Deus Ex Machina; Or the God in the Machine and the Machine in the God
The Crown scythed through the air wrapped in a sheath of intensely curved spacetime. Had anyone been able to match its acceleration factors or cruising velocity five times that of sound, they would have seen a cigar-shaped oblong the colour of deep space, distorting light around itself into a strange circular nimbus, whose optically bent curve constantly shifted. The Crown’s path described a classic ballistic arc, at the apex of which it stopped suddenly, as if it had never been moving at all.
The tsunami spread across the whole continent. Even from a height of five kilometres, there appeared no end to it. Like a perverse sheet of night, the watery terminator drifted eastwards slowly but inexorably. The fore part of the wave was a dun mess the colour of mud, with purer strains further back bearing floating islands of the conglomerate-ruin-beyond-measure. The Crown directly perceived very little of this. It was, as always when it was separated from its host, only broadly aware of where and when it was. It could feel the weight of the planet below it, but it had to concentrate hard to filter it from the much heavier signal of the galactic barycentre. Photons remained a purely academic concept.
Already, it was getting difficult to remember why it was now extending the gravitational curtain, preparing to prevent the wave from covering the remainder of the continent. There seemed very little point to it. Mass extinctions happened continuously, if one took the universe as a whole. If it was not volcanic eruptions, superimpactor events, tidal waves, earthquakes or gamma ray bursts, it was nuclear exchanges or some other deliberate existential issue. This wave was one of the deliberate ones. Who was it to prevent all that hard work, anyway? It felt like too much bother.
The curve was roughly a kilometre across now, though the process it was using to bend and contort space was an exponentially strengthening one. The more energy it fed in, the faster the expansion became, which allowed it to feed more energy in, and so on. There was a lot of fun, it thought, to be had from bending space. For one thing, mass passing through said bent space ended up taking a much longer actual path. If you carried on bending and contorting, mass often vanished entirely. Something at the very bottom of the deep pit in space would give way. The Crown wasn’t sure of where, if anywhere, the mass ended up.
Once the curve had attained a diameter of ten kilometres, the Crown nudged it with extra energy in certain places, and it began to expand vertically too, in both directions. It had figured on a few kilometres of safety space, top and tail. This considerably increased the cost of the entire operation, but energy had never been a real problem for it anyway. The thaumic field was limitless, if one conceptualized the thauma on a universal scale, which was, in the Crown’s opinion, the only proper way to do it. Pony mages had no style at all.
Waste energy from the process escaped in sporadic bursts, all along the curve, which was now more than twenty kilometres long, gaining three per second and getting faster. Tons of water flashed to steam in great white eruptions in front of the curve, and stands of trees exploded in brief imitations of fireworks behind it. Where the curve had touched the ground, weird eruptions of soil and mud and very confused earthworms had been piled up against it, melting and oozing and suddenly vanishing at the black limit of the barrier.
The wave met the curve at different points, when it was about two thousand kilometres long. Water, debris and all the other accumulated bits of the gryphic peoples fell into the blackness and vanished. It wasn’t entirely sure of the precise dimensions of the wave, but it hoped this would be enough. It had considered, for a moment, just applying the energy it was now expending in this process directly to the wave, converting it all into relatively harmless steam. However, Hywell’s mind had been very disapproving of this plan of action, something about rain and condensation. The Crown did something that broadly approximated a long sigh. His father had been much more exciting.
Millions of tons of water was now on its way to somewhere. Millions more was about to follow. The majority of the gryphic peoples had been spared drowning, at a loss of only twelve villages and four major cities. The Crown, feeling very little about this achievement, set an internal timer, which counted down the minutes until it could return to Hywell.
*
Princess Luna watched from the ample shadows as the accursed Berry Punch limped pathetically back home. The fire had very much passed now, leaving in its wake a miserable feeling, a leaden weight on her withers. It took until Punch fumbled with her keys, dropping them repeatedly in the mud, having to root around in it with her muzzle to try and hook them over the top, for Luna to realize that this feeling was guilt.
