As tempted as Fokienia was to take the disabler platform with her into the city, she needed to show a little more discretion in this populated zone; she knew at the very least that ponies weren’t supposed to brazenly carry weapons around. She left the disabler in the corner, and trot back over to the couch.
She pulled Cold’s bag off of him. It slid against his jacket rather loudly. He didn’t react, but she was sure he hadn’t fallen asleep that fast. “You should be safe here. If anypony comes by, don’t worry.”
He grunted. “Stay out of trouble.”
That was the idea. She set the bag down, and slid the remaining disablers under the couch. It freed up most of the bag’s volume, but if she was going unarmed, there was one item in particular she wanted to hang onto.
She pulled the white, boxy scanner from the bag. A quick check confirmed that it was still working. She stared at the screen, watching a sole blip blink at the center. No other marks appeared. She sighed, stowed it in the bag, and slipped it all over her neck. It came to a rest near her flank. A distance of a hundred hooves was practically nothing in an open environment, but it wasn’t going to hurt her to bring the scanner along. Shutting the room’s light off, she stepped back through the unblocked doorway.
At the edge of the rooftop, she held her ears high. This dusty part of Cypress Station had come alive in her absence, and sounded with ponies and labor. The low whines of distant machinery lulled her softly to the wooden board-bridge. She started down the ramshackle path to the city, her metal hooves clanking on both concrete and steel. With how steep the descent was, and given that she wasn’t willing to slow down, her noise couldn’t be helped. It at least blended into the city soundscape.
Fokienia grumbled. Having to search for food was downright aggravating. The need for sleep was something she could put up with satisfying, but she hated eating. In her eyes, it was a complete waste of time: it was a biological process that technology allowed her to bypass. Her work relied on her moving at one steady pace, and having to eat often conflicted with the task at hoof. She fell back into quiet: the kirin was relying on her for the time being, and she wasn’t going to let an empty refrigerator be his downfall.
She crept up to the corner of one of the buildings, where some of the morning crowd had gathered. A stallion was tending to a buzzing cart-fryer out front, and from within a tight alcove behind him, more frying—and whistling—could be heard. Steam rose forth in roiling waves. The cook set the crisp-filled basket into the boiling oil well, and wiped at his brow with a nearby cloth. Fokienia was sure that the smell of hay-crisps would’ve tempted any hungry pony, but she wasn’t anything like the ponies in the constant line of customers. Slinking back into the alley, she wound to the backside of the building. An electronic gate fell prey to her devices, and she clicked it shut behind her.
Hoarded around the fenced-in yard was a group of latticed polymer crates, which she could assume had been taken from inside the actual building. Stacked neatly within the crates were packaged food rations and snacks. She slung Cold’s bag into one of the empty crates, and began picking at what few items were there. Most of the items here had come past their labeled expiration dates, but they weren’t going to waste, especially with scavengers like her.
She’d ‘run’ into others at collection points like this one—she’d seen them, but they had never seen her—including visitors of the mechanical variety: hovering metal machines with identification markings and the word ‘Reprocessing’ painted on their sides. They emptied the crates from shelves wholesale, leaving nothing behind. Ponies could be wasteful, but that didn’t mean they weren’t resourceful: somepony of a higher authority had built those machines, and whether they had intended to or not, it deprived others access to those same resources. She hadn’t seen any other scavengers fight, but there was always desperation and conflict in the arguments she’d come across, and one pony always went away empty-hooved. It was a small example of how close life in Cypress came to hers in confinement.
Fokienia checked the air above the area every so often. She saw nothing but pegasi. With only two mouths to feed, she wrapped up quickly. She returned Cold’s bag to her back, and left the collection yard a little lighter on supply.
She stopped in the alley again to check the white implant scanner. Again, the single blip on the screen ogled her unerringly. She huffed at the device, flicked it off, and stuffed it back into its place. Another scan through the walls. Ponies en masse, but none approaching her. For the moment, she was alone, and could make the journey back to Cold and her hideout unhindered.
