//------------------------------// // Minimum Safe Distance; Or Party Fireworks // Story: The Ninety-nine Nectars of Princess Luna; Or How Twilight Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Her Wings // by NoeCarrier //------------------------------//                                     “I'd like to take a moment to speak about zebras, who are, without a doubt, our strangest relatives. Of the deep past, and the eras in time which drove those ancestors whom we both share to great troubles in order to survive, we know very little. But, it seems there was disagreement between some elements, though it surely was of a far more drawn out kind, practised down generations and in unspoken ways, and for which the term 'disagreement' is a wild oversimplification. It is more probable to think that it was just the best way for those particular groups to survive the increasing pressures of predation that a growing gryphon population exacted. What we can be certain of is this; whereas our more direct ancestors evolved flight, magic, strength and speed to defeat gryphon attack, the more direct ancestors of zebras fled underground. Where we contrived linguistic systems so as to pass on information between disparate herds to better find resources and survive, they settled down, first into caves, then into the honeycomb of tunnels, passageways and subterranean crevasses that run the length and breadth of the gryphic continent, and so changed away from us, as we changed away from them. The more obvious adaptations, I will skip. It should be no mystery to learned scholars such as yourselves as to why a biological organism living primarily underground would evolve to be smaller and more flexible. What is, and yet remains, a mystery, is their vision. From our studies of cave dwelling lizards and other fauna, we know that vision adapted to daylight is often the first thing to go. But, as far as can be told, zebra retain eyesight as keen as our own. Furthermore, why have they retained their stripes? And, is there any truth to the rumour, much peddled by the chattering classes, that zebras have a form of magic too, possibly as effective as pony magic?” - excerpt from a lecture given by Professor Fosters Rool, Canterlot Equupological Society, AN 997. Finding the sensation of vacuum around her rather disconcerting, and with the unceasing thudding of her heart the only sound, Twilight had cast a small, clear dome around herself and filled it with a portion of the atmospheric gases from the device. It was probably more appropriate to call it a ship at this point. Twilight had long been a fan of proper nomenclature. As a filly she had been a regular reader of Noble Nibble's Notes. She wondered what that old stallion would have made of all this, and what he might have ended up calling the contraption of interlocking telekinetic fields that now keened and vibrated beneath her, sustaining Whom's life through modulation of pressure, oxygen, carbon dioxide, nitrogen, heat and water levels. She could feel the mare's own heartbeat and regular breathing as feedback through the meshes and layers of telekinesis, jarring her horn in its rootbed. It had been very rapid and fearful at first, but she had calmed down as they rose up quickly up into the blackness. Starswirl was half a mile above them, bright light all around him. How it was possible that he was navigating was unfathomable. He must have contrived some system, however, for he never wavered as they described an arc ever upwards. Twilight's magic flowed easily as they built up speed and passed ever more quickly into thaumically fresh areas. Though she had taken on a substantial amount in the way of stores of gas and water, the structure of the ship weighed essentially nothing, and was, therefore, easy enough to move. Wondering briefly why she hadn't done this earlier, Twilight fiddled with the orientation of certain internal ship structures, opening a passageway down to Whom's body-hugging enclosure. Her horn's keening took on a different note as the patterns of magic flowing through it shifted. There was a hiss and a ruffling of feathers and fur that brought with it the moon mare's smells, but this was only very slight as the pressure difference was tiny. “Doing alright down there?” Twilight said. “Harumph!” Whom said. “What's the matter?” “You packaged me up like cargo!” “I'm just being efficient,” Twilight said, fighting down a fit of irritation. “Don't worry, all this will be over soon, and we'll be in Equestria. Won't that be good?” Whom said nothing in return. * “Recently, I have received numerous letters, all unsigned and anonymous, of course, describing, with fastidious and stomach-churning detail, the writer's escapades with minotaurs. Now, you know that this magazine is dedicated to the idea of maintaining a forum for the free exchange of ideas on love, and the safe practice of such activities. You will all have read our articles and coverage on pony-gryphon coupling. But what, for the sake of all that is good, possesses you people to seek out adventures with minotaurs, of all creatures? I juggle fascination and revulsion in equal measure. I