//------------------------------// // Chapter 22: Lost and Found // Story: Flight 19 // by ImChangingmynameforreaso //------------------------------// Chapter 22: Lost and Found Thick silence descended upon the clearing for a moment before Gallivan’s voice spoke up from behind them. “Spread out, boots.  Keep your eyes open.  Whoever took the planes may still be here.”  He snapped his fingers and pointed.  “Thompson, Hoof. Check the treeline where the bombers were.  Star, you and I will take the south side.  Captain Sword, you and Midnight take the east.  Grubel, you and the skipper sit tight with the Ell-Tee til he gets his shit together.” Taylor’s voice came back immediately, almost a guttural snarl.  “I’m fine, Sergeant York.  Some asshole just walked off with my fucking bombers, otherwise everything’s Goddamn peachy keen.” “Then see if you can figure out who, sir.  All due respect, we ain’t got time for a hissy fit.”  Gallivan turned without a word and headed off slowly, Star pacing slowly beside him and eyeing the trees with evident suspicion. Stivers stepped up and touched the other officer gently on the arm.  “Come on, Charlie.  He’s right.  Let’s try to find out what happened at least, and go from there.”  The Marine squeezed Taylor’s bicep firmly.  “We need your brains, Navy.” Taylor took a deep breath and blew it out hard, his lips making a puttering sound.  “You know,” he said in a normal tone of voice, “you just complimented a Navy officer.  I’m never letting you live that down.” “I’m counting on it.”  Stivers chuckled and clapped him on the back.  “Come on, let’s take a look at this mess.” The two officers paced slowly over to where the bombers had been, Gruebel following a short distance behind and turning slightly to keep an eye on the treeline behind them.  Coming to a halt, Taylor knelt down, his knees making dull popping sounds as he crouched in the tall grass.  “Okay, here’s where we were.”  He brushed a hand over the ground, flicking his fingers through the greenery.  “See where it’s pressed down here?  That’s the wheelmarks.” Stivers knelt beside him, his eyes picking out the pattern immediately.  “Right.  Okay…”  He turned his head slowly to the left.  “Leads back toward the center of the meadow.” “That’s the way we came in.  We landed over that way and then rolled the birds over here and parked them.”  Taylor stood up and moved forward carefully.  “Now then…”  He knelt down again, then winced, picking up a small stone from under his knee and chucking the offending rock to one side.  “See this?  It’s not as bad as the other marks.  Is there anything over in that direction?” Stivers, who had crouched beside him, began crab-walking to one side.  “Tally-ho.  Looks like our main gear was here and the plane was turned; the grass is all torn up here and yellow.” “Dammit.  I wish we’d locked the brakes on the bastards.  I didn’t think it was gonna be a problem.”  Taylor pounded one knee with a closed fist, then let out a deep breath.  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” “Whoever took them didn’t fly off with them, for whatever reason.”  Stivers and the other pilot looked at each other, then at the ground, their eyes following the faint trail that led through the grass, their gaze lifting as it led away into the treeline to the west.  “Son of a bitch.  The trees are wide apart enough over there…” Taylor stood up and began walking in that direction.  “Yeah, they are.  Wanna go see if they got stuck in the damn forest?” “On it.”  Stivers raised his voice slightly, just enough to carry.  “Heads up, boots.  We got a trail to follow.” Crimson Hoof came gliding over as the group reassembled around the two senior pilots.  “Sir, Thompson and I found something that looks like wheel marks over just inside the treeline.  The spacing is right for your machines.  It looks like it goes deeper into the forest, but we didn’t want to get out of sight to find out.” “Good job.”  Stivers patted the pony’s armor plated side with a dull thunk.  “Form up with us.  I think Taylor’s got the point, so let’s get moving and try to keep up.” Golden Sword frowned heavily.  “I’d rather he not be up there.  That’s not a place for an amateur, danger or no.” “Charlie wants his airplane back, and to be honest, so do I.”  Stivers tightened one of the straps on his pack as they began to move, the group spreading out into their marching formation once more.  “Right now it’d take wild horses to slow him down.” “Nonsense.  We’re in much better shape.”  Sword frowned.  “What would wild horses want to slow him down for, anyway?” Stivers looked at the pony in confusion for a moment, then shook his head. “Another one of those metaphors of ours,” Stivers explained, then raised his voice slightly.  “Charlie!  Hold up!” The other pilot’s words drifted back to him.  “You know, I really hate sitting in a traffic pattern.  C’mon, let’s go find our birds.”  