//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Investigation // Story: Onto the Pony Planet // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Onto the Pony Planet Chapter 3: Investigation Admiral Biscuit Detective William Moller hung his head. He’d just finished up with an enlightening interview with Boatswain’s Mate Mark Anthony, and desperately wanted a drink. The man had been frighteningly sincere, although obviously delusional. His descriptions of what had happened on North Fox Island were the ravings of a madman, as far as Moller was concerned. It didn’t help that he’d undoubtedly been trying to spin his tale to deflect blame for his actions on the beach. Moller had expected that. But the man could have come up with a better story. He scribbled on his notepad to make sure he mentioned that Anthony should get a psych evaluation. It probably wouldn’t hurt to hook him up to a polygraph, too. Maybe he’d change his story a little bit when he was attached to the machine. Moller let out a long-suffering sigh and ran his hand through his thinning hair. He hadn’t planned on making a drive all the way up to Charlevoix, but a Coast Guard woman had disappeared without a trace. He couldn’t recall the State Police ever having investigated a missing Coast Guardsman before—especially not one where the disappearance was witnessed by three law enforcement officers, who collectively had no idea how it had happened. He flipped through his notes, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. They were pretty simple; at this stage of the investigation there wasn’t much to miss. The Coast Guard boats had been sent out because a helicopter crew had reported an electrical disturbance on North Fox Island. The two small boats and the forty-one footer had rendezvoused south of Beaver Island, and according to the crew from Port Washington, there had been four people on the other RBS at the time—so that wasn’t in dispute. Anthony’s boat had been the first to land. That the bubble was there was also indisputable: the crew of the helicopter had seen it, and so had the crews of all three boats. And the final puzzling fact was that Gunner’s Mate Katherine Loye Dybek had gotten off the boat and then had vanished with the bubble, leaving behind only a broken strobe-light. The door opened as a police officer escorted the next man in. Moller immediately noticed the dark shadow on his cheeks and the bags under his eyes. He was slightly hunched over, as if the whole weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. He was holding his cap tightly in his hands, worrying the brim. The detective stood and unconsciously brushed the wrinkles out of his suit coat. Moller extended his hand, pleased that his handshake was returned with a firm, warm grasp. He always liked getting that first impression—it made suspects believe he was ready to help them, and gave him a chance to feel body language in an unguarded social moment. He gestured for the sailor to sit, and then took his own seat. “Poncio Cortez?” Moller pronounced the name slowly and carefully. A slight smile told him he’d gotten it right. “Please—is there anything I can get you? I know you’ve been in uniform for almost twenty-four hours now, and we’re trying to get this over with as quickly as we can so that you can get out of here, but we’ve been really busy.” “No.” He twisted his hands together. “Maybe a cup of coffee?” Moller nodded. “Sure thing. Do you take cream or sugar?” “Black is fine.” He stepped out of the office, leaving Cortez alone. Later, he could look back at the surveillance footage and watch his behavior—sometimes a little isolation helped a recalcitrant subject come out of his shell. As he poured the coffee, he ran over what he’d learned so far. Cortez was deliberately his last interview; it was common gossip around the base that he had a soft spot for Ms. Dybek. While nobody knew if they’d ever dated, it was well known that he was always looking out for her welfare—she was not alone in this; he behaved the same way around all the women. Some of them were known to have used that to their advantage. He’d have to see about getting a female officer to conduct another interview in a couple of days. Maybe he would change his story for a woman. Moller pushed the door to the interview room back open, holding the styrofoam cup carefully so it wouldn’t spill. He handed it to Cortez, who blew on it before taking a tentative sip. “So.” Forsaking his chair, Moller leaned back against the desk. “Just what happened out there?” The first part of Cortez’s story was nothing new. He’d already heard it, and it hardly varied in the telling. The only difference he noticed in this iteration was that Cortez was more outspoken about Anthony’s actions, implying that the man was unqualified to lead. Privately, Moller agreed. He’d had his suspicions reading through the file, and his interview with Anthony had just cemented that impression. “You saw a trail into the woods, and motioned for Anthony—your CO—to come over?” “He said I should check it out myself. I shoulda, maybe if I had, Kate’d still be here.” “Why?” “We seen him come outta the woods, and Anthony went up to him. I stayed back a little bit, and off to the side, just like we’d been trained. You know, don’t get in each other’s way. But the path was pretty tight, so I had to get closer than I’d’ve liked. He had a distant lost look . . . I thought he was just a boater who’d gotten stranded. You know, that happens sometimes. Ain’t too many people fool enough to get that far out on the lake without a proper boat, but it happens. Maybe he’d come ashore and not anchored his boat right, and it’d drifted off. He looked like the kind of guy that’s normally neat, but