have only one request of you – please, stop sending me these letters. I cannot bear to read another word expounding such bizarre practices. In the past, you have relied on this magazine to inform and educate on the practicalities of love across boundaries of species, between all the thinking races, and on the material safety of such things; illness, conception advice, and so on. You have trusted us to guide you whilst you indulge your urges or follow the course of true love. So as you have trusted us before, trust us now. We have only one thing to say about having sex with minotaurs: don't.” - 'Meadow Spring', Pigeon Fancier's Association of Ponyville Magazine, 1003 AN. * The gryphic customs and excise ship was a sleek, minimalistic example of the art. Its three mainsails were taut in the breeze as it drew closer, presenting an aggressive and precise profile. Before long, it had swung around to present a broadside, then stopped in the water, as much as a moving ship really could simply cease motion. Emboss saw uniformed sailors tending to the rigging, hauling up the sails. From the decidedly utilitarian foscastle, a misfortune of gryphons took off, their broad, dun-coloured wings wide and flapping hard against the inshore breeze. As Emboss observed the scene unfolding at the very edge of his vision, for the customs ship had not drawn in particularly close, the deck behind him was a hive of frantic activity. Astrapios was deep in conversation with his crew, though they'd switched into a heavily accented dialect that he only passingly recognized as gryphic, full of multipart tones and high, trilling noises that reminded him, in a rather unpolitic way, of irritated turkeys or startled chickens. Visions of gryphons in flight, paws and claws tucked against their feathered, streamlined bodies, inspired primal fear in even the heartiest of ponies. Emboss had to keep reminding himself that they probably meant him and his wife no personal harm and, in any case, aboard a boat there was scant enough room to merely live, let alone have a decent gallop. Nevertheless, the dumb, babbling mesohippus in the back of his mind, barely more than a tapir with delusions of grandeur, refused to calm down. The gryphons kept a close formation as their shadows, leonine and winged now they were gliding, swept over the deck like spectres at a wake. There were five of them, he saw, and they now split up, taking different paths in close orbits of the boat, some skimming the waves and others peering down from on high into the unusual rigging. Their smells came now, little by little, and the mesohippus hindbrain screamed foul murder. Emboss could stand no more, and pulled his gaze away from the circling predators to find Truth. The mare had obviously had the same idea, as she was staggering up from below decks as he ran toward that entrance, mane decidedly tussled and looking as though she'd been run down by a cart. She must have seen the gryphons through one of the portholes, or else a more primordial sixth sense had alerted her and drawn her from her sleep. “What's going on?” she blurted, suddenly transfixed on the gryphons. “They're from the local customs, I think,” Emboss said, his voice sounding not his own; he hadn't realised how scared he was. “At least, that's what our captain said.” “Oh, bugger,” Truth mumbled, pulling in close and placing her head over his withers, a gesture he reciprocated. There were a series of thuds on the main deck, and the sounds of wings flapping and beating the air. Emboss turned and saw five of the burliest looking gryphons he had ever seen standing in a neat V-shape, their precision and maintained order of battle betraying a military air, even if the light brass armor they were wearing over thin chainmail, as well as the sharp iron tips they wore on their claws, weren't hints enough. Four of them wore aerodynamic, seed-shaped helmets of the same material as their cuirass and greaves pieces, but the individual at the head of the V did not. His electric emerald eyes, fiercely attentive, surveyed the deck with extreme distaste, as if he had just found a pustulant wound on his flank. The leader barked something guttural and simplistic in the general direction of Emboss and Truth. It was in a different dialect of gryphic, but even had Emboss been able to understand any part of the language, the terror he was feeling in that moment would have rendered him mute regardless. His heart hammered like the wings of a hummingbird, and every muscle in his body was stiff and rigid as he stared directly at the gryphon. He was barely aware of his ears folding back against his skull. Astrapios bustled past him – they were both standing in the door to the accessway below decks, and doing a fine job of blocking it – and broke this terrified spell. He clicked his beak and rattled off something in gryphic, then went to stand directly between them and the customs officers. He was soon joined by the two pureblood gryphon sisters, who watched with the same sort of passionate intensity. The terror soon subsided, and Emboss managed to regain some control over himself, as the two parties began to have