//------------------------------// // Chapter 11: Run Lyra Run // Story: Celestia Sleeps In // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Celestia Sleeps In Chapter 11—Run Lyra Run Admiral Biscuit Dale breathed a sigh of relief as he passed the geometry book over to Lyra. Both of them had struggled through it, and it was only their determination to finish it that carried them through. In retrospect, he would have done better to have just given it to her unopened—there were probably mathematicians aboard her ship who could have breezed right through it, and she could have brought back a translation of the mathematical symbols on her next visit. After sliding the book into her saddlebags, she pulled out a thin volume with her mouth. It looked very much like the first book she had given him: the one that had shown pictures of what he assumed were ordinary household objects. On the cover of this book were three creatures—a horned one, a winged one, and a plain one. The first page of the book showed a cutaway view. Unlike the other two books she’d shown him, this page held the most realistic drawing he’d seen yet. It reminded him of a sketch by DaVinci. Muscle groups were clearly highlighted, bones were shaded, and even the fur was realistically done. He looked back up at her for a moment. The drawing in the book confirmed what he’d begun to suspect—she was, in fact, nude. It was an uncomfortable surprise. He’d sat with her on the beach for hours; he’d even shared a meal with her a few hours ago, and all this time she hadn’t been wearing anything. Animals don’t wear clothing. There’s no reason to be embarrassed, he thought. But animals don’t come to earth in a spaceship and sit on the beach and have a conversation and share sandwiches at lunch, he countered. People—and, I suppose, other intelligent species like hers—do that. And civilized species wear clothes. Even the apes in Planet of the Apes wore clothes. She has bags; how hard could it be to figure out how to make pants? And the guards were wearing armor! It didn’t make any sense at all. He sighed and turned his attention back to the book. The illustration on the first page seemed simple enough, even if there were only three words. Even without her translating, he could guess what they meant: gross anatomy, muscular structure, and skeletal structure. He dutifully copied down the words as she pointed to them and pronounced them carefully. When he had finished the first page, she turned to the second. This was the gross anatomy drawing, much like the one he had shown her in the visual dictionary. Interestingly, the whole-body drawing was of a plain pony, with no wings or horn, but on the left side of the page was a wing, and below that, a head with a horn. Does this mean that all three different types are the same species? The ones with wings, the ones like Lyra with horns, and the ones with both? Do they have three genders, and the wings and horn are the difference between them? Or are they unique, but related somehow, like humans and chimps? Could it be possible that the organs are prosthetic, added somehow to enhance them for a particular purpose, and that the ‘plain’ variety pictured in the center is their normal form? Or is that yet another variation of them which I haven’t seen yet, a fourth different kind? Lyra began with the wing, since it was at the top left corner of the page. She indicated each word, enunciating it carefully and slowly, to give him a chance to copy down the word exactly. It was a bit confusing, since he wasn’t really familiar with the anatomy of wings at all, so he had difficulty putting an English term next to her word. Did she have the same difficulty with human anatomy? Fingers and toes would be completely foreign to her, although she didn’t show much confusion when I pointed them out—maybe they know of a species which has separate digits on its hands and feet. She seemed to be paying more attention than she had previously, and—although it was difficult to be certain—treating him with a little more respect than she had previously. He wasn't sure what to make of this change of attitude. Maybe the earlier rain had just made her grouchy; she had seemed almost accusatory when it began. When she moved on to the head, she began tapping the relevant part of the drawing on her own body. The first word she taught him was the name of the horn—first pointing to the book, then touching her own. He was thankful that she had thought of it—some of the illustrated areas were less then clear. They did seem to name sections of the body in much the same way a human would—each major joint had a name, and each change of feature in the body also had a name. He wrote next to it in English what it would roughly correspond to on a terrestrial mammal; here, at least, he was on fairly familiar ground. He remembered that horses had their own unique names for their parts, but he could fix that later, at his leisure. While it might have made a biologist cringe, he was the one who had to understand his notes. Most of it seemed pretty straightforward, but when she indicated an area on the side of the hind leg—what he presumed would be roughly analogous to his thigh—he stopped her. The figure in the drawing had a symbol there, in much the same location as she did on her own hips. She said her word for it; Dale wrote down tattoo? Brand?  I saw a similar marking on the large one, he thought. And in the book she gave me, all the big ones had different marks on them, too. As much of their language as I’ve learned is alphagraphic, rather than symbols. Do they identify themselves by these marks? The only ones that didn’t have marks were the little ones, so maybe it’s a coming-of-age ritual for them to get these tattoos—assuming that they grow bigger with age. Would they even be called tattoos if they’re dyed into the fur? And if they are, do they have to be re-applied? Does she paint it on, like the makeup in Blade Runner, or do they have a way to change the pigment color at the roots? I suppose if they can use nano-technology to make color-changing hair like the big white one had, anything’s possible. He pointed to that spot on the drawing. “What cutie-mark?” She seemed to be considering. Dale wondered if he should just let it go—it was probably something that would be far too complicated to explain with their limited vocabulary—but he was curious, and Mrs. Hawkins, his fourth-grade teacher, had assured him many years ago that there were no stupid questions, only stupid people. He could attest to the stupid people, so she was probably on to something. Lyra touched her own mark, but that really wasn’t new information—she’d already pointed to it once, and it was pretty clear from the drawing where it was, too. Realizing this, she sketched out a small pony and a big pony, similar to the ones that were on the cover of the book. She pointed to the first. “No.” Next, she drew an arrow to the second, a star on its hind leg, and said, “Yes. Baby pony no cutie-mark big pony yes cutie-mark.” They are something they get as a mark of age or size, he thought. She apparently felt he needed further clarification. She took one of the uneaten mint plants off the table, then jumped off the cooler. She plucked a leaf off it, scratched a hole in the ground, dropped the leaf in, and covered it. She stepped back from the hole and began tapping