Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Close Encounters of the Fuzzy Foal Kind

“I'm sure the universe is full of intelligent life. It's just been too intelligent to come here.”
― Arthur C. Clarke

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Time: 9:45 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport — Manhattan, Kansas
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As a child, Director Clancey had dreamed of aliens visiting the Earth. The movies had filled his young head with spinning grey saucers landing on the White House lawn and disgorging pale grey aliens with either ray guns or gifts of world peace in a dangerous nuclear era. The years had faded those childhood dreams, but his present job brought all of those old films right back, with far better seating. Through being hired at the Secret Service, several moves, and one divorce, he had kept a Japanese toy ray gun in his collection of memorabilia, and although he had the urge to bring it along to Kansas and have a real alien autograph it, this was a serious occasion.

This was supposed to be a serious occasion. The first meeting between the US President and little green men was supposed to have world-shaking repercussions, not be upstaged by little green foals twisting around in their foal carriers so they could make cute scrunched-up faces at him while four-legged little green ponies were trying to talk to him.

“I’m sorry, Lucky,” said Clancey, forcing his eyes back down. “Your daughter was being distracting again.”

After a quick laugh, Lucky turned around in that flexible boneless fashion that Clancey could not get used to and scooped his adorable daughter out of her carrier. “Do you want to hold her while we talk, Mr. Clancey? She’ll calm down in an hour or two after a bottle, but right now she just wants to play.”

“Pla!” declared the wriggling little foal, looking uncomfortable in the Kansas heat with her K-State purple t-shirt. She fairly jumped into Clancey’s arms and snuggled up as he petted the top of her horned head, leaving a few small green hairs behind on his fingers.

“So you were talking about your Secret Service’s security provisions during Mister President’s visit?” said Lucky in an obvious prompt. From their location on the elevated platform next to the switched-off television camera, they had a good view of the airport tarmac and surroundings. The taxiway was cleared, the platform set up next to where Air Force One would park, and the general semi-circle of press and VIP positions had been staked out, so everything was ready and ahead of schedule to boot. Or to hoof.

It all was progressing far better than he had expected, and most of the credit belonged not to the USSS, but to the tight coordination between his advance USSS team, the local law enforcement, and Ft. Riley. The ponies bore a small percentage of the credit also, because any vehicle that ‘broke down’ on the nearby four-laned section of Highway 18 was promptly visited by a flatbed tow truck with a bulky gold-armored unicorn inside. Normally, it took on the order of a half-hour to clear a disabled vehicle from the highway; Specialist Titan and Mike’s Wrecker Service could almost do it without stopping.

And while he watched, another prospective presidential rubbernecker and security concern out on the highway was treated to a quick floating onto the flatbed, and away they went.

“Washington D.C. could use a dozen of those during rush hour,” he mused. “Anyway, I was mostly worried that ground transport was going to get overwhelmed before the press got set up, but it looks like your unconventional methods are working the way they should.”

Lucky nodded and pushed his hat down slightly to shade his eyes. “I was concerned also. You humans use cars for everything. When the airport opened this morning at sunrise, it looked like a wheeled bunny stampede. At least it looks like your reporters are getting the interviews they wanted.”

There were more than two dozen ponies down among the media pool, being swapped back and forth for interviews depending on which reporter was available. From this altitude, he could see the white cast on one of the Washington reporter’s hands, and internalized a brief prayer of thanks that it had not been one of his officers who had injured the blithering twit.

There supposedly had been an apology from Miss Anacostia, for what good it did. Reporters only pretended to let bygones be bygones while in pursuit of revenge for their fragile egos. Once they had their own attacks coordinated with their peers, the resulting ambush would pelt in from all sides. In short order, no matter how popular Agent Anacostia was with the public she would be forced to resign. At least she could write a book from her short experience with the aliens, even if none of the major publishers would dare print it.

“I wish the President had more time to spend with your people,” admitted Clancey while scratching behind the infant pony’s ears like she appeared to want. “Higher-ups think having him visit your landing spot on Marine One would be too risky, both from the chance of an accident and having him exposed to so many…”

“Aliens,” said Lucky, still looking out across the sea of expectant humanity. “It’s strange that you humans haven’t met any other intelligent races, but you’ve written more about them than any of our authors. Mister Bruener’s father collected science fiction,” he added.

“That’s probably why the country’s been in such a tizzy about your visit,” admitted Clancey. “There aren’t many movies or books where the aliens just visit by accident, then do little more than look around and take pictures. Mostly, there’s armed conflict in one way or another. Personally, I prefer this.” Clancey took the opportunity to tickle little Clover on the tummy, which earned him a delightful giggle. “Anyway like your briefing sheet specifies, we have ground-based checkpoints for three tiers of invited visitors, from the press up front, the local luminaries behind them, and a limited standing area behind that with two projector screens, and the weather’s been just—”

Clancey stopped, but Lucky caught his intent. “We looked up Air Force One on the computer network and it seemed awfully large to use this airport, so twenty pegasi from Ponyville’s weather crew have been keeping the local weather patterns suppressed for today. We really didn’t want to bother you with the details, but since the whole area is under some sort of mechanical flight restrictions, they volunteered to make Mister President’s trip comfortable. And they cleared it with your flying people first,” he added.

“Viper Seven to Bandsaw, we’re getting some strange objects on visual scan, please advise.” While waiting for a response from the AWACS, Captain Karen Aanstrand flipped the APG-68 radar on her F-16D from standby to ACM, since she did not have an optical tracking pod equipped to visually spot whatever the specks of orange in the distance were.

“There’s unidentified aircraft in our zone, vector zero seven zero range approximately five miles,” she responded to the older pilot who had wedged himself into the GIB role by studious arm-twisting among his less-promoted peers. “Thought we should get a better look.”

“Shut it down, Spot,” he drawled over the intercom. “Didn’t you listen to the mission briefing?”

“Those can’t be the aliens,” said Karen, looking at the radar. “They’re at angels fifteen.”

“And you’ll cook them like a microwave oven if we leave the radar on when we close,” said Growler. “That’s why we have an AWACS assigned to the zone about a hundred miles back. Shut it down, now.”

“Switching back to standby.” She thumbed the APG selection switch back, then returned to scanning the sky at about the same time the AWACS crew responded.

“Viper Seven, confirmed your targets at zero eight zero range four miles are friendly Equestrian weather patrol who are, and I quote, ‘flattening out the top of a nasty updraft.’ Do not, repeat, do not engage your radar when within a half-mile. We have a request from their team leader for you to make a low speed pass so they can get a better look at you. Would that be acceptable, Seven?”

“Affirmative! Ahem. I mean affirmative, Bandsaw,” said Captain Aanstrand, starting to throttle back the F-16 and trim it for low-speed flight. “Give us a vector, please.”

“Shut up, Major,” said Karen with a grin. “The reflection in the cockpit shows you’re getting your phone out to take pictures. Take a couple for me and I won’t say a thing.”

Director Clancey nodded slowly. “As long as we don’t have any kind of incident with your pegasi and Air Force One. I don’t know how familiar they are with aircraft.”