So why wasn’t she moving? Fokienia tensed up, and performed yet another survey. Nothing. Was something wrong? She touched a hoof to her temple; her neurostimulator had nothing to say.
Her brows burrowed deeper by the second. She fell back on her other senses, and rested her eyes. The motion of her eyes closing forced a wince from her; the constant, invisible strain had disappeared. For once, a surprise left her pleased; the optical implants in her eyes had shut off with a bit of focus, just as she’d learned to do with her other augmentations. Relaxing, she listened.
For the war machine on the run, the city was as loud as her firing range. Before Fokienia had discovered her hideaway, she’d spent the first day in perpetual torment, struggling to find a moment to sit still. The distant tones of voices and laughter no longer kept her on edge, and the hissing and humming of electrical equipment actually brought on a degree of comfort. Friendly ‘thank yous’ came from just around the corner. Further on, metal crashed against metal, caught in the throes of construction and craftsmareship. Hooves trod everywhere, all unshackled, all at their own pace. The city was steady and routine, and despite the existence the ponies here faced, they lived the best lives they could. They conformed to the authority of the city above them, and still had the strength and will to live day-to-day in their loud little home.
Fokienia wondered if they had the same desire as her to see the world outside, to see ‘space’ and the ‘galaxy’. Her desires to escape hadn’t left her, but there was still value to this home not far from her own.
As she opened her eyes, her optical implants reawakened. She thought about the other truths Cold had delivered to her, as well as the feelings he’d confirmed. She looked to her hooves, the wrong ones. She lifted her right foreleg, and stared at its hard, unblemished surface. Rinds of actuators and grooves met her. This had been the first hoof: they hadn’t given her both at the same time. It had been a long, long time since then, and a process to get there. The weightiness of them was something they’d worked down on over the years—especially after many complaints from her—but they still had an unnatural sway if she idled off them for too long. There was a lot of technology in her hooves, necessitating techniques she’d had to personally develop, and all of it was beyond her understanding. Sometimes, on the rare occasion that she had to be awake for engineering protocols, the technicians joked that her hooves were so augmented that they had implants of their own. The memories forced a smile to rise, and fall.
She wondered if those ponies knew how right they were.
A bit of thought put her mind in her hooves, and she counted off the reserves of chemicals within. “Enough for basic operations,” she mumbled. “Need a resupply.” Something she’d have to source locally: there was no medical officer in the city for her to speak with. She set her hoof back down.
Wait. Fokienia raised her head, and cocked her ears back down the alley. Maybe she was wrong about that. The Facility was its own kind of city, a microcosm of habitation, and ponies. Out of all the ponies here, surely at least one of them was a doctor. Or at the very least, somepony who could provide her with the chemicals and synthesis she required. The only way to find out was to search deeper into the city. Search the city away from the safe outer edges.
Having turned her body to face the outside of the alley, she again looked to her hooves. The grays stood out against her apricot colored hindlegs, but meshed perfectly with her black jumpsuit. She was built to look intimidating, and she knew it. Yet, blowing her cover was something she’d been trained to avoid. She didn’t have practice in a dense urban environment like this. She didn’t have the gear, the awareness, the reinforcements to…
Fokienia snapped her mouth shut. “Idiot,” she muttered. That was another thing that went against her training.
No, it was all bad discipline, but the training also went against what was right. Adaptation was what the instructors and courses had tried to strip and pry from the mare behind steel hooves. They had kept a tighter leash on her than most, keeping her from real missions for reasons left unclear. Yet, she knew for a fact that she lacked the significant loyalty ponies like Sequoia held, and now she was free. A single mare, augmented. A support in the backdrop, but a sturdy bulwark on her own. A silent force that went unseen. She was powerful when she was alone, because she could operate on her own terms. They wanted her to stay in hiding, because nopony else could control her the way that they did. She hadn’t been kept so isolated from other ponies because she appeared to be an ever-present threat, it was because she was an ever-present threat. A free thinking mare, unsatisfied by orders and chains of command. A mare who could make ponies bend to her force. Ever so slowly, Fokienia straightened out.