his shirt and pants were wrinkled, and he had stubble on his cheeks—and a well-trimmed beard, so he hadn’t been there too long. “He didn’t answer Anthony right away, and I thought I’d seen how blank his look was, and I figured he was in a bad way . . . but he took this bag he was holding, and he tossed it at Anthony and knocked him off-balance, and then he turned and straight-armed me. Ain’t never had an old guy get the drop on me like that. Never. “When he hit me . . . I got a real good look at his face, I’ll never forget it. Not ever.” “Did he say anything?” Cortez shook his head. “He didn’t have to. It was his eyes, man. They was . . . I’ve seen angry, scared, drunk, lost, confused, stoned . . . but he was apologetic, like. He was just doin’ what he had to do, even though he knew it was wrong. You’ll have to shoot him, it’s the only way. Don’t give him a chance. He’s a demon.” He crossed himself. “What about the green creature? It was a little horse, or a big dog—” “It was a caballo marino chilote,” he said flatly. “Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor es contigo. . . .” Moller waited until Cortez had finished his prayer. He was going to have to question him further on the caballo-whatever, but Cortez seemed to be the only one who knew what it was. He’d seen that phrase in one of the other reports he’d been given, although it had been spelled badly. He’d assumed it was either a bit of nonsense or some Coast Guard slang for something. It hadn’t seemed important at the time, but now that he’d seen Cortez’s reaction to mentioning the name, maybe there was something there. “He knocked you over?” “And took off down the beach, screaming. By the time I got to my feet it was too late. I couldn’t take a shot.” He slumped forward in the chair. “I seen him headed straight for Kate. She didn’t see him . . . she was looking the wrong way. She had her taser out, but it didn’t do her no good. “He grabbed her and knocked her over, and then—before I could get close enough to drag him off—there was a huge flash. I saw a ball of lightning go across, and it engulfed her and the brujo. When it cleared, they was both gone.” Moller folded his arms and leaned forward. “I don’t get it. What’s in it for you?” “Huh?” “What’s in it for you? A good recommendation from Anthony if you keep me in the dark? Maybe a promotion in the future?” “I don’t know what you mean.” Cortez slid back in his chair as Moller moved closer. “Your story doesn’t make any sense! People don’t just up and vanish on a beach, not in front of three witnesses. What, was this guy Criss Angel or David Copperfield or something? Did he say ‘abracadabra’ and wave a magic wand? “Look, I get that you want to protect your commander. But I think we both know he screwed up, and now you’re all trying to get out of it by telling some sort of crazy story. Do you really expect me to believe that it’s some freaky mystery from the Twilight Zone? Can I go back to my captain and say: ‘Aliens did it. Case closed.’ Is that what you want?” “El burro sabe mas que tu.” Cortez stood up, eyes flashing. “I don’t care about Anthony. Anthony only cares about Anthony. I care about Kate.” Bingo. “We all care about Kate.” Moller put his hand on Cortez’s shoulder. “But we can’t find her without your help. What happened to her? Where did she go?” “The brujo took her. The old man.” “How?” “I do not know.” Cortez sat back down, hunching over in his chair. “I thought about it, ever since it happened. If I’d been quicker—if I had not let the old man get the drop on me—I could have saved Kate. It was stupid to be there. We shouldn’t have gone ashore.” He looked at Moller, eyes glistening. “I told Anthony . . . but he wouldn’t listen. He don’t never listen.” “Tell me, again. Is there some detail you’re forgetting? What happened when the old man came out of the woods?” “Anthony spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. I took my eyes off him—just for a moment. I looked down . . . I just had a feeling, you know, that there was something there. And I seen the monster. It was a little taller than my waist, and it was looking right at me. It had bright golden eyes . . . they captured me. I—I almost screamed, but then the old man hit me right in the chest. “That moment . . . I’ll never forget that. Just for a second, I seen into him, and then he was gone. I was back up on my feet almost as fast as I hit the dirt, but it was too late. I was ready to shoot him, but I couldn’t get clear of Kate—what if I’d missed? And then it was too late. She fired her taser, she hit the monster, but it didn’t do no good. I mean, it fell down, but it didn’t change what happened next.” “That was when she disappeared,” Moller said, thinking that he’d want a good look at the pictures of the crime scene. While sand wasn’t usually much use forensically, it had stopped raining on the island just before this happened. If there had been a creature of some sort—no matter how unlikely it seemed—there would be footprints and probably markings from where it fell. Normally, he liked to go through these things beforehand, to catch out any inconsistencies, but none of the reports from the forensic team were back yet. He was stuck doing an interrogation without the crime scene reports. “Yeah. Kate and the brujo and the caballo. All at once. Poof” He put his head in his hands. “I thought—Anthony panicked. I got him calmed down just a little, and got him back to the boat. When he was on the radio, I walked up the beach. The sand was wet, and it was holding footprints real good, you know? It was an all-day soaking rain; couldn’t ask for anything better. But where the bubble had been, the sand was dry. It was as perfect a circle as you could want, like it had