//------------------------------// // 30. Fore! // Story: Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies // by Georg //------------------------------// Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies Fore! “I don't like going to the mall. I'm not really like the other girls. I just like to go out on the golf course and play. Golf is fun and feels really good.” — Michelle Wie, The Making of a Champion - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 7:05 A.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015 Location: Colbert Hills Golf Course, Manhattan Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - General Gregory Hackmore found it rather humorous to be out on the golf course again, the same place where he had first found out about the odd alien invasion. Officially, he was off-duty since transferring authority over the ‘Pony Patrol’ to the Kansas National Guard, but the corporal carrying his SMEPED was lurking around behind their foursome like a shadow, just in case he were to get a call from the Commander in Chief, so he considered himself off-center, but not really off. “Good shot,” he called out as the pony’s shot bounced down the fairway, coming to rest at about the midpoint. Filthy Rich was using a cut-down set of used Callaway clubs that somebody had volunteered for their outing, which had been literally cut in half and fitted with a wooden paddle on the shaft for the pony to grasp in their teeth. Greg never would have considered getting that kind of range out of a stubby club, but apparently earth ponies cheated. The photographer from the Kansas City Star quietly continued to click her camera while Mister Rich returned his club to his caddy’s bag, and Greg fought an urge to scratch his nose for fear that it would wind up on the front page of the Time magazine special edition. After all, this golf trip was a fundraising effort for the stranded ponies, and all of the details had been worked out between Filthy… that is Mister Rich and the magazine before he had even been asked to participate. And he had to admit, the Star photographer was both professional and quiet enough to be in the background. “Not a bad shot at all,” said the next golfer, who strolled up to the tee box and prepared his ball. “I still think we should have General Hackmore tee off first, since he’s the only one of us who has ever played the course⁽*⁾ before.” (*)Colbert Hills map — “I’ve got a handicap of twenty-three,” said Greg. “There’s enough water hazards in Colbert Hills that I spend about as much on balls as greens fees.” The photographer stopped to scribble down a note, and Greg felt fairly confident that his quote was going to wind up in the featured article, which was not bad. A note that claimed the lazy general in charge of Ft. Riley spent enough time to be an expert golfer would have been a considerably different thing in the current atmosphere of finger-pointing and blame-seeking that had evolved over the universe’s insensitive failure to provide enough extraterrestrial ponies for all the politicians and media that wanted them. Then there was a backswing, the swoosh of a TaylorMade driver, and the solid ‘Thwack’ of a ball well hit, straight down the fairway, with a bounce that put it at the very end. “Good shot, Mister Woods,” said Filthy Rich. Tiger Woods smiled and slid the driver back over to his caddy. “I’ve seen better. Still, if I had hit like that earlier this month, I could have chipped in more money to your fund.” “Don’t worry, Tiger.” The next golfer stepped up and prepared his ball while continuing to talk. “You’re the world’s greatest golfer, bar none. It’s just going to take a little time to get back in the groove. Maybe Mister Rich can give you some unexpected insights into your swing.” This backswing was considerably different, but still had good power when the ball gave a ‘Thwack’ and headed down the fairway, barely short of Filthy Rich’s stroke but not bad. “Terrible shot, just terrible,” muttered Donald. “The course here actually isn’t that bad, but you really need to play a round at my resort in Mar-a-Lago. All three of you are welcome at any time. I’ll fly you up, treat you in style at the resort, my treat. I may not be able to be there personally since I’ve got this new project, but my people run the greatest resort, anywhere.” “I probably should take a pass at that, Mister Trump.” Hackmore set up his golf ball carefully and got his feet planted. “Mister Rich and the rest of his town is going to make my every move political as all Hell from now until forever. I wouldn't have come today if he hadn’t invited me, to be honest, and taking any kind of favor from a political candidate…” “You have a point. Tell you what, after this is all over, all the politics and the military service, both you and Tiger have an open invite to just sit down and talk some evening.” Greg gave Trump a cautionary look, then set up and swatted the golf ball down the fairway just slightly to the side of the last ball. Since the