She ordered herself forward.
Nopony bat an eye as the mare in the black jumpsuit strode out of the alley and into the adjoining street. Fokienia’s heart thud wildly, but nopony heard. Nopony saw. She was a free pony among the rest. She stopped for a moment, looked around, and started walking.
In the morning, she was typically roused from her bio-pod by depressurizing tubing. The disconnection of the supply lines that fed her the boosters and supplements that kept her energy up and active for the day’s work. Sometimes, there were mandatory mealtimes at the canteen, but since she’d filled out into a mare, those were few and far between for her. Still, in the time she’d spent in the city, she’d started to learn more about what was typically expected from ‘normal’ everyday ponies, and it was much, much different. Yet beyond these changes, at the very root of their cycle, their day and its tides still swung the same as hers.
There was no single organized commissary like the ones the engineers and instructors had. The city underneath was a wellspring of organized chaos: close to the edges of the city, shops spread far and wide, the division of business and home mysteriously misplaced. She could see ponies behind windows moving to their workplace just below, where sometimes a family member or close friend worked their entrance open. If there was any kind of authority in charge here, they either didn’t care, or they saw no need to strictly moderate the activities of these ponies. All kinds of businesses operated, from the typical flower shops to the artisan stores, and they worked on their own unwritten accords. Of course, there were also the restaurants and food stands she’d already come across.
As she advanced past more rows of housing, the dusty streets gave way to wide, solid plating, and the occasional slab of concrete sidewalk. Nopony paid heed as she shuffled herself into the walking crowds. This was the true working heart of the city: workshops fumed and clanked; shouts and yells rang amid workers. Most of the pegasi trot among the grounded ponies, few daring to soar in the billowing clouds of smoke and ash. Still, through the patches of smoky cloud cover, she spotted some flying high above. The more established and commercial businesses also held ground here: foals pressed to the glass of shop windows, while some ponies paid at the tills of the grocers scattered about. Nopony appeared to mind the ever-present smog overhead, save for a few coughs here and there, and Fokienia didn’t know why. Ponies of young to old lived here, and all they had to shield them from the bellowing industries of the city were large, roaring, electric fans that blew steady gusts upward.
Further up the street, the smoke parted ways. Curious, she trot around the corner of the row of buildings and toward the thinned sky. Her gait fell short, and she froze at a complete stop. Beams of warm light cast themselves down on her as she stared into the long, endless stretch of white light and clean air. Her eyes however, ended up much closer to the earth than the sky.
Trees.
Fokienia trembled, hoof to jaw. From the corner of her eye, she saw smiles aimed her way. She paid them no mind. A tree-clustered orchard of green had stumbled its way into the city, reaching as far as it was wide. Not only were there trees, but there was grass. Honest-to-Celestia grass! Still stricken, she managed to keep herself from falling her way down the dirt paths carved through the land. Other ponies trot with her here, but they were neither close nor numerous enough to call the place crowded. Her hindlegs quivered with each step, and yet her heart beat calmly.
A few wooden benches—carved in a style that was a far cry from the standard metal frames of the city’s own—were placed along the path every now and then. Yet, Fokienia hardly found a reason to stop walking: there was no dust or grit that ground into her hooves. The soft clumps of earth pressed up against her each step; it felt as if she could fall in at any moment, and she was increasingly tempted to. She kept moving, desperate to walk as much of the land as she could. There were no doors or walls, only the road, and a sweet, effervescent smell that came from below.
Her eyes roamed the whole while. The trees’ branches hung high up, sometimes reaching over the path. Above, even fewer pegasi flew here, but the ones that did wove slow, mesmerizing motions into the sky. She watched until a gasp escaped her: there were clouds, and they were being shepherded around by the pegasi. White, fluffy things, they seemed so fragile and delicate, but still, the pegasi kicked and punched at them, shaping and shifting them. A pair of pegasi flew directly overhead, passing her with their clouds as cargo. A wet drop of fluid plopped against her jumpsuit on her back, pattering against the suit and its synthetic fabric with a fat splash. She peered back, watching the water dribble down her side.