been under a giant beach umbrella. “It was the footprints that got me. I stayed back, ‘cause I knew it was going to be a crime scene. I didn’t want to step into the—into where it happened. But even down near the water, I could see that there were three sets of footprints that went into the zone, y’know? And there weren't none that came out." •        •        • When Twinkleshine boarded the train in Canterlot, she headed towards the first car. It was well known that the soot from the locomotive didn’t fall that quickly, and to a pony with a white coat, such a consideration was important. The ride was smoother, too—when she’d asked the conductor why, he’d told her it was because of the slack action. She didn’t know what that was, but took his word for it. Like any experienced traveller, Twinkleshine was wary of her travelling companions. She never knew who they were going to be, and a poor choice could make an otherwise pleasant trip a nearly-endless misery. Single travelers were the best, families with foals were all right, and sports fans were near the bottom of the barrel. The time she’d accidentally stumbled into a coachful of Cloudsdale fans on their way to a hoofball game had been her worst trip thus far. Ever since, she’d gotten in the habit of looking through the window in the vestibule before proceeding, lest she inadvertently place herself into a situation where polite extrication was impossible. Her first glance of the lead car told the story. A tight cluster of stony-faced ponies dressed in fancy clothes meant one of two possibilities: either they were an extended family on their way to a funeral, or—even worse—a wedding. It was nothing she wanted anything to do with; turning tail, she passed back into the coach proper, stretching herself out across the frontmost seat on the right side of the coach. She knew from her travels that this side more often faced over the lowlands, which gave her a better view than a rock wall. She stuck her muzzle out the window, taking in the smells of the steam locomotive and the baking creosote of the ties. The smell always excited her; it was the scent of travel, of strange and exotic places. True, she was only going to Ponyville—a trip she’d made countless times before—but that wasn’t the point. Here she was on the most modern form of transportation imaginable . . . all she had to do was sit back on the comfortable couch, and the train would take her—with no effort on her part—to her destination. She smiled, already forgetting the sombre group in the lead car. •        •        • In the lead car, the cluster of ponies were arguing. This was not a new development; they had been arguing for days. The object of their ire was currently hidden in Dean Bright Star’s saddlebags, but out of sight did not mean out of mind for them. That their argument was circular made no difference; each pony assumed that if she repeated variations on the same phrase over and over again, she could make her point. As heads of their respective departments, they all should have known better. “A true scientist need never leave her laboratory,” Ivory Star opined. “Research should not be done out in the field; research should be conducted in sterile conditions.” “I agree.” Perry Pierce looked at Ivory. “This trip is a waste of our talents. We should be back at the university instead of traipsing around on this . . . mission.” He almost spat the words out. Bright Star shifted on her hooves. She didn’t want to leave the university behind, either, but she still remembered the excitement of her past self as a young mare travelling to the furthest ends of Equestria, bags full of new medicines and head full of hopes for changing lives. That fire had faded to the barest ember, but it was still there. “Princess Celestia told us to,” she reminded them. “Perhaps it will not be all bad. How often does one get the chance to observe a new species?” “All the time,” Featherbrain—the sole pegasus—muttered. Her specialty was taxonomic classification of non-hooved creatures. As such, she was the most experienced pony in the group when it came to non-pony anatomy, and had written a well-received thesis about the common historical ancestor of griffons and manticores. “You do,” Perry griped as the train lurched forward. “You look forward to flying out of Canterlot and slogging along muddy paths. But your students can never find you! You don’t even keep regular office hours.” He looked out the window at the station sliding by. “What if one of my students wants help with her thesis? What then? I won’t be there! I’ll be in some second-rate inn in Ponyville!” “There is much to be learned from books, it is true.” Lecol deCheval leaned forward. Every eye turned to watch her—like most Prench mares she was slender and leggy. “Yet, it was a dearth of a proper archives in Mareseilles which led me to Canterlot. Even there, I could only learn so much.” She glanced over at Bright Star’s bulging saddlebag. “That book—that very book which we are on our way to deliver—contains more about the anatomy of The Creature than any book in Canterlot contains about a pony. I have seen surgeons graduate with less knowledge of anatomy than what that book presents. And—we have been told that the creature freely gave it to Lyra. Perhaps such books are commonplace in his world. He might have vaster knowledge of his own anatomy than we do of ours. Yet, we are bickering endlessly about going to see him!” She slammed her hoof down on the bench to illustrate her point. “We are ponies of knowledge! If we cannot summon the mountain to ourselves, than we must go to the mountain!” Bright Star watched in amusement as Lecol warmed up. What were—in all honesty—political considerations had kept her from