*
“After I departed Porte Pronto, there followed another most miserable sea voyage aboard a griffon tramp junker. I suffered roundly from Cape Horn fever, amongst other divers ilys. Two weeks later, I arrived at Ruud Banger, where at last my seafaring ended. It is a deep sorrow of mine that I hold to this day that no faster method exists for traversing this atrocious ocean.
Taking a private alce carriage to Lo Squitz required only a modest outlay of funds. To my horror, these persons were commanded by gryphons mounted on the carriage itself, whose instructions were conveyed to the mouths of the alce by the most barbaric of bridles, bits and harnesses. While these are not dissimilar to our own such devices for moving heavy loads comfortably and efficiently, the fact that they rely on active and sustained coercion delivered by another party places them in a frightful league of their own. I could not, however, take to my hooves, for the sea voyage had weakened me considerably, and I had no time to spare.
Lo Squitz is a small town, though I see much in its future. I managed to spare some time to see its underground barge locks and docking platforms, all in various stages of construction. Large quantities of gold have been spent here already, and yet more is on the way. After a day in my lodgings, which proved surprisingly amenable to the desires and format of the Equestrian, I was much heartened, and set out with sufficient supplies to reach the coordinates which I had been given. We are only lucky that gryphons respect gold, regardless of which species has proffered it!
Much has been said of the zebra culture-in-exile and their mastery of camouflage. I will not do the reader the disservice of repeating it here and assuming they are unlearned! It should, therefore, be no surprise to learn that the zebras discovered me before I discovered them. They were initially somewhat hostile but, once I showed them the ‘item’ and related to them the story that had been vouchsafed to me, the mood changed considerably. They returned me to their traveling camp, which was located in a hidden cave the mouth of which was some distance up the side of an abandoned quarry. There we took part in a customary singing ritual, which I have described in some detail in the postordium.
It was only later on, after the rituals were completed, that the burning mushrooms were brought out and the visions began.” - excerpted from Travails O’er Lande and Sea: The Return of the Great Knobbly Koteka of the Zebra, by Chifney Bit, equinologist, AN 566.
*
Berry Punch had to be let inside, in the end. Luna barely held herself within the gaseous shadow form she’d adopted when she realized it was a little dusky foal that opened the door. He could not have been more than three or four. He began crying as soon as he saw what had happened to his dam, in between running around on still-too-gangly legs in a frenzy. He fell over in the mud outside twice, tripping on the step, before Berry Punch urged him inside and closed the door with her rump.
Luna manifested a nose and smelled the air. Something was different about the foal. She sniffed twice, then returned fully to gas again. That was it. Berry Punch had lain with the nottlygna, and produced an outsider crossing. This wasn’t uncommon. The nottlygna were aspects of herself, after all. Offspring with one pony parent would always be largely equine in characteristics, carrying only a few of the slight modifications full blooded nottlygna possessed. She wondered which this foal had. She also wondered whether she was still a Good Pony.
*
Fluttershy was half-way through a discussion with the mayor about Elemental rights, civil code and their application to the immediate situation of civil disaster response, when the last remaining window in the mayor’s office blew in, lit from behind by a day-bright flash of actinic blue light. She felt the noise of it primarily through her teeth; her ears gave up and went home, not even bothering to try and translate.
“Rut me sideways!” Elegy bellowed, cringing. “What was that?”
*
Twilight hadn’t meant to cast Roderick’s Rather Fabulous Completely Amazing Artificial Rubies #1. Even if she had, there was no way she’d have put so much force behind it. The rokh had snuck up on her, suddenly looming out from nowhere like a great, silent owl. It was the proper, equine response to being startled in such a manner. The spell had been lurking in her mind ever since she’d considered using it on the horrible Tartaran creature so, of course, it had been the first to get cast.
Rubies #1 generated a small telekinetic cube, generally referred to as the enclosure, then subjecting the contents of that cube to two thousand degrees of heat. The material intended was finely processed aluminium powder, to produce rubies by crystallization. In this case, it had been a rokh, producing nothing identifiable, save for a flurry of singed feathers.
