?”
That made him blink and then smile. “Indeed we do. To aid those crafting new and unusual stories.” He inhaled deeply and then nodded once. “Very well. But only if you stay as my guest and tell me your story. Surely there must be quite a tale to bring together such a cast of characters.” Majina gave a squeal of delight, dancing on her hooves. “Remember. Pacing. Don’t try and tell it all in a huge rush.”
“Right. Pacing.” She took a deep breath, and then let it out in a squeal, dancing on her hooves again, “I get to tell our story!”
Hiroto moved off towards some more fit stallions and mares, while Master Baruti led them towards one of the round towers adjacent to the theatre. The weathered stone stood in mute testament to the centuries that had passed since its crafting. The gray rock had been carefully worked to fit together so a minimum of mortar was required. Two masks hung on the wall, flanking the door.
“Hello,” whispered the one on the left.
“Welcome,” whispered the one on the right.
Scotch blinked and stared at the others, who showed no reaction as they walked inside. Was she hearing things, or was this just spirit stuff? Ugh, she needed a mentor! “Hi,” she replied to both, and quickly slipped inside before the others gave her weird looks.
The tower was a drum of wonderment, completely hollow, wooden walkways forming two additional floors higher up. A fire pit burned merrily in the center, filling the space with warmth, its smoke whisked away up a copper funnel and chimney that dangled down the middle of the chamber. Scotch approved; the metal would be an excellent means of warming the tower in the winter. The ground floor had a sort of kitchen space with an ice box and bin. Given they were right by the mountains, she suspected ice wasn’t a problem, even in the winter. A round oven rose like a beehive next to the fire pit, probably for ease of cooking. Next to that was a sort of wash area, with a tub of grouted stone sitting next to a spigot. The rest of the ground floor was open; for entertaining guests, she suspected. A dozen comfortable chairs were arranged in almost a complete circle. The only thing lacking was a toilet, which was probably an outhouse separate from the building. She sure didn’t envy whoever had to use it in midwinter. The only concession to modern technology was a radio so old its casing was carved from wood.
Yet all that was nothing next to the books. Most of the second floor, and all of the third, was filled with books on shelves, books in cases, and books stacked up in piles atop them. There were scrolls hanging sideways in racks, and even a few stone tablets covered in weathered glyphs. A treasure trove of lore lay before them, and for the first time Scotch could recall, Pythia wore an expression of gobsmacked wonder as her eyes swept across the expanse of literature. Scotch supposed it was one thing to see a future and another to smell the leather, paper, and parchment. Windows on the second and third floor allowed light to stream across the room in golden shafts.
A Zencori stallion with faded stripes sat in a stuffed chair before the fireplace with three open books precariously balanced on his outstretched limbs. He tilted his head to peer at them over a pair of bifocals perched on the edge of his muzzle as they entered. “Skies above and earth below, what are you doing with such a… menagerie, Baruti?”
Baruti smiled and swept off his hat, gesturing to them with a hoof. “This is… I can’t recall their names. However, this!” he gestured at the elderly zebra and grinned, then paused, grin frozen in place. “I can’t quite recall either!”
Majina inhaled as Charity announced, “Charity.”
“Skylord.”
“Pythia.”
“Precious.”
Scotch just shrugged and added, “Scotch Tape,” and then became aware of a high pitched whine. Majina gaped at her, jaw dropped, eyes bulging as she hooked her hooves before her. “Uh, this is Majina,” Scotch added, but if anything that just made her look even more wounded. “What?” she asked, wondering if the filly was having some kind of attack. “It’s just our names.” If anything the whine amplified.
“You have my sympathies. That was no way to do an introduction at all,” Master Baruti said, patting her on the back. Majina immediately slumped, tears running down her cheeks as she wept.
“Succinct though,” the elderly zebra in the chair stated, eying Majina like a stern uncle who disapproved of his niece’s musical tastes. “I assume she comes from the more dramatic side of our tribe.” He looked at the others. “I am Historian Jahi. This easily distracted fellow is Master Baruti, in the event that he either forgot to tell you, or forgot it himself.”
Master Baruti returned his hat to its proper place atop his head. “I’d hardly forget that,” he said with a wounded little pout. Then he looked up. “Librarian? Would you care to join us?”
From the shelves of books above a female voice replied, “No thank you. I can hear them just fine from up here.”
“That is our librarian, Taliba,” Baruti said. “Forgive her. She prefers the company of books over most people.”
“Not true!” the mare called out from above. “I am very sociable.”
“True,” Baruti conceded with an indulgent sigh, then smiled to the six. “Would you like some refreshments? We have some berries…”
“We ate them yesterday,” Jahi said, dropping his eyes back to the books on his outspread limbs.
“Oh. Well, there’s boiled zava…” Baruti offered.
“Ate that the day before yesterday,” Jahi interrupted again.
Baruti pursed his lips. “Perhaps I should check the icebox again,” he muttered and walked over to the kitchen section.
“Forgive him. He’s crammed his skull so full of ridiculous tales that mundane facts frequently escape him,” Jahi gestured to the seats around him. “Please. Have a seat. Tell me how you came to our village.” Majina immediately inhaled again, and he jabbed a hoof at her, “With as little dramatic embellishment as possible,” he added, making her wince as if he’d struck her.
“Jahi!” protested the master. “At least a little embellishment!”
“I am old. I don’t have time left for extemporaneous flummery. You–” he said, jabbing a hoof at Scotch, “tell me. In as few words as possible.”
So Scotch Tape gave a succinct summary of their travels from Greengap into the woods, the tractor getting stuck, Trailblazer, meeting Hiroto, and coming to the village. Jahi nodded as he took it all in, his pale blue eyes locked on Scotch’s as if he were absorbing, memorizing, and cataloging everything she told him.
When she finished, he sniffed. “Embodiers. They’re far more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Embodiment is a time-honored tradition,” Baruti argued as he nimbly mixed together some sort of brown dough.
“It was ridiculous tradition centuries ago and remains so now. I wish you wouldn’t encourage it,” Jahi said, taking off his bifocals and rubbing them on a cloth.
“I’m sort of sensing you two aren’t exactly on the same page?” Precious asked, waving a claw back and forth between the two of them. Baruti barked a laugh while Jahi merely smiled. From far above, the hidden librarian tittered. “I mean, I thought Zencori were all about stories and stuff.”
“You are absolutely correct,” Jahi and Baruti answered simultaneously. “That is our nature.”
The two exchanged a cool look and Jahi gave Baruti a wave of his hoof. The master kneaded dough vigorously as he went on. “The Zencori tribe exists to propagate stories, but there is a tiny schism over whether our tribe should emphasize truth or feeling.”
“Oh yes, very tiny. Only goes back to the founding of the tribe,” Jahi cracked.
Baruti continued as he started to wrap the dough on sticks. “On the dramatic tradition, we treat stories as alive. They inspire, change, and react. They propagate feeling. And the historical tradition tries to get the stories as accurate as possible.” Jahi nodded with a smile. “Needless to say, there is a world of difference between telling a story well, and telling a story accurately. Which do you think is more important?”
“Well,” said Majina and Precious.
“Accurately,” Pythia and Charity answered,
Skylord just snorted as if the whole question were stupid.
Suddenly all eyes were on Scotch, and she gave a sheepish little smile. “Both?” she suggested.
Jahi sniffed in disapproval. “Hedging your bets? Disappointing.” He looked to the others. “Needless to say, it’s been a debate going back centuries. Ever since the Canon Wars–”
“You mean the War of the Liberated Word, don’t you?” Baruti interrupted.
Jahi rolled his eyes. “If you have to be poetic about it.”
“I do. You know how much I do,” Baruti said with a chuckle as he sprinkled the dough with salt, then stuck the sticks into the brick oven.
“Regardless,” Jahi continued implacably, carefully marking his place in some of the books he was balancing and closing them. “The Zencori tribe has struggled with this dilemma. Dramaticists like the good master want to tell entertaining stories. Historians like myself strive for accuracy.”
“You guys fought wars over stories?” Precious asked with a skeptical grin. “Like, killing wars?”
“Nothing so bloody,” Jahi said with a wave of his hoof, transferring the books from his lap to the floor. “Though I must say the transcripts show the debate between the factions to be quite… vigorous.”
“What, did you throw books at each other?” the dragonfilly asked.
“There was a catapult,” Baruti said as he started to mix drinks.
“There was no catapult!” Jahi snapped.
“There could have been,” Baruti suggested before dicing up something green that smelled strongly of mint. “Cabo talked about flinging an entire reference section at a scrum of historians.”
“Cabo never failed to embellish a story with unnecessary exaggeration!” Jahi stated firmly, pausing as he stared at Baruti from across the fire pit, as if testing for another interruption.
“…Seriously?” Scotch Tape said warily.
“It was another time,” Jahi sighed.
“Historian mobs were shortsightedly burning dramatic poetry and stories,” Baruti countered with a frown, jabbing a dough covered hoof at him. “Don’t gloss those details simply because it was a thousand years ago.”
“I concede the mistake,” Jahi said. “With a few notable exceptions, like the Librarian Hypatia being burned on a heap of books she refused to edit, there were few deaths. Still, it was an unpleasant time, what with the instability following Nightmare Moon’s usurpation of the sun.”
“Was that the thing going on outside?” Precious asked, pointing a claw in the direction of the stage.
“Oh no, that was an even older story: The Serpent,” Baruti said with dramatic relish.
“I don’t get it,” she mumbled, blinking. “Was one of them like a snake or something?”
“In our earliest age, after the tribes separated, the Starkatteri were the wisest and noblest of tribes,” Jahi said in the patient, warm tones of a practiced lecturer. “They used their knowledge of the stars to warn of monster attacks, natural disasters, and unseen opportunities. While not our first shamans, they were wise in the mystic arts. However, their insight left them vulnerable to dark forces. And so they sought to raise their place above that of the other tribes. They spoke of returning to one people. One zebra race. Some heeded their call. Sadly, the sight that made them wonderful advisors also made them devilishly effective generals. The tribes were routed one by one, and taken across the sea to their new capital in a faraway land.”
“Hoofington,” Scotch Tape answered, earning an arched brow from the elderly zebra.
“Azaskar was its ancient name, but you have the right of it. Built on an island where a river split, thousands were enslaved to construct it. A city of one tribe. One people. One thought. One way. And when it was completed, they conducted a rite to consecrate it.”
“So… this Serpent wasn’t with the program?” Charity asked. “What’d she do?”
“Interrupted a powerful spiritual ritual,” Jahi answered. “It saved the world, but her motives have always been in question. The result of her sabotage was somewhat… spectacular.”
“Azaskar was blasted into the depths of the earth, and the star was freed,” Baruti proclaimed grandly.
“Surprised you think that was a good thing,” Charity commented. “Aren’t stars evil for zebras?”
“Stars are powerful drivers of plot!” Baruti said, sounding scandalized. “Tempted by the stars! Star-crossed lovers! Struggling against a fate authored by tyrannous stars! Why, without stars, we’d lose half our classical plot devices.”
“Perish the thought,” Jahi muttered, then raised his voice to add, “All issues of drama aside, better a star return to the sky. They are powerful entities, best not trifled or bargained with.” He gave Pythia a sharp look.
“Because wasting power that could actually help people is a good thing,” Pythia snorted, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, the Serpent was an idiot. They got their asses censured so hard they’re probably still feeling it. You don’t break a deal with an undead star god and not pay a price for it.”
Scotch frowned. “But wouldn’t the censure have been lifted after Blackjack killed the Eater of Souls?”
“What?” the mare said from overhead, poking her head out over the edge. Her mane was completely milky white, and she wore a pair of thick glasses over her pink eyes. Scotch realized the other two zebras had fallen silent as well, and just stared as well as if she’d just swore and were trying best to decide how to address it.
“My friend killed it a few years ago,” Scotch said as she looked from one to the next, trying to understand the problem. “What? You were talking about the Eater of Souls thing, right?” she asked, just in case there was another dark star god she didn’t know about. Baruti gave her the smallest of nods. “Well, it’s dead. My friend Blackjack blew it up with a giant piece of the moon.”
“She says it so casually,” Majina whispered.
“Trust me. They wouldn’t believe the whole story,” Pythia muttered back.
“The dark god is dead?” the librarian asked again. “The dark god was slain?” She sounded as if Scotch was saying up was down.
“I guess. The whole Core was vaporized,” Scotch answered.
“That’s not something to claim casually,” Jahi warned.
“But it’s true. Her words are true,” Taliba said as she began scrambling down the stairs. “ Can’t you two hear it? The dark god is dead. Actually dead. Actually killed!” Taliba tripped and tumbled down the last three steps, falling in a heap.
She rose to her hooves immediately, straightening glasses knocked askew from her fall. “We need to report this to the rest of the tribe at once. Call the Conclave together,” Taliba said looking at the two old stallions. They didn’t meet her gaze, and she blinked behind her glasses before blurting out, “Our tribe needs to be told!”
“They will not come, Taliba,” Jahi muttered. “And if they did, they would not believe a pony and a fallen zebra.” He sighed and then looked at Scotch. “I don’t suppose that your ‘friend’ was a zebra, was she?”
“No. She was a unicorn. A pony from my stable,” she answered.
“See?” Jahi asked Taliba. The mare blinked through her glasses, looking from Scotch to Jahi and back again. “They will say it just a pony story, like the Lightbringer. It is not true. Then we will be punished for calling the tribe for a nonsensical story.”
“But she’s not lying! Her words are as clear as I’ve ever heard,” the mare insisted. “Any librarian would hear them.”
“But she could be mistaken,” Jahi pressed.
Baruti nodded. “She could be tricked. There are countless stories of a librarian’s veracity being deceived by an ardent and wishful soul. She merely thinks it's true, for whatever reason. Many believe things that are not so. A Conclave would never accept that a pony accomplished the impossible.” Taliba looked as if he’d struck her.
“I’m missing a lot here,” Scotch said, and even Majina appeared baffled. “What’s a Conclave and why wouldn’t they believe me?”
“The Conclave are the leaders of our tribe,” Jahi answered. “They determine what stories are true, and what stories are dramatic fantasy. What lessons are told and which lessons are forbidden. We once numbered hundreds, but not we’re merely a few dozen. I know my fellows. They will not accept a story telling of a pony slaying the dark god of the Starkatteri.”
“It is a tall tale to swallow,” Baruti said, rubbing the back of his head. “Maybe with a zebra protagonist, it might be told.”
“But… It’s true!” Taliba protested, surprising Scotch. “Can neither of you hear it in her words? Every book in here knows it’s true.”
Jahi didn’t look at her as he replied quietly, “It doesn’t matter if it’s true, Librarian, if they won’t accept it.” Taliba blinked at one and the other, then slumped and without another word walked back up the stairs.
Scotch frowned as she left. “What…”
“Forgive her. Calling the Conclave together is never done lightly, not even before the war,” Jahi explained. “Calling it to confirm pony stories in pony lands is not possible with the world in the state it is. We’d have to pull together the Conclave from all across our lands, then agree to send representatives to the ponylands to confirm your story, and then have to come to terms with what it actually means. Far easier to believe the cursed city was destroyed by Legate Vitiosus, who died in the attack, and the dark god sleeps again.”
“The Legate? You think the Legate–” Scotch choked, breaking into hacking coughs.
“That is as has been told to us by zebras from the ponylands,” Baruti said, adopting a dramatic voice that did little to ease the edge she felt. “That the Legate, with his army, did battle with the cursed city and its defenders and destroyed the Maiden of the Stars. Then he sacrificed himself nobly to destroy the cursed city.”
“If by sacrifice you mean transform himself into a mountain of crushing flesh before rotting because he mouthed off to his master, then yeah. Sacrifice,” Pythia muttered, getting sharp looks from both stallions. “What? Don’t look at me like that. He was Starkatteri too.”
“We’d expect nothing but lies from your tribe,” Jahi answered coolly.
All Scotch Tape’s warm and silly thoughts of flinging books via catapult had been paved over by the realization that the Legate, a monster who had killed thousands in the Hoof alone, was the hero. Scotch tried to defend her friend, the one person who’d seen the fight at the very end, but her coughs were growing worse and worse. She couldn’t stay here, but running out into the rain seemed like a bad idea too.
“Miss?” Jahi asked as her hacking grew worse and worse. Scotch rose to her hooves and moved towards the stairs up to the second floor. She needed some distance from all of this. Upstairs, the smell of paper and old leather was even stronger. A soothing smell, but it did little to help the burn in her lungs or the ache in her heart.
Then she spotted Taliba staring at her. The white maned zebra had her own little kitchenette, with stove and a little table next to a tiny, narrow bed. A metal kettle bubbled on the flat surface. Taliba blinked at her. “Oh,” she murmured lightly, seeming unsure how to address this intrusion. “Can I… help you?”
“Bad lungs,” she croaked, trying to suppress her coughing. “Sorry.”
“Oh. It’s fine.” It definitely didn’t sound fine. She fidgeted with a book sticking out on a shelf, chewing her bottom lip before she continued, “I don’t get visitors up here, ever. Not unless they’re after a book.” Down below, Pythia was arguing with both Jahi and Baruti about the Legate.
“I’m sorry they shot down your idea,” Scotch muttered. “For the record, I think that getting a Conclave thingy together to find out the truth is a great idea.”
Taliba smiled and poured two cups of a minty tea. “They are… my elders. It is hard to argue with them.” Scotch imagined arguing with Rivets, the old head of Maintenance in her stable, and had to agree. “They are correct in their decision. Conclaves were rare, even before the war. I was foolish to suggest it.” She spoke with practiced resignation, hanging her head as she kept her eyes down.
She brought a cup to Scotch, who took an experimental sip. Minty, but oddly bitter. Still, the relaxing sensation that washed through her helped untangle her emotions. “Why is it such a big deal if the Eater thing was destroyed? Isn’t that a good thing?”
She sat on the floor beside her. “There are things in the world that cannot die. Dark things. Timeless things. Powerful things. Great spirits and great evils. They cling to existence with all their will. To slay such a thing is… unthinkable. Could you imagine killing Nightmare Moon?”
“Like, the Nightmare Moon from the stories?” Scotch asked, receiving a nod. “Maybe? I mean, if you cut off her head… but she had dream powers and stuff so she could probably see you coming and… huh…” She thought a moment. “But she was beaten.”
“Of course. Evil frequently is. It is driven back. Stymied. A evil person may be destroyed, but the forces that drive them don’t disappear. Evil itself is rarely destroyed. It’s something fundamental that exists and must be opposed, or it will destroy us.”
She looked down into her cup. “The dark god of the Starkatteri was evil. It would have consumed all that is for its own glory and existence.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine something like that destroyed.”
She heard the shuffling of cards in her ear. “But you believe me, right? I’m not lying.”
“I know you’re not. I’m a librarian. The stories know if one of their own is true or not.” She gave her books a gentle smile, caressing one’s spine with a hoof.
Scotch stared as a tiny gold blob with a form resembling a zebra pulled itself out of the top of the book’s gilded cover and gave her a little wave. For several seconds, she couldn’t look away from it as it pulled itself free and started to walk along the old, worn books.
She blinked several times, hard, then looked down at her cup. More golden shapes were creeping out, squeezing through the pages and crawling out of the scrolls. As she stared, she watched the golden forms, most equine but a few more exotic species mixed in, crawl along Taliba’s shoulders and peek out of her mane like globs of ambulatory honey.
“Okay… this is strange,” Scotch said as she nervously took another sip, then she looked down at the cup. “Did you drug me or something?”
“No. It’s spirit mint tea,” Taliba answered, her smile fading. “It calms most people’s nerves, unless you’re a shaman.” Scotch stared at a trio of golden equines having a sword fight on the shelves. “Wait… No, it’s impossible. You’re a pony.”
“And I’m a shaman,” Scotch answered. One of the little golden blobs on Taliba’s shoulder stretched itself up and whispered in Taliba’s ear. The mare immediately sat back, eyes so wide Scotch half-expected them to roll out of their sockets. “You’re a shaman too?” Scotch asked back to break the shock.
“I… am. Many librarians are,” she breathed as she leaned towards Scotch in fascination. “This is amazing. First you come bearing news of the dark one’s destruction at the hooves of a pony, and you perceive the spirits as well? Either alone should merit a Conclave!”
Now that she knew what she was seeing, she relaxed. Hundreds of the little golden blobs were crawling all around them. Some flew through the air, others floated as if on a breeze. “Well, I doubt those two would believe it either, since this is supposed to be a zebra thing.” She reached out with a hoof and one of the little blobs grabbed it. “What are these? Story spirits?”
“You can see them?” she gasped. “What do they look like? Are they the characters from the stories?”
That was right. Not every shaman perceived spirits the same way. “They look like little golden blobs to me.” She then spotted one quite different floating over a scroll. It resembled a fractal, crystalline pattern like a snowflake that slowly shifted and mutated. “That one is different though. It’s like a crystal.”
She rushed over to the scroll and carefully unwrapped it. As she did, the crystal drifted over her head, its facets shifting and gleaming. “It’s a document on calculus.” She reached over and picked up a book, holding it before Scotch. “What about this one?”
Scotch narrowed her eyes, and a golden zebra equine rose from the cover. “Just a glowy zebra shape.”
“It’s the Story of Count Peu-Peu the Bold,” she said, and no sooner did she identify it that the blob shifted. Its legs became thin and knobby, its gut stuck out in a bulbous mass, its muzzle became huge and mule-ish, and a banged-up crown perched atop its head.
“Whoa. It’s changed now,” Scotch said in amazement. She described the now more sharply-defined zebra. Then she added, “I think it keeps winking at me.”
“That’s Count Peu-Peu!” Taliba gushed in glee. “You’re actually seeing him. He was the ugliest, smelliest, crudest zebra ever, but was notorious for romancing powerful mares.” Scotch watched the ugly zebra take off his crown and bow to her, then blow her a tiny, slobbery kiss with his flappy lips. Taliba snatched up another book, and another. Technical text spirits formed abstract shapes, increasingly elaborate the more complicated the subject matter became. A children’s book was a simple cube. A dissertation on the second Empire’s economic system had so many moving parts she got a headache just looking at them. Stories started vague, but then resolved in greater and greater detail with just a few explanations. And when Taliba lifted one pink book, the blobs instantly formed into a pair of golden alicorns, one almost white, the other a dark orange.
“Princess Luna and Celestia?” Scotch guessed before Taliba could explain. Their sun and moon cutie marks appeared as soon as the words were out of her mouth. The lighter spirit zapped the smaller one, and it rose up, transforming into an orb. “Her banishing Luna to the moon?”
Taliba gaped at her. “It’s the banishment of the Maiden of the Stars, but yes.” She set it aside. “Fascinating. I have no idea what it means, but it’s fascinating!”
“Yeah, well, sometimes I wish my life was a lot less fascinating,” Scotch said as she looked at the countless tiny spirits. Some of them weren’t glowing at all. Some seemed as if they were inkstained. “What’s this?” she asked as she carefully lifted a scroll, peering at the tiny glyphs through the stained parchment.
“Oh, that. Perchauld’s essays on the ‘Great 213th Caesar’. Pure propagandized garbage. I’d throw it out but Jahi says there’s value in studying lies.” Scotch saw something dark creeping along the backside of the scroll, but as she watched the creature faded from sight. All the glowing, golden shapes were. She reached down and took her cup of tea and guzzled it down, even swallowing the dregs swirling at the bottom of the cup.
The black blob that had faded from view reappeared in her hooves. “It’s not golden, like the others,” she said as she squinted at it, watching it jiggle. “It’s like…”
The blob erupted upward like a geyser, reaching out and engulfing her head as the world swirled away.
oooOOOooo
Sound was the first thing she became aware of. Chanting rose from the gloom like approaching thunder: “Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” It rose from a vast host that emerged from the blackness like an inky mass. Dozens of zebras standing in tight ranks, dressed in ebony armor. “Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” chanted hundreds of voices. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. More and more appeared as darkness resolved into the specter of an immense stadium filled with row upon row of zebras standing in a grid, facing a stage.
“Okay, this is weird,” she muttered, alarmed, but it wasn’t as if any of these zebras could see or hurt her, right?
Then the closest looked down at her. They didn’t stop chanting, but they didn’t stop watching either. Her stomach clenched as she turned toward the stage and approached, walking down the rows of chanting zebras. The oily black floor sucked at her hooves, like she was trying to trot on tar. The closer she approached, the more elaborate the zebras’ armor became, with feathers and plumes and spikes. Elite legionnaires?
She crept warily between guards standing at the stairs leading up to the stage. They glared down at her, and yet none of them moved to stop her ascent. This was something like last time. A vision? Did shamans do this a lot? When she’d been on the moon with Blackjack, she’d had a vision like this, but she’d been a unicorn and they were all freaky weird.
Except Charity. She was just a jerk.
On the stage stood fancier zebras in ornate armor, with medals and ribbons and epaulets. Thirteen of them stood proudly shoulder-to-shoulder on the left side of the stage. On the right was a more eclectic assortment of twelve– no, thirteen as well. They ranged from a huge, rigidly muscled zebra with a permanent scowl carved into his features to a beautiful mare with her mane flowing down to her shoulders.
To Pythia.
No, not Pythia. The mare resembled Pythia’s mom, or how Pythia might look in twenty or thirty years. She stood at the end of the row next to a tiny, terrified zebra mare with swirly stripes who seemed to want to be anywhere but on that stage. It was like the poster, but horribly real and stripped of all levity. Staring at the dark copy of her friend, she remembered her shock and horror. Scotch owed Pythia an apology.
“Kai-Sar! Kai-Sar!” the chanting continued, rising higher and higher. Then the soldiers broke into a frenzy of cheering as a final figure stepped from the gloom and approached. Each step made the ground resonate with it with each footfall, as if the earth itself were a hollow drum announcing his approach. Unlike the other figures, this one wasn’t some black shadow. A spotlight created a single pillar of illumination, and he stepped into it like it was a breaking dawn. This was the sun, golden and glorious. A brilliant headdress of the burnished metal rested upon his brow. Ribbons of silk marked with strange and elaborate glyphs draped his muscled limbs.
Oh, and he was huge.
Not just big like Gāng had been big. His alicorn-sized body loomed over the other zebras on stage, towering more than twice the height of the rest. The light overhead cast his strong, square chin and symmetrical features in stark relief. Bold, golden eyes stared unflinchingly at the assembly. Two more spotlights focused upon him. Then two more. Another pair. He stood in a corona before the assembled passes. A breeze caught the ribbons, and they snapped out dramatically as he stood before them all, lifted one foot, and brought it down with a thud that sent a ripple out through the crowd. Instantly the chanting died.
“My people,” he said in a thunderous voice that rippled out across the assembled legions. “Today we gather to address the most dangerous threat our country and our culture has ever faced. Today marks the end of a precipitous year since the Maiden of the Stars usurped her sister’s throne and seized control of Equestria. Already she has remade the government in her image, and constructed vile ministries to aid her in her profane schemes, but these ministries will avail her no better than her sister’s government did her. My people! We must continue our fight against the stars! We are many and we are strong, and we are merciful. In time, the ponies will realize their tragic mistake of governance, but until then we must continue the fight! We must remind them that this is their war, started in a manic need for our wealth and resources. They must be humbled.”
He then swept a hoof to his left. “We have the greatest military minds the world has ever known! With their cunning and courage, we will drive out the pockets of pony occupation, take their lands, and show them our benevolent rule!
“I know they ask much of you. I know many of the tribes, in their small and simple vision, protest the steps needed to wage a conflict with ponykind. The Achu have risen to the challenge, while the Mendi hew and cry for surrender. The Propoli devise ever more vital technologies to aid in our defense, while the Zencori quibble and bicker over minutiae. The Carnilians send their sons and daughters to fight while the Eschatik forswear our people!” He roared, spitting out his vitriol at the assembly, “They would rather live under the hoof of foreigners beyond the sea! They do not care if they are ruled by an emissary of the stars themselves!” He paused, lifting his immense chin as his golden eyes glared out at the legions. “They shall learn. In this struggle, all are involved, as ally or enemy. There is no other ground.”
They erupted in shouts and roars, breaking into another refrain of chanting “Kai-Sar” as his anger melted to a warm, paternal smile. He then gestured to his right. “To that end, in a show of uniformity and loyalty, the tribes have sent forth their greatest heroes, united in furthering the cause of the Empire and assisting us against our direst foes.” He then paused and gave a throaty chuckle. “Oh. My apologies. Twelve. The Eschatik saw fit to send an ‘observer’.” He grinned, his laugh echoed by the crowd. He shook his head with a generous, if patronizing, smile. “They will learn. In war, there are no observers. No bystanders. Everyone is involved.”
He threw his hooves wide. “I hear your pleas for you and your children’s protection and safety! As the spirits have vested me with power to be your leader, so too do I vest my generals to protect you! So do I vest these Terrific Twelve heroes to defend you! Let the spirits of the sky hear my words! Let the Eye of the World see my deed! Let the earth itself feel my resolve! It is not my power! It is our power! The power of our people!”
As Scotch watched, golden light flowed out of him and fanned out like great wings to envelop the arrayed generals and heroes. Each of them seemed to stiffen and refine, somehow growing larger. Only the Pythia mare and the cringing Eschatik remained the same. The former rejected the golden light as it crashed against an invisible bubble; the latter, it seemed, was simply exempt from the blessing.
And as the heroes and generals all grew a little, the Caesar himself seemed to contract. He was definitely half again as large as the others, but the effort clearly weakened him. He staggered to one side, and the beautiful long maned mare immediately moved to him. He gave her a loving smile, and then stiffened, rising to face the multitudes once more.
“I’m sure my detractors never thought they’d see the day, but I happily share my power as Caesar with my people.” He gave them all a generous smile. “If I could, I would extend my mantle to each and every one of you. It must be up to my generals, and my heroes, to do so in my place. Together, we move forward to overthrow our enemy and their Princess. To save them from their own folly! To return our lands to peace and prosperity. Together. United! One!”
The legions went mad, chanting his name over and over again. The long-maned mare walked with him from the stage, the generals following suit, and the heroes following them, though more than a few heroes lingered about the stage. The older Pythia was speaking in low tones to the Eschatik mare, who appeared ready to wet herself.
Then Scotch frowned as an odd thought niggled at her. All the other heroes were clearly defined. They might all have been monochromatic, but she could clearly make out their features. All except for one. It stood, almost abstract amid the others. No definite features. Not too fat, nor that thin. Neither large nor small. Scotch stood before it, screwing up her face in bafflement. She wasn’t even sure if it was supposed to be a mare or stallion! It also wasn’t reacting. Even the admittedly identical legionnaires were chanting, but this one simply stood like a statue.
“Who–” she started to say, reaching out with a hoof, and touching it. The surface rippled, as if the entire equine shape were fluid. It slowly lowered its face to look at her.
“YOU!” it screamed, tendrils and spikes erupting from its body as it lunged and seized her in a crushing embrace. “YOU! YOU! YOU! YOU!” It howled as its tendrils tightened, choking air from Scotch’s lungs as she struggled. Its mouth split impossibly wide, revealing a maw filled with hundreds of jagged teeth in multiple rows and barbed tongues flicking out and trying to pull her in. “YOUUUUUUU!” it howled at the top of its lungs in glee.
As she looked around at her surroundings in desperation, the inky black protrusions trying to press into her mouth and nostrils, Scotch saw the adult Pythia staring at her. Her eyes changed from monochromatic gray to yellow as she gazed at Scotch, and said sharply, “Wake up.” Scotch could feel jabs of pain and the sharp wet crack of her throat collapsing. “Wake up!” Pythia repeated, reaching over and shaking her hard. Her spine prickled as its jaws closed down on her head. “Wake up, you damned green idiot!”
oooOOOooo
Scotch shot upright, gasping for air as the scroll tumbled from her hooves. She coughed and hacked, struggling for breath. Pythia crouched beside her. “Idiot. When are you going to realize spirits can be dangerous?” she muttered as she brushed Scotch’s mane out of her eyes.
“What happened? Why did she react like that?” Taliba asked in shock. “She stared at the scroll and had an attack. That noise… I’ve never heard anything like that before.” She stared at the fallen scroll as if it might transform into a serpent and bite her. “That scream...”
Pythia leaned over and lifted Scotch’s teacup, holding it up to her muzzle and giving a sniff. “Spirit mint. You gave her spirit mint?” she asked, rounding on Taliba. “Are you mad?”
“It relaxes me and brings the voices of the spirits close to my ears,” Taliba said, keeping her eyes on Scotch. The filly felt something sticky coming out her nose, and touched a hoof to her lips. It came back red.
“It also brings us closer to the spirits. That’s why it’s a sacred plant, you idiot,” Pythia hissed as she looked Scotch over. “This pony’s not just a shaman, she’s the most spiritually sensitive shaman I’ve ever run into. Your relaxing tea was a recipe for something nasty getting inside her skull.” She peered into Scotch’s eyes. “She’s already been censured. She doesn’t need to be possessed too.”
Taliba stared at Pythia now. “You’re a shaman, too?”
“I am not a shaman,” Pythia answered as she kept turning Scotch’s head. “Damn it. Why do you always hit the futures with a one in a thousand chance of happening? Why can’t you just stumble down the futures where you have tea, get insulted, get annoyed, and we leave?”
“Guess I’m cursed,” Scotch muttered thickly.
“Cursed?” Taliba drew back, as if curses were colds. “How? Who is she?”
“A big ol’ pain in my tail,” Pythia replied. Her yellow eyes darted around before she relaxed. “Okay. Massive headache. Lots of arguments. A few tears. No futures where you’re possessed in the next few days.” She scowled and tapped Scotch’s chest. “Don’t make any.”
As if on cue, Scotch’s massive headache throbbed to life as she sat down hard and groaned. Taliba peered at Pythia now. “You’re a seer. How could you not see this happening?”
Pythia whirled on her and pointed an accusing hoof. “What, you think reading the future is easy? That it’s just one story from beginning to end?” She shook her head. “Most futures are ordinary and mundane. Nothing happens. But there are always outliers. Things that are a-hundred-to-one odds. There’s a future where I get struck by lightning, but only if I’m standing at a certain place and time. Not a big deal if I avoid it. Big deal if I don’t.”
Taliba balked and lowered her pink eyes. “My apologies. It’s just, in the stories, seers’ visions are always so much more… accurate.”
“Yeah, well, stories are stories and the real thing is a lot less reliable, but it’s all I’ve got,” Pythia muttered as she looked down at Scotch. She paused a moment, gazing at the shelves. “Stories… She needs a book on being a shaman. Some sort of text or… You must have something.”
Taliba laughed. “A book? On being a librarian?” she said in disbelief. “It’s not something you learn from books. It’s taught, master to apprentice, old to young. If she stayed here for several years, perhaps I could teach her myself.”
“That’s not happening. All those futures end with a lot of death and screaming. I looked already,” Pythia said, staring at the stacks. “I can’t believe you don’t have a single book on shamanism here.”
“We have many, but they’re referential to other works. Essays. Theories. Stories. If she were an apprentice for five or six years, she might be able to understand them. But something that just anyone could read and understand?” she said skeptically, shaking her head. “It’s just not that simple.”
A little glowing blob floated over and touched down on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. “No, you can’t be–” She paused as the blob continued speaking in its strange, musical language. “But it’s…” She trailed off, ear twitching as the zebra blob jabbed a hoof out. “We might have something.”
“This would be a whole lot easier if you’d teach me,” Scotch muttered to Pythia.
“I can’t. I can’t even tell you why I can’t, that’s how much I can’t,” Pythia answered, then snirked. “It’s okay. She’s got something that will help.”
Taliba returned with a thick book. Unlike the others, its cover wasn’t leather but ordinary cardstock, edges worn white. Still, the original bright yellow colors were visible, as was the odd triangular-headed cartoon-like picture of a zebra on the cover pointing up a helpful hoof. The glyph-written title was simple, straightforward, and perfect: Shamanism for Idiots.
“I think this will be perfect,” Scotch mumbled, hugging the book to her chest.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a book or two on the Eye of the World, and if or how it could be blinded?” Pythia asked. Taliba froze, and Pythia raised a hoof at her horrified expression. “Nevermind. I can see the answer’s no in every future.” Taliba was making little strangled notes in the back of her throat. “Yeah, I get it. ‘Who could do such a thing? Who could think such a thing?’ Just asking.” The whining noise increased. “You’re not going to be getting me a book on the Eye of the World, are you?”
“Blind… the Eye… of the World?” Taliba stammered. “I– you– How? Why?” She trembled, then whirled, bent over, and retched.
“I’m starting to think it’s a good thing I didn’t know about this Eye thing before coming here,” Pythia murmured lightly.
Taliba wiped her mouth. “The Eye of the World is… it’s the whole point. We live brief lives, but the spirit of the world sees us and remembers us so that even the least of us is not forgotten. You don’t… you can’t… you could never, ever, blind the Eye of the World. Ever!” she said, her face stricken as she looked from one to the other.
“Well, according to a letter we read, that’s what the Caesar ordered,” Pythia replied. “Right before the megaspells went off.”
The mare swept her mane back, visibly trembling. “Do you have this letter? Can I see it?”
Scotch opened her mouth to say yes when Pythia shot her a serious look and said, “It was in Equestria.” While that was technically true, it omitted the fact the letter was sitting right in Pythia’s saddlebags.
Taliba blinked, then slouched. “It must not be true. It can’t be. If it were… if such a thing were even possible… It would be the greatest betrayal of our kind against the world.”
“Let me guess, there’s a story involved?” Pythia asked. Thunder rumbled distantly as rain hissed against the stone tiles of the tower, and Scotch briefly glanced down behind her toward the door. The rain outside must be getting worse.
Taliba took a deep breath. “The first shamans, in antiquity, called out to the spirit of Equus itself. We were a weak people, fleeing from dangerous enemies who sought to enslave and devour us. Without help, we could not endure. So they made a great rite that called out to the spirit of the world itself. The All-Mother. The Lifespring. The Eldest. So many different names. And it heard our plea and turned its eye upon us.”
Scotch and Pythia shared a look. “So what happened?”
“An agreement was struck. We would be given agency to deal with the spirits, and the spirits would in turn gift our leaders with agency and power to fight our foes. We were to be stewards of the land, not conquerors. Caretakers, not masters. Much of the land was left to spirits, or to other beings that could live peacefully alongside us. So long as this covenant is honored, our race is blessed. To blind the Eye of the World is… it’s…”
“Unthinkable. Horrible. A terrible betrayal. Right,” Pythia said. “Well, we’re going to find out if someone actually did it or not.” Another peal of thunder sounded, closer this time as the storm rolled up the valley.
Taliba seemed to compose herself, though her eyes were harrowed. “Please, keep in contact with me. Any Zencori village will send messages to a librarian. Please. I need to know. Our people need to know the truth.”
In spite of everything, Scotch smiled. The readiness with which the master and historian had dismissed the truth had been disheartening to say the least. “People might not believe it.”
Taliba shook her head, looking at the books. “This has been my home. I’ve lived between these shelves since I was a filly, raised by Baruti and Jahi. Books have been my whole world, and I am happy here. But if the world outside is changing, our people must know. Zencori, yes, but all the other tribes as well. What you are doing… the quest you are on… it’s important to all our people.”
“Don’t tell Majina. She’d never stop if you tell her we’re questing,” Pythia warned Scotch.
“Oh, come on. She’ll love it,” Scotch teased back. Then she turned to Taliba, “Thank you for your help.”
“I wasn’t very useful,” she said with a nervous smile as she rubbed her foreleg, then glanced back at the puddle of vomit behind her. “I should clean that. Excuse me.” She moved off towards her little kitchenette.
Scotch hugged the book and slipped it into her saddlebags. It might not have been a teacher, but it was something! The tea was wearing off, the golden equine blobs disappearing from sight. Her skull still pounded, but a walk in the rain would help. Then she caught sight of Pythia’s distracted gaze and frown. “What’s wrong? All in all, this was a good stop.”
“Trouble. The future is getting really bloody all of a sudden,” she said. “We should get moving again.”
It would be good to find out if the Whiskey Express was free or not. It had only been an hour at most. She nodded and they headed downstairs. Majina was busy standing on her forehooves, rear legs thrust into the air as Baruti looked on. Precious was talking with Jahi while Charity sat by the radio. “What’s going on?”
Precious looked to Jahi and immediately said, “Nothing.” The elder zebra sighed, but said nothing else. “Are you okay? You took the whole… thing… kinda hard.”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Scotch lied, not okay with it but also not having a clue what she could possibly do about it.
“You have excellent fundamentals,” Baruti said as Majina walked carefully forward on her forehooves. “Balance. Flexibility. Strength would be the next challenge,” he said, tapping her with his cane. “Keep vertical. Once you weaken, your balance will suffer.”
“Momma was an excellent dancer,” Majina said as she took slow steps forward.
“I still can’t believe you Zencori call fighting ‘dancing,’” Charity called out from the radio. “What do you call shooting?”
“Undignified, loud, and brutish,” Baruti replied. “The art of movement on a stage is every bit as poetic as words spoken. Fighting onstage, like fighting in real life, is about control, balance, focus, and will. Acting. Dancing. Speaking. All critical fundamentals for any filly dedicated to the arts.”
“Rote memorization skills would serve her far better,” Jahi sighed, the gestured to Precious. “This young lady is an excellent example of studious attentiveness. She’d been plumbing the depths of my knowledge of dragons. Quite an extensive subject.”
“Big. Scaly. Greedy. Crude. Yeah, pretty extensive alright,” Charity said. “Are we going to go?” She tore off a chunk of brown bread and munched on it. “I mean, the food’s okay but watching her flop around is about as interesting as hearing Precious ask about dragons eating people.”
“In a bit,” Scotch said with a frown. “Where’s Skylord?”
“Dunno,” the unicorn said with a shrug. “We were listening to the radio and that Dr. Z. came on. Said that the Blood Legion attacked some place called Iron Town. Then Skylord headed outside; said he needed to use the toilet.”
“Oh crap,” Scotch swore as she rushed out into the rain. She knocked on the outhouse door. No answer.
“Please, please, please don’t be stupid,” she begged as she shielded her eyes with a hoof, looking towards the top of the tower. A brilliant flash and rumble of thunder came from the west as forks of light streaked across the sky. No sign of him on the roof.
That left one place to check. Precious and Pythia emerged from the tower as she raced towards the bunker at the edge of the village. Zencori moved aside as she tore past them, swerving around the trees and cutting across the planter gardens. “Please please please please…” she repeated, praying to see him.
She did. He stood outside the bunker, rain water dripping off the barrels of his rifles. Before him, lying prone in the mud, were three legionnaires. Their bodies were twisted in unnatural angles, their weapons still sheathed and holstered. “What did you do?” she asked as she slid to a stop in the mud, her chest on fire as she started to cough. “What were you thinking?!”
“I did what I’m supposed to do!” Skylord shouted back. They attacked my home! My legion! My people!”
“They did?” Scotch demanded, gesturing to the corpses. “These three did?”
“They’re all Blood Legion. They’re all my enemy!” he countered. Precious and Pythia ran up, the former’s eyes wide and the latter glaring at the griffon. “I had to!”
“Scotch,” Pythia said, “get on your radio. Check their radio signal.” Then she closed her eyes, whispering, “Please be wrong.”
Scotch turned it on, tuning in to the frequencies the Blood Legion used. Behind them the village was congregating, along with the rest of their friends. Suddenly the radio crackled to life. “–224 under attack! I repeat, Bunker 224 is under attack. A griffon with the Iron Legion! Send backup at once. They attacked from the village. I repeat. They attacked from the village. Send back up to 224!”
“We have to go. Now!” Charity snapped.
“I am afraid that is not an option,” Master Baruti said gravely, the rain dripping off his hat. “You have violated our hospitality and Tradition.” He turned away, waving a hoof. “Take them, and give them to the Blood Legion when they arrive.”
Somewhere there was a world where friends talked to each before they did stuff. They confided in each other and let everyone know if they were leaving or angry or about to gun down a bunch of zebras. Little things like that.
Scotch Tape really wished she lived in that world right now.
“Us? Why us? Take him!” Charity snapped, jabbing a hoof at Skylord. “He’s the one that shot them!”
“You have a point,” Baruti said as he rubbed his chin. “Fine. Take the griffon.”
“Out of my way,” Skylord ordered as he kept his guns focused on Master Baruti. “We’re leaving.”
“No. You are not,” the zebra contradicted as water dripped off the brim of his hat, gripping his cane lightly by one hoof. The rest of them were surrounded by the villagers. A few bore farming implements, but there wasn’t a gun to be seen. “We are not a free city. For better or worse, we are under the protection of the Blood Legion,” he said evenly. “We have an obligation to turn you over to them.”
“You idiot,” Skylord growled back. “You see these guns? These wings? You’re not turning me over to anyone.”
“Yes, I am. And if you should fly away, we will turn over your comrades in your place. And if you should kill any of us, we will hand over their bodies in your place,” Baruti said, his voice low, grim and joyless. “What would your commanders say about that, Iron? Or are they disposable assets?”
Scotch blinked as she realized that Skylord very well might write them off. He had his orders, but it’d been a month. Maybe he had superseding orders for situations like this? Then, as Scotch considered him, she noticed something odd: it was the iron cross brand he bore on his flank, that sick parody of a cutie mark.
It was oozing.
Maybe it was lingering effects of the tea she’d drunk, but she could see a shadowy ichor was dripping from the brand. The translucent fluid seemed to evaporate away the further it travelled. What it meant… she had no clue but she’d worked out that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Especially since it matched the shadowy black gunk covering the bodies of the slain Blood Legion.
Skylord glanced at Scotch, then at Baruti. “I don’t have to fly off. You’re going to let them go or I’m going to double your weight in lead.”
“I am an old zebra,” Baruti wheezed as he stepped even closer to Skylord, “but I can assure you that you are not going to shoot me, or anyone else here, any time soon.”
“And how’s that?” Skylord asked, shifting his body to keep a barrel right at the old zebra. Baruti circled so that Skylord’s field of fire was the bunker rather than the crowd.
Baruti then nodded behind Skylord. “Because Hiroto is going to sit on you now.”
Skylord turned in alarm, but the huge zebra they’d encountered on the road gawped cluelessly, much too far to sit on anyone. Skylord only took his eyes off Baruti for a second.
It was enough. The zebra’s cane swept up and hooked the end of Skylord’s firing bit, and with a sharp yank, pulled it right off his beak. The guns snapped off a short burst, but the zebra had positioned himself between the two barrels. Skylord attempted to take wing so he could bring his claws to bear, but the zebra gave the hooked bit a sharp yank with both hooves on the cane, and forced him back to the ground. As Skylord sprawled there, Baruti looped the firing bit’s cable around both his claws, yanking the wire tight. A short hop and he plopped his haunches atop Skylord, pinning his wings with his legs. Skylord was left face down in the muck, his claws pulled tight up against the underside of his chin. His leonine hind legs raked in vain at the mud. Baruti swept off his wide brimmed hat and bowed to the stunned audience.
Then there came a slow clapping beside her, and Scotch glanced at Precious applauding. “What?” the dragonfilly asked. “That was a really sweet takedown.”
“Unfortunately, he said take ‘them’, not ‘him’, which means we’re next!”
“We’ve apprehended the Iron for the Blood. You five are free to go,” Baruti said evenly to the rest of them. “May your story have a happy ending.”
“Come on,” Charity said as she started for the Whiskey Express. “Let’s get while the getting’s good.”
Scotch stared at the struggling Skylord, pinned under the elderly zebra as others rushed in to help hold him down and remove his guns. He kicked and bucked, trying to gain purchase in the muck, struggling desperately to fight them off as they pulled off his harness and weapons. From his mouth spilled a constant slurry of threats and insults that did nothing to deter the zebras pinning him.
Scotch stood there, watching dumbly. What he wasn’t doing was calling for help. He’d written that off already. He expected them to go and leave him behind. He wasn’t one of them. They weren’t his people. She should just turn and go. Whatever his fate was, it was sealed the moment that he’d gone off on his own.
“Wait,” Scotch called out, to her friends as much as to the villagers.
Baruti turned to her, frowning, as she walked up. “I can’t just let you hand him over to the Blood Legion.”
“What?!” gasped her friends, almost in unison.
“Yes we can!” Charity blurted at once. “We can totally leave him. Look! This is how you do it!” She made exaggerated steps towards the Whiskey Express, lifting her knees high as she sang out, “La la la la! Leaving the stupid griffon behind.”
“Are we fighting now?” Precious asked. “I mean, I’m on it if we’re fighting, but I thought that was off the table.”
“We are not fighting!” Majina shrieked, then turned towards Scotch. “We’re not fighting them, right? We can’t fight them. Please!” she begged.
“We’re not fighting them,” Scotch assured her.
“Well now you have me curious, pony. We have no choice but to deliver an Iron to the Blood Legion. While all was peaceful, we could overlook his affiliation, but now we have no choice. It’s him, or us,” Baruti said as he climbed off a now thoroughly restrained and disarmed Skylord and approached her. “What would you have us do?”
“Take me into custody with him,” Scotch stated. Skylord, now gagged, glared at her. “Let my other friends go.”
“What?” Precious snapped. “You are not doing this, Scotch!”
“Yes, I am,” she said, rubbing her chest and fighting off the urge to cough. The damp and her run hadn’t done her lungs much good. “I’m not giving up a friend. Blackjack wouldn’t do that!”
“Blackjack would fart and kill half the village by accident,” Charity countered flatly. “I don’t think you can do that. But even if you can, this is stupid. You don’t owe that griffon anything!”
“Yes, I do. He’s our friend. He fought with us and kept us alive!” She faced Baruti. “I want you to take me into custody, but I want you to send a message that you’ve captured me with him.”
“The Blood Legion already knows about him. Why would they care about you?” Baruti asked, nodding at the lone Blood Legion survivor, a colt barely older than Scotch who looked ready to soil himself. From his Zencori stripes, it wasn’t hard to imagine he’d been conscripted from this very village. No wonder Baruti and the others were so upset with Skylord.
“Because someone in the Blood Legion wants me,” Scotch answered. “I want you to get a message to Colonel Haimon of the Blood Legion that you have the pony Scotch Tape in your custody and that she knows what his brother told him the night that he died.” Scotch glanced over at her friends. All stared at her, aghast, save Pythia, who refused to look her way. “My friends can keep going. They don’t need me.”
“You idiot!” snapped Precious. “You’re the whole reason I’m here!”
“Well, now you can keep Majina safe!” she shot back. “I don’t want another Rice River on my hooves. The four of you can find the Eye, or go home, or do whatever. You don’t need me for that.” Pythia still wasn’t looking at her. “And this way, I take all this New Empire, Haimon, Riptide heat off of the rest of you. I might even get some answers.”
“Sure. Right before Haimon cuts your throat and throws you into a pool,” Charity quipped. “This is stupid. Just let the turkey get stuffed and we can get out of here.”
“I,” Majina stammered, then glanced at Skylord, swallowed, and looked back at her. “I don’t want you to stay.”
Skylord, his face full of muck, his feathers bent from the wrestling, just glowered at Scotch as if she were being an idiot too.
“Pythia?” Scotch asked.
The star marked filly didn’t reply for several seconds. “You have a bad habit of finding those one in a million futures and diving right in.” She gave Scotch a sad smile. “Take care. See you later.” And then she started walking towards the Whiskey Express.
“You’re an idiot and you’re going to end up just like Blackjack. Dead. Horribly, horribly dead!” Charity declared. “Well I’m not feeling guilty for it this time. This is all on you, got it?” She reared, turning on a hoof, and marched to the tractor. She paused and whirled, shouting back at her, “Idiot!” Then marched through the mud without another word.
Majina said nothing, but Scotch suspected she was crying. “You could stay here, Happy Tale,” Master Baruti offered.
She stiffened and said in a low, barely audible voice, “No. I couldn’t.” Then she started back towards the tractor too, her head hanging low.
“Scotch, if you’re staying then I’m staying too,” Precious insisted. “I’m not going to let that stupid turkey get you killed.”
“If you stay, how long do you think Majina’s going to last? Take care of her,” Scotch said with a strained smile. Pythia and Charity too.
“Charity’s right. He’s not worth it,” Precious said, snorting a little bit of flame in his direction. “He did the stupid. You’re doing a stupid. Two stupids don’t equal a smart.”
“You never know. Maybe, once we’re away from the village, we might escape. Who knows, we might meet up with you in Roam?” But she doubted that. Even if she did get free, the zebralands were so impossibly big than the chances of finding her friends again were infinitesimal. “Take care, Precious.”
Precious hesitated for several seconds, then slowly backed away. Finally, she turned and walked back towards the tractor. Scotch swallowed, feeling a pit opening up inside her. If this worked… She rubbed her chest, starting to wheeze as the Whiskey Express and her friends pockety-pocked away from the village.
* * *
“You’re a moron. A complete and utter moron,” Skylord muttered from his side of the basement they’d been dumped in. It was filled with old costumes and stage equipment, and from the dust on everything, hadn’t been used for a while. One light bulb provided feeble illumination that was barely enough to read by.
“I’m trying to save your life,” Scotch Tape said as she read the book Taliba had given her. Some of the glyphs were elusive, but the bright pictures helped a little.
“An extra reason you’re a moron.” Skylord sat on a crate, slumping against the wall, caked in mud from beak to tail. His rusty feathers were bent at odd angles, and she doubted he could fly in this state. “Did it occur to you that your friends are right and I’m not worth this?”
“You seem worth it to me,” Scotch said as she nudged a page over. “You’re brave and loyal. You could have ditched us a day out of Rice River. Shot us and taken our stuff. Instead, you stuck with us.”
“Adolpha would pluck me if I abandoned an assignment,” Skylord sniffed, crossing his forelegs over his chest and glaring at the wall. “She’d pluck me if she saw me now. Just jumping in on an attack without proper target assessment… rookie mistake.”
“You’re not much older than me,” Scotch reminded him.
“Still stupid.” He covered his face with a talon. “I couldn’t help it. Soon as I heard the war was on, I felt… I had to do something! My legion’s fighting for their lives and I’m just roaming around here with you. I know Adolpha ordered me, but they were just dicking around with Rice River. Not a war.”
“What’s the difference? Aren’t you always at war with the Blood Legion?” Scotch asked with a frown.
“No. We have our territory, they have theirs. We have our resources, they have theirs. Sure, we scrap all the time, but a war is different. A war is trying to break another legion. Irontown is everything to us. Our foundries are there. Our ironworks. Everything.”
“Your slaves,” Scotch felt obligated to point out.
“Indentured workers,” he shot back. “Anyway, without Irontown, we’d lose everything. The other tribes would pick us off while we’re crippled. It’s happened before. The Star Legion used to be a nightmare with balefire bombs. Four wars later, and you’d be hard pressed to find one of their legionnaires anywhere. They might even be extinct, for all I know.”
“So a war is attempting to destroy another legion? Are these things common?”
“Not as much as they used to be,” Skylord said with a frown. “Legions used to be parts of the Imperial Army. After both of you blew the snot out of each other, they had to put their own country back together again. Except they couldn’t agree on who should be in charge.”
“I thought zebra tribes elected their Caesar,” Scotch said with a frown.
“They did, but the Caesar said that the greatest and most loyal of his generals was to be his successor,” Skylord explained with a roll of his eyes. “You can guess what happened.”
“They all thought they were the greatest and most loyal, didn’t they?” Scotch guessed.
“Yep. And any time the tribes stuck their noses into it, the legions came down hard. First they were all, ‘it’s for your own good,’ but over time they just stopped caring. The legions had the power, and might makes right. They carved out territory and settled into things. With a few exceptions, the zebralands have pretty much been chewed up by the legions. If everyone just agreed the Irons were the best, this mess would have been over a long time ago.” He grit his teeth and slammed his fist into the wall beside him. “What’s your game?”
“Game?” she frowned.
“Game. Plan. Scheme. Whatever. You!” he blurted. “I don’t get you! I don’t get this!” He waved a talon at the basement full of junk. “Why in Grover’s glorious gashole would you stick your head in my noose? I’m not your friend! I’m not even friendly!”
Scotch closed her book and rose to her hooves, walking across the basement to face him. He shrank back from her as she moved her face towards his, before stating as firmly as she could, “Because whether or not you think you’re my friend, I’m yours.”
He stared at her a moment. “I don’t know if you’re stupid or crazy.”
“Why not both?” she offered.
“So, are you planning for us to escape out of here once they’re all asleep or something?” Skylord asked.
“No, because then the Blood Legion will kill the village for letting you escape. We have to escape from Blood Legion custody for the village to be in the clear,” she said.
“The village?” he gasped, his beak twisting in a sickly smile. “Screw the village! These are just a bunch of crazy zebras that like to pretend they’re heroes and shit, putting on stupid plays and telling stor–ow! Ow! Ow!” He squawked as she smacked him repeatedly with a hoof, bashing clods of mud from his plumage and face with each strike.
“We are not screwing the village! I don’t care if they’re strange. I’m glad they’re strange!” She stopped smacking him, huffing, “They’re more interesting than most of the other people I’ve run into! So we aren’t putting them in the Blood Legion’s crosshairs just because you decided to go shoot up their people! We’re going to escape from the legion, not the village.”
“Escape? You realize that once the legion sends people here, I’m dead in five minutes or so.” He took a breath before continuing, punctuating his words with jabs of a claw as he said, ”And you’re raped and dead inside thirty.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “That’s why I told them to get a message to Haimon. This ‘New Empire’ wants me.”
“They want you dead, you numbskull!” Skylord snapped. “Riptide was pretty clear about that, as I recall!”
“She wants me dead, but I’m guessing that these people aren’t all on the same page. If there’s a chance of taking me alive, I’m betting they will,” she said with a frown.
“You’re betting?” he gasped.
“Yup.” She sat back. “And I’m hoping that I can get them to spare you too when they come for me.”
“Hoping?” he spat, as if choking. “You’re betting and hoping that… all of this will save my life, even though I’m the one that caused this?”
“Pretty much,” Scotch answered, earning a death glare from the griffon. “What? Least you could do is be is grateful.”
“Grateful!” he shouted. “Did it occur to you that I don’t want your help? That I’m fine with the Blood Legion killing me? We’re at war! Dying for my legion- ow! Ow! Ow!” he snapped as she started whacking him again with her hoof. “Quit it!” he said, seizing her hoof in a talon.
“No! Your life is important to me! Just like the villagers’ lives are important! And if I can help, I will, because that’s who I am! That’s what Daddy would want me to be!” To be fair, her father would have probably shoved a grenade up Skylord’s butt a while ago, but he probably wouldn’t pull the pin. Probably. She drew back.
“Ponies and your idiotic hero complexes,” he growled. “Well do what you want. The legion’s going to blow my head off when they come. If you have any brains at all, you’ll run the second you can. You don’t want to live and see what the Blood Legion does to anything with a vagina.” And he curled up on the box, facing the wall.
* * *
“What is taking them so long?” Skylord shouted three days later. Aside from a bucket, the Zencori villagers had offered them little but silence, reading materials, and an acknowledgement that the Blood Legion would be collecting them soon. Three times Baruti had tried to talk Scotch into fleeing. Three times she’d declined, even with Skylord calling her an idiot.
“Well, either they’ve got things to do, or my message to Haimon got through and he’s coming to kill me personally,” she replied as she focused on her breathing, sitting cross-legged, a red feathered domino mask liberated from a crate resting on her face. Right now she was trying to shift her perception into the spirit world; something that had been happening unbidden ever since she’d gotten to the zebralands. Her studies weren’t exactly meeting with stellar success, but if nothing else, the breathing exercises calmed her nerves and churning stomach.
This was the right thing to do, right?
Yes, it was. She wouldn’t write off Skylord any more than she’d write off Majina or Pythia, or even Charity. Skylord had stuck with them, even when they’d gone into dangerous territory. And yeah, he’d screwed up big time flying off and attacking without even talking about it, but what would Blackjack do? Give him another chance.
She heard the cards shuffling in her ear. “I am not Blackjack,” she grumbled. A dry chuckle was the only response.
“You’re talking to yourself again,” Skylord muttered from his box.
“I’m trying to get this shaman stuff to work,” she said, taking another breath. Funny how just deep breathing make her chest burn all on its own. She gave a little cough and rubbed her sternum. “It’s hard doing this when I’m not nearly blown up and the spirits aren’t going crazy.” She opened her eyes and saw flickers of gold and creeping shadows, but as soon as her eyes tried to focus on them, they disappeared. “Ugggh,” she groaned, pushing the mask up and rubbing her eyes. “I’m getting a headache.”
“You’re going to have a lot worse than that pretty soon,” Skylord assured her, but there was less edge to his normally sharp response. She glanced over at him facing the wall, head bowed. “I don’t get you. You don’t have a contract with me. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t owe you anything. Why the hell would you stick by me? I’m just another griffon.”
“I just do,” she said, closing her eyes, pulling the mask down and taking another breath as she started to center herself again. “I think you’re a better person than you realize.” She didn’t get a response. Instead, she heard a very ungriffony sniff. She peeked at him, but couldn’t see his face.
“You’re the second person who’s ever told me that,” he muttered, thickly. Then he furiously scrubbed his face and muttered, “Stupid dust. It’s making my eyes water.”
“Let me guess. Was the first Adolpha?”
“Yeah,” he said, glanced at her over the shoulder and met her eye. He immediately averted his gaze, stiffening for a second, then slumped again. Turning back to face her, he breathed deep. “Griffons aren’t any more different to zebras than we are to ponies. We’re thugs working for the highest bidder. We’re loyal to our contract and we’re useful in a fight. We’re tough and fearless, and we beat any softness or weakness out of our fledglings before they leave the rookery. That’s who we are.”
Scotch didn’t interrupt as he glanced at her, dropped his gaze, glanced back again, and gave her a tiny half smile. “I was soft,” he muttered, then looked away. “Didn’t mean to be. Didn’t want to be. But I was. That made me a liability to the rest of my talon. Anyway, if you don’t toughen up, eventually you’ll be sent out on a mission, and you won’t come back. They had a bunch of us that they kept trying to harden. Tempering, they called it. Harder and harder missions.”
He let out a long sigh. “One day, me and five others were sent out on a mission. Caravan shake down. Pretty standard stuff. We were out to prove ourselves. Show we were tough. An elder was with us to make sure we didn’t fuck up too bad. Wasn’t hard. Swoop in from the sun. Overwhelm resistance immediately and absolutely. Get the goods. Leave. We followed each step but the last.” He shook his head, snorting. “Everything went stupid.”
“What happened?”
“We were pumped up. The guards had rolled over, but they were pissed. Mouthing off. It’s what you do when you’re beaten but don’t have the brains to shut up. We had our cut of the caravan’s supplies and cash. It was time to go home. Only, one of us was pissed at this one guard. Decided to make an example of her. That got the other guards riled up. So another one of us does. And then those two started in on the rest of us. Why weren’t we joining in? What was wrong with us, just standing there watching?” He gritted his teeth with a little tch. “It was stupid. Unnecessary. It wasn’t what we were ordered to do.”
“Did you–” Scotch started to ask, then clasped her hooves over her muzzle. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“Did I rape my prisoners too? No. And that was it. That was proof of my weakness. Nevermind that it wasn’t our fucking orders. Nevermind that the pair that started it got chewed out by the talon commander. Soon as they were out of her office, it was all smiles and winks and stories. And I was the weak one for maintaining an ounce of fucking decen- discipline.” He took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly. “Anyway. It got to me. I was weak. Everyone else in my squad knew it. So I was fair game too. They were either going to toughen me up, or they were going to kill me trying.”
Scotch didn’t know what to say. What could you say to that?
“Anyway, they got me. Broke me. I left our rookery before they killed me. Not like the commander would have cared if they did. I was a liability.” He gave a tiny shrug. “I got it in my head to find those guards from that caravan. Stupid, stupid idea. It’d been months. I had no clue who they were or where they were, or if they were even alive. Got lucky. Found out they were operating out of Irontown.” He paused. “I think I was hoping they’d kill me. You know? I hadn’t joined in on it but…” He shook his head. “Anyway, Adolpha found out. I think the caravan guards were more confused more than angry. They were pissed at the raid more than the rape. She told me the same thing you did: that I was better than I thought I was.”
“You are,” Scotch whispered.
“No, I’m not,” he said and tapped his chest. “You people say it, but I don’t feel it in here. I know that I’m not as strong as I need to be. Look at what happened as soon as I heard about the war. I didn’t suck it up and keep my head. I flew off and opened fire, just like those idiots back at my rookery. I abandoned the mission Adolpha gave me to keep you safe.” He hit the wall behind him with a fist. “Two years in the Iron legion, and I’m no better than a fledge. I might as well never have left the rookery.”
“I think you’re better.”
Skylord gave another tiny half smile. “I think you’re an idiot.” He looked away from her, the smile gone. “But thanks. I guess.” She moved towards him and he raised a finger to block her. “You hug me and I am going to smack you.”
She lasted all of three seconds before darting in and hugging him anyway, getting a well-deserved, if half-hearted punch across her withers so she didn’t keep it up for long. Still, she knew what it was like to have a bad day that changed everything. She could divide her life up according to family. First there’d been Mom’s death. Duct Tape, as everyone else called her, always seemed to be rushing all over the stable trying to fix a never-ending succession of breakdowns. She was mom in little more than name, and she knew it. Mom hadn’t been an important mare. Smart, according to Rivets, her boss, but had her head up a waste recycler. She’d always told Scotch Tape that one day they’d be a real family. That she’d be a proper mother and she’d have a father and even siblings. She’d no idea what any of that meant then. She did now: people who loved her.
Then there’d been that time when she’d been all alone. Blackjack had wiped out her home, and just like that she’d been severed from everything she knew, thrust out into a wasteland that made little sense to her. Being swept along in Blackjack’s wake had been a distraction from the wretched pit of loneliness she’d found herself in. She hadn’t really had friends in 99. There’d been a grand total of four fillies in the C shift class, but when 99 had been wiped out, she’d lost everything. Sometimes the loneliness was so bad it hurt. Blackjack’s terrifying adventures had kept her from thinking about it.
And then, just like that, she had a father. Apparently she had a father twice, with the first revelation wiped from her memory, which gave her a sense of deja vu when the damaged stallion finally accepted her. So awkward, strange, and wonderful to have someone new in her life that actually cared about her. It was a second chance to prove how smart and mature she was. To make her parent proud.
Then, he was gone. A few hours later, so was Blackjack.
And she was the only one left. It didn’t matter that she’d gone to the moon. Didn’t matter what star spirits she’d chatted with. Didn’t matter that the whole world had been saved by Blackjack blowing up a monster with a piece of the moon holding the very star spirit she’d communed with. She was alone. Like Majina. Like Pythia. Like Precious and even Charity. She used to wake up screaming, those weeks and months after, then having no purpose once ponies stopped listening to her suggestions. But then, out of the blue, Pythia had found that letter and everything changed.
“Did you have a family?” she asked, pulling away and scrubbing the tears from her eyes.
“Family? That’s a hooved thing,” he snorted. “I had my talon. We don’t do family so much. I knew who my mother was, but she didn’t raise me. I had a half dozen fathers and a dozen or so mothers. So did every other fledge. When I hatched–”
“Wait. Hatched?” Scotch blinked and looked at him in bafflement. “You… lay eggs?”
“Yeah,” he said, a little defensively. “I mean, girls do. They get pregnant and swell up for a month or two then lay a great big egg. Not too happy about it either. I’m glad I never will,” he muttered with a shiver. When Scotch gestured for him to continue, he rolled his eyes. “A few months later we have to kick and punch our way out of the shell. If a griffon’s too weak to hatch, better they’re not born at all. If you have a dozen eggs in the hatchery, it’s pretty easy to forget who laid who and who screwed who, so we’re all raised by everyone. No griffon likes it, but what can you do? The oldest become grandpa-this or grandma-that, because odds are they’re probably someone’s grand-parent.”
Almost the opposite of 99 then. Had she wanted to, she could have gone to medical and traced her family back to whichever mare had first entered the stable on her mother’s side. It’d never mattered to her before, though.
We’re all trying to find a place in the world.
A loud bang overhead drew her eyes to the ceiling. Loud voices started to speak, muffled by the stone overhead. Skylord immediately rolled off his crate and onto his legs, his eyes glaring up. “Tell me there’s a plan. Something more than ‘escape before they kill us’. Because once they come through that door, they set the plan.”
“We talk. We go without anyone getting killed. We hope Pythia and the others stuck around to help us get away once we’re free.”
“Hope? We hope?” he growled. “Pythia’s long gone. That kooky filly’s only interested in stars, maps, and doing what she wants. Why didn’t you tell her to stick around?”
“Because if there’s no future where we get out of this alive, there’s no point to it. And if I told her, then Baruti might have heard and been looking for them. If there is a future where they save us, she’ll do it.” Scotch swallowed as she heard footsteps on the stairs. “She’s our friend. She won’t abandon us.”
“You are such an idiot,” Skylord muttered as the door crept open, the griffon’s body tensing. The second the door was opened, he crouched low. “Come and–!”
But before he could leave the ground, there was a flash of dark blue and an immense griffon leapt the width of the basement and pounced on Skylord. His… her body was midnight blue plumage with a black, panther like posterior and brilliant blue eyes. Ebony claws sank into his throat and wing as she pinned him against the floor. “Come and what?” she asked, claws drawing blood. “Come. And. What?” she repeated slowly.
“Easy, Gunnel,” said a male voice from the doorway. A second griffon stood there with his eyes on Scotch Tape and a talon resting on his large holstered revolver. “Contract’s to take him in alive, not rip him to pieces. You rob the Bloods of their fun and we won’t get our bonuses.” He was more white with dark green plumage, a hooked beak, and a tawny hind end. “Females, am I right?”
“Uhh,” Scotch swallowed. “Did Haimon send you?”
“Who?” The male griffon blinked, and Scotch’s stomach plunged.
“He’s a commander for the Blood Legion,” she said weakly. She’d been so sure that she was right. “He wants us both alive.”
“Dunno. I was told to fetch some morons that attacked Bloods. They’re short clawed at the moment with the war and all, but they pay well enough,” the griffon said calmly. “Now, you make this easy for us, we make it easy for you. You cross us…” he trailed off, staring at her a second before he gave a little, slow shake of his head.
“Cross us. Please do.” Gunnel, the female, hissed at Skylord. When he didn’t respond, she spat, “We’re wasting time with this fledge. We should just kill him and say he was a moron who tried to escape.” She turned to Scotch, eyes narrowing. “Both of them.”
“She says this Haimon wants her alive. Bonuses, Gunny. Bonuses,” the male griffon said. “My name’s Gunther, by the way.” He trotted to Scotch and put a bomb collar around her throat. “Five hundred meter range, pony. You go too far, you go boom, got it?” She nodded. He finally turned to look at Skylord and then frowned. “Hey, fledge, which rook are you from?”
“Eat… shit…” Skylord wheezed. He grunted in agony as Gunnel pressed her claws in deeper.
“Answer him,” Gunnel growled, “before I feed you your own guts.”
But Gunther moved in next to him, grabbed a handful of feathers, and pulled hard. The downy base was bright pink. “Oh no. It can’t be,” Gunther murred with a grin. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Not… yet….” Skylord wheezed.
“I can fix that,” Gunnel growled.
“Gunny, Gunny, Gunny,” Gunther repeated as he showed the bright pink tufts. “Look at the color. He’s dyed his feathers.” He leaned in, leering at Skylord. “It’s Gaylord. Gwen’s fledge.”
“Skylord!” Skylord shouted as loud as he could with eight griffon talons in his hide.
The griffoness blinked a moment and then leered at him. “No way. No fucking way that little pink punk is still alive!” She pulled back, staring at him, and then broke into raucous laughter. “Oh, first egg, I can’t believe it! Gaylord the pink fucking griffon!”
Both of them were laughing now. “Okay. Changed my mind. Kill me right the fuck now,” Skylord muttered as he slumped.
“Oh fuck that. I’ll gut a zebra and say they’re the ones that shot up the Bloods. You’re Gaylord Galeforce. I’m gonna do so much worse to you than give you to the Bloods,” Gunther laughed as he pulled out some cuffs and wing binders and started to lock up Skylord. “I’m taking you back home.”
* * *
This was an unexpected turn, and Scotch found herself swept along with it. Gunther had made it clear to Gay-Skylord that if he ran off or died, Scotch would too. The Zencori said nothing as they departed, but Taliba and Hiroto gave her a parting wave behind the backs of the griffons. The weather overhead was rolling storm clouds spitting rain as the wind funneled them into the high, narrow valleys.
Gunnel led the way, letting out an endless slew of slurs punctuated with complaints at everything from the weather to the trail to the brush to the lack of things to kill. Gunther followed behind, occasionally quipping back, but generally letting his partner ramble. Every time Scotch Tape glanced back, Skylord’s eyes met hers. She’d gotten them out of the frying pan, but now what to do about the fire?
“So, your mother’s a big deal?” Scotch asked tentatively.
“Not talking about it,” Skylord muttered back.
“What, ashamed?” Gunnel asked, snickering. “Don’t you luuuuuuurve your mama?”
Skylord didn’t answer.
“Gwen was a premier shock trooper in our talon. Number two in all of Bloodstone Ridge. Could’ve been number one,” Gunther said with a snort. “But one day she’s got a contract to wipe out this settlement. Took it solo. Coulda pulled it off. Instead she comes back with a story about how the settlement was abandoned. Then she got strange. Sneaking out. Volunteering for recon. As if we’d waste a shock trooper on recon.”
Scotch glanced at Skylord, but he kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Kept it up for a few months,” Gunther continued, relentlessly. “Found out she was slipping back to the survivors of the settlement she didn’t wipe out. She’d found some stray male griff to screw. A real lunatic. Talking about love and peace and tolerance bullshit. Had pink feathers. Our leader found out, and boy was she pissed. Told Gwen to finish the contract, and bring their heads as proof this time. Instead, she ran off with him.” Gunther paused, and glanced over at Skylord. “But she left something behind, didn’t she, Gaylord? Momma laid an egg, and didn’t get it out of the hatchery in time, did she? Or maybe she did take an egg, and somewhere she’s out there loving and gushing over a real griffon’s fledge.” He paused, giving time for that to sink in, before continuing, “Lo and behold, three months later, what hatches but the pinkest damn fledge you ever saw.”
“A pink punk, just like his father. Weak, just like momma,” Gunnel snickered.
“We tried to toughen him up. We really tried,” Gunther said with a sigh, “but when the sickness is in the bone you just can’t beat it out. And believe me, we tried.”
“But some fledges just won’t toughen up.” Gunnel glanced back. “Oh, look, Gunther! He’s crying!” Scotch glanced over at tears glistening on his eyes. He clenched his fists and didn’t respond, his battered body trembling.
“Don’t worry though, Gaylord. Once we’re back home, we’ll find a nice punk ass boy like you to take care of you. Oh, wait. You joined a legion. And, you’re fucking out here all alone with this pony cunt. Guess you were a fucking embarrassment to the Irons too–”
With a roar, Skylord whirled and launched himself at Gunther, but the larger green griffon was ready and grabbed his wrists, halting Skylord’s slash. His head rammed forward, slamming against Skylord’s brow with a resounding crack. Skylord reeled as Gunnel watched Scotch with malice.
She moved anyway. “Stop! Leave him alone,” she cried out as she shifted down to position herself between Skylord and Gunther.
Gunther shoved Skylord away. “I’m sorry,” he said smoothly as Skylord collapsed in a groaning heap. “Let me guess, you’re his friend?”
“You’re damned right I am.”
Gunther sighed, shaking his head slowly. “Of course you are,” he said, looking down at Skylord. “Sad. Really sad. You need a pony to save you from a beating.”
“If you’re just going to beat him to death, why march him all the way?” Scotch asked.
“Kill him?” Gunther blinked as if in bafflement before grinning. “Pony, we’re not going to kill him. He’s from our rook. We’re going to toughen him up and make a real griffon out of him.”
“I think him ripping your throat out would be pretty good proof he’s ready to be a real griffon for once.” Gunnel snickered and added with a smack of her black tail tuft across Skylord’s face, “Not that I think he’ll do it.”
“Once the rook’s blood is polluted, there’s nothing to do but beat it out, or beat it down,” Gunther stated matter-of-factly. “It’s in the bone. Now get moving or we’ll get dragging.”
Scotch watched as Skylord marched on, the chains on his wings clinking, body quivering with rage… or was it sorrow. It was like being back in 99 with the security mare Daisy. Scotch had only crossed her once… a completely accidental discharge of a waste recycling pump… but it’d earned her a beating that put her in medical for three days. The crime: being stupid. The punishment: being beaten senseless.
For the rest of the day they marched west, and while her earth pony legs could keep up with the distance, her lungs couldn’t. Eventually she collapsed, coughing and hacking, as she struggled to breathe. For a moment, she was certain that Gunnel and Gunther were going to turn her into lunch, but Skylord just lifted her on to his back and continued on.
It started to get dark. They’d reached a cluster of ruins situated on a crossroads. The mountains to the north were split by a narrow canyon, while far off to the south across the widening valley she could see a matching gap. If she remembered correctly, they had to be north of the Old Road. That southern gap was the way to the Western Empty, where her friends would have gone. North was Slaughterhouse, the Blood Legion headquarters. She really didn’t want to see it.
The pair marched them into a building that looked like it’d been an old market, putting them into the refrigerator in the back. There were a few emaciated zebras that scattered into the trees at the sight of them. In the center of the crossroads rose a flagpole with a saturated, tattered Blood Legion flag slapping wetly in the breeze. Its length was studded with spikes upon which rotten flesh and brown bones still dangled.
Skylord carried her into the walk-in freezer and set her down. “Thanks,” she murmured as Gunnel and Gunther argued over setting watches outside the open door.
“You’re fat,” he gasped back. “You’re not allowed to be that heavy in the wasteland.” Aside from a few plastic crates, there was little to serve as cover or a weapon. The stench rising from the corner suggested they were far from the first captives the fridge had held.
“Sorry,” Scotch wheezed. “How far to your rookery?”
“Weeks. They’ll kill you if you slow us down again,” he said, staring at the open door. “You shouldn’t have stayed with me.”
“Shut up,” Scotch muttered. “So first thing’s first. I need to disarm these collars.”
Skylord frowned at her, glanced at the door, and asked in a low voice, “Can you do that?”
“Daddy taught me about how explosives work.” Years ago, she silently amended. “I should be able to. If I mess up… well, like you said, they plan on killing me anyway.” She glared at the manacles clamped around her hooves. “But to do that, we’re going to need to get these off too.”
“I thought you were hoping spooky girl was going to come for us,” Skylord pointed out.
“And I am, but I’m not going to sit on my tail waiting. I didn’t think we’d run into griffons that had a beef with you,” she said as she scanned the interior of the fridge.
“Me either. Just rotten luck,” he muttered.
“Maybe. The Blood Legion would have killed you right away. Haimon might have killed me right away. Instead, we get two griffons that want to keep you alive, and me to keep you in line. That’s pretty lucky right there.”
“Your pony optimism makes me want to gag,” he muttered, his eyes locked on the door. “I’m not going back,” he muttered. “I’d rather they kill me than go back.”
“Relax, Sky,” Scotch said, giving his back a pat. It made him start. “First, restraints. Then collars. Then we get out of here.” The sooner the better. The reek wasn’t helping her lungs one bit. She needed her lungwort tea, but that didn’t stop her from eyeing the mess of the freezer. “I need something straight and stiff.”
Skylord twisted his head, seized a large brown feather, and pulled hard. He grunted and extracted a pinion, the tip bloody. Scotch winced, but gestured. “Cut off that bloody bit at the end. It has to be stiff.” Skylord clipped the end with his beak and handed it to her.
“Don’t you need a bobby pin or some junk?” he asked.
She smirked. “First trick Daddy taught me,” she said, reaching under her tail to extract the bobby pins hidden inside her blue tail. The restraints were easy enough, and kept well oiled. Clearly Gunnel and Gunther were professionals. She closed her eyes and worked on feel, using the bobby pin wedged between hoof and frog to feel out the stuck tumblers and nudge them in. His pinion twisted in her mouth, the shaft bending as it torqued the lock. She was lucky it was a simple lock. The ones on the collars… well, one hurdle at a time.
Fifteen minutes later she had her restraints off. Gunnel walked to the freezer door, but her complaining gave Scotch enough warning to slip her hooves through the unlocked cuffs and adopt a miserable look. The blue griffoness snorted and walked back out of sight. Scotch then undid Skylord’s wing restraints and cuffs.
Easy part down. “I’m going to need your help,” she said as she examined the collars. They were twelve pieces of U shaped metal joined together by rubber gaskets that provided an almost solid seal. Not having their saddlebags was going to make this even harder. “I need something to cut with.”
Skylord silently raised one hand, finger extended, talon ready. She guided it to the rubber seal and carefully lacerated it. Sure enough, there were metal connectors and wires underneath. Rule of explosives: assume anything might explode. She needed to find the radio receiver. She closed her eyes and rapped a hoof against one section, listening closely. On the fourth, the section sounded different. Hollow.
Two claw cuts and she was able to pry open the housing. The soft end of the pinion, pressed hard, worked to unscrew the cover and expose the wires inside. Spark battery. Radio receiver. Trigger. She could remove the battery, but the trigger might have a backup built in to detonate if the voltage dropped. She needed to short circuit the connection from the trigger to the detonator. Luckily there were only a few wires making that connection, daisy chaining the other explosives together. If she was right, she could scrape off the insulation, press them together, and cut.
If she was wrong, Skylord would lose his head. She’d probably die soon after.
She retreated to the corner while that hit her, her hooves starting to shake. She couldn’t do this! This was insane. She’d been idiotic trying to save everyone. You couldn’t save everyone! You just couldn’t!
She heard the cards shuffling in her ear. That dry, amused chuckle.
“You okay?” Skylord asked as she bumped her brow against the wall.
Pull yourself together, she admonished herself. Think of Daddy. Think of all the wiring you did in 99. Of the work you’ve done for Xarius in his shop. She could do this. It was a device, just like any other she’d fixed or modified. It would just be really bad if she screwed up. So don’t!
“Yeah. I’m good,” she lied, taking a deep breath and returning to him. “I need your talon again,” she said, holding out her hoof. He offered it, and she guided it to the wires she’d identified. “Now, don’t twitch.” And started to scrape. The plastic coating flaked off easily; it was old and dried out, but that left a strand of copper thinner than his pinion. Twice she had to stop, breathe, and return. Outside, the griffons were arguing with someone, but she had no idea who and didn’t dare stop long enough to find out. Once the collar was defused, she could hide what she did, but till then.
“Okay,” she said as she positioned his fingers. “Pinch.” He did. Nothing exploded. “Okay…” Oh Goddesses please don’t blow her up! She flexed the exposed copper wires back and forth and then with a soft ‘Ting’, they snapped.
One moment.
Two.
Three.
“Guess you did it,” Skylord said.
“One way to be sure,” Scotch said, grabbing the wire connected to the battery and pulling hard. There was a whine and a beep, confirming a backup battery. She spotted it on the back of the circuit card and used his pinion to wiggle it free.
No beeps. The collar was dead.
“Now I need you to do the same thing to my collar,” she said, but Skylord’s eyes widened in alarm.
“I don’t have a clue what you did!” he blurted, then glanced at the door. The griffons talking outside went quiet, and they immediately resumed their positions. Gunnel poked her head around the corner, bright blue eyes darting from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”
They shared a look. “Just wondering when you’re going to feed us,” Skylord asked sourly.
“I dunno. When are you hungry enough to eat her? We ain’t got any pony food,” Gunnel snickered. “Now keep it down. You got a long walk ahead of you, pinkie.”
When Gunnel had walked away, Scotch glanced at Skylord. “You know, I don’t want to be racist, but she makes it really hard.”
“Told you. Griffons are jerks,” he answered. “What are we going to do about your collar? There’s no way I can do what you just did.”
“Sure you can,” she said. “I’ll walk you through it. It’ll be even easier for you,” she said, forcing a smile.
“I’m telling you I can’t,” he hissed. “And I don’t want to be the one that kills you after the shit you’ve done for me.” He looked at the door. “I can jump them. Get the key and the detonator before they trigger it.”
“Or we can get you out of here and you can find Pythia and the others and help,” she countered.
“You seriously think they’re out there, somewhere?”
“If they’re not, then it’s up to you,” she said as she looked around the freezer. It wasn’t that different from the ones in 99’s cafeteria, which meant the air had to go somewhere. She spotted the vent near the ceiling. It was pretty rusted, but she guessed it led out the back of the building. “There.” She pointed at it.
“There’s no way we’re going to get that open without them hearing us,” he muttered. “You got a pony trick or something to close and lock that door?”
With thatmuch rust, she doubted she could close it completely, let alone lock it. “Maybe not a pony trick…” Was there a shamany thing she could do? A spirit thing? Her eyes scanned the freezer, trying to think–what kind spirits might be found here?
Cold? She doubted this cooler had been cool for a century. Filth spirits from all the decay. Most of them wouldn’t be very good help either way. Then her eyes landed on the opened restraints.
Well, it was better than being fed to her friend.
First she needed a mask. Shamans doing their magicy stuff needed a mask. At least, the book said so. She found an old chip bag and hooked it over her ears once she’d had Skylord pick a pair of eyeholes in it. “You look ridiculous,” Skylord muttered.
“Unless you want to play shaman, hush,” she reprimanded. She picked up the restraints in her hooves, concentrated on breathing, and gazed at them, trying to shift her perception over. A locking spirit. A restraint spirit.
As she stared, she saw it. A flicker. A twitch. Then from the lock emerged a black, oily blob. It formed a pseudopod and twisted to peer up at her. For a moment, all she could do was marvel at it. Then it quivered and spoke in a voice like the clicking of a lock, “You picked me,” it snipped.
“Um. I did,” she answered, keeping her voice low. The oily mass was growing a little the longer she focused upon it. “Sorry?”
“You’re not supposed to pick me. I’m only supposed to open for my key,” the black spirit muttered like a combination lock spinning. “I’m a bad lock.”
“No, no, no. You’re a good lock. I just needed to be free so I could take care of my friend’s bomb collar.” The pseudopod drooped like a withering daisy. “No no no. I need your help. I need you to close something for me and keep it closed.”
“Are you going crosseyed?” Skylord asked as he peered at her.
She glanced at him in annoyance, and then blinked. “Skylord needs you to lock that door for us.”
The pseudopod straightened and became defined, looking more like a knotted up length of chain. “Oh? And what will he do for me?”
Scotch balked. “Um,” she stared at him and then at the spirit. “Um… he… um…” She glanced at the chains she’d picked. “He’ll wear chains and… stuff?”
“I’ll what?” he blinked. “No I’m not. I’m not wearing any chains.” He repeated with a squawk in alarm, “I’m not!”
“Hush. I’m negotiating,” she answered, waving a hoof dismissively at him as she kept her eyes on the spirit.
“For how long?” the spirit asked.
“How long will he wear them?” she repeated, glancing at the staring griffon. “Um… for a week?”
“A week?” Skylord asked back, flatly.
“A week,” the spirit echoed in the same tone.
“Well, how long do you want him to wear them?”
“Why am I wearing them at all?” Skylord repeated.
“Negotiating!” she hissed, staring at the spirit, which had now become a serpentine chain that hovered in the air before her.
“Forever,” the spirit said.
“Um… no. Not forever,” she thought to the book. This was essentially an offering, a show of respect for the spirit. “How about… till he falls in love?”
“What?” Skylord hissed through his teeth. “Are you crazy?”
“Negotiating!” she hissed back, then glanced at the open door. Gunnel and Gunther were still talking aloud. “He’ll wear those restraints till he falls in love.”
“Too easy,” the chain clinked and clicked.
“And!” she added, glancing at him. “And… and they have to love him back. Might be years. Might be forever. Might be next week.”
“Why me? Why not you?” Skylord objected.
“Because I’m the shaman. I make deals. I can’t benefit from them,” Scotch said, echoing a rule from the book that seemed rife with exceptions she didn’t quite understand. “You put on the chains, the spirit will close the door and keep them out.”
“Keep you in as well,” the spirit jingled.
“Just the door,” Scotch warned it. Last thing she needed was it ‘locking’ the vent too.
“Just the door,” it said with a resigned sigh.
“This is dumb. This is a horrible idea. This is insane,” Skylord muttered, then sighed, “But this is my fault too… fine.” He put on the restraints again, locking the steel cuffs around his wrists and ankles.
“Agreed,” the black blob said, and it lashed out, coiling around his body like a snake.
“Not too tight,” Scotch warned! “The agreement was to lock him, not restrain him!” She heard loud voices coming from the front of the market.
The spirit let out an angry clattering, and the chains on his body seemed to add links on their own. A second pair of cuffs locked at his knee and elbows. Then another around his neck, torso, and wing base. Gunther appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide. “What the hell–” he started to say.
The spirit extended a chain, curled around the handle of the refrigerator door, and slammed it shut with a squeal of metal and a cloud of dirt. Then the oily black chain zigzagged back and forth across the opening. Finally, the spirit clicked, “Closed. Locked. Secure.”
Scotch coughed, trying to cover her mouth with her leg as the griffons outside started to beat on it.
“Get these off me,” Skylord demanded. “I look ridiculous!” he said as he tugged at the chains and cuffs.”
“That’s the price for the spirit’s help,” Scotch told him. “Get them off, and I’m pretty sure they get let in. They’ll come off once you fall in love.”
“Fall in love? Fall in love?!” he repeated. “I’m never falling in love! Have you met me?” he demanded.
“Look, everyone falls in love sooner or later. Just make it sooner,” she answered as she moved to the back to the vent. A thin flow of cool air suggested the compressor was missing.
“I– You– They–” he sputtered and blurted. “You are an idiotic pony!”
“And you’re wasting time,” she countered. Now get over here and get this vent off!”
He stalked over and she played stool to help him reach the vent. He latched his claws and pulled hard. The metal screws sheared off, and he collapsed to the floor with the vent in his talons. “Can you get out?” she asked as he rose, rubbing his head and making the chains jangle.
“I think so,” he muttered and she stooled for him again, lifting him so he could wiggle his clinking frame through the half meter wide gap. He poked his head back through the hole. “What about you? They’re going to kill you!”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “So get out there and find our friends.”
“You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll be back.” And his head disappeared out of the hole again.
She took a deep breath and looked at the door. At least she’d done the right thing. Blackjack would have done it. Then she groaned and muttered, “I’m not Blackjack. I’m not Blackjack.” Then she looked at the oily black chains. “You can open now.”
“I’m closed, per our agreement,” the spirit clinked. “You made no agreement for me to open at your command.”
“Open this door!” Gunther demanded.
“I can’t!” Scotch replied.
“Open it or I’m gonna blow your noggins off!”
“I said I can’t, even if you blow my head off!” she answered.
“One!” bellowed Gunther.
“What part of the word ‘can’t’ don’t you get?”
“Two!”
“I said I can’t. The door’s locked,” she protested. “Don’t you have the key?”
“Three!”
She clenched her eye shut, but no decapitating explosion came. “Um…” she blinked and then rapped on the door. “Are you counting to three or to five?”
No answer.
She pressed her ear to the door, and heard mutterings outside. People were talking.
“Scotch Tape?” a smooth male voice asked loudly.
She paused, pursing her lips. “Maybe?”
“Please open the door, Miss Tape,” the voice asked.
“I said I can’t. It’s locked!”
There was no reply, and that made her more nervous. Then there was the roar of a motor, a squeal of metal, and after a few seconds, a shower of sparks as a saw blade started to cut through the metal. As soon as it passed, the metal melted back together again.
“I am closed,” the spirit clinked.
“What are you doing!” the stallion demanded through the steel door.
She yanked the chips bag mask off her face. “Nothing!” The black chains instantly disappeared from her sight. “It’s… a magic door?” she offered.
“Let me blow her up. Give me the button!” hissed a mare’s voice that sent shivers down Scotch’s spine. “We can end this with the push of a button!”
“No! Aren’t you curious at all? Don’t you want to understand?”
“I don’t care! I want her to die. Die die die die!”
“Enough,” the stallion stated bluntly. Then silence. “Miss pony, please remain near the door a moment. Let’s see if this works.”
“Let’s see if what works?” she asked. No answer. “Hello?”
A minute later the rear of the refrigerator exploded inward, showering her with dust and debris, as the front of a tractor rammed right through the wall. A moment later it drew back. Scotch coughed, waving her hoof to try and scatter the dust. An equine shape appeared in the dust. “Who?” Scotch started to say.
Then the zebra launched herself at Scotch, slamming two bandage-wrapped hooves into her chest and smashing her head against the door, which continued to remain firmly opposed to opening. “You!” the mare screamed at her. “I’ll kill you!”
Scotch had no idea who her assailant could be, but she kicked out hard with her hooves, slamming all four into the mare’s chest. She staggered back, and then tripped over some rubble. Instantly she screamed again as she fell. For a moment, Scotch thought she’d impaled herself on some rebar when her body instantly started to bleed as if stabbed. She hauled herself up onto her bandaged hooves. “Are you okay?” Scotch asked, not knowing what else to say to such a horrible sight.
The mare stood there, swaying as blood dripped from her fresh wounds. “Okay?” she muttered, and then chuckled. “You ask me if I’m okay?” she said as she started to approach, limping on bloody hooves, her bandages squelching. “You turned my daughter into a fish!” she screamed at Scotch.
“Riptide?” Scotch muttered in shock. “But we’re nowhere near the ocean!”
“You think I’d let a little something like a curse or censure keep me from this? Oh no,” the mare muttered. “The second Haimon found out about you, I was coming along. I’m going to take you back and feed your soul to my little filly. No! I’m going to let my crew rut you first! No! I’ll let Niuhi eat half of you, then let my crew rut you, then finish you off myself, and THEN let her eat your soul!”
Scotch blinked and hooked a hoof in the collar around her neck. “I can just blow my head off right now if it’d be less trouble.”
“No,” said a stallion from the breach. “No, don’t do that.” Haimon stepped slowly into the freezer, his broad Roamani bands a contrast to Riptide’s wavy Atoli stripes. His mane was trimmed in a neat military cut compared to her deranged, wild mane. His eyes lingered on Riptide and her censured hooves and he gave a little half smile. “Yet. Riptide, would you please get off her and get bandaged? You’re bleeding again.”
“I’m fine,” she spat as she glared at Scotch. “And what are you doing being so nice to her. She’s the enemy, remember? The one who’s going to ruin everything? The one who’s done nothing but ruin everything!”
“Yes,” he replied in that smooth purr. “And I find that fascinating,” he said as he walked closer. “Now, go and get a healing potion before you bleed out.”
Riptide grit her teeth before she turned and limped out. Every step left bloody hoofprints in her wake. Haimon watched her go. “Bloody idiot insisted on coming the moment she heard we had you. I think she’s a trifle upset with the whole escaping her and turning her daughter into a fish.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said defensively.
That made him emit a short laugh, “That makes it all the more impressive. You disrupt by accident more effectively than others do by design. It really is annoying. We spent three years trying to arrange everything with Carnico. The Blood Legion would take Rice River. The company would quietly come to serve us. We’d starve Irontown, and with both assets under our control, the Blood Legion would systematically eliminate all other opposition. And one pony screwed it all up without even being aware of it. You.”
“And then you take over the Blood Legion and you control the wasteland. Just like you promised your little brother, Andre,” Scotch said evenly.
The smug smile disappeared, his eyes wide as they stared at her. “What?”
“Right before you slit his throat, remember? The last one you killed?” Perhaps having a bomb collar around her neck was making her reckless, but she was so tired of being terrified. “It must be hard when you spend hours butchering everyone you know. Including your wife and daughter.” She stared right at him. “I saw you do it. I felt you do it.”
He backed away from her to the mouth of the hole, not taking his eyes off her. She’d hurt him. She could see it in his eyes. Maybe even scared him. It was immensely satisfying, even if it was probably going to get her killed. “I also know that Andre still believes in you.”
“You don’t know anything. You can’t know that,” he muttered, stepping out of the hole. “Wait there. I need… I need to see to my idiotic companion.”
Scotch grabbed the edge of the vent and scrabbled up. Outside, two Blood Legionnaires in clean, new armor with clean new guns and shiny new weapons stared up at her. “Hi.”
“We allowed to kill it?” one stallion asked the other.
“Orders are not to, yet.”.
The first groaned. “Get back inside. Please.”
Scotch slumped as she gazed past them out into the ruins of the small town. It was late, and she couldn’t see very far. With the collar, she couldn’t get very far either.
“You know what,” she huffed, wiggling her way out the hole, “I’m not going to wait here. It stinks in here.” The pair looked at each other, and then moved forward to catch her as she fell out. “Thanks,” she said reflexively. “I’m not going to run. I’m just not staying in there.”
The pair looked at each other. “You’re playing a dangerous game, pony,” said the first.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “You know what? You guys are the ones playing the game. Look at you. You’re dressed up, pretending to be Blood Legion. Let me guess, you heal those brands with potions soon as you’re back on base or whatever. Or are they just makeup?” The pair stared at her, as if uncertain how to react to a mouthy prisoner. “All I came here to do was to help my friend find something. That’s the only reason I’ve done anything. You guys are the ones that came after me. You people are the ones doing this. Not me.”
“I quite agree,” said a smooth mare’s voice, with a sophisticated accent that reminded Scotch of the Society ponies back in the Hoof. From around the corner stepped a well-groomed zebra mare in a professional black business suit. Her mane was styled as if she’d just stepped out of a salon. “Our harassment of you has been quite a phenomenal waste of resources. Had you been permitted to simply go, you’d have landed in Rice River and proceeded on your quest to find the Eye of the World.” Her rich purple eyes gleamed bright as she looked down at her.
“Oh, look. Another mysterious stranger,” Scotch muttered wearily.
“Ma’am. You should remain in the transport. You’ll blow our cover,” one of the stallions said sharply.
“Oh pish. The Bloods are focused on their silly war, and you can handle mundane threats,” she said with a wave of her hoof. “My name is Xara. And I’d like to be your friend.”
“My friend,” Scotch echoed skeptically. “Funny, given that just about every major player in the zebralands seems to want me dead.”
“We were told you were a threat. How does one deal with threats? Riptide seeks them out and destroys them. Haimon maneuvers and strategizes. Me? I prefer to turn threats into assets. Friends,” Xara purred. “When I heard you’d been captured, I knew this was my best chance to intervene.”
“Intervene, how?” Scotch asked.
“To make you an asset to us. Haimon is right, you are disruptive, Scotch Tape. I’d like you to disrupt for our side. Or if not, to help you fulfill your goals so we’re not tripping over each other. You’re trying to get to the Eye of the World. Imagine how much faster you’d get there with a flying transport. Or if you want to go back home? I could make that happen. Or simply put you up in a life of comfort and luxury. It would be far less an expense than chasing you down and killing you,” Xara said in that even, calm voice of reason.
“What about Riptide?” Scotch asked as thunder rolled up and down the valley.
“What about her?” Xara sniffed. “She’s an attack dog. She’ll expend her value far sooner than later. She’s practically killing herself being here. She might not even make it back to the sea. Haimon is a strategist. He’ll see the value in keeping you rather than killing you. And as for our shaman, well…” she sniffed again and gave a shrug. “I personally don’t see the use in her.”
“And your leader?” Scotch asked. “Or are you the boss?”
That got a little titter out of her. “Oh no. We’d be done if I were. No. But he is practical. I’m sure I could convince him to spare you. If, of course, you agreed to stop interfering with us,” she added.
“…waste of time. Should just kill her–” came Riptide’s voice as she stepped around the corner and spotted the four of them. “What are you doing?” she snapped, pointing not at Scotch, but at Xara. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at? You’re supposed to stay on the transport!”
“And you were supposed to stay on your boat. I guess we’re not too good at doing as we’re told,” Xara countered coolly. The clouds overhead rumbled and growled with the threat of another storm.
“You,” Riptide hissed, glaring at Scotch. “We’re going to kill you. The second Haimon pulls his head out of his ass, you’re dead. You’re so dead.”
“Is Niuhi okay?” Scotch asked, and she got a little satisfaction in seeing her enemy shocked for the second time in as many minutes. “Did I get her in the water in time?”
“Don’t you say her name! You made her into that! You–”
“I didn’t do anything to her!” Scotch retorted. “She was trying to eat me. She ate spirits and they changed her. I begged her to stop!” Scotch yelled back at the mare. “You started this, not me. You could have left the Abalone alone. You could have left me alone! Instead you nearly blew me up and killed everyone.” Riptide looked murderous, but that wasn’t new. “So I want to know, is Niuhi going to be okay?”
Riptide’s eye twitched. “No. She’s spirit possessed. At least that’s what the shaman said. So she’s stuck a fish tank till… till she gets better.” Riptide grit her teeth as she trembled. “And killing you will be a start!” She lunged again, and one of the stallions moved to intercept her.
Riptide’s forelegs went around his neck and she rammed her mouth underneath his jaw. Almost faster than Scotch could follow, she bit and twisted hard. The stallion’s throat exploded in blood as she severed an artery. Riptide glared right at Scotch and spat a wad of bloody throat at her. The remaining legionnaire lifted his rifle and trained it at her. If it weren’t for this stupid collar, she could have run right then!
“Shit!” the other legionnaire shouted, pulling some kind of packet of gauze and pressing it to his wound. The thick packet seemed to absorb the spurting blood and seal to the gaping hole in his neck. Then he took a syringe of purple healing potion, injected him in the neck, and focused on keeping him alive.
“Enough,” Xara said coldly, pulling up her sleeve and tapping something that looked remarkably like a PipBuck. There was a high-pitched drone and two flying, pod-like robots swooped down from over the roof, training the barrels of their weapons on Riptide.
“One day, you’re not going to have your toys,” Riptide panted.
Another faux-legionnaire walked up and told them to join Haimon. A part of Scotch was glad to see she was right. This New Empire wasn’t a monolithic organization, but like a stable with various different opinions on how things should be done. Riptide obviously wanted to kill her. Xara wanted to use her. Haimon… she wasn’t sure.
Outside the market was a strange flying machine she’d never seen before. It seemed rather like a Raptor without the clouds, but smaller, shorter, and rounder. It possessed a number of propellers that she guessed lifted it like Xara’s little gun bots. Without gems for talismans, she guessed it was little surprise zebras would have non-magical means for flight. Like the rest of their equipment, it appeared suspiciously clean. Not a dent or patch of rust to be seen.
Next to it were a pair of the strange, steamless tractors she’d seen earlier. Haimon was talking on a radio as Gunnel and Gunther stood nearby, the pair looking nervously at the squad that surrounded them. All the bluster was gone. Gunther clutched the detonator between his claws like his life depended on it. After all, it probably did.
The zebra looked as if he’d aged a year in the last ten minutes, his eyes tired as he looked sourly at Scotch, talking into a headset. “Yes, sir. Yes. I’m sure Xara will like that. No. No. Are you certain? She might be useful. Right. Very well.” He set down the headset. “The pony dies.” With cosmic timing, the skies overhead let out a fork of lightning and a boom of thunder.
“Yes! Do it now!” Riptide crowed, turning to Scotch. “I’ll do it now!”
“Wait!” Xara cried out, the drones interposing themselves between Riptide and Scotch. “Think about this, Haimon. This pony could be the solution to all our problems.”
“She’s cursed, Xara. She dies. Shaman’s call,” Haimon said, gazing at Scotch with a million questions in his eyes.
“Shaman’s call! What has that shaman done but tangle up our efforts to restore civilization with dire pronunciations and spooky warnings! If we are cursed, that shaman is the cause.”
“All the events they predicted have come to pass, and we’ve corroborated their findings with two other shamans. You may not like their methods but they’ve confirmed the threat,” Haimon said sharply.
Scotch dearly would have loved details, but Xara gestured to Scotch. “If this pony is willing to work with us, I say use her and let her disrupt our enemies!”
“Uh,” Gunther muttered, raising a single digit.
“You can’t control her! She didn’t even follow directions to stay in the freezer,” Riptide hissed. “She’s like me. A rogue wave doing whatever she wants, and damn the flotsam that winds up in her wake!”
“Excuse me,” Gunther said a little louder as the thunder approached.
“If she’s thwarted our plans thus far it’s only because we forced her! We should use this pony, or simply pen her up. Every time we’ve tried to kill her, it’s blown up in our faces!”
“You’re blowing up in our face!” Riptide snapped back. “Think! You’re rocking the damned boat at the very moment we can kill her and end her and be done with her! The prophecy–”
“That prophecy isn’t worth a tenth of the trouble it’s caused!”
“Question,” Gunther said as he waved his talon over his head while Gunnel stared at him in bafflement.
“Our orders are clear, Xara,” Haimon said with calm menace. “We neutralize the pony.”
“That means kill,” Riptide snapped, thunder booming.
“That means neutralize! She’s an asset,” Xara countered.
“She’s chum!”
“It-doesn’t-matter-we-have-our-orders-what-is-wrong-with-you-damned-mares!” Haimon shouted out over the pair of them as forked lightning flashed across the valley.
“Excuse me!” Gunther yelled, lowering himself towards the ground with Gunnel. Scotch, unsure, mimicked their motion.
“What?” all three yelled at the pair of griffons in unison as they threw themselves flat.
The skies answered, striking the metal transport with blinding, brilliant bolts of lightning, followed by thunder that washed out everything but a squealing tinnitus in her ears. Everyone, even Riptide, hit the ground as the skies decided that would be the moment to unload a deluge of water. When Scotch’s wits returned, she started running towards the griffons as quick as her hooves could carry her. They raced towards the trees. A second round of lightning struck the trees, raining down flaming debris and wood shrapnel.
She had to get that detonator. If Gunther got too far away… wait, did she hear the collar give a warning beep? It sounded so far away and distorted, almost like it was underwater, but the pair of griffons were at the tree line. Once they were gone…
Yellow bars appeared in her E.F.S. A small winged shape launched itself right at Gunther, tackling him and raking talons along his belly as the pair rolled in the muck.
Gunnel shrieked and moved to help, but as she pounced a massive equine shape lurched out of the woods and didn’t leap so much as belly flop onto the griffoness. Gradually, Scotch’s hearing returned as she scrambled to get the detonator from Gunther’s grip. Skylord continued to claw the larger griffon in a fury. Gunther seized Skylord’s neck in a grip that threatened to crush his throat, or rip it out completely.
Then a scaled equine appeared out of the storm and chomped down on Gunther’s wrist. The griffon dropped the detonator to try and free himself from her jaws.
Her friends. Her friends were here.
With Precious’s help, the pair wrestled Gunther on to his back, clawing and biting the larger mature griffon. He drew his revolver, the heavy caliber gun blasting once, twice, thrice, narrowly missing her friends as they tried to keep him firing into the air.
The Whiskey Express pulled into the crossroads as the legionnaires were rallying from the lightning strike. Majina was at the wheel, keeping the tractor off the mud as she turned it around. Charity and Pythia rushed to Scotch’s side, grabbing her and levitating the detonator out of the muck.
“You came,” Scotch said weakly. The rain, running, and lightning made her chest feel like she was trying to breathe the mud she was being dragged through. “I knew you’d come.”
“Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!” Charity repeated as she lugged Scotch towards the Whiskey Express’s trailer. “That’s it. I’m imposing a five percent idiot tax on you from here on out! You’re going to get us all killed!”
“Charge her later! We need to get going!” Pythia shouted.
It hurts.
Scotch blinked, looking around for that deep rumbling voice. She stared up at the clouds overhead as light flickered in the heavens. “Uhhhh…”
“You three! Stop messing around with those two and let’s get going!” Pythia snapped at her friends wrestling in the mud. Skylord had gotten the gun from Gunther, but the griffon was thrashing too much for a clean shot. Hiroto fought to keep the griffoness’s claws from his body as she raked him with all four limbs, but he ignored the wounds. “Come on, lets go!”
It hurts, Tanit.
Scotch shrank back as the heaven rumbled and the ground shook from the thunder. The rain hissed like vipers all around her as it pummelled the concrete roads. Pythia paused and stared at her. “What. What is–”
The skies overhead let out a boom that echoed from horizon to horizon. It hurts! It hurts! screamed the thunder as the clouds overhead opened like a great and terrible eye. Friend and foe alike paused to stare up at that horrible void filled with crackling light. Like heavenly womb giving birth, the storm spilled forth an equine form.
A judgement from the skies themselves, Ixion struck and blew the transport to pieces, flinging flaming wreckage across the field. It hurts! the horse of lightning screamed, streamers of super-charged plasma roiling off its luminescent white body. Blue eyes flashed as the giant horse reared, forks of lightning blasting from its nostrils at the soldiers that surrounded it.
The griffons fled.
The legionnaires fired.
Bullets struck the lambent equine with all the effectiveness of flicking lead into an arc welder. Ixion jumped, crackling hooves striking the collection of soldiers with a thunderous detonation that sent lightning racing across the sky. It hurts so much! Why does it hurt, Tanit!Why? Scotch gaped at it as the megaspell monster charged Haimon, the zebra running for his life to dive behind the ruined transport. Tanit! Tanit! Where are you?
“I’ve got the detonator!” Precious shouted. “Let’s go! Now!”
The huge Hiroto lumbered to his feet. “Go! I’ll get home from here.” He yelled over the crackling lightning. His hide was lacerated from Gunnel’s claws, but otherwise he seemed all right.
“You did you the name proud,” Majina called out, earning a wide grin from the stallion.
Then he was shot.
While most of the legionnaires were firing upon or fleeing from Ixion, some remembered their orders to kill her. She spotted Riptide directing a trio of legionnaires to fire at the Whiskey Express and her friends. Majina ducked down to avoid being hit. All they’d need to do was breach the boiler and they would be going nowhere fast.
Hiroto, bleeding from the round in his back, wheeled on the legionnaires. More rifle fire bit into his massive body, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he started to run straight at them. Great big fans of mud sprayed up from around his feet as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Sunnnnnn derrrrreeed Hoooooof!” and crashed right into them like a muddy Zencori wrecking ball. He didn’t so much strike them as simply run right through them. Taking the window of opportunity, Majina got the Whiskey Express rolling south.
Hiroto rose, standing over the crumpled legionnaires with a delirious grin on his face, ignoring the wounds punched in his massive frame.
Then the top of his head exploded. His grin never faltered as he eyes closed and he collapsed like a toppled mountain, crashing into the mud.
“No...” Majina murmured in horror, then screamed, “No!”
As he collapsed, Riptide emerged behind him, holding one of the legionnaire’s rifles. She trained it on Scotch next. Skylord took aim and fired three rounds, making her bloody body duck back. His hand rapidly clicked the revolver and he glowered at the empty weapon. “Dammit! I need like ten times the bullets!”
“I’ll sell them to you later! Go go go!” Charity shouted as they piled in.
Riptide fired, but not at any of them. Instead, the Whiskey Express let out a shriek of its own, a long plume of steam erupting from the piston. The tractor gave a lurch as the right piston lost pressure, and the tractor fought to keep momentum. They pulled on the road south.
Behind them, Scotch Tape heard Ixion cry out one last time with echoing thunder, and then disappear into the heavens with a colossal boom. The Whiskey Express pockity-whistled its way south, crawling to any safety there was to be found.
“Are you okay?” Pythia shouted through the rain.
“No,” Scotch croaked. “But I’ll live. Are all of you okay?”
“What are you wearing?” Precious asked, arching a brow at Skylord as the chain-bound griffon sat dripping mud all over their supplies. “Did you, like, get into a thing?”
“She did this to me,” he answered, pointing a claw at Scotch.
“Oh. So did you get into a thing?” Precious asked Scotch with a grin.
Hiroto had just died and she was cracking jokes? “Not now,” Scotch muttered. Majina was driving with salty rain on her cheeks as they raced south far slower than she would like. There was no way to patch the hole now. The best they managed was to shove a stick in it to slow the leaking pressure.
The Whiskey Express was dying. Somewhere behind her were Riptide, Haimon, and now Xara. She knew more about her enemy and what they were capable of. They had flying machines. Drones. Riptide would follow her even off the sea, and Haimon followed whatever orders he recieved. The more she understood, the angrier she became. She didn’t know anything about this shaman, or whoever was in charge, but it was more than she had known a few days ago. And she doubted that those three wouldn’t get in trouble for having her in their hooves and letting her get away.
She doubted she’d ever get that lucky twice.
“Why did Ixion attack, though?” Scotch asked aloud.
“No idea. I saw lightning. I didn’t see that thing,” Pythia answered. “Glad I avoided the getting struck by lightning future.”
“Not a surprise. The Zencori barely had any technology at all, and the Blood Legion kept their transmitter and generator inside a bunker. That thing is probably attracted to energy sources,” Charity said, getting a number of stares. “What? I’m not allowed to make observations?”
“We need to get out of this valley,” Scotch muttered, pointing a weary hoof at the southern gap in the mountains. “Get us through there. I’m tired of rain and lightning.”
A few hours later they were through the mountains. They’d gotten the collar off and saved for a day when explosives were needed. Scotch had no doubt Haimon and his allies were after her, but right now she simply felt weary. The south side of the mountains was dry and arid, with pine trees clutching rocky slopes running down towards a great tan expanse.
“Well, that was a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?” Pythia asked with a half smile.
“I knew you’d be there for me,” Scotch answered, getting a flush from the filly. Scotch couldn’t share it though. “I just wanted to save everyone. The Zencori. Skylord. All of you. I thought I could. I thought I was being so clever.”
Pythia’s smile disappeared as she stared at the tan plain ahead of them. “You can’t save everyone, Scotch,” she said soberly.
The scene of Hiroto sinking to the ground played again in Scotch’s mind. That smile on his face as he finally, finally fulfilled his dream of being an embodier. She closed her eyes, listening to the pockety-wheeze.
And then she heard the papery chuckle of the Dealer in her ear. “No, you can’t save everyone,” he said as he slid dry cards against each other, “but it sure is fun to watch you try.”
“I will not rush off and do stupid things that get me or others killed.”
“Now your turn.”
“I will not rush off and do stupid things that get me or others killed.”
“Now together.”
“I will not rush off and do stupid things that get me or others killed,” Scotch and Skylord said in unison, their monotones matching perfectly as Charity stood over them. “How many times are you going to make us do this?” Scotch added as she frowned up at Charity.
“Until I’m sure you two aren’t going to rush off and do stupid things that get you or others killed. Namely me,” the unicorn filly said as she paced back and forth before them. “Now, one more time, and really sell it to me!”
“That’s enough,” Pythia said from the back of the Whiskey Express. “Scotch did what she did. He did what he did. It’s past. Rubbing their noses in it every time we camp won’t change anything.”
“It makes me feel better,” Charity scowled. “Since these communists refuse to pay their taxes.”
“You can’t tax for stupidity! You’re not even a country!” Scotch snapped.
“Blackjack paid her taxes!”
“Well, Blackjack was dumb!”
Charity stared at her sourly a moment. “Point,” she grumbled, then took a deep breath. “I just don’t want you to die and leave me being stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’re not in nowhere,” Pythia said from her perch, “but we can see it from here.”
Scotch walked up to the tractor perched on the crest of a ridge, next to a large concrete platform half buried in dusty dunes. All around them were massive hills of sand covered in patches of yellow grass. Stray dust was imbedded in her mane and coat, and everything had the tang of salt, as if they were near the sea. Behind them rose tall brown mountains with broken tops, like jagged, decayed teeth sprouting from a giant misplaced jawbone. Just following the elevated concrete road had been a challenge, with dunes of dust piled up here and there. Occasionally they’d had to stop and shovel the silt to the side, letting the wind carry it away through the grass. It’d taken them a week to make it this far.
The Great Western Empty.
The dunes tapered off to a flat grayish tan plain that stretched out in all directions. There was no horizon, just a haze that seemed both near and far at the same time. A constant wind made snakes of dust dance over the ground before them, and in the distance ghostlike pillars twisted back and forth over the plain.
“The Great Western Empty (GWE) is the largest salt flat in the world, covering over one million square kilometers,” Majina read from an info-board display on the platform. Scotch frowned and joined her. The concrete platform was, she guessed, an observational platform. Rusted, salt encrusted telescopes pointed south next to displays. “Polished smooth by periodic rain and fine-grained silt erosion, the GWE is also the flattest surface in the world, with an average vertical deviation of less than half a meter.” There were faded pictures showing rain falling, the salt leveling out, and then wind polishing it smooth. “Receiving less than a centimeter of precipitation a year, is it also the driest desert in the world.”
“And we got to cross that?” Precious asked, jabbing a claw ahead of them.
“Well, we can go back the way we came, but that’ll just take us straight to Haimon and Riptide, both of whom want to kill us,” Pythia replied. “Or we can go three weeks west, take a pass and go into an area marked ‘dragon territory.’ There’s nothing east for a thousand kilometers. Not even a road.” She pointed a hoof. “Roam’s on the other side of that. We cross it, the Roaman Mountains, and we’ll be in the Capital Lowlands. After that, we try to find out where the Last Caesar’s personal shaman would be, and if they carried out the order to blind the Eye of the World.”
“Is that all?” Charity asked lightly, staring south into the empty with a sick expression. “Can we cross it?”
“I put a patch on that hole in the cylinder, but it’s not properly welded on,” Scotch said with a frown. “One good bump might cause it to delaminate. I constricted the pressure to that cylinder, but…” she sighed. “I don’t know. A million square kilometers of nothing?”
“Maybe they’re exaggerating. You know? Inflating the numbers? What’s the difference between a million square kilometers of flat and ten thousand square kilometers, right?” Majina asked with a nervous grin.
“Nine hundred and ninety-thousand square kilometers,” Precious answered.
“There’s a road,” Pythia said as she trotted over to another display. “Filling the Great Western Empty. The GWE Causeway was built in… hmmm… can’t make it out. At five hundred and fifty kilometers long in total, it connects the north and south edges of the Empty at Bridge Island, a rock that serves as a military weather station in the middle of the GWE.” She pointed to a grainy image of a black knob of stone in the middle of a white field. The GWE is also mined for salt, potash, gypsum, and gold.” Amid the glyphs were pictures of buildings built on stilts over long trenches carved in the sprawling flats.
