Celestia Sleeps In
Chapter 13—Hospital
Admiral Biscuit
The lights of the Ponyville library had blazed forth defiantly through the night. This was hardly unusual—the library opening at a decent hour, on the other hoof, was quite rare. But something had happened in Ponyville, something which demanded research, and Twilight was up to the task. Sleep was for the weak.
On the main floor, Twilight Sparkle lay surrounded by notes and lists. Early in the night, she’d been forced to move off her small desk after an avalanche of research materials made it untenable. Scattered books were occasionally stacked or reshelved by Owlowiscious. To her left was the small pile of notes which she had compiled after Lyra’s first meeting with the creature. To her right lay the books which she hoped held the answers to the thousands of questions that vied for her attention.
She had not noticed that the books themselves formed a geological model—or if she had, it had been pushed aside in the interest of her current project. The high plains of the floor slowly rose into a broken upslope of books, finally topping out—unsurprisingly—at the weighty peaks of Mt. Agriculture. Passage across the range would be best accomplished through Xenobiology valley: it was only one book tall. Twilight resolved to fix this oversight the next time she put in an order for more books from Canterlot.
Up above her, Spike slept curled in his basket, while Octavia’s demure snores drifted off the balcony. Twilight paid them no heed. Even without a request from Princess Celestia, she felt that this new project was her absolute highest priority. The very fate of Equestria could be riding on her research.
We probably could have unsummoned them with the Elements, if we’d acted quickly, she thought wryly, letting her quill spin idly in her aura. There had been a moment when the thought had been tempting, and she could understand Celestia’s counterpoints during their memorable discussion. In an instant, the creatures had moved from a distant concept to a potentially real threat to Equestria.
Still, seeing the bedraggled bodies being dragged out of the reservoir had elicited more sympathy than fright. It was true that they were large—maybe even as tall as a minotaur—but their slender build reminded her more of the half-starved animals Fluttershy nursed back to health than a potential predator. While she knew that the creatures might be more intimidating when they weren’t half-dead, for now she only had her initial impression to go on. Commander Ironhoof’s final briefing—before he called off the rescue operation—indicated that both creatures were at the hospital, in stable but serious condition.
While it would have been a worthy research project to determine how to cure them, Twilight knew her limitations: when it came to anything beyond basic first aid, she was hopelessly lost. Applejack probably knew more field medicine than she did—after all, there was little enough in the library which posed immediate danger to life and limb, and it was quite honestly a subject which she felt should remain in the hooves of the professionals. Surgery was not an art in which one dabbled, after all.
Nonetheless, she had to assume that the creatures would survive, and therefore she had to discern the best way to transition them into Equestrian life. While Lyra may have held the unfounded belief that all sapient life was pretty much the same, a recent genre of fiction—largely re-telling old mare’s tales with a more speculative scientific basis—had prepared her mind for the concept that creatures from an alien world might have nearly no biological similarities to native Equestrian species. It was probably fortunate that they even breathed the same atmosphere—she had initially scoffed at the idea presented in one of Winter Rye’s novels that some planets might not have a breathable atmosphere, but Luna’s revelations confirmed this—even Equestria’s own moon was not habitable for mortal creatures.
Her ruminations over, she put quill back to parchment. At the very least, she wanted to have a checklist to determine what kind of habitat best suited these creatures before they woke.
Pinkie lay in her bed, her blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. She was in a quandary. She liked quinces and quiches and quills, but not quandaries. They made her slow down and think, and she hated that.
She normally proceeded through life with a boundless exuberance, relying on her instincts to tell her when somepony needed cheering up, or when it was the right time to spring a surprise party on one of her many friends. She was generally great with ponies—but maybe not as good with the many other species who called Equestria home. Her long string of successes had, in fact, only been marred by non-pony visitors to Ponyville.
She was an utter failure with griffons. She’d learned so much from the implosion of Rainbow Dash’s childhood friendship, although she had never had a chance to put any of it into practice. Whether Gilda had poisoned the well—so to speak—or there just weren’t many griffons who were interested in visiting Ponyville, she couldn’t say, although she was more than ready should another appear. She’d read books on griffon culture and tried her hoof at preparing a few of their favorite foods. She’d had to buy a whole new set of utensils—mail-ordered from a supplier in Canterlot—since the Cakes didn’t have the kinds of knives Gustave's cookbook recommended, and were hardly going to let her use their pots and pans for cooking griffon cuisine.
Zecora had been another initial failure. She’d realized too late that she should have been the one rushing out to meet the zebra—if she could giggle at the ghosties, why couldn’t she zoom to the zebra—or at the very least have baked a ‘Welcome-to-Ponyville-on-your-monthly-shopping-trip’ cake? It could have been because of her upbringing: there sure weren’t any zebra rock farmers. Still, that was a poor excuse. No pegasuses rock farmed either, and she’d not had any problem making friends with them once she’d moved to Ponyville. Besides, shunning somepony because of her species or stripes on her fur was silly.
Cranky had been the first recipient—to be honest, victim—of her new resolution to welcome anyone. She’d pulled out all the stops to assure the donkey he’d be welcome; that, too, had failed utterly. He was wound up tighter than her parents, a thought which gave her chills. While it had also worked out in the end, there had been the not-unrealistic fear that she would be the pony who drove him out of Ponyville, and such a thing simply could not be. What kind of party pony scared off the new folks?