Twilight beat her wings in the aftermath of the incident, gently supporting Whom with her magic. To her credit, she was making an effort to flap, but she was the worst flier Twilight had ever seen and, to someone recently enwinged, this was no small feat. She looked even more confused than normal. Below, the flaming ruins of the Sparkle family balloon, Fliegende Freundschaft Uber Alles, plunged onto the roof of a small shop, breaking up into smoking fragments.
“Argh!” said Whom, unhelpfully.
“Fluttershy is not going to be happy,” said Twilight.
*
The little eohippus in Emboss’ head began pointing and, if it had been able to talk and not merely been a figment of his imagination, saying something that would have sounded very much like I bloody well told you so.
iYut sniffed the air very daintily; a foal after his dam’s teats. Emboss wondered what the zebra could possibly be smelling. All he could detect was mould, the mustiness of damp, water in stagnant and flowing forms, the subtle tang of distant decay. Their species were very closely related, he knew. There could not have been enough time for significant differences in olfactory sensitivity to emerge. iYut licked his lips and performed a brief flehmen gesture. Emboss found this slightly distasteful.
There was another howl. Its aural texture had changed. It didn’t sound like the close-by howling of a hungry wolf. It sounded like someone doing a bad impression of a hungry, close-by wolf. Emboss half-expected a pony to come round the next bend in the tunnel wearing a silly wolf outfit and waving around a cap to collect pennies in. iYut uncoiled, muscles relaxing and trembling. His ears hung loose, horizontal.
“Many dangers lurk in these tunnels,” he said, turning to face Emboss. “This is not one of them. For a moment, I feared it was an Extremely Great Worm, or something like that.” He shook his head and smiled. “But this is only a taraxippus.”
“Er…” said Emboss, blinking muzzily. “Um… ‘pony botherer’ ?”
“Your science named it, not ours,” said iYut. “I do not speak your illuminated languages.”
“I’d translate it more as disturber than botherer, love,” Truth said, from behind him. “The thing which disturbs ponies.”
“It doesn’t have big teeth, does it?” said Emboss, starting to fidget.“No penchant for ponyflesh, that sort of thing?”
“It does have big teeth,” iYut said. “Well, one big tooth. Like a ridge of bone. It uses this to scrape slime and fungus from the walls of wet caves. No fan of flesh, I am afraid.”
“Why’s it making that noise then?” Emboss said.
“To ward off Great Worms, of course,” iYut said. “The only way to do that is to sound like an Extremely Great Worm.”
“And what if you’re being hunted by Extremely Great Worms?” said Emboss.
“Ah, well--”
“Gents,” Truth said. “Can we please save the assuredly fascinating talk for later?”
“Right you are, dear.”
*
Some uncountable span of hours passed. The going got progressively worse, as the drier, milky-white cave and tunnel floors became damper, and covered in greater patches with molds, fungus and other herbivorous things, which appeared to Emboss to be neither plant nor mushroom, but something in between. Large, round ‘flowers’ topped loose, almost runny stems and half-exposed root systems that ran in and out of the rock, apparently capable of burrowing through it as if it were soil. The smell of particularly well-rotted compost heap, a near-constant, now took on a sulphurous overtone, like all the eggs in the world rotting at once.
Nobody said very much, except for Hywell, and little of his babbling made much sense anyway, though even that had decayed to a sort of mumbling, breathy hooting. The gryphons were terrified and exhausted simultaneously. Eyes adapted to spot prey in broad daylight over long distances were no use in the cramped, confined and pitch black tunnels of the deeps. They jumped at every little sound, and Emboss could see that each burst of adrenaline was taking a greater and greater toll.
As they entered another void, identifiable only as such because the narrowness of the walls petered out to nothing, Emboss felt a sensation like a hoof being drawn down a blackboard. He turned to his wife just in time to see her wince and whimper. Her magelight failed and sputtered out, then came back on again a few moments later.
“iYut?” said Emboss, his own voice sounding alien to him after so long without talking. “What was that?”
“It is a good sign,” he said, smiling. “We are at the right depth. Those whom you seek, when in Repose, draw magic out of the world like hungry leeches. Much of it is sent back out in a different form. Interference, if you like, a pony shouting too loudly in a quiet room.”
“Absolutely, we have perhaps ten or fifteen more miles to go!”