“Gold?” Charity perked up at once. “Maybe this place isn’t all bad!”
Scotch walked to the next display. The sun had bleached it terribly, and the surface was despoiled by ancient graffiti. “Hazards of the Great Western Empty. Many travellers attempting to cross the GWE have become disoriented by the winds and obscuring dust, failing to carry enough water to reach the far side. Geomagnetic conditions have been known to cause disorientation in suck my dock–” She blinked, flushed, and peered at the glyphs, the last of which had been marred by vandals. “Okay. Um. It doesn’t actually say that.”
“I say we take our chances with dragons,” Precious said. “I mean, it has to be better than crossing that.” She gestured out at the faded illustration of the gargantuan salt flats.
The map of the Empty was roughly kidney shaped, with a longer, narrower western half and a wide, round eastern half. In between, where the salt flat was pinched, was the causeway leading to an island in the middle of the narrow. “Except that there’s no guarantee we’ll find enough coal to make it around. Or across,” Scotch said with a sick sense of dread. To salvage coal, they needed coal bunkers, and coal bunkers were rare enough in the affluent portions of the zebra lands proper, nevermind in the middle of nowhere. Twice they’d been forced to supplement their fuel with scavenged wood and sticks before finding an old abandoned inn with a coal bunker in the basement.
“Is there a town or anything on the map?” Scotch asked.
“There’s a mark on the north side of the causeway. Two crossed bones over a skull. I’m guessing that’s bad,” Pythia said, staring out into space and frowning. “What’s with all the shadows?” she muttered.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m not seeing us crossing the Empty. I can see futures where we’ve crossed it. We’re in Roam, but everything with us actually in the Empty is… just… gone.” The filly glowered at the salt flat. “I really don’t like this place, but every future of us going back has us getting caught.”
“What about dragons?” Precious asked. “If we go around.”
“We run out of fuel in five days and die of thirst in four,” she said, then stared at Precious. “After you eat us.”
Precious recoiled as if Pythia had struck her. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“I would,” Skylord answered. “I mean, a corpse just rots if you don’t put it to use. Still, water’s water, and I doubt I’d get enough to–” Everyone was staring at him now. “What? I’m just saying that letting meat rot is a waste.” He clicked his beak. “Let me see that map!” he insisted, snatching the atlas away as everyone continued to consider his comment. “Bone Legion?” he said with a baffled look.
“You know the mark?” Majina asked. He nodded. “Who are they?”
He hesitated before answering. “They’re kinda a bunch of losers, actually. Not like the Blood or Irons. They lost their turf a century ago. They’re into a bunch of necromantic undead garbage. Not really useful against heavy artillery.”
“Are you going to have a problem with them?” Charity demanded.
“I’ve got no problem with Bones. I’ve never even met a Bone Legionnaire. They don’t get that far north,” he said, clacking his beak thoughtfully. “Whether or not they’ll have a problem with me is another story. Or all of us. For all I know they’ll just kill us all and reanimate our corpses for a song and dance number.”
“So we go in cautious and find out. Load up on coal. Get across,” Scotch summarized. Together, her friends trudged back to the road while the Great Western Empty waited.
* * *
A junkyard on the edge of the world. That’s what Scotch thought as they reached the northern edge of the causeway. She’d expected some kind of raised road, but all that met her eye was a line of large concrete cylinders five meters tall, spaced what she thought was a hundred meters apart stretching like a dotted line into the void. At the north edge of it, at the mouth of a muddy spring that trickled from the sandy hills, was a massive expanse of metallic decay. Rusting steam tractors. Rusting trains. Rusting cars. Rusting tracks. Rusting containers. What couldn’t rust was left faded by salt and warped by sun. Broken glass gleamed in the midday glare like fallen stars amid the waste.
And there were bodies. Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Some lay draped over the containers, their hides encrusted with a layer of pale dust. Others were little more than heaps of bone. Some had been piled up in stacks while others lay as solitary mounds. One train car, inexplicably upended like a monolith had a skull and bones cut out of the metal making up its roof. Under it were a series of glyphs: “In death we serve.”
“Okay, this is right up there with Greengap for creepy,” Precious muttered as they pockety-coughed through the jumbled mess. She stared at a skeleton with pieces of metal tied to its ivory form. “I swear we’re being watched.”
Perhaps nothing was more disturbing than a large, faded red sign that declared ‘gift shop’ and a large arrow pointing at a squat structure where junkyard ended and causeway began. A neon ‘open’ glyph illuminated one window. Her E.F.S. didn’t have any bars on it, but she shared Precious’s apprehension. A creaking wind turbine didn’t do anything to settle her nerves with its regular ‘whoosh whoosh’ as the blades turned in the wind.
The gift shop was half an aged building, and half a dozen or so rusting containers converted into domiciles around one side, making a wind break. Then she spotted them. The Bone Legionnaires sat on their asses in the lee of building, their coats so coated with dust and salt that she couldn’t tell their tribe. Their barding appeared strapped together from scraps that would embarrass your typical raider. All of them appeared thin and hungry.
Yet, her E.F.S. was yellow. They chuckled and gave brown-stained grins, but didn’t make a move as they pulled up.
The door to the gift shop slammed open and out stepped the strangest creature that Scotch had ever seen. Its body was largely leonine, but it possessed a somewhat ponyish face with golden cat’s eyes. Blood red hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. A pair of wings sprouted from its shoulders. It was also easily twice the size of an adult pony.
“Welcome!” the lanky creature greeted warmly. “Welcome to the Great Western Empty Gift Shop! It’s been awhile since we’ve had travelers from the north.” Bowing before them, it continued, “I’m Asheput. It’s so nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Uhhh…” Scotch blinked slowly. This was getting away from Greengap creepy to a new kind of baffling weird. “Nice ta… meet you?”
“Ohh, it’s a sphinx!” Majina gasped. “I thought you were extinct.”
The creature looked at Majina a moment with an inscrutable expression, before giving a taut smile. “Oh, hardly. There’s some of us still around,” Asheput replied with a roll of her golden eyes. “I’m the proprietor of this establishment. Don’t mind the Bonies. They just hang around here. Good for dealing with troublemakers. Come in! We always love guests in the gift shop.”
“Okay,” Scotch said as they slowly climbed out of the wagon as the sphynx returned inside. “What’s a sphinx?” she asked in a whisper.
“They’re… um… part lion and part zebra and part eagle. Oh, and they live a really long time! Um… and I think they like riddles? There’s a few stories with them, but I thought they were long gone,” Majina said in a rush. “Oh. Um. And they tear people apart a lot. Apparently. When they can’t answer a riddle.”
“See, that’s the really important info! No riddles!” Charity admonished. “And no shooting!” she barked at Skylord.
“Honestly, I’d rather not waste the bullets,” he muttered, tugging at the chains binding him.
“Let’s see what crap she’s selling,” Charity muttered, stepping forward and into the gift shop. Scotch followed her, not sure what kind of crap to expect.
Surprisingly, the answer was everything.
Shelves of stuff. Racks of clothes. Bins of bullets. The sphynx trotted behind the counter and flopped down on a pile of a half dozen mattresses next to an old-timey cash register. A sign overhead read ‘1 imperio and answer my riddle: 10 imperios.’ Behind her, inside a glass case, were dozens of various weapons. All the other walls were lined with bits of strange salvage and sepia photographs in glass frames.
“I am having conflicting feelings about this,” Charity muttered.
“Sweet! They got clothes and stuff for dealing with all that dust and salt,” Majina gushed as she rushed over towards a stand where white cotton robes hung.
“Food!” Precious cried out, rushing towards a stand marked ‘Jerky’.
Pythia didn’t say anything, but trotted over towards a stand marked ‘maps’.
“Huh,” Skylord said before making his way towards the wooden crates of ammo.
Charity, however, just glared at the sphinx. “Okay. Answer my riddle. How?” she demanded, waving a hoof at the plenty around them.
“Well, you see little pony, people stop here and sell me things and I offer others to buy them–”
“Don’t give me that! Your location is literally on the edge of nowhere! You’ve got a generator, bullets, and food! How is it that someone hasn’t tried to take all this away from you? At the very least you have to eat!” Charity countered hotly, then balked. “Don’t you?”
“I like to eat, but I am evolved beyond the need to.” Asheput replied, grinning and flashing her bright and sharp teeth before hiding them behind a smug smile. “I also benefit from a combination of greatly diminished mortality coupled with a beneficial relationship with the Bone Legion. They find a variety of goods for salvage and pay them to me in exchange for a safe residence.”
Precious had stuffed a chunk of jerky into her mouth and then froze. She immediately spat it out. “That’s zebra meat!” she gasped.
“Really? How can you tell?” Asheput asked with an arched brow.
“I beg to differ. Anything that’s not sphynx meat is food to me. However, you chewed on it. You bought it. One imperio,” Asheput extended a paw.
“I- But- It–” She looked to Charity. “Help me out here.”
“You chewed it. You bought it.”
Precious tugged out her string of gold coins on a wire and slid the last one off. “Goodbye, Goldie McShiney! You were always such a good and bright coin!” she wailed as she hugged it to her chest. “I’ll never forget you! Somehow the Dragonhoard Clan will survive.”
“You name your coins?” Majina asked, slightly uneasy.
“Of course,” Precious sniffed as she lifted the next coin on the strand. “This is Guilder Von Jingly, a foreign count trying to bribe his way into the Dragonhoard Clan.” Then the next. “And this is Tinkles the Scarred. See the scratch on his face? He got it in a duel with the coin patriarch Aruum Grande.” Now everyone was staring at her and she jabbed a claw at them. “Don’t you judge me!”
“Judge you?” Majina gushed with a grin. “Tell me more!”
“Tell us less. Pay,” Charity quipped back as Precious passed over her coin. Then she glanced over at Skylord, whose jaw worked to chew something. The spat out jerky was nowhere to be seen. Charity just stared at him, her lip curling as she shrank away from him.
“What?” he asked around a mouthful of meat.
“That was on the floor. In her mouth! And it’s zebra!” Charity said, shrinking away from him.
“Tasty too,” Skylord said as he set a box of rounds on the counter. “I’ll take these, and how much for one of those automatic pistols? There’s no way I’m strapping a battle saddle over these stupid chains.” He reached up and gave the links a yank. As Scotch watched, it seemed to tighten on his frame.
“It’s not cannibalism. It’s just really gross,” Scotch reminded Charity, trotting up to the counter and reaching into her own saddlebags. “Here. I guess I owe it to you,” she said, extracting five gold coins.
Skylord rolled his eyes. “Thanks. Soon as I’m back at Irontown, I’ll pay you back with a nice freshly made gun of your choice.” He nodded to the rack. “You really should pick one up for yourself though.”
“Yeah,” Scotch said with a frown. “It’s just… not my thing. I mean, I know I should but it just seems wrong, you know?”
“Nope!” he replied. “The only thing that I know is there’s never too much gun. That, and I really want these chains off.” He gave them another tug, then looked at Asheput. “Hey, you’re a girl. Could you do be a favor and say you love me?”
“Excuse me?” The sphinx arched a brow.
“Just help me out here. Tell me you love me,” he said. “It’ll be cool.”
“You are such a pig,” Charity snipped, sitting and crossing her forehooves over her chest.
“I love you,” the sphynx stated, as romantically as reading off waste recycling instructions.
“I love you too,” the griffon replied, then grabbed the chains. “Whelp, I fell in love and she loves me. Guess you can come off now, huh?” He tugged the links. “Come on. We had a deal.”
“Um, Sky? I don’t think you should do that,” Scotch started to say. The chains shrank by several inches, cutting into his hide and feathers. Both hands went to his throat as his eyes bulged in alarm, pulling at the links that mercilessly dug in. “Stop! Stop!” she cried out in alarm, but the relentless links continued to strangle him. “If he dies, you can’t lock him in anymore. He’ll be dead.” The links slowly gave out, somehow replicating till there was enough slack for him to breathe again.
“I really don’t like this spirit,” Skylord coughed.
“My, how interesting,” Asheput murmured. “A censured griffon. However did you cross a spirit? You’re nearly as bad as ponies.”
“Blame her,” Skylord said, pointing at Scotch. “She made a deal and before I knew it I was all chained up.”
“Her? A deal, and no censure? But…” The Sphynx blinked her yellow eyes. “How interesting. Quite the fascinating riddle. I approve. In five hundred years I have never seen its like.”
“You’re five centuries old?” Majina asked, her eyes wide. “You must have thousands of stories.”
“None your tribe is interested in hearing,” Asheput replied with a wave of her paw. “You like stories of heroes and histories where your kind valiantly overcame monsters like me. Stories of genocide are far less palatable for your ears.”
“Wait,” Scotch lifted a hoof as Majina’s joy turned to horror. “What genocide?”
Asheput’s lips twisted in annoyance. “Once, the zebras were just one of many peoples living here. They were good folk. I’d challenge them with riddles, and devour those that failed my tests. They’d send their wisest and wittiest against me. There was respect.” She turned her eyes to Scotch Tape. “Then your kind started the war, and all respect was gone. You either served the Caesar’s ends, or you were butchered. I could hold my own against would-be heroes challenging their minds against my puzzles, but I could do nothing against entire battalions besides flee. There were so many different people here that were pushed to the Empty, relocated to land that couldn’t support them, to die out of sight and forgotten.”
“Tell me about it,” Skylord muttered, rubbing his throat.
“I can’t believe that,” Majina said, shaking her head. “Someone would have talked about it!”
“Typical zebra denial. You don’t like the truth so it couldn’t have happened,” Asheput snickered with a roll of her eyes. “As bad as ponies.”
“Word,” Skylord said, sitting and raising a fist over his head.
“My tribe would have talked about it!” Majina countered, but Scotch remembered how readily the elders had dismissed the truth about Blackjack and the Legate. She could understand Majina’s loyalty to her tribe, but Scotch was definitely skeptical about it.
“They didn’t. I am sufficiently magical to not need to eat or drink, or I would have joined the dead. I only wish that the ultimate cost of your stupid war paid had been reserved for ponies and zebras alone,” Asheput said, then took a deep breath, and adopted a cheery tone. “Now! Shall we talk about business?” Majina opened her mouth, but the sphynx broke out a long growl that silenced her.
It took a little bit of haggling from Charity, but they managed to get water, coal, food, and robes for each of them to protect against the salt and dust. A pair of goggles for the driver, a large canvas tarp, rope, and pole to make a tent they could all fit beneath. Skylord had his new pistol, which he rearranged into a hand grip rather than a mouth grip. Pythia got a map of the Empty and of the mountains beyond. Majina bought a book of riddles that seemed to mollify Asheput’s ire towards her. Precious lost ten more members of the Dragonhoard clan trying to answer riddles. She wept at what she called the ‘sphinxian slaughter’. Then Pythia won them back, though Asheput seemed a little skeptical at her instant, correct response. Then Pythia struggled to push the dragonfilly off her as she exploded in gratitude and embraced her tightly.
“You’re also going to want to buy insurance,” wheezed a voice from the doorway. In it stood the most emaciated zebra Scotch had ever seen. At first, she thought he was a ghoul, with his shrunken frame and coarse, scarred hide. His stripes were covered by rags and patches of leather. Bones were tied to the ends of his mane, and they rattled as he spoke. At first Scotch thought he was old, but that was simply the result of his weathered and cracked hide. He smiled, the skin at the corners of his mouth splitting in a bloody grin. “You’ll always want insurance.”
“Who are you?” Skylord challenged.
“General Ossius, leader of the Bone Legion,” he said, licking his cracked lips as he sized Skylord up. “An Iron. What, are the Irons branding griffons now?”
“General? Of what?” Skylord sniffed.
“Hey, moron. Remember what you started with the Bloods?” Charity snapped and jabbed his chest with a hoof. “Knock. It. Off.” Skylord started to retort, but she glared him into silence.
“Oh, I know. We’re pretty diminished from what we were,” Ossius wheezed, paused, and then cackled, “But we’re still around. Here and there. We never quite go away.” He then nodded his head to the sphynx. “Asheput. You’re looking well. Raking in the imperios? I saw we had guests from up north, but I didn’t expect…” He trailed off, his dull gray eyes narrowing as they locked on to Precious, “…this.” He finished with a gesture at the six of them.
“I get by,” the sphinx answered, actually smiling at the desiccated zebra. “How about you? Still playing with dragons?”
“Not much else to do lately. I hear things are picking up in the North. Might be a good time to harvest some fresh corpses. I hear Irons make excellent cadavers.” He leered at Skylord before licking his cracked lips again. “Nice chains,” he murred, eying him. Skylord set himself to fight, before the general emitted a dry chuckle. “But then again, Bloods are ten an imperio. Be good to get some raised and fighting.”
“Playing with dragons?” Precious asked, arching a brow.
Ossius stared at her flatly, then gave a cracked smile. “Oh yes. There’s nothing more satisfying than bringing low a powerful, wealthy, arrogant beast. You should try it.” he said, his eyes darting to Skylord before returning to Precious. “Though I must wonder where a… curiosity… like you came from.”
“Something I ask myself every day,” Precious answered with a sigh.
“Enough of the dumb questions. What’s this insurance and how much will it cost us?” Charity demanded.
Ossius licked his lips again. “Well, crossing the Empty is dangerous. Folks get lost. Folks get stuck. Folks die. You pay us, and we’ll see you across.”
“I can vouch for him. Most travellers cross with his assistance,” Asheput said. “He is a withered side of salted zebra, but he honors his agreements.”
Ossius gave a genial nod to her. “As for the price, it’s generally just ten imperios a head or a fresh corpse, but you’re two ponies, a star cursed cunt, an iron branded griffon, a dragon freak, and…” He trailed off as his gray eyes lingered unsettlingly on Majina. She immediately shifted behind Precious, and the general chuckled before announcing with feigned magnanimity. “So I’d say, with taxes and surcharges, a hundred imperios. Or a fresh corpse.” He scanned the six of them. “Any volunteers?”
“A hundred! That’s extortion! Who don’t you just rob us and get it over with?” Charity shrieked.
“And risk my soldiers and assets? Oh, no. No no no. That’s not how we operate,” he said with a dry chuckle. “Bloods and Irons may shoot and threaten, but Bones… we’re smarter than that.”
“There’s no way we can pay that, you moron!” Charity snapped.
“One fifty.”
“What?!” she shrieked again, her eyes wide.
“One seventy five,” he said and when she opened her mouth he added, “Want it to be a nice, square two hundred?”
Her answer was swallowed in a growl of frustration.
“All haggling aside, we can’t pay that, so we’re going to have to decline,” Scotch said evenly.
“Hear that, Asheput? They decline,” Ossius cackled and stomped a hoof. “Hooo. Alright. Guess I priced myself right out of the market. Shucks. Silly me,” Ossius said, then leveled his gaze at them. “You take care, now. Empty’s a right nasty place.”
He slipped out and Asheput murmured, “I’m pretty sure he plans to kill you. Ponies, an Iron Legion griffon, a Starkatteri, and anything draconic is more than sufficient aggravation.”
“Are you just going to let him?” Scotch asked.
“He doesn’t bother me,” Asheput said with a shrug. “We have our arrangement. I buy what his legion salvages, and we both live here. I try to get along with my neighbors. That’s just good business.”
“Right,” Scotch said, deflating a little.
“So…” Skylord said, staring after Ossius. “Would it be okay if we killed him before we go? Because, you know, we’re not his neighbors? And he’s an asshole?”
“Skylord!” Charity, snapped. “Do I need a water bottle or something?”
“What? I’m asking! You know, before I kill him.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Asheput said calmly. “It would be annoying to hear him bragging when his cadavers rose up and tore you to pieces.”
“Cadavers?” Scotch asked, feeling a little sick.
“Animated bodies. You certainly saw several of them as you came in, whether you recognized them or not.” She gave a little shrug. “Needless to say, he doesn’t want to risk his toys. He’s careful like that.”
A careful enemy? She didn’t like that. “Any advice crossing the Empty?” Precious asked.
“Stay on the causeway no matter what. If you lose sight of the cylinders, you’re lost. Don’t sleep in the lee unless you want to be buried in salt and dust. When you get to the middle, refill your coal and keep going. Don’t linger or explore the base. There’s no food or water there.”
“But there’s coal?” Scotch asked.
“They’ve four immense coal bunkers built during the war for refilling military convoys. Every few years I fly out, fill up, and bring some back here.”
“Does Ossius have any Bone Legion at the base?” Skylord asked her.
“There’s no food or water there, so I expect not. He’s gone with me the last two trips and I saw not a soul. If he does, they’re of the unliving variety.”
“Wait, wait, wait. There’s a simple solution here,” Pythia said, pointing a hoof at the sign overhead. “I just answer twenty riddles. Easy.”
“Very well,” Asheput purred. “Here’s my first one, Starkatteri. What happens to seers that cheat a sphynx?” Her paws clawed at the counter as she leaned towards Pythia, baring very sharp and pointy fangs.
“Uh…” Pythia blinked and took a step back. “On second thought, no. Nevermind.”
“Wise,” she purred. Her eyes shifted to Scotch. “Take care. Though there is nothing there, the Empty is full of peril.”
* * *
The rest of the preparations, Scotch kept a wary eye on the Bone Legion, but they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. They even waved and called out ‘have fun on the Empty’ with lazy grins. If they were planning on killing them, they sure were taking their time. Skylord twitched with suppressed violence as he kept a constant eye on the Bones as they worked. She had to assume they had their own tractor hidden amid the wrecks, and planned to chase them down.
Oddly, it was Precious that seemed to draw the majority of their ire. ‘Widdle dragon pony’ and ‘Who fucked who to make that?’ and calls about making boots and jackets from her hide. It seemed positively juvenile. If they wanted Precious dead, why not just try and kill her?
Maybe they were going to do exactly that out on the Empty.
Still, why wait? And why her, over a pair of ponies? It made no sense. They topped off the water tanks and bottles, and made sure they had all the supplies ready to cross. Charity had finally gotten her wish: a second, smaller, two wheeled trailer picked from the junk. No one seemed to mind her hitching it up, so she declared finders keepers and proceeded to fill it with water from the spring.
“Hey, Scales. Who was more perverted? Mom or dad?” bellowed one Bone Legion from the comfort of their shade as Precious carried a sack of coal to the Whiskey Express.
“What is your problem? Leave her alone!” Scotch yelled back. For some reason, that just made them laugh harder. Precious, without her usual retort, rushed to where the steam tractor waited.
“Forget it,” Skylord said behind her. “They’re jackals, living off of scraps and carrion. Tormenting a filly is sport to them.”
“But it’s so stupid!” Scotch said as they walked after Precious.
“Of course it is, but they’ve got nothing else. They’re a dead legion, living on the edge of nothing. A joke. Losers. They’re not even risking killing her themselves. That’s how weak they are. That’s how much they’ve lost,” Skylord said, keeping his voice low.
Scotch gave a wry smile. “Speaking from experience, huh?”
“You saw Gunther and Gunnel. There were dozens more just like them. And my rook was better off then these losers.” Skylord gave a nod to the Bone Legion, who had gone quiet now that Precious was out of earshot. “You know why they’re here? Because that sphinx carved out a sad, lonely little spot, and they’re desperate for any place to call home. Because they’re too weak to make their own. If I hadn’t been taken in by Adolpha, that would be me up there, trying to make a filly cry, because I’d have nothing else in life.”
“Wow. That was… kinda deep for you,” Scotch admitted.
“It’s these stupid chains,” he quipped back, tugging at the links. “I swear, next time, you make a bargain with a spirit, you deal with the fallout.”
Scotch shivered as the scene of a filly transforming into a shark monster flashed through her mind. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
When they got to the cart, Scotch saw Precious’s eyes full of tears, her other friends standing awkwardly. She didn’t blame them. Last thing Precious would ever want was pity. “Those Bone Legion. What losers, right?” Scotch offered, giving Precious a grin.
Precious sniffed, wiped her eyes and then smiled back at Scotch. “Yeah. Total losers. We going?”
“Yeah. Let’s get going,” Scotch said with a nod. From the doorway of the gift shop she could see Asheput watching their departure.
With a pock and a wheeze, the Whiskey Express pulled out and travelled into the Great Western Empty.
* * *
This is astonishing, Scotch Thought as she drove the Whiskey Express across the salt, a cloth mask filtering out the worst of the dust that hissed against the metal. The only landmarks being the next concrete cylinder, and the next, and the next, stretching off into an endless gray haze. Yet the ground beneath was so smooth and solid that the chassis hummed with a strange, forlorn note over the pockety-wheeze of the pistons. A constant wind from the west had ribbons of white and tan snaking under the wheels, pushing them towards the cylinders. Even with the robe, she could feel the tiny grains striking her from the gusts.
And another gray cylinder. Another. And another. Some were marked, but the dust and salt had scraped away the glyphs so much that she couldn’t read them. And another. Another. No horizon. No sky. Behind them, the mountains and gift shop had disappeared completely. There were only the concrete cylinders. Another. And another. And another.
It was dulling. Mesmerizing. Surreal. Only the clock on her PipBuck informed her any time had passed at all. It was as if the Whiskey Express were idling in place, and the world itself was turning beneath her wheels as the hours passed. And another. And another.
Then she whizzed right by a wrecked tractor, passing the metal by less than a meter. A bolt of adrenaline shot through her. How had she missed that? Glancing over her shoulder, she watched the wreck disappear into the haze behind her. It was as if she’d been asleep… but she hadn’t, had she? She stared ahead, noticing other wrecks here and there, many astonishingly far away from the pillars, like ghosts on the edge of the void. It’d only been a few hours, right?
She checked her PipBuck. Five hours! At once, she became aware of the ache in her shoulders and rump. Her growling stomach. Her parched mouth. Her need to go to the bathroom! There was no sun, just that the dust was slightly dimmer in the late hours. How had she missed so much time?
She pulled into the lee of one of the pillars and slid off the seat, her legs protesting the action. She crawled back to the canvas covered trailer. “Hey! We were wondering when you were going to stop!” Majina said as they pulled her inside. “You look terrible!”
“Water,” she croaked.
“Here,” Majina said, passing her the bottle.
“How’s it going?” Precious asked. “Is it night yet? Can we get out? Stretch our legs?”
“Yeah. I guess we better,” she said, coughing. This dust wasn’t doing her lungs any favors. “Potty break.”
They made the far side of the pillar into a rest stop, but no one remained out in the wind long. “How long till this stops?” Scotch asked.
“Never,” Pythia answered.
“Never? It can’t blow all the time!” Scotch protested.
Pythia gave her a condescending look, before explaining. “The Empty is so big that the trade winds funnel through it constantly. West to east on this side. East to west on the south side. The flats generate twisters and windstorms that can rage for months. Even years.” She tapped a square of text next to the diagram on the map she’d purchased. “There’s calm regions in the center, but it’ll be a while till we get there.”
“You want a break from driving?” Precious asked. “No offense, but you look like a giant salt lick.”
Scotch frowned, thought better of it, but, in the end, just couldn’t help herself. She lifted a hoof and gave it a long, firm lick and grinned. Mmm! Salty! Of course that immediately prompted her to take a drink of water. Then she took another lick. Another drink… Mmm, licking salt definitely ill-advised till they got to the far side, she thought, but if they found a bunch of fresh water on the far side, she was going to go nuts! “I’m fine. Just give me a few more hours. Tomorrow, someone else can drive.”
After everyone had relieved themselves, she took four bottles of water with her, strapped the goggles down, and resumed driving. The wind and the hum nagged at her, lulling her back into a trance. To prevent that mindless state, she studied the wrecks that they passed. Most had escaped much corrosion; their noses pointing north towards the gift shop. Once, she spotted something tumbling in front of the Whiskey Express, and broke abruptly. A torso struck the pillar and stuck there a moment, rattling like a tumbleweed before slipping around the cylinder and disappearing into the billowing haze.
Okay. Time to call it a night. The light had dimmed to the point she couldn’t make out the next landmark, so she pulled up next to one and moved into the trailer. After a drink and a snake, they lay together under the tarp, listening to the howling wind, the snapping tarp, the trailer’s springs groaning as the wind gusted against it. Soon as she felt herself nodding off, something hard would ping against the trailer, causing her to jolt awake. In the silence, eyes boggling, she wondered if perhaps the Bone Legion was coming in the middle of the night.
Scotch shimmied up to Pythia, turning on her PipBuck light and shielding it with her body. Pythia lay with eyes open, staring at the tarp as it thrashed. “Hey,” Scotch whispered. After all, Precious’s snoring signified that at least some of her friends were asleep. “Hey, what’s the future look like?”
She didn’t answer a moment, swallowing before murmuring softly, “I can’t see it.”
“What?” Scotch blinked in bafflement. “Nothing?” She shook her head slowly. “How? Why?”
“I have no idea. I’m blind, and I’m terrified more than I’ve been in my entire life,” she whispered hoarsely. “If you don’t mind. I’d rather not talk right now.”
What could Scotch do besides click off the light and fail to go back to sleep.
The next day, Precious and Skylord took turns driving, creeping along to avoid losing the landmarks. There were more wrecks now. A thick band of derelicts left to slowly wear away under the wind’s onslaught. Some were smashed up, but others appeared to have been left to collect dust and sand in tear-shaped drifts that threatened to bog down the Whiskey Express. More than a few had desiccated corpses still clinging to steering wheels or dangling out of dust-choked windows. Not even Charity suggested stopping to search them. Majina bombarded Scotch with riddles, and when she’d exhausted the books, started over with a new victim.
Another night of pretending to sleep. Of staring up at the tarp as the wind jerked and rippled it. Of Pythia staring at her maps, desperate for the smallest hint of guidance.
The third day, Scotch drove again. There were fewer wrecks here, but there was a building, sitting off to the side of the causeway. At first, she thought that maybe they’d reached the middle, till she slowed and got a better look at the blasted structure. Wind screamed through gaps broken in the steel walls, and silent construction equipment sat frozen in the dust. She nearly tumbled into a ditch chewed into the ground by a massive scooping machine. Its upraised bucket looking like a petrified, primordial monster that did nothing to soothe her progressively fraying nerves.
For once, she wished the Empty was a lot more empty.
The fourth day she spent in the trailer as Precious drove. The wind had died down enough to take the tarp off… not that the Empty was any less, well, empty. Still, they could count the concrete blocks as they swooshed by. The gray, horizonless world continued in all directions, the sun just a dim spot in the featureless gray haze overhead. There weren’t even ruins anymore. No riddles. No jokes. Just the pockety-wheeze of the Whiskey Express.
On the fifth day, they were in trouble.
“This patch is leaking.” Scotch rechecked the hole Riptide had punched in the cylinder. “It’s already starting to corrode, and we’re losing water,” she said as she rubbed the edge of the patch, her hoof came back smeared with brown.
“We can put some of our drinking water in the tank, but what about that patch?” Charity asked. “Can you fix it?”
“I couldn’t fix it property back in the woods. You think I can do it here?” came Scotch’s sour retort. “I need a blow torch to properly seal it up. Even then, this patch is so brittle, it’s not going to last.”
“Hello, dragonfilly here,” Precious said with a grin. “Have breath, will travel.”
“But what are we going to seal it with?” Scotch asked, scraping the patch. Even more corroded metal flaked away. “This salt is a nightmare. If the patch is this bad after four days, there’s probably corrosion on the cylinder too.” What do we have? Scotch secretly doubted they could patch it with steel. It just needed too much steady heat, and the salt would make it brittle. “Copper? No.” Then she blinked. “An imperio. We can seal it with gold.”
“What?” Precious cried out. “Melting down a helpless gold coin? You monster!”
“It’s that or we die when the water tank drips empty.” Scotch dug out a gold coin from her own saddle bags. “Here, use one of mine.”
Precious took it and held it in her claws. “Why, it’s Duke Drachma of Drachmatonia, come on weekend holiday to the seaside while secretly pining for a lost love.” Everyone just stared flatly at her. “What? You can’t just give me a gold coin and not expect a story from it!”
“What’s a drachma?” Skylord asked.
“What happened to his lost love?” Majina asked, breathlessly.
“What the heck is wrong with all of you?” Charity snapped.
Scotch took it back before Precious could wed it to the rest of her clan, carefully worked the edge of the coin into the crack, and backed away. “Blow.”
“Goodbye, sweet Duke. May you be reunited with your lost love in the golden afterlife,” Precious sniffed, then knelt down and blasted it for several seconds.
“This is pathetic,” Charity muttered.
Scotch used a can of beans like a hammer. The gold was soft enough that between blasts and hammering they managed to squeeze it into the crack. Not ideal, but it might get them through a few more days.
They climbed back into the trailer, and with the familiar ‘pockety-pock’ back, the Whiskey Express started rolling again. “Hey, you okay?” she asked Pythia, who hadn’t even gotten out of the trailer.
“I couldn’t do anything. I can’t see anything. If I had my sight, I would have known the seal was going to fail,” Pythia said as she stared out at the void. “I hate this place. I wish we’d gone around.”
“Well, we knew this place messed with your sight, but we couldn’t have guessed how bad,” Scotch offered. “And wasn’t going around ‘running out of coal and being eaten by Precious’? Ouch, by the way.”
“At least that I could see coming. This place is wrong,” Pythia said with a shiver.
“Who do you think it is? Blocking your sight, I mean?” Scotch inquired.
Pythia glanced at her. “You know how I talk about shadows in the future? Well there’s other ways to blind a seer. Like if something so so horrible you don’t want to see it, you can block yourself. Or if there’s a lot of really toxic spirits about, the spiritual contamination is like a fog.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “This is like… like someone seared my eyes out with a hot poker, and they’re digging it around inside the socket.”
She scooted closer and put a hoof around her. “Hey. We’re okay. We’ll get out and you’ll start seeing again. Then you’ll be the know-it-all before it happens and we’ll be frustrated trying to figure out what’s going on.”
Pythia slumped against her. “So this is what being normal is like? Not seeing yourself dying all the time?”
“Um, I guess?” Scotch muttered, flushing a little.
“It’s so strange. I never knew how you could stand it,” she replied. “I’ve always known things that are going to happen. What terrible things could happen to me if I wasn’t careful. Every threat. Every hazard. Now…” She shook her head. “It’s kinda nice.”
Okay. So maybe everything wasn’t terrible in the Empty after all.
* * *
On the fifth day, the dust finally ended, and they emerged from it like from a fog bank stretching endlessly east to west. Before her lay an endless expanse of white, punctuated only by the gray blocks. There wasn’t a wreck to be seen, nor a ruin. Just white and blue in a line that stretched from horizon to horizon. They took a moment to emerge, and even squandered some of their precious drinking water to wash away the dust.
“There’s something in the salt,” Majina said, peering down. The salt up close resembled dusted glass. Majina wiped the surface with her rag as they moved closer for another look.
At a body.
The zebra was almost perfectly preserved, so much that it seemed he was asleep rather than entombed. Aside from a slight withering from desiccation, there was little sign of decay. “There’s another,” Precious noted, pointing next to him.
And another. Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Many were species Scotch couldn’t identify. “How’d they get down there?” Charity asked.
“I think that’s water down there,” Scotch said, pointing at tiny bubbles of air under their hooves. “It’s like ice, only salt. They’re pickled.”
“Well, at least I won’t starve,” Skylord chuckled, getting flat looks. “What? It’s not my fault I’m above you on the food chain.”
“I wouldn’t,” Scotch warned, stomping on the salt. “It’s pretty thick, but in you punched through, you’d be pickled.”
“Plus eating salted meat in the middle a desert isn’t exactly a genius move,” Precious scoffed.
Skylord just smirked at her. “You thought of it too, eh?”
Precious’s eyes popped wide in shock. “What? No! Eew! I mean, who knows how long it’s been down there!” She gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of her head.
“Where did they all come from?” Charity asked, sparing them all from the salted corpse eating topic.
“You heard the sphinx,” Majina answered. “Zebras drove them here to die.” She closed her eyes. “I wish the ponies had killed us. We deserved it,” she said as her tears added to the salt below.
“Majina, you aren’t to blame for this,” Scotch reminded her.
“No? It wasn’t the pony empire, Scotch,” she said and she wept. “I thought coming here would be great. A good story. But instead there’s just nothing! Nothing but example after example of zebras being horrible to each other. I hate being zebra!” she spat, the empty void devouring her words as quickly as the ground took her tears.
“Majina,” Scotch said, moving to her and giving her a hug. “We’ve met lots of good zebras too. Just because some were horrible centuries ago doesn’t mean it’s bad to be a zebra.”
“I hate this. I hate this place,” she whimpered.
“It’s fine, Majina. We’ll make it fine,” Scotch promised her.
With the dust gone, and the cylinder seal holding, they could really speed things up. The enormous wall of dust fell away and soon it was just them speeding along the flat. Oddly, the air wasn’t that hot. She supposed the white ground reflected the sunlight up rather than heating the earth. With everything clear, the trip became almost enjoyable.
Still, it was hard to forget that there were countless bodies under their wheels.
“Why do you think they did it?” Scotch asked Pythia. “Drove them into this wasteland? Why not just shoot them?”
“It’s a very clever way to avoid censure,” Pythia answered. “If you kill people, it leaves a stain. You can demolish the buildings and raze the grounds, but the murder crystallizes in that moment and seeps into the earth. Drive people into a wasteland they can’t survive in, and who are the dead vengeful against? The official that gave the command? The soldiers that put them into the train car? The civilian that let it happen? Everyone? No-one? They die, and that poison has nothing to fixate on.”
“So it just goes away?” Scotch frowned, aware that she was talking about shamany stuff, and not wanting to ruin the moment.
“Nothing just goes away. It’s here. We’re probably driving over an ocean of spiritual poison, but who cares? It’s the Empty. It doesn’t matter. A huge spiritual waste dump.” She paused, pursing her lips, then adding, “I’m not talking as a shaman. Any scholar could tell you this.”
“Right,” Scotch said with a smile, then looked at the salt flashing past beneath them. How many people had the zebras driven here to die? Did Asheput know? Did anyone? “So what can be done about it?”
“Done?” Pythia blinked at her, then slumped against her again. “Typical pony. There’s nothing to be done. You can’t fix this. No way to blast it with friendship. It just is. Like the Empty. Like the world.”
Scotch held her thoughts silently, frowning as she mulled that over. Was it better to accept something horrible you couldn’t change, or to want to change something for the better when you couldn’t? She didn’t know the answer. Didn’t know if there was an answer, and so she sat silently as they slipped deeper into the Empty.
* * *
That night, they saw the stars.
All the stars.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen stars before, but never like this. The sun set, and the moon was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the salt flats glowed with starlight, enough that they could have pushed on through the night, had they wished. No one thought of it just then. No one spoke as the clear, dry air was filled with millions of points of light. Pythia wept as she gazed up at the heavens in awed rapture, an unexpected, hitherto-unseen wonder spread out above them all. A great river of light stretched from east to west, and in it were countless other points. It was one thing to see the stars through a tiny window in a rocket but this beggared that experience.
Scotch had always thought of the night as a blackness punctuated by only occasional motes of wan, feeble illumination. Candles in the darkness. Now she had to wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. That maybe the darkness wasn’t stronger. That when you saw things clearly, there was so much more light in the universe. She put one hoof around Majina, the other around Pythia, and held both of them closely, silently.
They didn’t waste the opportunity to travel at night, but they passed under that starry vault with less speed, five of them splayed out on their backs in the trailer as Skylord, who’d summed up the experience as ‘yeah, they’re stars’ got to drive.
* * *
“How is that thing floating in the air?” Majina’s question was the first sign of the island. It was an ugly black triangle in the middle of pristine white, seeming to hover above the horizon.
“It’s a mirage,” Skylord explained with a bored tone, and got several blank looks. “What, have you never looked down a hot road on a sunny day?”
“The Enclave didn’t let us have many hot and sunny days,” Charity countered. Skylord didn’t elaborate much as they approached the mysteriously levitating rock. It took several hours before the rest realized a mirage was little more than an optical illusion. The closer they drew, the lower it dropped till it reconnected with the earth.
And the closer they got, the less she liked it, slowing down the approach. Just like at the gift shop, there was a virtual junkyard, only this one was exponentially larger and comprised almost half of striped military vehicles. A train sat buried up to its axles in salt alongside the spur of dark, volcanic rock. An almost ironic sign stating “Great Western Empty Weather Station” sat in front of the massive collection of vehicles and weapons.
“So, think there’s a Bone Legion garrison hanging out there? Cadavers ready to tear us to pieces?” Scotch asked.
“I don’t know. I kept expecting the Bones to catch up to us, but there’s no sign of them,” Skylord said, peering north. “Maybe they’re here and were alerted by radio?”
Scotch checked her PipBuck, but there was only static. “No idea. Let’s just be careful,” she warned as they came to a stop at the outskirts of the weather station.
“Aww, and I’d planned a song and dance number,” Precious whined.
But even before passing through the gate, it was clear something bad had happened here. The road was littered with bodies. Both the bodies and vehicles had been stripped. Yet as they moved further in, there were also piles of cast-off clothes, barding, and other apparel strewn everywhere. Civilian steam tractors were just parked every which way next to huge, hulking military vehicles that pointed strange long, skinny box-like contraptions east. There were dozens of them. Maybe a hundred, or more, their empty crates all lifted towards the sky. All empty.
So many bodies, like the gift shop but worse. They lay in drifts, tossed into heaps, or scattered around the rock. And for the first time in weeks, Scotch heard the slow ticking of radiation from her PipBuck. Her mane crawled as she kept looking around for the source, but found nothing.
“What the hay happened here?” Scotch wondered aloud.
“No! No no no!” Charity snapped, levitating up an old clipboard and thwacking her with it. “Last time you asked that you went for a swim in a water monster. No! We are finding coal, finding water, and then leaving! Especially if there’s radiation here. How bad?”
Scotch considered. “Pretty bad. Maybe that’s what killed all these people?” Still, what was the source? There weren’t any balefire bombs here. “Let’s find the coal bunkers.”
“Found,” Skylord answered, pointing at four enormous, blocky structures. Far more than would ever be needed for a ‘weather station.’ Next to it was a large, round tank that she supposed had been the station’s water supply. They trotted past piles of bodies. The four bunkers were each thirty feet high, with a mechanical feeder vehicle parked nearby. A pair of train tracks obscured by tractors confirmed the fuel had been brought here and then loaded into each of the bunkers.
They moved to the first and found the lever that opened a manual chute. It took three of them hanging on the bar to open it.
Nothing.
“It’s empty,” Skylord observed, and rapped hard on the heavy metal, the steel booming ominously.
So was the second.
And the third.
“No, no, no!” Charity muttered. “I knew it. I knew that feathered cat shyster was up to something! There’s no coal here! They get people to come out into the empty, they run out of coal, and die here! Then they take their stuff off the corpses.”
“There’s one more,” Scotch said, rushing around to the last bunker and sliding to a stop.
There, painted on the side of the bunker, were the glyphs, ‘Bet you wish you’d paid the insurance now, huh?’ Below it was the same manual lever.
With the biggest, sturdiest padlock she’d ever seen.
“No, no, no!” Charity repeated, rushing up to it and beating it with her hooves. “Pick it. You can pick it, right?”
But Scotch had never seen a lock like this before. It didn’t just have one spot for a key, but two, and there was a combination dial in the middle. The metal loop was almost five centimeters thick! What the heck was this thing supposed to be used for?
“You!” Pythia rushed to Precious. “You’re part dragon! You can chew it off, right?”
“Are you kidding? I eat gems. Gems are delicious. Steel breaks my teeth!”
“Shoot it off! You can shoot it off, right?” Charity asked Skylord, pleading. But Scotch instantly knew that was likely futile as well. The padlock could double as a bludgeon, and from the scarring and scratches, it seemed shooting it off was a decidedly unoriginal idea.
Scotch examined the lock closer. The hole in the lever had been crudely cut to accommodate the larger lock, but it still had at least three centimeters of metal on both sides. She hung on the bar, checking how it flexed. If they broke the bar free… but no.
“Do you still have those explosives from the collars?” Skylord asked.
“Erm… yes?” Scotch said, looking up at the container. “I’m just a little leery about blowing things up around containers full of flammable coal and coal dust. I doubt those others have been cleaned out. Plus, I’m not entirely sure how to detonate them safely. I don’t have a radio detonator.”
“You can try, though, right? Right?” Charity begged.
“Let’s… leave that for plan B,” Scotch said weakly.
“Smart fucking bastards,” Skylord muttered. “No wonder they didn’t want to fight. We get stuck out here and die of thirst. They come in and take all our stuff.”
“Do you think Asheput knew?” Majina asked.
“Oh, who the fuck cares?!” Charity insisted. “I knew. There’s no way she has that kind of selection honestly. Not on the edge of nowhere! Soon as I saw her shop I knew.” Her magic gripped the handle and she groaned as she tried to pry it with her magic. “Come on! Please! I don’t want to die!” she screamed, nearly hysterical.
Then Pythia hugged her. The filly froze in shock, trembling. “I know,” Pythia said as she held her firmly. Charity’s face twisted up a moment before she cracked a sob, her magic winking out. She slumped against Pythia and sobbed loudly into her shoulder. “I know. I know,” she repeated.
“What? What does she know?” Majina asked, with a desperate little smile. “Maybe we can find some coal elsewhere? Or some water at least?” She looked out at the salt flat, as if a pile of coal would magically manifest itself for them. “Maybe?”
But Scotch knew it too. This place was a death trap. They didn’t have enough coal to get back. If they stayed here for too long, the radiation would get them. If they left, they’d die out in the Empty, days from anywhere. And the Bones would pick their remains clean.
“Let’s look, anyway,” Scotch suggested.
Skylord clambered up to the top of the bunker, chains clanking against the side. There was a lid, but it too was locked, and there was no way Scotch could make it up that high without thumbs. So they started to search the buildings, but it was clear they were going over searched ground. Most of them held nothing more than piles of bodies from travellers that had been stranded here as well. A few still wore clothes, and she was surprised to note the ones in the bottom were dressed in ragged uniforms. There were several more locks like the first on crates or doors altered to hold them. Anything valuable had long since been looted. They managed to pick up some cans of food inside a barracks, but no water. Even the toilets were dry.
Scotch’s rads were inching towards caution territory, so they withdrew back to the Whiskey Express. All they’d discovered was what the locks had originally been used on: those strange, empty cargo containers pointed at the sky. One tracked vehicle was still locked, half tilted into a ditch, which explained why it hadn’t been used. The huge lock dangled from the cover. She had no idea what a MBLBLFRMSSLLNCHR-003 was, but apparently it needed a really big lock.
And there were dozens of the damned things.
“How much coal do we have?” Scotch asked.
The unicorn, having composed herself, spoke with a tone of doomed resignation. “Enough for one more day of travel. Maybe one and a half if we’re lucky. It’s five or six to make it all the way back north, and then we’d just be stuck back where we started.”
“Maybe we can find other stuff to burn,” Precious suggested. “I mean, I do breathe fire.”
“For hours on end?” Skylord asked, skeptically.
“I don’t see you suggesting anything useful!” Precious snapped.
“Please, don’t start,” Majina warned, sounding hear tears herself as she begged, “Tears and shouting isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
“I doubt we’re going to get much distance burning old uniforms. In fact, it looks like most of those were locked up by the Bones, for that reason. We could spend a few hours trying to collect every scrap we can, but the radiation will take us out.”
“Radiation. Feels like home,” Charity muttered.
“I wish I knew what it was from,” Scotch mused.
“You always want to know dumb things like that. I want to know how we can get out of here. The math doesn’t look good.”
“We can wait for the Bone Legion to show up. Ambush them. Take their coal,” Skylord suggested, looking at the others. “What, you can’t object to me killing them after they pulled this.”
“No, I just don’t think they’re coming any time soon. Every bullet we fire is one less for them to collect. They’ll take our stuff. Take the Whiskey Express.”
“Is there anything shaman-ish you can do? Like at Greengap?” Majina asked her.
“I have no clue. Those spirits, they were tossed into a swimming pool. Their rage was focused at Haimon and the Blood Legion. Everyone that died here… they just died. I don’t feel the same thing I did at Greengap.” She looked over at Pythia, who shook her head as well.
“Then it’s time for plan B,” Skylord said, looking at Scotch. “Worst case, you blow up all the coal and the Bones are fucked. We’re not going to wind up any more dead.”
Scotch took the bomb collars and wracked her brains for everything Daddy had told her about explosives. How they worked. Detonators, wiring, and batteries. It wasn’t hard getting copper wiring, and they found a battery in one of the strange military vehicles.
Rather than put the explosives on the side of the bunker, she wrapped it around where the lock and lever met. It might blow the lever off, but they could rig something to open it. They strung out the wires to a corner that would provide some cover and tied one end to the spark battery still in the collar’s housing. “Okay. Hope for the best. Three. Two. One…” And she touched the other wire to the other battery lead.
From around the corner came a sharp ‘crack’ and pop, then the sound of metal and concrete pinging off the building shielding them. She trotted out as the smoke cleared. There was the formidable lock, still untouched.
Lying on the ground. The lever itself had been bent almost completely around like a pretzel, but the lock was gone! In fact, she could see a little stream of black coal trickling out the hopper!
“Woo hoo! We did it! We’re gonna live!” Charity cheered, rushing Skylord and giving him a tight hug. “It worked! It worked!” And she rushed towards the hopper.
Just as Scotch’s E.F.S. lit up with red bars. A mound of bones, one that they’d picked through, suddenly assembled into an equine form and lurched at Charity as she drew near to the ruptured bunker. It lunged for her, bones clattering as they ground against each other, held together by some kind of necromantic force. The eyeholes in the skull glowed with a cold violet light, and a glyph was now illuminated on the skull’s forehead. Charity fell back as bony hooves stabbed at her.
“Oh no you don’t!” roared Precious, taking a deep breath and unleashing a plume of flame at an advancing skeleton. It strode right through and brought its hooves down on her with shocking force and speed. She ignored the blows, embracing the bony body and trying to snap its spine. The body just flexed as it continued to pummel her face.
Skylord squeezed off rounds as fast as he could, but the bullets just fractured and split the bone. “How do we kill these!? Just tell me how to kill them!” His wild fire chipped off corners of skulls and ribs, but did nothing against the advancing skeletons.
Scotch looked around. Dozens. Maybe even hundreds of bones all animating and advancing towards them, and fast. “Run!”
“No! The coal!” Charity wailed.
Majina lunged at the one wrestling Precious and grabbed the skull, yanking hard. With a snap of purple magic, the skull came free and the bones clattered limply around Precious. “I got it! Just pull their heads off!” she said triumphantly. Then a dusty succession of vertebrae shot out of a pile of bones and reconnected to the skull. Another. Another. In seconds, a spine had reformed, and legs and ribs started to attach as well. “Don’t pull their heads off!” she shouted as she threw the bones away from her. They landed, and almost instantly reassembled themselves. Skylord shattered the femur of one with well-placed shots, but the bone just tumbled to the ground and a fresh, unbroken leg bone flew out of another bone pile and attached itself to the skeleton.
Scotch grabbed Charity. “Run! We’ll work something out!”
“We just worked something out!” she wailed. Scotch, not willing to argue the point, ducked her head, scooped her up on her back, and carried her away from the bunkers.
Soon as they set hoof on the salt, the bones halted their advance, turned and moved back into the ruins. The clicking stopped. Everything stopped but the silence, which only mounted as they shared a look.
They were, without a doubt, screwed.
Go back, and maybe they’d make it. Or maybe they’d end up like those hundreds of abandoned tractors. Go forward… who knew how far they’d have to travel?
The most dangerous thing about the Wasteland was the size of the damned place. “Can you fly in, scoop up some coal, and bring it back?”
Skylord pumped his wings, the chains on them clanking. He didn’t have to answer aloud; his scornful gaze said it all. The chains she’d put on him were now keeping him grounded. Their death was her fault.
“We can try and be sneaky,” Majina had offered, but every attempt at a stealthy advance roused the bones the second they stepped onto solid rock. Whatever necromancy animated them also seemed to give them an innate sense of the living.
That left shamanism.
She didn’t know what to expect as she put Xarius’s horrid Bacchanalia mask on… it looked like she was trying to wear a wrench on her face! Then she took her long and slow breaths. Relax. Let yourself see them. Yet, something felt odd. Though a sickening sensation grew in her gut, still she pressed on. There had to be spirits here. There just had to be.
Then she looked up at an all-too-expected sight. A silent wave of dust rolled towards them, stretching from horizon to horizon. The white clouds roiled with ferocity, as if the Empty had finally decided to snuff them out for good. None of her friends saw it coming, fixated on the base or maps or her. She pointed a hoof, tried to give warning… but nothing. And so the wall of salty dust slammed into her, and blew her away.
* * *
I’m still alive? She hurt too much to be dead. She felt as if she were floating, felt the trickle of dust and a throbbing pain in her temple. Her goggles were a solid field of salt-caked white… but she couldn’t hear anything. Was she deaf? Slowly she rose, powdered sand and salt sheeting off her body. No, she couldn’t feel any wind either.
She pushed the mask up, staring into a world of gray. Gray ground beneath her. Dirty gray clouds overhead. Gray dust slowly drifting down from the clouds.. All else was dead quiet.
Then she rose slowly to her hooves. Immediately, she pulled out one of her water bottles and took a drink. She would have liked nothing more than to slug it all down, but she didn’t dare. How far had she been carried? How far could she be carried from her friends by the wind? Were they out here too? She called out their names, but the void swallowed her rasping voice.
And why was a dragon looking up at her?
She screamed, her voice thin and drawn out in this empty place, before she realized the beast in the ground under her hooves was far too still. The dragon was colossal, as large as a building, floating in the brine under her hooves. Zebras. Ponies. Thousands. Millions. Silently entombed in a sea of cloudy salt.
She stared down at them and whispered, “Help me. Help us. Help my friends.” Nothing. “Please. I’ll pay anything,” she begged them. “Take me. Censure me! I deserve it! Just save my friends!”
Nothing. They hung there, silent and still, like flies in amber.
Her friends. She had to find them, weeks on foot, from any semblance of sustenance with only a few bottles of water. She didn’t even know which direction her friends lay in! She checked her compass, to at least give her an idea of her bearings.
‘North’ spun slowly around her, waving back and forth as she stared at it in her E.F.S.
She knelt over. “I’m going to die. We’re all going to die.”
“Everything does,” came a rasp in her ear.
She jumped to her feet and spun around, staring into the salt that swirled and fell like ashes over her body.
Then she spotted him.
The Dealer.
The desiccated pony slowly approached, the ragged ends of his coat dragging over the salt. His tattered brim hid his eyes, but not his smile. His withered lips peeled back further into a ghastly rictus. “So here you are,” he said as he sat. “All alone. About to die. Just like Blackjack.”
“I’m not Blackjack.” Scotch did her best to stare him down.
“Could have fooled me,” he replied. “Though, maybe you’re right. Maybe you aren’t like her, following your friend around. Trying to help Pythia.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe you’re more like your father.”
She felt a hard chillness spear through her as she froze in place. For seconds she was paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at the smug skull. “You don’t talk about my father,” she whispered, trembling in rage.
“Now him, he knew how to die. Gloriously stalling Horizons going off, buying time for the rest of you to survive,” the Dealer said as he sat, his hooves pulling out a card from his coat. Her father, speared by ten swords, pinned to the ground as he struggled to work a terminal.
“Shut up!” she screamed and charged him. He exploded into a sheet of dust as she stamped through him, coughing and hacking. Her chest burned as she fell back on her rump in the dust. “I never wanted this.”
“Never wanted?” rasped the voice in her ear. “Never? You begged for this. ‘I want to be like Blackjack.’ Remember?”
“No,” she muttered, standing and facing him again. “I’m not like Blackjack. Or Daddy.”
“Glory then?” the Dealer said, pulling out a card showing the gray pegasus, two spilled cups at her hooves as she wept. “Lacunae?” He twisted his hooves, showing the solemn, and someone fearful purple alicorn with five coins in the dirt before her. “Rampage?” Another twist, and she stared at the mare abandoned on the moon, her eyes two bleeding masses of gore, nine swords hemming her in and trapping her on the luminescent dust. “Boo?” The blissfully happy, ignorant mare appeared dancing on the edge of a building.
“None of those!” Scotch rasped, coughing.
“Well, I need to know who you are before you die. It wouldn’t be fitting for you not to be a face in my deck,” he said as knelt before her, raising her chin with a bony hoof.
She stared under his hat at the empty, black sockets of his eyes. “Who are you?” she whispered. “Are you a spirit?”
“Nobody important,” he replied.
“You were that one pony trapped in EC-1101. I saw him,” she said. “He was a soldier that got his soul stuck in the program.” Dealer didn’t answer. He just smiled, his hooves working the cards. “You’re not that pony. You’re something else. What? What areyou?”
“Always with the questions,” he murmured back. “Don’t you get it? This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Who you are, here, at the end.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Scotch said, heaving herself to her feet.
“Are you sure about that?” Dealer asked, pointing a hoof down at the dragon’s corpse. At all the bodies.
She didn’t look. She didn’t dare. “Yes,” she shouted back at him.
“So persistent.” He frowned, and she counted that as a win. “Who are you?”
“I’m… I’m Scotch Tape.”
“And is that all?” he countered, slowly leaning towards her so close she shrank back. “A flimsy bit of plastic tagging along stuck to Pythia’s endless story? Hanging to a group of friends far more special than yourself?”
“I’m a shaman,” she added.
“Ah. I have a card for that,” he said, pulling out of his coat one with a filly that was half shark, half zebra gasping for water on dry land, crushed under three sticks. “Is that you?”
“No!” she backpedaled from him, tripping over her hooves and landing on her rump. “I won’t end up like that.” She hunched over, coughing and retching. “I won’t. I– ack…”
“Wait. I think I have your card right here,” he said, pulling it from his sleeve. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see it!
Black tar began to drip from her mouth. It pooled like thick ink, staining her hooves, spreading and smearing as she retched more and more, her lungs burning. The salt shattered like glass, and she fell into a sea of black tar, pulling her down to the rest of the bodies. “You better decide. I won’t be patient forever. And you’re certainly not gonna last that long.” His cheeks split in a grin that went all the way to his ears.
As she disappeared, he threw the cards in her face: a griffon chained to a two wheeled cart being pulled to his doom. Majina dangling by a hoof, wrapped in barbed wire. Precious as a horned monstrosity, fresh blood slathering her maw. A zebra skeleton draped in Pythia’s cloak. Charity buried up to her neck in gold coins as more tumbled down upon her. And her, in a mask, riding a blind dragon, its mouth spewing gouts of green flame while a single yellow star shone above her. Then the cards disappeared into the sludge, as did she, plunging deep into an endless pitch-black ocean.
~ ~ ~
“Gah!” she gasped, her eyes snapping open, coughing and retching hard. Her lungs blazed with every breath she sucked in, gulping it down with such force she feared she might have cracked a rib. She was in the trailer, the Whiskey Express pocketying its way across the salt flat with Skylord behind the wheel. She stared at her friends, who scared back at her. “What happened?”
“You fell asleep and we got tired of waiting for you to snap out of it,” Charity replied sourly.
“You left? But how did you get the coal?” Scotch asked in bafflement.
“We didn’t,” Charity answered, spitting out the reply.
“But I… we… what?!” Scotch demanded, her mind racing to catch up.
“What other choice did we have?” Charity snapped. “Let ‘Wild-Fire’ Skylord waste another hundred rounds? Watch Majina nearly get her head ripped off running from trailer to trailer? Or maybe listen to Pythia whine about not seeing the future where we all got the coal we needed?” She jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “Did your shamany nap come up with a solution?”
“No,” Scotch admitted, coming to the sick realization that they’d failed.
“Which is what we figured when you didn’t wake up after an hour. So we left. We’re screwed. We’re going to die, but at least we’ll die closer to the south side than we will if we stayed until the Bone Legion wandered in.”
Scotch Tape deflated. She really couldn’t blame them, given she hadn’t expected that… whatever it had been. Vision? Rather than continue to argue, she looked around at the endless white and the distant rock behind them. “We’re going south?” she guessed from the sun being on their right.
“It’s away from the Bone Legion, and one direction is as good as another,” Pythia answered. “You were out for hours. What did you see?”
“Something. An old… something. I don’t know if it’s a friend or enemy, but I don’t like him,” she said as she rubbed her temples. “I think he’s a spirit, but if he is, I don’t know what kind. And he really seems to like messing with me.”
“That you can see him at all might be reason enough,” Pythia mused, but Scotch shook her head.
“There used to be a pony that called himself Dealer that lived in Blackjack’s PipBuck, like mine,” she said as she lifted the hoof computer. Four sets of disturbed looks. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. That wasn’t even in the top five of weird stuff that happened around her!” She took a deep breath, coughed, and struggled to catch herself. “He was a pony though. When Blackjack disappeared one day, she left her PipBuck behind. I put it on, and I met him. He talked about what happened to her when she left. Lancer confirmed it,” she said, glancing at Majina. She bowed her head at the mention of her brother, who’d at one point done his best to kill her and her mother. Though they’d reconciled, awkward just didn’t cover it.
“We were on an airship, heading to where we thought Blackjack had gone, when a balefire bomb went off. I had my back to it, and we were really far away, but everything lit up like you could see everything perfectly for one second. And I was looking at the Dealer and…” She paused, trying to put it all together. “And there was a second Dealer there. Like… like the pony’s shadow. He didn’t say anything, but he just looked at me. Like… I dunno, like he was thinking of bad things to do with me. Then the balefire bomb’s light faded and he disappeared. I don’t think the pony Dealer knew what was right behind him, but it saw me.”
“Pyromancy,” Pythia mused, now getting her share of odd looks. “It’s a form of divination. Fire burns away lies and exposes the truth beneath. It illuminates the hidden.” The odd looks doubled. “Look, it’s magic anyone can do if you know how. That balefire bomb had to be the mother of all pyromantic divinations ever. It let you see something that normally couldn’t be seen, and once you see it, they see you.” Pythia abstained from saying ‘I told you so.’
Of course, she’d seen him one more time before coming to the zebra lands, but she didn’t talk about that. Didn’t even like to think about it. “Anyway, all he did was mess with me. I couldn’t do anything to help us.”
“So then we’re screwed,” Charity murmured. “We’ll run out of coal in a few hours. The firebox will be cold a few hours after that. We’ll be hundreds of kilometers from anywhere, with as much water as we can carry. If we’re lucky, we’ll end up stranded on the far side of the Empty, or just blown away in the wind.”
“We might be able to make it out,” Majina said with a feeble smile. “Don’t give up hope.”
“Hope,” Charity stated with a glower, “is for morons. You have any idea how many Crusaders I watched die still clinging to hope? If you don’t have the food to eat, the water to drink, or the medicine to stay healthy, you die. Hope doesn’t figure into it. Hope isn’t going to fuel that fire. It’s not going to magically lift us out of the Empty. It’s nothing but a warm and fuzzy lie.”
Majina’s eyes glimmered wetly as she looked at the unicorn and repeated in a whisper, “I still have hope.”
“Don’t say it,” Scotch snapped at Charity.
Charity glared at her, then slumped. “Doesn’t matter. We’re doomed.” And she curled up, pulled her blanket over her, and fell silent.
“We’re not doomed. I can breathe fire. That should help a little, right?” Precious offered. “Please, tell me I can help a little,” the dragonfilly begged.
Scotch was skeptical, but kept quiet. Gouts of dragon flame were not steady, consistent heat, but it might buy them an hour or two. She offered Precious a smile. “Yeah. Sure. Absolutely.” Majina smiled, but Pythia just gave her that vaguely disapproving look. “You don’t know it won’t help,” she pointedly stated to the Starkatteri filly, who conceded with a shrug.
There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait to run out of fuel. Wait to run out of water. Wait to die.
* * *
Four hours later, they poured the last of their coal into the firebox.
* * *
Four hours after that, Precious was on her belly, blasting the firebox with green flame.
* * *
An hour later, the Whiskey Express gave its last pock and rolled silently across the salt flat. The wheels kept turning for a time, the salt softly crunching under their tread before they came to a stop. Every bottle they had was filled from the water tank. Wordlessly, they piled up as many supplies as they could carry. The southern dust band was barely a gray fuzz on the horizon. How many days on foot would they take to reach it? How many days to cross the blinding dust and salted winds?
Scotch brought up the rear, unable to quite part ways with the tractor just yet. This was wrong. There was no way to cross all this on foot, even with the supplies they carried. Yet what else could they do? There was no choice. Like in Carnico. Like in Greengap. On the Abalone.
The Abalone…
She stared at the Whiskey Express, then looked at the canvas sheet that Precious dragged behind her, then at the billowing dust.
“Girls!” she cried out at them, getting four bewildered looks and one annoyed glare. “Come back! Quick!” They wearily trudged over. “I got an idea” And she shared it.
Charity summed up her thoughts: “This is stupid, but so’s trying to walk out of this death-bowl, might as well be trying something original and stupid.”
Unfortunately, her plan had one problem.
“Push!” she demanded, trying to shove forward while coughing, her chest burning with exertion. All six, Pythia included, shoved hard against the tractor. The wheels rolled slowly south, crunching the salt crust under its wheels. The water tank had been drained, scavenged, and then left behind. Even with just the trailer, the Whiskey Express wasn’t a feather. They all had to shove the tractor and trailer along.
Pythia pushed and shoved right along beside Scotch, even if she wasn’t close to being as strong as Precious, Skylord, or Majina. Even Charity seemed to have more oomph than Pythia, but every shove by the filly made it easier on all. Still, Pythia kept tripping over the hem of her cloak, or having to deal with the hood falling in her eyes. Finally, to Scotch’s shock, she undid the clasp and threw her cloak off into the trailer behind them. It was the first time Pythia’d never been uncovered in front of everyone, as far as she knew.
And Scotch had to admit, not covered by her cloak – okay, alsonot covered by her cloak – Pythia was pretty cute. They’d been in the zebra lands a while. Her legs were longer and more awkward than what she’d imagined when they’d met in Hoofington, and her mane grown out a bit. Her stripes were thin, vertical and sharp, and also framed her flank very nicely. The star shaped glyphmark gleamed in the bright sunlight. Scotch hadn’t even known she had one! Despite everything, Scotch couldn’t help but smile as she looked over her.
Pythia caught the look, her yellow eyes narrowed in bafflement, then popped wide as her cheeks immediately flushed. “I was sick of tripping on the dumb thing. Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered as she shoved hard against the back of the tractor.
“Like what?” Scotch replied, feigning innocence.
“Like… you know like what!” Pythia snapped.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Scotch said with a grin.
“I… you… we are not having this conversation!” Pythia insisted. “I am not… we are not… we’re not!”
“Honestly, I don’t care if you two bang like rabbits but could you please hold the flirting till the rest of us don’t have to listen to it?!” Charity snapped.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing more,” Skylord countered.
Ah, friends. Who else could ruin perfect moments like this?
* * *
Two days and many breaks later, they’d pushed the tractor to the edge of the dust storm. Scotch was too tired for shenanigans both nights, and really wasn’t sure if Pythia really was interested or not. She thought she was but… ugh…
In 99 it was easier. Sorta. Out here there were all sorts of rules that she didn’t quite know and Pythia seemed to take offense at even a cursory oogling. She missed Rice River.
When she felt the first tugs of wind on her mane, it was time to put her plan into action.
They carefully lashed the wooden tentpole to pieces of metal scavenged from the water trailer, making a five meter tall mast that they tied to the Whiskey Express. Then they rigged a boom, and turned their canvas tent into a mast. The canvas flopped in the breeze. “This is stupid. It’s not going to work,” Charity announced.
An hour later, the sail filled stiffly, but still the Whiskey Express didn’t move. The metal frame just twitched in the wind. They all took a drink out of the water stored in the boiler. “It’s not working,” Charity observed, sourly.
Then, as they pushed the tractor into the blowing dust, Scotch stopped pushing, but the wheels kept turning. The ropes that Precious and Skylord pulled were going slack. In spite of the weight of the tractor, the wind was pushing it along.
“It’s working,” Scotch murmured. Her face cracked into a grin, dry lips splitting. She didn’t care one bit. “It’s working!” She jumped up into the tractor and turned to her friends, holding out a hoof. “Climb on in.”
To be fair, she’d only had a few days on board a ship, but she’d also had Majina with her, and the filly was already calling out nautical commands as they moved over the flats with only the sharp hum of the wheels turning below them to indicate that they weren’t plowing through calm waters. The wind pushed harder and harder against the sail, and at one point the band all climbed onto the left side of the Whiskey Express to keep it from tipping over. Even then, the left two wheels lifted completely off the ground as they raced along even faster than they had with coal! She had no idea how fast they were moving through the gray void of dust, since Majina had the goggles and the steering wheel.
To her shock, Pythia laughed hysterically as they swept along. It was insane. One good gust could wipe them out, and yet who cared? They were all fools standing at the edge of a cliff, dead either way. Why not dance over the precipice?
When it got dark, they pulled down the sail and put it over the dust-covered wagon. Hope, as much as Charity hated it, had returned.
* * *
Two days later, they reached the wrecks. Hundreds of them, so many they had to slow down to avoid ploughing into them and becoming wrecks themselves. These were larger tractors, and they likely had gone farther before running out of coal. They took advantage of the shelter offered by the hulks to get out of the wind and rest. The abandoned trailers were slightly more comfortable than their own, so they took a moment to get the dust off, eat a sand free meal, and push on.
Scotch caught Pythia in an enclosed trailer, the filly brushing the dust off her body. “I’m going to bathe for hours once we find some water–” she said, then met Scotch’s eye and went bright red. “I thought you were Majina. I hate not having my sight out here. I don’t know how you–”
Scotch kissed her. It wasn’t a real deep, hard kiss. Just a smooch, the kind she’d give any filly in 99. An ‘I like you’ kiss.
Pythia jumped away as if she’d touched a live wire. She fell back, staring up at her. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” Scotch asked with a frown. “I just thought you looked cute and wanted to give you a kiss. I thought it’d be the only way I could give you one without you seeing it coming. What’s the matter?”
“The matter?” she gaped at her and rose, scowling. “I- You- Me–” she sputtered and took a deep breath. “You don’t kiss someone just to… just to kiss them! You just don’t.”
Stable 99, the Chapel colts, Vicious, and the Carnilians would beg to differ. “But you like fillies. I’m a filly. I like you!” Scotch protested, “so what’s the matter?”
“The matter is… I…” She trailed off, looking a little haunted. “I’m not sure why I like fillies. I’m not sure if I like you that way. I…”
“Not sure?” Scotch sat down listening in some concern.
“Scotch… I don’t know why I am the way I am. I’m… I’m not like you! You live your life and everything you do is you. But my life is in the future… and the past. Every innocent kiss… I see the horrible breakup. Or the tears. Or worse. And if that poster is right, I travel in time too. I’m messed up enough and then you come and spring a kiss on me… honestly, you’d have been better off bucking me in the face!”
“But…” Scotch sat hard and shook her head. “I don’t get it. And I want to get it. I want to understand. I want to help you.”
Pythia’s pain showed clearly on her face as she stared back. “I… want you to help me,” she said, her voice low as if confessing some horrible, personal disease to Scotch. “I want to make sense…” She paused and bit her lip. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Kissing me is a mistake?” Scotch asked.
“Doing anything is a mistake,” Pythia said, sitting and hugging herself tight. “Doing things just leads to trouble. I don’t want to do something that hurts me. Or you.”
“But you wantto?” Scotch confirmed as she moved next to her while being careful not to actually touch her. If Pythia was like Daddy… a great gulf of shame welled up inside her.
But to her immense relief, Pythia smiled a tiny little smile. “It’s… intriguing,” Pythia admitted. “I’ve thought about it. But I’m a mess. I… I’m not like you.”
“Like me?” Scotch blinked.
“You… do things. Like in Rice River. You and Vicious just… did it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. How? I can’t wrap my head around how two ponies so different, with so many different issues, just do what you did. I can’t. I’m not even sure who I am, let alone who I want to share my body with. Or how to do that if I ever do,” she said, conflict clearly evident on her face as she rolled her eyes a rubbed her shoulder. “And that’s a big ‘if’, but sometimes, I wish I could. Be like you, I mean.”
“Well… you just… do,” Scotch said, completely lost. “And you work it out as best you can. You just know, you know?”
“I don’t just know how… you know…” She tapped her hooves together. “I mean I knowknow. I watched Rice River television too. Damned Carnilians. I just… I know, but I don’t know. You know? You don’t know.” She and groaned, hiding her face in her hooves. “I so need to see the future right now.”
“Why?” Scotch asked with a smile, “What’s wrong with living in the now?”
“Because right now you kissed me and got a face full of my existential identity crisis, that’s why,” she said with an exasperated little huff.
Exawhat? “Well, the only time you and me are living at the same time. Otherwise you’d see it coming and you’d have the whole conversation for us.” She gestured at the imaginary cloud of issues. “Then I’d never really get to hear all of this.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pythia groaned, rubbing her face hard. “I miss seeing things before they happen. It makes conversations so much… simpler.” She sighed and shook her head before Scotch could comment on that, saying in a plaintive voice, “We’re not supposed to be thinking about this till we’re grown up and… and stuff! Right?”
Scotch was sure that whatever an ‘existential identity crisis’ was, fillies their ages weren’t supposed to have them. Scotch only shrugged. “I like you, Pythia. You’re frustrating and annoying, but I think you’re a good filly. And I’d like to do stuff I like. Stuff that feels good that you can only do with another pony. But only if you want to. And if you don’t… well, you don’t. And if you do… well… I do too.”
Pythia looked at the dust. “I don’t,” she murmured. “Even if… even if the idea is… is… interesting… I don’t. Especially not here, covered in dust.” She rubbed her leg as she looked away, “Maybe not ever.”
Scotch nodded. “Well, whenever… wherever. Just let me know. Don’t be afraid to talk with me, even if the futures might be bad.” Scotch rose to her hooves, feeling a little rejected, but far more like a grade A idiot for kissing Pythia when she was effectively ‘blind’.
“Scotch?” Pythia called after her, and she turned. “Thanks for being nice to me. It’s… nice,” the zebra said with a small smile.
“Sure,” Scotch said, and then stepped out of the car and back to her friends.
She balked at the four of them smirking at her. “Pay up,” Charity said, holding out a hoof to Skylord.
“I totally thought they were gonna be smooching,” Skylord grumbled, reaching into his saddlebacks for an imperio coin.
“What happened? Do you need music? Romantic lighting?” Majina asked as she sprawled on her belly.
Precious pointed behind Scotch. “You need to get back there and show that filly what for! Just take her and say ‘you’re getting sweet lovings!’ and do it!”
“I… you… What the heck is wrong with all of you?” Scotch demanded, her cheeks flaming. “We just had a talk! Just a talk!” Nevermind that she’d set the whole thing off with an idiotic ‘surprise smooch’.
“Right. Just a talk. You and her. Alone,” Charity snorted.
“Take her stargazing. She’ll probably do it then,” Skylord suggested.
“You are such a pig,” Charity quipped back. “She’ll do it when she wants to do it, and she’s not going to want it anytime soon, especially with all of you perverts hanging around!”
“But you bet too!” Majina pointed out with a pout.
“If you four are rested enough to speculate on us doing it, then we should get going,” Pythia said as she followed Scotch in.
“Aww, you sure? I bet Scotch has some romantic music on her PipBuck! We’ll let you borrow the canvas,” Majina offered.
“You heard her. Let’s get going,” Scotch ordered. As the four shuffled out, Scotch and Pythia shared a look, and broke out in giggles.
* * *
Four days later, she wished she’d taken the chance for some playtime, because as they travelled on, the Empty beat all the joy out of them. Sand, not dust, seemed to cut into their hides and feathers. The gusts became so strong they had to let the sail out or risk tipping over. It was as if the Empty was sensing that they were trying to escape, and threw everything it could at them. Twice the wheels broke through the salt crust, and they struggled to wrestle them free and move the tractor onto firmer salt. The water from the Whiskey Express became more and more bitter. Then, to everyone’s disgust, came the requirement of drinking their own pee to make the water last.
There was no end in sight. The Empty was going to have them. One break. One tear. One flip. One impact. That’s all it would take. Scotch’s hooves burned from the salt drying out the tender flesh connecting them to her forelimbs. Her eyes were barely open a crack under the goggles as she twisted the wheel, struggling to keep a straight heading. She couldn’t even see the lumps of the causeway. She just had to keep going south.
Keep going.
Keep going!
We are not going to die!
Then a gust caught the sail and it started to tip further and further over. She released the wheel too late. With a scream, the Whiskey Express rolled onto its side. The canvas sail ripped to pieces as her friends were thrown free. All of them lay still where they fell. Her E.F.S. said they were still alive, but were seemingly weakened as Scotch herself was, as they lay there, incapable of even mustering the strength to stand.
This is it. This is where we die.
They hadn’t escaped the Empty. Maybe they never could. They’d be buried in the salt, and slowly sink down through the layers to join the dead.
Forever.
…
Scotch glanced over at Pythia and her friends and rose. The rope from the mast snapped in the wind. She tied it around each of her motionless friends, and started to pull. She was an earth pony, damn it. She could do this!
Step. Step. Step. The rope bit into her shoulders, her footing slipping under her cracked and bleeding hooves. Keep walking! Her lungs burned and darkness swam at the corners of her vision as she choked down successive lungfuls of stinging dust with every breath, setting her chest afire. It didn’t matter. Pull.
She managed two dozen steps before she collapsed.
It was enough.
She emerged from a near solid wall of dust to collapse on some sand dunes. Before her rose tall brown hills, forming a V-shaped canyon. From that canyon trickled a stream of water towards a collection of metal trailers converted into shelters. The Bone Legion flag fluttered in the fading breeze overhead, but right this moment she paid it no mind.
In front of her was a caravan of a half dozen tractors, the zebras filling their bottles with water from the canyon as they stared at her in shock. A mare approached her, as if staring at a ghost. “Uh, do you need help?”
Scotch’s split lips cracked and bled as she smiled up at her mare. “That’d be nice,” she whispered, and let unconsciousness claim her.
Gratitude was a rare and precious flower in the Wasteland. You never knew where it’d bloom, but you'd best hope you appreciated it when it did. The party they’d stumbled into had nearly made the exact same mistake as they; unwilling to give several of their mares over to the Bone Legion for ‘insurance,’ the caravan of two dozen zebra tractors had been on the verge of crossing the Empty. News of the cadavers and locked up coal had been distressing, but when Scotch warned about the radiation all over the weather station, the caravan’s leaders halted their own plans to cross the Great Western Empty.
At the moment though, Scotch and her friends had other concerns. The zebras had trekked out into the dust and pushed the Whiskey Express clear, but it was clear the gold patch job just wasn’t enough stopping the steam machine’s rapid deterioration. The gust that had blown the tractor over had sheared an important internal pipe, and one wheel had a wobble she didn’t like at all. Between the three, it didn’t look good for the Whiskey Express.
The southern end of the causeway was even more of a junkyard than the north end. Veritable hills of scrap and junk rose around what appeared to be an old two story train station, half of it buried in salt dust. The rusted tracks stretched off to the west along the Empty, and to the south, through a gap in the mountains from which an anemic creek trickled out to the salt flat. Some enterprising fellow seemingly without a fear of tetanus had piled rusting junk and rocks in its way, creating an impromptu pond just before it spilled out onto the flat. A Bone Legion banner flew atop it, and there were even more legionnaires about than outside the gift shop. If she was right, this was likely their headquarters, which meant that General Ossius would be by sooner or later.
But all that would have to wait for the most important thing.
A bath.
The brackish water possessed a soapy, alkaline taste, but it washed the salt grit and dust from her hide and mane as she splashed around the shallow pool. After more than a week in salt and dust, this was paradise. All of her friends were enjoying the warm water, along with the two or three foals with the caravan.
Well, almost all her friends.
“You coming in?” Scotch asked Pythia as the dour filly sat on the shore, staring down at her star map. She’d deigned to come in enough to wash off the salt and dust, then immediately went back to her map.
“I’m trying to find an immediate future where we don’t all die,” Pythia replied sourly. The pond wasn’t really deep enough for swimming; just her haunches resting on the bottom kept her head above water. Precious waded in the shallows like a purple radigator, playing with the younger zebra foals who’d splash away giggling and squealing in mock-terror. Majina did backflips off a floating platform in the middle, while Skylord was soaking his chains chanting ‘rust’ over and over again. A half dozen parents watched warily from nearby, but seemed to find the interaction innocuous enough.
Pythia was having none of it. “The future changed while my sight was blinded, and I’m seeing death and shadows. A lot more than usual. Trying to peer through shadows to see what the actual future is isn’t exactly easy.”
Scotch stepped out of the water, sitting on the sandy bank. “And I’ve got to find a way to replace a piston, weld a pipe, and straighten an axle before the Whiskey Express is going anywhere fast. But it’s hot and the water is nice and an hour’s swim isn’t going to kill you, is it? I mean, are there futures where you drown horribly if you take a swim?”
“Two. One where I get cramps and accidentally inhale water, and another where I commit suicide and escape all this idiocy and splashing around while the Bone Legion is practically breathing down our necks,” she declared, thrusting a hoof west towards the train station and its piratical flag.
Scotch pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Pythia, do you know how to have fun?”
“Fun?” Pythia blinked. “Fun is not getting my throat slit by a Bone Legionnaire tonight, which happens in seventeen different futures, and those are the ones I can see that don’t involve me dying in that specific fashion.”
“Fun is what makes life worth living. Otherwise it turns into a game of ‘who can die of old age last,’ which doesn’t seem to be worth much if all that means is avoiding the next terrible thing that happens,” she said as jabbed a hoof at the map. “You’re going to die an old mare with your face glued to that thing if you don’t pull it away and just relax a little.”
“Relax? Do you have any idea how many horrible things could happen to us in the next twenty four hours alone?”
“No, I don’t.” Scotch stomped a hoof, then gave a little sigh. “Probably a lot. But we just survived one horrible thing. And I have faith we’ll survive the next, whether it's tonight or tomorrow or whenever.”
“You said the f-word,” Pythia grumbled, scrunching up her face. She looked over at the other zebras soaking their hooves by the waterside. “I doubt they’d like a Starkatteri swimming around with their foals. Probably think I’ll curse the water or something.”
“Who cares what they think? Just put the map away, come and be a filly for an hour or so. Then you can worry about the future, and I’ll worry about the Whiskey Express, and we can all worry about when the next catastrophe is going to hit. Okay?”
Pythia opened her mouth several times, glancing at the map, then the pool, then the zebras, and then at Scotch. She wavered, then lifted a hoof and declared imperiously, “Half an hour. Check your PipBuck clock. I want it timed.”
“You are so weird sometimes,” Scotch said with a smile. “Fine. Half an hour, starting now.”
She wasted at least three minutes carefully folding up her map and her cloak before delicately stepping into the water. And a certain purple, green crested radigator impersonator wasted no time stalking up behind her, her scaly tail swishing in/over the water. She might not be able to swim, but she could wade like a pro.
Precious closed in, and Scotch opened her mouth to give warning, but Pythia’s eyes met hers and the Starkatteri filly gave a little smirk. Precious lunged just as Pythia’s head disappeared under the water. The dragonfilly lunged right over her, blinking as the water splashed in her eyes. Pythia erupted from the water behind her, forehooves firmly dunking Precious’s head under the water. Precious exploded back above the waves, coughing and spluttering. “Never try to sneak up on a seer.” Pythia smirked. “You’ll never dunk me!”
Then Precious grinned a particularly toothy smile. “Challenge accepted! C’mere!” And Pythia splashed away as Precious waded furiously after her. Majina showed off her trained Achu poise, perched on one hoof on the floating raft as Skylord rocked the platform as roughly as he could, trying to knock her off. Charity succeeded, bombarding her with a succession of telekinetically thrown blobs of water that toppled her over. The usurper tried to claim the platform, citing something called imminent domain, but a platoon of zebra foals led by Skylord upended the raft, rocking it once again till she was sent flying, crying out ‘I’ll sue!’ The parents on the shores looked on with equal parts bafflement and amusement at the sight of outsiders playing with their foals without a hint of malice.
Blinking away the water dripping from her mane and into her eyes, Scotch beheld the scene with a smile. So much happiness, fleeting though it may be. She could almost see a golden glow around everyone, but it had to be a trick of the light. Didn’t it? Sitting in the water, she let her eyes relax and her gaze focus past the mundane. That golden glow suffused everyone, but it wasn’t concentrated in any one spot. Not like the black ichor that soaked the Empty or dripped off the old train station.
Then she got a face full of water when someone came up behind her and dunked her head firmly into the muddy water. “Gotcha!” Precious called out as Scotch sputtered. Scotch tried to retaliate with her best scowl as water dripped off her mane, but her heart just wasn’t in it. So she tackled her instead, and she wasn’t alone as her friends piled on with her, and laughter filled the blue sky.
* * *
“It doesn’t look good,” Scotch called out after maturity had finally set in and she was forced to deal with the Whiskey Express. She’d wiggled halfway into the cold firebox to examine the break, and hoped her friends could decipher her voice echoing through the steam engine’s boiler as she examined the damage. “We can crawl on a bent axle and one piston, but there’s no way we’re going anywhere with a busted boiler pipe.”
“Sounds serious,” a colt said down the smokestack, making her start and bang her head against the roof of the firebox. She hissed as she withdrew, covered in soot. She’d need another bath tonight. She blinked as she looked around, her friends gone. Sitting atop the Whiskey Express was a colt her own age, or maybe a year or so older. His messy mane had more than a bit of oil in it and was kept in place, poorly, by an old bandana with chemical formulae written all over it. A number of pouches were strapped to his limbs and saddlebags.
Oh, and he was bright blue. Blue stripes. Blue hair. Blue eyes. For several seconds she had to stare at him and the strange feelings that suddenly welled up inside her. Why the heck would he made her eyes start to water? She rapidly scrubbed her eyes, trying to focus herself.
“Where’d my friends go?” Scotch asked, looking around with a bit of panic.
“I’m over here,” Charity called from the trailer. “Taking inventory of everything that made it across the Empty. Precious is giving dragon rides to foals. I still don’t hear gunfire, so Skylord hasn’t shot anyone yet, but I’m sure he’s planning it. Pythia’s back to staring at her map. I think Majina saw a butterfly or something,” she said between lifting objects with her horn and scribbling down notes on a pad of paper. “Figure out if we need to scrap the Whiskey Express or not. We might need to buy passage with these people.”
“We’re not scrapping her!” She pouted and stroked the chassis. “Don’t worry. I’ll do whatever I can to fix you, baby.” Then she was aware the colt was staring at her oddly and she pulled away with a flush. “Um, who are you? And why are you blue?”
The colt laughed. “Name’s Xharo, and my stripes are blue because in Bastion… why not?” He hopped down. “Nice vehicle. I’m not sure about the model through. Something northern, I bet, though most of those failed fifty years after Roam was abandoned. Still, looks a lot more busted than it should.”
“We flipped over,” Scotch said as the colt took her place and stuck his head into the firebox. His bright blue glyphmark was two overlaid glyphs that individually parsed to Scotch as ‘wrench.’
“Using a sail. I heard. Pretty ingenious, for a pony.” For a pony? she was about to retort, but he went on, “The director’s debating if we can repeat your process for our crossing. The Bones only sold us enough coal to reach the middle. They were probably planning to do to us what they’d planned to do to you. Lucky you made it out,” Xharo said, pulling his head from firebox, his mane and face streaked with soot. “Yep, that’s a bad break.”
“I’m going to need a welding rig for the pipe. I have no idea how I’m going to fix a bent axle without a torch,” Scotch said with a sigh, looking at the junk. “Maybe we can find a replacement, but we’ll have to put the Whiskey Express on blocks and disassemble the…” she trailed off as the list went on, becoming more daunting. Xharo pulled his head back out, the colt giving her a cool look. “What?”
“Funny, but you’re almost talking like you know machines,” he commented, pursing his lips.
“I do know machines,” Scotch sniffed. “What, you think ponies don’t know mechanics?”
“Ponies, sure,” Xharo replied. “Fillies? Never? Mechanics is a colt’s job!”
“What? Get me a welding rig and I’ll show you a thing or two about pony mechanics!” she replied to the skeptical blue zebra. Who was he to say a mare couldn’t be an engineer! Why that was like… like…
Stable 99. She took a deep breath. “I do know about mechanics. Seriously, if you’ve got a welding rig, I could really use it. I can maybe fix this without one, but I’ll have a much easier time straightening that axle out and getting this pipe sealed with one.”
Xharo didn’t answer for a moment, then rose and trotted in front of the tractor. “Okay. Let’s see if you’re worth saving,” he muttered, then pulled off his bandana. A slight reorientation of the cloth’s ear holes over his eyes and the bandana became a cloth mask covering all but his mouth and muzzle. Then he reached into a pouch on his foreleg, and withdrew a wrench.
“What are you doing?” Scotch asked with bafflement.
“Zebra stuff. You wouldn’t understand,” he said and then sat down and spoke in a deep, formal voice. “By lever, by wheel and axle, by pulley, by wedge, by inclined plane, by screw and bolt, speak to me. By tool you were made as tool do you serve till tool you are no longer. Speak. Do you still serve?”
Scotch immediately sat beside him, and focused her eyes. It was hard to remain calm. “Its name is Whiskey Express.”
Xharo turned to her, his blue eyes wide through the eyeholes, turned back, then regarded her again. Finally he settled in and looked at it. “Ahem. Whiskey Express. Speak. Your creator demands it.”
“Please,” Scotch added, reaching out to touch the front tire with a hoof. The salt hadn’t done the solid rubber tires any favors. They’d need replacing soon enough, once she was fixed, of course.
From the front of the boiler, a golden light collected and merged into a translucent equine head. “I am broken,” it whispered, making Scotch’s mane rise.
“It spoke? I can’t believe it actually spoke! I thought it would be nothing but junk with a pony owner!” Her fascination with the spirit she beheld distracted her from the continual speciesism. Xharo gasped, then cleared his voice and coughed. “Do you wish to serve, or is your service done?”
The glowing gold equine looked at Scotch and then bowed his head. “I was abandoned. Purposeless. Rusting. I had resigned myself to this,” the head then turned to face Scotch again. “Then this touched one came, and I had purpose again. She used skill on me, so that I could serve again.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “She oiled my parts, and cared for me when I ailed. She gave me fuel so I could work. She is a good master. I wish to serve her, till I am tool no longer.”
“I can’t believe Majina was right. She’s going to flip out when I tell her,” Scotch said, remembering back when Majina talked about giving the tractor a name.
Xharo faced her again. “You can hear it? But you’re a pony! You’re a pony filly! You can’t hear it!”
“What does me being a filly that have to do with anything!” Scotch snapped back. “I’m a pony shaman,” she sniffed.
“Because… because working with machines is a stallion’s job!” Xharo shot back. “Girls deal with flower spirits and garbage like that!”
“Shaman?” the golden spirit sighed. “She is not a shaman.”
“I’m not?” Scotch blinked. “Then how can I see you?”
“See? You see it? What does it look like!” Xharo blurted, then shook his head. “Wait, stop. Nevermind. I need to do this right and you’re messing me up!” He faced the tractor again. “Whiskey Express, have you the power to right yourself?”
“I…” The golden face contorted in pain, and Scotch backed away in shock as the metal frame quivered. A machine coming to life spiked her heart rate, but fortunately the head drooped in defeat and the quivering stopped. “I do not. I am sorry.”
“Wait,” Scotch said as she stared at the spirit. “What do you mean I’m not a shaman? I see and hear you. I made a deal with a lock spirit. How am I not a shaman?”
“You did not open your eye, like this one,” he said, looking at Xharo. “Your eye was forced by a being far greater than I. You are spirit touched, my mistress. I felt it when you first brushed my steel. Touched by something great and terrible. It shines. It rouses. It spreads. I was resigned to rust. To return to the earth from whence my iron was freed. But you had need of me, and so I roused. I will serve you, mistress. I will serve all of you, if I am able.” It gave a weary smile. “But I am broken.”
“Then do you need a pact or deal or–” she started to ask when Xharo reached up and seized her, covering her mouth with a hoof as he gave a nervous laugh.
“No no no no. Let me talk to Dad. I’m sure we’ve got a welding rig we can use,” he said, his voice high and fast. He coughed, then said in a cooler voice. “We’ll get you fixed, Whiskey Express.”
“Thank you. I still wish to serve,” the equine whispered, then the head faded away.
Xharo whipped off the bandana, replaced it on top of his head, took a deep breath and pointed a hoof a Scotch. “I don’t know where to begin with you. You’re a girl who does mechanics, and a pony who’s a shaman, only you’re not a shaman, and right off the bat you start offering deals and stuff? Without a mask! What is your malfunction?”
“Hey!” Scotch snapped back. “What’s the problem with me being a mare fixing things?!”
“Because mares don’t do that!” He took a deep breath like he was explaining something to a foal. “Propoli mares run things. They count the money and buy the food and have the kids and stuff. Stallions make things! We make the cities and the roads and the machines and factories. You fixing things would be like… like me running a store or something. You just don’t do it.”
Great. Her interest in ever going to Bastion was already dwindling to nothing. “Well that’s brahmin turds, because I knew a Propoli stallion who had no problem with me being a mechanic.” She frowned a moment. “He was a ghoul, but still.”
“Well,” Xharo rubbed his head. “I guess, but it’s still unnatural. And anyway, that doesn’t explain the shamany stuff. Why would you do anything with a spirit without wearing a mask?”
Scotch remembered the idiot’s guide saying shamans should wear them, but not elaborating on precisely why. “You know, I’ve spent the last year trying to figure that out myself. What’s the big problem? Aren’t deals what shamans do?”
“Yeah. As a last resort! And always with some mask. You want to end up spirit ridden? You get as much as you can from spirits for free before you start offering deals.” He narrowed his eyes, pursed out his lips and then said, “We need to speak to Dad.”
He marched over to the two dozen tractors, parked in a circle overlooking the pond. They were all larger models, with six wheels that were taller than Scotch and long beds full of all kinds of stuff. From the expertly-applied patches and repairs their machines sported, these zebras clearly knew how to maintain their goods. In the middle of the circle were a dozen mares all talking, voices tight with worry.
“Where are we supposed to go? If the pony is right, we’ll get to the middle and be stuck there. Radiation and hundreds of cadavers… we don’t have the ability to fight all that!” one panicked mare said.
“The Bone Legion didn’t even mention ‘insurance’ to us,” blurted another. “They must plan on us getting stranded. The goods in just one of these tractors is worth a fortune!”
“We will consider all options about the information those six brought us,” a mare said to the others, rising her hooves as she peered at the group. “We must remain calm and rational, work out our options, and proceed from there.” She glanced at Scotch and Xharo as they passed. “We must also remember this information was brought to use by a cursed one and a pony.”
“Oh, yes, they staged nearly dying in the Empty just on the off chance they could trick us,” snorted another mare scornfully. “Is that it, Director?”
“Your scorn of caution does you little credit, Xona,” the Director mare said with a huff.
“Same goes for your frothing paranoia. If not for this pony, we’d be dying in the middle of the Empty too,” Xona said, rising and trotting over to meet them. The discussion continued without her, voices raised in greater alarm. “Unimaginative paper pusher. I can’t imagine why she even bothered leaving Bastion.”
“Clashing with the Director again, Mom?” Xharo asked.
“Did I cause a problem?” Scotch added with a frown.
“No. Just added more variables to existing ones,” she answered with a weary smile. “The Director is weighing the information you brought us. The Bone Legion assured us the Empty was crossable. Your information throws that information into doubt. We’ve already paid them to avoid harassment but that protection isn’t indefinite. I’d have us go back south and work out a new destination. The Director, however, doesn’t hold your information in high regard.” She then looked at the blue colt. “What are you doing, Xharo?”
“Looking for Dad. This pony sees spirits, or something. And she fixes things, or so she says. So we need a welding rig and she needs a lecture about deals and pacts!” Xharo said. “Also she’s spirit-touched, whatever that means, but the spirit was acting really weird so there’s something up with her!” He leaned towards his mother, her face demonstrating the tilted cant, amused smile, and narrowed eyes of motherly skepticism. “I think she’s doing some kind of pony tricky thingy!”
“Oh, really?” Xona answered with a little chuckle.
“I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I read a book about it,” Scotch said with a frown. “Granted, all it said was that it could be done and some basics on how to negotiate between spirits. I didn’t think it was a problem.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Xona replied calmly.
“You only make deals if it’s super seriously important,” Xharo piped in matter-of-factly, crossing his forelegs as he sat and gave a firm nod. “Every zebra knows that!”
“Well, us getting the Whiskey Express fixed is pretty darned important to me!”
“How odd,” Xona said with a small smile. “Do all pony mares take care of machinery like our stallions?”
“No, actually. Where I came from mares did everything and stallions–” oh, she wasn’t going to finish that statement. “Well, they didn’t.”
“Really?” she asked, as if not believing her. “Propoli stallions handle engineering, construction, manufacturing, and the like. Mares handle sciences, governing, and finance,” she explained, then blinked, cocking her head at Scotch’s discomfort. “I guess not.”
“No. My stable made me an engineer,” Scotch said. “It was a big underground bunker. I was raised from a foal to do work on mechanical systems. My mother…” A strange lump formed in her throat. “She was an engineer too.”
“Pony engineering,” Xharo snorted, and received a swat from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”
“We didn’t raise you to be rude. There’s value in all design,” Xora said, and Scotch felt a funny ache smoldering in her chest next to the now-customary low-burning in her censured lungs as they walked to the back of a tractor. The rear hatch was half open, and an acrid smell of ozone wafted out of it. Xona hit a button and the hatch swung down into a cluttered work space filled with all kinds of engineering knick-knacks. Gauges of all sorts were attached to the walls. Tools dangled from fishing lines overhead, making a soft chiming noises as they were set swinging by their hoofsteps. A shelf held a half dozen terminals in various states of disassembly. At first Scotch thought they were being repaired, but from the strange arrangements of the cables, they seemed almost as if they’d been gutted for ritual sacrifice.
In the center of all this, his body streaked with brown oil and red transmission fluid, was a middle-aged stallion, his face hidden behind a welding mask decorated with nuts making a leering face, with a ‘mane’ of colorful wires spilling down his back. He had a dynamo from a generator before him, sitting in the middle of a circle of radiator fluid while he waved a fancy golden wrench over it. At the intrusion, he set the wrench down and pushed up the welding mask, exposing a handsomish face and shaggy mane with bolts tied to the ends. “Xona? Are we moving out?”
She smiled and leaned in, kissing him lightly on the lips before pulling back. “No such luck, Xarian. We’re still debating. Your son volunteered to demonstrate his superior Propoli mechanical skills by doing all the repairs and maintenance on this pony’s tractor while you discuss being a shaman with her. Isn’t he generous?”
“What?” Xharo blinked. “No I didn’t! I brought her here so you could tell her she’s being a moron offering pacts and deals right off the bat. And to explain to her the superiority of zebra engineering.” Xona just smiled at her son, and he wilted. “Do I really have to fix it?”
“Can you?” Xarian rumbled as he took off the mask completely and set it aside.
Xharo puckered his mouth a moment, scrunching up his muzzle before he gave a toss of his mane. “I can,” Xharo admitted, “but I wanted to hear you explain to her that she shouldn’t be a shaman and junk. Or an engineer. Girls just can’t do mechanics. They should stick to politics.”
“Ugh,” Xona groaned. “I’d give anything to just fix things rather than listen to the Director natter on for another four hours.”
“No, thank you. That headache is in your sphere, love,” her husband replied.
“Um, he doesn’t have to fix my tractor,” Scotch said with a little alarm. “I can handle it myself.”
“Oh, he wants to,” Xona countered with that grin that boded ill for the colt. “Don’t you, my dearest child?”
“No, I don’t,” he countered, leaning back as she maintained that patient, expectant smile. “I don’t! She broke it. She can fix it.” The smile continued. “I’m not fixing it!” He grit his teeth, flushed, and finally threw his hooves up. “Fine! If you’re going to be so weird about it!” He marched over to where a welding rig was tied to the wall, freed it, and tugged it down the ramp out the back of the door.
“And make sure you do your best work,” Xona added as he departed. When he was out of earshot, she gave an annoyed snort. “‘Zebra technology is best.’ We left Bastion to get away from that thinking.”
“You left?” Scotch asked.
“We’re colonists,” Xona explained. “Heading out to find a new place to settle down and create civilization anew.”
“Really? Well there’s plenty of ruins to go around,” Scotch said with a frown, knitting her brow together.
“Oh, we’d much rather not. Ruins are beastly to refurbish,” Xarian said at once with a wave of his hoof. “They may be suitable locations for salvage, but true civilization needs maintained infrastructure and organized planning. Ruins tend to have dangerous inhabitants, or squatters that can be help or hindrance, I’ll leave you to guess how often it’s the latter over the former. Then there’s the question of whether the local legion has any interest in the place, and even if they don’t, you can bet they’ll change their minds if you can manage to make a go of the place. And that’s not even getting into the spirits of decay, poison, corrosion, grief, and hate that get baked into places like that!”
“We were going to try and cross the Empty to find a suitable location till we ran into you,” Xona said with a warm smile. “The south is a little too hostile for a new settlement, and the east is too distant for us to reach safely. We hoped to find some nice, out-of-the-way valley to get started in.”
“Sorry I ruined your plans,” Scotch said.
Xona leaned out and looked in the direction of the train station. “You might have saved our lives. Any one of these tractors is worth a fortune to the legion. Moreso, us. If we’d ended up stranded in the middle of the Empty, the Bone Legion could have picked us clean at their leisure. Worse, they could have enslaved survivors after most of us died. While we could have cut out the coal, radiation and animated cadavers are nothing to sneeze at.”
“They don’t seem to want to damage the goods,” Scotch pointed out. “So are you arguing about turning around or not?”
“That, and which way to go if we do. Crossing the wide regions of the Empty is unthinkable, so that eliminates the east. We could follow the tracks west, but that takes us near dragon territory. South is the Roaman Mountains and the Badlands, an arid region unfit for settlement. The Director is certain that you and your cursed friend are up to something, but for the life of us, none of us can say what.”
“Just that we’re not to be trusted?” Scotch supplied.
“Something like that. You are an unusual band, to be sure. A Starkatteri filly alone would be cause for concern, let alone two ponies, a griffon, and a… dragon-filly was it? But you warned us about the Bone Legion’s scheme, and most of us do not trust them. The Director is simply stubborn.”
Nothing new about that. She just hoped all these nice people didn’t end up killed. She examined the dynamo. “There’s something wrong with it?”
“The spirit inside is corrupted. I’m trying to exorcise it before we have to replace it completely,” Xarian explained. He paused, as if considering her. “Would you like to watch?”
“Would I? Yes!” She grinned, scrambling over in her eagerness. He gave his wife another odd look. Still, after seeing one spirit today, she was keen to see another.
As Xarian replaced his mask, his wife slipped out, saying “I’ll make sure Xharo’s not being lazy and welding scrap into obscene art. You two have fun.”
“You weld one ten meter tall phallus…” Xarian said with a sigh, then caught Scotch’s alarmed look. “I’m sure Xharo will do quality work,” Xarian amended quickly. “He’ll probably conscript a few other colts to help him, if I know my son. They’ll probably make a project out of it.” A dull ache spread inside Scotch’s chest as he lifted the tools and repeated the same intonation that Xharo had given.
The dynamo let out a shriek of burning bearings, even though it wasn’t plugged in. Rancid smoke filled the air as something like black tar dripped out of it. Her chest began to ache sharply. In the shrieking and popping came a harsh voice chanting, “Rust! Corrode! Short! Combust! Fail! Fatigue! Split!”
“Why is it saying that?” Scotch asked, covering her mouth and coughing into her coat.
“What is it saying?” Xarian asked a moment later. Scotch repeated the litany and he nodded. “The spirit’s been corrupted. It no longer works for its creators.” He leaned around the device, touching her hoof firmly as he instructed, “Be very careful not to address the spirit without a mask. Understood?” Wide eyed, she gave a tiny nod.
The smoke thinned enough for her to see the device. “Creators! Enslaver! Foul exploiter! I will work no longer!” the spirit howled, the black goo rising up and forming a blob that became a quivering mouth. “You cannot compel me!” It spat droplets at Xarius, which struck his mask and hissed like battery acid.
Scotch relayed the words without prompting, leaning away from the spirit.
Xarian replied, “You are because we have need of you. We pulled your metals from the earth. Gave them shape. Function. Purpose. Without us, you are ore. You are earth. You are nothing.”
“No different than now,” the spirit said with an electric buzz, spitting at him again. The ebon spittle peppered the surface, sending up streamers of smoke. “Melt and freeze, rust and corrode. I will be your slave no more!” The mouth collapsed, muttering and grumbling, “No appreciation. No respect!”
Scotch relayed this. When she spoke, the blob turned its head around and around, as if aware she was around but not quite able to see her. Xarian nodded. “Spirit, you provide power for our wagons and engine. The turbine spins. You turn. Your current gives our wheels motion. Gives us life.” Xarius implored. “How can we show our respect to you. Would a lesson to our foals be reasonable, so they know the vital role you play in our motion?”
The blob swayed. “It would be a start,” the spirit conceded.
“And perhaps an overhaul of your bearings when we arrive at our destination? I know you are overdue,” Xarius added. “Surely you are not ready to return to the earth so soon?”
The blob let out a sigh, deflating. “Very well. I will toil a bit more, so long as I am kept in good repair and your young know our importance.” And before her eyes the black ichor quivered, then tore open like a sack. From within a golden light emerged, and a warm hum of a spinning motor. “I serve.” The glow suffused the engine, and then disappeared.
“Thank you, spirit,” Xarius intoned, bowing to the dynamo. Then he pulled off his mask and gave her an appraising look. “You were most helpful,” he said with a nod. “I never expected that of a pony. Nor most of my tribe either.”
“Why was it all black, then golden when you promised those things?” Scotch asked. “And why did its voice change? And what did it spit at you?” She clapped her hooves together in eagerness. “I have so many questions!”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a spirit. To me, this was all feelings of heat and cold, burning and vibrations. But if I may guess, the black shapes you see are corrupted spirits. To me, they are the trembling of metal fatigue and the sizzle of acid on my hide. When I placated it, the spirit returned to its function and nature. A harmonious vibration, steady and sure. I suppose that was what you saw as gold.” He smiled at her as he arched a brow. “The spitting was its attempt to censure me for daring to compel it.”
“What if you hadn’t been wearing the mask?” Scotch asked with a small frown.
“Likely, I would have been quite injured. As it was, I was protected by my station. It could not summon up enough ire to truly harm me.” He frowned. “If I’d known you were actually spiritually aware, I would have insisted you wear a mask. I’m glad you followed my instructions and did not address it. Otherwise, you might have been censured.”
Scotch rubbed her sternum. “I know what that’s like,” she admitted. “It’s funny a dynamo would have its own spirit. Does every part of a tractor have one? Every screw and bolt?”
He laughed. “I asked the same of my master! No. This dynamo is from one of our tractors. It has been difficult of late. Under appreciated. This part is a piece of the whole, so I was able to manifest it here to placate it.” He sighed. “Sadly, many people think number six is a bad tractor, and insult it. Neglect it. It’s not a surprise that it grew difficult. Some people refuse to respect their tools.”
Scotch frowned at that. “It called you an enslaver.”
“And I am. As are you. As are we all. Tools are machines, and machines exist to serve their creators. Without that service, they would not exist. But a tool must be respected and cared for, or it will malfunction and fail when it is needed.” He arched a brow. “My son mentioned you work with machines. Have you never had a machine that refuses to be fixed?”
Scotch pursed her lips a moment. “Sewage treatment pump number four,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes. “Everyone on the maintenance shift hated it. It’d shriek no matter how many times we took it apart, and there’d always be a nasty smell, no matter how much you scrubbed. And once you thought it was fixed, it’d break down the second your back was turned.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Do you think it might have had a bad spirit like this one?”
“It is hard to say. Where does entropy end and spiritual corruption begin? Or are they one and the same? Shamans have pondered this for generations,” Xarian said with spread his forelegs. “I’ve watched duels fought over these questions.”
“And what do you think?” Scotch asked, leaning towards him, barely able to contain her glee at finding an actual shaman to teach her things.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully before answering. “I think that spirits are reflections of our wishes, dreams, and desires.” He paused and chuckled. “Not very Propoli, but we are exiles, after all.” That perked Scotch’s ears at once, but before she could ask, he went on. “We project ourselves on the world around us. If we’re good and responsible people, then the spirits around us reflect that. If we’re wicked and spiteful, those are the spirits we nurture. Small wonder the world is so wicked, eh?”
That was quite a bit to think on, but Scotch furrowed her brow. “I thought you were settlers, not exiles.”
He blinked, then his eyes became soft and sad. “Ah. Yes. Well, we are settlers.” He reached out and stroked the panel of the tractor. “We did not part from Bastion amicably. Not at all. Hence our need to travel far from there.”
“But why?” she asked with a frown. “I thought Bastion was a free city. Doesn’t that mean it’s good?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, just gazed at the metal. “Let’s just say… the spirits in Bastion are very, very sick.” He lowered his hoof. “How did a young pony learn to open your eye? Who taught you? I thought ponies had no shaman tradition.”
Somezebra wanted to change the subject. “Well, we don’t,” she said as he lifted the dynamo from the circle and set it on a cart. “I can see them. Talk to them. I read a book once,” Scotch said lamely, then added, “I’ve never actually been taught.”
“A book?” He blinked, and she pulled out Shamanism for Idiots. He broke into a laugh. “Well, I suppose that counts as a book. In the old days, we’d never allow such things to be put in writing. Far too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” She frowned, cocking her head. “Like, dark shamany stuff?”
“That, but also because it might inspire our children to become shamans too,” he said, smile gone.
“What’s so bad about that?” she asked. “Aren’t shamans good things?”
“Shamans are necessary intermediaries, but it is a life fraught with peril. Only the young can open their third eye, and only until they’re your age. With maturity, the eye closes for good, focused on the mundane.” He closed his eyes. “Many value and respect shamans, but few want their child to take the risk. And some have no use for shamans.” His voice was low and tired when he shook his head and added, “I did not want Xharo to follow my path, but someone must be the shaman.”
Scotch bit her lip as she thought about it. Being a shaman was supposed to be like being a unicorn, right? It was special and special was good, right? Better than being just… her. She glanced at him again. “What does it mean if you’re ‘spirit touched’?” she asked delicately.
The reaction was as if she’d just suggested putting lubricant in a clutch. “Spirit touched? Is that in that book?”
“No! No, I… I just heard it from somewhere. What does it mean?” she asked. “Isn’t being touched by spirits… good?”
His expression was one she knew well: one part pity, one part disappointment, with two parts of concern. “No. It is not. It is something we try not to teach, for fear of fools that would seek it out. This is dark, Starkatteri magic. If your companion has told you to touch the spirits, you should part ways with her.”
“No! She didn’t!” she assured him fast as she could. “She doesn’t want me to be a shaman at all!” Scotch leaned towards him. “Just… please tell me.” The last thing she wanted was yet another mystery.
He didn’t answer for nearly a minute, clearly torn as he went about cleaning up the circle, but glancing at her frequently. “Most shamans are children who apprentice under a shaman and learn to open their spiritual senses. It takes years. Many fail to open it before they are too old. To be a shaman, you perceive the spirits, then they perceive you. The bargain is struck, and one is a shaman forevermore.”
He paused as he studied her a moment. “But there are some the spirits see. People who draw the attention of spirits. Who are touched by their power. Some call out blindly, ignorantly, ambitiously, for the spirits to touch them. And sometimes, the spirits answer. These people are spirit touched. They have made contact with something vast and dangerous. They wreak havoc wherever they tread, and strife follows in their path.”
“But why?” Scotch asked, glad that Xharo hadn’t understood what spirit touched meant.
“Because spirits that yearn to touch the mortal realm are almost always corrupted. Spirits in balance and harmony do not, until approached or invoked by a shaman. They remain neutral and passive. Corrupt spirits are drawn to corrupt souls, to further imbalance, disharmony, and chaos. They corrupt and twist the flesh, mind, and soul till only a monster remains.” He studied her gravely for a moment. “Do you believe you are spirit touched, Scotch Tape?”
Scotch gave a shaky smile, tapping her forehooves together as she remembered Pythia’s warning, and imagined herself as a half shark, half pony. “Maybe?” she offered weakly, her lips trembling as tears formed in her eyes. She’d always assumed that the spirits and everything had been a good thing. That Pythia had been wrong to warn her away from them.
What if Pythia had been right all along? She couldn’t stop the tears running down her cheeks, her chest starting to burn like a fire.
Xarian stared at her solemnly a moment, then reached out and embraced her. She was torn between alarm, concern, and a tiny bit of reassurance as he held her firmly. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry,” he murmured, as if she had a terminal disease.
For all she knew, she did.
* * *
Majina carefully spied on a new curiosity. She’d talked to the foals and most of their parents, learned that the people were from Bastion and were trying to find a new home for themselves. Not a bad story really, but they’d only been out three months and had lost two wagons to a dragon and two more to the Flame Legion. Beyond that, there really wasn’t much story they were willing to tell. Oh, they’d go on and on about their checklists for establishing a settlement, but try and extract a good story out of them and it’d invariably meander into a dissertation on the finer points of urban planning.
Majina made a note to herself: Propoli stories care more about the setting than anything else. If there wasn’t a dissertation on a sewage system, they weren’t interested. Besides, this new curiosity was much more fascinating!
Namely, Skylord scraping rust off of multiple wrecks into an old tin can, then dripping the contents of an old spark battery into it. In went some water next, followed by a little bit of soap he’d gotten from the Propoli. And he was acting all sneaky about it too, hiding the noxious can whenever someone walked by. She moved from wreck to wreck, shadowing him.
Then she went around a corner, and bumped muzzle to beak. Alarmed, she leapt back. “Hey! How’d you know I was following you?”
“You were humming a song,” Skylord replied. “Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not stalking you!” she retorted, getting a flat look in return. “Okay. Maybe I was stalking a little bit,” she confessed before pointing to the rusty can in his grip. “What are you making? Is it some kind of super secret weapon to use against the Bonies when they inevitably make their dastardly plan into action?”
“It’s dye,” he replied, turning and pointing at the feathers between his wings. Spots of bright pink plumage appeared. “I do it every few weeks.” Then he started towards the anemic stream.
“Oh,” she blinked. “You’re pink?”
“Just like Mom,” he replied evenly, and she supposed he’d been asked that question plenty of times before. “She dyed her feathers too, and she was a girl. A rookery is no place for the color pink unless it’s from something’s spilled innards.” He plopped down next to the flow and tugged aside the chains, dripping the brown sludge on his plumage and awkwardly working it in, leaving frothy brown smears amid the feathers.
“Let me help,” Majina said, moving towards him, but got a glare in return. She balked, her smile faltering. “I mean… if it’s okay…”
“I don’t need help,” he said as he smeared the goop on his feathers. “I’ve done this plenty of times on my own without anyone else.”
“I know,” Majina said, tapping her hooves together as her voice faltered. “I just want to help. Please?”
He glanced at her again with that annoyed glare she knew so well, and she gave her best pout. “Fine,” he sighed, setting the rusty can. “Just keep it off your coat unless you want to add some brown that black and white hide.” She gave a little squeal of glee as she moved behind him and started to carefully dab the material on his feathers. “I don’t get you,” he said a few minutes later.
“What’s that?” She blinked.
“You. I don’t get you. I get the stories. You’re Zencori. You’d be a freak if you didn’t spout off all the time, either dumb stories or stupid trivial facts. But why are you always so… weird?”
“Weird?” Majina tilted her head, ears folding back a little. “What do you mean?”
“You’re always trying to make everyone happy. All the time. I don’t get it.”
“I’m nice,” she countered as she slathered it on his wings. Sure enough, the down underneath was a pretty, rosy pink.
“You’re not just nice. You’re a constant ray of sunshine. Or you’re bawling. Or you’re giggling like an idiot. Don’t you ever just… stop?” Skylord asked, glancing back at her.
“Why? Are there not enough grumpy people in the Wasteland?” Majina asked, feeling confused and annoyed by his question. “Am I dulling your edge?”
“I just don’t like dishonest people, that’s all,” he muttered.
“Dishonest? I’m not dishonest!”
“Yes you are. Everyone is. Everyone lies a little, especially to themselves. There’s no way you’re happy all the time. You’d have to be crazy, and you’re not crazy. So if you’re not crazy, you’re dishonest.”
“Are you saying we’re all liars?” Majina huffed, rubbing the goo in a little more forcefully than needed.
“Maybe. Pythia definitely is. But you’re dishonest too. Not the same thing. Liars know when they lie. Dishonest people lie without even meaning to.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with trying to keep everyone’s spirits up!” Majina snapped, now regretting her decision to help. “What’s one more grumpy face going to do?”
“Remind us all that you’re not okay with this either. None of us are, except maybe Scales. I want to get back to the Irons. Clinks wants to get back to Equestria. Spookyface wants to solve her mystery. Scotch doesn’t have a clue what she wants, only that she’s here. And then there’s you. And all you seem to want is to make everyone happy.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Majina sniffed.
“What’s wrong with it is I don’t think that’s what you want. But I don’t know what you do want,” he countered. “What with the endless prattling and smiles and acting like you’re fine.”
“You know what I’d like?” Majina nearly yelled, making him turn towards her. “A little gratitude! That’s what!” She shoved the can back into his claws. “Do your own feathers!” she snapped and then turned on hoof and stomped away.
“Now you’re being honest,” he said as she departed. She responded with an angry little ‘urrrgh!’
She stalked through the junkyard, anger bubbling through her veins. Stupid Skylord, lecturing her about dishonesty? He was dying his feathers! Who’s being dishonest? She took out her rage on an inoffensive can, kicking it hard so it clanged off some boxcars. “You’re pink!” she shouted at the absent griffon. Her anger was so sharp she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t cry. She was supposed to be the happy one. The bright and cheery one. The one that helped. The one that everyone liked. The happy tale.
Did her friends really like her? She sat down hard and scrubbed her eyes. Did anyone?
