• Published 20th Sep 2013
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Onto the Pony Planet - Admiral Biscuit



Dale finds himself hospitalized in Equestria after defending Lyra from the Coast Guard. Worse--he's not the only person there.

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Chapter 4: Lunch Break

Onto the Pony Planet
Lunch Break
Admiral Biscuit

Twilight turned towards the door as it swung shut. “We should probably go in there with him, to help him out. I bet he’ll need to be shown how—”

“I already did,” Lyra interrupted. “He seemed uncomfortable with . . . well, with everything. He didn’t seem to have any idea what any of the fixtures were for, so I had to show him. And then, he wouldn’t go until I looked away.”

“Oh.” Twilight looked at the door. “Do you think it’s an instinct? Or is it a social behavior?” She floated up a scroll and began scribbling. “Predators often try to avoid leaving a scent trail; that’s one possibility. I can’t see a scavenger wanting to spend the effort, though. I suppose it could be a social pressure, but why would it have developed? Maybe we should observe him. There’s sight spells; I could cast one on the wall.” Her horn began to glow.

“He’d be pretty mad if he figured it out,” Lyra replied. “Maybe we can ask the mare when she wakes up. It could be a dominance thing.” She giggled. “He used the wrong fixture, too.”

Twilight frowned. “He was probably just mimicking you. I doubt—from what you’ve said his home looked like—he has ever seen indoor plumbing before.”

“It could be his anatomy. I’d have to ask Nurse Redheart to be sure—she examined him. But if the book’s any guide. . . .” Lyra looked at Twilight carefully. “I’m not sure about the plumbing, either. The drawings in his foal’s books implied well-constructed homes, with furniture and pastures and gardens and cobblestone paths. Some of the drawings in his picture dictionary—things like knives and forks—could only be made by skilled tinkers or smiths. Obviously, they make clothing; Dale’s even improvised his peplos.

“Honestly, I don’t think he lived on the island. I’d been wondering how the first explorers missed spotting him, It started raining yesterday, and he took me back to his . . . camp, I guess. There wasn’t anything there that seemed to be a permanent structure, and he had some kind of metal boat. I think he was traveling to the island for some purpose.”

Twilight snapped her head up as a muffled shout came from the bathroom. “Do you think—” Twilight was already pushing to door open when Lyra’s hoof on her withers stopped her.

“He had trouble with the bidet the first time, too. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

As predicted, a minute later Dale came back out of the bathroom. His makeshift peplos was slightly damp, and Lyra had to suppress a chuckle. Dale glared at her anyway.

Twilight led them down the hallway and to a stairwell. She couldn’t help but watch as he tentatively descended—it was as if he’d never seen stairs before. Before even taking the first step off the landing, he’d looked at the walls in surprise, almost as if he were expecting some kind of trickery. He moved slowly, and kept his left hand against the wall. It’s probably for balance, since he hasn’t got a tail, she thought.

They reached the first floor without incident. Another pair of guards were waiting outside the stairwell. One of them fell in step with the trio as they made their way down the service hallway. As they finally reached their destination, Twilight hesitated.

She’d been kicking herself ever since she watched Dale struggle with the list of foods. It had seemed like a brilliant idea when she first conceived it—after all, he was obviously visually oriented; the picture-dictionary he’d loaned Lyra proved that. But she’d forgotten how much they’d struggled with the pictures, and that made her feel like a foal. If they couldn’t understand most of the drawings in his book, why should he understand her drawings? Especially since she wasn’t nearly as artistically skilled as whoever had drawn his book.

More importantly, there was no need to resort to drawings, anyway—except, perhaps, as a simple guideline. After all, he was here, and he was ambulatory, so she could simply take him to the food.

Even though Celestia had wanted to keep Dale secret, the cat was out of the bag now. It was hard to imagine that Ambrosia wouldn’t mention meeting him, and one of the nurses might have already blabbed. For that matter, any number of guards had seen Dale and the mare, and while they weren’t supposed to talk about such things, Twilight knew somepony probably would anyway. The regulars might keep their muzzles shut, but it was unlikely that all the auxiliary guards would be as restrained.

