//------------------------------// // 4. Parties Are Landed. // Story: The Most Shameless Nonclop Ever Told // by Coyote de La Mancha //------------------------------// It was a short time after their first meeting that Scootaloo was happily cantering through the palace halls, leading Spock through the preserved aspects of her people’s history. “…a variety of artifacts from my mom’s and Aunt Tia’s ten-thousand-year reign,” Scoots went on as they toured the palace’s museum wing. “Throughout that time, they’ve been revered for their magic powers, and even worshipped briefly.” She paused. “Which is weird, but… whatever.” Prancing forward again, she continued, “But no matter what, they always did their best to rule with kindness, justice, and compassion.” “Indeed,” Spock nodded, “given the circumstances of their abilities and this world’s magic-heavy environment, combined with their own intellectual resources and moral convictions, that would be the only logical course to take.” “Exactly.” “And there have been no rebellions, in all that time?” The filly shrugged as she trotted along. “A few, now and then, sure. But it was always ponies who just wanted to be despots. Or just hated change. Like, about a hundred years ago, education became advanced enough that Mom and Tia phased Equestria from being a constitutional demi-feudal monarchy into being a monarchist republic. Still with a constitution, of course.” “Of course.” “So, that took a while, and there were a couple of wanna-be revolutions in between. But eventually, even the upper classes accepted it. The ones that were left, I mean.” Spock cocked an eyebrow. “I see.” “Aunt Tia says that eventually there’ll be a democratic uprising,” Scootaloo went on, “and they’ll both be able to step aside because they’ll have no choice. But Mom says she’s just being optimistic. It took generations for ponies to get used to being a republic, after all. And there’s still some who argue against it.” “Indeed. Luna never struck me as a democrat.” His daughter shook her little head. “Mom always says democracy is for pirates.” Far out in space, the ornate ship hurtled ever closer towards its goal. And deep within its confines, an ancient rite was taking place. From across the ancient dark wood table, the remaining pair of weasels stared at one another from the darkness of their dark cowls, their dark eyes shining in the room’s darkness that was distinctly and incontrovertibly dark. The baroque swirls along the table’s edges and limbs gleamed in guilt from the lanthorns hanging dimly in the chamber, its elegance belittling the somber, gruesome ceremony witnessed therein. From deeper in the shadows, the other shipmates studied the two in silence, their sharp, ferret-like features concentrated completely upon the final moves remaining in this, the oldest ritual of their kind. They had all escaped the contest’s ordeal. Now it was down to this. The fates of this last pair hung in the balance, teetering precariously upon a razor’s edge. It was a somber and sacred matter among weaselkind. Even their dark lord dared not interfere. Finally, the elder of the two broke the silence, his words echoing deep and quiet in the dread chamber. “Have you any… twos,” he intoned, as one whose voice might call forth the very dead. The weasel across from him swallowed, betraying her youth and nervousness. Her eyes flicked to the surface of the table, covered with sets of upright cards, then back to his own unfathomable orbs. “Go fish,” she whispered. With the grace of a waterfall of cold poison, the older pirate reached out from his robes, pulling one of the only two face-down cards remaining. He placed it with the other three he held, unhurried as the very grasp of death itself. After a moment, he nodded, slowly. He raised his eyes again to meet hers, eyes that had long ago learned the futility of fighting the whims of uncaring fate. And, slowly, inevitably as the doom and ruin of lost Sarnath itself, he placed all four upon the table, face up. Four twos. “That,” he intoned, “is game.” The younger weasel squeezed her eyes closed as if in pain, a cold, scaled hand grasping her heart as she realized that it had truly happened. She had lost. And with that loss, her fate had been sealed at last. Slowly, the lamps were turned up again. The mood was somber, the gathered weasels quiet. She stood, slowly. One of her shipmates took a step forward, claw outstretched, but she shook her head and he stepped back again. She would stand on her own. And she would face this burden, for however long it