“Too familiar, I’m afraid. Some of the pegasi want to take one home. I’m just glad Rainbow Dash isn’t here,” said Lucky. “She’d race them. And beat them. And she’d insist on being first up there to meet your Mister President. I’m more concerned about the setup of your defenses here. Specialist Grace?”

The trim green unicorn beside Lucky was so quiet that it was hard to notice she was there until she spoke, in clipped precise words like she was typing a letter on an electric typewriter. She floated out a clipboard with the Equestrian copy of the Secret Service security plans and tapped it with a ballpoint pen.

“The Ponyville mayor will be arriving within the hour, so we just wanted to make things perfectly clear. If I am reading this correctly, you have given us a full listing of all security measures taken within the airport vicinity, as per our agreement. So would I be correct in assuming that any armed human forces within the vicinity that are not listed on our report are hostile, or at least ones which may have slipped out of the report for some reason?”

The Equestrians were not supposed to be able to read thoughts, but Director Clancey tried his best to keep his mind a cool blank while he responded anyway. “There should not be any armed humans within the perimeter who are not listed on your report. If there are any, I would appreciate you notifying our personnel so they can be appropriately confronted.” Clancey blinked several times, then looked out into the sea of reporters where one fairly nondescript pony with a neck ruff was being interviewed. “Wait a minute. Your mayor is here already.”

Grace moved a hoof to the side of her helmet. “Decoy One, please look at me and wave.”

The grey-haired earth pony took a moment to look around before spotting Director Clancey and giving a cheerful wave, then returning to her interview. The little foal in Clancey’s arms suddenly felt twice as heavy as she squirmed, shedding short green hairs on his suit, but the plan for the President’s visit was to have reserve forces tucked away just in case of some unforeseen alien disaster, and he took the revelation in stride. “So your mayor is still in Randolph?”

“At Country Stampede until we call, actually.” The trim green unicorn tapped her ballpoint pen against her breastplate and frowned. “Never will understand earth pony musical preferences. Now, to the subject at hoof. Are you quite certain there are no armed humans within the security perimeter who we have not been notified about?”

Grace put one hoof to the side of her helmet again. “Day One. Night One. Investigate your targets and report back.”

Being deployed with the FBI Hostage Rescue Team was never very comfortable. Today was worse. Ten men crammed into an empty tin hanger under the Kansas sun for a day had left Lead Agent Winston Jordan wishing he had never left the Marines. If everything worked right on the President’s visit, they would continue to bake before, during, and after Air Force One’s visit, then a few hours after all the hubbub died down and night fell, several rental vehicles would stop by their hangar for them to load their gear and leave.

Until then, they also served who sat on the oil-stained concrete floor in full battle-rattle and waited.

Thankfully, he had the USSS radio feed in one ear and the local television station playing on somebody’s iPad, so he could keep track of what was generally going on outside. Whatever in the hell some unnamed FBI director thought by deploying them here…

No, bad thoughts. Don’t think bad thoughts. They tend to come out in words at the wrong time, in front of the wrong people.

In case the aliens were really some sort of advance reconnaissance force here to capture the President before a larger invasion, his team was to burst out of concealment, aid the Secret Service in defending him (or fight them, depending on if the wacko telepathic mind-control rumor was correct), and ensure the President’s safety. It bore about as much probability as the typical movie script, but he cashed his paychecks every two weeks, and that came with obeying orders.

So here he was, commanding nine other heavily armed agents less than a hundred yards from the platform where the President was to meet with aliens. Real aliens, despite their odd appearance vs any movie monsters he had seen before. It helped to think of the more probable human fanatics, but either way, it would suck. Yeah, he really wanted absolutely nothing to happen today.

The sliding door to the hangar slid open a few feet and pink poked in. It was a shade of pink that really should not be seen by anybody who had spent the last few hours in relative darkness, and locked up Winston’s mind almost cold, until he recognized it belonging to one of the pony soldiers dressed in dark armor.

It helped to focus on the armor. Otherwise his brain kept oscillating between the startling pink of her coat and the vibrant orange of her mane.

“Specialist Thermal,” he managed between blinking away tears. Part of their briefing was identification of all the pony military officers, and out of the whole bunch she was the most recognizable by far, and could probably be spotted by a blind man a mile away, in a pitch-dark night, during a thunderstorm. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Actually, yes,” she said in a breathless contralto and looking up at him with huge pink eyes. “As a deputy officer of the RCPD, you can identify yourselves and show me your authorization to be here, or I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest all of you. Oh, and don’t try using that,” she added, glancing behind him at where one of the other agents had casually begun to raise his MP5 submachine gun. “Specialist Epsilon has a combustion suppression spell over this section of the building.”

“Now, you can’t just come in here and—” Pointing turned out to be a bad idea. One pink wing flickered forward and grabbed him around the extended finger, giving him a quick Jujitsu twist to one side and holding Winston off-balance as a pair of unicorn soldiers appeared behind her with glowing horns.

“Identification first,” said the quiet mare, giving him slightly more pressure on his bent finger. “Please. I really don’t want to hurt any of you.”

“Yes, ma’am. IDs everybody. Nice and slow,” he managed through the pain. The thought of hitting her back or maneuvering for a hold of his own did cross his mind, but the blurred video of the bat-winged guard and her ‘playtime’ with the FBI detachment, as well as the footage from Goose’s visit to the Wichita dojo, had gone around the squad several times to discourage such actions. Plus, the foal in her carrier was sleeping, and he really did not want to find out how mama would react if he woke her baby.

FBI counter-sniper teams were nearly as close as husband and wife. Thankfully, Agent Marion’s wife and his partner’s wife understood that, and got along reasonably well also. Their kids fought when they all went on vacations somewhere together, but all kids did that.

The advantage of sitting up on the roof in hot weather was the breeze. The disadvantage of sitting up on the roof in Kansas summer weather was the breeze was about as cool as sitting in front of a blowtorch. The old hangar building at the Manhattan airport was a stone structure built around World War II, and about as sturdy as a bunker, so it provided a convenient if unshaded spot to observe the crowd from a higher vantage point, although seemingly closer to the sun. Needless to say, Marion and his partner were not wearing suits as they scanned the crowd with binoculars, listening to the USSS radio feed. They were wearing military boots to protect their feet from the hot roof asphalt, however, which went well with the cameo cargo pants and green t-shirts. Honestly, Marion was starting to think the wool blankets they had brought to shield themselves and the equipment from getting sticky tar all over were going to be lost causes at the end of the protective mission.

“Excuse me.” One of the dark bat-winged Equestrian guards just rose up from the outside wall and landed gently on the edge of the roof, no more than an arm’s length away and with less noise than a dropped feather. “Didn’t want to surprise you, since you’ve got that big gun.” Cool golden eyes shifted under her helmet to glance at the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle laid out on a blanket to one side, then back to Marion with a bored expression as if she were about to yawn.

