Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Politics Writ Large

“So, naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite 'em,
And so proceed ad infinitum.
Thus every poet in his kind
Is bit by him that comes behind.”
— Jonathan Swift, Poetry, A Rhapsody

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Time: 10:30 A.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Highway 135 — Salina, Kansas
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“They still sleeping?” Lt. Nicholas Comena glanced into his rear-view mirror, but the two ponies in the king cab seats were under his line of sight, and he didn’t want to turn around while driving his truck. Zero-accident discounts were hard to come by, and it still was over an hour of driving until he got back to Randolph with his passengers.

“Folded into pony pretzels, but sleeping anyway,” said Agent Anacostia, who had been pushed up next to him in the front seat by the third member of the conspiracy. Claire Bruener had been everywhere with the two ponies, and had acted the filming instigator while Karla played the responsible adult in their tourism spree. The injured unicorn would have purchased the entire city of Wichita and most of the Cosmosphere if not restrained by a lack of funds and some frequent reminding from Claire and Anacostia that she would be carrying her loot back home.

Nick was fairly certain the upcoming portal was going to see a shopping cart of some sort filled to the top with Widget’s stuff. And to be moved, it would take bungee cords, a tarp, and a certain amount of loot redistribution and reduction. She would certainly be set at home for t-shirts and ball caps until Widget turned a hundred, and enough bumper stickers to paste on every cart in her town, much like the several that now decorated the bumper of Agent Anacostia’s truck.

Still, he was just glad his Army tank team had made a quick trip down to bring a vehicle to Wichita for them to drive around with this week, he just wished they would have brought his truck. Nick’s manly nature was hard-pressed to survive driving this giant pink SUV. He should have walked back from Wichita. Or hitch-hiked with the Kansas Highway Patrol vehicle he could see in his rear-view mirror, shadowing their route about a half-mile back.

“I really don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted to the FBI agent pressed up against his side.

“What, that your fellow Army buddies know you as—” Agent Anacostia jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping batpony “—her plus one?”

“Or that you’re all over the internet in videos with her?” asked Claire, holding up her camera phone. “Cheese.”

After giving a quick smile, Nick returned his attention to the road. “No, I mean for the next century, future military cadets will be studying my record, thinking the appropriate way to meet alien lifeforms is to be soaking wet dressed in nothing but your underwear, and then to run around the countryside with them playing tourist while they try to get into your pants.”

Anacostia stifled a snort and dismissed his protests with a wave. “We are never going to talk about how I met them, on or off camera.”

“Not even for blackmail,” said Claire, which made Nick a little suspicious of the conspiracy. He was the only male in the vehicle, after all, so he should at least protest.

“Just glad I’m not going to be up on stage with the Cee-in-Cee tomorrow,” said Nick instead. “And I heard a rumor that you’re all going to meet Mickey next week, so I hope you have fun without me.”

* * *

“So do you think we should send any military officers along with the aliens on their trip to Disney World?” said the Secretary of State rather reluctantly, moving a series of colored papers around on the briefing table. “It is supposed to be a civilian expedition for entertainment and relaxation.”

“At least this one,” said the President, pulling out one sheet marked ‘Lt. Comena’ and putting it to one side. “He’s a minority officer who certainly represents the Army well, and the ponies seem to like him.”

“A little too much,” muttered the SecState under his breath before turning to the next item on their busy agenda. “Gifts. I think we can all agree that an iPod full of speeches should not be on the list this time, correct?”

* * *

“So I’m just going to be chilling back at the farm,” continued Nick, “washing the tank, talking with the guys, and writing the world’s largest After Action Report about my week with—” He jerked his head in the direction of their passengers.

“Oh, shit.” Agent Anacostia buried her head in her hands. “I completely forgot. I’ve been so busy, and I’ve got to write my 302’s up and put them into the Sentinel system. They’re supposed to be done by three days after the event, and it’s been…”

“Just about a week,” said Clarie, looking at her watch. “A little over, actually. Feels like a year. I mean how many tourist places have we been to since Widget got out of the hospital? Fifty?”

“And I’m going to have to remember them all,” moaned Anacostia, still holding her head in her hands.

“Hey, it’s not that bad. I’ve got pictures and video from all of them. The only place you haven’t gone yet is Salina’s little dinky mall up there,” said Claire, waving her hand. “The only thing special about it is the giant aquarium.”

“Mall?” said a sleepy Widget, coming out of the back seat of the truck and sticking her nose almost in Claire’s ear.

“Aquarium?” asked Goose, adding her nose to the population of the truck’s front seat.