Fokienia’s ears prickled and turned. The sound of carving came from nearby. She left the path behind, treading now on the grass proper. She kept her steps as light as she could, following the sound into the trees, and deeper into the veritable forest. The soundscape of the city fell away underneath the canopy of thick, vibrant leaves, leaving only rustling, the whispers of folded grass below hooves, and the ever-faint croaking of growing bark.
Then, she came across the source of the sound: a pony. He worked diligently with a long pole, which ended with a sawtooth, scythe-shaped blade. The earth pony worked the pole back and forth with his mouth, an impressive feat despite his tribe. His gray mane and tail were stained with lengths of silver, and his coat rough and patchy beneath the faded green vest he wore. Occasionally, he grunted, but said nothing, even when his ears tweaked her way. Fokienia followed the blade to what he worked against: a gnarled branch that curled down toward the ground. With the reaper at its neck, it wasn’t long for this world.
“Why are you cutting that branch down?” Her voice was sharp, yet flat.
The pony grunted, slowed, and in one swift movement, plucked the teeth of his tool from the branch. He swung his head and body around, but kept the tool pointed up. Tilting his neck, he loosened his working muscles, and set the scythe against the tree. It fell the rest of the way to the earth, where it slightly dug into the grass beside the tree’s lengthy roots.
“S’good for the trees,” the pony answered. His voice was deep and grizzly, but not raspy. He spit into the grass, and focused on dusting his vest off with a hoof. His eyes had still not met her stare. “That, and I get paid for it.” Finally, he looked up, and his eyes went from droopy to wide. “O-oh, ma’am. Hello.”
Fokienia cocked her head at his behavior. “Hello.” Again, she looked at the branch. It was barely clinging on. She frowned. “How is it good for the trees?”
The pony followed her gaze, and looked back with a frown of his own. It was nowhere near as deep as hers, though. “Keeps ‘em growing strong. And the branches come back, you know.”
“I don’t know.”
He blinked. “Oh… well.” His voice fell away for a moment. “I um, don’t take this the wrong way, miss. I know this is a free station and all, but are you lost? Cypress Central is a long ways from here.”
Fokienia looked away from the trees. Her hooves remained planted to the earth as she spoke. “Why would I want to go to ‘Cypress Central’?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I mistook you for a mare of the law, if you know what I mean.”
The hair on the back of her neck spiked. “Concord?”
“No, I er… a mercenary.” He set his hoof down, and blinked. “You’re certainly not from around here.”
But close. “Kind of. I was born on Cypress.” She decided to let the term ‘mercenary’ go for now.
The stallion’s brows rose. “And you ain’t ever been to one of the groves?”
“Groves?”
His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment. “I… the groves like this one. This here is the grove for Cupresso. The Cupresso Grove, if you will.”
“And you work here?”
“Yes’m. Most of my life, for a fact.” His withers loosened, and a tiny smile cracked his lips. “Groundskeepers like me have to take care of the trees, see?”
“I saw.”
“You ever work with the land, ma’am?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped. Her eyes had drifted to the trees again, and when she looked back at the stallion, his look had fallen to her forelegs. She rose one to her chest and gave the stallion a flat glare. Were all ponies going to obsess over her hooves?
“I-I didn’t mean to stare, I’m sorry.” He lowered his reactive, placating hoof. “And uh. I’m real sorry. For your loss.”
The statement caught her off-guard. “It’s um, fine.” She brought her leg back down. “I lost them when I was a foal.”
“A foal?” The stallion made some kind of motion, reaching quickly to his mane, then pressing his hoof to his breast. “Oh, miss, I can’t even begin to imagine…”
“They said they couldn’t be saved,” she responded briskly. Both her voice and eyes glazed over. Her mind reached for the distant memories and their information. “The afflicted nerves were destroyed by a rare neurodegenerative disease. My legs suffered from atrophy, and saw later substitution.”
The stallion just bowed his head.
Fokienia shook, and filled her voice with all the life as she could muster. “But to answer your question, no, I have never ‘worked’ with the land.”