“Depends,” she said flatly. “Can you identify yourself and explain what you’re doing up on this roof?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Marion somewhat uncertainly. Procedure was not to interact with civilians while on overwatch, but normally since they were on a roof, the number of wandering flying curious onlookers was normally zero. Plus, the Equestrian was wearing dark armor, and part of their mission today had been to remain far enough back and unidentified as not to gain any attention from their military.

“Would you identify yourself if I asked nicely?” said the bat-winged pegasus with a toothy smile that certainly was not friendly.

Before Marion could respond, there was a quiet clearing of a throat directly behind him, much as if a huge lion had just coughed up a mouse. “Dear,” rumbled a deep voice from the same rooftop location that Marion had been absolutely positive could not have contained another creature just a few moments ago. “Be nice. We’re guests.”

A slow backward look in the direction of the voice showed a second bat-winged pegasus guard crouched behind them, only if the first one was like a rottweiler crossed with a black labrador retriever, this larger one was some sort of armored pony who could eat either breed of dog, without ketchup. The bright sunlight made his colors wash out into a lighter shade of grey, although the fine white lines through the darker hairs stood out like some sort of three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

“You’re Pumpernickel,” he said reflexively. “Agent Washington in the Secret Service told me about your trip into town. So you’re—” he turned around to look at the first bat-winged pegasus, finally recognizing the sleeping foal on her back, who blended in with the grey colors of the mother. “Laminia,” he added. “The dangerous one.”

Laminia merely looked more like she was sucking on a lemon, no matter how difficult that seemed.

The adorable little foal shifted in her sleep and nuzzled up to her mother’s soft grey hide.

There was a comparable reduction in radiant hostility from the mother, which Marion grabbed while he could.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” started Agent Marion, “but since you are, and it’s obvious we’re not going to be able to keep our presence secret from your security, here’s my ID—” he nudged his partner with an elbow to promote his speed in doing the same “—and we’re sorry for having distracted you from your jobs.”

The female batpony sniffed both ID cards with a short nod, then turned and looked behind her at where the baby batpony had begun to wake. “Oh, puckernuts. Stargazer’s looking for her feeding.”

“Since I have to call in to my supervisor, do you want me to call the airport terminal too, ma’am?” asked Marion quickly, since he was fully familiar with his own wife nursing, but was not eager to see how the other four-legged half lived. “They’ll have air conditioning and some privacy.”

“Oh… we’re fine up here,” she said in a rush as the little foal began to wriggle her own way out of the back carrier. “Hubby, get over here and help me with the clamps. I can’t get the tit-shield off the blasted armor by myself. Designed by stallions, I swear.”

“Let me get you some space and move…” Marion paused his motion toward their Barrett, then moved much slower to scoot it to the edge of the wool blanket under the watchful eye of the male batpony. In short order, the foal was doing what hungry foals did, and both humans were back to their binoculars in order not to watch. “Are you sure you don’t want to move into the air conditioning, ma’am?” he asked once the initial metallic scrambling of armor removal had died down to a contented sucking noise that he did not want to see.

“And freeze my tits off?” asked Laminia. “You’ve got the best place to sunbathe in the whole airfield. Once she’s fed, you wouldn’t mind if we took a nap here.”

“Say please,” rumbled Pumpernickel. “It’s their roof, since they had it first.”

“Yeah, please,” said Laminia behind them. “I was going to say it, Lunkhead.”

Thirty minutes later when the C-32 normally used by the vice-president landed, the grey pile of three sleeping batponies did not even stir. However, there was a tail wrapped around the Barrett rifle, and if it was needed, Marion was not about to move it without asking. Politely.

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Time: 10:58 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Above Manhattan Regional Airport — Manhattan, Kansas
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“Wish it was practical to have Secretary Clinton with us,” mused Dennis McDonald as Air Force One eased down on final approach to the tiny little runway by the tiny little Kansas town. As much as he wanted the space of a 747-200 to hold all of the people who wanted to be on this trip, the vice-president’s C-32 was subbing for the aging Air Force One today in order to be able to actually take off from the stubby mile-long runway after the visit was over.

As Chief of Staff, he had pulled enough strings to get himself onto the minimal Presidential delegation to greet the aliens that he could probably weave a rug, but there had been an enormous amount of string-pulling going on in the White House, and he was really starting to wish for a pair of scissors. Or a chainsaw. At least he had not needed to ride with the White House Press Corps charter, because nudging a reporter out of that packed airliner would have probably earned him a knife between the shoulderblades. Or at least a cutting news article.

“You know as well as I do that having a Presidential candidate along today would have been a distraction,” said Robert, the General Counsel to the President, who had come in second on the string-pulling contest. “We had to fight like tigers to reject every senator or representative who demanded their place in line, or we never would have gotten off the ground in Washington.”

“Should have made an exception,” Dennis considered for about the twelfth time that day. “Besides, she’s going to be the next President, and she doesn’t forget a grudge.”

“She’s not going to hire you,” said Robert. “She’s not going to hire any of us, and good riddance. I’m perfectly happy leaving the General Counsel office and going back to the firm in a year. I’ve heard too many stories about the craziness of her years in the White House, and I’m not going to spend the most productive years of my life covering up Bill’s messes. Besides, she’s got Disney World, and you can take credit for that.”

“True,” admitted Dennis with a short chuckle. “You should have heard them when I called. It was all ‘Yes, Mister McDonald’ and ‘Of course, Mister McDonald’ until I told them I wanted Hillary Clinton as former Secretary of State to welcome our visitors to the park. Then it got really, really quiet. I expected them to demand she wear the mouse costume, but they came around in short order. There’s still some heft left in being Chief of Staff. And Hillary.”

“Don’t cross a Clinton,” said Robert. “Or be around one, if you can. I plan on being several states away when she meets our visitors. I just wish we could get some of them to stay for longer.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the low rumble of the landing, not nearly as loud as any commercial aircraft, but still present. The other VIP visitors started taking off their seat belts while the plane slowed, although Dennis remained in place, thinking about the Equestrians and what it would take to tempt at least one of them to Washington for an Oval Office photo. It would be the peak of his career, and leave him with an accomplishment that no other bureaucrat in the anthill could match. Still, they were going to be opening up a portal and leaving a week from today, taking every single Equestrian off the planet forever, according to the reports.

If only there was some way to sabotage that portal and keep them here a few months.

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Time: 11:20 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport reception stand — Manhattan, Kansas
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“I can’t go up on the platform with you, Widge,” hissed Claire over the sound of the US Army band, which was happily belting out various marching tunes to fill the time while waiting for things to start. “I’m not invited, and there’s only so many places to stand before somebody gets bumped off the edge. Besides, you’ve got Karla up there with you.”

“And when they show up, the mayor, and Granny Smith,” added Goose,who had donned her broad shading hat again, although from the way she was shifting from one hoof to another, she was still having a hard time with this many humans and ponies around her. Or the jalapeno poppers were still bothering her insides.