was hers to bear, alone. She forced herself upright, head swimming, forced herself not to lean upon the table before her, nor the chair behind. The older weasel nodded. Yes. Such strength was to be respected. And, come what may, she was worthy of the trials that lay ahead. With great respect, her fellows gently, ritualistically stripped her of her robes, her hooded cloak. And, with cold ceremony, replaced her old garments with a coat of ebon and crimson with gold piping, and a bicorner hat bedecked with feathers and jewels. And, last of all, the eldest presented her with a gold ring, set with a massive jewel the color of blood. And, with great solemnity, she accepted the final symbol of her doom, placing it upon her own clawed finger. As one, the ship’s officers circled her, crouched before her in their subservience, kneeling, claws splayed and turned inward against their shoulders, their eyes upon the floor before her feet. “What is your will,” intoned the elder weasel, “My Captain?” For a moment, unseen by her fellows, the new ship’s captain hung her head. Her entire body a sculpture of her soul’s torment, a prisoner of a destiny that neither she nor any other weasel had ever sought. Then, she straightened herself, willing her poise and composure into something befitting her new duty. Now was not the time to show weakness. From the ship’s communication system, there was the unmistakable chime of a bridge’s hail. A moment later, the communication weasel’s voice floated in, “His Lordship has asked for a status report.” “I’m on my way,” the new captain said. As the other weasels rose, the eldest said with utmost deference, “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but we all know you’ll do fine. You know His Lordship as well as any of us, not to mention the Mina Murray herself.” “Thank you, Mister Tibbs,” she said with a nod. “I know this is a bit unusual, since you were just captain yourself, but I’m hoping you’ll be my first mate for the duration of my service.” He nodded with a grim smile and a bow. “I’ll be here for you, Ma’am, as best I can,” She returned his smile, answering his bow with a nod of her own. Then, looking morosely at the door her shipmates were already holding open for her, also bowing as they did, she scratched behind one of her ears with a sigh. Responsibility was a bitch. “Lass, ye canna be serious!” the engineer’s voice sounded through the command chair’s speakers. “Whatever ye think they’ve done, surely they don’t deserve that!” “Your objections are noted, Mister Scott,” Uhura replied coldly. “And, having noted them, I have chosen to ignore them. I am ignoring them because I for one have had enough of our command crew and away teams being captured, experimented upon, and/or forced into gladiatorial combat arena to be telecast into our ship’s view screens. “Furthermore, the hours of communicator silence, combined with our continued inability to properly scan the planet and find them, allow me discretion as acting ship’s commander to take extreme action for the safety of our captain and crew. A discretion that I am hereby using.” “But—“ “Has he been removed from cryogenic suspension?” “Aye,” Scott answered reluctantly. “He has.” “And is he in stable condition?” “As stable as ever, aye, he is.” “And you can compensate for the transporter redirection that took place earlier?” “To an extent, yes, I can. He’ll materialize within the same approximate area they did, regardless, but I can put him wherever we want so long as it’s close by.” “Then you have your orders, mister.” She turned her eyes back to the flat planet-like structure her ship was orbiting, its energy field somehow defying all attempts to locate her friends. “Beam him down. Now.” The engineer sighed. “Aye, ma’am. Energizing now.” And as the sound of matter converting to energy came over the ship’s comm, he quietly added, “And may God have mercy on their souls.” The palace guard stallion paused. Some kind of shimmering, golden light was coming from one of the alcoves nearby, accompanied by a sound he had never heard before. He frowned. Teleportation onto palace grounds, aside from the Two Sisters, should have been impossible. And yet… He stepped around the corner, the light on his helm suddenly illuminating a bipedal creature of a species unfamiliar to him. It whipped around to face him with a maniacal grin, its eyes full of fury. “Alarm!” the guard shouted. “Intruder! To arms!” He charged the interloper, hearing the reinforcements galloping from all directions, even as with an exhilarated cry