“…I just can’t.” The stallion sighed, and lifted his head. “Can you at least talk to the land with your… other hooves?”
“Talk to the land?”
He hesitated. “Can I show you?”
She blinked. “Okay.”
The stallion approached her carefully, though his age had nothing to do with it. “It’s a little exercise I used to do… for my grandfoals.” Timidly, he stepped to her side. “Do you mind if I… touch your hooves? I promise, ma’am, I—”
“Go ahead.”
He nodded, and descended to his belly. She watched him as he reached for her hindleg, lifted it, and placed it against his hoof, frog-to-frog. His other foreleg seemed to squeeze into the earth. For a moment, she stood there, her hindleg lifted comfortably, but her body left trapped in the admittedly awkward moment.
Then, she felt a pulse.
“I felt it,” she announced.
“Yes.” The stallion grinned. “Yes, you did.”
Again, she felt the pulse. It was stronger, and distinctly non-equine; this was no heart she knew. It ran through her hoof and up toward her hindquarters. Not quite electric: it was much more slow, syrupy. Still, it made her hoof ache, and her whole leg quiver.
The stallion hummed appreciatively. “And that was… very good. You have a strong connection to the land.” He gently set her hoof down, and started to rise.
Fokienia watched him with newfound respect. “How did you do that?”
“Just a smidge of magic,” he started. “A bit like the difference ‘tween a straw and a drink. A little bridge.”
“And the pulse was… talking?”
He nodded. “Something like that. It’s not something anypony can force. Not all of us spend our time in nature and the proverbial fields like I do. But every earth pony can talk to the land given enough practice, or so I’m led to believe. It used to be our way of life, as you might know.”
She knew that earth ponies had once held a connection with the soil of Equestria, but she hadn’t felt it like this. “Data-banks don’t teach much about tradition. Just the facts.”
The groundskeeper shook his head, frowning. “Tradition is just as real as the hydroponic growbeds we make most our food in.”
Fokienia paused. “I know that, now.”
“And besides, there’s no better way to learn than doing.” His frown gave way to a laugh. “Just give it a go. Focus on the grass beneath you. The dirt. The roots of the trees around us. Try and talk. Even a nudge is more than nothing.”
She pressed her hindlegs into the earth and stared forward. “Like this?” The stallion didn’t reply. Tentatively, she closed her eyes. She tried to think about what he said, all of the things he’d mentioned. Focusing, she blocked out everything but the world beneath her hooves.
Silence.
The stallion matched her dejected look with a small smile. “It’s alright if you don’t get it your first try. This business takes some time, ma’am.”
She shook her hooves, and trot in place for a moment. A little dirt sprayed from where her steel hooves had sunk in. “What purpose does it serve?”
“Purpose?” he snorted. “Oh, everything we do with the land is so much easier, and fruitful, when its willing, miss. When you work together with the earth, and you let it know that what you’re doing is for the good work, it’ll give as much as you put in.”
She looked to the lonesome outcast, sprouting down and away from its brethren, weakened, but undefeated.
“And sometimes,” the stallion chuckled, “the world just likes to be a little stubborn.”
Fokienia met his eyes. “I like you.”
He blinked.
“My name is Fokienia.” She offered an augmented hoof to him. He wavered briefly, then bumped it. “Thank you for the information.”
“…Greenhooves. And anytime, ma’am.”
She eyed the branch. “Are you going to finish that?”
“Eh,” he shrugged. “He’s a tough feller. He’s earned some time to see the world a little longer. And I figure you still look like a lost mare.”
A blush lit Fokienia’s cheeks. The thought of blushing made it even worse! “W-well, I could use some directions.”
“O’course. Anyplace in mind?”
“Yes… somewhere with a medical technician. Or preferably, a chemist.”
“Well, Miss Fokienia, in the middle of Cupresso, you’re about as far as you can get from all that science. But it’s a good place to start...”
She squeezed her forelegs into the ground, and warmly glowed.
