Hannah Hawes, Shop Assistant
The Mission
Admiral Biscuit
“What're you doing this weekend?”
“Nothing much,” you lie. “Probably just sit around my house or hang out with friends. Maybe go to the park if the weather's nice.”
“You should come to the gym sometime,” he says. “Build up some muscle. Exercise is good.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You lean the broom back up against the wall. “I'm not really into that. Doesn't seem to be much purpose to lifting weights and all that.”
“You have no idea what you're missing.”
“Pretty sure I do. I've told you about Earth fitness clubs.” You reach for the trash can and then remember the Jolly Ranchers. “Hey, there were some Jolly Ranchers back there with the candy that you told me to toss out. You mind if I have them?”
“Go ahead.”
You go back into the stockroom—you remember right where they were—and stick them in your bra. It’s understandable that ponies have trouble with the idea of pockets in pants.
As you head for the back door again, you pick up the trash can. “I'll dump this on my way out.”
“Thanks. See you Monday.” You set down the trash can long enough to strip off your work apron and hang it up on its peg.
You dump out the trash and set the empty can just inside the back door. If he doesn't put it back where it belongs on his way out, you'll move it back on Monday.
You've got plans, and they won't wait.
•••
You always keep a bag packed—that's something that you learned years ago. You only stop by your apartment long enough to grab it, and then you hurry to the train station.
Your ticket is for a semi-private first-class seat, which is nice. As soon as the conductor shows you to your compartment, you tip him a bit, lock the door, and pull the shades down.
It's a little bit uncomfortable to change your clothes in a pony train car—the compartments really aren't sized for humans. You briefly consider how Jim Jam would find it, and decide that he'd really hate it. The first time he stood up, he’d stick his horns in the ceiling and have to pry himself loose.
Of course you're just lacing up your boots when the train starts moving, knocking you off balance. Luckily, here the small compartment comes to your rescue, and you're able to brace against a wall before tumbling, undignified, across one of the couches.
And then it's time to sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is boring, and you wish that you'd thought to pack a book in your ready bag. That's something to remember for next time.
At Baltimare, an older mare enters your compartment. She's about the most bland pony you could imagine—she's got a grey mane and tail, a dun-colored coat, and a piece of paper as a cutie mark. Her blue eyes are sharp and clear, though, and you know she never misses a detail.
“Evening, Pure Clear.” That's not her real name.
“Hello, ‘Banana.’ Have a good day at work?”
“Sure.” Your mouth turns up into a small smile at your codename. “If you're already thinking of Christmas—Hearth's Warming, we've got snowglobes in. They're really clever. Music boxes built into the base, the whole deal.”
“Maybe next time I'm in Manehattan, I'll buy one.” She opens her saddlebags and pulls out a folder. “The Orrery of Antikythera—what do you know about it?”
“Never heard of it until now,” you admit.
“Well, rumor is that it's located in the Temple of Eleia. Lotta trouble if it gets in the wrong hooves.”
You nod. This is not the first time that an ancient artifact has resurfaced and threatened all ponykind.
“Predates even Princess Celestia's rule, if you'd believe. Back when the Andravidans were trying to control the sun. We don't know if it still works, but—“
“But I probably shouldn't push any buttons on it,” you say. “Got it. Any idea what it looks like?”
“Nope.” She taps a hoof on the folder. “It's all in here, best guesses and all that. You know the routine.”
“Yeah.”
“I've got to get off at the next stop,” she says. “That's the bad news. So you ought to skim through the folder.”
“What's the good news?”
“I was just getting to that. You aren't going alone.”
“Who is it this time?”
Her face twists up into a rare smile. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?”
•••
Pure Clear was right that it was a surprise. Your companion is none other than Daring Do. She's wearing her cloak as a disguise, but as soon as the train leaves the station, she takes it off, revealing her adventuring clothes underneath.
“Hawes,” she says quietly. “I've heard about you. They say you're the cleverest monkey in the agency.”
“And you're the best birdhorse,” you tell her, totally deadpan. Inside, you're having a minor fangasm—Daring Do is a legend; she's the Indiana Jones of ponykind. Well, except that she's real. And a bit stuck up, but that's to be expected, given her track record.
“I guess I deserved that.” She plants her pith helmet firmly on her head and sticks out a hoof. “What do you like to go by? Banana is just silly.”
“Usually just Hannah,” you tell her. “Doesn't really lend itself to nicknames. My little brother called me 'Hannie.'”
“I'm not one to step on little brothers' tails. Hannah.” She glances over at the folder. “What do we know? I didn't get much of a briefing.”
“Not a lot. It's an orrery, it's in a temple, it might still work, and if it does bad things will happen.”
“Got it.”
“So no pushing buttons on it.”
“Right. How about the temple?”
“Built by crazy cultists.” Aren't they all? “Andravidan, dates before Princess Celestia's ascension. Recently discovered: the first expedition from the Bitish Museum gave up after one trap too many. Dr. Caballeron is known to be interested; last report has him chartering an airship. I'm reading between the lines a bit here, but if the orrery works like it's supposed to, using it could wrest control of the sun from Princess Celestia.”
“Good thing that Nightmare Moon's been vanquished—that sounds just like the thing she'd’ve wanted to get her hooves on.”
“Did I mention that the Andravidans are a New Lunar Republic cult?”
Daring rolls her eyes. “Of course they are. Anybody else interested?”
“Not according to this.” You set the folder aside. “It's not really Ahuizotl's thing, and I can't see the Mane-iac going for it, either. Pharoah Fetlock's in prison, Tirek's in Tartarus, and—“
“Grogar?”
“Maybe. He hasn't been seen for a while, so I wouldn't rule him out entirely.”
“Never worked with a human before,” Daring says, studying you intently. “What have you got as assets?”
“Opposable thumbs and a cutting wit.”
“And I've got wings and a pith helmet. Sounds like we're all set.”
“Yeah.” You slide the folder over to her. “There's a map of the temple in there—it's not complete, of course. But it's better than nothing.”
“You've seen one cursed temple, you've seen them all,” she says, but she opens the folder anyway.