“We don’t want to stop,” protested Claire as both ponies breathed in. “It’s been ten years since I’ve been there, and they’ve probably closed the big aquarium with all the bass and catfish in it. I don’t even know if the Radio Shack is still—”

♫ The mall up here, the mall up here
We want to stop at the mall up here
Fishies and gadgets and stores so near
We want to stop at the mall up here ♫

It was not as bad as Claire had tried to make it. He got to drop by the Air Force recruiter’s office and show off the local Equestrian air force, and the sports fish aquarium proved that there were really larger fish in Kansas waters, despite his erratic sampling over the last year showing otherwise.

And lunch at Carlos O’Kelly’s was certainly nothing to pass up. Particularly when he saw the way Goose slurped up jalapeno poppers like they were candy.

- - - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:15 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Kansas
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“Are you certain Mister President would not rather send us a postcard?” drawled the Equestrian guard in a voice just one step away from being bored to death.

Well into the third hour of preparations for Renegade to visit Manhattan tomorrow, US Secret Service Senior Agent O’Malley was really starting to get annoyed at his horse-counterpart, although he fought to keep from showing it. For privacy, they had even taken their discussion outside in the fresh Kansas sunshine so the local employees of the airport terminal would not be eavesdropping, and sent the various other teams of USSS agents to check various small things in other parts of the airport. It was a lot easier to talk with Specialist Thermal, but far more difficult to remember what you were talking about afterward, because she moved in so many directions while talking, batting her big eyes, tossing her mane, giving deep sighs…

“Oh! Yes. Postcards.” Conner shook his head and turned sideways so he could no longer see the airport tower, as well as the fluffy cloud that Specialist Thermal had anchored to the radio antenna on top so she would have a place to give her toddler colt a nap. Even at this range, interesting bits and pieces of vivid pink could be seen over the edges of the cloud mattress, and her tail hanging down over the edge twitched on delightful occasions. “Yes, I suppose if you want to give President… You weren’t talking about giving him postcards, were you?”

Grace did not reply for a time, and just stared straight into his eyes with her implacable expression unmoved by any sense of humor, even though he tried.

“We may want to move Specialist Thermal somewhere else, if we want to avoid aircraft accidents tomorrow. I mean… She has…”

“Substantial assets. Yes, I know. I listened to the Army tank crews talking a few nights ago.” Grace heaved a microscopic sigh. “She also has huge tracts of land, impressive gazongas, a hot plot, is an epic mount for some reason, and a milf.” The unicorn cocked her head slightly to one side. “I’m really not quite certain of the last compliment. What does it mean?”

O’Malley almost swallowed his tongue. “It’s… um… Well, it can be…”

“I know it’s an affectionate compliment,” continued Grace, “but they did not think I qualified.”

Grace batted her eyes almost mechanically, which was apparently as sexy as the stuck-up unicorn could act. “Do you think I’m a milf? I mean I’m planning on being a mother in three to four years, provided our schedule is not put off by this unexpected side-trip.”

“I… um…” Realization hit Conner like a brick between the eyes. “You’re making a joke!”

With a nod and a completely straight face, Grace continued, “It is an acceptable bonding practice for military liaisons to make with their counterparts. And it is humorous provided there are insufficient other members of your peer group to see your embarrassment. I thought it wise to get such bonding activity out of the way before your Mister President arrives.”

“And it’s not funny if you explain it.” Conner shook his head. “Have you ever made a joke before?”

“Several. A unicorn, a pegasus, and an earth pony walked into a bar, and the unicorn says—” Grace pointed at him with a forehoof and frowned. “That’s not funny!”

“Oooookay.” It was Conner’s turn to nod. “Have you ever made a joke that was funny?”

There was a very long pause before the unicorn levitated the stack of folders and briefing documents up in front of them again. “I believe we have covered the pertinent points in your protection plan and supervised the placement of the stage and audience for tomorrow’s performance. Once your subordinate and Pumpernickel return with lunch from your taco establishment, we shall dine with your associates and return to our encampment to prepare for tomorrow. I see no appreciable difficulties upcoming, and the schedule we worked out should be acceptable to Mayor Mare so she may arrive at the appointed hour and depart after Mister President has carried out his tasks. Did you have any questions, Agent O’Malley?”

“One.” He reclaimed one of the USSS folders from the stack that Grace had appropriated and gave it a tap on the edge to settle the papers inside. “Did my words hurt?”

“I noticed.” A bare chuckle escaped despite Conner’s best efforts while they started to return to the airport terminal building. “Oh, you should have seen me when I started with the service. Most new agents act like they have a stick up their ass; I had a sequoia. Thankfully, I had a supervisor who taught me that not every agent had to be Johnny Lawman every minute of the day. There’s a line between work and not-work, and although it wobbles a little with every new boss, you have to step on it every once in a while so it doesn’t get away. I’ll bet you’re going about humor all wrong.”