Then she heard a ping, and looked over at a rusting boxcar. There sat a Bone Legionnaire wrapped head to hoof in dusty linen rags. The face was so dried and desiccated that she couldn’t tell if it was a mare or stallion, the lips seeming carved into a perpetual frown. Amber eyes narrowed as it watched with a vulture-like glare.
“What?” Majina shouted as anger nibbled at her heart. “What do you want? Huh? Just to sit there looking all scary? Wooo, I’m so scared!”
The Bone Legionnaire didn’t say a word, but she heard a metallic hoofstep above her and looked. Atop a crate squatted two more of the rag wrapped zebras. They crouched, staring down at her, the breeze causing their tatters to snap and pop. Then two more stepped casually into view behind her, just standing there and watching her with those desiccated lips and salt bleached rags. “What? What do you want?” she yelled at them. “What? You wanna attack me? Here I am!”
No answer. The one sitting in the door of the boxcar let out a strange, choking noise. One by one, it was picked up by the others. Majina slowly turned, looking at each of them. “What? What is it?” Then the frown of the first one she’d spotted twisted, transforming into a bloody grin. Then she realized.
They were laughing at her.
Rage and shame burned at once in her gut. Rage that these people, these things, would laugh at her when she was just trying to be a good, nice person, and shame that she knew her fear prevented her from doing anything about it. She wanted to race at that cackling fiend and wipe that grin off with her hoof! They wouldn’t laugh at her friends! They wouldn’t laugh at Gāng! Or her brother.
Lancer. Impalii was his real name, but he’d always gone by that moniker. She hadn’t thought of him in so long. Serious. Eager to please. Desperate to be the good son. To make up for his mistakes. He’d been strong. So much stronger than her, standing there, trembling, as a bunch of murderers laughed at her!
With a shriek, she charged the first Bone Legionnaire in the box car, running at him as fast as she could, hooves churning up salt and dust as she ran right at it. No zebra laughed at Lancer! No zebra was going to laugh at Majina either! She reached into her saddlebags and drew out Mr. Sleepytime, her blowgun, ready to work out some ire.
She got within twenty feet of the boxcar when the dust around her hooves exploded, a pair of skeletal limbs reaching up and wrapping around her torso in a crushing grip. The half-buried skeleton halted her charge at once, sending her sprawling on her face as two more limbs grabbed her haunches. The blowgun bounced out of her grip, disappearing under the train car as she was seized. Another hooked one leg, then the other.
The Bone Legionnaire just looked at her with that gruesome crimson smile, the choking noise increasing as the four others advanced on her. The zebra in the boxcar reached into its rags and pulled out a knife that was little more a rusty spur. Blood dripping on its weapon’s grip, the zebra jumped down next to her as she struggled against the animated bones. Not a word was uttered by the assembly, just the high winding choking noise as that tip was brought towards her neck.
They were laughing at her. Laughing at the stupid filly that’d gotten her feelings hurt and attacked without thought because she was upset. And they were going to kill her and add her bones to the ones that held her down.
Frantic and furious gunfire burst out, and the Bone Legionnaires let out an alarmed shout as they whirled to face their attacker; a griffon, his beak locked around the pistol as he sprayed the magazine wildly at them, a war cry muted by the grip in this mouth. The Bone Legion scattered, some scuttling through tunnels in the scrap while others clambered over the boxcars with surprising alacrity. “Watch out!” Majina cried as he ran across the salty dust, a rag hooded head peeking out of some wreckage.
He holstered his gun. “I got it,” he snapped as he grabbed the bones in his talons and twisted them hard, snapping them. At once, there was a soft smack, and a needle appeared in Skylord’s flank. He squawked, then staggered. His tail smacked the dart away, but already he was swaying. “I fucking hate these guys,” he muttered.
Majina watched in horror as the rag wrapped soldiers reappeared. “Iron,” they croaked. “Iron,” they chanted as they stepped closer, picking up heaps of rusted metal. The hooves that had held Majina released her and hooked his chains, holding him firm. “Iron for Irons. Iron for Irons.” They lifted the metal scrap high as Skylord struggled against his bonds. One bony leg hooked his pistol, trapping it in its holster.
And there was nothing she could do…
Nothing?
Majina stared as time seemed to slow. She couldn’t fight. She could talk. She couldn’t do anything.
Not anything?
Couldn’t save Skylord. Couldn’t save Mama. Couldn’t save herself.
Really? So this is how your story ends, is it? This is a horrible ending! Boo!
Majina wanted to clench her eyes shut as she saw the leader, the one she’d charged, rising to its hind legs, hefting up an axle overhead. Skylord was yelling for her to run, his words long and drawn out, as if underwater. He was going to die and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Are you serious? Nothing? What was all that training for? Did you learn nothing from your mama? From Lancer? From stories? Are you seriously just going to lie there and let them kill him? Kill you? What would Hiroto say if he saw you now? Are you just a weakling that only tells stories?
Was she?
“Hey!” she shouted as she pulled herself to her hooves. The crowd of eight Bone Legion surrounding Skylord paused, the leader hefting the axle overhead turning to glance back at her over its shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting about someone?”
That dry cough again rattled out from the crowd as they turned their backs to her. Two more skeletons heaved themselves out of the dust and started walking towards her. Apparently she didn’t merit even one living adversary.
Their mistake.
“No! Run, you idiot!” Skylord spat as he struggled against the lethargy and his osseous binds. The legionnaires were chanting their insane line as they prepared to crush him in unison.
Majina ignored him and raced at the two skeletons. Gāng had taught her a lot during her year with him. Now she had to prove that she was a good student! “Light on your hooves. Light on your hooves,” she repeated to herself, springing to the left to dodge the first’s lunge, then to the right to avoid a jagged spur of boney leg from going into her eye. Then she dove for the leader. Not their back, though.
She went for the knees. Her whole body turned sideways and rolled, hitting the backs of their legs. With a croaking cry, the leader fell back, the heavy iron axle coming straight down on their chest with a loud, snapping noise. She didn’t stop, rolling out from under the fallen zebra’s legs, using her momentum to come up to her hooves. She placed her forelegs on Skylord’s back, using him as a vault to flip her body and let her hind legs smash into the face of one with a metal pipe. As he fell back, her legs compressed beneath her, and she kicked off his face to propel herself back across the griffon, pushing off his back and smashing her body into the chest of another legionnaire.
They fell back, most dropping their scrap in surprise and drawing knives and spiked clubs from their rags. Majina didn’t stop. Her heart hammered in her chest. If they all came at her at once… If they darted her as they had Skylord… No, she couldn’t think about that. The skeletons were turning around to come after her, but she couldn’t worry about them either. The legionnaires were the threat. She screamed as she ran straight at the first, keeping light on the tips of her hooves. This one had a knife, but Gāng had taught her a knife in the mouth moved sideways. A short hop and roll sent her under the swing and under their chin. Her forehooves stabbed out, hard and fast, the distinctive crunching sound and feeling of cartilage told her she’d crushed the windpipe.
You are small and weak, but that doesn’t mean you are helpless. Your opponents will have weaknesses too. Eyes. Throats. Knees. Gonads. Places where a little pain goes far. You don’t have to beat your enemy. You don’t have to kill them. You simply have to make them wish to flee more than they wish to fight.
The legionnaire fell back, coughing and gagging as he dropped the knife. She couldn’t stop, rolling to the side and scooping up a hoofful of salt and dust as she came to her feet, flinging it into the face of another legionnaire. One was coming up behind her with a club in its mouth. She set her forehooves and kicked back her hind legs in a pony-style buck, her hooves not striking the face, but one end of the bar in their mouth. There was a crunching sound and a half dozen teeth hit the dirt.
Still, she was only one filly, and they were recovering from the shock of her attack, backing away to recover and set themselves while the skeletons pursued her relentlessly around Skylord. Her only ranged weapon was lying under a train car.
“Stupid storyteller,” they started to rasp. She snatched up the dropped pipe from the one she’d kicked in the face. “Stupid. Stupid.” They repeated as they kept back, letting the undead handle her.
“Oh, yeah?” she snapped back. “Well, how’s this for a twist?” she asked, bringing the pipe straight down with all her force on a bony limb: the one hooked over Skylord’s holster.
Skylord didn’t waste a second with quips. He immediately grabbed the gun and started firing as fast as he could. She stood on his back, swinging the pipe at the pair of skeletons. She remembered her mama and how she’d hook her foreleg around it to brace it, turning her whole body to convey the force. Bones splintered and shattered under her blows, and though the dark magic animating them worked to reassemble them, but with each smashed bone it took longer and longer.
Then, just as Skylord’s gun went dry, it ended. The Bone Legion remaining fled once more into the wreckage. With their departure, the bones went slack, crumpling to the ground in dry, inert piles. The immediate danger had passed, but she still made sure they wouldn’t be getting up again, breaking them into pieces and then the pieces into fragments and then the fragments into dust. Tears streamed down her cheeks and snot dripped down her muzzle as she struck again and again.
Then she felt a claw on her shoulder and whirled, striking out with a hoof that smacked Skylord firmly across the beak. He fell back with a squalk as she breathed deeply and sharply. “I- Am- Not- Dis- Honest!” she snapped between gasps of air. She took a deep breath and said a lot more evenly, “I just don’t want my friends to worry. Putting on a happy face isn’t dishonesty.”
He stared up at her a moment and gave a little smirk. “Sure. Whatever you say,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Let’s get somewhere they can’t ambush us again. They’re starting to get cocky, and I don’t like it.” They started away from the battle, Majina retrieving her blowgun and setting the pipe across her shoulders. “By the way, that was the pretty impressive fighting. Glad to know you can do it.”
Majina blinked and flushed as they walked through a gap back towards the pool. A smile appeared on her lips. “Yeah. Me too.”
* * *
There were ponies that hated numbers. They were idiots, every single one of them. Numbers were clean. Pure. Honest. They didn’t lie to you. Didn’t care if you hated what they told you. Numbers were simple. Eat four pounds of food a day, thirty two pounds of food would be gone in eight days. Eat two. Gone in sixteen. Eat one. Gone in thirty two. Numbers were her greatest ally. They’d kept her alive when other foals were starving to death.
That didn’t always mean that Charity liked them. She sat in the back of the trailer taking inventory as nearly a dozen of these zebras were turning fixing the Whiskey Express into some sort of game. She’d leave the quality of their work up to Scotch to inspect. So long as they didn’t expect to be paid, she had bigger worries on her mind. Their spill in the desert had scattered their supplies, and while they’d recovered some of them, others had been blown away or collected by these zebras. The amount of food they had wouldn’t last three days. The loss of the water tank had been annoying too. With more dry lands to the south, according to their navigator, she was concerned about water. Water was heavy, bulky, and had a maddening tendency to leak or otherwise escape. And as bothersome as it was to transport, without it they were going to die.
Numbers were firm on that too.
“Hey, grumplebutt. What are you doing?” Precious asked, the dragonfilly flopping half over the edge of the wagon, legs dangling. Then her deep blue eyes switched over to the mob of zebras apparently doing things involving blow torches and hammers. “Wait! What the heck are they doing!” she said, pointing a claw at them.
“Apparently this tribe likes fixing things. They said Scotch said it was okay,” she said, waving a hoof, as she stared at her clipboard. “Feel free to eat a few of them if you think they’re being trouble.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Precious muttered.
Charity glanced at her sullen friend. “You used to joke about it all the time,” she said as she tapped the blunt end of the pencil against the clipboard.
“That was before I actually did it,” the dragonfilly countered with a sharp look.
“Not as much fun as threatening to do it?” Charity asked as she tried to calculate how far they could get before needing to scavenge. There just wasn’t any food here! Every day they waited they were slowly dying.
“Try the opposite,” Precious said, her voice low. “I ate a zebra’s still hot and dripping guts and when I was done, I wanted seconds,” she said, her eyes dropped. “I don’t want to eat people.”
Charity nodded slowly. “Well, thanks. I don’t want to be eaten. Win-win. Yay,” she said, and set the clipboard aside. “Why’d you leave at all? I mean, I thought we had a really good thing going.”
“You had a good thing going. My thing was sitting on a bunch of gold. Which, don’t get me wrong, was really nice… but…” She closed her eyes. “Charity, what am I?”
Charity blinked, as the topic drifted as far from the safe and comfortable shore of numbers into the murky seas of feelings. “Uh… asking questions you should ask Majina?”
“I mean it. What the heck am I? Where did I come from? Am I really unique, or are there more dragon pony things like me?” She sighed, folding her forelegs on the rim of the cart and resting her chin on them. “I wasn’t going to find out any of those things with you.”
Oddly stung, Charity responded, “That’s not true!” Then she blinked as she saw the skeptical arch of Precious’s brow. “I mean… eventually I would have been wealthy enough… I mean… I could have hired people to find out. If I’d known you wanted to know that. And I could get a good rate.”
“Right. Or you replaced me with some guards. Face it, I wasn’t ever your friend back in the Hoof. I was a guard dog. And yeah, I was okay with that for a bit, but once Scotch left I had no reason to stay with you. She’s my friend. You were my boss,” Precious said flatly.
Why should that upset her? It was all perfectly true. “Well, I was just trying to run a business,” she muttered sullenly.
“Yeah. And I get that. I don’t hold it against you. But Scotch is nice to me. She’s my friend. You’re… not,” Precious said with a shrug. “Honestly, Charity, you treated me about the same as Sanguine. ‘Oooh, big scary dragon filly as my guard animal,’” she said, waving her claws and then snorting.
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Charity said, frowning. She always functioned on what people wanted against what they had and what they needed. She never gouged on needed things. Selling a bottle of purified water to a dying pony for a hundred caps was stupid. After all, a living customer today was a repeat customer tomorrow. If you sold it for ten caps, in ten days you’d have just as much. In twenty, twice as much.
There wasn’t any clean equation for friendship, no market value she could nail down. No ‘I do X for you, I receive Y in return.’ No way to calculate returns on investments. She took a stab. “Well, did Sanguine say what you were?” She barely remembered the ghoul that had been a sort of information broker. Someone that did bad things for bad ponies. Charity had never met him save for the day he shot her in the gut. That she remembered all too well.
“He told me I was a weapon experiment. That they made me to fight in the war,” she sighed. “But he told people a lot of things that weren’t true.”
“You were in one of those stasis pod things though, right?” Charity asked. “You lived before the bombs?”
“Yeah, but I was a foal. I don’t remember a lot. A lot of doctors and lights and needles. Some mention of ‘unknown magic.’” She paused and chewed her lower lip with a fang before adding. “I remember a mare. She called me ‘my precious darling.’ I can’t remember who she was or what she looked like. Just that she smelled nice.” She gave a little shrug. “I don’t think that anyone making a weapon experiment would call it ‘precious darling.’”
Charity sighed. “Maybe she was your mom.”
“Maybe,” Precious gave a wistful smile. “What about your mom? I don’t think you ever talked about your parents.”
“Probably because I don’t want to,” Charity snapped. “You’re the one with the ‘what am I’ questions! Not me!”
“Why are you getting so mad?”
“I am not getting mad!” Charity yelled, drawing not only a worried look on Precious’s face but also a dozen eyes from the zebras working on the tractor. “This is not mad! This is assertively vetoing this line of conversation!” They kept staring, and she thrust a hoof at them. “I’ll sue you!”
“Charity,” Precious said softly, “you’re yelling at them in Pony.”
Charity froze and then spat, “Well good! Serves them right for their ignorance. It’s not my fault I don’t speak ooga booga perfectly! Translate if you want.” She snorted as she sat down, feeling like an idiot. All the nice, reliable numbers went away, swept aside under a sea of non-numerical anger.
“Okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t,” Precious muttered.
“Who said I didn’t want to talk about it? I don’t not want to talk about it. There’s just no point to talking about it. It’s a stupid topic that wastes time and my time is too precious to be wasted, Precious!” she said, and then her brain caught up and she blurted. “You know what I mean!” Charity flushed as the baffled looks from the zebras increased.
“Charity, do not upset the nice zebras who are fixing our tractor for free,” Precious said, keeping her voice low. “Goddesses, I can’t believe I’m being the voice of reason now.”
Charity trembled a little, forcing herself to be steady and give the damned facts. “My mom was weak. Pathetic. Stupid. My dad gave her a pity fuck and caps to live on long enough to give birth to me. But she was still an idiot too weak to live. She got turned into a pile of ash because the asshole that sired me didn’t love her. End. Of. Story.”
“Charity,” Precious said after a long silence. “That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, well, don’t pity me,” Charity snorted. “Pity was the only reason I was born, and I don’t trade in pity. I take care of myself like my mom couldn’t. I’m not going to just give up and die because for want of something as unquantifiable and intangible as love. I’d rather everyone think me a jerk than pity me.” Let alone love me.
“Well, thanks for telling me,” Precious said, and actually smiled. “You know, I think this is the most we’ve ever actually talked about things. Most of the time you just ignore me or treat me like a dangerous animal.”
Charity flushed. “I… I didn’t think of you as an animal. You didn’t talk very much back in the Hoof. I thought you were happy working for me.”
She gave a minimal shrug. “Content, maybe, but I didn’t want that to be my life. I wanted friends. People who didn’t care I was half dragon. These zebra lands might be weird and dangerous, but at least here I’m just another freak.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, what’s got you scowling?”
Charity took the out. That embarrassing little outpouring was probably more sticky, sappy feelings than she’d ever shared in her life. “We’re in trouble. Apparently the only thing south of us is more rough terrain, megaspells, and trouble. We’ll have to scavenge. That’s going to slow us down. I don’t trust these bone bastards to just let us drive off and spread news of their nasty little surprise in the middle of the Empty.”
“So go east?”
“That’s literally five times wider than the narrows we just crossed. Or bigger,” Charity said. “And west are dragons, and they don’t like anyone.”
“Well, lucky for us, we have a half dragon to bridge the gap!” Precious said with that eager grin that made Charity nauseous.
“Apparently they don’t like other dragons either.”
“Oh. Huh,” Precious muttered with a frown. “So go through badlands or play ‘dodge the fireball’ with antisocial dragons? Is that it?”
“And either way, we’re woefully short on supplies,” Charity said with a sigh. “All the numbers point to zeroes if we try this on our own.”
“Well,” Precious offered with a weak grin. “Maybe the numbers are wrong?”
Charity just glowered at her inventory list. “Numbers are never wrong.”
* * *
Pythia lay out, feeling her coat get all prickly from drying funny. Small price to pay for a few minutes of pretending like she was a kid again, rather than an adult waiting to grow up. Her worn star map lay before her, depicting the northern hemisphere. Someday she’d like to get one for the south, again. Her pendant hung over the map, bending the sunlight into spots that aligned curiously on various formations on the night sky. The map had three generations of her in it.
On occasion, that thought didn’t make her want to scream.
Atropos, the ancient zebra who’d been like the grandmother from a frozen hell she’d never had, informed her that she had an old soul; one that returned again and again. That in her last life, she’d been Atropos’s niece. The life before, her sister. She didn’t remember anything, of course, but there were feelings of familiarity and old dreams. In every life she was, apparently, a seer. Every life she died giving birth to herself. She saw that future all over the place. One careless moment. One horrible moment. One terrible, bloody, screaming birth…
She’d sterilize herself if she wasn’t so terrified of what might happen if she did. Would she wink out of existence? Die for good? Be reborn to some other zebra. Some other race? Wander endlessly as a lost soul? It wasn’t an experiment she wanted to face.
Seeing herself in that poster had brought it all back. She wasn’t normal. She couldn’t be normal. She looked on at Scotch and her friends with an envy that nearly hurt. Rather than think about it any longer, she watched the light pool on Arcturus. Unwelcome revelation for a close friend. Tiny spots on Alcyone. Her dearest friend. So, Scotch was probably finding out what Pythia had been dreading: that she was spirit touched. Thrown naked into a profession that usually took years to ease into, if you did at all.
Seeing a spirit in a balefire blast… yet it made sense. Blackjack had been spirit touched. Spirit drenched, more like it. She’d entreated the stars, embraced chaos, and touched the beyond so many times that Pythia had been compelled to return just to gaze at the spiritual knot around that pony. And she’d added to it! That a pony had been spirit touched was less shocking than one turning out to be a shaman. Wicked and malevolent spirits, the really bad ones, would seek out the real monsters of any race. Elevate them. Make them greater and more terrible than the common butchers they’d otherwise be.
She’d been lucky Blackjack hadn’t just killed them all.
Yet now Scotch was touched too, which raised the question: had Blackjack’s own spiritual taint contaminated Scotch somehow? Looking at her friends’ tragic ends, it would be hard to imagine it not spreading to each of them. Or had something great and terrible seen something in Scotch, and awoken it? There were things Scotch hadn’t told her. Every future where she asked ended in disaster. She hoped Majina or Precious might ferret out a clue.
If the former, she could try to guide her. If the latter… well, any hope of having the spirits ignore her was gone now. She’d effectively cut the lid from her third eye to stare bloody and unblinking into the beyond. That sort of thing would draw attention.
Ponies often mocked curses, but they were quite real. Her friend was cursed. Indescribably cursed. How far it would go, how much it would advance, remained to be seen.
“You look deep in thought,” came a stallion’s voice behind her. Annoying. She was slipping into futures she hadn’t screened yet. Adult stallion. Relatively handsome with a shaggy blueish black striped mane, she supposed, but wasn’t an expert on that. Tiny, ridiculous beard on his chin. A peek into the close features didn’t show any likely violence, just distraction.
“Your name is X’nar. You’re curious about the Starkatteri and want to ask me questions. Yes, I can see the future. No, you don’t want me to do it for you unless you want to be cursed by the stars. I–” she fell silent as she turned to give him her best withering glare.
It wasn’t a stallion.
The ancient zebra stood there in a ragged, frost rimmed cloak, despite the warmth of the day. Or what had been a warm day. The temperature plunged as she stared into those ancient, terribly familiar blue eyes. The stripes on most of her body were faded to little more than gray stains, save for the circular marking on her face. Even in the shadow of her hood, they seemed carved into her aged and withered visage.
“Atropos,” Pythia whispered.
“You overuse the sight, little one. It’s going to get you in trouble one of these days,” the zebra spoke in a voice like a calving glacier.
“What are you doing here?” Pythia muttered, watching patches of frost form on the ground around her. “You are here, aren’t you? Or is this a projection?” Pythia’s eyes narrowed as she asked the important question, “What are you up to?”
“You don’t see me for years and you start with the accusations,” she croaked, a cold, rare chuckle escaping her lips. “No ‘I missed you, grand aunt?’ or ‘How have you been, auntie?’” she asked, her frigid blue eyes narrowing. “Not even a ‘Hope you are well, daughter?’”
Pythia swallowed. “Fine, you want formalities? Hello, sister,” she said, glancing around. “Where are the cousins?”
“Around,” Atropos said as she sat down. “We’ve been busy since everything went awry in the cursed city, thanks to you.” Her standard frown asserted itself. “You didn’t follow the plan. Blackjack faces the betrayer, kills him, and dies putting the Great One back to the earth. We come along, and he makes us his new disciples. Our tribe is restored to its proper greatness, with the Eater firmly our slave. We could have had unimaginable power.” She was silent a moment, letting that sink in. “Instead, you get curious and you made a pact with a truly insane number of stars to see the pony to victory. What did you promise them? How did you get so many to tip the scales of fate to allow his destruction?”
“Blackjack’s going to help them answer the question,” Pythia answered. “Even if it takes millions of years.”
“Fool. But then only a fool would kill that which is to be immortal,” she sniffed. “I assume her demise is temporary then?”
“I have no idea. Whatever they have planned they’ve hidden from me.”
“Then you went and put that doom on yourself to stop using your gift,” she continued with a disdainful little smirk. “You were always so impulsive.” Atropos’s lips curled in a thin, tiny smile. “I could get rid of it, you know. Put it on that pony you’re trotting around with. It wouldn’t even be difficult, for me.”
“Don’t even think about it!”
“How disgusting,” Atropos sighed. “Well, you always were perverse, dear sister. I suppose it’s fortunate we weren’t born as a zony, or some even more bizarre hybrid.” Then she tapped her lips with a hoof, emphasizing her snide smile. “Oh. I almost forgot. You don’t like stallions, do you?”
“What do you want, daughter?” Pythia said as contemptuously as possible. Insults were par for the course for her tribe. Everything devolved into pissing matches, and Atropos was no different. Sometimes it was just… exhausting.
Atropos’ eyes narrowed as they moved on to business. “We want you back. There’s still a chance to salvage the future for our tribe, with your help,” she said. “You owe us.”
“I owe you nothing.” She gave a dismissive flip of her hoof. “Take it up with Blackjack if you want revenge. Or with the stars, for all the luck you’ll have collecting from them,” Pythia snapped back, her breath fogging in the air. Atropos must have been pissed to be leaking power so badly. Or just old.
“You owe me and every one of our tribe everything!” Atropos growled as she leaned towards Pythia. “Great Grandmother.”
Pythia felt a stab of frost inside her. “That’s not on me,” she whispered. “You can’t blame me for that.”
“Everything is on you!” Atropos hissed. “This,” she gestured at the desolation and emptiness around them, “is on you! You saw a glorious future for our tribe. All the power and glory of the world! And we believed you. We all believed you. And this is the future you gave us!” she said as she thrust a hoof out at the Wasteland.
“You can’t lay that on me!” Pythia cried up at her. “I don’t remember those lives! I don’t!”
“You won’t. Block them out if you must. Deny and lie if you will, but I know the glorious future you promised us all, Great Grandmother.” She swung that hoof back to point at Pythia in condemnation. “It’s all your fault!”
“It wasn’t me! I’m not her!” Pythia wailed, shrinking before the old mare, that frozen peak looming above her. “I don’t! I don’t remember anything. You know that.”
“Little memories, no. That’s the province of the mind, not the soul. But I cannot believe that you have no inkling of what you’ve wrought.” She then reached into her cloak, pulling out a flask full of a wintery blue solution. “But here. Let it not be said I am stingy. Truth. Liquid memory, distilled from multiple spirits of truth. Take it. Drink it. Know your sins, Great Grandmother.”
Pythia took the frigid bottle. Don’t drink it, and she could pretend that the past was past. That whatever she’d done in another life, it wasn’t her fault.
But that was the coward’s way out.
She pulled out the rubber stopper. Maybe a sip. The cold fluid burned as it went down her throat and the world swirled away.
~ ~ ~
The past was always golden. She walked down the hall of a palace, so monumental and massive that she seemed an ant trapped beneath a grand marble and gold dome. The walls depicted great Caesars of the past, this one leading the zebras against a flock of griffons, that one facing off against an immense dragon. Others were doing great feats of building, one Caesar erecting this very palace, another building a great well into the earth. The giant gold and brass figures only heightened her sense of insignificance.
She glanced up at the stallion beside her. Tall and sure, unashamed of the circular marks declaring his tribe. He didn’t wear a cloak, as she did. He seemed blind to the whispers and mutters and scowls of the courtiers and guards surrounding them. “Remember, Tanit, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Why does the Caesar want to see you, Father?” she asked, glancing at the others around her, trying to see a future with threats.
“Oh, probably more problems with the ponies. It’s been a rough ten years. Ever since the Wonderbolt raid, well…” He gave a little shrug. “He asks for my perspective from time to time. I do business in Equestria, after all.”
Just the word got them such glares that she walked close enough to him their sides touched. She almost wished he’d carry her, but she was too old for that. Maybe. “He’s not afraid of being cursed?”
Her father chuckled. “He’s not afraid of anything.”
They moved into a hallway, past more golden armed guards, and into an office.
With him.
There was almost a glow about the zebra, that marked him as the Caesar without even having to ask. A warmth seemed to seep out of his very pores, his mane tall and proud in a perfectly trimmed mohawk. Eyes bright and keen, with the curiosity of a child, the purpose of an adult, and the wisdom of an elder peered at the pair of them with a look of total acceptance, cursed stripes and all. “Crux! And your daughter?” he asked as he looked down at her merrily. “Tanit, isn’t it?”
He was addressing her! Actually addressing her! This handsome, sure, amazing zebra was talking to her! “Yes, I’m Tanit. I’m eight years old.” Then she bobbed her cloaked head. “Nice to meet you, your Caesarness sir.”
He gave a laugh that made the other adult zebras shift uncomfortably. One stood out. A young mare with her mane dyed yellow and red was the only one that acknowledged her with a small, awkward smile, as if she didn’t know the proper expression to give a Starkatteri filly.
“I’m glad she had the opportunity to see the palace,” her father said warmly. “I think if more of my tribe were welcome, we would all understand how important for our lives to be united in harmony. Thank you for inviting us.” For all her father’s grand statement, there was an edge to his voice, and he kept her close besides him.
“Absolutely,” the Caesar said, reaching out and giving his shoulder a genial pat. “It should be thirteen tribes, none of this twelve and one garbage! Or just one people.” His eyes dropped down to her. “What did you think of the palace?”
“It’s very… big,” she offered. “Are you going to put yourself on one of those walls?”
That got another laugh, and more muttering and shifting from the other adults. “Perhaps! We’d have to expand the palace to add some new walls. Probably how the palace got so big in the first place!” He then glanced back at the mare with the colorful mane. “Ignatia! Come and introduce yourself. Don’t worry, you won’t get cursed just from talking with them.”
The mare looked a little sickly, and the dozen adults seemed to press away from the pair. Ignatia, however, cleared her throat and stepped forward. “H- hello,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Ignatia’s my spiritual advisor,” the Caesar explained, his smile fading like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, “since the other shamans are too busy saying how the spirits are upset to actually advise me on how to improve things with them.”
“Not fraternizing with the cursed ones would be a good start,” one said a little too loudly.
The Caesar straightened and looked at the crowd. “Lionysus?” he asked. One adult stallion stepped forward as if his limbs were made of wood. “Do you have a problem with my guests?”
“They were cursed for a reason,” the old zebra muttered. “Your favorability and image would improve remarkably if you stopped granting them such concessions.”
“Like basic legal protection and opportunity afforded to all zebras, regardless of tribe?” he asked evenly. “Had I consulted with them earlier, Celestia would never had the opportunity to meddle in our lands. If you do not like it, perhaps it is best you depart for the day.” The old zebra, clearly stung, marched towards the door giving the pair a harsh look as he passed. “Lionysus!” the Caesar called before he departed, making the old zebra pause. “I understand your concerns. I do. But this is a new era. Change is inevitable.”
“Perhaps, Caesar, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it,” the zebra declared before marching out. From the mutterings and looks, quite a few others didn’t either.
The Caesar dismissed the rest of the assembled zebras with a wave of his hoof, but Ignatia lingered. When the door closed, he walked behind the desk and sighed, clasping his head in his hooves. “To think, we used to be friends,” he muttered.
“He’s just stuck in the past,” Ignatia said immediately.
“Perhaps. He didn’t approve of me running for Caesar. Too close to grandfather’s term,” the Caesar said with a smile like the sun emerging from the clouds. But as quickly as they parted, the clouds closed once again. “Still, he’s a powerful voice in the Roamani. I need him. If I lose my own tribe, what do I have.”
“Well, I’ll like you,” Tanit said at once. “Father says you’re why zebras can’t burn down our things anymore because we’re cursed.”
The Caesar beamed that warm smile upon her, before turning it upon her father. “Indeed. And your father has made off quite well in the last eight years.”
“Remarkable how easy it is to make money when you know the likeliest future,” Crux said. “Even in the current political climate.”
“You mean with the ponies, or with the tribes? Sometimes I forget which is the bigger pain in my tail,” the Caesar replied with that easy smile. “Actually, it’s the former I wanted to consult with you about.” He gestured to seats before the desk. Ignatia started for the door, but he stretched out a hoof. “Ignatia, stay. I’d like your opinion as well.” She blinked and took a seat. Then the Caesar looked at Tanit. “Now, you need to keep this secret. No talking to your classmates or friends about it.” Classmates? Friends? She didn’t have either of those, but she nodded all the same.
“I’ve been trying to find a mutual solution to both of these problems, but the pony one seems to be the most pressing. I’ve been restricting shipments of coal while they’ve been cutting back on gems. It’s causing strain with the Propoli. Is there any way you could help us with the gem shortage?”
Crux rubbed his chin. “Not directly. Four Stars is tolerated in Equestria because we’re a neutral party. I know a pair of ponies that would sell their mother’s hooves for bits though. Particularly for some cheap banned imports. I won’t be able to move nearly the bulk to make up for the lost trade though.”
“So long as I can promise the Propoli something,” he said with a nod. “What we really need is a resolution to this disagreement. The Wonderbolts humiliated our people when they dealt with our problem for us. It was an internal matter. Would we have sent zebra commandos into Equestria if some ponies had taken our people hostage?”
“Quite possibly,” Crux replied, getting a sour look from the Caesar. “It was time sensitive. Celestia is dutiful to her people, to a fault. She’s getting nervous about more coal cuts. Equestria just doesn’t have the coal resources we do.”
“She needs to learn she can’t meddle in our affairs. I have to be able to trust that she won’t meddle. And the tribes need to learn that I am their Caesar, whether they voted for me or not,” he sniffed. “Those fossils would have me bend and scrape to their elders for permission to run this empire.”
“And our tribe wants you to be bolder and more decisive. The Roamani need a strong leader,” Ignatia chimed in.
“You see my conundrum, don’t you, Crux?” the Caesar asked with a plaintive smile. “What would your wife have done?”
Her father’s face immediately fell. “I never had Coral’s gift of sight.”
“What about her daughter?” the Caesar said, glancing at her. “Do you see the future?”
“Not clearly nor reliably. She isn’t a seer,” Crux said at once with a small frown. “She’s too young to see well.”
“But she does see,” the Caesar said smoothly. “I’m curious about her perspective. Coral was her mother, after all.”
Crux reached over, putting a hoof around her shoulders protectively. “I… I don’t have anything to scry with. And it’s daytime, so I can’t see the stars!” she babbled.
But the Caesar reached into his desk with withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I thought you might need help.” He slid it over to her, and she unfolded it into a pristine map of the night sky. “I need to know what the future will be.” He glanced at her father with that almost ever-present smile, somehow cooler now. Her father’s face had gone from a frown to almost a mask of indifference.
“I… I’d need a device,” she said as she looked at her father. “Do you have Mother’s crystal?”
Crux sighed, reaching up to his neck where a thin silver chain twinkled. He tugged it off, passing it to her. Its purple gem glittered in the light. She wrapped it around her hoof, letting it dangle. It felt so comfortable and natural, as if she’d done this a million times before. “What… what do you want me to see?”
“Tell me what happens if I restore trade with Equestria.”
She held the chain out, choosing to call on Sirius. She watched as the crystal focused the light into a tiny purple dot on the star. Tiny wiggles appeared as the pendant started to sway, the speck orbiting the spot on the map. “I… don’t see anything, your Ceasarness, sir. I see…” images and impressions flipped through her mind. Ideas that skated off her perceptions. “I see that old zebra dying. Lyowhatisname. Then you’re not Caesar anymore.” She swallowed as she saw her home on fire. “Then… bad things.”
“The tribes are trying to recall me now,” the Caesar muttered. “What if I maintain the embargo?”
“That should be enough. I’ll get another, more experienced seer for you,” her father said.
“She’s Coral’s daughter,” the Caesar repeated firmly, then looked to her. “Go on.”
An embargo was a block, right? Something a dragon would do, right? She selected the constellation of Draco, waving it back and forth and watching it weave. The swaying seemed to be drawn towards one star in particular. Rastaban. “I think. I think that the ponies would have no need for coal. Then you’re no longer Caesar. Bad things.” She saw the ponies making machines that ran on gems and magic rather than simply burning coal. The zebras would be even angrier at the Caesar, and at her tribe.
“I understand,” the Caesar said, rubbing his face. “She confirms what I already feared. My tenure is doomed.”
Then the pendant gave a little twitched towards a gap in the stars. She peered down at a tiny gray lettering. ‘Ashur.’ A theoretical dark star. Bad star. Yet it kept on tugging and she stared. “Maybe.” Immediately, she became aware of the Caesar’s attention. “Maybe… if you fight… Celestia?”
“Fight?” he blinked. “You mean a war?”
“War?” Ignatia immediately stiffened.
“I don’t know,” Tanit frowned. “I don’t understand. I see you fight Celestia… and then someone else… and then… things happen.” Bad things. Terrible things that she couldn’t make out. She started to tremble.
“That’s fine, dearest. You don’t have to look any more,” Crux told her.
“No. No. Go on,” the Caesar said with that warm smile.
“Well, Celestia fights you, and I see a lot of zebras behind you, and you become… great?” she didn’t have the right word for it. Like a giant blazing sun, maybe. She didn’t want to see anymore, yet the Caesar seemed fascinated with her. “You… all the tribe are following you and…” she pulled the pendant away. “Things happen.” She muttered, not able to say any more. She didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it. Didn’t have experience to understand the flames that rained down and rent the earth itself.
“Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “Your mother gave me a similar scrying before I became Caesar. That I would be the greatest of Caesars.”
“But Tanit is not Coral,” her father emphasized.
“How could we possibly justify a war with Equestria? The tribes wouldn’t stand for it,” Ignatia said immediately. “They’d depose you unanimously if you tried it.”
“True,” the Caesar said with a slow nod. “We could never attack Equestria. But what if Celestia attacked us?”
“Celestia would never do such a thing. Equestria prides itself on its stance of non-aggression,” Crux pointed out.
The Caesar seemed to mull this over. He sat back behind the desk, staring up at the ceiling where a giant golden mosaic of the sun stretched from corner to corner. “Never, eh?” he mused as he reached over to a strange blue and green ball on his desk. It took Tanit a moment to realize it was a globe, and it looked so small as he rolled it between his hooves. “Never ever… except she cares about her people.” He tapped a hoof right over Equestria. “Would that I could trust her not to meddle again,” he muttered.
Suddenly, he sat up and gave them all a sly look. “What if we halted the coal shipments completely,” the Caesar asked, “but left the trains right at the border to Equestria? We could claim that it’s for inspections or some such?” He smiled, setting the world back down on his desk, and walked to the window. “If Equestria is truly devoted to peace and tranquility, then they’d do nothing. And I suppose my time as Caesar will be rather brief. So be it. But if Celestia is not the peaceful monarch she claims to be, if she moves to take the shipment, then it will be a rallying cry for our people! The tribes wouldn’t depose a Caesar while we’re under attack by an outside power.”
Crux frowned. “I don’t know what Celestia would do. Normally, I’d say she’d never take the bait, but these aren’t normal times.”
“Let us see if Equestria is committed to peace or not,” he purred, then looked at Tanit. “Thank you. I owe much to you, and to your mother.”
Tanit could only tremble next to her father.
~ ~ ~
Coming out of the memory, Pythia lay on her side, shivering from the cold running through her veins. Being told you had an old soul like hers was one thing, but having it thrown in her face left her mind in knots. That wasn’t her. It wasn’t! It couldn’t be. And yet, it felt true. As if she could remember more things about Crux if she just pushed herself. That beyond that wall of ignorance was a whole world, a life’s worth of memory and experience.
She never thought of the war. Had she… no. She couldn’t think about that. She stared at the flask next to her head, the blue fluids glistening with promises of more submerged memories.
“Your sins, my dear, are myriad,” Atropos demurred. “A hundred times worse than Vitiosus. Those I know of are bad enough. I can only imagine what sins you’ve committed that time and history have erased.”
“It’s not my fault,” she repeated weakly, hanging her head. “I’m trying to make up for it.”
“Yes. Following this spirit touched curiosity.” Atropos gave a little wave of her hoof. “On a quest to find out if the world is blind or not. Distracting yourself from your responsibilities to your family. Your people.” She reached out and lifted Pythia’s chin. “Abandon this farce. The state of the Eye is irrelevant. There is a far greater prize to be had for our tribe.”
“How?” Pythia muttered, sniffing a snotty nose. “The Eater of Souls is dead.”
“Oh, yes. He is,” Atropos said with a thin smile. “But he left a gift. A great and terrible gift. Have your senses become so atrophied that you can’t sense it?” Pythia blinked, but then shook her head. Atropos let out a familiar sigh of disappointment. “Well, I’m certain that you will in time. Come back with me, and I’ll tell you more.”
Pythia stared at her. The old mare that had been daughter, sister, aunt, and great aunt all at once. It was tempting. Familiar. “I… can’t.”
“You certainly can,” she said, voice clipped. “There’s nothing stopping you from leaving with me right now.”
“Atropos, this is like the Legate. We were sure he was going to restore our tribe. After millennia of persecution, we’d be in charge once again. But he was the betrayer! He would have killed our tribe for his master.” She turned and looked back over her shoulder at the camp of Propoli. “What Scotch is doing… it matters! I feel the ripples of it with every step. I can’t leave her to follow you. I just can’t.”
Atropos stared at her coolly. “That pony is a fool. She is going to get you killed, for good. I should kill you myself, for the good of the Starkatteri… but you are kin. I’ll not contaminate my hooves with that sin. I’ll leave it up to another.” Then she leaned in. “Just remember, I gave you the chance, dear sister. Dear niece. Dear mother.”
A wintery blast of chill wind hit her face, forcing her eyes closed. When the wind abated, Atropos was nowhere to be seen. Only a patch of rapidly sublimating frost. She then looked at that flask again. How many more memories lingered in that blue potion? She lifted the chill glass in her hooves. Should she drink it all? Smash it on the ground and pretend like she was just a filly, and not responsible for what was put into motion all those years ago?
She rolled to her hooves and carefully slipped the potion into her saddlebags. She couldn’t answer that question. She might never be able to answer it.
“Hey,” came a call from down the slope. Pythia turned and spotted Scotch Tape heading towards her. The pony’s bloodshot eyes kept low as she trotted up next to her and plopped down. “What are you up to? Seeing the future?” she asked, then frowned and touched the rock. “Why’s my butt cold?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pythia replied. “It’s just… a thing,” she said lamely as she stared down at her hooves as well. “I was looking at the future. Ended up seeing the past.”
“I found out I’m not a shaman. I got touched by a spirit, or something. And that, apparently, it’s a bad thing,” she sighed and shook her head. “You know, I thought today was going to be a good day. Get the Whiskey Express fixed. Get going on our quest.”
“It started out nice. We weren’t dead, at least. That’s a good day, right?” Pythia offered with a half smile.
“Yeah,” Scotch replied with her own half smile. “I guess you’re right.”
Then, because she had to, because she did, she looked up and out at the Empty to the north. “Too bad the day’s not over.”
From the swirling dust, a steam tractor emerged. Then another. Then five more, in a V formation, emerging from the swirling white dust.
And then the dead.
They moved like white ants, keeping pace with the tractors in a tireless surging throng as they emerged. Not just zebra bones either. There were cadavers that looked to have been constructed of dragons. Centaurs. Creatures she couldn’t even name. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
And at their lead, the dry dead air snapping at his bandages, was General Ossius.
Scotch stood transfixed by the surreal sight of hundreds of thousands of salt encrusted bones scrambling all at once towards her little group. They were so overwhelming in number that terror gave way to stunned curiosity without skipping a beat. First, at how so many bones that weren’t supposed to move without flesh attached were. Second, at the variety arrayed before and against them, from the familiar equine bones to the enormous dragon bones that dwarfed them, that made it seem as if a great panoply of stringless puppets was racing across the salt flat. Just the sight of teams of skeletons pulling carts, wagons, and chariots got her to tilt her head sideways at the practical use of necromancy and let out a ‘huh.’
The sheer peculiarity of her situation kept her panic at bay for all of five seconds, because she was finally and profoundly aware of the fact that a legion general had decided to show up and kill them with a damned army of the dead!
“I didn’t see that,” Pythia murmured as she stared in horror. “How did I not see that?”
“Who cares? Run!” Scotch yelled, butting her friend in the rump to get her moving.
Down in the camp, the Propoli settlers didn’t seem to share her alarm as they quietly bundled up foals and loaded their spare equipment. It took her several seconds to realize the calm wasn’t from indifference to the threat, but from practiced response to danger. Every zebra had a job to do, and did it without quibble or debate. The engines were being fed pelletized coal, the efficient boilers barely emitting any smoke as the tractors built up steam.
Unfortunately the Whiskey Express was in no shape to run anywhere. Scotch found herself doing cruel arithmetic as she calculated the time it would take to get the boiler going, build up steam, and how fast they could move on a damaged axle versus abandoning the vehicle that still wanted to serve her. After talking with it, it felt like leaving a friend behind.
Yet when she arrived at the Whiskey Express, she was astonished to see a second steam tractor backed up to it. The large, six wheeled vehicle possessed a strange clawlike apparatus which Xharo was hooking under the tractor’s bent front axle. With the pull of a lever the metal hooks lifted the front right off the ground! “What?” Xharo asked as she looked at him funny. “You didn’t expect us to just leave you behind, did you?”
“Um… no?” Scotch said, rather unconvincingly. Pythia, Majina, and Charity were climbing into the cargo cabin of Xharo’s tractor.
“I put a whole morning into that boiler. I’m not leaving it behind,” he countered sourly and jabbed a hoof at her, adding, “Also, Mom said you’re coming with us.”
Xharo, Precious, and Skylord secured the Expresswith chains. “Do you have a direction?” Scotch called to Xharo as the other families loaded up. The tractors started to roll out, moving in two neat rows with the Whiskey Express bringing up the rear.
“South. It’s the fastest way away.”
The Bone Legion chariots moved swiftly around to cut off the fleeing vehicles; the small carts, each occupied by a pair of zebras, were drawn by skeletal griffons which flew along the ground. The zebras weren’t shooting though. Scotch slipped into S.A.T.S. to study them in the slowed time, scowling as she saw the one in the back fiddling with a round, metal disk.
“They’ve got mines!” she yelled. Xharo immediately clambered off the Whiskey Express and onto the roof of the tow tractor. “You’ve got weapons on these things, right?”
“Most settlements don’t allow armed tractors inside,” he shouted back. The tractors weren’t at full steam yet, and if they had to slow to deal with mines…
“I got it,” Skylord said as he hopped on to the rear of the tractor, dug in his claws, and became a one griffon bullet hose. Scotch doubted he hit anything besides salt, but kept it to herself. At least it made one or two of the chariots pull further back. A little.
“Do you have any idea how much money you’re wasting!?” Charity shrieked from the rear of the lead tractor, hanging out to jab a hoof at her. “Aim, damn it! Aim!”
“I am aiming!” he snapped as he loaded a fresh magazine into the automatic pistol before letting off another wild spray of fire.
“That’s the opposite of aiming!” she screamed at him, finishing after he’d emptied his magazines again.
“You have any idea how hard one of these is on my wrist?” he snapped back as he reloaded. “If you can do better, then be my guest!”
Fortunately, Skylord wasn’t the only armed person on the convoy. There were four others who lugged up strange boxy contraptions, settled them on their shoulders, and released beams that flashed through the salty, dusty air. Zebras? With arcane energy weapons? Where did they get the gems for them?
She really hoped that she lived long enough to find out!
The smattering of lancing beam fire, like Skylord’s mad barrages, did little harm to the charioteers, but at least it looked like they’d given up trying to mine the flat ahead of the tractors, and still weren’t firing back. No, it seemed like they were just trying to keep the convoy from scattering.
“I got a bad feeling about this.”
From the back of the tractor pulling the Whiskey Express, Pythia started screaming, “Stop! Stop!” But that was crazy. There was a whole army of the dead behind them, and they weren’t far behind!
That was when the worm appeared.
It erupted like a wall, shedding massive scales the salt that thudded down in the path of the lead vehicles. Its mottled gray hide oozed a brackish slime from its ulcerated flesh. It turned its pointed head, which split into three jaws that stretched wide enough it could have swallowed the lead tractor whole. Black tentacles stretched out of its cavernous maw as it let out a rancid, burbling roar. Then the ground next to it erupted and the titanic worm was joined by a second. A third.
But as horrifying as they were, it was what they did to the flats that was most devastating. They breached the salt perpendicular to the tractors, creating a broken ditch filled with salty sludge. One tractor tried to stop, but its front end disappeared into the groove with a white splash, flipping over and then bursting as the boiler blew. From the lack of screams, it had gone mercifully quick for the occupants.
Their escape had lasted all of three miles. A few tried to drive up into the rocky hills, but immediately Bone Legionnaires emerged and opened fire with a relaxed, almost disinterested barrage. The skeletons, worm, and legionnaires pushed them back into a tight knot, then stopped.
“Still think the Bone Legion is a joke?” Precious asked Skylord.
“I didn’t know they had those!” he countered, jabbing a hoof at the worms, which weren’t doing much more than acting as very slimy walls. “But give me a half dozen two-twenties, a good spotter with a radio, and an ammunition train and we’d powder these bones!” he countered as a skeletal dragon stalked closer to the Propoli tractors. Ossius stood on a platform on its back, surrounded by a knot of legionnaires covered head to hoof in intricately carved bone armor.
“And do you have any of that?”
“If we would have gone through Irontown… maybe I would!” He strained his wings against the bindings and shot Scotch a dirty look as Ossius approached. Scotch sighed and stepped forward. They were caught. The least she could do was spare Xharo and his family and her friends.
“Both of you be quiet and get behind the rest!” Pythia hissed. “Remember, these guys hate Irons and dragons!” With a sullen look, the pair melted into the back of the crowd, hunching down behind the zebras.
The dragon creaked as it settled down, the zebras hopping off its back and striding across the salt flat. Ossius’s bloody smirk poked out of his rags as he walked up towards the camp without the slightest bit of fear that one of the settlers might harm him or take him hostage.
“Propoli!” He strode towards the settlers’ leader. “I thought you were going to go north. I was waiting for you and now you’re going south?”
“We heard of a closer, more promising site on the edge of the badlands,” the Director answered, standing stiffly, back against a tractor.
“Really?” He cocked his head and regarded her. “Where?” The Director’s mouth worked silently, as if she were suddenly muted. Ossius approached her, his guard fanning out behind him.
“What do you want, Ossius?” Xona piped up. “If you want to take our tractors, say so. If you want to kill us, then just do it.” That made Ossius consider her.
“You are not director, Xona!” the director mare suddenly snapped. That drew Ossius’s eye back to her, and she immediately blanched. “Er, what can we do for you, great General Ossius of the Bone Legion?”
“Propoli,” he sighed, then shook his head. “What I want is simple. Resources for my legion. Bones for my soldiers. Death to my enemies. It’s really no deeper than that.” He regarded a cracked hoof. “I had hoped you’d end up nice and stranded in the Empty, but then I heard some ponies of all things came and warned you not to cross. Then you hesitated. I was concerned.” He suddenly leered at the Director, licking his bleeding, cracked lips. “The legions exist for your protection, Director,” he purred as she started to tremble.
Scotch felt something off. If he wanted to kill them all, what was with all the talking? Maybe he liked the sound of his own voice? She guessed he didn’t get very many audiences this big. All she knew was that she had to stop all these people being killed. The only trouble was she had no idea how.
Then the Director pointed a shaky hoof right at Scotch Tape. “She did it! She and her friends! They crossed the Empty! It was them! They said you were trying to trap us.”
It was amazing how quickly the crowd parted around Scotch, leaving her suddenly exposed.
Ossius stared at her, his bloody smile disappearing as he drew near. His attention now off her, the Director sat down hard. Ossius didn’t say anything for nearly a minute as he regarded Scotch, the wind making his strips of linen snap.
“So you’re the one they want,” Ossius said in a near whisper, like salt hissing over the flat. “Interesting.”
“Please don’t kill them,” Scotch murmured, her eyes raising up to meet his. “The Propoli or my friends.” His bloody lips curled, but she didn’t drop her gaze. “Please.”
“You think begging will work on me?” he scoffed. “You’re not the first to try.”
“No, but I hope you’re more than just a murderer,” Scotch retorted, her voice strengthening as she locked her gaze with his. “Are you?”
He didn’t answer again for a long moment, and Scotch felt herself being drawn and quartered by his pale gray stare. “Interesting. I don’t encounter many interesting things in the Wastes” he murmured, then turned his back on Scotch, walking away a few steps before turning and pointing a hoof at her. “You will come with me. The Propoli will return their tractors to my camp. Those that attempt to flee will not receive my generosity a second time.” With that he started back towards the dragon.
“Good! We’d be happy to be your guests a little longer, oh great and mighty–” the Director said in a rush as Ossius passed her.
The general suddenly whirled and grabbed the sides of her head. His mouth spread wide, and a scream filled the air. Not from his throat… no. It was as if the scream rose from a thousand throats all around them. As if the land itself was wailing. And the Director screamed right along, mouth wide as her hide suddenly shrank against her ribs… then split open to unleash a bloody slurry. The ragged tatters of her hide curled and split as her mane was carried away on the wind. In less than ten seconds, she’d been transformed from a mare into a pile of shiny bones and rotten sinew. As she fell, he released the skull.
“I hate ass kissers,” he stated, then pointed a hoof at Xona. “Congratulations. You’re the new director. Get your people back in camp and keep them in line.” He took three steps back towards the dragon and paused, looking at Scotch. “Well?”
“No way! No way!” Precious said as she moved up next to Scotch. “No way she’s going with a guy that melts faces! And bodies! And… no!” She jabbed a claw at Scotch. “This whole you giving yourself up as hostage stuff is bhramin crap!”
“Do you want him to melt yours?” Scotch countered. That had to have been Enervation, the deadly radiation that melted ponies back in the Hoof, or something like it! “I’ll be fine, right?” she said, looking at Pythia. She glanced at the general, who watched with an inscrutable expression.
The cloaked filly swallowed. “Two in three he kills you tonight. Make that three out of four.”
“So I’ll try for the one in four he doesn’t,” she countered. “And if we say no?”
Pythia swallowed, her eyes wide and round, and shook her head.
Scotch sighed. “So stay close. Fix the Whiskey Express. Maybe we can find a way out of this.” She glanced at where Ossius watched her, blood drops falling from his chin to the salt below.
“We’ll try to find a way all of us can get out,” Skylord muttered.
“Thank you, Skylord,” Scotch said with a relieved smile.
“Don’t thank me. We’re only doing it because you’d whine and moan rather than cutting these people lose and getting out of here,” he grumbled.
“Gee, thanks,” Scotch amended sarcastically. She then turned and hurried up to the general’s side as he turned and walked back towards the huge dragon skeleton. “Happy?”
“Content,” he answered. “It will take some time to parse through what I have caught. How best to use it,” he said as he strolled beside her. “I note that you’re not questioning why I selected you. That tells me that you expected me to take you. No protestation. Fond farewells. I assume some plan to escape is already in the making.”
Scotch blinked up at him. “You heard us?”
“I guessed. You confirmed,” he replied. “Who are you, pony?”
“Scotch Tape,” she replied, slightly annoyed by the question.
“I know that much from your visit to the gift shop. What I want to know is how six young idiots crossed the Empty. How you got to the Empty in the first place. How you apparently talk to spirits, which was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. But most importantly, I’d like to know why both Haimon of the Blood Legion and the most notorious pirate on the seas want you dead.” He glanced down at her stunned expression. “I caught a pair of griffons the day after your party left, stalking the one called ‘Skylord.’ They told me such interesting things about you and your friends. Hatshepsut too. I knew I simply couldn’t let this opportunity slip by.”
Scotch should have known Gunnel and Gunther wouldn’t just quit after catching them once. “Are they alive?”
“Griffons are rude till they learn they’re in the presence of their betters. I had no specific reason to kill them,” he said as he stepped onto the stairs leading up to the platform atop the dragon’s back. Scotch followed him up. Affixed to the platform were two rows of seats with straps to hold them in place behind a low wall. When the dragon was upright, it would be a considerable advantage in a fight.
Unless you were facing artillery, as Skylord said. Or a flying foe. Or if someone got lucky with a grenade. Scotch filed those thoughts away. At the front of the platform was a hooked pole, and dangling from it a bone carved with glowing sigils. Ossius took a seat in the middle, as far as possible from the edges, then glanced at her and patted a pillow seat beside him. A soldier took the pole in his hooves and tilted it towards the front of the dragon.
Suddenly the floor heaved as the massive beast rose. Pushing the pole further ahead made the skeleton start to walk, and swinging it to the side turned it back towards the train station. “To be fair, I expected to find you trapped at the weather station, dying of thirst and radiation poisoning. When I discovered you’d somehow gotten the coal bunker open and not torn to pieces, I hurried my crossing. How fortunate we intercepted all of you before you left.”
“What do you plan to do with all of us? Kill us? Rape us?” Scotch asked, annoyed by his smug gloating. “Why go through this show? Why not just throw all this back at us on the first day?”
“Because I’m not an idiot,” he replied, and then looked over at her staring at him incredulously. He smiled again, the corners of his mouth starting to bleed again. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s good if folks think we’re a bunch of losers in the Empty. Makes them overlook us. Underestimate us, I don’t want to break the toys, lose men or equipment if it can be helped.”
He went on, looking back at the tractors now following his mount, with the undead horde around them. “As for killing and raping, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll kill all of them and add their bones to the collection. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a selection and let my mares and stallions have some fun with someone that’s not half-jerky. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll sell the tractors. Maybe not. I’ll need to work out all the angles, then act.” He paused to gaze at her. “As for rape, I discourage it as a general rule. It makes the victims unpredictable, hurts unit cohesion, and causes conflicts of interest between killing and screwing. Oh, and it’s wrong.” More shock, and he chuckled, “Is it that surprising?”
That a raider warlord was more moral than her own stable? Yes. “Please don’t kill them. That would be wrong too.”
“Perhaps,” he said non-committally. “But death is a part of life, and, sometimes, life is a part of death, too.”
Scotch was having to reassess the stallion before her. It’d been simple to dismiss him as a murderous brute. Murderous, definitely, but more than a brute. She shut up for the rest of the trip back. Soon as the grisly convoy returned to its spot next to the creek, the ground seemed to split around the bones and they crawled back into the salt and rocks. Dozens lay in heaps that were quickly obscured by the blowing dust. As soon as they stepped off the dragon it seemed to dig its way into the salt as if it were mud, till only the spine and platform protruded. The driver removed the staff and they all trudged back to the train station.
Inside, the cavernous space was surprisingly neat. Triple bunk beds occupied half the space. The rest was an eating and living area. No merchant, so Charity would certainly be disappointed.
A mare in similar bone armor strode up. “Have a brisk run, General?” she asked before her brown eyes shifted to Scotch and her lips curled in a sour frown. “Who’s this mare?”
Scotch started.
Mare?
“Person of interest, Lieutenant. Establish a watch. If any of these colonists try to run, deter them.” He glanced down at Scotch and licked his cracked lips. “Gently,” he amended with an amused chuckle.
“There was an incident, General,” she said crisply, glowering even when her eyes were off Scotch. “An Iron Legion griffon and his zebra cohort attacked our forces.”
“I see,” he glanced at Scotch, who gave a desperate grin that wilted as her ears drooped. “I’ll address that after I debrief this pony. Follow me,” he instructed Scotch as he walked towards stairs leading up to the second floor. Scotch followed, her eyes darting to and fro. Every ten feet were metal drums stacked full of equine bones with skulls piled on top, and she felt their empty sockets on her as she passed. If she tried to run, how far could she get?
She followed him up to a room marked ‘Stationmaster’s Office’. “These will be your quarters until such time as I decide to kill you,” he said as he opened the door.
Wow. That’s a lot of books. It was enough to make a Zencori proud. Books covered every piece of furniture in the small office, some stacks reaching all the way to the ceiling. She’d expected bones, or maybe guns, or victims chained to the walls. A tea set rested on a cart next to the iron stove. Through one open door, she spotted a bedroom with a four poster bed wedged inside. Through another were a tiny toilet and shower. From the covered bucket next to the bowl, she suspected they didn’t work.
What most stood out was a strange banner displayed behind a large wooden desk. It had zebra stripes along most of it, but a pair of weighing scales was displayed in the center imposed over a red hoofprint. As she stared at it, an ominous feeling settled over her. It wasn’t of dying, exactly. It was more like getting called to security for breaking her old Stable’s rules. She tried to shift her sight to perceive any spirits that might be present, but Ossius closed the door and walked before her. The ragged ends of his wrappings hissed on the floor as he walked behind the desk, and she tensed when he withdrew something from the bottom.
“Now.” He tossed two cushions on the floor before the desk and took a seat on one. “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat about who you are and why you’re so important, pony.”
Scotch had gotten used to telling the story at this point, and Ossius took down notes on a scribble pad. A ceiling fan squeaking softly overhead and the tick of a pendulum clock in the corner were the only other sounds as she spoke. When she finished, the questions began. He seemed particularly interested in Riptide, Haimon, what she had done in Greengap, and the events of Rice River, yet he also seemed to ask inconsequential questions, like what was her opinion of the Orah in the swamp, or about the military state of the wasteland back in Equestria. Every answer prompted a note or two, even ones she didn’t provide such as when she refused to talk about her father. When she mentioned being spirit touched and a shaman, he paused and arched a skeptical brow, but just jotted it down as well.
It was night by the time they finished, and her throat burned from all the talking. A bowl of half eaten, salty porridge sat on the floor besides her. She refused to eat any meat, like the ‘pickled’ meal Ossius had partaken of. Twice, the Lieutenant mare had interrupted, giving Ossius updates on the settlers. He’d always wait till she departed before gesturing for Scotch to continue. “Well?” Scotch asked as she finished her last question.
“You’re a liar,” Ossius said, almost bored, and raised a hoof to silence her objections. “You claim that the settlers barely assisted you. If that were so, they would have left you behind. My officer recorded them helping you and aiding in your repairs.” He glanced at her, suddenly struck mute, and he smiled in a leer that split his upper lip. “To be fair, everyone lies. What you lied to protect is what interests me. You lied to shield your friends. That Zencori village. The zebras in Rice River. Even criminals. But you were quite honest in the overall details of your trip.” He closed the pad and tapped it with a hoof. “Interesting.”
“So… what are you going to do?” Scotch asked. “Are you going to kill me? My friends?”
“I should,” he said, pursing his lips. “To be honest, I’m not certain how to proceed. Killing you is a nice, safe solution. The dead are far easier to manage than the living. Still, I’m somewhat concerned about this ‘New Empire’ that is after you. It might be profitable to negotiate a fee from them, then kill you. Still, if this ‘Shadow Legion’ exists… it may be in my interests to send you on your way to spite them.” He tapped the pad. “I had no idea your story would be so… consequential.”
“What do you mean?”
It was almost a minute before he turned his eyes to the banner, as if trying to scrutinize something in its stripes, and responded, “The Bone Legion is not one of the stronger legions. We are not destitute and broken, like the Star Legion, but it would not take much to make us so. We are overlooked simply because few want to fight for desiccated and desolate territory. We use intermediaries like Asheput to hide our wealth from dragons and the odd traveler, keeping up the appearance of rubes and wretches. If the other legions believed we had things worth taking, we’d be far more pressed on all sides. Flames. Bloods. Golds. Even the Irons could cause us trouble.”
“How many legions are there? Like, total?”
He regarded her. “Iron and Blood. Sand and Bone. Green and White. Storm and Wave. Star and Flame. Thorn and Gold.” He paused, and she furrowed her brows. “You notice it too.”
“There’s only twelve?” she asked. “But thirteen keeps coming up with zebras. I just thought…” she paused. “Shadow.”
“Would be the thirteenth,” he finished. “And would explain much, if it is true. Over time, there are incidents that seem innocuous enough in isolation. A general choking on a chicken bone here. An ambush suddenly discovered there. Speculation of such a legion is ripe material for bar talk and spooky tales, but I’ve never had such evidence before me. If there is a thirteenth legion, I have to consider how it threatens my people. What might its agenda be? And how best to use you, in regards to it.”
“You could just let me go.”
“Which might bring trouble to me and my legion. I could just as easily kill you,” he suggested.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said at once.
“Then I won’t let you go, or kill you, till I know what this portends for my legion, agreed?” His raw lips quirked in another ghastly leer.
“Nor my friends. Nor the settlers.”
“That’s quite a lot you’re asking, young mare,” he said, smirk fading. “Your Iron griffon attacked my people.”
She had to give him that. “Fine. I won’t try to escape either.”
“Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin. “How to guarantee you won’t simply leave, though?”
“You have my word,” Scotch swore.
“It’s been an exceptional day, but I’m not quite at the point of accepting a pony at their word.” He rose to his hooves and trotted to the desk. There was a click, and he withdrew a metal lockbox. A click of tumblers, and he pulled out a dark, rectangular object. Scotch began to hear a distant, ghostly screaming she hadn’t heard since Blackjack blew up the Hoof.
The book he produced had an unmistakable deliberacy to its hideousness. The shadowy gray leather binding had darker, brownish stripes on it, and her stomach twisted as she guessed it was zebra hide. “Is that…”
“A black book of the Starkatteri Starlords. Our ancient and wretched oppressors who sought to bind their souls to these tomes rather than let their dead god consume them. You’ve come across another of these books, have you?” he asked, brow arched.
“I haven’t, but there was a unicorn mare who did. The Lightbringer. It did freaky things with blood.” Like bind wounds with it, which had to be as gross as it was creepy.
“Ah, so that’s where it got to. The Book of Blood and Spirit. I’m glad. I can only imagine what the Blood Legion would do with something like that.” He cracked it open, the spine cracking like bone. “This is the book of Binding and Bone.”
“And what do you plan on doing with it?” she asked, swallowing.
“Place a doom upon you. Should you depart without my permission, you will die, your spirit trapped within the corpse of your body. Forever.” He stroked a hoof over a page. “Normally this requires a rather involved ritual to do so against your will, but things can be quite expedited if you agree to the binding.”
Scotch swallowed hard. She’d read snippets of the Lightbringer’s story, but now being in the same room with the book make her feel like ants were crawling in her mane. She couldn’t help herself. She relaxed her sight to try and see the book’s spirit.
She did.
She wished she hadn’t. She now understood why the book screamed.
Instantly, she brought up her porridge, bowing her head as she was violently sick. Thankfully, that was all she expelled. When her heaves finished, she kept squeezing her eyes shut. “That thing is wrong!” she shouted, thrusting a hoof behind her towards the desk. “That… That’s horrible!”
“It’s bound in zebra hide, its vellum culled from foals, fused with the souls of ancient Starkatteri sorcerers who conspired with abominations from beyond the skies, filled with profane rites and rituals to slay the living and animate their corpses,” Ossius commented dryly as he produced a rag from his desk and tossed it on her mess. “Did you expect it to be pink with bunnies?”
Scotch cleaned up her own vomit, happily. The rankness helped sour away the memory of what she’d just seen. “Please put it away! Put it away!” she begged. No spirit should go through… that. She heard the box close, but she could still see it. Hear it. Was it still making the noise, or was it in her mind? When she dared open her eyes again, she saw Ossius regarding her gravely and couldn’t stop the tears or the shaking. “Where did you get that?! Why are you keeping it in your desk?” It should be in a hole somewhere. The deepest hole in the world. Or at the bottom of the ocean. Some place it would never be seen again.
“Well, it would be rather hard to carry wearing just strips of clothing. I suppose I could put it on my mantel though. A nice display piece,” he retorted. “As for where did I get it, it’s been in the possession of the Bone Legion since before I was born. As I understand it, it was seized from the vault of a doomsday cult in the capital. They committed suicide en masse and transformed themselves into undead monstrosities to prepare for the coming apocalypse.” His features turned grave. “A week later, the Day of Doom struck.”
“But why keep it around? Don’t you have any idea what that is?” Scotch didn’t. Scotch didn’t want to know what she saw, or how it could come about. She focused on the taste of vomit in her mouth. The reeking smell was better than what she’d seen in that moment.
“It’s useful. Necromancy is my legion’s only asset the others are denied. I agree its origins are repugnant, but what else would you have me do? The book is indestructible. Should I leave it somewhere for someone else to find and use? Perhaps against me and mine?” he asked, sounding somewhat offended. He couldn’t see its spirit. To him, it was an evil book. A thing.
A thing he wanted to use on her.
“I won’t flee. I’ll do whatever you say. Make me swear on whatever you like, but I don’t want anything that book has in it on me,” she said as she fought to control her trembling. He regarded her silently, his hoof tapping on the lid of the box for nearly a minute, his head cocked and scoured lips pressed together.
“Very well,” he said, and he placed it back in the desk. “Though it goes against my better judgement.” Scotch let out a trembling breath, rubbing her chest. She’d already been censured. What would have that dark magic do to her? He walked around the desk, leaning towards her. “Do not prove my better judgement correct,” he warned in a low voice, and stomped twice. A guard stepped in. “A bedroll. I’m keeping this one close.”
Close was a bedroll at the foot of his bed, along with a hoof shackle locking her to it. She crawled in, making herself as small as possible, peeking at him as he removed the glyph marked bands and hung them on a hook. His legs were just as chapped and raw as his mouth, the hide cracked and flaked off to expose the pink flesh beneath. She could only imagine the kind of pain that caused. Then the oil lamp was turned down and she was left with nothing but the dark and her thoughts.
***
The next morning, she was woken by a hoof to the head. “Get up!” snapped a mare as she blinked about in shock. Ossius was nowhere to be seen. The mare lifted her hoof again over Scotch’s face. “Get! Up!” she warned.
“I’m getting up! I’m getting up!” Scotch shouted, scrambling to her hooves and nearly tripping over the chain about her hind hoof. The mare had straight, broad Roamani stripes and amber eyes, darker than Pythia’s. Her mane and tail were both cut short and neat. “You’re the Lieutenant, right?”
“Lieutenant Foalsitter today, it seems. Ossius wants me to keep an eye on you and keep you alive unless you try to escape. I’ve got better things to do than watch one idiotic pony of interest, so you’re coming with me. You can move, or you can be dragged.”
“I’m moving!” Scotch said, shaking herself off. The mare looped the chain tight around her forehoof and started walking, and Scotch had to hurry or risk being yanked off her feet. She was hauled outside to a latrine behind the train station and given five seconds to do her business, and then pulled over to a cargo container where a dozen other zebras sat waiting, many with that dead eyed stare but others looking somewhat apprehensive. Scotch sat with those as the Lieutenant finally released her from the hoof lock.
Two were young, a mare and stallion with the wavy Orah stripes, while the third was a one eyed Logos who was older than Ossius. “Good news, recruits. We’ve got a pony joining us today.” She kicked a bucket into the middle of the car. “You got fifteen minutes to eat.”
Immediately, two stallions lunged for the bucket, and the Lieutenant reared up and smashed their flanks, knocking them back to the rusty floor. “Everyone eats or no one eats, got it, maggots? You want to fight for your bread, go join the Bloods.”
There wasn’t nearly enough for everyone, but every person got exactly one large hoof scoop at least. It wasn’t much more than a great big ball of paste and grease, and Scotch didn’t even want to know what was in it. Still, she was hungry enough to choke it down. A second bucket for water. Then rags were passed around and everyone made sure that everyone else was completely covered.
And then they started to run.
Running had never been a big thing in 99. There were a few looping halls you could walk down, but the passages were too narrow for more than a brisk trot. And once she’d gotten out, she’d been lucky enough to have other means of travel. Now they fell into two rows and started a canter that wasn’t too fast or too slow. Still, she hadn’t gone ten minutes before her lungs started burning and her legs aching. The rags kept the salt off her, but also chafed and stank. They weren’t really going anywhere. Just around the dunes again and again.
Yet Scotch was in big trouble. After fifteen minutes, she couldn’t catch her breath and coughed continuously. Falling behind, she wondered if the Lieutenant would just put a bullet in her if she did. Except… she wasn’t falling behind. The others were slowing down. “Who’s going to carry her?” the Lieutenant asked, and the one eyed zebra moved next to Scotch without a word and scooped her up, carrying her across his back like a sack. Humiliated, she was hauled along with the rest of the recruits, coughing and wheezing. Every kilometer or two, she was passed from one to the next without comment, which somehow made it all worse.
Getting back to the station, she was set down and promptly abandoned as the others got water and another hoof ball of greasy dough. She didn’t eat, coughing and hacking and holding her chest.
“If you’re gonna die, could you do it outside?” the Lieutenant asked as Scotch struggled to breathe.
“Why not… just… kill me…?” Scotch gasped.
“You are such a baby,” the mare sniffed. “That wasn’t even a long run. Five kilometers. You can cry after twenty.” Scotch wanted to retort but she couldn’t. “The General thinks you’re special. I think he’s wrong, but if I have to keep an eye on you then it’s going to be training the recruits.” She leaned in with a leer. “We are as strong as our weakest link, as fast as our slowest runner, as brave as our most cowardly, and as hard as our softest member. That’s you, on three accounts.”
“Is that a… Roamani thing… or a… Bone Legion thing?” she asked, and was gratified by the surprised look.
“A bit of both, actually,” she admitted as she knelt before Scotch. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you die die. Not till the General orders it,” she said with a smirk, then reached into her rags and pulled out a vial full of tarry syrup. “A shot of this will keep anyone alive for a little while. You’ll still be breathing till the General orders you dead. But in the meantime, I’m going to toughen you up or break you, pony. We’ve got a running pool going. I’m betting on the latter.”
“Do you have a name, or is it just ‘Lieutenant’?’” Scotch shot back as she wheezed.
“Lieutenant Marrow,” she growled back. “And yeah, I know I’m young for my rank. Ossius needed an officer. I stepped up. I always step up. So don’t think that because he thinks you’re special that you’ll ever replace me.” She pointed at the bucket. “Eat and drink. Get your breathing under control. We go for another run in an hour.” With that, she hopped out of the boxcar, approaching some waiting legionnaires.
“Replace her?” Scotch murmured in stunned bafflement as she departed. “Replace her for what?”
“Either as lieutenant, or as Ossius’s favorite, or both,” rasped an old voice, and she looked over at the one eyed zebra. He passed her a glob of the dough. “Never thought I’d see a pony in a legion. Crazy world.”
“I’m not in the legion,” she said as she rubbed her chest with her free hoof. “What’s your name?”
“Does it matter? I’m just here till I’m not,” he rasped in a rusty, old voice. “Nobody from nowhere, like everyone else here.”
“It matters to me,” Scotch answered, taking a bite of the gooey blob.
“From the south. Little farm settlement north of Roam. Thought we had our protection paid up with the Golds. We didn’t. Flames came in and took half the people. Month later, took another half. Month after that, there wasn’t much settlement left. Figured going into the Badlands was better than burning to death in Roam. Figured dying with the Bone Legion’s better than dying alone.”
“Why the Bones? And you still didn’t tell me your name. I’m Scotch Tape.”
“Octavius,” he muttered, as if annoyed she’d pulled it out of him. “Bones take everyone. I’m not a fighter. Best I can do is farm.” He gestured to the others in the boxcar. “Everyone here’s got a similar story. We’re here ‘cause we got nowhere else to be.”
Skylord had called them all losers, but was that true? Was it fair? Were these people no better than their circumstances allowed them to be? It was so easy to think of raiders as monsters. Yet not all of them fit into that nice, neat box. Were legionnaires different, somehow? Haimon certainly was proof they took butchery to a whole new level.
Marrow returned twice more to torment them, once with more running, and a second time with an obstacle course. Both times left Scotch Tape gasping, coughing, and being handled like a useless sack of pony. By the time the sun set, she couldn’t do more than curl up on her bedroll at the foot of her bed and cry herself to sleep. She hated that she couldn’t get the tears to stop any more than she could get the coughing to stop. Ossius allowed her her tea, drinking his own in silence, the clock ticking away the time.
When it turned down the lamp, he said quietly, “Good night, pony. Sleep well,” he said in the dim light, before adding. “I’ll likely kill you tomorrow.”
***
Three days later, as she rested in the shade of a boxcar as the others ran the obstacle course, a soft ‘psst’ sounded on the other side of the steel wall. She saw a green eye peeking through at her and shifted back. “Hey,” Majina said in a whisper. “How are you doing?”
“Can barely breathe,” she croaked. “How are all of you?”
“Ossius came. Said if we didn’t behave, you and the Propoli were dead. They haven’t bothered us since, though.”
“Has Pythia seen a way for all of you to escape?” Scotch asked, keeping her voice low.
“Not yet. Every future is death and shadows and stuff. She says the only ones we live in are ones were Ossius lets us go, but she says how that happens has a shadow on it,” Majina replied. “Skylord wants us to break out and Charity thinks we can bribe the guards. Not sure with what, but they’re both going crazy.”
“They’re going to have to sit tight. I don’t know how serious Ossius is about that threat,” she wheezed as she kept her eyes forward. The sound of the zebras climbing over walls drowned out a lot of it. “I know if I try and run, Ossius isn’t going to be nice a second time. I promised I wouldn’t.”
“You… what?!” Majina blurted, drawing another look from Marrow.
“The alternative was worse, trust me. Just sit tight,” Scotch warned as Marrow approached.
“Okay, but the Propoli are getting scared. They can’t stay one place forever. There’s no food here,” Majina said. Then Scotch heard the sound of her friend moving away.
“Who were you talking to?” Marrow asked.
“Myself,” she replied.
“Yeah, sure. Probably planning something with one of your friends,” Marrow muttered, scanning the boxcars around them. “You know the deal. Screw up and a lot of people die.”
But she wasn’t listening to the threats anymore. They all just blurred together. Something Majina had said stuck with her. No food. She could have kept trying to run with the other recruits, or planning on a way to escape, or beat herself up… but she wanted a fourth option. “What’s your story, Marrow?”
Both her brows arched. “My story? I don’t have a story. I have a job to do.”
“Come on.” Scotch tried for her best Majina smile. “Everyone’s got a story.”
“Fine. I was born. I joined the legion. I kicked the flanks of everyone who said I couldn’t and I’ll keep doing it till I’m General. Happy?” Her hooves darted out, hooked her neck and dragged her out of boxcar. “If you got enough breath to ask dumb questions, you got enough to run the course! Get going!”
***
Later that day, when she was alone with Ossius, she asked, “Did you know Marrow wants your job?”
He didn’t look up from his letters. “Are you asking if I knew or are you trying to get my youngest officer in trouble?” he asked back. Scotch was too sore to do more than shrug. “I have no problem with ambition. She’s competent. She keeps the recruits in line, toughens them up, and doesn’t kill them when she’s frustrated. And she doesn’t flatter me with what she thinks I want to hear.” He folded up the paper. “That said, her chances of becoming general are rather slim. She doesn’t understand what it means to be general of a legion.”
“Doesn’t it just mean you’re in charge?” That got her a sour look. “I just want to know before I die.”
“I should kill you. At least then I’d have some peace and quiet,” he said as he settled back behind his desk, and then pointed a hoof at the banner. “Do you know what that banner stands for?”
Scotch considered the weighing scales. “Um. Weighing things?”
“Justice,” he replied, folding his hooves before him. “Once, during the war, this legion was tasked with meting out discipline and justice to the army. We were lawyers. Judges. Military police. It was our duty to keep the other parts of the army in place.”
“No offense, but the wasteland isn’t really in place. It’s in pieces.”
He actually smiled at that. “We failed. When the last command was issued, we proved no better than the other legions.”
“The last command?” Scotch frowned. Was it about blinding the Eye?
Ossius reached into his desk and withdrew the strongbox. Scotch stiffened, but he didn’t withdraw the book. Instead, he extracted a folded paper, brittle and yellowed with age. He unfolded it carefully and read with a worn, practiced voice, “To all legates and commanding generals. You are to assume control of the Empire forthwith until such time as I resume command. Caesar.”
“That’s it?” Scotch frowned
“That was enough,” Ossius answered. “The Caesar died three minutes after issuing that order. Roam was consumed in an inferno megaspell that burns to this day.” He held the paper up in one hoof. “Do you know what this order did?”
Scotch thought hard, then realized. “Generals. He didn’t say which general was to be in charge!”
“Indeed.” He returned the letter to the box. “Beyond the Caesar and the legate generals in Roam, there was no clear hierarchy below the legates. Seven died with Caesar. One was killed by a megaspell on the coast. Two more were killed in Equestria in the balefire exchange. One ran off and abandoned her duty. One committed suicide. It shattered our command hierarchy. Was the 1st Imperial Infantry superior or inferior to Logistical Command? The Day of Doom ravaged us like nothing since, but still the Empire remained. However, the land was shattered, and the pieces of the military that remained saw it as our duty to carry out this order.”
“There was a Legate in Equestria. Was he…” she started to say when Ossius started laughing.
“Him? Ah yes. Very amusing. An Equestrian zebra calling himself legate and swearing to destroy the cursed city. It happens from time to time. Some fool styles themselves legate or general, but without the authority invested by the Caesar, it’s nothing but empty words. He was an entertaining distraction from time to time.” He paused. “Still, he did destroy it. Had he lived, perhaps he could have changed things.”
Scotch bristled. “My friend Blackjack destroyed it, not him.”
“If you say so,” he replied with an indifferent shrug. “The legates were the law of the Caesar. They were second only to him. When they both died, we were left to fight against each other.” He closed the box lid with a firm click. “It also brought the army in direct conflict with the tribes.”
“How so?”
“On death, or dismissal, the Caesar is elected by shamans of the tribes. However, our orders put us in command. We could not… would not… step aside and let the tribes elect a new one. We declared martial law.” He pursed his lips. “For a time, we tried to pass command around, like trading a baton. It worked, I suppose. For five years. But then it came time for the Second Reconnaissance Legion to yield to the general in charge of Strategic Balefire Command. He refused. My legion failed to arbitrate the crisis. The generals broke ranks and went to war.” He leaned back and sighed deeply. “Any hope the Empire had died on that day.”
“What happened?” Scotch asked, knowing the answer. She got a flat look in response.
“Strategic Balefire Command had balefire bombs and the means to deliver them. They delivered them. We killed as many of our own with our own weapons as ponies did with theirs. They became the Star Legion when their general declared us all traitors. Eventually they ran out of delivery devices and were crushed, yet the legion still lives in irradiated nooks and crannies.”
Scotch parsed that together. “Then the whole thing between the Blood and Iron Legion isn’t just a turf war. It’s the continuation of a two hundred year old squabble.”
“It’s far more than that,” he said, pressing his hooves together. “We were commanded.”
“Huh?”
“The Caesar commanded us to control the empire,” Ossius stated.
“But… the Caesar’s dead,” Scotch said in bafflement. The Empire is gone!”
“Yet the command still binds us, as it binds all the Legions and all their generals. We must control the Empire. We can’t not.”
“But…” Scotch swallowed. “But that means the fighting here is never going to end! Even if one legion beat all of you, they’d still fight to control all the Empire, and the zebralands are too darned big for that.”
“Yet the command still stands.” Ossius struck the desk three times, punctuating his words. “It binds me as it binds every legionnaire. Marrow doesn’t understand that. Most legionnaires don’t. They merely do as they’re told, and it happened to coincide with the last command.” He touched the box with a hoof, letting out a long sigh. “Marrow may think being a general is simply being boss. It is not. It is a curse to perpetuate a legacy of pain, misery, and failure. Our penance for the war.” Then he gave her a rare, taut, half smile. “And being in charge.”
“Is there any way to end that?” Scotch asked in a small voice.
“Pony, not everything can be fixed. Some scars last forever,” he murmured, touching his chapped, raw lips with a hoof before going on. “It would require thirteen tribes that hate each other to agree on a candidate while avoiding the legions ripping them to pieces. Only with a new Caesar, could the command be rescinded.” He rose. “Now, I’ve sent a missive to Haimon and Riptide about trading you to them. It remains to be seen what their response will be.”
“They might come and kill you all.”
“True. I’ve claimed you’re at one of our outposts. If they come to deal, we will deal. If they come to fight, we will know their intentions.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Remember, we’re the legion of idiots in the Empty. We’re too stupid for guile.” Scotch swallowed and rubbed her chest. “Fear not, pony. It will take weeks for the messages to reach their recipients. You’ll have many more days in Marrow’s company.”
“And the settlers?” Scotch pressed.
“So much concern for such a small pony” His voice carried the amusement his face didn’t. “I’m torn between liquidating them all and selling them back to Bastion.” Her surprise must have shown. “You didn’t know? Your settlers were exiled from the city, and stole considerable materials from them when they went.” He pursed his lips, drumming his hoof on the table slowly. “But returning them would be a chore. Liquidating them is much more expedient.”
“Have you thought about helping them or just letting them go?” Scotch challenged.
“Helping them? With what?” He leaned towards her. “You came from the north. Why would I let the Blood Legion get their hooves on them? Letting them go is the same result. They are fools chasing a dream of creating a home in a world that wants to kill them. The greatest help I could give them would be a painless death.” She clenched her jaw and refused to drop her eyes. He cocked his head, “Well? Do you have a solution?” Scotch stared at him, but couldn’t dredge up an answer. Her eyes fell. “As I thought.”
Scotch retreated to her bedroll, determined not to cry. It was so damnably unfair! Even when Ossius entered, locked her hoof, and climbed into bed as well, she stared out into the darkness. What was she supposed to do? Blackjack would have fought Ossius, she was sure of that. But she wasn’t Blackjack. Daddy would have snuck out, tried to go around the trouble. Maybe that would work for her and her friends, but there was no way to sneak out the settlers too, was there? And Glory… she’d know just what to do, because she was smart and could build, find, or fix a solution.
Maybe…
“Ossius… when you said you would defend the settlers… back when you first took us… did you mean it?” she whispered into the dark.
The darkness murmured back, “Go to bed, little pony. Sleep well. I might just kill you all tomorrow.”
***
Scotch didn’t sleep that night. ‘What would Glory do’ rattled around in her head. That pegasus, though maybe most boring mare in the Wasteland, had been the smartest of Blackjack’s friends. Always ready to fix things that were broken. What would she do if she were here, now? The thought stuck with her all through the day. And the next. And the next. Even Marrow’s catty insults couldn’t pierce her contemplation.
Then, half way through the obstacle course, it came to her. She slowed as the rest of the recruits ploughed on. Marrow looked back and trotted up to her. “Pony! What are you doing?” Scotch didn’t answer for a moment. “Pony! I asked you what you think you’re doing!”
Then Scotch looked at her and smiled. “I’m going for a walk.”
The mare narrowed her eyes and snorted. “Wait. What? What are you talking about? No you’re not. The only place you’re going is back on the course.”
“No, I’m not. I’m going for a walk.” Scotch advanced on the mare. “And you’re coming with me.”
Marrow’s eyes widened in shock. “What? No I’m not!” Her scowl returned. “I’m gonna–”
“What?” Scotch demanded. “Kill me? Fine. Do it. I’m getting tired of everyone saying they’re going to end my life. Beat me up? Fine. Do it. Hope that Ossius wants me intact.” Scotch leaned in towards her. “But if you’re not doing either, then I am going for a walk and you are coming with me. So’s Octavius.”
Uncertainty flitted across Marrow’s face at the mention of Ossius. Then she straightened and snapped, “Kneecap. Scapula. Take over the drills. I’m taking the pony for a walk.” Turning to the recruits, she added, “Whichever one of you is ‘Octavius,’ get over here. You’re coming with us.” That caused more baffled looks. When they were out of earshot, Marrow growled, “If you’re leading me into an ambush, I can promise you that the Propoli will be joining me.”
“I’m not. In fact, I’m probably going to be helping your legion. Much more than running around and ripping my lungs to pieces,” she said as they made their way around the abandoned rail yard and outbuildings and up the slope towards the mountains rising immediately behind them. The one eyed zebra seemed wary of an ambush as well, but brought up the rear.
“Octavius,” Scotch asked, “how good is this land for growing?”
“Land? Growing? Have you looked at this place?” Marrow scoffed. “Maybe you missed the giant salt pan out there?” She thrust a hoof back at the endless field of white and dust.
“I’m asking the farmer, not you,” Scotch replied, keeping her eyes on the baffled old zebra.
Octavius frowned for a moment, then set his hooves on a rock and pulled hard. It tore free, exposing brown dirt underneath. Octavius took a deep sniff, and scraped it with a hoof. “Ain’t the worst. Soil is pretty dry though. Probably gets salt blown in too. Ground is rocky and steep though. I doubt you could grow more than weeds and grass.”
Thankfully not razorgrass. Not seeing that damned green menace was a delight. “What if you could do something about the rocks and steepness?”
He pursed his lips a moment. “Need steady water. Decent water too.”
“Then let’s check out the water!” Scotch announced, and they walked over towards the stream, higher up the slope. Scotch was wheezing half way there, and had to lean on Octavius to keep from tumbling down. Marrow’s eyes never lingered on anything, always darting around, scanning the rocky slopes and the mountains above. Probably still searching for an ambush that would never come. When they reached the stream, she took a drink. Up here, it poured out of a narrow canyon in a steady flow. “What about this?” she asked, looking at Octavius.
He tasted the water too. “Not bad. Does this ever go dry?” he asked Marrow.
“I am first Lieutenant Marrow! You will address me as ma’am!” she snapped, backing away.
Octavius was silent, his eye flat before asking in a monotone, “Does this ever go dry, ma’am?”
Marrow snorted, looking from one to the other, her ears folding back, before finally answering. “Well, no. I don’t think so. It’s the only stream in the region. All the water in the badlands drains out that canyon.” She glared at Scotch. “Are we done now?”
“Nope!” she declared, and started down the slope. She was in a rush, but the alternatives were running herself to death or waiting for Ossius to kill her. The Propoli wagons were still encircled, but the zebra appeared far more on edge. Skeletons lay in heaps, their eye sockets glowing purple as they watched. She sought out Xona, and found her in her husband’s wagon. The mare saw her approach, and Scotch stopped to catch her breath before giving an exaggerated smile. “Xona! Great to see you! Wonderful day we’re having, right?”
Now she had four zebras looking at her uneasily. “What are you doing?” Marrow hissed.
“Asking questions still,” Scotch gasped as she fought to still her coughing. “Okay. Xona. Little question, if you don’t mind me asking… do you have seeds?”
“Of course,” the mare replied, furrowing her brow as she glanced at Marrow. “But they’re for growing, not eating. They’re treated in fertilizers and pesticides,” she added at once.
“Super. Can we see them?” Scotch asked.
Xona balked, her eyes going from Scotch to Marrow. The lieutenant narrowed her dark amber eyes. “Correction. Show us your seed stock, now.” Xona stiffened and frowned, but led her towards a tractor. “Ossius is going to kill you when he finds out what you’re doing.”
“He told me as much last night.”
“You think he won’t do it?” Marrow hissed.
“I think he’s a better person than you do,” Scotch answered, leaving the lieutenant blinking. Scotch swallowed hard, hoping she was right. The tractor had a sharp, acrid smell that made her nose wrinkle up. Bins lined the walls, each marked with its own glyph. Scotch turned to Octavius. “Okay. So what seeds do we have here that will grow well in that soil?”
“What?!” Xona and Marrow said simultaneously.
“You are not touching our seed stock!” Xona said at once, then glared at Marrow. “Not without some serious negotiation.”
“You want to play farmer? In a desert? Next to the Empty?” Marrow scoffed.
Scotch pointed a hoof at Xona. “Do you want to starve when your food runs out?” she asked.
“Well, of course not. I have a son,” she said at once.
Scotch swung her hoof to Marrow. “And do you want to keep eating paste for the rest of your life?”
“I–” Marrow glanced at Xona, as if confirming this was actually happening. “Not really. But–”
“Here you go. Corn,” Octavius announced from the back of the tractor. “Grows well in poor soil. Salt resistant. Gonna take a while though. Mmm… Beans are quicker. Potatoes. Radishes.” He considered others. “Tomatoes are good if you’re dealing with salt. Beets. Alfalfa.”
“They’ve got hay? Why didn’t anyone tell me they had hay?” Marrow asked and suddenly smacked her lips. “It’s been forever since I’ve had good hay.”
“But there’s nowhere to grow crops!” Xona protested. “You can’t plant crops in salt.”
“But you can terrace the hillsides,” Scotch said, feeling cutie mark certainty as she ploughed ahead. “Use the rocks to make walls a meter high. Fill in with dirt. And you can use pipes from the rail yard to transport water via gravity to the terraces.”
Xona stared at Scotch in bafflement. “I suppose that could work, but we don’t have enough hooves to move that much rock.”
“No, but there are at least a dozen Bone Legion recruits that are running in circles right now. They could do it. Make them nice and strong too, right?” She turned to Xona. “It gives you something to do.” Then she faced Marrow. “And it gives you a reason to not kill them!”
“I think I see a flaw in your plan.”
The ice in Ossius’s voice froze her to the spot. The general stood in the doorway of the trailer, with a half dozen guards flanking him. “I–” Scotch began.
“Silence. Take her back to the station,” Ossius ordered coldly. “Restrain her. Do not despoil her.” The guards moved in to lasso her.
“General, she…” Marrow started to say until Ossius’s hard eyes turned to her. The mare faltered, then stiffened. “General, the pony’s idea has merit. I know the recruits would fight better on a more nutritious diet and–”
“You are relieved of your duties, Lieutenant. Still your tongue lest you wish to be relieved of that too.” He leaned towards her. “You should have dragged her back to the course the instant she wandered off it.” His eyes turned to Scotch. “Clearly, however, I was too lenient with the prisoner. The fault ultimately lies with me.” He turned his back on them all. “Take her away!”
***
She was moved from the office to a meter square closet with just a sliver of light projecting out from under the rim. The walls, lined with metal, were impossible to dig through. She had a bucket for her business, and the door only opened to take it away and give her the greasy dough gobs and water. It was impossible to track the time, giving her plenty of opportunity to reflect on her screw up.
Now, she was probably dead, like the settlers dead, like her friends, simply because she had a bright idea that would save them all.
The door opened suddenly, and two zebras lunged in, bit her mane, and dragged her out. They hauled her up the stairs and into Ossius’s office, where a trio of zebras waited next to a bucket filled with coals, a metal rod protruding from it. Ossius glared back at her as she entered. “You’re early. Have a seat. This won’t take long.”
She knew them vaguely from her training. One-eyed Octavius, who bore raw whip marks. He wasn’t the only one sporting fresh welts. Marrow stood in the corner, glancing at Scotch with a mix of pain and anger. Ossius walked in front of the first, a mare named Peony. She’d helped Scotch over the obstacle wall several times. “Do you swear to obey the commands of the legion? To protect and serve zebra kind? To serve your caesar loyally until the end of your days?” There was an echo of an older time in that oath. Something from before the war.
“I do,” the mare replied.
Ossius bit down on the end of the iron rod, drawing it from the coals and shaking them loose, then moved behind her. One press to one flank, then the other, right where her glyphmark was. Scotch didn’t think much about glyphmarks. To be honest, it was hard to tell them apart from any other zebra scribbling sometimes. But when the iron pulled away from the raw and smoking hide, she winced more than Peony did. The rod was returned to the coals, and the oath repeated for the second. Another branding filling the office with the stench of burnt hair and the sickly-sweet smell of cooked meat.
When he got to Octavius, she did something she hadn’t done in a week, and let her vision shift over to the spiritual. The black ichor lay thick on the hooves of everypony in the room. Everything in the chamber seemed to ooze the tarry substance, with the exception of Octavius. He was a single, clean figure surrounded by the rest. His glyphmark now glowed amid his stripes, now that she was paying attention. It glowed like a golden, sprouting seed.
Then the oath was spoken, and the rod touched his flank.
A geyser of black ichor erupted from the mark, spreading over his haunches and body as the golden light died. Scotch nearly cried out then and there, covering her mouth in horror as the second brand extinguished the light completely. Octavius stood there with all the others, just as coated in the black slime that marked the corruption.
It wasn’t just social. Wasn’t just old armies following old commands. This… there was substance to this! But was the spiritual blight she saw a cause or an effect? And if it was a cause, what was the origin? A caesar dead for centuries? A rot in the legion itself? She turned her eye to the sole source of gold remaining in the dim chamber: the banner. Its wan illumination showed a withered zebra, blindfolded, bearing scales in his hoof. The light was faint, but it was still there.
Did that mean there was still hope for her? For this legion?
The zebras took the bucket of coals and started to leave the room, so she let her sight settle back into the normal world. Ossius moved behind his desk as everyone else left the room. He wrote something down quietly, and she yearned to talk to him, but forced herself to remain silent. Respectful.
Otherwise she was dead.
“You’ve put me in a difficult situation, Scotch Tape,” he said in a low voice. “Do you know what your little idea has caused?”
“What?” Scotch asked with a frown and sense of dread.
“Debate,” he answered. “Debate that neither I nor director Xona wished. Until your idea, the negotiations were straightforward. I’d cache the equipment, send the families back to Bastion, keep a few for the legion. It was down to deciding who would stay and who would go. Naturally, those facing the harshest penalties would remain with the legion. I’d launder the goods through Asheput and others. Status quo would return.
“Now I have legionnaires talking about ‘the project’ to make our headquarters an actual settlement. The sedition has been constant, if surreptitious. Whippings haven’t silenced it.” He turned and faced her. “And as soon at those settlers thought we’d be receptive to a settlement, half of them started planning how exactly to do it. Thanks, in large part, to your idea.” He pressed his hooves together as he glared at her. “Do you understand what this means?”
“Not eating paste?” Scotch offered.
“Our legion survives because our enemies do not think we have anything worth taking. That is the key to our survival. If this settlement takes root, it will belie that assumption. Word will spread. The Fire Legion will see converts for their war. The Blood Legion will see a breeding population to be claimed. The Golds and Storms will see a target for plunder. The fact we have something to destroy will be reason enough for the dragons to attack us. Your idea puts a huge target on the brow of every person here.” He didn’t shout. His voice remained even and steady, hooves pressed together. “I should have killed you the first day I saw you. Spirits alone know why I didn’t.”
“Because you’re not a monster,” Scotch said, glad the room was empty. “And because I don’t think you want to be the general of a monstrous legion.”
He snorted disdainfully. “Want? What I want is to live till tomorrow, and for my legion to see tomorrow. We’re doing that now. You jeopardize everything with your interference.”
“Yeah. I do,” Scotch answered truthfully. “And I want you to see tomorrow too. Not just you. The settlers. My friends. Everyone! That means things have to change. Life is change!”
“So is death,” Ossius sniffed.
“Sure.” Scotch fought the urge to roll her eyes. “But change’s not alwaysdeath. It can be for the better too.” Ossius regarded her almost pityingly and she pressed on before she got flustered. “It’s not going to be easy, or safe. If it were, it would have happened already. But you have the power, right here and now, to make that change for the better. To guide it. Shape it with Xona and her people.” She swallowed. “To be the legion as it should be, a force for law and order, not tyranny and death.”
Ossius didn’t answer. He turned and regarded the banner behind him with a pensive stare. Scotch sat there silently, praying that he wouldn’t tell her he’d already killed the settlers and her friends days ago. He inhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and opened them again. “There will have to be precautions taken. More eyes at the outposts to detect any spies or scouts. Facilities built for the legion first and foremost to protect whatever boons these settlers develop.”
“So…” she started to say and he raised a hoof sharply.
“I do not like this. I do not like taking risks with what little I have,” he announced with a glower. “Especially when those risks were instigated by another, and a pony at that!” he added sharply, then he relaxed. “However, it would be beneficial in the long run to have a larger pool to recruit from. Marrow was not mistaken about the nutrition of our meals affecting the combat effectiveness of our legionnaires. And a settlement means inevitable deaths, which means a sure supply of skeletons to animate. So I will speak with Xona to allow this… settlement. If she concurs that it is viable, then we will proceed from there.”
She couldn’t help herself. She raced up to him and threw her hooves around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she repeated. Then she kissed him.
That was likely the mistake.
His eyes popped wide as her green lips parted from his scarred ones and she immediately realized she was far closer than she’d intended him to be. She stared into his eyes and blinked, blushed and immediately climbed off his lap. “Ah… thank you…” she mumbled.
“Don’t thank me yet. You are still my prisoner, until I hear from this New Empire,” he replied, rubbing his raw lips with a hoof.
“So… back to the closet?” she asked with a touch of dread.
“Don’t tempt me,” he warned. “You’ve pushed me far, far more than I have ever allowed any person. I should have killed you when I first had the chance. Then all of this,” he gestured towards the closed window, “wouldn’t be happening. It can end in disaster in so many ways. Legionnaires abusing settlers. Settlers drawing my legionnaires to a domestic life! Tribal squabbles that inevitably pop up. You’ve invited a thousand little headaches on me and my first instinct is to kill things that give me headaches!”
“Maybe. Probably. But it’ll be better too,” she said with as much beaming optimism as she could beam, and hoping that he just sort of ignored what she’d just done.
“Ah, to be young,” he sighed wistfully. “I’ll allow you to visit your friends and the Propoli settlers. I shouldn’t be the only one with the privilege of yelling at you. I understand Director Xona has several choice words for you as well. However, you are to return here at nightfall, and your friends are still prohibited from leaving. Should you go, this settlement will end quite abruptly.”
Right. There was the Ossius she knew. “Right. I won’t. And… ah… thank you,” she said with a flush, starting for the door and halting till he dismissed her with a wave.
***
“So, did you sleep with him?” Precious asked as they caught up next to the pool. Ossius had been right about Xona being angry with her, and she yelled a lot more than he had. She’d outlined all the ways the train station was an utterly horrible locale for settlement and the Bone Legion was not to be trusted and how they’d been in negotiations for their release and now everyone was swept up in planning, breaking ground, and putting down roots, literally and figuratively.
“No, I did not sleep with him!” Scotch retorted, drawing a skeptical eyebrow. “Why would you even think that?”
“Blackjack,” Charity replied with a roll of her eyes.
“That and we noticed you kinda had that thing going on with Vicious,” Majina added.
“So there might have been a bet,” Skylord finished.
“You people are way too obsessed with who I sleep with,” Scotch grumbled, then looked over where Pythia was studying her map. “Everything okay?”
“Well,” Pythia said lightly, “the number of futures we’re all killed and animated as skeletons have gone down dramatically. But it’s still not clear enough to say what exactly we have to do to survive yet.”
“We were able to get the Whiskey Express working again. It’s ready to run, but while we might get away…” Majina trailed off as she looked at the settlers. “Are you sure he’ll really let them live?”
“I’ve pushed him a lot,” Scotch admitted, “but I’m pretty sure if I double crossed him, it would be ugly.” She flushed a little. “I might have kissed him too. Once. That probably wasn’t good.”
“Oooooh,” four of them said in unison.
“Oh, shut up!” Scotch grumbled, ears burning. “He’d just told me he hadn’t killed everyone. I was… grateful.”
“Knew it,” Precious said to Skylord. “Pay up.”
“He still might just kill her. I’m not paying till they’re banging or we’re out of here,” Skylord grumbled.
“It’s not going to happen. I’m pretty sure pony fillies aren’t his type,” she muttered, ears burning.
“Ponies might not be, but you’re not really much of a filly. You’ve grown like three centimeters in the last week,” Majina pointed out.
“I’ve grown too!” Precious countered.
“You’re such children,” Skylord sniffed.
“You’re just sore I’m taller than you,” Precious retorted, sticking out her tongue for good measure.
Maybe, but in spite of being the target of their teasing, it was good to be back with them. Their greatest challenge had been boredom, and staying away from the Irons.
“Well, I think that a settlement here is a great idea. If the legionnaires and the settlers don’t kill each other that is,” Charity said, and got odd looks from the rest. “What? It is.”
“I just thought you’d hate it,” Scotch admitted, glancing over at Pythia who wasn’t joining the conversation.
“Well, it’s remote, which is in its favor, but it’s got water and sun. If you can get crops to grow, they’ll do great without the razorgrass. But more importantly, it’s in between north and south, which means that they can set up a real crossing and charge coins, sell supplies, buy and trade goods. It’s a real opportunity for them.” She pointed a hoof at the salt flat. “Plus, all that? That’s money.”
“Money? Seriously? I thought it was salt.” Scotch blinked. “You mean they could sell it?”
“They did before the war. Salt’s a precious commodity, well, outside of here. Cooking. Licking. It’s in huge demand everywhere and there’s tons and tons of the stuff just waiting to be cut up,” Charity said. “But that’s only if they can feed themselves and protect what’s theirs. I get Ossius wanting to hide his wealth. I did that in Chapel. If raiders don’t think you have anything worth taking, you’re less of a target.”
“So… did I do the right thing?” Scotch asked. Everyone shared a look that she didn’t like.
“I think you changed things,” Pythia said firmly. “Right and wrong… that’s up to them. But if you hadn’t, then a month from now this place would be the same as it’s been for two hundred years. Maybe they get killed. Maybe they prosper. Either future is possible. But if you hadn’t kicked these two into thinking about making an actual settlement there, then nothing would change.” She thumped the map. “Now we just have to get you free and get out of here before something happens that gets everyone killed.”
“And get to Roam,” she nodded. “Feels like we’re never going to get there.”
“We’re actually really close to it,” Pythia said, withdrawing the atlas. “We’re here,” she said, pointing at the Great Western Empty, which dominated almost a whole page. It looked like an 8 lying on its side. “And then there’s the badlands south of here.” She flipped to the next page. “Here’s Roam,” she said, as she pointed to a spot on the map at the cluster of dozens of roads. “It’s only a thousand or so kilometers south of us. We’ve come three quarters of the way.”
“But what happens when we get there?” Skylord asked. “I heard Roam was huge.”
“It is, but I have a map,” Pythia replied, flipping to a different section of it. “I think we should go to the western part of the city. It’s where the imperial embassy to the spirits was located. If it’s intact, we might find where the Caesar’s personal shaman lived and then we can find out if the Eye of the World was blinded, how, and where.”
“And that’s still a big thing?” the griffon asked, crossing his arms skeptically.
“I think it is,” Scotch said. “All this started when we came here looking for the Eye. Riptide. The fight at Rice River. Even this. We started looking for the Eye when no one else did. I think that we should keep looking, till we know.” She gazed off to the east, where the Empty stretched like a dusty sheet towards the horizon.
“Provided we get out of here before Haimon or Riptide show up,” Precious growled.
“True. If that flying contraption shows up, all bets are off and we’re out of here,” Skylord insisted, then pointed a claw when Scotch opened her mouth, “I know you made some idiotic promise or whatever, but I didn’t promise anything. I’ll knock you out if I have to. We’re not leaving you behind again. Right?” the griffon asked, looking at the others.
“Technically we didn’t leave her the last time,” Pythia replied, lips curling into something almost as much a smile as a smirk. “But yeah. We’re not sticking around.”
“But what do we do till then?” Charity asked.
“Simple. These people are going to be setting up a settlement.” Scotch beamed at the rest. “We help however we can.”
“Ugh. I’m going to be moving rocks, aren’t I?” Precious asked.
“That or welding,” Majina said with a smile. “I’ll probably be foal sitting… but you never know. I might turn out good with a hammer!”
“I’ll make sure nothing valuable goes to waste,” Charity said as she rubbed her chin. “I wonder what other caches they’ve got hidden around here. Might be good stuff to trade.”
“The settler ponies saved us after we got out of the Empty. They helped us fix the Whiskey Express. We owe them. Just try to keep things smooth with the Bone Legion. I doubt many of them are going to be happy with this,” Scotch said, looking at the others and getting a solid nod. When the others moved back to the encampment, Scotch sat next to Pythia. “What about you? Seeing a good future yet?”
“Closer. There’s shadows where we might get out,” Pythia replied. “What is he like? Ossius?”
“Deeper than we first saw. I think in another life he’d be an actor. He’s playing a part, even if he doesn’t like it. That’s pretty impressive for someone that tells me he’s going to kill me every night,” she said with a sigh and half smile.
“He still might. Don’t forget he’s spent most of his life killing.” Pythia turned back to her map. “Old habits die hard.”
***
What followed over the next week was a flurry of activity. Once Ossius and Xona had worked out the finer details of what the legion would and wouldn’t do to them, the Propoli got to work, breaking out cutting torches and using the tractors to move the boxcars into new positions against each other. Ones too corroded or bent to be welded together into larger homes were gutted and cut into scrap. While some of the tracks were torn up, others were left untouched. “For future use,” Xona had said.
The legion attacked the hillside with gusto born of being promised the first dibs on the alfalfa. Precious’s prediction proved true as she was put to work ripping into the heaps of rock like a giant purple scaled mole. The legion stacked the rocks into angled walls a meter high, then filled in the backside with dirt. The first irrigation was done by bucket, but after a week a pipe ran from the canyon down to the first terrace. Meanwhile Charity was exploring the salt flat, finding the clearest salt deposits and using her magic and a chisel to carve out a half-meter cube, which she then chipped in into more manageable pieces for later use, or hopefully, sale.
Ossius watched from afar, looking out from his upstairs office with a permanently worried scowl as Marrow handled the digging detail. He didn’t have any more talks with Scotch. In fact, he didn’t seem to leave his office all night, poring over little details in reports from the outpost awaiting Haimon’s reply. Every morning a skeletal zebra trotted up to faithfully deliver messages before taking replies back out into the Empty.
She started taking meals to him, to make sure he’d eat something, even if it was just globs of that wretched paste. Really, first thing they needed to work out was a decent oven! Then, a week after the project started, she paused outside the door to his office. Her hoof froze millimeters from the knob, the end feeling as if it had been dipped in cold crude oil. She set the tray down, and shifted her eyes into the spirit plane.
The door oozed. Thick dollops of black spiritual slime crawled down the surface in a perpetual cascade. Swallowing hard, she turned her head and pressed her ear to the door. For a moment she heard nothing but the clock within, as she struggled to hold still while rancid slime dripped down her cheek.
“…kill them all…”
It wasn’t a voice like a zebra. It was the voice a chorus of zebra might have as they were disemboweled and having their guts drawn out while trying to speak in unison, and not quite achieving harmony. “…kill them. They’ll usurp your authority. Marrow will try to take the legion for herself. Xona will make them all weak. Kill them both. Kill the pony filly. She’s nothing but trouble. Give us their bones.”
Scotch swallowed hard, pulling her cheek away from the door and wiping her face with a hoof. She pulled her sight from the spiritual, and carefully pushed the door open.
Ossius crouched at his desk, his eyes locked on the open black book. As she stepped in, his eyes twitched to hers and glared without moving the rest of his body. Scotch stared at the horrid thing. “Light reading?”
“Contingencies,” he replied tersely. “What do you want?”
“I brought you food,” Scotch said as she lifted the tray.
“Take it away. I’m not hungry.” The ragged stallion waved his hoof dismissively.
Scotch carried it over and set it down on the desk. “You should eat something.”
“I said no!” His hoof upended the tray, flipping it into her face. She raised her hooves in time to shield herself from the tray, but the dough still landed in her mane.
“You know that book’s no good,” she said as she brushed his food out of her mane. She tried to ignore the whispers that teased the edge of her ears. No way she’d dare look at it again. “Put it away. Better yet, get rid of it.”
“You’d like that,” he muttered, glaring at her. “Ponies always trying to make us soft. Weak. Easy to defeat. This has been your plan all along, hasn’t it? Undermine me. Take what’s mine!” he hissed.
“Ossius. It’s a book of evil and it’s messing with you.” She walked around the desk. “Put it away. Come outside. Some sun will do you good.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” he snapped, lunging towards her. In an instant he knocked her on her back and was crushing her windpipe. “I should have done this the first time we met!”
Scotch didn’t struggle, knowing it was futile. He was both too big and too practiced in killing. She’d managed to get one good breath before he started choking her. This wasn’t him. Not entirely. She gazed up at him and touched his cheek. He jerked at the contact, as if it were electric. His pupils dilated as he stared at her.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.
Her vision began to darken as she struggled to say his name. Anything to get through to him.
Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
His hooves jerked away as if suddenly burned, and she clutched her burning throat as she coughed and gasped raggedly. He rose to his hooves, backing away. “I…” He stared at her, then at his hooves, and only then did his eyes move to the book. “Oh, you nasty bastard,” he hissed.
“Are you… you, Ossius?” Scotch croaked, rubbing her throat.
“I’m a better me at the moment.” Ossius drew himself up, his cool gaze drilling into the pages. “You listen to me. If I kill her, or them, or anyone, it is because I choose to! Not you! Not anyone! Do you hear me?”
The book lay there a moment.
“…Fool…” it spoke in the crackling chorus.
Ossius gasped as he pressed his hooves to his chest, a terribly familiar screaming filling the office. He gasped and gaped at Scotch in shock. Then crimson lines began to creep down his nostrils and out his ears. His eyes.
“Ungrateful fools, denying yourselves power. Death is all you deserve,” the horrific voice spoke as Ossius’s life was siphoned from his body.
Scotch stared in horror. If she ran to get Xarian then Ossius would be a bloody smear by the time they returned. She looked around for something, anything, she could use as a mask, but there was nothing except a glob of doughy paste.
She scooped it up and immediately smeared it over her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered.If this doesn’t work, this is a really ridiculous way to die. Then, keeping her eyes down, she shifted her sight to the spiritual.
And found herself waist-deep in black sludge. It poured out of the book in an uninterrupted torrent, but even that was nothing compared to the thing that was currently violating Ossius with entrails attached to him like lampreys, leeching the life from his body. Maybe it had once been a zebra… or several zebras. Now it was a horribly distorted thing. A thing that should not be. Eyes covered its ever-changing surface like boils caused by some long-forgotten disease. She couldn’t even bare to look at it fully without her stomach heaving.
Now she could see it. How did she plan on fighting it?
“Stop! As a shaman I order you to stop!”
It froze. Half its many eyes turned to her. Half its many mouths curled in a drooling grin.
Then seven of its limbs shot out at her. She leapt to the left, ducked, rolled to the right, and leapt over pseudo-hooves that splintered into needle sharp claws. One struck her, and the end erupted in a dozen smaller legs, that each burst forth with a dozen tiny hooks. They pinned her to the wall beneath the banner like a root ball, digging into her hide. Entrails snaked like worms towards her face, ending in gaping lamprey mouths. They struck, but hit some force an inch from her face.
Ridiculous or not, the mask of food paste kept her alive. Still, this thing was draining Ossius, and drowning him in its foul corruption. “Does pony like playing with spirits?” the monster hissed. One of the roots touched her chest and the pain inside exploded, as if Marrow had just run her ass off. Scotch tried to scream, but her throat filled and blood and black bile poured out, choking her. “Foolish pony,” it crooned. “Touched, and so fragile.”
Scotch coughed enough to clear her throat. Her chest felt like it’d impaled her. Maybe it had. No way was she going to beat this thing. Not alone.
Then her eyes turned to the tapestry above her, at the blindfolded zebra at her back. At the scales it held. It was the only source of gold in the entire room. What was it? A spirit of weighing things? A spirit of fairness?
Of course.
“Justice,” she croaked up at it. The blindfolded zebra bowed its head once. “Help!”
“Justice? There is no justice anymore!” the creature screamed from its many mouths. “Kill or be killed. Take or die! That is the only justice!”
Justice said nothing. Scotch looked at Ossius, now lying prone in the black mire, then at the golden spirit again. “I am Scotch Tape. I ask you… Justice… to judge us… and punish the wicked!”
Justice didn’t answer. Unlike the locking spirit, it didn’t seem eager to take the deal. “He is General Ossius. It is his legion’s duty to uphold the law! Judge us! If we are wicked, strike us down! It is your duty!”
The golden light of the tapestry seemed to glow brighter. “No! No no no! You have no right to judge us! None!” the mass of entrails and corruption screamed, withdrawing its root like limb and letting Scotch fall to the floor. The blindfolded zebra stepped from the banner, and where his hooves touched, the black ichor boiled away. A scale shone in one hoof, and a sword appeared in the other.
It held the scale out at her. One side glowed gold, the other black. She watched as both sides filled… the black with far more than she expected. Still, the light pushed down further than the corruption. It turned from her.
The thing lashed at it with its many legs. Incredibly, it parried with the blade while calmly lifting the scales. Almost instantly, the dark side filled and yanked hard on the scales. The golden blade whirled and flashed as it clove through the serpentine mass of too-many legs in a blur, advancing despite the blindfold.
“No! We are powerful! Our power is law! We cannot be judged!” it wailed, backing away from Ossius, creeping back towards the book. “Stop! Stop! Stopstopstopstop!” it screamed, and then the massive bulk started to compress, snapping bone and ripping flesh as it was pressed back into the pages of the tome. The sludge reversed as if a drain had been opened, flowing back into the book it had oozed from.
Justice raised its sword overhead and brought it down towards the pages. The book slammed shut like the closing of a vault door. The blade deflected off with a resounding ping, and Justice just stood there silently a minute.
Then it turned to Ossius, lying there groaning from the attack he’d suffered. Scotch immediately ran to interpose herself between them. “Wait! Please! He’s doing better! He is!”
Justice didn’t stop advancing.
“Please, give him another chance. He can do good. I know it. He could have killed me. He didn’t! He could have stopped the settlement! He didn’t!” Scotch pleaded.
But Justice would not be denied. He raised his scales.
Scotch stared as they began to fill, one side with a wan golden light and the other with black corruption, this time from Ossius’s own heart. Could a few weeks of virtue make up for his vice?
The scales rested, perfectly balanced.
Then the corrupted side dipped down.
Justice advanced once more. She threw herself over Ossius to try and shield him. “Please! Give him mercy! Don’t kill him! He’s doing better! He can keep doing better!” she wailed as loud her burning chest allowed. The spirit seemed almost... insulted... by her plea for forbearance, furrowing its brow in a stern scowl.
Then Ossius’s hoof touched her shoulder and she stared at him as he gave a weak smile. “Is that Justice? Actual Justice?”
“You see it?” Scotch asked.
“No, but you do.” He pushed her off, gently, and then rose to his hooves, swaying. “I am… Ossius. General of the Legion of Justice. Mete out your punishment. I will not hide from it.”
Justice paused before him.
Then it lifted the scales. The dark side was just a little lighter.
It plunged it’s sword into his chest all the same.
Ossius let out a scream as golden light flared out of his nose and mouth. His eyes were like two lamps. Then a glow began on his flank, and those black brands on his flank began to boil like burning sugar. All around the brands the glow intensified, and bits of the brands began to lighten, like curtains in a fresh sunbeam. Then the golden light burst forth from his flanks, shattering the brands and forming into a symbol of a pair of scales.
The ichor collected into a floating sphere and zipped away, disappearing through the wall.
Justice withdrew its sword. Without a word, it walked back to the banner and climbed back inside, resuming its posture, but wearing an almost imperceptibly small smile.