Nevertheless, the cafeteria was out. The last thing Twilight wanted to do was cause a bunch of sick ponies to gallop out the exit in panic. But that still left the kitchen. With a sigh, she pushed open the door, a slight smile playing across her muzzle as the guard shrank back slightly. She couldn’t blame him; she was about to enter—uninvited—into another mare’s domain. She could only rely on her standing in town and the Apple family’s legendary hospitality to prevent them from being ejected bodily for their trespass.

Already the pleasant smells of cooking greeted her. Every kitchen had its own particular scent—whether it was the sugary goodness of the bakery, the exotic spiciness of the Kalmyk Kabob in Canterlot, or even the familiar hominess of the Royal kitchens, the smells never failed to elicit pleasant memories; even the bland hospital food seemed more vibrant in its native habitat. Twilight had never understood why so many upper-class unicorns tried to seperate dining from food preparation. To her mind, the mysterious science of cooking was much more interesting than the boring artistry of food presentation that the nobles preferred.

Twilight was debating if she should announce herself, but a booming voice made the introduction moot. “Twilight Sparkle, what in the wide, wide world of Equestria brings you to my kitchen?”

“I need to look at your ingredients—”

Apple Cobbler glared at her over the stove.

“—to see what Dale can eat.”

“Dale, huh? Odd name for a pony. Can’tcha just ask him?”

“Oh, he’s not a pony.” Twilight waved a hoof behind her, unaware that she was the only visitor in the kitchen thus far. “He’s a . . . a man.”

“Never heard of one.”

Twilight looked back, noticing that the majority of her group was standing just outside the kitchen. She could barely see Dale around the door—which meant the chef couldn’t see him at all.

“He’s about as tall as a minotaur, but not nearly as well-muscled. He doesn’t have horns, either, and he’s got paws instead of hind hooves.”

Apple Cobbler glared at her.

“And, he doesn’t speak Equus. Or read it—or Unicorn.”

“Fine.” Her gaze hardened. “But if he puts his hooves in the soup, he’s out of here. And I don’t want anypony getting in the way of my chefs. It’s hard enough making meals to feed everypony in the hospital, especially with all the weird dietary restrictions the doctor adds. For Luna’s sake, my pantry chef’s got to make a special salad without any clover or timothy. How’s she supposed to make that appealing? ” She shoved a spatula into the pan. “Don’t let him mess up the spice rack, either. Or touch anything hot.” She expertly flipped the crepe onto a waiting plate and poured some more batter into the pan. “Or anything at all.” She dumped the pan out into a warmer tray and set it back on the stove. “In fact, let me show him around. Hey, Spring, you’re on the stove for now. Fifteen more crepes; don’t burn them. And go light on the preserves; we can’t get any more for a week—Winter’s sold out her entire stock.”

Twilight sighed. This won’t go well. But what was the alternative? She could take Dale to the market—and watch it empty before they even arrived, as it usually had done when Zecora needed to shop. Yet—they hadn’t been afraid of Iron Will. Perhaps the solution would be posters to garner interest before presenting Dale. Then everypony would think he was some sort of celebrity, rather than an unknown foreigner. Ponies would probably pay to hear him speak—once he learned Equus, anyway. “Bring him in. She said it’s okay.”

Dale entered the kitchen cautiously, following Lyra. Twilight watched as his eyes darted around, taking in the sights. It was hardly new to her—she’d spent enough time in the castle’s kitchens to at least know the protocol for staying out of trouble. It was strange how the chef would usually take great pride in showing a filly around, yet fight bitterly to keep any other mares out of the kitchen.

“Do you have any idea what he eats?”

“He ate his breakfast—everything but the gems.” Twilight pulled out the list she’d given Dale. “Here’s what he marked off.”