her hoof on the ground slowly. Finally, she held the entire mint plant—sans one leaf—up above the disturbed earth. “Cutie-mark when big?” Dale looked at her curiously. He reached into his plastic trashbag and pulled the apple core out. Digging a small hole, he buried it, repeated the foot-tapping motion, then pointed to a full-grown tree, and back at the small mound of dirt. She nodded at him. So, he was on the right track. It was a mark of passage for when she got older. He was still curious how it got there, though. He took his ball-point and drew a star on the back of his hand. “Cutie-mark is tattoo? Pony make Lyra tattoo? Pony . . . um, words—write—Lyra cutie-mark?” She shook her head and frowned. Lyra stood by the cooler, shifting her weight, looking at him and then back at the ground. It looked to Dale as if she was having a mental argument, although he couldn’t imagine why. Finally, she walked around to his side of the table. She stopped about a foot from him, looking at the table and the chair, before turning around and backing up to the table. She had twisted her head sharply so that she could see where she was going, although she seemed to be keeping an eye on him, too. Dale sat motionless, hands on his knees. He didn’t know if she could buck like a terrestrial horse, but his shoulder still ached from where she’d hit it on the last visit, and seated in the chair as he was, there was no way he could avoid an attack if one was forthcoming. She stood still for a moment, then spoke. “Dale can hand cutie-mark.” Dale blinked. Is she asking me to . . . touch her? He lifted his hand and moved it towards her, pausing halfway. “Dale hand can cutie-mark.” she repeated, almost insistant. He felt more awkward than when he’d been in the back seat of his dad’s Buick Special station wagon on his second date with Betty VanPoprin. He slowly moved his hand forward. One part of his mind was telling him that he was a fool to continue, while the other part suggested that great things would happen once he screwed up his courage and took action—again, not at all dissimilar to that night. She sure seems tense, he thought just as his finger made contact with the golden fur. Both of them jerked away. Dale felt a slight warm tingle in his finger—not unpleasant, but unexpected. “Dale stop? Dale can no hand Lyra cutie-mark?” She shook her head. “Dale hand . . . funny. Dale can hand cutie-mark.” He touched it again, once again feeling the strange tingle—this time he was prepared for the sensation and, apparently, so was she. It wasn’t a static shock, because it didn’t go away. Besides the tingling, there was a strange warmth to it. It wasn’t just body heat, it was more vital. It was akin to feeling a heartbeat, or perhaps the gentle thrumming of a machine at work. Curious, he slid his finger off the mark, into her seafoam fur. Lyra stood motionless as he traced the outline of the symbol. He could feel no difference in texture as he crossed the border between the two colors, although the strange tingling sensation consistently recurred whenever he was touching the golden fur. Finally he pulled his hand back. She turned around to be facing him at a more comfortable angle. He wasn’t sure what to make of her demonstration. “Lyra make cutie-mark?” He pantomimed drawing the star on the back of his hand again. “Lyra no make cutie-mark.” She shook her head, reinforcing her statement. “Lyra—Lyra no Dale words now, Lyra Dale words there now.” Dale reflected on that. If he was understanding her correctly, there was something significant about the mark, but it was something that they didn’t have enough vocabulary to describe yet. Any other part of the body probably would have been straightforward. A leg was a leg, and its purpose was obvious. She moved back to the cooler and turned to the next page, where there were three more drawings. Had they been engineering drawings, he'd have called them isometric projections. There was an angled front view, an angled hind view, and a belly view. Each of those drawings indicated areas which could not clearly be seen from a straight side view. The last two drawings were different, and surprisingly graphic. Unless I’m completely missing my guess here, I suppose gender is determined the usual way in these creatures, too. She seemed to be having more difficulty indicating these parts on her own body. He could understand why; she could hardly see where she was pointing. Her sitting position gave her an advantage at pointing towards her belly—although, like the wings, there was an illustrated organ she was lacking—but too much movement would be required to illustrate anything specific on the hindquarters. It’s just as well, Dale reflected. That whole scene with her . . . tattoo had been really weird; there's no reason I need another close view of her anatomy. Maybe a little later, when we’ve established enough language to set firm boundaries about what each of our species expects in terms of modesty and personal space. Anthony moved up towards the treeline. He was about to step into the woods when he remembered he should probably report back what they’d seen so far—just in case. None of the other crew would think of it on their own. He walked back towards Cortez. “Why don’t you see how Kate’s doing?” “Yes sir.” Cortez seemed overly eager to comply. “Just find out if she’s seen anything, and then come back to the RBS. I want to send a message to the other boat, so they can relay it to the utility boat. You know, just about what we’ve seen so far.” “You got it.” Cortez half-jogged down the beach while Anthony shook his head. Like a puppy, eager to please its master. When he reached their boat, he gracefully pulled himself up the bow and walked back to the tiny enclosed cabin. He was happy to see Ryan appeared to be keeping a good eye on both the beach and the other RBS. “I already signaled them that we’d sent three ashore,” he told Anthony. “Good. Let’s tell them what we’ve seen so far. I’ll man the throttles, and tell you what to send.” “Ok.” Ryan released his harness and moved away from the throttles. Anthony debated strapping himself into the seat, as the regulations prescribed and decided not to. They were beached, so it wasn’t of much use. “How fast to the bottom are we?” “I’ve been backing her up a little bit every few minutes. She’s drifting slightly south.” “Good man. All right, first ask them what the ETA of the utility boat is.” Ryan nodded and began working the shutter. A minute later, he got his answer. “‘Bout 20 minutes.” “Ok.” Anthony tapped his fingers on the throttle levers absently. “Send this: Object about fifteen yards in diameter, and seven yards high. Appears perfectly smooth. No unusual odors or sounds. Completely stationary and unchanging. No visible source. Three undetermined objects on beach. Unexplored path into woods south of object. Recommend bring gun for forward mount from UTB and evidence kit. Call to expedite forensic team from Grand Rapids for additional assistance. Intend to have second RBS come ashore to help secure scene.” The clacking of the shutter was frustratingly slow. It wasn’t something that they used much, so nobody was particularly good at it, and there were practical limits to the speed of transmission, too. Anthony couldn’t remember the exact number, but it was something like twenty words per minute max—when he’d been