rest of the golf outing turned into such a pleasant walk with three conversationalists he never thought he would speak with ever, he actually forgot about the offer until they were getting ready to tee up for the fifth hole. “Donald, that invitation you extended to Tiger and Greg after our visit is over,” started Filthy Rich. “Seems a little unfair that we ponies don’t get anything out of it.” “So what are you asking for?” asked Trump. Filthy Rich continued with the beginnings of a smile. “All of the medical tests Doctor Alexander and Doctor Stable ran came up clear, so there shouldn’t be any trouble with any kind of communicable diseases between our species. On Saturday, President Obama is scheduled for a visit here, which should be the end of your government trying to kidnap any of us. That means we can leave the state to do some tourism, and we have a week before the return portal opens. How close to Disney World is Mar-a-Lago?” “A few hours by road,” said Trump. “Now if you want to go to Disney World and Universal Studios, you stay at the Grand Floridian. Not as good as my resort, but right on the property, and they take care of their guests. If you want, I’ll pay for that instead.” “I’d hate to take advantage of your generosity,” said the pony with a contemplative look. “I was wanting to bring my daughter and her friends. Tell you what. If I get closest to the pin on this hole, you pay for our trip to Disney World. If I don’t, I’ll bring them to your resort and take extra time to talk up the visit to the various press that have been hanging around.” “Deal.” Trump shook hooves with the pony, who promptly stepped out of the tee box and gestured. “It would be only fair if the three of you went first, right?” It did make sense, and despite Mister Rich’s exhortations for each of them to do their best on the two hundred yard drive, Hackmore felt a little better at seeing his drive slice ever so slightly to the right and bounce close to one of the sand traps. Trump’s drive landed twenty or thirty feet short of the pin, and Tiger’s ball landed slightly to the right and rolled within easy putting distance. “Dang,” he said with the distinct tone of somebody who had put the ball right where he wanted it. “Looks like it’s doable, Mister Rich.” “No,” said Filthy Rich after teeing up the ball and taking a long look. “Too easy. My caddy could make this shot. Tell you what, Donald. Let’s make this interesting. He makes the shot, you pay for anybody in our town who wants to go to Disney World next week, stay at the resort, and a dozen or so human escorts like the ones running around with our tour groups this week. He misses, I’ll stay at Mar-a-Lago and spend the whole week meeting with whoever you want.” Tiger spoke up while Trump was thinking. “If your caddy can make this shot, I’ll bring my kids and help escort whatever ponies you want. They love Disney World.” Caught up in the moment, Hackmore was going to say something, but caught the eye of the pony caddy who was looking back at him and silently mouthing ‘No.’ “Deal,” said Trump. The pony caddy took the shortened driver from Filthy Rich, took a firm four-footed stance, gave an additional glance downrange, and let fly with a solid ‘Thwack!’ of the club. The ball bounced twice on the green and dropped into the cup. “Fuck,” said Tiger, still looking downrange while pulling out his wallet. “Five hundred bucks says you can’t do that again.” “Same here,” said Trump. “Here you go, Ace.” Filthy Rich passed his caddy another ball while Tiger looked up from counting the bills in his wallet. “Ace? You’re just screwing with us, aren’t you? Does he play pool too?” The caddy placed the ball on the untouched tee and repeated the process, this time with three bounces on the green before the ball dropped into the cup. “Depends on how much money you’re willing to put on the pool table first,” said Ace. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 8:15 A.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015 Location: Towne West Mall, Wichita Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - As long as she didn’t have to arrest anybody, FBI Agent Karla Anacostia liked malls. It did not help her mood today that yesterday she had flown across the country to Quantico, then back to Kansas, checked into the hotel at far too late at night, and then was squeezed with great enthusiasm by a unicorn who did not know her own strength. Luggageless, half a state away from her apartment, awoken at dawn or a little earlier after just a few hours of sleep… She was having the time of her life, to be honest, right until they reached the mall. Then it got better. Fifty ponies and scattered human escorts fit into the tour bus that picked them up at the hotel, with any of the leftover pegasi who could not fit inside flying above them. If Karla had even the slightest delusion that she was in charge of this parade, she would have gone off her nut, as her grandmother had been known to say. Aliens flying around Wichita just above