“Oh, for the love of--”
Bright light flared suddenly in the cavern ahead, briefly exposing details of a large, cathedral-like space, then a fundament-rattling explosion obliterated the aural landscape. Emboss collapsed, half out of exhaustion and half out of primal fear. As the ringing cleared his ears, he heard a clattering of hooves greater than the number of the party; the tell-tale slithery clinking and clunking of well-oiled plate armour accompanied it. Emboss knew at once that it was soldiery. He’d spent enough time in and out of Canterlot to recognize it when he saw it.
Someone shouted something unintelligible; it sounded gryphic, that same rattling, cawing register, but pronounced by lips not designed for it. Another voice came back. It was iYut, but speaking in the liquid, lilting zebric tongue. Someone shoved Emboss forcefully, and he whimpered as he felt the edge of something he horribly suspected was a blade against his sweat-drenched neck. The stink of exertions and fear attacked his senses and, as his harassed eyes recovered from the blinding flash, saw monsters made real.
It’s just armour, he told himself. Not monsters. Definite equine shapes were resolved under the curved metal plates. They were soot black and unsmooth, and had not one nod to aesthetics or the knightly traditions that were so common in Equestrian suits. Black orbs in the place of eyes examined him impassively, and one leg, layered to the hock with armour proper and draped with jet mail to the unadorned hoof, bore a thin, wicked steel to him. It extended from the end of the leg and curved backwards, like some fantastically improbable vestigial digit. While it was hard to draw his eyes away from the weapon, he saw that similar equine mountains were menacing the rest of the party, gryphons especially.
The zebric came to an end, and one of the armoured equines started speaking in Equuish. Emboss didn't recognize the dialect. It was like someone had decided to learn the language from a badly written book by way of a traumatic brain injury.
“Trespassing,” the form said, and Emboss realized it was a mare, or decidedly of the female persuasion in any case. “Explanations forthcoming, full of hope?”
“Be calm, and offer no resistance,” said iYut, from the wrong end of a witherspear, whose wielder seemed to lack species sympathy. “They are on our side.”
“I thought these guys were a myth, you know,” said Astrapios. “A little story told to frighten fat birds and keep them out of the tunnels.”
“Real, last time examined, doubtful situation changed,” said the armoured equine, and Emboss thought he could hear a trace of sarcasm. “Incognito ergo sum? Folly, forgive. We are Drax.”
“A warrior tradition,” said iYut, ears back, though if it was from fear, apprehension or some combination of awe and dread, he couldn't say. “Guardians of the Repose.”
“We're looking for the-- ” Emboss said, pausing as the metal head moved suddenly to inspect him more closely and his heart jumped. “We're here to see the Centaurs.”
There was an angry-sounding exchange of zebric between the Drax and iYut. Emboss heard an avalanche of new words tumble down around him. He cursed himself again for not having a better fluency. He could understand some of the written form, insofar as it applied to names, but the sort encountered in the wild and actually spoken was a wholly different and ungelded beast. Loose morphemes and phonemes and fricative stops plied the air with the unabashed purpose and naked ambition of a prostitute.
“Bid you speak,” said the Drax mare, suddenly getting quite close to Emboss, and it brought whatever conversation they were having in other languages to an immediate halt. “Little Equestrian, state the business, in your own words.”
*
“I really didn’t mean for this, you know,” Shining Armour said, in the darkness of the empty Selenite Court.
“Yes, sir,” Afore said, flatly.
“I only wanted to blow the gates open, it was never my intent to…”
“Wipe from memory the capital of Equestria, sir?” Afore suggested. “Obliterate in cleansing fire a city that has stood for more than ten centuries against foes uncounted, birthed culture beyond measure--”
“Yes, yes! All of that!” Shining Armour said, sniffing and thanking the gloom for hiding the tears that were currently making tracks down the soot on his muzzle.
“They had some really nice art galleries here too, sir. Very classy, none of that modern stuff either, all pastoral landscapes with little birds and everything.” There was the sound of a bottle being clumsily uncorked, then Afore spat, and there was a little thump as the cork landed on a nearby overstuffed pouffe. “Emphasis very strongly on the had, sir.”