the alien leaped upon him… After a while of explaining different works of art and the history of her people, Scootaloo spun to face her father, hopping backwards as she did, her buzzing wings allowing her a few seconds’ hang time to contemplate him more carefully. “By the way,” she said, “Not wanting to be pushy or anything, but, um, do you know how long you’re staying? I mean,” she looked away, “Longer than a week this time, right?” The Vulcan considered her carefully before answering. “Technically, the duration of my stay is not within my control,” he observed. “However, though I answer to my captain and he to the commands of Starfleet, I have every expectation that should I request an extended leave upon Equus it will be granted, based upon the favorable reaction I noted from him upon his witnessing our reunion.” She considered this. “Meaning…?” His eyebrows quirked slightly. “Meaning, that it might be more accurate to inquire as to how long you and your mother would like me to remain.” There was no hesitation before the flying tackle hug that slammed into him. Fortunately, experience with the more emotional races, combined with his own Vulcan strength, allowed him to catch and hold her easily, returning her embrace with his own. Such reciprocation was, after all, the only logical thing to do. Regardless of how long the mutual hug might last. Completely, and utterly, logical. After a few moments, they were walking together again. Then he stopped, his head tilting in mild puzzlement as he considered the massive stone edifice before them. “But what of this statue of the two of them together, with the dark stains and the gutter along the sides?” he asked, genuinely curious. “At a glance, it seems reminiscent of the earliest pieces. Yet, according to this placard, it dates from the transitional period you mentioned earlier.” “Um, well,” Scootaloo shifted a little uncomfortably. “Y’see, that’s… kind of complicated.” “Ah,” he nodded with understanding. “I see.” Kirk chuckled to himself as he refilled his glass again. McCoy was still unconscious, and the night princess had reluctantly departed to see to her own duties, whatever they were. Spock and his daughter (daughter, part of Kirk’s mind kept whispering, Spock has a daughter…) had departed to catch up with one another, much to Kirk’s own private delight. I’ll see you happy yet, old friend, he thought. Even if it’s half against your will, like Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. Meanwhile, the dining had continued to slow (save for his hostess and her daughter… but then again, Kirk wondered, how much energy must it take to do what they did?), becoming more and more a platform for extended conversation. It was just as the captain was musing these thoughts that the golden-eyed mare gave him the most beautiful smile, saying, “Two bits for your thoughts, Captain.” “Jim, please,” he smiled back. Ditzy blushed prettily. “Alright. Jim, then.” “And as for your question, I’ll admit that my diplomatic skills are a bit rusty,” he went on, still smiling. “And I will confess to having an abundance of questions. But I’m still new enough to your world that I’m concerned about accidentally giving offense.” At the head of the table, Celestia and Sweetie Belle exchanged amused glances. “I don’t see you giving offense accidentally, Captain,” the Princess of Day assured him. “Besides,” Sweetie Belle added, helping herself with almost perfect poise to more muffins and jam, “after my cousin and I introduced ourselves via wrestling match, I hardly think we’ll be in a position to judge your diplomatic skills too harshly.” There was some good-natured chuckling along the table. “Very well then” Kirk said, “far be it for me to refuse such august company. I had just been wondering if, since Spock is Scootaloo’s father… would it be rude to inquire…?” Celestia laughed again, a pretty, almost fae sound. “No, Captain, it wouldn’t be rude. And no, Spock is not Sweetie Belle’s father.” “Technicree, I don’t haff a faffer,” Sweetie Belle added though a mouthful of pastry. “Din’t meed one. Gof a granfaffer, voh.” Then, chasing it down with a glass of juice, she added, “Anyway, Mother and Aunt Luna are very close, and neither wanted for Luna to have to go through motherhood alone.” “Well, it’s not as if being mothers to the two of you is a trial, by any means,” Celestia pointed out, smoothing her daughter’s mane fondly. “But there was also the fact that, when Luna discovered she was with child, I realized for the first time that I, also, wished a child. So, after