the cars was a traffic hazard, a near-certainty of a fatal pony-vehicle collision, a violation of FAA rules somehow… and pretty impressive, from what she could see out of the bus window when they pulled up to the mall front door. “Okay, we’re here,” started Karla while standing up and blocking the aisle. It took a moment to let the cheering die down before she continued, “Now, everybody stick with your respective group and the assigned human chaperone. The mall office was just notified of our visit an hour ago. They promised nothing dramatic should happen, and they’re going to keep the press out while we’re here. There’s a youth gymnastics event going on in the central courtyard, so we should probably avoid that, and I believe Noodles and Company has offered us a bulk discount, so that might be a good spot to meet up for lunch. Does everybody have your cards?” Hooves and hands waved back, clutching a variety of Visa or Master Card debit cards that had been donated by the local businesses and the Wichita Chamber of Commerce, or purchased by the growing Ponyville bank account. “Then let’s go have some fun,” said Karla before turning and helping Widget navigate the bus steps down to the concrete sidewalk, with Goose and Claire right behind. “The sun is so bright!” said Goose as she scurried for the shadow of the bus with her head down and her hat back on. “This day is so right!” declared the next pony out of the bus. “To the mall we are going,” chorused the next two ponies. “Our excitement keeps on growing!” declared the next several as the trickle became a flood. And… to be honest, the next few minutes passed in a chromatic blur for Karla. There was an incredible amount of singing involved, and dancing as well while the ponies surged forward through the mall’s entrance. It grew rapidly from there, sucking in human passers-by and escorts alike, picking up music from a nearby piano and explosions of multicolored confetti. The gymnastics demonstration rapidly gained a third dimension as delighted little girls in pink tights and shoes were swept aloft by a whirl of pegasi, while their mothers were catapulted through the air by unicorns and earth ponies. It was the most fun she had since… well, sex. And it left her breathing almost as hard when the music built to a crescendo, ponies and people were dashing everywhere, there was some sort of a rising pyramid of pegasi, and in one dramatic burst, the excited ponies scattered to the four winds, or at least the two levels of the shopping mall and in both directions. Karla sat there and tried to get her breath back, and more importantly to stop grinning like an idiot. She was an FBI agent in public, after all. Plus, she had something very important to do, right away. Hooking an arm around the steel brace to her side, she cautiously removed her cell phone, resisted an intense urge to call Clyde, and instead touched her speed dial and listened to the ringtone on speakerphone since she wanted both hands to hold on. “Hey, Claire.” Karla rolled her eyes at the sound of excited ponies chattering on the other end of the call. “I know you and the girls are having fun somewhere in the mall, but I’ve got just one tiny little favor to ask before you go shopping all morning. Nothing really, just go back to the entrance where all the people are looking up at the mall’s ceiling. Yeah, you left somebody up in the rafters after your musical number. Me.” * * * Claire always loved the mall, although she never had the opportunity to just lounge around one with friends before. She was always hustling for a part-time job, or saving every nickel or dime for tuition. In high school, she had a goal. It was a stupid goal, at least now, but she had always admired females in politics, and had some wacked-out idea of getting a degree in political science with a minor in women’s studies. Madame President sounded wonderful, and with as many political scandals that had torpedoed other notable careers, she had worked very diligently to keep her nose clean and her work record spotless. And with the witless enthusiasm of the young, she had decided on the University of Chicago as her gateway. So she had worked all the way through high school, saved every penny from working wheat harvest on a custom cutter crew two summers in a row, drove an old beat-up Volvo, worked sixty hour weeks for two years after graduation, and lived like a hermit to make her goal. She made it almost one entire year in college as the oldest new pledge in her sorority before returning to Kansas. In hindsight, expecting to learn politics as a young woman in Chicago was like learning anatomy from a serial killer at a butcher shop. And the minor in women’s studies… Volunteering for a campaign in Chicago had an entirely different meaning for attractive college-age girls. It didn’t matter how perfect your scores, or how many teachers urged you to go into a medical field. You could have a line of disabled Guatemalan orphans a mile long that you tutored into law school, and any