Karla should have been more nervous than anything, because she had never met the President before, and she was about to go on television and be The Official Female African-American FBI Agent Who Had Been Assigned To The Aliens/Visitors etc, etc… One of the ponies named Cocoa had helped get her suit perfectly pressed in Randolph, and an aggressively happy pony named Junebug had helped her get dressed in the airport parking lot, or more correctly, in Dakota Henderson’s RV parked there. It had made a perfectly useful home base for the ponies out in the airport media scrum, or at least until Four Seasons camper company had set up three of their larger models for equine convenience. It was a little disturbing for Karla because she had shopped for condominiums that cost less than each one of the massive motor coaches. Plus, Widget would want to buy one and take it home so she could disassemble it at her leisure.

“We’ll be fine,” said Karla, trying her best to look all ‘Agent Anacostia’ for any cameras that certainly were pointed in their direction. She added a reassuring back-pat and nudged the reluctant unicorn in the direction of the wheelchair ramp. “They’re telling me through the earpiece that it’s time to go.”

“And I’ll get lots of photos for your friends back in Ponyville,” said Kota, who took a photo just for emphasis. “Remember, after this you get to fly to Disney World with about a hundred ponies.”

Widget’s sad eyes could crumble steel, but Karla kept her nerve. “I’ll drive Goose to Florida in my SUV and meet you there. I’ve got a few weeks of vacation time from the agency. It’s literally like twenty-four hours on the road with your fuzzy buddy, but I’ll take… Dakota, you want to go on a trip?”

“What?” Dakota ruffled what little mane on Goose Down that he could reach with her armor on. “Miss taking my favorite fuzzball to the mouse house? Never. And I’ll get lots of photos for your coltfriend too.”

That earned a quick chuckle from both ponies, and Karla hustled them up the ramp with a look around for the rest of the guests of honor. All of the humans were there, of course, with the President getting ready to step to the podium, but there were three notable equine absences.

It seemed odd for the ponies of all creatures to be late, but one of Karla’s classes in college covered dominance-based behavior in political negotiations with Israel and the Palestinians, paralleled with the Soviet Union and the US. In short, the parties who obeyed the rules tended to display submissive behavior to the rule-breakers, which was a counter to the tendency of greater powers to suppress lesser powers. So in order to gain parity or more over a powerful negotiating partner, the weaker parties ‘acted out’ by misbehaving or even arriving—

“Agent Anacostia, this is Central,” came the voice of the Secret Service coordinating station over her borrowed earbud. “Please inform our guests that the mayor and Granny Smith are inbound from the music festival and will arrive in just a few minutes. Just a minor delay, nothing to worry about.”

“Roger, Central,” she murmured into her lapel microphone, then well-aware of how many listening devices were probably in the area. Widget had been reminded several times not to pick them from her surroundings like raspberries, but Karla still was fairly certain she was bugged more than a flea ridden stray dog.

The Equestrians’ order standing next to the President had been the responsibility of Those Far Above Her On The Food Chain, so Karla took her place at the far end of the line and tried not to scratch her nose, which had started itching something fierce. After a minute or two just standing there, a rather short man to her side tapped her on the elbow and asked under his breath, “Where are the other aliens?”

“Still flying in, Doctor Fauchi,” she managed without moving her lips much. Then after a short time waiting where nothing was still happening, she added, “Did you enjoy the medical conference out at Country Stampede?”

“Didn’t attend.” The doctor pushed his glasses back up onto his sweating nose in the hot Kansas sun. “Had too many things to do before this trip. Had to direct the department to prepare procedures for any potential outbreaks due to the introduction of unknown pathogens into our environment.”

After giving a short sideways look at the two ponies she had been using for pillows at various times over the last week, Karla let her eyes slide back to watching the crowd, although she did add, “We’re a lot alike, but Doctor Stable said that the Equestrians and humans didn’t have any obvious cross-contamination vectors, and that in theory, even our blood plasma would only be interchangeable with considerable filtering until it was almost salt water. That’s not even counting what he said about Starswirl’s spell on the portals.”

Standing up in front of a crowd while television cameras captured their every action was certainly not the time to school the head of some DC agency on just how one of the most qualified four-legged physicians on their planet just ‘happened’ to wind up in the same town with their princess’s personal student and all of her high-risk friends. It was also not the time to tell anybody about how while still in KU Med, she had let the unicorn examine the troublesome knee she had dislocated in training years ago, or the quiet bit of unauthorized surgery that had followed.

A moving fleck of color caught her eye, as well as the eyes of most other people waiting for things to start, if the number of pointing fingers was any indicator. The wind was out of the south, but the pegasus-powered carriage came right down runway three-one without regard for crosswind procedures or laws of physics. A critical thought about the tactics of the approach drifted up in Karla’s mind, since the carriage slowed rapidly, and never pointed directly at POTUS or the platform, even though the Secret Service sounded nervous.

“Do you think we’re going to need—?” started Agent Marion with a backwards glance at the sleeping batponies next to the tail-encumbered Barrett rifle.

“Not a chance,” said his partner, still glued to his binoculars as Left and Right flared their wings and the Equestrian chariot settled to the ground like thistledown right next to the ‘31’ on the runway in a perfect photo op. “You know, if the pegasi stick around, Marine One pilots are going to be out of a job.”

It was difficult to restrain a smirk as the Equestrian chariot touched down on the concrete runway to the tune of the Army band, and all Karla could see was the backs of people’s heads. With the expertise displayed by the Royal Guards, she really thought they could have brought the chariot to a hover inches away from her so Granny Smith would not have to climb the wheelchair ramp, but that would have gone over like a lead balloon with the Secret Service. It certainly would have been popular with the crowd, though. Elvis could have gotten a less-enthusiastic welcome from the people who parted in front of the approaching Equestrians, and they probably would have thrown flowers if they had them.

As the four Equestrians in cowboy hats approached, Karla could not help but feel just a little more nervous, although she restrained herself from petting the nearest pony. The Cutie Mark Crusaders were on the opposite side of the podium after all, and there was an empty space to her right where Big McIntosh was going to be standing next to his grandmother.

There had been a few snippets of discussion trickling down to Karla’s phone by way of the occasional text message, but apparently there were no end of bureaucrats in Washington who had been rather solidly thumped for attempting to bump Big Mac off the platform for their own self-important presence. If Karla had not gotten in the way a week ago, quite probably the Washington bureaucrats and politicians would have successfully abducted both Goose and Widget. It was uncomfortable thinking about those two exposed to the smile-and-handshake circuit 24/7 for an entire week, for every Washingtonian from the President all the way down to the Deputy Under Secretary for the International Trade Association, who would have been pressuring them to accept Wisconsin apple imports.

Widget would not have gotten any rest to heal, and Goose would be near-catatonic, instead of their both bouncy selves.

Karla lent a hand when Granny Smith made her way to the top of the ramp, and got her securely placed next to her grandson. That left her coincidentally bent over at the right angle to catch when Mayor Mare passed by on her way to the podium, and the faint scent of Johnnie Walker Red Label that wafted along in her wake.