trained to use it, they’d encouraged keeping messages as short as possible. The Navy had infra-red automatic signallers, which would have been a boon, but so far their boats had not been equipped with the new system, and it was possible that they never would be. They didn’t set up exclusionary zones around military ships, and they didn’t perform drug interdictions: they just rescued boaters who’d gotten in over their heads, and performed occasional safety inspections. The base commander was a bear for training, though; otherwise the boat would be tied up at the dock unless it was actually needed. Already, the officers were grumbling among themselves that if Congress couldn’t get its act together, next year they were going to be issued oars for all the boats instead of fuel for the motors. “Message understood,” Ryan said. “Do we want them to move in now, or wait until the utility boat arrives?” “Not much more they could do on the beach than we already are,” Anthony said. “I’d like to keep as few people as possible on the beach until we get an evidence kit. I’ll remind Cortez and Kate to try and only walk where they’ve already been.” “Do you think we should get the FBI in? Or DHS?” Anthony shook his head. “Let’s keep this local for now. I suppose eventually we might have to call them in, but for now I don’t see any reason to. There’s no evidence of a crime here, just a weird light.” “But you want the forensic team?” “Well, there’s something here. They’re more qualified to analyze it than we are—and I’d look a fool if I didn’t call them in, and we missed something obvious because of it.” “Ok.” Ryan took his hand off the signal lamp and moved back to the helmsman’s station, conscientiously refastening his harness. “You’re doing a good job, Ryan. Keep it up.” Anthony slapped him on the back and jumped off the bow of the boat. Trixie focused her newly-recovered magic on the stones holding the hinges, weakening them. She would have liked to just blow the door apart—it certainly would be far more satisfying—but she doubted she had enough magical energy left to do so, and she was sure she’d need to cast a few spells to make good her escape. She lashed forward with her forehooves, nearly tumbling into the corridor as the door tore out of the wall. Trixie glanced up and down the hall. As far as she knew, there was only one way to her cell, and there were a pair of guards blocking it. There was no need to be subtle; they’d undoubtedly heard the door crashing to the floor. Her only hope was to catch them by surprise. She was almost disappointed when there was no immediate hue and cry. As she turned the corner by their post, she was startled to see both of them were asleep. One had his head down on the desk and was drooling on the blotter, while the other was still on his hooves, leaning against the wall for support. Not one to turn down good fortune when it was presented, Trixie skidded to a halt, looking at the duo. She could take their armor. It would be a nearly foalproof disguise—unless the loss was reported. In that case, she would be in even more trouble than she already was. There were probably additional enchantments on the armor which made it easy to locate, and if the guards had any sense at all, they’d double or triple everypony on the watch, and be immediately suspicious of anypony wearing a guard’s uniform. Still—they seemed sound asleep; they were practically catatonic. And, she could always take off the armor later. She began gently stripping the standing pony. Using her magic, she tugged loose the girth strap on his saddle, gently levitating it aside. She had a moment of difficulty figuring out how his helmet was attached to the peytral, but eventually discovered the fasteners. She struggled getting her tail through the armor—she finally tugged it through with her teeth, wincing as a few stray hairs got stuck in seams in the croupiere. Just as she was about to put on the helmet, she remembered the shoes. Her disguise wouldn’t be complete without them. The question was, how to get them off the guard? She could probably get two hooves off the ground without him noticing, but most of his weight was on his other two legs; if she lifted them, he’d fall over, and that would wake him up for sure. She looked at the other guard. His forelegs were sprawled across the desk. She wasn’t sure if the shoes would work right as an unmatched set, but it was worth a try. She carefully slid her hoof behind the standing guard’s fetlock, and he involuntarily lifted his leg slightly—enough for her to pull the shoe off with her teeth. She repeated the process on his hind leg, before moving to the second guard. Finally finished, she cast a critical eye on her disguise. As expected, it worked perfectly, although the change in her appearance was alarming. No longer the dirty blue showmare she’d been moments before; now her fur appeared a gleaming white, her formerly beautiful platinum mane was a royal blue, and—although she couldn’t see them—her irises had undoubtedly changed color, too. She began serenely walking through the hall, acting as if this was her normal patrol route, thinking about the best path to her objective. Once she got out of the basement, it would be easier. It was hard to focus her thoughts, though: her eyes kept crossing as she took in the new shape and color of her muzzle. Lyra had been grateful to find the foal’s anatomy book in her saddlebags. She had felt guilty that Dale had presented them with a marvelous book on his own anatomy, yet they had not reciprocated. Admittedly, it wasn’t nearly as nice as the one he had brought to their last meeting, but it would help make up for it, anyway. She was going to leave it with him at the end of the day, but she’d decided that there was no harm in going through it before she did. She breezed through the introductory pages—there really wasn’t much to see, anyway. The initial drawing was meant to illustrate the different parts of a pony’s anatomy: the skeletal, muscular, and external structures. Octavia had mentioned that Twilight was hoping to get a real medical book to Dale, but it seemed that all the unicorns who specialized in copying books were otherwise occupied at the moment on an important matter for the Princess. It wasn’t too hard to guess what that ‘important matter’ was: she was sitting across from him. They made it most of the way through the first page without difficulty. She was startled to realize how many structures ponies had in common with humans. He had seemed a little puzzled by the wings, so she had decided to point to the appropriate area on her own body as she named it, just as she would have done for a foal. Of course, she couldn’t do that with the wings, but for everything else it would work. She had finally reached the cutie mark when he seemed to be having difficulty again. He tried a couple of names, but she could tell by the uncertainty in his voice that he wasn’t quite sure about what it was. Unfortunately, this was quite a difficult topic to explain, given the limited language they shared. It wasn’t a simple matter of naming it. It was so much a part of a pony—it was, in fact, what set ponies apart from all the other species. No other Equestrian species had cutie marks at all, except Zebras, and they were practically ponies. Strangely striped ponies that lived in the woods and savanna, but they still