“My wife was out there too,” he squeaked, and began to sob. “Oh, Cadence!”
“There, there, sir, I’m sure she escaped before you killed everyone,” Afore said, and drank a long draught from the bottle. “Here, have some of this, it’ll help with those burns, I think it might be some kind of port.”
“I don’t want any,” he said, sounding all the world like a petulant foal. “I want to go back in time and stop all this from happening in the first place.”
“I don’t need to remind you, sir, that time travel is a physical impossibility.” More sounds of drinking.
“No it isn’t, I distinctly remember reading something my sister wrote, about an incident with Starswirl’s forbidden texts,” Shining Armour said, finding a pouffe in the darkness to flop miserably on. “She... she met a version of herself from the future, or something?”
“Oh, yes, I read about that, sir,” Afore said, with a clink of the bottle on the polished obsidian floor beneath the leaf-litter like layer of pouffes. “Turned out not to be time travel at all, there was a tribunal hearing and a thaumic conference on the subject.”
“Really?” Shining Armour said. “I don’t recall.”
“Yes, sir. They determined that it was just another of Starswirl’s pranks. Hallucinations and memory edits, I believe. Tricky business. They couldn’t examine the spell mechanism directly, because the scroll destroyed itself after use, but all the witness statements confirmed no time travel took place, and they discovered traces of editing in certain persons affected.”
“Well, fancy that,” said Shining Armour.
“Fancy that indeed, sir.”
From somewhere above, there was a sudden and tremendous crash, like a steam train hitting the building. The ground shook and, all around, things began to fall from the roof of the artificial cavern. They landed with the occasional muted crack as they somehow managed not to hit the pouffes. Shining Armour whinnied and lit up his horn, something he’d dare not do before in case it showed his face. Glassy chunks of obsidian had been dislodged by the force of whatever had happened above.
“By the Crystal Heart,” Afore said, choking on a mouthful of port. “What was that?”
“My wife?” said Shining Armour, excitedly. “The heat from the fires must have fused the doors, she’d probably have had to smash her way in!”
“With respect, sir, don’t start that again,” Afore said, with a very serious tone of voice.
“We need to investigate,” Shining Armour said. “She might be hurt. She might just have used the last of her power and strength to batter down those great ponyoak doors.” He was getting faster and more worked up, scrambling to his hooves and knocking over unseen bottles and tins of satinal. “Ye Gods, we have to get to her!”
“Yes, sir,” said Afore, fetching up his witherspear. “Freedom to speak, sir?”
“Always, Afore.”
“If you look like you’re going to do that strong force thing again, I’m going to put this somewhere very unprofessional.” He rolled his shoulders, and the tip of the spear waved around in the air. “Sir.”
“Understood,” Shining Armour said, nodding. “Very much.”
The two of them picked their way through the quagmire of pouffes with a greatly hurried pace, knocking over low incense burners and the occasional satinal pipe. Shining Armour led the way up the staircases, cut through and into the rock, that gave staff and courtiers quick access through the larger fabric of the palace. Mare’s unmentionables, empty bottles, pillows and spilled plates of food turned the stairs into another obstacle course, though the worst of it had been cleared on their way down in the first place.
As Shining Armour came to the top of the stairs, he saw in silhouette what he had not dared hope to actually see; the shadowed figure of an alicorn. He grunted with joy and with exertion, throwing himself up the last steps with reckless abanon. He was moving too quickly to ponder why the shadow was rearing up, and seemed to be frozen. Neither did he notice that the shape appeared to have one more leg than it really should have done.
Shining Armour collapsed and stared up at the thing which sat where once there had been a pair of huge ponyoak doors, at the far end of the palace’s entrance hall. His mouth moved, trying to find words to describe it. All of his senses screamed at him, but he could not comprehend the enormity, the terror, the sheer girth. Finally, he managed to whisper, in trembling words: “What is that?”
“That, I believe, sir,” said Afore, coming up the stairs behind him. “Is Celestia Penetro Omnes.”