“Excuse me, Doctor Stable,” managed Karla as she stood up and looked at the last pony, who really needed where she was standing in case Granny Smith had any complication pop up. “You can stand here, next to Doctor Fauchi.”

“Oh, I was hoping to meet you, Doctor.” The unicorn gave the startled doctor a quick hoof-shake and moved to stand next to him, with Karla right behind where she could eavesdrop. “I was talking with the physicians at the Stampede virology seminar, and they told me about your work with polyarteritis nodosa. I was hoping we could compare notes after this, because there’s an Equestrian disorder with similar symptoms that we’ve never been able to isolate.”

“Greetings, my little ponies!” Mayor Mare’s voice was unexpected since the President was supposed to speak first, and from what she could see from a subtle sideways glance, several of the human aides were likewise confused. Despite the rustling of their quiet discussions, the equine mayor continued with her speech, standing on her hind hooves and leaning against the podium.

And it was a very good speech, quite smooth and practiced, with pauses for applause and the occasional bit of cross-universal political humor that even had Karla chuckling under her breath. Upon reflection, it was also most probably the exact same speech that the mayor gave at every major event, because Karla could catch Widget’s lips moving along with the words at times. To be honest, the mayor’s speech was a better glimpse into the broader Equestrian world than anything she could have written for the specific occasion, and most likely would be dissected by thousands of Earth scholars for generations.

Which probably explained the faint scent of Johnnie Walker. In the same situation, Karla was not sure she could stop drinking before the bottom of the bottle. Or the case.

The pony mayor finished her speech with a flourish and expected applause, then moved the ‘booster box’ out of the way and stepped to one side of the podium for the President. The box had been a simple solution to a complex problem, since the President was over six feet tall, and an average pony on her hind legs was barely five. The complexity was in finding a box of the correct size on short notice, and in keeping a duct-tape-wrapped case of Pepsi cans out of the sight of curious reporters, who would have certainly blown it up into some scandal or advertising blitz.

The last thing Karla thought she would have to do during a speech by the President of the United States was suppress laughter. All she could think of was Clyde, and her boss’s imitation of the same speaking style. Worse, she had mentioned it to Claire Bruener, and she could see the young lady at the front edge of the crowd, counting every instance of ‘I’ or ‘me’ on her fingers.

After an interminable amount of self-control and several other brilliant luminaries taking the podium, the speeches finally wound to an end, and the President moved through the Equestrians, handing out folders containing citizenship papers. It felt a little less like some sort of historic First Contact situation and more like High School graduation, but then again, she had never experienced something this important from the other end of the camera. And oddly enough, she could almost feel the moment the cameras cut away from the presentation when the President began leading his guests over to the photographer’s station, which was behind the platform.

The release of stress made Karla almost giddy, and she restricted her responses to the various other luminaries in the area to simple nods or brief head-shakes, which were less likely to get her into more trouble while maneuvering to get where everybody else was trying to go. It was a crowd of chaos with USSS agents acting as sheepdogs for far too many sheep, but Karla gained her own suit-clad agent almost immediately upon stepping down the stairs at the back of the platform.

“Agent Anacostia? Agent O’Malley, but you can call me Conner for the time being.” Secret Service agents were not supposed to be able to smile, but the older gentleman gave Karla a quick smile and took her by the elbow. “Right this way, ma’am. The President wanted to get a photo with you and our guests before taking them on a tour of Air Force One.”

“Better keep Widget away from any screwdrivers,” said Karla, falling in line with his route around the back of the well-connected crowd.

“We’ve already locked down any toolkits. I don’t think I’m going to underestimate any Equestrians again,” admitted O’Malley, nudging several onlookers to one side. “Excuse me. The President wanted Agent Anacostia for a photograph.”

Widget and Goose were standing to either side of the President, although the photographer was trying to get the dark batpony to shed her broad hat, probably because it put Goose’s face into a dark shadow that would not show up on the photo. Karla was trying to figure out where she would stand when Goose suddenly rose up on her broad wings and whispered something in the President’s ear while hovering.

“Oh! I understand, ma’am.” The President pointed at Air Force One, which was providing a colorful backdrop, and the jetway stairs headed to the open hatch. “Up the stairs and to the right. Just ask one of the stewards—”

There was a blur of motion that left Goose’s oversized hat drifting down in her wake, and the rapid clatter of hooves. The Secret Service agent at the bottom of the stairs might as well not even have been there because Goose went by him like… Well, the analogy that came immediately to Karla’s mind was ‘corn through a goose’ but she really did not want to say that out loud.

Widget nodded, although with a glance away from the crowd and over her shoulder at the big, tempting aircraft just sitting there, waiting to be disassembled. “I think I need to use the restroom too,” she lied. “Really soon. So I’ll just… Wait up, Goose!”

Karla got her photo with the President, but it was very brief. Immediately after the shutter clicked, he excused himself to head for Air Force One where his wife and children were waiting. When the Cutie Mark Crusaders went galloping after him, Karla almost called out a warning, but she kept her mouth shut rather than start a kerfuffle. Not everything Widget said about those three cuties could possibly be true, and several of the other Equestrians were coming over to the photographers, so she had public relations responsibilities.

“Gentlesapiants.” At a momentary lack of words, the trim and proper unicorn leading the impromptu meeting looked up at the imposing height of General Hackmore by her side, displaying the first sign of uncertainty that he could remember in the short week plus that he had known her.

“You said you wanted to give them a gift, from your military protective unit to theirs,” prompted Gregory. “It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“It is a gift, and not dangerous.” The armored unicorn produced several woven bracelets, each of which had a glittering copper coin tied into the strands. “The question is much the same as when we gave General Hackmore the knife. The mayor has presented gifts identical to these for your President and his family, but we understand the value of such a gift means that your government will certainly demand that your gifts, not theirs, be given up when we depart. This is unacceptable.”

“We wove the bracelets with tail hairs volunteered from our citizens,” continued Grace, “and the smidgen sewed to the center is the smallest unit of our coinage, so our best calculation is that the whole piece is worth less than one of your dollars in materials. That should place their value below the exception threshold in your admirable Code of Federal Regulations, Title Five, Chapter Fourteen, Part 2635, exceptions to the prohibition for acceptance of certain gifts, mainly that they be twenty dollars in value or less.”

“Except the bureaucrats will record them as collectables worth a few thousand dollars a piece and demand they be turned over,” continued Gregory. “Just like the knife.”

“True.” Grace’s horn lit up and she floated the colorful bracelets to each of the four Secret Service agents and Agent Karla Anacostia, who had remained behind when her equine wards vanished into Air Force One. “The problem is one of trust. If a carnivore race wished to place an unknown enchantment on a gift placed with a member of Princess Celestia’s personal guard…”

She ran a hoof across her dark armor with a scrape of metal on metal. “Equestria has faced this problem several times throughout history. Every time it occurs, Princess Celestia extends a measure of trust that most of us find… uncomfortable. When we have conflicts with other races, our society incorporates elements of their culture as part of the resolution process. For example, when the three tribes united, each tribe contributed to Princess Celestia’s regalia. The unicorns provided the crown, the pegasi the peytral, and the earth ponies her boots. Since then, griffons, minotaurs, and even recently changelings, have added their efforts to our growing nation. All because she trusts where others do not.”