a furious debate of some kind. Although, it might well have been a completely polite, business-as-usual exchange of general pleasantries and the discharging of official duties; Emboss couldn't really tell, but knew that trying to apply pony norms to gryphic discourse was like trying to teach phenomenology to a fish. “I think we should get below,” he whispered in Truth's ear, to which she nodded glad acquiescence and lead the way. Their exit earned them a few stares from the customs officials, somehow more aggressive than they had been before, but nobody registered open complaint. They descended into the amidships corridors, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the farrago on deck, and soon ran into the zebra. Converse to their own emotional states, he seemed entirely unconcerned, and examined them with a puzzled expression, until he seemed to catch on. “You are worried about what is happening up there?” he said, in a calming velvet voice, like buttercups swaying gently in the breeze of a summer's day. “Well, aren't you?” Truth said, glancing upwards. “I doubt apex predators care much whether their prey is striped or pastel pink!” The zebra laughed and shook his head. “These gryphons will not eat you, or me, for that matter. They wouldn't want to negatively impact their bargaining position, would they?” “What do you mean?” Emboss said, feeling calmer by the minute in the presence of more equines, even if they weren't ponies. “Running into customs clippers is a pretty standard thing for us. There is no big problem. Oh, it might have looked that way, but it is all just posturing. They have come to extract their bribe, that is all.” He grinned and licked his lips, flicking his ears dismissively. “The Captain will put on a big show about how he, an upstanding subject of the gryphic Crown, shouldn't be subject to such rampant misuse of power. They, in turn, will make a show of demonstrating how reasonable their suspicion is that he is carrying contraband. Then, eventually, they will back down, and the Captain will very graciously offer them some remuneration to compensate them for their time.” “Oh, I see,” Emboss said, suddenly feeling very silly. “Someone should have warned you, really. I guess our Captain sometimes just forgets himself.” “And are we carrying any contraband?” Truth said, making Emboss wince. The zebra's smile diminished by the smallest degree, and he studied them both for a long moment. Then he rolled his shoulders by way of a shrug and nodded. “It should be no surprise to know that all of our material is forbidden in gryphic lands, but since we had to leave Equestria so quickly, we have none of that on board. What we do have, and you saw it being loaded aboard I think, is dogs.” “Dogs?” “Illegal dogs, yes. Labradors, mostly, but also some colter spaniels and some neighounds, on special order.” “Those are illegal here?” She furrowed her brow in consternation. “Whatever for? Why?” He shrugged again. “Don't ask me why the gryphons made all dogs illegal. That is just the way it is. But it means there is a big black market for them. Pets, you know?” “I thought you were a... you know, a gentlecolt's magazine, not smugglers,” Emboss said, still somewhat embarrassed by the whole idea. “We have to make ends meet, take opportunities where they present themselves,” the zebra said. “We had to stop at Pronto anyway, and it only made sense to seek out alternative business ventures while we were there, considering the fertility of such a landscape when it comes to these things.” Truth took a deep breath and shuddered, huddling up against Emboss so that their withers, flanks and barrels were touching. He took the hint and began nibbling at her neck and behind her ears, at once noticing how enticing she smelled; how intriguing. “Don't worry so much, little ponies!” the zebra said, the big grin returning to his stripy features. “You'll do yourselves a mischief!” * There was a spider in the shape of a cantaloupe melon attempting to bash its way inside the guard's cabin where L'Tempete, Afore and Emperor Shining Armor had taken refuge. Whilst its body looked no different to fruit, eight spindly legs covered in fine black hairs sprouted from the unusual carapace, along with a flat, circular mouth full of razor sharp fangs that seemed to have come directly from nightmare imagery. Bristling turrets of beady black eyes darted this way and that as it slammed itself against the windows in different places, probing for weaknesses. All across the palace courtyard, a large gravel turning circle before the walls, similar perversions scuttled around. Tubers represented the majority of the vegetables on show, but also melon tarantulas in lime green with snowy dapples, and several dozen of the cantaloupes. There were even a few scattered bunches of grapes, for all the world looking like daddy long legs spiders, with far too many slender limbs dragging their stems from interest to interest. Thankfully, physically destroying them worked, and both of the emperor's praetors had made short work of half a green grocer's between them, with sharp jabs and swipes of their withers-halberds. They