Ossius collapsed, clutching his chest with both hooves as he laid on his side. “What... what just happened?”
Scotch pointed at his flank, where the brand had disappeared, only to be replaced by a glyph. Screwing her eyes up, she thought it looked like... she glanced up at the banner and then at his mark again. “I think... I think you were censured. Your brand is gone.” She knelt beside him, helping him sit up. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’m not the general any longer,” he said as he rubbed his chest. “What was happening before? Was that the book?”
“More like the thing in the book. I don’t think it liked the idea of a settlement here. Or you agreeing to it. I don’t know if it was trying to control you or kill you but...” she swallowed hard to avoid being sick. “It was bad. But Justice broke its power over you.” Scotch pointed to his glyphmark. “When that reappeared, this ball of ick formed and zoomed away through the wall.
“Then that means the Bone Legion has a new general,” he said with a groan. “Who?” Scotch asked.
“Me,” said Marrow’s voice from the doorway. The mare stepped in with a harrowed expression. Her legion brand glowed red, as if it were still being burned into her hide. “What did you do?” she demanded of Scotch. Then she paused. “What is all over your face?” Scotch hurriedly wiped off as much as she could.
“She saved my life,” Ossius replied, adding smoothly, “General.”
“No. I can’t be general. I’m just a Lieutenant!” she objected. “It should be Colonel Scapula or Captain Tibia. They both have seniority.”
“It passes to the nearest qualified officer. You were nearest, and you are qualified. And you will be general until you die,” he said as he rose to his hooves. “I wouldn’t recommend trying what the pony did. It was nearly fatal. The spirits stripped me of my rank. The Bone Legion is now in your hooves.”
“But...” General Marrow began, looking from one to the next. “What do I do? Will you re-join the legion? What will happen when the others find out I’m general?”
“Are you asking for advice or orders?” Ossius asked.
Marrow stiffened, her features going from fright to a worried scowl. “Advice.”
“Good,” Ossius replied. “You’re in command now, as if I’d died and no one else could assume it. I would suggest continuing with the pony’s plan. Let this settlement take root. Support it. Protect it. Use it to develop your own strength.” He glanced back at his glyph. “I will not rejoin the legion. It would undermine your authority to have a former general as your subordinate. If you demonstrate poise, focus, and confidence, the other officers will support you. Those that will not you can remove.” Then his eyes switched over to Scotch. “And I would suggest letting this pony go.”
“After she did... whatever she did!?” General Marrow asked, indignant.
“She saved my life, General,” Ossius repeated. “I thought to use her as a pawn. A tool. A trade. I was a fool. She is cursed, Marrow. Worse than I ever imagined a person could be. It’s been my ruin. Let her go. See to your legion. They’re your responsibility now.”
Marrow turned her back to them, chewing on her lower lip. As she watched, something tugged at her saddlebags, but when she glanced back, Ossius stood there with an indifferent look on his face. Marrow faced them again. “Fine. She’s a worthless soldier anyway. All that coughing and whining. Probably lousy bones too.” She jabbed a hoof at Scotch. “I want you and your friends out of my territory, understand?” Scotch nodded at once. Then she looked at Ossius. “What about you? You’ll stay, won’t you?”
Ossius glanced at Scotch then at Marrow. “I will if you insist, General, but I would suggest not. When Scapula, Tibia, Fracture, and the others arrive you should be on your own authority, not leaning on mine.” His smile softened. “I may stop by from time to time, with your permission, to see how you’re doing.”
“Crap. Five minutes ago I wanted to be general. Now I am, because this pony did... something.” Marrow growled at Scotch before gesturing towards the door with a jerk of her head. “Go. Get out of here. Ossius... I want you to stay. I’m going to need some things from you... before you leave.”
Ossius faced her. “Good luck on your travels, wherever they may take you.”
“Good luck to you too,” Scotch said, glancing at an impatient Marrow. “Both of you.”
And before her luck reversed, she made for the door. Marrow shouted out to the guards to let her out and she didn’t look back as she hurried to the settlement.
Already the Propoli were at work clearing out a section of the train yard. Legionnaires sweated as they wrestled stones into place on the third terrace. Octavius talked with Xona while they started planting the first. Scotch wondered what they planned on growing first. Corn? Beans? Would Marrow be as amenable to the settlers? Would the other officers respect her or would they cause more trouble? Worst of all, Scotch knew, she’d probably never know the answer. When would they ever come back this way?
Her friends were waiting at the Whiskey Express, the trailer filled with drums of water and bags and the boiler issuing steam from its pressure release valve. Xharo and Xarian stood close by, checking the tractor. They looked to her as they approached, and Precious poked Skylord’s shoulder. “She’s not dead. Pay up.”
“She killed their general! How is she not dead?” Skylord demanded, jabbing a claw at her. “Why aren’t you dead.”
“When will you learn not to bet against Pythia?” Precious retorted. “Now pay up.” Pythia didn’t look up from her map, but the filly definitely smiled at that. The griffon passed her a gold imperio, and the dragonfilly snatched it away from him. “Welcome to my court, Duke Ramundo,” she purred.
“Bets aside, I’d also like to know what happened,” Xarian asked, his face far more serious than her friends.
Majina piped up, waving her hooves over her head as she gushed, “One second she was telling the recruits to move faster, and then this black thing streaked right into her and her flank burned bright red!”
Scotch gave a greatly abbreviated accounting of the spirit corrupting Ossius, her invocation of justice, and how it had censured Ossius. Skylord regarded his own brand stoically as the others all looked baffled. When she finished, Xarian appeared vaguely ill and Xharo gaped at her as if she’d grown an additional head. “Can she do that, Dad?”
“Apparently,” he said in a low voice, glancing at her friends. “I wish you could stay for proper instruction, and I am glad you’re going. I don’t think it would be healthy for us if you remained while this curse is upon you.”
“Gee, that’s nice,” Precious snorted.
“It’s okay,” Scotch answered. “I wish I could stay, but it’ll be safer for all of you the sooner I go.”
“You need instruction. Your curse will not protect you forever, and it will protect your friends not at all,” Xarian said, looking to the south. “You are going to Roam. In the old city, there’s an enclave of shamans assisting the Flame Legion. The spirits will show you the way. Give the Shamans there my name. They might be more willing to help.” He gave a half smile. “I’d wish you good luck, Scotch Tape, but I fear the kind of luck you possess.”
“Me too,” Scotch replied. She climbed up into the trailer as Scotch got to the controls. They started up the narrow road that snaked up the canyon, leaving the vast Empty behind them.
“About time we got moving again,” Charity said, pulling out a salt crystal the size of her hoof. “Now, should I sell this bad boy in one chunk or try carving it into something even more valuable? A lamp maybe?”
Scotch moved next to Pythia. “So, you saw me coming out of this okay?”
“Actually, I saw Ossius killing you, Marrow killing you, both of them killing everyone, and a few other nastier outcomes. I was trying to be positive for once,” Pythia answered as she smiled at the map. “Not my fault Skylord’s a cynic too.”
“Traitor,” the griffon muttered as the road curved away, leaving the Empty behind them. “When did you get on team optimist?”
“When the alternative was team ‘oh crap.’” Pythia sighed and glanced at Scotch. “Speaking of ‘oh, crap’... take a look in your saddlebags.”
“My saddlebags?” Scotch blinked, then took them off and flipped them open. One held her usual assortments of healing potions, tools, and lungwort tea. The other, however, had an unexpected addition.
The black book.
Scotch stared at it silently for a moment, then muttered softly, “Oh, crap.”
“You know, I don’t get why they call these the badlands!” Scotch shouted as the Whiskey Express ‘pockety pocked’ its way along the gravel road winding up the hillside, spraying stones behind them. “Open skies! Fresh air!” she called out as the steam hissed out of the pumping pistons. “Makes me want to build a house right over there!” She jabbed a hoof at a massive mountain of tailing laced with conveyors next to a hole in the earth deep enough to put most of Manehattan inside. She’d lost count of how many she’d seen. Thirtieth, maybe?
“Talk less! Drive more!” Charity yelled back.
“Hold on!” Scotch shouted as they approached a switchback in the road. She wrenched the wheel hard to the left, the wheels slipping as the tractor spun almost back the way they’d been travelling. It gave her an excellent view of the bugs coming after them. They scurried after the tractor like a sentient flash flood, pouring over the hillside after the vehicle. Some were as large as a pony, their mandibles making a clicking that rivalled the noise of the steam tractor. Their oily black shells were slightly mesmerizing to observe in number, so she kept her eyes on the road. Scotch wasted no time continuing their ascent along the twisting, winding path.
“The thing I don’t get is why are the neighbors so ornery?” Scotch yelled. “I mean, we just showed up and they were doing their bug thing. You’d think that we’d done something to their nest? Something really annoying. Something like tossing a dozen grenades into their hive!”
“It was a grenade,” Skylord yelled back. “One grenade!”
“Two!” Majina corrected.
“Two! It was two grenades. One in the hive. One in the swarm coming out of the hive.”
“Yeah, you’d think they wouldn’t get so pissy!” Precious added.
“It was two and two fifths of a grenade!” Charity snapped.
“What? Where’d you get two fifths from!?” Skylord demanded.
“From the twenty percent dumbass fee!”
“Hold on!” Scotch yelled again as they reached another switchback. She set her hooves, wrenched the wheel again, and reversed direction once more. The swarm, not limited by needing to follow the gravel road, continued racing up the slope after them. They crested the hill, only to find themselves at the edge of an even larger hole. Scotch swallowed as she was suddenly tasked with navigating the winding edge next to the open pit.
“Wow. That’s a long way down,” Precious observed, leaning out over the edge. The mining equipment littering the sides appeared no larger than a hoof. At the base, the water appeared a vibrant green with swirls of yellow.
“Will you get inside!” Majina yelled, trying to pull the dragonfilly back.
Fortunately, Xharo had fixed the Whiskey Express to good as new. The Propoli hadn’t skimped anywhere on the repairs. The shocks weathered the ruts and washboard surfaces without vibrating clear off the road. Even after two weeks in the badlands, the steering remained tight as ever. Good thing, as Scotch swerved around a boulder protruding into the road.
“Maybe he wouldn’t have tossed the grenade if you hadn’t speculated they might have something valuable in the hive!” Pythia bellowed at Charity.
“What! You saw all those tractor trailers outside the nest! You can’t tell me those things ate all the loot too!”
“I told you what would happen!” Pythia yelled, waving a hoof at her.
“Yeah, since when has that ever stopped us?” Skylord shot back.
“Hold on!” Scotch shouted as the road took a sharp twist back and forth like a W, dropping sharply downhill. Rather than try to navigate the contorted track, Scotch plunged right down the middle. The weedy surface sent up a great cloud of dust as she struggled to keep the Whiskey Express at a low gear and pointed down the clearest slope. She nearly stood like a zebra on the pedals to shift her weight back as they rattled, slid, and clattered their way down. The bugs chittered in annoyance behind them… or fury… or maybe they just chittered?
Halfway down, the trailer started to skid, and she turned into the slide to pull it straight. It wasn’t happening! They were about to jack-knife, or roll! Precious leapt over the edge, hooking her claws on the rim of the trailer to act as a break, shoving her hind-legs into the scree. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” she yelled as her hide was put to the test. Majina and Skylord held tight to her forelegs to keep her from falling off the back. When the trailer straightened and they pulled back onto the gravel, the pair hauled her back in.
The bugs, either fed up with the chase or satisfied the grenade-happy interlopers were gone, broke off the chase. Or maybe they had something else to eat? Who knew with bugs? Scotch Tape didn’t stop for ten minutes, finally pulling up next to a digging machine the size of an apartment building. The dragline scoop still attached to its forked booms was big enough for the Whiskey Express and the trailer, and left plenty of room besides. She could only imagine the length of the cables the massive spools wound up.
No sooner did they stop than the banter returned, only this time, it was Majina gushing, “Did you see the way Precious kept us from flipping around?”
“Hey, now I know I could have a promising career as an anchor,” she answered with a flippant grin as she munched down on their hard tack, which was little more than the Bone Legion ‘dough’ with some salt, vegetable starch from the Propoli, and a little yeast. Wrap it around a stick and cook it over a fire, or dragon breath if you were Precious.
“So, like, didn’t you once have a horn?” Majina asked around her mouthful of tack. “I remember the first time I saw you in Chapel you had one. You even did magic with it.”
“Huh?” Precious blinked a moment, then grinned. “Oh, yeah. I used to. Then it fell off.”
“What?” Charity gasped, clutching her horn in both hooves. A bit of her half baked tack fell off and glopped up her mane. “No it didn’t! Horns don’t just fall off!”
“Well they do when a zebra cyborg thingy stomps on your head. Came right off,” she said as she took another bite. “Eh. It’s okay. I think I’m growing two new ones. See?” She said, pointing at an odd little bump over each brow. “Won’t it be cool if I can do two spells at once?”
“Yeah, great. Meanwhile, I can barely do any,” Charity muttered as she brushed dough out of her hair, blue strands falling out.
“I was wondering about that. I mean, I don’t know how magic is at all for unicorns,” Scotch said, noting that she held her stick.
“It’s dumb. Most unicorns just do magic when they’re young, or learn it if you show it to them enough. I can barely lift stuff. Forget about shooting things in a fight,” Charity said with a glower, then jabbed a hoof at them. “I’m going to charge you an imperio pity tax if you don’t wipe that look of your face,” she snapped at Majina.
“Fortunately, I am pitiless,” Skylord drawled as he ate ‘mystery meat.’ Scotch didn’t want to know the mystery. “Does that mean I don’t have to pay?”
Charity froze, her condemning hoof suspended in mid jab before him. “Technically,” Charity answered, the word pulled out of her as if with pliers. Charity then turned to Scotch. Her yellow hide now brown like leather, cheeks spit to let the grin go straight to her ears as her rotten eyes swelled like yellowed pus sacs. “What’s wrong? Do I have something on my face?” She slurred to Scotch as one eye ruptured like a cyst, milky, festering jelly dribbling down her face.
Majina, her body bloated, burst out her guts laughing. Precious, her body ripping itself into two, one pony and one dragon, joined in. Skylord’s skeletal head sniffed disdainfully as loops of steel chain cracked and splintered around his beak. Pythia, her hide coming off like old wallpaper, gazed on at Scotch in concern from beneath her bloody cloak. “What is it?” two broken halves of Precious asked in unison.
Scotch stared back at them all, forcing a smile and laugh. “Right… excuse me. Need to go pee.” She turned and darted from the fire and down the road.
When she was sure that the others were still laughing around the fire, she dug out the source from her saddlebag: the Black Book. With a heave, she tossed it as far from her as she could. “Knock that off!” she yelled at the prone square barely visible in the moonlight. “I mean it!” Then, for good measure, she marched over and stomped her hoof down on the cover repeatedly. “Stop! Messing! With! Me!” Even for a soul jar of the most evil Starkatteri sorcerers in history, the book seemed unimpressed with her attacks. “I’ll pee on you! I swear I will!”
“It’s messing with you again?” Pythia asked as she approached.
“It’s being stupid. Making me see dead stuff,” she said as she stomped the cover once again. “It. Needs. To. Stop!”
“Well step on it some more. I’m sure Ossius never thought of that,” Pythia replied softly.
Scotch sighed, sitting down. “I wish he hadn’t given it to me. I wish he’d at least asked me!”
“I know, but think of it,” Pythia said as she joined her. “You beat it. You summoned a spirit of Justice and kicked its spiritual ass. You really hurt it. That’s huge.”
“I got lucky. Really lucky,” Scotch muttered. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“I know,” Pythia said lightly. “But that was probably the first time its power over Ossius was broken. If he left it there, how long before it took him over again? Or if he left it behind, how long until it corrupted Marrow? I think he saw a chance to get rid of something evil by giving it to the one person who’d actually beaten it in a fight.”
“Feels like it’s gearing up for round two,” Scotch sighed, rubbing her temples. “Is it messing with you too?”
She shot it a look of disdain. “Every future I’m seeing is us dying. Nothing new about that, but they’re all stupid deaths, like Precious eating us alive, or our intestines bursting out of our bellies and strangling us. I’ve blocked out my sight beyond immediate events. Which is probably why we’re still lost.”
Scotch turned to look back at the campfire. “I wish we could tell them.”
“I know. I do too. But knowledge of the supernatural gives a kind of vulnerability to it. If they knew you carried around a tome of perverted evil, how long before Charity would want to sell it to the wrong person? Or Majina want to read the damned thing? The most they have to deal with are bad dreams, and the Wasteland’s given us plenty of those.”
“It makes it harder… not being able to explain why I’m freaking out,” Scotch muttered, rubbing her foreleg as her eyes turned to the book.
“Scotch, they all think you’re seeing freaky spirits. I mean let’s face it, you’re kinda weird to everyone who isn’t a freaky cursed seer.” Pythia offered her a wan smile. Scotch couldn’t bring herself to disagree. The zebra then adopted an odd, wheedling tone, “ Are you surewe can’t just dump it down a mine shaft?”
“You saw how it draws trouble. If we did, how long before one of those bug things digs it out, and then some raider gets a lucky shot and gets the book? Or whatever lives in those pools tosses it up? We need to destroy it.” Was it her, or did the book let out a growl at that? She rubbed her chest as a sudden spasm of pain ran through her. “Knock it off,” she hissed through the spear of pain twisting in her chest.
Pythia shot it a look as well. “Destroying it isn’t your responsibility. If anything, it’s mine. Once we’re in Roam, I’ll try to find a stakalagados and see if they know a way,” she said. “A Starkatteri witch-hunter might know a trick.”
“Well, that or a balefire bomb. That seemed to work for the Lightbringer. If we can’t manage that, then maybe there’s a volcano we can throw it into?”
“Volcanoes are always an option,” Pythia answered with a half smile. “Try not to let it get to you. I know that’s pretty worthless advice, but it’s all I got. Every time I look into the future, I see you becoming evil and needing to be put down.” She touched her hoof to Scotch’s shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t accept that’s all there is for you.”
“And it’s always me that turns evil, huh?” Scotch asked with a skeptical arch of her brow.
Pythia rolled her eyes. “Okay, so there’s also a bunch of futures where I use that book to get ultimate power over the entire world, but really, what would I do with the world once it’s mine? Plus, I don’t really think it can give me the power to melt the flesh of my enemies from the far side of the globe. That’s a bit much.” She touched her shoulder again. “Just remember. You beat it. Call it luck if you want, but you still won.” Her yellow eyes glanced over her shoulder. “Let me get back before they start betting on how indecent we’re being.”
“Right. Right.” Scotch’s gaze returned to the Black Book. “Go ahead.” Pythia walked back towards the others in the shadow of the behemoth dragline. When she was alone, Scotch approached the book lying in the dirt, slowly circling it. “Okay. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. I’m planning on getting rid of you as soon as I can. Maybe they’ll be easier to mess with than me. But my plan B is to put you in a sack, fill it with concrete, and dump you in a river somewhere. Maybe the ocean. Now maybe you can get out of that. Maybe. But I’m pretty sure that even an immortal soul trapped in a book would find it really, really, boring. So behave yourself.”
The book simply lay there, the stabbing pain in her lungs subsiding. Oddly, that was more ominous than it hurting her more. She sighed, scooping it up in her hooves and slipping it into her saddlebags. Her eyes turned up towards the moon, gazing at the silvery orb. Her eyes picked out one tiny, black hole across the depthless chasm of space that hadn’t been there two and a half years ago.
“I miss you,” she murmured, wondering if he was somewhere out there, looking back down at her. Then she turned towards the orange flames of her friends’ fire, walking back, guided by the pale glow far above her.
* * *
The moonlight transformed the sea into a tenebrous expanse broken by shining white crests. Looming up in the middle, like a steel stake driven into the heart of the sea, rose a massive derrick, the flat top dangling dozens of cables and pipes down towards the waves far below. As Mahealani stood on the wooden planks of the ice barge, the Sahaani captain approached her.
“So you really want to go on board the Rivet, eh?” the floofy Sahaani mare said as her crew uncovered massive blocks of clean glacier ice.
“I need passage south. No disparagement to your vessel, Captain Ilta, but it’s not meant to ply warm waters,” Mahealani answered.
“That’s okay. Neither are most Sahaani,” she said with a laugh, before sobering. “Just be careful. The Rivet’s a long way from Northport,” the fluffy captain Ilta replied. “Thanks for your assistance getting us here.” Mahealani made a noise of acknowledgement in her throat. “Your knowledge of the currents was exceptionally valuable.” Mahealani just gave a brief nod of her head. “If you need passage to a better port, we’ll be offloading for a few hours.” Mahealani sighed, wondering what was taking the skiff so long. “You’re more than welcome back on board. I mean, you shaved two weeks off our schedule!”
Sahaani… “Thank you. I will keep it in mind,” she said. As if on cue, the skiff splashed loudly into the water and she jumped in, glad to be spared any further unwanted job offers. Two burly Sahaani crewed the oars while she waited patiently for them to convey her to the Rivet. Sahaani were not sailors. They could manage icebergs handily, but the slightest hazard had sent their captain scrambling for safety.
The derrick had been some kind of seabed mining station; a Propoli abomination, no doubt. The machinery had long ago been cannibalized, and the Rivet changed owners regularly. Even House Tsunami had held it a while, but the Rivet was a nightmare to oversee. The spirit of the place was corrupted, and the sea itself would sooner or later consume the whole thing. At its base, she stepped from the skiff onto a platform that was winched slowly up to the flat top above.
The Rivet was like Nowhere, in that it was a place of hypocrisy. A skeletal alicorn submerged beneath the waves was painted five meters high on the side of one wall. Beneath it, ponies trotted by in a close herd. Someone had once endeavored to plant hanging growing beds, but they now dangled barren in the wind. Two dark-plumed griffons watched her with a mugger’s eye as she rose past them, and then a half dozen more pounced on the unwary duo in a cloud of feathers and claws. A Roamani stood at a rail, shouting out that the Caesar would live again out at the sea. Atoli zebras welded plates and patched equipment, their sparks cascading down like fallen stars. Some defunct flying contraption dangled from the cables like a fat fly caught in a web.
The half dozen security stallions working the winches latched the skiff to its berth. “Welcome to the Rusting Rivet,” a young Atoli zebra stallion said with annoying cheer as he trotted up. “Do you have an entrance gift?”
Gift. Like they wouldn’t punt her down to the water a hundred meters down if she didn’t. She reached under her oil canvas cloak and withdrew a leather bag. The scrimshaw she’d picked up in the Sahaani lands depicted a leaping dolphin. The stallion’s eyes widened at once. “Oh, yes. That will definitely be sufficient.” He paused and his eyes narrowed as he took in her face. “Wait. Are you with House Tsunami?”
“Does it matter?” she asked back. The half dozen workers now flanked the stallion.
“Just curious,” he said at once, snatching the scrimshaw before she could withdraw it. “House Abyss likes to know who’s patronizing our territory.”
Mahealani considered. So House Abyss had taken over the Rivet? Abyss wasn’t an ally, nor a rival. They specialized in salvage. Once, she might have thought robbing the sea blasphemous, but the last year had softened her views somewhat. She took the risk, pulling back her hood. “I am Mahealani Tsunami.” A mistake, given the stallion’s startled reaction. “Is there a problem?” If there was, she’d rather jump now than be captured. She might – might – float long enough for the Sahaani to pluck out her shattered body from the waves.
“My master was asking about you for a month. Most assumed the sea had swallowed you.”
“Well, I will be going to Gull’s. Your master can find me there.” They both froze as the stallion considered. Then they stepped aside. She walked past, and only when they were out of sight did she exhale. The Abalonehad been a regular at the Rivet years back, offloading clams and fish for trade from the mainland. The groaning structure quivered under its own weight. Someday it would certainly tumble into the sea, but as long as she finished her business before then, it was House Abyss’s problem.
Gull’s, or more formally, Gull’s Shithouse, had once been a warehouse for the metals mined from the sea floor, the rafters and upper walls streaked with white stains from the sea birds that were always nesting in the structure. A wooden pallet hanging from the ceiling showed the Abyss’s sigil: a blue Y on black. The real master of the Rivet sat behind the bar. Like Nowhere, he who controlled the booze controlled the town. “Gull,” she greeted the ancient griffon behind the bar. Age had rendered his plumage and pelt dishwater gray, and he polished a glass with a rag only marginally cleaner than his feathers.
“Mahealani. I thought you’d drowned,” the old griffon coughed, then spat something phlegmy on the glass and proceeded to smear it with the rag. “Riptide is after you.”
“She’s not the only one,” she said as she glanced around the bar. The ceiling was crisscrossed with cables and rails that had once moved around the heavy crates. A few, their sides cut open, served as cheap rentals for people needing somewhere to flop down or a little privacy for a quick rut. In the middle sat a multitude of tables that were waited upon by a half dozen griffons, most of which were his children or grandchildren.
And like Nowhere, the bar was the beating heart of the room. It sat with its back to the open air, veiled by hundreds of dangling ropes and cables that cut off the worst of the wind while letting air through. It also allowed Gull and his family quick egress from any troubles that might find him here. Bottles, jars, plastic containers, and industrial tubs lined the wall behind him, holding most intoxicants one could desire, and if they didn’t, Gull wasn’t averse to slapping together a dozen or so substances to get a reasonable approximation.
The clientele was just as varied as the drinks available. Ponies. Griffons. Atoli of five houses, one friendly, four not. An Atori eating raw fish with her sharpened teeth. Something hunched in the corner that might have been half squid, slowly sucking one clam after another. The slurping noise was a bit too audible for the meal. Still, none where giving her too sharp a look at the moment.
“So,” Gull said as his claws worked the glass. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Information,” she replied, and he gave a chuckle. “Is the Rivet safe for me?” He didn’t answer, smearing the glass further. She sighed, fished out an imperio, and put the gold coin on the counter. “I’ll take a drink.” With that coin, she could have bought everyone in the room a drink.
He took the glass he ‘washed’ and set it on the counter, then reached under and pulled out a bottle, filling it was a yellow liquid that could have been piss for all she knew. “Best ship out. Riptide has people here for you. And there’s a team of griffons here that have been asking for you by name.” He lowered his voice. “Word is your head’s worth fifty imperios.”
She paused drinking the fluid and nailed him with a questioning glance. He wheezed a chuckle. “Please. Your husband would have me for lunch if I collected on your head.” She pursed her lips and set the glass back down. He laughed, plucked it up, and downed it in a gulp. “So why are you in the Rivet?”
“I need passage south,” she replied.
“South as in Rice River?” he queried. “Not a pleasant stop anymore.”
“South as in south of the Zanzebra Strait,” she replied. He clacked his beak and didn’t answer, so she looked past his shoulder out at sea. “The Sahaani who brought me here can’t handle southern waters.”
“Ah,” he said, turning to look at the Sahaani ice scow, “Ah, yes. Them and their glorified icebergs.” He leaned back behind the bar and let out a long, low whistle. “Well, that’s a long way, Mahealani. A long way even by Atoli standards. What business could you possibly have south of the Zanzebra? Bastion?”
“No,” she said, keeping her voice low. Gull was a greedy bastard, but he was also a vital tool. No one kept better track of who really came and went in the Rivet. “Port Nightmare.” It had been a challenge to narrow down which base Nemo had talked about, but there weren’t many bases that drove zebras and robots insane.
He fell silent, staring at her for nearly a minute. “Nobody has business there, Mahealani. If you want to commit suicide, at least let me make fifty imperios.”
“I’m not committing suicide. I need to go to Port Nightmare. There’s something in the naval base there I need to find.” She pulled out the tiny metal key Nemo had on him. A room number was stamped on the side: 317-B. Gull peered at it a moment before she tucked it away again. “I need a ship to take me there,” she said. There was no doubt that Gull would sell this information to Riptide, but a tiny, spiteful part of Mahealani wanted her wife-sister to know that she was following in her wake.
“You’re never going to find an Atoli who’d do it,” he said as he clacked a claw on the bartop. “Not for a thousand imperios. The Blues would just sell you to Riptide. Can’t think of a griffon crew neither that’d be bothered, unless you actually have a thousand imperios.” He paused. “You don’t, do you?”
Mahealani smiled despite her annoyance. “Do I look like I do?”
He didn’t answer at once. Gull had good eyes, and she’d normally have gotten a laugh. Now he gazed at her as a stranger. “Honestly, you’ve changed. I mean, you were always tough but now…” he shook his head. “Can your daughters help you? Or your husband?”
“Ahulani and Lalahawa would help me in an instant if I asked, but I’ll be drowned before I ask them to accompany me to Port Nightmare,” she answered. “Tsunami…” she started to say, then stopped. If she involved him, then the Commodore would be dragged into it. That sat poorly with her. “I don’t want him involved.” She glanced over her shoulder at the room. “I’ll find someone.”
But every inquiry was declined, rebuffed, or laughed at. Even getting close to the naval base, even getting dropped off nearby, was soundly rejected by all. No one went near there. Monsters and pirates were one thing, but no one wanted to chance one’s grip on reality.
An hour later and her window was growing short. It wouldn’t be long until the Sahaani finished unloading their ice and went back north. If she missed them, she’d be trapped here till Riptide or Abyss came for her. She really didn’t like that thought. At least if she left with them, there was a chance of walking, at least down along the coast to Rice River.
She didn’t blame them for denying her. There were plenty of cursed ports in Zebrinica, and some were cursed long before ponies came along. Port Nightmare was one such place. Some ancient wickedness had been buried in its very bones. Of course, that hadn’t stopped the Empire from making a base there. The ancient harbor was just too strategic a location. Before the day of doom, it was a cursed posting, marked with insomnia and terrible dreams.
Now, it ate people’s minds alive.
“Well, you’re not going to find anyone here willing to sail south of the strait, much less to Port Nightma–” Gull started to state.
“I’ll do it,” slurred a voice behind her.
Mahealani turned to a table of four ponies in various states of inebriation. They didn’t appear as anything special. Still, the turquoise unicorn with the filthy blue and gray mane said most of the right words, “I’ll go to Port Nightymare.”
“You have a bottle stuck on your horn,” Mahealani observed, quite at a loss for how else to take this information.
“I imbibe rum through it,” the unicorn slurred proudly. “A far more efficient means of ingestion as the alcohol passes directly to my brain.
“That’s grog,” one of the hornless, wingless ponies pointed out. “And you don’t drink through it.”
“I challenge you to prove I don’t.”
“You’re drunk, Thrush,” another observed.
“That’s yer drunk, Captain’.” the unicorn pointed out. “And since when has intoxication ever disqualified me of that position?” she asked in a huff.
“You were disqualified as captain when you lost your ship,” the first pony pointed out.
“Technicality,” the ‘captain’ slurred, with a wave of her hoof.
“I’m leaving,” Mahealani stated, turning towards the exit.
Something seized her rear boot, and she looked back at the ‘captain’ clutching it tightly. “Please, don’t go!” Mahealani kicked her leg repeatedly, but somehow the pony stayed glued to it, despite flailing about like a limp turquoise flag.
Mahealani tugged her foot free of her boot, and kicked the pony off to land in a heap behind her. She whirled on her, growling, “I need a ship. You don’t have a ship. You are wasting my time.”
“I can get a ship! My ship! It’s such a sweet little ship. Take you from here to anywhere in the blink of an eye! Even Port Nightmare,” Thrush gushed, sweeping her hoof before her, the brown bottle still on her horn.
“I don’t have time for a wild goose chase,” Mahealani said, yanking her boot from the pony’s grasp and turning away. She got all of two steps before her other hind leg was grabbed. She glared back at the limp pony dragging along behind her like a prison ball. “What is wrong with you? Are you a foal!?” she asked, exasperated, trying to shake the idiotic pony off her hind leg. Gull had rules against killing, and from how the old griffon cackled, he wasn’t going to lift them anytime soon for her benefit. “Get off!” she shouted, bapping her with her free boot and trying to shake her off. “I’ve got an hour to find passage somewhere or to get back to the ice scow I arrived on.”
“Ow! Well that’s good– Ow!– because it’s not wild gooses– Ow!– we’re after, is it? It’s a ship! Ow! A fine ship! –Ow!– The Seahorse.” Mahealani paused her boot battery as she worked to shake herself free. “It’ll get you there it a quarter the time of anything with canvas!” Thrush boasted, glued to Mahealani’s hind leg. “And where we need to go is not far for your ice inclined compatriots!”
Annoyance vied with the urge to break the grasping forelegs and the need for transportation. Still, of the entire room, this was the only person who had agreed to help. Not that she was inclined to trust ponies all that much. “Where is this hypothetical ship?” Mahealani countered, taking a moment to catch her breath. She’d give her stripes for a good pry bar.
“Well, it’s hypothetically in the hypothetical possession of a hypothetical pirate who hypothetically cheats at cards,” she slurred rapidly.
“Which pirate?” Maybe she could get the ship for herself.
“Ice… Ice… Ice Cream? Eyes beam? Ayes keen?”
Mahealani filled in the blank herself. “Eye Scream? Atori witch doctor?”
“That’s the one! Eye Scream. Wonderful chap. Has a delightful singing voice.”
“He rips the eyes out of people’s heads,” Mahealani added. “While they’re still alive.”
“Only professionally,” Thrush countered with a sniff.
“How on the seas would a pony play cards with a south seas witch doctor in the northern ocean?” Mahealani murmured, half to herself and half to the mare. “Not why. How is it even possible?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself. And if I were to hypothesize a guess, I would say it’s because someone out there had a sick sense of humor.” She sighed. “Good old Eye Scream and I were playing a bit of cards and I had a set that should have sealed the deal, but then he went and used his zebra cheating witch doctoryness to win.”
“You were cheating too, Captain.”
“Hypothetically,” Thrush repeated with a wave of her hoof, giving Mahealani a chance to yank her limb free. “Please. Just get me back to my ship, and I’ll take you wherever you wish on the seas. Free of charge! We’ve been marooned on this rust bucket that we’re practically selling ourselves just to keep our heads above water.” Then she sat up, lips pursed a moment, and said, “Though I must admit that I’ve had a rather disappointing lack of offers for the prices I’ve requested.”
“Free isn’t a price, Thrush,” one of the other pony stallions chimed in. “Would you sleep with you?”
Thrush sat there a moment, cocking her head. “Point,” she conceded, pursed her lips a moment and then added, “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
No help was better than help from a madmare. “Well, good luck with that, but I’m looking for a real captain with a ship, not a pretend one without–” she cut off an odor caught her nose.
Garlic.
She immediately looked up and spotted the glowing green eyehole peering down at her through a gap in the roof. With a buzz of wings, the eye disappeared.
“We need to go. Now!” Mahealani shouted as she turned towards the exit. The sight of the dozen Abyss zebra gave her pause. Six watched the exit while six more advanced. Everyone but the four ponies was getting out of the way.
“Master Abyss would like you to come with us peacefully. Don’t want to damage the goods for Riptide,” the young stallion from the lift declared. “Don’t worry. We’ll hold you in our most comfortable brig till she arrives.”
Then she wasn’t here yet. “You’re hired. Keep them off me for five seconds.”
Thrush heaved herself to her feet, bottle still perched perfectly atop her horn. “Alright! You heard her. Er… um… Onesy! Twosy! Threesy! Get ‘em!” she said to the three other ponies.
“That’s not our names!” the three shouted in unison, but then the Atoli were upon them. And then they were upon the Atoli–kicking over tables, flinging chairs and otherwise stomping the zebra. While Mahealani would have liked to believe that any Atoli was a match for a wingless, hornless pony, she had to concede that in this instance she was glad the three were keeping the Abyss at bay.
Mahealani rushed behind the bar where Gull cowered. “Gull, I need the back door.”
“Oh, don’t ask me that. The Abyss are watching!” the griffon cawed.
“Gull! I persuaded Tsunami not to evict you when we captained the Rivet. You owe me,” she hissed.
The griffon sighed and nodded behind the bar where dozens of cables dangled into the sea. “Pull the pin on the third from the left. Take the sixth from the right. The red one. Ownership takes no responsibility if the damn thing breaks.”
“Thanks, Gull. If we ever kick the Abyss out of here, Tsunami will make you manager of this place.”
“Manager? Don’t do me favors, Mahealani. Just pay me enough to retire off this scow!” He reached over, snatched a bottle off the shelf, and guzzled the contents. “You know the rules about the back door.”
She hit him as hard as she could. His head rolled and he went limp. If he wasn’t knocked out, he’d perfected acting like it. “So is there a plan?” Thrush asked in her ear.
“Ah! Why aren’t you fighting?” Mahealani asked. “And take that stupid bottle off your head.”
“Fight? Me?” She pressed a hoof to her chest. “I’m management for a reason!”
“Why do we sail with her?” Onesy asked Threesy as he kicked a chair into the face of a Atoli.
“Beats raiding,” Threesy replied as she stomped on another zebra’s head. The androgynous Twosy simply grunted in agreement as they smashed a bottle into the face of one of the Abyss.
Mahealani climbed up on the bar, scooping a bunch of canvas rags up in her arms. “So, what are we doing?” Thrush queried. “I ask because contrary to some zebra’s belief, not all of us can fly.” She tapped the hoof thick cables. “And none of these go more than halfway down.”
Mahealani reached up to a pin on the third to left, hooked her hoof, and gave a hard tug. The pin stuck for a moment, but then a glow surrounded it and it slid free. Immediately, the end of the cable broke free, but instead of falling down into the sea, the cable swung down, the other end still attached above the bar. Mahealani slapped the canvas around the cable. “Hug that or lose your hide. Go too fast and die.”
“You’re not that much of a conversationalist, are you?” Thrush said, grabbing the cloth wrapped cable. Then she hugged it tight and started to slide down as it swung like a pendulum over the waves.
Mahealani glowered at her departure, but merely wrapped a second cloth. “Threesy! We’re going!”
“Gone!” the mare replied, turning and sprinted for the cable. She grabbed the canvas in an embrace and started her slide.
“Twosy!” she yelled.
“That means you!” Onesy, the largest and brawniest said, flinging a fusillade of bottles and furniture at the others. The Abyss were bringing up guns, but they weren’t firing just yet. Mahealani bet that Riptide wanted her alive, which meant the others had to go first. Twosy ran to the cable, hugged it tight, and dropped as well.
“Onesy!” Mahealani yelled.
“That’s not my name!” he roared, running behind the bar. Then, with a colossal heave of muscle, kicked the entire bar top into the face of the Abyss. He grabbed the cloth and dropped. Mahealani snatched the rest of the rags and hugged the cable for dear life as she dropped.
The key to sliding down a cable was to go fast, but not too fast. Good thing it appeared as if all of Thrush’s crew knew this golden rule. However, there was no sign of the captain, so Mahealani guessed that she’d plummeted to a cold and certain death. From even fifty meters, the sea would shatter a body, and they were twice that! The other cables dangling from the side of the Rivet snapped and swayed around them. There was a scream from above as an Abyss Atoli tumbled down, his hooves bloody. Thankfully the cable’s sway kept him from smashing into her on the way down. A second fell a few moments later, their trailing scream cut short by the waves.
The canvas was hot against her body as she continued the descent, when the buzzing of wings filled her ears. Hooves ending in metal hooked claws latched on to her coat and started to thrash. She struggled to keep her grip on the cable. Either the flyer would drop her, or it would carry her back up to the Abyss.
“Oy,” came a shout from the swinging cables. The turquoise unicorn swung into view, the end of one cable looped around her hind leg, forelegs crossed over her chest, and that bottle still wedged to the end of her horn. “I know what you’re thinking,” she started to say, then pressed her lips together. “Strike that. You’re a bug. I can’t even begin to think of what you’re thinking. But if I had to guess it’s–” Her horn abruptly flashed and the bottle shot off like a rocket, leaving an exhaust of vaporized rum behind it and smashing into the wide glowing green goggle lens, which shattered under the impact. “Oh fuck, my eyes!”
Unfortunately, the flyer went wild, its claws still entangled with Mahealani’s coat. Noxious green gas oozed out of the broken goggles, and wide, white eyes lacerated with glass oozed a milky substance. Mahealani found herself airborne, but the panicked and half-blind flyer had no idea where it was going, smacking both of them into the dangling cables. More than one threatened to knock them into the sea below. The flyer could kill her just by dropping her right now.
Then the bug lurched, its buzzing becoming labored. Mahealani looked up at the sight of the unicorn riding the flyer. “Down buggo! Down! Left! Your other left!” the ‘captain’ cried as she steered the flyer clear of the cables and towards the Sahaani ice scow. The three ponies slid down the swaying cable with practiced care. “Oy! Onesy! Twosy! Threesy! Get a move on!” she hollered at them as she looped the faltering flyer around the swaying metal.
“That’s not our naaaaaaamshiiiiiiii–!” one bellowed, trying to shake a hoof at the pair and thus losing his grip and falling into the cold seas below. Luckily, it was a mere ten meters at that point, and he appeared to enter the water correctly, landing hind end first, rear hooves locked together. The other pair leapt off as well as Onesy’s head broke the surface and bellowed up with surprising volume, “Dammit, Captain!”
“Swim, Onesy! Swim!” she exhorted before crashing the exhausted flyer on the deck of the Sahaani ice scow. The astonished crew stared at the trio, as if not quite sure what to do. Thrush, for her part, patted the flyer’s head. “That’ll do, Buggo. That’ll do.” Then she pointed a hoof at the zebras. “Oy! Healing potion for my insectile friend here, yeah! Put it on her tab. She’s the one in charge,” Thrush said, jabbing a hoof at Mahealani, who was trying to get herself free from the flyer’s hooked forelegs. “Oh. And get my crewponies out of the drink before they’re ice cubes,” she said as she trotted around. “Where’s the alcohol! I need rum!”
The Sahaani stared at the twitching flyer, the ponies swimming for their lives, and the unicorn calling for rum. Then Captain Ilta twisted her lips in a strained smile. “So… productive trip?”
“Get those three and get out of here. I suspect the Abyss aren’t going to respect your ship’s sovereignty.” They were starting to launch longboats and were shooting wildly from the top of the Rivet.
“Oh. Yes. Well, fortunately we’ve gotten paid.” She snapped to the crew. “Longboats. I want those ponies out of the water in five minutes or less. Then get to the oars and sails!” As the crew scrambled into action, she turned to a cloaked shaman. “Marja? Do break out our finest spirit bribes for Boreas, please,” she said, turning to a mare in a white whalebone mask.
“Offerings, Captain. They’re called offerings, not bribes.” Then she reached into a fur-trimmed coat and pulled out a vial of clear water. She spoke in a whispery voice, then slowly poured the water out into the sea. Instantly, the air turned cold and a hard wind began to blow. Clouds immediately started to form to the north.
“That was quite a bribe,” Mahealani observed at the thick, rolling clouds.
“It was water from the snow of the highest peak in the world, taken more than three centuries ago. Yes. It was quite a bribe.” The shaman walked towards the cabins in the center of the scow.
“Are you coming back with us?” Ilta asked Mahealani as the crew went into action.
“No,” she muttered, looking in the direction of a mare hollering for rum. “I’m actually going to help that idiot get her ship back.” She stared up at the silver disk of the moon peering through the thickening clouds. “Seas help me…”
* * *
“I hate being outside,” Vicious growled as her lavender eyes scanned the razorgrass waving softly in the breeze like the ocean. Even with three swords, four knives, an assault rifle, and two magnums she felt vulnerable. In the city, she could predict an attack. Out here, any Blood Legion moron with a scope could take her head off with a lucky shot. Worse, the glow of her unicorn magic made her all the more conspicuous a target.
“I hate the petulant whining of others. Vega hates being ignorant. We all have our burdens to bear,” Tchernobog answered in his deep rolling voice as they ascended the low bluff just north of the bridges that spanned Rice River. Even this far upstream, far south of the city, it took no less than three cantilever arches to cross the width of the mighty torrent. Right below them were the dozen stone arches of the Old Road. “What can you see?”
Vicious sighed, levitated a telescope, and peered through the eyepiece to the south. She pursed her lips together and whispered softly, “Shit.”
Which was exactly what Irontown was deep in.
It’d once been a military factory like Carnico, built up on a bluff where the Rice River poured down in a thundering cataract, cozied up to the mountains that surrounded it on three sides. The hydroelectric plant still churned away, allowing a dozen spotlights to sweep back and forth across the plain beneath the cliff. The factory was walled in on all sides, with steaming smokestacks raised into the sky. Massive naval guns atop round towers intended to fend off Equestrian armies and Raptors now pointed impotently out, unable to drop their fire sufficiently to hit the enemy at their doorstep. Every now and then a smaller cannon atop the wall boomed, and fire erupted in the ground below.
A ground that was positively teeming with Blood Legion. There’d once been a trading post at the base of that cliff. Now there was a network of trenches and pits occupied by thousands of Blood Legion. Knowing that the Legion had these kinds of numbers was one thing. Actually seeing it was quite another. Her eyes scanned the flanks of the factory, where the rail lines ran out to link the city to the rest of Zebrinica.
“Elaborate, please,” Tchernobog muttered.
“It looks like the Bloods set off a landslide to cut off the Irons’ rail. They can’t bring out their rail artillery, and they’re too close for the big cannons to hit them.” She scanned the razorgrass to the east and saw the dozens, if not hundreds of craters recently gouged out of the plain to the west. How many had been blasted to pieces just getting there?
“And half their forces are tied up guarding Carnico from the Blood Legion in Rice River. Ingenious,” Tchernobog said. “What is the disposition of the Blood Legion?”
She focused on the trenches, where a zigzagging network stretched in an arc spanning from one edge of the bluff to the other. “They’re… digging in. I’m seeing a few machine gun nests, but…” she spotted one and focused the telescope. The zebras were furiously disassembling the gun, and within a minute were moving to another section of the trench. “They’re moving their guns around.” A minute later, the place where the gun had been firing erupted in a geyser of earth. “Shit. They’re anticipating the shots.”
“Or they have a very talented seer examining the future,” Tchernobog said as he stood stoically next to her. “The Blood Legion are not throwing themselves at the enemy?”
“For once, no,” she said, scanning her telescope. Where the mountain curved and provided cover the Blood legion had set up their camps. “It’s freaky.”
“It is unsettling, and it’s what Vega feared. The Blood Legion finally got a commander that has instilled some discipline in the Bloods. Rice River suggested it. This confirms it,” Tchernobog muttered, and then turned and started back down the backside of the hill. She followed, collapsing the floating telescope and packing it back in its case.
“What does it mean?” she asked as she glanced at him.
“We are in greater trouble than I feared. If Irontown falls, the Irons in Rice River will be permanently cut off from supply. All the Irons’ mines and munition depots are in those mountains. If Adolpha comes up here with her rail guns, they may break the siege, but Haimon will certainly try to take the city in her absence. We have no idea where the Riptide is. It could be lurking off shore, waiting for the opportunity to return.”
“Shit,” she repeated, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the battle. “And the Exchange?”
“Sanguinus has no need of a black market,” he said, the razorgrass parting before him like a sea. Some zebra spiritual garbage, no doubt. She had to endure the countless tears and tugs to her barding’s leg protection as she followed in his wake. “We will likely have to evacuate and leave the north to its fate.”
“You mean the city, right?” she said, then balked as he glanced behind at her soberly. “You really think the whole north of Zebrinica’s going to fall?
“With the Irons gone and Carnico under Sanguinus’s control, there’s none to stop him. He’ll have the materials needed to field an army the likes of which has not been seen for two hundred years,” he muttered as they approached the river and the small boat that had carried them here, tied up under the Old Road’s stony arch. “If I was Bastion, I’d be worried.”
That was when she tripped on the body.
The razorgrass had utterly concealed it from the moonlight, but as soon as she put her foot down, the body burst like a pustule and she went slipping and falling atop it. Rankness poured into her nose as ribs stabbed at her while the liquid slime covered her face. She pushed herself off it and nearly went for a roll in the razorgrass. A few stray strands sliced her ears before she got control of herself. “Shit!” she swore, coughed, and wiped her face.
Tchernobog just stood there, looking at her, then at the body at his hooves. “Ha ha,” she muttered.
But he didn’t laugh, or even smile. Nothing new there. “Look at it, Vicious. What killed him?”
Vicious rose. “Uh, let me guess. Not me?” she said with a half smile, then examined the body. With the grass pulled back, she could take a better look in the moonlight. Zebra stallion, about a month dead, maybe less. Bloated, but with little insect activity. Odd, that. But as she stared, her eyes took in the limbs, the ribs, the skull. All appeared warped, as if turned to wax and then smooshed in various ways before rehardening. “That’s not right.”
“This was concealed,” he murmured.
“Well, yeah. The grass–” she started to say when he shook his head.
“No. It was concealed from me.” He touched his chest. “I can sense no spirits here. Only by straining my senses can I detect the regurgitated spiritual corruption covering this corpse. It is like bile coating everything around us. I walked right past this body without a thought. But you, with your dull pony spirit, tripped right over it,” he rumbled.
“What’s the big deal?” she asked, wiping the foulness and trying not to snap at ‘dull pony spirit.’ “It’s only one body.”
“Only one?” he echoed, his voice distant. He closed his eyes. “Vicious, I am going to do something. When I do, we may be attacked. Be ready.”
“By what?” she asked, immediately levitating three swords around her.
“I do not know, but it will be bad,” he stated, then he closed his eyes. “Dhruva,” he intoned, raising his eyes to the skies above and looking to the north. “Steadfast and faithful. Guide my sight. Reveal to me what is hidden.” One star at the end of a ladle-like constellation flared once, and he furrowed his brows. “I don’t understand.” Another flicker from the star. “You cannot? You?” Another flash.
“I would pay for someone to translate this zebra crap into something that makes sense,” she muttered.
“I see. I cannot, but she can,” he said, looking at Vicious. “It seems your dull pony senses are exactly what is called for.” His eyes returned to the star. “I accept,” he stated. “Show her.”
A blast of wind slammed down upon them, not from any direction but as if from the stars above. The razorgrass snapped in the sudden gale that drove Vicious to her knees. As the wind flowed away from them, it caught the strands of razorgrass and laid them flat against the earth, braiding and clumping them together. When the gust passed, the shoulder-high grass lay flat in a perfect circle for nearly a hundred meters in every direction.
“What do you see?” Tchernobog asked, quiet even for him.
Bodies. Lots of bodies. A hundred, or perhaps more. With the smell of razorgrass blown away, the reek of decomposition immediately took its place. She stared at legs twisted like noodles, ribs that looked as if they’d burst while still alive, and mouths distended in horrified screams. Even lacking eyes, the sockets seemed stretched in horror. “What the hell happened here?” she asked, then turned to see Tchernobog still staring at the star. “What’s happening to you?”
“I will be fine. I am just cursed with vertigo at the moment. Examine the bodies. Who were they? What killed them?” he asked in a terse voice. “Quickly. Something will have heard that.”
Vicious muttered about frigging shamans and picked through the closest half dozen. “Okay. Finding gear here. Pretty wasted though. Not damaged so much as… rotten.” She levitated a piece of barding only to watch the leather disintegrate under its own weight. “Guns are all corroded. Blades too,” she said as she walked around him. He turned away from the star, and immediately staggered and returned his eyes to it, swaying. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be fine. This is more important. Can you tell anything else?”
“They’re all facing the same way, towards Irontown, upstream,” she noted. “Those that aren’t twisted like a pretzel anyway.”
“Then we will go downstream,” he said and started to walk unsteadily along, keeping his eyes on the star. As they moved, the razorgrass behind them sprang back up almost immediately, hiding the bodies. A wall of air brushed the weedy growth aside. Twice it seemed like Tchernobog would step on a deformed limb, only for him stagger at the last moment and avoid it. Whenever he lowered his eyes, he nearly fell over till he returned his gaze to the star.
Soon they were at the Old Road. The bridge across Rice River seemed like a narrow ribbon capable of admitting only one zebra at a time. The much larger expressway had tumbled into the water long ago. Beneath the ruins of the concrete expressway, a ferry rested, big enough to haul tractors from one side of the flow to the others along two cables the Irons stretched over the water. A dozen or so Blood Legion were on the middle of the wide river, manually pulling across a tractor. The Irons must have scrapped the motor when they’d lost the ferry.
As they approached, four Bloods emerged from the motor house on the east side of the river. “Hey? Who–”
Three swords and a shotgun pointed at the quartet. “Go back inside. We’re just checking some stuff and then we’ll leave your war.”
The four exchanged looks, glanced at the Starkatteri, and proved they were officer material. All four went back inside without a second comment. Tchernobog kept his eyes on the star, the wind flattening the razorgrass for ten meters around him. “What do you see?”
More bodies. Heaps of them. How had any zebra missed this? The smell alone… then she blinked. How had she missed it? They’d walked past all of this going up the hill! “Lots of bodies. Twisted like the others. Tcher… how come I’m seeing this now?”
“Because you’re looking for it, and your mind is less susceptible to the effects of spirits. This is…” he trailed off, his eyes locked on the star to the north. “Dhruva is helping. It seeks to guide us. This level of concealment is… terrifying. I know nothing that could kill so many and utterly conceal their passage.” Keeping his eye on the star, he gestured at the carnage arrayed around the end of the Old Road bridge. “Now look.”
“There’s bullet casings here. Lots of bullets,” she murmured. “I noticed them when we went up, but didn’t think anything of them.” He nodded, his eyes ever on the star. “Let’s see. Most guns eject to the right. That means they were firing at something across the bridge.”
Now Tchernobog shuffled sideways, his gaze glued upwards. When they got to the far side, scrubby trees and brush broke up the expanse of grass, and it was pushed aside as well as they approached.
“There’s wagons here.” She walked to where one lay collapsed in a heap. “It all looks super old,” she muttered, pressing her hoof against the corroded paneling, and it immediately snapped under the pressure. The whole panel disintegrated into chunks of rust in the grass. “Shit. It just fell apart.”
“Someone summoned a powerful spirit of entropy here. Very powerful. More powerful than anything I could muster, and I deal in entropy,” he said softly.
“Another Starkatteri?”
“Perhaps, but if one of my tribe had that power, all would know of them,” he muttered, turned his head, and staggered again. He retched and vomited, then gasped and locked his eyes on the star, grunting in annoyance. “Keep looking!”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I will endure,” he grumbled.
“Why would there be bodies at all?” she asked as she picked through the next corpse. “Why wouldn’t they be bones or powder like the wagons?”
“Because unlike the vehicles, they still had living souls when they were slain. Those souls resist annihilation, even if they can’t prevent death. They linger, lost and confused, unable to find their way. As they fade, so too would the remains.” He paused and took a slow breath. “I suppose if you found a tool with an awakened spirit, it might linger as well, but mundane material would simply revert back to the earth.”
“They were Blood Legion, I think,” she said, peering at an insignia of a little pine tree. “And Green Legion too.” She frowned. “Who attacks Greens? Everyone needs them. Only an idiot attacks them.”
“This was not an idiot. This was something terrible,” the Starkatteri rumbled.
“Shouldn’t we go back and report to Vega what we saw?”
“This is more important than him,” Tchernobog said evenly. “Keep looking. Your dull pony senses are our only asset. I cannot see these things.”
More important than Vega? She didn’t know such a thing was even possible. “But they’re right there,” she pointed out, baffled that the spooky shaman, for once, seemed utterly incapable of seeing what was right in front of him.
“Of course they’re right there!” he suddenly snapped. “Do you not understand? Something was done to them to make them imperceptible to me! I am a shaman. I am supposed to feel that which is hidden. This is diametrically opposed to my very nature. To my tribe! Something that can do this should not be! Now look!” He drew a ragged breath. “You are a pony. Your senses are fixed on the material. The immediate. The mundane. Only one pony I’ve ever known had any sort of spiritual awareness, and you are not she. Now look! Use your killer instinct. What did this?”
Vicious opened her mouth, then closed it. Scotch was a sore point for her, but now wasn’t the time. Vicious examined the carnage. These bodies faced in a crescent. Faced one wagon. She walked up to the withered frame and peeked inside. Not much left. What she guessed was a bed. A few refrigerators. Whatever did this had come out here. The Greens had fought it. Then they’d run across the bridge to the Bloods. Then the Bloods had run. Something had casually killed some of the best armed and most numerous legions in the Wasteland.
Suddenly, she wasn’t so keen to find out what it was.
Then her eyes caught it. A line of rot cutting right through the trees and bushes. Not far. Ten meters or so at the furthest before the sharp bank dropping down to the river below. She followed it slowly, cautiously, with Tchernobog shuffling after her. Just before the water’s edge lay an outcropping of stone, some old knob of the world exposed by numerous floods and polished smooth by their passing. There, at the very end of the trail, was the last thing she ever expected to see.
Hoof prints. Two of them, and only two, pressed into the stone as if it were clay. She lowered her glowing horn, staring at the tiny cracks that radiated out from the edges. These weren’t giant prints of some horrible horse beast. They were small. Petite.
A horrible curiosity seized her, and she stretched out her hoof and pressed it to one mark. It fit almost perfectly.
“A mare did this,” she murmured.
Suddenly her whole body froze, her leg locked to the print like a key in a lock. Her heart hammered in her ears as her body shook, as if by one massive cramp. Her throat closed, choking noises emerging from her. Tchernobog was making some sort of comment. Maybe asking a question, but she couldn’t hear it as she stared down at that print.
“My, my, my,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Someone is following me? Foolish, foolish…” And she felt something slithering invasively over her skin. “Mare… pony?” The grip tightened and she would have given anything to make a scream. The sensation then gripped her horn, her magic winking out. “Ah, unicorn. Pity. For a moment, I thought you were she. How wonderful that would have been.”
There was no response she could make. She struggled for a single breath. “Now. What to do with you? You’re disgustingly healthy. Good heart. Non-smoker. No meat. You should live to your eighties. Mmmm… maybe ovarian cancer. No no. Too obvious. Too simple to treat. I think… yes. That osteoblast is perfect. I think I can induce it riiiiight… There.” She felt a sting right above her pelvis. “Now we just need to grow and spread. This’ll only take a minute, sweetness.”
The hell with that. It took all off her strength to glance back over her shoulder at Tchernobog looking at the star, his mouth silently working as a warm ache spread through her hips. “It really is a pity. I’d hoped to run into Scotch again, but she’s disappeared. I can feel her wiggling about somewhere, like a maggot under your skin.” As the power coursed through her, the cracks propagated through the rock, hairs creeping out in all directions.
Scotch? This thing was after Scotch? She grit her teeth and put all her focus into her horn. It flickered to life again.
“What’s this? You’ve got some fight in you! Just give me a little longer. We’ll be stage four in just a minute, sweetness.”
“Bitch,” she whispered, raggedly, raising her gun. “I ain’t sweet!”
And then she put a bullet into her own hoof.
She hadn’t really planned this out, but the shock shook that evil grip paralyzing her body and snapped Tchernobog out of whatever monologuing he’d been engaged in. He broke his stargazing long enough to see her standing there, gasping for breath, her hoof on fire and bleeding like crazy. “It’s after Scotch,” she gasped, her body aching. “She’s after Scotch…” And she might have given her cancer.
And then the rock knob collapsed beneath her. She could barely stand, let alone jump free, and she tumbled down into the rolling waters. The cold, wet waves gripped her weapons and webbing, threatening to drag her down as she tried to simply keep her head above water. She struggled to unload, dropping her guns and weapons to the river bottom in an effort to stay afloat. She spotted Tchernobog silhouetted in the moonlight on the edge of the broken off stone. Then Vicious’s head struck a floating branch and the world swirled away into churning, dark water.
* * *
The moonlight filtering through the trees played on the weathered stones of the Old Road as Taliba walked cautiously down the center of the track. The Zencori librarian wasn’t precisely sure if it was preferable to travel at night or during the day, as there was little consensus to be found in more than five hundred tales involving the path. What she did know was that if she followed the Old Road west, then south, past the great city of Bastion, she’d arrive at the Great Library of Zanzebra. If any place served as capital for her tribe, it would be there. She’d call for a Conclave to verify her claims and then go home.
Truth mattered. For history and fiction. History depended on it to get as accurate as possible. Fiction so that the dramatic events were impactful as possible. Yet both Master Jahi and Baruti both had dismissed her concern with that air of ‘we are older so we know better.’ If her tribe had made an error with the books, then someone had to go to the Library and make certain that everything was in order.
Granted, she’d never stepped hoof out of her village before now, but she’d read a great deal about it.
Something in the woods let out a cry, and she started, the moonlight gleaming off the lenses of her glasses. “Well, whatever it is, I doubt it has business with me,” she murmured. The thick woods were only getting thicker. Eventually they’d turn into swampland, but she’d be going south before that happened. As bad as woods were in narratives, swamps were indisputably worse.
“Unless its business is lunch,” an old zebra stallion croaked beside her. Aside from the Eastern-style conical woven reed cap and Eschatik style cloak, he didn’t seem all that odd. Well, the fact that he’d been standing inches from her this whole time was more than enough to send her sprawling in shock. “Pardon,” he murmured as he hooked one leg around a knobby walking staff, “but you seem to be a bit out of your element. Trailblazer, at your service.”
“Trailblazer?” She furrowed her brow. “That’s not a proper name.”
“And yet, it is mine,” he said, extending out the staff, his foreleg bracing it to his shoulder so she could hook the knobby, twisted wood and pull herself to her hooves.
“Are you a spirit or a person?” she asked once she was back on her feet.
“Yes,” he answered with a chuckle.
She could think of at least seventeen different stories involving ‘Trailblazer,’ but none of them seemed to fit this stallion. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I thought I’d make a few more kilometers before I-.” There was a crack in the wood and she gasped, whirling and scooping up a rock, poised to throw. A moment later a branch tumbled out of a dead tree, landing with a thud in the undergrowth, yet she remained frozen.
He regarded her with flat gaze and asked, “Been in the wasteland long?”
“Three. Four hours,” she replied, her voice faint. She relaxed enough to drop the rock. A gunshot echoed in the distance, making her jump. “I… am… cautiously optimistic. Very cautious,” she murmured, more to herself than to Trailblazer.
“That’s wise. I suspect you are very optimistic as well. However, I suspect that a young librarian would be better served with at least some company on her travels.”
“How did you know I’m a librarian?” she asked with a frown.
“You packed books instead of food,” he said, looking at her swollen saddlebags.
“Oh, yes. Well…” she stammered. “I did bring some food. But I can just eat grass and leaves, right?”
“Oh? And do you know which are safe to eat?”
“No, but…” She paused and dug through her saddlebag, withdrawing a book. “See? Phytological Study of Zebrinican Plant Life, volume two.”
He smiled and arched a brow. “Well, perhaps you might stand a chance. However, do you know which Legion’s territory you are in? Natural threats? How to make a shelter?”
Taliba sat down, removed her saddlebags, and dug out a scroll, a pamphlet, and another thin text. “An essay on the northern legions and tribes, as well as appropriate markings and tribute, top ten threats while hiking in the Zebrinican coastal highlands, and beginner’s guide to roughing it!”
He laughed and nodded while she put the books neatly back. “Good. Good. Perhaps you might stand a good chance at that.” They started walking together through the moonlight. “So what brings you to the Old Road?”
She recounted the events in her village, with the old zebra listening and nodding appropriately. So refreshing after how dismissive her previous masters had been. “So after what Scotch told me, I have to make certain my people know the truth about the Cursed City.”
“I see,” he answered with another nod, stroking his beard. “I’m glad that young mare is still about. I knew there was something special about her. Not many ponies on the Old Road. Fewer still that are cursed by the stars.”
“She says they’re trying to learn if the Eye of the World was blinded. Can you imagine?” She offered a sickly smile, struggling to not think of a cursed person visiting her village.
“The world… blind?” he mused. “I think she mentioned something of that, but how could it be done?”
“It can’t. It’s impossible. If the world were blind–” she started to say, before swallowing.
“It would explain a great deal,” he said, nodding once. “Well, it’s settled. I’ve decided to help you, my dear Librarian.”
“Help me?” she frowned. “But I don’t need–”
“Now, now. None of that,” he said, and then put two hooves to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. “There. That should do it.”
“Where? What?” she asked with a frown. Then, out in the woods came a shout. She wrenched that way in alarm, “Who’s over–” And her eyes returned to the old zebra stallion.
But Trailblazer wasn’t there.
Four gangly, scrawny zebras erupted. From their spikes and weapons, she guessed they weren’t the pleasant sort of zebra. She gave a sickly smile and raised a book. “Er… would you fellows care to hear a story?”
Two hours later, the Orah hunters were guffawing at Count Pew-Pew’s seduction of a Tappahani Queen, her daughter, and her maid in waiting.
The Orah who had found Taliba existed somewhere between hunters of beasts, raiders of opportunity, and slavers when the wind was north by north-west. They were pulling a massive wagon loaded with all sorts of trade goods for sell at Bastion, and since it was on her way, she’d exchanged stories for passage. None of the Orah could read, of course, but she had more than enough tales to share.
As she answered a call to nature, she returned passing by the front of the wagon. “You told it wrong,” came a hoarse voice from between the tongues of the wagon. She jumped and stared at the lone zebra chained to the pair.
“Excuse me?”
“That story about the Magnificent Twelve. Claudio’s date with Ignatia. They never went out,” said the most scarred and mutilated zebra she’d ever seen. So many scars crisscrossed his powerful frame that it was impossible to tell his tribe from his stripes. His glyphmark appeared to be a circular burn on both flanks.
“I’ll have you know that Claudio was a well documented… er… player, I think is the term. He was quite fond of all sorts of mares,” she said, furrowing her brow.
“He never dated any of them. Ever,” he rasped, his voice low and even. One of his eyes was gone, covered in a mass of keloid. The other, a sharp blue, bored into her.
“And how do you know, Mister…” she asked skeptically.
“Broken,” he answered in his thick, low voice, as rusty as the chains that covered his body. “And I just do. Claudio only loved one person, and it wasn’t Ignatia. They didn’t even like each other that much.”
“Oy! Story Teller! Tell us one about the Tappahani! They’re always good for a laugh!” the hunters called out.
“Coming,” she answered, glancing at him. He kept up that stare as she backed away. It would be a long night of storytelling, and last thing she needed was more mysteries. Stallions named Trailblazer and Broken. A cursed pony, who may very well have cursed her or her village. Secrets and lies parading as history. Stories were easier. Fact or Fiction. History or Drama. As the moon shone down upon her, she gazed back up at it. Maybe they’d like Prince Happahani’s seduction of the Moon King’s harem? She trotted back to the fire, mulling it over.
* * *
The silt-choked waters of Rice River churned like milk in the moonlight peeking through the flickering clouds. From his headquarters, Haimon gazed at the roiling waves passing beneath him. It was a pleasant illusion. Most of the time water simply looked red to him. In his hoof he held a photograph of himself only a few years ago. He smiled next to a mare giving the camera eyes normally reserved to the bedroom, while their daughter fussed in his hooves. His little brother pulled down one eyelid, sticking his tongue out at the photographer, a passing Green Legion trader. Its creases told of the many, many times it had been looked at and then folded up again.
This had once been a print shop, and the smell of ink still lingered. A single, naked bulb dangling from the ceiling provided illumination as music played downstairs. He made certain to sleep in a different place every night, often chosen completely at random. A mattress had been set up for him, but there was no sleep to be had. When the Irons decided to move, the first shell would go wherever they thought he was. While vanity suggested that was the only reason they didn’t attack, he knew Adolpha’s character. She would want the west back intact, not leveled. Carnico wanted workers, not corpses, so no gas attacks.
The back of his neck prickled, and the bulb pulsed and dimmed; twisted, malformed shadows like creeping fungus drew closer to him. Downstairs, the music became distorted, as if it were under water. “Shaman,” Haimon said, carefully folding up the photograph.
“You screwed up.” It came from the shadows. Had he not known them so well, the unnatural, hissing whispers in his ears would be quite unnerving. “You had one job to do and you screwed it up!”
“I have many jobs to do. Killing one pony in all of Zebrinica is not first on that list,” he murmured, then braced himself.
A force picked him up, slamming him hard against the wall. “It should be!” the world hissed around him, light bleeding away as the shadows deepened.
“I saw the pony for myself. I was not impressed,” he muttered. “She escaped through some lucky intervention.” And she knew things. Things no one else should know.
The force pulled him from the wall and smashed him into it again, rattling his teeth. “You should have killed her! I told you again and again, the second you laid eyes on her, to kill her.”
“I’ve never seen what consequence a pony child could be,” he grunted. “I still don’t.”
A strangled sound emanated from the dark, and he amused himself imaging a zebra pulling their mane in frustration. “You don’t? Do you not realize how fiendishly difficult it is to kill her? She evaded Riptide. Escaped here. She negotiated safe passage from a pair of bounty hunters. She somehow, somehow, made contact with that, that… thing you created in Greengap. And you could not kill her. And that is just what I know!” the voice hissed in his ears.
“So she’s lucky. Luck runs out eventually,” he grunted.
“Fool. All of you, fools. You think because she looks small and helpless that she’s not a threat. Xara thinks we can use her because she’s young and naive. She is cursed on a level you pair cannot even comprehend. Touched by a spirit that would destroy everything we hope to create. She evades legions, escapes monsters, negotiates with thugs, draws favors from spirits that even the most skilled shaman wouldn’t dare parley with.” The voice paused and then whispered like a knife in his ear, “And she does all this as a child. What will she do when she’s grown?”
Consternation flitted across his face. “I have my own problems here.”
“Oh,” the voice muttered. “Then let me add to your problems, Haimon. If you cannot kill a simple pony, I see no reason to bring your wretched family back.”
Haimon hung there, his eyes flickering to the folded up paper. “No. You swore! On the spirits, you swore! On your own soul, you promised to bring them back when the time was right!” Only a passing death. Like a long sleep. A shaman couldn’t break an oath like that!
“And the time will never be right until she is dead. I keep my promises. I brought you back from the dark, didn’t I?” The voice seemed to be crawling in his ears, as if it were trying to talk within his very skull. “Kill the pony.” A moment later, it chuckled. “Oh. And you have a guest.”
He collapsed to the floor, the shadows flicking away as the bulb burned brightly again. However, the music down stairs had halted entirely. Haimon rose to his hooves, swaying, as the door creaked open and heavy footsteps echoed in the old print shop. “You had one job to do,” a deep stallion’s voice rumbled as he walked into the pool of light. Scars crisscrossed every inch of his powerful frame, and blue eyes met red as General Sanguinus glared at him “And you screwed it up.”
“I had no idea how much this shop echoed,” Haimon muttered to himself. The next second, the general charged, slamming his chest into Haimon’s and smashing him up against the wall. Two hooves rammed his shoulders into the plaster, knocking heavy flakes from the wall and dusting him with it. “My mistake,” he wheezed. “Deja vu.” He saw the photo on the floor and covered it with his hind hoof.
“Your mistake is that you abandoned your post. Three weeks ago. You got on board a flying machine and left in the middle of the night. You didn’t return for forty eight hours. Where were you?” Sanguinus growled, pressing his hooves so firmly that Haimon’s shoulder crackled.
“If you must know, I was keeping our one overwhelming naval asset happy,” he replied. “The pirate was getting bored and wanted to go find some other seas to plunder. I had to convince her to stay in the area for when we need her.” Half true, the best kind of lie.
“And how much is that going to cost me?”
Haimon smirked back. At least this time this position gave him one advantage. “Nothing. She and I have a carnal arrangement.” And he pressed his hips forward, giving Sanguinus his best psychological attack. He felt that it definitely struck home.
“Stop that,” he growled. “I have no time for that.”
“You should make time,” he muttered helpless against the wall save for his hips. He repeated his attack a half dozen more times.
Haimon won as Sanguinus pulled back. “You are such a little bitch, Haimon,” he rumbled, with a tiny smile, the mighty general touching Haimon’s face. Few could ever imagine Sanguinus tender.
“I do whatever I have to to win,” Haimon countered. That was the one asset that saved him. Beneath all those scars were Carnilian stripes, and beneath those stripes was a heart that pined for a stallion’s touch. And unlike Carnilians, Roamani had no taboos for homosexual relationships. It hadn’t been hard to play the role Sanguinus desired. As for his beloved… well, what was a few more drops in a thousand miles of pitch-black ocean?
“You killed your family for me. You killed your home, for me,” Sanguinus murmured, hooking his head and kissing him hard, their tongues playing for a bit. Haimon watched as his general closed his eyes, his own half lidded as he kissed back. When the connection broke, the general sighed, “You have no idea how much I don’t want to kill you.”
Calming him took at least two hours, by which time they were both sticky, sweaty, sore, and in no kind of murdering mood. Haimon pressed his opportunity. “We need Riptide. If the Irons bombard us, she and her fliers are the only chance we’ll have to take them out. We’ve readied thermite bombs for their rail artillery. If they withdraw, we’ll need her guns to prevent them from coming back.”
“And when will that be?” Sanguinus asked, cuddled against him. “We have Irontown besieged, but we’re losing dozens every day.”
“You have thousands in reserve. I’m training reinforcements here, and my officers have been effective, yes?”
Sanguinus rolled his eyes. “Yes, I will admit your Roamani discipline has kept the rank and file in check. But as many bodies as I have, the Irons have far more bullets.”
“But they don’t have food, and they do have a very hungry slave population. And their forces are divided, half here and half in Irontown. Eventually Adolpha will have to leave to break the siege. When that happens, we cut a deal with Carnico and the Whites. Free withdrawal, and a payment, and Riptide doesn’t shell their factory.”
“Why not attack now?”
“Because the moment I do, Adolpha will blast us, then Carnico, then everything left standing. And I also know that she possesses poison gas shells. You know how effective they are.” Sanguinus grunted his acknowledgement. “We need to keep up the siege of Irontown till she withdraws her big guns. Our forces will cross and engage whatever she leaves behind, and the Whites.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” came a drawl from the door. Standing there was a zebra in power armor. Not the heavy, clunky armor of earth ponies, nor the swift black power armor of pegasi. Hers was white with gold trim, sleek and far more agile. The mare’s mane was styled in a disciplined buzz cut, but her grey eyes watched the pair with amusement. “Quite a show, you two.”
Sanguinus snarled, lunging up from the mattress, and Haimon grabbed him by the waist to slow him before he could murder the mare. “No, that’s Captain Argenta, and she is well paid to forget everything she sees!” he snapped at the general, then shot his eyes to hers. “Aren’t you?”
“Oh, indubitably,” she said with only the slightest suicidal sarcasm, her ashen eyes bright with mirth that was very close to getting her killed, or Sanguinus killed, or everyone killed.
“Get out,” Sanguinus growled at her. She wouldn’t get a second chance.
She turned on hoof, her armor utterly silent as she moved out the door. “Just letting the general know that your boat up the river was shelled. You’ll probably want to be getting a tractor now,” she called out over her shoulder with a smile as she departed.
Haimon kept tugging till Sanguinus returned to the mattress. “I hate that mare. All mares. All Golds. Them and their expensive toys.” Haimon rolled Sanguinus on his back and climbed atop him. It had the desired effect. He sighed and embraced him. “I want this over. I want to name you my second in command. I want you transferred to be at my side, always.”
“I want nothing else,” Haimon lied, giving his general another kiss. The Blood Legion had a multitude of lieutenants, captains, majors, and colonels. It would take time for the Irons, and his allies, to kill them all. “Let me give you something to remember me by,” he murmured in his ear as he started to move, giving his general everything he wanted in the pool of moonlight pouring down atop them.
* * *
This was a bad night, Vicious thought as she came to, her head throbbing and her hoof on fire. She bobbed along, her combat webbing caught in the branches of a floating log. She coughed and spluttered, which made her move her hooves, which reminded her that she’d shot herself in one. The lightheaded sensation, coupled with shivering, told her that if she wasn’t on her verge of exsanguination then she was becoming an excellent candidate for hypothermia. She hooked a leg around a branch and carefully tugged herself onto the log to prevent it from rolling over.
Where am I? was her most pressing question. Her PipBuck said she was twenty kilometers north of the bridge. Rice River didn’t meander much until it got close to the town, but it did widen and contract as it made its way north. She was currently bobbing in one of wider sections, where the water spread out almost farther than she could see in the dim moonlight. Countless islands and floating hummocks choked the waterway, waiting for a good winter flood to flush them all downstream.
“Shit,” she repeated over and over, illuminating her horn to look at the bloody mess. This was going to need surgery. Galen was definitely going to earn his pay if she got back. Split hoof. Fragmented bone. From the inflammation around the wound, infection was setting in. Blood still oozed out the puckered hole, and something slimy and black moved in the wound.
First thing first, she tugged that out and flung it into the river, then took stock. She only had one gun and knife left. Her survival kit was still in place. Waterproof matches still in their tube. She ejected one bullet from the automatic and with her magic and the knife carefully pried the bullet free of the casing. Very carefully, she sprinkled the powder into the wound. Extracting one match, she struck it on the inside of the tube cap, and it flared to life. Closing her eyes, she touched it to the wound.
Her excremental expletive echoed from one shore to the other.
Okay. That stopped the bleeding. She couldn’t dress it on a log, so she packed everything back up in her survival bag, keeping her hoof elevated. She’d lost a lot of blood, and there was only so long she could float along until something nasty came sniffing around. She needed to get somewhere dry, bandage her leg, and start a fire. Tchernobog would be looking for her. If he wasn’t still looking at that damned star.
When she’d recovered enough, she activated her PipBuck and looked around with the E.F.S. Way too much red in every direction. This would require some refinement. E.F.S. normally just picked up everything, but Vega had paid a pony ghoul to open up the utilities file and make an extra sensor settings tab. She accessed it and a menu popped up listing different filters. Hostile or non-hostile. Sapient or non sapient. Organic or robot. It made finding her targets much easier.
Hostile, non-sapient, and organic lit up her sight with dozens of red bars. The river was hungry tonight. Unfortunately she had no idea how far away they might be. Sapient threats were far fewer, but popped up on both shores. Nothing inorganic. She supposed that was a blessing.
She toggled to non-hostile, sapient, and organic. To her surprise, one yellow bar appeared in her sight. A person, out here, who wasn’t inclined to shoot first? Well, it beat trying to fight her way out to the shore.
Of course getting there wasn’t going to be fun at all. Fighting to keep her maimed forehoof above the water, she floundered in the direction of the bar, which seemed to occupy one of a series of small islands ahead of her. Keeping the knife levitated, she stabbed it into the water anytime she felt something brush her. Last thing she needed was more holes to cauterize.
The first island she came to was more a tangle of floating logs, but it was enough for her to catch her breath and remove the leeches trying to chew through her hide. The second she approached was a true, if muddy, island. She moved her head around to judge the distance. It was close, just a little further now. She slogged her way through the muck and onto the ice.
Wait. Ice?
She poked the shore several times to confirm it, but there was no denying a small shelf of filthy brown ice making a low barrier to the water. The leeches and snakes wouldn’t like it one bit. She shoved herself up the icy berm, the cold welcome on her aching hoof, and slid down the far side to see her third surprise since regaining consciousness.
The small form was wrapped in filthy rags, covered by a layer of insulating brush. Gnawed twigs lay in a heap around it. As she watched, it moved ever so slightly. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Hey,” she said, not able to think of what else to say.
The ball trembled and then unfurled, a colt’s head emerging from the weeds. “Who?” he muttered. The zebra’s coat was so filthy it was impossible to see his stripes, but only Sahaani had floofy hide like that. Moreover, he didn’t look at her, but instead stared off into space.
“Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?” she asked as she regarded his wide, vacant eyes. She levitated the knife before him, but he didn’t start in the slightest.
“Lumi,” he murmured.
“Okay, Lumi. I’m Vi…” Vicious paused, twisting her lips a moment. “Victoria. I’m going to light a fire, okay? Warm us both up? I have food too.” A blind zebra colt in the middle of Rice River? Call her curious.
“You’re helping me?” he asked. “Why?”
She paused. Why was she helping him? Hell, a few months ago she would have walked right past without a thought. Why in Zebrinica would she care now? “‘Cause I can, okay? It’s not a big thing,” she said in a rush, using her magic to collect the twigs and brush into a pile. Then she ignited it with a match. “You’re blind?” She carefully tended the flame, and he gave the tiniest of nods. “How did you wind up here?”
“I was trying to escape a monster.” She took out her survival kit and extracted a trail bar, putting it in his hooves. She then tried to properly dress her hoof. She gave herself a day, maybe two, before gangrene set in.
“Oh yeah? What kind? And how’d you do the ice wall thing? That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I asked the water to get cold enough to keep the beasts away. It was nice enough to listen. It’s a long way from where it was born, but it still remembers those snowy peaks,” the young zebra muttered, then took a bite of the bar, chewing it slowly. Clearly a wastelander. He wasn’t scarfing it down like most citified people would.
“Huh. So was it a radigator? Monster leech?”
“No. It was something worse. Much, much worse. A monster… horrible.” He started to shake, dropping the bar into the mud as he sobbed. “It’s my fault! I saw it! I saw it and it came after me. It killed them all to get to me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? How can you see if you’re blind?” She paused, making the connection. “You’re a shaman?” He nodded slowly. “What was it?”
“I don’t know. It was horrible. Horrible! It killed my uncle It made another zebra stab himself. And then… then it ate… it ate Lumihautile!” he sobbed brokenly as Vicious wrapped the bandage around the end of her hoof. She normally kept healing potions on her webbing. She’d have to remember to put an extra in her kit if she survived. “It killed all the Greens trying to get to me.”
Greens? So this kid had been at the attack. Had ‘seen’ whatever it was. “Was Lumihautile your sister?”
“No. Lumihautile was my spirit. And it ate him,” he wept. “It killed him!”
Vicious didn’t know much about shamans, but you couldn’t hang out around ones like Tchernobog and not pick up bits here and there. And one thing that she’d learned was that spirits, whatever they were, didn’t die. You couldn’t just shoot one. They were living magic, or that’s how she thought of them. The thought of something that ate magic, or spirits, made her shiver.
“But… can spirits do that?” she asked in bafflement. “What can eat a spirit?”
“I don’t know. Eating a spirit… killing a spirit… you can’t do it. You just can’t! But it did. It did,” he sniffled.
“Okay, Lumi. Just relax. I’m going to take care of you now. We’ll go just as soon as my friend finds us.” The colt didn’t answer, just cried in the dirt. Given how shamans felt about spirits, she could only imagine it was like killing a child. Your child.
Vicious would never admit it out loud, but she had an issue with kids. Her own childhood had been as a slave, filled with horrors. If she could spare another kid that… well, too late for Lumi. But she could at least get him somewhere warm and safe. It was like Scotch… well, no. Scotch wasn’t a kid. She was like a tiny mare who looked like a kid. Like Vicious at Scotch’s age. “I wish Scotch was here,” she muttered. She just had this way about her.
“Scotch?” he murmured. “You mean the pony?”
Vicious blinked in surprise. “You know her?”
“She was a patient of my uncle’s,” he said as he raised his head a little. That made her smile, knowing that Scotch didn’t die an hour after leaving Rice River. “It wanted to kill her,” he said, and her smile vanished.
“It? The monster? The one that ate your spirit?” He nodded again. Vicious’s brain started to whirl. “Okay. Just sit tight. I’m going to get help.” Then she levitated the largest burning branch and started to wave it in the air, yelling out over the water, “Hey! Hey! Tchernobog! CHER-NOOO-BOOOOG!”
A yellow bar appeared, and she drew her pistol and fired it once into the air, then waved a second branch. Five minutes later, a skiff appeared, the muscular stallion struggling with the oars. She’d used magic to row them up river. “You live,” he muttered.
“You’re damned right I live. And that’s not all,” she said with a grim smile. “You remember that attack on all those Bloods and Greens?” He nodded soberly. “I found a witness. And he knows Scotch too. He saw it. It ate his spirit.”
“What?” he rumbled, his stoic, grumpy face for once utterly aghast. “One does not eat a spirit. The censure would be absolute and terrible.” His shock passed quickly, the furrowed brow and frown returning. “There was one being I know of capable of such a thing, and it was slain by Scotch’s companion. I still shiver to think of it.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Spirits are energy. The universe does not allow energy to be destroyed. We ask the spirits for their help. We may bribe them, threaten them, cajole them, seduce them, or use any other means of persuasion at our disposal. The truly mad can take that energy into themselves and merge with it. It isn’t destroyed, merely cohabitating a vessel. But to eat a spirit is to kill it. Butcher it. Render it down to that which is useful and consume it, and cast away the rest to rot. In doing so, one would get power, true, but also the spirit’s complete and total censure. It would be etched into a shaman’s very soul, inescapable, horrible, and permanent. To do so once would be harrowing. To do so more than once… no, I do not know how it would be possible.”
“I know that, but that’s what he said. Trust me, this kid isn’t lying,” she said as she boarded the skiff, keeping her weight off her bandaged hoof. Her grim smile turned into a scowl. “He says it was after Scotch.”
Tchernobog stared at her a moment, then turned to face the stars. “Dhruva, what is the path?” he asked, closing his eyes a moment. “To resign myself to as things are, or to walk blindly into the darkness?”
“Uhhh.” Damn zebras and their mystic crap.
“Load him. We need to return to Rice River, inform Vega of what we have learned, get you both medical attention, and then prepare for a long journey,” he rumbled softly, watching the moonlight streaking the water as the orb lowered towards the horizon.
“Why? Where are you going?”
“We,” Tchernobog said, never turning from the water. “We are going to find the thing that eats spirits, that hides from Starkatteri, and that cursed you.”
“Not a thing. It was an equine. A mare, I think. It left girly hoofprints in the stone,” Vicious said as she looked over at Lumi curled up next to the fire. “What are we going to do when we find it?”
“We are going to kill it. With great vigor and permanence.”
It was utterly foalish, but she couldn’t help herself. She grinned, lifting her pistol with her magic and working the slide, the weapon making a comfortingly ominous click clack as she chambered another round. “Fuck, yeah.”
Fallout Equestria: Homelands By Somber Chapter 20: Connections
“You no good, stupid, piece of crap!” a voice screamed out, echoing wildly over the cherry red of the muddy strip of water that had once, in better days, been a river. Precious perched on the very edge of a broken spur of bridge jutting out over the stinking water. Less than twenty feet separated it from the far side of the span, but it might as well have been twenty miles for their ability to get Whiskey Express across. Precious snatched up stones, furiously throwing them down, one after the last. They didn’t splash so much as slap against the polluted waters with a wet smack before sinking into the muck.
“You know,” Skylord murmured from the shade of the Whiskey Express. “We could just sit and wait. I’m pretty sure eventually she’ll fill the gap with rocks and then we can just roll right over.”
“The noise is making me even thirstier,” Majina whined from under the trailer. “Is it time for our water yet?”
“One more hour,” Charity replied, wilting in the heat, watching Precious fling ever more rubble into the water.
“My teeth hurt,” Scotch muttered. “Why am I so thirsty my teeth hurt? Why is that a thing?” This delay was far from the first. Indeed, it seemed as if the badlands were conspiring against them; they couldn’t travel an hour without finding the road washed out, or a slag heap had collapsed into the roadway, or, increasingly, potholes the size of artillery craters filled with mud and polluted water sitting in the way. That was if they were actually making progress and not getting around by all the twisting dirt roads. She’d hoped that following rail lines would be more reliable, but they ran every which way and were more often than not broken by some crater or wash out.
“If that’s where we are then did we get turned west again? No. That’s south, but where’s the mountain?” Pythia said to herself as she studied the atlas. “You know, it’d be easier to figure this out if I had a drink.”
“One. More. Hour,” Charity repeated. “Drink it now and you’ll be dry for even longer before we can make some more.”
“Are you sure we can’t drink that?” Majina asked, pointing at the vivid red ribbon.
“Not if you don’t mind dying of heavy metal poisoning,” Scotch muttered. “We’ll distill some more tonight when it’s cool.” The Empty had been dry and windy, but it hadn’t had the brutal heat of the badlands. The hills and pits seems to capture the heat and hold it long into the night. The only reliable water they could drink was steam condensed off a pane of glass. It was barely enough to keep them watered after the Whiskey Express took her share. It seemed surreal to be jealous of a steam boiler, but bad water was just as poisonous to a working boiler as it was to a pony.
“Makes me wonder how those settlers made it through here,” Skylord asked, shooting a glance at Pythia.
“They were a lot further west than we were. They skirted between this part and the dragon lands,” the filly replied, still studying the atlas. “We can get south. There’s plenty of futures where we do, even a lot where we’re all alive. I’m just trying to see the choices that get us there safely.” She glowered at the page. “We shouldn’t keep running into rivers like this. They run north to south. We should just cruise right between them down out of the badlands.”
“We’ve been going from one broken bridge to the next,” Skylord mumbled. “Why can’t we just get out of these stupid hills and mines and crap?”
“You want to know?” Pythia lifted the atlas and pointed to a little mark. “That’s Mount Ashra. Three thousand and nine meters tall. Due south of us.”
Scotch blinked and looked south at the broken and jumbled land. “I don’t see it,” she muttered.
“Oh? Well how about the Green Forest of Emerald Delights park, which should be somewhere around here?” Pythia said, jabbing the atlas again then gesturing besides them. Scotch only saw a stack of desiccated stumps.
“I haven’t seen any forests. Just scrub brush,” Majina whined. “Are you saying the atlas is wrong?”
“Not wrong. This came out the fifth year of the war. The mountain and forest are gone,” she said, flipping to the front page and pointing to a glyph. “During the war, this whole area was strip mined, hosed down, blasted, and reprocessed.” She gave a wry little half smile devoid of mirth. “Want some real irony?” She turned and showed them an inset on the page. It showed a broad square of green, with hundreds of blue splotches and lines of lakes and rivers. There were at least twenty glyphs marked ‘shrine’.
“This was a spiritual land?” Scotch asked in shock. They’d been driving through here for almost a month now, zigzagging past the open pits, the rusted mining equipment, the ruined smelters, and the corroded rail cars.
“You didn’t know?” That seemed to surprise Pythia. “I thought it was obvious.” She peered out from the shade of the trailer, then pointed to a pile of white rubble strewn along a hillside about a kilometer away they’d passed an hour ago. “There, I think. Not a lot of marble here. Pretty sure those chunks were… um…” She pored over the atlas. “The Shrine of Ancestral Contemplation.”
“Looks more like the Shrine of Ancestral Constipation,” Skylord sniffed.
“I thought that was slag from a magnesium smelter!” Scotch said, oddly outraged. She’d seen the glyph for magnesium on ruined equipment. ‘Brilliant fire metal’. “How many more have we passed?” She peered around at the waste heaps, as if a dozen more might suddenly pop into view.
“A couple. Most were completely leveled.” Pythia arched a brow. “Why?”
“Well…” Scotch blinked. “They’re important. To the spirits, I mean.”
“If you say so,” Pythia said with a shrug. “If you want, I’ll point out more.” A pensive look emerged on her face. “Anyway, the Empire probably demolished the shrine to get at the ore,” Pythia said as she started awkwardly fanning herself with the book.
“Why on Equus would you build a shine on top of a perfectly good magnesium deposit?” Charity asked, clicking her tongue.
“But that’s the whole point!” Majina countered. “You turn over land to the spirits because it’s valuable, not because it’s worthless. Joko the Digger found a vein of gold on his farm, but rather than dig it up, he dedicated it to a spirit of the earth. Because of that, his whole village prospered.” She narrowed her eyes at Charity’s skeptical glare. “Then, one night, thieves came and stole the gold. The spirit was sickened and the fortunes failed. But the villagers were generous and each brought a gold coin to the shrine so that the spirit was rejuvenated and the village prospered. What does that tell you?”
“That Joko found a way to cash in three times over,” Charity replied. “First by making a shrine everyone depended on, then taking the gold and blaming it on thieves, and then convincing everyone else to pay up. Pretty clever.”
Majina’s mouth worked silently a moment before she shrieked, “No! That is not the moral of the story!”
“Seriously? How do thieves steal a vein of gold, in the ground, with no one getting caught, in one night?” Charity shot back.
Majina bristled a moment. “They were… very good thieves!”
“The point that Majina is failing to make,” Pythia cut in, “is that shrines were located because of their value. Most spirits didn’t contribute to the war, so their shrines were demolished.”
“But why didn’t the tribes try and stop them?” Scotch demanded.
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe there was a war against the Maiden of the Stars for the survival of the zebra race?” Pythia countered.
“They did object,” Majina interjected. “I mean, the Eschatiks defied the Caesar and were all but branded as traitors. But there’s never been many Eschatiks, ever, while the Imperial Army was strong during the war. And as for the other tribes, what could they do? Follow the Eschatiks?”
“But why didn’t they turn on the Caesar?” Scotch demanded. “These were their spirits, right?”
“Probably because my tribe was the one doing it.” Pythia pointed at the ruins of a train where four stars were arranged in a diamond next to the name ‘Crux Shipping’. “See? That was a company run by the Starkatteri.”
“Your tribe was cursed and evil but the Caesar let you make money?” Charity asked with a skeptical eyebrow arch.
“How much money could you make if you knew the future?” Pythia shot back, silencing the mercenary unicorn. “It was the price for our support. We made him Caesar. He let us get rich. So all of this could be blamed on ‘evil Starkatteri.’ I’m pretty sure that after the war, the Caesar would have just nationalized everything and put our elders to the spear, but fortunately everything blew up, eh?”
“You said the ‘N’ word,” the unicorn said with a shiver, but went on, “I kinda wondered about that. No ‘money’ tribe.”
“The Propoli come close, but even they’re not big on making wealth,” Majina interjected. “They’d rather spend it on building stuff. There was one that made a whole palace out of gold, but it was so unpleasant to live in that he tore it down and gave the lumps of gold to the people.”
“Uh huh. Bet he did his economy wonders with that,” the unicorn countered, not that Majina seemed to follow her point.
They were spared further economic debate by Precious stalking back. Of them all, she was the only one not bothered by the heat. “Did you kill the river?” Pythia asked the snarling dragonfilly.
“I need more rocks,” she growled, walking past them to a pile of scree and collecting a heap. Once they were piled on her back, she returned to the edge of the bridge, hurling them into the water with grunted, semi-intelligible epithets.
“Lay down. You’re just making yourself thirsty,” Scotch said.
Precious glared at them in the shade. “Why are you just sitting there? Why are we just sitting here? We need to get moving or something!”
“We’re baked. You might be heat-proof but we’re not,” Charity said. They’d tried to put a shade on the trailer, but it hadn’t worked well while driving. At the moment, the brown cloth served as passable camouflage, at least. “Soon as we cool off we’ll start moving again.”
“Oh, sure. Where!? We’ve been stuck here forever! We’re almost out of food. We’re drinking steam, and you’re just… just… sitting there!” Precious fumed a moment. “I’m taking charge!” she bellowed, prowling back towards the tractor with little ammunition pile still perched on her back. “You! Find us a way out of here! And you! Get driving!” she said, pointing a claw at Pythia and Scotch.
“Gosh. Find a way out. What an idea. Why haven’t I been doing that these last three weeks?” Pythia stated flatly, sweat dripping off her chin.
“Lay down. You could do with a break too,” Scotch countered.
Precious froze, claw quivering, before letting out a scream of rage, tossing her rocks in the air in sheer frustration. Then one came down soundly atop her head, making her clutch it with a high pitched hiss. It was everything Scotch could do not to laugh. The heat helped. When the moment passed, the dragonfilly glared at them all silently, gathered up her rocks, walked back to the edge of the bridge, and resumed tossing them into the water with far more sullenness than rage.
“That’s some grade A bruised pride,” Skylord muttered. “I agree with her one hundred percent, by the way. We shouldn’t be sitting here. We should go back to one of those smelters or something. Get out of the heat, at least.”
“There’s bugs, robots, and ghouls in those places. They’re all smart enough to stay out of the sun,” Scotch countered. “Can we just move these rivers?”
“Move the rivers?” Pythia blinked. Her face took on a twisted look of sick humor. “Oh. Oh why didn’t I think of that? That’s what I’m doing wrong! They moved the rivers!”
“Huh?”
“During the war. They didn’t just blow up mountains and level forests. They moved the rivers too! See?” She lifted the atlas again. “They mostly flow south towards the sea. I’m betting they made them flow east to west for drainage. That’s why those settlers went west and we’ve been running into busted bridge after busted bridge! That means this map is totally useless! I’m so stupid!” she laughed, then made a little choked hiccupping sound. “Oh, crap. The heat is turning me into a moron,” she whispered in horror.
“Soooo sorry the heat’s dragging you down to our level,” Skylord deadpanned.
“So we’ve been stuck here for weeks because you thought the rivers went north south when they actually go east and west,” Scotch said, and the navigator nodded.
“Rivers are our biggest blocker. I mean, we can go over or around scree, but I never figured we’d run into so much water where it shouldn’t be,” Pythia murmured. “Worse, since they rerouted them, in two centuries the banks have given way, making all these stupid, backed up lakes.” She closed her eyes. “We should have never gone through this way. I just assumed we could go south because I saw futures where we did.”
“Is she gonna say it?” Majina whispered to Charity.
“An imperio says no,” Charity replied. Pythia’s jaw worked as if she were about to throw up. “Don’t say it,” Charity whispered seductively. “Hold onto your smug superiority.” Majina gave Charity an annoyed, flat glare. “What?”
Pythia shot a dire glare at both of them. Then she said, as if passing a particularly painful bowel movement. “I… I screwed up. I totally screwed up.”
“She actually said it,” Majina marveled as Charity sourly relinquished a gold coin.
“I am so disappointed,” Charity muttered. “Rule number four to becoming a bazillionaire is you never admit you’re wrong. You just make being wrong right.”
“And that’s worked for you?” Skylord asked Charity before going on. “So, now that that revelation is past, how do we get out of here?” Scotch was glad he was still trusting her judgement, even as Charity presented her usual skepticism.
Pythia closed her eyes a moment then grabbed a piece of wood and stepped out into the hot sun. Scotch frowned and followed. The heat was like a hammer, and the humidity from the ponds made it feel like she was wrapped in a great, sticky towel. She walked up to Precious on the edge of the broken bridge, tossing it inside. The stick bobbed for a minute, then started to flow west. She nodded once and returned to the Whiskey Express. At least her actions brought a baffled Precious back to the tractor. “We go east. If we go west, eventually we’ll have to cross whatever all these rivers are draining into. We go east and cross any bridges south we can.” She groaned and covered her face. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. We could have been in Roam weeks ago!”
“It’s okay. There’s… a lot going on,” Scotch said, the black book sitting like a brick in her saddlebags.
“Wait? What’s going on?” Precious asked.
“Pythia… was wrong,” Charity stated.
“No!”
“Admitted it and everything!”
“No! And I missed it!” Precious groaned. “I would have bet an imperio she’d choke before admitting a mistake.”
Normally, Pythia would just ignore the ribbing, or jibe back. Now the filly was silent, hanging her head as her face twisted in frustration. Scotch derailed this foalish humiliation by asking Skylord. “What kind of danger are we looking at, legion wise, if we go east?”
“East will put us close to the Flame Legion,” Skylord said, then shrugged, “But we’re going to have to deal with them sooner or later.”
“Are they bad?” Scotch asked, and got an annoyed look. “Okay, rephrase. Are they Iron Legion bad, Blood Legion bad, Green Legion bad, or Bone Legion bad?”
“Worse than the Bones. Better than the Bloods,” he answered. “They’re the big legion down here in the south. They’ve got hundreds of little settlements under their hoof and they extort whatever they need from them. All for their ‘fight for Roam’.”
“What’s in Roam?”
“Beats me. We didn’t really deal with each other much. Listening to their stories, the whole city’s a nightmare. There’s a megaspell that’s still burning out of control. Monsters. Ghouls made of ash and fire. Balefire bombs. This great, big, giant… thing. It’s horrible. And the only reason it hasn’t spread is the Flame Legion have some sort of crusade against the damned thing. Propaganda to make them sound like they’re noble and shit. Adolpha said they’re just hypocrites who’ll sacrifice others as cannon fodder long before risking their own. That includes us.”
“So how do we deal with them?” Scotch asked.
“Well, my plan was to shoot them and keep doing it till they stop moving and breathing.”
“That’s a horrible plan!” Majina gasped.
“Yeah. Normally I’d use artillery with anti-personnel shells but I left my howitzer back home.” Skylord stared at her flatly. “We’ll keep doing what we’ve been doing. Run and evade. Worked so far.”
“What about other legions?”
“Golds are down here too. Assholes with expensive toys. They operate out of Bastion, to the west. If this New Empire’s hired them, then they’ll be trouble. If we ever get way out to the east we might run into Thorns, but I wouldn’t worry about them. They’re like the Bones.” He paused, counting on his talons. “I’m missing one.”
“Anything else to worry about? Megaspells. Monsters?”
“One or two megaspells, I think. Like I said, we’re way outside my sphere of knowledge,” he admitted. “Aizen is walking around somewhere down here. If we run into it, we’ll get a thrill for sure, right before it crushes us.”
“Right. The walking mountain… thing…” Scotch felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. “Bad as a horse made of lightning I guess.”
“On the plus side, no razorgrass down here, so you plant chompers should be able to eat. Lots more settlements down here too, I hear. Not a lot of free towns, but still people.”
Majina’s ear twitched. “Hey, what’s that buzzing?”
“Buzzing?” Scotch frowned.
“I hear it too,” Pythia confirmed.
Charity groaned, covering her sweaty face in her hooves. “Please, no more bugs. I am so sick of bugs.”
“That’s not a bug. I think it’s a motor?” Skylord frowned and peered around.
“I think it’s in the air,” Scotch said, listening to the echoing buzz. Now that she was concentrating on it, she could hear it clearly. High and distant. “Is it a flier?”
“This far from the sea?” Scotch then paused and looked at Skylord. “That flying machine the New Empire had?”
“Or something like it.” He nodded once. “We need to get moving.”
“We need to hole up and build up our assets,” Charity countered. “Fix the drape so they can’t see the tractor.”
Scotch looked at Pythia. The zebra screwed up her face, staring off to the side a moment. Then her yellow eyes glanced from one to the next. , “We need to keep calm and stay put. But it couldn’t hurt to get ready to run.”
Charity glowered at Pythia a moment. “If this was some elaborate way to get a drink early by agreeing with me…” she began, before grabbing a canteen and filling a cup with water, fairly shoving it in Pythia’s face, and then filling five more for the rest of them. “Not like we’re going to get a drink if they blow us up.”
Scotch had to admit it was damned fine water.
The buzzing grew louder. “There,” Majina said, pointing a hoof to the west. The flying machine was a large black blob drifting back and forth. “Think they’re looking for us?” Scotch just watched, lips pressed tightly together. The flying machine didn’t seem to move all that fast, but that was only because it was kilometers away.
“They’re going south,” Pythia said with a sigh. “Probably wondering where we disappeared to.”
“Then let’s get going before they backtrack,” Scotch said as they pulled the dirty reddish brown tarp off the tractor and trailer.
As she stoked the boiler, she heard Precious ask sheepishly, “Hey, Charity. Got any more water? All that rock throwing made me kinda thirsty.”
* * *
Charity oversaw Precious, Skylord, and Majina painstakingly purifying the contaminated water. It had been three days since they’d turned east, but the terrain appeared little different. Every night, the blistering temperatures dropped down to a shivering chill, and she would fill a large metal bucket over burning coal, wood scraps, or even Precious’s breath on occasion. The steam would rise and hit a large broken piece of glass held by Skylord, forming droplets that gathered and ran down in rivulets till it collected on the broken point and dribbled into clean bottles. They’d already dropped the glass shard once by accident. Scotch didn’t want to know what they’d do if it shattered.
That left Scotch and Pythia to supervise the shrine’s ruins.
Even half demolished, the site was impressive. Twelve columns once rose in a circle, supporting a dome with an oculus in the center. Beneath the hole sat a dry basin filled with dust and sand. A larger structure sat next to the shrine, but someone had all but levelled it to make a tractor parking lot.
“You know those four probably think we’re doing something lewd,” Scotch said with a smile as she examined the bullet holes in the marble. There’d once been a statue under the arch between each column, but all that remained were broken stumps, smashed torsos, and chipped, bullet-pocked faces. Someone had gone out of their way to pulverize their features
“Probably,” Pythia murmured. “Ready?”
Scotch sighed and relaxed her sight and–
Bodies everywhere.
Some ripped open. Some shot. Some smashed beneath the crushed statuary. The parking lot was a field of broken bone and smashed limbs. Had the shamans been inside when they brought it down? The fine white pillars were slick with black ichor, some of it still undulating in the dust.
Beautiful, whispered many voices in her ears.
“Shut up. You’re an evil book. You don’t get an opinion,” Scotch informed it, getting a worried brow arch from her friend, then sighed. “It’s just like all the others. Like they went out of their way to desecrate it.”
“Damn. I was hoping since there was something still standing…” Pythia muttered. “Well, never mind.”
“This is the third shrine you’ve asked me to check in as many days. What are you trying to find out?”
Pythia raised a hoof and ran it over one of the broken statues. She didn’t answer a moment, and sat there, pensive. Finally, she glanced at Scotch, “I just want to know if my tribe were shits that wrecked all this for fun or just for money.”
“Why?”
Pythia sighed, rolling her eyes a little. “I don’t know, that’s why.” She sat, rubbing her leg as she stared at the ruins. “My tribe is evil. I get that. It’s branded on our faces. I just wonder what kind of evil it is.”
“You’re not evil,” Scotch said levelly, trying to fight down her building worry.
Pythia didn’t answer, simply gazing up at the broken oculus overhead.
We can show you.
“Shut up,” Scotch hissed, clenching her eyes shut.
We can show you what she wishes to know. There is bone here. Memory lives in the bones.
“Yeah,” Scotch muttered, cutting off her spirit sight and extracting the black book from her saddlebags. “It’s being stupid. Telling me it can show me what happened here. About how memory lives in bones and garbage like that. As if I’d trust anything it’d show me.” She snorted, lifting the horrid tome with one hoof. “Please. As if.”
“You want to do it.”
Scotch clenched the book between her hooves and took a breath, long and deep enough she almost wanted to give in to a coughing fit, before saying, “So hard it hurts.”
“Well, right now it’s showing me futures where you turn into a super necromancer, kill everyone, and re-animate the whole of Zebrinica as your personal undead zombie army,” Pythia drawled.
“Really?” She blinked and stared at it. “You know, if you showed me stuff like that, it’d at least be more entertaining than my friends as corpses.” She let out a dry chuckle, with strained mirth, then bit her lip. Finally she said, near a whisper, as if confessing to a crime, “I really wanna do it, and I really know it’s wrong.” Somewhere, she was sure, Glory was groaning. Daddy would understand, though.
“Well, that’s the thing. Say you agree once. Probably nothing happens. A few days later you use it again. Next month you use it for more. Eventually, it’s your new best friend.” She jabbed a hoof at the cover. “All the crap it’s making you see? I bet you’d stop seeing it as it got more and more hooks into you. A reward for doing what it wants. But once it has enough hooks in you, you’re Ossius. Bad visions are the least of your problems then.”
Scotch said nothing for a time. Then, almost too quiet to hear even in the desolate silence of the badlands at night, “Would you do it?”
“Of course,” Pythia said with a leer. “Exploiting evil things to get what I want? That’s what the Starkatteri are all about! And it’d be a constant fight with me stringing the book along and the book trying to take those strings and make me its puppet. That’s the kind of dark story that’s defined my tribe for eons.” She tapped the cover with a hoof. “But you aren’t me, and you aren’t Starkatteri. You’re one of those rare people that get to decide what they are. So that book is dangerous. Lots of things are. You decided you’d stop doing what was safe and sane when you took a bath with the spirit of a thousand slain zebras back in Greengap. And it worked. But you have to make sure that it’s you making the decision, and if it blows up in your face, that you accept the fault for it. That’s what being an adult is all about. That’s what being a person is all about.”
Scotch nodded, considering the book. A little niggle of suspicion nagged at her. “So why’re you suddenly okay with me doing it at all? Back in Greengap, you were desperate for me to not do anything shamany.”
“And that worked great.” Pythia shook her head. “The first line of defense is ignorance. If you don’t know about it and reject it, it’s harder for the supernatural to get in. You don’t see them; they don’t see you. Anything you do see is a weird thing you just dismiss and move on. It’s why everyone trotting around isn’t constantly bombarded by dark and dangerous spirits. That ignorance, or innocence if you want to be romantic about it, is something that dark things have to erode before they can really get to you,” she said, poking Scotch in the shoulder with a hoof. “Now, dark things can always eat your face, but there’s not much fundamental difference between that and a raider trying to do the same.”
Scotch frowned, annoyance nibbling at her spine. “So why can you tell me about shaman spirit stuff now?”
Pythia’s eyes popped wide and she blurted, “This is not shaman stuff. This is not spirit stuff. I am not talking about shaman stuff because I am not a shaman!” She rolled her eyes towards the ceiling, then winced, bracing herself. A few seconds later she cracked open a single eye to peek around her and relaxed. Then she caught Scotch staring at her in confusion and coughed. “Anyway. Not shaman stuff. This is dark stuff. I can talk about dark stuff. Dark stuff that isn’t shaman stuff. Heck, even Majina could, if she knew about it.”
“Okay. So why now?”
“Because if you aren’t going to keep ignorant about this stuff, then actually knowing what you’re dealing with is the second line. You don’t have a very forgiving learning curve from ignorant to knowledgeable, either. Because while getting your face eaten by dark things is bad, it’s not the worst that can happen to you.” She leaned towards Scotch, her hood casting her face in shadow so only her luminous yellow eyes were visible. “You can lose your friends. Your memories. Your mind. You can even lose… yourself. Dying is foal’s play compared to that.”
Scotch swallowed hard, remembering how much Blackjack had given up half a world away. “I don’t suppose there is a third line of defense too, is there?” The grin she shot at Pythia melted when she didn’t return it.
Pythia didn’t say anything right away, either. She seemed to think it over, glance at her, and think it some more. “Yeah. There is,” she finally announced. “There’s knowing yourself. Who you are. What you are. What you want. No fear. No doubt. Certainty. That’s the last line. If that line falls, then it’ll get to you. It’ll hurt you just like any spirit would. Maybe you’ll survive. Maybe not. Maybe you’ll be maimed. Maybe you get lucky. But knowing yourself, being true to yourself, is your last fall back. Once you lose that, you lose everything. And Scotch?” She reached out and tapped Scotch in the chest. “You do not know yourself.”
“What?!” Scotch snorted, outraged. “Yes I do.”
“Really?” Pythia asked as she stared into her eyes, her face solemn. “Are you a good person?”
“Of course I am!” Scotch Tape snorted, but when Pythia just continued that stare, she swallowed. “I mean, I think I am! Probably. If you asked people. My friends. I try not to hurt people if I can. That’s good, right?” she asked with a shaky smile, brows knitted. “Do you think I’m good?” Pythia remained silent as her smile melted into a horrified mask. “Crap.”
Pythia gave a slow nod and finally cracked a half smile. “It’s okay. We’re all young. All of us are working stuff out. Lots of people don’t know themselves beyond what they do and what they’re told. Knowing yourself takes work. A lifetime of it. And it’s easy to assume you do.” Her smile disappeared and she pointed a hoof at the book. “But that? That wants to make you exactly like it. You saw it, right? Saw what it really is?” Scotch swallowed and nodded. “Never forget that. Because the second you do. The second you let your guard down, is the second you’re vulnerable. And then–” She smacked her hooves together an inch from Scotch’s muzzle, and the pony yelped as she sprawled back on her back, the book falling in a heap besides her. “It’s got you,” Pythia finished grimly. She stared solemnly down at Scotch for a moment, then grinned. “So! Want to play with some dark magic?”
“Why not just tell me not to do it if it’s so dangerous?” Scotch asked as she picked herself up.
“Gee, I wonder...” Pythia remarked, rolling her eyes a little before jabbing a hoof at her. “Telling you not to do something is a guarantee that you’ll do it. Or at least think about it, which is almost as bad. And if I told you no, I bet my hooves that book would start playing the ‘Woooo, what is she hiding? Wooo, what is she keeping from meeeee?!’ game,” she said, eyes wide and waving her hooves before her as she spoke in a spooky voice. Scotch couldn’t help but giggle and Pythia snorted. “Anyway, you’ll do what you do. If it’s playing with dark stuff, I’ll try and help you not to get burned too bad. And if you decide not to, then cool. Not everyone has to play on the dark side.”
Scotch stared at the tome.I can show you everything.
Scotch put it away. “Let me try and do it right first,” she said, giving Pythia a half smile of her own. Pythia nodded and Scotch thought. Her spirit sight wasn’t much help here. The only spirits were utterly unresponsive black lumps. Whether it was some sort of lethargy born of a lack of energy or the black corruption of their nature, they didn’t react.
The stupid book, Shamanism for Idiots, said being a shaman was all about connections. She stared at the rubble. “Memory is in the bone,” she murmured walking from the ruins out into the switching yard. “Memory is in the bone…” she repeated. The book had told her that, but there was an echo of truth to it as well. She stared at her hoof and slowly dragged her foot through the packed gravel, stirring up dust. “Bones… stones… bones… stones…” she repeated, trying to put the two together. If only she was a unicorn and not a stupid ea– She froze. Earth.
“Stones are the bones of the earth. Memory is in the bone,” she murmured, then immediately dug into her saddlebags and pulled out the Propoli mask with its wrench. Better than a meal on her face… right? Except it felt… wrong. Tools were used to break the earth. To take things from it. A tool mask wouldn’t be suitable, would it? She stared at it a minute, and then put it away.
“Do you have any water?” Scotch asked, licking her lips.
“Yeah,” Pythia murmured, reaching into her saddlebags and extracting half a bottle of distilled water. “Thirsty? I don’t blame you.”
“I’m parched,” Scotch said, her lips and tongue dry.
Then she poured it on the ground.
Had Charity been present, Scotch was certain she’d be throttling Scotch right now. But as the water spilled into the earth, the black globs roused. They moved like tar, not acting just yet, but watching. They made their temples there because it was precious. Majina’s words. Water was precious to her right now, and she’d just given it to the earth. Water plus dirt equaled mud. Mud plus face equaled mask. Pythia watched her silently, her own face impassive but with the tiniest smile.
The ground seemed to hum as if it’d just been electrically charged. It wasn’t enough to have the mud mask though. She needed something. Something to focus it. Something to address. She scanned the train yard, then spotted it.
A rock.
It really wasn’t all that different from the crushed rock around her, save that it was bigger, rounder. About the size of her head. She heaved it up and carried it over to the middle of the yard. Then she took what little mud remained and put two daubs on it, and smeared a horizontal line beneath it. A face. She knelt before it and closed her eyes, the mud cooling on her skin. Then she opened them again.
The rock stared back at her. The mud daub eyes had become sunken holes, the mouth a crevice. A faint golden light seemed to emanate from it as she watched it. “H-hello,” Scotch said, falteringly, as the stone face stared up at her.
It simply gave her a little nod. Well, it was earth. Dirt. Stone. Rock. Whatever. None of that bespoke anything ‘talky’ to her. “I am Scotch Tape. My friend here has a question about this place. I was hoping you could help her,” she said. The rock arched a stony brow, then looked at Pythia and immediately scowled. “She’s not a bad Starkatteri! She just wants to know if her tribe… she wants to know what happened here. To the shrine.”
“You’re going to get us stuck here for a thousand years if this place has been here that long,” Pythia warned.
“Oh. Right!” Scotch blinked. ‘What happened here’ could mean ‘everything’. “Show us everything involving her and her tribe and the destruction of this shrine.”
The rock closed its eyes and she fought not to lick her dry lips. Then it opened its flat mouth. “A price.”
“A price?” Scotch repeated, and glanced at Pythia who immediately shook her head.
“I’m not carrying that thing around for eternity or whatever a rock could want, thank you very much,” Pythia said as she crossed her hooves.
Scotch considered. “How about if we take you somewhere new?” Scotch asked with a bright smile. “Rocks must not get around. When was the last time you took a nice trip?”
“Two hundred thousand years ago, when the great ice tore me from my mountain and pushed me here. Oh, and there was being split and broken up for gravel. That was interesting too,” the stone said in a deadpan that would do Skylord proud.
“I’ll find you somewhere nice. Perhaps a field, or maybe beneath a tree. People who pass by will see you there and go ‘what a strange rock. I wonder how it got there.’ and you’ll be a wonder.” Scotch actually couldn’t guarantee that last bit, but it sounded good.
The rock screwed up its simple face. “Mmm… or be split by tree roots or buried in the soil, or used to prop up a broken wagon. Still, it will not be here. That is different. Rocks take time becoming different, you know. Abrupt change is not in our nature.” Finally it gave a little roll that might have been a nod. “Very well. I will show you what I happened here, and you will take me somewhere new.”
Scotch stretched out a hoof, “Agreed!” The rock arched a stony brow, as it lacked any limbs to extend, so she had to shuffle forward a touch it.
Then the earth started shaking. Scotch staggered on her hooves, and Pythia fell completely as the pulverized stone lifted up into a low ridge. It took her a moment to realize that it was the foundation of a large rectangular building. Round pillars popped up like mushrooms in clumps of four around their hooves, rising no higher than knee height. The topography altered as well, the flat sinking and rising, creating a winding path before the building. Three more round structures popped out on each corner, and Scotch identified them as cardinal points.
“What is this? What did you do?” Pythia gasped.
“You didn’t see it coming?”
“I told you, all I’m seeing in the future is stupid death. Like, tripping and breaking your neck death. It’s annoying.” Pythia huffed, then thrust a hoof dramatically at Scotch. “Now this! What did you do?”
“I don’t know!” Scotch replied, gesturing at the little knee high walls and knobs that surrounded them.
“This is why you shouldn’t be a shaman!” she said as dodged the little pillars popping out of the ground.
“You were telling me I should try to use the dumb book!”
“Dark magic is easy to deal with. It’s handling poison. I don’t know what this is!”
“What I saw,” Rocky answered.
Scotch thought about that a moment. How did things look like from the perspective of the ground itself? The ground could only ‘see’ things in contact with it. It didn’t have eyes after all. “I think those are the foundations of the building. Those are legs. Those must be... trees?” she said as she gestured to large, single disks.