She snorted. The hyper Pinkie that ruled most of her actions wanted nothing more than to charge off to the hospital with a couple of cakes, a few streamers, maybe a half-dozen party poppers, and a medium-sized bowl of punch. Nothing too fancy, just a quiet get-together.
However, the melancholy Pinkamena urged caution. Slipping a single cupcake into Lyra’s saddlebags had seemed like such a good idea, but all day she’d had random twitches and pinches that she couldn't make heads nor tails of—it was like something was jerking the strings of probability which made her . . . her. It reminded her of a distant thunderstorm over the Everfree—the kind where she always kept a wary eye to the sky, because it could get out of the Weather Patrol’s hooves and go practically anywhere.
She had to do something. The last time she’d been in a quandary like this, she’d completely redecorated her room—including a new window—in the middle of the night. She couldn't risk doing that now. The Cakes and their foals were sound asleep, and sledgehammers and saws were loud daytime toys.
Pinkie sat bolt upright in bed. She suddenly knew what she needed to do. She silently tip-hoofed out of her bedroom and through the door—opening it slowly to minimize noise from the squeaky hinge—only breaking into a trot once she was clear of the shop. If she hurried, she had enough time to get everything ready for a meaningful—but subdued—welcome to Ponyville gift that nopony else would think of. But she had to hurry; the sun was rising on the new not-pony visitors to Equestria, and if she missed their breakfast time, she would fail!
She galloped through town, only stopping long enough to pin a quick note to Bon Bon’s door—nopony had told the poor mare that Lyra was at the hospital—before she was back on her way.
When Pinkie got to the dock, she pawed around underneath, pulling an eyepatch and two balls out of her cache before finally locating a fishing pole. She pawed at the ground until a worm came out, which she grabbed in her teeth. Sticking her tongue out in concentration, she carefully worked it onto the hook, trying not to grimace at the taste of dirt and the odd sensation of the worm moving between her lips. This was worth a little suffering; this would make the new not-ponies smile.
When she’d finished, she walked out to the end of the dock and sat down like she’d seen Magnum do so many times, and tossed the line out into the water.
Dale broke the embrace with Lyra when he heard the door softly creak open. A white creature—closely resembling Lyra, save its lack of a horn—walked carefully into the room. The main drawing in the anatomy book Lyra had brought had looked much the same. This, then, was a fourth type—the type with neither wings nor horn. It was pushing a wooden cart with a squeaky wheel. Atop the cart sat two silver domes, which looked much like the covers fancy restaurants put over their food. That is, what he supposed fancy restaurants did. He’d seen these covers in movies and TV shows about chefs, but he’d never eaten at a restaurant that actually used the things. The closest he’d come to fancy food lids were the silver tops over the Sterno-fueled warmers at weddings.
The white one spoke briefly to Lyra, and pointed a hoof at the back tray on the cart. Their voices were similarly pitched, so he assumed it was also a she. Lyra nodded, and turned her head. Dale drew a deep breath as the tray was enveloped in a golden glow and floated up off the cart. He watched it slowly glide towards her face. When it was near her left eye, she began walking towards the seat she’d previously occupied, the tray obediently hovering along beside her like a miniature flying saucer.
She set it on one of the seats, but remained standing, her back to him. He watched the lid float off, to be gently deposited on the other chair; then, much to his surprise, he saw her lift a fork—which illuminated with a golden glow—and begin eating her breakfast.
He turned just in time to look the white one right in her big blue eyes. She was wearing a starched white nurse’s cap which had a red heart in the center, although unlike the medical red cross he was familiar with, there were hearts in each corner.
The nurse paid him little mind; save for an ear-twitch he might have wondered if she even noticed he was staring. Instead, she gently reached a hoof up and touched his forehead. The heart monitor suddenly went from its steady beep to a series of static crackles which seemed to alarm the nurse more than it did him.
She turned away and reached for it. She placed one hoof on top of the casing, before leaning in very close and blocking his view of what she was doing. He noticed, with a complete lack of surprise, that one of her ears had swiveled to remain facing him, but he paid it no heed. Instead, he focused on the bright red pattern in her fur which perfectly matched the emblem printed on her cap. He had to suppress an urge to touch it—just in time he remembered how Lyra had reacted the first time he’d touched hers. If the nurse was adjusting mysterious medical devices, it would hardly be in his best interest to interrupt her in her work.
She shook her head, which drew his attention. Suddenly, he became curious about how her mane had been tied back into a tight pink bun—such a style would be completely impossible to replicate on a real horse. He hadn’t really noticed Lyra’s mane being especially different from a terrestrial horse—besides the cyan and white coloration, of course. Based on what he could see, the ridge of hair down the neck was wider than a real horse, and didn’t extend quite as far towards the shoulders. He wondered how she’d styled it. Lyra’s seemed to be washed and brushed, which could have been done by another pony. How they would tie a bun without hands, though . . . maybe the tractor beams that Lyra could utilize were far more precise than he’d imagined.
Satisfied with whatever adjustment she’d made, she turned back to him and touched his bandage again. This time he felt a strange tingling, like ants were running across his scalp. For a moment the room went slightly more blurry, and then she pulled her hoof back away, and everything returned to normal.