He paused, though, and waited until Stivers and Sword had drawn level with him, then pointed at the ground.  “Check this happy shit out.” Stivers frowned and knelt down.  Where the wheel trails had entered the treeline, the growth to either side was drawn back a bit.  Up ahead, he could see dimly through the sunlight that filtered through the greenery, and realized the open space continued on into the forest.  The ground was likewise fairly clear, with only an occasional weed poking up here and there.  “I’ll be damned.  There’s a path through here.”  He turned to look at Sword.  “This wasn’t on Luna’s map.  Any idea who’s using this trail?” “I believe that’s what the good lieutenant was bringing to our attention.”  Sword’s voice had a slight edge to it.  “And before you get any wild ideas in your heads, my people don’t come here for any reason I know of, Captain.  Whomever purloined your machines, it wasn’t a pony.” “Huh?”  Stivers looked down and inspected the ground before him.  “What’re—”  He broke off as Sword moved a forehoof and brushed aside a clump of grass, revealing a set of hoofprints that pressed cleanly into the earth.  “What the hell?” “Your guess is as good as mine right now.  Or possibly not.”  The stallion’s mouth was set in a thin line.  “I’ve a fair notion, but speculating about it isn’t going to get us anywhere.  Let’s follow the trail and see what we find, first.” “About damned time.” Taylor straightened and tightened his pack straps.  “Lay on, MacDuff.” Several hours of following the path revealed that whomever had made off with the machines had a decent head start.  All signs of their passing were at least a day or two old, but the cover overhead made it hard to tell; there were signs of a recent rain, but hardly any had reached the forest floor; even Hoof was unable to piece out whether the wear was due to the erosion or plain age. The trail wound back and forth, but generally led in a southwest direction.  Trees crowded close together on either side, and grew so close together that there was no place wide enough for an Avenger to slip through, even with it's wings folded.  After a while, the stopped examining the edges of the trail and simply followed the signs made by the passage of aircraft. Security was still a prime issue, though, and they left nothing to chance.  Ponies and humans alike peered warily through the trees, watching for motion or the telltale glint of metal that might betray an attacker. The day passed slowly, and the sounds of the forest around them made the ponies' ears flicker and twitch.  The constant murmur of birds calls, unseen animals and the shifting of tree limbs kept them on edge. At one point, something deep in the forest had uttered a low, growling yowl, and all of them had fallen into a defensive formation, weapons out and eyes straining to catch a glimpse of whatever had seen fit to complain.  Nothing more was heard from it, however, and eventually they reformed their column and moved on, albeit at a slightly faster pace than any of them would care to admit. After a short break for lunch, which all of them wanted, and a rest which they all needed but none wanted to spend time on, they kept moving.  The ground itself began to slope generally downward, descending from the highlands behind them, and the trees began to become thinner and more spaced apart, and even the undergrowth became more sparse as they traveled. “Sir, I’d bet a month’s pay this trail wasn’t on the maps I looked at while we were at the monastery.”  Star glanced over his left shoulder at the descending afternoon sun.  “We’ve turned east a bit, too.  The main trading road is in this direction, but this sure isn’t it.  I don’t know where we are.” “As long as it points toward our planes, it’s working just fine for me.”  Taylor paused, wiggling his shoulders for a moment.  “Is it me, or is it getting warmer?” “Not being high up in the mountains does that to you.”  Stivers glanced off to his left, frowning, but the flash of movement he’d seen turned into a squirrel that busily began scolding him for having the temerity to look at it.  “I’m not complaining.  I’m tired of freezing my ass off at night.” Behind him, Crimson Hoof snickered.  “I’m never gonna get used to you guys saying that. What in Equestria possessed you to call your haunches your ass?  I keep expecting it to hee-haw at me or something.” “Son, you’ve never had navy beans for dinner.”  Gallivan closed up until he was walking even with the officers.  “What’s the word, skipper?  Any idea on how close we’re getting?” “These tracks are more than a day old, but less than a week.”  Sword frowned.  “More than that, I can’t tell.  Whomever is hauling your machines is either lucky or clever; they’re walking directly ahead of the wheel marks.  It’s destroying what little sign I can pick up.” “That’s more than I can pick up; I never was good at trailcraft, and I was a Scout.”  Taylor eyed the stallion pacing alongside him.  “You’re damned good at what you do, you know that?” “If I wasn’t, I’d be a poor excuse for a commander then, wouldn’t I?” “You’re also shitty at being humble.”  Taylor grinned as Sword’s momentary expression of satisfaction immediately collapsed into his more usual scowl.  “C’mon, Sword, work with me.” The guardspony stopped in mid-stride and offered the human a scathing glance.  “You’re irreverent, irresponsible, annoying, refuse to take anything seriously, ignore orders, noise discipline, and every other regulation in the book.  How in Luna’s name did you become an officer?” Taylor’s smirk stayed glued in place, but the light in his eyes faded a bit.  “All the good ones got killed, so they picked me next.”  He flapped a hand irritably at the hood of his cloak, pushing it back away from his neck.  “Come on, daylight’s wasting.” Sword stood for a moment as the others passed by him in column, giving the tall human a long, thoughtful look. Hours later, they had finally called a halt as evening drew down on the land and it became harder and harder to see anything on the trail before them.  The large prints of the Avengers’ tires could still be seen clearly, even in the dim moonlight that filtered through the trees, but both Stivers and Taylor shared a common fear that small details might be easily missed in the gloaming.  They had all been moving since daybreak, anyway, and even Sword was willing to stop and make camp for the night. Gruebel and Thompson had cleared a spot directly on the trail and set up their campfire, mindful of the nearby woods.  This made gathering firewood an easy prospect however, and they soon had a blaze burning merrily in the center of the path. “Tollbooth,” Gruebel had announced.  “Anyone else comes through here, they pay up or get their asses scorched.” Hoof snickered again at the misnomer, then looked at the Marine.  “So what’re you charging to pass through?” Gruebel leaned back against his pack, legs stretched out in front of him with ankles crossed.  “An eighteen inch pizza, Chicago style.  Loaded.” Taylor made a gagging sound.  “New York.  That Chicago crap will give you the runs.” “That’s because you have delicate insides, sir.  You stick with us, march out in the rough for a few more weeks.  Eat some bugs and snakes.  We’ll have you toughened up in no time.” The lieutenant offered him a hand gesture which most of the ponies had become familiar with at this point.  “You must have missed the memo, Og.  We don’t live in caves anymore.  Have you heard about that great invention, the wheel?  Really moved things forward for us.” A burst of laughter swept through the group as they settled in, muted crunching sounds indicating that at least someone (or somepony) wasn’t going to stand on ceremony where dinner was concerned.  Golden Sword looked them over for a moment, then picked up one of his side pouches and strode up the path to where Midnight was standing guard. “No sense in you waiting until later to eat.”  He set the pouch down before her.  “Go on and tuck in, I’ll keep an eye out for you while you’re at it.” “Thank you sir, that’s kind of you.” Sword cast his gaze along the edges of the woods, frowning as the firelight danced and played amongst the shadows there.  “You know,” he said after a moment, “I just don’t get it.” Midnight was caught in mid-chew, but she was used to this particular habit of her commander by this point.  She swallowed heavily and cleared her throat.  “Don’t get what?” “That lot,” he stated simply. “The humans?” “Yes.”  Sword scraped at the turf with a forehoof absently.  “I’m well aware that under pressure, certain liberties are taken, but those...people, I don’t understand them half the time.  They’re more like civilians than professional soldiers, but they function absurdly well when the time comes.” Midnight paused to take a drink of water and cleared her throat again.  “Actually, I don’t think that’s far off the mark.” “Come again?” “Well…”  The mare paused, forming her words carefully before she spoke.  “From what I’ve gathered, most of them weren’t even soldiers until a few years ago.  I think Gruebel and Gallivan were, but other than that, they were just...normal.” Sword chuckled.  “You make it sound like strapping on armor is an act of a deluded mind.” “I didn’t mean it in a derogatory fashion, sir.  I volunteered just like you did, remember?”  Midnight clicked her teeth together softly, watching as Thompson, who had been telling some sort of story or other, stood up and began waving his hands around in an odd fashion, as if they were chasing each other.  “From what I’ve learned, they’re fairly docile folk.  Almost indolent, even, but they were attacked by another nation and that roused them to the fight.” “Well.”  Sword reached up and rubbed a forehoof against the chestplate of his armor.  “There is that, at least.” “Captain.”  Midnight’s voice firmed slightly.  “You’ve told me more than once that you admire them.  When you think about this, it bothers you.  