//------------------------------//
// ChrisCornflake's The Maning of Manes (Georg's "Ray Bradbury Anniversary - With Ponies") 
// Story: Never the Final Word (Vol. 2) 
// by FanOfMostEverything 
//------------------------------//

"We've won the war, you can come back!", shouted the man as he approached the homes the Earthmen had set up.  "Jacob?  Ruth?  Where are you?"

As he looked around the houses, seeing the drying clothes fluttering on the clotheslines, he pushed open the front door and raced in, eager to find his brother.

The kitchen was empty, bare for the plates and cutlery and cups, sitting ready for supper.

"John, get over here!" he heard his copilot called out.

Stampeding out the house, boots stamping against the hardwood and shutting the door with a slam, John ran in a panic.  "What is it?  Did you find them?  Wha-?" he stuttered as he suddenly ground to a halt.

"I know, right?  The last transmission said they were gone, but it looks like some natives survived!"

The pony, for what else could it be other than a pony, neighed and bickered at them, its coat a white color, dirty with shadowy streaks, and its mane a golden yellow.  For a moment his vision blurred, and he saw two spacemen, their suits white, dirty with crease caused shadows, golden reflective eye protection helmets standing side by side, but he shook his head and the image was lost.

"Couldn't they talk?  They had a princess, we had transmissions, they offered safety for refuges from the war.  Why is this one not able?"

"Could be some small number survived, they devolved.  You know, with no one here to counter the claim, the planet's free for the taking, right?"

He thought about it for a moment.  Planets that one could live unaided on were rare, and ones that were not struck by the most recent war even moreso.  The houses were already here, but empty, and if he brought his family, they'd be safe, not having to worry about post-war troubles.  Simple math, really.

"Well, if we are the first ones here, we get to name things!  You know, that mountain over there looks like a castle, I think I'll call it Camelot.  And that island we passed over earlier?  I could have sworn it looked like Long Island, I think we'll call it Manhattan!"  He tried to put the thoughts of Jacob out of his mind, another casualty of the war, remembering as those grey eyes stared at him and told him that this was would be the death of him.  Well, hah, who died?  Not me!

The two pilots carried on, whilst the pony, for what ever could it be but a pony, chewed some haygrass, and watched, as the two Earthmen divvied up the planet, and made plans.  His horn glowed softly, and he trotted away, unnoticed.  His family had found a few apple trees recently, and his wife was wanting to make some pastries.  Jacob, the pony, for what ever could he be but a pony, went home.