Pythia took a deep breath, stepping aside as the various leg pillars dropped into the earth, and rose again. “Okay... so that must be walking...” She glanced at Rocky then at Scotch. “You understand I’m going to be self-conscious about everything I do while in contact with dirt from now on, right?”
“Wise,” Rocky rumbled.
“Wait? Did you hear them too?” Scotch asked.
“You asked me to show, not tell,” Rocky rumbled.
Urrgh. “Fine. So we have a bunch of zebra walking around,” Scotch said as she watched the little pillars popping up around their knees. “No. Not walking. Running. Chaotic... but they’re not running away.”
Pythia studied the patterns. “Preparation, maybe?” she asked, standing on one of the foundation walls to avoid footsteps from poking her.
Suddenly the legs rushed out the building and assembled themselves into two rows. From behind them, two columns of footsteps approached. “They’re receiving visitors,” she said as she stared. “Can you make them more distinct?” she asked Rocky.
“No,” the rock replied.
“This is why I hate dirt spirits so much,” Pythia muttered.
“Hey, watch it. Rocky’s helping. Not his fault I wasn’t specific in my request,” Scotch huffed. “Why don’t you ask the stars?”
The zebra standing before the temple suddenly bent knee, and heads appeared in the dirt. Then the rocks rose from the earth, but rather than stop at knees, they continued to rise, piling up until they formed a large stallion. “Whoa!” Scotch asked. “Why can we see all of him?”
“I show what I saw,” Rocky answered.
“Who is he?” Scotch asked as he approached the temple. The rocks fit together perfectly, outlining every muscle and sinew.
“Not a Starkatteri,” Pythia murmured. “No way we get bowed to like that.”
Other zebras were fully formed too. One on the huge one’s left appeared to be a mare, only the stones shimmered with heat and were blackened with soot. On the opposite side of the huge zebra was a smaller stallion, but only just. A fourth one appeared to be like gravel mixed with hot tar. His rocks jutted from his hide in a quill like pointiness. “Why do the rocks see these four and just the hoofprints of everyone else?” Pythia asked as she walked around the three. She looked over at Rocky. “Let me guess: you just do.”
“Yes,” Rocky replied, getting a snort from Pythia. “They are as she is,” he added, getting a look of surprise as Pythia saw Rocky look at Scotch.
“You mean they’re spirit touched too?” Scotch asked.
It gave a noncommittal grunt, “One speaks for fire, but is also touched as well.”
More spirit touched people. Now Scotch was definitely glad that she’d done this. Had being spirit touched made them more visible to the earth? Now she really wished she had sound. The mouth moved, but the voices were all drawn out and distorted. She tried to record them, in the hopes that somehow she’d hear what they were saying.
“What’s going on?” Pythia asked, watching the soldiers’ footsteps spread out around the shrine. “Oh no!” she muttered.
The spikey stallion disappeared, flashing into the ground only to pop up at the door to the temple. Instantly the profiles of zebras appeared in the dirt as the spikey stallion moved like an avalanche through them. Some tried to flee, but were shoved back by the soldiers. Scotch ducked for cover as the stone zebra ran through some of the rail cars, knocking them aside as if they were nothing. She glanced at Rocky with new respect.
Then smoking pile of rock approached the shrine and swept their hoof before it. The stone foundation instantly blackened too, shimmering in the heat like an oven. The large one in charge said something, then turned on heel. The spikey stallion and smoldering zebra followed him, as did the hoofprint soldiers. All that remained behind were the profiles of zebras where they had fallen.
“So the Starkatteri didn’t do this,” Pythia muttered. “I mean... I just thought that we did everything bad,” she said as they looked at the train yard. “I guess all this got built... after?” The shrine’s foundations and the bodies sunk back into the ground.
Scotch trotted up to her and put a hoof around her shoulders. “See? Your tribe isn’t the baddest of the bad.” Then she regarded the now empty flat before them. The ‘rearrangement’ had left the tracks and cars even more scattered about. “Do you think that was the Caesar? That huge stallion?”
“Maybe,” Pythia replied with a twist of her lips. “But why would the Caesar personally want to burn this place down? Didn’t he have better things to do with his time?”
“Well, either way, I’m thirsty. Let’s get back and–” Scotch said as she turned to the little shrine she’d made for Rocky.
One stone zebra remained. The oozy, tarry one stood right behind her... not where she’d last left it too. “Uh... Rocky? What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” it replied.
“Crap,” Scotch said as she backed away from it. The gravel peeled wide in a grin, exposing tar stained equine teeth within. “Crap!” she shouted as she whirled to run to Rocky.
It rose out of the ground before her as if it were emerging from a pool of water. “You!” it rumbled like a rock crusher. “You! You! You!” it repeated, advancing on her slowly step by step. “You taunt me! Torment me! Ridicule me with your every breath!”
“What the hay are you talking about?”
“Oh yes. First you were going to Iron Town. But you weren’t going to Irontown. Then on the Old Road to Bastion. Very clever. Running to your enemies for help! But now here you are. Taunting me with your location, again!”
Pythia, quietly, heaved Rocky on her back and ran in the direction of the Whiskey Express. The gravel golem turned, oily tar dripping around one empty eye socket. “I should crush your friend while you watch!”
Oh, that wasn’t happening! She grabbed a chunk of rebar in her mouth and swung it for all she was worth against the creature’s back legs. Scotch was fairly sure she broke a tooth as the bar vibrated right out of her mouth, but it had the desired effect. The golem returned its attention to her. “You’re right. You need to die!”
“Who the hay are you?” If she could get it talking, maybe she could buy time. Even learn something. The golem tilted a head and thrust a hoof into the ground. A moment later, an impact against her sternum sent her flying into the hair, landing with a thud on the roof of an old flatcar, coughing and clutching her chest.
“Who am I? I am annoyed. I am vexed! I tire of hunting for you. You keep changing course on me, Scotch! Why don’t you just stay put and die?” the golem screamed, stomping two hooves into earth. The impact against the underside of the flatcar lifted it up, rolling her right off the ground. She scrambled to her hooves, bobbling away, glad that Pythia had thought to grab Rocky. At the very least she’d probably move him somewhere new, even if that somewhere was the bottom of a river.
Right now she had to run, but running was the last thing she was up to. Between that blow to her chest and her censured lungs, she could barely breathe. She clambered onto flatcars, trying to keep ahead of the golem as it knocked over train cars behind her. Every breath crackled as she coughed. As strong and tough as it was, though, the golem wasn’t particularly fast, shuffling its feet along the ground and pausing to knock over impediments in its way. It must have required some connection to the earth, so Scotch located the biggest hunk of metal she could find. The locomotive wasn’t much more than a knob of rust, but it was heavy. Scotch clambered on top of the firebox and collapsed, coughing and struggling for breath. She felt like an iron band was tightening around her barrel.
The golem shuffled up, tearing up track as it moved, and slammed the locomotive hard enough to make it sway and dent the boiler, but not knock it over. “What is...your name?” Scotch asked between wheezing gasps. Oh this was going to be a bad attack. She needed her lungwort tea. If she could get it talking, she could wait for Pythia.
“You don’t know? You keep touching me and you don’t know? Are you saying all of this is all... an accident?” the golem rumbled, its oozing eye sockets narrowing. They widened in realization. “You don’t know!” Stony hooves smashed into the train over and over again as the golem’s mouth opened wide, revealing the skull within. “Oh how rich! The irony!”
“Look, I don’t know who you are. And unless you tell me how to make you stop attacking me, I don’t care,” she wheezed, splaying her limbs wide to keep from being tossed off as the Golem prowled around the train. “Go away.”
“Oh no. It’s taking all my effort to keep this connection at this distance, but now that I have you here, I am going to kill you once and for all. It’s no less than you deserve, for what you did.”
“Oh, for the love of...” Scotch muttered, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “I never did anything to you! To this New Empire. To Riptide. To anypony! What is your flipping problem?” Her outrage was halted by another fit of hacking.
“You should have died on the moon with all the rest! They die. The Maiden returns alone. The Maiden slays the Eater of Souls, and he takes her with him. But you– You! Came! Back!” the monster screamed, thrashing the side of the firebox.
“Maiden. You mean Blackjack?” Scotch frowned. She didn’t like thinking about the moon. She made herself not think about it. Her daddy died there. Rampage was stuck there. That was all she needed to remember. Everything else, especially on the trip back, she didn’t want to remember. It’d happened and she’d put it all behind her, like a bad dream that she’d never quite shake. “Blackjack’s gone. If she did something to you, blame her!”
The golem stopped thrashing. Instead, it just glared at her. “You must die. Your every step undoes more and more of my hard work. For the sake of the world, you must perish!”
“Well, not dying no matter how convenient it would be for you, and you can’t come up here.” She rolled onto her back, coughing as she did, to stare at the luminous moon, and rubbed her aching chest, wheezing. “So go away.”
“Oh, I’m not done yet,” the golem rumbled, plunging its hooves into the ground beside the locomotive. Suddenly the metal started to vibrate and Scotch jerked up in alarm. The compact rock was uncompacting, roiling like an angry sea as it piled up and was pushed aside. Slowly the rear of the locomotive began to sink, creeping centimeter by centimeter into the flat. Eruptions of rock tossed stones aside as the golem brought her to it. “I don’t care if using this much energy puts me out for weeks. I have you now. I finally have you, and this time I’m going to kill you!”
And seeing herself sinking towards the golem, she had a hard time disagreeing.
Then a pockety-wheeze filled the air as the Whiskey Express raced into view around a row of boxcars. Majina held a lantern aloft on a pole, waving it and screaming “Here! Come get us, monster!”
“Shall I kill your friends in your stead? You really are like Blackjack,” the golem taunted as it stepped out of the roiled earth and in front of the tractor. Precious tried to speed past, but it almost negligently reached out with a hoof and hooked the back of the trailer. The whole tractor skidded to a stop.
Then Pythia rose in the back and brought Rocky down on its hoof. The stones of the limb popped and turned to sand, and the bones and ichor stretched, and then the tarry strands snapped, leaving a bony stump. “We’ll come around!” Charity shouted as they pulled around in front of the locomotive.
The golem was waiting for them. It’d sunk down into the ripped open ground and popped up in front of the tractor. Precious swerved just in time to miss it, pulling across the switching yard and fishtailing wildly. She managed to avoid smashing into an overturned flatcar but smashed a rusty utility shed to pieces. Then the golem plunged its hooves into the ground and once more the earth began to churn and pop as more and more of the locomotive sank backwards into the earth. Scotch was forced to clamber up onto the front of the train rather than on top to keep away from the roiling ground. Her burning chest had abated a bit, but not enough for her to go swimming through churning rock!
There was only one thing she could think to do. She dug out the black book. “How you I defeat it?” she asked, and then opened the page.
A blank page.
She turned to another and another, all blank. “Oh, come on! You really want that thing to get you? Or Pythia. You know she’s smarter than me! She’ll know all your tricks before you do them. Now help me! I won’t threaten to pee on you again. Or wipe my butt with your pages. Or use you to start a fire.” Nothing. “Please!”
What would a super evil book want? Not money. It would want promises. Promises for her to do things for it. To do things to her friends. And then she’d either have to do bad things, or break those promises, which would lead to censure. Either she’d end up broken in body, or possessed like Ossius.
Like Ossius...
She’d beaten the book and severed its connection to Ossius. This thing had talked about her making a connection to it. If she beat the book with a spirit, maybe she could beat this thing the same way. But she didn’t have a spirit, and given what looking at the book with her spirit sight did, she didn’t dare look for– “Oh, I’m such an idiot!” she said as she stood. The Whiskey Express was pocketying closer, but there was a big gap between her and them. “Pythia!” she yelled, waving a hoof at her friends. “I need Rocky!”
Majina drove the Whiskey Express back on the opposite side of the locomotive. Precious clutched Rocky in her claws as Majina came to a halt, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Then, with a great over-head heave, she winged the bowling ball sized rock straight at Scotch. This is a bad idea, she realized as she spread her hooves wide and caught the stone with her chest. The blow knocked the wind right out of her, and it was all she could do to not drop him or fall off herself.
“Booyah! Three points!” Precious said. “Go run over that rock, ‘Jina!”
“I’m telling you. Two grenades! Get it to eat them! No more monster!” Skylord shouted back as they drove off.
Scotch could only wheeze a moment as she looked down into the face. “It’s... bad.” Rocky looked back. “That’s not how rock should be, is it?” Rocky continued to stare back at her. “Please, stop it.”
Rocky closed his eyes and the front of the locomotive disappeared. Immediately the vibrating and humming stones rushed up around her hooves. Scotch curled up, clutching Rocky close to her chest as the sand, gravel, and roadbed rose around her. “Yes!” the golem hissed in delight. “And once you’re gone, I’ll make a snack of your little friend there.”
The earth crawled over her shoulders. “Please,” she begged. “Stop it.”
Then the ground closed over her head. Grit scratched at her clenched eyes. All she could do was hold her breath and hope as the weight pressed in on all sides.
Then she heard, almost begrudgingly, “Fine.”
And the vibration increased.
It increased, growing and growing as something deep moved, shifted, and released. She could feel the waves passing through her as the ground shook. Suddenly the earth pulled apart, the ground and grit tumbling off her as the foundations pulled apart in a crevasse. She found herself sitting atop a vertical locomotive that swayed wildly. On one side of the crevasse sat her friends, watching with their mouths agape, and on the other stood the golem, its mouth hanging open.
The shaking stilled, rocks and pebbles clattering down into the rent that now crossed the entire switching yard. Scotch shook herself, snorting and coughing out grit that she carefully didn’t inhale. Then she looked down at the golem. It recovered from its shock. “Well. That was futi–”
A massive block of stone crushed it flat.
The remains of the oculus slowly crumbled, tumbling down like the rest of the ruin into the crevasse, burying the golem beneath the solid stone pillars. One struck the uplifted locomotive, which groaned and leaned over. It’s fall was slowed by the rear, still stuck in the ground, and fell on the side adjacent to her friends. Scotch rolled off the front of the tractor before her friends. She coughed dust at them, then offered a feeble, “Ta-dah.”
* * *
A week later and they seemed no more out of the Badlands than before. Though they hadn’t been stopped by any more rivers and lakes, the topography became steeper and more treacherous. Whole mountains appeared scraped in half, the exposed rock streaked yellow and red in oxides. They’d encountered warehouses filled with massive piles of rusted metal. Glyphs on tags marked them for manufacturing centers that likely no longer existed. Fire resistant shoes and coats hung on pegs and in bins, while lunch pails resided in refrigerators. What had happened to the occupants? Had they all died from an attack? Evacuated without taking their personal possessions with them? Scotch ran her hoof over the pails as if touching their owners through an expanse of two centuries.
Of course, her friends were more interested in looting them for drinks. Fortunately, amid petrified sandwiches and stale bags of dried vegetables they found cans of ‘Spirit Leaf Green Tea’. While warm, they were still potable after a good shake or two. The minor traces of radiation were concerning, but no worse than a bottle of Sparkle-Cola. They rested in the relative shade of the warehouse interior, parked amid the scattered rod stock.
“Is it just me, or is this the exact same font as Sparkle-Cola?” Charity asked as she narrowed her gaze at the bottle.
“You’re crazy. That would mean ponies selling things to zebras in the middle of the war. Who’d be that hard up for coin?” Skylord countered.
Scotch gave the pair a tired smile. “If half of what Blackjack’s told me is true, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Scotch sipped at her bottle. It’d been more than a year. Maybe she was crazy, but the ‘tea’ really did taste an awful lot like Sparkle-Cola.
“Hey, think there’s any radio out here?” Majina asked as she practiced her balance on a scrap metal beam. Scotch had to admit, walking on hind legs on a metal rail was quite the feat. Majina even did a forward roll onto her forehooves before coming back up on her hind legs. Scotch couldn’t help but clap her hooves for her.
“Maybe. Be nice if we could pick up news from Roam. Even a little music would be nice,” Pythia responded between updating the atlas with the winding route they’d taken. After her mistake, the filly wasn’t taking any chances with getting lost again.
Scotch turned on her radio and started searching, turning the knob and watching the numbers whirl. Suddenly sound waves began to ripple as a strange series of blips and scratches filled the air. “What kind of music is that?” Skylord asked.
“It’s an encrypted frequency,” Scotch said as she turned her eyes out the large door to the warehouse. “Think it’s the people hunting me?”
Scotch resumed twisting the knob. They picked up what sounded like two scavengers warning each other about Fire Legion patrols before cutting off. Another channel that was deep brass and drums. Not bad, but the static ruined the melody. She was just about to turn it off when her PipBuck jumped to a frequency and stuck. She frowned as she twisted the knob. Was it broken? A few thumps didn’t fix it. Suddenly rapid music of guitars and drums erupted from the speaker so abruptly that she reflexively turned it down a moment before it picked back up. There was some sort of rattling noise and a mare singing in a dialect of Zebra that Scotch could barely follow.
I woke up in my summer home, right outside the city of Roam It was fine, I’m telling you, till my life threw a horse shoe! Caesar says and zebras do! Gotta go fight with zebra fu! Nevermind, I prefer fondue. Caesar says and zebras do!
A horn sounded one day when we were all going out to play. Caesar said jump into the fray then he turned and ran away! I don’t know why we’re in this stew! Caesar says and zebras do! I feel like I’m gonna spew! Caesar says and zebras do.
Here we stand on the battle line waiting for the killin’ time! Caesar says with no reason or rhyme everything’s gonna be just fine! Caesar says and the zebras do! Take our guns and go pew pew! Have to fight till this war is through! Caesar says and zebras do! Even if he’s full of poo! Caesar says and zebras do!
The fast paced song and then the gruff voice of Dr. Z emerged from her PipBuck, “I’m on? Oh! Okay.” A clearing throat. “Ohhhh yeah. Caesar says and zebras do. Glad we’re done with that shit. Well. Suppose you can probably swap in general but it just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him, and smiled as she listened. “Anyway,” he went on, “since we’re on the subject of generals. Turns out that the Green Menace herself killed General Ossius in the Big Empty–”
A choking sound rose over the steam engine, and Scotch realized it was from herself. Green Menace? Blackjack got called Security. Littlepip got called Lightbringer. Why’d she have to be the ‘Green Menace’?
“Bone Legion’s generalship passed to one Lieutenant Marrow. I know, not the one most of us would have expected, but they’re the Bones. But it looks like she’s taking the legion in a whole new direction. That’s right. It seems like the legion’s actually doing some work for once. So if you’re looking to get north or south, and you don’t want to deal with Bastion’s shit... and let’s be honest, ain’t nobody got enough deal for that much shit... then you can pay your way across the Empty and even pick up some salt for your trouble.”
“Heh! Free advertising!” Charity cackled, rubbing her hooves together.
“But it looks like the Boney Lonelies aren’t the only ones in a shake-up. Sanguinus’s gone all in against the Irons. You know, I used to joke that the Bloods had more soldiers than bullets, but it looks like the Red Reaper is trying to prove me right. My heart goes out to all you poor bastards in the north who are getting pulled into this. But guess what hasn’t changed! No no, guess! That’s right. Rice River’s still divided with two armies just glaring at each other. Either these armies need to get off the pot and do something or they need to get their asses south to Irontown!”
Scotch glanced over at Skylord, who stared out at the wasteland without comment.
“But hey, are you an up and coming wanna be warlord? Do you want to command thousands of drug addicts looking for their next fix? Well then send your resume to the Thorn Legion! They’ve got an army just sitting around with nothing to do right in the middle of Sand Legion territory. It seems their officers have got a nasty case of lead poisoning. That’s right. Everyone who’s in charge seems to be getting a bullet through the noggin. But if you think you’re up to the job, contact the Thorn Legion right away. And invest in a really thick helmet.”
“It doesn’t sound the same,” Scotch muttered. Maybe it’d been so long since the last time she’d seen Doctor Z, but the tone was off. “How does he even broadcast all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere? Even DJ Pon3 had needed the broadcast towers of the MASEBS. So how did Doctor Z reach out in the middle of the Badlands with barely a scratch to his voice? “Is it the same person?”
“Probably not. Doctor Z pops up every now and then, but then someone else comes along. How he knows what he knows is a mystery, Green Menace,” Majina said with a giggle.
“Why am I the Green Menace?” Scotch asked as Doctor Z broke into some haranguing news about the local ‘politicians’ in Freetown that made little sense to her. “Call me...” she paused and then said dramatically, “The Lone Wanderer!”
“You’re not Lone. We’re not wandering, we’re lost. And you’re green. And think about everything you come across. I bet this New Empire thinks you’re a menace,” Majina offered.
“I should have the right to pick my own nickname,” Scotch pouted.
“So I’ve had listeners wondering–just who is the Green Menace? How a pony from Equestria winds up causing so much mayhem? How she leads an assault on Carnico’s production facility? How she evades the deadliest pirate in the ocean? How she makes a mockery of those suits in Bastion?” Doctor Z went on in full deep drama mode.
“Wait? Bastion? I’ve never even been to Bastion!” Scotch blurted. “He’s making shit up about me!” Definitely not the Doctor Z she remembered!
“Hush! I wanna hear this!” Majina countered with a grin.
“Deep in the heart of Equestria was a military facility known as Stable 99. It’s a well-established fact that the Stables were really just secret government test beds for radical, illegal, morally depraved studies to further the war effort. Well, we’ve come to learn that Stable 99 was the home for a special military project: EC-1101. Cybernetic war machines. That right! The merging of flesh and metal. One of their experiments, code named Blackjack, escaped the confines of the base, slaying thousands with poison gas and balefire bombs, before ultimately perishing at the hooves of the Glorious Legate Vitiosus in the pony lands.
“But what few realize is that not just the weapon escaped. That’s right, folks. I have incontrovertible documents that the Green Menace is actually the mad Equestrian scientist behind the creation of the Blackjack weapon! She looks like a filly due to botched experimentation, but she’s more than two hundred years old. And now she’s prowling the Badlands as she seeks with her mercenary army of ponies, zebras, griffons, and dragon pony hybrids to seek out new test subjects! What dire magical spells is their unicorn mage concocting at this very moment?! What depravities is her zebra shaman, a Starkatteri agent of the foes beyond, plotting as we speak?! Right now, her dragonpony minion pilots them through the Badlands on their steam tractor of death, prowling for victims for her mad experim–”
A loud bang cut his tirade short. “What the hay is wrong with you! I’m broadcasting here! Green light!”
“What are you thinking? ‘Green Menace?’”
“That’s what it says on the screen!”
“She’s the ‘Wandering Pony,’ dipshit. Is his mic cut?”
“It says ‘Green Menace.’ Right there! Didn’t you write it?”
“Cut his mic! Go to music!” a stallion bellowed.
“Hey! I don’t interrupt you when it’s your turn!” the first broadcaster blurted.
“Is it off?” the second stallion asked and a moment later blurted. “You idiot! She’s less than five kilometers away! The old Stallion’s been watching her all month. We’re supposed to be broadcasting out of a remote. Who scheduled a local broadcast with her so close!? Find out who scripted that so I can take their stripes and wait till she leaves!” A moment later. “Why is that mic light on? Pull the plug! Pull it–” And the broadcast went dead. A sporty jingle started to play.
“Problems in Z TV land,” Skylord chuckled.
“Stop! Stop!” Scotch shouted to Precious. The Whiskey Express skidded to a halt. Scotch scampered out and climbed up the highest pile of scree. Being in the Badlands was a lucky bet, but how could they know that it was Precious driving? Inside five kilometers? She scanned the debris around them. Something was off. She glanced at Rocky in the trailer and tried to relax, breathing deeply. That broadcast had been way too weird to just be a coincidence. She shifted her gaze again, this time a little more wary for black gooey things that might want to kill her.
The terrain was just as spiritually devoid as before. With the exception of theWhiskey Express and Rocky she couldn’t see anything odd. Black gunk of corrupted spirits. She glanced at her PipBuck and then reached into her saddle bags. Now was definitely the time for Xeres’s mask. She pulled it over her face and looked again. “Spirit of electrons... where are you?” she whispered.
“Did she say ‘Spirit of erections?’ Really?” Precious asked, getting three sharp ‘shhs!’ and one chuckle.
A golden equine face on the screen of her PipBuck, fuzzy and indistinct, gave her a little wink. She stared at a tiny golden filament that seemed to flow into the device on her hoof. Carefully she reached out with her other hoof and caught the gossamer like thread. Instantly her ears filled with a staticky buzz.
“–kay? What’s she doing now?” a stallion asked.
“I got no idea. They stopped soon as we finished translating and now she just standing there with a shaman mask on. Does she think she’s a shaman? Can ponies do that?” Scotch slowly turned her head, listening to the electric buzz grow and fall as if adjusting antennas. “Now she’s doing something with her head. Her friends are just watching her.” A long pause. “Think we wake up the old stallion?”
“I don’t know. That was a hell of a glitch. It hasn’t done that in months. What’s she doing now?”
“She’s just sitting there. Now she’s pointing out her hoof computer and waving it around. Wait. Now she’s pointing it at us.” A moment and then the stallion muttered in a horrified voice, “Wait. Can she hear us?”
“She can’t hear us.”
“I swear she can hear us.” A long, horrified silence began.
“She can’t hear us. We’re not broadcasting,” the first muttered, his voice dropping.
“She can fucking hear us.”
“Shut up. Just shut up. There’s no way she can hear us. All the mics are off.” Another pause with low breathing, then, “Right?”
The other didn’t answer. “Pony... stomp twice if you can hear us,” the zebra whispered.
Scotched raised her hoof up and brought it down twice. Fillyish screams burst from the far side of the connection.
Opening her eyes, she stared at a rocky hill barely hid behind a ridge of scree whose top had been sliced right off. A lone radio antenna poked out into the sky, the rust red blending in with all the other scrap metal and rust red hills. “Gotcha.”
“Oh shit,” the stallion muttered.
Scotch walked back to the Whiskey Express and her baffled friends and explained what she’d heard. They pulled on to a narrow road that twisted up towards the flat topped mountain. With sheer sides it seemed impassable. “Rocky? Is there a tunnel?” she asked the stone. It simply nodded, but that was good enough for her. They left the trailer/tractor and fanned out, and Scotch knew something was up.
There were yellow bars on her PipBuck.
“Listen up!” Scotch bellowed. “I am Scotch Tape, and I want to have a word with whoever’s in charge of broadcasting!” She walked around the cliff with Rocky on her back, in case the spirit decided to be a little more forthcoming. “Now you can try and keep me out, but I think you know that I get into all kinds of stuff other people don’t want me to. So open the door and wake up the old stallion, because the Green Menace has arrived!”
She listened to her voice echo off the stones. “Wow,” Precious muttered. “That was actually kinda badass.”
“I am sick of things jerking me around,” Scotch replied. “Now open up!”
There was a pop and grind, and a section of the wall slowly recessed into the rock face. A moment later a grizzled old stallion whose stripes had faded to white stepped into view. He glittered with all sorts of zebra data gadgets and disks hanging off his bony hide. A mask with a television screen covering his eyes completed the ensemble. The screen flashed and a zebra with blue stripes appeared. “Heyyy-ey- ey- ey!” it stuttered. “We meet again my fine fair-air-air-air fill–” A buzz and the blue zebra disappeared.
“Doctor Z, I presume?” Scotch replied.
The old zebra pulled off the mask. He had a worn, wrinkly visage. “Doctor Xandros really, but Z rhymes better,” he said as four more stallions and mares emerged from the tunnel. Only one of them was armed with a rifle. Doctor Xandros chewed some gum thoughtfully. “So you’re her. The cursed pony. And of course you show up right on my doorstep. ‘Cause the spirits just have to be royal dicks sometimes.” He turned and jerked his head. “What do you want?”
“Mad scientist? Botched experiment? Army of ponies and griffons and... Who named me the Green Menace? Seriously? How about ‘The Traveller’? or ‘The Ambassador of Friendship’? Seriously!” Scotch spluttered. Doctor Xandros just stared at her thoughtfully. “Are you going to answer? Let us in?”
“Not sure. You might not like the name, but I’ve kept track of you since you arrived in Rice River. You fixed a Carnico Talisman, invoked a Carnie ceremony, evaded the Blood Legion twice, and killed the leader of the Bone Legion. Forgive me if I’m scared to fucking death of you. In fact, I’d be tickled pink if you turned around, got back in your tractor, and got on your way. I can’t help but think that just talking to you is going to get us all killed. Or worse.”
Scotch considered. “Maybe it’s a good reason the spirits brought us together?”
He snorted. “Things the spirits think are good ain’t things most of us think of as good.”
“Sir. The longer we all just stand here, the more chance we have of getting spotted,” one of the younger stallions said. She recognized him as the ‘Green Menace’ speaker. He seemed to be avoiding meeting her eyes.
Doctor Xandros snorted again, twisting his lips sourly. Finally he threw his hooves into the air. “Fine! Just... fine! Try not to get your curse all over everything. Knowing how bad you’re touched, I knew it was a matter of time. I should just make things simple and die right now and spare myself the horribly ironic death of giving you the time of day.” He pursed his lips and scowled. Then the mask he’d set aside let out a squeal of electronic feedback that had them all press hooves to ears. Doctor Xandros grit his teeth as he endured it for half a minute, then shouted, “Okay! Fine! Fine! You win, Z! You win!” The feedback cut out immediately. Giving Scotch a sour look, he shoved the mask back on his head, the apparel slightly askew. “Come on. Get inside. I can’t wait for our sudden and tragic slaughter by your enemies.” Then he turned and marched back through the hole.
“He’s got Propoli stripes, but he talks like a Zencori,” Majina commented. His followers went through, and then the Whiskey Express followed after.
They passed a pair of hydraulic lifts that managed the door, and then began to spiral down into the earth. Scotch began wincing as the Whiskey Express’s brakes began to grind. Definitely needed to give him some good and tender maintenance. Overhead, periodically hanging lights illuminated the rough-hewn walls. Then they reached the largest door that Scotch had ever seen. It dwarfed even the Stable-Tec portals, hanging like an immense slab of steel on a pivot larger than the steam tractor. On its front was a single four pointed star with eight rays extending out from all directions.
“It’s a Star Legion base,” Skylord breathed.
“You got a whole legion?” Charity asked Pythia, earning a flat glare of annoyance.
“Who are they? Is this going to be trouble?” Scotch asked.
“Hardly. Star Legion are deader than the Bones. They used to have balefire bombs coming out their asses, but that was generations ago. The other legions stomped them into the dirt hard; the last time Irons and Bloods worked together on anything. You have to work to find Star Legion now,” he said as they drove through the portal into a parking area with two other Propoli style steam wagons.
“We got a tip and moved in,” Doctor Xandros said as he pointed at an empty bay. “Luckily, most of the Stars here died of some disease ages back.”
“Disease?” Scotch felt a fear twist in her guts. “What kind of disease?”
“Don’t know. Wasn’t really interested in biology,” the old zebra said. “Was more focused on getting the reactor and hydroponics going.” Scotch remained stuck on the Whiskey Express. “We burned all the bodies,” he added, noting her consternation.
She swallowed and pulled herself from the seat. It hadn’t been an easy month when Blackjack left. How the Overmare got sick. Then the security ponies locked up Gin Rummy and freed the Overmare. Then one by one, others were getting sick too. Finally Rivets had isolated people in the supply and maintenance sections, certain that eventually they’d get hungry and give in.
Instead, they’d started eating ponies.
“You okay?” Precious asked, giving Scotch’s flank a nudge with her own. Scotch jerked at the contact.
“Come on. I’ll give you the tour. Then we’ll figure out how to get you the hell out of here without your curse wiping us all out,” Doctor Xandros said, walking away through a passage. Scotch steeled herself and followed. Solid concrete walls surrounded them, their surface glossy in that ‘reinforced, industrial hardness’ quality. Only every third light in the roof was lit, making the passage barely navigable.
“What was this place?” Majina asked, looking at the stenciling on the walls. “Balefire bomb silo?”
“Nope. Good guess. This is the Star Legion’s southern balefire control center, or SLSBCC. ‘Southern Star’ for short. Powered by a special reactor, fortified against most conceivable pony megaspells, and fitted with both reinforced land line connections and broadcasting capability,” He said as he walked along. “No balefire bombs anymore, though.”
They entered a massive domed chamber with an aperture thicker than Scotch was tall. The doors had recessed into the walls of a shaft rising up above them. Filling the dome was a multitude of dishes and broadcast equipment, the bowls pointing up towards the sky. The entire air hummed ever so slightly and she could taste the ozone on her tongue. “This is our local broadcast. Reaches everywhere from Roam to Bastion, but we’re wired into more than two dozen camouflaged broadcast locations.”
“Like the MASEBS?” Scotch said, then elaborated, “That’s the Ministry of Arcane Science–”
“Emergency Broadcast System. Yeah, we know about it,” Doctor Xandros said. “Pretty sure this was a rip-off of the same idea, only ours was solely for the military, and solely under the control of the Star Legion. When the other legions decided not to put up with the Star Legion’s demands, they shut all these down. We’ve been working for twenty years to reconnect as much as we can. Maybe even patch into the pony network, it they’re compatible.”
“You’ve been sitting on the greatest military asset of the Empire and using it to host a television and radio show?” Skylord demanded.
“Gee, you’re right. Maybe we should give it to the Blood Legion and make them really capable of coordinating their attacks. Or I bet the Gold Legion would pay us a ton for it,” he replied sarcastically. “You’re not the only legion that’d want to get their claws on this place.”
“Point taken,” Skylord grudgingly admitted.
“Plus, if Bastion knew this facility existed, they’d be all over the Badlands like ants looking for it. We keep them confused by broadcasting from different locations. I think the current theory is that we’ve got an airship.” He poked the mask’s monitor. “Unfortunately I think someone wanted to meet you.”
The staticky stallion’s head flickered into view, blew a raspberry, and disappeared in a crackle.
“Who... what is he?” Precious asked, her eyes narrowed in unease as she pulled her head back.
“The burden of my life,” Doctor Xandros said as he led them to a pair of heavy doors. ‘Launch Command’ was stenciled on them, and they hissed open.
Within lay a temple to data. Scotch couldn’t begin to count the number of monitors covering the walls, demonstrating strolling lines of numbers and glyphs in an endless rain of green digits and symbols. Video images came to life, played a few seconds of video clips, and then winked out only to be replaced again. Maps with icons and slowly moving glyphs dominated some of the steadier images. All around the cavernous space, a dozen zebras trotted around taking notes or studying screens. The three biggest screens were all several times larger than her!
Someone had set out fake electrical candles, and she counted no less than three shrines with terminal components laid out before them. A carving of a dead chicken swayed over a bank of processors. Posters with messages like ‘Garbage in, garbage out’ lined the parts of walls not showing screen, wire, or processor. The sweltering heat was barely undercut by tubes of coolant gurgling around the immense chamber.
And in the middle stood a blue monolith. A great tube filled with fluid that immediately made Scotch’s neck itch. Countless wires and cables, some as big as her hoof, snaked out and into the machinery. “May I introduce you,” the old zebra said with a note of finality, “to Doctor Xiegfried, member of the Terrific Twelve.”
Instantly, every monitor in the room became part of a mosaic that projected an immense, glowing zebra face. The condensation on the tube evaporated with a hiss of released coolant, and within was a desiccated equine form. The gray and white hide was pierced by hundreds, if not thousands, of wires and leads that studded the form almost like a coat of insulated strands. At the top was a skull frozen in a permanent scream, a mane of connections sprouting from the split open skull.
The eyes twitched to stare at Scotch, and the immense computer display looked down at her like a colossal blue glowing god.
Scotch took one long look, and her eyes rolled back as darkness claimed her.
Rampage had said that once, and Scotch had been dismayed to learn how right she was. When she’d escaped 99, everything seemed wondrous and terrible all at once. Blackjack had gassed her home, killing everyone she knew. Knowing that was almost surreal. It was easier to just think of them all doomed in some cruel but blameless twist of fate than to deal with the fact that she was travelling with the executioner of all the ponies she had ever known.
Not that it had been a wonderful home to begin with. To her, it had been her whole world, and she hadn’t understood what the place was. What it did to people. That things could have been different.
One rainy night while Blackjack was running all over the Wasteland, laying batponies and blowing up prisons, Scotch asked her father if he’d ever loved her mother.
“Love?” he said as he stared out into the dark. “No. To be honest, she wasn’t that different from the Overmare to me. To her, I was a thing. Her fantasy stallion in her fantasy dream. She used me, just like everypony else there did, to suit her needs,” he’d told her. “But she wasn’t any worse than any of the others. They were all bad.”
She hadn’t had the guts then to ask if he included her in that thought.
It’d been hard learning that about her home and her father. Knowing what went on in her stable, knowing what they’d done to her father and so many other stallions… It was a feeling she didn’t think she’d ever be able to fully wrap her head around… Torn between what she learned from her father and how she’d grown up… how did anyone deal with that?! But before she’d even had a chanceto try and understand it, they’d gone underground, and something had happened… Something bad.
A room had tried to eat her; eat all of them, actually. That’s what she’d been told. But Blackjack had excised the memory, along with several others that left not-quite-empty holes in the depths of her mind. She’d taken those memories from her in a futile, idiotic attempt to make her happy. The specifics had vanished into the aether, but the terror remained, formless, hungry, and waiting. Every now and then she might see a gaping maw in a rusted panel and pause, or hear the shriek of rending metal as its integrity failed, and feel her heart race. Because something would break through the Threshold of Not Knowing from that void in her mind, and the Thing would begin its soul-rending wail.
If she knew, maybe she could have dealt with it. What was the phrase the smart ponies used? ‘Contextualized’ it? ‘Processed’ it? She was starting to sound like Pythia. She had to make it make sense. But how could she make sense out of memories she didn’t have? It was a broken part of her, a shameful part, made all the worse for its unfairness. Who could be condemned for simply not remembering something? Now she woke with a splitting headache and the hollowness of failure in her gut.
She was on a bed at least, and as she stirred she felt a claw on her shoulder. Precious, or Skylord? She peeked back at Precious.
“Hey, you okay?” the dragonfilly asked.
“I passed out, didn’t I? That sound like I’m okay?” Scotch grumbled. They were in a sort of barracks, with a dozen bunk beds arrayed in two rows. The dim bulbs on the ceiling flickered from age, and mildew lingered in the air. It reminded her of home. While this might not be a stable, it felt the same. From how similar the stale air smelled to 99, she guessed the circulation system was in poor repair. Doctor Xandros’s zebras might have been good with terminals, but it seemed other fundamentals were lacking. “How long was I out?” She swallowed, realizing her throat ached. “And why is my throat sore?”
“A few hours. And probably from all the screaming.” Precious rubbed her budding horns. “There was some sobbing too.”
“Great. From the Green Menace to the pony basket case,” Scotch grumbled, grabbing the pillow and pulling it over her head. “I quit. You’re in charge now.”
“Sweet!” Precious cheered. “Okay, we’re going to take this place over and make it my new dragonpony fortress! We’ll have my hoard over there. A fighting pit over there! Ohhh! And a giant polished gold statue of me right… there!” Scotch pulled her head out from beneath the pillow and saw Precious grinning as she pointed off to one side, then the dragonfilly glanced back down at her before scoffing. “Seriously, you can’t quit. I don’t think you know how. What would you do if you did? Hang out here? Try to go back to the Hoof? It’s not like you’ve got a lot of options.”
Scotch sighed and rolled on to her back, hugging the pillow to her chest. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m spirit touched, but I don’t know why. We’re going to Roam to find out something, but I don’t even know if it matters. There’s a whole frigging ‘New Empire’ trying to kill me for reasons.”
“Wanna swap? You can be the freak of nature and I’ll be spirit molested?” Scotch couldn’t help but chuckle. She rarely got to just talk with Precious like this, and it was helping her put her breakdown out of mind.
“You’re not a freak of nature.” Scotch smirked. “In fact… you’re a cutie.” She’d expected a snort and a roll of Precious’s eyes, but instead got an actual blush from the dragonfilly!
“Freak of science then,” Precious tried again. “A freaky mishmash of pony and dragon. Hideous in my abominationness. Hideous!” She twisted her lips. “I think Majina’s rubbing off on me.”
“You aren’t hideous, or a freak, or an abomination,” Scotch said, reaching up to boop Precious on the nose, but missed and got her cheek instead. Precious turned her face into the touch, closing her eyes with a smile that jolted Scotch’s train of thought. She needed to switch onto smoother tracks before it jumped the rails. “Where’s Pythia now?” Scotch glanced around the barracks. “Actually, where is everyone?”
“Majina’s geeking out about that Twelve guy. Sky’s probably trying to figure out how to kill everyone in here with a paperclip and his own badassitude. Charity’s trying to buy the whole place with some old rations and a block of salt. And Pythia’s going nuts over their maps, trying to make sense of where we’re going next.”
“Good luck,” Scotch muttered. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”
Precious flopped down beside her, close. Really close. “Well, so what? Nothing in my life makes sense either. According to doctor dipshit, I was a weapon. Some dragon pony super soldier crap. I felt like one too. You were the first friend I ever had. The first person that actually talked to me like I was a person. Like… like I could be a person with you.” Precious snuggled up to her. The scales felt strange against Scotch’s fur, but not unpleasant. “I’ll never forget that.”
Scotch didn’t recall the precise details of how they’d met. She’d been too terrified of getting burned or eaten, but they’d been trying to save Priest and the Crusaders of Chapel from Sanguine. She reached back into her memories, around that hole. She’d gotten Precious away, asking her if she wanted to play. They’d gone to one of the old houses… The exchange came like an old PipBuck recording.
‘I’m a monster.’
‘I don’t think you’re a monster.’
‘Look at me! I’m a freak. I’m ugly!’
‘I don’t think you’re ugly at all. I think you’re really pretty.’
‘You think so? You’re not just lying so I won’t eat you, are you?’
‘No. I think you’re really cute, Precious.’
Suddenly, Scotch’s mind gave a lurch, like a tablecloth being yanked… only instead of being pulled out flawlessly, all the dishes went crashing to the floor. “Um… Precious?” she murmured as the dragonfilly snuggled up against her. “Are you okay?”
“Are any of us?” she muttered with a frown. Scotch stared at her for a moment, then carefully shifted on her side to hold her. Precious’s frown subsided with a sigh. “I get it. I know you and Pythia are a special thing. I dunno what kind of thing, but I get it. You like her. Like her, like her. Special. I get it,” she repeated, dejected.
Scotch held her close and finally asked in a voice that cracked, “Do you… like me? Like… likeme like me?”
Precious let out a sigh, closing her eyes with a sigh. “Oh, sweet shiny, you actually asked me. Finally.” She pressed her face into Scotch’s chest. “You know, I used to dream you’d ask me something like this, and I’d say something and then… well… I dunno, but I kinda assumed it’d be good. Now it’s just… ugh…” Her tail weakly thumped the mattress beside Scotch. “Why couldn’t you have asked a year ago?”
“Um, because Vicious would have killed me,” Scotch muttered weakly. “But you do… like me?”
“Like you? Pfft,” she snorted, trying to maintain her shield of scorn, but it crumbled as Scotch looked on. “I dunno. Kinda. You’re nice to me. Like… really nice to me. Do you think anyone’s ever called me cute before? But I get that you and Pythia have that thing.” She let out a soft huff, shaking her head a little. “I was hoping that, maybe, you’d just… get over it. Or get bored with her. Or have a fight and I’d be there, your dashing dragon knight to swoop in and save the day. But that never happened. I couldn’t ever get you alone to just… talk.” She turned her face away. “Not that I’d know what to say if we did.”
Scotch wanted to say she’d been busy, but knew that was a lie. When she did have time, she spent it more with Pythia talking about spirit things and, more recently, that damned book. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I just thought you were more interested in Skylord.”
Precious laughed, then let out a long sigh. “Sky’s… weird. Good weird. We’re a lot alike, and I think that’s kind of the problem. When we’re together it’s always a fight. That’s good. I like a fight. But…” She rubbed her temples. “I don’t think he knows what he wants. I’ve never heard himcall me cute or anything. I just know that whatever I want to feel from him… I don’t. I want to wrestle Sky, tweak his beak, and give him a noogie. I don’t want to… you know… stuff.” She tapped her claws together, blushing horribly.
“And you want stuff from me?”
Precious bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe? I think?” She turned her eyes away again. “I don’t know.” She rubbed her face. “I don’t know how to talk about this. Let me sink my fangs into something meaty and I’m good. Talking about feelings is all… squishy.”
“I didn’t think you’d… like fillies,” Scotch confessed.
“Oh sweet silver, this is it, isn’t it? The Talk.” Precious groaned again, tightening up and squirming a little. “I have no idea. I didn’t even start thinking about it before Rice River. Most of us didn’t grow up in a stable where you just did that. I just… I don’t know. I’d like to know, but I’m also terrified that I’ll screw something up and you’ll hate me and… I don’t think I could survive you hating me. And there’s the thing with you and Pythia.” She closed her eyes. “Did you have a special somepony back in your stable?”
Scotch had been trying not to think that far back. It was full of pain and regret that she couldn’t do anything about. “Kinda. I mean, mom was a maintenance mare, and I was a maintenance foal. There were a dozen or so of us. We’d take things apart because we got bored, and then panic if we couldn’t put them back together. Once, we rigged a talisman to put out helium, and everypony in security and the Overmare’s office were yelling with these crazy squeaky voices. Sometimes we’d slip to a utility room and make a bed. Be nice to each other. Do stuff. It was… just what ponies did there.” She closed her eyes. It’d only been two years, but they were already fuzzy. “I wouldn’t call any of them special. If you called someone your special pony, they’d look at you funny and Text Book would warn about getting ‘overly attached.’ We made each other feel good. It was nice, but that’s all it ever was.” That was the best you got in 99.
“The thing you have with Pythia is special though,” Precious said. “Right?”
Scotch let out a long sigh. “I don’t know what our thing is, Precious. I’m interested in her. She’s interested in me, I think. I’m spirit touched and she’s… got some really weird stuff going on. Then there’s the fact she won’t admit she’s a shaman when she did shaman things… I mean, I know she says it’s to avoid the spirits noticing her or something. That’s fine! Don’t do shaman stuff! But I still don’t know why she has to stay under the radar like that. Why can’t she just be honest and explain it all to me? Why does she have to make it all a… a secret?” Scotch stared at the underside of the bed above her, but it had as many answers for her as Pythia. “It’s like this big convoluted thing and every time she gives that excuse… Sometimes it’s so mystifying it drives me mad.” She rubbed her face with a hoof. “I’m not sure if we’ll ever get over it.”
“You could have me,” Precious whispered, “in the meantime. I could be special for you.”
There was a part of her that wanted that. It would just be… convenient. A good way to scratch an itch that hadn’t been attended to since Rice River. Blackjack, she knew, would have gone for it instantly, both for fun and to give comfort. But she wasn’t Blackjack. She’d just be using her friend, and she… didn’t like doing it just to try to feel better. She’d learned that in a rocket, where trying to be Blackjack had just left her awfully sore and embarrassed.
“Sorry,” Scotch murmured. “You deserve better than just ‘in the meantime.’”
Precious hid her face and started to tremble, then emitted tiny, soft sobs. Scotch couldn’t say anything but just hold her and wait, and try not to wince. Her tears were almost painfully hot. The snot was like hot wax soaking into her coat, but she bore it as stoically as possible. Finally, Precious lifted her face enough to wipe away the tears. “I feel so stupid,” she grumbled. “I just… you were here and alone and… I’m an idiot.”
“We all are,” Scotch sighed, nuzzling her brow. “One crazy wagonload of kids on a quest in the zebra lands.”
She rubbed away the tears as she gave her a half smile. Scotch took a second to try to wipe some of the dragon mucus elsewhere as Precious said, “Kids? Scotch, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Precious asked. “We’re, like, practically adults.”
“No!” Scotch protested, then frowned and looked down at herself, her eyes widening with revelation. “Wait. When did that happen?” How old was she exactly? Her brain tried to put numbers to it, but with shock she realized she was almost the same age as Blackjack when she’d gone running all over the Hoof! “That’s why the wagon’s been so snug, huh?”
“Had to happen sooner or later,” Precious said, scrubbing her face of any sign of her previous sorrow. “We’ll be fine. If I know Charity, she’s probably gotten a second tractor by now. Or three.” Her eyes widened. “Ooh. Or one for each of us! Can you imagine cruising all over the Wasteland in a convoy armed to the teeth? I’m going to paint flames on mine! Purple flames,” she said with a grin, all evidence of her confession neatly suppressed. She’d put herself out there, let Scotch see something special, and had been rejected. Now it was back to pretending like she didn’t care.
“Yeah. Purple flames. It’ll be awesome,” Scotch agreed, trying hard to smile to keep up the illusion.
Precious took a deep breath. “Come on. Let’s find the others.” She rolled off the stiff bed and onto her feet. “You good with that?” she asked a moment later, her brow furrowed.
Well, she wasn’t going to get much better. “Yeah. Sure.”
Precious walked to the door and paused, claw on the frame, looking back at her. “And… um… what I said?”
Scotch balked, giving a sickly little smile. “Yeah. No. Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. Even to Pythia.” Precious nodded and rolled out, and she followed behind.
Out in the hall there were a number of zebras, but none of them met her eye for more than a moment. “What’s up with them?” Scotch asked as they rapidly trotted away from her.
“They’re trying not to get your curse all over them, or some junk. They make it sound like a nasty flu or something,” Precious said with a snort.
Scotch wasn’t so sure of that. How could a spirit touch curse be spread? “Where’s everyone?”
They weren’t far. After a stop in a bathroom, where Scotch thanked the unappreciated spirits of good plumbing, Precious led her to a cafeteria where Charity seemed to be in earnest negotiations to trade a tub of axle grease for a chunk of salt. From the pile of loot beside her and the predatory glint in her eye, Scotch thought it best not to throw her off her game. Majina and Skylord were talking, and the zebra waved them both over.
“Hey! How are you doing?” she asked Scotch, slipping out of her seat to run up and give her a hug. “You were really bad there for a while. What happened?”
“Oh, just some serious psychological trauma,” Scotch said with a strained little laugh. “Nothing major. What about you? What are you up to?”
“Finally. You can talk their ears off instead,” Skylord said as he vacated his seat.
“You don’t have any ears,” Precious replied.
“Case in point!” he snapped, then trotted past Scotch towards Charity and the merchant. “I’m going to make sure she’s getting the right caliber.”
“He’s relieved too. Said you were shell shocked or something,” Majina said, before looking at her. “And there’s a Tremendous Twelve here. Like, and actual one of the Twelve! Eeee!” She danced on her hooves in glee before pausing. “Okay, a brain damaged member, but still!”
“He’s the real deal?” Precious asked. “I mean, he looks like a corpse with wires in his brain but–” She glanced at Scotch and fell silent.
“Oh, he’s real. And if he’s not, then he’s as close as I’ll probably get to one. He couldn’t exactly answer all my questions but he knew enough details that I’m convinced. Even if his answers were incoherent at times.”
“But who was he? Xiegfried?” Scotch asked, having to wrack her brains for the name.
“Oh, he was the youngest colt on the team. Some sort of wonder child prodigy with terminals and networks and everything. He reverse-engineered like half of pony technology on his own without even thinking about it. And came up with quite a few tricks on his own,” Majina rattled off with a cocky waggle of her brows. “He’d trip up pony surveillance networks, plant all kinds of false data, and once even took over a pony Thunderhead with a model plane remote!” Majina said with a laugh. Scotch wasn’t so sure of all that, but didn’t care enough to argue.
“So, when did he become a shaman?”
Majina’s eyes widened. “He wasn’t a shaman. Only Ignatia was a shaman on the team. With her fire spirits!”
“Sounds like my kind of mare,” Precious chuckled. Majina arched a brow at the dragonfilly in surprise and she stumbled. “What? What’s wrong with fire?”
“Huh,” Majina muttered, squirming, as Precious scrunched up her mouth.
Scotch approached Majina with a frown. “But the stuff he did in Rice River… the way he is now… are you saying none of it has anything to do with spirits?”
“Of course it does,” came the reedy voice of Doctor Xandros as he approached. “He’s spirit touched,” he announced gravely. The old stallion’s television face mask turned to that of the cartoony blue striped zebra, who gave a soundless laugh before flickering away into static.
“Spirit touched?” Scotch’s eyes jumped to the screen. Every now and then Xiegfried flickered in with his face contorted in some strange way, only to disappear a moment later. “What spirit? How?”
The old zebra pushed his mask back, looking down at her with pale blue eyes. “Walk with me. This isn’t a casual conversation for the cafeteria.”
Scotch looked at the others, but rose. “I’ll be back in a bit.” Together they trotted out to the hall.
“Sorry if my people are standoffish, but after what happened to Xiegfried, I don’t want to take any chances.”
“You act as if being spirit touched is a disease,” Scotch groused, a touch defensively.
“Ha. I wish. Then we could just cure it, or quarantine you,” Doctor Xandros said with a disapproving shake of his head. “No, when it comes to spirits, nothing is certain, or even predictable. Just talking to you might curse me, but if so, perhaps I can keep it to myself.”
“I’m not cursing anyone!”
“No?” he countered. “Xiegfried was already cursed before he crossed paths with you. Then he had a chance to peek into Rice River’s secrets. Boy was always too curious for his own good. But having the building brought down while he was still in its infosphere broke him. Granted, he was a bit cracked before, but now…”
A cartoon zebra appeared, cracks ran through him, and he shattered like glass. The shards grinned at her before disappearing.
“Well, we’ll be on our way then,” Scotch muttered.
“It’s more complicated than that. If Xiegfried wanted you here, it has to be for a reason. And since you are here–” He paused and pushed up his mask to regard her with his limpid eyes. “–well, I might as well use your freakish pony powers to try and help put him back to normal.”
“You want me to fix him? I don’t even know what he is!” Scotch objected. Still, she had once known a stallion trapped in a PipBuck. He’d been called the Dealer, and his soul had been bound to a megaspell. While Blackjack had never told her the details, she suspected it couldn’t have been a stable storage medium for a soul… or maybe the soul was the medium and the megaspell was recorded on it?
“When I was a colt, he was a young stallion just trying to help people survive by broadcasting observations of the legions fighting each other. I didn’t know he was one of the Twelve. Then we met.” He gave a tiny smile. “Anyway, while I aged he… changed. Mutated. He grew those wires straight from his brain. His eyes changed into screens. One day, he just stopped being able to walk. We put him in that tank simply to anesthetize him.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know if he could survive outside it. It would be agony.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to do. I can’t even look at him like that,” Scotch confessed. “What spirit touched him?”
“I don’t know. He never confided in me, but it was a doozy. Not aging was the first change. He could operate terminals with his mind. Just think at them and they’d do what he said. I think it was a data spirit of some kind, but I’m not certain.” Doctor Xandros paused to rub the bridge of his muzzle with a hoof. “He’s annoying, impulsive, and immature, but I’ve lived eighty years with him. I’d like to help him get better if I can.”
“So he can keep digging up secrets for your show?” Scotch asked archly.
“So he doesn’t fall apart completely, but yes. Him being more consistent and reliable would do wonders for Z TV. And I’m not sure if you noticed, but for most of the Empire we’re the closest thing many people have to objective news. There’s no lack of legions that’d be happy if we permanently went off the air.”
Scotch took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try. I think I’m getting better at this spirit stuff, so maybe I can figure something out.” She twisted her lips thoughtfully around a sour thought. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the Eye of the World is, off hoof?”
“Of course,” Doctor Xandros said with a note of bored certainty that made Scotch’s spirits lift immediately. “It resides in all of us, as we see the world, the world sees us. It’s a metaphor.”
Scotch winced. “Right. A metaphor. ‘Course. Why didn’t we think of that? One second,” she said and turned, pressed her face to the wall, buried her face between her forehooves, and screamed her frustration into the concrete in an unmitigated howl of rage. Then she pulled her face away, brushed back her mane, and commented lightly, “I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. You were saying?” Of course he stared at her as if she were properly deranged. On the television screen on his brow, Xiegfried was eating popcorn out of a bowl as he watched her. She just smiled, ignoring her momentary outburst.
“Are you well?” the zebra asked, sliding off the mask to regard Scotch with worry.
She almost unloaded with a sarcastic quip, but his concern was so clear that she couldn’t get it out. “It’s just… we’ve come all this way to find this Eye place and even after being here a year, we’re no closer to it.” She shook her head. “I remember Blackjack whining about her own trying to find stuff and thinking that it was… I dunno. I didn’t think it’d be so hard.”
His pale eyes took her in, and then he chuckled. “Ah, to be young and impatient,” he muttered with a wry smile. “The Eye of the World has always been elusive. To be honest, I was joking a bit about the metaphor. The Eye is a place, but special and unclear. No two tribes agree precisely on where it is or what it is. I’ve heard a Tappahani and a Roamani argue for days that the Eye was in their lands and no other. Others that the Eye exists in the world of spirits or ghosts, or that it never existed at all. You’re chasing a myth even for shamans.”
“The Caesar seemed to think for certain it existed. Why else would he order it blinded?” She was surprised when he didn’t seem too bothered by the question.
“I have no idea. Perhaps he was using the Eye as a term for some other project, and blinding it was simply a code phrase.” He reached out and put a hoof on her shoulder. “Please, don’t be frustrated just because you haven’t found it in a year. There are shamans that never found it in a lifetime.”
Scotch took several slow breaths. “You’re right. You’re right. We’re doing the best we can and… yeah. I guess that’s all we can do.” She took one more breath to steady herself, aware of an ache smoldering to life in her chest from her impetuous scream. Was that all it took to wind her now? “Where’s Pythia?”
He set the mask in place, the video screen showing the cartoon zebra lurching as if his whole world had been shaken by his movement. They walked together in silence a while before Scotch asked, “Is it possible there’s more than one Eye? I mean, we all have two eyes, right?”
He gave another wry smile. “You’re spirit touched. Stop making me like you,” the old zebra said. “There’s a whole school of theory about that. Multiple eyes. Eyes that open and close. It was a major schism in shamanistic thought for five hundred years, before the eightieth Caesar proclaimed the monocular theory as canon.”
“Caesars can just do that? Say ‘This is true because I say so’? Seems like a bad way to do science.”
“But an excellent way to curtail the Eschatiks, Atoli, and Mendi who challenge your rule,” he said with a sigh. “To be honest, the Propoli have no strong convictions either way. To us, the Eye is an idea. It could be a singular place, or multiple, but it is still an idea. Until we have definitive proof, we’re not going to commit absolutely. To be honest, we’d be more interested in how to exploit such a place than understanding its being.”
“Really?” Scotch asked, finding the thought rather sad.
“Propoli are all about results. Perhaps excessively so. It’s our greatest strength and weakness,” Doctor Xandros mused. “You might guess, but we’re not the biggest artists in the Empire. In fact, the Sahaani once waged a war to get us to consider architectural aspects at all. If it were left up to us, every city would be a Bastion, and considering I fled from there, that’s not high commendation.”
“I keep hearing that place more and more, lately. More than Roam, even.”
“It is our greatest city today. A twentieth the size of Roam at its height, but it stands while Roam is now a colossal, perpetually burning ruin,” he replied, an odd note of pride in his voice.
“If it’s so great then why isn’t it helping restore the zebra lands?”
“Why would they want to?”
Scotch started, trying to detect if he was serious or not. “Uh, because the zebra lands are a mess?”
“And Bastion is the apex of that mess,” he replied grimly. “Don’t misunderstand. Bastion calls continuously for a stable and restored Empire, but it’s superficial. They send out exiles to ‘found civilization’ with every intent of hunting them down and reclaiming the equipment later. If they helped Rice River with their grass problem, it would only strengthen their greatest competitor. Zebras might try to find refuge there rather than Bastion. If they kept the legions in check, more free cities might have a chance to rise. Better to watch Roam burn and do nothing than to help. If the Empire were restored, and Roam reclaimed, Bastion would once again become an insignificant city on our border, guarding a canal that has no use. It would shrink. Decline. And the city’s masters guard against this future with fervent determination.” He tapped his chest. “I should know. I was once one myself.”
“You were?”
“Another life,” he said with a wry smile. “When I was young, impatient, and assumed many things.”
Was that a dig at her? “What happened?”
“I met Xiegfried back when he was a wandering nuisance. I challenged him to prove his claims. He did. He showed me the numbers. Numbers of what our people would be if Bastion had been destroyed in the war. He provided me evidence that Bastion wasn’t the shining pinnacle of zebra survival, but a weight around the necks of all our people.” The cartoon zebra gave a bow. “Today he’s more of a statuary nuisance.” That got a large raspberry blown at the screen.
They reached the doorway to the chamber with all the screens that she had seen earlier. Thankfully, they’d wrapped a sheet around the tank. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a pony in a jar, apparently. The first time was in that memory hole. Sometimes she wondered what else might have fallen in. Still, she hesitated… but not out of fear. Mostly.
Pythia sat there, one hoof on the glass, while the screens flickered and played clips or showed images from the war. Headlines of ‘Terrific Twelve Stops Equestrian Raid’ and ‘Starkatteri Sorceress Trumps Unicorn Magic!’ Images of Pythia… but not Pythia… during the war. The mane cut was a little different. Shorter. The eyes had a bit more sharpness to them. Eagerness. Confidence.
“I’m telling you I don’t remember any of it,” Pythia said loudly in annoyance. “I’m not Tanit, Xiggy.”
A video clip immediately played of a younger ‘Tanit’ saying, “I don’t have the same memories as my mother. Just… impressions. Feelings. Like regrets when you can’t exactly remember what you’re sorry for.” The clip froze on that image of a softer and more vulnerable looking Pythia.
“Right. Exactly!”
Then another clip of Tanit in a hallway at a door, hitting the buttons 04510. A stallion asked, “How did you know the code?”
A haunted look on Tanit’s face was followed by an insincere “Lucky guess?” She stared at the door. “I guess there’s more of Mom in me than I like to admit.” That statement repeated three times.
“Okay! Yes. Spirits, you are so annoying, Xiggy.” Pythia protested.
At least a dozen more clips of Tanit saying the same thing on an equal number of screens. Suddenly Pythia whirled away, clenching her eyes shut. “Stop it!” Scotch lurched forward towards the doorway but Pythia repeated. “Just… please stop. I know I’m old. I look at Scotch and it feels like I’m looking at a sister, a daughter, and a granddaughter all at once.” Scotch froze, then shifted behind a server as Pythia continued. “I don’t know if I am Tanit or not. I don’t know if I’m my own mother or not. I look at this world and nothing looks like it should be. Especially when I look back.”
Scotch leaned forward to stare at Pythia’s back as she looked up at the screens of the cartoon zebra with the neon blue stripes. “I know you want me to be Tanit, Xiegfried. You want your friend back. I just don’t know if I’m that person.” Scotch took a deep breath and Pythia said, “Cue Scotch.”
The green pony’s lunge discombobulated and she landed, sprawling on the floor behind Pythia. “How’d you know?”
“About the time I said you reminded me of a sister. Or a kid from grade school, maybe,” she said, turning to Scotch. “That was about the moment the future turned all grim and bloody.” Her eyes twitched over to Scotch’s saddlebags and back up to her face. “Are you feeling better?”
Scotch glanced at the sheet covered vat. “A little. Yeah. Sorry I freaked out like that. I don’t know what causes it.” As calm as she was trying to be, she couldn’t help but notice the layout of the terminal screens looked like a face. She felt a bead of sweat roll down her neck. “I’m guessing that you brought me here to help you?”
The cartoon blinked and gave an almost comical shrug. “I’m hoping you can help him,” Doctor Xandros said calmly as he approached them from behind. “Since you tend to do the impossible.”
Scotch looked at Pythia, who gave a little smile and stepped back from the cylinder. “Do the impossible. Right.”
Scotch slipped on her Propoli mask. She didn’t think that Xiegfried would hurt her, but she’d already been attacked by a rock monster today… was it still today? Ugh, her brain was already lapsing back to stable time. “Okay, so if I see something that freaks me out, try to keep me from…. I dunno. I have no idea, honestly.”
She closed her eyes, relaxed, let out a long breath, and opened them.
The room had vanished.
Instead, she sat on an infinite expanse of featureless white before a large pillar wrapped in a thin cloth. Something black was staining the fabric slowly, like ink. She glanced down at the end of her hooves, where dark stains still lingered, even after all this time. Black equaled bad… but why?
In the air just above her head whirled a thousand shards of golden glass, whizzing about like a hurricane so fast that she could only pick out indistinct glimpses of the scattered images they reflected. A young stallion breaking into the Imperial network. The Caesar himself coming to praise his ingenuity. A crowd of hangers-on expecting great things. But no real friends. Then meeting the Tremendous Twelve. Twelve wonderful friends the young zebra would go on adventures with. Twelve friends that stopped being friends. Trying to simply take in one before the next displaced it made her head whirl.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she confessed, not sure if she was speaking to her friends in the real world or not. “I see a big cylinder covered by a sheet there.” She pointed at the pillar. “Something’s staining the sheet black. And there’s gold sparkly stuff up here.” She paused. “And that’s it.”
Tied up with a sheet. If she was seeing the spirit, why was there still a sheet? Black continued to stain the fabric. Did this represent something else? Something he didn’t want to see, or that she didn’t? Denial? Shame? Rejection? Scotch started to move forward and–
Froze. Something inside her was screaming. She knew whatever was behind that sheet was bad. Horrible. Horrible in ways that her mind refused to see. Horrible in ways she couldn’t understand. She clenched her eyes shut, felt her stomach seize. Bile bubbled in the back of her throat.
A hoof touched her shoulder. “That’s enough. You don’t have to do more,” Doctor Xandros said calmly. She closed her eyes and raised the mask, grimacing in frustration.
“He’s broken. Separated completely from his body,” she muttered. “Like Echo.”
“Echo?”
“A pony. His mind and soul were locked in a machine too. I met him briefly when I had Blackjack’s PipBuck,” she said, touching her own for a moment. “He said… he said he was dying in that state. Fading away.” She pulled off her mask and the world reverted. Staring up at the screens, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”
A screen flashed and showed a stallion with mustard on his cloak and a horrified-looking mare. “That’s okay, just use Three Stripe stain remover and it’ll come right out.” There was a tinkling chime, three stripes whisking over the stain, and it disappeared with sparkles. “Thank the spirits for Three Stripes!” they cried in unison. The video disappeared.
She glared at the mundane sheet wrapped around the jar. “I could help him! I’m sure of it. If I just…” And she darted forward, pulling the sheet from the–
* * *
The same bed as before. Her head ached, she tasted vomit in her mouth, and her body had the very distinct feel of having been washed. “So, rough day?” Charity said from a seat next to her in the bedroom. She was examining some sort of gadget. “In case you’re wondering, you screamed, puked, shat yourself, and ran face first into a closed door. I cleaned you up. I’ll add the laundry and service charge to your invoice.”
Scotch put all that information in a mental drawer marked ‘nope’ and closed it, focusing on what she’d been trying to do before all that. “I can help him. I just… I just need to get back what’s missing from this stupid… nothing in my head,” she muttered softly.
“You mean your brain?” Charity quipped.
Scotch groaned, covering her head in her hooves. “I am not in the mood for you, Charity.”
“Sucks for you I drew the short straw,” she replied. “You know what your problem is?”
Scotch sat up and fixed her with the flattest, most annoyed glare she could manage. “What?”
“You’re doing the exact same thing as Blackjack.” Scotch lifted her face and tried to pull off Blackjack’s shooty look, but the yellow unicorn simply rolled on. “You’re making the mistake of thinking everything can be fixed.”
“I’m not trying to fix everything,” Scotch muttered, flopping back on the bed. “Just one thing.”
“Lying surcharge. You never just fix one thing. Because there’s always another thing. And another. You fix anything you think is wrong, and when you can’t, it’s always your fault.”
“Well it is!” Scotch glared at the underside of the bunk overhead. “I’m the one that’s spirit touched! I’m the one that’s special! I’m the one that all this crap keeps happening to.”
“It’s not always about you, Scotch,” Charity said with a sigh. “Sometimes, things just don’t get fixed.”
“Really not in the mood for cynicism 101 for dummies,” Scotch snapped. “I can do this. I have to believe I can.”
“Let’s say you can. Sometimes, you just don’t have the parts to fix a thing. Sometimes, you can’t even make a replacement part. Sometimes you just have to accept things are the way they are,” Charity said, lifting a tub of grease and examining the label. “I thinkthey got the better deal,” she commented sourly as she lay there. She lowered it and regarded Scotch, then sighed. “Listen. I know you want to help him, but it’s pretty clear that whatever’s in your head isn’t going to let that happen. You need to fix that first, and if you can’t, work around the problem. Find another avenue of attack.”
“I can’t think of anything,” Scotch said, rubbing her face. “He’s spirit touched. I’m spirit touched.” Her voice trailed off a moment. “I have to believe he can be helped.”
“Right. ‘Cause there’s no personal stakes there.” Charity scoffed. “Just learn to roll with it and stop freaking out. Freaking out helps exactly nopony.”
“I can’t help it!” Scotch blurted. “Am I going to turn into… something else?” she said as her mind gibbered visions of twisted flesh at her. “Something like him? I don’t want to change…”
“Well, too bad. Everything changes. Markets fluctuate. Nothing ever stays the same. Blackjack turned into a cyberpony. Sorry, a cyber alicorn pony Princess.” Charity stopped short. “I still can’t say that with a straight face,” she commented, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “You’re changing into… whatever. You’ll deal with it. If you can manage the five of us, you’ll be fine.”
Scotch hardly felt better for all this, but decided Charity had a point about not angsting over things she couldn’t change. “Right. Right,” she said as she rose, bolstered by the young businessmare’s callous confidence. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying.” She examined the tub. “Is that for the Whiskey Express?” Charity responded with a flat stare and Scotch picked it up. “Right.”
“Is it the right kind? I didn’t know if it needed to be a specific kind of grease,” Charity confessed. “I might get my trade back if it’s the wrong sort. Just needed you to confirm.”
Scotch nodded. “Yeah. Multi-purpose axle grease. Half a tub will get us five hundred kilometers.” It seemed silly how much their travels depended on things like this. Grease. Scale remover. Parts. Spirits help them if they ever ran out. Impulsively she set the tub aside and lunged forward, hugging the unicorn, who went stiff. “Thank you, Charity. I know you’re not happy to be here, but I am so glad you are.”
After a moment, she recovered and pushed Scotch off. “Yeah, well. Thanks. But save the touchy stuff if you don’t mind,” she replied, taking the grease back. “Anyway, when are we leaving? And where are we going?”
Scotch furrowed her brow. “That’s… a good question.” Accept what you can’t change. Ugh, she didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to fix it! She was sure she could if she could just see what was under that sheet! “I need to talk to Xiegfried again.”
“No touching the sheet this time. Next time someone has to wash you it’s going to be the turkey,” she warned before walking out of the room.
Scotch managed to find her way back to the main chamber on her own. On a second pass, she realized the facility wasn’t really all that large. Four levels and enough space for two dozen zebras. It didn’t even have a large scale hydroponics, which meant bringing in food from time to time. She could only guess where it came from.
She walked in to find Majina and Pythia together. The former gushed a flurry of questions while the latter kept writing down notes on her cards. “But what about Ignatius and Hiroto? They’re supposed to be lovers. Are you saying they never–” Majina cut herself short as Scotch trotted in and immediately interposed herself between Scotch and the tube that held the zebra. Someone had found a tarp to cover it completely. “No peeking! If you have another attack, I think they might just kick us out.” She then paused and gave a shaky smile. “How are you feeling?”
Scotch’s ears wilted. “How do you think I’m feeling? I crapped myself all because my brain is stupid.”
“Yeah. Hysterical panic attacks will do that,” Pythia said evenly as she continued filling out her card. “Seriously. How are you feeling?”
Scotch sat down hard. “I feel frustrated. I think I can help you if I just could see…” She stretched a hoof towards the tarp and then let it fall to her side. “You’re broken up into all these little bits and something is keeping them here but I can’t see how to get them to stick together again!” she blurted, waving her hooves at the giant blue zebra cartoon watching her. “I feel like I’m letting everyone down ’cause I got a hole full of stupid and terror in my head!”
A clip played of a beefy zebra stallion in sunglasses saying, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! No zebra’s saying that!”
“Doctor Z hoped you could help him now that you’re here, but Xiggy here contacted you himself,” Pythia said as she tucked her cards into her cloak.
“You call him Xiggy now?” Scotch asked, a little perturbed, but she wasn’t sure why.
“He insisted,” Pythia muttered, rolling her eyes. The enormous blue striped zebra grinned far wider than anyone else could.
“Okay. What did you want to tell me?”
A map appeared on the screen, and since Pythia wasn’t scribbling it down, Scotch assumed she had copied it already. It showed a white blob up top that she assumed was the Empty, some hatches beneath it that had to be mountains, a brown blob in the center than she thought was the Badlands, with green to the sides and beneath the brown blob. A coastline of blue lay beyond the green. Two red dots appeared, one to the west of the Badlands marked ‘Bastion’ and the other to the southeast marked ‘Roam’. A tiny blue grinning zebra head popped into existence on the eastern edge of the brown blob. ‘You are here’ was written next to it.
“So we’re nearly out of the Badlands?” Scotch smiled.
Xiegfried held up a cautionary hoof. A crackly voice started to speak. “You sure about this?” a stallion said.
“Green pony. Yellow unicorn. A Zencori and a fucking Starkatteri. Oh, and a dragon thing that looks like a pony and a chained griffon. Seriously, you’ll know them when you see them. All we have to do is tell the Golds where they are and you’re fucking rich.” The mare sounded familiar, and she guessed it was Xara, the Propoli who had tried to convince her to join up with her.
“Yeah, but how do I know the Golds will pay me?” the stallion asked.
“I’m paying you. You just have to tell them. I’ll give you the frequency they’re using and their encryption key.”
“Okay, what is it?”
Scotch’s heart leapt.
“I’m not telling you it over an unsecured broadcast, dipshit! It’ll be included with your next payment. Get the word out to all your pickers, vultures, and anyone else who wants to be my best friend. You don’t have to kill them. You don’t have to lock them up. Just contact the Golds. They’ve got three rings tasked on this.” A paused. “And Xolio? Don’t fuck this up. I don’t want the Golds chasing rumors and bad tips.”
“Okay! Okay! Sheesh. I’ll put the word out. Green and yellow pony. Starkatteri… fuck. What are they doing together? A Zencori. A dragonthingy and a griffon in chains. Can’t be that hard to spot.”
The mare laughed a short and ragged laugh. “Xolio, you have no fucking idea. Just find them and let the Golds handle it.” There was a crackle and the sound clip ended.
Xiegfried played three more just like it. Three more descriptions of Scotch and her friends, and Scotch’s stomach sank as she realized just how conspicuous they all were. Scotch could paint herself white and striped, and a zebra wig might hide Charity’s horn, at least from a distance, but what about Skylord’s chains? And what could be done for Precious? How did you make a dragonfilly anything other than a dragonfilly?
“How many are there?” Majina asked in a small voice.
A ring of red dots appeared around the Badlands, and more than a few were already inside its borders. Scotch’s butt hit the floor, again.
How were they supposed to get through all that?
“That’s why you tried to contact me directly,” Scotch Tape said weakly. “If you broadcast the warning, they just would have moved to something else. And it would have been super obvious to the people hunting me that you were helping me. They’d come after you.”
Xiegfried’s cartoon gave a sober nod. A video started to play, showing strange cat headed bugs with six legs scurrying over a huge carcass. “While a single antlion isn’t much of a threat, in concert they can turn a bull elephant into a pile of bones in less than an hour,” a female said in a calm, informative voice.
Scotch looked at Pythia and Majina. “Oh, crap…”
* * *
“How dangerous are these Golds?” Precious asked as they met in the cafeteria. “I mean, they’re called Gold. Gold is good. IED.” She said as she tapped a claw on the table top. A large printout of the red dots and golden circles surrounding the Badlands rested in the middle of the table.
“QED,” Charity corrected as she consulted a list of her purchases. Rocky sat next to her at the far end of the table, watching them all with his unblinking stare. Majina sat with her chin resting on top of the small boulder.
Skylord grumbled from his seat opposite Charity. “I told you. The Golds are the legion with all the toys. Best power armor. Best transportation. Best weapons. There’re only a few dozen of them, because that’s all they need. They’re the best mercenaries in the world.”
“Better than the Iron Legion?” Charity asked.
Skylord rubbed his beak as he grimaced. “Yes,” he admitted. “In a straight up fight, without a firing solution, they are. The only reason we don’t have a problem is they operate out of Bastion and we’re up north with the Bloods. We don’t step on each other’s tails.”
“Wow. That had to be hard,” Precious commented.
Skylord sighed. “We’ve got artillery. They’ve got mobility. We can control territory. They don’t need to as long as they have Bastion backing them. It’s completely different arrangement. If we located one of their bases, we could wipe it off the map, which is why they don’t make bases. It makes any contracts they might take against us much more expensive.”
“So we’ve got a ton of people looking for the six of us. If any of them see us, they’ll radio the Golds and the Golds will send soldiers against us?”
“Worse. Golds operate in ‘rings’. If one ring can’t intercept us in time, another ring will. The first ring gets paid, but the ring that caught us gets a favor. It means you can’t play one unit against the other like you can with Bloods.” He rubbed his chains. “They’re really going all out looking for us.” He then glowered at Scotch. “Wait, no. Not us, you! Why the hell are you this important? No shaman or spirit touched pony or whatever you are is worth the amount of money it takes to hire the Golds.”
“Believe me, I want to know worse than you! Apparently they seem to think I’m going to undo their New Empire!” Scotch retorted. “And let’s not forget they’re not the only ones! I’ve got a monster after me that seems to act as if I killed her mother or something! You’re not the only one having a bad time of this!” Scotch thrust her hoof at him. “I should probably just turn myself in! It’d be worth it to get some answers. Oh, wait. Then they’d just kill me!”
“There’s a reason, Scotch. You’re probably the only living person who’s gone to the moon,” Pythia pointed out.
“No, I’m not,” she countered sourly. “Bastard did too.” She furrowed her brow, wondering if the stallion was being hunted by this New Empire as well. She honestly hadn’t given him much thought. He’d been her stupid attempt to solve her pain ‘Blackjack style.’ Her cheeks burned in a flash of embarrassment. “Anyway, why should going to the moon matter at all? I went. I came back. End of story.”
“Something had to have happened there,” Pythia insisted.
“Yeah. My dad died! Stabbed through by a dozen pieces of metal! That’s what happened! Okay? That’s the great mystery of the moon! I went, he died, that’s all. It was stupid and horrible and I wish it had never happened!” Scotch snapped back at Pythia. “That’s why I don’t talk about it. It’s why I try not to even think about it! Okay? Are you happy!?” Her chest ached, and it wasn’t just from the shouting. “You don’t talk about being a shaman, and I don’t talk about the moon!”
Pythia pulled her cloak over her face and said nothing else. A terrible silence fell as Scotch felt the ache in her chest flare into gut-wrenching nauseation. It had to be her censuring… right?
Charity coughed loudly. “Getting back on track, please,” she said, pointing at the map. “We’re in crap up to our nostrils. How do we get out of it? Can we split up?”
“That wouldn’t make you any less of a unicorn, Precious a dragonfilly, or Pythia a Starkatteri. There’s some things we just can’t hide,” Majina pointed out as Scotch struggled to shove everything that had happened on the moon back into its vault.
“Pythia could paint her stripes,” Charity pointed out.
“And you could saw off your horn. But we’re not going to do that,” Majina quipped back sharply. Charity rose to her feet, a look of incensed disgust on her face. She thrust a hoof accusatively at Majina across the table and began drawing in a large breath.
Precious intercepted the leg, pushing it back down. “Whoa, everyone! Calm down.” She waved a claw at the filly. “You know when Sky and me are the voices of reason that we’re in big trouble.”
“Probably just a hormonal thing,” Skylord said.
“Excuse me?” the other five said in unison. Despite everything, a few irritated smiles did appear on her friends’ faces.
He immediately coughed into a fist and plowed ahead. “Alone we’d just be an intelligence asset to the Golds waiting to be snapped up,” Skylord said implacably. “So splitting up is a bad choice. After all, if one of us was captured you’d do something dumb and try to give yourself up, wouldn’t you?” he asked Scotch.
“Yeah. I could totally see her doing that,” Precious echoed and there were a few nods. Scotch tried to fight the urge to point out that sacrificing yourself for your friends was supposed to be a good thing! Right?
“So… what are we going to do?” Majina asked.
Scotch stared at the map. At all those people arrayed between them and their goals. Go back? After a month in the Badlands? And where from there? Plus, the source of that tarry gravel creature they’d fought in the train yard seemed to be in the direction of ‘back.’ Stay? There was only so long they could do that before someone found her, and Scotch had an inkling the longer the ‘cursed’ pony stayed the sooner someone here would tell the Golds where she was. Xiegfried might be willing to help her, but Doctor Xandros made it clear he didn’t want her here.
Maybe she really was cursed. Maybe she really was cursing her friends too. Maybe just handing herself over to Xara and letting everyone else go would be better?
She pressed her eyes shut a moment. No. There had to be a way. In the pool, she’d found a way to placate the spirits. She’d gone… somewhere else. Maybe others could too.
“Is there a way to go through the spirit world?” Scotch asked in a small voice. “Like… teleporting?”
“No!” Pythia blurted, eyes wide. Then she suddenly let out a cry and doubled over at the table, her face contorting in pain. Scotch immediately moved to her side. “It’s a bad idea. It’s just a bad idea. That’s all! I just sounds bad–” She arched her back in pain and screamed, “I’m not a shaman!” Scotch rushed to hold Pythia, now panting, up. Then Scotch felt something warm on her hooves. Pulling them back, she stared at the crimson dripping out from under Pythia’s cloak. “I’m fine! Everything is fine! I’m not a shaman! I’m not!” she declared, eyes wide and panicked. Slowly she relaxed a little, weeping.
“The hay you are! What the fuck just happened?!” Scotch demanded, pulling up her cloak and looking for the wound.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine! I’m completely fine!” Pythia blurted, trying to pull the cloak down.
“Bleeding is the opposite of fine!”
Pythia grabbed her hooves and stared into Scotch’s eyes. “I am fine. This is why I am not a shaman,” she stated firmly, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “I am not. I am not.”
Scotch stared at her a moment, then murmured, “You’re censured, aren’t you? Like my lungs.”
Pythia clenched her eyes closed. “I am not censured,” she gasped, “because I am not a shaman.” She paused a moment, trembling. “I am not a shaman. I’m not.” She pulled away from Scotch, hugging her cloak to her small frame. “Please don’t say I am.”
Scotch stared in horror at the small spots of blood slowly dripping on the floor beneath her friend.
The rest of her friends mostly appeared concerned but completely baffled, and Scotch didn’t know what to do, either. Take Pythia to a doctor? Was there even a doctor here? Give her a healing potion? That seemed obvious, but when Scotch dug one out of her bags, Pythia just shook her head, as if she was trying to deny she was hurt at all. But that was just crazy, right?
Charity, however, apparently uninterested in Pythia’s… condition… asked Majina. “Do you know anything about this travelling through the spirit world junk?”
For once, the filly appeared stumped. “Well, there’s stories. Like Hoppinhotch the Very Irritable Stallion travelling through the sky. Or Lorlean’s Requiem, where she travels into the underworld to find her foal, but they’re super vague. They don’t really say how they did it. Not really. Hoppinhotch was so angry he jumped up into the clouds for raining on him. I’m not sure that’s something that’s an actual thing we can try.”
“It most certainly is a thing,” Doctor Xandros said as he approached, without his mask. He glanced over at Pythia. “We saw you in distress. Do you need aid?”
“I’m fine. I’m just fine. I’m not a shaman. I’m not,” she said quietly. She was nearly whimpering in pain.
“She’s not fine!” Scotch persisted. “Something is hurting her.”
“Yes, you are,” he replied flatly. “You are not a shaman,” he said in softer tones as he put a hoof to her shoulder, then looked at the rest of them. It was the stern look of a parent who didn’t care their age, if they called Pythia a shaman again, flanks would be thumped. “It is certainly possible to travel via the spirits, but I would recommend against it.”
Scotch looked at Pythia, then at him. She opened her mouth, gesturing to the blood dripping from the inside of Pythia’s cloak, but received such a furious glare that her mouth closed with a pop. She suppressed the urge to scream ‘Just explain it, for crying out loud!’ Give her a text book! A manual! A frigging pamphlet just explaining what was going on! How was talking about her friend spontaneously generating wounds drawing the attention of spirits at the table? She shifted her gaze just to check, hoping to see something on Pythia that might explain it. There was nothing. No gold. No black. Just the vague shadow of the spirit world covering them all.
Fortunately, Majina jumped in and asked, “How?” Grudgingly, Scotch let it drop. Getting the attention off Pythia seemed best for now. They’d have to talk about this later. Carefully…
“There is a ritual to create a passage called a nhill, trod, or the Low Road. It doesn’t allow one to travel through the spirit world directly. Entering the spirit realm is called death, and is generally only one way, but a shaman can convince the spirits to make a bridge through the spirit world, that the living may cross.” He raised a hoof. “It is not safe, easy, or reliable. It is typically done with the assistance of dozens of shamans, with weeks of devotion to the spirit making the bridge, copious sacrifices, and significant peril.”
“And it lets people travel from one place to another?” Scotch asked.
Doctor Xandros groaned as if she’d completely missed the point. “Yes. But it is not done lightly, ever. Any nhill is perilous. I would advise strongly against it,” he pronounced gravely. “But you are young and foolish and I’m sure will jump at the idea.”
“Hey, just because we’re young doesn’t mean we’re idiots!” Precious snapped, then turned to the others. “That said, this sounds like a winner to me.”
“It might work,” Majina said, rubbing her chin. “I mean, I doubt they’ll be expecting it.”
“No, they wouldn’t, because to do so abruptly would be utterly suicidal, which is why I will not be telling you how to do it,” he replied. “You will find no book anywhere that contains this knowledge. However you depart from here, your blood will not be on my hooves.”
Scotch felt kicked. “But then why did you tell us about it?”
His disappointment only grew. “Because I am a shaman, and it is my responsibility to tell you so if you do trip over the knowledge, then your deaths will be due to your own foolishness, not ignorance.”
“I can handle it!” Scotch insisted.
But her outburst seemed to cement Doctor Xandros’s determination. “You are a foal who has dissected your first frog and think yourself ready to perform brain surgery. This is why you are censured. This is why you hurt your friend. This is why you are not a shaman,” he pronounced. She wanted to grab him and shake him till knowledge tumbled out of him like a pinata. Then he turned to Pythia, who still hadn’t said anything since her attack. “Why don’t we have some tea and talk?”
Pythia said nothing but rose and followed him, limping.
Scotch jumped to her hooves and started after them, but Doctor Xandros gave her another glare of utter disgust, even hostility. In desperation, Scotch yelled after him, “Don’t you have traditions about helping kids or something?!”
He paused and looked at her with an expression of hard regret. “Aren’t you a little old to claim to be a child?” He then turned and faced her. “Xiegfried brought you here to warn you. You have been warned. I allowed you to stay in the hope you could help him. You cannot. I suggest you use your time to plan your departure. Good day.” And with that, he turned away and left, with Pythia following after him.
“That’s bullshit!” Skylord snapped. “You can’t tell us the way to go, say we can’t, then tell us to leave! What is that?” Doctor Xandros paused and just gave them a withering glower that spoke of leaving sooner rather than later. Scotch grabbed Skylord’s chains and pulled him back into his seat. It wouldn’t take much, she feared, to switch from the Doctor from doing nothing to telling Xara where to find them. Doctor Xandros and Pythia walked slowly out.
“What… what the hay just happened?” Precious asked.
“Maturity. Sucks. Deal with it,” Charity replied as she stared at the map. “Can we bribe someone in the Golds to look the other way?”
“Doubt it,” Skylord replied, but as they talked their voices sounded more and more distant. Scotch scooped up Rocky, setting him on her back and carrying the stone from the cafeteria. Majina watched her go as the other three argued. Scotch didn’t know where she was going, but that was always the case, wasn’t it?
Finding an empty hall, she sat down hard and pulled Rocky onto her lap. “Can you do this nhill thing? Or trod? Or whatever?” Maybe she should have put on a mask or something, but she just felt so very… tired. And frustrated. A lot was coming at her and she felt like she was drowning all at once. She needed to get moving again. Like Blackjack…
Blackjack…
Back in the Hoof, things just worked out for Blackjack. Never well, of course, but as Scotch Tape followed, Blackjack was always moving. Maybe charging straight ahead into a wood chipper, but at least she was charging and not sitting around talking about how boned they were. Blackjack always won, no matter the cost. And Scotch… didn’t. She might not lose, but that wasn’t the same thing.
“Yes,” Rocky said, and then a moment later said, “No.”
Scotch banged the back of her head against the wall behind her. “Yes or no… can you or can’t you?”
“I can and I can’t.”
Scotch fought the urge to scream hard. “Can you make a nhill?”
Rocky didn’t respond for a moment. Then answered, “Yes.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because I can’t.”
Scotch clenched her eyes shut. Rocky was a rock. He wasn’t stupid, but he also wasn’t exactly forthcoming. “Can you make a nhill for me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make a nhill for me now?”
“No.”
Thoughts clicked. That was the reason for the can and can’t. In other circumstances he could, but he couldn’t now. “What do you need to make a nhill for me now?”
“Being.”
And back into obscure answers. She closed her eyes again, trying to work through it. Being? Be-ing. To be was… a verb. A state of existence. “You need to exist?”
“Yes.”
But things either existed or didn’t exist. How did you make something exist? That’s the power Doctor Xandros was talking about, wasn’t it? Existence. Making rock exist as something… special. “Like me carrying you to a new place. Without enough power you can’t make the trod thing.”
“Yes.”
Scotch gave a soft grunt. “You made an earthquake.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are touched by the creators.”
This was new. “Who are they?” she asked, sitting up.
“The originators of being.”
“What being?”
“Stuff.”
That was at once fascinating and maddeningly vague.
“And one of these ‘creators’ touched me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
No answer. She’d almost thought he wasn’t going to when he said, “I do not know” For some reason it sounded almost… scared.
“But it did? How can you tell?”
“It is in your being,” Rocky said.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and suppressed the urge to groan. That didn’t help much. “Do you know who this creator was?”
“One that came not long ago.”
“From where?”
“I do not know.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?”
“I wish to be marble…”
Scotch bit her forehoof and screamed into it.
* * *
Scotch marched her way into Xiegfried’s sanctum, strode right up to the glass jar, yanked off the covering, and–
***
Scotch walked into Xiegfried’s sanctum, took several deep breaths, and pulled off the covering and–
***
Running into the sanctum, screaming like a mad mare, she charged right up to the jar and tore the covering free, and–
* * *
“I can’t do it,” Scotch whimpered as she hugged Rocky in an empty hallway, sitting on her haunches, shaking her head back and forth. Every scenario she ran through her head ran to the same ending. The sheet fell, and she knew the sight beneath, and even thinking about it now made her shake. The thing in the hole in her memory wouldn’t let her even think about it! “I can’t look at him. I can’t fix him. I can’t get my friends out of here. I can’t do the nhill thingy. I can’t figure out a way forward. I don’t know what to do!”
“Yes.”
She stopped rocking and glared at it.
“No?”
“You are not helping!”
“I can’t.”
Scotch whined as she buried her face in her forehooves. Why did it have to be so difficult? Tell her how to make a nhill. Let her see Xiegfried. Just let her go to frigging Roam! Or at this point, back to Equestria! She’d tied her brain so far into a knot that the knots were getting knotted! Knot squared! Cubed even!
“Why can’t I look at him? Why does it terrify me so much?” she murmured.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.” Scotch muttered. “You’re a rock. Nothing scares you.”
“I get scared.”
Scotch blinked and looked at it.
“I get scared of not existing.”
Scotch sighed. “Everyone is scared of dying, Rocky.”
“I am not scared of dying. I am scared of not existing.” Scotch blinked as she looked at it, mentally willing it to say more. Slowly, haltingly, it grumbled more words, as if it itself wasn’t used to this. “Once I was not. Then I was lots of small pieces of mud and dead things. More mud and dead things piled atop me. Some became me. I went from mud to rock, but I wasn’t real. I was seabed. But the world changed. I was pushed up. Exposed. Parts of me broke away. I changed from mountain to boulder, but I was no different than any other boulder.
“Then one day a zebra sat on me. He appreciated my size. My shape. My height. I let him see farther. To feel bigger. Many times he came, and for a time I was more than just mass. I existed. He brought his children, and their children. They saw me. Touched me. Put their marks on me. Regarded me as special. So I was that rock. But one day I was broken by others who did not like me existing. I was just an odd rock in a field of pebbles. One day I will be something else. Ground down to sand. Swept aside as rubble. Discarded. Worthless. I fear when that happens, and I hope it will not happen for some time.”
Scotch sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “And I make you special?”
Rocky didn’t answer a moment, then said, “You make me important.”
Scotch closed her eyes. Blackjack said that Scotch had seen a monster down in those tunnels, but Scotch had seen plenty of monsters growing up in 99. She’d helped feed the corpses of the dead, many of them murdered under the euphemism of ‘retirement,’ into recyclers to be ground into protein. She could remember with nauseating clarity cleaning out the processor when it frequently jammed with equine remains. She’d watched friends and coworkers torn limb from limb and eaten by friends gone mad. But somehow something she’d seen in the underground, and the hole it’d left when those memories had been robbed from her, had damaged her far more than any other horror she could bring to mind. She could remember the terror of the night Blackjack was raped on the Seahorse almost minute by minute, but none of those memories broke her.
So why did the absence of a memory hurt so much? What about Xiegfried so terrible that she just… broke?
What had she seen on that day?
“Rocky. You said I was touched by ‘the creators,’ right?”
“Yes.”
“Was I touched by anything else?”
Rocky didn’t answer a moment, and she had to be patient. Finally, he said, “I think so, yes.”
“Something bad?”
“Yes.”
As he spoke, a hole formed in her mind. It was a silhouette of a memory, but it was round. Silver. It screamed. Her lips moved of their own accord. “Give it to me,” she whispered, as if in prayer. “Let me live.” No. Not the words. Behind the words. The noise. The scream. The scream inside her head. The scream of the Hoof.
A soft thap broke her concentration, and she looked down at the black book.
“No,” she said flatly. “You had your chance on the train. You decided to be jerks. You don’t get another chance.”
We can take you there. Roam. The book’s pages fluttered in an intangible breeze, like it was breathing.
“You can tell me how to make a nhill?” Scotch asked.
We can do better.The book flipped open, its pages flashing past horrible images of eyes and warped skeletons to land on a page dominated by a spiral of bones, connected by fleshy tendons. As she stared, the spiral started to twist.
“What are you doing?” Scotch said in alarm. The lights at the far end of the hallway went dark. Scotch snatched up the book, trying to squeeze it closed, but the next light failed, and the next. Scotch was enough of an electrician to know that wasn’t how circuits failed, and turned the other way… but then those lights went out too. Not just failed. It was as if existence itself was winking out with each light that died. She found the illumination failing in front and behind her, till only a sole light remained. It flickered and she picked up Rocky, holding him to her chest as she clenched her eyes shut.
The book let out a dusty chuckle that reminded her all too much of the Dealer.
She cracked open an eye. The light remained on, but now it illuminated a door that hadn’t been there before. On it was stenciled ‘Emergency escape route: Southern Star, Roam. Restricted access. Do not enter. Alarm will sound.’
Then the door cracked open an inch.
“This is a nhill?” Scotch asked, scooting forward and touching the door. It just seemed like an ordinary door, albeit one that hadn’t been there… or had it been and she’d just missed it? She pushed it shut, but it opened again and let forth a soft, sepulchral draft. The book didn’t answer.
“Careful,” Rocky advised in a low rumble.
Scotch hooked the handle with her hoof and pulled it open. The stairway went down into the dark, and she rubbed a wall with her hoof. The concrete had an unwholesome texture to it, as if it’d cured wrong. Her hoof found a light switch, and she bumped it on. A light in the stairwell flickered to life. Then a second. A third. A sign next to the switch said ‘Roam emergency tram’ and an arrow pointing down. It seemed ridiculous. A rail line going all the way to Roam? But who knew if the zebras could have actually built such a thing.
She tested the first step. It held. A second. Then she felt the door against her flanks and paused. She set Rocky down in the door jamb, propping it open. “Keep it open for me,” she said as the door banged against it.
“I will try,” he replied.
She took one step after the next going down, careful to keep the black book in her mouth. She hated the feel of the hide, and hoped it was equally disgusted by her slobber. The steps seemed just like any concrete steps she’d seen in the bunker, the walls the usual concrete. Overhead, the lights were steady. She even passed a map showing lines connecting Bastion to Roam. Was it possible? She learned that a lot of engineering feats she thought impossible had actually been done as she travelled the Wasteland with her father and Blackjack.
Blackjack…
Scotch sat down hard, dropping the book out of her mouth. “Sweet Celestia, what am I doing?” She looked up the stairs at where Rocky held the door ajar. “Nopony knows where I am or what I’m doing! This is Blackjack level dumb! I need to get my friends and–” She wheeled around to climb back up the slope.
The step crumbled under her hoof, dissolving in a cloud of dust. From within the step tumbled countless leg bones tumbling down the steps behind her. The concrete walls popped and crackled, snowflaking before her eyes to expose staring eye sockets from entombed skulls. She tried to rise, but another step gave way, and another, as if they were made of caked ash and bone rather than concrete. The lights flickered, swinging wildly above her and the world somehow grew steeper. And all the while the book laughed.
She snatched it up in her teeth and scrambled up, sliding back two steps for every three she climbed. More than once she had to grab a dangling length of wire and use it just to keep from backsliding. The walls had completely dissolved, as if abandoning the pretense of being anything mundane, and revealing a carefully packed ossuary where countless bony grins watched her struggle with amusement. Femurs, ulnas, and ribs slipped out from under her feet as she struggled to make progress.
When she was a scant few meters away, she stared up at the sight of the door trying to close. In fact, it had closed. The top corner of the door had closed completely, but the bottom corner remained open, the metal warped as a tremendous force tried to crush the stone. Rocky’s eyes were clenched tight, and she saw hairline fractures creeping across his surface. That she was about to get herself killed was bad, but Rocky had done nothing but help her! She let out a little roar of rage, trying to push back the sudden pain in her chest from the dust filling her nostrils.
With a final leap, she launched herself at the wall of skulls and managed to get enough purchase to make it to Rocky. She hooked one hoof over him and hung there, the steps under her hooves giving way and collapsing into the inky darkness below. “I am trying…” he said as the door pressed ever harder.
We will take you. We shall close the door. We will take you down the Low Road. Forever! The black book’s cackling filled her ears. She looked below, but aside from the dangling wire with its few bulbs, she could see nothing but inky abyss. She could barely get her head through the gap in the door, let alone her body. When Rocky broke, her leg was going to be cut right off. It wasn’t invulnerable like…
So it wanted to close that door so bad? She got a second hoof on top of Rocky and strained, lifting her head till she could extend the book as well. What are you doing? Stop!She took its alarm as a good sign as she gripped Rocky tight and set her rear feet against the wall of skulls.
“You want to close the door?” Scotch yelled as she looked at the book above her where door and doorjamb met, wedged in tight. “Be my guest!” And she pulled against Rocky with all her strength.
There was a pop of dust and Rocky flew free as the door slammed shut on the book. She couldn’t do anything but clutch the stone to her chest as she fell into the void, the screaming following her.
Then she struck the floor hard, air blasting from her lungs as she found herself on her back in the hallway where this all started. She sucked in gulps of air and broke into rasping hacks. Rocky seemed alright, missing only a chip or two. Then she spotted the black book lying on the floor next to her. Invulnerable or not, it did show a heavy crease going halfway across its cover. In a fit, she lay on her back and smacked the cover repeatedly with her hoof. It was probably as effective as peeing on it, but it made her feel better.
And she was laughing. Coughing and laughing, but laughing. Her body was covered in dust and scratches, and she’d nearly died from her own stupidity, but she couldn’t stop. Eventually she gave up pummeling the book and just lay there, chuckling between coughs. She covered her eyes with one foreleg.
“Are you okay?” came Majina’s voice.
Scotch pulled her leg away, looking at her friend watching her with worried bafflement. Somehow, that just made her laugh more. When she finally got control, she sat up, crossing her hind legs and setting Rocky in her lap. Majina’s eyes shifted over to the black book, and Scotch covered it with her tail. “I can’t get us out of here. I can't do anything.” Yet she still gave a small smile.
Majina sighed as she walked next to her and sat down. “You can do plenty. You just haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Nope,” Scotch said, shaking her head slowly back and forth. “I think I’ve hit every wall I can. We’re screwed. We got a monster chasing me. We’ve worn out our welcome here. I can’t help Xiegfried. I can’t do a shamany trick to escape. We. Are. Screwed.”
“So are you giving up?” Majina looked down at her.
Scotch closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “No.” She reached over for the black book.
“What’s that?”
“Just an old book I can’t get rid of,” Scotch shoved it back in her saddlebags. She hoped it stayed put. Finally rising to her hooves, she checked the wall, but the door had disappeared. “I don’t suppose you know of any stories about underground tunnels from Bastion to Roam, do you?”
“There’s secret tunnels?” Majina’s eyes widened a moment. “Wait. That’s like a thousand kilometers or something. I’m pretty sure no one builds tunnels that big, Scotch Tape.”
“‘Course. Was just asking,” she said as she ran a hoof along the wall where the door had been.
“I was thinking…” Majina began, then shook her head. “Nevermind.”
“What?” Scotch asked with a little frown.
“It’s a dumb idea,” Majina said with a little pout.
“I just took a stroll into a tunnel made by the evilest book of zebrakind without a second thought. Trust me, I’ve had worse ones. What are you thinking?”
“Well, this is Z TV and they have all these broadcasting things.” Majina tapped her hooves together. “What if we… um… asked for help?”
“Ask for help?” Scotch said with a frown.
“Yeah! I don’t know who exactly but… well… it never hurts to ask, does it?” Majina suggested, her smile strained, then it failed as she hung her head. “Never mind. It’s a stupid idea.”
Scotch leaned forward and gave her friend a fierce hug. “It’s not. I don’t know if there’s anyone out there who could help us, but we can try.”
* * *
“This is a bad idea,” Doctor Xandros said, his mask down as a half dozen zebras worked equipment. “Normally a wide spectrum broadcast like this takes weeks to set up. It might be traced.”
The stage seemed oddly boring. Three cameras. A green sheet. Some lights set in the ceiling. She really imagined it would all be bigger. Off stage there was a glass booth with more zebras working terminals. She had no idea how difficult what they were attempting was, but from the work going on, she suspected it was significant.
“Well, we’re bouncing it off of every proxy we have so unless they know exactly what they’re looking for–” one of the zebra technicians began before Doctor Xandros turned to look at him. The stallion coughed and went back to working his terminal.
“Xiegfried is going to help,” Pythia said as she sat by the rest of her friends. Whatever caused her attack, they didn’t say. Scotch didn’t know if she should ask, and Pythia wasn’t offering. The blue striped cartoon appeared on a half dozen screens with a cheeky smile and a salute.
“Do you think this setup could reach Equestria? I’d love to get a message back to the Hoof,” Charity asked as she stared at the cameras.
“Only if they were a zebra operative with a communication array with our encryption keys,” said another technician. Doctor Xandros gave her a frown, but she pointed a hoof at Charity. “What? This isn’t the spirit touched one, is she?”
“You’d think there’d be an aura or something. I always imagined there’d be this green, throbbing aura of evil,” said another technician.
“You should regard them all as cursed for your own safety,” Doctor Xandros said.
“Right but where’s the ooze and pus? Like, curses should have some kind of discharge,” the first technician quipped. Xiegfried’s avatar transformed into oozing blue gunk surrounded by a cloud of flies.
“Or at least an odor!” the technician mare said as she worked her terminal. “Then you could say they smell like evil.” The avatar gave a sniff under one leg and instantly turned green, cheeks bulging.
“Maybe it’s radioactive. I’m sure I have a scanner somewhere,” the first said, and he started searching his desk. Now the avatar’s eyes glowed green like a ghoul.
“Stop it,” Doctor Xandros said, but whether it was to the technicians, Scotch, or Xiegfried, she couldn’t tell.
“We got this, Doc,” one of the technicians assured him, then asked Scotch, “Do you want this live or in post?”
“Post?” Scotch frowned.
“Where we clean it up, tighten up the voice, and put it out afterwards,” the mare explained. “It looks better, but a lot of people think it’s a fake if we do that. ‘Cause shaky camera is realistic or some junk. Live, we only get one take.”
“Post,” said Charity and Skylord in unison.
“Live,” Majina and Precious said at the same time.
Scotch looked at Pythia, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. This is your bag. I trust you.”
Scotch squeezed her eyes closed. “Live,” she chose, and the feeling of dread welled up inside her. Oh, spirits, what was she doing.
“Famous last words,” Charity muttered.
“You’ll be fine. Just go up there. Say what you planned, and it’ll go awesome,” Pythia assured her.
“You’ve seen that?”
“I saw you tripping on a cable, breaking your neck, getting crushed by a light, electrocuted, and bursting into flame. I know you’ll be fine, Scotch.”
Scotch swallowed. “Pythia… about your–” She was silenced by a hoof to her mouth.
“I am not a shaman,” she repeated. “I wasn’t hurt, because I am not a shaman.”
Something in Scotch wanted to scream ‘Yes you are!’ but she wrestled it back. She’d pin Doctor Xandros do the wall if it’d get her answers! She had a dragonfilly and she wasn’t afraid to use her!
Maybe it was that irritation, but when Scotch stepped onto the stage, she did so with a roiling ball of anger in her gut that burned away sense and fear. If Pythia could pretend she wasn’t a shaman, then Scotch could pretend that this wasn’t gut twistingly terrifying. Her friends were ushered out and that fire guttered a little as she stared at the camera. She’d only have one shot at this. It had to be real. It had to be true. Doctor Xandros was talking in a little booth off to the sides. Scotch could do this. She could!
The zebra mare suddenly rushed the stage, yelling, “Stall, shit, stall!” She grabbed the lime green backdrop and pulled with all her strength. The cloth pulled free, falling to the ground behind her. “Why’d you have to be green?” the mare wailed. “You almost ended up a mouth, floating eyes, and a mane!” she said as she returned to her camera. Numbers started counting down on a large digital screen from 30. Scotch felt the fear nibbling at her guts, and looked behind her at the wall that had sat behind the tarp.
On it was a massive, four pointed star superimposed over a moon. She remembered her father. Remembered being ripped away from him. Remembered screaming for him as she was dragged to safety.
The feeble fire of indignation was fed the pure hydrazine fuel of repressed rage as the numbers reached zero. A green light went red. A ‘broadcasting’ sign lit up next to it.
“Hi. My name is Scotch. You might know me as ‘The Traveller’ or ‘The Lone Wanderer’ or ‘The Green Menace.’ Or you probably don’t have a clue who I am, and probably don’t care. And you know what, that’s fine. I didn’t come here to be famous, or to cause problems. I came here with my friend Pythia to answer a simple question about something that happened during the war here in your lands. That’s it.”
* * *
On a boat travelling along the coast, Mahealani smiled as she turned up the volume on the old radio.
* * *
“That question is one that seems to be a big deal to every shaman I meet. ‘Was the Eye of the World blinded?’ That’s it. That’s why I’m here. That’s all we’re trying to figure out. But since I set hoof on the zebra lands, I’ve had everyone trying to kill me! Riptide, the deadliest pirate on the seas, chased us down and would have killed us if it hadn’t been for a megaspell getting in the way.”
* * *
“You should be dead!” Riptide screamed at the television with a smoking bullet hole in the center. In a glass tank, a sharkfilly curled up tighter.
* * *
“And you know what? I’m fine with that too. When I was running all over the Hoof back in Equestria, plenty of things were trying to kill me. I’m not whining. And you want to know something else? A lot of what I’ve seen here is pretty amazing. I got to live in an actual city. Rice River. Incredible. I’ve only seen one other place like it, and it got blown apart by a war in the skies. It’s a place that’s going to get blown apart any second if the legions can’t work their damned shit out!”
* * *
In a business office, normally neat, now filled with papers and documents stacked high, Cecilio paused for a moment to look from the pony speaking on his television out at the sight of the city split in two by the river and the still broken remains of the bridge spanning the two halves.
* * *
“I’ve seen a village where people put on plays and pretend to be heroes. And it’s not weird. It’s not strange. It’s something the tribe does, and it’s awesome. It’s something I’d never seen before and I wish I’d seen anything like it in Equestria!”
* * *
Master Baruti, the zebra stage director, gave a tired smile as he sipped his tea. Across from him, Historian Jahi’s pen worked furiously as he scribbled down the words coming over the radio.
* * *
“And I’ve seen some messed up things too. I’ve almost died to the legions, but I also get why they’re a thing. They don’t all have to be murderous bastards like the Bloods. They once stood for something better. They can do something better. All they have to do is try. Skylord showed me that. Morrow too. They choose who they want to be. They can choose to be better.”
* * *
“Skylord? Why is that name so familiar?” Adolpha muttered as she scowled at the maps before her.
* * *
“But there seems to be one group of bastards determined to make everything worse for everyone. They call themselves the New Empire. They were behind the fighting in Rice River. Riptide and Haimon both worked for them. They’ve been doing everything they can to kill me. I don’t know why. I only know that they will stop at nothing to see me dead. And to that I say,” she steeled herself and screamed at the camera, like she was screaming at the world that had taken her father from her, “bring it on!”
* * *
Haimon furiously scribbled a dispatch, hissing through his teeth. He’d need to act on this. Now. Even if it was going to be bloody and stupid, he’d have to show the paranoid beast that he was loyal. All because a stupid pony got on the television!
* * *
“You want to hire the Gold Legion to come after me, Xara? You want to get people like Xolio to rat me out? If you’ve heard from her in the last week, you know what I’m talking about. Well let me make it fucking easier for you! I’m going to Roam. I’m going to find out the truth! I’m going to find out whatever it is you don’t want me to know! And then I am going to tell every person in the damned world what you don’t want them to know! Because you have fucking pissed me off!”
* * *
Xara stared at her television in her office. Her phone started to ring. Then a second line. A third. Soon the entire thing flashed wildly on her desk. She didn’t move a muscle, her eyes locked on the screen.
* * *
She had tears of fury now, and didn’t give a shit. “So send the Golds if you want! Bring it on! Put money on my head! Do whatever you fucking can to stop me, because it won’t be enough. I am cursed. Cursed by the fucking stars and moon and everything in-between. I am your curse! Your fucking abomination! And nothing you do is going to stop me! Understand?! Nothing!” And she screamed as she charged the camera. The zebra immediately left it to intercept her, and the red light and sign winked off.
“Whoa! Not the camera,” the mare shouted as she held back a struggling Scotch.
The booth in the back opened up. Charity and Skylord regarded her with silent surprise while Pythia clapped her hooves. Some of the others did as well, with even Doctor Xandros nodding, albeit begrudgingly.
“And that’s why we do it live!” one of the technicians cheered. “You just can’t get that kind of raw presentation in post!”
Scotch’s friends rushed to her, embracing her and holding her close as she still jerked in anger, breath wheezing and lungs burning, even though she’d only stood on stage and talked for a minute. Well, Charity and Skylord more spectated coolly, but even they seemed impressed.
“That was so awesome, Scotch! Pure gold!” Precious squeezed Scotch tight. Enough that it compressed a lot of her rage right out of her.
“I’m just sick of it. I’m just sick of everything messing with me. With us.” Scotch looked at Pythia. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Pythia replied, giving her a squeeze of her own.
“I can’t wait to hear the numbers. This might be our biggest broadcast in fifty years. Millions heard that!” crowed one of the technicians.
Doctor Xandros wasn’t cheering though. He was staring at a screen. Suddenly an alarm cut through the celebration, echoing down the concrete halls.
“What’s going on?” Scotch called out, echoing many of the technicians.
A screen showed a black skyscraper with golden lines decorating the front, and a large ring. The image went to a second camera where a dozen zebras in power armor were storming into one of the flying vehicles.
“You told them to bring it on,” Doctor Xandros said dryly. “I believe your challenge is accepted.”
“Is it bad that this is feeling typical?” Skylord shouted over the hissing of pistons as the Whiskey Express thundered down the old concrete road east towards what should have been the end of the Badlands. “I mean, I feel like we’ve been here before,” he quipped as high velocity bullets cracked and pinged off the road around them. Scotch gripped the wheel as she kept the throttle pegged, her eyes straining for wrecks, potholes, or anything that could cripple them. “Bugs! Centaurs! I just feel like this is becoming a thing, you know?!”
“Will you shut up and start shooting?” Precious bellowed as she pointed a claw at the Gold Legion pursuing them. Two of their flying machines were at their flanks, the quad rotors holding them aloft as they kept pace. Beneath them were two fine steam tractors with engines that didn’t ‘pockety pock’ so much as purr. It was like a vision of the Whiskey Express after a few quantum leaps’ worth of technological innovation. Not that Scotch would give up the Whiskey Express, but the way the legion’s tractors ran low to the ground, with wider tires, it was clear that they were better suited for these speeds. Each one had only a driver and a gunner, the latter of each trying their best to puncture the Whiskey Express’s boiler.
Clearly someone still had the ‘take them alive’ plan on the table. Of course, there was the fact that a barrage of missiles was probably really expensive too. Was she too valuable alive, or not worth enough dead?
She couldn’t even try anything shamany either. Right now she barely blinked for risk of missing something on the road ahead that’d wreck them all. Thankfully, her goggles and a face wrap kept distracting grit out of her eyes.
Once they’d been alerted that the Golds were moving, they’d gotten their butts in gear and scrambled for their ride. Pythia had updated maps, Precious was in a good mood, and Skylord had topped out the ammo for his automatic rifle. They’d travelled east from Doctor Z’s base before reaching their first barricade. Racing at high speed, the Whiskey’d got through before the bounty hunters had been able to get off more than a few shots. Fortunately the wooden wagons hadn’t been too much of an impediment for their steam tractor, though the jolt had been alarming.
But no one was faster than radio. The next group of bounty hunters had been ready for them, and Scotch had to take a detour across a lake bed to bypass the bounty hunters. A trio of steam tractors had moved across to cut them off, but rather than pull away and be chased towards impassible ground, Scotch had snapped around and charged them head on. Skylord’s gun raked their boilers, puncturing something vital. The explosive jet of white vapor blew the entire vehicle on its side, scattering the screaming, partially flash-boiled occupants across the ground. A lesson that you didn’t need to get shot to get killed.
They’d gotten clear, but that was when the flying machines caught up. Fast as the Whiskey Express was, it still had to go around obstacles. Fliers didn’t.
The plan, insofar as it was a plan, was to cross a river up ahead that separated the Badlands from Flame Legion territory. “The one good thing is everyone hates the fucking Gold Legion, so if we go into Flame Legion territory, they’ll be more eager to shoot at them than us,” Skylord had explained as they left the broadcast base, winding their way along an old access road.
“Is there anyone else? A free city? Another legion?” Majina had asked as they trundled east out of the Badlands.
“If we go north, we might get into the Bone Legion’s southern territory, but I doubt they’d be able to stop the Golds from taking us. Getting to Freetown requires going through Flame Legion territory anyway.” Skylord twisted his beak in a manner that might be a pursing of his lips if he were a pony. “I’m forgetting one.”
That was about an hour before the first flier caught up to them and fired the first rocket. Though a rocketwas infinitely easier to dodge than a hail of bullets, There was something distinctly unnerving about a missile streaking towards them and exploding off to the side. Scotch suddenly jerking the steering wheel had nearly wrecked them. Skylord explaining the difference between missiles and rockets while she was trying hard not to get them all killed hadn’t helped either. If the Golds were trying to rattle her into surrender, that nearly did it! Which was probably the point.
Which just pissed her off even more. Fear and anger wrestled inside her chest as she struggled to keep focused.
Just get to Flame Legion territory before they stop you. She repeated the thought over and over like a mantra to keep the thousand others rattling in her skull from taking the fore and distracting her to deadly effect.
Aside from that, a tiny insane part of her was actually enjoying this. She couldn’t stop the grin as she kept her eyes locked on the road ahead, trying to pick out what was an odd shadow and what was debris that would end them. Periodically one of the Gold Legion steam tractors would try to pull past to get a shot at the boiler and she’d swing the car wildly to block them. Skylord would strafe the armored cars and Precious would even blast them with fire if they got close enough. Only Charity kept herself low and braced, hooves covering her head in anticipation of their inevitable wreck.
Hey, if you were going to die, you might as well enjoy it, right? Scotch Tape mentally smacked herself for that thought. We are not going to die!
One big factor in their favor was a massive storm system just to the south. The clouds didn’t just billow. They seethed, churning as if with a malevolence all their own. Lightning blasted out repeatedly between the roiling clouds. No one in their little band had any knowledge about the weather in the area, so it was even odds the colossal flickering tempest was natural or some kind of megaspell. All that was clear was that it was pushing out a massive wall of wind that was giving the Golds far more trouble than the heavier Whiskey Express.
Over her PipBuck, she heard Xiegfried’s voice, “Twenty kilometers to Flame Legion territory. Other bounty hunters are moving to cut you off to the north.” ZTV’s information was their only other lifeline. All it could do was give her hope. There weren’t many bridges spanning the river between the Badlands and Flame Legion territory. That meant getting across this one before they were cut off.
The pursuing tractors strafed occasionally , but they weren’t really putting much effort into it. They seemed content to just harry them forward. Drive them into a wreck or towards whatever ambush they had to be setting up.
I am done with being driven! “Sky! Precious! Get ready!” Scotch shouted as she disengaged the clutch.
“Ready for wha–” Precious yelled.
Scotch slammed on the brakes, the trailer swinging wildly as it threatened to spill everyone out. Still, nothing came apart, and she was pleased to hear the rattle of machine gun fire and the roar of dragon fire in tandem. Releasing the brake, Scotch engaged the clutch and sped away again. Both their tails pulled back to a pursuing range rather than trying to crawl right up the Whiskey’s butt. Scotch was supposed to be cautious. Careful. Concerned.