I’ve grown to like them, and I think you have, too.”  She leaned closer, one corner of her muzzle quirked up in a smile.  “You do know that it’s okay to like them, right?” The stallion offered her a quizzical look.  “Are you the same sub-lieutenant I began this mission with?  Because you certainly don’t sound like her.” “Who do I sound like, then?” “A diplomat.”  He sighed.  “Which is probably not what Their Highnesses had in mind, if they thought of it at all.” “Being immortal doesn’t make you all-knowing.” “And that is what frightens me the most.”  Sword shook his head.  “Never mind.  You’ve got the watch, Midnight.  I’ll have Hoof relieve you.”  He turned and started away. “Captain?” Sword paused and glanced back at her.  “Yes?” The light of the fire behind him ticked and glimmered off of the jewel that hung around her neck.  “Do you trust us?  I mean, all of us?  Not just the ponies.” He frowned.  “Why...well, yes, I suppose so.  I did make a big deal about that when we first started this whole mess, after all.” “Don’t forget to trust yourself, then, when the time comes.”  Her voice seemed suddenly old and forlorn.  “Much may depend on it.” Sword blinked, one eyebrow lifting in confusion, but the mare had already turned away and resumed her watch, her bow within easy reach as she scanned the darkening horizon. Midnight shifted restlessly, squirming a bit under the cloak she had spread over herself as a blanket.  Though Crimson Hoof had relieved her of her post over an hour ago, the mare was still lying where she'd been when she first sat down-- tired, restless, and unable to get to sleep.  It did not help that she was surrounded by quiet snores, reminding her that nopony else seemed to be having a problem dropping off. She winced and shifted a hind leg, relieving the pressure so that her armor would quit pinching her hip.  She’d gotten used to sleeping in the stuff, but it would never earn a place on her list of favorite things to do.  She sorely missed her own comfortable bunk in the main barracks back in Canterlot.  In her mind’s eye, she could actually see it sitting there, the sheets and blankets neatly made with a pool of moonlight spilling down upon them from the window that sat beside her bed.  The pillow straight and plump, waiting for her to settle her head upon it and close her eyes, to slip blissfully into sleep— Stop it, she chided herself.  You’re just making it worse. My, you’re a tough one. The cold voice of the Pentachoron folded itself around her consciousness, mimicking her own manner of speaking.  I have to admit, though, that I am curious.  Do you always argue with yourself this much?  It’s really tiresome, you know. So are you, Midnight shot back.  She was getting oddly used to having a conversation entirely in her head with the thing inside the jewel.  Is that your secret, mysterious power that everyone seeks?  The power to irritate others until they want to scream? She felt the thing’s laughter in her mind, a sensation akin to bat wings brushing against the inside of her skull.  Oh, that’s rich.  I’m quite capable of making others scream, my dear, but I usually use more direct methods than irritation. The mare’s eyes narrowed, reflecting the nearby campfire in glittering slits.  Is that a threat? Don’t be silly.  That approach didn’t really work well with you, did it?  I already told you, Midnight Arrow, you interest me very much.  You won me, fair and square.  I’m still waiting to see what use you’ll make of me.  Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t asked me to teleport you all straight back to Canterlot and save you the time. Midnight’s eyes flew open wide.  “You can do that?”  she asked aloud, then glanced around furtively.  Taylor stood several yards away, his back to the camp; the tall human did not appear to have heard.  You can do that?  Why didn’t you say so?? You didn’t ask.  The voice tittered inside her head again, the sensation making her shiver. True enough.  Teleport us back, then. Why should I?  The voice of the jewel took on a chiding tone. You didn’t even ask nicely. Midnight gritted her teeth, then exhaled slowly.  Fine, then.  I apologize.  Would you please take us back to Canterlot?  I would very much appreciate it. No.  The amusement in the Pentachoron voice was clear.  Since you didn’t ask nicely the first time, I believe I’ll make you walk back.  That should teach you the value of courtesy to your elders.  After all, I am millennia older than you, cutie pie. Midnight felt the muscles in her jaws cramp and forced herself to unclench her teeth.  And you’re a bloody fraud, then.  You’ve not even got the power to teleport us back to begin with.  I’ve not seen one single thing since we found you that proves you’ve got any power at all, other than to annoy, frighten and make others miserable.  Stars above, what if she was right?  