were now sticky with the fruity ichor of their foes, dripping with seeds and juice. However, as many as they smashed, sliced in half or bucked into oblivion, more, more and still more would emerge from the warrens of streets, clambering out of sewer grates, swarming from around corners and clambering in the most unsettling fashion over the tops of buildings and over the mounded up corpses of their comrades. As strong and willful as the praetorian guard were, they could not fight forever. To make matters worse, the great gates of the palace were firmly shut and barred, barricades of strange components blocking much of the black ponyoak structure from view. They bore all the hallmarks of previous struggles, blood stains, piles of feathers and fur, though Shining Armor was glad to see that there were no corpses. Here, at least, there had only been injury, and though it pained him to imagine any pony in distress, hurts of the physical kind could usually be mended, whereas death held far more finality. “Now we've a moment, sire,” L'Tempete said, between panting breaths, as he slipped his lips around the halberd's quick release catch and allowed it to fall against the interior of the little guard cabin. “Any idea what that...” He trailed off as he searched for the right words. “...object, that cleared the palace thirty minutes hence, might have been?” Armour's ears were still ringing from the sound it made as it passed. It hadn't broken the sound barrier, but whatever it was, whatever dark magiks and foul enchantments powered it, the weight on his senses had nonetheless been nearly overwhelming. When the gleaming silver teardrop, easily twice the size of any airship he had ever seen, had hurtled above, even the seemingly unstoppable thaumic spider-fruit freaks had paused for a moment. His horn had vibrated so strongly he'd feared it was going to come out of its bed, hewing away a chunk of his brain with it. Seconds later, it had instead set fire to his mane with the thrumming of waste heat. The smell of burning hair still clung to the inside of his nose. “None at all,” the emperor admitted. “I have never witnessed its like.” “When it passed over my head, I felt very strange, sire, like I was about to... well, I have no words for it,” said Afore. “In any case, it could be some device of this necromancer.” “We are not dealing with some hedge mage who has stumbled on a powerful relic and hoofnailed it up to existential threat level menace,” Armour said, gravely shaking his head and sitting down on his haunches, in a breach of formal etiquette quite unbecoming of a pony of his stature. “The last time my horn did that was at my wedding. Deus Sol was in full ascension, striking at the very soul of a misguided changeling.” He winced slightly. “One of my clearer memories of the afternoon.” “Then it is clear,” L'Tempete said, licking at a semicircular bite wound on his barrel. “The Princesses have the situation under control.” “We can only hope,” Armour nodded. “Now, does anyone have any idea how we're going to get past this gate?” “Fly over it, sire,” L'Tempete said, immediately. Shining Armour humoured him for a moment, saying nothing and smiling pleasantly during the time it took him to understand. “Ah, forgive me sire, I sometimes am taken to thinking that all ponies have wings,” he mumbled, fluttering his own alabaster set. “Think nothing of it.” The emperor licked his lips and glanced upwards. “I think we shall take a magic solution to the problem of this gate. There's a spell I've been meaning to try, you see. One suited to this occasion, designed in distant times to break the backs of fortifications. My sister mentioned it to me, in passing, and I looked it up. Took some doing, but such are the perks of the job.” He threw up his head and grinned. “They call it the Strong Force Bomb.” Several minutes later, L'Tempete bucked open the door of the guard hut, allowing Afore to spring out. The nearest magical horror, a nightmare mash up of a huntsmare spider and a marrow, hissed aggressively and began to scuttle toward him, joined by three peers of equal form. The stallion didn't miss a trick, however, and dashed forward, ramming the tip of his withers-halberd squarely through the first spider's central mass and into the ground. He then rolled his shoulders, corkscrewing the trefoil blade in the shape of three hooves joined in the middle, firmly tearing the body apart with a sharp pop and a shower of seedy pulp, but also driving the tip of the blade into the dirt, where it lodged fast. Before the second and third spiders could pounce, he stabbed at the quick release, ducking left and rounding on them, lips curling into a snarl. There was a clunk and a whistling sound, then a bolt from L'Tempete's crossbow, a copper finished wooden tube with vertical arms mounted on his withers in the same configuration as Afore's halberd, obliterated the second spider. This gave him time enough to kick down the weighted, spiked sections built into his back shoes, the so-called 'strong hooves', turn his rear to face the third spider, and jab out with the firmest strike he could muster. The dust kicked