shared the same body. They were clever with their hooves—in fact, they were probably related to earth ponies. Just different, because of where their herds lived, just like the Saddle Arabians were taller and more slender. She couldn’t explain how she had one day been playing her lyre, and her horn began to glow softly, a strange globe of golden light at the very tip. A new song flowed out of her, sounding the strings at its whim. She suddenly felt a one-ness with Equestria as the pure melody—far beyond her prior talents—flowed forth from the wooden instrument. It was only when the song was finished that she discovered the new markings on her flanks, as pure a gold as the delicate leaf on her instrument. Her mother and father had been elated—her father, especially so, since he felt it proved the purity of his blood to anypony’s satisfaction—even to her mother. But after her cute-ceñera, she began to have her doubts. She’d really wanted to be a duellist, not a musician. All the fillies in her class were sympathetic—they’d all agreed that a cutie-mark was a symbol of what somepony was good at. There were days in her music class that she wondered if the mark had been a mistake, somehow, especially after she went four bars into a solo before realizing the key signature had changed. Finally, one night after her duelling class, she confessed how she was feeling to her maestro, and said she’d probably have to quit the class, since it was obvious she was doomed to be a musician for the rest of her life. Her maestro had been unsympathetic. She had led Lyra to her rock garden and given her a rake. Five minutes later, the rain started. Lyra spent the first hour working in a blind rage. It just wasn’t fair; she didn’t get the cutie mark she’d wanted, and now she was moving around stones in the rain with a rake held in her mouth. If anypony had it worse, she wanted to meet them. Finally, she zoned out entirely, and just kept raking until her maestro finally stopped her. “Look upon your work,” she said. Lyra looked. As expected, it was a bunch of raked lines in rocks. But then, unexpectedly, she saw it. It was more than the rocks, it was a collection of moments—the first, angry section, where the lines were sharp, followed by a smooth hypnotic section, and then a complex pattern through the middle, briefly interrupted by a sharp transition, before adopting all three patterns as it finally finished. “I see it,” she said excitedly. “Martial arts and music share the same principles, Lyra. Both wrestle with complex harmony and elusive melodies.” Her maestro touched her cutie mark briefly. “It may be the instrument, but you make the music, and it can be whatever you desire.” Lyra’s focus snapped back to the present. Could he feel some of the magic if he touched it himself? It wasn’t something that was normally done—given their magical nature, a cutie mark was only slightly less sensitive than a unicorn’s horn. Yet, there was a certain appeal to the idea: a symmetry, almost. Her initial displeasure at her cutie-mark had caused her maestro to impart a new wisdom on her—one which the fillies in her class certainly wouldn’t have—and she’d gone on to win awards and acclaim as a duelist, and now she was here with Dale; a progression of events which her cutie-mark had not predicted in the slightest. So, she moved over closer to him, and asked him to touch it. He moved his arm slowly and cautiously, as if he was afraid. She wondered if he feared close contact—she’d been trying to stay back from him, since it seemed to make him more comfortable. The first time they’d met, she was scared of him—she still was slightly apprehensive—but he’d been so patient and calm, she didn’t think he was much of a threat to her. Still, she’d seen Dale shy away when she moved too near, as if his kind didn’t like close contact. His touch, when it finally came, was unexpected. He was so tentative it was more of a tickle than a touch, and she involuntarily jerked away. Real smooth, Lyra. Now he’ll be scared of you again. She grit her teeth and tried a second time. He kept his hand on her for much longer than she would have expected. Finally, he took his hand away. It was a very strange sensation—not like a hoof at all. His finger was softer—like a tongue, almost—although it was still quite stiff. When he laid his palm on her, it suddenly came back to her just how big his hands were. She moved back to her side of the table, and they finished the book. He looked up at the sky, then tapped his silver bracelet.  Puzzled, she looked up too, finally locating the sun just above the tops of the trees. His bracelet must be a clock, she realized. The train conductors had pocket watches, but everypony else usually relied on the sun to tell them the time. She’d heard that Appeloosa had built a clock on a tower, so that everypony would know what time it was, but rumor had it that the buffalo had knocked it over. There was some talk about getting a tower for the Ponyville school, although a recent spate of construction disasters had given the anti-progressives more fodder at the monthly town planning meetings, and thus the clock tower was on hold for the foreseeable future. “Lyra away house there, Dale away house here. Lyra Dale here three?” She made the sunrise motions with her hooves three times. Dale nodded in agreement. She pushed the book over to him. “Lyra give Dale.” He nodded absently, as he put his notebooks back in his pack. He set it in the center of the table while she loaded her saddlebags. Watching her struggle, he moved to help her, taking her notes and carefully putting them into the bag. Finally, he picked them up. “Dale take there, Lyra take there home.” Lyra thought that was a fine idea—he’d unknowingly loaded one side heavier than the other, and she didn’t feel like going through the awkward ritual of strapping them on to her back without using her magic. Plus, while she walked to the beach, the buckle would be tearing at her fur the whole distance. It was hard not to gallop. Her every fiber cried out for speed—she should stretch her legs and enjoy her freedom while it lasted. Her traitorous mind insisted that if she didn’t run, she’d never get the chance again. She’d be locked back away—or worse—in a heartbeat. But she knew that to run would be to invite suspicion. The Royal Guards were trained to never run when there weren’t lives hanging in the balance. A lot of ponies were reactionary, so when a lead pony was running, others would follow, and nothing said ‘in charge’ quite like the guard’s uniforms, which tradition had kept the same for a thousand years. Even Luna’s thestrals wore the same uniforms as they had a millennia ago. Trixie passed by a servant levitating a stack of neatly-folded towels. She gave a polite nod, which the servant returned. Down here, the rooms weren’t as grand as they were above. There were no carpets running the length of the hallway, only flagstones polished by the hooves of countless generations of servants, performing the same duties day in and day out. Rather than be depressing, it gave a certain richness to the underchambers that the upper floors lacked. She continued on her path, trusting her instincts to guide her right. She occasionally risked a slight magical boost to her sight, even though she had very little range through the thick stone walls. She hoped it would keep her