Repeating the treatment with his injured shoulder, she touched him right at the tenderest spot. There was a sharp lance of agony when her hoof touched the bandage, followed by a mild relief. It still hurt, but the constant throbbing had been replaced with a duller, more-distant pain. Dale wasn’t sure what to make of it—it seemed like she’d done nothing at all, yet he felt a little bit better. Maybe she was carrying some kind of medical tricorder—like the one Dr. McCoy had—that somehow eased pain. Carrying on the bottom of her hoof. Which she’d walked on to get into the hospital room.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted when she grabbed a corner of the sheet in her teeth and yanked it off the bed with no warning whatsoever. Too late, he remembered that the hospital johnny he was wearing was way too short to preserve his modesty. Even worse, as she turned she swished her tail and he got the kind of view that cost extra in the few gentlemen’s clubs he’d occasionally frequented through the years. If nothing else, it confirmed his gender guess. Face burning, he jerked his eyes upward and focused as best he could on the cracked plaster ceiling, trying to pay no attention to whatever it was that she was doing or examining. It was a skill which he had honed over years of visiting his doctor—Dale could hardly imagine trying to engage in small talk with someone who wanted him to turn his head and cough; and at least his normal doctor had the decency to wear clothes during an examination.
Curiosity got the better of him, though. He was able to ignore the gentle prods on his chest, but when he felt something heavy and warm press against his sternum, he had to look down. She had her head resting on his stomach, one ear laid right over his heart. She stayed there for a few seconds before she lifted her head off him and gently touched his hip with the bottom of her hoof.
Finally, she made her way to the foot of the bed and touched the sole of his right foot with her hoof again. Dale had to restrain himself from wincing at the unexpected contact. He couldn’t tell by her expression if she was surprised by what she’d felt or not, but it was curious that there was no tingling that had accompanied her touches on uninjured parts of his body.
When she finished her examination and pulled the sheet back over him he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d held.
She walked back to the foot of his bed and lifted up a clipboard. He watched in fascination as she gripped it tightly between her hoof and forelimb, revealing an astounding dexterity. He’d already discovered that they could move their shoulder joints through a much greater range than a terrestrial horse. She pulled a pencil loose from the metal clip with her mouth and began scribbling notes, moving at a much quicker pace than Lyra had. Dale wasn’t sure if that meant she was a better writer, or if even here medical notations were indecipherable.
When she’d finished writing, she put the clipboard back. Reaching under her squeaky-wheeled cart, she pulled a small bed-tray out and set it across the his chest, finally setting the tray on top and pulling the cover off with her teeth. Then she slid a leg under his back and pushed up slightly, clearly indicating that he should sit up. As soon as he had, he heard a few clicks behind him and the leg was withdrawn; like most hospital beds, this one had some kind of mechanism to convert it into a sort-of chair.
Dale looked at his breakfast dubiously. He’d been given two pieces of toast, two eggs over easy with a small parsley garnish, a bowl of what appeared to be oatmeal, and three fish fillets. Off to the side, a tall glass of orange juice complete with bendy-straw sat next to a wood-handled spoon and fork, while on the other side of the tray were two small bowls—one with butter and a second with brightly-sparkling grains that looked much like the sprinkles that weren’t sugar that had been on the cupcake which Lyra brought. All in all, it was a confusing sort of combination, but he supposed that their breakfast traditions would be different than his own. He’d have to take note of what they fed him through the day—maybe he could mix and match. Or, if he could find his pants, he might be able to go down to the cafeteria and pick out what he wanted to eat. Dale had a suspicion he could actually wander around the hospital pantsless and no one would care, but he wasn’t comfortable with the idea.
He looked over at Lyra, but she was still enjoying her meal. The nurse had left, so he probably didn’t have to worry too much about table manners. He stuck a finger in the presumed butter; it tasted exactly like he expected. A little saltier than the margarine he usually bought, but otherwise fairly normal. The ‘sugar’ sprinkles, on the other hand—just like before, they didn’t dissolve in his mouth at all, nor were they sweet. It was like eating colored sand. He pushed them aside and began buttering his toast, an extremely difficult process, since he could only use his left hand. Even though the butter had been softened—or else wasn’t refrigerated at all—he still slid the toast all over his plate before finally giving up on neatness and settling for random lumps of butter here and there. As with the sandwich he’d eaten earlier, the bread was very grainy and dense.
The oatmeal was next. He was pleased to discover it had been flavored with real maple, although it was much saltier than Quaker instant oatmeal, and it was considerably thicker than he prepared his: he discovered that the spoon would stand up in the bowl. If he’d had a glass of milk, or even water, he could have thinned it, but unfortunately, the only thing he had to water it down with was the orange juice. Dale grimaced as he imagined how frightful that concoction would be. He settled for eating it slowly, occasionally washing it down with a sip of orange juice.
The fish was a pleasant surprise—it had been prepared perfectly, and all the small bones had been removed. There was the slightest hint of lemon and spices, but they only enhanced the flavor gently, leaving the rest to come through on its own. It took him a moment to place the flavor, but it reminded him of bluegill. This was something he wouldn’t mind having for every lunch, and he began wondering if they might have an equivalent species to trout, or maybe even salmon. If the hospital cafeteria was like mundane Earth hospitals, the food was probably all low-fat. Once he got out, though, he could try and find some nice breaded, deep-fried fish.
The eggs were also cooked to perfection. The whites were light and fluffy, without any burned spots from an overzealous cook turning the heat too high—like he usually did when he prepared them himself—and the yolks weren’t runny, but just slightly soft.
Dale sighed contentedly. It had been a long time since he’d put the effort into preparing himself a proper breakfast; while this was a little weird, it was certainly better than the freeze-dried microwavable institutional fare he had been expecting. Maybe replicator-food tasted better. However they did it, everything tasted so fresh.