up stung his eyes just as he felt his rump spatter with gore and quivering legs, a stiff shock jarring cannon bones. Blinking through the dust, Afore trotted around to examine the corpses of his foes for any further signs of resistance. Excorporeated eyeballs twitched and bounced, peering at him with impotent rage, and legs with hooked tips lay everywhere, but the immediate number of them seemed depleted. However, more were slinking across the courtyard, so he repositioned quickly. L'Tempete cantered past him, chasing the arrow he had let fly, as he himself slotted in behind his dropped withers-halberd and reattached it, pulling back to remove it from the ground. As well as serving as a spear, it could also be employed for slashing and gouging, and this was how it found service next. Loud cracks like the snapping of whips rebounded off the looming palace walls as the Emperor joined the fray, lobbing nails, screws, bolts and fragments of masonry liberated from the guard post and from the stone edifice itself, telekinetically propelling them up to the same sorts of speeds found in good cannons. These makeshift projectiles were far from ideal, though, and only a direct hit was sufficient to wipe out a spider. When he missed, which was often, the effect was merely to erode chunks from the vegetables, or smash off legs. These monsters could survive even complete removal of all major limbs, whereupon they would roll themselves forward, perhaps by sheer malevolent will, so total destruction was vital. Having learned to co-ordinate their efforts on the fight up the hill, Afore was quick to gallop forward, jerking left or right at the last moment to effect a powerful swipe on the creatures the Emperor managed to stagger or halt in their advance. They retook the courtyard gradually, the two praetors moving ahead of their charge, radiating outwards, fighting with all the weapons at their disposal, right down to tooth and naked hoof. Nobody had tried eating the spiders yet, but when the situation called for biting and tearing the opponent to bits, it was hardly the worst thing any of them had had in their mouths. At last, L'Tempete speared the final spider of their immediate number through the midsection with a well-aimed bolt, whereupon it took the creature a few moments to realize that it was dead. Then the Emperor boiled it with a few seconds of directed magical heat, carbonising the exterior of its pumpkin shell and flashing some of the dirt on which it was lying into black beads of glass. Then, everything was quiet for a moment, except for a lot of panting and gasping for air, and the background noise of the city burning, of screams and merry cheers, and of distant, bellowed songs. There was a loud clank as the Emperor laid down on his side, barrel heaving. He removed his helmet, foisted on him by L'Tempete, as his own set of largely ceremonial armor did not usually have one. Though L'Tempete was a pegasus, the armor was panspecies specification, and a small aperture that usually held a ceremonial crest could be tugged open and the horn slotted through. The stallion was no longer in fantastic shape, having tilled the rudder of an empire for several years. His horn glowed a lambent pink even in the daylight, and little tendrils of smoke drifted up from it. “Are you okay, sire?” L'Tempete said, trotting neatly to his side, surveying the horseshoe of the courtyard. “Secure the area!” the Emperor said, voice strained, between gulping breaths. L'Tempete nodded and he and the other praetor did just that, positioning themselves nearby, until he had regained his composure sufficiently to proceed. “Right!” he said, drinking from a water skin, helmet now back in place. “The idea with this spell is that you take an object, doesn't matter what it is, cast the magic on it, then leave it next to whatever you want to blow up. The bigger the object, the bigger the bang.” “Light blue touch paper, retreat to safe distance?” said L'Tempete. “Sounds a bit like a gunpowder blasting charge, sire.” “Quite, quite,” the Emperor said, nodding. “Now, the grimoire I learned this spell from was quite specific on the size equals power front, absolutely equivalent I think was the phrase, so we'll need to be on the ball with this.” He licked his lips thoughtfully. “How much gunpowder, in terms of weight, do you think it'd take to blow those doors open?” They all simultaneously looked over toward the towering black gates, heaped up with debris and firmly shut. “A fairly large amount, sire,” L'Tempete said, a long moment later. “The explosion would mostly be wasted. I don't think there's enough material for you to convert.” “Couldn't you just cast the magic on the door itself, sire?” Afore said. “Hmm!” The Emperor's eyes brightened at the idea. “I don't think the grimoire said anything to suggest I couldn't.” He nodded. “Right, I shall do the deed. The spell is what my sister would describe as a toughie, so it may take a moment, but when I start running, you'll know it's done.” “Imagining that the door here is entirely gunpowder, that'll create a huge explosion,” L'Tempete opined. “My demolitions instructor always