from running into a guard. After going up two flights of stairs she found herself in a pantry. She glanced around, but nopony seemed to be in the room with her. Sighing, she lowered herself to the ground, relaxing her shaking legs. She hadn’t anticipated how stressful escaping from prison would be. Spotting a bag of carrots on a nearby shelf, she floated them over and began munching on them, trying to chew as quietly as possible. While it was quite likely that guards occasionally hid out in the pantry for an illicit snack, Trixie didn’t want to be the one who was caught. Lyra first noticed a strange quiet throbbing—similar to the pulsing beat she’d heard during the night with on the beach with Celestia and the guards—and as they got closer, began to hear voices. Her ears were much more sensitive than Dale’s, and she could pick out fragments of conversation, while Dale continued to walk with his head slightly down, acting much like Twilight when she was deep in thought. Unsurprisingly, she was unable to make any sense of the distant voices. There were occasional words which she recognized, but for the most part, it was pure gibberish. Nevertheless, she was excited—here was her chance to meet more creatures like Dale. There might have also be a red-furred one—like in the counting book. Or—dare she hope—a horse? He’d seemed to indicate that they couldn’t come here, but maybe she’d misunderstood. If only her stomach didn’t hurt. She probably shouldn’t have eaten so much of his food at once. There was something in it that wasn’t sitting right at all. He reached the top of the path, and suddenly stopped. She moved up close to him, to get an idea what he was seeing. The first thing she noticed were the boats. There were three of them—the closest two were small boats surrounded by an orange fabric cover. One of them was sitting with its bow on the sandy shore, while the other was moving inland, and looked like it was also moving in for a beach landing. Each of them had a silver cabin with large windows, which was obviously meant to shelter the occupants. There were strong white letters along the side. How strange—these creatures feel the need to name everything. A banner was flying above the cabin of both. Farther out—perhaps a couple of miles—a third boat rocked in the waves. She wouldn’t have noticed it at all, but a flickering light was coming from it. It was hard to judge size, given the distance, but it seemed larger than the other two boats. It was painted a brilliant white color—since the sun was behind her, it was reflecting light marvelously. The flickering light was obviously a signal of some kind: it was not unlike the signals the unicorn guard and pegasus guard were exchanging before she left the reservoir. There were three creatures on the beach, all similar to Dale. They were hard to make out, since the leafy trees partially obscured her view. All three were wearing dark blue uniforms with bright orange vests—almost the same color as the fabric tube which surrounded the boats.  The closest one seemed similar in build to Dale, although his skin was a much darker color. Lyra had wondered about that—aside from the bright red creature in the counting book, all the other creatures Dale had shown her drawings of had been the same peach tone, although their manes had varied in color and style. It—probably a he—had a deeper tone of voice than even Dale. The second one—who was a halfway-color between Dale and the first—was carrying on a conversation. It occasionally pointed towards the water, and she thought it might be asking the first one for something. She still hadn’t figured out the full range of their motions, but the first one shook its head occasionally, and seemed less excitable than the second. Much farther away, a third one was standing near the bubble of the spell. It was smaller than the first two, and had different proportions. Lyra moved slightly off the path, in order to get a better line of sight to it. She couldn’t really tell because of the distance, but it looked much like the second creature whose anatomy Dale had identified; the one that they all assumed was female. Still, it was hard to be certain, as their clothes flattened curves which had been fairly obvious on the drawing. She wanted to run down onto the beach and meet them all, but it seemed best to let Dale go first—this was, after all, his planet, and he knew the local customs. Perhaps—as strange as it seemed—the stallions were in charge here, and the other creatures would be offended if she showed up first. The one she’d labeled the leader finished his conversation, if the way the second creature sulked off was any indication. The first one shook his head, then turned towards the woods for a moment. His eyes locked on Dale for an instant, before he barked out a swift command. He began walking towards them. The head of the second one snapped around at the words, and he changed course, also moving towards where she and Dale were standing on the path. Luna sat on her balcony, looking towards the descending sun. Below her, ponies were getting ready for the night, shuttering their shops and heading inside. Soon, they would be eating their dinners, probably unconsciously thankful that they had made it through another day unharmed. Afterwards, some of them might go outside and play a little longer—especially the fillies and the colts—until they were called inside and tucked in for the night. She idly spread some marmalade on her toast, letting it float in her aura. A servant stood respectfully on the balcony, waiting for any command. She was no doubt eager to go home, although of course her expression would never show it. “Dusk Glimmer.” She spoke softly, but the servant’s ears were ever-focused. “Your majesty.” The servant moved over to Luna, bowing respectfully. “Dost thou have a family?” “I—why, yes, your majesty, I do.” Luna nodded. She ate a few bites, while Dusk stood by patiently, hardly moving even when she breathed. Finally, Luna set her toast on her plate. “Is her highness finished with her dinner?” “We are.” Moving quietly, Dusk gathered the single place-setting off the table. She carried it carefully over to a wheeled cart, gently placing the pots of marmalade and butter on a lower shelf while the dirty dishes were placed on top, finally covered with Luna’s barely-used napkin. “Does your highness wish for me to prepare the bath?” “Nay. We shall not have time. We shall be on the eastern balcony, studying Equestrian common law until it it time for us to raise the moon.” Luna walked back into her room, bowing her head as always when she caught sight of her father’s sword. It hung reverently on the wall behind her desk, where she would catch sight of it every time she stepped into her room. Although she had imagined it lost or destroyed centuries ago, shortly after her return it had mysteriously been returned to her by one of her thestrals. While she’d never completely solved the mystery of where it had been during her time in exile, she suspected that it had been held by descendants of her original followers, who might have been hoping to incite another attempt at rebellion. If that had been their intent, it had failed; rather than being a symbol of victory, it was the tool which had caused her father’s fall, and her own as well. No doubt Celestia would have worried, had she seen it, but she