Rarity sighed as she pulled the basket full of sodden clothes into her shop. A drop-off basket had seemed such a good idea: ponies were stopping by at all hours to leave torn or damaged clothes, interrupting her beauty sleep. While she disliked mending, it was largely what kept her in business. Most ponies only had a dress or two, and maybe a dozen accessories. She was too expensive to tailor work clothes; those generally came from mills on the Horsatonic River. Mending and alterations brought in a few bits per garment. Once her designs finally took off in the fashion world, she wouldn’t have to stoop to repairs; until then, it covered her overhead.
Unfortunately, damaged clothing dropped off during the night was hardly likely to have been cleaned, and these were no exception. She once again had to resist the urge to simply toss the whole works into her garbage can and claim some ruffian must have stolen it during the night.
She gave a long-suffering moan. It was unfair to have to deal with this . . . mess before even eating a proper breakfast! Not only was it wet, but the colors were horrid. All bundled together were dark blue and khaki and even orange. A seamstress would have to be colorblind to even chose fabrics so obviously unsuited for each other, and the mare—or stallion—who wore it . . . well, it boggled her mind.
Rarity gently lifted the first item, tugging it free from the soggy mass. At first glance, she couldn’t even imagine what it was meant to be. A cape, perhaps, but why did it have four separate tails? And the seams were ragged . . . like they’d been brutally slashed. She moved it closer, spotting the frayed edges. A scissors-wielding maniac had been at this. It served it right.
She tossed it absently on the floor, pulling a second item free. This was different. It was made of a lacy black material, formed into two cups. They could be some kind of strange earmuff—there was a thick strap which might fit around a mare’s head. Intrigued, she looked at it more closely. The fabric, was very high-quality, and the stitchwork was flawless. At the center of the thick strap were several very tiny hooks. Two smaller straps led off the thick one; she eventually discovered that they were supposed to run to the top of the cups. That didn’t make sense, unless the straps were supposed to attach to a hat somehow.
She floated it off to the side with a little more care than the raggedy khaki cape. The next item was a dark blue shirt, also sliced up the sides and along the arms. There were patches sewn on both withers and under the barrel. Unlike the applique she often put on clothing, these were very intricately embroidered. On one side was a red-and-white striped rectangle with a smaller white-dotted blue rectangle in one corner. The other design was far more complicated, having a pair of crossed anchors behind a shield. It reminded her of a coat-of-arms. Around the edges were what looked almost like writing—it wasn’t a geometric pattern, but it was kind of regular. The patches over the barrel had the same kind of pattern, although the order was different. Two gold pins adorned the lapels.
Rarity frowned. Something about this was nagging at her mind. She’d seen garments like these . . . somewhere. Somewhere recently. She closed her eyes and tilted her muzzle up, still keeping the shirt floating in her aura.
Where have I seen this before? Fashion shows, magazines, newspapers, and street scenes played through her mind. Whatever it was she was remembering, it wasn’t quite the same as the poor bedraggled shirt she was holding. It had been more . . . upright.
She twisted it until the neck was pointed towards the ceiling and the waist to the floor, and it hit her like a bolt from the blue. This was just like the clothes she’d seen in the book Twilight had! Why, it must have come from one of the poor unfortunate creatures at the hospital—all these clothes must have!
Rarity eagerly levitated them out of the basket, until they were all floating in her aura. Already her mind was whirling, matching up severed seams. She was so grateful Twilight had shown her the pictures. She would have been puzzling over these for ages, but it really was quite simple. She quickly sorted them into two sets of clothes. Despite her unfamiliarity with the creatures or their clothing, it was fairly easy, since the two were quite different in build.
Admittedly, the mare had no sense of style. Her undergarments were black, her pants and shirt were navy blue, and her padded vest was a glaringly bright orange. She also wore white socks with pink stitching on the toe, and black corseted shoes.
The stallion’s clothes were much larger. His undergarments were all white, while his pants—which she’d initially mistaken for a cape—were khaki. His shirt was more of a tan color, and his vest nearly matched the pants, although it had strange burned marks across it. Some of the fabric of the vest appeared to have melted—which was a type of damage she’d never seen before. It was covered with clever pockets, although they were all empty.
His shoes were also laced, but instead of eyelets all the way up, it ended in metal hooks for the laces to pass around. A dark-blue cap and two belts rounded out the mix.
Rarity stared at the clothes with equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation. She’d never imagined getting an opportunity to work on something so important—why, this was like being asked to mend one of the Princess’ formal dresses! On the other hoof, she’d never had to fix anything that had been so well and truly butchered before. Aside from the hat, every single garment had been cut off. Even the hoof-covers.
To give herself a workplace, she absently cleared her largest table, neatly folding her works-in-progress off to the side. She’d have to start by reverse-engineering the pattern of each garment, then figure out what it was made of. After that, she’d have to decide if she could sew the seam together or if she’d have to put a filler panel in. She’d have to find or make cloth that matched or complimented the palette she already had to work with. If it was a total loss, she’d have to make an exact copy, saving buckles and buttons off the original, and she’d have to do it with no model or ponykin to form it on.
It was going to be one Tartarus of a challenge.
Rarity floated the navy pants in front of her, snapping her measuring tape along seams, writing down each measurement before transferring it by pencil to a large piece of pattern paper. Quietly humming a pavane, she smiled at the dozens of tools dancing in her pale-blue aura.
Lyra slowly plowed through her plate of food. She was never one to rush a meal—that just led to indigestion, and it was rude to the pony who’d prepared it.