saying the very same thing. She could not afford to insult her tenured professors . . . but she had no compunctions about watching them insult each other. They all respected their colleague from Prance; she had systematically read through every treatise on pony surgical practice and single-hoofedly revised the Canterlot hospital’s routine—shaving an average of one day off each pony’s stay. Best of all, she was a guest professor, and had nothing to lose by stating her mind. “You are cowards. The lot of you.” She waved a hoof around. “You’re scared of getting your hooves dirty. You’re a bunch of . . . of badly groomed sheep! And you!” Her focus narrowed on Perry. “You’re not just scared because you have to step outside of the comfortable university halls—you look like a pony on the way to the gallows. Have you got a jilted lover back in Ponyville?” The blush on Perry’s face said it all. Lecol’s braying laugh filled the train coach. “I never would have thought you had it in you—you of all ponies. I’m surprised you could even get your muzzle out of a book long enough to—” “That’s enough.” Bright Star glared at her department heads. “Princess Celestia asked us personally to go to Ponyville and assist Twilight Sparkle in whatever way possible. I don’t see how dredging up personal history will help with that task.” She glared at Perry in particular, wondering if it was Twilight who had been a past love. The unicorn was well-known throughout the halls of academia. It was hard to imagine that she had any interests beyond the pursuit of knowledge—even her professors had agreed that she spent altogether too much time in the library. Still—for a professor to even consider a relationship with a student. . . . Bright Star’s eyes narrowed, and she glared at Perry. “It wasn’t Twilight Sparkle, was it?” He shook his head, his face still glowing a furious scarlet. “How about Dr. Stable?” Ivory offered. “Your brother—” “It was a mare,” he sputtered. “A p—that’s all I’m saying. It’s not anypony who’s going to be at the hospital.” The I hope was unsaid, but obvious to everypony in the coach. “—not that there’s anything wrong with liking other stallions that way,” Ivory finished. “Let’s just skip all the tangents and get to what we’ve come to accomplish.” Bright Star pulled a well-read telegram out of her bag and floated it in front of her face. “I’m given to understand that there are two of the creatures, one mare and one stallion. Both are injured, the female more than the male. Lyra Heartstrings has been meeting with the stallion for several days now. All three are apparently confined to the hospital for the present.” She looked over the knot of professors. “We are to render every assistance possible, and I just don’t see how arguing about fieldwork or Perry’s past love life will accomplish that goal. What we should be doing is spending the time we have on this train ride going through the book. Maybe we can get some idea how we might be able to assist.” “Nopony’s let me analyze it yet,” Featherbrain grumped. “How am I supposed to come up with a coherent study plan if I haven’t fully analyzed the materials?” “Just wing it.” Apple Polish frowned at her. “You know, like I’ve heard you do in every one of your lectures.” “It’s stream-of-consciousness lecturing. Free-form! Not like the rigid structure you prefer—an outmoded style of education!” “It’s chaos! My lesson plans are set years in advance! Nopony has any idea what your students have learned!” Featherbrain bristled. “Haven’t you read Dr. Blizzard’s treatise on education? You can’t just expect everypony to fit in a neat little box! Education should be about your students, not sating your own personal neuroses!” “You need a plan, and you need to follow it. How else can you be sure your students are learning at maximum efficiency?” As the train entered a tunnel, Dean Bright Star laid her head heavily on her hooves. She could only imagine what kind of fiasco this would turn into when they arrived in Ponyville. Ivory—as befitted a unicorn from a noble line—would probably begin complaining about their accommodations as soon as she saw the hotel. Eventually, Lecol would get annoyed and yell at her, and the two of them would just stare silently at each other. Meanwhile—if his increasingly paranoid behavior was any guide—Perry would gallop up to his room and refuse to come out. And as soon as she saw the opportunity, Featherbrain would be out the window and off to the hospital—without the book, of course—hoping to get her first look at the new creatures. Her best hope—at least, in terms of having a career after tomorrow—was that Twilight would meet them at the train station, take the book, and send them away before anypony could open her mouth. Dale watched as the lavender pony floated a half-dozen sheets in front of her. She had the look of a scholar—probably with OCD. As she and Lyra spoke, she often wrote down what was said, as if she didn’t trust herself to remember correctly. If he had to guess, she had a different page for each subject. It seemed remarkably inefficient. He’d have just used one page, and sorted it all out later. The aura that twined around the papers and the quill was a light magenta—a third color. Clearly, his earlier theory that there was a strong color and a nimble color was wrong. Perhaps different materials called for different colors of field. He looked back down at Lyra. She was watching the purple one, but still not looking at the ongoing medical treatment. He’d have to get her to lift something the other one had handled. He could just snatch one of the papers that was lying on the ground—but he doubted she’d appreciate that. Fortunately, his dilemma was solved when the purple one slid a paper over to him. She thankfully pushed it with her hoof. The quill followed, and she set it carefully on the paper with the nib over the floor so it wouldn’t stain. Dale picked up the quill, twisting it idly between his fingers. Both the ponies seemed fascinated by this behavior, watching intently as he twisted it between his fingertip and thumb. I suppose they’ve never seen any kind of hands before, he thought. Probably can’t do that with hooves. The feather looked fairly normal. The calamus was thick enough for him to grip, although it would have been easier to write with if it had been fatter. The barbs were mostly intact, although there were a few gapped spots. There was a slightly iridescent sheen to it, although the overall color was quite uniform.   