What if Celestia had made a mistake in deciding that this despicable...thing...was capable of helping to send the humans home? So solly, cholly, I’m not falling for that trick.  You silly fool.  The abrupt coldness in the jewel’s tone blew the thoughts out of her head like autumn leaves before winter’s wind.  I could teleport you three thousand leagues from here into an active volcano on a continent you’ve never even seen, in a land where ponies like you are nothing but a myth.  Or I could send you straight up, instead, and watch you gasp for air in outer space while you gaze upon your precious Luna’s moon.  Would you like a really close up look at where she spent all that time?  I can give you that, most certainly. Midnight’s mouth opened, but only a small croak came out.  She stared into the firelight, her eyes unfocused, feeling the chilling anger of the jewel slowly ebb away as it paused a moment, considering.  I... no, I didn’t mean— Actually, I have a better idea.  The Pentachoron’s voice was brighter now.  Yes, I have a most excellent idea.  I’ll give you a demonstration, my dear.  A demonstration of what I’m capable of doing.  Very soon, I think, perhaps tomorrow.  The chill tone returned.  And the next time you and I speak, I’m sure we’ll have more to discuss about our future together. There was a sensation almost like a hollow wind between her temples, and suddenly, the voice… the presence… was gone.  Midnight glanced down involuntarily, but the Pentachoron merely hung at the end of its chain around her neck, glimmering in the firelight like any other bauble.  She sent out a tentative thought toward it, but there was no response.  If it was still there, it had gone to sleep like the others. The moon was well into the western sky and descending before Midnight herself finally found sleep. Taylor jumped at the sharp popping sound the fire made, the pilot’s hand jerking down to grasp at the hilt of the short dagger he wore at his waist.  He relaxed his grip forcibly, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out quietly.  Jumpy tonight, aren’t you? Well, yes, maybe he was, and fuck you very much, because that was part of guard duty.  He’d relieved Crimson Hoof hours ago, in what the ponies called the Low Watch, that time in the wee hours of the morning when blood ran slow and attention wandered, because the night grew old and dawn was coming soon.  It was the perfect time to attack, and Taylor knew it well.  Hadn’t he flown missions at this very hour of the morning, just to catch the enemy unawares?  All the better to kill you in your sleep, my dear. Taylor shook his head, casting the thought away.  There were no Japanese to go bomb, now.  For all he knew, there was no real enemy left.  Whomever had made off with their aircraft couldn’t have known what the planes were, or who they belonged to.  Just a couple of really big, bright shiny things that might be fun to take apart and— “Stop it,” he growled under his breath.  “Just frigging stop it, okay?”  He was giving himself a case of the heebie-jeebies, and he knew it.  Sighing, he knelt down, flexing his knees and feeling the joints pop dully.  He stood up straight once more and resumed pacing the rough course he’d been walking around the campsite during his watch.  He kept moving slowly, pausing every now and again to listen carefully, taking in the sounds of the night and sampling them for anything that seemed out of place.  The pilot was more worried about natural predators more than anything else; the pilot had no desire to blunder into a bear in the darkness, not when Fluttershy was God knew how many hundreds of miles away. She’d probably still yell at me if I shot the damned thing, though.  As much as she’s capable of yelling, anyway.  The thought amused him, but his right hand crept down and rubbed restlessly over the flap of the leather holster that covered his .45 automatic.  If push came to shove, getting yelled at by Midnight’s girlfriend wasn’t going to stop him from putting seven rounds into anything with claws and teeth that tried to take a bite out him. Putting an arrow into it might impress Midnight more, however.  One of those babies to the eye would make anybody stop and think.  The short bow he had chosen back at Canterlot was slung over his left shoulder, and his left hand traced the lacing of the grip as he walked.  On a whim, he flicked his wrist and the bow was off his shoulder, his right hand already pulling an arrow from the quiver that hung just behind the holster on his right hip.  It was an odd arrangement, but he was able to draw and nock an arrow quicker this way than using the more traditional over-the-shoulder method he’d seen in countless Robin Hood comics.  Midnight had watched him do it once and had immediately approved the setup, wryly noting that he dropped the arrow two times out of three the other way.  The observation had stung, but it was true; this way, he usually only dropped it once out of every four tries or so.  