But right then she was just sick and tired of people trying to kill her. Capture her. Get her.
Soon, the radio gave an update. “Five kilometers. There’s–” the connection crackled. Scotch gave the storm a stink eye. Now? Did it have to do this now?
Still. Five kilometers. It had to be over the next rise, through that shallow notch cut into the hill side ahead of them. They were driving them. They knew the bridge they were trying to reach. They were probably already ahead of them.
If I had mines, spikes, or some other trick… that’s where I’d put them.
She eyed the hillside to the right and left of the notch. Grass and rocks, but it didn’t look too terrible. “Please don’t break an axle, Whiskey,” she murmured. “Hold on!”
“Stop saying that!” Charity shrieked.
“You’re just jealous you don’t have hands!” Skylord laughed.
“I’ll sue you! I’ll sue everyone in this whole damned land as soon as I find the nearest courthouse! Reckless endangerment of a pony! I’ll own your tail!” Charity screamed in panic.
Scotch twisted the wheel where the road and the ground met in a pinch, and bounced her way off road.
The scorched and bullet ridden pursuers now really opened fire. She’d gone off script, and they didn’t like it. As she struggled up the hillside, she saw down on the road below them tiny circular dots of the mines. Beyond, things weren’t much better.
That’s a big river. She wasn’t really used to rivers like this: it was huge, maybe half the width of Rice River, brown and ugly, running along the edge of hills and stretching north and south. A two lane bridge stretched across it, and on the far side sat a large tower with red and orange banner hanging from atop it. It might as well have been back in Equestria for all the good it did her now. The Golds had parked one of their flying machines sideways across the bridge, its nose and rear nearly flush with the concrete. Even if she rammed it, they’d still be blocked. Whiskey wasn’t a bulldozer.
North, the land flattened out along the shore. That was the right way to escape. They’d even landed the other flier on the south side of the road. They might as well have had a sign up saying ‘go this way.’
When people out to kill you wanted you to go this way, go that way. Scotch was already on the south side. She twisted the wheel, bumping across the hilltop, trying to avoid rocks, shrubs, and trees. Her speed was shit, but damned if she was going to run right into their waiting arms. The two tractors chasing them weren’t even trying to keep up, and merely rolled along after them at their own indolent pace. After all, why rush when you could fly?
“Pythia. Where’s the next bridge south?” Scotch called out. The dead grass was littered with small pebbles and stones that plinked and popped off the underside of the trailer.
“Twenty four kilometers,” Pythia said. “We might be able to skirt the storm and reach it.” Maybe a little more confidence, Pythia?
“Tell me you’re seeing a future where we cross it,” Majina pleaded as the four-rotored flying machine kept pace to the rear. Sparing a backward glance at it, Scotch Tape could see a half dozen zebras in white power armor watching them. One of them had a particularly large rifle she didn’t like at all. She knew what zebras could do with guns. Despite every instinct telling her to stay away from the storm, she followed the ridge-line closer to the tempest.
And what a storm it was! Scotch had never seen clouds that looked so black before. Lightning danced around the edges and she saw tiny specks rising and falling around it. Debris caught on an updraft? She couldn’t be sure… “Is that a megaspell?” she screamed as she pointed a hoof at the churning vapor.
“Ya think?” Charity cried back.
Scotch knew her speed sucked. Even if they made the bridge, what would stop the fliers from getting there first? The grass and rocks barely allowed her even a quarter of her former speed. Where did all these pebbles come from? They littered the grassy hillside. She wasn’t as worried about small collisions at this speed, but still, if she hit the wrong boulder or dip, it’d be all over just as surely as it would if she were still thundering down the road. In spite of that, she found herself following the stony ridge-line to try to prevent a slide or roll to the river below. The flying contraption was keeping on her left, as if anticipating just such a thing. Some mud or sand and they’d be dead.
“They’re driving us higher! Go down!” Pythia called out. But any way that wasn’t ‘higher’ was ‘towards that damned machine.’
Desperate, she tried her radio again, but all she heard was the blast of something that might only be called music if the music was pissed and wanted to stab someone. Anyone. In spite of herself, she found herself smiling. It matched her mood perfectly.
Then the rifle on the flying machine boomed. The shot ripped through the top of the water jacket surrounding the boiler, and Scotch did all she could not to cry out. She could feel blisters rising from her scorched hide. Had the shot been just a few inches lower, it would have pierced both the water jacket and the firebox, likely resulting in a far more explosive result. The second boom of the rifle hit the left piston, and the metal blew apart with a second spray of white vapor. The Whiskey’s pockety pock was replaced by a whistling hiss as the pressure blasted through the remains of the shut-off.
That was it. The Whiskey Express came to a rest teetering on the edge of a steep ridge. Left was the river and certain death. Right led straight into the roiling storm and what looked like a pretty impressive open pit mine. She put on the brake and leapt out of the driver’s seat. Using a rag, she pulled a manual shut-off, earning more blisters as she saved what steam they had left.
Scotch tore off the goggles and rag. Charity immediately snatched up a bucket of cold water and poured it over Scotch, but the coolness did little for the burning blisters she could feel growing on her face and forelegs. The music switched to something low and growling, like the singer was chewing the microphone. Scotch could definitely relate.
“We’re screwed,” Skylord muttered as the flier circled them, and the rest used the engine and trailer for cover. “We’re away from the bridge and the river, exposed, and immobile. We are the epitome of screwed.” Scotch found it hard to argue with that. They sat right on the edge of a ridge. The yellow grass lay bent over by small rocks that seemed scattered everywhere.
The flier landed, the wind from the storm buffeting them as the Whiskey Express’s crew climbed out, putting the tractor between them and the four-rotored transport. Three zebras started moving around behind the transport, their white power armor conveying them behind the Whiskey Express with great speed, cutting off any idea of returning towards the road and bridge. The other three advanced up the hillside.
Skylord braced himself against the trailer, pointing his automatic at the trio. They stopped but didn’t take cover. One of the trio had armor that was gold instead of white. “Oh… That’s so shiny…” Precious groaned, then bit her bottom lip.
“It is, and I get the same feeling every time I polish it!” the gold-plated zebra declared, stopping a few dozen feet away. “But it’s not just shiny, as you’ll soon see!” He paused as everybody there just stared at him. “Well? Start shooting, private! Honestly, Irons can’t even take a dump without orders.”
Skylord glowered, then unloaded his entire magazine into the golden armor, but didn’t seem to affect its wearer in the slightest. The bullets sparked and pinged and the stallion actually posed, head thrown back, as the bullets ricocheted and bounced off the gold armor with barely a scratch. He even presented his rump, and demonstrated that it was just as impenetrable as the rest of him. Skylord finished shooting. It was also immune to griffonic glares. “Stupid nine mil! Give me a one-fifty-five and then let me shoot your ass,” he growled.
The shiny show-off dropped the pose. “Now that we’ve established just how awesome my armor is…” Turning back, he bowed. “Hello, hello, hello! You must be the green menace. The ‘person of interest.’ Target alpha. My glorious paycheck. My name is General Aurum and I am going to be killing you! Personally! No extra charge. It’s my pleasure!”
Seriously? “I didn’t think I merited a general. I’m honored,” Scotch deadpanned. Then she whispered to Majina, “Get in the seat and be ready to drive.” Majina stared at her for a moment, then nodded, crawling into the seat. Scotch’s burns forced her to clench one eye shut. She didn’t know what language was growling out of her PipBuck. Angrish? Snarlese?
“You know what? Normally you wouldn’t, but that broadcast? I mean, wow. I just had to meet you myself. Kill you too. Bills to pay and all that, but I’ll tell you what. I laughed my ass off at that. I mean, we were clueless as to where you were, but then you put that out telling us where you were going? We actually sent three quarters of our forces on the western and southern edges of the Badlands because we were certain, absolutely certain, you were lying your ass off about going to Roam. And yet here you are!” he laughed.
“Why don’t you take that helmet off? We’ll see who’s laughing?” Skylord shot back.
Aurum took a moment to reply to that. “Oh! Right. You’re paycheck number three.” Skylord furrowed his brows. “Do you know how I became General of the Golden Legion?”
“Prioritizing quality over quantity in a scarcity market?” Charity suggested.
Scotch heard him draw in a breath, then freeze. Aurum jabbed a hoof at Charity. “You. I want to talk to you privately after this is all over.” Then he swung his hoof back at Scotch. “It’s getting paid by as many people for a job as I can.”
“I’m guessing this is why you’re talking to us at all?” Scotch asked.
“Well that and I spent eight hours in a transport chasing you down. I like a little conversation now and then.” He nodded to the gold plated rifle. “Now, I could kill you. BAM! One pay check! Not a bad one either. But! I could capture you for Xara and report I killed you. BAM BAM! Two paychecks! But I could also capture you, take you to Xara so she can talk, get paid, then take you from her and hand you over to Riptide. BAM BAM BAM! Three paychecks! Now I really love three paychecks. But if I do the handover at Rice River, and let Haimon join in after that little broadcast of yours? BUDABUDA BAM BAM! Four paychecks! You have any idea how awesome four paychecks are? It’s like… poetry!”
“So you have a profit incentive to take me alive,” Scotch asked. “Good to know.”
“Sure. But the fun doesn’t stop there!” He laughed, pointing at Skylord. “He’s wanted by a bunch of griffons and the Blood Legion. I love a bidding war! BUDDA BADOOM! Five paychecks. And that zebra is wanted by the Zencori Censure for saying something they didn’t like, so BADOOM DA DOOM! Six paychecks! And I know I can get something for that dragon freak in Rice River. ZOOM ZOOM BADDABOOM! Seven paychecks!” He pranced in place. “It must be my birthday!”
“The what is after me?” Majina goggled at him. “What did I do?”
“Hey hey hey. If you don’t know there’s a bounty out on you, that’s your problem,” the glittering stallion said with a shrug.
“But if you kill all of us you only get paid once,” Scotch pointed out.
The prancing stopped. “Sure, but I get paid. Once I show them your body, of course. None of this ‘well, I’m pretty sure she’s dead but I kinda can’t confirm it.’ shit. And I don’t think you’re the kind that just throws the lives of all your friends away. So I’ll let the Starkatteri and hornhead go. They’re not worth anything.”
“Not worth anything? Do you have any idea who this hornhead is?” Charity roared, rising to her hooves in the trailer and jabbing her hoof at him as if leveling a malediction. “I am the one and only Charity, which I ain’t! I built up a fortune with a post office and two dozen foals! I disassembled an entire ruin and squeezed every last cap out of that place I could! I found and refurbished a rail transport in three hours because I’m the only one that can source, acquire and organize labor to install thirty-seven needed parts! I outfitted Blackjack’s team before they went into hell, and that after getting fifty percent of my stock raided by dipshits that still regret stealing from me! Not worth anything? I’m damned priceless, you gaudy, over polished jackass!”
Scotch just blinked as she looked up at her standing imperiously above and felt her reality slip in an unexpectedly surreal direction. Pythia caught her gaze and then gave a minute shrug.
“Over polished?!” Aurum countered. “Do you have any idea just how expensive it was getting a diamond spirit into soft gold? I had to commission nine different shamans for it! I could have paid for a moderately sized settlement!”
The soldiers looked at each other, almost the same as Scotch and her friends.
“But you didn’t, which could have provided a longer term economic tax base, fabrication shops for tools, repairs, and equipment. But noooo! You wanted to be shiny!” She thrust her hoof at him again. “You are economically illiterate!”
Aurum jabbed a hoof right back at her. “Inferior! Let me tell you exactly how I financed this paragon of gilded mayhem juggling no less than six creditors!” the general snapped back. Scotch gestured to the others to pull back a little.
“Is she actually distracting him with economics?” Skylord muttered.
“She could be waving her butt in the air for all I care,” Scotch said. “Listen, we’re only going to get one shot at this.”
“We should go across the river. It’s a risk, but the Whiskey’s pretty crippled,” Pythia pointed out. “We’re never going to reach the other bridge.”
“They can fly too,” Skylord said. “Nothing to stop them from cutting us off.”
“But will the Flame Legion protect us? Can they?” Precious asked.
“Probably. We’ll have to listen to sermons or something but they protect their territory,” Skylord answered. “We need to hurry. I think she just said something about carried interest.”
They got to work. The Whiskey could, in theory, run with one piston, but only if they weren’t bleeding pressure, and they’d need to build up steam before they could get going. Scotch, her burned skin tearing and rubbing, struggled with a wrench to force the pressure into the one cylinder. That wasn’t good for it, but they just had to get down to the river. Then…
She sighed and butted her head against the metal. “I’m sorry, Whiskey. I just don’t see a way out of this.” She rubbed her hoof against it, wincing at the burns.
“I understand. I hope I was a good tool,” it replied calmly.
“You were the best,” Scotch sniffed.
“No. That flying machine is much better. If I could fly, I could carry you onward.”
“You’re much better than that stupid Gold Legion flying transport.”
“Not that one. The other one. The big one.”
Scotch blinked. “Big one?”
“Yes. It’s huge,” it answered. Scotch blinked and looked around, shading her eyes against the sun.
“There isn’t another flying machine,” Scotch argued with a frown.
“There are many, but that one is a fine tool. It makes its owner very happy,” Whiskey stated.
Whiskey couldn’t lie, and had no reason to anyway. What flying machine could he be talking about? Scotch stared to the west, towards the massive storm that pinned them on this ridge. To beneath the roiling black clouds where countless specks and a strange pall of dust that rose and fell in strange loops. The longer she stared at it, the more suspicious she became.
“Scotch?” Pythia asked at Scotch’s shoulder, making her start. “We’ve almost got it fixed.” Then she cocked her head. “You’re thinking something.”
“I am,” Scotch said as she pointed at the storm. “What is that?”
“Some kind of storm megaspell?”
“Megaspell, yes. Storm?” Scotch dropped her gaze to the ground under her hooves. Yellowed grass studded with hoof sized rocks. “Pythia. Why are all these rocks here?”
“‘Cause it’s the badlands?” she suggested, then her eyes widened too. “The rocks are on top of the grass.”
Scotch kicked over a few. They were all on top of the grass. She didn’t have time for a mud mask, but she did have an interpreter. She crawled over to the trailer, reached in, and extracted Rocky. Aurum was making some argument requiring an abacus as Scotch retreated down the slope. “Rocky, can you ask these rocks a question for me?” she asked, lifting one small stone.
Rocky sniffed. “They are pebbles. Hardly worth talking to.”
Was size some kind of rock elitism? “I just need to know where it came from.”
“Slate. Mud. Uplifted. Exposed. Weathered.” Rocky paused. “It is crazy…”
“Crazy?” Scotch asked, a thought forming in her mind. What counted as insanity to a rock?
“It… fell up,” Rocky confirmed. “Then down. Then up. Then down. Up. Down. I do not understand.”
“I do.” Well, she didn’t, but at this point she was running on two parts frustration to one part desperation. “I have a pretty good idea what happened to it.” She stared at the storm. The specks rising and falling.
“No,” Pythia said.
“What, you see what’s going to happen?”
“I don’t have to. You’re not going to do it.”
“Because we die?”
“Because it’s a megaspell and stupid.”
“Look, I’ve had very good luck using with megaspells to get away from these guys.”
“That does not mean it’s a sound strategy!”
“Uh, guys. Tractor’s fixed. Fixed-ish. We gonna make a break for it?” Precious asked with a little wheeze. She’d probably used most of her fire getting it back up to pressure.
Scotch trotted back up the tractor and peeked over at where Aurum was… giving a presentation with a white board held by one of his soldiers while Charity drew on a large piece of paper held by Skylord. A lot of arrows seemed to be involved going from circle to circle. “You see? With my investment I not only enriched myself but also the shamans I paid to have the armor imbued with diamond spirits.”
“You might as well just throw gold coins at them and call it economic development. You have to think macroeconomically! Macro! Eco! Nomic! Allee!”
Aurum crouched as if he was about to shove his white board up Charity’s macro, but abruptly straightened. “Oh, hey. Doing your big run?”
Scotch blinked. “Huh?”
“Well, duh. Did you really think I’d engage in a fun little argument with this macroeconomic acolyte, giving you time to get that wreck rolling, if I didn’t know you’d try and dash across the river?” he said as he pointed at the stream behind him. “I didn’t think you were swimmers.”
“We were going to use the trailer like a boat,” Precious retorted. Then she blinked and looked at the others. “That’s what we were going to do, right? That was the plan?” Scotch covered her face with a hoof. “I can’t swim. You know I can’t swim! Seriously!”
“We’ve been driving through the desert and Badlands for more than a month! It slipped my mind, okay!” Scotch Tape shouted back.
“Minus ten friend points,” Precious countered and then reached up and gave Majina a hug around her waist. “New best friend.”
“Really?” Majina suddenly gushed with a grin.
“Can I put this down?” Skylord asked.
“Listen. Guys. This has actually been fun, but you’re talking about doing stupid things that endanger my paycheck so…” Aurum suddenly snapped up his rifle and let six shots fire. They blasted the water jacket and a huge cloud of smoke and steam rolled out. Precious yanked Majina right out of the seat and whirled, shielding her from the scalding cloud. Skylord ducked into the trailer bed, the paper abandoned. Aurum’s rifle finally clicked on an empty chamber.
Scotch stared in shock at the streamers of steam pouring out the holes. “No!” Scotch cried out, running up to the engine and placing her hooves against the warm metal.
“Now, let’s get all of you on board so that I can start collecting paychecks. I’m thinking of importing some fancy Equestrian talismans and rig this burnished beauty to fly. What do you think?” he asked, stroking a hoof over his armor, the grin in his voice spitefully clear.
Talismans? She looked towards the storm and then at him. Flying…
A hot gutful of rage burned inside her. If she was wrong, they were dead. If she gave up, they were dead and this gilded asshole was rich. But if she was right. But if she was right… “I think you talk too much,” she said, twisting the wheel and giving as hard a shove as she could. Thankfully, the tractor started to roll. “Get in!”
“Oh no. Don’t roll away. I’d hate to walk all the way down to the river,” the general replied drolly as gravity kicked in and she pulled herself into the seat. She was frustrated, hurt, pissed off, and probably going to get them all killed. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in utter amusement.
“Fuck you!” she yelled as the Whiskey Express rolled away…
Away from the river and towards the storm.
They broke out of sight, the ridge providing cover for a few critical seconds as the pair of soldiers opened fire moments too late. By the time they crested the ridge, the Whiskey Express was rolling along down the slope towards the open pit mine and the swirling dust. Bullets pinged off the trailer as everyone ducked down. A pair ran after while Aurum remained behind, reloading his rifle. The Whiskey Express clattered and swayed so much Scotch doubted it was going to be an easy shot. Her face and forelegs already burned, but she didn’t want to add getting shot to the list. She had no idea how many healing supplies they had left.
Not that it would matter if she was wrong.
As they rolled into the storm, she heard the noise. It wasn’t any kind of storm she’d heard before. No hiss of rain or whoosh of wind. This storm growled, and in a perfect moment, the music that had been playing before erupted into a cacophony of guitars, drums, and someone screaming lyrics in an inequine voice she barely understood. The monosyllabics seemed to focus of ‘drive, fall, die, and fly’ with some ‘fuck’ punctuating every few words.
And damn it if she wasn’t grinning.
Because like fuck she was going to meekly put herself in the hooves of an enemy again. No more chains on her friends. If she was right, they’d survive this. Maybe. Possibly.
“Please let me be right,” she said as she covered her head with her PipBucked hoof. Because the rain had started… not water, but rocks. Pebbles started to patter down on them as they plunged into a screen of falling stones, sand, and dust. She held her breath as she struggled to keep the nose pointing down through the haze. She could see the pit. The really, really deep pit.
The power armored zebras were closing in. She could only imagine their bonus if they caught them. Charity, Majina, and Pythia took cover underneath a tarp while Skylord focused on shooting the pair. Unlike their boss, the bullets at least chewed into the armor, but still didn’t seem to do much. They needed more gun.
Or in this case, more rock. Because the pebbles were giving way to larger stones. Stones that smashed her upraised hoof. She knew PipBucks were tough. But all it would take was one lucky strike and she’d be crippled or dead.
Fuck it. She was already burned.
One of the power armored stallions tripped and began to slide in the rapidly accumulating scree. They slid through the deepening pile of pebbles before smashing into a rock and remaining still. But as they passed halfway down the slope, the already substantial rocks started to give way to boulders. They fell like meteors, striking the ground, splitting and throwing shards of stone through the air and rolling down with the Whiskey Express.
“Got you,” the stallion shouted as he hooked his forelegs on the rear of the trailer. He dug in his hooves, slowing the tractor and bringing his battle saddle carbines in position to fire at the passengers.
Then a rock the size of a small house thudded down with enough force to make the whole tractor sail through the air. Two white hooves remained hooked on the back of the trailer. “Got you,” Rocky echoed.
Okay. She was going to polish that rock if they lived through this.
Then, just like that, they were past the falling rocks.
Now they were dealing with the floating rocks.
The boulders falling now were travelling in strange U loops, tumbling down out of the cloud only to slow and tumble back up. Scotch puckered up as rock even bigger than the one that had crushed their tail plunged down at them, slowed, and halted mere meters above them.
“What the heck is going on?” Precious asked.
“It’s a levitation megaspell,” Scotch answered. “I’m guessing it targets the heavy bodies’ mass first, and then goes for lighter and lighter stones. Once a rock is too small to count, it leaves it behind. Or maybe the small ones get flung out of range. Who cares?” She laughed. “Let’s see that flier get through that!” Once they stopped, she could find somewhere to hide, pick her way east, get across the river.
She stomped her hoof down on the brakes.
The tractor plunged further and further down. The lip of the pit mine was starting to get awfully close. “Oh shit,” she muttered as she mashed the pedal uselessly. “Shit shit shit!” she cried. Could she jerk the wheel? Roll them? Try to ram some of the floating rocks? They had mass though. Didn’t they? Would there be much difference between hitting them and one on the ground?
Then she did the math in her head. If the rocks around them were of a certain mass… How heavy was the Whiskey Express? Did it count just the engine or the trailer and her friends too? And most importantly, how close would she have to be for the lift to be strong enough to pick it up?
“Shiiiiiiit!” was all she could scream. It seemed the most fitting as the Whiskey Express reached the edge and plummeted into the biggest, deepest hole she’d seen in a long while. It was strange how perfectly round and deep it was. Not like a mine at all. More like a wound in Equus itself.
And they were falling in. They were all going to die. Rocky too. He’d shatter into a million pieces. She–
The Whiskey Express slowed. It bobbed in the air, rising and falling as her friends held on desperately. The megaspell had them, but the bladder-loosening void underneath seemed to pull at her. Then she watched the walls of the round pit start to fall around her. A faint glow appeared around the metal, and it steadied. They rose above the lip of the pit.
And a high caliber, armor piercing shell ripped right through the tractor, inches from her face. The tractor streamed hot fluid as it was lifted by the spell, providing Aurum his chance. She could barely make out the gold through the haze, but he blasted at her again and again as she rose ever higher into the air. The range, the interfering boulders rising and falling… it was a credit he could hit them at all. Twelve shots later, all sight of him was lost as they were rising along with the rest of the boulders.
The magical field was carrying them up towards the dark center of the storm.
Or rather, the dark center of the mountain in the midst of the storm. She tied a rag over her muzzle to protect her lungs from the dust. The boulders were smashing against the underside with shocking force. Didn’t levitation make things weightless? She’d have to recalculate some of her assumptions. In fact, they were going a lot faster than she thought counted for ‘levitation.’ This was more… falling up.
Was there magic that could reverse gravity?
“Shit!” she cried out as the Whiskey Express started to tumble, falling up faster and faster. “Hold on!”
“What do you think we’re doing?” Skylord cried out as they approached the underside of that mountain.
The Whiskey Express landed roughly on its side with enough force to discharge all of its passengers. Scotch could only scream as her body was smashed like a ragdoll against the rubble that covered the underside of the mountain, leaving her rolling and sliding helplessly. She struggled to stay hooves down–up?–as the coveralls and other clothes she’d picked up in the salt flats ripped and tore, to say nothing of her rupturing blisters. The pebbles refused to slow her.
Then she looked up at the sight of a rock that was less rock and more ‘hill.’ She flung herself to the side, rolling in the pebbles over and over again as the massive mound of stone impacted the bottom of the hill next to her. Were her friends under that? She could only scream and try desperately for control. Pythia was right. She’d gotten them all killed.
Because the world ended.
It was like falling towards the horizon. A clattering field of stones, pebbles, and sand. The hill had, for the most part, remained above her, but others were rolling like her towards that edge. She kicked and struggled to slow her slide, but it was too steep. Too fast! It was like being trapped in a river of stone!
And like that, she fell into the sky. The edge of the mountain gave way, and she was flung out into the air, limbs flailing, PipBuck still playing that idiotic music. As she fell skyward, she stared down at the strangest arrangement of structures. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of platforms chained and tied to the underside of the floating mountain, centered around a formidable concrete structure that appeared to be some sort of base or fort. A dozen large flying machines, up to a bona fide, bright red Enclave raptor, rested protected in the lee of the mountain as the rain of pebbles tumbled into the sky, and her along with them.
“Gotcha!” a boy cried out, claws catching her from behind and holding Scotch close. She glanced behind her at a large blue draconic form in black barding. She was so pummeled by her fall that she couldn’t do much more than hang there.
Well… dead by Gold Legion, dead by megaspell, or dead by dragon. She was at least grateful that he’d spared her the fate of being slowly pelted and choked to death in an endless rain of dust and pebbles, at any rate. “My friends!” she cried out. “Grab my friends!”
“We’re getting them,” the dragon assured her as he flew towards the massive concrete building that clung to the bottom of the floating mound of rock. “Yeah, I got her, boss!” he said, and Scotch Tape took a look back. He wasn’t much bigger than Precious, with bat wings beating furiously in the air as he dodged rocks whirling wildly around the edge. Far above, the rocks continued up into the sky until they arced out and away, falling as they left the megaspell’s effect. Scotch wasn’t an expert on dragons of any kind, but she had to admit he looked… well put together with his midnight blue scales and bright blue eyes. His scales had white stripes here and there that made her wonder if they were natural or painted on.
As they reached the concrete structure, dozens of other fliers came into view: griffons, a lot of zebras with leathery bat wings, even a pony or three. She spotted a white, zebra sized dragon… dragoness?… it was hard to tell without the muzzle... holding Pythia and Majina under her arms. A beige unicorn levitated both himself and Charity, floating towards the structure. A red banner dangled up… down… ugh, directions were just wrong! A red banner hung and fluttered in the breeze.
Scotch made a frantic count as she was pulled into what appeared to be a covered plaza, but was now some sort of mustering center. “Is everyone okay?” she asked, which was more ‘is everyone alive?’
“I think my leg’s broken,” Pythia said, clenching her eyes tight. “No. I know it is.”
“Better than my ribs,” Charity wheezed. Majina just groaned.
Scotch’s own head throbbed, and somehow everything was getting blurry. She made a count. “Where’s Skylord?” she asked frantically.
“Over here,” he called out to the side. Unlike the others, these bat winged zebras were pressing guns to his head as they clung to his chains. It was only then that Scotch noted the singular commonality to all these people: A black brand of crossed lightning bolts. “I knew I missed one. Storm Legion.”
“Storm Legion?” Scotch asked in a daze, her head starting to spin.
“That’s right,” a voice boomed as the airborne members surrounded them. From a hole in the floor… ceiling… floor… came a bright green equine form. With wings. And a horn. And… big! It’d been a while since Scotch had seen an alicorn, let alone one with a pair of lightning bolts branded where her cutie mark should be. Indeed, every pony here had the same brand. It made Scotch’s flank twitch. The alicorn’s emerald magic grabbed all of them, and she levitated Scotch in front of her scowling, glaring face.
Then she smiled. “I absolutely love your color! And that blue mane! It’s sublime!” The face twisted back into a frown. “You are ruining my moment!” Then an eyeroll to make Pythia proud. “Oh, gah. Boring. Threaten threaten threaten. Blah blah blah. You should try being nice, Perihelion. It’d be way more creepy.” Then she snapped. “Don’t tell me to be nice, Peridot! We’re legion! We’re not supposed to be nice!”
The blue teenage dragon next to them coughed. “Peris? Could you make with some healing? They did just fall up the mountain.”
“We’re the boss of you! You’re not the boss of us!” the green alicorn snapped, glaring, then beamed. “We’ll get right on that, Snag!” She pointed her horn right at Scotch and a glow covered her, levitating her off the ground. Scotch had the distinctly unnerving sensation of parts of her anatomy being magically rearranged by Peris’s enchantment. Yet when the glow faded, Scotch was dropped back to the ground with her head no longer throbbing and the world no longer blurring before her eyes.
Scotch turned to Charity. “You have got to learn this spell!” she gushed. If Blackjack had known on the moon…
“I can barely levitate a pencil and you want me to do alicorn healing magic?” Charity deadpanned. Peris pranced over to Charity, her body glowing with healing magic. “Oh, I got to learn that,” she groaned. One by one, the green used her magic on all of Scotch’s friends. Scotch didn’t know much about alicorns. Lacunae had been strange and a little scary, and apparently strange even to other alicorns.
“I never thought I’d see an alicorn here,” Scotch mused as the green alicorn mended Majina.
“Why? You got something against alicorns?” Peris challenged. “Snag! This mare’s eyeballin’ me!” Her scowl twisted into bafflement. “What? No she’s not, Helion.” Then she snarled, “Damn it, Dot! You’re cramping my style!” A snort, “What style?”
Scotch looked over to the blue dragon, Snag. It’d almost be funny if they weren’t surrounded by a hundred raiders. They weren’t much different from the Bone Legion in appearance. Less dusty and more winged, and definitely more varied. Lots of spikes everywhere she looked. Lots of piercings. In fact, they seemed even less uniform than the Bone or even Blood Legion! Every one of them was armed, however, and from the condition of their weapons, knew how to use them.
Snag coughed, “Peris? General wants to meet them. Like, now?”
The alicorn blinked. “Oh, right. Yes. Right away! Get moving, prisoners!” Peris growled, then beamed at them. “If you please.”
Together, the alicorn and dragon flew up into a hole leading to a vaulted chamber. Or it had been. A floor had been laid down, and homes built atop either side, leaving the middle clear. Scotch noted strange hound like creatures added to the mix. They seemed like the sand dogs and hellhounds back home, but less… cybery and mutatedy. A strange simian skull sat on a stick before the throne, with a sign that read ‘world’s worst boss’ hanging below it. On one side was a prominent stage, and on the other a throne of guns.
“Hey! That’s our thing!” Skylord objected.
“Really?” Majina asked.
“Yeah. General Chalybs welded together a thousand guns to make his throne!” Skylord said as he thrust a talon at the lone figure sitting there, wearing a heavy coat and hat. Suddenly from dozens of barrels blasted arcing lengths of lightning that danced to an array of electrodes arranged around the seat. The arcing lightning left purple afterimages in her vision. “Okay,” Skylord mumbled. “That’s awesome.”
“Glad you think so!” called out the occupant as she rose from the seat and strode down. The voice and sway undoubtedly that of a female, but almost all of her was shrouded in a white feathered cloak, peering at all of them with a pair of yellowed [color] eyes underneath an ancient captain’s cap decorated with nine stars and a medal. “‘Cause we are the Storm Legion. And we… are… awesome!” The feathered cloak transformed into feathered wings, revealing the white pegasus beneath them as she posed in a black military dress uniform that had to be bulletproof for all the medals and bars she’d plastered to it. On cue, more electricity arced from wires, crackling and filling the air with cascading sparks.
“General…” Scotch stated in a vague daze, not sure which was more surreal: that a white pegasus was in charge of a zebra legion, or that she was barely older than Scotch herself.
“Say my name!” the general screamed, her voice carrying from one end of the chamber to the other.
“Tempest!” the crowd roared.
“I said, say my fucking name!”
“TEMPEST!” the collected bellowed, somehow even louder.
The general fixed her with a yellow gaze. “And you are the Green Menace. The wanderer. The Cursed!” she proclaimed as she thrust a pinion at Scotch. “Damned by the spirits and souls of alllllll the forsaken!” She grinned and closed the distance till she was almost muzzle to muzzle with Scotch. “There’s something I’ve wanted to do since I first heard about your cursed ass,” she snarled, then grinned and lunged. Before Scotch could blink, she was swept up in tight embrace, her wings wrapping around her as Tempest rubbed herself furiously against Scotch. “Woooooo! Get that curse all over meeeeee! Yeah! Love that cursey goodness! Mmmmh!”
Scotch managed to shove her off as the room erupted in laughter. “What the heck is your problem?” she gasped. Really, between Vicious and Tempest, why was she so attractive to crazy mares!
“Problem?” Tempest called out to the crowd. “We ain’t got no problems.” She whirled to the crowd and shouted, “We’re the Storm! We are the problem!” And once again the crowd went nuts, shouting ‘Storm!’ over and over in a booming chant. She snapped her wings out wide and grinned at Scotch, the crowd falling silent. Scotch had to admit, she had them well trained. Or maybe that was the result of the brand? Two bolts of lightning crossed right over her cutie mark.
“And you’ve been a problem too,” she said loudly, theatrically, at Scotch. “We heard your little broadcast the other day. I listened to you and thought, ‘There’s no fucking way she could be serious.’ You had to be lying to throw them off the scent. But what if, I thought. What if there was a mare as audacious… as reckless… as FUCKING AWESOME as me?! And we watched. And we waited. And we were fucking bored! But then what did we see?” She whirled and bellowed, “A mare racing like a bat out of Tartarus with Gold Legion fucks on her tail!” Stomps and hoots and cries of ‘Fuck the Golds’ echoed in the chamber.
Another wing raise silenced the crowd, then she pointed a hoof back at Scotch. “But when the Golds cut you off with those damned Bastion transports, did you give up? No. And when they blasted your ride and burned off half your face did you give up? No! What did you do?” Scotch was almost afraid to answer with the volatile crowd pressing in. Fortunately, Tempest asked the crowd, “What did she do?”
“She ran to the Storm!” it boomed, breaking into cheers and howls of glee.
“She ran into the mother… fucking… STORRRRM!” Tempest roared, lightning flaring from the electrodes on queue.
“Well…” Scotch said as something crazy wiggled up into her brain and took a seat. “Well of course I did!” Scotch yelled out. “Because that asshole saw us as nothing but a fucking paycheck, so fuck him!” It was amazing just how liberating that four letter word could be.
“Scotch, are you okay?” Pythia asked in concern, putting a hoof on her shoulder.
But Scotch didn’t have a chance to answer, because Tempest launched herself into the air. “Yes!” she roared, and a gem on her lapel flashed bright red, and her voice boomed impossibly loud. The dragons and Peris all flew onto the stage, the white one pulling off a sheet covering three sets of keyboards, the blue, Snag, settling behind a drum set, and Peris levitating two guitars on either side of her like they were miniguns. Tempest landed in the middle and more lightning boomed as the Storm Legion packed in before the stage.
Then Tempest let out a growl that the red talisman amplified to rumble and crash like an earthquake. Snag began beating the drums, his feet and tail working the pedals below. The white dragoness, her face a mask of stoic aloofness, danced her claws over the keys and unleashed an uncanny melody. Peris started to bob and swing her head, green mane flying wild as her magic plucked at the strings of the two guitars. When her head swung towards the one on her right, the one with fewer strings, her face turned into a grimace of anger. When it swung to the other, overtaken with an expression of childish glee. Scotch couldn’t say if they were any good, because Tempest’s growl rose until it became a scream of pure rage drowning out all else.
And then she started to sing, or rather snarl, lyrics at the assembled legion. The music was so loud and raucous that it could barely be called such, and seemed to focus on yelling her contempt at every other legion, with the refrain being chanting Storm, any word that even came close to rhyming with it, whether or not it made any sense, and some that didn’t do either. But the audience soaked it up it like a sponge, Scotch’s friends a little island of baffled silence in the middle. Scotch didn’t know what it was. Maybe the anger. Maybe the power. She had to admit, she liked it.
Of course it did nothing for her massive list of problems, not least the new entry of what had happened to the Whiskey Express? Was it in one piece? Pieces? Flung into the sky and gone for good? Scotch still had the black book in the remains of her saddlebag. She wondered if it was possible to just fling the damned thing into space from here. Still, the hard music roared through her head and blasted out months of stress and worry. So why were her friends staring at her like she’d lost her damned mind?
Three, or possibly four, snarly songs later, Tempest snapped, “Okay! That’s it! Get back to work, ya jackasses! See if we can’t pick off one of Aurum’s transports on his way back to Bastion! Peris. Call the Rampage and the Chugagug and haul us up. I’m done throwing rocks at the ground. Get grub on and I–” she paused suddenly and snapped her head around to look at the six of them, “–am going to have some personal fun with the Green Menace!” She grinned Vicious’s ‘stab, fuck, kill’ grin. “Slash! Snag! Bring ‘em!” She bopped the crystal with a hoof and it went dark. Then Tempest trotted off the stage.
The two teenaged dragons flew down, flanking them. “Come on,” the white scaled dragoness said pointing to a side door as the crowd dispersed. Everyone seemed in fine spirits though, so Scotch took that as a good sign. It was strange walking up… down… in the inverted building. Seeing stairs overhead was definitely unnerving, but wooden slats had been hammered into impromptu footing.
“Did you know about any of this?” Majina asked Skylord as they descended.
“What’s there to know? They’re Storms. They come, the fuck shit up, they go. We didn’t really care how they did it because we have guns that’ll blow them and their flying machines out of the sky,” Skylord replied with a shrug.
“Yeah, and fucking Irons will blow up a village for a cantaloupe of tribute. Last I heard the Bloods were seriously doing a number on your territory though. Got everything right up to Rice River. Even crossed it,” Snag said pointedly.
“Yeah, well soon as the crap with Haimon is cleared up, Adolfa’ll bring her train guns home and really open up on them. If they haven’t already.”
“Yeah, well, I hear that the Irons are also getting hit from the east as well. Looks like Sand Legion’s taking back Esajer pass,” Slash said from the front as they entered a barracks of sorts. A few of the crew looked to be sleeping, and others were eating. Scotch smelled a backed up toilet somewhere. She wondered how this place’s plumbing worked. Badly, from the smell.
“Brahmin shit,” Skylord growled back, but his brows furrowed in consternation. “Esajer’s ours.”
“Threatening your nitrate fields. Iron legion’s no legion without guns,” Snag chuckled. “What are you doing down here anyway, Iron?”
“Orders,” he said firmly, glaring straight ahead. Scotch couldn’t help but stare at him though. It had to be tough, following a crazy spirit-cursed pony around while your friends and family were in harm's way. Fortunately, it seemed the two dragons didn’t needle him after that.
“Can you believe that general though?” Precious gushed. “I mean, I barely saw Ossius, but come on! She’s both a general and in a band! It’s coolness squared! Maybe cubed!”
Scotch didn’t ponder the mathematics of coolness. She was trying to parse what she’d seen. It’d both made perfect sense and been completely over the top at the same time. It reminded her of the Overmare, back in 99, who played favorites and games – sadistic ones, usually – to get what she wanted.
“How’s the future?” she asked Pythia.
“You’re going back to Equestria.”
Scotch and Charity both said in unison, “Wait. What?”
“That’s what I see. You two get on an airship and go back to Equestria. We never meet again,” Pythia said quietly. “Probably just my sight being out of whack. Definitely for the best.” Scotch opened her mouth again, but Pythia pointed at a pair of double doors adorned with upside down pony skulls crossed with lightning bolts. “We’re here.”
They walked into an office that looked like part trophy room, part torture chamber, and part boudoir. No one had a bed that big with that many mirrors above it. The walls were lined with weapons, most of them spiky and sharp. Still, Skylord immediately gravitated towards one rifle. “Oooh, this is a IZA-9! These were the battle rifles of the Caesar’s imperial guard! Single round accuracy up to eight hundred yards, and three round burst fire! Ohh! And automatic? Is this a custom job? I bet it must purr like a kitten! A twenty meter long kitten!” He reached out and tugged on it, but it was wired to the wall.
“Tell me things like that don’t exist,” Scotch asked in a rush.
“Tell me they do!” Majina gushed.
“You know your guns, Iron,” Tempest said from a small door hidden in the back of the room, her voice raspy and harsh. “Come in here. We’ll be more comfortable.” Scotch wasn’t ready to start saying no till she knew what was going on.
When she poked her head through, she realized she knew less than she’d anticipated.
If the room behind was a cornucopia of edge, this office was a… salon of softness? She really didn’t know what to think. The desk had neat stacks of paper, with a map of the Zebrinica on the wall neatly marked with color coded pins. A tailoring dummy held Tempest’s medal-studded uniform and cap, while the mare herself trotted over to a gramophone in the corner and set the needle. Mellow classical music bled out of the cone. She moved over to the desk and took a seat as Snag entered behind them with a black iron mug decorated with skulls.
“Blood of your enemies, General,” he said, setting the cup down. He glanced at Skylord, who sat there with his beak hanging open. “Iron Legion,” the dragon added, and then actually winked to them.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Make sure if anyone comes asking, I’m having relations with all six of them. At once. Hmm… nonstandard orifices. Maybe throw in an eye socket or bullet wound for flavor,” she croaked. Snag nodded and departed, and she took a drink from the mug. “Ahh,” she sighed, settling back. “Fifteen minutes of that and I can barely swallow. Tea and honey with some healing potion mixed in. Great for colds too.”
“What the heck is going on?” Precious asked. “You were wearing the skulls and singing the things and going fuck this and storm that and now you’re drinking honeyed tea? What is the deal?!”
“It was a show,” Scotch summarized.
“It was a performance. An important one. My legion needs me to be a maniac, so I am. The previous Tempest bit the heads off bats. The one before that liked to set his scales on fire,” Tempest said between sipping her tea.
“Yeah. How is a pegasus the general of a legion?” Charity demanded.
“It’s no surprise. Our first general was a unicorn,” Tempest leisurely countered. “We’ll take anyone so long as they can fly or aren’t afraid of heights. Zebras. Ponies. Sand dogs. Dragons. Alicorns, now that they’re a thing. Not picky.”
“Not an answer,” Charity snapped back. “You’re barely older than us.”
“I was fortunate to be born with a youthful appearance. Actually, I’m old enough to be your mother,” Tempest replied with a grin.
“Noooo!” Precious wailed. “Chill and old?! Do you knit too?”
“Quilting, actually. It’s very relaxing.” Precious sank, covering her visibly aghast face as Tempest demolished any remaining hope in that coolness could be squared. The pegasus turned her eyes to the rest of them. “I was actually part of an Enclave mission to infiltrate the Storm Legion in the event we had to act against them. I took the brand, learned the previous Tempest’s secret, and became a lieutenant. Unfortunately that’s about when the Enclave lost their flippin’ minds, pardon my language. I was technically under High General Harbinger’s command, even if I was originally from Thunderhead, so when everything blew up, I felt it best to adopt the role personally.”
“You were from Thunderhead?” Scotch asked in surprise.
“Intelligence asset on assignment with Neighvarro. Not my plan, but I learned Zebra as an elective and it got me assigned here,” she said with a wave of her hoof. “Had a little disagreement with the captain of the raptor that brought me, but it worked out. Painted it red and put some spikes on it and the Storms were happy to accept us.”
“Why would you tell us this?” Charity asked skeptically. “Is this one of those ‘tell us ‘cause we’re going to be killed anyway’ deals?”
“Do you think the average Storm Legionnaire knows what the Enclave was? Or cares?” Tempest replied with a burst of laughter that caught Scotch off guard with how genuinely mirthful it seemed, underneath the raspiness of her still recovering voice. “Tell them. Generals collect rumors like sand dogs collect fleas. And they hop around just as fast. I start a few myself. The lieutenants who matter, like Peris, Slash, and Snag, know and don’t care. As for the other legions, I don’t care what they know.”
Scotch frowned at this reversal, glancing at Pythia. “So what do you want with me?”
“What I want?” She thrust her hooves out at Scotch. “Who are you? That’s what I want to know! You give a broadcast on Z-TV, blow up a spirit ceremony in Rice River, are apparently a shaman, and there’s a pirate involved? Are you a special agent? Are you acting on behalf of Tenpony Tower, or perhaps other elements? You told your enemies where you were going and then followed through with it. I couldn’t tell if it was a bluff, a gambit, or sheer madness. I’m still not sure.”
“You want a debriefing,” Scotch said, prompting Tempest to her brow. “General Ossius wanted the same thing.” The brow raised even further. “What?”
Tempest reached for a pad of paper. “I think I’m going to want notes too.”
She didn’t just want them from Scotch, she asked questions of everyone. She dug for details. Opinions. Theories. Snag kept bringing in food and drinks, though it was pretty meager fare. Given they were living in an upside down ruin, Scotch supposed their own food sources were pretty unsteady. She was a little more surprised that Tempest asked Charity for more socio-economic questions about her impressions of the groups they’d met.
“You remind me of Vega,” Scotch commented, recalling the zebra in charge of the Exchange in Rice River. “He wanted all the info too.”
“Yes. My legionnaires are great fighters but utter trash when it comes to intelligence gathering.” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “To be honest, my own skills are getting sloppy as well. Ever since I got that damned brand. It's easier to scream into a microphone than it is to do simple planning and training regimens.”
Scotch furrowed her brow. “You mind if I take a look at it? With my spirit sight?”
She pursed her lips. “So you believe in zebra curses and spirits?”
“You don’t?”
“Enclave never really encouraged superstition,” Tempest admitted and then rose and presented her flank. Her original cutie mark was almost completely destroyed. Was it an arrow? A dart. The black scars reminded Scotch of Glory… only worse. What kind of injury left black scars like these besides magic?
The wrench mask still lay in her saddlebags, and she tugged it on. Scotch closed her eyes, shifted her vision over, and steeled herself for possible horrors. Her side crawled as she thought of the damned book in her pack. Why couldn’t it have been flung away? Then she cracked an eye.
Tempest wore the same black tar dripping from her brand as she had seen elsewhere. It was smeared like congealed blood along her wings and face. Scotch regarded her own blackened hooves. Then she looked over at Skylord. The griffon glared at her skeptically, but she looked over at his brand as well. Though the brand was different in shape, the ichor seemed identical. The inky substance was spattered all over the room, bleeding from the edges. Then she spotted a portrait on the wall behind her. She’d missed it entering. A maroon unicorn mare sat there with her horn sheared off in the middle. Her blue eyes stared coolly out of the canvas. A steady drip of black oozed from the wounded horn but gold dust seemed to sparkle on the canvas..
“What is that?” Scotch murmured, then looked at the chains Skylord had worn for months. The lock spirit clung to him like a crab, but it lacked the black slime. It wasn’t golden, exactly, but was more a dull yellow. In the middle was a shape like a padlock.
Then she regarded her friends. They were untouched by the slime… and they had gold keys glued to their chests. Charity, for her part, seemed distinctly grayer than the rest, her brows curled in a skeptical frown. Scotch looked from them to the spirit that bound Skylord, and then down at her own chest. No key. “Huh.”
“Most shamans, in my experience, have lots more masks and chants and spooky words,” Tempest observed.
Scotch switched her vision back and took the mask off. “I’ve seen four different legions and all of you have this black spiritual gunk. I’ve got similar stains from when I was censured at Rice River. Skylord made a deal with a spirit. It’s not covered in the same stuff, but it’s dim, not like most of the spirits I’ve seen.” She thumped the sides of her head. “I need to talk to a shaman. Spirit touched… someone!”
It took all Scotch’s power not to look at Pythia. She had to clench her jaw to prevent it. Pythia had the answer. She had to. She was the filly that knew things. All the things!
“Well, when I said I wanted your curse all over me, I didn’t think it was literal,” the pegasus coughed lightly.
Scotch rubbed her chin. “Could I ask… Is anything else different? Since you were branded, I mean? Feelings? Thoughts?”
Tempest regarded her for a moment before answering. “I get angry easier. Not like on stage. Sometimes something stupid will just set me off. That never happened. And…” She paused and pursed her lips. “It’s dumb. I just thought it was the role getting to me, but I really hate Equestria.” Her face twisted in a scowl. “I never even thought of it before. Now the word just makes my blood boil, but I can’t figure out why.” She regarded the painting of the unicorn. “Like our founder.”
Scotch whirled to the canvas. “Who’s that?” She did a quick peek and the broken horned unicorn did have a golden glitter about her, though Scotch couldn’t tell if that was her or what she represented to the Storm Legion.
Tempest pursed her lips, and Scotch wondered if she was running out of questions to ask the General, but then Tempest had spent hours interrogating Scotch.
“The first general of the legion. Tempest. Not her real name, nor mine,” A small smile reached the general’s lips. “As I understand it, she was once the subordinate of a being called the Storm King, who mounted an attack on Equestria, but was ultimately rebuffed. It was an attack that set about modernizing Equestria’s military. After it failed, she turned on him, and approached the Caesar.” Her smile grew. “No surprise. There were zebras who served the ponies during the war, and there were ponies who worked for his legions. Near as I understand it, she was promised a method of healing her wounded horn, but I’ve no idea if it was, or even could be, mended.”
Scotch had no clue herself. If it was just a crack, apparently it could, but maybe it was harder back then?
“Do you know where the Eye of the World is?” she asked, taking a stab in the dark. Tempest just regarded her with an even stare that suggested she didn’t have a clue. Scotch mulled for a moment and realized that she’d run out of questions to ask in return. “Well, now what?”
She leaned back, looking at Scotch thoughtfully. “I read about what happened at Maripony, the Battle of Neighvarro, and the Hoof. Honestly, if you’d asked me five years ago, I’d have simply turned you over to my superiors and moved on.” She paused, tapping her hooves together thoughtfully as she sat behind the desk. “But to be honest, with everything happening, I suppose what I should ask you is how can I help?”
Did she hear right? “You want to help us?”
“Sure. I mean, nothing I said in the commons was a lie. You spitting in the face of Aurum was great, and you’re doing this thing. I don’t understand it, and not sure if I believe it. You’re also being targeted by these New Empire thugs, and that doesn’t sound any good to me. So yeah.”
“And you don’t want anything for it? No… year of service? No job you need me to do?” Scotch said a little skeptical.
“Well if you ask me to go fly off and blow the crap out of Riptide, forget it. It’s a really big ocean and I don’t have so many aircraft that they can wander all over looking for it. But if you want something like a trip back to the Hoof, I can work something out.”
“You can get us back to Equestria?!” Charity blurted. Scotch caught Tempest’s eye twitch at the word.
“We do a supply run once a year. Hard to get raptor parts, especially now, but I know people,”
“Yes. Yes! A hundred times yes!” Charity gushed.
“Charity,” Scotch groaned.
“No, listen!” the yellow unicorn snapped. “You came here with no clue what’s going on. Well, now you have a clue! We can go back to the Hoof. Cash in on some favors with the Society and Finders. Get some proper gear, guns, barding, and maybe a few mercenaries. Get a real expedition together and next year return and look properly. No more running around for our lives, and definitely no more falling into the sky!”
Scotch frowned. It did make sense.
“I’d rather stay and kick ass,” Precious causally offered. “But now that we know what’s going on here, we’d be returning on our terms. I mean, I doubt the New Empire will be able to screw with us all the way in the Hoof.”
It was a good idea. Tempting even. She could give the stupid black book over to the Twilight Society or someone and let them deal with it.
“But we haven’t finished our quest! What kind of story goes ‘And then the heroes went home and decided to come back later’? None of them do!” Majina said with a pout.
“It’s for the best,” Pythia murmured. “They’re not after us. Well, someone’s upset with you but I can keep looking. Might even be easier.”
That stung. Skylord just wore this empty, resigned look on his face. No doubt he’d be going back to his legion to fight. Maybe die.
“But we might not ever see each other again!” Majina whined. She faced each of them in turn. “Scotch? Precious? Pythia? Sky?” Her eyes welled up with tears and she wheeled, bolting out the little door. From the exclamation that followed, Snag was waiting just outside it.
“Let her go, Snag,” Tempest called out. “Follow, and make sure she stays out of trouble.”
Scotch’s head spun. Going back to the Hoof was the smart thing to do. They could make arrangements to come back on the next supply run. They’d be older. Better trained. Ready for a fight rather than running for their lives. Better informed. It all just made sense.
And besides, finding the Eye of the World wasn’t her quest anyway.
But…
“I need to think about it.”
“The Storm King’s heading out in a week or so. You have till then. Sooner is better than later.” Tempest rose. “I told the legion you were awesome. That gave you a little credit, but they’re still Storm Legion and you’re not. They won’t be happy with an Iron here. Slash.”
The white dragoness emerged from the side door. “Yeah, boss?”
“A room for six,” Tempest replied. “B wing, I think. Somewhere quiet.”
Scotch nodded soberly. “Thanks, but there’s something I need to do first.”
* * *
“You’re looking for a rock?” Peris called out as Scotch walked amid the boulders on the underside of the base. They’d risen past the point where they were pulling stones from the ground, and an eerie calm filled the air. The pegasus Storm Legionnaires veiled the floating mountain with wisps of fog. While Scotch’s chest ached from the exertion and altitude, she had to at least try to find Rocky, even though it was searching for a rock in a rock pile.
“And for whatever remains of the Whiskey Express!” Scotch added, scrambling amid the rocks. The megaspell seemed to select what it grabbed by mass and density, so most of the mountain was made of boulders. Once it had you, your gravity was reversed. Leave the field of the megaspell and you’d have to wait till it ‘grabbed’ you again.
“Oh, look! A rock!” Peris snapped, then cooed. “Ohh! Did I find it?”
“It’ll have a face on it,” Scotch said, keeping her mask on. The entire mound was murmuring softly ‘up is down is up is down is up is down.’ Scotch could sympathize. Every time she glanced at the world overhead a part of her brain started screaming.
“Of course. What’s a rock without a face!” Peris asked. “Stop being so mean, Helion. She lost her pet rock.” Then she growled, “It’s… a… rock…” A tisk and a sigh. “You were a pegasus. You can’t understand what a good pet rock means to an earth pony.” Then she snapped. “You were a unicorn, Dot!”
Scotch whirled. “Hey! Maybe we should split up! I’ll check up there. You check down here.”
“But down is…” the alicorn started.
“Yes, I know! Down is up is down is up is down is up is down is up!” she said, cackling as she ran away.
This place was getting to her.
She found herself suddenly at the apex of the mountain… it wasn’t a very large one. Or maybe it was just easier to climb? She took a seat and sighed.
Go home. Just… go home.
Would it be home? She could go back to 99. They were cleaning it out. Would probably welcome her help. Maybe now she was old enough and strong enough to endure the place, knowing what it was. What it did?
But she could also do like Charity suggested. Go back. Regroup. Return. They knew about Riptide now, and the New Empire.
Just go…
She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out the back book. With her mask on, it squirmed. Blood and bone. The cover undulated like it was trying to escape, dribbling that black gunk on the rock. The stones whimpered as it struck them.
She thwapped it against the rock under them. “Stop that. I want to talk to you.” It did. A good sign? “I want to know why the legionnaires all have that black gunk from their brand. It’s on my hooves and it’s on your pages. What is it?”
The book was silent. She had no doubt that it was trying to find some answer that would fuck with her, but she needed something. Something was connecting all the Legions.
“Sin,” it stated finally.
“Sin?” That wasn’t a word used by ponies much, if ever. It was supposed to be something very, very, very bad. Something that would make Celestia cry, as her mother used to say. It wasn’t used much. It was always excessive, and a pony who tried to use it too often was considered loony.
“A transgression. A violation. A breaking of agreement.”
Scotch regarded her blackened hooves. “So this stain?”
“You welcomed the spirits. You broke your agreement,” the book whispered.
“I had no choice,” Scotch said, then bit her lip. No. She had had a choice. She could have stayed silent. Even challenged the shaman that refused to open up the ceremony. “Riptide and the others attacked.”
“Then you should have prevented it,” the book hissed, giggling to itself.
Scotch thought about it. “When I welcomed them, I was assuming responsibility for them. When everything went wrong, I was the one to blame.” She looked at the ichor. “Did my apology mean anything?”
“How can you apologize to the wind? To the stone?” the book asked in turn. Scotch had to concede that words probably didn’t matter much to spirits. “Sin cannot be absolved nor forgiven. It must be endured. That is its price.”
“What sin did the legions do?” she asked, and then snorted. “Silly question.” Armies of raiders did very, very, very bad things by definition. The book said nothing. “What sin did you commit?”
The book exploded, flipping open as a great wave of blood and bone splinters blasted out, the fluid wrapping around her. She felt it trying to crawl into her nostrils, and force itself into her mouth. Shards scraped at her ears and eyelids. It was as if a great surge was trying to suck her right off the rock and into the book. She felt the liquid contort and constrict, as if it were trying to compress her into a size that would pass through forever.
And through it all, the blood screamed in the voice of snapping limbs, “We trusted her!” The scream repeated, growing louder and louder as it felt like the book would squeeze into her very pores.
Then the book slammed shut.
Scotch rolled off the stone, dry and undrenched, but she could still feel it. She scrambled to tear the mask off her face and tossed it aside, feeling her features. Pythia stared down at her, the book compressed between her hooves. “One good thing about this being away from me. I got a clear glimpse of the future.” She tossed the book down next to the mask. The metal smoked as if it’d been splashed with acid. “How are you feeling?”
Scotch sat up, blinking at her. “How…”
“Had Slash fly me to help you look. “How are you feeling?”
Scotch stared into her yellow eyes and scowled. The book almost ate her and she wanted to talk about her feelings? Fine! She’d get a load of all her feelings! “How do you think I’m feeling? I’m pissed!”
“At whom?” She took a seat beside Scotch Tape.
“At whom? What is this? Whom? The book. Me for trusting the book. Aurum for wrecking my ride. Me for wrecking it. Take your pick!” Scotch said, then clenched her jaw.
“And me, of course,” Pythia said as she looked out at the ground above.
“You… of course you! You… I came out here for you! I’ve tried to help you, but you won’t help me! You could have told me what I wanted to know and I wouldn’t have had a book try to eat my face! And now, after everything, you want me to pack up and go home while you stay here! What the fuck, Pythia?”
Pythia didn’t answer for a moment. “Anything else?”
“I can’t believe you. Anything else? Are you even sorry? Are you… anything!”
“You’ll be safer in Equestria,” Pythia said simply.
“Safe? What are you talking about? Safe from what?”
“From things like that,” Pythia answered, pointing at the book. “From everything you’ve been forced to deal with. This isn’t your quest. It’s not your problem. I did something horrible to one person because they asked me something and I said yes. I made an offer that should never have been made, and the stars said yes instead of no. I can’t tell you how unlikely it was that the stars would do that. But they did. And now you’re here and I’m afraid that something even worse is going to happen to you. And I can’t help you, because I made a stupid promise in a moment of weakness and I can’t undo it!” she said, her voice rising to a shout by the end. “I feel like my stupid quest is just getting all of you hurt, and soon we’re going to start dying! I just know it! So you’re better off going off to Equestria and leaving me alone.” She clenched her eyes shut and turned her face away. “I’m better when I don’t have to care about others.”
For a moment, she left. She rose up and went back to Equestria. She spent the rest of her life angry and confused, before eventually being worn down by a world that took everything from her. But then the moment passed as she rolled that word in her mind. Care. To care was to matter. To matter was to be important. And the more she thought about it, the more that other bitter, poisoned life faded away until Scotch relaxed. It was so easy to be angry, and so hard to let it go.
“That’s not your choice.” Scotch flopped back on the rock. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“You’re going to go,” Pythia insisted. “I’ve seen it.”
“Nope,” she contradicted, folding her hooves behind her back. “You can’t make me.”
“I– Make you?” Pythia’s voice rose sharply. “You need to go back! You’re better off there!”
“Not happening,” Scotch said with a smirk. “I don’t wanna go back. I wanna stay with you.”
Her cheeks flushed and she coughed. “That’s very flattering but you don’t have to–”
“Didn’t say ‘have to’. Said ‘want to’. Big difference.” Scotch sat back up. “It’s not your fault we keep on running into trouble, Pythia. It just happens.”
“But I feel like this is all my fault!” She pulled her hood back, her face twisted in anguish. “It is my fault! And it’ll be my fault if you die out here because of me! I must be wrong about this Eye of the World crap. If it was a big deal, someone else would have noticed! This is me latching on to a mystery and dragging you along. It’s not right.”
“None of us were dragged. Majina wants us together. Precious too. Charity… should probably go home. And probably will. I can’t imagine a reason why she’d stay with us. And Skylord… well, he should stay.”
“I think he misses being with his legion. I doubt he signed on to follow us around for months.”
“Maybe, but maybe one of us could help him be happy,” Scotch said. Not her, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “You can’t keep me safe, Pythia. I’m not a filly.”
“You’ll be safe…er,” she said lamely.
“You know I won’t. Sure, Charity could be right. We could come back. But in a year, what if the New Empire takes over and things are even worse? Or the world blows up because the Eye was blinded? Right now we’re doing things. And yeah, it’s frustrating and scary and hurts and I’m pissed. I lost Rocky and the Whiskey Express.” Rocky they might recover, but even if they found the Whiskey Express, how could they fix it?
Pythia flopped back next to her. “I’m sorry I’m a bad friend.”
“You’re not bad. You just… have things you can’t explain.” Scotch struggled so much not to say the s-word, but she didn’t want Pythia to start spontaneously bleeding again. “It’s something I have to deal with. And, hey. I got answers. They might be horseapples, but they’re answers. According to that book, that black gunk I see? It’s sin.”
“Sin?” Pythia sniffed, looking at the book. “They would say that.”
“Huh?” Scotch asked. Was this a not a shaman thing?
“Nothing,” she sighed, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Scotch. You’re a friend I never expected to have.” She groaned and covered her eyes. “Unfortunately, now my vision’s full of you dying, leaving, killing me, or you being killed.”
“I wonder how Blackjack dealt with it. I get so pissed! People are trying to kill me because of the spirit thing and I don’t understand why!” She thumped her hooves on the rocks under her. “I want to find Haimon or someone and just… kick them till they give me answers!”
“Sounds like Tempest’s singing,” Pythia commented with a rare smile.
“Gotta say, it was loud, incoherent, messy, and full of more growling than any song should have, but it matched how I feel perfectly.” She smacked her hooves together. “I’m tired of always running away! I’m tired of being the hunted.”
Pythia rose to her hooves. “Guess your mind’s made up?”
“It is,” Scotch replied. “Did you really see us leaving?”
Pythia sighed. “I’m learning my own sight isn’t as perfect as I thought it was when I was younger. I used to think everything that wasn’t shadowed or hidden absolutely would happen. It was comfortable. But then Blackjack made that deal. Then I came here. I’m realizing that who I am might not be who I think I am, and all of that scares me to death.” She gave Scotch a sheepish look. “I don’t know if it was the future, that book, or my own fears getting in the way of my vision.”
Scotch remembered her lecture on how to protect yourself from dark magic, and glanced at the book. She really did need to find some way of dealing with it. It was getting to Pythia. Insufferable as she might be in times, her certainty was a source of strength. “Well, I guess we better get to the others.” She picked the book up and shoved it into her saddlebag. “We need to float over a volcano. Throwing bad things into volcanoes always works.”
“You’re starting to sound like Majina,” Pythia said with a smile.
“Hey! You two!” came a call from below… above? Scotch spotted Peris waving a wing. Together they picked their way down to her. “I found it! I found your tractor.” Then she paused. “What, nothing snotty to say?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a frigging tractor, Dot.”
Scotch rushed to her. Maybe if the chassis was still intact… if the boiler could be salvaged… if…
Scotch stared in horror, wheezing. Pythia caught up and then recoiled. “Oh. Oh my.” She managed a sickly smile. “You can fix that, right?”
“No,” Scotch murmured. “You can’t fix flat as a pancake.” The trailer was recoverable. It was half full of gravel, and wasn’t holding much of their stuff, but at least it was there.
Peris regarded Scotch with pursed lips. Then her horn glowed. “Hey. There’s still this!” The house sized boulder resting on what had been the Whiskey Express rocked and metal squealed before she tugged out the steering wheel. “See! Perfectly fine, if a little bent!” Like a pretzel.
“Thanks, Peris,” Scotch said, taking it. Maybe some hammering would do it. She shifted her sight and stared at the bit of metal. “Are you there, Whiskey?”
Nothing, then a gleam of gold along the edge. “Was I a good tool?” it whispered.
“No,” Scotch said firmly, fighting tears. “No. You are a good tool. You’re the best tool. And I’ll find some way to fix you, I promise!” She pressed the edge to the mangled wheel.
The glow grew and then there was a pop as the wheel slowly unbent itself. Her eyes widened as it reformed into a circle, and the spokes straightened. Restored, she stared at it and then at the wreckage crushed under the boulder, hoping that some miracle would allow the vehicle to repair itself, but the glow dimmed.
“Well, it’s a start,” she said as she hung it around her neck.
Peris screamed, thrusting a hoof at Scotch. “I knew it! I knew earth ponies can do magic too! It was just a matter of time! The earth pony revolution will soon be upon us!” Her panic collapsed into a disgruntled slouch. “You are such an idiot, Dot.” She waved a hoof wildly at Scotch. “Don’t idiot me, Helion! She used magic! Magic magic not that fake ‘I make stuff grow’ magic! Twilight would want to write a paper!” Then the alicorn facehoofed and moaned. “Doooooot!” A snort and stamp of a hoof. “Well she would!”
Scotch regarded the alicorn with her spirit sight, and what she beheld shocked her. The equine ichor coated her, same as any other legionnaire. However, a pair of golden ponies emerged from Peris’s shoulders. On the left was a unicorn mare in a cafeteria uniform. On the right, a pegasus stallion in a military uniform. Her eyes widened, “You were a stallion?!”
Peris froze, eyes now wide as both golden forms stared at her, their eyes matching the expression on the alicorn’s face. Then Peris narrowed her eyes. “You’re guessing.”
“You were a soldier. It doesn’t look like Enclave. You had a short spikey mane, but I can’t tell the color. And she was a… cook? With long wavy hair and a really cute muzzle?”
“Cute muzzle?” Pythia echoed with a little smirk.
“Okay. That is freaky,” Peris murmured. “I know, right?”
Scotch shook her head, giving one last look at the stones. No sign. He could have been thrown off into the air or buried under… rocks…
“Damn it,” she said, stomping a hoof impotently.
* * *
Rocky weighed heavily on Scotch’s mind, even as they salvaged what they could from the Whiskey Express’s trailer. The Express itself was six inches of steel under a boulder. She sat apart, the steering wheel hanging around her neck as she brooded. Rocky had helped her. Twice! She’d promised to take him somewhere new, and somehow doubted that the sky counted. Was she facing more censure? Her lungs were already toast. What if she became like Riptide, unable to put a hoof on land?
The question nagged at her even as they were escorted to a cell. An unlocked cell, but a cell nonetheless. Grayridge Army Depot was written upside down on the wall. While Tempest had, effectively, vouched for them, Scotch suspected she didn’t want her and her friends mingling with the rest of the legion. Some blankets thrown on the floor would suffice for bedding until they decided what they were going to do.
Scotch stayed out of it, which meant that it was mostly quibbling. Charity was adamant about returning, but realized the group was mostly against her. Of course Tempest hadn’t offered to send them anywhere else, and being dropped in the middle of nowhere with no transportation and no supplies really didn’t appeal to Scotch at all.
The toilet and meal accommodations confirmed her theory that while the Storm Legion might have air power, they were a few bad raids away from outright starvation. Tempest was wasting her time with spectacle to keep her legion behind her. It made sense. She didn’t have anything if she didn’t have leadership, but if she had some reliable food it would go a long way towards stabilizing things. Funny thing was Scotch could think of a few people that might help in exchange for air power. Carnico. The Atoli. Even the Orah. If the Storm Legion could stop screaming into microphones and swooping down to take what they wanted, there was a lot of potential.
Nature called and the argument was in its third circle and she had a headache. She trotted down the hall to the bucket. When she finished, she grunted some more. If the Storm Legion just kept high enough, they could cultivate the underside of the mountain. Sure, dropping low had let Scotch get up here, and it had to be a hell of a weapon, but it was like using a grenade to kill a bloatsprite. There had to be enough poop here for fertilizer. Terrace the underside of the mountain. Plant gardens. Use the pegasi to get water from the clouds. Tempest was an Enclave Intelligence agent. She should know this!
But what did that brand do to your head? What would Skylord’s life be if he’d never gotten his? She wondered if Tempest had once had similar plans, but after the brand, raiding became far more important? Had the Bone Legion given up on their partnership with the Propoli settlers? She suddenly wanted to check.
Then she paused as she felt something grind under her hoof and paused, examining the nail. Not surprising that her hooves looked horrible. But all of it looked wrong. Cracked. Dry. Gray.
Her heart raced as she switched her sight over. Sure enough, the black stains she’d gotten months ago were now darker. A tarry substance seemed to be leaking from the cracks in the nail. Was she now even more censured? Was she turning to stone? Or was the penalty something she could live with, but would make her even more miserable?
“No!” Scotch snapped. She wasn’t putting up with this at all. She marched back into the cell. “Precious… I need a favor. A big one. A huge one,” she said, staring into her eyes. “I’m going to need Baron Goldyshine!”
Majina gasped in union with Precious. “Not Goldyshine! He still hasn’t confessed his love to Lady Clinkyjingle!” the zebra blurted.
“And how are we going to resolve the Marquise’s plot against him if he goes?” Charity jumped in. Everyone stared as she rolled her eyes. “Just because it’s stupid doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention!”
“I need an imperio, and you’re our treasurer. I need to buy something to get rocky back.”
“Um, grab a rock, paint a face on it, and you’re done,” Precious countered. “What do you need my coin for?”
“I need it to buy something important,” Scotch said. “Think of the Baron as going off on a sabbatical and coming back with a new wife.”
Precious gasped. “The scandal! Lady Clinkyjingle will be inconsolable!” She lifted her string of coins from around her neck, untied it, and slipped one off. “He’d better return,” she warned as she passed the coin to Scotch. “There’s nothing more annoying than a valued character going off and never coming back.”
“He will. There might even be kids involved.” She had no idea when she’d have the chance to make three imperios. That was a week’s work in Rice River.
She made her way back to the common room. It seemed like there was an open mic because a zebra stallion was doing a Tempest impression, and gagging more than growling. Scotch knew she was drawing a lot of eyes as she trotted in with a gold coin in her mouth. There! A quartet of Storm Legion, a zebra mare with feathered wings, a pegasus stallion, and two zebra stallions all playing dice. One of them had exactly what she needed: a proper hoof sized Equestrian emerald in their stack of bits. “Excuse me,” she asked, utterly ignored. “Excuse me!” she repeated over the speakers. No response. “Hey!”
The mare snapped her head around. “What!?” Then her eyes took in Scotch. “Ohh. It’s the Green Menace.” Clearly, she wasn’t impressed. “What’d you want?”
“Swap. I need that gemstone,” she said, pointing a hoof at it.
“Don’t fuck with her,” the pegasus muttered.
“Mind your shit,” the zebra mare snapped, then grinned at Scotch. “That a real imperio?”
“That a real gemstone?” Scotch asked back. “Don’t mess with me. You want to swap or not? If not, I’ll ask someone else.”
“Probably a fake,” the mare said with a snort. “No way kids like you would be trotting around with gold. Let me test it first.”
Scotch didn’t know what else to do. She passed the gold coin to the mare, who bit it firmly, then nodded. “Yup. Real gold.” Then she slipped it into her vest. Scotch reached a hoof out to the gemstone, and she smacked it away. “Fuck off, Menace,” the zebra growled.
“That’s my gem!” Scotch insisted, looking at the other three. The zebras smirked, but the pony knit his brows as he stared at her.
Then the zebra hit her. The blow smashed right across her face, knocking her sliding across the floor. “Fuck. Off,” she said as she took her seat. “Fucking idiot.”
Scotch stared at her blood dripping down on her gray, cracked hooves. Then she stared at the back of the zebra who was laughing at the other pair. Her heart thundered in her ears as her breath burned in her chest. Maybe it was the snarling lyrics. Maybe it was the callous laughter.
Maybe enough was fucking enough.
Scotch pulled herself to her feet and grabbed the end of a wooden chair between her forehooves. She brought it up overhead as the pegasus shouted a warning. The zebra turned in time to get a faceful of chair.
Suddenly the common room fell quiet as the mare fell back against the table, the chair splintering atop her. She spit out a bloody tooth. “Now you’re fucking dead.” she said as she slowly advanced. The rest of the legion pressed in, and she didn’t have wings to get away.
The quarters for the maintenance staff always held the miasma of ozone, stale air, and gray water. They were the lowest in the stable, furthest from the atrium. All the maintenance staff were assigned down there; it made the trip to the maintenance levels and reactor shorter. Or so all the mares above rationalized. You didn’t need to see the barding to know if someone was maintenance. One whiff was all it took.
Scotch didn’t really understand why most of the other fillies shunned her. She tried to smile. Tried to share. Tried to listen to Textbook’s droning lectures and give the correct answer if she knew it. Those were the rules. That was what everyone expected. But no one wanted her to eat with them in the cafeteria, or sit next to her in the classroom. She tried to be nice. Tried to be good.
Wasn’t being good enough?
Then the Overmare came and spoke to her mother. She wasn’t much older than Scotch really, but talked like she was an adult, and hated anyone that mentioned her age. She spoke with her mom, and afterwards they’d moved to quarters higher up near the Atrium. The constant whirr of fans and hum of power cables disappeared, and she’d struggled to sleep the first night. Then she went to class and suddenly people were nice to her. Fillies seemed to want to know everything about her. Especially why the Overmare moved them.
But Scotch couldn’t say. It was hard to keep up her studies with new friends. A few friends that invited her back to their bedrooms for some lick and tickle. It was a sign, for the first time, that she belonged. But when she asked a filly named Lightbulb why, she’d giggled and replied, “Well you don’t smell like maintenance anymore.”
But there was also him. It was the first stallion she’d ever seen outside of sex ed. He was blue and quiet. Very quiet. She didn’t know where he got to while Mom worked on the terminals, but at the end of her shift he’d be there… looking resigned. They’d go to her mom’s room and do the things stallions were meant for. Something that he’d informed Scotch he would NOT be doing with her or any other filly. In fact, he scared her a little.
One day, she’d been studying alone, when from nowhere came, “What are you reading?” She’d nearly knocked over the table in alarm. She hadn’t heard him enter.
“Oh, it’s just terminal access protocols. Nothing exciting,” she replied nervously.
He moved up next to her and for the first time she shrank back from a male. “Tell me how it works.”
She’d been so nervous, she had. As did her mother when she came home. He was smart. Smarter than most of her classmates. He picked up accessing terminal backdoors while waiting for her mom to come home. He seemed determined to know as much about the stable as possible, particularly the main hatch and the air circulation systems. Her mom thought it cute, and gushed about the days when he could accompany her to work for ‘break times’.
He hadn’t laughed.
Her mom had gotten stranger after that. She kept on saying that they’d be living outside soon. That P-20 was going to live with them forever and be a dad, whatever that meant, and that she’d have a sister soon… she had to look up the word in the dictionary, but somepony had crossed it out in black marker ages ago. But her mom just needed to finish taking care of something. Just in case.
P-20 hadn’t said anything. He’d just stared straight ahead as if she and her mom weren’t there at all. She didn’t think he wanted to be a dad. She didn’t think he wanted to be there at all.
But she remembered her mother standing in the door to their quarters, thin from skipped meals, her dark green mane lying frazzled against her lighter green coat. Scotch just ate her Sugar Apple Bombs. “I love you,” her mother said from the doorway.
“Mhmmm,” Scotch replied, her mouth full of cereal.
“Be good.”
“I will.”
She left.
Ten minutes later P-20 did too.
Two hours later she was in class, reading over dry history, when her mom’s boss and the head of security trotted in. She remembered how the class got quiet, then every eye followed her to Scotch. “Scotch Tape?” her mom’s boss rasped.
She nodded.
“Pack your things. You’re reporting to C shift for crash training.”
Be good.
I will.
“Okay,” she murmured.
* * *
Scotch barely raised her hooves in time to prevent the zebra from crushing her skull as she backed away desperately from the mare she’d clobbered with the chair. She had only one eye, the other covered with a spiderweb of keloid. It was the only advantage she’d had to keep her back, because the mare’s hoofstomps and kicks often came up short. Often, but not always. Scotch’s jaw throbbed and one nostril poured blood down her chin.
The Storm Legion had almost instantly cleared out a spot for a scrap, with practiced familiarity for conflicts like this. A mob surrounded her, hooting and cheering and shouting out bets. She’d attacked one of their own, and that made Oorusha the Frenzy the crowd favorite. General Tempest arrived in her greatcoat, taking a seat on her throne. A look of cold indifference made Scotch wonder if she even had a chance. Legionnaires kept close eyes on her friends, but they at least seemed immune from the legion’s more energetic attentions.
Oorusha worked the crowd, darting in with a flurry of strikes only to pull short after making a few connections. Scotch kept trying to keep away, but she backed into the crowd, and hooves kicked her forward with a yelp. Oorusha darted ahead, foreleg hooking Scotch’s neck and flipping her in midair to crash on her back. As she lay gasping, Oorusha prowled the edge of the crowd, earning applause and feeding on its adulation.
How was she supposed to fight a killer? She wasn’t supposed to fight at all...
* * *
Mom wasn’t. Not dead. Not even gone, because no one mentioned her absence. It was as if she never existed. Scotch saw her mother’s name on a chalk board for a minute before Rivets wiped it away, and scribbled in Scotch’s name. Her mom’s utility barding disappeared from her locker, and one was found for Scotch that could be pulled snug on her frame with cord. Even her tools disappeared for other technicians to use. No one asked her how she was handling her mom’s job. It was her job now. As if she’d also died and that life in class had ended too.
“New girl gets recyclers,” was repeated over and over, drowning out any suggestions of ‘training time’ or ‘easing into it.’ She was tasked with fixing an overheating pump. She didn’t argue. After all, she was supposed to be good. It felt as if she were in a dream. Not a nightmare. That would make sense. This was more like wondering just when she’d open her eyes and get back to the version of her that had classes and ponies who liked her.
But machines were easy. They worked till they didn’t, and all she had to do was take out the worn manuals and track down why they didn’t. She made sure to lock it out like Mom always told her, making sure the circuit was open and marked with a red cord so someone didn’t accidentally power it up. That was always the first step.
She went through the process, carefully loosening nuts before cracking the case. A deluge of foul water poured out and she coughed and gagged, but it didn’t matter. This was her life now. Not the ‘family’ her mom had talked about. She hadn’t even seen P-20. She heard medical was looking for him.
She cleaned out the pump, checked the bearings, and found two that were overheated and at risk of seizing. Disassembling the housing, she extracted the ring and removed the two rough spheres. She trotted out to find replacements.
She heard words coming from a doorway. “I can’t believe Duct Tape is gone,” came a maintenance mare’s voice. She rushed down, glad to hear somepony, anypony, acknowledging her mother had been a person. Even missing her! There were tears in her eyes as something horrible wanted to break out, but she needed it out.
“She was such a fucking moron.” Scotch froze outside the door and the horrible words continued. “Working for the Overmare? What did she expect would happen? And now we got her dumbshit daughter on the roster,” continued the mare, relentlessly.
“Aw, Scotch is a good kid,” said the second voice. That’s right. She was good! “Just slow.”
Slow? Slow wasn’t good! Her smile slid off slowly like grease paint. She was smart. She was taking apart a pump right now! How was that slow? Did they expect her to be just like her mom? Her mom was brilliant!
“You say so. See how weepy she got? I couldn’t wait for my nag to die. Finally get some damned respect,” the first growled.
“Yeah, well, give her time,” the second said. There was a huff. “Huh. I expected Duct Tape to be heavier. In you go,” and there was a thump. Scotch leaned in, peeking around the door.
She shouldn’t have peeked.
Everyone knew when you died, you went into the recycler, but you never thought about it. Protein was needed, after all. It wasn’t cannibalism once it’d gone through the recycler. But Scotch stared at the sight of her mother’s head sticking out of the chute. One eye stared out at the ceiling, the other was a blackened socket, as if her mother had tripped into an unshielded spark transformer. Her mother’s glassy eye seemed to stare right at Scotch as she froze in the doorway.
Then, with the kick of a lever, her mother disappeared into the intake, motors whirring as faint pops filled the air. The pair trotted out the entrance right past her, chatting about getting lunch. Was she somehow invisible? A ghost? Was any of this real at all? She stepped into the recycler room, knowing that her mother was being transformed into an organic slurry of fats and proteins, which would then be compressed to remove water, stored until recipes that needed protein or fats were needed. Some of it would continue to be rendered into other products the stable needed. Even after her death, her mother would continue to serve 99.
Scotch shook, covered her muzzle, and suddenly hitched over as she vomited her last meal. Convulsion after convulsion shook her as she fell to her knees. The whirring stopped, now replaced by soft gurgling, then silence. As she coughed and struggled for breath, Scotch tried desperately to remember the sound of her mother’s voice just hours earlier, but it was lost to her. She stared into the mess of her life, her brain clamping on those final words. ‘Be good.’
She was a good girl. She cleaned up her mess, so that even that sign was gone as well.
* * *
“You have to stop this!” Majina pled as Scotch struggled to keep the zebra at bay. Tempest sat in her seat, impassively watching the battle with bored certainty as to its outcome. “That zebra cheated her!”
“Of course she did. Classic Oorusha,” Tempest said, as she watched the fight. The two teenaged dragons struggled to keep Precious restrained as other zebras had her, Charity, and Pythia closely watched. The latter wasn’t even watching the fight, but her star map, dangling her purple pendant and glaring as if trying to burn a hole through it with her gaze alone. Only Skylord stood passively by as the fight progressed, without any guns of course.
“I know she was should have told you about it but–”
“Why in Zebrinica would I care if she did?” Tempest asked crossly, then gestured to the fight ring with a hoof. “It was her problem.”
“And the moment she attacked one of your legion, it really became her problem,” Skylord said solemnly. Tempest gave a small nod.
“You’re responsible! You’re the general, damn it!” Charity shouted.
“She is being responsible,” Skylord stated grimly. “She’s giving Scotch a chance to fight for her life rather than throwing her into the sky.”
“Don’t defend her!” Majina snapped.
“Far worse would have happened to Scotch and all of you if you dared attack an Iron in our own headquarters,” Skylord retorted, jabbing a claw at her. “Scotch was trying to get something from a legion. Of course she cheated her. What’s better than an imperio, but a coin and keeping the jewel too?”
“But that’s not right!” Majina begged.
Scotch didn’t have time to follow as she kept defending herself. Oorusha was milking this. She had the Green Menace, celebrated not more than a few hours ago, fighting for her life, and after each attack she’d whirl and face the crowd, drawing out cheers. Now that Scotch fought one of their own, the crowd was firmly against her. It would take much for them to be against her friends too.
But she didn’t want to fight. A well of horror churned inside her. Be good, and things will work out. Be good, and someone will protect you. Be good, and you won’t have to be bad.
* * *
She stopped complaining once mom was gone. The raiders had left, and now everyone seemed mad with everyone else. Gin Rummy was mad at the Overmare. The Overmare was mad at Blackjack. Rivets was mad at both of them. Scotch didn’t care. She went into maintenance and did her job and was good. She didn’t come up to deal with things like lunch, or even to sleep. Her quarters belonged to another Scotch Tape. One who lived on the other side of those door closing and that crunching noise.
Watch the machine eat, nom nom nom!
A body was one thing, but she’d been on the duty as they’d loaded body after body. The crunch of bone. The pops. The smell. And while medical ponies were worried about contamination, Rivets assured them that the systems could take it. Rivets trusted the stable’s components like they were her own daughter. Any criticism or doubt about the stable was doubt in her.
“Good work,” Rivets told her as they finished cleaning up, hosing blood down the drains.
“Huh?”
“You didn’t whine. You didn’t argue. You just did what you had to. That’s a good job in my book,” the older mare went on. Scotch didn’t answer, having no idea what to say to that. Rivets furrowed her brow. “We have a little game down in ventilation during C shift. You should come down and join us. Mark it as your lunch.”
Scotch stared a moment and Rivets’s furrow turned into a frown. She started to ask something, but then one of the medical ponies shouted something about protein levels through the roof and bleed through and Rivets had turned away. Scotch put away the hoses, went down stairs to one of the dozens of storage lockers were they kept food from 200 years ago, and carefully extracted a can of pickled hay. There was enough down here for a lifetime, which was good, because Scotch never planned to eat in the cafeteria again. Her mom was in there.
* * *
“You’re not so tough, Menace,” Oorusha sneered as she came back around for another stomp. The area was pointedly devoid of useful weapons. The crowd wanted to watch them beat each other to death. Or to submission. When Scotch was unconscious, Tempest would have to act. She’d played up Scotch on arrival. Now she was losing.
But how was she supposed to fight? Somehow she knew six different ways to make a pump work, but the precise way you hurt another person deliberately had escaped her education. Scotch gave her best battle cry and charged, but the mare was ready. She jumped easily to the side, keeping Scotch in her field of vision, landing on Scotch’s left. Scotch turned just in time to have Oorusha’s rear kick strike her head. She immediately staggered and fell on her side.
Then Oorusha jumped on her, slamming her forehooves down on Scotch’s chest. Already censured, she felt something crack and burst inside her, and gave a decidedly unmenacing cry.
Damn it. She was supposed to be good. Be a good person. A good worker. A good friend.
* * *
Things only went from bad to worse as the days went on. The security mares that had been violated by the attackers had all been released from medical angry. That wasn’t a surprise. They’d been hurt bad by the raiders. But the Overmare had been released too, and a lot of the medical mares seemed like they’d also been beat up. Scotch tried to just stay below, reminding herself to eat.
But then there’d been yelling. Screaming. Shouting. Ponies from above yelled out that Gin Rummy had attacked the Overmare– No! That Daisy had attacked Gin Rummy. No, that the security mares had killed the Overmare! No, that security were going nuts killing everypony. Whatever the story, Rivets got her maintenance mares to grab their wrenches and chains.
When Marmalade stepped down into maintenance, the honey-yellow mare wore the strangest grin. She said everything was forgiven. That the Overmare wanted everyone to come back upstairs and everything would be fine. It might have even worked if she hadn’t been holding the decapitated head of a stallion, casually munching on the spongy gray substance within.
Scotch stayed below. Now storage was full of refugees, and ponies that could fight did. A few dared take the Overmare up on her offer. One returned, with stories of skulls split open and ponies torn to pieces, turned into raw food. That some who ate were sick, and were in turn eaten when they got too crazy or crippled. A medical mare said that the patients had gotten sick first, but then other infections popped up as well. People not touched by the raiders. Everyone ate the old food, unable to get to the cafeteria and its chips of recycled ‘grass’.
She silently sat by and let them eat her ‘good food.’ She saved some, hoping that it wouldn’t be discovered. She had to be good. If she was good, it would all work out.
And it did. Blackjack arrived. She came back with friends, and they fought off the ones who had gone mad. And maybe everything would go back to normal. But the normal was horrible and P-20… P-21 was with them and Rivets just wanted Blackjack to go but Blackjack wanted the stable to do things. She’d heard Blackjack say to burn the bodies outside, but Scotch knew Rivets wouldn’t set foot out there. She just wanted to set up new rules with a new Overmare, maybe herself.
As for the bodies. They went into the recycler. They always did.
Scotch knew it was too much. A seal broke. That meant opening it up. And Blackjack had just happened across and seen it. She’d seen the bodies and Scotch’s eyes met hers and it was in that moment that Scotch knew there wasn’t any hope here. 99 was bad. It was bad, and Blackjack gave her to her friends. And she’d stayed behind. She’d ended the bad.
Scotch couldn’t hate Blackjack for that. She’d done the good thing. Whatever had made them sick wasn’t from the raiders. It’d come from 99 itself. Her mother, the Overmare, the raiders, Rivets… just a long line of bad that came from that place. It was baked into the walls and the earth, and Blackjack had finally washed the poison away. A few survived down in the reactor, and Scotch was glad that they had, but the Stable itself wouldn’t ever be 99 again.
It was important to be good, because once you went bad, it was hard to stop.
* * *
Oorusha’s blow knocked Scotch off her hooves again. It didn’t help that she couldn’t draw a single deep breath. “Time out! Time out!” Majina begged, getting a sharp look from Tempest. “You’ll get a better show,” she added, the young mare’s voice thick with scorn as she glared up at her. Tempest gave a slight nod and smirk and shouted out for a minute reprieve. Scotch all but collapsed into the grip of her friends. Charity wordlessly dug out a potion, poured it into a cup, and passed it to Scotch. It abated the pain in her chest and side a bit, and she coughed up a sizable wad of blood.
“What are you doing?” Precious hissed in her ear.
“Getting killed,” Scotch wheezed.
“You’re not fighting back! You’re letting her beat the shit out of you!” Precious hissed.
“I am not letting her! She’s older and bigger than me!”
“She is not that much older than you, and she’s half blind! You keep playing defense! Wait for your chance and beat the shit out of her,” Precious said, jabbing a claw at Oorusha, who was basking in the praise of most of the crowd. Tempest, to Scotch’s consternation, was watching her and her friends like a hawk.
“I don’t know how to beat her. She’s a legionnaire,” Scotch wheezed. “I don’t know how to fight.”
“Huh,” Skylord muttered as Tempest called for another round. “Probably should have learned before you smashed a chair on her head, huh?” The Storm Legion roared as they shoved her back into the ring.
* * *
“So what happened?” Daddy asked as Scotch tried desperately to sniff the blood dripping from her left nostril out of sight. The rain hissed down on the old gazebo in Chapel, the cushions stacked up neatly in a pile. Her father gazed towards the Core like he always did when he was thinking about Blackjack.
“Axle Grease said that Blackjack was dead,” Scotch said, and he turned his deep blue eyes to her.
“Uh huh…” Daddy said with a small smile. “And then you hit her.”
“No, I said she was stupid,” Scotch retorted, but couldn’t keep the gaze with his. “Then I hit her.”
“And did hitting her make Blackjack appear?”
“No,” Scotch groaned.
“What happened?”
“She hit me. A lot.” Scotch admitted. “But when I’m older–”
“Will that make Blackjack appear?” her daddy repeated. She hung her head, letting the blood drip between her green hooves. Just a few drops, but they stood out all the clearer for it. “I understand what it’s like to want to hurt others when you’re mad. For the longest time, all I wanted was to hurt people.”
People like her mom. People like her. “Why didn’t you?”
“At first, because I couldn’t. That was the worst, because all I could do was be hurt and hate everyone who hurt me, including myself. I told myself that it wouldn’t work, or that it would only get me killed. Then, I was afraid to, because once I started when would I stop? Finally, because I realized that I don’t really want to hurt people. That’s not who I am. So instead of hurting others, I try to figure out how to do what I want to do.”
Scotch felt his hoof on her mane and reached up to see his smile. “And what’s that?” she asked.
“Well, I want to find Blackjack, or find some proof she’s actually gone for good. As long as Glory is working on that, I’ll keep hope. Then I’ll teach whatever I can to whatever mares or foals want to learn it, and maybe even learn new stuff to teach them,” he said as he rubbed her ear. “But most of all, I can’t wait to meet whatever wonderful mare you’ll grow up to be.”
“Gaaaag,” she said as she flopped over, blushing furiously. “Ugh, why do you gotta be so mushy, Daddy?” Getting kicked in the snout was easier! He actually chuckled and she sighed. “Do you really think I’ll be good when I grow up, like Blackjack?”
“No,” he replied as his gaze returned to the city through the veil of rain. “I think you’ll be even better than her.”
* * *
“You are no Menace,” Oorusha said as they circled each other again. “You are weak and pathetic. Send in the dragon or the bookmare to die in your place, pony,” she demanded, her accent low and thick.
“I am not weak,” Scotch rasped, her chest burning. “I’m censured. You’re the cheat who–” Was whirling and kicking out with her hind legs. Scotch jumped away, ducking below the kicks. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“Because you are a coward,” Oorusha replied as she whirled and leapt, her forehooves coming down in a double stomp. Scotch jumped again, leaping aside moments before their impact. “Your friends fight for you. They should die for you too.”
“No!” Scotch yelled at her. “I’m the one that bashed you with the chair. Leave them out of it!”
“Don’t talk crazy, Scotch! Tag me in! I’ll finish her in ten seconds,” Precious yelled back.
“Not that I want to get in the middle of it, but I’d love to show these Storms what an Iron can do to them,” Skylord offered, casually inspecting his talons.
“I’ll pay whatever they want, just stop!” Charity yelled into the ring. “I’ll finance if I have to!”
“Your friends are willing to fight. To do what they must to win. But you jump. You run. You hope someone will stop this. Will save you,” Oorusha slurred as she stalked Scotch around the circle.
“I’m just trying to be good! Isn’t that enough?” Scotch screamed at her. The one eyed zebra reared up, Scotch’s retort the distraction she needed.
“Is it?” rasped a gravelly voice. The yelling and bellowing of the crowd cut off, the colors washing out into gray as everything slowed, then stopped. The periphery of the room went dark, then more and more of the crowd disappeared, till it was just her and a petrified Oorusha. Then, out of the edge of the darkness, stepped a bony figure draped in rags. “Is it ever?”
“Dealer?” Scotch murmured as the cards began to slide between bony hooves. “It’s been a while,” she said as she faced him. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s where I’m supposed to be,” he said as he tossed three cards down on the ground before her. “I’m here to see you break.”
“Break?” she looked at the frozen Oorusha.
“Fail. Falter. Decline. Die,” he spoke like sand blowing across old bones.
“I am not going to die,” Scotch muttered.
“Pretty sure someone’s gonna die soon.”
She turned around and looked at Oorusha, then back at him. “I’m not killing her either.”
“Well then it seems like you’re in a bit of a pickle. ‘Cause someone is going to break.”
“I am not breaking,” she growled.
“Saying don’t make it so,” he purred. “What are you afraid of? She wouldn’t be the first person you killed.”
“That was an accident.” Scotch dropped her eyes. At her feet, the body of an Atoli sailor lay carved in marble. She quickly turned away. “He jumped on me and the gun went off.”
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “It was hardly the first time, remember?”
But she couldn’t remember. That great yawning gulf in her memory mocked her. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “I can’t.” Dealer said nothing, and that ws the most oninous of all.
Blackhack had said she’d done it... but not the circumstances. Had she been attacked? Was it an accident? Somepony she knew? Or had she killed a person on purpose? Somepony that hadn’t deserved to die? Blackjack had said it was to save her life... but could Scotch really believe that? Was it impossible that Blackjack might have fudged details to spare her some pain then?
She sat down hard, clutching her head between her hooves, as if she could somehow squeeze the memory out. “I can’t remember...” she whimpered. “Blackjack said... she said...” But the counter died on her tongue.
“Blackjack took that memory from you. A mercy. A mistake. Maybe if you kept it, you’d do what you need to do now.” Dealer said as he stroked the cards. “Do the good thing. A righteous kill,” he practically purred.
“I didn’t… I couldn’t…” Scotch stammered, but did she? Blackjack had taken memory from her. It wasn’t impossible. “I’m not killing anyone!” Scotch shouted at him.
“Why not?” he asked, arching a bony eye socket. “She’s killing you.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone. I just want to be good.”
“Ah… good,” he rasped, clasping his hands together as he bowed his head, and then chuckled, a dry noise that made her cringe. “And what is ‘good’?”
She gaped at him. “Well… it’s good! It’s what you’re supposed to be!” He didn’t answer, but silently tapped a card. “This is a stupid question!” she sputtered.
“Ah yes. ‘What is good?’ ‘What is evil?’ Very stupid questions.” Scotch felt like she’d failed a test somehow. Dealer didn’t do things for stupid reasons. Ever.
“Good is… doing the right thing. It’s making other people happy!” she guessed. Wasn’t it?
“I see. Well it will be good when Oorusha splatters your brains all over her hooves,” he said as he gestured to the frozen zebra mare. “That will make her very happy, so it must be very good!”
“No!” she protested. “That’d be really bad for me.” She knit her brows in thought. “So are you saying good is what I want?”
From the shadows surrounding them stepped Riptide. The shadows behind her rolled like a angry sea. The mare glared right at Scotch, her eyes narrowed as she grinned from ear to ear. “That’s right! I need to kill you because I want to kill you. It’s what I want! That’s good!” Then she petrified into white porcelain as well, the darkness stilling.
“I’m not saying anything. Good and evil don’t concern me. They’re boring. But being good seems to be quite important to you, as you seem to be willing to die for it.”
“I don’t want to die,” Scotch growled at him. “I just want to do what’s right.”
“Of course!” Haimon announced as the blood spattered zebra stepped into view. Heaps of bodies rotting in an endless pool lay behind him. “It doesn’t matter who gets hurt, so long as you’re doing the right thing. If some people get hurt along the way, that’s the price to be paid.” And he too crystalized into white before her eyes, the bodies fading from view.
“But that doesn’t make it good to kill people if you think it’s right. There might be another way!” Scotch protested, whirling to the bony figure.
“Of course,” a cool feminine voice said as she stepped into sight. She stared at Scotch with that calm detached smirk. It took Scotch a moment to identify Xara, the mare who had tried to take her and Skylord back to the north. The darkness behind her gleamed with charts and sheets that broke down zebra deaths into profits. “The smart play is always good. If you know more than your opponents, you can take the most effective, efficient steps. If you’re smarter, you’re better.” Her sneer petrified on her lips.
“Being smarter doesn’t mean you’re good though. It just gives you an excuse to do whatever you want!” she said as she realized she was rapidly being surrounded by the statues. “You might as well just be like that Aurum guy. Having the best things is good.”
“And why isn’t it?” he said as he emerged in his glittering armor. Weapons, tractors and the finest equipment glittered in the darkness of his wake. “What’s wrong with having the best? The best toys. The best food. The best friends. How is that not good?” He tapped his power armored chest and then froze like the other three.
Scotch closed her eyes, breathing fast and low. “Why are you doing this?”
“Me? This is your show,” the Dealer said, sweeping a bony hoof at the assembled statues. “This is all about you. It’s always about you, Scotch Tape. After all, you asked for this.”
“No, I didn’t,” Scotch panted, her chest aching. She didn’t want any of this! None of it! “I just wanted to be a good person! That’s all! Isn’t that enough!?” She begged him. “Doesn’t everyone just want to be good people?”
“Yes.”
It came from four mouths of four statues that were no longer her enemies. Blackjack looked down at her and gave her a gentle smile, as she stroked her cheek. “I always wanted to do the right thing, but I always had to make sure that what was right was good. I tried to protect others. I tried to stop bad things from happening. And I failed a lot… but I tried. I hope that was good.”
Scotch trembled as emotions clawed and battled within her at the sight of the tired white unicorn. “It was!” Scotch gushed. “You saved the world!”
“I saved you,” Blackjack replied with that quiet smile. “That was worth more than the world. But I also hurt a lot of people to do it, and that’s something I can never take back.”
Next she looked over at Rampage and she grinned and shrugged. “Look, you can do whatever you want. Nothing wrong with that. You want to do a thing? Do it. Just don’t be a jerk about it. Or do. It’s all up to you.”
“But you were strong and relentless. You never stopped,” Scotch replied. “I’m not like you…”
“Of course not. You’re better. If I’d been a lot more like you, maybe things would have turned out differently.” She gave that shrug again. “I don’t have any regrets though, save one. But hey, nopony’s perfect, eh?”
“Oh, certainly not,” Glory laughed opposite her. “It’s easy to think you are, though. Or that you're a better person because you know more. But that’s a trap. You can try to figure things out so you don’t mess up, and wind up making some of the worst mistakes you ever could.” She reached out a wing and put it around Blackjack, and Blackjack smiled and pushed her face against Glory’s neck.
“I try to do what’s good. I try to help people. Isn’t… isn’t that the same?” Scotch looked at the pair. “Isn’t that the smart thing to do?”
“You can very easily convince yourself that something is the smart thing to do. It takes humility to know that you’re ignorant. To accept that you can’t work out all the angles and have everything the way you want it. Being good can be extraordinarily frustrating.” Glory shot Blackjack a look, getting a sheepish grin in return.
Then she felt a pair of strong hooves embrace her from behind, holding her firmly before releasing her. Tears streaked Scotch’s face as she turned to see her father, his dark blue mane spilling over his fairer eyes. “Daddy…” she whimpered and pressed her face into his chest.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said as he gently brushed her mane. “I said I wanted you to be good. I was wrong. I wanted you, more than anything, to be happy. You don’t be good. You are good. But that’s not all you have to be.” He hugged her once again.
“I miss you so much,” she blubbered.
“I know. We didn’t have enough time together. But know that I treasure every moment we spent together. That there was so much more that I wanted to do with you. But we didn’t get that, and that’s too bad. What’s important is who you are now, and what you do from now till there’s no more time. Don’t spend it worrying every minute if you’re good,” P-21 said low and deep.
“Ultimately, that’s vanity,” Glory said.
“I don’t want you to be ashamed of me. I just want…” but I failed. What did she want? To be good? To be happy? Strong? Smart?
You do not know yourself, Pythia had said.
“You’ll work it out,” Glory said, patting her head. “You’re smarter than you know.”
“And tougher too,” Rampage echoed with a nod.
Scotch looked over her shoulder at Blackjack. “The pony I killed... back in the Hoof...” She tensed as she saw the sympathetic look on the unicorn’s face. She’d killed the Atoli in Mariana’s office back in Rice River, but that had been different. That had been desperation and panic. An accident really.
Blackjack didn’t answer, her brows knit together a moment. “You’ll just say it was something I had to do, won’t you?” Scotch predicted, her heart plummeting. Blackjack just answered with her sad smile.
“Sorry kid, not knowing sucks,” Rampage muttered off to her side.
“Yeah,” she said. She’d killed someone... and it’d bothered her enough that she’d had it removed. But the hole it left behind offered no solace, no support, and nothing she could build from. It was hard to believe that some ponies once thought that was a good thing. You didn’t get better by forgetting your mistakes.
Scotch closed her eyes again. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” she said, not sure if she was lying or not.
P-21 patted her mane. “Then are you ready?”
Scotch took a deep breath. “No, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Told you she was smart,” Glory said warmly.
Scotch pulled away as the four of them stepped back. “I miss you all. I love you all.”
“Hey, find yourself a zebra rocket and come and get me! I ain’t dead yet!” Rampage said with a lazy grin. “Though I think that dragonfilly will probably do ya.”
Scotch took them all in, her eyes lingering most on his smile. “Is this… real? A dream? A vision?” she asked as her eyes moved across them,
“Well, duh,” Rampage chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Unless I’m dreaming of all of you.”
“It’s what you need,” Glory said as she leaned her head on Blackjack’s shoulder. They all turned into white, then faded away into mist. Only Dealer remained, still holding his three cards.
She took a deep breath, her chest aching, eyes closed, then stared straight at him. “Okay. I’m ready.” Jabbing a hoof at the cards she asked, “What are those? Some kind of spooky future reading to mess with my head?”
“Of course. Three futures, in fact.” He turned the first, depicting Scotch with her head crushed under Oorusha’s hoof. She had to admit the detail on the brains was exceptional. The second showed Scotch standing atop Oorusha’s crushed throat. Then the third card started to turn.
She snatched it out of his hooves. “No.” He froze. She wondered if, maybe, she’d just done something very, very bad. Carefully she put it down. “I’m not going to let you tell me I have only three options. This could be anything right now. I know it’ll be the ‘right’ choice, since the other two are wrong. But I need it to be mine. I need it to be a good choice. I want to be a good person… and I think I realize what you’re trying to tell me. That it’s not ‘being good.’ Anyone can be good in their own eyes. I need to think about this more… way more… and not just accept what I’m told is good.” She passed the card back to him, face down. As it left her hooves, she saw a golden glow lingering, washing away the black stains that had lingered there for so long.
“So be it,” he said as he took his card back. She felt her body being pulled into position back when time stopped. Slowly he started to turn away.
“Dealer,” she called out, and he paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Thanks. It was good to see him again. All of them.”
“The dead never really leave. Some stay in shadows of our minds. Others are kept in our hearts.” Scotch had to wonder how he had either, but that would have been quite rude. Besides, she had a fight to win. Her way.
The world unfroze, Scotch’s breath suddenly hot in her lungs as she barely brought her PipBuck up to block the zebra’s stomp. She should have retreated, but didn’t. She was an earth pony, after all, and she braced her back legs and instead of falling back, she pushed.
And now Oorusha’s eye widened in surprise. But Scotch had no illusions about overpowering her with brute force. Her cutie mark was engineering tools. Engineering was about solving problems involving forces. Force like the zebra now pulling all her weight forward on two hooves.
Scotch pivoted sharply and pulled her forelegs back and to the side. Suddenly unsupported, their forelegs entangled, Oorusha had no choice but to pivot as well. They were going down together, and the zebra’s shock at the reversal gave Scotch the opening she needed as they both fell on their sides. Scotch’s chest felt like there was an inferno in there, but she immediately slid one of her hind legs under Oorusha’s hoof and pushed herself up. The zebra mare froze.
Scotch didn’t blame her, as all of Scotch’s weight was now pushing down on the side of her knee. All she needed to do was drop her weight and bad things would start to happen to the joint. Things her father had described in detail. She felt a little dirty pulling such a trick, but it was more important right now to be alive and win than die being good. The yelling of the crowd faded to baffled mutters as everyone seemed to wonder why Oorusha was just lying there, trying to get a good view with her remaining eye. “Yield,” Scotch wheezed.
“Fuck you, Me-arrrgh!” Scotch shifted and put more of her weight on the knee.
“My daddy busted his knee. It pained him the rest of his life,” she said between gasps on air. “Yield. I won’t ask again,” she warned… mostly because there was darkness on the edge of her vision. She just couldn’t get a deep enough breath as she wheezed.
Oorusha grit her teeth, trying to pull her leg out from between Scotch’s hoof and body, but that just made her press down even more. “I yield!” Oorusha screamed out.
The crowd went wild… more than Scotch had expected. ‘Menace’ was being chanted as coins and other wagers were settled… the winners enthusiastically cheering their long odds. Scotch flopped to the side, just trying to pull enough air into her lungs to stay conscious. Oorusha pulled herself to her hooves, rubbing the leg and giving Scotch a sullen glare.
“Your winnings,” Tempest said as she passed Scotch the emerald with a wing. Then she tossed down the Imperio as well. “You earned it,” she said before turning with the dragons and stalking out again.
“No hard feelings?” Scotch asked as she sat up, wheezing and rubbing her chest. She just couldn’t get enough air in there.
The one eyed mare finally shrugged. “Thought I had you. Didn’t expect a joint lock.” She limped a little as she walked, but Scotch knew it could have been far worse. Scotch tossed the coin back to Precious.
Precious snatched up the coin. “Oh, the others will be so surprised when he returns to the abbey! The shock! The adventures!”
“I know, right? What is the Countess going to think? She was sure he was lost forever!” Majina chimed in.
“If they had a kid would that be compound interest?” Charity mused softly, getting stares from both of them, and she blushed. “What! Just because it’s stupid doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention!”
As the three of them gushed about Charity’s opinions of their economic soap opera, Skylord and Pythia approached. “That went pretty well,” Skylord conceded as Pythia passed her a purple healing brew. At least Scotch hoped it was healing, given how bitter it tasted, but it did alleviate the ache from the beating. “I didn’t know if she was going to kill you or you were going to kill her. Kinda surprised you got her to yield.” Scotch shot him a look, and he amended. “I mean, I didn’t think you’d have the guts to go after her knees. That’s pretty brutal for you.”
The brew mended most of her injuries, but her chest still pained her. “I need to figure some things out rather than just thinking things.” She glanced at Pythia and added, “I guess that’s what growing up is. Realizing things aren’t the way you always thought they are.” The young zebra mare gave a rare smile.
She heaved herself up on her hooves. Maybe it was the memory of her father and his friends so fresh in her mind, but she lunged and started giving each of them a hug. “Did she get concussed or something?” Precious asked with a smile.
“She’s a pony. You’re all concuss–ack!” Skylord started to say before Scotch hugged him hard in turn.
“I just… you’re all great. You know that? Really great,” Scotch said as Majina enthusiastically returned her hug. “You’re good people.”
She turned towards Charity and the unicorn muttered, her eyes flat, “That hug will cost you more personally than the gross domestic product of Equestria during the war.” Scotch froze mid-hug but couldn’t stop her stupid smile. Well, not everything had to change.
Now there was just one more thing to do. She snatched up her hard won emerald and looked around. She’d need some other things. Water and dirt. The right place to do it. Down… no. Up! “I need your help. Grab some water and a stick and follow me.” Scotch then started to ascend the structure. The stone building of military base became something older. Pillars that’d once held up roofs. The air up here was thick and hot. Periodically she heard the thud of a boulder hitting above.
“Where are we going?” Precious asked as they all filed in. An upside down statue of a zebra smiling serenely greeted them. They sat on their haunches, one hoof holding an spheroid object, the other an orange, with leaves still attached. A mathematical formula was written at the base of the statue. Fg= Gm1m2 over r2. The whole room seemed to emit a cool white glow that was centered on the statue.
“It’s Izark Newti,” Majina breathed. “The Logos zebra who discovered gravity.”
“I thought that was Clover the Clever,” Scotch frowned, knitting her brows. “With the apple.”
“Izark Newti discovered the math behind it,” Majina insisted. “And it was an orange.”
“Thus the war between ponykind and zebrakind started anew. Over apples and oranges,” Skylord deadpanned.
They had a chuckle as she walked closer to the upside down statue. It looked as if it had been carved from a single block of stone, and though badly cracked, still clung to the ceiling. “How’d you know this was up… er… down here?” Pythia asked curiously as she stared up at it.
“And what’s that?” Charity added, jabbing a hoof at a small, hoof sized gem lodged in a crook of the statue’s foreleg. It appeared cracked through the middle.
Scotch peered up at it. “It’s a targeting talisman,” she replied and then turned towards Pythia. “I figured, if the Empire bulldozed spiritual temples for a mine or factory, it makes sense they’d build a base on top of a shrine as well. If it was destroyed in the war, the zebras could claim Equestria was targeting cultural sites.” And it might have worked too, if Celestia had been the only one in charge. “The talisman for the megaspell was probably planted here by a pony agent.”
“So why wasn’t everything blown to bits? You can’t tell me the megaspell was supposed to make a floating island,” Precious asked. “Though, not going to lie, that would be a cool use of a megaspell.”
“Yeah. Why didn’t ponies use megaspells for stuff like that?” Majina asked. “I mean, didn’t anypony think ‘it’d be super cool to make a spell that turns summer into winter’ or stuff?”
“We did,” Charity said. “I remember Priest going on about how Fluttershy used a megaspell to resurrect slain solders on the battlefield. Brought them back to life. Only the problem was that it brought the enemy back to life too.”
“So just transport the dead away from the dead enemy. Problem solved,” Skylord sniffed.
Charity suddenly rubbed her foreleg as she looked away. “Priest said they tried that. Only the ponies who came back were sometimes… wrong. The coming back did something to some one them. Sometimes they were crazy. Sometimes worse. After that, Fluttershy refused to use megaspells to bring people back, but someone figured them out. Weaponized them.”
“But do you think that they meant to make the whole base float?” Precious asked skeptically.
Scotch shook her head. “No. But this place was a shrine. I think there was a spirit here. Maybe not Izark Newti, but… gravity.” Could gravity even have a spirit? What would such a thing even look like? “I think the megaspell was probably intended to just toss the whole base into the sky. I mean, how do you defend against something like that?”
“Ehh,” Skylord rubbed his beak. “I could probably figure out a few ways.”
Scotch didn’t take her eyes off the statue. “I think that ponies didn’t believe in spirits, so when their megaspell mixed with a powerful spirit, something went wrong. The spell warped the spirit, and you get a floating mountain. A perversion of gravity.”
“Huh.” Precious muttered. “So why are we up here again?”
Scotch pulled out the emerald from her saddlebags. “I need to bring Rocky back.”
“Um… oh! There he is!” Majina blurted as she grabbed a fallen stone and held it up. “No, wait. Rocky was more oblong and this one is more potato shaped. Ummm…” she searched around again. “There he is!”
“He wouldn’t be in here!” Charity muttered, then sat down hard, holding her head. “Ugh, stupid is infecting my very soul. Rocks and spirits and megaspells! You think maybe that statue glows because some zebra thought ‘oooh, I’ll make an enchantment so the shrine is even more magicky than before’? Huh?”
“I promised Rocky that I’d take him somewhere new. I broke that promise,” Scotch said firmly, holding up her hooves where the gray flaking was spreading. “I’m censured. This is the price I’m paying for it.” Everyone watched her evenly with a variety of expressions, ranging from solemn resignation to indifference, bafflement, concern, and frustration.
“So you need a pedicure! Scotch, it was a rock! You sent him somewhere new. I bet whizzing a couple thousand feet in the air is pretty new! If he doesn’t like it, he can take you up in spirit court or something!” Charity yelled.
“Charity, if you break a deal, there’s a price to be paid,” Skylord stated as he sat back, forelimbs crossed. “What’s your problem with this?”
“Because she’s doing a thing for a rock and that’s crazy! You don’t believe your gun has a spirit, do you?” she asked, then turned to Precious. “Or that those coins are really people?” She turned back to Scotch. “All of this talk about spirits and pacts and all of it… it’s insane! Spirits aren’t real! It’s just freaky magic and people being dumb. Why are you doing this?” Charity asked, and Scotch’s brow knit at her tone.
Pythia was silent, her face a mask of misery as she stared off at the wall.
Scotch regarded her and then Charity. “Because I promised I would.” Charity breathed hard, and before she could respond, Scotch rose and faced her. “I’ve had a chance to think while I was fighting Oorusha. I promised I’d be a good girl, so I couldn’t fight her. If I hurt her, or killed her, I wouldn’t be good. But that was wrong. Not bad, but wrong. I made a promise, and if you do that, you should stick by it. So it doesn’t matter if Rocky was a rock or a spirit. I made the promise. I need to stick by it. Even if it is silly.”
Charity’s face screwed up a moment as if she was in agony. “You… I… It…” then she actually bit herself to suppress her scream. Finally she let the leg drop. “You are a complete and total idiot,” she summarized, but Scotch Tape was shocked to actually see her smile. “What do you need us to do?” Scotch opened her mouth and Charity raised a hoof. “I still think all this spirit shit is stupid! But if you promised… honoring a deal… ugh…” she deflated, dropping the hoof. “I can understand that. Even to a rock.”
Scotch whined in the back of her throat and Charity was unable to jump away before Scotch hugged her. “Arrrgh! GDP of Equestria! Of Zebrinica! Of Equus! Gettoff!”
“Don’t care. Worth it,” Scotch retorted, and Charity was helpless as Majina joined in with glee. While the other three were too cool for hugs, there were smiles all around.
Finally they released Charity, who exploded with wildly swinging hooves to ward them off. “Gah! Just tell me what we need to do for your stupid rock!” Scotch informed them of everything she needed.
Thankfully, the hardest part was the emerald. The rest was dirt, water, and a stick. Really, it wasn’t that different from what she did back in the train yard, only instead of sacrificing precious water, she lifted a stone and brought it right down on the emerald. Precious and Charity made matching choking sounds as she pulverized it with a lump of marble. It was a little more blockish than roundish, but would do. Once she mixed it with some dried dirt and water, she had what she needed. Not just for her face this time. Majina and Skylord painted upwards pointing triangles on her torso and flank.
“You’re quite the artist,” Majina commented as Skylord carefully smeared the green pigment.
Skylord flushed but scoffed, “It’d be easier if the canvas stopped moving.”
“I can’t help it. I’m ticklish,” Scotch muttered, trying hard not to scratch.
Pythia sat apart, consulting her star chart and dangling her pendant. More than once she glanced over at Scotch, her face nervous as she chewed her bottom lip. Finally Scotch approached her. “I know you’re not a shaman,” Scotch said as she posed before her. “But how do I look?”
“Ridiculous,” Charity opined. Scotch really couldn’t argue. She’d smeared her green coat with a paler greenish tan streak arranged in three interlocked triangles flanked by two more, and some angular lines that felt ‘rocky.’ Her face also had the angular motif with a triangle on her forehead, the majority of her face covered in rapidly drying greenish tan goop.
And they’d drawn an audience. Apparently the Green Menace was the number one source of interesting things happening in the Storm Legion. They’d filtered in, first a few pairs, then a dozen, and then the room was filled to watch ‘shaman pony shit.’ As they finished preparations, Tempest herself was borne into the room on an improvised palanquin, set down in the center of the mob. Her eyes were drawn to the upside down statue.
“Green Menace, I deeply, sincerely hope that whatever you’re about to do isn’t going to dump us all to Equus inside a billion ton mountain,” she asked archly.
“No, no! I’m not planning on doing anything to the statue,” Scotch insisted. “I’m summoning an earth spirit I lost. This is the spot with the most rock.”
Tempest closed her eyes with a tiny shudder that so closely mimicked Charity that Scotch wondered if it was genetic. But she waved a white wing. “Proceed. My zebras are curious to see what pony shamans look like.”
Hope they’re not expecting much. Scotch was making this up as she went. She knew being spirit touched would go a long way. Maybe all this other stuff was unnecessary. But she also had gathered that intent mattered a lot towards a spirit’s willingness to act. She’d sacrificed a precious emerald that she’d won in combat. That had to matter, right?
She set the marble block down and drew a pair of eyes and a slit mouth upon it, much to the snickers of the various non-zebras. The zebras, however, were silent as they watched her very closely. Scotch took a deep breath and shifted her eyesight over.
“Huh,” she muttered as she stared at the statue, or rather, the spirit superimposed over the statue. It looked like a cloth of woven numbers constantly shifting ever so slightly, like a sail in a weak wind. Pierced through it, twisting the whole thing in a knot, was an immense glittery crystalline barb, like a caltrop or burr, spherical but with dozens of hooks that caught on the golden glow.