number of pretty co-eds with banker fathers and socialite mothers would effortlessly collect every special award you competed for, so they could become socialite mothers and marry bankers to raise more of their ilk. It was probably another reason why she had shunned malls since high school. People like her worked at the stores. People like the ones she was beginning to dislike with a passion shopped at the stores, or more correctly hung out and didn’t buy anything. Ponies did buy things, but they just didn’t buy a lot of things, which was understandable since they were going to have to carry them all home. Well, except for Widget, who had Karla and Nick to carry her bags and push her bag-laden wheelchair when she was stationary enough to sit in it instead of clattering around the mall’s floor with her plastic leg brace on. Claire used the excuse of shooting pictures of the two mares for her travel blog so she did not have to carry the swag and get bogged down under bags. “How about a hermit crab, Claire?” asked Widget, standing up on her rear legs so she could peer into a cage full of the clattering creatures. “I don’t know,” said Goose right beside her, only braced against the kiosk floor with her sizable wings so she probably could not have been tipped over by a linebacker tackle. “Pretty sure the mayor said we couldn’t take any creatures back with us.” * * * “But it’s only one giraffe!” wailed the Cutie Mark Crusaders while the Topeka Zoo docents led baby Hope back to the enclosure. * * * “Besides,” added Claire, “You don’t know if it’s going to have a bunch of crab babies and cover all of your city with crabs.” “Parasprites,” said Goose and Widget in a flat monotone at the same time. The young unicorn regained her four-legged stance with a slight wince and smiled at the proprietor, which resulted shortly in a purchase of a plush octopus, a fuzzy stuffed crab, three shells with interesting patterns, an ocean-themed bag to carry it all in, and several selfies. Actually, a lot of selfies, because of the crowd of children who seemingly materialized out of thin air whenever the group stopped. Widget and Goose had their own felt-tip pens by now, and Claire had attached a coffee can with a hole in the top to her wheelchair so people could stick a few bucks in for the Ponyville fund. “You know, when I went to Comic-Con, the actors had custom photo sheets they would sign,” said Claire while helping organize the line of aspiring junior ponywatchers. “That way they didn’t have to sign body parts.” “Thank you, Miss Goose,” said the brawny man in the skimpy t-shirt, who had half of Goose’s flowery signature across the back of his neck. He towered over the smaller children, but seemed as polite and gentle as a teddy bear as he gave a short bow and presented the ponies with a business card. “Sensei Koko would like to invite you to his dojo any evening for a cultural exchange in the field of martial arts, if you would be willing. Um… Ma’am?” “I’ve got it,” said Claire, moving closer and beginning to pry on the smaller pegasus’ huge wings. “Goose, you need to let go. People are watching, and the children will get a bad impression about ponies if you squish somebody.” “Thank you,” said Goose somewhat indistinctly into the large man’s chest, although she showed little indication of breaking off her full-body hug (with wings). “You smell good.” It took a few moments to peel Goose off her victim, who was taking it in good stride, and she tucked the business card away in her chest armor with all the intense sincerity of a Civil War bride holding onto a last flower as her lover marched off to war. “Aren’t you supposed to be hugging the nice Army man, Miss Goose?” asked the next child in line, who was holding out a school binder for endorsement. “And kissing,” said Widget as she finished her own signature with a swooping motion of the pen. As expected, the dark batpony got even darker red and stammered around her Sharpie marker while Claire giggled and all of the children waiting in line and clustered around added their own comments. “Girls!” Goose recovered her marker and signed one last folder. “Can’t we… go on the carousel again instead?” There was a cheer from the children, and a quick objection from Claire, because she knew where this was going. “I don’t know, you two have been on it twice already.” Karla merely waved her hands and said, “Oh, no!” “Oh, yes!” declared Widget. ♫ The carousel ride, the carousel ride We want to go on the carousel ride Camels and zebras all safe inside We want to go on the carousel ride ♫ The crowd of human children singing along only made it more heart-wrenching, and Claire almost broke out in laughter as the whole bunch trotted off to the carousel again, with two of the children getting their own ponyback rides in the process, and Nick following behind with his wallet open, looking for some more money. It was fairly easy to catch Karla tagging along behind the parade, because she was lagging too, with a wide yawn and an expression