“I believe I understand,” said Agent O’Connor. He looked pointedly at the cell phone clipped to Grace’s armor and added, “If Equestria were to remain connected to our world, Verizon and Apple would sell phones to the Royal Guard like your apples sell on market day.”

“They are useful devices,” mused Grace. “As are the devices we have given to you, with the correct enchantments. Or at least I believe the blocking enchantment that Epsilon came up with will function correctly under most circumstances. We did test it, after all. And it was an example of how much trust already exists between us.”

Captain Samantha Reitz looked at the bracelet with the tiny copper coin woven into it, then to the green unicorn holding her Glock service pistol in her magic field. “Yes, the bulletproof vest should stop a round at this range, but—”

The unicorn ejected the magazine on the pistol and removed all of the bullets, then returned it to the pistol with a click. “I only should need one round in the chamber to test,” said Grace. “Try not to flinch.”

“If you decide to accept the enchantment on the device,” said Grace reluctantly, “you probably should wear it on your less-dominant limb, and not one of your legs, because that would be… awkward in the event you are shot, and the enchantment moves the smidgen to block it.”

“Shot?” asked Agent Washington, then stared in wide-eyed amazement at the next bracelet that Grace floated over to him, only with the small copper disk twisted and mangled, and a lead slug caught in the middle like a fly in a spider’s web.

“She’s fine. Minor sprain, treated with ice. And Scotch too, for some reason.” Grace hesitated, then nodded. “I understand. This is far too early in the diplomatic relationship between our two entities. I should never have—”

Then it was the nitpicky unicorn’s turn to stop as Agent Washington held out his bracelet with the shiny copper coin side up. “Everything in my training says to turn you down and promptly notify my superiors, but I’ve personally seen how seriously you protect your people.”

Agent O’Malley cleared his throat. “As your direct superior, I understand totally. If we submitted this proposal to the appropriate authorities, they might come through with a decision by the time my grandchildren take up the badge.” He held out his own bracelet. “Sometimes, you just need to take things on faith. Humanity doesn’t trust you, and that little stunt the higher-ups tried to pull with the FBI HRT shows it. If you’re willing to make this offer, to extend the trust of your Royal Guard regardless of their actions, it is our responsibility as thinking homo sapiens to reciprocate. I just have one question.”

O’Malley flipped out his Secret Service badge. “Why not use these for your bullet-blocker spell?”

“Because… um…” For a unicorn who seemed uptight enough to arrange her morning Cheerios so every spoonful had exactly the same number of O’s, Grace did not appear to take the suggestion with much enthusiasm. “Because I didn’t think of it,” she muttered at last.

General Hackmore had remained silent so far, but he could not resist a quiet laugh, giving Grace a pat on the armored shoulder. “The mark of a good leader is to recognize good advice. We can’t always see everything from our point of view, and sometimes the grunt in the ditch knows more about the situation than a dozen generals in the Pentagon. You just have to be willing to seek out that kind of experience and learn from it.”

Agent Anacostia shook her head and produced her own badge. “No, it would have been humiliating if the Secret Service had made the suggestion after you zapped each one of the bracelets. And I really don’t want to be a spoilsport, and thank you for the offer, but if you’re going to zap our badges to be magic bullet-catchers, you should probably hurry.” Karla took a look over her shoulder at Air Force One. “I don’t know how long Widget can be in there without taking apart something important, and I don’t think the President wants to walk home.”

Claire figured she was about the tenth most happy creature on board Air Force One. The President’s wife and two children had met the Cutie Mark Crusaders much like matter and antimatter mixing, and all she could hear of their rapid discussion now was a general indication that the vice-president’s pull-out bed was as bouncy as anything the little ponies had ever seen, and it was in the process of having all the springs bounced out of it.

The FBI spent so much wasted time and effort trying to get Goose and Widget onto a plane. It’s going to take twice as much work to get the Crusaders off the plane so the President can go home. I wondered why Big Mac brought that rope.

On the other end of the aircraft, Goose and Widget were in the cockpit with the pilots, not quite as noisy as the Crusaders and their teenaged friends, but the thought of having the pony groups reversed really did not make Claire very comfortable. Widget had a lot of stories about those three little horses, and in theory, Air Force One had electronic countermeasures and flares. Having a Crusader trigger hundreds of white-hot magnesium blobs spewed among the nearby reporters most certainly would make far too many unpleasant news stories for the Equestrians before they went home in a week.

Still more than a little stunned at her august surroundings, she nodded at a nearby military officer and managed a nervous smile. “Hello, sir. Are you one of the pilots?”

He chuckled while shaking her outstretched hand. “Navy rear admiral, actually. Ronald Jackson, White House Physician. And you must be Claire Bruener. I followed the medical history of your friend, and I think your father did both of our worlds a great favor with his rapid reaction to Widget’s injury. If he’s here, I’d love to shake his hand.”

“He’s still out in the crowd, getting interviewed.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Half of the reporters want him to perform open-heart surgery for them, the other half claim he was practicing medicine without a license and want him arrested.”

“Your father’s cleared for entry into Air Force One,” said Director Clancey, the Secret Service agent who had escorted Claire up into the aircraft. “We’ve got another half-hour before we start to clear out visitors for departure. Would he like to meet the President?”

“Ehh… Just for a handshake and a photo,” admitted Claire. “Neither of my parents are really fans. Particularly my mother. Just a moment. Looks like you’ve been making friends.”

Reaching out carefully, Claire attempted to pluck a tiny green hair off the Secret Service agent’s collar, one of many that became obvious under closer inspection.

“Oh, it’s from the baby unicorn,” explained Clancey, trying to help brush off more of the fine hairs. “I swear, they’re some sort of Equestrian secret weapon, with those big eyes and plaintive noises when you scratch behind the ears.”

“I haven’t gotten to play with many of the foals,” said Claire. “Been too busy with the adults, or at least the ponies who are old enough to be considered adults,” she added over the sound of Widget squealing in joy over the discovery of a new toy in the nearby cockpit, and the Crusader’s ongoing attempt to bounce the First Bed into rubble in the other direction.

Doctor Jackson helped brush some of the fine hairs off Director Clancey’s suit while chuckling to himself. “I’ve seen all of the medical data on Widget, the tests, videos, and everything APHIS has sent up the line from their station, but nothing prepares you for— Hey, what’s this?”

Agile fingers grabbed for a small black speck that jumped away at the last second, starting a chase that ended when Director Clancey pinned it up against the wall. “It’s not squishing,” he said, keeping pressure on it. “And I don’t think Bo left any fleas in the plane.”