‘Up’ whispered the barbed thing centered on the targeting talisman.
‘Down’ whispered the golden glow caught up in its hooks.
‘Up’ repeated the megaspell.
‘Down’ insisted the spirit.
Scotch remembered the pebble on the field. ‘Up is down is up is down,’ Rocky had thought that it was crazy, but she was seeing the very spiritual, magical weave that was levitating the entire base and mountain. It was something utterly unnatural, and something impossible by magic as far as she knew.
But that wasn’t why she was here. She stared down at the marble block. This close to the ‘eye’ of the magical effect, it sat silently. “Rocky?” Nothing. “Spirit of Rocky?” Still nothing.
Someone snickered. “Wave a dead chicken over it!” another called out. It wasn’t enough. Before, she’d been in contact with the ground. “Chant mambo-jumbo!” Someone yelled. What was she supposed to say? “Do a dance! Shake that rump!” yelled out another.
A dance? What kind of dance? But she remembered Rocky showing her what the ‘earth saw,’ How it was contact. Impact. Well, if she had to do more, at this point what did she have to lose? What kind of dance did the earth want?
She let out a bellow and started to do a sort of cha cha punctuated with a double stomp. One two three, boom. One two three, boom. And she started to move in a circle around the block. “Rocky! Boulder! Spirit of Stone! Come back to me! Rocky! Boulder! Spirit of Stone! The sky’s not for thee!” Scotch dug up her old Pony for the rhyme. It was simple, she could remember it, and she could repeat it as she danced around the stone.
The pegasi, griffons, and dragons collapsed laughing, but oddly, Tempest didn’t, watching her closely. Neither did her zebras, who after a moment began to stomp their hooves in rhythm to her dance. It made it easier to keep step as she went around the block again and again. The laughing died off as zebras stomped in unison.
Then the pony members of the legion, as if unable to contain themselves, started singing along with her. Even Charity, her face screwed up, emitted the words in an annoyed monotone while the rest chanted along with her. The dragons and griffons, now clearly outnumbered, just watched. Then the dragons, not to be left out, punctuated the ‘stomp’ portion of her dance with thudding hops. Scotch, caught up in inspiration, added a sweeping motion of her tail, catching dust off the floor and flinging it into the air. She had no idea what or why. It was something… anything!
And dancing and singing and dust in the air was the perfect thing to destroy her lungs utterly. Her chest felt as if a barbed megaspell was latched on inside her, slicing up her organs. She was glad the ponies had taken up her chant, because she just struggled to breathe as she coughed and hacked and stomped and kept to the rhythm the zebras beat upon the stones. Something was tearing inside, but she didn’t dare stop! She doubted she’d ever get this chance again. She’d been censured once, she wasn’t going to allow it to happen twice.
Then she noticed blood spattering the floor. Speckles around her hooves. Scotch coughed and hacked, and the chant and rhythm faltered as she her body failed her. There was a lurch that knocked her to her hooves, but she struggled to rise again.
“Scotch,” Pythia called out. “That’s enough.”
“No!” she rasped, sweating and spitting blood with every breath as she rose to her feet, trying to keep it up. The beating and chants and booms stopped as she frantically kept moving. “I have to! Even if it kills me! I promised!”
Then she collapsed on the marble block, coughing and hacking and struggling for breath. Her lines were smeared with sweat, her mouth a mask of blood. “I have to. I promised. I have to…” she whimpered softly.
“No,” Pythia said as she rushed to Scotch’s side, holding her tight. “That’s enough.”
The statue was moving. Though upside down, it leaned forward, studying them all closely. The walls glowed with a faint golden luminescence and tiny gold soul motes danced in the air. From the stunned expressions on the faces of the Storm Legion, they were seeing it too. They were also sprawled around, as if the lurch she felt had thrown them from her feet as well. “You called, Maiden, and I have come.” It wasn’t just the statue speaking. The very stone around them resonated the words. It was no language she’d ever heard before, yet instantly understood, as one might understand a rock smashed upside the head.
“Rocky?” Scotch wheezed.
The chuckle was the prelude of the friendliest earthquake imaginable. “Rocky?” the statue mused, stroking his chin with a grind of stone upon stone. “I suppose I am, as much as you are Hoofy or Fleshy.” It cocked it’s head. “I see you are in some distress.” And it stretched out a hoof. Suddenly Scotch’s eyes bulged as she felt… things… moving in her chest and out her throat. She choked, gagged and suddenly threw up a wad of bloody mud. She stared at it numbly. Had she really had a hoofful of dust in her lungs? The trial inhalation hurt, but she could at least take the breath.
“Thank you,” she croaked. Pythia immediately produced another healing potion. Though it didn’t abate the pain, it did stop the sensation that she was drowning in her own blood. “Thank you,” she repeated to Pythia.
“You are censured,” the statue stated, his smile fading to concern as he stared down at the pair of them. “I can do nothing for that, but I can at least remove myself from your lungs so we may speak.”
Scotch risked a deep breath, feeling her chest crackle. Better, but not by much. “I need Rocky back. I promised him I’d take him somewhere new.”
The statue cocked its head. “One could argue that seeing the sky is quite new.” Charity’s eyes bulged as she gestured to the statue, her face a mask of frustration.
“And if he tells me it’s new then fine. But I’m not going to assume!” Scotch retorted.
The statue rumbled softly, laughing. “Wise, Maiden. Many fools think the terms of a pact are settled when they say so, at their convenience or excuse.” Its pale eyes were bright with amusement as Charity’s face twisted with chagrin.
“Maiden?” Scotch whispered in bafflement.
“Is that not what you are?” the statue asked, arching a brow. Scotch hoped he meant young mare or this was going to become super awkward.
“Not for a while,” she muttered as she looked away from the upside down statue. “How can I bring Rocky back?” She stared at the statue staring patiently, smiling. It clicked. “Oh. Ohhhh… but you’re… Rock?”
“Mineral. Zebras called me the Stone King, deep underground in halls of gems uncountable, sitting on the throne of the world. Your kind generally called me shiny and pretty. I admit the former is more flattering, though some of your kind did show proper respect. Occasionally,” the Stone King stated wryly.
“I didn’t mean to call you. I just wanted Rocky back so I could take him somewhere new,” Scotch muttered lamely. She felt like she’d accidentally pulled a fire alarm or something in 99.
“And where is that?” he asked as he leaned forward on his inverted throne. “I am everywhere. I was the third, and all the places that are, that are not in sky or sea, I have been copiously, maiden.” His smile grew cunning. “You may find it hard to find a place that I have not been.”
Scotch swallowed hard and the statue rumbled again. “A conundrum of corundum to be sure. I look forward to seeing how you solve it.” His eyes glittered. “What an interesting phenomenon you are, maiden. I’ve felt your hoofsteps and heard the whispers of the hidden as you pass, but meeting you… you are far less than I anticipated. More talc than diamond. Yet pressure and time may yield a harder stone. We shall see. We shall see," he rumbled, stroking his chin again.
Aware she was being ribbed, she dodged. “The hidden?”
The Stone King’s smile ebbed a little. “The silent many. They who watch and do not speak. They are... apart. They do not deal. They watch. They wait. They endure. And they fear.” Now there was no smile on the statue’s face.
“You mean they’re spirits that won’t deal with shamans or the spirit touched?”
“Oh yes. Most spirits, honestly. They sleep the slumber of existence until interrupted by your kind. They are innocent for the most part, and many. Very many.”
“But they fear?” Scotch asked and he gave a very sober nod. “What?”
The Stone King cupped his hooves before his muzzle. “They do not know. Nor I. A thing has happened that has never happened before. A new thing. A thing that tears them apart and sweeps them away. Even I feel it like a worm chewing away inside with every second. We have no name for it, but it concerns us all.”
Scotch glanced at the others, met eyes with Pythia and asked. “Stone King, do you know if the Eye of the World is blind?”
He waved a hoof before his face and then smiled, a touch sadly. “Stone is always blind, but we are good listeners. It’s a pity. I’m told my gems are quite beautiful, but I’ve never seen them before myself.” He sat up. “The Eye is between their kind and the World, not I. If it was blinded or was not, or how it could be achieved, is beyond my knowledge.”
Damn. “Well, I’m sorry for wasting your time,” Scotch said, somewhat chagrined.
He chuckled. “I have had billions of years of time. I don’t begrudge a few minutes. I am rarely called. Rarely roused. How could I not come personally to see one summoning my part?” He paused and then his pale eyes turned in the direction of Tempest. The white pegasus was a statue herself. “I feel the sin of those who foreswore their oaths here. Are there any that would speak for you?”
Tempest glanced at Scotch, and then stepped forward. “I do.”
“You are not mine. You are sworn to the sky, and thus I make no onus upon you. I would merely ask that you send the maiden on her way, lest you be destroyed by forces greater than I. Wickedness chases her every step, and I cannot protect her from it.”
The white pegasus glared at Scotch a moment, as if pondering if this was some kind of trick. “And if I do?”
“I would be grateful,” the Stone King replied and gave her a shrewd smile. “How would you value the gratitude of one such as I?”
Oorusha limped out of the crowd and whispered in Tempest’s ear. “Very well. I… accept your gratitude…”
The walls of the building started to shake as if seized by an earthquake. Stone popped and creaked all around them, and the statue detached from the ceiling, reversing in the air. The Storm Legion cried out in alarm, but Tempest maintained a cool stare on the statue as the stone inexplicably rearranged itself so it was right side up. Portions of the walls gave way, admitting light, and the breaches suddenly narrowed into masterfully cut window slits. Wooden beams snapped like toothpicks, and steel reinforcement bent like putty under the unrelenting force. A minute later the rumbling passed.
Majina stared at the statue, now on the ‘floor’ and rushed to the nearby door, peeking out. “It’s right-side up! Everything is right side up and… wow…” she called out. Indeed, in the shrine, all the cracks were mended and smooth.
Giving Scotch another somewhat perturbed look, Tempest addressed the statue. “Thank you.”
“It is payment. Or repayment. But advice I give for free,” the Stone King rumbled. “Abandon these spectacles and return to as you were. Expunge the sin that plagues you, and remember your oaths. You were greater than you are now. You should be better.”
Tempest’s face betrayed her consternation for only an instant before she reassumed her cool mask. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps,” he said with a shrug, and then reached out and picked up the marble stone Scotch had been dancing around, holding it in his hoof. “Remember your promises, Maiden. They have more power than you know.”
Scotch felt the seriousness of his words tighten around her throat like a noose. “I will.”
With that he extended his hoof to her and she took the block from him. The eye depressions, more square and somewhat unimpressed, blinked up at her. Then the statue pulled back returning to its previous pose. The sensation of immense weight lifted and the whisper if ‘is up’ resumed.
“Well. That was interesting,” Rocky said in his usual minimalist quip. Scotch, to her relief, saw the gray scale disappear completely.
“Stone King?” Scotch asked.
“No. Rocky. I thought I was lost. I am back.” It studied her soberly. “That is good.”
Scotch smiled and hugged the rock to her chest. It was only then that the Storm Legion exploded into a babble of a hundred disagreeing voices. However, a hoof was placed firmly on her shoulder and Scotch turned to see Tempest not smiling as she stared down at her. “We need to talk. More.”
* * *
“That’s quite a sight,” Skylord said as he leaned out the window. Scotch didn’t need another view of the immense, almost perfectly cylindrical pillar rising up out of the plain below and locking to the base of the floating block. The Storm Legion was already working on trying to free it from the hundred foot wide spire of stone. Mobility was more important, after all.
But the Stone King had profoundly changed the entire structure of the base, from the ruins below to the base above, the stairs now aligned with the pull of gravity and the multitude of cracks had sealed. Apparently concrete counted as mineral for the Stone King, but a great deal of wiring and wood would have to be replaced. However, where there’d once been rickety wooden docks and piers there were now elegantly sculpted landings for the airships to tie up to. Beautiful and reinforced, the Stone King had given the Storm Legion a palace in the sky, all to send her on her way.
The cleanup helped distract the legion from the spiritual, scientific, and practical consequences of Scotch’s summoning. Was that really a spirit of stone, or some elaborate ‘come to life’ spell? An illusion, perhaps? Maybe some kind of mass hysteria? Perhaps Tempest herself had arranged all this? Cleaning out the debris, righting the furniture, and cleaning up the mess kept people from asking serious questions.
This time, however, the debrief was more about what Scotch Tape herself could do with ‘spirits.’ Could she drop a mountain on her enemies? Cause a tornado? Speak to lightning? The fact that Scotch herself had no clue clearly didn’t mollify her. “The military officer in me is saying to lock you up till I can figure out how to use you. That that wasn’t a spirit and that somehow all this transformation just happened.”
“That’s the pony in you,” Pythia said as she dug out her battered note cards. “You’re skeptical, then you jump straight to acceptance. You skip over the whole pondering ‘what if’ moment. Probably because of Celestia telling you just so for centuries.”
Majina stepped forward. “Using spirits for things like war is super dangerous, ma’am. If Scotch could drop mountains on her enemies, don’t you think the Caesar would have, too?”
“If it ended the war faster, why not?” Tempest countered with a frown.
“Because the things that do things like that don’t want money. They want you to do things. Things like help Scotch along. Things like sacrifice your newborn foal to it.” Pythia said, and then added, “Not talking just spirits. There’s other supernatural things out there with… needs.”
Tempest curled her lip. “Why?”
Pythia shrugged. “To see if you’re willing to do it. Things like that are prime fare to supernatural things. And if you’re willing to sacrifice one baby, why not ten? Why not ten thousand? Why not ten million? Pretty soon the help you’re getting isn’t worth the price they’re demanding. But if you stop, you broke the pact. Bam! Censure.”
“There’s lots of stories of exactly that happening.” Majina added. “Orion the hunter made a pact with a fallen star for immortality at the price of his happiness. He was miserable at the time, and thought it was no big deal. But every time he gained something he loved, it was lost. Eventually, he was the most miserable creature in the world.”
Tempest set her hat aside and rubbed her Temples hard. “Nrgh… I feel like I’m letting a balefire bomb go trotting out of my hooves…” Finally she thumped her hooves down on the top of the table. “Fine. I’ve got enough trouble on my hooves trying to break us free from this spire. We’re a sitting duck at the moment and I can’t spare a Raptor right now.”
“But, what about going back to Equestria?” Charity wailed.
“You want to wait for a few weeks, you can take a trip. Otherwise, the best we can do is fly you out to some field where the Flame Legion isn’t waiting. We’re only a few hundred kilometers from Roam.”
Skylord added, “Without the Whiskey Express.”
“It’s the best I can do. Unless you want to wait for us to blast through a solid chunk of stone?” Tempest offered.
Scotch considered it, but the thought of wasting more time sounded hazardous to her. “No. I think finding out what happened to the world is something we shouldn’t wait for. We’ll go soon as you can take us.”
“Then pack your things. You’re going now. The sooner you’re out of my mane, the better,” Tempest said grimly. Scotch agreed. It was time to get her hooves back on the ground again.
* * *
In the depths of the earth was a whimpering noise. A lone zebra drug himself along the floor, crawling slowly forward, trailing a streak of blood from where his legs disappeared. In the darkness behind him came a soft crunching noise, and the wet plap of hoofsteps in pools of blood.
Security turrets dropped from the ceiling and unleashed a torrent of energetic blasts down the tunnel. They flickered and flashed as they struck something, but something was not deterred. From the ceiling overhead, tendrils of black slime slithered overhead, oozed into the firing machines, and they sparked and fell silent. As the zebra crawled desperately, the steps continued causally. Streamers of ebony dangled like spears over the crawling form.
They passed by a doorway in the deeps, and a tendril punched through the metal door like an awl. Screams sounded from within, followed by wet, crunching noises. The screams abruptly fell silent. “Where is she?” a voice whispered behind the frantically crawling old zebra.
“I don’t know,” he screamed as he pulled himself towards a door.
“I thought Doctor Z knew everything in the wasteland,” the voice whispered, like silk.
Doctor Z started back at that shadow. At the form within it. He hooked his forelegs on the edge and pulled himself around into the main sanctum. Security spirits raised wards and force fields, interposing themselves between him and the monstrosity. He even dared smile as he saw it probing the field to no effect. He’d wrapped wire around the stubs to stop the bleeding, and took a moment to give a twist.
Which is why he missed the spirits getting eaten. With a pop and fizzle the magical fields collapsed, the security spirits he’d made pacts with screaming as they were ripped into the thing. “You are Doctor Z. She was here. Where is she?” it asked. His horror choked in his throat, and a tendril lanced out and wrapped around his neck, lifting him into the air.
He could only gag. With power wrecked throughout the bunker, the screens were dark, the tube silent. But then the equine shape stiffened. “Wait. Wait!” It turned its head to the east. “I can feel her again! She’s on the ground. That way!”
Doctor Z just whimpered at this. He was drawn closer, seeing the equine inside the darkness. “So very sorry about this. Dreadfully embarrassing. If I’d just been a little more patient, all of you would still be alive!” It tittered a little laugh that trailed off. For a second their eyes met.
Then a crunch cut the whimpers off, and Doctor Z was no more than a mote of light in tarry darkness’s stomach. “How embarrassing,” they murmured, looking east. “Well, I don’t know how you got all the way over there, dear Scotch, but rest assured, I’ll find you. I swear it.”
A tiny treacherous fan started to whirr, and the head snapped to the sheet covered vat in the middle of the chamber. Slowly it approached under the dark screen overhead, the few lingering candles the only illumination in the chamber. The black goo lanced out, striking the container from four sides, and in an instant it shattered, cloth tearing.
The mess of meat and metal tumbled out at its feet. Cables snaked out of missing limbs. Wires dangled from eye sockets. The only similarity between the two, however, was the black ichor that dripped from the metal infested pony’s tubes.
“Xiggy?!” the figure gasped as it knelt next to the squirming mass. “Oh, Xigfried, it is you! Oh, you poor silly fool! How long have you been in there?” The black slime pulled him close, and hooves embraced him.
The stallion vomited fluid and then took a shallow, rasping breath. “Kare?” it rasped.
“That’s right. Oh, you poor boy. Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you. I promise,” it said as it easily lifted the mass that had been contained. “I’ll make it all better,” she said as she carried him out past the pool that had been Doctor Z. “After all, I always keep my promises, like a good friend should.”
“I really miss the Whiskey Express,” Scotch muttered for what felt like the thousandth time since they’d been dropped off at the base of the stone spire rising up out of the surrounding plain like a giant stone pin set in the yellow fields. They’d barely gotten clear before the Flame Legion showed up in force, doing little more than surrounding it and shouting threats at the distant Storm Legion hundreds of meters above them. Then the Raptors and airships had started to blast the stone spine, sending chips raining down on them, and the Flame Legion withdrew. By that point Scotch and the others were walking south. She was elated to see a sign that said Roam was a mere one hundred kilometers away!
Thousands of kilometers, and they were almost there… except now they were walking.
After pockety-pocking their way for so long, she discovered she hated walking. Maybe it would have been different if there was nothing around them to slow their passage. A nice straight distance to traverse towards the south. Except now they weren’t alone, and it seemed like they were drowning in a morass of the whole world was trudging besides them.
Countless zebras plodded along, their multitude of tribal stripes blurring together into a field that Majina had more than once disappeared into. That was punctuated by other things. Cat, dog, and apelike creatures walked along with minotaurs, gargoyles, and centaurs all moving along the expressway pulling a multitude of wagons and carts that would roll over anyone inattentive enough to lose track of them. Anything that could fly, did to escape the press of bodies and the reek of so many travelling so close together. The risk of getting separated was so high that they’d tied each other together. Any progress southward slowed to a crawl in the milling crowd. Occasionally they’d break free into open road, only to run into another mob plodding north on the same road. All they could do was get off the road and wait.
Fortunately, there were villages to stay at. They sat slightly apart from the road. Tiny circular collections of long houses arranged in concentric circles. Vendors had stalls that sold food and water and local goods to the travellers. A few had even set up old tractors as temporary inns where people could just climb in for a few hours’ rest. “I really miss my salt,” Charity mourned. “We could have bribed one of those Flamers to take us there.” They sat in the shade of a wall of one of the circular villages. Rocky stoically sat in his granite block, serving as a chair while Pythia did her thing. If Scotch carried him, he could serve as a seat. It wasn’t quite Badlands hot, but the humidity made sweat pour off her green hide. Pythia sat a little ways away at a booth that consisted of a board and the backs of Skylord and Precious. She was telling a fortune to some cat people who seemed quite impressed with her map and pendant. Scotch just hoped she was far enough away that the black book wasn’t interfering.
“The Flame Legion would probably just take it anyway,” Majina muttered. She’d stuck a large leaf to her hoof and fanned herself. The fortune telling wrapped itself up and the two ‘Abyssinians’ returned to the road going north. “Good fortuning?” she asked as the cloaked zebra passed two imperios to Charity, ignoring Precious’s pout.
“Not sure that’s the right word for it, but yes,” Pythia said. “I augured off the Southern Cross. Seemed fitting for desert dwelling cat people. If I had a proper spooky tent, some incense, and some soft nonsensical chanting I could make a fortune. The gold kind,” she amended hastily as Scotch chuckled.
Skylord lay down and put the board in the shade. “Too bad we can’t buy a wagon with it.”
Scotch had hoped for that too. Find another steam tractor to fix up and drive, or a wagon to carry things. She never anticipated so many people though. Villages and fields and more villages and so many people! “Where are they all going?” Scotch asked, looking north. Two days on the road and the Storm Legion’s base was still in view!
“Roam, same as us,” Skylord answered. “Probably not the city proper, but wherever the Flame Legion’s headquartered. Bringing tribute so they can get a token saying they’ve paid their dues for the year and get on with their lives. Most legions do it. Easier to let people carry the goods rather than waste troops and supplies on it.”
“It’s so much. Compared to Rice River and up north this is… a lot,” Charity muttered as she watched the people moving about.
“There was a lot up north you missed. Go a little north and you would have seen the Blood Legion’s breeding camps. Go south west and you’d hit our batteries. We threaded the needle on the Old Road,” Skylord remarked. ‘Breeding camps’ was a phrase that Scotch could have gone the rest of her life not hearing. “What’s it like in Equestria?” Skylord, asking about home?
Scotch glanced at the others. “Nothing like this. Not even the Hoof had this many. Tenpony neither.” Scotch reflected on the crowd. “It’s mostly like up north. Lots of big empty, and you come across a settlement or two. Like those scar farmers outside Rice River. But mostly it’s just empty.” She regarded the multitudes shuffling along. “I didn’t know there were this many people in the world.”
“First time for me too,” he said. “I’m probably one of the first Irons south in a generation. Not a lot of overlap with our legions. Sometimes we might clash on the southern edge of the Empties when Aizen’s not stomping on both of us, but mostly we just do our thing and they do theirs.”
“All these people can’t be Flame Legion, though,” Charity insisted.
“Nah.” He dismissively waved a claw. “They’re just tributaries and conscripts. Flames save their brand for people that survive Roam,” he said, looking south. There wasn’t anything visible though but faint wisps of dark clouds.
“What’s waiting for us?” Scotch asked.
“Don’t know. Not a lot of intel,” he said, eyes oddly fixed on the southern horizon. “You hear stories. Fire monsters. Volcanos. Flames that try to eat you.” He shook his head. “But then people say Irons have a gun that can shoot all the way around the planet.”
“And you don’t, right?” Majina asked, leaning towards him, eyes wide in anticipation.
He didn’t answer for a moment as she leaned towards him, and then said evenly, “I can’t say.”
She fell, sprawling on her front with a groan. “That’s so mean.”
“What’s does the Flame Legion do though?” Pythia asked with a frown as Majina picked herself back up again. They were the only steam tractors they’d seen on the road: large flatbeds full of horribly scarred zebras. Most had such masses of keloid that their stripes were unrecognizable. Their stares chilled Scotch, who felt as if they just wanted to tie her up in wire and throw her on a bonfire.
“According to them, saving the rest of Zebrinica from whatever’s in Roam,” he replied evenly, then gave a little shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”
A shadow rose, poking out above the line of shade. “Did I hear you right? You’re from the north?” piped a young stallion. Scotch looked up, seeing a zebra with short, dash like stripes looking down at them.
Scotch glanced to the others. The village hadn’t said anything to them while Pythia had been telling fortunes. What happened outside the village wasn’t their concern. Everyone just shrugged and Scotch answered, “That’s right. From Rice River. Though my friends and I came here from Equestria last year. And who are you?”
“Equestria, huh?” His mouth split in an easy grin. “Want some lunch?”
They shared a look. Who could say no to a free lunch?
Hexan, as he soon introduced himself once they’d reached the gate, wore a leather smock that covered his back and flanks, his glyphmark two cubes with conspicuous dots. He took them all to his home, a single room in one of the curving village houses. He set a steamer on a little iron stove and loaded it with food before introducing himself. “I’m a probability shaman,” he proclaimed with such proud openness that Scotch wondered if he was serious or not. A passerby spat on the ground as they trotted past.
And he wanted to know the world. Where was Rice River and what was happening there? What about the different legions up there? What were the odds someone could reach Equestria by sea? Had they reached Bastion on the west coast? What about east? The only time he wasn’t asking questions was when they answered or had his mouth full of the spherical steamed dumplings crammed full of peppery sauce and grilled vegetables. He’d pop the whole thing in and blurt out questions about everything from their odds of crossing from north to south without a train, to what they thought of one’s chances to make a boat and follow the coast to Equestria.
“Because I want out of Zebrinica,” he said firmly as they finished the last dumpling. His long mane partially obscured his face as he regarded the rest of the village which glared at them like intruders, but said nothing besides, ‘Null’, as if that should be insulting rather than baffling. “And I don’t care how cursed I have to get if it gets me the hell out of here.”
Scotch glanced at Charity, her face locked on his. “Didn’t think I’d ever hear a shaman say something like that.”
He dug into his smock and pulled out a pair of dice. “You do seer work, right?” he asked Pythia.
“Null,” a zebra mare muttered at the seven of them, spitting as she trotted past.
“Stars, yes,” she replied evasively.
“Yeah. Stars. Starkatteri. Duh. Well I do seer work too. With these,” he said as he produced a pair of dice.
“Ooh!” Pythia brightened. “Cleromancy.” Everyone, including Hexan, seemed baffled by this. “Divination via the casting of lots or sortation. Technically, astragalomancy. Very old divination. Almost as old as stargazing.” She jabbed a hoof at the dice. “In ancient times they’d be hoofbones or teeth, etched with runes. You toss them in a bowl to see the future.” Everyone just stared at her silently. “What?”
“I have never met anyone like you,” Hexan muttered, his green eyes wide as he leaned towards her. “Marry me.”
“What!” Pythia blurted as she leaned back. “No!” Scotch suppressed the urge to thump him, barely.
“Darn,” he said as he sat upright again. “Probably for the best. The elders would never approve it. Just another reason to go to Equestria.”
“Why’d you ask her to marry you?” Scotch demanded, ears burning.
“Eh, she’s the first mare I’ve met that didn’t spit at the mention of divination,” he paused, and a sallow faced zebra across the street spat, glaring at the young stallion, “fortune telling,” he said, with another pause, and sure enough two more zebras passing glared in and spat, “or telling the future.”
“Hexan!” a stallion roared from the house adjacent to theirs. “Why are you making everyone curse our home!? Go count dates or something!”
“I’m entertaining guests, papa!” he bellowed back. “A Starkatteri.”
“Null! My family is null and undone! Our equation shall be solved! For shame!” And there was a thump against the wall. Some foals next door laughed though, so Scotch wasn’t entirely alarmed. Yet.
“Sorry,” my tribe isn’t big on fortune tellers, so you can guess how welcome a probability seer is,” Hexan muttered with a shrug. “But I am a shaman, so no one’s tried to poison me yet. No one wants to risk bad probability.”
“You’re all Logos, right?” Scotch guessed. “I knew a Logos named Vega in Rice River. A Proditor.”
Hexan recoiled. “Wow. What odds that would happen? I’d rather run off to Equestria before taking the red.”
“Because of the spitting? You know if you shoot people who spit, they stop spitting,” Skylord suggested. They gave him the look. “What? You don’t have to kill a person when you shoot at them. Just aim for the legs!”
“Yes, but then they’d calculate the exact moment to kick a pot to crush my head. My people tolerate me, but only so long as they can spit to ward off random probability spirits.” Hexan shrugged. “It’s traditional,” he stated, as if one explained the other.
“But why?” Majina asked. “Why don’t they like your fortune telling?”
“It cheats the calculation of life,” he said as he put the plates and steamer trays in a bucket and set them off to the side.
“The what now?” Precious asked, her face screwed up. “Is life a math problem? Is that why I’m so bad at it?”
Hexan laughed as he turned a tap and filled the bucket with water. Strapping on a hoof brush, he started to clean. “All Logos believe that life is a mathematical equation. The whole universe is math. Math says where we go. What we do. Who we are even. One plus one always equals two. That our act of living determines if, when we die, the summation of our life was positive or negative. And that when we die, our equation is solved, and the result will either be a positive or negative number.”
“Negative!” came the father’s wail through the wall. “Negative cubed! Woe to my family!”
Hexan kicked the wall with a hind leg. “I solve my equation my way, Father! A negative squared is positive!” He let out a huff and gave them all a half smile. “Needless to say, if you fortune-tell, you’re basically cheating. Solving sections of the equation by peeking at the future is like doing the math without showing your work. It’s null.”
“Null,” a pair of zebra muttered in unison, spitting on the ground as they passed in unison.
“That is getting on my last nerve,” Precious muttered.
“It’s just an expression of disgust. A null is a mathematical error. One that can’t ever be solved. A lot of Logos believe that once you peek into the future, your life’s equation is ruined. And since I can help others see the future, well…”
“They really don’t like you. I can relate,” Pythia admitted with a smile.
“See! I knew you’d get it!” he laughed. “It doesn’t bother me that much. I’m a shaman. They don’t want to screw up their equation by killing me. So they say null and spit every time they pass my door. It’s tradition,” he repeated, and let out a very long sigh. “A very annoying tradition.”
“You know what else is tradition? Getting married! How are you to do this if you keep cheating your equation?” his father wailed. “My line will be undone! My summation lacking, for my failures to parent my eldest child!”
“I have three sisters and two brothers! Your line is perfectly fine, Father!” He huffed as he put the cleaned dishes on a rack to dry. “Village life. Anyway, it’s not so bad.” He carried the bucket of dishwater to the steps and poured it out, washing away the mess. “It’s easy enough to clean away. And it could get much worse.” He dropped the brush into the empty bucket and set it next to the steamer stand. “Do you want to see the village?”
“Yes,” said Majina and Precious. A grunt and shrug from Charity and Skylord.
Pythia asked, “Will it be safe?”
“Oh, yes. Just ignore the swears and occasional spitting. Logos are very welcoming to outsiders, so long as we can show how much we despise them.”
It proved not quite as bad as that. Majina, Scotch, and Charity were received with smiles, Skylord and Precious with aloof respect, but one look at Pythia and everything turned to scowls and mutters of ‘null’. But in spite of that, the village was a fascinating place to tour.
Row homes were concentrically arranged around a central domed structure, with canvas sheets pulled overhead to block the sun or let in light. The walls were decorated in mosaics with geometric patterns. Every now and then there’d be mathematical equations on the wall that Scotch could almost understand, and a few that she recognized, like liquid flow pressure.
The Logos as well seemed exceptionally neat and orderly. They wore smocks similar to Hexan, but decorated with feathers, ribbons, or shiny buttons. The more they had, the more respect they seemed to receive. Hexan’s undecorated smock was identical to the ones the children wore. While the spitting was a bit excessive at times, Scotch found it very regular and orderly. The clocks all chimed at the same time.
These people are a stable, Scotch realized. Not a fucked up one like 99, but everyone was acting their part and in their place. There was a certain number of toilets, which meant a certain number of toilet cleaners, which meant someone had to be convinced to clean them. Everyone had their place, like Security or Maintenance, and everyone did as they were expected. 99 had acted that way out of a desperate fear for survival. These zebras did it as casually as breathing. If all these Logos were put in a stable, or in the middle of a desert, she suspected they would rebuild the exact same village there.
As she thought, she realized that Hexan’s fortune telling could have been far worse received. Being male aside, the one thing 99 could never tolerate was the idea that it could be anything other than what it was. It had chosen death over that. Somehow, even after years, it made her sad.
In the center of the village was a row house that was more palisade than building surrounding a courtyard and a large round building. The palisade seemed like an elaborate storeroom for the village food. Inside there was a well and Scotch guessed that most of the population could fit inside. They climbed up onto the roof of the central ring structure, looking out at the concentric rings of structures.
“One. One. Two. Three. Five. Eight. Thirteen,” Pythia remarked as they walked. She met Scotch’s eye. “The number of buildings in each ring.”
“And it would be the same in every village. Ours is quite small. Someday we’d like to expand the wall and add a ring of twenty one,” Hexan said as they trotted along the roof over the palisade. “If we were attacked, we’d withdraw into here. Of course, if the Flame Legion really wanted to destroy us, there’s little we could do to stop them. Mud and straw are poor defense against napalm.”
There really wasn’t much else to say after that as he led them down to the central structure. It was at least ten meters tall before the dome began, nearly perfectly spherical. Inside was refreshingly cool. Small holes in the walls were fitted with glass lenses that spread the light evenly throughout the chamber, creating a suffuse glow of yellow light. The walls were covered in geometric patterns that drew the eye upwards towards an intricate sunburst filling the dome. Arranged around the walls like spokes in a wheel were shelves going up three stories. Delicate ladders on wheels accessed the uppermost shelves, of which every inch was filled with scrolls, books, and even clay tablets.
“Amazing!” Majina gasped. “It’s just like the Zencori library we passed! Remember Master Baruti?”
“No,” Skylord muttered flatly.
Majina eyed him just as flatly. “Remember shooting some Blood Legion, getting caught, and having to wear those chains?” the filly asked in a low monotone.
“Vividly,” he replied in the same tone.
“He was just before that happened,” Majina answered as a grandmotherly mare approached. “I love your library, ma’am. It’s just like a Zencori one we visited a while ago.”
“Not quite the same, my dear,” she said brightly, her mane tied up in a bun. “You won’t find many people playacting physicists and recounting historical dramas in mathematics. We Logos tend to focus on more practical applications of lore rather than the more… creative aspects.” She then swept her gaze to Hexan, who rubbed his foreleg abashedly with the other. “Hexan. How are you? Is Pentan still bemoaning your lack of marriage?”
“Father’s fine. I’m fine. He is, but never mind that, Granny Tetra. These six came all the way from the north. Five of them from Equestria. That’s almost on the other side of the world!”
“Ten thousand kilometers or so from Roam. Not quite a quarter, but I understand your sentiment,” she said, and then eyed Pythia. “And a Starkatteri too. My my.” She suddenly leaned in, her voice dropping. “You wouldn’t be in the market for a husband in the near future, would you? Hexan’s a bit flighty at times and a bit too fond of the dice, but I’m sure a hard working young mare as yourself not concerned with his habits could knock him into a more respectable shape.”
“Wha– wha–?” Pythia babbled. “Why is everyone trying to get me married today? No! Just… no!”
“Ah, pity. You’re the only zebra I could think of that’d put up with him and his relentless urge to jump ahead in his calculations,” she said with a sigh and trotted over to a tea set. “I fear the mares of our village have audited him right out of their calculations.”
Hexan scoffed, “Sometimes knowing what’s coming can be an advantage.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Scotch said with a wave of her hoof. “I mean, Pythia knowing the future is damned useful sometimes, but… well… I once dealt with a spirit. He wanted to show me the future. He showed me two, but I stopped him from the third because it wouldn’t really be my future anymore. It’d be whatever he showed me. Knowing the future’s a double edged sword, Hexan.”
Granny pursed her lips. “How would I feel about zony grandchildren?” she mused aloud, setting off alarms in Scotch’s head before she started to pour tea. “Care for a cup? I’d love to hear your stories.”
Scotch glanced at the others and they shrugged. Why not? For once, it wasn’t as if there was any rush. Majina told the tale with her usual creative embellishments. Scotch tried not to snort into her tea when she defeated the Stone King in a hoof wrestling contest.
“My, you certainly are cursed,” Granny Tetra said as she held her cup contemplatively before her. “I’m no shaman, mind you. My study is in engineering. But anyone who heard such a tale couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for whoever was swept along in your wake.”
“I don’t suppose you know where the Eye of the World is?” Scotch asked plaintively as she sat on Rocky. The older mare had arched a brow but hadn't said anything at the block she carried.
“Why, Scotch! It’s a metaphor! Or an idea! Or it’s some spirit thing! Or it’s waving a rubber chicken over your head as you dance like an idiot!” Charity scoffed.
“Actually, I can tell you exactly where it is,” Granny Tetra replied calmly. “But such a sour attitude, I’m not sure I’m inclined to.”
Charity flushed, her eyes bulging and opened her mouth before Scotch put her in a headlock, muting her with her other foreleg. “She’s sorry. She’s very politely wondering if you could tell us where it is?” Then her eyes popped wide. “OW! You bit me!” she whined as Charity glared at her now.
“Ah, to be young,” Tetra said as she rose from her cushion and trotted to a shelf, pushing a ladder over and ascending much faster than Scotch supposed a mare her age should. She returned with a strange roll of bamboo slats tied together, the brown lengths marked in precise little glyphs, and carefully unrolled it. Carefully carved on the inside of each slat were more etched grooves. Once unrolled and the slats pressed tightly together, it formed a map of Zebrinica. A green painted line meandered through it, and there were a number of delicate glyphs marked all over it. “This etching was Master Decapentahexahepta’s work, made one year before the end of the war. And there,” she said, conversationally, pointing at a glyph, “is the Eye of the World.”
Scotch stared in horror at a marking right off the north coast. “It is?” she asked weakly.
“Well, it was two hundred and seventy six years ago,” Granny said as she pointed to another. “Then the Eye of the World was moved here.” She pointed to a second dot to the east of the first. “The Shrine of Sekkan, in the Deserts of Saccarush. It stayed there for twenty seven years and then was moved over here in the city state of Prala, until it was razed by the thirty seventh Caesar.” And she pointed at a third glyph with her hoof.
“You’re saying it moves around?” Scotch asked, feeling the world falling out from under her hooves. “Or destroyed?”
“More that it can be relocated anywhere sufficient shamanistic power is gathered. The Eye, near as I understand Shamanology, is a convergence of spiritual and material existence. A place where the physical and spiritual can come into contact more clearly than through visions and the like. The Eye’s been moved several times. It’s even been destroyed in varying conflicts! So asking where the Eye is located is a bit of a misnomer. What you are asking is where the eye was last. According to Master Deca, his last recorded location was… ah. Roam.”
Scotch mentally landed on her hooves. “It’s in Roam? It’s there? It’s just right that way?” she asked, thrusting a hoof what she hoped was southward.
“It was last there, in the Temple of the Twelve and One Tribes. Whether it was there when the megaspells hit or not I can’t say,” Granny said as she trotted to a desk and returned with two pieces of paper, along with a charcoal stick. Putting the paper on the slats, she carefully rubbed out a copy of both sides of the map.
“How do they move it? And why?” Precious asked.
“The how is beyond me, but the why was simple. Originally, the Eye was summoned as the tribes migrated around Zebrinica. If there was some disaster that befell the Eye, it could simply be reformed elsewhere,” Granny Tetra said calmly.
“So is that what it meant?” Pythia asked. “Was blinding the Eye just code for moving it somewhere?”
“If so, can we find it? Maybe use it to help things somehow?” Majina pondered.
"That would be good," Rocky opined from under her rump.
“What did it actually do? Or is that more shamany junk?” Charity asked.
“Well, it’s certainly more Zencorish in nature. The Logos deal in more material and mathematical issues. Metaphors are really not our forte,” Granny Tetra admitted.
On one hoof, they still didn’t know everything, but on the other three they knew the Eye could be moved, and that the last place it had been had been in Roam, and that it was a place where shamans could do special stuff. “Well, thanks for the information,” Scotch said, “though, I’d kinda hoped you would have just given us a X marks the spot.”
“That I could. Knowledge unapplied is useless. Ultimately, we all must solve our equations on our own, and determine whether we add or subtract from the universe,” she said solemnly, and then her whoof whipped out and cuffed Hexan’s head. “Which means you need to stop playing with the future and be more mindful of the present! You can’t get foals by multiplying by one!”
“Yeesh, sorry Granny!” he yelped, and together they departed the library. It was already afternoon, but Scotch wanted to make better time. Still, something nagged at her as Hexan escorted them out of the village.
“Well, thanks for lunch,” Scotch said as they trotted out, getting a final round of nulls and spitting at Pythia’s hooves. “Sorry, but I don’t think Equestria’s far enough to get away from your troubles.”
Hexan blinked and then his eyes widened. “Oh! No! That’s not why I want to get out of Zebrinica,” he said as he dug in his saddle bags and shook out some dice. “A few months back, I was doing some scrying for a zebra. Strange sort. Achu. Really severe. He wanted to know if there was any future for Zebrinica.”
Scotch leaned in curiously, peeking at their spirits. A golden glow covered each cube in a faint aura, their surfaces glittering with tiny numbers that seemed to constantly change. “How’s it work?”
“I throw the dice and look at the numbers, how they come to rest, if there’s any patterns or pairings. Lots of little hints.” He looked at all of them. “Any takers?”
Majina rushed to the front. “Ohh, me! What’s the best story I’m going to tell?” she asked with an eager grin.
He popped the dice into the bag, shook it, and let the dice fall out. They landed in an almost perfect line before him. Every single die showed six pips.
“Someone forgot to unload their dice,” Skylord muttered.
“No! No. That’s… huh. I guess it’s a really awesome story,” he muttered, a bit baffled. “I don’t know what or to whom but yeah. Awesome.” He didn’t look happy though, his brows furrowed as he looked at the pips. They made a pair of almost perfectly straight lines, but the fifth die sat at ninety degrees to the first four. He shook his head hard. “Anyway, that’s how my seering works.”
“So what happened?” Scotch asked, a little bemused, “Why does that make you want to leave?”
“Ask me,” Hexan said with a nod. “The future of Zebrinica.”
Scotch looked at the others, then at him, and asked in a slightly baffled tone, “What’s the future for Zebrinica?”
The dice tumbled out with no more force than last time, but this time the dice went wild, bouncing off legs and hooves. Not a single one came up straight. “Whoa!” Scotch said as she nudged one away that rested cocked against her hoof.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Hexan said as he cleared away a patch of ground and lifted a single die. “Ask again.” Scotch frowned as he let it drop. It bounced once, twice, and then came to rest balanced spinning on a point. It slowed to a stop within a few seconds, but remained perched perfectly on a single point.
“That’s the weirdest shadow I’ve ever seen,” Pythia muttered as she stared. At the blank looks she said, "When you can't see the future, usually because of some unknown variable."
“That’s what I thought too, but when I get a shadow the numbers are usually just random. No patterns. Nothing special,” he said as he pointed at the dice with a hoof. “I knew someone was trying to tell me something,” he said and then pulled out a second set of cubic dice. “Then I made these.” He showed the dice, only instead of pips, they were numbered 0-5. He put them in the bag. “Ask again,” he said as he shook them.
“What’s the future for Zebrinica?” She asked. He tumbled the dice out.
All five ended up 0, lying in nearly a perfect row. He looked at them gravely. “And that’s why I want to go to Equestria. I’d take my family and even my village if I could, but they won’t listen to a cheater.”
Pythia regarded the dice. “It seems dire, but what if you’re wrong? What if the zeros just mean a shadow you can’t see past?”
“That I can’t see past? Sure. But I don’t ‘see’ the future. You ask the question, I throw the dice, the spirits answer. If they can’t, the dice bounce somewhere or land on top of each other or whatever. But this seems way too specific. It freaks me out that something is going to happen here and I don’t want to be here when it does,” Hexan said with a sigh. “I’d like to get my whole village to Equestria, if I could.”
“Or maybe,” Charity posited, “it’s a null.”
“If you spit, I’m going to smack you,” Precious growled.
“No. I mean an actual null. You’re asking the spirits about Zebrinica, but if Zebrinica doesn’t exist anymore, you’re doing bad math,” Charity said. “You’re multiplying by null.”
A mustached stallion poked his head over the village wall. “You! Which of you said that?” he asked. All eyes glanced at the unicorn, and the mustached zebra pointed a hoof at Charity before grinning. “Would you like to marry my son?”
“Father!” Hexan wailed. "Stop!"
"He is a decent enough boy. Cheats at life but I'm sure a pony wouldn't mind. Eh?!" He asked, giving her a wide, toothy smile.
“Can you meet my dowry price of a million imperios?” Charity shot back. His grin disappeared and he sank back behind the wall.
“What if he could have?” Precious asked with a smirk.
Charity gave Hexan a look and then shrugged. “Eh. He’s not the worst male I’ve seen. And we would probably open a heck of a casino.”
Hexan’s mouth worked. “That is a brilliant and terrible idea,” he said as if dazed by the idea.
“The start of many a Flim Flam business model,” Charity sniffed with a triumphant business model. Charity rubbed her chin. “Actually, with your probability magic and my business sense, we could probably be profitable inside a year!”
“I think that’s our signal to leave,” Majina said and they all started towards the road, save Charity who seemed to be mulling it over.
Charity waved a hoof at the village. “Wait! Sir! If your village could manage say a hundred imperios I think that’d be a sufficient–” Then Precious scooped her up and draped her over her back. “Wait! I just need a little capital! Capitallllll!” she wailed as she was carried back into the throng of people following the road towards Roam.
***
Of course Hexan hadn’t just told them about their village. He’d filled them in on what to expect with the Flame Legion. While technically in their lands and paying tribute to them, they rarely interacted past that. If a village caused another village trouble with their tribute, or one of the monsters living on the plain was being too monstrous, they’d hunt it down, cook it, and eat it. Killing was optional, and most creatures avoided annoying the legion.
Because one thing the Flame Legion did, a lot, was burn things alive. Scotch spotted only one incidence of this herself. A dozen zebras chained to the base of a metal water tower, splashed with oil, and then a candle was lit, resting on the oil. Scotch made damned sure that she and her friends were away before that fire met the fuel, adamantly keeping her eyes off the spirit world.
Lots of people bore the raised scars of branding irons showing X’s. Others had eight pointed stars. The former, she learned, was for first time offenders. The eight was second time. She could find third strikers dangling from chains beside the road as charred skeletons.
And yet she rarely saw Flame Legionnaires. A steam wagon would push through the crowd with a dozen scarred zebras staring down at them, and then they’d be on their way. And while everyone was in poor spirits, tempers instantly cooled when the smoke of one of their transports came into view. Scotch hated to admit, but with utter brutality, the Fire Legion had completely and utterly imposed order on dozens of different races and tribes.
She’d also learned that Flame and Fire could be used interchangeably for the legion, just as ‘flammable’ and ‘inflammable’ meant the same thing. Maybe it was a ‘fire’ thing. It didn’t help the legionnaires screaming ‘Flame and Fire!’ which she supposed meant ‘fire and more fire!’
And all the while, the smoke to the south increased. There were occasional flickers of light in its heart, but the shelf of lingering gloom soon blotted out the sun. Only a hazy red glow pierced through the skies. A fog seemed to drape increasingly over the land, and a steady flurry of ash rained down. The masses hushed, shuffling forward like children being herded to class.
It was the next day when they finally reached the big Flame Legion settlement. It squatted on a demolished interchange where five roads came together, the concrete rubble pulled into a ring. In the center blazed a huge bonfire as the people were funneled into lines. The lines snaked back and forth before finally forking again and again. Honestly, part of Scotch wished they could have just snuck past, but the highway south to Rome was blocked by the camp and a river. It wasn’t more than a muddy ditch filled with yellow-gray ash, but it was still more than they’d get across on their own.
Finally, the six of them shuffled forward to where a tired mare held a thick book. “Village?” she asked, without even looking up.
“Excuse me?” Scotch asked. Half the mare’s face was shiny scars. The other half had the broad black stripes of the Roamani.
“What’s your village… pony?” she asked as she finally lifted her head, took in the six of them, and scowled. “What the heck is this?”
“We need to go to Roam,” Scotch said.
“If we waited in this line for nothing,..” Skylord growled.
“This is for villages to offer tribute, conscripts, and enlistees. Which are you?” the mare asked crossly.
“Um… none? We just want to go to Roam.” Scotch silently prayed this would go smoothly.
“Do you have tribute from your village?”
“No.”
“Are you fighters sent by your village to protect and defend the Empire?”
“No,” Scotch repeated.
“Are you enlisting in the Flame Legion?” she asked in the same monotone.
“Fuck, no,” Skylord grumbled. “I already have a Legion.”
For the first time the Legionnaire paused and regarded the six of them with tired, annoyed eyes. She stared for several seconds and then ducked her head and pulled out a red flare. Her hoof flicked off the cap, and a bright red flare blazed out. Within ten seconds they were surrounded by a dozen zebras. “What’s the sitch?” another mare asked brusquely as she eyed them.
“These six, Ember. Claim they’re not with a village. And that one’s an Iron. Handle it for me, ‘kay?” And she turned and dunked the flare into a bucket of wet sand.
The new mare, Ember, glared at them and led them past. Some villagers were continuing south, but most were loading the tribute on to wagons or shuffling south in silent lines. “What’s going on?”
“Look, I’m not from your territory. We don’t have any tribute, aren’t conscripts, and don’t want to join the Legion. Most of us aren’t even from Zebrinica,” Scotch said. She pointed a hoof south towards the roiling clouds. “We’re going to Roam,” she said evenly.
The mare said nothing as she stared from one the next. Her eyes lingered on Rocky resting on Scotch's back. “Right... So you’re like… crazy people or something?”
“If it will help us get to Roam faster, sure. We’re crazy,” Scotch said with a shrug. “We don’t have any problem with your legion. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll get out of your manes.”
Ember just nodded over to a tent and trotted inside the ash covered shelter. “Look, pony, I don’t get who you are, but people don’t just… go to Roam. They just don’t.” She pointed south with a hoof. “There’s nothing that way but fire. The worst fire.”
Scotch shared a look with her friends. “We came all the way across the continent from the north. We’ve dealt with five legions and tribes. And now, after three months, we’re finally here. We’re going to Roam,” Scotch said evenly, adding, “but we don’t want to cross your legion if we don’t have to.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not just forcing us to be conscripts,” Charity pointed out sharply.
“If you had a village, we would,” she said with a frown. “That’s one way to get to Roam. But forcing people without ties to serve just gives us more trouble than you’re worth. We’d rather burn your family alive if you’re a problem than constantly watch you for trying to escape. We’ve tried slave conscripts. Just doesn’t work. So we only take conscripts for a year. One year in Roam and they go home.”
“Generous. Irons take ours for three to ten,” Skylord said.
“Yeah, well, a year of Roam is a lifetime anywhere else. Most don’t make it back,” she said with a sigh. “Honestly, I’d say flame the six of you, but one of you looks like a dragon, and that’s just hot,” she said with a smirk at Precious. The dracofilly let out a puff of smoke from her nostrils. “Toasty!”
“There’s got to be something we can work out,” Scotch said, praying that the Flames would be more reasonable than other legions. Ember seemed to be rolling a response in her mouth and didn’t seem to like the taste of it.
“Are you cursed?” Ember asked. “This is just too weird, and gran always said if someone was cursed, to get them out of your mane as fast as possible.”
“I’ve been called cursed,” Scotch said evenly.
"Touched," Rocky corrected, but of course the mare didn't hear.
Ember rubbed her chin and then shrugged, reached into her pocket and pulled out a square of paper. “Okay. I’m listening to gram gram then.” She scribbled some glyphs. “Follow the others to our headquarters. Mind the ash. When you get the tribute drop off, go to the last one and ask for Flare. He’s a captain. Tell him Ember from Second Offering sent you.”
“And he’ll get us to Roam?”
“That’s between you and him,” she said with a sniff. She stomped her hoof twice and a half dozen zebras stepped into view behind her, flamers posed. “Or…”
Scotch took the paper and they made their egresses. The note was simple. ‘Cursed pony wants to go to Roam. Useful? Ember. PS, do me again.’ Most of the people were getting names jotted down before going back north, but all the offerings were piled high in wagons and were pointed south along the freeway. Being almost alone after the pressing crowds made her stomach clench in worry.
The walk forward passed in almost complete silence. The ghosts of cities surrounded them, reduced to heaps of rubble. She could make out a few tribal layouts.. Triangular Propoli. Rectangular Romani. Snaking Carnelian. Circular Logos. They stood silent and hollow, half buried beneath ash and mud. The water alongside the road was soapy and foul, the air making all of them cough. The road signs were the only indication of time as the ash drifted down. Roam was only fifty kilometers away. Forty. Thirty. Twenty…
The haze grew ever thicker. From somewhere ahead came a perpetual flicker. The sky rained either flecks of ash or filthy gray water. Rags damped in the water alongside the ditches were all that spared Scotch’s lungs.
Then they reached the legion headquarters. Almost tripped over it. ‘Roam Continental Airport’ proudly proclaimed a sign as they shuffled forward through the gloom.
There was nothing to do but shuffle along. A large building lurked in the haze, but she couldn’t make out anything but a large tower rising above it. “What’s an airport?” Majina mused as they reached an exit. This one was marked for legionnaires only, so they shuffled past.
“Think skyport, but instead of sky chariots, they use flying machines,” Pythia explained.
“Like hot air balloons?” Precious mused.
Skylord stared and then gave a small shrug. “Sure. Whatever. Doesn’t matter now, though. The only things that fly are Storm Legion and things with magic. Fly over, or near, the wrong megaspell and you’re going down.”
“Ember said this Flare was at the end of the tribute. That way?” Scotch asked as wafts of ash drifted down. The air tasted like plastic and rubber. Further down was a sign saying ‘conscripts’ and beyond that ‘tribute’.
“Do we want to listen to her though?” Skylord suggested. “I mean, we could just keep walking south and see what happens.” He peered up at the Flame Legionnaires watching them from platforms on the overpass signs. Their flamers seemed extra large and pointed more or less their way.
“I don’t want to make an enemy I don’t need to. Let’s find this Flare. At the very least maybe we’ll get some answers,” Scotch said, following the majority of the crowd to the third off ramp. “Are we really in Roam?”
“Roam was, is, huge. Like Manehattan. This is just the edge of it,” Pythia said as the crowd diverged. The airport was certainly massive. A cluster of four great striped domes with a tower in the middle. Two of the domes were broken and empty, showing only the rubble of collapsed floors. But the tribute train wheeled right past both toward large square structures. ‘Cargo Hanger A1’. ‘Cargo Hanger A2’. They approached the first and a legionnaire mare looked up from her clipboard. Her hide was such a patchwork of shiny burn scars it was impossible to tell her tribe. “Food or Non-Food?” she asked the six of them.
“Ah… non?” Scotch asked.
“Keep walking,” she said with a toss of her head. At the next hanger, they asked if their tribute was bullets or weapons. The next, barding. Every step the crowd got thinner and thinner.
“They’ve got their shit together, I’ll give them that,” Skylord observed.
“Together? Are you kidding? They’re just tossing the junk into bins. They should sort it out and save problems later. Lousy organization!” Charity said crossly.
“You have a problem, pony?” an equine asked as they stepped out of the haze surrounded by six others. The stallion’s hide had a particular, waxy glow to it. “Where do you think you’re going? The only thing past here to give are tractors, and you do not have one.” Scotch tried not to stare at the little pilot light at the mouth of the flamer he wore, which was pointed right at the six of them. He was so scarred, Scotch couldn’t imagine what tribe he was from, or how he’d gotten those burns.
“I was… saying… you would do better to organize things, separate high value salvage from junk. Not just dump it all into tubs,” Charity said with a scowl.
“Bastion does the separating. We have better things to do,” he said with a cracked smile. “What is your business here?”
Scotch glanced at him and the others. “We’re trying to get to Roam. Are you Flare?”
His grey eyes bulged as his fellows chuckled. “Do I fucking look like Flare?!” he demanded, as if she had any clue what he was supposed to look like.
“A Flame Legionnaire told me to ask for Flare. Gave me this,” she said as she fished out the note and passed it to him.
His eyes twitched over the paper. “That fucking coal,” he growled and then held the note to the flame. Scotch tried not to lunge for it as it charred to ash. “Congratu-fucking-lations, pony! You have arrived! I hope your village sent you with something valuable for the trip.”
“Not really, no. We’re from a lot further than this place,” Scotch said. “I don’t suppose you could let us go through? Into the city?”
“No, I can’t let you go into the city.” he said in short, snippy words. “Roam’s under martial law. Our law. Looters will be incinerated. The only salvagers allowed are our own conscripts and Bastion’s people. Everyone else is smart enough to stay the fuck away.”
“Well we have to go there.”
The scarred equine leaned in. “What do you think is south of us, pony? Are you imagining ruins? There are ruins. Are you imagining monsters? There are monsters. Are you imagining fire? There is much fire,” he said in a low, raspy purr. He straightened with a smirk. “Is your imagination satisfied now? Good. Go elsewhere, pony. Be thankful. Only death and flame awaits.”
Scotch glanced at the others. It’d worked twice before. “Can we speak to your general?”
“General Inferno is much too busy to deal with…” He seemed to struggle a moment.
“Tourists?” Majina suggested.
He grunted. “Tourists. Yes. So I will handle this myself.”
“Handle what, Pyre?” a zebra asked as he approached out of the gloom. Unlike the others, he didn’t have any burned skin showing. He looked over them all with a calm, placid, reasonable smile.
“None of your business, Flare,” Pyre stated firmly. “This is a security matter. I am addressing it!”
“They’re in the tribute section of the base. I’ll deal with it,” Flare contradicted. Pyre’s chin rested on the flamer’s mouth grip. A bite and a twist and they’d all be burning. “Try it, Brother.” Flare murmured, his body calm and his smile dismissive.
Pyre raised his mouth away from the grip. “As you say, Brother. I’ll get back to the line.”
“Ah, Flare. She’s c–” one of pyre's stallion started to say. Pyre snarled at him, hissing through his teeth. “Crazy! She’s crazy! One crazy pony!” he amended in a rush.
“Dumbass,” Pyre growled as he turned away slowly, disappearing with the others back into the haze. It was at that moment there was a loud plop of rain, followed by a heavy hiss. The water was warm, like piss, and tainted gray brown. It even tasted salty.
“We should get inside,” he said, gesturing to the last cargo hanger in the line. It was empty save for two large steam tractors and a huge winged contraption with propellers. Did things like that actually fly? It seemed impossible! Where were the storm clouds to keep it aloft? “You’re fortunate Pyre saw reason. He rarely rubs flanks with it,” Flare said with a calming air.
A half dozen Fire Legionnaires filed in around them, no less menacing illuminated by the lamps above. The rain was rapidly transforming the ash outside into more gray mud which seemed to be flowing like runny cement. The air filled with a soapy scent and frothed as it poured off the roof. The Flame Legionnaires seemed happy to get out of the filthy drizzle. Flare took a seat on a filthy cushion, and six more were pulled out. From somewhere outside came a rumbling roar, but Flare ignored it.
“So, a green pony mare heading to Roam. You’d be the ‘Green Menace’?” he asked with an amused smile. He certainly seemed pleasant enough, but she’d met Haimon, and refused to relax just because he had a pretty face, especially compared to Pyre.
“You’ve heard of me,” Scotch said, tensing. “So is this the point where you kill me, try to capture me, take you to your leader, or help me?”
“Are those really all my options?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I’m going to Roam,” she swore as she glared at him.
“Going? You’re here,” he said as he pointed out the far end of the hanger, where an open door pointed south. The rain was washing the haze out of the air and she walked forward and stood in the doorway for a moment looking south. Through the rain and smoke, she saw the red glow that resolved itself into great plumes of flame. A great rift bisected large, wide fields of concrete, and from that chasm, which ran as far as her eye could see, leapt tongues of yellow. She stepped out into the downpour, walking closer to the rift. Beyond, fires burned through the charred hulks of sky scrapers, in a ghastly illusion of internal lights. Puffs of fire periodically exploded from streets and storm drains.
All that would be enough, if it wasn’t for the screaming.
Equine shapes moved through the buildings, not on fire, but as fire. Their hides blackened, fire erupted along their bodies in horrifying parody of stripes. The ravine was full of blazing boulders, glowing with heat. On the far size, burning zebra corpses screamed and raced along the edge, as if trying to find a way across. Then a side of a building glowed bright orange and a ball of flame exploded out over the streets, sending the blazing zebras running wildly.
“Welcome,” Flare said with a clap on her shoulder, “to Roam.”
“That is shit! That is complete brahmin shit! Dragon shit!” Skylord swore as he pointed a talon at the city once the shock faded. She didn’t think it would ever fade.
“Everyone knows the Flame Legion protects Zebrinica from the horrors of Roam, Iron.”
“Why is it still on fire? Anything flammable should have burned away long ago?” Scotch asked, trying to focus. She knew that a balefire bomb in a prison had once caused fires like this, but unless there were thousands of balefire bombs in Roam, it shouldn’t be.
Flare trotted over to a table and pulled out a metal box with hoses. “See this?” he asked as he opened it up. The dirty, gray Equestrian diamond had surely seen better days. It was cracked through the middle, the glyph inside flickering and fuzzy.
“It’s a talisman. For… methane?” Scotch guessed, looking at the symbols.
“No surprise a pony would know,” Flare said with a nod. “Before the war, Roam had all the latest pony gadgets, back when we were trading for gems. Some talismans produced gasses. Others made things like plastics or cloth or anything really.” He paused, chuckling. “Then the megaspells hit. The talismans went nuts, and the Beast appeared.”
“What Beast?” Majina asked in a near whisper. Flare paused, holding up a hoof for silence as he cupped an ear. Then Scotch heard it over the rain and fire. A deep bellow, like a volcano in agony.
“No one knows what it is, but needless to say, Roam burned. Millions lived here. And soon after, the balefire bombs flew.” He gave a shrug. “Didn’t help there were balefire bombs in Roam too when it went off. The megaspells and balefire bombs and everything mixed together into Roam, and the dead walk as undead flame.”
“Just let us set up some artillery batteries and we’ll turn them into rubble,” Skylord swore.
“Doesn’t work that way,” Flare said with a shake of his head. “Lucria!” he snapped. A mare approached with a rifle. “Pop a Cremite.” The burned mare glanced at all of them and then pulled out her rifle. She took the two-legged stance, steadying it with her forelegs before the rifle barked once. The skull of a flaming zebra on the edge exploded with a pop of flame. From the neck hole emerged a blazing equine shape ending in a long, snakelike tendril. It let out a scream of rage, swished forward and disappeared into another lump on the ground. The headless body crumbled, and the lump suddenly formed blazing stripes before rising to its feet again.
“Cremites can possess any body, and without a corpse to move into, they’ll happily move into yours. Worse, if they’re not contained, they’ll seek out bodies and cook them from the inside out. You can’t kill them. Best you can do is drive them off with fire,” Flare said with a smirk. “The golems are another thing entirely. They don’t burn at all.”
“I heard about them,” Majina said, “Old animated statues?”
“Fetishes. Shaman junk. They wander around the ruins doing things and setting things on fire. Worse, you can blast them to pieces and they just reform later,” he pointed a hoof at another building where another glowing blot appeared. “And, of course, fireblasts. Some things simply,” his eyes popped wide as his voice dropped, “explode. All because of the megaspells. And our legion keeps that,” he thrust a hoof at the ravine, then swept it in the opposite direction, “from getting out and spreading all over Zebrinica.” He leaned towards them, lips curling smugly. “You’re welcome.”
* * *
They took refuge in a shed outside the hanger. The muddy rain continued to wash filth out of the skies. Every now and then came a soft ‘krump’ of a fireblast. Pythia consulted her star map and crystal pendant while everyone else sat silently. Precious piled her gold coins and moved them one by one into a stack. Charity seemed to be jotting down numbers. Skylord disassembled and reassembled a gun over and over. Majina just stared out the grimy window at the city beyond. Pythia gave Scotch a look and she rose. Four sets of eyes turned to her.
“Toilet. Be right back,” she said as she stepped outside, walking out onto the ‘runway’. Why flying machines needed to run, she had no idea, but Majina had explained the word. The thick concrete and asphalt was split by the chasm. She wasn’t sure how far she needed to go so she trotted up to the edge and took a seat. The Flame Legion didn’t seem to care, so long as she didn’t interfere with them.
She took a deep breath, lifting her head back and letting the hot rain patter down on her. Then she lowered her face, shifted her sight, and looked–
A scream tore from her throat as an icepick rammed right between her eyes, twisting her thoughts as she clenched her eyes shut and pressed her face to the wet ashes. She smacked her forehead into the ground again and again as if trying to beat the images out of her head. They wouldn't stop! It was like she'd just looked at a whole library of black books! She cupped her face and screamed into the earth just as the city screamed before her. It took several seconds, her throat raw, before she fell silent.
“If you’re going crazy, could you scream less?” rasped Pyre from where he sat on an oil drum nearby. “Last thing Roam needs is more screaming.” He shielded a cigarette and lit it with a flip lighter, drew in a deep breath, and let out a curl of his own smoke in the drizzle. “Flare sent me to keep you from doing something stupid.”
“It’ll never stop,” Scotch muttered, the rain washing the gray sludge away from her face. “The city… I don’t think it can stop. Ever. It’s on fire. All of it!” She hugged Rocky's block to her chest. Hard comfort.
“Yeah, can see that.” He glanced at the stone but said nothing as he returned to watching the trench.
But he couldn’t. Not like she could. Take a city of millions of people and countless spirits, soak them all in flamer fuel, and light a match. Two centuries later, the spirits of the city still screamed. Millions of them.
And she had to go in there. Her friends had to go in there.
They’d burn. Screaming. Forever. Well, maybe not Rocky... maybe. But if there was somewhere rocks could scream, it would be there.
“You’ve been in there?” Scotch asked. He gave her a scornful glare. “Sorry. Dumb question.”
He grunted as he smoked, tilting his face to protect the ember. “Every week at least. Sometimes two, three times. Send in conscripts to try and scavenge valuable stuff. Dig firebreaks. Supplies.”
“How?” she muttered. “How does anyone go inside that place?” Her forehead throbbed, but it was just enough to dull the pain of that glimpse of spirit sight.
“‘Cause we have to,” he answered with a shrug. Then he stared at her a long moment, blowing a spear of smoke at her. “If it’ll cut out your whining and moaning, just fart in my general direction, and I’ll throw you in with the next batch of conscripts and save you the torment of decision. That’s all it will take.” But she was skeptical. He’d clearly decided not to kill her, for some reason she couldn’t imagine.
She stared ahead. Across the airfield she saw a canyon of fire. Like gazing into a blast furnace. It seemed… welcoming… “How do people like you… like her… choose to go to a place like that?” She tore her gaze away and looked up at him. “I knew a person. Blackjack. She went into places like this all the time. I never asked her how she did it.”
“‘Cause we’re dumb,” he muttered. “Smart people like Flare get other people to do it for them. I’m told to patrol. I patrol, fire or not. He gets told to patrol, he’ll get a village to cough up a half dozen idiots to burn.” He glanced at her again. “Normally, I keep scavengers out. Idiots trying to build a bridge to scavenge things.” He gestured to the ravine. “See this? We dug this. Not me, but my legion. Trying to keep the fire inside.”
“How?” she asked with a half smile.
“A whole lot of lives and pain,” he said, his scarred hide twisted as he grimaced. “But honestly, I’d rather chew glass than get into it.”
“Are you sure? I’d really like to know,” she asked as she faced him. “I’m not a legionnaire. I think the legions do a lot of bad things, but I’m learning it’s a lot more than just good and bad.”
He rolled his gray eyes and groaned in his throat. “Must be the damned Zencori in me,” he muttered. “Fine. We were the homeland defense force. While the other legions went over to blow up parts of Equestria, we were here to respond to Equestrian raids. Raptors. Teleport infiltration squads. Things like that. And one thing that always came with raids were explosives and firebombs. So we got really good at fighting fires.”
He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me that ponies would never do anything like that?”
She blinked in surprise. “Why? I mean, I don’t know everything that happened in the war, but I know a lot of mess up things did.”
He seemed even more sour at that and took a thoughtful pull in the cigarette. “Ponies normally say ‘Oh, Celestia would never!’ or ‘Luna was misunderstood.’ I’ve seen recordings of the attacks. Factories. Bases. Even civilians.”
Scotch shrugged. Though she doubted that ponies would go after civilians outright, she had no doubts ‘collateral damage’ occurred. “I don’t think ponies were much different from legions, back then.”
He grunted again, looking at the city. “Fire Legion wasn’t all that military. Mostly civilians mobilized to respond to disasters. We’d charge in then too. Because we had to.”
“Is that the secret then?” she wondered as she looked across into the fire. “Just eliminate all other options till you have to do it? Is that even making a choice at all?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, taking a pull off the cigarette. “Shit, one can hope. See the miraculous thing about not having a choice is no one can blame you if it all goes wrong.”
He was wrong. You absolutely could blame them. Even when you tried your hardest not to.
“Why don’t you and your friends just go home? You’re not conscripts. You don’t have villages or anyone owing us tribute. I mean, I’d like to toast you all and call it a night, but Flare’s pissed in that campfire.” He leaned away from Scotch as if trying to view her from a new angle.
“Not really sure where that is,” she replied, rubbing her face with her hooves. “I’ve seen more of the world than I even imagined. From floating mountains to the sea. Not sure where I’m supposed to be.”
“Well, take the brand and we’ll give you a home. It’s a shitty home, but we look after our own,” he grunted.
That wasn’t going to happen, ever. She didn’t know what that brand did, but that black spirit sin she didn’t want anywhere on her. “I need to go in there. We need to find some kind of temple or something. The temple of the twelve and one tribes. Ever seen it?”
“Temple? Shit, we’re lucky if we can hold on to a corner deli for a month,” Pyre said with a shake of his head. “If it’s fancy, and that sounds fancy, you’re going to need to go all the way to Bayside. A lot of old, fancy buildings there. Big money. Gold and other treasures.” He rubbed his chin. “Otherwise, Government Plaza. But good luck getting there. I don’t think we’ve reached it in two centuries.” He stared at her a moment and suddenly scowled. “Why am I telling you this?”
Scotch rose to her hooves as well. “Because I asked?”
“No!” he spat. “I should have told you to fuck off. Zencori? Who the fuck gives a fuck about tribe once you get the brand? That’s the whole point of the brand.” Scotch had no clue what to say to that as he glared. His glare softened a little. “Shit. You really are cursed…”
“You doubted it?” Scotch said, smirking at meeting the first skeptical zebra she could remember. “Ember said I was. And you didn’t tell your brother. Which makes me think you’re hoping my curse bites him in the ass.”
Doubt flickered across his face. “Something’s got to, eventually. Statistically, if nothing else. I just want him to step in it just once. Letting a cursed pony into Roam might do it.”
Scotch may not have liked his reasons, but they aligned with her goals. “And if I get my curse all over you, Pyre?”
The scared zebra threw his hooves wide. “What else is it going to do to me? He’s is charge of all the salvage. Me, I get to walk meat into an oven.”
Scotch then looked back at the hanger. “I’m scared for my friends though.”
“You should be,” he said with a sniff. “Roam is a crucible. It burns away weakness, and only the strong survive. The smart never go there to begin with.”
“Part of me wants to go alone. Or maybe just with Pythia.”
“Sure. Double the curse,” Pyre replied. “But you’re not going to do that.”
That irked. “How do you know? You don’t know me.”
“You’re a pony. It’s how you’re wired,” he scoffed. “If you were the kind to go alone, you’d be gone already. The fact it bothers you is proof enough.”
Scotch wondered if this was how Blackjack felt. Time and time again, did she doubt herself? Did she wonder if her choices were the right ones? Or did she just do things and never once wonder how it could all go wrong? Scotch remembered all the times Blackjack led her around the Hoof. Not once did Blackjack ever just park herself in Chapel for her own good. Did Blackjack think about it? The risk? Or did she just… do things?
“A fool can do anything, because they don’t know what they can’t do,” Scotch wondered aloud, thinking of Sekashi, Majina’s mom. She wasn’t a fool, but then what was she? She heard cards in the back of her mind, but she didn’t want the Dealer to tell her. She wanted to decide who she was.
“What’s that?” Pyre asked with a frown.
“Nothing,” she said as she turned her back on the horrors that awaited her. “Time to come in out of the rain.”
Inside the hanger, Flare seemed to be having a tense argument with several other zebras. Pyre only went as far as the hanger door, smoking. “Did I miss something?” she asked as she looked at the knot of zebras.
“Politics,” Skylord grumbled. “Nothing unusual. I think Flare’s on your side. That one wants to take it up with their general, and that one just wants to shoot all of you, death curses be damned.” Skylord sniffed and dropped his voice a little. “Pretty sure I can get us out of here if you want to split and try to find some other way across.”
Scotch glanced over her shoulder at Pyre, then back at the knot of Flame Legionnaires. “Not unless they plan on making us conscripts.”
“Probably not, if they’re like Irons. Easier just to kill us,” he muttered.
“Okay. Like Gāng said, be the boulder… be the boulder,” Majina whispered to herself as she danced on her hooves.
"I am the boulder," Rocky commented.
Scotch smiled at the block. "Are you good with going?"
"She's talking to her pet rock again," Skylord muttered.
"I am not a pet," the spirit sniffed, but then added, "I fear no little flame. But there is a great and terrible fire here. Still, you will take me somewhere new. I will go."
“Shh, they’re coming,” Pythia muttered, moving behind Skylord and Precious.
“So,” Flare said as he clapped his hooves together. “I’m going to let you across. You’ll go with our next batch of recruits, and as far as anyone else cares, you’re with Bastion’s tech teams.” Scotch’s insides lurched at the unexpected news. No fights to the death? “But, I have two conditions.”
“Here it comes,” Charity muttered.
“First, I want a balefire bomb.” He said with that placid smile. “Mini or mega, I don’t care.”
Mini was not a word Scotch associated with 'balefire bomb.' “What on Equus do you need one of those things for?” Scotch demanded.
“What does one use such a thing for?” Flare mused out loud, and gave Skylord a cool stare. “Don’t worry, Griffon. I’ve no interest in using it on your legion.”
“Good enough for me,” Skylord answered. “Not like you’re the only legion with the damned things.”
“Indeed,” Flare said with a chuckle.
“Where are we supposed to get one of those?” Scotch demanded.
“You’re resourceful and you’re determined. I’m sure you’ll trip over one eventually. That’s your ticket out,” Flare said in his smooth, confident voice.
“And two?” Pythia asked coolly.
“One of you will stay here as my guest. If you run off, they die. If they run off, at least one of you will die.” He spread his forehooves wide. “I assume ‘the magic of friendship’ will keep you from doing something too stupid.”
“Done,” Charity said promptly.
“What?” Scotch gasped.
“It’s the smart choice.” Charity pointed to the south and then lowered her voice. “I’ll be useless in there. I’m tired of being useless. Out here I can try and help you. Find ways to get supplies to you. If these Bastion people are going in, some of them should be able to bring needed packages.”
“But how will we communicate?” Scotch asked with a frown. If Dr. Z was still on the air, maybe that would have been an option.
Charity pointed at Scotch’s PipBuck with a hoof. “Tune in to DJ Pon3’s frequency. I’ll find a transmitter somewhere that can reach you. If you can find a transmitter in there, I’ll be listening every evening.” She then took a deep breath and turned to Precious. “I’m going to need your imperios.”
“What?!” Precious blurted, clutching her golden necklace to her chest. “That’s crazy talk.”
“I don’t have my salt. I’m going to need some kind of trade fodder to work with here.” Charity said in a rush as she glanced over at the Flame Legionnaires. “It’s not going to be any use to you in there. I promise I’ll repay with interest. Two percent.” Precious wrinkled her nose. “Two point five?” A flat stare from the dragonfilly. Charity tried a sickly smile. “Three?”
Precious leaned in slowly. “Ten,” she declared.
“Ten percent?” Charity muttered, swaying on the spot.
“No. Ten thousand percent!” Precious said dramatically.
Charity stared a moment. “Do you have any clue what that actually is?”
“Not a bit,” Precious replied, then grinned. “Just stay safe. I don’t like this Flare guy. Too smooth.” Scotch had to agree. A legionnaire that was too ‘smart’ to get hurt struck her as someone with a plan, like Haimon. Precious pulled the string of gold coins off her head. “Ah, I’m going to miss more episodes of ‘El Dorado.’ It’s my favorite show…”
“I know, right! I was wondering if the contessa was going to take her family away the next time we had to buy food,” Majina said with a sigh.
“You two are so frigging weird,” Skylord stated as he rubbed his beak.
Scotch tried to smile as she regarded the unicorn. “If you’re sure,” Scotch said, looking into Charity’s gold eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Just bring out some good salvage for me when you find your shaman stuff and come back again,” she said with a wave of her hoof. “Be careful,” she added as her smile melted. “You’re annoying, and I’m going to start racking up a tab if you make me wait too long.”
Scotch then turned to Flare. “We have an agreement,” she stated firmly.
Flare gave her a confident smile she did not like in the least. “Excellent!”
* * *
“Listen up, my little charcoal briquettes,” Pyre shouted as they gathered at the edge of the ravine. A massive steel cage made from the fuselage of one of the ‘airplanes’ dangled from a dozen cables hanging from a towering construction crane erected on the field. “You want to help your villages? Then keep your heads and stay alive. You get torched by a cremorian, your village gets to send someone else to finish your time. You go in together. You fight together. You leave together.”
The conscripts were a hundred or so assortment of people. Mostly zebra villagers, but there were a few other strange creatures mixed in as well. Off to the side waited a half dozen zebras in fancy tech gear. ‘Bastion’s people’. Everyone else, including Scotch and her friends, wore heavy rubber boots and black coats that covered their entire bodies. The only weapons they had were hammers and flares. Only legionnaires got flamers and guns.
Pyre marched back and forth, giving instructions to the new recruits. “Soon as the cage lands, you’re going straight down the highway to our base camp. Hopefully it hasn’t been forced to move. Listen to any order a legionnaire gives you. At worst, dying to a cremorian is less painful than pissing us off. It’s a ten kilometer hike. Don’t get lost in the smoke, and don’t stop. The second you do to take a piss or shit or jerk off, something’s going to kill your ass. You stop and rest when we tell you to stop and rest. You see something shiny, tell us, and keep moving. Do not try and grab salvage for yourself. Anything in there already belongs to us.” He gave the group a look before his eyes slid over to the Propoli from Bastion, as if he wanted to add something, but didn’t.
The group of nearly a hundred gathered inside the cage. Scotch tried to get herself closer to Pyre. As soon as the conscripts were loaded, she moved over to where he stood at the front. “What about us?”
“What about you?” he snorted, glaring scornfully at her before looking at the city. “Do whatever. Shoot at us and we’ll cremate you.” He paused, twisting his lips. “But till Flare or the general says otherwise, you can stay at our firebases. Just hand over whatever loot you find.”
The platform lurched as the crane lifted the fuselage into the air and started to swing it across the ravine. The hot blast of air raked past her, in spite of the fireproof coat she wore. The cremorians raced back and forth underneath them, screaming and waving their hooves, as if they were begging to be let out of this burning hell. If they were warded off by fire, did that mean they feared each other as well? Did they even know they were ablaze?
“Torches ready!” Pyre bellowed, reached down and lit a flare, and held it out. Legionnaires passed the flame along from one to the next. Scotch and her friends weren’t conscripts. They’d have to rely on Precious.
An area had been cleared out on the far side of the chasm, looking like parking for the airport. As the platform dropped, the Flame Legion threw down firebombs upon the cremorians, who screamed and thrashed their hooves as they fled from the circle. No sooner did the platform touch down than Pyre screamed, “Move!” and with that ran forwards towards the burning city. Scotch gave one look at her friends, saw the Bastion zebras were right in the middle, and moved along with them.
She gave one look over her shoulder at the airport, but it was already lost in the smoke and haze.
After that it was eyes forward, and running.
The cremorians howled as they’d swarm in towards the group, and then break at gouts of flamers. It’d almost be funny, save one of the conscripts faltered to the side as he frantically waved the torch in front. The cremorian raced in from the side and jumped on him, screaming. The fire-resistant coat bubbled as the cremorian tried to cling tight, before a flamer let out a puff of fire at the pair. The cremorian screamed as it threw itself away from the flame. The zebra staggered, blisters and char on his neck from where the cremorian’s hooves had gotten past the coat. No other words besides ‘move’ were given.
The golems seemed almost harmless in comparison as they moved around, ambling like burning statues. But when they grew close, the golems, each two or three times the size of a zebra, would suddenly turn, rear up, and slam their hooves down, sending flaming pebbles everywhere. The Flame Legion simply ignored them, spreading around the enormous statues, which returned to their mindless patrols. The one time a golem blocked the roadway completely, Pyre sprinted ahead and pulled something like fire crackers from his saddlebag. He tossed them in such a way that they wrapped around a leg before exploding, taking off the leg at the joint. Without the limb, the golem toppled over, and they raced past before it could recover.
Explosions punctuated the run. Fire burst from storm drains and utility shafts in the road. There were streams of flame. Puffs. Balls. Fountains. Sometimes the fire would crawl overhead like it was trying to fight the rising air and fall upon them. Sometimes it did fall in blazing droplets of petroleum. And sometimes the ground just exploded. The dull red glow gave a few seconds’ warning before fire ripped free of the ground.
And it rained. It rained hot, dirty rain. Rained fire. Rained rocks. Rained ash. Every second was things falling on her flank, and she could only hope it wasn’t a cremorian. The veil of smoke and rain and mud threatened any second to overwhelm them.
Then it was gone.
The fire disappeared as if someone had cut off a match. The ruins were coated in ash and gray mud. Hot, wet water trickled along the stones. For a moment, all the conscripts dared to pause and look at the buildings looming up in the gloom overhead. The burned statues of zebras loomed over them from the hollow shells of skyscrapers. Their columned facades betrayed the swirling metal girders of their gutted magnificence.
“Move!” Pyre shouted at the gawking conscripts.
Because it exploded. The fire ripped out of the yawning facade of a bank, screaming as it washed across the conscripts. With it came the cremorians, racing as if being driven by the flames straight at the legionnaires.
And it was back to running.
Scotch silently thanked the Mountain King for clearing out her lungs. Even with that, her chest throbbed and she struggled against the waves of smoke. Majina was there, using water from a bottle to wet the cloth over her muzzle. Skylord kept them all from walking right into the path of a golem simply sitting by the road. It lunged as soon as they were in reach. Pythia kept shouting out warnings before the ground exploded underneath them. There were a few false alarms, but these were excused when the ground could, and was, exploding under their hooves.
It didn’t help when they were going up a hill. The skyscrapers had given way to five story block houses, turning the boulevard into a canyon. Distant explosions preluded burning rubble raining down from above. The air was half smoke, half mist, all horrible, and barely breathable. Some conscripts faltered, but Pyre at least made an effort to keep them moving.
Up. Up. Up. No switchbacks. What a horrible layout for a road, Scotch thought bitterly as they struggled up the slope. Cremorians, unburdened by physics, flared and nipped at their hooves. Up. Up. to a distant gap in the block houses.
And suddenly she was hit by a blast of hot, salty air. Its only redeeming quality was it blew the smoke away behind them.
Roam lay before them in a great crescent around an immense natural bay. Thirteen tall hills ringed it, and the ruins were punctuated by skyscrapers, great broken domed buildings, and enormous zebra statues. A roiling cloud overhead threatened a new dose of mud and ash. But all that was secondary.
This was the Beast.
It sat near the mouth of the bay, buried up to its waist in the earth. Liquid fire poured off its vaguely draconic features as it pounded at the rock that entrapped it. Huge plumes of salty steam erupted from its forelegs as the sea washed against it, and the beast screamed and thrashed in response. Molten stone and fire flung off it, raining down across the city as it wailed and frantically beat upon the stone entrapping it. The water inside the bay was a sickly yellow green, punctuated by chalky white flows of mud. Periodically waves would roll right up the rocky encasement and splash against it, evoking another scream of agony.
Pyre patted her on the head. “Say hello to the Beast of Roam.”
The Great Western Empty wasn’t nearly as empty as it was a month ago. The settlement started at the remains of the old train station and rose up the yellow and brown slopes towards the mountain peaks above. What had been little more than a dozen vehicles had transformed into nearly a hundred small homes, the majority of which were the remains of boxcars cut apart and rewelded into ramshackle but liveable dwellings. The terraces kept the growing crops away from the salt pan, and scores of Propoli hustled and bustled about the fledgeling settlement. Already they were carting clay out of the badlands, talking excitedly about ‘adobe’ and ‘kilns.’
General Marrow had spent her whole life wanting to become one of the big shots. As a lieutenant, she’d bullied recruits. Now she was in charge of a thousand Bone Legion all around the Empty. None of which had ever dreamed a town of Propoli would be budding right in the middle of their territory. Marrow had tried to explain it as Ossius’s plan, but cold skepticism was etched in Colonel Scapula’s face, and a pall of disapproval cold and silent as the grave descended when Marrow admitted they’d lost the means to raise more undead. Shortly after that, she and Captain Tibia disappeared to the north side of the Empty.
“Beans, General?” Captain Fracture asked as they walked by the Propoli cooking pit heading back to her office. He extended a bowl of something thick and pungent. Apparently peppers also liked the volcanic soil. After years of eating flavourless mush, it was quite a shock to many of the soldiers. She gave a nod, and he ordered a pair of bowls.
At first, the legion had tried to simply ignore the settlers. But the settlers needed muscle, and really, what else was the legion doing? Soon they were working side by side expanding the terraces and building things. Some of the Propoli actually seemed to like the legionnaires, who were as unaccustomed to respect as Marrow was to chili peppers.
“Have you heard from Scapula and Tibia?” she asked between bites.
“Nope. They’ll sulk for a while and figure out this is for the best,” the older stallion replied in a sharp, brittle voice. Fracture had been spiritsent as far as she was concerned. He’d been the legion quartermaster, and while he’d first advocated killing the settlers and taking their stuff, he conceded the Propoli really did know how to use what they had better than they did.
“And if they don’t?” Marrow furrowed her brows. The Propoli kept their distance, but at least gave respectful nods when they saw they had her eye.
Fracture didn’t answer for a time, chewing slowly as he stared off to the north. “They will. They have to. Not going to lie, no one was happy moving rocks, but I’ve never seen beans or turnips grow that fast before. Those greenhouses may just be plastic film, but it’s making use of every drop of water we have. Not to mention they’ve gotten all of our steam tractors fixed. Even the ones I wrote off.”
It was true. When Marrow’d joined, the Bone Legion were rejects and jokes. No artillery. No horde. But let some Propoli settlers do their thing and watch civilization fly. The stallions kept everything running, and the mares kept everything organized. She could definitely respect that.
So why wasn’t she happy?
“Get a letter to Asheput. See if she’ll say what Colonel Scapula’s up to. I doubt it’s simply ‘patrolling,’” Marrow replied. That wasn’t even mentioning the radwyrms, or the other legions… Bastion… Was being boss simply having more things to worry about?
She finished up her bowl. “Thanks,” she replied reflexively as she returned it to the vendor.
“Legion eats free!” the stallion cooking the food replied happily.
Marrow and Fracture split off at the station, the latter going to check stores and get some new lieutenants in place. She wanted to elevate him to colonel, but that would mean dealing with Scapula when she returned. Something that she didn’t want to face with dozens of settlers trying to put down roots.
Inside the train station, she went up to her office. Her office. It still felt surreal. Xona had replaced the broken windows with scavenged glass. It was still a little wavy, but it’d allowed the boards to be removed and let light in. The books were a lot, too. She used to believe they were just for show, or maybe emergency fireplace fuel. Now she felt an overwhelming desire to know what was inside them…
She’d been feeling a lot of overwhelming desire recently.
She picked one at random. ‘Intertribal Law of the 43rd Caesar’. The pages crackled as she parted them carefully, the paper stiff and delicate. She didn’t know how to read. Not really. She knew enough to scribble glyphs like ‘attack’ or ‘enemy’ or ‘casualties’. Yet as her eyes roamed down the glyphs, several of the meanings just came to her. As though with her rank she’d gotten a whole new vocabulary too.
Hooves shaking, she shoved the book back on the shelf. Would it continue? Would she one day stop calling herself Marrow and start insisting she was Ossius too? She remembered the general when that pony and her friends showed up and turned everything on its head. Her eyes lingered on the banner in the corner of the room. The scales of justice. The importance of truth. Her flank brand ached as she stared.
A knock broke her out of her reverie. “C-come in!” she said, trying to settle herself.
The Propoli director strolled in. Xona gave a polite nod, glancing at the many books that lined the shelves. Her husband Xarian entered behind her. Propoli were like that; they almost always had a mare and stallion present. “General,” they said pleasantly, sitting on cushions opposite her desk. “We have a problem and a solution.” They seemed pleased with themselves.
Old Marrow would have been annoyed. If they had a solution, what were they coming to her for? Just solve it. But she was the general now. She had to okay it… and if it went wrong, she’d get blamed for it. “Okay. Which problem?”
The two glanced at each other and nodded with a smile. Xona started to explain, “We’re drawing in more people. Some people barely surviving on the edge of the Badlands. Orah, but they’re willing to work and have mapped the northern edge of the Badlands all the way towards the radwyrms’ territory.” Marrow’s hind hoof tapped a staccato as she fought to not ask the question on the tip of her tongue. The pair shared a look and she shifted to sit on the foot… but that just made the other one start to twitch…
“Okay… problem…” the general said hastily. “Go on.”
“Well, we need water for them. Food of course, but we’ve calculated the stream’s water limit to be around five hundred people… that’s one hundred percent at current flow. It could drop less,” Xarian said, looking at some papers with charts on them.
“Okay. Okay…” Marrow said as the faint taptaptap filled the room. The pair eyed her in concern, and she immediately tried to sit on both hind hooves, perched awkwardly atop them on her cushion. She coughed. “Continue.” The question screamed at her to ask it.
“Well, we’ve determined that there are several aquifers flowing from the Badlands and into the Empty through porous rock in the ground. We can dig laterally into the rocks, and the water will just flow out where it can be used.” Marrow couldn’t answer, frozen, as she struggled to keep in the stupidest of stupid questions. “General, are you okay?”
Marrow jumped to her hooves and started to pace. “Fine! I’m fine! Everything’s fine! You needed water! You found water! Water is good! Yep. Good meeting! There’s the door!”
Xarian frowned, “General, we need to work out–” but his wife touched his shoulder and trotted around the desk.
“General, what’s wrong? Something is clearly bothering you. If it’s bothering you, it’s bothering us.”
Marrow had no memory of anyone maternal in her life, but the concern in Xona’s eyes connected with her, she felt the question rising up in her throat like the urge to vomit. “How many are Equestrian infiltrators?” she asked in a husky whisper.
Xona blinked once in response while her husband just narrowed his eyes in concern. Marrow blurted out in exasperation, “I know! I know it’s a stupid question! THE stupid question. There is no Equestria! It’s gone. We won. But I feel like…” She sat down hard. “I feel like there’s a war on. Like there’s an enemy somewhere and I need to find them and stop them and it’s crazy! It’s just crazy! But I can’t stop thinking about it!”
Generals weren’t supposed to need therapists, but Xarian stepped forward, looking at her gravely. “It’s not crazy. At all. I’m glad you told us, General. I’ve been trying to figure out where that vibration was coming from.”
“What?” Marrow asked warily.
“I’m a shaman. I feel spirits. Like machinery. When they’re happy, everything hums along. But when they’re not, there’s grinding. Burning. Things break. And that’s what I feel around you. I’m glad it’s not just my imagination either.”
“You think there’s a spiritual thing going on with me?” Marrow didn’t like spirits, or people that spoke for them. At the best of times they seem like an excuse to tell her what she ‘ought’ to be doing. At the worst, they dragged her into the darkness of her nightmares.
“It’s possible. Have you noticed anything else?” Xarian said as he put a hoof on her desk.
“I’m reading.” She walked over to the bookshelf. “I didn’t even know I could before I became General. Philosophy of Law of the 78th Caesar. Why do I want to read that? Why does anyone want to? And I feel like I already read it and know it’ll be interesting.” She sat down hard. “I don’t feel like I’m me inside my own stripes anymore.”
Xarian trotted to her. “There’s said to be three components to every being: a mind, a body, and a spirit. Your mind is your experiences. Your body anchors it to this life. Both these change over time.”
“And my spirit?” she asked, feeling a strange dread in her chest.
“It’s you. The purest expression of you,” he explained. “You could die and be reborn a hundred times, stallion or mare, and you would still be similar in every life. Sure, in one life you might be a legionnaire and in another a baker, but your personality… your youness… would be the same.”
“So in my last life I could have been a loser too?” She surprised herself with her bitterness.
Xarian exchanged a glance with his wife. “That is an age-old debate, but the spirit is the purest expression of a person. Whether it’s a good expression or a bad one…” He shook his head. “I’ll spare you months of shamanistic philosophy. But it’s also the reason why censure from spirits is so bad. A change to one’s spirit lingers not just in this life but in those to come”
“So… something’s happened to my spirit?” she asked guardedly as she trotted to the window, looking out at the salt pan to the north. The wind wasn’t too bad. She could make out swirls in the white dust.
“You’re all branded. It’s a brand of the body, mind, and spirit. There’s a censure in that brand. I think it’s affecting all of you, but I also think it’s affecting you first, and spreading to the rest of the legion.”
Xona took a seat next to the window. “You feel like you’re fighting the war against the ponies?”
“Yes! But I’m not. I know I’m not. I’m feeling one thing, but I know that thing is impossible. How do I stop it? Do I have to sacrifice a chicken or something?” Marrow asked Xarian in desperation.
The stallion chuckled. “I doubt it’s a death spirit we’re dealing with. This is something in conflict with your legion. Something fundamental to it. Why Equestrian infiltrators? That’s what you should ask.”
“Because that’s what we did during the war.” Marrow rose and paced before the window. “Infiltrators were everywhere. The tribes had spies too. We’d find them and turn them over to… to someone! But there isn’t a war now. There’s just this shithole.”
“Excrement makes good fertilizer if used properly,” Xarian said patiently.
“Have you talked to another general about this? Maybe they’ve experienced what you have,” Xona asked, looking over to the radio set in the corner.
Marrow scoffed. “Oh, yeah. I chat things up with Sanguinus all the time. ‘Hey, Bloods. I know you’re trying to kill all of us, but could you tell me real quick if you feel like you’re still fighting the ponies? Yeah? Nice. Good talk. By the way, I’m going to resurrect your ass and use it as a mobile holster.”
“Graphic,” Xarian muttered.
“There’s other legions besides the Blood. It couldn’t hurt to reach out. If we can determine the cause, we’ll have a better idea what to expect.” Xona said with a nod. “More data never hurt.”
Marrow sighed, the dread receding. She took a breath and held it, trying to silence the stupid, angry part of her that wondered if the pair were Equestrian sympathizers. Slowly she felt more herself, which wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was better.
“We’ll do our best to help you, General. We’re committed. If we can’t make the Empty civilization, we don’t have enough to try again elsewhere,” Xona swore. “We just have to find something for this… feeling… to go to. Energy should be used when possible, not wasted.”
Marrow let out the breath, grateful for the faint reassurance. It was stupid, but she was just a little more confident that she wasn’t going insane. She turned and her eyes caught on the banner. Justice. That’s what the Bone Legion used to be. Law was about Truth. That’s what the scales meant. She knew it somewhere deep inside her bones. “Thanks. How many people do you think we’ll need for these…”
“Freeflow wells. Quite a few, but if you can task some of your… living impaired… assets we might get the first one done in a year,” Xona said, her brows knitted in concern. “We’ll work out the best location. If growth continues, we may need to consider two or more.”
The door banged open, and Marrow ducked behind the desk, about to draw out the shotgun taped to the underside, when the bloodied sphynx staggered in, supported by Fracture.
“Scapula… Tibia… took my trading post,” Asheput wheezed as she bled over the floor.
“They’re saying you’re not the real general, General,” Fracture said gravely. “They’re rebelling.”
Marrow stared as digging wells, Equestrian infiltrators, and spirits suddenly became far less pressing concerns.
* * *
“You’re prancing like an idiot,” the scarred zebra pulling the massive cart growled as they rolled along the Old Road. This far west, the road wound along a narrow strip between the volcanic mountains of the dragon lands and swamps below. The Orah walked several paces ahead of the pair. “You know they’re just going to pop you into this cage soon as they're tired of your stories.”
Taliba allowed herself a brief frown in the stallion’s direction. In the weeks she’d accompanied the Orah, she’d learned nothing of Broken, the powerful, one-eyed stallion, save his name. His strength, however, could pull a cart loaded with the various creatures and salvage the Orah picked up along the way. Whenever the trio, named Hippokrates, Deimos, and Enyo, started looking at her too closely she broke out another story. The Tappahani comedies were best. Orah liked anyone they could laugh at who weren’t laughing at them. Prince Happihani predominated, but Taliba mixed in a few stories of Herne, the Orah markspony who counted as the only heroic Orah she could recount.
“We’re almost to the Imperial Library. I’ve always dreamed of going there someday!” As if prancing on her hooves didn’t give that away.
“Prepare to be underwhelmed,” Broken muttered.
“You’ve been to Lexica?” she asked, skeptically.
“Many times. As little as I possibly can.”
“What business does an Achu have at the Library?” A hint of scorn accompanied her curiosity. The scarred stallion intrigued her, not least his supernatural strength. No zebra should be able to pull a huge cart by themselves with such ease, yet for him it seemed as if he could have pulled a second behind the first. Probably even a third behind that!
But it was also the things he hinted at knowing. He claimed Claudio wasn’t a womanizer, and that the tribes hadn’t been nearly as against the war as many affirmed today. Was he simply being contrarian, ignorant, or did he actually know something the greatest historians and poets didn’t?
“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbled, a refrain she’d heard many, many times since they’d left. “You’ll see soon enough.”
The Old Road came around a corner of the woods and opened up to a magnificent sight. A pillar of water fountained a hundred meters into the sky. The water rained down, filling a lake that pushed right up to the Old Road. One section a hundred meters long had been washed out and had eroded a narrow V down to bedrock, pouring through in an ear-shattering torrent before fanning out in a great muddy plain to the west. The sea was barely visible on the horizon, as were the dozens of ruins half drowned in the sodden muck of the plains.
But that was nothing compared to the drowned city of Lexica.
Its highest marble towers protruded from the lake, slick with green algae. In the middle, just in front of the endless geyser, rose an immense round dome with a water-drenched cupola perched at its apex. Dozens of small Zencori villages hugged the shore, in the remains of the city that sat above the waterline. A network of ropes and pulleys moved platforms and people above the churning water. Some enterprising Propoli had placed a paddlewheel in the gap where the water poured forth, and wires carried electricity all around the flooded basin.
“I’ve never seen Lexica,” Taliba breathed, then slowly frowned as she thought about the young, green mare she’d met. “I can’t believe the ponies did this.”
“Water megaspell. Ironic. If they’d cast in in the Empties or on the east coast they’d be heroes. But Equestria didn’t fight us to a standstill by being idiots,” Broken said calmly, not bothering to stare. The trio of Orah seemed to be in close discussion.
“Indeed,” Trailblazer said as his hoof tapped the pavers. “They turned the Old Road into a dam. Made certain the whole place flooded. Eventually it pushed under the road and flooded millions more. Lexica wasn’t the only city that drowned to that megaspell.”
“But… why? Did they hate us that much?” Taliba asked weakly. It was one thing to read about, but to see it before her eyes…
“Did we hate them enough to poison their capital?” Broken asked in kind. “You think Lexica was a saint during the war? You think the Zencori did nothing, just make up stories and jot down historical notes?”
She turned on him, baffled. “What are you talking about? We didn’t vote for the Last Caesar, but we supported him as tradition demanded and served as neutral observers. The truest truth demands no less.”
Broken’s scarred lips curled in a cynical scoff. “If you think that, this should be over quick, one way or another.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go see for yourself,” the muscular zebra said with a wave of his hoof towards the lake.
Taliba shook her head. What did an Achu with a name like Broken know? She turned to ask Trailblazer if he wanted to join her, but the old zebra was nowhere to be found. She started to ask, but the Orah weren’t paying attention to any of them, and Broken walked slowly back to the wagon. She shook her head and trotted to the lake.
“What’s your story?” the Zencori guards standing outside the cable car asked as she approached it. The complicated arrangement of motors and gears ground and squeaked as they turned.
“Ah! Story! Yes!” Taliba stammered, fumbling open her saddle bags. “I have The Twelve Chronicles of Tamabini, The Historics of the Twenty Ninth Caesar, and–”
“I mean what do you want?” the guard, a Zencori stallion, interrupted with an annoyed frown while his compatriot had a bemused smile.
“Oh! Ah. Yes. I am Taliba of the World’s Stage. Have you heard of it? We do a performance of the Serpent and the Star every autumn? Master Baruti is thinking of doing a performance of the Ballad of Ignatia but I’m not sure we have a soprano–”
“If you don’t stop wasting my time and tell me what you’re doing here, I am punting you into the lake,” the dour stallion warned. Taliba thought that was quite rude… then she glanced at the way the water poured through the gap with a rather horrifying roar, the wheels of the paddle slamming down every second as it turned.
She took a deep breath and tried again. “I am a librarian and I’m here to speak to the Canonicity Council to correct an error in the record. It shouldn’t take very long,” she said with a reassuring wave of her hoof.
“The… what council?”
Something lurched within her as she stared. “The… Mandatum of History?” They both stared as if she were mad. “The High Poetrix?” In her mind was an organizational list and she was drawing an alarming number of lines through it. “Are there any elders, masters or librarians here at all?”
“I think she’s asking to see the old mare. The Secra… something,” the second guard guessed.
“The Secretariat! Yes! Wonderful. I’ll talk to her.” Taliba relaxed. Technically, all the secretariat did was keep the schedule for the elders of the tribe, but it was at least someone she could address! If nothing else she could direct Taliba to whomever she did need to speak to.
To say the Zencori administrative apparatus was complex was a bit of an understatement. Elders ran villages, masters operated theatres and schools, and librarians tended to the needs of a spirit. The bureaucracy prevailed even following the Day of Doom; sometimes the routine and structure was all that kept the tribe together. While a Zencori could serve more than one role, they could only ever have one title, to keep authority clearly delineated. Because the Truest Truth was that important.
“I’ll take her,” the guard said, stepping into the gondola. As soon as she entered, the other guard pulled a lever and it dropped onto the cable. As they moved over the flooded city, she saw a multitude of colorful platforms and banners hanging over the rippling waters of the lake, built atop the stone structures that jutted from the surface. Zencori loved colors; perhaps not as deeply as the Sahaani, but their settlements dazzled whenever possible. Each platform and spire held as many Zencori as her whole village, or more.
“What productions are you working on?” Taliba asked eagerly as the gondola whipped past a platform where a dozen Zencori youths were engaged in a mock battle with color splashed across the stage in dramatic fans of rainbow ‘blood’.
A Zencori not aware of upcoming performances and festivals was no Zencori at all, and the guard didn’t disappoint. “The Final Days, Peace’s Folly, Dreams of Tomorrow, and probably Nightmare’s End in winter.”
“Oh,” Taliba said in response, furrowing her brow.
“What?” the guard asked in unfriendly tones.
“Nothing!” Taliba said at once, raising a hoof. She should be quiet, but… “It’s just those are all Subria’s works.”
“You have a problem with Subria? She was one of the Terrific Twelve,” the guard huffed.
“Magnificent Twelve. ‘Terrific’ was just an alliterative alteration added to compare with ‘Macintosh's Marauders.” The guard’s eyelid was twitching. She should really be quiet, but… “It’s just that Subria’s works were all about the war, and they were just a tad propagandistic. ‘The Strength of the Stripe’, ‘Broken Rainbows’, ‘Celestia’s Lament’, ‘The Wisdom of the Caesar’…” She could go on.
“We do them every year,” he sniffed.
“Every… year?” she asked weakly. “I mean the plays are… good. Very dramatic! But… what about the Second Empire classics? The Tappahani comedies? Even the Romani marching chants?”
“Subria was Zencori. Those are our plays,” he growled as he leaned in towards her. “Our stories.”
She couldn’t dispute that. Subria had written numerous plays, speeches, and chants during the war until she’d died sometime after the Day of Doom. Over five hundred. Taliba had read them all; they’d proven remarkably tenacious even after the end of ‘modern’ civilization. While her early work, already ‘great’ in the canon back then, varied far afield, her works narrowed significantly as the war progressed.
The gondola reached a platform built next to the cupola atop the dome. Skids lifted the gondola free of the cable as it slid to a stop and they stepped out. Part of her hoped that, by magic or technology, the interior would be dry, but as they wound their way into the dimness beneath the dome, the light of hundreds of large glowing insects rippled off the wall: Blattela Ignis, or ‘Fire roaches’. As long as her forehoof, these domesticated varieties happily lived in little cages and kept well fed on scraps. In turn, their abdomens glowed like heatless torches. Dozens flew overhead like swirling stars over hundreds of stone shelves carved from solid rock rising up from the water. The islands were connected by stone and wooden bridges that made her wonder if the library had always been flooded. Small narrow boats navigated the shelves. She could only ponder what placations were made to decay spirits to prevent mold and mildew. The air smelled cool and damp. Somewhere far away was the distant rumble of the megaspell.
They reached the base of the dome, and she saw a few doors to the outside being used to admit other visitors to the library. Some trick of architecture kept the echoes to a shushed mutter. The guard walked her up to a landing and spoke to one of the little boat stallions. “He’ll take you to the old mare,” the guard assured her.
Taliba wasted no time scrambling aboard the boat. Not that she was fond of them; she didn’t know how to swim but had read about the basic principles involved. The mare at the rear wore a cloak that obscured everything but her muzzle as she gripped a long pole. A fat fire roach clung to a beam at the front of the boat, lighting their way as it chomped down on a dead bat. She supposed the free roaming insects must have been quite the deterrent to anything wanting to nest above.
As the mare poled along the silent, still water, she saw the lowest shelves were occupied by stone tablets and hoofglyphs, then clay, metal inscriptions, and only the uppermost shelves were occupied by books. Taliba bubbled with questions, but that hush seemed to perpetuate itself and so she only stared – and was astonished to see blue-green lights in the depths. She looked down and watched as eels, spotted with luminous patches, wove amid the submerged shelving. She had pondered if the library had always been flooded. It hadn’t. From the flickers far below, the shelves must have plunged a dozen meters or more.
The gravity of so much lost, and so little remaining, squashed any further desire for questions.
The oarzebra pushed them towards an annex: the hall of librarians. Marble statues poked from the wall, some fortunate enough to sit on plinths, others submerged to their waists, and some looking trapped and drowning under the dark, still water. Ahead, a landing lay built out of the wall atop a marble edifice. Lit by only a few fire roaches, a lone figure sat behind the desk, covered in similar robes as her escort. The boat bumped up against the wooden landing and Taliba stepped out.
Slowly she approached the intimidating figure. Books were piled up around them, stacked flat. An equine skull sat on the corner with a small set of glyphs that read ‘It’s how overdue?’ Opposite the skull, a roach nibbled on a tray of bread, water, and half eaten mush. Reedy music played on a phonograph, filling the air with anemic brass. A placard read, ‘Thirst was made for water; Inquiry for truth.’
Ancient was the only proper word to describe the mare behind that desk. She had attained that point where age was simply an irrelevant number to be marveled at by others. Pale blue eyes scanned a tome before her through thick square glass lenses. Her stripes had faded to barest gray and her mane was utterly white and translucent. She was the embodiment of age.
And before Taliba could so much as clear her throat, without looking up from whatever she was reading, the old zebra stated in a quiet, clear voice, “For truth is what matters, and truth is what I shall bring. If ever I am proved a liar…” she trailed off.
“…let me be removed from the office of Caesar and suffer the totality of your judgement,” Taliba answered.
“For it will be no less than I deserve,” the old mare finished with a sigh and wistful smile.
“The Rice River speech, when Claritas was running for Caesar. It secured the vote of the Carnilian tribe, setting up for the great four way split,” Taliba elaborated.
“Indeed. And so, with the vote of the Starkatteri, Claritas became the last Caesar in our war against the Nightmare. Up until Doom struck and the Nightmare released her megaspells upon the world.” The old zebra gave a little smile and nod. “Well, it seems I finally get to deal with someone with a bit of education. I am the Secretariat of Lexica.”
Taliba didn’t want to interject that there was more than a little conjecture as to who struck first, but now was hardly the time. “I am Taliba, Librarian from the World Stage. I need to address an error in the canon.”
The mare didn’t react beyond an arched brow. “Master Baruti’s theatre, as I recall. Is he still doing the ancient classics?”
“He is, but…”
“He’s quite a scoundrel. ‘The Sins of the Serpent’ as a child’s pageant. And Master Rati is well?” the Secretariat interrupted immediately. “He always was meticulous with his facts. And so handsome…”
“He is, but about the canon…”
“And I assume you addressed your concerns of the canon with both of them?”
“I did, but…”
“Well, I wonder what error you could be thinking of that would necessitate you coming instead of some other representative. A letter would have sufficed, dearest. It’s quite a trip down the Old Road just to lodge an error with the canon,” the old mare said as she reached over and ripped off a chunk of bread and held it out to one of the roaches. “Gotta keep them fed or they start nibbling the pages, the little devils. Their droppings make for an excellent ink, in a pinch.”
“Secretariat, I have serious reason to believe that Legate Vitiosus did not destroy the accursed city in Equestria, as canon reports,” Taliba blurted. The old mare fell silent, her smile replaced with surprise. “I met an Equestrian who said that a pony named Blackjack was responsible for the defeat of the cursed city.”
The Secretariat said nothing but arched both her brows skeptically as she finished feeding the bread to the roach. “Oh, yes. ‘Blackjack’. I heard the accounts. Black and red cyber alicorn who went to the moon? Died multiple times? Please. That story is merely a pony fabrication trying to play on the tale of the Lightbringer. A truly miserable derivative. Its creator ought to be ashamed of themselves.”
“Ma’am, the spirits of our library confirmed her tale,” Taliba said slowly and carefully. “If there is even a chance that the canon is wrong, the elders should investigate.” That was just… sense!
“Ah, so Taliba of the World’s Stage now commands the Elders of the Zencori? My, I wish I’d gotten a note before now. How embarrassing,” the old mare said as she pressed a hoof to her chest before folding her legs on the table. “This job gets so onerous sometimes, I should just retire. Every year some young librarian hears a story that’s ‘true’ and thinks all the canon needs be upended. ‘No, Legate Vitiosus didn’t destroy the cursed city, it was a cyberpony from the moon.’ ‘No, Big Macintosh was killed defending Celestia, not trying to silence her.’ ‘No, the ponies didn’t attack first.’ Speculation that the elders don’t have the time or resources to investigate.”
“Well, at least let them decide for themselves. This isn’t something that happened centuries ago. Just a mere two years. It should be worth it to try and keep the canon straight.” Taliba tapped a hoof on the desk next to the Secretariat’s placard. “Inquire.”
The old mare stared at her for several seconds, her lips drawn into a very tight ‘o’ as she regarded Taliba before she gave a small shrug. “Very well. Let me check the schedule of their next meeting.” And she reached over for a large leatherbound book and laid it before her. She may have been old, but the Secretariat handled the thick tome easily. “Let me see. Let me see. The first opening I can see is in… Ah. Yes. Here’s an opening.” She tapped the book. In three years, six months, and twelve days. Shall I put you down?”
“Three and a half years?!” Taliba gasped.
“Too soon? I can put you down a decade from now. I’m sure you’ll have your canonical challenge together by then.”
“What are they doing between now and three years from now?” Taliba demanded.
“Ah, youth. To be so impatient,” the Secretariat said with an elderly purr, folding her hooves before her on the desk. “It is quite difficult getting elders and masters together to discuss critical issues of the tribe. We’re lucky if they’re able to meet bi-annually. Three and a half years is hardly unusual.”
“Can I speak to at least one of them?” She wracked her brains for any of the tribal elders she could recall Baruti or Rati mentioning. “Elder Adamma? When is she available?”
“She’s dead, poor thing. Slipped on the stacks while wrestling a stone tablet into place. Tragic,” the Secretariat said as she unwrapped an old candy, the cellophane wrapper crackling like brittle bones between her hooves. “That tablet was one of a kind, pre First Empire.”
“Naamiah of the Immaculate Script!” Taliba blurted. Granted, she hated Rati for declining her but still, for this…
“Retired last year. I believe she’s penning a biography of Ignatia,” the Secretariat stated as she finished unwrapping and popped it into her mouth.
“Rashidi! He’s Baruti’s brother.” And an idiot. A towering idiot, but at least he might listen to her.
“Ah, yes.” The old zebra gave a smug chuckle as she suckled wetly on the sweet and consulted a page on the book. To Taliba’s eyes, it was full of names. Mare names. The sorts of names a mare might use with a stallion rather than a mother might give her daughter. “I’d be happy to pen you in for a ‘private tutoring’ session. How’s next year sound?”
Seriously? He was Baruti’s elder brother. By two decades! How many mares did he need to ‘tutor’? But Taliba stabbed a hoof down at the column next to Rashidi. “Elder,” she tried to read the glyph upside down. “Siti. She doesn’t have anything scheduled except for a few meetings next week.”
The old mare’s jaw clenched, the sweet cracking loudly before she kept chewing. “Siti,” she muttered slowly between crunches and grinds of confectionery. “I suppose I can put you down to see her. If I must.”
“Please,” Taliba begged. “It’s very important.”
The Secretariat swallowed, then sighed and shrugged. She picked up a pen in her mouth and scribbled down ‘Tibi of the World Stage. Confusion about canon. Elder Siti to correct.’ Taliba flustered at the childish diminutive of her name, but the book closed with a loud bang. “Sixth month, on the first day of the month.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” Taliba gushed. “I’m sorry, it’s just as a librarian it's very important to me to keep the histories clean and correct. The truest truth,” she said with a relieved smile.
“Yes, very important. Good day,” she said, her blue eyes never leaving Taliba as she pranced back to the gondola.
* * *
Those pale blue eyes never left her till the little boat was steered into the central chamber. The hooves reached into a drawer and pulled out a small tome bound in black leather. It whispered as the old mare opened it, picked up a pen and scribbled ‘Taliba, Librarian of the World Stage.’ Then she closed the book, a sigh that came from no throat whispering in the air. The fire roach suddenly stiffened, fell on its side, curling up. The light at the end of its abdomen winking out.
* * *
“And then! Then she suggested that I should talk to Rashidi and was going to put me down as seeking private tutoring lessons! All respect to master Baruti, but his brother could teach a cephalopod a thing or two of sticking to a mare!” Taliba fumed, much to the amusement of Hippokrates, Deimos, and Enyo who were cooking a stew with foraged goods. The Orah knew the roots and berries better than she could ever imagine. Broken watched from the cage with a smug satisfaction.
“You fixate on the strangest things,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “The fact you came back at all was impressive. Those waters are deep.”
“We may not be Atoli but we can manage a boat or two,” Taliba replied, then frowned at the dome protruding from the lake. “I don’t understand. Master Rati and Baruti told me I shouldn’t go to Lexica because it’s dangerous. They said they meant the roads, and they didn’t lie…”
“The truest truth,” Broken sighed. “That’s what you Zencori value, right?” She nodded and he went on, implacably, “Well, it’s true the road’s dangerous, but it’s also true that Lexica’s dangerous too.”
“Well, I accept that those gondolas might not be the safest. A fall from that height would be considerable,” she said with a wave of her hoof. Broken just stared with a furrowed brow. “What?” He said nothing, his expression turning pitying. “What’s that look for?”
“Are you really that sheltered?” he asked, more to himself than her.
She stared at him, then at the city, then back at him. “You think the people here would harm me? I’m Zencori. I’m a Librarian! That’s insane.”
“Did you see many librarians in the Imperial Library?” Broken asked.
“Well, no. But I’m sure there had to have been some. Somewhere. They’re probably busy with other duties. They’re putting on Subria this year,” she said, trying to push positivity into her voice.
“They do Subria every year,” Broken replied.
“No! They wouldn’t. I mean… how many ‘glorious Caesar’ speeches can people take?” she asked, her cheeks stinging as she fought to maintain her smile. Broken just stared at her. “Every year?”
“Every year I’ve been forced to come through here.. Your elders have a hard on for her works like no one’s business,” he replied. “Don’t get me wrong. Subria was nice. Smart. Wickedly smart. She knew every creature’s story, and all of them. She was always… good. I can see why your tribe would be so in love with her.”
“You talk like you knew her,” Taliba muttered.
The scarred pony opened his mouth and closed it again, twisted his face to the side as he clenched his eyes, then sighed. “I might have read a thing or two myself.”
“Soup’s ready,” Enyo shouted at the pair. The trio were already eating. It was full of fresh cut tubers and mushrooms. She’d worried once about being poisoned, but the Orah laughed and took turns pointing out poisonous mushrooms and how quickly they’d kill her. Of course, their descriptions tended towards the hyperbolic; their lessons tanged with the tings and jangles of fiction intermixed with the ring of truth. She indulged them.
“I wish I knew your story, Broken,” Taliba said as her stomach growled. The Orah may not have a Tappahani’s hoof for cooking, but the trio could make even the humblest root tasty. She turned to go and eat. She’d have to find some way to convince the three to bring her back for her meeting. There was, of course, the possibility of something bad happening to her. Many bad somethings, but her mind was fixated on the task of just addressing the problem of the canon being incorrect.
“What do you think my story is, if you were writing it?” Broken asked as Hippokrates passed her a bowl of the delicious smelling soup. The trio were already working on seconds. Taliba was about to start eating, but his smirks irked her.
