//------------------------------// // 36. Good Intentions // Story: Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies // by Georg //------------------------------// Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies Good Intentions “Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. Their very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be ‘cured’ against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard as disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.” -- C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock “Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” — H.L. Mencken With just over one week before the ponies went back home—this time for certain—there was a wide variety of opinions on what needed to be done in the limited time left to do it before there were no aliens to do it to. Since there were only a few dozen aliens trapped— that is limited to a certain areas under flea-bite quarantine and the rest were free to flee (so to say) anywhere in the local area, the resulting terrestrial treatment of the ponies became rather erratic. For example, Widget and Goose had been left mostly alone by the press because of their relative velocity and erratic schedule, plus a certain amount of practical skepticism about the press person in question being featured negatively in one of their nightly video blogs. Several reporters had requested permission from their superiors to ‘stake out’ Disney World for a few days until the Terrible Twosome arrived, but their plans for spending a few epic days on an expense account rapidly met reality much like an egg fired into a cheap concrete wall. Likewise, there were a few politicians who wanted to greet the arriving celebrities with open arms (and legions of photographers), but the Florida governor had made it quite clear that their visitors were not wanting to face the kind of maddening publicity that went along with that kind of insanity. Many reporters muttered about conspiracies between the Kansas and Florida governors, but remained fairly quiet because the ponies had developed an effective ‘One-Strike’ rule about dealing with the Fourth Estate. A single unfair negative story from any reporter affiliated with newspaper or other media outlet resulted in an immediate cut-off of any future interviews from the whole chain, as well as a far-too-detailed breakdown of the story in question by Specialist Grace, which was sent to the other media for wide distribution and ridicule. Still, reporters were motivated by… Well, reporters said they were motivated by the truth. In truth, nearly every reporter would happily trample over truth to get a story that would be noticed. Even the most sincere small-town columnist had a small—sometimes virtual, sometimes physical—shrine to Woodward and Bernstein. Bureaucrats were motivated by… Well, bureaucrats said they were only out to help people. Since bureaucrats were people, some of them considered the first people they should help was themselves, and stop. A subtle bureaucrat in search of power would find other not-subtle bureaucrats and place them in strategic positions where they could be used to advance an agenda, such as pushing a political agenda for financial benefit or currying favor with a powerful figure by—as a random example—bringing visiting aliens to Washington DC so they could be properly controlled. There has been no definitive count—much like guppies—but most people agree there are well over four hundred different Federal agencies in the US Government. Every single one of them employed a number of bureaucrats who saw ponies as bargaining chips, cash tokens, credits for future promotions, book deals, and steps to be trod upon on the staircase of success. With just barely over a week to make their mark in the history books, bureaucrats of all types began to flood in the direction of ponies. You had to get up early in the morning to stay ahead of a bureaucrat on a mission. Thankfully, ponies did. Well, most of them. Some of them got up earlier. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: Too Bloody Early In The Morning Monday June 29 2015 Location: Bruener Family Farm, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - “Jon?” A faint nudge woke Jon Bruener up from his morning rest, which was not a great distance to wake since the addition of his blankets a few hours ago. “Jon, I’m just here to pick up my daughter before the bus leaves.” “Which one?” whispered Jon back. He struggled slightly more upright and looked over the colorful sea of Equanity that covered their bed, leaving his wife barely recognizable as a shock of black hair visible between both a pink and blue young pony snuggled up to her. “The daughter you brought with you, her teenaged version, or the younger one who has been reading her way through my father’s library?” It only felt as if a dozen young ponies were snuggled up in bed with them, much like an organic quilt of many colors. Jon really did not think more than eight time-traveling children had slipped into the house to watch forbidden videos, although the kids were difficult to count at the speed they moved. Still, it deserved an explanation since Lucky was supposedly a pony of some importance, and it was obvious from his perplexed expression in the shadowed bedroom that he had questions. “They decided to watch Jurassic Park last night,” explained Jon. “Rarr,” growled the smallest Clover in a happy, sleepy way and snuggled a little closer to Jon with a flutter of her little wings. “Ah, there she is.” Lucky eased the tiny alicorn from under the sheets and into the foal carrier on his back. “Come on, sweetheart. Daddy is taking the school group on a little tour this morning, and we need to get going before the lawyers show up.” “Rarr,” murmured Clover in her sleep. “Nom, nom.” And then they were gone, and Jon could go back to sleep, or at least as much as he could with a bed full of young pony hooves. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 05:30 AM Monday June 29 2015 Location: Blue Valley High School parking lot, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - “Isn’t this too early in the morning, Miss Cheerilee?” Sweetie Belle gave an enormous yawn. “I didn’t even get to help much with breakfast.” Ethan Alexander gave a subdued shudder. Despite multiple university degrees and a stellar career in APHIS, cooking did not run in his family, or even walk. Thankfully, his children failed to inherit their parents’ genes for that particular skill, so they could make hard-boiled eggs in the instant pot, or enough mac and cheese with hot dogs in order to feed their parents for several days in a stretch. Mostly, the family lived on the four microwaved food groups: Canned, frozen, take-out, and instant. Sweetie made his whole family look like gourmet chefs. She even exceeded the negative talent of his own wife, who once had cooked meatballs that even the neighborhood cats turned down. ‘Breakfast’ today had been a granola bar and a juice box for everyone in their family before being hustled on a short walk to the Blue Valley High School parking lot where the busses were being loaded for a special tour with all the quarantined children, plus affected adults and sponsors. With luck, the seat covers would be more nutritious than Sweetie’s surprise presentation of ‘toast’ earlier at the Bruener house. Ethan was fairly certain whatever was in the glass had ‘glooped’ at him in a vaguely hostile fashion. “It would be nice if we knew where we were going, too.” Ethan nudged one of his boys to his feet before the child could sit down on the dirty parking lot concrete again. “And if breakfast is included, since we didn’t get the chance to enjoy Sweetie’s delicious toast before we left the farmhouse.” “I was keeping it a secret until we left,” said the smiling equine school teacher, “but the Sternberg museum in Hays— Stop her!” Parental reflexes as they were, even Ethan and his wife could not get a hand on the elusive unicorn as she bolted past, but the veteran Secret Service agent behind him could not have made a better stop if he were a linebacker for the KC Chiefs. “Whoa, there!” Conner O’Malley turned Sweetie Belle around to face her teacher and gave one of Ethan’s children a quelling glance that stopped his quiet edging for freedom also. “Little lady, I think you need to hear the whole schedule before making a decision.” “They have dinosaur fossils there,” said the unobtrusive green pony beside Cheerilee. He nudged the screen of his iPhone with a stylus held in his teeth and added, “And a tyrannosaurus rex—” There was a blue-green blur of motion that streaked out of the bus, grabbed the reluctant Sweetie Belle, and vanished back inside along with her captive. The bus horn honked and a young voice called out, “Come on! Let’s go!” “Petunia Paleo!” chastised Cheerilee as she made her way into the bus. “Get out of the driver’s seat and back to your assigned spot. I’m sorry, sir. She gets a little excited about fossils.” “My grandkids are a little like that,” admitted Agent O’Malley, giving Ethan a nudge to the shoulder as his own children and quiet wife filed on board the bus. “Getting bit by that flea has been one of the luckiest breaks of my career.” Ethan found himself agreeing. At least until they got to the museum and they all found out what a very small child with a ‘Come To Life’ spell could do to a life-sized tyrannosaurus model. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 0600 Hours Monday June 29 2015 Location: Rally Point One, Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - “Good morning, everybody. Everypony.” Lt. Nick Comena gave the Equestrian contingent of their morning platoon meeting a brief nod before taking a sip out of his coffee cup. The Equestrians had provided refreshments, which meant donuts that practically floated themselves off the plate, and tea instead of coffee. It was good tea, and military tea, which meant it had a fair chance of dissolving its way out the bottom of the cup if he did not drink it first. “Morning, sir,” came the murmured response as the young men of the mixed tank platoon nabbed their own donuts. It was an unspoken rule that Rank Hath Its Privileges, and one of the first things you learned in military service was the highest rank in a meeting had first dibs on their preferred pastries, and Nick bit into his apple-cinnamon donut with a concealed smile. Normally, he would only be in command of the four-tank platoon, or sixteen total soldiers, but the powers-that-be had established a Gold/Blue rotation of personnel, so that put over thirty soldiers under his hasty command as a new National Guard lieutenant. It was not an unlimited power, since Colonel Townsend had sent his silent S2 to observe their meeting, but it was a heavy responsibility, particularly since Major Danson had briefed him on the operational situation beforehand and approved his action plan. “As you are aware,” started Nick because some of the soldiers might well not be aware, or picked up a wrong rumor, “Lt. Colonel Craig Clarke has been assigned to Colonel Townsend’s staff for the duration of our deployment. When he arrives in a few hours, I don’t want to hear him referred to as anything other than Colonel Clark until we are back at Fort Riley, and perhaps a few months after that. Are we clear?” “Does that apply to us?” asked Right, who had one wing occupied with a donut and the other with a hold on a paper cup of tea, much like he enjoyed blowing Nick’s mind in the morning. “Fairly sure it does, bro.” Left had his own paper cup and donut, only gripped with opposite wings, like a mirror image of his twin brother. “You two numbskulls knock it off or I’ll ship you back one feather at a time,” growled Sergeant Hardhooves. “Postage due. Proceed, sir.” Nick nodded at the crusty old noncom. “Thank you. In addition, please refer to Sergeant Spasowski by his full name, not Spaz, and that goes for any other colorful names any of you have picked up.” He gave Sergeant O’Mera a pointed look, because ‘Spic’ as he had been willingly nicknamed, was