*
Twilight landed with Whom in unsupported tow behind, pink wings just about strong enough to make a gliding touchdown. Whom immediately tripped over her own hooves and went nose-over-tail, colliding noisily with stacked wooden crates and piles of medical refuse. Twilight sighed as Whom untangled herself and stood up, shaking a bucket from her head. All around them, black feathers and unidentifiable motes that she desperately hoped weren’t bits of the former bird, rained down, mixing with falling ash and the general miasma of acrid smoke. She sneezed and fiddled with her mane, wiping out real and imagined bird parts with telekinetic jabs.
“Mr Beaky?” said a plaintive little voice, which made Twilight cringe. “Mr Beaky, where are you?”
Twilight spotted Fluttershy arcing into the air from the steps of a large, civic-looking building, whose front formed one of the long sides of the plaza. Several dozen ponies of various races had followed her out, foremost being a stout-looking stallion and a slighter, black and white mare. Oh, rut me, she named it, Twilight thought.
“What happened to Mr Beaky, Twilight?” Fluttershy called down, when she was hovering over the centre of the plaza. “What was that big flash of light?”
“I’m so sorry, Fluttershy,” she said, ears drooping.
“What did you do?!”
“He just came right out of nowhere, and I’ve been so on edge lately, and it just happened--”
“Where’s Mr Beaky?” She was shouting as she descended, landing on the hardstone with what Twilight would have sworn were sparks. “What did you do to him?”
“Twilight?” said Whom, from behind her somewhere. “Do feathers normally do that?”
“He’s gone, Fluttershy, I cast…” she said, ignoring Whom and trailing off as she thought of how to phrase it tactfully. “I cast a very powerful spell, one that makes rubies. There’s nothing left.”
As she said it, a large black feather landed on Fluttershy’s snout. She screamed as she noticed it and fell over, as if instinctively throwing herself away from it. The feather seemed like it danced away, but she was too distracted to follow it, even as it vanished from sight. Twilight resisted the urge to wrap her friend in her wings and hold her, but figured this might just make things worse.
“Not much left, anyway,” Twilight corrected.
“I’ve never seen feathers do that,” Whom said, yet unheard.
“But why, Twilight?” Fluttershy said, choking down tears.
“He surprised me,” Twilight said, weakly. “I’m sorry.”
“These birds are unique, Twilight, they’re so rare. Every single one is precious. You can’t just kill them!”
There was a crackle in the air, like the last ebbs of distant lightning, and Twilight gritted her teeth, riding through the familiar thaumokinetic feedback of a powerful spell being cast in her immediate vicinity. She glanced around, angrily looking for whatever unicorn had committed this magical faux pas. Now, it was her turn to scream. Some distance away, a black skeleton, not more than an outline, of a huge avian figure, had appeared. Feathers and blobs, chunks and oozes of carbonized matter were dribbling, bouncing and hopping toward it. Magic throbbed through the air with the same feeling of imminent fecundity as a stallion’s private member.
“Awk,” said Mr Beaky. “Awk.”
*
The Drax had put away their weapons, though with the majority of them being integrally mounted, this was actually more a case of them no longer being held so close to various throats or other sensitive spots. Emboss was beginning to regret not looking more into personal protective equipment before embarking. They were doing incredible things with very lightweight chainmail and densely woven cottons these days, though he doubted it would have helped very much in any case. The weapons being brandished by the Drax were decidedly military. No little shivs or ancient crossbow-staves here.
“Your story, fascinating,” said the Drax mare who, as it turned out, bore an equivalent rank of sergeant. “Worrying, measures equal. Also, hard to believe. If not traveling, member of zebra species alongside, perhaps deal with you by way of erasure. Make you to eating mushrooms, forget all about underground, forget names.” She chuckled, and it sounded like gas bubbling through mud. “Wake up in gryphon whorehouse with bites and new illnesses of the low regions. No more problem.”
Erisne and Ensire seemed to take some kind of unspoken, possibly professional, umbrage at this though, as with many gryphic postures of body language, it was hard to tell.
“Is that supposed to be a threat, or an incentive?” Astrapios said, clicking his beak. “Magic mushrooms and plenty of hens, sounds good to me.”
“But you do believe us?” Emboss said, blearily.