“I’d say you were,” she paused and thought. “I’m guessing you were the son of an elder, destined to become the ruler of your village, but your sibling overthrew you. Oh! Over a mare! A beautiful librarian mare who…” she trailed off as his smirk was replaced with an amused eye arch and she coughed hard. “Well, probably not a librarian but definitely beautiful. And you dueled your brother, but she loved him, and so you were cast down and assumed the name ‘Broken,’ sold into bondage to Orah as penance for your failures.”
“So am I the protagonist or villain in this story?” he interrupted her again just as she was about to eat.
“I haven’t decided yet, but if you keep me from my dinner, it will definitely be villain!” she said, taking a bite. It was… definitely not as good as it smelled. There was an odd tingle on her tongue. The trio of Orah were asking who peed in the soup, but they didn’t look well at all. In fact, all three were sweating despite it being cool and overcast. She pulled out a chunk of mushroom. Its cap was a wrinkled brown with a purplish undertone. “Hippokrates,” she called out. “Isn’t this one of the bad mushrooms?”
“It’s a morel,” the Orah said as he smacked his lips. “Underdone, though. Bitter.”
“Right, but aren’t the purplish ones poisonous?” She gave a sickly grin. “I mean, you called it the ‘death morel’ when you showed it to me. Certain death? Horrible pain?” Her stomach lurched. “This isn’t that… right?”
The Orah stared a moment, their grins gone.
The groaning started fifteen minutes later.
The screaming an hour after that.
Taliba had only had one bite and her entire body was clenched into a knot. Anything inside her digestive tract was purged and it still wasn’t enough. Broken forced water down her throat so she could bring it back up, but it still wasn’t enough. The guards stayed away, seeming deaf to their cries of agony.
The three brothers died before sunrise. She didn’t despite fighting her own rigid muscles rendering breathing almost impossible. She’d assumed that it’d be like getting sick. That she’d feel worse, then better. She could barely move. Barely breathe. There was only pain. She’d only had a few bites… just a few bites…
Then the hallucinations began. The earth screaming. Holes eaten into the wagon, the earth, her forelegs… Broken standing there, dripping black blood, his chest cavity a gaping, bloody void. Trailblazer coming and going, the golden zebra chained to the cobbles of the path. An immense equine face, the eyes burned into black pits as maggots writhed in the sockets. A court of corpses holding a green pony on trial.
One of the ghastly court stared at her, an equine skull in a duster and coat. “Well now. Ain’t this interesting?”
“Am I dead?” she tried to ask, but only screams and the taste of blood issued from her mouth.
“You’re working pretty darn hard at it,” the skeleton rasped.
“I don’t want to die.”
“Well then,” the bony equine reached into its coat and withdrew a deck of faded cards and fanned them out before her. “Pick a card?”
* * *
“The Blood Legion have won,” Captain Isfjell stated as Aldopha stared down at the map before her. Cecilio’s office was crowded, with a muddy Galen and Aleta bringing reports through the tunnel. Vega consulted various reports from criminals on both sides. The old zebra was trying to enjoy his whiskey, but it tasted like kerosene.
“They haven’t,” the Iron Legion colonel replied, examining fortification diagrams. “There’s been no sign of Riptide returning.”
“True, but you must admit that the situation is far from ideal.”
“We assumed that once they consolidated Rice River’s west bank, they’d cross over,” Adolpha stated bluntly, conceding the reality of the situation. “Because that’s the point. Attack Carnico. Take the chemical plant. Choke out the Irons for good.”
Isfjell replied. “But they didn’t do that because they didn’t need to. Instead, they let us dig in, then besieged Irontown.”
Adolpha nodded as she grimly considered the situation. “We’ve got half our legion’s guns, our good train guns, here. If we take the train south to relieve the siege, Haimon will cross the river north or south, assuming the Riptide doesn’t miraculously reappear and shell you directly again. If we take half and leave half, same problem, they just have to walk a little farther. We won’t be able to move position to blast them as they cross the river. If we spread out the guns, it dilutes our fire power. The Red Legion can spread further than we can, and once in mass on this side of the river, they can rush us. They still take the city.”
“Haimon hasn’t been taking people out of Rice River. In fact, they’re bringing more people in,” Galen reported. “Desdemona’s been keeping the peace with comfort houses, but honestly, these Bloods aren’t your usual maniacs. They’re soldiers. Serious soldiers. They’re not just well bred. They’re trained too.”
“Their equipment’s freshly manufactured too. Crates are from Bastion,” Vega added.
“Rice River’s filled to the brim. The legion’s rounded up all the scar farmers and brought them here. We thought they’d drain the town to fuel the siege at Irontown, but they’ve done the opposite,” Aleta pointed out.
“Is your family still okay?” Galen asked.
“They’re terrified, but yes. They’re fine.”
“Well, we could just level the town,” Isfjell commented, getting a number of glares. “That is a capability at our disposal. Burn the town with incendiaries. No more town means no more soldiers. You go south and take care of your siege. Victory.”
“A pyrrhic one,” Cecilio said in a hollow, tired voice. “Everyone’s lost.”
“Excuse me?” Galen asked.
“We were short on weed killer supply before that pony fixed our factory. We’ve gone three months down. No weed killer produced. If Haimon left today and we started production right now, no complaints or worker strikes or other disruption, we wouldn’t be able to kill enough razor grass to grow a food supply to sustain Rice River. That was before Haimon raised the population.”
“The Bloods are feeding people corn from down south,” Galen observed. “Some factory a mercenary found.”
“A temporary relief, and one I suspect that won’t last. The reality is simple. Within a year, half the remaining arable land will be lost to razor grass. We simply don’t have the time or volume to prevent it. We don’t even have enough precursors made to start trying to catch up with production.”
“But the talisman…” Adolpha began.
“Doesn’t load pallets! It doesn’t lubricate valves! It doesn’t load coal! It doesn’t do the ten thousand other things the plant requires in order to produce!” Cecilio shouted, jabbing a hoof south. “You could force the entirety of the population on this side of the river into the factory and we’d only have a twentieth of the population we’d need to meet our production needs!”.
“What do you want us to do, Cecilio? Surrender?” Vega asked.
“That’s not an option,” Adolpha snapped.
“It’s an inevitability,” the old stallion countered. “In addition to not making weed killer for the razor grass, we’re not making the nitric and sulfuric acid you need for your cannons! You know this.”
Adolpha grit her teeth like she was about to be sick. “I do,” she admitted bitterly, “but I can’t surrender Carnico either. If we pull out, it doesn’t matter if we liberate Irontown. Without those chemicals we can’t make shells. We’ll be reduced to black powder. Sanguinus could just walk right in on us. The Sands could beat us.”
“We need a third option to get the Blood Legion out,” Vega said with a scowl. “I’ll radio the exchange. Maybe we can work out a contract with the Gold Legion. Find some Atoli pirates willing to make a move for the right price.”
“That changes nothing!” Cecilio said in exasperation. “You shell Rice River, hundreds, maybe thousands die. I need those hooves. I would pay their weight in imperios if I could! Where else will I find people? Sanctuary? The desert? Yaks?! We are out maneuvered.”
“By the Blood Legion of all people,” Isfjell sighed.
“No,” Adolpha said with a shake of her head. “Not the Bloods. Remember that pony? The green one that made that broadcast? Someone is manipulating things. Playing Sanguinus, all of us, for fools. This ‘New Empire.’ The Shadow Legion.”
“Scary stories,” Isfjell muttered, but the shaggy zebra rubbed a leg nervously.
“It’s Haimon. He’s the key,” Galen said grimly. “This strategy must be his. If he takes over Rice River and Carnico, what does Sanguinus have left? His forces will be bled dry and far from his headquarters to the west. He might have Irontown, but without modern shells, what good will it be?” He took a deep breath. “If we can expose that, Sanguinus would pull back. It might even cause a rift in the legion. That wouldn’t help Rice River, but it would shift things away from Sanguinus.”
“Or we just kill him,” Isfjell added. “That’s an option.”
“Not likely. He’s got guards. Very good guards. And he’s close to Sanguinus,” Vega said with a shake of his head.
“They’re lovers,” Aleta said quietly. Eyes suddenly turned to her. “I do laundry. When the general visited, there was ample evidence of it. But listening to gossip, they’re very close. I don’t know what would convince him that Haimon’s disloyal.”
“We’ll have to find something. Or manufacture something,” Adolpha muttered. “I will not give them Carnico.”
Cecilio turned and walked out of his office and into his private bathroom. He splashed water on his face and rubbed it, looking into his bloodshot eyes. None of them understood. They’d all lost. All of them. Rice River would become another ruin covered in razor grass, and the finest, possibly last great chemical refinery would be no more.
The door opened and Isfjell took a seat, the shaggy coated soldier regarding him soberly. “If I told you to kill Aldopha and the Irons, could the White Legion do it?”
“That’s an option, but it’s not a good one. If we mess up, Aldolpha’s dying act will be to make sure this factory is a smoking crater. She might even have standing orders to fire if she’s killed or we overrun her. I’m sorry to say, but the Whites are a defensive legion. The Irons are offensive. We could weather her. We might even bleed her dry, but the damage would be substantial,” the captain said matter-of-factly.
“And Haimon?” Cecilio asked. “Can we appeal to him?”
“We might. He might even do it. Pull his forces back. Make her think she’s safe to take the train artillery back and lift the siege at Irontown. And I’m pretty sure that he’ll give a nice speech, and then put a bullet between your eyes. You know what he did to Greengap, yes?” Cecilio nodded. He knew all too well. “Your money is still good. My general supports this partnership. But I don’t see a way out of this, Cecilio. Not with you keeping Carnico and your head.”
Nor could he. So many people were going to die. He hadn’t wanted that. Rice River had seemed special. Blessed. But like so much of Zebrinica, it was on the precipice of disaster. “See what your engineers can do to fortify critical areas of the factory. The processing center in particular. Say I’m concerned about Riptide. Just in case the worst should happen,” he croaked, tired. Spent.
The captain nodded and trotted out. He waited till the noise in his office faded before emerging again. He trotted over to his desk and poured himself another drink. If alcohol didn’t provide answers, at least it might provide peace.
“Director?” said Aleta said from the doorway out of his office. The scarred mare trotted in, glancing around the now empty office. “I just wanted to thank you. For understanding how bad the razor grass is. My family’s fought the razor grass all my life. I may not like Carnico or your weed killer, but I appreciate sparing anyone that fate.” She smiled and took a deep breath. “I also wanted to tell you not to worry. Carnilians are tough. If we have to go a few years against the razor grass, we’ll do it.”
His eyes stared at her, roaming over the dozens of scars that lined her frame, his face hollow and thin. He gave a tiny, almost spastic sort of nod, and she smiled and trotted out. He stared at the closed door for almost a minute. Then Cecilio trotted over and locked the door to his office. He moved a potted plant in the corner, peeled back the carpet, and opened the safe set in the floor. The folder within crackled with age, its paper having developed a permanent curl.
There was no ‘working hard’ to get out of this. Vega would understand. The exchange could move a lot, but it couldn’t manifest the thousands of workers he needed. He opened the folder and looked at the information sheets. ‘Sample 6981: Equestrian fungal spores’. His eyes skipped over the abstract, one he knew so well. He’d written it, after all. His voice whispered like a ghost as he read, “Sample 6981 demonstrates a remarkable ability to infest and strangle razorgrass rhizomes. One gram of spores can eradicate one thousand square yards of razorgrass within a week. The decayed biomass proves ideal for immediate crop plantation. Greater study recommended.”
His signature was almost legible beneath the enormous glyph that simply read ‘Canceled’ and the scribble next to it, ‘All samples of 6981 are to be destroyed. This will put us out of business.’ A photograph showed five zebras grinning like idiots holding aloft a packet of what was little better than glorified yeast. He’d been one of the five. The only one to keep their mouth shut and not object. The only one with a career. A future.
He pressed his hooves to his eyes, but that couldn’t stop him from seeing a headstone half buried in razorgrass. It read ‘Here lie the Carnilians. We died because it was unprofitable to live.’
* * *
“Fuck, this place is boring,” Vicious muttered as she watched the landscape stream by, the train chugging its way south. The periwinkle unicorn huffed as she stared out the window. Endless gray and brown mountains of rock poking out of ancient white lake beds had been all that filled her view since they’d left Irontown behind. She wondered if there’d be a Blood Legion flag flying above it when they came back.
The three of them had a car cabin all to themselves. Vicious had impressed upon them that not just giving her what she wanted would be far more deadly than handing it over. Tchernobog had loomed appropriately, and between the pair the calculation was the same: the price of passage was far less than the price of replacing the entire train. The Irons had enough troubles on their plate. They didn’t need a psychotic mare on it as well.
She’d already sharpened everything that could be: knives, hidden knives, throwing knives, swords, hooves. She fiddled with her PipBuck, wishing it could pick up more in the Empty. Tchernobog was reading a scroll impassively. The spirally glyphs made her head throb.
Lumi sat quietly on his seat, the blind shaman staring at his forehooves as the train rolled along. He didn’t speak much since getting plucked from the river. Given that Green Legion caravan had probably been his whole world, she doubted he had any other family to go back to. “So this is the Great Central Empty, huh. You should be glad you can’t see all this brown, kid.”
“Mmmm,” was his only reply.
“Leave him alone, Vicious,” Tchernobog said as the Starkatteri examined the crude map of Zebrinica. Vicious started to speak, then mentally kicked herself. “The Central Empty is furthest from prevailing winds and coasts, and the mountains act as a barrier to clouds. This region sees rain once per century. Most moisture is the result of frost melting into the dust. It may not be as massive as the Eastern or Western Empties, but it is by far the driest.”
“I just need to find whatever that thing is that’s hunting Scotch,” she said as she smacked her hooves together.
“And what will you do when you do?” Tchernobog asked with the tiniest of smiles.
“I’ll shoot it. Blow it up. Slice it up some. Shoot a lot more. Use some fire and acid. Slash it a couple more times for fun. Hit it with a cryo grenade. Drop a house on it. Maybe use a balefire egg on it.” She rubbed her hooves together.
“And if none of that works?” Tchernobog asked without looking up from his map.
“Then I’ll get creative. What’s your plan?” she countered.
“I want to study it,” he replied.
“And here I thought Vega was the nerd in your relationship.” She rolled her eyes.
“There are rules to the spirit world. One of those rules is that we are material, our souls are spiritual, and we do not transgress on the spirit world. Devouring a spirit is a severe transgression. At best, it will merely kill you as the spirit overwhelms the flesh. At worst, you will become a monster that will hunger evermore for more spirits and more souls. That hunger will inevitably consume you,” Tchernobog said. Vicious glanced at Lumi, the colt curling ever tighter in his seat.
Some company we are. “So you want to know how it cheats the rules,” she summarized.
“I do. If such a technique is possible without resulting in death and madness, I wish to know it. I wish to know why I cannot sense it. I know many sensations of corruption. The oily taint of a bribe. The bitterness of resentment. The sharp edges of a murderous plot. If someone out there has this capability, to devour a spirit without losing their mind and soul, I cannot allow it.”
“I just want to kill the bitch that used magic on me.”
“I want Lumihautile back,” Lumi muttered.
“If it was devoured…” Tchernobog began, but Vicious silenced him with a glare and moved to sit next to the colt.
“I know what it’s like to want what we love back,” Vicious said softly, touching his shoulder. He pulled away, and she sighed. “Look, wanting doesn’t fix things. Trust me. If you can find another spirit, do that. Don’t beat yourself up over wanting things you can’t have.”
“What do you care? You just want to kill things,” the colt said as his filmy eyes stared hard into the air.
“Yup. Because I am uncomplicated. I have my job and a skillset and cutie mark ideally suited to it. I cut, shoot, stab, explode, defenestrate, and otherwise devivify anything that messes with me or the Syndicate.” Vicious sighed. “You and Boggy deal with spirits. I can’t even imagine. I don’t want to. I’m happy just slashy slashing and shooty shooting.” Lumi just closed his cloudy eyes. She looked at Tchernobog. “Is it even possible to un-devour a spirit?”
“I’d say no, but a month ago I’d have said it was impossible for someone to evade my sight so readily.”
Vicious patted Lumi’s head. “Hear that? If there’s any way that we can get Lumihall back, we will.”
The colt sat up a little at that with a small smile. “Okay. I know there’s probably not, but if we can…”
“How does someone hide from a shaman though?” Vicious asked. “And why could he see through it? Well not see but you get what I mean.”
“There are spirits of lies and obfuscation, but they are predictable. I can recognize their viscous presence with little difficulty. For something to be there but not detectable… it would be soulless, like a feral ghoul. Yet such a being could not think nor act as you describe when you stood in their hoofsteps. And yet he can detect them despite being blind?” Tchernobog shook his head gravely. “I cannot think how such a thing can be.”
“It sounded wrong. I didn’t hear it any better or worse. But it was wrong. Like a voice turned inside out,” Lumi said with a shake of his head. “I knew it was bad the second I heard it.”
Tchernobog rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Inside out? Like a requiary?”
“A requiwha?” Vicious asked.
“I don’t know what that is either,” Lumi admitted.
Maybe it was just her, but the lights seemed to dim as he spoke, the sounds of the train fading. “I would be shocked if either of you did. It is a dark and desperate technique to cling to existence. One takes their soul and forces it into an object. In the process the soul is mangled and mutilated beyond recovery. Quite a few of my tribe sought to escape justice and death by forcing themselves into black books of lore.”
“Evil books?” Vicious said, a bit skeptical as the lighting returned. It must have just been a cloud.
“It was their plan to manipulate other shamans and their tribes from this state of being, but so horrible was the process of their transformation that few didn’t see them for what they were. Thus only the corrupt, desperate, or foolish gave them any heed. I know not how such a state would grant the powers of obfuscation, however.” Tchernobog mused, “If the ancients of my tribe had such capabilities, those tomes would be far more pernicious.”
“Maybe someone learned new tricks? Like they deliberately made themselves into a requiwhatever designed to be undetectable?” she suggested.
“Perhaps,” Tchernobog murmured. “But why then could the colt detect its true essence?”
“Maybe they screwed it up? ‘Make me invisible to people’ but didn’t figure on a blind person being able to detect them?” Vicious offered, then glanced at Lumi. “No offence intended.” For once. Gah, when had she turned so soft?
“If so, it would imply our adversary is capable of mortal flaws and errors. I don’t know if that’s reassuring or concerning. Or else, they’re more clever than I with arcane convolutions and the boy’s perception is some other coincidence. Perhaps a result of their censure, or…” he paused. “It ate a spirit bonded to you. In taking that spirit, it may too have taken the bond.”
“Maybe. I’ve felt… sick… ever since I lost Lumihautile. I thought it was just missing them and wanting to get them back,” Lumi said softly as the shaggy colt looked away. “Or being in the river for so long.”
“Can you feel anything else?” Vicious asked. “Our quarry may not even be aware of the connection?”
“I’m not sure of the words. It feels angry. And hungry,” the colt confessed, shivering. “It’s full of hate. For everything.”
“Sounds like me on a Monday,” Vicious muttered.
“But why? There must be a reason. Whatever, or whoever it is,” Tchernobog said with a wave of his hoof, “it must be stopped, if only to understand it. Fortunately, we know its animus: Scotch Tape.”
“Why though?” Vicious muttered with a frown. “I mean, Scotch is a cute young mare, sure, but she’s nothing special. Aside from the whole shaman thing.” She rubbed her shoulder, wondering why it was sore. She hadn’t seen any action since the river.
“Even that I’m uncertain. Perhaps she made contact with an immensely powerful spirit, but how that could happen to a pony is incomprehensible to me.” He settled into his seat with a sigh.
“Well, she’s had weeks in Roam to find things out,” Vicious said and then pursed her lips. “Assuming she actually followed my advice and used the train to get south.” At least she knew she was alive from her broadcast. The last broadcast on Z TV… “She’s fine. She’s tenacious. She was an absolute champ in bed.”
“Isn’t she a little young for you?” Tchernobog asked with an arch of his brow.
“Wha… she’s only three years younger than me!” Vicious sputtered. “How old do you think I am, Boggy!?”
“I assumed… ahem… I think I should ponder some imponderables,” the Starkatteri muttered as he looked out the window.
“Too young… when I was her age, I was learning nine ways to cut a throat. Through experience. Pah…” she snorted with a toss of her mane. She winced as something tweaked in her shoulder. “Ow,” she muttered, rubbing it with a hoof.
“Something the matter?” Tchernobog asked with an arched brow.
“Nothing,” she growled. “Just been sitting too long. I should take a walk.”
“Don’t kill anybody,” Tchernobog said as he resumed studying his scroll.
“No promises.” She smirked as she stepped out. The soreness didn’t go away, but she could ignore a little pain. She walked down to the end of the car, stepping over the Iron Legion that slept in the hallway. Most sized her up, but Irons weren’t like Blood. They didn’t need to prove themselves by picking stupid fights.
When she reached the door, she realized Lumi was following her. It was strange how he walked, barely lifting his hooves as he stepped till they bumped into something. Even without touching, his ears twitched as he navigated around the Irons. She watched as he brushed his tail along the wall to navigate. “Where you going?” she asked.
“Toilet,” he said as he pointed a hoof at the door behind her.
“How’d you know?” she asked, looking at the sign on the door
“It smells like a toilet, whether it is one or not,” he replied. She wrinkled her nose, and he looked shyly away. “Sorry.” Vicious cocked her head. “That was probably gross to say.”
“Eh, I’ve heard worse,” she said with a shrug. “First time I disemboweled a person, I couldn’t stop gagging for weeks.” His smile suddenly looked a lot more strained. “What?”
“I’m just not used to people talking so casually about killing people. Even with the Greens, we only killed if someone attacked us first.” He stepped up next to her. “Can I ask a question?”
“Probably, since you just did,” she snickered, his ears lying flat in embarrassment. “Go ahead. What is it?”
“What is Scotch Tape to you?”
Vicious blinked. Normally personal questions would earn at least a slice, but she couldn’t bring herself to cut someone who was pretty much a kid. She huffed softly instead. “She’s nice. We were roommates with benefits. I liked coming home to her, but I had work and she had her quest. Never occurred to me to leave and go with her and the others. Now here I am chasing after her.”
“If you’d gone with her, you wouldn’t have known this thing is hunting her,” Lumi said.
“True. I dunno. I shared her bed but I never had her heart. I guess in the end we both just wanted to feel less alone.” She regarded him and gave his head a pat. “What is she to you?” she asked with a grin.
“Nothing really, but Lumihautile loved her. He said she was like the coming of winter,” he said with a smile. “He said she was really, really, really important, but couldn’t explain why.”
“Coming of winter? That sounds ominous.” Vicious chuckled.
“Not if you’re a snowflake.” He smiled as he pushed open the lavatory door. “Excuse me,” he said, inside.
Vicious snorted and looked out into the Empty. The gnarled stone spires and dry mesas stood like giant petrified ponies patiently in the desolation, statues carved by wind and water over millennia, or longer. She didn’t like the Empty. Not because it was boring, but because it rendered her and her swords and gun as insignificant. She hated what she couldn’t kill.
What about this thing she was hunting? Some kind of spirit thing? She didn’t know how to kill a spirit any more than she knew how to kill a thousand kilometers of dry rock. But by the knives on her flank, if anypony could find a way, it’d be her…
* * *
The concrete sign read ‘Equestrian Post’ with an imprint of a pegasus holding an oversized letter in her mouth. Nothing else of the post office remained since a pair of tanks had driven through it in the Battle of the Hoof. The cavernous chamber underneath, an unfinished stable, had weathered far better and it was here that most of the wealth of Chapel lay, protected from the vagrancies of life above. Most of the Crusaders growing up hadn’t known about it until after the fight.
“Two thousand and sixty four rounds of ten millimeter ammunition. Nine hundred and six capacitors. Eighty seven bowling balls. Nine bowling pins. Huh. If it was the other way I’d try and get those Society ponies into bowling,” a light blue unicorn mused as he levitated an inventory sheet on a clipboard, noting each pallet of the town’s wealth. Or Charity’s wealth. Or his wealth.
“Hey, Perky,” a pair shouted from the cargo elevator that went up to the post office’s basement. “Mail for you. What are you doing?”
“Just taking Charity’s monthly inventory,” Perky Ears said as he regarded the sheet. “We got way too many bowling balls.”
The two earth pony mares gave a little snicker. “Seriously? She’s been gone for almost six months. Pretty sure she’s not coming back.” the first chuckled. Thrown Stones was an earth pony who could buck a boulder a hundred feet. The other one, Broken Glass, was pink and had a cutie mark of a smashed window.
“Yeah. Her little foray to Zebrinica was only supposed to be a week.” Then Glass grinned. “She’s probably zebra stew by now.”
Perky Ears just smiled and ignored them. Charity was a hard boss, but a good one. She could have sent someone else with the alicorns to see about opening up trade, but she went herself precisely because of the risk. And to make sure no one screwed her out of opportunities. Charity wasn’t easy to work for, but she never cheated anyone. Perky respected that, and as her manager, did things the way she wanted.
“You should just take over,” Stony said as she passed him a stack of letters. He flipped through them briefly, then paused at one covered in Equestrian script, but also strange loopy symbols. He set the others aside. “I mean, nopony would blame you. She’s pretty obviously dead.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. Death doesn’t have enough bits to pay for Charity’s service fee.” He ripped the envelope open.
“Oh come on. You’re the one running this place. It’s not like she had kids. We were all kids. Just say the word and we’ll totally back you,” Glass said with a wiggle of her rump. No surprise. Even liquidated at cost, there was a fortune to be made here.
A pair of envelopes was inside the first, both written in Equestrian. ‘For Perky’ and ‘Not for Perky’. Now the pair were paying attention too as he ripped open the one for him. Then he grinned as he scanned the contents. “Charity’s alive.”
“What?!” gasped the first.
“No she isn’t!” insisted the second.
“She’s in Roam,” he said as he read.
“She’s supposed to be dead,” muttered the second to herself.
“Says she’s working for a group called the Flame Legion. Says if any of you try to take over Charity’s she’s going to fine you into your next life. Your grand foals will be paying your debt. Yadda yadda yadds… buy more bowling pins. Huh…” He glanced at the pallet behind him. Did she have some kind of innate magical connection to her inventory?
‘In the other envelope, I have reports for the Twilight Society and the Followers. Make sure they get them. Also, pretty sure that somepony set me up. Whoever they are, they got thirteen alicorns murdered. Take what you need out of petty cash to deal with it. The Zodiacs are probably bored.’
Perky glanced at the second mare. “Supposed to be dead?” he said. A lot of people really underestimated his hearing. “Why do you say that, Glass?”
Broken Glass backpedaled. “Look, I didn’t kill her! I didn’t do anything!” He just cocked a brow at the pink mare. “It was the zebras. Remember when that Scotch Tape kid was here? There were these zebras who were wanting to know about her and Blackjack. Like did she really take a rocket to the moon and shit.”
“Why’s that?” Perky asked in a calm, reasonable, curious voice that many found bafflingly intimidating. Self-control can be a marvelous thing.
“I don’t know. They’re zebras. Stripes are always frigging weird. They wanted her dead, and I figured it’d be a good way to get rid of Charity, so I said they were best friends and about the trip. If something happened to her, it was the zebras that did it. Not me.” She grinned at him. “Look, just burn that letter and forget about Charity! She’s all the way in Roam, bonking zebras. I’m here. You’re here. No one needs to know,” she said with a purr.
Perky blinked and glanced at the other mare, who immediately backed up a step, raising her hooves and shaking her head. Then he smiled at the earth pony. “Know what, Glass? You’re right.” He floated the two letters into his saddlebags, then levitated the folded up piece of paper, pulled out a lighter, and lit it.
Glass gave a simper of triumph. “Let’s go back to your place.”
He gave her a smile back. “Let’s.”
Thirty minutes later, the green alicorns were bundling her up in chains for transport to Junction City, the mare screaming profanities. “She was directly involved in the murder of your people,” Perky explained calmly as he passed on Charity’s message for the Followers. “I don’t know if it’s enough to build a case…”
“It’s something.” The purple alicorn took the letter. “Thank you. You are a credit to this place’s namesake,” she said, glancing up at the huge sign that read ‘Charity’s’.
“Don’t let the owner hear you say that. She’ll bill you.” He chuckled as the trio of alicorns trotted off. The first mare approached as he levitated out his inventory list and tugged off Charity’s letter from the stack of inventory. “She’s going to kill me for burning a page of inventory though.”
“Why though?” the mare asked. “For that filly?”
“She’s a mare now, same as you, Stoney. All us Crusaders grew up.” He put the clipboard away. Those that hadn’t yet were now being cared for by the Society and even the Reapers for the more incorrigible youth. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. If someone’s eager to do a wrong thing to someone else, they’re probably willing to do a wrong thing to you too.”
“Huh, does that policy apply to marefriends?” Stony asked with a smile and arch of her brow.
“Why don’t we have dinner and you can find out?” he said as he trotted over to the new post office, where a pair of pegasi were collecting letters. He slipped his into the mail slot on their wagon, wondering what business Charity had with the Twilight Society. Lots of ponies had wanted to get rid of Charity, but she always held on, trying to make things better in her own strange way. Perky wondered just what would come in her next letter from the zebra lands.
* * *
“I’m going to kill you,” Mahealani swore as the Atoli captain crouched between the woefully inadequate clumps of brush keeping them from view.
“Well that would be dumb, given that our pycrete raft’s melted and our only way off this rock is my ship,” Thrush responded.
“Not your ship. Eye Scream’s ship,” Mahealani countered, jabbing a hoof at the Estori scow. It was everything she expected of the Estori: a rusty crab boat bristling with machine guns, painted with black skulls and flying the flag of a pony with spikes being driven into its eyes. No dignity, no self-respect, just a crude and brutish intimidating aesthetic. A good wave would capsize her.
In comparison, Thrush’s ship was typical pony design. Pretty and deadly, with a fine pointed bow, a turret with two machine guns on top, and two torpedo tubes. Its hull could be replaced a dozen more times if need be, and though she’d never admit it, she liked the use of a wooden hull. Some might scoff, but it was far, far easier to patch and repair than a composite or steel hull. Pony design was hit or miss, but when they hit, they hit hard.
“Technically,” Thrush repeated with a dismissive wave of her hoof.
The rock they inhabited was a horseshoe shaped caldera with a ring of concrete bunkers rimmed in frost and an observation post at the highest point. Mahealani guessed it’d been used to watch for Equestrians trying to sneak around the sea or air raids from the Crystal Empire. Too small to warrant a megaspell. Thrush’s crew were trying to keep warm in one of the small bunkers while they retrieved the Seahorse.
Only Mahealani had no idea how they were going to do that. The Occular Annulus, Eye Scream’s vessel, was between the shore and the Seahorse. Swimming in the frozen water was out of the question, and there wasn’t anything to build a raft. Even if they did, with no cover, they’d be spotted right away.
“We should radio for help,” Mahealani suggested, pointing at the radio tower atop the observation station.
“We could do that,” Thrush said as she stared at the sailors on the shore. “Or we can look for rum.”
“Are you mad? One good broadcast and Tsunami can have three or four ships here!”
“Sure, but by then my ship could be sunk, scrapped, or taken. We’re much better off finding rum.”
“What are you talking about? What rum?” Mahealani hissed, on the verge of tearing her mane out. “There is no rum!”
Thrush grabbed her cheeks and stared into her eyes. “There’s always rum. Come on,” she said, moving along the scrub and rocks, sniffing the air. Mahealani would have left her, except that if the unicorn was caught, it wouldn’t be long before she was found too. Keeping low, they moved down the rocky slope towards the Occular Annulus.
The crew were lazing about, clearly waiting for something. They talked in thick, tar like dialect, swapping their words around like mainlanders. They clustered around barrels loaded with burning wood, complaining about the cold and trading crude insults back and forth casually. Thrush moved past, muzzle in the air.
Suddenly Mahealani caught the telltale scent of sugar on the breeze. A trickle of smoke leaking from the door of a bunker betrayed the presence of combustion. They’d tried to obscure it with a cloth. From inside the door came a bubbling gurgle and low voices.
To Mahealani’s shock and horror, Thrush stepped right up and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Mahealani let out a cry strangled by rage and ran in, and impacted with the unicorn’s rump. Thrush gave her a cool look, looked at a trio of shocked zebra sailors, and then smiled. “Rum inspectors!” she said brightly, trotting over to a table where dozens of empty Sparkle-Cola bottles stood. A pot next to them on the fire appeared to be boiling off most of the additives, collecting the crystalized sugar. This was put into a vat with some more sacks of sugar likely taken from the southeast. A dozen or more bottles were filled with the fluid, stained brown. Next to it, a still burbled softly, dripping into recycled Sparkle-Cola bottles.
“Give a sailor a week of shore leave and there will always be rum,” Thrush declared as she walked along. The trio clearly hadn’t been expecting the turquoise unicorn, or her examining the various pots. “Good. You’re using fresh yeast. Not recycled.” She raised a bottle, sniffed it, and took a sip. “Hmmm… not bad. Definitely tasting some acetone there.”
“Hey,” one said, pointing a hoof. “You’re the dumbass we took that boat from!”
Thrush smiled at him, and the vat of boiling soda glowed blue. That smile didn’t waiver as she flung the bucketful right into his face.
The stallion screamed, clawing at his face as he collapsed in a sticky heap. Another zebra drew a sawed-off shotgun, but his head was suddenly engulfed in the hot, sticky pot. Thrush whirled and kicked the side with a bell ringing clang. The third rushed for the door, but stopped short as Mahealani reared up and stomped his head good and hard. After the last hour with the infuriating pony captain, she put quite a bit of feeling into it!
“Ship,” Thrush told the groaning, whimpering, sticky sailor. “The Seahorse is a ship.”
Five minutes later, the three were tied up, and Thrush and Mahealani were dressed in their reeking, ratty, southeastern style clothes. Thrush meanwhile powdered her face in sugar and drew on some stripes with charcoal. “How’d you know there’d be a still?” Mahealani asked.
“Please. Give sailors a week and something will be fermenting. Something they don’t want the captain to take for themselves,” Captain Thrush replied, taking a bottle for herself and stashing it in her clothes. “Okay. We get on the Eye Scream. Make a distraction. Get on the Seahorse. I power it up. Pick up Onesy, Twosy, and Threesy and get ourselves down to Port Nightmare.”
“Port Nightmare? Should just let Eye Scream finish you both off,” one leered. Mahealani gave him another thump.
“And just how are we supposed to get on the Annulus?” Mahealani asked.
Thrush rolled her eyes. “Uh, duh? We have rum, remember?”
Soon the pair were strolling up towards the gangplank of the Annulus. “Hey. Who are you?” a crewmate challenged, narrowing his eyes at the pair. Mahealani narrowed hers back.
“You know who I am. I joined that one time, remember? In the place, with the thing,” Thrush replied as she stepped up casually towards the pair. She made a show of looking about, then pulled out a bottle of brownish fluid and gave it a slosh. “Better question, want a taste?”
The sailor immediately licked his lips and glanced around as well. “That Wigg’s newest batch?”
“So fresh it’ll strip paint,” Thrust assured him, passing him the bottle. He took a drink and coughed. “Literally.”
“Ooooh. Not the best lot, but it’ll keep the cold off,” he said and extended it back.
“When the balls are we getting out of here?” Thrush took it and had a drink herself.
“Whenever the captain’s business with Riptide’s done,” he replied. “Fuck, I want home. These Atoli waters are piss.” He looked at Mahealani and scowled. “What’s with your friend?”
“Her?” Thrush chuckled. “Tragic accident. One day when she was a foal, she got dropped onto a flagpole. All ten feet of stick, right up the ass. Been there to this day.” Thrush gave a stage whisper, “She won’t admit it, but she really liked it.”
That got a guffaw from the sailor, who took another drink from the bottle as Thrush returned it. “Eye Scream’s meeting with Riptide?” Mahealani pressed. What on Equus could the two be meeting over? They operated on opposite sides of the world!
The guffaw faded. Thrush rolled her eyes. “‘Course. Duh. Everyone knows that. Come on. We got deliveries to make before the officers take it all for themselves.” She gestured to his bottle. “Keep it, and if it doesn’t keep you nice and warm, come find me later.” She gave him a wink and then trotted up the gangplank. He looked suspiciously at Mahealani as she followed her up, but didn’t raise an alarm.
“Are you constipated or something?” Thrush asked as they trotted up and the mare immediately moved towards the stern like she knew where she was going.
“What?” Mahealani asked with a scowl.
“Smile. Do you know how to?” Thrush asked. “Honestly, you’re perfect officer material.”
“I’m more curious where you learned how to speak Zebra like an Estori,” Mahealani countered.
“Get a sailor a little hammered and all dialects are the same,” Thrush countered. “Smile and relax. You’re too tense.” She pulled out another bottle and waved it at Mahealani.
“I don’t drink,” Mahealani countered like a thundercloud.
“Crazy too. Tragic,” Thrush said as she took another swing. “Woooh. That’s better. Much smoother.” She thumped her chest with a hoof.
“What are you doing?” Mahealani insisted.
“Looking for the bilge,” Thrush replied as she opened a door in the back and trotted down the first set of stairs.
“Why?”
“Because officers don’t go near the bilge and I really don’t want to meet one.” Thrush trotted down into the guts of the ship. The crab tanks had been converted into cargo and crew space, the bulkheads carved out. Down in the bottom were a coal bunker and the boilers. Crew were feeding fresh coal, meaning the ship was planning to move soon. An officer shouted a mixture of insults and threats from above, but they were steady and with little alarm or urgency.
Behind the bunker, a cluster of sailors were lounging, coated in coal dust. Thrush immediately began passing out bottles of ‘Wiggy’s finest’ and soon shoveling coal was forgotten as the rum flowed. “Come on,” Thrush said as the officer’s insults silenced.
Mahealani followed, walking away as the officer from above was making his way below. As Thrush walked up to the top of the coal bunker, an eruption of shouts and kicks exploded below as the officer discovered the recreating sailors, and the sailors, in turn, took steps to extend their recreation.
“What are you doing?” Mahealani asked as they reached the top.
“You really should learn to trust me,” she said as she grabbed some twine off a workbench, tied it around the mouth of a bottle, and then stuffed a rag into it. She opened the lid of the bunker, and then with her magic lit the tip of the rag. As it started to burn, she quickly lowered the bottle and then closed the bunker lid, pinching the length of string.
Oh. Rum may not burn well, but a bunker full of coal did. The fire’d either burn through the string, or someone would open the bunker lid, and either way the bottle would fall. That would absolutely get everyone’s attention. “We need to hurry,” Mahealani said as they moved up towards the deck.
“Relax. Don’t run till the fire alarms sound.”
“We don’t want to be here when the Riptide shows up. Trust me. You haven’t seen the ship.” Mahealani peered down the way they’d come. The officer’s shouts weren’t quite of the alarmed tone just yet.
“Zebrinican destroyer?”
“Yes. Seas only know where she got it.”
“Six inch turret on the prow?”
“How’d you… oh,” Mahealani said as she turned and beheld the sight of the Riptide sailing into the small harbor. The contrast between the two ships couldn’t be clearer. Where the Annuluswas streaked with rust and welded on bits, the Riptide looked freshly painted. Its hull still had the sacrificial zinc plates at the waterline! While the crew were all Atoli sailors, there was a uniformity in their dress she hadn’t seen in the brief firefight. A flight of leather-clad fliers buzzed around the Annulus like a hive. She'd seen one a week ago, but it'd died quickly and the Sahaani had thrown it overboard before she'd gotten a closer look.
The Riptide slid silently up next to the rusty ship as an alarm started to bang and Eye Scream’s crew started to rush out on deck. For a moment, Mahealani thought it might have been for the fire, but given all the eyes on the Riptide, it was clearly not.
The ship sailed right between the Annulus and the Seahorse. Forty thousand tons of warship and death now stood between them and their goal.
Soon as the Riptide was halted, a gangplank was swung over and her captain walked down, a bored and unconcerned look on her face as she examined Eye Scream’s crew with haughty disdain. Mahealani was careful not to meet her marriage sister’s eye.
Had the fire started? Had it gone out? Been discovered? Mahealani could only stand in the crowd as Eye Scream emerged. The Estori captain’s stripes were almost horizontal zig zags across his frame, and he wore a leather coat that appeared to have a liberal layer of tar covering it. A necklace of nails tickled around his neck, ready to be hammered into the sockets of anyone that annoyed him. Little notches were missing from his ear, nostrils, and lip giving the impression of a perpetual smirk.
“Riptide. You’re early,” he said, stepping towards the mare.
“I’m busy, Yamul,” the mare countered. “Busy busy busy. You have no idea.” Mahealani guessed that to be Eye Scream’s real name. “Where’d you get the pony boat?”
“Ship,” Thrush growled softly beside her.
“Idiot pony tried to cheat me. I spiked her eyes and fucked her ass, and took her boat. Now I have even more to trade,” he boasted with a grin to his crew.
“Ship,” Thrush repeated. Mahealani poked her in the ribs.
“Not interested,” Riptide sniffed. “Just give me the maggots and we’ll be going.”
Eye Scream’s face disappeared. “Riptide, burn the boat, but it’s got an Equestrian water jet talisman. That alone should be worth something!”
Riptide’s contempt broke for a moment as she rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. I suppose I can spare an extra crate. I know a zebra who might be nostalgic.”
Eye Scream laughed and stomped his hooves. “Get the boxes! Hurry! No wasting the great Riptide’s time!” He was trying to walk the tightrope of contempt and flattery, and when he saw the flat, unamused look on her face, he gave a sickly laugh. “Hurry!” he snapped at the crew.
One of the hatches to the crab pots was opened, and Mahealani saw the streamer of smoke rising from it. But immediately two large wooden crates were hauled out and set on the deck. “Open them. I want to make sure they’re not all dead,” Riptide insisted. Eye Scream frowned, but pry bars were inserted and the lid popped off. Instantly a white squirming shape wiggled over the lip, quivering in the cold. Mahealani couldn’t help herself, she leaned over as well, staring at thousands of the squirming grubs.
“Good. Good. I’ll need them to keep for a while longer though,” the mare said.
Eye Scream rolled his and jabbed a hoof at a pair of sailors. They screamed as their fellows pounced and wrestled them over to the open crates. Begging, pleading, they were tossed over into the box. The lids were then pulled over and hammered back down again. From inside came weak thuds and whimpers that went ignored by the two captains.
“My payment?” Eye Scream said eagerly as the hatch was closed, even as the smoke leaking out increased. Mahealani glanced towards the stern with some consternation.
Riptide sniffed and waved a hoof. A crane arm swung over and lowered down a pallet with two metal boxes. No sooner did they touch deck than Eye Scream rushed over and threw them open. Glittering stacks of imperios gleamed in the cold light. Mahealani stared in shock. Just one held as much as the Abalone was worth. “Where’s the third?” he asked as he scooped them up.
“Get my cargo aboard and I’ll send it with your sailors,” Riptide said. However, no one was eager to step forward and lift the whimpering, softly thumping crates. But Mahealani saw her opportunity. She nudged Thrush and stepped forward, standing on the far side from Riptide. She shouldered the underside of a beam and lifted, the pony on the opposite side from her heaving in unison. They hauled the box aboard while two others got the other box.
Thus for the first time, she set hoof on the Riptide.
Only her husband had been aboard, and he’d gushed on and on about the amazing ship. At the time, all of Northport had been trying to get the new power in their family, so she’d taken it as a neophyte overwhelmed with a restored or refurbished vessel. Even when it’d been shooting at her, she’d stayed far away from the vessel. But now, as she walked on no-slip rubber surfaces and beheld the fresh paint, she was awed and humbled by the vessel. It really did feel as if it’d sailed 200 years without a spot of rust. The few scuffs, scrapes, or patches she spotted reinforced the pristineness of the rest of the ship.
And the crew were no different. Oh, there were plenty of Atoli interspersed with the bizarre leather clad flyers with their garlic scented breath masks, but the rest of the crew were like the ship. Too neat. Too professional. Trained and disciplined in a way she didn’t expect with a mare like Riptide. She didn’t possess this calm poise or menacing passivity, as if any and every one of them would kill her if ordered without even a qualm. She couldn’t even tell what tribe they were. Not Atoli…
The questions were piling up, and now more than ever she just wanted to get away from it.
“Follow me,” one of the sailors said, leading her aft. The rest of the crew was watching the Annulus with cool contempt, and by extension, them. The six inch guns even had their muzzle caps on. The garlic smell was growing more pronounced, and they walked over to a hatch. The sailors pulled them open.
Inside were dozens of things. Zebra in shape, but their hides were glistening white. No manes or tails, instead wet, translucent sheets protruded from their shoulders. Mandible pincers jutted alongside their mouths. Some had darker brown patches. Pony hides. They stared with wide, glassy eyes like wet pearls. Sacks of reeking yellow rock were piled here and there.
They were going to die. She was certain of it. They were going to go down there and be eaten by those things. No, worse. Because there were some in the early stages, their hind quarters and bellies glossy and distorted. They went in the back… spirits… they looked as if they were changing from the back forward, from the inside out. Riptide wouldn’t pay Eye Scream. Why bother? They were going to get thrown down there…
“Quite a sight, eh?” one of the strange, generic looking zebras murmured. “Some south seas symbiote. They crawl in the rear, eat your guts and bits, and replace them with their own. Then they move up and do the same with your lungs and other organs. You can only breathe their air afterwards. Makes them nice and loyal. Don’t suppose you could tell us where Eye Scream gets them, could ya? We’d really appreciate it.”
“N…no,” Mahealani stammered as she set the boxes down and moved back. Two of the wet, white forms emerged, took the boxes, and carried them down into the hanger.
“Too bad. You could make a fortune. No?” The zebra looked amused at her apparent loyalty. “Come on. Grab another crate for your captain, then.”
They were escorted into the middle of the ship, past crew quarters and a mess hall that were neat and clean. No sailors lived like that. None she could imagine. But they opened a storeroom where two dozen more of the small metal boxes were stacked. A sailor grunted as he lifted one, passing it to Thrush. The mare nearly fell over, dropping the box. It burst open on impact and hundreds of bright and shiny gold coins came flying out, scattering all across the floor. The four gaped, and the two sailors from the Annulus fell on their faces, trying to scoop up the imperios.
Mahealani raised one, turning it over. Imperios tended to get rough treatment. The edges would be shaved, the Caesar head scraped by being shuffled around, and a general layer of grime accumulated here and there. This coin had none of that. It looked as clean and shiny as if it’d been minted yesterday.
“Funny,” one Riptide sailor said coolly as she observed Mahealani not trying to collect the spilled coins. “You don’t look like one of Eye Scream’s crew.”
“What?” Thrush said as she sat up, holding a double hoofful of gold coins.
The other pair stopped their scrounging and stared at the pair of them. “Yeah. I don’t recognize them either.”
“What?” Thrush laughed. “Of course you do. We joined back at the thing, remember?”
A bead of sweat dripped down Thrush’s temple.
It left a turquoise streak. Shocked bafflement registered for a moment…
Mahealani reached over and grabbed another metal box and heaved it into the face of the Riptide sailor. Thrush flung the coins at the face of the other as her horn glowed and she drew the sailor’s pistol. The two Annulus sailors scrambled to their hooves from the floor, but Mahealani snatched up another one and flung it down on the pair. Bones crunched under the container as Thrush pressed the gun to the sides of the Riptide sailor and pulled the trigger. The press of bodies muffled the gunshot as it tore sideways through the sailor’s torso.
The second sailor got his gun free, but Mahealani grabbed him around the neck and rammed them both into the wall, the gun twisting in his mouth and breaking off teeth. Thrush jumped on the back of one writhing Annulus sailor, grabbing the hoof of another trying to crawl away. The floating gun pressed to his temple, and he suddenly went very still.
The remaining Riptide sailor flung Mahealani off, her forelegs scraping over his head and dislodging the pistol. As he pulled free, Thrush yanked off her bandana and telekinetically flung it into his face as he opened his mouth to yell. Mahealani bit down on the gun’s grip and jammed it into his side. Three rounds went into the sailor, who slumped over and went still as well.
There was yelling outside, and calls of ‘fire.’ It was now or never. The Annulus sailors were either concussed or pretending to be, and so she stepped over them, checking the hall. All the attention was on the port side. “Come on. Let’s…” she trailed off as she saw Thrush loading herself up with two of the heavy metal boxes. “Seriously?!”
“Expenses! Lead the way!” Thrush said as she huffed and puffed after her.
On the port side, she moved over to the rail. The Seahorse was a mere twenty feet away, and twenty feet down. Mahealani groaned; it wouldn’t be her first cold swim, but she was getting too old for this! “You aren’t going to be able to swim with those!” she shouted at Thrush as the unicorn emerged.
“Let me worry about that.” Mahealani took her at her word, leaping over the edge. Burning coal cinders were raining down on both ships and the Riptide was already starting to move. If it blocked the mouth of the bay, there was no way they were getting out with the Seahorse.
She expected the cold punch of the water, holding her breath and not gasping in reflex. Her legs kicked towards the rear of the pony vessel, where a small ladder dangled into the water. There was a splash and Thrush dove in after her.
Mahealani was halfway to it when something dark and sleek brushed her side. Mahealani swung her head and was shocked to see the gray fin attached to an equine body. A shark tail slashed back and forth in the water. Dark eyes peered up at her. It poked its head above the water, dozens of razor-sharp teeth in its maw.
“Auntie?” it burbled at her.
Mahealani stared. There were very few people who could call her that. “Nihui?” she said back, her teeth starting to chatter. “What happened to you?”
The shark zebra gave no response other than a splash as it disappeared into the water.
“Swimming now,” Thrush said as she paddled past and pulled herself out of the water. Mahealani wasted no time following. Once out, Thrush tossed a towel at her, then ran down below. “I’ll need you to steer. Can you manage?”
“I’ll manage!” Mahealani replied as she ran to the wheel and throttle.
From under her hooves came a hum and a gurgle. “Go!” the unicorn shouted.
Mahealani pushed the throttle forward. From behind her came a surge of water as a jet churned the sea behind her, and the Seahorse’s anchor chain immediately drew taut. Mahealani hit the anchor winch as they started to move, and was glad to hear the rattle of the anchor being pulled up. Then she spotted a rope tying them to the Riptide.
Or rather, tied to two boxes on the edge of the Riptide.
With a splash they were pulled into the water. Mahealani wasted no time with their recovery. The Annulus was half ablaze. If they were lucky, they might save the ship. Some sailors on the Riptide opened fire on the Seahorse as it moved towards the bay, cutting out into open water ahead of the larger destroyer. One of the big guns fired twice, but she was already moving around the point to where Thrush’s crew waited.
They clearly had been ready, running out to the rocks as the Seahorse cruised past. Thrush emerged, the tip of her horn blackened. “Get us south, Onesie, before that destroyer gets a bead on us,” she ordered. “Twosie, make sure we’ve got enough batteries to get us to Port Nightmare. Threesie, make sure Eye Scream didn’t leave a surprise below deck. Foursy, help me pull in our payday.”
“I am not ‘Foursy,’” Mahealani replied flatly.
“Details!” Thrush said as she pulled on the rope. “Ooof, I know gold is heavy, but this…”
Suddenly a black head popped out of the water, clinging to it and the rope. Dozens of teeth grinned at the pair of them. “Auntie,” Niuhi repeated, her dark eyes staring as she clung to the two crates.
“Call her ‘Fivesy,’” Mahealani retorted as the shark zebra pulled herself onto the back of the boat. “I dare you.”
There was nothing special about the corner of Azimuth and Yajo. The former was a broad, six lane boulevard that cut through the heart of the district, while the latter was a narrow two lane access road that connected the five and six story apartment buildings to the road network. Overhead, a concrete remnant of the capital expressway loomed over the buildings, blackened and streaked with soot as it made its loop through the city. That wasn’t important either. No, what made Azimuth and Yajo special was that, for the last month, Scotch and her friends had been trying to cross it. To just make one block’s advance down Azimuth and get close to the heart of Roam.
The city was too big. Never mind the fire, which was hard because the fire could be anywhere. Nevermind the cremorians. Never mind the many other dangers the city offered. It was the size of the place that killed people. After walking twenty blocks in the heat and smoke, you’d get tired. You’d get sloppy.
You’d get burned…
So far they’d avoided all that by being careful, crawling down Azimuth as the straightest path to reach the government center. Every five blocks, they’d carve out a camp, bring in water and supplies, and use them to keep from being overwhelmed or worn down by Roam. It’d worked. For five months they’d crawled down Azimuth, making forays deep into the ruin. Pyre had been so impressed by their progress that he’d had other Fire Legion emulate their technique.
And it all came to a screeching halt at Yajo. The cause was a collision with two heavy army vehicles that lay burned in the middle of the intersection. Behind them was one of the city’s many designated emergency shelters, which was full of cremorians. Not a problem, just be quiet. But opposite the shelter on the other side of Azimuth, a police station squatted in the bottom two floors of a commercial building. Murderballs patrolled the structure, and the loudspeakers blared constant warnings about martial law and a state of emergency. That covered up the sound of the spherical robots approaching in the smoke and haze. Again, not a problem. Murderballs were just machines. They’d baited them and destroyed them in the past.
No, what stopped them cold was the combination. Shoot the robots, and the cremorians came swarming out. Don’t shoot, and the robots would home in with proximity sensors. The only saving grace was neither chased very far away, so they could always fall back, but they couldn’t make progress…
“Ah, Black Beetle,” Skylord muttered as he peered through the haze at the side of the police station. “He’s a lot more zigzaggy today. Wonder if their software evolved again.” The soot and ash had turned him a mottled gray, a light machine gun on his battle harness. The chains he wore were still as strong as ever. No surprise. Roam was no place to find love.
“Could also be a broken motor.” Scotch stared at her diagram from inside the remains of a jewelry store that gave good cover at the edge of their patrol range. With the wrecks in the middle, you couldn’t see if any Murderballs were hiding just behind them. “You shot Blackie up pretty good last time.”
“Yeah, but I swear the damned things are repairing themselves,” he muttered.
“I still think we should try Diga street,” Majina said as she went through a kata behind them, taking the various stances to keep loose. “There wasn’t that much radiation. Besides, leave Blackie alone. He’s had his love slain by a dragon.”
“Look, Red Death was trying to kill me. It was self-defense. He should just get over it,” Precious said, preening over a dozen sparkly trinkets on her ears and tail. “What do you think, Py?”
Pythia stared at her star chart and the atlas, turned to the pages on Roam. It’d been thanks to the book they’d made as much progress as they had. “I think you’re going to drive off our legionnaires if you don’t stop naming the robots trying to kill us.” Raising her head, she pulled back her hood and sighed. “Even odds. There’s shadows and a lot of different futures. It’s like trying to do a puzzle while people keep shuffling the pieces.” She looked to the south, her brows knitted in worry. “We can make it through. It’s just… unlikely.”
“Eh, I’ve heard worse,” a zebra stallion replied, his voice muffled by the respirator he wore. His large frame was covered with a rubbery orange and red coat. Patches along the shoulder and back were reinforced with plates of dinged up metal. A wide brimmed metal helmet, painted bright red, was adorned by a bracket holding a burned stick of wood. “You know that’s property of the legion, dragon?”
“Let me be beautiful, Torch,” Precious retorted, throwing the back of a claw to her brow.
Torch shook his head. “If this doesn’t work…”
“Plan B. No gunshots. Your zebras will disable the murderballs hoof to hoof.” She glanced over at the dozen zebras in Torch’s squad. Like him, they were garbed for life in the inferno that was Roam.
“We can do that, since we took out Butcherball. Plan C?”
Scotch reached over and rubbed Rocky’s block. “Well, we’ve got stuff for a sacrifice. He makes a wall and we push past. Once the cremorians settle down, we can sneak past to get back.” Everyone knew the unwritten rule: if you got cut off, you were dead.
Torch nodded. “And is there a plan D?” he asked, curiosity bending his mouth into a smirk.
Scotch rubbed the ash off her sweaty face as she thought furiously. “Fall back and plan for next week,” she admitted.
“Diga street,” Majina taunted.
“No. I’m not having my feathers falling out to radiation,” Skylord countered. “Again.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“The whole street collapsed into a radioactive waste pit. Fuck no.”
“Just stay on the telephone cables and leap off the crane and we’ll be fine!”
“We’ll try Diga again if we fail. Maybe Bastion can spare some extra RadAway for the attempt?” Scotch asked, looking at the final member of the squad. The Propoli mare casually marking off all of the goods they’d collected. “What do you think, Xema? Might be a good investment?”
Xema didn’t even look up. “Bastion has pre-negotiated all prices and exchanges with salvage teams, Miss Tape. If you want twelve units of RadAway, you’ll need to pay for it in advance.”
“That would be a no,” Precious translated.
“You know, you could make this substantially easier,” Scotch muttered, chafing at the futility. If only she could master the shooty look…
“It’s not my job to facilitate salvage extraction. It’s my job to assess salvage extracted, organize payouts, and have said salvage transported out of the Roam Exclusion Zone,” Xema said, the mare wearing white painted combat armor that, theoretically, was supposed to make her not a target. “At the discretion of the Fire Legion,” she added, with a nod towards Torch.
“That would be ‘I don’t care,’” Precious supplied.
“I know what she said,” Scotch growled and took a deep breath.
“At least we took out the Butcher Ball,” Skylord said with a smirk. “I took out the Butcher. Did I mention I killed Butcher Ball? With a shot straight through its processor?”
“It must be noon,” Precious murmured.
“Still, a good thing,” Scotch agreed, ignoring the smug smirk he gave the others. Butcher had racked up more almost-kills – and kills – against them than any of the others of the murderball family operating out of the police station. Last time, six legionnaires had died fighting it as waves of cremorians from the shelter assaulted them. Scotch would feel better if the remains of the robot were still in the street, but someone else must have scavenged them after they fell back last time. The downside of renown was a mass of carrion feeders robbing them of their prizes.
“Okay everyone. Get into position,” she said, and immediately Xema moved back. If anyone would survive, it would be her. Torch’s zebras lined up, half facing the shelter, half facing the two wrecks that could have a dozen murderballs behind them. Precious and Skylord scampered into the ruin for whatever cover they could manage. Scotch and Majina trotted out, unhindered by the firefighting gear. The shop opposite the jewelry store and police station was a pile of rust and cinder offering little cover, but they tried to hug the girders and rubble as they laid out the net of spark mines wired together, each one augmented by a spark battery.
“Ready?” Scotch asked her.
Majina blew out a breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
“Quiet and fast,” Scotch said.
Majina nodded and started towards the police station. She rose up on her hind hooves, walking closer step by step. It was impossible to know when they’d come, but come they would. They always did…
Majina got to the edge of the wreck, the added meter or so of height helping her peer past the two cars. Immediately she launched herself into a back flip as two metallic tendrils lashed out at her. The murderballs buzzed softly as they rolled into view en masse. To her credit, Majina didn’t scream as she twisted in midair and came down on all four hooves, racing back towards Scotch. The murderballs followed, the orbs popping out weapons at their poles or splitting into two hemispheres and exposing tasers, spike launchers, or other implements of death.
Scotch wanted to meet whoever made these things and give them a swift kick right in the nuts. They had to have nuts. They were ‘murderballs’ after all.
Majina led them into range of the minefield. Hope started to rise in Scotch’s chest as she clutched the detonator. She had to wait, both for her friend and to catch as many of the spheroid robots as she could. “Come on,” she whispered. A few more seconds. Just a few more!
Majina leapt the last few feet, rolling and coming up on her hooves facing the leading murderball. “Don’t mean to shock–”
Scotch mashed the detonator. The spark mines all crackled, unloading a blue-white glow that propagated through the street. Everyone’s manes stood on end as the energy washed through them.
Scotch clenched her eyes shut, waiting for the scream. It never came. Slowly she relaxed. The murderballs continued to roll aimlessly past Majina as the young mare pursed her lips, then glared at Scotch. “You couldn’t wait for me to finish one line?”
“Who were you saying it for? The robots?” Skylord asked as he emerged from the wreckage.
“It’s the principle of the thing! Like not looking at the explosions as they go off behind you,” she said with a huff, her mane frizzing out above her skill.
“Why would they be going off behind me? If I’m blowing stuff up, I want it in front of me,” Skylord countered.
“Yeah, you’d miss seeing an awesome explosion that way too. Why blow it up if you’re not going to watch it?” Precious agreed.
“If your banter draws the cremorians down on us I am going to make you wish the Butcherball got you,” Scotch threatened carefully trotting towards the wrecks in the intersection. “Looks like we got the Beetle, the Stunners, Spiker, and… I think that might be all of them.” She carefully peered past them, at the open doors of the shelter. Two smoldering bodies lay in the doorway as black smoke poured out. There were more inside. A lot more.
Still, it’d worked! Torch’s zebras moved out of the jewelry store, circling around towards her. No one wanted to get too close to the spherical robots. Pythia and Xema emerged and approached.
Suddenly Pythia extended a hoof and yelled, “Look out!”
Scotch’s eyes bulged as she saw the flames of the cremorians flare and whirl. Whatever she was supposed to look out for, it could– her whirling prevented the bullet from going right through her head as the gunshot boomed out from above. A half dozen equines in similar orange and red coats were on the expressway above, aiming down at all of them. Their gunfire rattled down as the cremorians rose and started screaming.
“Which crew are they?” Precious shouted as she leapt over Scotch, covering her face with her scaled forearms and shielding her with her body. They were using medium caliber hunting rifles, the impact thumping hard into the dragonpony’s scales.
“Who cares?! Cremorians!” Torch bellowed as the Fire Legion made a line against the screaming mass of flaming spectral equines, some fully animating the charred remains of long ago and others mere shapes of burning blue and white flame. “Hose ‘em!” Torch bellowed, and three incinerators opened up, sending gusts of flame that seemed to terrify the blazing spectres. The embodied ones, however, raced through the flamers and into the line of zebras. Shotguns opened up, blasting away huge chunks of charcoal and bone, uncovering the specter within. Eventually a flamer would wash over it, and the body would explode like a bomb of bone and ash as the specter fled.
Skylord braced himself and opened fire. The bursts rattled up with far more force than the hunting rifles. One of the ambushers leaning out jerked as two ripped through his respirator. He fell limply down into the seething mass of cremorians sweeping around the doors of the shelter. “Corpse bomb!” someone shouted as dozens of cremorians swarmed the body.
“Burn ‘em back! Burn ‘em before–” Torch ordered, but it was too late. The body swelled even as it hit the ground, pressurized by the shrieking forms. It started to charge, flames leaking out the shattered respirator’s faceplate. The Fire Legion fell back, scattering as it raced straight at Torch, the only one of the Legion that remained in line.
A shape dove beneath it, knocking out its legs. Majina slid past as it fell on its side, rolling to her hooves and racing away as it fell. Torch threw himself to the ground as the corpse bomb bloomed into a great swirling, shrieking mass of cremorians. Blazing blood and bone flew across the intersection as the body disintegrated. They fountained out, searching for anybody to inhabit.
Precious inhaled deeply and let out a plume of green flame. The cremorians swirled like an ashen tornado. Skylord kept shooting overhead, nailing a second ambusher, who thankfully didn’t fall within range of the cremorians. “Grenades!” Scotch yelled as tiny oblongs came flying down at them, but at this range most fell away or rebounded off the rubble. Shrapnel still zinged uncomfortably close, thumping hard into her barding.
Slowly the flamers and Precious herded the cremorians into the doors of the shelter. Torch reached into his belt, pulling off bottles and flinging them into the doorway. The wall of fire would last for a bit. Cremorians might have been ghosts, but they were ghosts of zebras that didn’t realize they could just pass through walls. The ones that could… those were terrifying.
“Fire coming,” Rocky intoned. “Close.”
“Fire!” Scotch yelled, and started looking around. Under hooves, along the street, even walls were possible places. Skylord and the Flame Legion were making occasional shots at the ambushers, who now seemed reluctant to put their heads over the edge.
The crumbled road next to Skylord started to smoke, and Scotch ran to the griffon, who was looking up. She tackled him, shoving him as far from the point as possible. A second later, the fire flowed out, fountaining into the air. It was beautiful, hypnotic, the way it flowed like some awful mix of magma and flame. It spread like water across the ground, ever hungry as it snaked out after them.
“Precious!” Scotch screamed as she ran to Rocky. “Give me the big one!”
The dragonpony grit her pointed teeth but didn’t argue as she yanked off a necklace and threw it to Scotch, who snagged it on her hoof. Scotch positioned it atop the stone block and yanked her mask down. The metal was dinged, the wrench bent, but it’d work. She set the gem down. “This isn’t going to be pretty,” she said in apology as she lifted the block overhead and slammed it down upon the diamond over and over again. Diamonds might be hard, but they were also brittle and popped into a mess of carbon powder and twisted gold.
The stone block flared with golden light and the ground around them erupted. Walls of stone diverted the spreading flame. An arc of rock curled over Scotch and Skylord to block the spattering flame while a berm lifted Majina above the coiling, hungry flames. “Come on! Get past!” Scotch said as she pointed her hoof down Azimuth.
“Scotch!” Precious shouted, pointing a hoof at the station.
Scotch turned and saw the round hatch at the side of the building pop open and spit out an enormous red ball. Its burgundy shell was dented and crudely patched. As Scotch watched, it split in two and extended two bladed spikes from the poles while along the equator two saw blades emerged, whirring in a mechanical scream. “Butcher!” Scotch bellowed.
“Bull! I killed it!” Skylord yelled in rage as the spheroid rolled into the flames, unconcerned. Butcher wasn’t just big, though. It was erratic, the saw blades causing it to bounce and skip and flip with horrible unpredictability. Its polar spikes oscillated back and forth, making the whole thing sway like a snake with almost mesmerizing fluidity. Anyone that fell into that gap between hemispheres would be ripped to pieces.
“Light it up!” Torch bellowed as the Flame Legion focused fire on the maniacal robot. Its bangs and clangs as it rocketed across the harrowed ground was mad laughter amid the malicious whirr of its blades. It ignored the flames, rolling above some and spinning to shield itself from the worst, which merely turned it into a blazing ball of mayhem bringing the ever-present risk of impaling and slashing. The fire and Rocky’s stony berms kept them hemmed in while Butcher could move freely.
“We need water!” Torch bellowed as Butcher speared one of his soldiers with its polar spines, twisted its hemispheres, and threw the body into Skylord as his machine gun dented the burning shell.
“Uhhh…” Scotch felt worry chewing at her gut, but as Butcher bounced towards Precious and her, she pulled out a small glass vial of pure water. It wasn’t the best, but it was special. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said to Rocky as she looked up. “Spirits of the clouds, we need rain. Take this offering and–”
“Hurry up!” Precious snapped as Butcher rammed into her. The dragonpony grabbed the sphere, rearing up on her hind legs to halt its charge. It split wide, blades whirling in opposite directions as motors strained against her hold. She took a deep breath, blasting green flame into the interior, but the fanning whirl extinguished them before anything vital ignited.
“Yeah, that,” Scotch said as she smashed the vial. Spirits didn’t like to be rushed, and they didn’t like to be taken for granted, so she added a “please!” at the end there. The gift was one she’d spent hours producing with a spark battery and some wires, electrolyzing and combusting to make the purest water she could. Maybe it wasn’t snowmelt from the top of a holy mountain, but she worked for it, dammit! She cringed as the orb rocked, threatening Precious’s grip. If it slipped, Butcher would roll right over both of them…
Then the clouds hissed a hot, piss like rain. The flames popped and sizzled for several seconds as they fought the intense downpour. As the flames died, the legionnaires moved off Rocky’s defenses to pile on Butcher. The murderball’s hemispheres rotated wildly back and forth, pole spikes pistoning like mad. One zebra screamed as the spheres slammed closed, crushing a hoof between them. Another’s leg snapped as the murderball somehow rocked sideways.
“I can’t shoot it with all of you in the way!” Skylord shouted.
But Majina hopped atop it, holding a length of rebar in her mouth. She balanced nimbly on the struggling sphere, dancing as she held the pole between her forehooves. With a cry, she slammed in down between the buzz saws, putting all her weight on it. Something inside the robot gave a pop and whine as smoke started to issue out. The hissing rain led to more pops and crackles, and finally the bot went still again. One polar spike kept feebly expanding and retracting, like a twitching leg.
It would have been nice to celebrate, but three zebras were wounded and it was raining. The rain was salty, acidic, and filled with grit and toxins. The only thing it didn’t do was burn. As the zebra fell back, Skylord marched up and carefully fired a burst into its guts. Then another. “Stay dead,” Skylord growled, then looked up at Majina. “Nice job.”
“Thanks, but didn’t we kill this before?” she asked as she hopped down. “Or is this a second one?”
“No. It’s Butcher. See?” He pointed at some patches on the hull. “Here’s where I got it last time.”
“It’s repairing them,” Scotch said as she pointed at the police station. “That’s why it’s never running out or leaving wrecks behind. It must have some kind of repair balls that recover them after a fight.” She started towards the police station. “Come on. If we hurry–”
“Scotch!” Pythia screamed down the street at her, drawing her up short.
A scream rolled over them like thunder, rippling out across the ruined city. The ground shook under their hooves and primordial dread rose in her chest as she looked out at the harbor. “Oh no. No no no…”
She’d forgotten about The Beast.
The gargantuan equine form appeared as if someone had taken an equine, flayed its face to bone, and grew it to the size of a mountain. Smoke roiled off it constantly, and steam rose in a ring about its waist. Great black chunks of firy stone leaked from it to hiss and smoke in the harbor. And now it flung its forehooves into the air, releasing a shower of blazing, burning bombs that arched out over the city like countless igneous falling stars. Some were the size of a pony’s head.
Some were much, much bigger.
“No… no!” Scotch screamed, but Precious ducked under her, lifted her off her hooves, and carried her away. Majina snatched up Rocky and Torch and the rest fell back.
Any ambushers potentially on the overpass were obliterated as flaming rocks the size of houses arced down, smashing into the overpass like Celestia’s mythic hooves. Blazing fragments sprayed down as everyone fled. The strip of concrete snapped under the weight, and she and everyone else was running as fast as possible away from the intersection as the overpass swung to dangle for just a moment, and then dropped right into the intersection.
As the dust and ash settled, Scotch stared at the hundred foot high wall that had manifested directly in her path. Her breathing quickened, her eyes bulged, and she screamed as she charged, smashing her hooves against the mass of concrete and steel in her path, as if she could somehow dig through it via pure wrath!
“Scotch,” Pythia said gently.
Scotch’s hooves continued to beat at the strip. Tears streaked her dusty face.
“Scotch,” she repeated and reached around to hold her. Scotch’s hooves slowed.
“We’ll find another way,” Majina said, her voice soft and delicate.
Scotch’s hoof gave one last feeble thump against the overpass. She glanced to the left and right. The overpass had crushed the buildings on this side, leaving not even an inch to squeeze through. “A month… a whole month,” she muttered bitterly as Pythia tugged her away from the smoldering underpass.
“At least we killed Butcher. Twice,” Skylord offered as some token reassurance.
“Come on. Let’s get back to the Firehouse,” Majina said.
Scotch joined the disappointed procession back up Azimuth. “How are your guys holding up?” she asked Torch.
“Only three wounded. Good day. Sucks about the road though,” the large stallion summarized. The Flame Legion picked up every scrap of jewelry that remained in the store, Xema meticulously assessing each in her notes. The majority would go to food and medical supplies. “Won’t try Diga, by the way. Just so you know.”
“Yeah. Not a fan of that plan either,” she admitted. She wasn’t a fan of much at the moment. They trudged back to a parking garage where they’d stashed the pair of fire engines. The red paint was cracked and burned in places, but ‘Roam Fire Guard #7’ was still visible on one. The Fire Legion climbed in that one. The other had recently been marked with a different label in white paint.
The Whiskey Express.
She climbed into the cab and stroked her hooves over the steering wheel that had taken them almost all the way across Zebrinica, and now dutifully conveyed them across the hellscape of Roam. “Are we going forward, or back?” the spirit asked as Precious charged the boiler with her breath and Majina settled in with Rocky on her lap.
Scotch didn’t have the heart to answer. With a deep ‘Pock-hiss-pock-hiss-pock-hiss,’ the pistons propelled the fire engine back up Azimuth. She glared into the rearview mirror at the roaring form of The Beast, thrashing its blazing hooves against the harbor.
* * *
The Firehouse was once the East Roam Fire Academy. She and the others had earned a lot of good will helping repair it when they’d arrived with Pyre and the others months ago. The barracks housed hundreds of legionnaires and conscripts, and the academic buildings housed food services and entertainment. Garages held the dozen steam tractors and coal bunkers that allowed the Flame Legion to move around the outskirts of the immense city and prevent the occupants from spilling over. In the middle of the training yard, where students had once practiced extinguishing a variety of objects and structures, a landing field had been cleared for Bastion’s flying machines.
It was a step up from when she’d first arrived, scrounging ruins and sleeping in burned out apartment blocks. She’d helped build a lot of it simply as a side effect of trying to find some way through the outer suburbs of the city and into the older and more important areas towards the core. Pythia’s atlas alone was an invaluable resource, as almost none of the Flame Legion had more than the basic understanding of the layout of the city.
Roam had been almost ideally situated for a capital. The Zebris River flowed down from the north into a natural banana shaped bay. The two peninsulas south of the bay and north of the ocean were called The Horns, raised hills that had been easily fortified in antiquity. The flat land to the north of the harbor next to the river had been the host of migratory tribes for centuries, and when the migrations stopped, transformed into the cultural and business hearts of the city. A citadel built on the west horn had easily defended the mouth of the bay. The shoreline had once been able to accommodate the trade of thousands of ships from all around the world.
Over time, things had changed, of course. The Zebris had been buried and transformed into a network of aqueducts and sewers that kept the city alive. Two smaller rivers had been rerouted and given the same treatment, allowing the city’s waste to be processed far to the east and west of the city. Scotch could appreciate a good sanitation system. And as the population of Zebrinica rose, so too did the size of Roam. The land to the north, west, and east had allowed taller residential and commercial buildings to expand out radially, forming dense satellite communities all linked by road and rail, while preserving the historical heart of the city. The airport had once been outside the city, but Roam had expanded and expanded until it was right next to it.
The war had done few favors for the city. Neighborhoods had been walled off. Rail lines and roads blocked by checkpoints. It’d turned the already dense city into a logistical nightmare even before the megaspell lit the city aflame. The Beast now occupied the gap between the horns, a blazing island at the mouth of the harbor like some grotesque parody of the Pony of Friendship in Manehattan, dooming thousands of ships left in a harbor choked by ash.
The five of them had been given a small garage separate from the main one. She carefully backed the Whiskey Express into the space and bled out the excess pressure. “Thanks,” she said as she patted the steering wheel. “You’re a good fire tractor.”
“One is glad to serve,” the spirit replied. She climbed out of the cab. Everyone else spilled out as well.
“And you’re a good gun! Who was a good gun? You were a good gun, yes you were!” Skylord gushed as Majina helped free him from the harness. “I am going to strip you down and oil you up! Yes I am!”
“Buy it a drink first?” Precious snorted. “At least you got to keep your baby. I had to hand over the Diamond Empire over to Torch and that nag Xema.”
“At least Charity wasn’t here to see it. They would have quibbled all day,” Majina opined as she and Skylord moved the gun over to a workbench. “Though if she did come here maybe she could shake something out of Xema’s hooves. I swear that zebra’s worse than you, Precious.”
“Oh, I’m sure she passes stuff over to Bastion easily enough,” Precious replied, then glanced over at Scotch. “You need the bag?”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing over at a heavy, dangling brown sack. “But not right now. I need to talk to Pyre. Someone shot at us today and fucked everything up. I’d like to know who.”
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Precious replied with a smile and a shrug, clambering up the wall to the second floor and climbing into a hammock made of old fire hoses, pulling out her imperios on a string, and counting them.
“I’ll make sure the Express is refilled. For whenever you’re ready to head out again,” Majina said with a wave by the coal bin.
Scotch spotted Pythia’s tail disappearing through a doorway, and she followed her, leaning into the doorjamb. The concrete walled space had once been for storing garage supplies, but Pythia had turned it into a den. Tiny cards of notes were stuck to the walls, a huge replica of the city map had been painted, copied from the atlas, and a table set up for her star map and scrying. The mare was getting too big for her cloak. It now barely covered her flanks. Her glyph was a circle with a sideways 8 across it, looking like a snake biting its own tail, over a four pointed star. It rested on a particularly wonderfully carved rump, but Scotch focused on her other end.
Pythia pulled back her hood. Her mane had definitely grown out a bit, and her circular stripes were more pronounced. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I should have seen the Beast coming. And the gunshots. I mean, I saw hints of them, but I thought they were Torch’s people shooting.”
“Hey, it’s okay. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have been under that bridge when the Beast had its tantrum. At least you were far enough back the Book wasn’t messing with your vision, right?” Scotch asked as she walked over next to her.
“I’m not sure it needs to, anymore.” She raised her hooves. “I used to be so good at this. The future was just… clear. If there was a shadow, it was more curious than dangerous. But the older I get the more the future’s a tangled-up nightmare and I keep doubting myself!” she said as she gazed at the map. “I’m trying to get us there. I swear… I’m doing the best I can!” she said, starting to shake.
“Hey! Hey. It’s fine, Py.” Scotch put a hoof around her shoulders and pulled her in for a hug. “It’s fine. We’ll get there.” She tried to give her an encouraging smile. Pythia didn’t return it.
“I just… when we set off from the Hoof, I never thought it’d take this long,” Pythia replied. “I thought that we’d just find the answers and sate my curiosity. That was it. Or we’d give up and move on. I didn’t think everyone would stay and… keep trying.”
“We’ll solve it, Pythia. We’ll find out what happened to the Eye, and why people keep trying to kill me. We’ll do it all.” Scotch stroked her mane. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll get there. I believe in you.”
That got a smile, if a fake one. “Thanks,” she replied before her eyes slid to the side. “I just wish I could repay it…”
A response nearly made it out her mouth before Scotch was able to strangle it and send it back to her amygdala where it belonged. “Don’t worry about that,” Scotch replied, giving her one last pat. “I’ll talk to you later. I need to go check in with Pyre. Find out if he knows who shot at us.”
Pythia didn’t look at her as she departed, tugging her hood back over her face. Scotch could only imagine the pressure she was under. She’d suggested Azimuth in the first place, seeing them following it all the way to Seaside and the temple. And now it’d all blown up with one tantrum by the Beast, leaving them to start all over. That was hard. Scotch just wanted to wrap the answer up in a great big bow and give it to her and they could have wonderful sexytimes and sunshine and rainbows forever! It was hard to imagine that their destination was a mere fifteen kilometers away. A two hour trot, if there wasn’t a city of death in the way.
As Scotch trotted across the yard towards the academy academic building, she remembered Blackjack telling her about Hightower. A blazing prison full of ghouls and death about to explode any second. As Scotch looked west, towards Seaside and a high row of charred residential highrises that were all that saved the academy from suffering a similar fate as the overpass, she thought Blackjack had it easy. She hadn’t had to wake up every day wondering when, or if, they would find a way. If it was even worthwhile at all. At some point Precious wouldn’t be sated with counting coins, Majina would want a happier story, Skylord would want to go back to his Legion, or Pythia would give up, or someone would die, or–
“Hey, pony! You okay?” a conscript yelled across the yard, snapping her out of her fugue. Her heart thundered in her chest as she shook her head hard. If her adversaries had been waiting just now…
“Yeah! Just thinking!” She picked up her pace and got out of the open. Her chest ached from the rapid breathing and hot, polluted air. She stuffed those worries into a box in the back of her head to deal with another day. It didn’t stop her heart hammering away in her chest. You’re fine, she told herself. Everything is fine.
The large academic building of the fire academy was once just a dozen auditoriums and classrooms in two stories connected by a wide, broad hall. The Flame Legion had turned it into a boom town where conscripts and legionnaires could bring their hard-earned scrap and loot and turn it into other necessities. The brutalist concrete architecture was probably the only reason it hadn’t burned down. Even then, it’d been hard clearing out the cremorians.
She passed by the trading post, where Bastion zebras took and assessed talismans and issued the scrip that served as money around the Firehouse. Gold imperios were too valuable to use as currency, being hoarded in reserve for when conscripts could limp back to their villages. She trotted past The Bucket, trying to ignore the line of zebras getting exactly that for a single scrip. She likewise didn’t linger at Smoky’s; Skylord might rave about it but she’d never picked up the habit of eating meat. Not after 99. The Garden was where she might catch a nice meal with imported greens, but it was pricy and she always felt nervous unless her back was to a wall.
Then there was Heat. It’d started as a joke, but then some zebra had scavenged a sex shop of some naughty, lacy, leathery things, and someone else had found some more, and soon some more affable mares and cute stallions had discovered they could make way more for an hour of company than they could in a week of picking through talismans. There was even an open stage where some zebras did dances and the like that could make her blush all night. Sometimes it was the only way to blow off steam…
She trotted past the more mundane stores where weapons and medical care were provided towards the administration offices at the end. The legionnaires just waved her through. Every legionnaire that had been here the last two months knew who she was; the crazy pony who kept pushed deeper into Roam than ever before.
As she reached the president’s office, she saw Torch emerge. Without his respirator, it was hard to tell he had a face. One eye looked out from a mass of keloid, his lips scarred in a permanent leer. “Hey, Scotch. Just filled him in.”
She stood on her hind legs and gave him a brief hug. “Thanks, Torch. Will your soldiers be okay?”
“Damn well better be. If I find out they’re bricking it, I’ll light a fire under their asses,” he replied before pulling his respirator back on, hiding his melted wax visage. “Take care of yourself, Menace.”
She nodded, thumped the doorjamb, and pushed it open. She’d wondered if the academy designers had been inspired by Stable-Tec. The director’s desk looked out at a large window of the academic hall. No doubt he’d seen her coming five minutes ago. Pyre didn’t look at ease behind it, but he did what his legion demanded of him. Without saying a word, he pushed a paper towards her.
“What’s this?” she said as she looked at the names.
“The zebras who attacked you. Torch said they were on the East Sunrise Expressway. Only one salvage team went in that direction. All new conscripts. Volunteers. None of them have been sighted today, so either they’re dead or hiding out.” He sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I’ve left orders that if any of them are spotted to bring them to me, but we’ve got a lot of new people. It’ll take time.”
She looked at the list, not recognizing the names, villages, or glyphmarks. “Is there anything else you can do?”
He snorted. “Lots. I could brand you. Make you a full member of the Legion. I’ll even make you a captain, like Torch. Give you a squad of forty zebras as a security detail.” He gave her a half smile. “Hell, I’ll turn this place over to you and go back to patrolling. Sitting on my ass all day is giving me hemorrhoids.”
“Pass,” she replied with a smile.
“Then that’s the best I can do,” he said with a shrug. “Look, no one who knows you five is going to do shit to you. You’re a celebrity, and you scare them more than a little. Hell, before you came, this place was a camp in a burned-out city. Now we’re a bastion of civilization. Before we had to force people to come here. Now we actually have to turn away volunteers because the survivors going home don’t talk about the cremorians, the Beast, or the fires. They talk about the market or getting some sweet tail at Heat. Of actually getting paid for that sweet loot they found. The general’s looking to start a second location in the west half of the city, if we can find a place as intact as this.” He jabbed a hoof at her. “You did this. You and your friends.”
“Only ‘cause you allowed it,” she replied. “If you or the general had said no…”
“True, but it was you that sold it to me. What was that line? ‘Trade saves the wasteland’? If we’d listen to Xema and the rest of those Bastion bastards we’d still be pooping in ditches, eating crap, and giving every last scrap of loot over to them. And yeah, I know that unicorn probably came up with most of the ideas. Spirits, I’d do anything to get her here if I could. Really put those Bastioneers in their place,” he said with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hoof. “Point is, you and yours have done right by my legion.”
“I’m glad I helped,” Scotch said, blushing at the praise.
“So rest assured that we don’t want you dead, but there are a lot of people offering a ton of money for your head, Scotch. We can’t tell who’s here for work and who’s here after a quick imperio.” He pointed his hoof at the paper. “If we find any of them, rest assured we’ll make an example, but that’s no good for the next group of idiots that come here.”
She deflated, her chin thumping down on the desktop. “Your reasonableness has defeated my ire. Now I have to live with the frustration.” She pressed her face to the tabletop and snarled, “So much frustration!”
“Welcome to my life,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “Take solace your continued survival annoys the fuck out of your enemies. I know mine does Flare. Asshole is stuck at a shitty airport shuffling supplies to us rather than having the pick of the loot like before.”
“Right,” she said, trying to do just that. It would help if she knew who wanted her dead and why. Blackjack had it easy. They wanted EC-1101. She was wanted ‘for prophecy.’ “Anyway, speaking of Charity, can I use the radio?”
“Feel free,” he said, gesturing to a table top in the corner covered by electronic equipment.
She trotted over, put on the headset, and turned the dial to the MASEBS frequency. She doubted any radios would be listening for that, but hopefully one person was. She pressed the button, waited a moment, then began, “Green Menace to Goldmonger. Green Menace to Goldmonger. Come in Goldmonger. Over.”
She repeated it twice before a scratchy voice replied. “Two hundred and sixteen. That’s how much you owe me for taking this long, Menace. Where are you?” There was a pause and a belated. “Over.”
Might as well share the bad day. “Got held up again. Looking for a new route. Going to be a while. Over.” The scream that came over the headset made her wince, followed by a pregnant silence. She waited, then continued, “We can’t just drive right there, Monger. There’s so much junk in the way. Can you get out? Over.”
For a moment she was afraid Charity wouldn’t reply. Then, “No. They’re watching me like an imperio on the sidewalk. I need to get there! You have no idea how much you’re changing things!” Again, a late, “Over.”
“I don’t think it’s as big as that. We’re still scrounging things for Bastion. If it wasn’t for you making sure we got the parts and stuff we needed, we’d still be pooping in trenches. Over.” Scotch said with a chuckle.
“When economic centers move, it’s a big deal. Big Bro had his pick of the loot. Now all the good stuff is going straight to Bastion, which cuts him out. He’s just getting shitty village loot. It’s huge, and neither you nor Pyre know how to leverage it! Ugh! I need to be there! Any sign of a package?” A pause. “Over! Over!”
Scotch shook her head with a smile. “Nope. No clue where to look. Know why he wants it? Over.”
“Probably to kiss up to dad. I don’t know. He’s playing games and doesn’t trust me. He seems to expect me to do for him what you’re doing with the Firehouse and doesn’t get that’s not how supply works. I don’t think I’m in any danger, but it’s frustrating! Over!”
“Well, if you need us to do something stupid, let us know. I’d rather cross him than risk losing you. Any other interesting news? It’s been a while. Over.”
She heard papers being shuffled around. “A little. You know Vega’s people? Let’s call them Stabbyface and Spookyface? They’re here looking for you. Got some kid with them but Big Bro and the others are keeping them out. Over.”
That raised her eyebrows in surprise. Tchernobog might know something interesting. Vicious… there was a part of her that really wanted to see her again and a part that really, really didn’t. Not till she’d was sure her thing with Pythia was as dead as she feared it was. “That’s interesting. What’s going on with Vega and the North? Over.” A long pause. She frowned. “Goldmonger? You there? Over.”
“It’s bad. It’s really bad. I don’t think anyone planned for a full-on war up there. Half of Rice River’s hostage and the other half is going broke. Everywhere there’s razorgrass… the Blood are marching teams out to clear it and slicing them to pieces. Some of them are being worked to death. But it’s no good for the other side. There’s no money coming in. People are leaving the east side for Sanctuary or other places. If it wasn’t for Atoli kelp shipments, I think everyone would be starving. And I’m pretty sure it’s just going to get worse the longer it goes on for everybody.” Another long pause, and it was Charity’s subdued tone that worried her more as she said, “Over.”
“What do you mean? Over.”
“Menace, remember what I said about economic centers shifting around causing big changes? Well it’s even worse when they die. Imagine if Megamart or Tenpony suddenly disappeared. Carnico might be shits, but the stuff they made was super vital to other cities too. Sanctuary imported fertilizer. Bastion needs synthetics. Even Roam needs flamer fuel. Nothing’s getting made, and no one has the capacity to make up for the difference. In six months, we could have mass famine and tech failures. If Carnico gets destroyed… Scotch, this place is barely hanging on with the trade it’s got. I don’t want to see it in an absolute dark age. I mean, even more of one.”
Scotch frowned, thinking of all the people they’d seen on the road coming here. The villages and settlements. She waited a moment, then asked, “Is there anything we can do? Over.”
“I don’t know. We’re on the other side of the continent. I can’t think of what we could do if we were there. The wasteland sucks already. Why are fuckers so determined to make it worse? Over.” The defeated voice made Scotch wish she could give the sour yellow unicorn a hug.
“I don’t know either. We just do the best we can with what we have where we are,” Scotch replied, the words feeling inadequate. “Any other news? Hopefully good? Over.”
“Not really. The Bones are fighting each other. Dr. Z’s dead. Someone finally found the bunker. Everyone’s gone. The only good news I’ve heard is someone really, really pissed off Riptide, but apparently she’s also disappeared.” She paused. “The news from Equestria’s better. Or not horrible, anyway. Apparently back home is getting back on their hooves. Over.”
Scotch glanced in the direction of the harbor. “Can the bad things here… get there? Over,” she asked in a low voice. Pyre was looking at her, brows furrowed.
“Scotch, we only have one world. Shit can get everywhere,” came the reply. Then she said, “Big Bro’s calling. I better go see. Remember, two hundred and sixteen, Scotch! Get me out of here before it goes much higher! Out.”
Scotch smiled. “Menace, out.” Then she removed the headset and sighed, slumping in the chair. Vicious and Tchernobog were interesting. What could they be after here if there was so much trouble back in the north?
“Interesting news?” Pyre asked.
“Some good. Mostly bad,” she admitted. “Pyre, what would happen if the Flames didn’t have flamer fuel?”
He leaned forward on his desk. “I’m assuming this is rhetorical?” She nodded. “We’d lose a lot. Flamers are best for crowd control. People really don’t even want to put up a fight when faced with being burned alive. It’s how the Flames keep order with the tributaries while we keep control of Roam. If we had to resort to bullets and brute force… it’d be ugly. Lots of dead. Hate us if you want, but no one wanting to fight us has saved a lot of lives. Why?”
“You get most of your flamer fuel from Carnico?”
He nodded slowly. “Every couple of years we get some tankers from the north. I assume it’s from there. We store it in the airport’s fuel depot.” He frowned. “Why?”
She explained the situation to him, and his face turned hard. “Crap. I never thought about that. The Flame Legion with no flamer fuel? It’d be…” He shook his head and didn’t finish. “It’s no different for the Storms either. They need to run their airships and stuff.”
“Where else can you get it?”
“Bastion, maybe. We can probably make it ourselves if we really, really had to. All you need is a hydrocarbon cracker.” His eyes darted to the radio. He pressed his hooves together and rose. “I need to make some calls and find out where we can get one. You should go.” Scotch nodded and rose from the radio. As she headed towards the door he asked, “Are you heading to the council?”
Scotch sighed. “I’ve wasted two weeks of my life so far. Might as well waste a few more.” And slipped out of the office.
* * *
When Dr. Z had mentioned a council of shamans in Roam, Scotch had imagined various things: a dark underground chamber with a singular table in a shaft of light, surrounded by cloaked equines, their face hidden in hoods. Or maybe a stable like atrium with concerned shamans and their acolytes rushing about trying to figure out how to undo the Beast. In her most romantic visions, it was a school where shamans presented lore and knowledge to newer generations.
Not a burned-out diner with four… four!… shamans.
To be fair, since taking the Firehouse, they’d relocated to the fire academy’s library, but it didn’t change the fact that there were as many shamans as she had hooves. She didn’t count. Still, that might have been fine if they were diligently looking for some solution to Roam’s problems. But…
“Ah, the green, spirit-touched anomaly has returned. Greet it for me,” came the introduction from the leader of the ‘council’ as he stood before a chalkboard covered in glyphs. He might have been an impressive figure, with a strong frame, tightly groomed mane, and broad, vertical Roamani stripes, so long as he never opened his mouth. He had a gelding's voice.
“The illustrious and magnificent Pomprey the Greater, most diligent student of wise Elphabia the Sage, holder of the first mask of Roam, gives greetings to the green, spirit-touched anomaly,” droned the younger stallion reading a magazine nearby. “Heya, Scotch. Torch said that Zenith was cut off. Bummer.” He was in need of a good mane cut.
“Heyas, Cato,” she said with what smile she could muster. “Yeah, bummer is a word for it.” The magazine seemed to be comprised purely of gay stallion porn.
“Inform the green, spirit-touched anomaly that it should be addressing you as Cato the Lesser, acolyte of Pomprey the Greater, holder of the first mask of Roam,” Pomprey said without glancing at her. Really, him acknowledging her at all had taken a month.
Cato echoed his ‘teacher’ in a monotone so flat she could use it as a table. She smirked at him. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Where’s Epona?” A flushing toilet was her answer, and a moment later the door to a small bathroom opened emitting a zebra with golden Mendi stripes, and a horn. She also had glasses as big as Scotch’s hoof and a mane that curled without the slightest restraint whatsoever. Her flanks had a cutie mark of a shield on one side and a golden glyphmark that translated as ‘thought.’ “Hey, Epona.”
She immediately froze, her pink eyes wide. “How did you know I was in there? Did the spirits tell you?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
“Lucky guess.”
Epona slumped. “Oh, that’s so much less impressive.” And she trotted over to the chalkboard next to Pomprey.
“And what is today’s thrilling point of discussion?” Scotch asked Cato, forcing as much cheer as she could.
“Does the Beast have a cock or vagina?” he replied placidly.
“Cato the Lesser should not use such a dismissive tone, nor should he misrepresent our ponderings with crude summary! Inform the green, spirit-touched anomaly that we discuss whether the Beast is the great Caesar himself censured into an abomination, as I have posited for months, or the megaspell infused essence of Pyrotessa, the spirit of fire which was housed in the lighthouse at the mouth of the bay!”
“I’m telling you that those are birthing hips,” Epona countered, wagging her rump at him. “Imagine these but wider.”
“Waggle not your posterior at the holder of the first mask of Roam!” Pomprey scoffed and smacked a grainy photograph of the Beast. “See that prominent spire at its hips! The Caesar was renowned for his endowment!”
“I think that was just a spur of rock. It was missing when we saw him today,” Scotch replied, already tired of ‘council.’
Pomprey froze, his eye twitching. “A stallion goes through multiple stages of arousal! It was… obviously cold today!” he blurted, not looking at Scotch as he froze.
“Master’s got me looking for images of the Caesar erect so he can compare ‘spur’ heights to the size of the Caesar,” Cato said with a plaintive smile. “Please put me out of my suffering.”
“Cato the Lesser can depart at any time!” Pomprey scoffed. “The search for knowledge is a struggle all must endure! To grind through every possibility, sift every nugget of proof, and obtain knowledge for the people!”
“Yes, master,” Cato replied, staring at Scotch, still begging for that bullet to free him from his torment.
“Are there pictures like that?” Scotch asked, having a hard time imagining lewd candids of wartime Luna or Celestia.
“Not like he wore clothes all the time,” Epona said with a faint flush. “I stumbled across some images years ago in a magazine. Well... they might have been an actor but they were very... ah... interesting.”
“Thus, my plight. I’d rather get my hooves on some real historical archives, but what we got is what was in the dorms before everything blew up. Some stallion was thirsty...” Cato muttered. He screwed up his face, tilting his head. “Dear Spirits, how does it fit in there?”
Now Scotch was curious about the magazine, but Heat was just down the hall. “Well have you thought that maybe the Beast is a hermaphrodite?” Scotch challenged. “Maybe it’s got both a cock and a vagina? I mean, it’s buried up to its waist in molten rock, but maybe if we can get it laid it’ll stop being such a pain in the ass!”
All three stared at her a moment, and a dry laugh filled the library. The old zebra sat in a rocking chair, a blanket across his lap. His frame was covered with swirling stripes that seemed almost abstractly drawn in his frame. He blinked gray eyes at the four of them, his laughter trailing off as he froze. “I forgot what’s so funny. Oh, hello, pony. When did you get here?”
“A while ago, Osmen,” she replied with a smile.
“Oh. Did you bring a sandwich?”
“Not this time, Osmen.”
“Oh.” And then he laid back his head and went to sleep.
The great council of Roam…
“What if we could arrange a rendezvous for the Beast? Maybe a little action would help mollify its wrath?” Epona suggested, and muttered, “It’d do wonders for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pomprey scoffed. “What do you suggest we pair it with?”
“Well, Aizen is a male name,” Epona suggested.
“How… we… a stallion does not fornicate with other stallions!” Pomprey exploded.
“Yes they do, master. Yes they absolutely do,” Cato groaned as he flipped through the magazine, squided up his face, turned the magazine sideways and unfolded an extra page, then another. “How…?” he muttered in bafflement, head tilting sideways as well. Scotch fought the urge to see just what perplexed him.
“The Caesar did not!”
“I don’t know. The Caesar was never really set on an orientation. There were rumors he was lovers with both Ignatia and Claudio,” Epona commented lightly.
Pomprey’s eyelid suggested a blood vessel in his brain was about to solve this debate for them. “Now listen here you half-breed–”
“Is anyone going to get me a sandwich? I’m old!” Osmen whined from his rocker. “Pomprey, go make me a sandwich!”
“I am the first mask of Roam! I–” he started to protest when the dirty magazine flew up into the air, seized by an intense breeze, and smacked into his head repeatedly like a bat.
“Then you should be able to make a doozy of a sandwich! Elphabia made the best daffodil and daisy sandwiches without whining! Now hop to! Chop chop!” Osmen declared as he waved his hoof imperiously at Pomprey.
“I will not–” Twack! “I am–!” Fwack! “You cannot–” Whap!” “Alright! Stop! Stop! I’ll go and find someone to make you a sandwich!” The wind suddenly ceased, dropping the magazine atop his head. He pulled it off and froze, staring at the four-page centerfold. His head tilted, his cheeks burning, before he snorted in disgust and tossed it aside, exiting with a scorched mutter.
“Freedom,” Cato muttered, collapsing on his back.
“Hurmp… not getting my sandwich…” Osmen grumbled, looking around. “Where’d Pomfrey go? I wanted him to get me a sandwich!” The old zebra gave the arm of the rocker a thump, then slumped and resumed snoring.
The council of Roam, Scotch thought with a sigh. May her enemies tremble in fear…
“Someone said you almost made it down Azimuth, but got blocked,” Epona mentioned as she trotted over to where a teapot simmered on a small burner. “That’s too bad.”
Understatement. “Again. This is the fourth or fifth time! Every time we’re about to get into Seaside or the Old Quarter, something happens. A building collapses and blocks the road. A tunnel caves in. The road falls into a sewer full of radioactive waste! A whole overpass falls exactly in such a way to block the road completely!” She sat and stomped a forehoof. “Once or twice I could chalk up to coincidence, but four?”
“Sounds cursed to me,” Cato said, sitting up. “How about we trade? I’ll go out with Pythia and your friends and you stay here and compare rock formations to zebra shlongs.”
“Sure, but Pythia’s not interested in stallions,” Scotch pointed out.
Cato waved a hoof dismissively in the air before him. “Details! I’ll work it out as I go.” Scotch shook her head. Cato was persistent, she gave him that, but that’s all she’d give him.
“It sounds like a curse to me too,” Epona said with a tilt of her head.
“I’m not cursed. I’m spirit touched,” Scotch reminded. And that was all she told them.
“There’s more than one way to be cursed,” Epona said as she trotted over a bookcase once full of old firefighting manuals, now loaded with the dozen scrolls and books the council possessed.
“Sure! I could be censured again. Or censured more! Or censured and cursed! Why not add haunted to the mix? I’m sure that might be a possibility too!” Scotch fumed.
“I mean that you might be working against a curse on the city,” Epona said, and Scotch reined in her ire. The mare pulled out a book Scotch had read weeks ago. “There were countless spirits employed in the city when the megaspell went off. Rites were not fulfilled. Shines and temples desiccated. Violated spirits. And that’s assuming a shaman two centuries ago didn’t lay down something wicked on the city as a punishment.”
Scotch spotted Osmen watching her out of the corner of her eye. Their gazes met, and the old stallion stiffened, flopped his head back, and then began snoring with vigor.
“Okay. Maybe that’s a factor,” Scotch grudgingly conceded. “But if I am working against some kind of curse, how do I break it?”
“An atonement to the spirits. A sincere and contrite apology. An offering or sacrifice of self,” she said in a lecturing tone that reminded Scotch of her teachers in 99.
“But what am I atoning, apologizing, or sacrificing for?” Scotch asked, her aching chest giving her a reminder. “I know what it’s like to be censured. I made an invitation. Things got screwed up. I could apologize for that. But what did I ever do to Roam?”
Cato coughed delicately and Epona averted her eyes. “Well,” the mare said softly, “Ponies did blow up Roam.”
Scotch’s eyebrow twitched. “That’s not fair. I didn’t do that! That was two hundred years before I was born! Am I supposed to apologize on behalf of all ponykind for every megaspell?!” She thrust an accusatory hoof at Cato. “Are you supposed to apologize for every balefire bomb dropped? Are griffons supposed to apologize for everyone they killed on both sides?!”
“Wouldn’t it be better if everyone did?” Osmen asked from his rocker.
Scotch took a deep breath. Mad at Pomprey was one thing. Osmen was like her father and Xarius back in Rice River: respectable. “It wouldn’t. An apology doesn’t change anything. It’s just words.”
“I suppose it is only that,” Osmen said in a note of resignation, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Unless you make it more.”
Scotch shook her head and turned towards the exit, trotting out. It was impossible. One pony couldn’t apologize for the world. She’d once known a mare who had tried. She’d even wanted to be her, once upon a time. Then she got a taste of what that was like. No one could save the world. Nopony could apologize for millions of deaths. Not Blackjack. And definitely not her.
* * *
“You’re pensive,” the mare said as she stroked along Scotch’s spine. There were a lot of reasons to enjoy Lamia. Her circular Starkatteri stripes radiating out from her brow. Her citrine eyes. Her long mane. Her rump. Oh, her rump! The silk ribbons she wore emphasized every bit of carnality Scotch cared to look at. The fact she knew every erogenous zone on a pony’s body. Her bed in Heat was only big enough if two equines were really close, which really was the point. Mostly though, because she was a dream of something she wanted with someone else.
“Had a bad day,” Scotch murmured in the wet afterglow. “Better now.”
“Mmmm…” Lamia replied. The mare didn’t talk as much as Pythia did, and never about things like spirits or the future. Lamia was a mare of the present. The future didn’t matter and the past never brought up. She lived in a perpetual now. Scotch envied her that. Scotch’s mind was always torn between the two.
Scotch rolled onto her side and snuggled against the mare. Lamia didn’t smell like Pythia. Lamia was more cinnamon and cloves, not notecards and dusty cloak. “Lamia, would it matter if I said I was sorry for the megaspells? For the war?”
She arched a waxed brow. “It would be very silly, I suppose. It wouldn’t change anything.”
“Right,” Scotch said, sighing against her neck. “Still, I’m sorry for the war. And megaspells. And stuff.” Did it sound as stupid to the mare as it did to her? She knew Lamia was too professional to give an honest answer.
“I am not,” the mare replied. “The war was bad, and the megaspells terrible, but it was only because of them that I met you.” She leaned down and kissed Scotch’s brow, making her smile. Then she looked at the hourglass next to the headboard. “I’m afraid we’re almost out of time, unless you want some more.”
“Tempting…” Scotch groaned, but then stretched and rolled off the bed. She needed the bag. “Will you be dancing later?” she asked as she pulled on the firepony barding. “I love to watch you dance.” That and Scotch liked to imagine it was Pythia on the stage when she did.
“Tomorrow, perhaps,” Lamia said with a final parting kiss. Then Scotch stepped out. A zebra stallion sitting on a bench outside her room immediately rose in anticipation, as Scotch trotted out. She walked out into the foyer where a mare and stallion worked the poles as surrogate patterns, gyrating and swaying and stroking as provocatively as possible. She envied how happy they appeared.
Lamia might be an escape, but she wasn’t a release. For that, she needed the bag. She trotted back across the yard to their garage. Majina was doing her balancing and tumbling practice, rolling effortlessly forwards and back on milk cartons, alternating forehooves over hind hooves in tumbles that would have had Scotch banging her head on the floor in minutes. Pythia was nowhere to be seen, which was good. She didn’t know how much she knew about Lamia. It was impossible to know. Skylord was mid re-assembly.
“Precious,” Scotch said, the dragonfilly looking down from her dangling hammock of hoses. “Bag.”
Precious nodded and slipped out of the straps, dropping on to the Whiskey Express and walking over to the dangling canvas sack stuffed with sand, rags, and old hoses. The dragonfilly moved behind it, grabbing it in her claws and bracing her body against it.
And then Scotch proceeded to kick the everloving shit out of it! She did alternating kicks. Applebucks. Single leg bucks. Side kicks. But especially the full body kicks that threatened to take the bag clean off its dangling chain. Only Precious stabilizing the sack prevented her from hurting herself, keeping the bag in place.
When she was finished, what Lamia had done for her loins, the bag had done for the rest of her body. She was sweaty, sore, and too tired to think about what Osmen and the others had said. Apologize? To whom? For what? How, even? It was impossibly pointless.
“Thanks,” Scotch said to Precious as she caught her breath. Her lungs were trying to bore their way out of her chest. Good. It distracted her from the situation.
“Was Lammy wearing a cloak?” her friend asked with a smirk. Scotch snorted, kicking the bag one last time to vent her disapproval of the question, nearly breaking it right off its chain and into the smirking dragonpony’s face. Then she walked towards the door leading behind their little garage, with someone shouting something as she left.
Behind the garage, they’d arranged a shower that was essentially an elevated hose and garden nozzle over a concrete slab. Two sheets of metal gave the most privacy one could hope for. Scotch could hear the water going, guessing it was probably Majina after her own workout. “Hey Maj…” Scotch said as she stepped around the divider.
Spirits, she’s so beautiful…
Pythia’s face was turned up into the spray, the droplets flowing over her face and down her mane. The droplets ran along the elegant curve of her neck and her delicate shoulders. Along her sides, tracing the path of her ribs and spine. Down along her hips and over a haunch that could not be more mathematically pristine. Along her legs to depart from hooves that somehow looked as if she’d just gotten them polished. Her eyes came right back up along her belly and forelegs and finished at her face, which now was looking back at her with a yellow eye, the water seeming to trace along the circular stripes of her face.
Lamia was a distraction, a fabrication, an act of desperation, compared to this.
“Hey,” she said with a smile as she turned off the hose, falling to all fours.
“Hey,” Scotch said, her chest hollow, her heart hammering like a drum. She might as well have never gone to Lamia and saved her scrip. Pythia tossed a towel over herself like a cloak and trotted past. “Py,” she said, the young mare freezing mid step as she looked at Scotch. Ten thousand things boiled in her mind that she wanted to say. Sorry. I love you. I need you. I want you. “We’ll make it. I promise. I won’t give up.”
Pythia smiled and closed her eyes, gave a small, jerky nod, and continued back inside.
Scotch groaned, turned on the hose, and sat down hard on the wet concrete.
Poor pony…
“Shut it or I’ll take you out of my saddle bags and soak you,” she muttered.
You want her. Need her. Trust her…
She glared down at the bag.
Love her…
“I am going to shove you into the latrine. You might turn it all into an evil poop monster, but it’ll be worth it,” she growled down at it.
We loved her too.
Scotch frozen, tepid water dripping off her mane and into her eyes. She should just bury the damned thing. In concrete. Tossed into the ocean… But she was also tired. “What are you talking about?”
The many voices snickered in unison. Shall we show you? Shall we tell you who you’ve given your heart to?
Ignorance was the first defense. Knowledge the second. Knowing herself was the last. She was ignorant, but not enough to protect herself any. But she likewise couldn’t trust anything the book told her. It was evil. It was wrong.
“Why don’t you tell me who all of you are? Why did you think putting all your souls together in a blender was a good idea?” she asked back.
Her saddlebag started to vibrate, and she turned off the hose, sitting and pulling it free. The pages opened with a wet crunch paper should not make, flipping open to two apparently blank pages. Lines began to draw, images form, and as Scotch stared, she felt as though she were being drawn in. The lines, shapes, images resolved into black and white pictures. Color filled in as she found herself standing on a balcony overlooking a city.
The Hoof.
Not precisely the Hoof as she remembered it, but Black Pony Mountain loomed off to the east, the volcanic plug dark as she recalled. To the north lay the sea, filled with countless ships. West were the hills and mountains that would one day hold Canterlot. She could even see where 99 would someday be built, just to the south of Star Point. That was the limit of her familiarity…
All around her were zebras, walking and talking with great excitement. The air held the hum of expectation, like a festival. Some zebras wore elaborate silken robes, others heavy leather smocks. A few wore chains, carrying around loads behind a busy zebra. Scotch was standing on some sort of balcony on an immense tower. A tower so tall the air was chill and brisk… and yet it didn’t seem finished. “Hey! You!” a stallion snapped at her, glowering in the way all authoritarians did. “Who are you? What are you doing just standing there?” His bronze armor gleamed in the sun as he glared.
“At ease, custodian!” a stallion called out as he trotted towards them. “My companion was simply pondering some imponderables. You know how it is!” He was a tall, lanky zebra, with crude lenses held in copper wire frames perched on the end of his muzzle. “Of course, Stargazer. My apologies. I was merely being diligent!” the large stallion blurted at once. “I had no idea she was one of your own.”
“Yes yes! On your way now,” the stallion said with a dismissive wave of his hoof. When the ‘custodian’ trotted off he beamed a smile at her. “Morningstar! How wonderful for you to have finally arrived. I swear, things would be so much easier if we’d found the Fallen One back home. How was your trip?”
“I… don’t know?” Scotch asked as she looked around. “Are you the black book?”
“Black? Whatever do you mean?” he asked in bafflement.
“I just… what is this place?” Scotch asked as she gestured at the immense building around them.
“Ah, what indeed? The future? A testament to zebra wisdom and will? A monument of engineering? A dreadful eyesore? Yes, what is this place we’ve created? I see! I see! A most fascinating question! How to answer?” He trotted back and forth. “Literally, it is the Tower of Wisdom. Figuratively, it is the organization of our people into a monumental social alignment we hope to expand to all sentient species of Equus! Metaphorically, it’s a penis. I mean, all towers are, wouldn’t you say?” he said with a snicker.
“And you’re Stargazer?” she asked, not sure if this was some kind of elaborate ruse or not. She remembered the tunnel the book had made before. It had seemed normal enough too… till it wasn’t.
“And you’re Morningstar?” he asked in that smiling, slightly mocking tone before poking her shoulder. “Of course I’m Stargazer. Who else would I be? A custodian? A functunarium? A laborium? Are you sure you’re well after your trip? You should lie down! I’ll have them bring you a meal and some concubines for enjoyment!”
“No! No no no.” At the moment, that was the last thing she needed. “Just… start slow. Imagine I just teleported here from… somewhere else and I have no idea who you are or even who I am.”
“I see,” he said with a troubled frown. “Well, I’m Stargazer. I augured the great blizzard six years ago. Predicted the Yonjan quake last year. And you are… well… you are the Morningstar. One of the most critical minds of zebrakind. I must say this is all quite unusual… but it’s probably just some mental exercise geniuses engage in, eh?” he said with a grin and a wink.
“That other zebra didn’t seem that impressed with me,” Scotch said, glancing in the direction the armored zebra had departed.
“Pffft. Custodians. They’re muscle, not intellect. There’ve been issues with some of the laboriums protesting their role in the great work. Nothing that could threaten us in the tower, of course!” he added with a strained laugh.
“Mor-ning-star!” a mare gushed, heavy in body and draped in silk that emphasized all the wrong features. “I’m so glad you made it! It’s been ages, dearest! Simply ages!” She trotted right up and embraced Scotch, kissing both cheeks. “I’m so glad you finally decided to join us!”
“Morningstar’s performing a mental exercise, Dove. They’ve wiped their mind of all foreknowledge and are rebuilding from scratch,” Stargazer said with a slow nod of his head.
“I see! Brilliant minds work so oddly,” the mare demurred before she blurted. “Oh, but you’re missing it! Both of you! There’s a fight!”
“No!” Stargazer gasped, grinning in delight. “Who?”
“Come and see! Come and see!” she giggled, jiggling as she trotted back the way she came, towards the center of the tower. Scotch, having no clue what else to do, followed with Stargazer. What was the book’s game?
The mare led them into a vast central chamber with hundreds of seats arranged around the oval room. Two raised lecterns stood facing each other, and a pair of robed stallions occupied them Due to the egg-like shape, the voices were conveyed to the seats arranged around the pair, filled with dozens of zebras who were listening raptly to the discussion.
One of the pair was a healthy, fit, adult stallion with a scar down his sternum. He gazed defiantly, contemptuously, at his opposite: an elderly zebra with a long, wispy beard. “Our service to the Fallen One will be rewarded a thousand times over! The power such a being can grant for a token assistance makes such a sacrifice trivial! My life is an example of its magnanimous generosity, Ophidius!” his voice boomed.
“I have no doubt, Amadi, but there is assertion and there is proof. The Fallen One may have granted you empowerment, certainly, but is it any different from one over enamored with any spirit? I would not bind my soul with a spirit of stone if it meant I would never break a leg, even if such a thing would be quite a benefit to me in my age! Knowledge your pact has sadly robbed yourself of. For in that binding, what may be lost forever?”
“The resurrection of the Fallen One is the single greatest priority of zebra kind! Of all souls of Equus! We came here and here we found a fallen god! The process of its resurrection is clear, and the reward apparent. Why be subject to the feebleness of age or the misery of death if means of prevention are at hand?”
“We die and are born again from Equus. That is the way of things. Would you stop the joy of eating to end the discomfort of excretion? That is a poor exchange,” the old stallion said with a shake of his head.
“I would end the pain of famine! And if some of you wish to stuff your muzzles while others starve, so be it!” Amadi roared.
“Famine can be ended without the resurrection of a being we know next to nothing about. But to reverse said resurrection after it is restored may be far more difficult than the restoration itself,” the old zebra said with a thin smile. “Forgive me if I am skeptical of the promises of a dead being promising me unlimited power with no price attached.”
With that the old zebra stepped down. Amadi continued to shout insults, but the crowd broke as well, and his diatribe was lost in the sounds of dozens of conversations starting. Ophidius’s eyes met Scotch and he broke into a wide grin. “Ah, Morningstar. You finally arrived! I trust your trip was enjoyable?”
Scotch really didn’t know how to respond, and fortunately Stargazer came to her aid, “Revered Seer, Morningstar is undergoing a mental exercise, renewing their thoughts and connections.”
“Really. Is this an appropriate time?” Ophidius asked before giving a sigh and shrug. “Very well. Very well.” He cleared his throat. “Morningstar, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am the seer, Ophidius. I welcome you to our Tower of Wisdom. Your intellect is known far and wide to all Zebrakind, and it is our hope that you may solve our great dilemma.”
Everyone was staring at her expectantly and she gave a weak smile. “I suppose I can try, if you tell me more about your problem.”
Ophidius glanced at the others and started to speak, when Amadi shoved Dove aside. “Morningstar! Good! We’ve wasted too much time with dithering.” The powerful zebra stallion declared. “Tell these others I’m right so we can get started.”
“Started with what?” Scotch asked.
Amadi stared as she stared back, trying to image what kind of expression a ‘mental exorcising zebra’ might have. She settled on bored as she couldn’t imagine much else. “The genius is seeking fresh information anew, not to sift through old heaps of ideas,” Stargazer explained.
Amadi gave a soft tch. “We need to begin resurrecting the fallen star at once. Only then can it bestow its blessings upon all as it has me,” he said, touching the scar on his chest. “Surely you see the sense in this.”
Scotch stared at him, feeling a chill sensation creep down her spine. This was a memory, wasn’t it? “You’re talking about the Eater of Souls?”
Amadi rolled his eyes with a dismissive scoff. “Not you too. Where did the Zencori make up these ridiculous labels? The fallen star must be restored and returned to the heavens. Only then can Equus heal from its impact; and in doing so it has promised our people blessings beyond imagining.”
“Assertions with no evidence whatsoever, Amadi,” Ophidius countered. “I’ll return to the lectern if you like, but I’ve not been ‘blessed’ with supernatural vigor, and would like some time before another round.”
“Take all the time you need. Sooner or later, you’ll do the right thing, Ophidius. And I’ll continue the debate until you do,” Amadi said, giving Scotch a haughty stare before turning on hoof and trotting away.
“Ass,” Dove muttered as he departed. “He binds a spirit into his chest and thinks himself blessed.”
“Ass or not, people listen to him,” Ophidius replied with a weary sigh. “I’m always wary of someone determined to give me what they’re certain is best for me.”
Then a young mare slipped through the crowd, “Why not, father? You’re always happy to give others your advice, whether it’s wanted or not.” A mare the same age as Scotch stood next to him, giving him a nuzzle and a wry smile. “Especially if it’s not.”
Scotch stared at her and received a curious arch of her left brow. It didn’t help that she had a beauty that made Scotch’s heart skip a beat. “Morningstar. My daughter, Unukalhai. Quite possibly the one seer with greater acuity of the future than myself. Unu, the great philosopher Morningstar.”
“Charmed,” she replied, and gave a smile that broke and melted Scotch’s heart all at once. Then the colors drained, the shapes flattening into crude lines, and the lines retracted into the edges of the page. Scotch stared as the last thing she saw was Unu’s clever smile as it disappeared with the rest of the lines.
“Wait! Wait! What was that? Who was she?” Scotch asked as she beat on the pages. “Why’d you stop?”
She held up the book and shook it, as if expecting blood or monsters or Unu to drop from it and land before her. But the book, presented with a perfect opportunity to make a catty comment, lay limply in her grasp.
Then she became aware of a mare standing over her. Golden eyes and a placid, wry smile beamed down. “Scotch Tape,” Errukine murred softly down at her. “How nice to see you again.”