of anticipation, which was only expected because seeing the two ponies on the carousel was oodles of fun. “Hey, Agent.” Karla went immediately stoic, then switched back to a cautionary frown when she saw who had called out. “Claire, don’t do that. The President is showing up in three days, and all of the newsies are looking for a suitably bad video clip showing how badly we screwed up First Contact. So I need to be on my toes, or they’ll have something they can run every night—” she shifted to a lower vocal tone “—as we go to our reporters in Kansas, where they caught an FBI agent actually looking like a human being around our visitors.” “Widget would take their cameras apart and Goose would kick them senseless.” Claire gave a dismissive flip of her wrist. “I swear, the press is everywhere. At least the girls are getting along like a house on fire, and when Widgie stuck her bottom lip out on camera, you got freed from Official FBI Detention.” “I texted Deputy AG Gates a few times last night,” admitted Karla. “Nothing bad, just how are you doing and Widget was asking about you, stuff like that. Zip for response, so she’s had her phone stripped. So has the rest of the goon squad, I’ll bet. They picked up our phones when we walked into the plane. Had to throw a minor fit to get it back when they sent me here. Promised not to answer any calls that weren’t from the Bureau.” On cue, her phone buzzed again, and after a quick look at the screen, Karla thumbed a button and put it back inside her jacket. “One of my feckless drug-dealing cousins.” “Wonderful family you have,” snarked Claire. “And you criticized me for Krystol’s drug habit. She’s only a part-time roommate, after all.” That earned Claire a peculiarly sympathetic look from the young FBI agent. “You know that soul-sucking feeling, when you want so much to drag them off to a drug treatment program and lock them inside for a few months but you know it wouldn’t do any good? Just about every time I meet a relative, I get it right here.” She thumped herself on her ample chest. “Can’t go to a reunion of any sort because mom’s side of the family treats me like a radioactive virus, and I’ve never been able to track down any of dad’s relatives.” “I’ll loan you some of mine,” said Claire. “My brother the lawyer is in the Army OIG office, and my brother the hairy truck driver is up in Oregon, wrestling trees. Dad’s got a few dozen relatives scattered across the country, and my mother’s relatives just carpet Portugal. Haven’t even opened up my email this week because I can paraphrase about half of them with my eyes closed.” Claire tossed her empty coffee container into a nearby mall trash can before holding one hand across her chest. “Dearest Claire, we met when you visited, I saw you just now on the television, and I’d be glad to come help with the ponies if you would be willing to sponsor my visa. Of course, it would be in Portugese, and about three pages long, and they’d ask for a bundle of money in advance for expenses like food and transportation.” “And then they’d cash the check and stay home?” asked Karla as they slowed down to watch the scrum at the merry-go-round with the ponies, the children, and a number of excited parents. “Or vanish once they got inside the US, or maybe even get all the way to Kansas and stand here with their hands out. My mother’s a mutant or something in her lazy family. The only reason she doesn’t have a PhD in headshrinking is we moved here when Granpop got sick, then decided to stay when he passed away because we didn’t have to deal with Kansas City’s crap.” “Hey, that crap is my living.” Karla drained the last dregs from her coffee and sat it next to them on the stone wall they were holding up while watching the ongoing equine entertainment. “If everybody decided to obey the law, I’d be out of a job. Just like if Goose didn’t have anybody in Equestria who wanted to attack her princesses.” Clare stifled a laugh, and lowered her voice. “Nick confided in me last night, at the pool. The bitchy-bat wants Goose to keep hitting on him, as long as she doesn’t catch him and screw his ass into the mattress. Well, he didn’t say that directly, but he implied it. She said it was good for Goose’s mental recovery process.” It looked as if Karla were biting her bottom lip. “Oh, God. I didn’t think we were pushing her that hard. Some of the reports we’ve gotten at the FBI were showing it’s possible, but—” “Whoa, wait a second.” Claire brushed some hair out of her eyes and took a quick look at the carousel, just to make sure the subjects of their conversation were occupied. “Theoretically or practical?” There was a significant pause before Karla admitted, “Practical. No photos, thank God, but several reporters proved more than willing to sleep with sources to get a story before they wound up around the Ponyville Poontang Brigade. Hell, if you took two hundred random humans at random and dropped them into an alien world, how long would it be before one of them was caught with a willing native?” “An hour,” admitted Claire. “Less if they’re military. It pretty much happened everywhere human explorers landed throughout history. Captain Cook’s sailors traded nails for sex in Hawaii until their ships were about ready to fall apart.” “In any case, it’s good that Goose is getting better. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for a pegasus who can’t fly outside,” said Karla while leaning back against the stone wall and watching the carousel go around, with Goose perched on a zebra and Widget reclining cautiously on a bench with two overjoyed children around her. “And a shame they’re all going home in a week and a half. Widget’s wasted in Ponyville. She’s bright, unintentionally manipulative, adorable, and curious as a kitten. They’re both having so much fun here and expanding their horizons.” After clearing her throat, Claire addressed the FBI agent as she would a child. “Young miss, you don’t think you can get away with kidnapping them both and raising them as your own children in Kansas City. Somebody would notice.” From the brief hesitation that followed, Karla had been thinking something along those lines. “No, you’re right. But I think… Now hear me out before you say no. I think Widget would really like going to Washington on her terms, not like the FBI wanted. I mean I’ve been involved with a couple of VIP visits, and being female I tend to get shunted off to deal with the wives and children. They have a ball going to all the places while the husbands get stuck shaking hands and getting photos.” To be honest, it was not that bad of an idea, but it lacked one thing. “So first, we need to get Widget married,” said Claire. They shared a mutual laugh, then watched Nick helping Goose down from the carousel. “To a pony,” clarified Karla. “Spoilsport,” said Claire. They both laughed a little before she continued, “Damn, I’m glad you’re back. I’m outnumbered two to one whenever they decide on something crazy, and that photographer isn’t any help.” “Mister Henderson?” “Oh, it’s Mister Henderson, is it, Missus Henderson?” Karla had more of a dark chocolate mocha skin tone than Nick’s solid black, and Claire had never really seen a black person blush before, but Karla went red all the way to her ears while protesting. “He’s the perfect gentleman!” she blurted out. “He never even touched me.” Now that was a line worth rubbing in. “The way the two of you were making eyes at each other, I thought you were going to climb into the back of the SUV and make like teenage bunnies on the way back from KC,” she snarked. “No!” protested Karla, then adding in a lower voice, “Not while I’m on duty!” - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 9:15 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015 Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - “Evening, Mister Bruener!” Dakota slung his bag onto the couch and looked around the corner into the house’s business office, which was more of a cluttered den than any glass and steel cubicle. It also had a secretary much unlike any other terrestrial office. “Hello, Miss Grace,” he added, giving a nod to the solemn green unicorn at the office computer. “Any idea where the man of the house is? I just saw a couple Rangers bring some people inside, and wondered if they needed some photos.” “He’s in the basement with some guests, Uncle Kota,” piped up a much smaller unicorn next to her, who had made a nest of sorts out of the books and magazines and had settled comfortably in for a long reading session. “The guests are from DeBeers in New York,” said Grace, still seemingly entranced by whatever website she was browsing. “Spike, please go downstairs. I believe they are here for you.” “Now that’s not ominous,” murmured Spike, who had followed Kota into the house. “They are unarmed,” continued Grace, “although they still have two of the Army Rangers with them.” “Girls, could you go with him?” said Kota to the other two ponies following them. “I need to talk with Grace for a minute.” Once Bon Bon and Lyra had trotted down the stairs close behind Spike, Kota turned back to the two unicorns in the office. “I’m positive I didn’t take a photo of you over the last few days, young lady,” he started, “and I’m pretty sure I would remember—” “Booky!” hissed a young voice behind him, and Sweetie Belle poked her nose into the Bruener’s home office. “Oh, hello Aunt Grace. What are you doing here?” Grace turned to look at the young unicorn, then returned to her web browser. “Sweetie Belle is at the Great Wolf Lodge in Kansas City.” “Uh… I had to come back early?” Grace let out a sigh. “Changeling, clone, temporally displaced traveler, evil mirror universe, non-evil mirror duplicate, magically spell-created doppelganger, nemesis, or unknown?” “Uh…” Sweetie Belle, or the small unicorn who said she was, put one hoof behind her neck and cringed. “Flurry said I’m not supposed to say. Because of paradox.” “Time traveling, then.” Grace floated several sheets of paper off the nearby laser printer and over to Sweetie. “Pay particular attention to the second page, feel free to read while waiting to be picked up, and try not to be photographed.” After a moment of stunned non-thought, Kota put the lens cap back onto his camera and headed upstairs to find a place to bunk tonight. There was probably another mind-shattering discovery in Mister Bruener’s basement that he could not photograph, so it made more sense to get some sleep while he could. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 9:12 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015 Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - Jon Bruener had gotten used to a lot of strange things in the last almost-week. One was a dragon, of all things. Most of the rest were ponies. There was even a time-traveling pony from the future upstairs, curled up in his den while waiting for her friends to come back and pick her up. She had blamed herself for being so quiet and overlookable, but Jon was starting to think she had hidden when they left just so she could immerse herself in his late father’s collection of old science fiction magazines. Aliens from another planet wanting to read stories about aliens from another planet. Dad would have flipped. The last few days, the ponies had broken up into semi-autonomous groups, shadowed by various civic organizations and ‘off-duty’ police mixed in with more official individuals, tempered by the variable Equestrian tolerance for additional eyes and ears. The press would have badgered them day and night if not for the Kansas Highway Patrol, who had an official representative as ‘tour guide’ for each group. There were enough groups of ponies out and about that the house was feeling rather empty with only the sleeping batpony family upstairs and the odd tutor and his daughter playing downstairs. Some of the groups would probably return this evening, so it was only a brief break, but still welcome. “Um, Mister Bruener, sir?” The Army Ranger in the doorway was armed like a sentry, with no grenades or other civilian-frightening gadgets visible, but the M4 he was holding across his chest was loaded, and Jon knew from experience just how many heavy ammunition magazines he had in his load-carrying vest. “Private Fitzgerald,” said Jon. “What can I do you for? Some iced tea? Air conditioning?” “Got a special visitor for your special visitors, sir. Can we continue this inside?” It made more sense than standing in the doorway, so Jon gestured the Ranger inside, along with the two serious-looking men dressed like Orthodox Jews, and an additional armed Ranger to stand guard. It took the heavy briefcase held by one of the men to trigger Jon’s suspicions of the contents, and escort them all downstairs. “DeBeers, I presume?” One of the two men nodded as they headed down the stairs. “The officers of the company saw the issues your visitors were having, and are willing to offer assistance.” “So Equestria doesn’t have to send a bunch of dragon chow through their portal,” continued Jon once they were downstairs. “Honey, these men are from DeBeers, and they brought some…” Close proximity to cute ponies should have helped his resistance, but seeing his wife in her recliner with Clover curled up on her chest, and Lucky sprawled out on the other recliner with a newspaper over his face, made something in his heart twang like a plucked guitar string. The sudden stop by the two dark-clad men behind him indicated that even they could be entranced by a sleeping alicorn foal, although Spike began pushing his way past the stopped humans on the stairs, followed by Lyra and Bon Bon. “Come on, come on. Let’s get going. Clover sleeps like a log, so we’re not going to wake her up.” The diminutive dragon dragged one of the end tables to the center of the carpet, then went with the other two ponies to retrieve some chairs, calling back over his shoulder, “The diamonds smell really good.” Lucky woke up with a start, and folded the newspaper as he struggled out of the recliner. His first instinctual glance was to his daughter, who was being properly cuddled by Mrs. Bruener, before looking up at the visitors. “Are you selling diamonds door-to-door?” he asked. “Because I think we can afford some of them for Spike.” The oldest and most bearded of the two hesitated, obviously caught preparing a practiced statement, then gave out a brief snort of bemusement. “The Girl Scouts you haff in your home, dey must haff the most strange cookie sales. Abraham Gufeston, DeBeers,” he added, sticking out a broad hand to shake. “Lucky,” said the green earth pony while shaking the proffered hand. “You’ve already met Spike, and that’s my daughter over there being spoiled rotten by Missus Bruener. How may I help you, sir?” The older man settled down in the chair that Spike brought over and scooted closer to the end table. “Ve need to speak to a person in authority among your people.” “Go ahead,” said Lucky. “I’m listening.” The old man hid his annoyance well, but Jon could still see the faint scowl