“That’s obvious,” said Grace, flicking one ear while they walked in a signal of what Conner had learned signaled considerable concealed agitation, or at least her subdued version. More than twenty years of experience inside the agency had thankfully allowed him to read subordinates, and although Grace was the small-print version written in a foreign language, he was starting to get comfortable with the cultural differences.

“Tell you what,” he said, checking his phone. “FISH⁽*⁾ isn’t showing any serious threat warnings for this visit, most of the law enforcement personnel won’t show up until this evening, and the Diplomatic Security Service team that will be handling the Disney World security event is still a few hours out. Since Washington just texted me to say they picked up lunch, this is the last opportunity we’re going to have just to sit down in a small group and give a good yank to the chain of our peers. Do you have any lipstick?”
(*) FISH is the early warning system used to track suspicious letters and threats to executive and legislative officials.
—

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Time: 12:35 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Kansas
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He had been briefed on every stop of every Presidential trip since starting with this detail a year ago—feeling a lot like a freshman rookie sitting in on a pro football league game huddle—but this was so far out of the ordinary that his mind occasionally just had to take a step back and reconsider reality. As the newbie on the team, he was the one sent to get lunch. Apparently, Optio Pumpernickel held that low position in his equine peer group also, or maybe he just did not want to get on the bad side of his wife, Laminia.

Then again, there did not seem to be any way to get on the microscopic good side of that grouchy batpony, other than to shower adoration on her adorable little daughter, which was extremely easy.

In any event, the two of them had been sent to get lunch for a mixed crew of ponies, a dozen FBI agents, several Fort Riley MPs, some RCPD officers, and three glum unnamed individuals with unspeakable security clearances who it was far too easy imagining were there to carry out an alien autopsy in case of unexpected death.

So after getting their combined order phoned in to Fuzzy’s Tacos, as the RCPD had advised, Anthony Washington, probationary agent for the United States Secret Service Presidential Protection unit, headed for his rental car, only to be pulled up short by his counterpart.

“Traffic,” grumbled Pumpernickel. The batpony guard shrugged almost effortlessly into the tiny cart that Washington had become quite familiar with last night, only ‘cart’ was too long a word for the far-too-small cob.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive the car?” asked Anthony. “No, I guess not. At least it’s daytime.”

It turned out that flying during the day only made it so he could see the obstacles they barely missed, which made him suspect the silent Equestrian was attempting to break him the same way he had been razzed by fellow service employees the first time they ran through D.C. traffic.

It took a remarkably short time to pick up their order at Fuzzy’s, and no ID required (for obvious reasons), then they were in the air again, on their way back to the airport noon wrapup meeting.

“I just wanted to tell you how incredible this has been,” shouted Washington, who was loaded down with bags but feeling just as stable in his tiny seat behind a flying pony as if he were in The Beast.

“You don’t have to shout,” said the laconic batpony, who turned his head sideways while flying so he could look Washington in the eye. “You’ll scare the civilians.”

“Oh. Well.” Anthony resisted waving at the passing scenery with one hand, using it instead to keep a firm grip on their order of tacos. “Just this has been one hell of a ride. I thought guarding the President was going to be so different, then you guys landed, and… My daughter is never going to believe the stories her old man tells when she gets older.”

“You’ve got photos.” Pumpernickel banked to one side and gained some altitude so he could fly next to the water tower on their way to the airport this time instead of following the highway. “Cadet Goose said something about making tail hair friendship bracelets. If you want, I can cut a few hairs for your daughter.”

“That would be… probably against regulations,” hedged Washington. “Since I’m sure the value is over the twenty dollar limit we’re permitted to receive, according to the Office of Government Ethics.”

Pumpernickel grunted, then flew once around the water tower before continuing on their route, picking up speed on his way down the hill with the airport runway lights beckoning their approach. He remained wordless while they parked the minimal wagon next to the airport terminal and carried the take-out bags into the building, up the stairs, and into the executive lounge where the impromptu lunch meeting was to take place.

There was something… different about Agent O’Malley, and odd enough that Washington’s mind could not wrap around the concept while he took his taco order and seated himself next to Pumpernickel’s surley wife. Their foal Stargazer was enjoying her lunch too, nursing away while Laminia stuck her nose right down in the paper sack, only stopping occasionally to spit out a piece of paper from the wrappers.

There was no way he was going to ask the cranky batpony about the pink lipstick mark on Agent O’Malley’s cheek that perfectly matched the shade of pink on the lips of the Equestrian guard sitting right next to his side.