It also gave her a chance to consider what to do next. Obviously, she would want to stay close to Dale—there was no reason why they couldn’t continue their cultural exchange here in the hospital, and every reason why they should. Perhaps he could explain why he had followed her despite the risk, and why the mare on the beach had attacked her. If Celestia did want to eventually re-open travel between the worlds, it would be good to know. Had she and Dale run into the spell out of ignorance, desperation, or done it deliberately? Each possibility held different implications for the relationship between Equestria and Dale’s world.
Sooner rather than later, they’d have to find out why the mare tagged along. Was she chasing Dale? It seemed obvious that the safest plan would be to keep the two apart, yet it would probably take forever to learn Dale’s language, which meant that they’d almost have to use Dale as an intermediary—he could ask the questions and then they could work at translating the answers. It would be an arduous process, but there really wasn’t a better option that she could think of. Maybe Twilight would have some idea, or even Cheerilee.
Of course, all of this depended on when—or if—the mare woke up. The nurse had told her that the mare had fairly serious injuries—much worse than Dale’s—and that the doctor was concerned that he might have to amputate one of her hands. She hoped that wasn’t true—but at the same time, it was hard to feel too much sympathy towards a creature that had attacked and briefly paralyzed her.
She chewed on her toast, still deep in thought. They were going to have to find some kind of home for the two creatures. She had a hard time envisioning them staying at one of the local inns, and she could only imagine the look on Bon Bon’s face if she brought Dale home with her like an oversized stray. The most logical solution was to transport the two to Canterlot; there were dozens of apartments and guest rooms around the palace, and enough foreign emissaries came and went that they wouldn’t stand out much more than a minotaur. It would also provide ready access to the professors at Canterlot University, as well as the vast Royal archives.
The only downside was that she probably wouldn’t get to see Dale much if they did that. Clearly, he was seeking out further contact with them, and seemed to have mostly gotten over his nervousness around them. Why had he come? Was he a refugee, alone on his island? Or had he escaped from some awful fate, only to have the mare and stallions come along to try and take him back? Maybe that was why he risked jumping into her spell; maybe he knew that the alternative was probably worse. Of course, she could be completely wrong: that scenario sounded more like a Daring Do story than reality.
She sighed, dipping her spoon in the oatmeal and taking a bite. It had the duller flavor that she’d come to expect from institutional food, since the hospital staff could hardly afford the time to go to the market and purchase fresh ingredients. Instead, the dry goods were brought from Canterlot by train—an idiotically wasteful arrangement, since most of the hospital’s staples were grown in Ponyville. Ever since Filthy Rich had landed the contract for providing food the quality had taken a downhill slide. At least the eggs were still fresh; he hadn’t gotten his grubby hooves into that supply chain yet.
She idly sprinkled some powdered gems on her oatmeal. It did nothing to improve the flavor, but gave her a little more thaumic energy. This whole thing was getting too complex for her. Even with the experts Twilight had been loaned after her first visit, they’d still barely been able to make heads or tails of the books Dale had given her. Maybe it would be easier to get the answers right from the horse’s mouth. Especially since she’d lost all her notes for their last meeting, and the wonderful picture dictionary he’d loaned her. The dark-colored stallion was no doubt gloating over his prize.
She’d miss the saddlebags, too: she’d had them since she was a filly. It was true that they were pretty worn-out, but it was nothing that couldn’t have been fixed. No doubt there were plenty of them available at Rich’s Barnyard Bargains, but she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards him or his businesses at the moment. Maybe she’d have Rarity make her a set. It would cost a few more bits, but they’d be sized right, and wouldn’t have a buckle that pulled her fur out.
She licked the dregs of oatmeal out of her bowl and washed it down with the last of the orange juice. Lyra floated her tray out of the room, setting it on the cart which had been left just outside. Her ear turned as she heard the heart monitor pick up pace and she rushed back into the room. Dale’s expression looked pained, and he was staring at the door intently.
“Dale not happy eat Lyra food?”
He shook his head. “Dale . . . Dale not . . . .happy Lyra take . . . not food.” He pointed to his tray and spoke a new word. “Not . . . not not happy, Dale not. . . .” He picked up his fork and waved it around in the air while making a strange low humming noise. “Funny. Dale not know word.”
Lyra felt like kicking herself. She’d already figured out that he didn’t like watching telekenesis, but as soon as she was back in Ponyville, she’d instinctively done it without a moment’s hesitation. Of course, he was going to have to get over that squeamishness—while she could suggest to the doctor and any other visitors that came by to avoid using it in his presence, she could hardly ask Mayor Mare to ban the practice in all of Ponyville, and Canterlot would be ten times worse.
“Lyra sorry,” she said, lowering her head slightly.
Dale grunted something in reply. He reached over and grabbed his serving tray with his left hand, trying to lift it without moving his injured limb. She leaned closer and grabbed it with her teeth, setting it on the bedside table. He smiled gratefully, then tapped a finger on the bed tray, which she also removed.
She looked back at him, and he made a waving gesture towards the door. She considered this for a moment, before deciding he meant to say that he was done with his breakfast. Lyra grabbed the serving tray first, noticing that he’d eaten everything except for the crushed gems.
She carefully set the gems aside—he might want to eat them later—and then took the rest out to the cart, followed by the bed tray.
