“Juicy Apples HQ, CEO's secretariat.”
“Good morning, this is Big Macintosh—”
“Good morning! Everything's ready, 8 AM, as we agreed. Should we send a car to your hotel?”
“Thanks, but no, thanks. I'll just walk there.”
“I would recommend against that. This time of the day the industrial zone can be somewhat unsafe. It would be a terrible loss should anything happen to our dear alien guest. At the very least don't forget your gas mask — the weather forecast warns about smoke today.”
This clerk's concern at least sounded sincere. Most locals had not yet decided how to treat extraplanetary talking ponies. Opinions ranged from “cute toy critters” (usual for younger humans) through “oddly shaped humans” (promoted by Juicy Apples officials) to “mind-eating alien monsters” (the saleswoman at a greengrocery, into which Mac had a misfortune to wander; as a consolation the manager let Mac keep all the cabbage thrown at him). Since most alien humanoids got the latter label from the start, ponies seemed to have been luckier than most.
“Don't worry. I won't.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Goodbye then, we'll be waiting for you. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,” and the clerk hanged up.
* * *
The industrial zone stretched for miles in every direction. Most of it were warehouses and shut down small factories. (As Mac's hosts explained, it was the legacy of the times when the planet's population was many times higher.) Somewhere in that labyrinth was the warehouse that doubled as Juicy Apples headquarters. Because it was cheaper than an office building in the city proper.
The wind stank with smoke, but not enough for the mask yet. Mac was replaying the contract in his head again and again. Newly-formed Equestrian Produce Company promised to deliver so much produce. Juicy Apples promised to buy it at such-and-such prices or higher. Juicy Apples promised to be an intermediary for purchasing metalwork. The exact prices will be negotiated a month later, and not by Mac, thank Celestia. He'd had enough trouble juggling volumes and timetables. All in all, the conditions seemed reasonable. He could finish this job today, go back home, where he could finally relax. Speak as he is used to, rather than what's considered proper...
His train of thought was interrupted by ferocious yapping. A small dog, barely reaching Mac's knees, was deliriously protecting a warehouse gate. Despite its rabid courage it stayed far from the reach of the pony's hooves.
Mac has been warned about local stray dogs. Some lived by a particular warehouse and protected it, some were effectively feral, but hanged around a particular warehouse or several, were fed there and protected their territory from intruders. Occasionally they attacked a wrong human, after which a pack could get exterminated. Later another pack appeared in an empty place and the cycle went on.
Meanwhile, the yapping attracted half a dozen dogs. A couple dared to step a bit closer, the rest barked from the distance. Seeing the dogs were content to see him leave their territory, Mac felt it safe to just trot away.
Ten seconds later pain pierced his right hind leg, just above the hoof.
The stallion did what he did best — bucked. He felt his left leg hit something soft and sent it flying, but the right dog dodged the blow. It snarled, lunged at Mac, but didn't try to bite again. Mac stomped, and the dog retreated, joining the barking group. It showed the interloper who's the boss and didn't feel like fighting any more.
The wound didn't look good, but the destination was near. He would manage.
* * *
The guards at the gate recognized Big Macintosh. No wonder, he probably was the only red pony in a business suit in the city, if not the whole planet. One of them brought the first aid kit and started treating the wound, another started making phone calls. The clerk, who talked with Mac earlier this morning, came running before the guard finished bandaging.
Her speech was too fast and confused for Mac to understand fully. "...so sorry... ...already reported the dogs twice... ...they keep hiding... ...so sorry... ...should've insisted on sending the car... ...so sorry... ...will get the best treatment... ...Lifegivers... ...no scar... ...so sorry..." Mac has assured her that he'd had worse, living near Everfree and all, but she didn't stop monologuing.
Meanwhile, the young guard finished bandaging and continued explaining his theory of correlated dog-human behaviour:
“...Let's take, for example, me. I'm a simple guy, and my dog is like me. I don't trust strangers, and the dog would growl and bark at people he doesn't know. But he won't bite unless you try to hurt him. Or me. Or my friends he knows. If you hang with me a while, he'd see you are my friend too. Now, this Pflyskfignotrofhm.” The name made Mac cringe inside. He may have learned the language, but local names still sounded utterly alien. Especially the ones derived from dead languages. “The security officer in the warehouse where you were bitten. He's foul. The foulest man I know, and you meet all kinds of scum in this business. He always strikes in the back, and his dogs are just like him too. Like... wheeze...”
It took Mac a few moments to realize something was wrong with the guard, and a few more to figure what exactly.
“Quick! Give him anti-histamine shot! Call ambulance!” the pony blurted.
Mac started to rummage through his pockets. He was sure he kept a few dozes for accidents like this one. The clerk was searching the first aid kit.
* * *
Police and ambulance arrived together. By then the guard's skin colour changed back to normal and he breathed easily. But he still did not dare to touch Mac. Mac has already explained that such a drastic reaction was only possible when his blood got in an open wound or touched mucous membrane. Several times. The guard still did not want to risk.
A medic checked the pony's wound, gave him vaccine injection and handed him to the police officer. The other medic was still trying to persuade the guard to go to the hospital. Just in case.
“We've received a complaint that you've attacked guard dogs. Severely beaten one, poisoned another. What can you tell about that?”
“I was walking by, when one of the dogs bit me. I instinctively bucked — kicked with my hind legs — and hit another dog. My blood is poisonous to most predators—”
“Is this why you are red?” For some reason the policeman found it funny.
“Yes, warning colouration. I come from an area where most predators are immune, and keep forgetting.”
The policeman scribbled something on a sheet of paper.
“Did you enter the warehouse territory when you were attacked?”
“No.”
More furious scribbling.
“Were the dogs on the street unsupervised?”
“Yes.”
“Did the dogs have muzzles? Leashes?”
“No and no.”
“How many dogs were there?”
“Six or seven.”
More scribbling.
“That would be all. Please sign here and here.”
Mac tried to read the report. Some scrawls were almost legible... Finally, he gave up and signed.
“Thanks for cooperation. You are the seventh already. This time we'll definitely apprehend those dogs.”
Mac glanced at the clock at the clockhouse. 8:10. Maybe he can still sign the contract today.
And the policeman was explaining to the phone receiver why did he need a hazmat squad for the trail of blood.