Realization trickled in at various rates from the rest of the meeting participants, with varying reactions. The police captain merely blinked several times, looked at Agent Washington, then returned to her note-taking without comment. The Army MP got suddenly wide eyes, then looked down at the table and made small twitching motions as if he were suppressing laughter. A generalized rise in restless and uncomfortable motions followed even as O’Malley laughed and joked with the rest of the mismatched planning crew about how the Last Supper would have been so different with ponies and tacos.

And every laugh or smile exchanged between O’Malley and Grace made a sudden wave of nervous glances travel around the table until Washington could not hold back.

“Well, that just about does it,” said O’Malley. “Everypony… I mean everybody has their schedule and contacts, and it looks like we’re about as ready for the President’s visit as we’re going to get. There’s going to be a lot of playing things by ear over the next day, so if I don’t get a chance before we leave, I just wanted to tell you all how much we appreciate your cooperation. Are there any questions?”

“Just one,” said Washington into the silence. “You’ve got a little… something on your cheek.”

“Oh!” Grace levitated a paper napkin up and wiped away the lipstick mark. “There you go, dear.”

“Thank you, honey.” Taking in the stunned faces of two species all around, Agent O’Malley put one arm around Specialist Grace’s furry shoulders. “I suppose I should have told you all earlier.”

“We’re going to each quit our jobs and move to Albuquerque so we can start a taco restaurant,” said O’Malley. “The marriage laws are liberal there, and our relationship won’t be subjected to harsh criticism.”

“Raising the children will be difficult,” admitted Grace, “since I’m a Reformed Monotheist and my husband-to-be is Methodist. Perhaps we can find some middle ground in theology.”

Laminia seemed to be having some sort of fit, like a piece of taco had gone down the wrong way, but after several fish-like faces, she pitched over backward onto the carpeted floor and began kicking her legs like an overturned crab. Her husband simply sat at the table completely immobile and wide-eyed, with their cute little filly tucked under one foreleg to keep her out of the taco fixings.

O’Malley, however, broke out laughing. “You should see all of your faces,” he gasped over the sound of additional laughter as others caught on. “We got you so good, didn’t we, Grace?”

“Indeed.” She rolled her eyes and added, “Although I must admit, running a restaurant would be a tempting challenge I’ve never attempted before. But not with a human spouse.” She raised one eyebrow and regarded O’Malley’s thinning hairline out of the edge of her vision. “No horn and not enough hair.”

Everybody laughed at that, including Pumpernickel who gave out a brief snort. It made a high point for the dismissal of the preparation meeting, and subdued snickers during the cleanup process. After the leftovers were bagged and Laminia took them to give Specialist Thermal a late lunch, it left Washington and O’Malley alone with the bulky form of Pumpernickel for a few moments.

“That was very funny, Agent O’Malley,” admitted the hefty pony guard. “It had me going right up to where I ran into the mountain. We’ve never been able to get Grace to admit to a sense of humor before.”

“I watched some of the videos that your Miss Bruener put on the internet,” admitted O’Malley. “Female guards are new to your service, and I’m willing to bet there is a certain degree of mistrust directed at her from the more traditional members.”

Agent O’Malley went on, “It is difficult for the new to overcome the inertia of the old, even when the new is better.” Obviously catching something in the alien expression of the Equestrian, O’Mally clarified by putting a hand on Washington’s shoulder. “Two hundred years ago, you would never have seen a black man or a woman of any color guarding the President of the United States. Today, we have a black president, and Tony here could wind up in charge of the whole Secret Service if he keeps his head on straight.”

“Wouldn’t want to go that high, sir,” said Washington. “I’ve seen what it does to people. I’d like to have a family at home.”

“He’s got the common sense for the job,” continued O’Malley. “A position over others is not something you strive for because it gives you power. You get pulled into it because you can do it better than anybody else. You have to do it. Save lives, protect people, improve the world in small steps. Or protect princesses, right?”

Pumpernickel nodded slowly. “It changes you,” he said in deliberate, specific words, letting his scarred wings unfold slightly and refold along his back. “It changed me. Grace… I never thought would change.”

O’Malley shrugged. “You have to change to meet the job just as much as the job changes to meet you. No two people do it the same way. You can’t teach that. You can only learn it by being there, and learning from others.”

After another glacial nod, the dark batpony shook O’Malley’s hand, then very deliberately shook Anthony’s hand while looking him straight in the eyes. “Be careful,” he said in that low, rich voice that really deserved to be singing Blues in Louisiana. “The learning process can hurt a lot. Or kill you.”

- - - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:45 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Country Stampede at Tuttle Creek Park — Manhattan, Kansas
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There was no doubt about who the guest of honor was at the music festival, and no doubt about who was sponsoring her visit. Four burly young men wearing Miller Lite shirts were carrying Granny Smith around the crowd while two young women in cut-off shorts and indecent shirts were providing hand sanitizer for anybody who wanted to actually shake hooves with their resident Equestrian guest. Despite being recently released from KU Med, there was no real concern that Granny was in any kind of medical danger from the activity, because the waiting list to be on her escort team was nearly two pages long, and included more medical degrees than a room full of thermometers.

The whole afternoon had been spent with Granny meeting and greeting everybody from Blake Shelton to several awestruck children who followed the crowd like the Pied Piper was playing. The rest of the Equestrians attending the country music festival held up their end of the publicity just as well, including several pegasi who provided some cloud sunshades for several of the booths and impromptu ponyback rides for smaller children they could actually lift. As the sun set and the festival turned more to music, the main stage area was starting to fill just in time for Steve to go to his volunteer job.

Steve was having the best time a paramedic could have on a weekend, to be honest. Ever since his first high-speed run out to the Bruener farm, he had been overwhelmed by pony appreciation. His second trip that fateful day had been an anticlimax, since the first trip had been a near-amputation, and the second was a chatty elderly stallion with a wrenched shoulder who could not stop asking about Widget. Third time was not the charm, but it was an opportunity to spend a few hours wrapping hairy ankles and getting properly introduced to aliens that were more like his grandmother’s knitting society crossed with a college sorority.

Not that he was complaining. Present reality was far better than any movie. Besides, he had not actually gotten to meet Granny Smith for more than a brief glimpse as another paramedic crew was loading her into their ambulance, and he felt deeply privileged as well as lucky that he had gotten onto her ‘list’ for Stampede.

“My turn, Doctor.” All Steve really knew about Dr. Hylton, PhD, Md, DPM, and probably LMNOP, was that he was a Jamaican-looking fellow with a bald head and a black cowboy hat, and that he had a speaking role in the all-night Equestrian microbiology seminar going on back at the RV parking area, something that Steve was eager to avoid.

“Thank you, sir.” Doctor Hylton tipped his hat and stepped away from where Granny Smith’s ‘throne’ was currently parked by the porta-potties, leaving Steve to stand by the handle in case the elderly pony wanted to go somewhere else. Technically, her transportation was a litter, made out of a plastic table, several lightweight legs, a lawn chair, and two rods for four carriers to hold, all wrapped in about five rolls of duct tape, but Granny was being treated as much like redneck royalty as she could without a crown, so the title had stuck.

“Howdy there, young feller. Steve, wasn’t it? Good to see you again.” Grannie had her teeth in, so her smile had substance to it, and the green cowboy hat was pushed back far enough for her to get a good look at him. She stepped out of the blue plastic toilet with a lot more nimble agility than Steve could imagine if his own hip had a stainless-steel pin stuck in it, and climbed up into her seat with the assistance of Koni, the young woman who had been with the pony in Kansas City for most of the week.

“It’s about time to get down to the stage,” said Koni, holding onto the program in one hand and trying to balance a basket of sunscreen, bug spray, water bottles, and miscellaneous pony support items in the other. With the young lady leading the parade, it took remarkably little time to move through the crowd and over to the reserved section where several white plastic chairs awaited. Happy smiling people got out of the way or offered assistance, and chatted happily with the old mare until the lights over the audience dimmed and a spotlight swept down on the announcer.

“Welcome one and all to the 2015 Kicker Country Stampede!” After some time to let the frantic cheering die down, he added, “This year we’re setting a record for furthest visitor, proving that country music is universal. But before we begin, we have a special treat for everybody here. Give a warm round of applause to… the Ponytones!”

In the middle of the applause, Granny Smith leaned over to Koni and said loud enough for Steve to hear, “I really came here for my grandson, and to hear Sweetie.”

There were four ponies stepping out on stage, each wearing a natty red jacket, although the white unicorn was far smaller than the others, and looked nervous. They took their places next to the announcer, and a spotlight lit the stage around them, making the unicorn take a step back, then quickly return to her previous location with a nervous swallow.

“Ladies and gentlemen of all species,” said the announcer, “will you please rise for the national anthem of the United States.”

There was a vast shuffling as people got to their feet, as well as Granny Smith, and a general anticipatory hush fell over the crowd as the announcer handed his microphone over to the small unicorn, who floated it in front of her in a haze of green magic.

In the background, the roll of a snare drum started up, Sweetie Belle swallowed back a lump, then opened her mouth and let out a squeak. A faint titter swept over the crowd, followed by quiet shushing as the three other ponies on stage harmonized on a background note.