He wished he’d paid more attention to birds back on earth. There weren’t more than a couple dozen he could identify—and those were the distinct ones. As it was, whatever had formerly owned this feather had been pretty big, and a fairly bright red. It would have been unusual for a bird back on earth . . . but as surreal as the colors these ponies bore, it would probably fit right in here. Maybe it was some kind of bird they kept for food or eggs or something. He held it up in front of him, parallel to the floor. He looked down at Lyra. “Lyra make—make hmmmmmm.” He wiggled the feather, as if it were floating. Lyra looked at him curiously. He set it on the floor and lifted it several times, making the same humming noise as before—he still couldn’t think of a better way to illustrate their weird tractor beams. Finally, she looked at it and a golden glow surrounded the feather, which gently lifted off the ground. When it had reached his eye height, it wavered around—mimicking his earlier movement—and then she set it back down. So, the color isn’t associated with what’s lifted. Dale picked the quill back up. It must be horn type, then. Or else they just choose the color they want. There was something about lightsaber color in Star Wars . . . some kind of arbitrary rule that had to do with what kind of crystals went into the handles, or maybe it was whether it was being wielded by a Jedi or a Sith. Lasers had different colors of light, too. There was a ‘ruby’ laser—but was that named for the color of light, or did it have an actual ruby that the beam went through? It was a mystery that he might never solve. Still—if he could get them to give him an unattached horn to take back to earth, maybe some genius could figure it out. Better still, he could maybe convince them to give him schematics. Dale turned his attention back to the page. It was obvious on first glance that the lavender pony hadn’t been the one who’d made the cartoon. This page was also filled with drawings, but they were much cruder. At the top, there was a drawing of a horned pony on the right side of the page, with her mouth open. On the left, several drawings and an arrow to her mouth. Checkboxes on the extreme left indicated that this was probably a test or questionnaire of some sort. Clearly, the part at the top was meant to be instructions, since they were already filled out. The first item was a flower; the left box was checked. Next was a piece of bread. Again, the left box was checked. Below that was a house, and the right box was checked. Finally, a crystal of some sort. The left box was checked. Maybe it’s a menu! Dale’s stomach grumbled. Or perhaps simpler—just a dietary requirement guide. I’ve seen Lyra eat flowers and bread. I’d imagine she can’t eat a house . . . and I don’t know what the crystal is supposed to be. Rock candy? Still, it’s not a totally lost cause. I can check off what I know I can eat, and maybe Lyra and I can work together on the things I can’t recognise. Three of the first four items were the same as in the instructions—the purple pony had understandably left out the house. He ticked off the ‘yes’ box for the bread, but hovered over the flower. He’d eaten some on Lyra’s sandwich, and it hadn’t been too bad. On a few occasions in his life he’d been at a fancy restaurant or party where edible flowers garnished the food, but as far as he knew they generally weren’t nutritious—his body couldn’t process them easily. He knew clover and yarrow were edible blooms, and dandelions could be made into wine. Daisies, lilies, and roses were also edible, and he was pretty sure apple blossoms were too. Other than that, he’d had more interest in fruits and mint when he was in the woods, rather than flowers—and he’d always been careful to only eat plants that were so distinct that they couldn’t be misidentified. Christopher McCandless—and countless others before him—had learned the hard way about eating the wrong plant. He vaguely remembered when he was a kid that his grandfather had told him that most edible plants could be identified—if one was patient—by watching and seeing if any animals would eat them. On the other hand, he was pretty sure birds loved yew berries, and he was also fairly certain that they were toxic to humans. Still, if Lyra was willing to share her lunch with me, they must have researched what they think I can eat, he thought. It’s not like they wouldn’t have thought of it. So maybe this is a list of things I’d prefer, rather than what I can eat. Oh, it would be so much easier if I could just see the actual food item, rather than have to rely on a drawing. Finally reaching a conclusion, he put a checkmark between the two boxes for ‘flower.’ “Dale yes-no,” he told Lyra, pointing. She nodded, and spoke to the other pony, who seemed to be frustrated that he wasn’t neat enough to check inside boxes—or maybe that she hadn’t considered the possibility of uncertainty. As he scanned down the list, he began to wonder if he was jumping to conclusions. There was a whole body of pictograms which had developed in America—things ranging from the silhouette of a man being maimed in various ways which adorned the machine shop, to the easily-recognizable symbols on road signs. No doubt these ponies had a similar body of icons, but he was unfamiliar with them. The haybale was obvious enough, but a simple ovoid shape was a complete unknown. He was sure there was an order to it, even if he couldn’t figure it out: the first part seemed to be entirely devoted to plants, and the last part to animals—although they largely weren’t game animals on Earth. He could understand why they’d left cow off the list, but rat and snake seemed odd inclusions. The final picture was of a pony; Dale wondered what they’d do if he checked the yes box. He filled out half the sheet before enlisting Lyra’s help. He began with the ovoid—it had been the first item after plants, suggesting that it was a common food for them. “Dale not know.” He pointed. Lyra cocked her head, thinking. Finally, she made a clucking noise, an odd pop, mimed smashing something with her hoof, made a hissing sizzle, and pantomimed sliding a plate over to him. “Dale eat then. Dale eat here then.” She pointed towards the girl’s vacant bed. I ate it here before? He considered her motions, then laughed. The stomp had thrown him off; obviously it was an egg. He hoped that wasn’t how she broke eggs before she cooked them. He nodded and checked the ‘yes’ box. That still left him with half the list; and try as they might, he could only identify a few more items—even with Lyra’s charades. It wasn’t the purple one’s fault; she’d obviously put a lot of effort into drawing distinct types of plant, even going so far as to identify their common usage. Unfortunately, a drawing of soup was a drawing of soup, and aside from recognizing corn and wheat, he had no idea what all the other plants were. To be fair to her, if he’d been shopping at Meijers and they’d replaced the labels of all the foods with an image of the plant source, he’d have done no better. In fact, now that he thought about it, it was a little odd. Lyra had easily recognized each drawing. He considered himself more in-tune with the source of food than most of his peers—his grandparents had been farmers, after all—yet he wasn’t very skilled at identifying common cereals. He didn’t have to. He just read the package, and he assumed that whoever had packaged it knew what they were doing. So, either they normally ate it raw—which made a lot of sense—or they were remarkably well-informed for a modern society. But all of Lyra’s food was prepared. Except for the carrot she gave me the first time and the celery sticks. And the apple, I suppose. Those aren’t things that we generally prepare, though. Nobody but a hippie would eat wheat straight from the stalk. His breakfast had consisted of mostly familiar foods, and Lyra had gotten the same thing. Except for the fish. It was so confusing; every little thing was just different enough to knock him off-balance. He finally decided he was done. He’d filled it out to the best of his ability. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be judged by the number of boxes he’d left blank—but the consequences of mis-identifying a toxic plant or animal were far worse than getting a failing grade. The purple one glanced down at the paper and began taking notes. She’s some kind of official, he decided. Maybe the stars on her side were badges of rank. Probably she’d started with the star in the center, and more had been added as her rank increased. He’d have to keep an eye out for others. The guards he’d seen on the beach all had a single star at the center of their chests, so maybe that was what the footsoldiers got. Their armor had covered their hips, so he’d been unable to see if they had any kind of marking there, but he guessed they would—so far he hadn’t seen any pony who didn’t. I never did get her name, he thought. I haven’t gotten any of their names. Funny, usually on Earth it’d be the first thing—at least, in America. Once she’d stopped writing, he cleared his throat to get her attention. “Dale.” He tapped his chest. “Lyra.” He pointed. She raised an eyebrow and looked at him curiously. He could imagine gears turning inside her head. She suddenly brightened and held out her hoof towards him. “Twilight Sparkle.” Dale looked down at the proffered limb. Instinctively, he reached out himself, wrapping his hand firmly around the hoof, his fingers grasping just above the keratin. He pumped her leg up and down while carefully pronouncing her name. His attention was drawn to the glimmer of a horseshoe firmly attached to the bottom of her hoof. Just like a normal horse, he thought. He leaned forward to get a closer look. Were they nailed on?  She tugged her hoof back before he could finish his inspection. She had a slightly disgruntled look on her face, while Lyra had a huge smile. The two ponies exchanged a couple sentences while Dale blushed, suddenly realizing that he might have just committed a social faux pas. But how was he supposed to have known? Emily Post didn’t cover meeting a new species, as far as he knew. Apparently satisfied that he meant no harm, Twilight looked back at him. He felt Lyra shifting her weight, and watched as she stood. She rolled slightly against him as she got her left foreleg out in front of her body with her knee bent, lifted her chest up to get her right leg out straight, and then pushed up with her hind legs. He’d never paid much attention to how real horses did it, but if it was that much effort, no wonder they hardly ever wanted to lie down. “Dale.” She looked at him expectantly, then back to Twilight. “Dale