particularly bad about inadvertent utterances around reporters, and Nick had already covered for him twice with ‘exclusive’ interviews in exchange for a certain amount of reporter amnesia. “We have a few hours before Carbon— I mean Lieutenant Colonel Craig shows up,” started Nick with a wince. “With that in mind, I’d like to get some things ironed out ahead of time, and I’m dead serious. This is Private Rogers,” he said, pointing one dark finger at the SEAL officer. “You may have heard some incorrect rumors about him being a captain in the SEALs. Put those out of your mind. He is a member of an Army photographic team, headquartered across the road with a good view of the Bruener seed building and planned pony portal location by coincidence. His team does not have satellite communication or target designation authority in the event nuclear weapons are needed to seal any dimensional breach. In the event things drop in the pot and he gives you an order, I expect you to obey it like God himself is speaking, and we’ll pick up the pieces later. Understand?” “Yes, sir,” came the unified response, although Private Harvy Seiphert promptly put up his hand and asked, “Nuclear weapons?” “Not that anybody is going to admit,” said Nick as firmly as he could. “Would you be willing to bet that every nation with nuclear arms who can target within ten feet of where we are standing, doesn’t currently have several ICBMs or bomber crews tasked to exactly that mission?” Private Seiphert slowly put his hand down. “Anyway,” huffed Nick, “Blue and Gold teams assigned to the armor units get to pick who is in the tank and who is standing around in their dress uniforms for the cameras. I’m going to be in the command tank, because the reporters have gone totally insane over—” Nick paused for a long moment, trying to come up with the right word, only to have Private Howell volunteer, “Your marefriend?” Private Rogers gave his fellow ‘photographer’ a sharp look. Howell cringed and quickly added, “The respected Royal Guard cadet who has been protecting Miss Widget for the last week?” “Exactly.” Nick removed a stack of papers from his satchel and began to pass them out. “What I expect to happen in eight days is a parade-perfect opening of the Equestrian portal and all of the ponies departing on schedule, with perhaps Cadet Down and her charge arriving in a whirl of dust right as it is about to close. The Army wants that as much as the Equestrians do, so that’s what we are officially planning to happen. What you are receiving now is—” He paused, trying to come up with the right words, because ‘Classified’ was not not accurate. ‘Science fiction’ perhaps. “Alternative procedures,” said Corporal Bug Light, a yellowish unicorn with a perpetual cheerful attitude who had been constantly at Sergeant Hardhooves’ side like a shadow. “Although we will be following Princess Twilight Sparkle’s detailed instructions when creating the portal home, there’s always the possibility of dimensional fracturing when thaumic turbulence exceeds a certain level. Which is a long way of saying I don’t recognize a single thing in the spell she sent us, so we have no idea what will happen when we fire it up. Unofficially, of course.” “You will not make copies of those alternative procedures,” said Nick. “You’re not going to talk to any reporters, not even to point them to the latrines. If everything goes well, you’re going to turn them back over to me after all the ponies go home and we’ll use them to start a weenie roast and beer bash. If not—” Nick pointed at Private Howell “—we’ll need somebody to look into any difficulties involved in an evacuation for Option Two. Thank you for volunteering, Private. Speaking of which, after our meeting this morning, a number of volunteers will be needed to drive several RVs to an undisclosed location and one driver to bring them back in my truck.” Nick held up his keys, then gave them a slow lob into the group of soldiers, one of whom was too slow to dodge. “Thank you, Corporal Frey. Bring it back without any scratches, please, and feel free to pick your own volunteers you trust to drive those expensive borrowed Winnebagos with our important guests inside. Now, Option Three resembles the conditions found in the anime series ‘The Gate’ which will be playing in the hay barn theatre in a few hours. Not Outbreak Company, Corporal Frey, so try to keep that off your laptop for now. Anybody who has not seen the series, human or Equestrian, is encouraged to attend, since the barn has been flea exterminated and should provide some privacy against reporter snooping. Option Four… Is anybody familiar with David Gerrold’s War Against the Chtorr series?” In all, it was a pretty good morning for Second Lieutenant Nicolas Comena, soon to be First Lieutenant if all things ran well, but he just could not keep from thinking about Dakota Henderson and what trouble he was getting into with two troublesome young ponies out in the American Southeast. He should have worried less about them, and paid more attention to Option Six. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 6:04 A.M. Monday June 29, 2015 Location: College Park, Atlanta, Georgia - - - - ⧖ - - - - Kota had sacked out in the RV rather than the Comena family guest room last night because of the simple calculation that one guy and four gals (of various species) probably should not share the same bed. Besides, the rough calculation when he climbed in the RV was that at sometime after the morning sunrise, Karla would drive the first leg of their trip to Savannah, and he could sleep through that so his turn driving down the coastal highway would be safer. After all, the girls were up late chatting with Nick’s parents and recording their nightly video blog, so somebody had to drive around noon once they all were sleeping. Besides, the scenery was more interesting once they got closer to the coast. He woke up briefly when the RV started moving, although it was still just barely light outside, but their scheduling was not his responsibility, so Dakota Henderson