Sweetie Belle gave out another high-pitched squeak, then blushed fiercely. A tense wave of whispers swept over the crowd as she stood frozen in place, or at least until Granny Smith stood up in her chair and called out as loud as she could.

As if it were a pebble starting an avalanche, the rest of the crowd added their own encouragement and applause, with whistles and cheers until Blake Shelton came out from behind the stage and stood beside the small unicorn filly.

Sweetie Belle nodded, then slowly shook her head. “Actually… the first time was a disaster.”

“They always are.” Blake laughed along with the audience, then made a motion to his stage crew, who scurried out with a cowboy hat, size small. “I was going to save this until after you were done singing, but I think this will help.”

The hat was obviously prepared for the small unicorn, because it fit perfectly on her head right down to the hole for her horn. She gave out a squeal of joy, turned around in place, then tugged on Blake’s blue jeans. “Boost me up! I want everypony to see!”

It took effort, since the ponies were remarkably heavy for their size, but a few moments later Sweetie Belle was perched ponyback on Blake, who lost his hat in the process but not his voice.

“Folks, since this is Sweetie’s first song in front of a human audience, I think it would only be fair if we were to sing along with her.” Blake passed a second microphone up to Sweetie Belle, who took it in her magic and gave a nervous squeak. It took some encouragement to get the anthem started again, but when it did…

♫ Oh, say can you see ♫

Steve was enthralled by the way Sweetie Belle just tore into the song. He had attended football games before where the singer stammered or hesitated in the wrong spots, but Sweetie Belle was a boulder starting her way down a mountain, and she rolled through the first stanza on her inevitable path through it, not even twitching when ‘the rocket’s red glare’ came screaming out from behind the stage in the form of several crimson skyrockets that burst above the stage with a roll of thunder. Tears were unabashedly pouring down Steve’s cheeks by the last words, broken only when Sweetie announced at the top of her lungs “Play ball!” and a sheer cascade of fireworks erupted from either side of the stage with a gigantic American flag unrolling behind them.

There was not even a moment to sit down after the cheering. Blake Shelton promptly started up ‘Friends’ with Sweetie Belle still on his shoulders, which of course set the Equestrians dancing around the area too, both on the ground and in the air.

It was a blast, but Steve had one question while they were clapping and stomping along with the music. He leaned over to the other Granny-carrier beside him and snuck a peek at his nametag before asking, “Doctor Mermin, aren’t you supposed to be at the microbiology seminar being run over by the RV park?”

“There’s limited seating, so Director Khabbaz is sitting in my place,” he shouted back into Steve’s ear so he could be heard over the music. “It’s just a formality at this point. I don’t think there are any Equestrian hemagglutinin proteins that can attach to human sialic acid receptors and vice versa, although they seem to have quite a knowledge of neuraminidase glycoproteins that I’m sure our researchers will be drooling over for months. Why, are you an infectious disease specialist?”

“Ah… Hole-plugger and trauma, mostly. I’m a paramedic here, which left me as one of the first humans at the site of their landing. Doctor Stable said if it wasn’t for our work, Widget may have lost her leg. Pretty good work for an ex-corporal, if I do say so myself.” It made Steve feel slightly better until the doctor chuckled.

“Rear admiral myself. I didn’t see you on the VIP list for the President’s visit tomorrow. Want to come as my guest?” The doctor flipped out a business card that had more titles than a bookstore and pressed it into Steve’s hand. “Call me and we’ll carpool with the rest of the CDC bigwigs. Just be ready to tell them all about your experience with Widget. They never get out of the office much,” he added. “I wouldn’t trust most of them with a band-aid.”

- - - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:30 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Briggs Jeep-Eagle Auto Sales — Manhattan, Kansas
- - - - ⧖ - - - -

It would have been nicer to be out at Country Stampede with the ponies, but Captain Samantha Rietz really did not like country music, and to be honest, was looking forward to a week from now when they were all supposed to go home. Again. Only this time for certain. It wasn’t that she did not like the fuzzy little menaces, just that life got so complicated when you added an alien race that seemed to have no horse sense at all.

“I’ll check around, Mister Aarmand, but I don’t know how long it will take.” Sam looked up at the giant empty flagpole and mentally marked the Cutie Mark Crusaders off her list of suspects, since Scootaloo’s maximum elevation was about two feet, and Sweetie Belle’s carrying capacity was about a pound, if you didn’t mind whatever it was catching on fire from sparks.

The Armenian manager was only one step of frustration away from wringing his hands. “I hope you hurry, ma’am. There are so many people coming into town in the next week, and without our flag—”

The ripping noise of cloth in the wind cut off the manager mid-word, and both of them looked up to see the enormous United States flag seemingly flying down out of the sky, with a few wingtips visible to guide it. In relatively short order, the four happy pegasi finished clipping it to the flagpole, with one of them calling down, “Thank you, sir! The crowd loved your flag.”