used to say that if you can see the bang, you can still be hit by shrapnel. You'll need to have fleet hooves, sire.” Afore and L'Tempete simultaneously glanced nervously at each other. “I'll take this blasted armor off, then,” he said, fiddling with the catches and straps that held it all together. “You two get down the hill there, but don't leave line of sight until I'm done. If more of these things turn up whilst I'm barrel deep in thaumic manipulations...” “Don't worry, sire. We'll keep you safe.” The two praetors trotted over to the far edge of the courtyard, where it joined up with the big statue garden. The sinister figure of the big statue of Nightmare Moon mounted on a column, her sleeping body terrible even in repose atop the butchered corpse of a gryphon, was clearly visible above the neatly trimmed hedges, a maze of emerald and evergreen. They took up position on the edge of a small lawn, bracketed on three sides with topiaried bushes in the shapes of half-important dukes and duchesses of the previous century. By now, the Emperor was sat on his haunches, head bowed, horn flickering and flashing like a guttering streetlamp. Before the great gate of the palace, he looked like some lost firefly. “All this foliage should provide a little extra cover, it's pretty thick in places,” L'Tempete said. “You know, I bet the both of us could have carried him over,” Afore said, brow furrowing. “Or we could just have knocked? Maybe one of us could have--” A new sun dawned in the centre of the city. * Princess Celestia was sat on fluffy bed of cirrocumulus cloud, like a pearly white swan on a vast lake in the process of unfreezing. Items more commonly found in high-bred mare's boudoirs were arranged around her in a neat circle, each apparently from a different period in Equestrian history. The mirror, a full length model made of highly polished bronze that would never have supported its own weight in the wispy clouds had it not been for the intervention of magic, was straight from the era its materials suggested, but the fine ponyoak dresser was ten centuries older, the night-black wood laden down with lacquer and spilling frilly clothes. Scattered about the top of a slab of marble were dandy brushes, combs of various types with teeth as numerous as those found in the average wolfpack, glass jars of hoof varnish in shades usually seen through a helioscope, and dozens of lengths of red and pink ribbon. Celestia was currently very carefully brushing her mane with one species of delicate comb, which was made of china and extremely fine, looking like it might crumble to dust should it encounter even one tangle. Every so often, she would pick up one of the ribbons, turning it over in her magic, examining it thoroughly, before setting it down again. She would spend extra time studying the pink ones, as if she were unsure of them. Something trembled, very faintly. To all and sundry magical beings, even highly trained unicorns, the subtle fluttering of space/time would have been barely detectable. However, to a thing such as Celestia, it was like someone kicking a great bell with both hooves, or a particularly large pony jumping into a swimming pool. At any other time, it might have taken her a fair while to remember exactly what the fluttering, trembling sensation was, but she had felt it only recently. When it happened again, awkwardly this time, hesitation marks in the fabric of reality, she was in motion with speeds that only matter infalling toward a black hole could muster. A spear of fire, purple-lashed, wreathed in annular lightning that rippled away from the central pillar of atmospheric heating, stabbed toward Canterlot. Clouds all around the path were obliterated like dreams upon waking, bubbles of shocked air expanding outward, flensing the sky of detail in a wake of fire. A neatly coppiced forest, replete with plant-swamped clearings hiding the slate grey crags of ancient ruins, unfortunately lying in Her Solar Majesty's path, ceased to exist. Even from five kilometres up, the waste heat and immense pressure fronts conspiring together vaporised everything from the topsoil up, replacing it with a neatly compacted layer of black slag and a rapidly expanding cloud of highly differentiated plasmas. Mount Avalon's woes, heaped on over the course of the last days, were compounded when Celestia arrived over the city in its caldera only moments later. Parts of the rim wall, those closest to the earlier hydrogen explosion, were smashed to flying ruin, gutting the parts of Canterlot that leant on them, or even incorporated them into their design. In the nucleus of the comet, Celestia's mind processed at its maximum possible rate, aligning and empowering the magic that allowed this immensely rapid transit. There was no time to slow down now – equally, no time, had the thaumic background even been permissive, to generate a wormhole and neatly step through from her perch on the clouds to the place of a new terror. The trembling in space/time had become a penetrating, painful ingress, and was only seconds from reaching its dread climax. That bastard unicorn, Celestia thought as, in the slowed