never came into the room. “Dusk Glimmer, doth thou remember the apologue of the wayward daughter?” “Yes, your majesty. She left her mother’s side to seek her fortune, but found nothing but failure. She lost all her bits and trudged home, expecting her mother to punish her for her foalishness, but instead was rewarded.” “Nopony gave unto her,” Luna whispered. “She sought succor, yet none was granted, save from her own mother. Would thou not do the same if ‘twere one of thy foals returned to thee?” Luna glanced back at the sword. “Or would thou punish her for her transgressions?” “I should be thankful she arrived home safe and sound, yet I probably would punish her for leaving in the first place.” Dusk sighed. “I am a simple pony—not as wise as your majesty.” Luna snapped her head around. “Think not less of thyself, Dusk. Thou art wise in ways we hath forgotten. We and our sister see the long view oft enough, yet sometimes we doth forget that which is at our muzzles.” Dale stood motionless. The moment he had seen the Coast Guard boats, his heart sank. How did they find out so quickly? But there was nothing to be done for it, now. He instantly realized that his freedom would now be measured in minutes, perhaps hours if he was very lucky. Unless he could quickly find a way off the island. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they would. There were no fewer than four crew members on each of the rescue boats, and he wasn’t sure how many were on the forty-one foot utility boat, but it would be enough. There was simply nowhere to run on the island. He didn’t know if they’d found his canoe yet, but there was no way to get to it without them noticing. If he could hold out until dark, he might be able to get to the canoe, and he could slowly and quietly carry it to the other side of the island. He also might be able to swim to South Fox, but once he was there, where would he go? Beaver Island was another possibility—and he was pretty sure there was a ferry back to the mainland—but he’d need the canoe to make it. Realistically, he doubted he could swim the ten or fifteen miles to the island. That might just postpone the inevitable; they would probably find clues back at his camp. Dale’s eyes flicked to the left. He could just send Lyra out on the beach, and while they were trying to catch her, make his escape. No doubt her presence would be all the distraction he’d need. But he couldn’t do it. Before he’d decided to meet with her, just by himself, he’d considered exposing them to the world and letting them take their chances. After all, they’d come here, not the other way around. He would have been surprised if he’d known that they had expected him to do just that. But after he’d sat with her for two days, she was no longer an unknown alien, she was almost a friend. He enjoyed her company and her playfulness—Lyra was beginning to seem almost human to him. He suddenly had a horrible vision of her strapped to a cold stainless steel lab table, while scientists with sharp knives prepared to vivisect her. It would probably look much like the illustration in her anatomy book, in fact, but in vivid color. Even if the thought weren’t repugnant, he could only imagine the retaliation of her kin. If I sacrificed her for my own freedom, it might be short-lived. It might be very short-lived indeed. When it came down to it, he was essentially choosing between the continued well-being of two species or his own freedom. It was not a choice he wanted to make, but when he put it in such simple terms, there was really no alternative. Lyra had to escape, and he had to pay the price—whatever that might be. Would she do the same if our positions were reversed? It didn’t matter. We should have gone over the word for danger. I should have told her to move the bubble—no matter how long it took to get the idea across. Dale was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice the two Coast Guard men moving towards him until they were almost in front of him. He was about to lead Lyra back to camp and explain the situation to her, when a deep bassoon voice drew him out of his reverie. “What are you doing here?” Dale snapped his head up. There were two of them, both right in front of him. Amazingly, neither one of them had noticed Lyra yet, although discovery was only milliseconds away. Time stopped. Dale saw everything with perfect clarity. The tall African-American Coastie who had addressed him was wearing a bemused look on his face. Dale could practically read his mind. First a glowing purple bubble, then we find Robinson Crusoe stepping out of the woods—what’s next, the Loch Ness Monster? And would he be shocked when he saw what was next. Clearly, his second did—his eyes were bugging out of his head as he spotted Lyra. Dale saw his mouth beginning to open, as if he were about to scream. It had been over forty years since he’d played football, but his muscles still remembered what to do. Without ever breaking eye contact with the man who had addressed him, Dale screamed. “Run, Lyra! Run!” He flung her saddlebags underhand at the tall Coastie, sending him stumbling backwards. At the same moment, he began to charge the second. He didn’t have cleats, but the Vibram soles of his hiking boots were almost as good—two steps, and he pistoned his left arm out, rotating from the hip to throw his full body weight into the straightarm push. He caught the second man in the sternum before he could utter a single sound.  Despite his age, a career in a machine shop left Dale with plenty of strength, and the poor Coastie hadn’t even had time to brace. Dale was amazed to see—as if in an instant replay—his feet come up off the ground as he began to rotate from the force of the impact. His arms were windmilling in an attempt to regain his balance, but it was already too late. As he raced down the rise to the beach, Dale wondered if she was following his lead—if she wasn’t, this sacrifice was for naught. He needn’t have worried. A pony’s instinctive reaction to danger was to run away, and they were much better at it than he would ever be. He was astonished to see the exact moment that she changed gaits from a canter to a full gallop, before he looked forward again. Still one more downfield blocker, Dale thought, spotting the third member of the beached boat. There were more on the other boats, but they wouldn’t get there in time. It was just like his senior year when he’d run the ball sixty yards against the Hastings Saxons for the winning touchdown. The strange, immortal feeling he’d had when he played was coming back to him, and he felt more alive than he had in years. His feet must have been digging firmly into the wet sand, yet he could feel no contact with the earth at all, as if his body were being propelled along above the ground by some strange force. The final member of the trio finally took notice of events. It was an amazing thing to watch—she had been turning her head, and she suddenly froze, for far longer than Dale would have expected as she spotted Lyra charging headlong towards the bubble. I think I’ll miss my car, he thought, as he continued running. I wonder what will become of it. Maybe if they can’t get their hands on Lyra, they’ll do an autopsy of the car, instead. It was a strange worry: there was no reason why he should be concerned about the fate of his car, but it gnawed at him. The girl took a single step back, processing the scene. Dale heard shouts—someone else had taken note of what was happening on the beach. He thought he heard someone say “shoot it,” and saw her right arm begin moving towards her hip. Even without the verbal cue, everyone knew what it meant when someone’s hand went toward their hip. Dale had seen dozens of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood westerns, and had read every Louis L’Amore book. He was moving a hundred miles an hour, but it wasn’t fast enough. She’d have her gun clear before he made it—but she might not fire right away. That was his only hope. His focus lasered in on her alone. He watched as her stance settled into a comfortable firing position, even as her right arm was coming up. The gun seemed to have a ludicrously short barrel, and he snorted. What were you expecting, Dale, a chrome-plated .357 Magnum?  