He was shifting about under the covers, as if he felt uncomfortable, and what she could see of his face was starting to get redder. She’d seen this before, yet she was unsure exactly what it meant, since it had been precipitated by unconnected events. It had happened twice when he was naming things in the picture dictionary; both times had been when he was near the central points of the stallion and mare. It happened again when she asked him where the restroom was, and a final time when she asked him to touch her cutie mark.
She quickly ran through various possibilities in her head. While she hadn’t been watching while he ate, his breakfast seemed to have been to his satisfaction, and this wasn’t a curiosity look. They weren’t naming anything, so that wasn’t likely to be the cause of his reddening face. It was hard to imagine that he wanted to touch her cutie mark again; and if he did, he knew how to ask. Therefore, it must have to do with needing to use the restroom—and he had just eaten breakfast. Maybe it wasn’t polite to ask in his culture—it would be a strange thing, but then there were so many different cultures across Equestria, each of them with their own different rules and taboos. Why, she’d even heard that the Saddle Arabians liked to wear bridles, a thought that struck her as abhorrent—it was only one step removed from bondage. Admittedly, there were some ponies who liked the idea, but what they did in the privacy of their own homes was none of her business.
“Dale make water?”
He nodded.
Lyra walked over to the foot of his bed and took a quick glance at his chart. Nowhere did it say he had to stay in bed, which was just as well—she was sure there was a bedpan underneath, but it would probably be easier if he could walk to the public restroom, and he would no doubt be more comfortable with the idea—especially if even naming the facility was embarrassing to him. Already, he was sliding his legs off the bed, moving with difficulty since he was still tangled in the sheet. She was about to help him pull it off when he made an odd circling gesture with his hand. Puzzled, she stepped back. He made the motion again, then turned his head away.
He repeated the gesture a few times until she finally understood. He wanted her to look the other way. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d already made one faux-pas with her telekenesis; there was no reason to repeat the error.
She couldn’t help but turn an ear, though. Judging by his grunting and muttering, he was doing something challenging. He’d exhibited the behavior a few times when they were on the beach and a particularly daunting task had presented itself; it seemed he liked to mutter quietly to himself whenever he was frustrated. She knew enough ponies who did the same.
Finally, he walked past her and into the hallway, where he paused, looking curiously in both directions. He’d turned his sheet into a peplos like the ancient Pegasi wore. It looked a little ridiculous, since it only went down to his hocks, but perhaps that was a fashion in his home—and, to be fair, it was improvised. He’d made no attempt to alter the fabric to fit him better; in fact, he was clutching it closed with his left arm.
Lyra snapped out of her reverie and followed him. You’ll have to lead; he doesn’t know where he’s going. She heard him shuffling along behind her, his footfalls nearly silent. It was kind of creepy, how quietly he moved. She’d never really paid attention to the clopping of hooves on floors, but its absence was quite noticeable.
Finally reaching the door—labeled with a silhouette of a mare, rather than numbers, like the rest of the rooms—she pushed it open, turning in surprise when he didn't follow right after her. He was standing in the hall, staring into the open room with a confused look on his face. He hesitantly took a step forward, then another, his eyes darting around the bathroom.
Celestia stood on her balcony, deep in thought. Far below, the city stretched awake under the life-giving rays of her sun. The last telegrams from Ironhoof had been somewhat hopeful. With the latest reinforcements, there was a nearly impregnable defense around the reservoir, and he’d taken it on his own initiative to lower the water level, which could confound a hastily-cast spell. Unicorns had atomized every piece of the raft they found, so it couldn’t be re-used as a spell anchor.
Lyra was recovering satisfactorily, although the doctor was unwilling to speculate on what might have caused her injury further than it being a magical mishap of an unknown type. From the tone of the telegram, the doctor wasn’t willing to entirely commit to that theory, as they’d found a number of artifacts on the female which were unidentifiable; any one of them could have caused Lyra’s injuries.
Furthermore, both of their guests were stable. The doctor seemed to regard that as a miracle in and of itself. He nobly refrained from taking all the credit, stating that it had been a team effort by his nurses and Dr. Goodall.
Until they recovered and were able to speak Equestrian, she had no idea why they’d come, but that was a problem that could wait for later. First, she had to deal with Lyra.
She knew that the newspapers would get word of this thing. It would probably take them a couple of days, but reporters would find out. There had just been too much happening at once; somepony was likely to notice. Guards were missing from their post, dozens of professors were about to take the morning train to Ponyville or lose their tenure, and she had frequented her balcony throughout night. Somepony was going to start asking the right questions, and Lyra was going to be right in the center of it—unless she could forestall it.
Given Lyra’s position, a quick military inquest was the best choice. They could be convened anywhere, so Lyra wouldn’t have to leave Ponyville. Celestia would have to recuse herself, of course, since she’d been the one to issue the orders, so Luna would have to preside. Everypony thought Luna was cold-hearted but fair, which would work to her advantage—nopony would be second-guessing the verdict. Shining Armor, as captain of the guard, would of course be Lyra’s advocate, and she could probably persuade Fancy Pants to act as a civilian barrister. All the upper-class unicorns loved him, and they’d hang on his every word.
Best of all, the worst punishment a military inquest could mete out in a case like this was dishonorable discharge—although that was unlikely, since she was only an auxiliary guard. Because of the double-jeopardy clause in Equestrian law, if things subsequently went all wrong, Lyra couldn’t be re-tried, and if they held the inquest quickly—while the creatures were still in hospital—it was unlikely anything would go wrong enough in the interim to change the likely outcome of a trial. As an added benefit, foreign ambassadors and such couldn’t complain that Celestia was playing favorites, since the trial would be a foregone conclusion before they even found out about it.