Some additional maneuvering got the tiny creature into a plastic vial, and the three of them stared at it with thoughtful frowns. Claire had more practical and local experience, so she was the first one to bring up the possibility of…

“The mother cat out in the barn back at the farm had fleas,” she said. “She was scratching back when the kittens were born, and we didn’t want to spray because we were afraid of what it might do to the kittens, and I don’t think any of the little ponies could resist playing with—”

She broke off suddenly, grabbing for her phone and dialing. “Doctor Stable, I have to ask you a question. Yes, right now. Is there any chance that any of the ponies brought fleas with them from Equestria? Uh-huh. Starswirl’s portal spell would have filtered them out. Well, that’s a relief. Why? Oh, because we found a flea inside Air Force One, and thought it might be originally from one of the ponies.”

“Can ponies— Oh, you heard. Yes, but everypony goes through Dipping Season after Winter Wrap-Up,” she echoed for the doctor. “Here, let me put this on speaker.”

“—pyrethrins based on an extract of the chrysanthemum flower,” said the equine doctor. “The chemical residue lasts through multiple washings and should prevent any earth fleas from attaching to—” There was a brief pause, then the sound of galloping. In just a few minutes, the unicorn doctor clattered in through Air Force One’s hatch and up to the conversation.

“Sorry for the interruption,” said Doctor Stable. His horn lit up with a faint blue-green light and swept the area like a flashlight, ending up pointing at Director Clancey. “Ah, there’s one of the creatures now. Two, actually.”

A pair of tiny black specks floated off the Secret Service agent’s suit and into a waiting plastic vial, then the doctor scanned his magic around again before turning it off with a satisfied expression.

“There, that should do it. They’re certainly very similar to immature Equestrian fleas, but no magic, so they have to be from a Terrestrial source.”

“Highly probable,” said the doctor. “Starswirl’s Penultimate Portal Delimiter filters out all sorts of external parasites and dangerous chemicals, and if there are too many to filter, it rejects the transport. Quite a clever spell, actually. It’s suspected that Clover the Clever was instrumental—”

“Why yes, but—” The unicorn’s pleasant smile did not so much fade as it practically slid off his face, and Doctor Stable lit up his horn again to scan himself this time.

The translation spell did its best, but what came out next was somewhat a mix of a whinny and a long wet raspberry. Both Widget and Goose promptly poked their heads out of the nearby cockpit doorway.

“Watch your language,” said Widget, although she gave Claire an embarrassed look and added, “Did we do something wrong?”

“Hold still,” snapped Doctor Stable. He scanned his hornlight over the two nervous ponies before giving a short sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. You’re both pyrethrin free, but no fleas, and no bites. And no bites on any of you either,” he added, giving the rest of the onlookers a free bite-check with his magic also.

Claire did not say anything. She just pointed in the direction of the happy horsie sounds being made by the Cutie Mark Crusaders and their Presidential Pals, and Doctor Stable blanched far whiter than she imagined a hair-covered creature could manage.

“Cadet Goose, take Widget and your human friend out to your transportation here, but don’t go in until I can scan it for fleas.” The unicorn swallowed and gave his human doctor peer an uncertain smile. “Let’s go break up the Crusader’s play date and do some debugging.”

- - - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:30 P.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport parking lot — Manhattan, Kansas
- - - - ⧖ - - - -

The mood was not exactly somber, but a great deal of the morning enthusiasm was no longer found anywhere in the vicinity of the two drooping ponies. The only perking-up that Widget did was when Air Force One had thundered to the end of the runway and lifted dramatically into the sky, while Goose looked down at the ground and gave an involuntary tremble under Claire’s supporting hand.

“Hello, girls.” Dakota Henderson eased his backpack of photographic equipment down to the ground next to the RV’s front wheel. “Why so glum? The horse doctor said none of you got bit, and I got my clean bill of health just a few minutes ago.”

Claire wordlessly turned her phone over and let Kota look at the last text message she had received.

Disneyworld cancelled. Charter plane recalled. All bitten ponies are under quarantine for the rest of the week.

“Oh.” Kota passed the phone back over and moved to the door. “Well, I need to plug in my laptop to get the rest of my photos uploaded to the Chronicle, so—”

“The doctor hasn’t scanned the inside of the RV for bugs yet,” explained Claire, holding an arm out to block his path. “He’s looking at the big RVs first, and from the commotion, I’m presuming he’s finding fleas.”

“Don’t even say fleas around me.” Agent Anacostia came trudging up, looking bedraggled and with a bandage around one finger. “Agent Washington had one and got bit, so he’s going to be staying at the Bruener house for the next week. I checked out clean, thankfully. The National Agency of Something Horribly Healthy And Verbose has determined that overkill is better than common sense, so they’re quarantining every human who got bit to Randolph, and chasing all the unbitten non-residents out, like it’s some sort of zombie plague. Or at least a plague of mosquitoes, because every human who got bit gets to have their blood drawn daily for the next week, and shipped down to the CDC.”

“They better not draw as much blood as they did for me,” said Widget, nervously rubbing one of the shaved patches on her neck. “By the end of the week, all you’d have is shriveled-up raisins.”

Kota did not stop getting his computer out and pushing buttons. He undoubtedly was getting set to transmit the bazillion photos he had taken over the course of the day, and seemed fairly cheerful doing so, probably because each one was worth a certain amount of money in his pocket. “I’m crediting my survival to a general hatred of sand fleas when I was deployed with the Marines,” he happily chirped. “Mixed the lemon eucalyptus and DEET we bought at Wal-Mart about fifty-fifty. Keeps the chiggers down too, but didn’t do anything about the reporters.”

“Look, we can go somewhere else around the vicinity. Topeka, maybe.” Kota waved absently at the Kansas scenery. “I’m sure the quarantine police won’t mind cutting us some slack since we’re not bugged. Well, once Doctor Stable gets here to debug the RV. And speaking of yon unicorn. It is he who comes hither, brought by the appeal of four virginal maidens.”

Thankfully, Doctor Stable was headed in their direction with sharp clicking noises of shod hooves on concrete, so there was no time for uncomfortable questions about human sexuality as it related to mythological unicorns, as opposed to the physical kind.

“It’s a mess, just a terrible mess,” muttered Doctor Stable, lighting his horn up before he ever stopped trotting. “Thank the stars none of Mister President’s family were bitten. Fourteen of the ponies here had flea bites, and two reporters, including your young lady, Mister Henderson.”

“She’s not my young lady,” protested Kota. “She’s screwing—” The photographer came to an abrupt halt and looked pointedly at Widget, who floated out a GoDark bag and began to stuff small bugs of the electronic sort into it.

“You’re all still clear,” pronounced Doctor Stable after finishing his magical scan of their group. “Let me look over the recreational vehicle and you should be clear to go back to Randolph.”

Claire raised her hand while the doctor was scanning. “Mister Henderson brought up a good point. If we’re not bit, we should be okay to visit some of the local tourist spots instead of being trapped back at the farm. After all, if Widget got bit by a leftover flea before next Saturday, it could set her recovery back.”