remained where he was and tried to sleep some more. After all, he could hear the happy chatter of the two ponies and their human accompaniment, so nothing was wrong. It did wake him up a bit when the big RV came to a halt and parked, but he could see the word ‘zoo’ on a sign outside the RV window in the thin rays of sunrise, so the ponies must have made arrangements for an early-morning tour before the place filled up with tourists. Maybe they would even get to feed the animals. It was a photographic opportunity for his job, but Claire deserved to have some exclusive content for her blog, and Kota really did not feel like getting dressed and chasing the happy ponies around the zoo for a few hours. Besides, there was another reason he did not want to get out of bed dressed in nothing but his shorts. For that, he blamed being around a female FBI agent for the last few days, and in particular, the way the ponies had wheedled and coaxed her into talking about human… procreation for hours with them. Curious ponies were too curious at times. The internet provided far too many excuses for them to explore. The thumping and bumping of departing tourists out to get an early morning look at exotic terrestrial animals quickly faded into silence, and Kota was just considering getting into the shower for a brief wood-reduction session when something warm and dark slipped under the sheets and into bed with him. Agent Karla Anacostia was most certainly not wearing her shoulder holster, or anything else. “Good morning,” she whispered at the end of his nose. “The girls are going to be running around the zoo for about two hours. I was going to take a nap, unless you can think of anything else for us to do.” - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 07:30 AM Monday June 29 2015 Location: USDA Plant Material Center, Ashland Bottoms, Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - Getting to work before his employees was something Rick Winia prided himself on, or at least until he had gained a half-dozen pony volunteers. Now, he was practically guaranteed to arrive at work after his four-legged workers began their day. Even if he tried to sneak in before the sunrise, he was fairly certain there would be one or two ponies stepping off one of their pegasus carts by the glare of his headlights. He really could not fault the enthusiastic work ethics of the little workhorses. Summer for the staff was a fairly routine time of growth and monitoring, which was a good break from absolute frantic spring seeding and precise one-plot-at-a-time-every-seed-counts fall harvesting. The PMC resembled one huge garden with hundreds of little plots, and seeing a pony out in the middle of a bunch of prairie coneflowers, nibbling close to the ground, still gave him an instinctual reaction to chase them away like pesky wayward deer. The difference between normal pony agriculture and his was simple as food and seeds. Or so he thought. “Holliday!” The dusky orange mane of the earth pony boss/organizer/headmare/advisor was easy enough to spot headed in his direction, although there were quite a few more colorful ponies in the area than Rick expected. “Good morning, ma’am. Are you bringing over some of your friends for a tour?” “Not exactly.” It was amazing how a guilty look on a pony was just like a guilty look on a human, with the added signaling qualities of drooping ears and a swishing tail. “Events snuck up on us when our niece Scoots found out she had fleas and your authorities put us under quarantine. The press back in Randolph was going absolutely nuts, even worse than ours, with some of them wearing these big orange suits and respirators, trying to corner one of us, so we asked one of the nice tank people to park several of our borrowed Arr Vees in the back of your facility and—” “I understand totally,” rumbled Rick. “I don’t think anybody in DC will mind if you hide out here until it’s time for you to go home. Particularly if I don’t tell them until after you’re gone. Why don’t we discuss this over a cup of coffee?” Holiday wrinkled up her nose, which looked unbelievably cute even this early in the morning. “Princess Celestia sent us a small sample of tea here from Equestria last night. Your Mister Alexander approved the leaves, since they were already heated up beyond the ability to germinate, and I thought as a representative of your agriculture department, you’d like to taste what our morning drinks are like for a change.” It was worth scrubbing the office percolator for a good source of fresh hot water, and even with the relative primitive state of their tea set, Rick could feel the years drop away with his first sip. The tea was a tantalizing blend of flavors with the faintest bite that a short pinch of salt made even better, and although he had been a coffee guy ever since college, he could easily look out at the morning sunrise and imagine the pony princess somewhere just an eyeblink away watching her own sun ascending to start the morning. Of course, not all humans were regarding the sunrise with the same enthusiasm this morning. Or with quite the same calm acceptance of their equine visitors. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 07:05 AM Monday June 29 2015 Location: Blue Valley High School parking lot, Randolph Kansas - - - - ⧖ - - - - Myron was quiet. As an Assistant Office Manager to Miss Henshaw, that was the safest approach to remaining employed. That and the unspoken benefit on his Civil Service appraisals due to a great-grandparent named Running Bear, who had claimed to be Cherokee but Myron suspected he was just a con artist since the family genealogy trees stopped rather abruptly on his branch with a number of rather wild stories involving his background. So he had remained quiet during most of his enlistment as a Navy clerk, put in his twenty, and transitioned into civilian life after his wife passed away and his children vanished off to college. The Department of Education seemed to be a good fit for his skillset when he took the job. At times like this, he would rather have been deployed back to the Middle East, in the middle of summer. Miss Henshaw had been on her phone constantly since they had left the plane in Kansas City. It was impossible not to hear what she was talking about, because her personal volume control had been broken years ago with no chance of being fixed, and most of what she was talking about was fault. Not her fault, of course. Other people’s faults. Vast numbers of them, drifts and clumps and oceans of faults, and the ownership of those faults depended on just exactly who Miss Henshaw was talking with, and what rung on the ladder of authority they occupied. Myron’s rung was very low, and frequently stepped upon since he was still in his probationary period in his position. Right now, the faults were remotely raining down on the local high school principal, who apparently did not have enough time to devote to being berated by Miss Henshaw on the phone, refused to acknowledge her unmistakable and inviolate authority over the education of the aliens—her words, not Myron’s—who were going to be under her jurisdiction for such a short period that even the delay of a few minutes could have drastic consequences, etc… Really, Myron did not understand why Miss Henshaw was spending the last few minutes before they were parked on the phone with Principal Havercamp. In person, Miss Henshaw was a vast and impressive sight, with a temper that could be turned up to boiling at a moment’s notice and the ability to be offended by anything. She could use a pointing forefinger like a spear and had no sense of personal space, despite an abundance of her own space which had necessitated a seat in first class on the way here, and the importance of a larger American car from the rental agency rather than the tiny Versa Note which was the only vehicle available. Personally, Myron liked the way it drove despite the quantity of luggage crammed into the hatchback’s trunk and the counterweight of his passenger. Miss Henshaw considered the car a personal insult from the president of the auto rental company and he was going to receive a Strong Letter about the insolent behavior of the check-in girl, the staff who retrieved the vehicle, and every single individual who built the tiny car with inadequate rear compartment knee space and a list of deficiencies that could fill an entire notebook. Miss Henshaw collected spite-filled notebooks much the same way some people collected insects by gassing them and shoving sharp pins through their bodies. Myron could feel the ghost of that same pin pricking through his chest every time she got upset without somebody nearby to take it out on, and the phantom pain only eased slightly when he pulled up to the checkpoint outside of Randolph and rolled down the window, letting the warm humidity of the Kansas morning sweep into the car. “Good morning, Corporal.” Myron passed over the sheets of paper that the Secretary of Education’s office had approved for a limited number of agency representatives who were not part of the final going-away ceremony for the Equestrians. Well, if this was the last one. The checkpoint soldier reviewed the documents, checked them against their driver’s licenses, then waved them into town so he could check the next vehicle in line. It was simple, efficient, and to Myron’s practiced eye as he drove a zig-zag path through several concrete barriers watched over by a bored-looking MP on an armed humvee, sufficient to deter any ordinary terrorist attack or wave of overenergized tourists. Of course, this edge of Randolph was still about a mile away from the Bruener farm where four tanks were deployed, so any attackers would only face small arms and passive barriers. There were enough military vehicles within sight to provide a lot of associated guns, which gave Myron a sense of warm familiarity, even if they were all Army forces instead of Navy. At Miss Henshaw’s direction, Myron slid the rental car into a handicapped spot in front of the high school where his passenger would not have a long waddle… that is walk up to the front door where one of the school staff was standing, waiting to hold the door open. “Bring the teaching materials, Myron,” snapped Miss Henshaw once she had managed to get her bulk extracted out of the back seat. “Yes, ma’am.” It was a reflex from his Navy days, and Miss Henshaw hated to be called that instead of her full name. It was a mark of how distracted she was by having a new victim within sight that she did not haul him over the coals for his blunder. Hauling the hefty suitcase out of the Versa’s miniscule trunk was an exercise in wedging, but in short order he was trundling down the cool dark hallways of the quiet school, feeling a little like a misplaced child again. He got to walk the hallways several more times while Miss Henshaw proceeded to cluck and peck like some irate old hen, establishing her dominance over the principal and establishing that she was Not Pleased At All with the relative shortage of young aliens to educate in the proper way the US Department of Education had established for children of all races. That still did not leave Myron any slack time. After all, he had copies to make for the incoming students, signs to print, more bits and pieces to retrieve from the rental car, and whatever other tasks Miss Henshaw came up with on the spur of the moment. By late morning, Myron had settled into his role as ‘parrot’ to Miss Henshaw, which generally meant sitting to one side and nodding whenever she said “Isn’t that right, Myron?” By his calculations, there were going to be eight days of this until the ponies escaped by portal, or fewer days if Miss Henshaw’s presence caused them to accelerate their departure. By the time noon rolled around, Myron was wondering if he managed to intentionally foul something up sufficiently to be terminated, would the government pay to fly him back to his home duty station, or would he have to hitchhike halfway across the country to get home? If there had been any ponies who could soak up