She looked down at the bustling streets below. All this because I wanted to sleep in just for once.
Dale sat in the uncomfortably short chair, knees halfway up his chest. He was facing out the window in his hospital room, staring mindlessly at the activity taking place in the streets below. He felt like his mind was starting to disengage—in fact, it was like being really drunk—things were happening faster than he could hope to process them. He’d been lucky to even manage to drag the chair over—he couldn’t remember having done it.
The overwhelmingness of waking up injured in a strange place had initially quelled his curiosity, but now that he’d at least come to the conclusion that he wasn’t at death’s door—and that this strange hospital was probably a reality, and not a hallucination brought about by pain medications—he’d begun picking up on incongruities that had earlier failed to trigger any mental alarm bells.
When the nurse had come in, he’d imagined that he must be aboard their exploration ship, perhaps taken there as the only way they could save him after he had tackled the girl. To avoid an international—interstellar?—incident, they couldn’t stop her, so they had no choice but to grab him. It was odd that he was injured—it felt like his hair and beard were gone, although the hair on the rest of his body had mostly remained—and it was odd that his clothes were missing.
His first idea had been that their teleporter hadn’t been calibrated to non-living matter. It kind of made sense—hair was dead, after all, and his clothes were, too. Still, she’d come to the beach with saddlebags and fur intact. While he couldn’t totally rule out the possibility, it would be an odd kind of device which could transport all of him except his clothes and hair.
Dale closed his eyes and tried to concentrate over the increasing feeling of panic. When he was a kid, he’d fallen off his bike and broken his arm. To avoid exacerbating the injury, they’d carefully cut his shirt sleeve off before putting him in a cast. It was something often overlooked in medical dramas, but probably not an uncommon practice. Here, they’d have no idea what his clothing was made out of, or whether or not it could safely go in whatever kind of medical scanning devices they had, and doctors generally erred on the side of caution.
His glasses could have been knocked off when he tackled the girl. He remembered that they were still on his face as the two of them fell, but everything after that was a complete blank.
The only thing left unexplained was what had happened to his hair and beard. Curious, he reached up a hand and gently touched the bandage above his eyes. The stinging pain was reminiscent of a sunburn. It was hard to tell through the bandages, but it felt like his eyebrows were gone, too.
If they’d had to operate, they would have shaved him. Nobody wanted to get hair into a wound, and it made bandaging a challenge, too. Still, he couldn’t imagine what kind of operation would require removal of his eyebrows; it was more likely that they had been removed by whatever took the rest of the hair on his head.
Flashburns? There could have been some kind of weapon Lyra had—maybe a non-lethal self-defense weapon. Certainly, the police had a number of them, and he’d heard that the Secret Service had some sort of retinal disruptor—a device that sounded too science-fiction to actually be real. However—if Lyra did have such a device—it could explain why he couldn’t remember what happened after he tackled the Coast Guard girl. By accident or design, such a device might also be an effective depilator. Maybe fur was to them what clothing was to him.
When the situation on the beach had been stabilized—however briefly—she’d probably dragged him into the bubble. Maybe she’d had help. Or, maybe her weird tractor beam was strong enough. Once he got to the ship, they’d probably put him in a stasis field, and then transported him here. They might be examining his personal belongings—such as they were—they could even be holding them until he agreed to cooperate. It didn’t seem to be their style, but it wasn’t too unreasonable to think that the rules might have changed a little bit when Lyra was threatened on the beach.
His initial theory of being on a spaceship, while comforting, had been proven by further observation to be false. As long as his new world had consisted of nothing outside of his hospital room, the theory could hold. He could explain away the discrepancies. But once he went into the hallway, the working theory began to collapse. While they might have redecorated a single room into what they believed was a comforting location for him, they hardly would have done the entire hallway. If they had put that much effort into it, they would have at least tried to make the bathroom look familiar. As it was, he recognized not a single fixture, and could only begin to guess at the purpose of each. Fortunately for his bladder, but less so for the therapist he was sure he would eventually be seeing, he’d gotten a valuable insight into the workings of the plumbing and the extreme lack of modesty the ponies displayed. Since they apparently went around nude everywhere with only hats and butt tattoos as uniforms, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was something he desperately wanted to forget. Simply pointing towards the fixture he was to use would have sufficed, in his opinion. At least she’d been kind enough to look away when it was his turn.
Nonetheless, it led him to the inescapable conclusion that he was now on their home planet, or at least a large remote space station of some kind. There was too much open space for it to be anything else. Despite Hollywood’s set designs, any ship designed for a long-range mission would be jammed full of equipment and supplies. Even on terrestrial ships, every space was utilized for something. While a Bahamas cruise ship might have nice cabins for the tourists, the crew simply had to deal with crowded spaces. He’d had friends in the Navy who’d had to hot bunk as they worked through the ranks. While this practice would not extend to the sick bay, there still would be no more room than needed for a bed and a medic to work; the room he was in could easily fit another couple dozen beds the size of his—and his bed was larger than what Lyra would have required. If all the ponies were her size, the beds could be half as big, and twice as many could fit into the room.
He could only assume that as soon as Lyra had seen him tackle the girl, she’d radioed back to the exploratory ship and she’d done the only thing she could think of and grabbed him. Once he arrived, they’d flash-frozen him or whatever it was they did to cross deep space, and returned home with a report that the natives could be hostile.