Cold hummed. It was a small working ditty. Which ponies had he sourced it from: the shipbreaking outfit from the moon of Telfire, or the loading crews at the old station proper? With his eyes still sealed shut, he tried to imagine the working conditions. It’d been a long time since those days, but the visuals came easy. A smile crossed his lips while he hummed, remembering the first ship he’d purchased with his bits. A fair little vessel, that N-4 Lark…
He stopped, and opened his eyes. The buzzing sank in quick, and it made him sit up and scratch at his ear. He was supposed to be sleeping, not digging through old memories. That pony… that Fokienia had really wound him up in this adventure. Cold groaned. He knew she was severely lacking in the history department still, but did he really need to share his history with her? At least what he’d given her was enough to sate her interests.
Then, there was her own history. He knew better than to dig into her for it, but with his future prospects on hold, he needed more. That Sequoia… he was a huge, lumbering pony like her. Yet, they didn’t seem to be biologically related. That built on top of the fact that they were ‘augmented’: they weren’t like normal ponies at all. There was a real truth to Fokienia’s current predicament, but it was buried beneath the harsh façade she wore, and in a fragile ego swelling below. From the way she spoke, he wasn’t even completely sure that she could trust her own word. She was confident in what she did, but when it happened upon what came next, it was clear she had no idea. She was honest in being the kind of pony that wanted to have that control, and she did need the help to get there. He’d already helped her learn more about the galaxy they lived in, but it left more questions for him, and he was sure it was the same way for her: what kind of pony sheltered a mare like her from the stars and the universe? Her past was full of ponies of… lesser-quality, evidently.
Cold lifted his head from the couch just high enough to look out the window. The sky was dark despite the time of ‘day’: the black, blue, and browned steel left few faces open to natural rock. The walls crept up three dozen stories high, but the buildings below stretched upward four floors at most. The false sky served as the concealment for the station’s inner-workings, and as the first of many barriers for the fragile spirits shielded by its walls, keeping space out, and magic in. Even there, ponies were assuredly working to hold that atmosphere. Before he’d even wanted to fly from star to star, working in atmospherics was one of the few station jobs he’d considered working as a lifelong career: those ‘atmos techs’ were the kind who kept life going for them all. They were unsung heroes for void dwellers, even if most dwellers didn’t see them like that. Magic did not permeate the universe, but those ponies made sure it was there for those who needed it most.
That was enough thinking about the past; he really needed to sleep. He hummed again, and rested his head. It was a pony pop song, a personal favorite. It would do the trick. Slowly, his song faded, and so too did the droning buzz of the refrigerator. Sound dripped from the room, and it alighted on a peaceful quiet. Cold slept, and dreamed of ponies.
As if struck by a belt of time dilation, a pony woke him soon into his dreams.
The heavy hoof-falls made him shoot up, and he stumbled from the couch to stare at the door. The figure was draped with shadows from the doorway, and they stared at him. Cold started to fall back a few steps, and—
“Cold?”
“Fokienia!” he gasped. He managed to find the light switch, and flicked it on, just to make sure it was her. Sure enough, it was the same apricot mare, though she was watching him oddly. “By the Stream. You’re back so soon?”
She blinked, then started into the room. “Soon? I’ve been gone for a few hours at least.” She unslung the rather weighty bag from her back beside the refrigerator, and gave Cold a glance. “Are you feeling alright?”
He wiped at his dust-kissed eyes. “Sorry. You just uh… scared me.”
She flinched. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay…” He shook his head. He wasn’t used to waking up with company, but by his own standards, his reaction was a lot. “Did you get the things you were looking for?”
“I have food,” she answered. From the bag, she pulled a few crinkly packages. Cold relaxed; it was the kind of food you’d find in a convenience store, not something as bad as the word ‘scavenging’ implied. “There were some other things I needed, but I didn’t feel the need to apply force.” She paused. “Especially on… innocent ponies.”
Huh. “That’s good, I guess?”
“Yes. It is.” She said no more, and started placing some of the packages into the unit.