see.” She extended her right foreleg, which Twilight matched. She bumped her hoof against Twilight’s, leaving it there a moment before the two lowered their hooves back to the ground. “Yes.” She repeated the action, but this time they shook their hooves up and down—just like he’d been doing. “Yes.” She mimicked—as best she could without hands of her own—where he’d placed his hand. “No.” Turning back to face him, she held up her hoof, nodding at it. He made a fist and bumped it against the bottom, wincing as his knuckles struck something hard. Too late he remembered that Twilight wore metal shoes. Lyra smiled, then began moving her leg slowly up and down, a move which he followed. Three pumps later, she pulled back, leaving him momentarily pushing against air. Three times. Got it. Apparently satisfied with her etiquette lesson, she spoke to Twilight again, before stepping out into the hallway. He listened as her hoof-falls faded down the corridor. Dale looked back over at the doctors. They were still working at the same slow pace. He wondered how they had the patience—whatever they were doing wasn’t showing any kind of satisfying result, as far as he could tell. There wasn’t a clock, so he couldn’t tell how long they’d been at it, but he was starting to feel hungry, so it much have been nearly lunchtime. Suddenly, he realized that his interpreter had left. A sudden wave of terror washed over him—he felt like a kid abandoned in a grocery store. He quickly got to his feet—causing Twilight to take a few steps back—and walked into the hallway to see where she’d gone. He heard footsteps behind him, and guessed without turning around that Twilight had followed him. There was no sign of Lyra, but the hallway was hardly empty. Just outside the door, a pale yellow pony was working on repairing the wall. She had a tie around the end of her white tail, and wore an orange vest. On her shoulder was a small white patch with writing on it. He watched with fascination as she worked—she was standing on her hind legs, bracing herself with her left forehoof. Her right hoof held a stiff brush, which she was using to get bits of loose plaster off the lath. An open wooden box was filled with tools that looked quite familiar to Dale; she even had some kind of open pouch across her hips that held more tools in easy mouth-reach. One of the carts had been commandeered as a makeshift workbench; several freshly-sawn strips of lath were lying on top, their lengths written out neatly in pencil on each. Further down the hall, two of the armored ponies stood sentry, facing away from him. He didn’t know whether he should be reassured or worried. They obviously weren’t trying to protect the other ponies from him—but maybe there was something they felt they needed to protect him from. He looked back to the construction pony. He’d have to trust that Lyra was going to come back; while he waited he might as well watch the construction pony work. Here was something he could actually understand. She finally finished knocking off loose plaster and stuck the brush back in her hip-pouch. It was a familiar action to her; she did it without even looking. She tapped the wall a couple of times with her now-free hoof, ears tilted alertly. Then she turned and saw him for the first time. Her green eyes locked onto his for just a moment before she gasped and dropped to all fours, glancing frantically down the hallway as she backed away from him. She looked ready to bolt, but hesitated—and Dale knew why. She didn’t want to abandon her toolbox, but he was too close for her to grab it safely. He kept his place in the hallway, squatting down so he’d appear smaller. He knew that Twilight was surely behind him, and a word from her might set this right—but it was something he wanted to try on his own. If she had good instincts, she’d let him. She probably knew it was more effective for someone to face something they were afraid of, rather than be told it was nothing to be frightened by. She glanced down the hallway, past him. He imagined she was thinking about the guards there. They probably still were facing away, but he guessed that one or both of them had an ear turned in his direction. Surely they’d heard her. If he looked away, he figured she’d take the opportunity to snatch her toolbox and run. He held his left hand out, fingers loosely balled into a fist. She looked at it thoughtfully and then back at his face. She was clearly as conflicted as Lyra had been when they’d first met on the beach. Finally, she took a tentative step forward, then another. Dale remained motionless, letting her approach him. She flared her nostrils, clearly trying to identify his scent. He was surprised she hadn’t smelled him when he was watching her work—he wondered if the hospital smells had masked his own odor. When she was just at the reach of his arm, she stuck her nose down against his fist, smelling him carefully. Finally, she extended her own leg, gently bumping Dale’s hand before pulling away again, He could see she was still wary; her ears were locked on him and her tail was flicking sharply. She looked down at her hoof for a moment, and then came to a decision. She firmly planted it against Dale’s fist and shook three times before dropping back to all fours. Unlike the feel of Lyra’s hoof, hers was a little softer, and actually felt warm at the heel, although there was a tingling aspect as well. He couldn’t quite place the feel—it wasn’t unpleasant, just odd. His hand had been slightly higher when he shook Lyra’s hoof; maybe that made a difference. Eat your heart out, Dale Carnegie. There was something honest about her—a vibe he hadn’t gotten from Lyra or Twilight. It was the kind of no-nonsense attitude that skilled