If this was true, the only hopeful sign was that they did take him—for if they planned to lay waste to Earth, why bother? They could simply leave him to his fate on the beach, and open fire with their orbital cannons or whatever weapons they had. They probably weren’t planning on holding him for ransom—any survey of the planet would tell them that they held all the trumps—so they were still pinning their hopes on using him as a translator, and apparently they valued him enough to want to keep him, rather than wait for someone more qualified to come along.
To say he was out of his league was an understatement. The more he watched, the more the enormity of the task began to sink in. He felt like David facing Goliath, except instead of a sling and stone all he had were a whiffle-bat and ping-pong ball. Lyra had seemed to be a quick learner when it came to English; he could only hope they were all like that, because he was no good at languages. The words they’d already learned were fading in his memory, and he no longer had his notes to fall back on.
He wondered how much time had passed on Earth. He could imagine the confusion that had no doubt erupted on the beach the moment Lyra and he were spirited away. Maybe their spaceship had glided out of orbit slowly—or maybe it was around one of the other planets, or even hidden behind the moon—but if they left in a hurry, NASA might have just gotten a whole bunch of readings they couldn’t understand. If it was behind the moon, the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter could be zipping along right below the pony spaceship, its many cameras never glancing skyward. Perhaps, in time, NASA would spot a shadow on the moon’s surface they couldn’t explain, but that might take years.
If anyone had even noticed. It was hard to say how many instruments there were on earth peering at the sky. Of those that were, how many of them were set up to measure the exhaust of a spaceship accelerating to warp speed? Even asteroids often got missed until they were fairly close—and those were only the large ones. Unless the ship was miles long, it was a very tiny object in a very vast space; it might have only been seen if a telescope coincidentally happened to be looking right at it as it went by.
He stared out the window, observing. He still had no idea where his glasses had gone, but he could see well enough by squinting, and what he saw was not reassuring. His initial impression of the town which surrounded the hospital was confusing, to say the least. The vast majority of the homes appeared to be medieval in their design, with exposed beams and thatched roofs. Of course, that could have just been their architectural preference; for all he knew the roofs were stamped steel made to look like thatching . . . but his heart monitor was actual wood, not a thin veneer. He’d dug a fingernail in it last night, despite the slight pain from his bandaged hand. At least, he thought he had. Maybe he’d imagined it.
There were a few buildings which were an exception to the general rule. One of them looked like a tent that had sort of melted on one side; another reminded him of a carousel that someone had converted into a home—if that was really the case, they took their amusement seriously, since it was several stories tall.
A tall round building occupied the central part of town, surrounded by a clear field. What roads there were seemed to lead to it. Fields and orchards were scattered around the outskirts of town, while off in the distance he could vaguely make out what might have been a rail line complete with a train pulled by a steam locomotive. Adding to the oddity, a very Dutch-looking windmill’s blades spun serenely in the gentle breeze that drifted through the open window. The whole thing reminded him of an amusement park, in a way. There was an overall theme, but occasional anachronisms were tossed in. While he was no expert in historical architecture, the town seemed to cover the Renaissance to Victorian eras.
And the streets were bustling with . . . ponies. Every color imaginable. Near to his eyrie, he had a view of what he could only guess was a market: dozens of wooden stalls with signs above them and merchandise spread out on the counter could be nothing else. Oddly, most of the signs simply had a painted picture, presumably of what the vendor sold. He watched as a horned pony made a transaction: even at his distance, he could see a faint green glow around what he guessed must be some kind of money, followed by a pot being carefully removed from the counter and led down the street, much like Lyra had handled the tray with her breakfast dishes. Other ponies were simply picking up items by mouth, or occasionally by hoof, a process just as inexplicable as the tractor beams all the horned ones seemed to be able to use at will. Dale cautioned himself to not jump to conclusions. Maybe they had little gripping claws on their feet. Or suction cups. Or magnets.
If that wasn’t strange enough, above the market—above the whole town—winged ponies were flying about, occasionally landing to walk into a building or make a purchase at the market. A few of them pushed what looked for all the world like fluffy clouds; he even thought he saw one land on a cloud and lie down. He had to force himself to look back to the market; he could already feel his sanity slipping away.
A new, larger shape moseying through the market caught his attention, and he watched in wonder as a cow—an honest-to-goodness cow—walked down the street, accompanied by an orange pony in a stetson. They appeared to be carrying on a conversation. It culminated when the two stopped before a stand: the cow pointed to something, the two talked back and forth for a few moments, and finally the orange pony received a bell, which she tied around the cow’s neck. The exchange pretty much deep-sixed any idea he had about trying to see if there were cheeseburgers on the menu. If the cows could carry on conversations, they probably had strong opinions about being eaten for lunch. Thinking about that made his stomach queasy—what if he were in some sort of Orwellian Animal Farm world where every animal could think and talk—where had his fish fillet come from? Had it—God forbid—volunteered?
His stomach suddenly turned, and he willed it to calm down by the thought of having to use their horribly public bathroom again. It was something he knew he’d have to get used to, but the longer it took the happier he’d be. Best not to dwell on the fish. Instead, he looked back down at the street, watching as a purple horned pony made its way towards the hospital. While its coloration was no stranger than any other pony, the fact that it was carrying a passenger was kind of remarkable. Without his glasses he could hardly tell what it was, but it appeared to be sitting upright on the pony’s back. It might have been a dog, or maybe a small purple ape. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem perturbed that its mount was floating a scroll before them, apparently reading while it walked.