It would be best to not let it get awkward. “So… have you come up with an idea of where we’re going from this point onward?” He tried not to think about the current whereabouts of his ship; if Concord was after him as well, sending the ship to the storage bays wasn’t a complete safety guarantee.
“As best I am aware, we are currently in Cupresso, a subsection of Cypress Station.” Fokienia shut the fridge, and set a package out on top of the unit. “I want to go to Cypress Central.” She pushed the package toward him, and sat down with her own.
Cold blinked, and sat as well. He lifted the package with his levitation. “How did you learn about all of that?”
“I walked around the city.”
“You did? I thought you said—”
“And I spoke with a groundskeeper in Cupresso Grove.” A tiny smile tipped over her lips.
A grove? But those were in the middle of each residential zone.“…That doesn’t seem very low profile, Fokienia.”
Fokienia ignored him; she ripped through seal of her package with a swift twist of her neck, muscles rippling. The tearing sound reamed through the room. She spat the packaging to the side. “Can you get me to Cypress Central?”
Sweet Blaze. Cold—instead of following her example—gingerly tore into his meal with his magic. He drew out a packaged sandwich of some kind. “I, er, yes. But I’d like to get some things for myself from here.” She raised an eyebrow at that, and he quickly continued. “I could also grab the things you need, within reason. It’s just… I really need a new PDA. I can barely function on-station without it.”
She nodded, “Okay,” and chomped.
“Why do you want to go to Cypress Central?”
“The groundskeeper said it was the administration hub for Cypress.” She spoke through the mouthful, then swallowed. “Oh, and he mentioned that Cypress Station was a space station.” She hesitated. “Are we really in space?”
Cold frowned. “Yes. And also, given how big this station is, the ‘station’ classification is heavily outdated. It’s more of a habitat than a station.” He waved a hoof. “That’s just my semantics, though. What use would you have for going to station administration?”
“A habitat…” Fokienia dramatically slowed down. Her ears twitched while she munched in thought. Finally, she spoke. “On your ship, you said there were hundreds of thousands of ponies under Concord oversight. I believed you, because I was told there were about two-thousand ponies in total aboard Cypress… the groundskeeper informed me that wasn’t the case, and given the size of Cupresso Grove, I believe him.” She lowered her meal. Her yellow, blue-glazed eyes watched him. “Do you know the current scale of the station population, Cold?”
Five major docking hubs, five separate cities. Even without a PDA, he had a decent idea of the answer, but it was clear from Fokienia’s look that she already knew.
“He placed it at an estimate of five-hundred thousand. Ten to the fifth power. Half a million. Five zeroes.” She blinked. “I’m no stranger to secrets, Cold. Everything about me is confidential, even for the ponies who work on me. My espionage training informs me that an operation of this scale requires significant backing, politically and financially. I want to see the ponies who control such a population. A population the size of Equestria during Princess Celestia’s reign. And I want to know why.”
Cold lowered his food.
Fokienia’s eyes came away, and life returned to her voice. “Why did they choose me?” she finished.
The refrigeration unit hummed, and the ceiling light buzzed.
“I guess… that’s as good a reason as any.” He put on a weak smile. “But we’d have to take the main bus. There’s probably some elevators around here that can take us back up to the transport system.”
“That’s fine,” she numbly replied.
“…Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She returned to eating her food. They were tiny nibbles, though. “I don’t have to hide from these ponies. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
Cold watched her for a moment. “I think you should rest for a while, Fokienia.” She swallowed to speak, but he cut in. “Or talk to me. You’re not the only pony with a lot on their plate right now.”
She slumped. “We really shouldn’t stay here for long, Cold.”
“Then we’ll wait as long as we can.” He gestured at the fridge. “You’ve earned yourself a break.”
Again, silence.
Sighing, Cold finished off his sandwich. He wiped his mouth with the cuff of his jacket, then stood. “So we’ll do a little shopping, maybe come back here to rest and regroup, then see about getting to Cypress Central before the day’s end. That a sound enough plan?”
Fokienia grunted. That was it.
“Alright just… take your time.” Cold lingered by her briefly. He moved over to the window to look out. “I’d guess we still have some time before noon.”