helping Luna with her own labor, I pinched off a part of myself and set it loose. The girls took to one another immediately, and they’ve been like sisters ever since.” Kirk’s smile froze. “I’m sorry. Did you say… ‘pinched off?’” Just then, there was a low moan from the previously silent Doctor McCoy. “Budding,” he managed. “Their royalty reproduces by budding. Perfect. Pony hydra princesses. That’s what was missing. My day is now complete.” Meanwhile, back on Earth, two caretakers of a graveyard examined the turned soil of the ancient grave in puzzlement. “What happened? Some kinda grave robbery?” The older caretaker shook his head slowly. “Nope,” he said. “Look, it was churned from underneath. Whoever’s buried here, somethin’ spun ‘em around somethin’ fierce.” “Huh,” the younger caretaker said. Then, checking the time-weathered stone, he asked, “Who the heck was Charles Darwin, anyway?” While the mares all laughed good-naturedly, McCoy pushed himself into an upright position. “Not exactly,” Celestia chuckled. “Not in the way you mean. I merely shed my three-dimensional form for a moment, then shifted my existence accordingly to produce another life form, equivalent but unique, and devoid of experience.” “Aha,” Bones deadpanned. “Of course. My mistake. Fifth-dimensional sky ponies. Forgive me, I should have realized.” At the tearing sound of upending earth, the caretakers turned their heads as one. “Whelp, there goes that deGrasse Tyson fella,” the elder one observed. “Guess somebody’s havin’ a time.” As the laughter renewed, Kirk grabbed a glass of lemon fizz and offered it to his friend. “Hair of the dog, Bones?” McCoy examined the drink, then made a face even as he accepted it. “Not green enough,” he said. Then, taking a sip, “Or strong enough. And for that matter, where did he… no, never mind,” he decided. “He’s probably busy bonding with his long-lost daughter. Which is something I’d rather die than interfere with.” With an angelic smile, Celestia toasted the still-groggy physician. “We are in agreement, then,” she said merrily. “Ohhh, yes,” he assured her, with a smile of his own. “And besides, I’d risk a Vulcan’s wrath any day before I’d draw the ire of daddy’s little girl.” Adding his toast to her own, he added with a grin, “Or her family, for that matter.” His toast was joined by the rest of the assembly, and after all had drank, Kirk asked Dinky, “So, then, can all ponies… um…?” “Oh, no,” she smiled. “Only the alicorns. After they came down from the sky, they took their solid forms as a symbol of the unity that by our nature all pony tribes share. So that’s a philosophy that’s been part of our society since its beginning. But we also understand that the shapes they wear are a courtesy they’re extending us, not a requirement.” “Well, it’s kind of you to make it sound so selfless,” Celestia smiled. “But there are benefits to being three-dimensional, as well. Cake, for one thing.” “And muffins,” Sweetie Belle added contentedly. Kirk nodded, looking at the younger of the two. “And should I take it then that you can also…?” “Not yet,” the filly said. “And when I do, it’ll be someplace barren and remote, until I get the hang of it.” “My mother – her grandmother – was a colour from out of space, never before seen by mortal eye,” Celestia explained. “Her first arrival on a 3D world caused some difficulty for the native flora and fauna there. So, when the time comes, the girls will practice their higher forms someplace where mistakes won’t have so much impact. The moon, perhaps.” Kirk slowly looked over at his ship’s doctor. “Bones, your family’s from Massachusetts, right? Didn’t you tell me once of a family legend…?” “Uh-huh.” McCoy held up his half-empty glass, scrutinizing it carefully before saying, “You ladies don’t happen to have anything stronger than lemon fizz around here, do you?” And the ponies laughed. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the naming convention for ponies?” Spock asked at last. “Luna and Princess Celestia obviously named themselves for the role they intended to play for their subjects. But any evident sociological patterns joining your name, that of your cousin, and that of the princesses’ diplomat continue to elude me.” She looked away, sheepish. “Kinda stupid, huh?” “Not at all,” her father assured her. “I am merely curious. I have visited many worlds, and the customs of other intelligent life forms always fascinates me. “Further,” he continued, “I would like to make it clear that I meant no offense, and no implications against your name. It suits you well, particularly considering your proclivity with the scooter. And if I gave any indication that I meant anything aside from that and my own curiosity, I sincerely apologize.” “Aw, that’s okay,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I guess I’m just nervous.” “Indeed,” he said, eyebrow raised. “And yet, I will note that there is no need for such a response. You and I have already accepted one another as family, and your mother and I will be re-affirming our own bond as soon as she has completed her own duties, both conversationally and—” “Um, yeah!” Scootaloo said abruptly, hopping straight up and hovering slightly in mid-air, wings buzzing, eyes wide. “Names! Let’s talk about names! Names are awesome!” Pony names, the filly enthusiastically explained, were a rather fluid thing. Most ponies were given a relatively short name at birth, though sometimes a compound name of two or even three words would be formed from their family’s names. But changing a pony’s name was also a simple matter. And while some ponies would keep the same name throughout their lives, most (such as herself) would change their name once during childhood, as their personalities and interests became known, or even sometimes during adulthood, depending upon their accomplishments and the notable events of their lives. Then, she explained, there was the very rare punitive name change, decreed by the princesses only under the direst of circumstances. This was a magical act, a geas laid upon the offending pony that, whenever introducing themselves, they would only speak the name they had been sentenced to. The end result was ultimately a naming convention that was not only highly varied within their society, but also potentially quite descriptive. As she finished her explanation, she looked up to find her father nodding thoughtfully. “Logical,” he said. “Eminently logical, especially considering the highly individualistic nature of your society and the implications of each pony’s unique cutie mark.” “Thanks!” she grinned. “The next logical question, then, would seem to be: how would you prefer to be addressed? You referred to your current name as a nickname, not merely a name, which leads me to conclude that your birth name has not been completely abandoned.” At that, she stopped in her tracks. “Um, well,” she said uncertainly, “I’m not sure. I mean, my deed name is what I usually answer to, but…” Again, she lapsed into silence. The Vulcan considered this for a moment. “Perhaps I should use both your names,” he decided. “Your common name, in recognition of your life’s decisions and my respect for them; and your birth name, in recognition of the bond between us.” There was another hug. Spock, returning the hug once more, made a mental note that physical contact seemed very important to his daughter. Obviously, he would need to keep an eye out for opportunities to initiate them himself. “So, then, young T’Luu,” he said in mock formality, “shall we continue our tour?” With her father following, Scootaloo bounced merrily ahead. Life was indeed very good. School had started off well, she was getting to know her father, her parents might be staying together for a while, plus there were the other, fascinating aliens to get to know later… Squeeing quietly to herself, T’Luu wondered what to show him next. It almost didn’t matter. Everything was going perfectly. Nothing could spoil a day like today. Nothing. He stood alone in the strange hall, sweat gleaming across his slim, muscular frame, newly-acquired weapon already at home in his grasp. Around him, quadrupedal bodies lay scattered in all directions. The alien soldiers had tried to stop him. They had done their best, and their duty. And he respected that. Still. ‘Trying’ is not the same as ‘doing.’ He held his newly-won treasure up to the light. Gave it a few experimental swings through the air. It was more tip-heavy than he would have liked, having been made with telekinesis in mind rather than actual hands. More like a cavalry sabre than anything else, really. But it was still balanced. Still a sword. And there was an entire castle, perhaps even a world, just waiting to taste his blade. Nations to capture, and maidens to save. Surrounded by his fallen armoured foes, his grin was that of an oni having suddenly come home as he held the alien weapon before his gleaming eyes. His heart filling with a predator’s fierce joy, he gave voice to his true nature, the call of the hunt and the wild that burned forever within his fiery soul: “Oh, myyyyyyyy...”