Her finger tightened on the trigger. I’m too late. Trixie moved carefully down a large hallway. She felt horribly exposed—besides the threat of meeting somepony else in the corridor, there were balconies on both sides, which was yet another place where a pony could be lurking, watching her. Ever since she’d finally gotten free of the blocking ring, she’d felt as if she was being watched. She didn’t dare turn her head to look around—that wasn’t something that guardsponies did. Not unless they were searching for something. Instead, they remained stoic, marching to their beat, observing with her eyes and ears but never with her neck. While the armor might be able to fool the eye, if her behavior was out of place, she might as well not be wearing it. She finally reached a silver-chased door. On the other side, she hoped, lay her salvation. She looked back down at her pilfered armor. She could no longer risk wearing it—she might have been able to move among the castle staff unnoticed in it, but she would be immediately singled out and questioned if she went any further. Slightly further down the hall was a small chamber. Trixie retreated to the comforting shadowy dimness and took off the armor, carefully placing it on a pile of fresh linens. It would be found within a few days, and returned to the guards. She gazed into the polished gold, studying her reflection. She looked like an escaped prisoner on the edge of starvation. A crust of dried blood ran through the fur on the left side of her face, trailing down from a cut on her forehead just below her horn. Trixie looked around, rummaging through drawers and cabinets until she found a stack of folded linen napkins. She dipped them in a half-empty mop bucket, wincing as the cold soapy water touched the fresh cut. She scrubbed herself until she was clean, tossing the soiled napkins in a corner when she had finished. A light application of furniture wax had coaxed her mane and tale back into order, and left her smelling slightly lemony. She admired her hoofwork critically in the armor. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. She still barely looked presentable, but she only had to get a little farther. She stuck her muzzle back out into the hallway, intent on seeing if anypony was coming. She looked left and saw nopony; but when she turned right, she was face-to-face with a Royal Guard. “Hey! You’re—” She didn’t even let him finish, casting a smoke spell at his hooves. As he coughed and blinked his eyes to get the acrid smoke out, she galloped past him. Trixie crashed through the doors and charged up the steps before he could stop her. A moment later she heard him begin to call for guards. Come on, hooves, go faster! She twisted up the spiral staircase, occasionally bouncing off the wall. Behind her, the thunder of the guards roared up the stone staircase. It was only a matter of time before the first pegasi showed up, and when they did she was a goner. She tossed a couple more smoke spells at them, but it didn’t seem to slow their progress much. I’m too late, she thought. She was a half-flight below the upper landing, but those doors were closed, and pound on them as she might, the guards would get to her before the doors were opened. Nevertheless, she ran full tilt at the doors, body-checking them hard enough to rattle them in their frames, before she started hammering her hoof on the door loudly enough to wake the dead. Please, please, please— The Royal Guards were experts. The first up the stairs tackled Trixie, pinning her to the floor while more of his comrades rushed to assist. She struggled under him, trying to work free, kicking at his face with her hind legs while she continued to pound at the door. “Would you just quit?” the stallion hissed. “Nopony’s going to help you. You’re going back where you belong.” The two of them scratched and kicked and bit; neither of them heard the great double doors open, nor the silver-shod hooves storming across the marble. “Who dares to disturb us?” Luna’s voice boomed out through the tower. Trixie looked up at the alicorn, tears in her eyes. “Save me.” Luna stared down at the unicorn, and a brief flicker of emotion crossed her stern face before she turned her gaze upon the unicorn stallion. “Guard, speak. Why dost thou fight in our tower?” The guard nodded his head in lieu of a bow. “Princess, she is an escaped prisoner. She—” “Release her.” “Your majesty, she is a prisoner of the crown.” Luna frowned at him. “It matters not. She hath asked for our protection, and we doth grant it. She is no longer thy concern. Thou art dismisssed.” She tugged Trixie beside her and slammed the doors shut before the guard could utter another word in protest.          Kate stood guard twenty feet from the odd bubble. She didn’t like it—but Anthony had told her to, and she was the low man on the pole. Technically, low woman. He’d assured her it was safe, and used comforting terms like ‘magnetic anomaly,’ although he had no more idea what it was than she did. He wanted to be an electrical engineer when he got out of the Coast Guard, and acted like he had a superior knowledge about this—this thing. It seemed like something she’d seen in one of the X-Men movies. Some kind of force field. She was supposed to make sure that nothing wandered into it—or came out of it. Personally, she’d be a lot happier when the second rescue boat came back with the machine guns, and then they could guard it from a nice, safe distance. Right now, the empty gun mount was as useless as an outboard with no gas. Anything that comes out of that bubble probably won’t be phased by a SIG, even with an extended magazine. The more people and the more guns we have, the better we’ll be.  She tapped her foot impatiently. A quick glance out into the lake revealed that the second rescue boat was making its way to the beach; when it arrived, her mission would end. There was nothing here to protect, anyway. Anthony and Cortez weren’t dumb enough to wander into the bubble, Ryan was safely at the helm of their boat—holding it on the beach with the engines, in case they had to make a hasty retreat—and there was no one else on the island at all.  She heard Cortez’s raised voice, and turned her head to look. He was arguing with Anthony—loud enough for her to hear—about whether or not she should be allowed near the bubble. While it was nice of him to protest on her behalf, the tone of his conversation suggested that he thought she shouldn’t be doing it because she was a woman, and that was not a road this debate should travel down. Not at all.  