“We were wondering where it went!” called Sam back up into the dark sky, illuminated by the floodlights at the flag’s base.

“We left a note,” explained the colorful pegasus. “And one of the money cards as a deposit, right here on top of the knob. Hey, girls! Look at this!”

The pegasus that Sam could finally identify as Blossomforth fluttered down and landed next to a red Nissan convertible, soon followed by three of her friends who oooh’d and ahh’d over the sleek car.

“Hell, no.” Aarmand covered his mouth, but the Equestrians did not seem to notice since they were still geeking out over the high-horsepower vehicle. Sam was mentally figuring out how many ways a group of college co-eds with wings could get into trouble, then multiplied that by about four to adjust for recent experience.

“Mister Aarmand, the girls seem to enjoy the car, and they probably need to get back to the Country Stampede. How about if you take them on a test drive in that direction?”

Sam could not have gotten a more dramatic reaction if she had thrown an entire handful of food pellets into a flock of ducks. Instantly, they were surrounded by chattering pegasi, and in a remarkably few minutes, Sam was alone in the parking lot, watching the stunned auto sales manager drive off with an entire convertible filled to the top and then some with multicolored feathered females.

“Kids,” she scoffed, slipping her phone back into the holster after checking the photo she had snapped, then writing a few more lines into her notebook.

- - - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:45 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm outskirts — Randolph, Kansas
- - - - ⧖ - - - -

The Kansas summer nights really did not bother Captain Kevin Rogers as much as the insects. At least they weren’t sand fleas, which viewed most bug repellents as some sort of BBQ sauce for humans. And there were various local bug-eating creatures populating the night also, from the near-invisible flitter of bats to the low ‘whoom’ noise of nighthawks, and the occasional glitter of a passing dragonfly, sucking up mosquitoes.

Three days in the sun and humidity had left the team fairly ripe, although it was a fraction of time a SEAL deployment could remain under cover observing a site. It did not help during odd times when the wind shifted, and they could smell the hamburgers grilling outside the Bruener family house.

“Situation remains fairly stable,” murmured Captain Rogers into his lavalier microphone for the evening transmission. “The ponies do not seem to be overly excited about ‘Mister President’s’ visit tomorrow, although you have to consider their proximity to the Equestrian capital and the number of times their country’s leaders have visited Ponyville. It would be like somebody in England who lives next to the queen’s summer house.”

“Provided Her Majesty’s summer home had monthly monster attacks,” murmured Lieutenant Howell, who was prone on his belly in order to watch the house’s vicinity with a set of low-light binoculars.

Ignoring his snarky subordinate, Rogers continued, “Nearly all of the ponies around the Bruener house have settled in for the night, which appears to be normal. Once the sun sets, they go straight to bed. The exception is the batponies, who… are weirder than the standard, I suppose is the best explanation. This bunch got the oddest lot of the odd species, but they’re up all night and part of the day.”

“The last of them has been inside for about twenty minutes,” reported Howell, “and all the lights are off, so the ponies remaining here are in bed. Well, except for Mister Henderson’s RV, and those two troublemakers. We can watch their girly-girl YouTube video tomorrow on nail painting if you really want to know what’s going on there.”

“About half.” Howell counted for a while, then gave up. “According to their publicity website, over a hundred of the ponies are at the Country Stampede this evening, and a number of the human hosts… you know, we need to come up with a better name for that if we’re not going to disturb the admirals. Are you recording this, sir?”

“I don’t think anything involving our guests has an off switch.” Rogers tapped a small black device they had found in their gear. “The CIA has probably been planting bugs all over the place this week. Our job is getting less important by the day. Pretty soon, they’ll know whenever one of the ponies takes a crap.”

* * *

Claire tapped gently on the door to the RV’s bathroom. “Goose, are you alright in there? I told you not to eat so many of those jalapeno poppers.”

A low groan was the only reply that could be heard over the sound of the electric exhaust fan.

* * *

“In any event,” continued Rogers, “since all the ponies were out playing tourist today, and they’ve got an early morning scheduled, looks like it’s going to be a quiet night.”

Lieutenant Howell returned to scanning across the area while Rogers made his report, and there was not any gunfire to be heard across the entire area except for a few distant early fireworks. After a time, there was a movement, though.

“Looks like one of the lower windows in the house just opened,” said Howell over the top of Rogers talking on the radio to some group of admirals in the Pentagon. “They’ve got central air, so it’s not to beat this blasted heat— and there goes a pony.”