when he responded, “No, I mean like your mayor or perhaps the commander of the military.” At that point, the quiet schoolteacher did something more than a little odd. He took off his wrinkled fedora and passed it over to Abraham, who took the hat, nearly dropped it on the floor, then looked inside to find out why it was so heavy. He did not say anything for a short time, except to share his observation of the ordinary hat with his associate. Eventually, he produced a jeweler’s loupe, peeled the edge of the fedora away from something golden that was hidden inside the brim, and took a much longer look. “They’re all thirty carets across the top of the tiara,” said Abraham quietly. “At least. And flawless.” “It’s a coronet, and I was keeping them in case we had serious problems finding fuel for Spike,” explained Lucky. “Rarity had to go through a whole basket full of diamonds to find that collection. Took most of the afternoon, so I didn’t want to break up her set unless it became necessary.” “I… see.” Abraham passed the fedora back to the scroungy schoolteacher, who put it back on his head. “Well. I think your bona fides are in order. Let us proceed.” The second man placed the briefcase on the table and opened it up. Lucky promptly slammed it shut, then looked over at Spike, who had appeared out of thin air as if summoned. “We’re not going to have another ‘Spike want’ incident, are we?” asked Lucky. Spike shook his head, but kept looking at the closed briefcase until Lucky slowly opened the lid again. The sight was… modestly underwhelming. Uncut diamonds looked more like plain pebbles than the millions of dollars worth of gemstones Jon had really expected. In addition, there were several larger colored rocks that Abraham placed on the table in a line. “Synthetic rubies, sapphire boules, und some other man-made gemstones,” he explained as he put smaller stones next to each large one. “As well as the natural version uff each, so you can see if they vill do as substitutes for your young dragon’s appetites.” “Sounds reasonable,” said Lucky as he closed the briefcase again, just in front of Spike’s wandering fingers. “How much will they cost us?” “Nothing,” said Abraham. “Provided they work for your purposes, and you do not bring any more gemstones across your portal. We wouldn’t want to see the market flooded,” he added. “You mean your market,” said Lucky. “I was doing some studying while Spike and the crew were out shopping. Your company produces about half of the worldwide supply in diamonds, down from almost all of it thirty years ago. Things like this are exactly why Princess Celestia and Princess Luna aren’t going to approve a permanent portal, once Twilight figures out the spell.” “Our company executives vill be so glad to hear that,” said Abraham, lapsing back into his accent slightly. “My back was pretty glad to hear that too,” said Lucky, “because I’d be the one trudging back and forth with piles of books until my wife filled up her new library. And I’m not even sure we can fill it up. I swear the castle keeps adding rooms when we’re not looking. So…” Lucky tapped the top of the briefcase. “There’s not going to be any trouble because of this, will there?” “No.” Abraham opened the briefcase, removed a glittering pebble that looked like cloudy glass, and passed it over to Lucky. “They look beautiful, and they’re worth several hundred thousand dollars, but they’re worthless to us at the same time. You see, many of the diamond mines that do not belong to our company are run by ruthless countries who mine them unethically, and sell the product in order to buy weapons. Ve call them conflict diamonds, and there is an international treaty to prevent their transport and sale.” “I see,” said Lucky. “And when these illegal diamonds are confiscated—” “We provide secure storage. At that point, Customs and Border Patrol are in a bit of a pickle. They can’t sell them, because they’re illegal, and can’t be recertified by the Kimberly Process. They can’t just destroy them, because they’re worth millions of dollars. So they sit in our vaults, and get inventoried every year. Und ve bill the government for it,” he added. “So ve gave a friend of ours a call, und he gave us the thumbs-up to bring some of them to you, and incidentally reduce their yearly vault rental expense. It’s good for all uff us, really.” Lucky peered at the dull diamond. “So they’re not yours?” “Vell, these are,” said Abraham, indicating the gemstones outside of the briefcase. “Vee are just a courier for the rest. Since vee vere not sure your dragon would like the diamonds.” Lucky gave the glittering stone a toss. Spike snapped it out of the air like a toad after a fat fly, and crunched happily afterward. Abraham smiled. “On behaff of the DeBeers company and the US Government, Customs and Border Commissioner Gil Kerlikowske, ve vould like to present these gifts in the spirit of friendship between our two peoples. If you vould be so good as to sign this receipt, my associate will notarize it.”