Trying to avoid looking over his shoulder was difficult. With how mopey the mare could turn, he was starting to really worry for what was happening in her head. Staying productive was one thing Cold prized, but even he felt the urge to seek recreation. Unfortunately, he had a feeling Fokienia rarely had time for that in the life she lived. Maybe when they got to Cypress Central, things would simmer down. Fokienia had seemed pleased with her visit to the Cupresso Grove; there was a grove in Central too, or more of a park than anything. The mare behind him could do with some more smiles in her life.
The fridge door slid open, and more ripping filled the room.
“I should’ve picked up some drinks…”
Cold spun, and sat on the couch. Fokienia was delving into her food ferociously. Good. “Once I have access to my bits again, we can pick some up.”
Fokienia gave him a wary side-eye, and continued to carve away at her meal. “Are you okay with spending bits? Aren’t those hard to come by?”
He waved a hoof. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got plenty of assets, liquid and otherwise.”
Her eye only hardened. “Are you a wealthy pony, Cold?”
Cold couldn’t help but give a broad laugh at that. Fokienia didn’t seem pleased by it, but really: him, wealthy? “I wouldn’t be running cargo on the outer-rim if I was wealthy, Fokienia.”
“But you own that ship, don’t you? It has a reactor. I know a reactor can’t be cheap.”
“The Waste Peddler is as valuable as his namesake.” Cold grinned. “He might be a strong, spacious brute, but he’s unarmed, and stripped down for silent-running. Compared to some of the combat ships that lower-ranking officers of Concord pilot, he’s cheap trash.”
Fokienia polished off her food with a few final bites. “Except for what ‘he’ carries.”
Cold’s lips fell to a flat, pursed line. “Yeah. Except for the cargo.”
She stood, and dusted the front of her jumpsuit with a foreleg. “I put the disablers under the couch. Could you bring them out?”
Well, he couldn’t say no. “What do you need them for?” He reached in with his magic, felt around for a moment, then pulled the small-arms out across the floor. Despite the fact that he’d taken five disablers from the retrieval unit, lugging them around had been a lot easier than expected.
Fokienia met his collection in the middle of the room. She was cradling the disabler harness. She dropped it into the pile without fanfare. “Taking what we need, and leaving the rest.”
He stood. “…So we’re not coming back.”
“We can rest when we reach Cypress Central.”
“Why the change in plans?” He scratched at his neck with a cloven hoof, watching as Fokienia—now prone—began methodically field-stripping the disablers. “Bad feeling?”
Her upper lip twitched. “You could say that.”
He shook his head. He’d have to find time to get her to relax at some point. “Need help with that?”
She gestured for him to sit, and he did. “Have you ever taken apart a disabler?”
“Sure, a long time ago.” He plucked the disabler harness with his magic. It was his own equipment, but he knew it would have to stay. Still, he couldn’t say he was sad to see it go. “It’ll take a second to remember.”
Fokienia tapped one of her steel hooves. “If you need help, I’m here.”
Huddled over the pile of weapons, Cold tried not to punch-up the circumstances. But even though things were fine on the surface level, the cyborg’s words soaked deep into his mind. The infractions were accumulating, and while Fokienia was nowhere near a downright criminal, he knew the difference wouldn’t be night and day to the authorities: Cold had a feeling that their interaction with station administration was going to be all but peaceful. It was only a matter of time before history repeated itself, and he truly joined the mare in exile. Yet, those thoughts brought a degree of peace and understanding to the situation.
Cold was a kirin: exodus was in his blood. Fokienia had tasted it, but Cold had lived with it. Yes, what she needed was a way to feel natural again. To feel at peace, no matter where she tread. To feel like a pony, amid trying times.
“I have a mare in my life, you know. I think you’d get along with her.”
Fokienia’s ears went up. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He nodded sagely. “All the pretty mares love shopping.”
Cold anticipated a punch, as Holly had given him before for similar comments, but he earned nothing. Instead, Fokienia smiled. “I’ll try to enjoy it, then.”
He was sure she would.