She half-watched as Anthony shot him down, then walked up towards the treeline. She heard a surprised shout from him; a moment later, Cortez followed him into the woods. She sighed, turning back towards the bubble. The little girl in her wanted to believe that it was magical. Maybe it led to a fairy-tale land of castles and princesses and knights and such. But this was the real world. Such things didn’t—couldn’t—exist. Eventually, experts would get here, and they’d have their expert theories on what it was, and said theories would be boringly normal. Unusual, perhaps, but normal. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Halfway between her and the woods, a strange green creature was galloping towards her—no, towards the bubble. As implausible as the creature seemed, Kate figured she was hallucinating it, perhaps inspired by her earlier fantasy of a magical kingdom. When she heard Anthony shouting, though, she realized that it must actually be there, as unlikely as it seemed. Kate couldn’t help but imagine that if it reached the bubble, its end would be similar to a moth reaching a bug zapper. For just an instant, she remembered the bird hitting the bubble, and it hadn’t been going nearly as fast as this—whatever this thing was. She was certain that shout as she might, it would not stop. It had a chased look, like the doe running across a soybean field and in front of her car. She’d honked her horn and slammed on the brakes, but the collision was inevitable, and they’d hit with a sickening thud. Neither the car nor the deer had survived. She could try to tackle it, or she could shoot it. The first option would likely not end well for her, and the second would be counter-productive. Kate reached for her taser instead. She wasn’t sure it would work on . . . on the creature, but it was her best choice. She was pretty sure stun guns worked on dogs. She’d never had to use the taser against anything that was moving quickly before, but it was just like a gun. A simple point-and-click interface, she reminded herself, grabbing it from the holster. Just got to get the lead right. The . . . thing was moving way faster than something its size should be. On the other hand, if she hit it anywhere, the taser would work. She tensed for a moment, before letting out her breath and dropping her stance, carefully following along with its movement. Her finger tensed on the trigger. Lyra had been excited at the thought of the two creatures on the beach coming to meet her; thus, Dale’s shout had come as a total surprise. She knew the words—they had gone over them; she had even acted them out on the beach. Why he had said such a thing was beyond her, but that was unimportant. She was still dithering when he threw her saddlebags at the first one, who sort of caught them, stumbling off balance as he did so. A tiny part of her mind wondered if it was some kind of greeting ritual—until he knocked the second one off its feet. There was nothing friendly about it, and it made Lyra’s blood run cold. It seemed Dale had decided that these creatures were a threat, and he had dealt with it in less time than she’d imagined possible for a creature of his size—it was as fast she cast when she’d been dueling, in fact—and he’d done it with no visible magic. It was a frightening change in his normally calm demeanor. “Run Lyra run,” he’d said. Dale was running down the beach—impressively fast. Even now, she took a moment to appreciate how well he moved for only using two limbs. He had gone from stationary to a gallop in only a few steps, something she probably couldn’t do. She saw the first creature recover its balance, and realized that it was time to follow Dale’s advice. As she started moving, she tried to grab her saddlebags in passing, but the creature had a deathgrip on them. She did manage to yank him off-balance, but he didn’t relinquish his grip. Ever mindful of Celestia’s advice, she was hardly going to get in a magical battle with him. Lyra picked up speed on the downhill, switching to a canter the instant her hooves touched the wet sand of the beach. It wasn’t the ideal surface for running on, but she was gaining on Dale, so her four-legged run clearly was faster than his kind’s two-legged gait. She heard yelling behind her, which was all the inspiration she needed to change to a gallop. She wondered if these creatures were some kind of changeling or monster—the way Dale had reacted, he was clearly frightened of them, and she was proud to think that he was willing to fight two of them to keep her safe. The third one seemed rooted in place as she grew closer. It apparently was unable to understand what was going on. Dale was screaming something. It was a word that they hadn’t covered, but he was repeating it again and again. If the third creature heard him, it gave no sign. Suddenly, their eyes locked. Even with the smaller, less-expressive eyes these creatures had, Lyra could see the sudden resolution in the creature’s expression. It reached towards its hip, but Lyra was sure she was clear. Judging by Dale’s speed, there was no way it could cross the distance between them before she reached the bubble. Even a thrown spear—if it had one—would hardly make it. She was nearly home free. Dale could see Kate’s trigger finger moving, millimeter by millimeter. For an instant, he wondered if he’d managed to achieve a higher state of consciousness—everything on the beach seemed so vivid, from the beams of light lancing off the wavelets in the azure blue water, to the perfectly green trees. He could see every single warp and weave of her life jacket. I’ll probably break off her strobe when I hit, he thought. One step away, Dale launched himself off the beach in a diving tackle. The impact was devastating. Dale easily had a hundred pounds on Kate, and he used every ounce of it, slamming his shoulder into her ribs. He heard a noise like a shotgun in his ear as his shoulder dislocated, but he felt nothing as his arms closed around her chest of their own volition. He drove her sideways almost a foot before she began to fall. He noticed that she was wearing pale pink nail polish. Isn’t there a regulation against that? I hope I didn’t hurt her too badly. I might have broken some of her ribs. Lyra never felt the pin-pricks in her withers, but the jolt of electricity knocked her off her hooves. She’d been hit by offensive spells before, but this was in a whole new league. Her heart felt like it was full of angry wasps, and she slammed into the damp sand, sliding uncontrollably. None of her muscles would do anything but twitch. Lyra suddenly felt the magic slipping away from her. She tried to focus on it, tried to will it back, but it was no good. The tenuous thread of concentration that had been maintaining Starswirl’s spell all day long—such a minor effort, she hadn’t even really been consciously aware of it—finally broke, and she realized that she was about to be the center of a powerful magical backlash. And there was nothing she could do about it. As they fell, Dale suddenly realized that she hadn’t lost her grip on her weapon. Dale had a moment to reflect that going to prison might now be the least of his worries, and then his world exploded in pain. I’ll never know if Lyra wore horseshoes, he thought regretfully.