“Which one?” Rogers grabbed his own binoculars as a second shape dropped out of the window, then a third. “Is this going to be like that batch of ponies that snuck from the grain storage warehouse to the Bruener’s house this afternoon? I swear their colors didn’t match anything on file, and I don’t believe our cameras and radio just happened to coincidently quit working.”

Howell took a quick glance at the radio equipment. “Radio’s still on, sir.”

“And the ponies look…” Rogers squinted through his binoculars and tried to adjust the focus. “Scale’s all wrong. Oh. Oh, no.”

“Looks like five of the young ones,” said Howell. “And they’re dragging a book.”

“I’ll bet they were all sleeping during the drive home,” said Rogers numbly. “So their parents put them to bed, and they’re not sleepy, so they’re sneaking out to get more storytime.”

“Why me?” Rogers put down his binoculars and spoke into his microphone again. “Admiral Wilson, I’m afraid this report on the invasion is going to be slightly delayed by a smaller invasion.”

As invasions went, it was about as non-threatening as could be. Pumpkin Cake and Pound Cake were the largest of the group, following the much smaller batpony toddling along with her nose next to the ground like some sort of draconic bloodhound. Then came a blue pegasus, helping balance a huge Doctor Seuss book on the back of a small filly who was just barely visible as bits of green fur under her bibliographic burden.

“Buk,” she declared when the five of them reached Observation Station Bravo. Big violet eyes peered out from under A Hatful of Doctor Seuss, her stubby horn glowed faintly in the moonlight, and the ghillie tarp that was guarding their hiding hole flipped back to reveal all of Captain Rogers’ squad, including the two members who were sacked out for their sleeping shift. All of the little noses wrinkled up, and Clover declared, “Pew. Stinky.”

“We’re made, Captain.” Howell rolled his eyes. “Should we call for exfil?”

“No,” admitted Rogers, picking up the offered book and looking at the cover by chemlight. “But while I pick out a story for our little invaders, you are going to get on your phone and call Hardhooves.”

“Suppose we’re going to need help carrying the sleepy tots back to bed.” Howell got out his SMPED and checked his short list of pony contacts.

“No, I want him to tell little Stargazer’s parents that she snuck out tonight.” Rogers changed positions so he could pick up the cuddly batpony foal and tuck her under one arm in a good position for her to see the book. “Otherwise, we’re going to have at least one panicked parent that I don’t want to see mad visit us shortly.”

“Good point, Cap.” Howell poked buttons on his secure phone and added, “I don’t think she has a setting on her dial for anything other than angry. Oh, hello Sergeant Hardhooves. You answered the phone really fast. Are you missing five young— Yes, they’re here. Yes, they’re fine. Captain Rogers is just reading them a story, then we’ll bring them— What was that noise? Oh, Pumpernickel is sitting on his wife. That’s… good, I suppose.”

“It’s fucktastic,” muttered Captain Rogers, trying to find a way to grip the squirming pony and the book.

The rest of the squad stopped trying to get the ghillie tarp put back and stared, much like Rogers and Howell were staring at the small green foal, who let out a joyous giggle.

It felt weird as all hell to be putting hands upon alien royalty, size small, but the secret was certainly a We Don’t Talk About This Because The Brass Would Go Bonkers. After all, he could do the math. 1+1+1=Trouble, or One set of wings plus One horn plus One tiny golden crown he could see under her tangled purple mane meant one of the alien leadership who moved the fucking sun on their planet. Explaining at his court-martial to some admiral how Former Captain Rodgers had managed to doom the entire Earth to burning or freezing by angering a tiny alien was not a very pleasant prospect. Letting Clover sit on his lap while he rearranged the book in front of them was actually a hoot and a half, as his grandfather would say.

“Naughty little—” Rogers edited out the word ‘princesses’ and replaced it with the much less-brass-rattling word since the radio was still on “—foals don’t get stories read to them. You want a story, right?”

Earnest little heads all nodded vigorously and the alien children gathered around him like baby chicks around a mother hen.

“Very well then,” said Rogers, settling into a task that he had never dreamed of when he first decided to become a SEAL. He was after all a Captain Rogers, not a Mister Rogers. “A person’s a person, no matter how small. By Doctor Seuss, who dreamed about small persons far stranger than any of you little rascals.”

“Much better,” said Rogers, taking a moment to scratch at a strange itch in the corner of his elbow. Having this many furry kids gathered around in the Kansas evening was uncomfortably warm and comfortably friendly, much like being surrounded by purring cats.

If he had noticed several small black creatures hopping off the foals’ coats in search of nesting spots of their own, he might have stopped an interdimensional incident the next day when the ponies met ‘Mister President’ at the airport.

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies

by Georg

32. Politics Writ Large