“Belief not required in this instance,” the mare said. “Our Graphs have told us of strangeness for days. World waves, this would fit with latest datums.”
“Graphs?” said Emboss.
“Devices for measuring.”
“Measuring what, exactly?”
“Many things,” the mare said, then shook her head. “Drax are not Graphers, Drax defenders, go where Graphers tell us.”
“Where did they tell you to go this time, then?” Truth said, sidling over to her husband and touching shoulders gently.
“Recover datums to make benefit larger pool of datums,” the mare said, shrugging. “Search out, inspect, cover ground, reconnoitering intended. Drax accomplish tasks set by rendering you to Graphers of the Repose. This will suffice.”
“Render us to those in Repose?” said Emboss, shaking his head and squinting; everything was getting a bit blurry and hard to remember.
“Graphers of the Repose,” said the Drax.
“I think they’re going to take us to their leader, dear,” said Truth.
“Oh,” said Emboss. “Good.”
Later, he would not recall collapsing.
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“Wake up in gryphon whorehouse with bites and new illnesses of the low regions. No more problem.”
Best line ever
Something seems to be missing.
I guess you really can't.
Well, it's good to see that some of Canterlot's magnificent art has survived.
6499543
And what a beautiful piece of art it is too. Such majesty, such poise, such elan. Such girth.
6499238
iYut is winging it, more or less. He can only navigate approximately. In any case, they weren't at the right depth and were encountering interference and induction anyway. I guess the centaurs might be Up to Something.
6498716
They've probably given this treatment to dozens of ponies and gryphons who've wandered too close. I wonder how many there are in Canterlot with embarrassing scars and a long list of prescriptions from their doctor? The mind boggles.
6502001 Actually, I was referring to what appears to be some missing dialogue; my comment's formatting got broken somehow between when I posted it and now, sorry for any confusion that might've caused.
Correction offered without malice:
abandon
6504530
I have summoned the proofreading elves. You have my assurance that they will be dealt with severely for this gross failure in their duties. Confinement to a pain dimension, I would expect, for a period no less than fifteen thousand subjective years. The punishment must fit the crime.
6502097
Hmm! Yes, you're entirely correct. Emboss is supposed to ask how far there is left to go, as I'm sure you've worked out. I have no idea where it went. I will track down the missing line and insert it. Thanks for telling me!
Oh my. Is the first we're hearing of the Centaurs? In any case, it's a fascinating development. And those Graphers, given their position and function, sound like something that might have survived the last Thiassus. Most intriguing.
And yeah, that does sound like something Star Swirl would do. Granted, so does making a physically impossible spell.
Mr. Beaky lives! Painfully. At least, he will be when more nerves regenerate.
And I quite liked the Crown's perspective. "Surrounded by small-minded fools" takes on a whole new meaning when you have to tune out the gravity of the galactic core.
6505478
Without malice, without malice!
6506967
You have to be firm with these proofreading entities, otherwise they take liberties. Oh, sure, first it's just little errors like missing letters but, if you don't keep them on lockdown, you'll find them rewriting dialogue and adding erotic subplots in no time at all. Nobody wants that. Proofreading elves can't write for toffee, the melodramatic little bastards.
6506191
About seventy percent of the Truth and Emboss plotline occurred without the reader ever knowing whom it was they were going to see. This was an unfortunate error on my part, which took about a year of real time for me to realize. The Centaurs weren't even mentioned to the reader until they'd firmly alighted in the first dockside pub in gryphic lands. Their trusted zebra housekeeper told them all about it but the reader never saw it.
The Centaurs are a product of an earlier cycle in the planet's evolutionary history. They've been asleep for a very long time. Sometimes they wake up to see how things are going. They've left a few of their tools and toys behind. The zebra make use of them. In return, they ensure the Centaurs aren't disturbed or recycled into the planet's crust.
I'm glad you liked the Crown's perspective. His brightest light in the sky is the galactic barycentre, because he only sees in gravitons and gravity wells. We see the world via optical photons, but he can't interact with those at all, in any way, because of their massless nature. Too 'sci-fi' for a fantasy fic, I wonder? Ah, but there's so much 'science fiction' buried in here....