some of the ever-changing instructional materials, it would have taken some of the pressure off him, but most of the ponies were elsewhere on tourist runs or at other undefined locations. Thankfully, Miss Henshaw wanted a salad for lunch, and sent Myron out the door with exact specifications. Of course, that meant he would have to fight traffic to reach a nearby town with arugula and ocean-caught, not farmed, salmon, then do it all again on the way back before it wilted. Randolph barely qualified as a truck stop by East Coast standards, since it had no traffic lights and he could see both ends of the city limits from the high school concrete steps. As he was going down the concrete stairs to the rental car, Myron met an Army private headed up, with of all things, an armored pony at his side. The sight made him salute out of reflex, catching the soldier by surprise and nearly making him fumble his clipboard, although the old pony ripped off a letter-perfect salute of his own. “Sorry, Private Howell,” said Myron as the soldier was caught partway through a salute in return. It was easy enough to read the name off the nametape, although the gold armor of the pony did not appear to have nearly the same identification factor. “Old reflex,” continued Myron. “What are you two doing at the school? None of our guests are present, just my superior and Principal Havercamp. Other than that, it’s an empty building.” “Sargent Hardhooves and I were going to talk to the principal about using the school as a staging ground in the event of an evacuation,” said the private. “Nothing really big, but…” “Better prepared than not,” finished Myron as he watched several other cars begin to enter the high school parking lot. “Looks like you have competition.” And it appeared to be more governmental agencies from Washington, as the collection of rental Versas began to accumulate. There must have been some sort of charter flight for all of them to arrive at once, and Myron found himself in the appointed role as doorstop as the various bureaucrats, assistants, and volunteers tromped inside, almost none of whom acknowledged the presence of Sargent Hardhooves at all, other than the occasional sideways glance at the immobile stallion. It did not seem like a very welcoming first impression for the pony, although it was obvious he was interested in the parade of various body types and outfits. Bureaucrats really did come in all shapes and sizes, some of which must have required custom tailoring. The proceedings must have been interesting for Private Howell also, because he stayed right there and watched, although he turned down any and all ‘requests’ to help lift and carry boxes of educational materials. “Sorry about that, Sergeant,” said Myron once the parking lot was quiet again. “Bureaucrats.” “Recognize any of them?” asked Private Howell with a quick glance around the parking lot in case there were any more of the odd creatures scuttling about. “I think one batch was from the UNHCR,” mused Myron. “At least that’s the only people I can think of who would wear the UN symbol this far from New York. The rest appeared to be US Government. One lady was wearing an ORR nametag. That's the Office of Refugee Resettlement,” he explained at Hardhooves’s obvious confusion. “Homeland Security was most of the rest. I’d guess USCIS and ICE Homeland Security Investigations were most of them, since there was a lot of chatter around the office about how the ponies acquired their visas illegally, although exactly how it was illegal is a point of great debate.” “Resettlement.” The old sergeant shook his head ever so slightly from side to side. “Fairly sure we’re not going to be here that long, Mister…?” Myron caught the pony’s glance at where a nametag should belong on his grey blazer. “Myron Lapahie,” said Myron, sticking his hand out to shake, and then down to shake hooves with their alien visitor. “Assistant office manager in the Office of Migrant Education. My boss, Miss Mira Dean-Wilson Henshaw, Associate Division Director for the Monitoring and State Improvement Planning Division has been discussing the ponies’ education most of the morning with Principal Havercamp. I was sent out for lunch.” “Good to meet you, sir. Glad to see you escaped.” Sergeant Hardhooves finished shaking hands and looked up at the old brick school building. “I don’t think this is going to be a very safe evacuation point any more.” “Not unless the National Guard restricts the people coming into the town more than they already have,” said Myron. “Traffic was packed up fairly solid. I was amazed they let us in. All we had was a letter from the DOE. Department of Education, that is.” “Colonel Townsend is overloaded,” mused Private Howell. “The Guard has a clearing process through the Department of State for admittance, but it is a mess. And we still have military units coming in without notifying us in advance.” “Send them back until they ask properly, through channels. Let one in and they all want in,” Myron said with a sharp frown. He looked the Army ‘private’ over for a moment before asking the question that had been bugging him since they first met. “So what SEAL team are you with?” “Pardon?” The casual looseness vanished as Private Howell jerked upright, then narrowed his eyes and looked around the school steps for any witnesses, much like a serial killer might scout out a place for slaughtering some nosy nitwit. Hardhooves, on the other metaphorical hand, looked like he was going to break out in laughter. “You’re wearing the insignia of an Army private,” started Myron carefully, “yet you are far too old and in shape to have just gotten out of basic training. Most soldiers make PFC inside of a year, yet your uniform insignia lacks the bottom rocker under the chevron. So either you’re a real screw-up, or—” Myron pointed at Howell’s left wrist “—somebody who can put together a uniform perfectly and wears a Seiko dive watch in the middle of Kansas.” “Fuck,” said Howell after a moment. Then after due consideration, he removed a thin wallet