tradesmen often had. Without a word, she went back to fixing the wall. She grabbed a lath in her teeth, pinned it in place with her left hoof, and grabbed her hammer in her other hoof . . . somehow. She shifted her left foreleg, bracing with the length of it. He didn’t see how she transferred the nail from her mouth to the board, nor how she started it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He’d long been curious how they managed to make anything without hands, but apparently they’d figured it out. Maybe their shoes had some kind of gripping apparatus on them, or even powerful electromagnets. He thought about trying to help, but that was the kind of thing that simply wasn’t done on Earth. If he’d taken his Honda to a shop and offered to help the mechanic fix it, he’d have been politely refused—if he was lucky. If not, he’d have been dodging a thrown wrench. At the same time, he didn’t like the idea of just standing around while there was work to be done. When she finished with the first lath, he picked up the second and held it in place for her. She eyed him warily, clearly concerned about him looming over her—or else it was the unevenness of the board he was holding. She tapped it to where she wanted it, seated another nail, and pounded it in before moving towards his end. He’d expected her to make a motion for him to move or something, but she just worked around him. Dale had to move his head back to avoid the enthusiastic backswing of her hammer, but she seemed to quickly become accustomed to his help, letting him select the right board and hold it in place for her. With the two of them working together, the repair proceeded quickly. Much to his surprise, once the laths were all in place, she handed him the brush. Without instruction, he began to run it along the boards, carefully making sure he got all the sawdust and fuzzies off the wood. He also worked around the edge of the hole, roughing up the plaster so that the new material would stick. When he’d finished, she ran a hoof over it, feeling the boards. She smiled at him before taking the brush back and putting it in her bag. She’d mixed up a bucket of plaster while he was working and proceeded to spread it with a mouth-held trowel. Dale stood back out of the way and just watched; she wouldn’t want his help for this part of the job. Besides, he’d tried drywalling before, and even with modern joint compound he could never make a seamless joint; there was no way he could spread plaster evenly. As she finished the patch, he noticed that the bucket was nearly empty. Apparently, she was experienced enough to know just how much plaster she needed. The finish was a little rough, but he knew she’d be applying another coat or two over the top—if plaster was put on too thick, it’d crack when it dried. She rinsed off her trowel in a bucket of water and stuck it back in her toolbox. She reached for a small broom, but Dale was ahead of her. He swept the loose rubble up, pushing it into a small dustpan she held between her hooves. She took a step back and examined her repair. Then she broke into a broad smile and held her hoof out again. Dale bumped it and she gave a satisfied nod, then turned and pushed the cart down the hallway. He looked at the wall thoughtfully. It wasn’t much—a small spot of fresh plaster, maybe a foot and a half in diameter. But it gave him an incredible sense of accomplishment, because he’d helped. He supposed he could carve his name into the still-wet plaster—not that he would; it would be an insult to the carpenter pony. Once the final coats were put over it, and it was painted, no one would be able to see it . . . but he’d know it was there. While he knew intellectually he was making an impact on their world, this was a real thing. This was something he’d helped build with his own hands. And on top of that, he’d made a friend. True, they’d probably never meet again, but he was sure she’d never forget him. Dale looked around the hallway and found it deserted, save for the guards. Twilight had apparently been satisfied to leave him to his own devices, although he could imagine that she’d been keeping an eye on him from the room. As he stepped back inside, he noticed that the doctors had finally finished. The girl was back in her bed, neatly tucked under the covers. Two of the doctors had left; only the zebra remained behind, sitting on a chair next to the bed. She had her eyes closed and was softly chanting. Interestingly, she was keeping tempo with the heart monitor; whether that was deliberate or a coincidence was another mystery he didn’t expect to have an answer for any time soon. Lyra was back, too. She was standing patiently in the room, while Twilight paced back and forth. Dale smiled; he could imagine what they were thinking. He’d already figured out that Lyra was very patient; clearly Twilight was not. She seemed the type to get frustrated when things didn’t happen as quickly as she wanted them to, and he was thankful she wasn’t the one who’d been meeting with him on the beach. If she had been—she probably would have just dumped a pile of books in front of him and then gotten more and more impatient as he didn’t understand them. “Dale eat,” Lyra said. She nodded towards the hallway. Guess since I’m on my feet I don’t get room service anymore. He turned back around and began walking down the hallway with the uncomfortable feeling that he was being led towards the gallows. He had a vision of causing a mass panic in the hospital cafeteria, but hopefully with Lyra and Twilight with him he’d be fine. As he passed a familiar door, he paused. Might as well use the bathroom before I go to lunch. He pushed open the door gingerly, hoping fervently that no-one else was in there.