“I seriously doubt there’s any danger at all from earth fleas carrying diseases between our species,” said the doctor as he climbed into the RV and continued scanning. “We’re just being cautious, like our hosts… I mean the humans would prefer. They’re a rather flighty lot, and we don’t want to frighten them with any actions that might cause wild rumors. Still…”

Once he was done scanning, the doctor turned around in the tight quarters of the RV and coaxed Widget up on a chair so he could take off her plastic brace. “Recovering quite nicely,” he mused, doing doctor-like things with her joints. “Starting to grow your coat back in too. All of the exercise and care you’ve been getting has certainly promoted your recovery. You’ll be fit enough to get your shoes back on by the time we get home. Um… although I understand your actual shoes have been rather… ‘scienced’ by the humans.”

“Chopped up into pieces and sent to all kinds of laboratories?” asked Widget. It really was not a question that Claire had wanted to ask, because she could see in her mind how the wearer of those same shoes would have been treated if she had been the only one to come through the portal and died in the process.

“They certainly are a curious bunch,” admitted Doctor Stable. “I suppose if you want to visit a few local tourist attractions, I can check with the human authorities to see if it would be permitted.”

“And I can video our trip,” added Claire. “That way the ponies back in Randolph can see where we’re doing, and Karla has a record to write up her reports,” she said in a lower voice. “A few tourist traps will give her a chance to catch up on paperwork, Kota can take photos, and the girls can explore our world. I mean they both were up last night watching Disney videos from the park, so humans are not the only curious creatures on our world.”

“And I got the boxed set of Harry Potter to watch tonight,” said Widget while the doctor was strapping her leg back into the brace. “Because Orlando had Harry Potter World, which we’re not going to see since it’s several countries away and they cancelled the airplane for the trip.” The young unicorn swallowed. “Since we can’t fly there, we’ll just have to go where we can drive. Right?”

“Correct.” Doctor Stable got out his phone and made a call, which Claire had to admit was a weirdity that she was getting entirely too used to seeing. After all, a unicorn using a floating cell phone was such a mental clash. She occupied her time by going into the back of the RV and turning on the air conditioner, then changing out of the prim and proper blouse into a Miley Cyrus t-shirt and shorts.

“Hey, there’s a half-naked girl in my RV,” called Kota as he dragged his computer and assorted equipment over to the living room table.

“Two,” called out Goose as she started dumping her armor into the closet and shaking out her sweat-damped mane.

“Four,” announced Agent Anacostia while shrugging out of her jacket. “I am ditching this bullet-proof vest before I fall over from heatstroke. What’s our plans for the rest of the day? Chipotle? Because I’m up for about anywhere. I’ve got every worldly possession I own within a hundred miles right here, but no lunch.”

“I packed for a week and tossed my hiking backpack into the RV when we were at home,” admitted Claire, passing over a can of cold Country Time lemonade to the sweaty agent. “When we stopped off in Manhattan to pick up my bike, I pulled everything out of Krystol’s apartment that she didn’t pawn, and I’m set for a wilderness vacation in Kansas. If we had any wilderness that wasn’t just grass and trees.”

“When I called the Thompsons to rent their RV, they specified no off-road travel,” said Kota, still glued to his computer.

“Thank you very much, Doctor Fauchi,” said Doctor Stable into his phone. He hung up and turned to Agent Anacostia, who was working her way into one of Kota’s t-shirts with a wriggling motion that Claire could never have duplicated with her less than ample figure. “Good news, ma’am. Your human authorities say you can take Widget for a tour outside of the quarantine, if you check in every day and keep us updated on your position and condition.”

“Thanks, doctor.” Karla shrugged into her shoulder holster and caught the keys that Kota tossed to her on the way up to the driver’s seat. “You going to ride home with us?”

“No, I need to get back to the Stampede virology seminar and scan all⁽*⁾ the participants.” Doctor Stable took the can of lemonade that Claire passed him and popped the top. “Not sure where we’ll put them in Randolf if too many got bit by fleas.”
(*) It turned out Blake Shelton had been bitten twice, which turned out to be less of a problem than one would expect, because his band was at the end of a tour anyway. They used their free time in Randolph to produce a new duet album with Sweetie Belle titled Best of Friends with the proceeds directed to a fund to promote new country and western singers.
—

“They can use my house,” said Kota with a dismissive wave, then digging out his phone and unlocking it. “It’s the least I can do since I haven’t even seen the thing yet. I’ll text the Randolph real estate agent so you can get my door key. And thanks for the help!”

Dakota got his electronics secured while Karla was maneuvering the RV out of the airport parking lot, leaving Claire to flop down in a chair and watch him. She stayed quiet until the FBI agent had the big vehicle out on the highway, then asked, “Where are we going?”

“Interstate,” announced Karla. “I think getting through Aggieville to reach Chipotle in this traffic would take a few hours. This way we can cut over to one of the local towns.”

At Widget’s request, Dakota passed his phone over, then watched as the two giggling ponies retreated back to the RV’s bedroom. “You don’t think they’re making faces at people behind us again, do you?”

“Who knows.” Claire drummed her fingers on the railing and watched the Kansas countryside flow past. “Every restaurant within fifty miles is going to be packed, you know.”

“I’ve got enough sandwich makings in the fridge to keep us for a few hours. And Missus Cake packed the crisper full of vegetables, and added a pan of zucchini cake. I swear, between her cooking and Sizzler, I’d put on ten pounds a week staying at your farm, Claire.”

“So anywhere specific you want to go?” asked Karla, changing lanes to get behind a slower semi so she did not have to fight against people who wanted to drive twice the speed limit.

“Take I-70 East,” called out Claire. “Maybe they’d like to go to Paxico. It’s full of antique stores, and the Longbranch bar there has good food.”

There was not exactly silence as they drove, but a far more relaxed amount of conversation regarding the scenic beauty of Kansas, the richness of Louisiana plant life, and the relative scarcity of any kind of life where Dakota had spent much of his Marine years. Claire had missed this kind of time among friends, mostly because she did not have many friends other than a drug user whose idea of appreciating life and relaxing came with a few micrograms of LSD.

They had almost gotten to the Paxico exit when Widget and Goose came scurrying up to the front of the RV, giggling like schoolfillies.

“No, don’t turn here,” said Widget. “I put the path into Kota’s phone using Miss Siri, and I called the Thompsons to make sure it’s going to be okay for us to take the RV there, since it’s a long trip.”

“They said it was fine, as long as we visited their granddaughters when we get there,” added Goose, who was as smiling and happy as Claire had ever seen her. “And I promised to give them each a short flight, provided we find a place inside big enough to fly.”

“We checked it on the Google maps and called Claire’s friend in Kansas City who is doing the page of webs.” Widget nodded so rapidly her patchy mane gained little standing waves of vibrating blue hairs. “He said he’s going to buy her a video camera and we can pick it up as we drive through, so her videos are better quality for the website money-atzation during the trip.”

♫We're off, on a Disney road trip
Our ride might be tiny and small
But road trips are a great way, we've been told, to get along
I'm glad we're sticking to it, we've already got a song
We're off, on a Disney road trip
Side by side, just like peas in a pod…♫

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies

by Georg

33. Close Encounters of the Fuzzy Kind