from an inside pocket of his fatigues and peeled off a twenty, which Hardhooves made vanish into his golden armor like magic. “I withdraw the question, sir.” Myron gave a short nod at the mismatched pair. “SEALs have a much more robust vocabulary. Whatever group in the Pentagon put you here is probably classified far beyond me. I shouldn’t have poked my nose into your business, and I’m sorry. So why did you get picked to escort Sergeant Hardhooves over to the school instead of staying back and watching our—” Myron glanced back at the school doors to make sure Miss Henshaw had not unexpectedly appeared “—new guests?” “Need to know,” said the not-private. Myron nodded again and turned for the car. It was going to be a long drive through traffic to get to anyplace that could make a salad with the accuracy Miss Henshaw required. He had just reached the first step down on the stairs when a powerful hand caught him around the upper arm. “What rank and service?” asked Howell. Myron turned and gave a sharp salute. “Petty Officer Lapahie, NavSup in Norfolk, retired. Decided I wanted to see what life was like in Washington civil service, just in case I wanted to try for a political appointee position later.” “Poor decision?” asked Hardhooves, obviously catching onto Myron’s unvoiced meaning despite the difference in species. “Poor decision,” confirmed Myron, feeling a relief he should not have as the accumulated stress of the last few years bubbled out. “I should have stayed in the service, training… um… unqualified people to take CPO positions. I think I was forced to pass four people who wound up screwing up big after being promoted up, and then promoted up again to cover it up. After that, I hit my twenty and bailed before I said something I’d regret. Changed my title, applied to a civil service position I was overqualified for in the Department of Housing and Urban Development, and rapidly learned the grass was not greener on that side of the septic tank.” Private Howell glanced back at the quiet school building, then back at Myron. “Department of Education now,” he confirmed. “I haven’t made the one-year probationary period in nearly three agencies so far. Too qualified not to hire, too ‘disruptive’ to retain. I’ve been taking orders in the Navy for so long that practically everybody I work with in the government thinks I’m after their jobs.” “And now you’re fetching lunch for bureaucrats.” Howell got out his phone and punched in a number. “Let me give you some advice, Petty Officer Lapahie. First, you’ll never make it to Manhattan to get lunch and back before dark with the traffic. The rest of the advice will wait until you get back.” Ten minutes later, Myron found out that the pegasi version of DoorDash also allowed passengers, if properly strapped in and willing to help load. An hour later, Myron found that Miss Henshaw had apparently gotten into some sort of fight with the other bureaucrats, and was currently en route to the Riley County Police Department for booking. It was a great relief, because her salad was wilted. An hour after that, Captain Kevin Rogers (USN) passed a phone to him, where he found out directly from SecDef Carter that Petty Officer Lapahie had been recalled into the Navy Reserve as Chief Petty Officer and assigned in a cross-branch appointment to Colonel Townsend as a member of his staff. Still wearing his civilian suit jacket, Myron was introduced to Specialist Grace, a beleaguered unicorn who was trying her best to help with the ongoing chaos of scheduled arrivals to the town, both military and civilian. An hour later, every rental Versa that was still in the high school parking lot had been towed, leaving the building clear for any evacuation purposes. Just short of midnight, Principal Havercamp brought a pound cake to Colonel Townsend’s staff as a thank-you. Myron made sure Specialist Grace got a large piece, since he had not seen her eat anything all day. When Col. Townsend dismissed the staff for the night, with orders to turn in and get some sleep, Myron quickly discovered the Army had set up a nearby tent as barracks for assigned personnel. That was quite welcome, because the only room Miss Henshaw had managed to find was in the Weaver Hotel in Waterville, and since that was one bed, he had expected⁽*⁾ to be sleeping in the car. (*) The alternative was too terrifying to consider. — So it was with great relief that Myron settled down onto an Army cot, a little uncomfortable in his brand new (and temporary) Army fatigues, but that did not stop him from falling asleep with a smile before he even got his boots off. Directly to his side, Specialist Grace settled down on a repurposed Furhaven deluxe dog bed and followed him straight into slumber. - - - - ⧖ - - - - Time: 11:45 AM Monday June 29 2015 Location: Outskirts, Savannah Georgia - - - - ⧖ - - - - “That was a mistake.” Kota looked up from the passenger seat of the RV where he had the paper road map unfolded, then glanced outside at the road signs. “No, we’ve got twenty miles or so to the I-95 exit.” He looked over his shoulder at where Claire and Widget were curled up on the RV bed, acting as mutual pillows, then up at the short violet tail hanging down from the cabover bed above them. “The girls are all still sleeping. Did you want to stop for lunch?” The driving since Atlanta had been fairly quiet, with Agent Anacostia behind the wheel and every cell phone dropped into the GoDark bags, so there had not even been any phone calls to interrupt the drive. He even had left the radio alone, since if the silent FBI agent wanted to listen to her channels, she could. She was not listening, so she did not want to, and by proxy, that meant he should not turn on the radio either, even though Limbaugh’s daily “Ponywatch” opening segment was coming up shortly. Really, the quiet was more than a little disturbing, particularly since their energetic morning activities. Karla had been the first one in the shower when they had finished, interrupted during what Kota considered a particularly good part by