perceptual frame her greatest mental efforts allowed, she approached the central peak in the caldera on which the palace stood. Why did I ever let that spell leave the pages of his journals? She saw the gate, piled on with a makeshift barricade, a white stallion with a blue mane hunched over it. She felt the magic he was employing, felt its tendrils creeping over the mass conversion radius he had established. Fool, tinkering in the darkness with things he does not understand. Unexpected variable. Shining Armour predicted to remain at minimum safe distance to Thiasus initial events. Further unexpected; use of Strong Force Bomb as breaching tool. Am I losing my touch? The spell had progressed too far now and, unlike the inebriate who had levelled the civic centre with a half-formed, inept use of this selfsame thing, it was functioning perfectly. She could see the way its insidious, wildly crafty space/time functions interacted with the mechanisms of reality, breaking them just so. All of the mass, roughly seven thousand kilograms of rubble, gate frame, locks and other materials enclosed within a large sphere, was beginning to come apart. Things sparkled with the blue and green of gamma rays, as perceived by Celestia's divine vision, at the edges of it. Shining Armour's face was locked in a rictus of deep concentration that obviously ran in the family, along with the same genes that allowed the application of this type of thaumic force. Celestia's original plan, to interfere with the magic or silence its caster, would now not work. There would be no Thiasus if the host city and, most likely, the host continent, were little more than flash glass and radioactive embers before the guests even fully arrived. She calmly slipped to enacting the backup plan, even as the many parts that comprised the magic it involved were slamming into place and imprinting themselves upon reality. Time and velocity now meant she hung above the epicentre of the imminent explosion. She could feel the output of radiation growing as a false sensation of heat on her barrel, like a hot water bottle minus its case. Telekinetic scoops bit down below, grabbing up the entire kernel of epochal destruction plus several metres of surrounding material. With the immense speed she had put on, the feeling of it coming away and being dragged along behind her was as if it were a ripe apple, plucked from its tree, saying nothing of its huge weight and firmness of anchorage into the ground. Tiny pushes against the standing magical field were all that was required to change course, and she did so with alacrity, and as intensely as she dared, achieving a nearly ninety degree turn upwards. It was only through sheer force of will and the power she called on, tearing it hungrily from the thaumic background as fast as it would come, that she maintained physical corporeality, and managed to accelerate even faster as she dragged the offending things high into the air. Terrible gravitational forces tore at her frame, and would long ago have turned a flesh and blood pony to thin paste or ionised gas. Thaumic potential drained from an area many times the hoofprint of the city. Any pegasus on the wing at that moment would have found themselves trotting home, had they not already been smashed by the overpressure wave. In her cocoon of magic and speed, Celestia felt nothing of the growing cold or dropping air pressure outside, but everything of the unfurling, majestic Strong Force Bomb behind her, taut on its line of forcefields. Sensations she had not felt in ten centuries crept across her flanks, her barrel, up her neck. Even under such acceleration, she managed a wild grin. Her mane and tail, earlier grooming and preening now totally ruined, glowed with the actinic sharpness of a magnesium flare. A short distance beyond her outstretched back hooves, exactly two thousand, four hundred and twenty six kilograms of various sorts of matter suddenly became energy again. * All over Ponyville, those who were out and about all simultaneously turned to look toward the eastern horizon where, for the briefest of moments, they witnessed an unfurling glare of purest, solar white expanding out from a high point to engulf half the sky in all directions. Then, their blink reflexes kicked in and shielded them from the worst of the radiance, with but a few suffering flash blindness. It was completely silent, and only the panicked hoofbeats and odd cries of pain and fear as ponies ran into things or fell over one another provided a soundtrack to the explosion. The brightness seemed to last forever, casting impenetrably hard shadows across anything it didn't white out as if covered with snow. Then, at last, it began to fade, achingly, away, leaving weird after-images in many eyes that blended in with the fast moving purple and green strands, like celestial bruises, that now crept across the sky in fast motion, expanding outwards from the former central point of the blast. There was a glowing orb still hovering there, seeming still due to the distance and its immense size. It was the colour of melted Emmaretal cheese, or a blob of hard wax floating in oil.