His efforts had improved with practice, but still paled in comparison with the fluidity of the mare’s draw, the way she would nock, draw and fire in what seemed to be one blurred motion.  She could bury two arrows dead center by the time he was able to send one flying in the general direction of the target, and he’d accepted the fact that he was never, ever going to be as good as she was.  Still, he tried, even when he felt more comfortable switching to the dagger and just wading in. Just why in the hell are you so worried about impressing her anyway? That thought brought him to a halt, bow and arrow in hand, and he glanced nervously over toward the campsite where the others lay sleeping.  One look showed him that his dignity was intact for the moment; Midnight lay with her back to him, her head pillowed on her pack.   Her cloak lay draped over her,  rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm.  Taylor let his own breath let out slowly and shook his head in mild irritation at himself.  Impressing her was the wrong word for it; Midnight would be the last one to be impressed by some showy-ass trick with a weapon.  But if he’d been caught… He’d committed a grievous blunder that night when he’d thrown the firewood down at her hooves and her words back in her face, and he knew it.  He’d also admitted his error to her later on and bared his soul to her in a way he’d never done with anyone else.  Why?  She was his friend; he’d never been more sincere about anything else in his life when he’d told her that.  He’d wounded her, and had wanted to repair that damage as best he could.  But her regard for him… the only other person he’d ever felt like this was his father, the look in the older man’s eyes the day Taylor had won his golden wings.  The pride and respect in who he was and what he had done with his life.  Things which Taylor had thought had been burned out of him years ago, and hadn’t given a damn about ever since he’d splashed into the sea on that long night flight back from a strike in the western Pacific.  I ran out of gas and don’t give a shit, he’d thought at the time.  I’m dead anyway. He hadn’t died, though.  He’d been picked up hours later by a destroyer and kept on living, and that life had somehow brought him here, to this strange world with its talking animals and multi-colored ponies, some of which had wings and armor and would give you an odd look which made you self-conscious and give a damn about your self-respect once again. Taylor heard a low muttering sound from behind him and turned about, walking back towards where the fire flickered and shifted, beginning to burn low as the night grew older.  Midnight had shifted in place and lay sprawled oddly, almost on her belly, one side of her cloak askew where she had kicked it away in her sleep.  She muttered thickly again, her muzzle pressed against the tough material of her issue pack, and her hooves twitched.  The pilot knelt down, reaching over carefully and snagging the loose end of the cloak, and pulled it back until it covered her once more. “Just dreams,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.  “Ride ‘em out, there’s clear air ahead.”  He saw her ears flicker at the sound of his voice, and he repeated his words slowly.  “Clear air ahead, ride it out.”  One ear ticked again, and then she stilled, her breathing resuming its slow, steady tide.  He stood by her for a while longer, wary, but whatever had troubled her dreams had passed now and was gone back into whatever shadows had spawned it. Rising carefully, Taylor moved over to replenish the dying fire and then resumed his watch once more, pacing off the limits of his watch and moving to nock an arrow now and again, testing himself and trying to beat the previous effort’s time.  Only the moon, riding low in the western sky, took notice of his routine, and if it found any fault, it gave no sign. After a meagre breakfast, they were all up and on their way again shortly after dawn.  The steadily increasing light gave the trees around them the lightest brush of color, the hues deepening and becoming richer as the sun lifted begrudgingly over the eastern horizon.  The forest itself was scarcely worth the title now, the trees themselves smaller and less abundant.  Here and there they spotted what looked like burned out hulks of tree trunks, and the flora consisted of what would more properly be called second- or even third-growth vegetation; low scrub brush and spindly saplings. “This looks like somebody came through here and burned it off, Skipper.”  Thompson squinted at a charred stump that barely rose higher than his own head.  “Seriously.  My uncle worked for the forestry service during the Depression and they did this kinda thing.” “Better trees for victory,” Taylor stated in a cheesy radio announcer’s voice.  “Light up your local forest and buy war bonds, because each burned tree is a burned Nazi.” “I don’t think it works exactly like that, sir.”  Thompson smirked.  “Anyway, they did it every few years or so to get rid of the dead tre—” “Hold!” The entire column froze in place at Sword’s hissed command, each of them spreading out to either side of the path in a herringbone formation and looking outward for any sign of a threat.  Taylor felt a pebble bounce off of his shoulder and looked around to see Stivers motioning at him to come forward.  Keeping crouched, the pilot duck-walked over next to where the the two captains were hunched down near a snarl of ancient vines that looked like it had tried to strangle itself.  “What’s the word?” “See for yourself.”  Stivers pointed, and Taylor looked, following the direction of the Marine’s hand.  The land still sloped downward steadily here, and opened out before them into what looked like an odd hodgepodge of hedges and several open pieces of ground that were clearly cultivated fields.  The sun was still working its way skyward behind them, but in the early morning light the curling trails of white smoke could be clearly seen issuing from what looked like a series of large tents or pavilions of some sort.  The entire area was dominated by a massive stone outcropping at the southern end of the camp, with a large, irregular opening in the near face.  The path that they had followed through the woods snaked unevenly down the incline and led directly into the center of the area below, forming a kind of circular hub there which snaked out with multiple arms amongst the tents. “Looks like a goddamn spiderweb,” Taylor muttered.  “Did I mention I really hate spiders?” “To hell with spiders,” Sword growled.  “Take a look near yonder tent on the left.  Isn’t that one of your machines poking out from underneath it?” Taylor leaned forward, going to one knee and peering through the dim light until his eyes ached.  “I’ll be damned,” he breathed.  “It is.  That’s the tail sticking out. But it looks all…”  He trailed off, squinting, his eyes watering.  “Fuckall,” he snarled.  “The wings are folded up.  How in Christ did they know how to do that?” “And who are ‘they’ in the first place?”  Stivers asked.  “I’m still wondering about that one.” Golden Sword held up a forehoof, motioning for quiet, then leaned pointedly in the direction of the village below, his ears perked fully upright.  Taylor and Stivers both mimicked his pose, the humans having to make do with cupping one hand against an ear.  They all sat quietly, and Taylor could hear his own pulse thumping faintly in his ears, felt a droplet of sweat sliding maddeningly slow down the center of his spine.  The wind was light, and they could hear murmurs of conversation in the distance as the early risers greeting the morning and one another, although the words were unintelligible at this distance.  Then the sound came, the duo-toned sound that was recognizable at once, rolling clearly through the morning air to them all, making Sword’s ears twitch and Taylor’s hands clench hard, hard, until his fingernails dug into his palms. “God-damned zebras,” he growled.  “Son of a bitch.” “Indeed,” Sword observed drily.  He glanced down upon the settlement again.  The light was still growing stronger, and details could be picked out cleanly now.  The largest tents all faced the central hub, which had a low, irregular stone platform in the center of it.  Poking out from each of these tents were a bewildering array of shapes, some familiar and some not.  Several carts were clearly evident, and another tent appeared to be filled with various kinds of statuary and sculpture.  The pony’s ears perked up and he tapped Taylor on the arm with a forehoof, then pointed.  “There’s your other machine, but it looks...different, somehow.  Is it broken, do you think?” Both pilots frowned and leaned forward again, their expressions almost identical, the scene so comical that Sword would have laughed under different circumstances.  “Thats...that doesn’t look right.”  Stivers shook his head.  “That’s another tail boom sticking out, but it’s...it’s not broken, but it looks all wrong.” Taylor’s eyes were the sharpest, and his voice was chillingly flat.  “It is wrong.  That’s a twin rudder.”  His hands came up and made a canted ‘v’ shape.  “It’s a fucking seaplane, and one of ours, by the color.  What in God’s name is it doing here?”  He looked back over at Sword, and all at once both humans were eyeing the pony with an unfriendly look that the Royal Guard had not seen in weeks.  “We didn’t come in seaplanes.  And that fucker is from our world.  What in Christ’s name is going on here, Sword?” Silence descended upon the group, and Sword realized that the others had been listening carefully and little of their conversation had gone unheard.  He glanced around, and saw that all of them were looking at him, waiting for an answer, and the stallion was aware of two things: one was that his answer would likely be the most important one of his life. The other was that he had no answer to give.  No answer at all.