Claire’s phone call saying they were on their way back. Kota barely had time to clean up the evidence of their activity and slap a fresh set of sheets on the bed before the girls arrived. Then as Karla set all kinds of records getting dried and dressed, it was his turn in the shower, and the RV was moving again. Keeping up appearances was fairly important around the chatty ponies, because the last thing he wanted Widget to say during one of her video blogs to thousands of people was a comment on the prolific sexual habits of her human escorts. “No, I mean that was a mistake,” said Karla with a short jerk of her head in the direction of the well-used bed behind them, currently occupied by a sleeping Claire and Widget. “Um… There’s really nothing right for me to say about that,” said Kota, who glanced over his shoulder again to make sure they were not being eavesdropped on. “I mean I can’t argue the point, although I have to remind you that… No, that’s wrong. I wouldn’t have been a willing participant if you hadn’t asked. Is this going to hurt your career?” “If it gets out?” Karla snorted and changed lanes very carefully, only talking again once she had the cruise control set. “No fucking clue, pardon my French. A male agent in the same circumstances could either get away with it or they’d be fucked over wholesale.” “Because it’s a vector for blackmail,” said Dakota. “Crystal does it all the time to get her stories back at the Chronicle. Trust me, I’m not going to say anything. I’m trying to get back with my ex, and she’s a jealous bitch at times. We were supposed to have a date next weekend. She’s been marking off the days, and gave me strict instructions not to… um… use the equipment until then.” “Sounds like she wants a third kid.” Karla scooped a can of soda out of the cooler and put it into the cupholder. “Which reminds me. Go back into my luggage and get my pills.” “Which—” “The pill pills.” It only took a few moments rummaging through underwear for Dakota to identify the birth control pill dispenser and extract out the next tiny little fleck in the circle, which Karla chased down with a gulp of soda. It lowered the tension slightly, which he decided was a good time for an admission. “You know, I saw you buy that box of condoms at the gas station yesterday. That’s why I wasn’t surprised back in bed when you got them out.” Karla pinked up around the ears, which was adorably cute even though he wasn’t going to say anything about it. “I was just going to show them to the girls, since they say their stallions are so… I mean I thought about it before today, but… Okay, it wasn’t totally spontaneous. At all. But it was still a mistake.” A faint tremor ran up her leg, and Karla scratched at it before asking, “Your wife left you for another woman, right?” Dakota nodded. “After just barely two years of marriage, yes.” “And she taught you all of that? I mean I may have thrown my back out again,” continued Karla quickly. “And pulled several muscles. How are you still single?” “San Francisco,” said Dakota. “It’s not exactly the safest place to fool around, and everybody who is available and approachable and clean is in therapy, which is a giant blinking red light. Either that or they need therapy, or they’re on so many drugs that you have to wonder what kind of personality is hiding inside, or they just don’t care to date a ex-mil with an ex-wife who tears out of the country for months at a time to take pictures. I almost convinced myself that my ex was having the Chronicle send me out of the country every time I started to see somebody.” “I dated a lawyer once,” admitted Karla. “The FBI moves beginning agents around a lot. Then I had to move and he didn’t. Seems to be a habit of mine. Can’t date inside the workplace, can’t date outside it without finding somebody who would follow my moving.” “And in a week, I’ll be headed back to San Francisco and my crazy ex, you’ll be in Kansas City, and…” “No more bedroom boogie,” said Karla. “For me, at least. You’ll still have your ex. I thought it was a general rule not to put your—” she coughed into one hand “—into crazy.” “They never say why that rule has to be said. It’s because crazy is a ton of fun.” “Really?” Karla changed lanes again to get around a slow truck, then put the cruise control back on again. She drove the RV in silence for a while with only a few sips of soda, obviously thinking before she added, “How? I mean if you want to tell me. Since we’re not going to do that again, I might as well find out.” It took some time, but eventually Karla convinced him to ‘spill’ about the first years of his marriage, and the crazy that it entailed. After all, she had a point. There was no way he would have told some of his experiences to a non-intimate partner, and although that particular ship had sailed, burned, and sank in the matter of a few hours, it had still sailed, and the stories behind his former marriage were too good not to share. Although with only certain people. The stories were not totally one-sided, because Karla had a few doozies of her own that most certainly had not come out during her chatty talks with the Equestrians. It was a raunchy conversation that lasted hours and did a lot to ease the tension caused by their morning indiscretion, but came to an abrupt halt when Dakota realized something during his frequent checks over his shoulder to make sure Claire and Widget were still sleeping in back. “... and then Clyde says to the Senator—” “Just a minute, Karla. I just realized something. I haven’t seen Goose’s tail hanging down from the cabover in some time,” said Dakota while looking behind them, keeping his voice pitched low. “Goose, how long have you been awake and listening to us?” “Just a few hours,” came Goose’s melodic mezzo-soprano voice in return. The batpony poked her head out of the cabover section and looked Dakota straight in the eyes—although upside-down—before continuing, “I knew what you were doing before we came back, because I could smell it all over the Arr Vee. Are you two going to have foals?”