“Hmm.” Apple Cobbler studied it carefully. “Is that supposed to be red leaf or green leaf lettuce? Or is it kale? And what’s this? A beet, or a turnip?” She rolled her eyes. “No wonder he’s having trouble.” She glanced around the kitchen, frowning as a dozen pairs of eyes looked away guiltily. “Best option is to put it all in front of him, you know. I’ve got a prep table I’m not using for lunch. My potager finished early.”

Without so much as a glance at Dale, she weaved through the narrow aisleway, occasionally muttering to the station chefs. A few minutes later, she was back, pushing a heavily-laden cart before her. A half dozen bowls of grasses were neatly arrayed across the top. She pushed it right up to Dale. “All right, big guy. Go to it.”

When he didn’t begin selecting food, she turned to Twilight. “I’m not sure your Dale knows he can take some. Might want to tell him.”

Twilight looked to Lyra, who nodded.

“Dale . . . take Dale food.”

He looked at her curiously.

“Dale make yes/no Dale food?” She pointed towards Twilight’s list. “Twilight write Dale food.”

He looked down at the bowls dubiously. Twilight’s mouth began watering—she’d only managed a few bites for breakfast, and Apple Cobbler had presented a nearly irresistible array of forage: fresh fescue, crested wheatgrass, sweet clover, and even some tender thistle. The timothy was a little past its prime, but still plenty edible; even the bromegrass looked tempting.

Dale studied them all carefully, and refused every one. The clover drew the most scrutiny, but he finally gave a flat ‘no.’ It corresponded with the list he’d filled out earlier, although Twilight had found it hard to believe he would reject all pasture outright. Was it a personal preference, or was he really unable to eat any kind of grasses?

Even Apple Cobbler seemed insulted. “I got that wheatgrass this morning. The only way it could be fresher is if it were still growing.” She grabbed the bowl of clover and shoved it towards him. “And this clover—it’s one of the sweetest batches I’ve gotten from Lucky.” When Dale refused it again, she pushed it towards Twilight. “Go ahead, have a mouthful. Tell me what you think.”

It might violate experimental protocol, but I’m hungry. Twilight levitated a sensible portion out of the bowl and bit off a mouthful—almost, but not quite missing Dale’s startled expression. “Oh, this is divine. Please, please tell me he has more! You’ve got to try this.” She floated it over towards Dale. Again, he shook his head and held out his hand as if to ward it off. Twilight let out an exasperated snort which was quickly tempered by another mouthful of clover.

Meanwhile, Apple Cobbler wasn’t put off by Twilight’s gustatory ecstasy; while the unicorn was distracted she put the grasses away and brought out selection of grains. Most of them were imported from the Barnyard Bargains warehouse in Canterlot, as Filthy Rich’s smug profile on every barrel constantly reminded her. The few she was still allowed to source locally were in burlap sacks in the storeroom; she’d scooped a cup of each. Just looking at the difference between the stone-ground flax and the steel-cut oats made her blush, but Twilight didn’t notice—nor did her bipedal companion. He seemed interested in the barley; at a nod from her he took a small sample and tasted it. Most of the other food went ignored, although to Apple Cobbler’s profound embarrassment, he did sample the oats.

She finally struck pay dirt with the selection of garden vegetables. He scrutinized them all, sampling the majority. Twilight’s quill rasped across the parchment as he tasted greens from basil to zucchini. He occasionally acted as if a particular food was distasteful to him, and Lyra finally suggested—in a rather long-winded back-and-forth conversation—that he should say whether or not he liked it, as well as if it was edible. Unfortunately for Apple Cobbler’s blood pressure, they quickly discovered that while he could eat nearly any of the proffered foods, he didn’t like the majority of them. The trend continued with flowers; he refused them all outright. Bizarrely enough, his reaction to their scent seemed generally positive, but then he’d say ‘no,’ and set them back down.

Fruits were a different matter. He tried nearly all of them, leading Twilight to wonder if his ancestors had been frugivores; the success continued with dairy products. Like most unicorns, Twilight never understood the earth pony fondness for cheeses—they stank and were fattening—but Dale seemed to like them. She wondered if the scavenger-like behavior Lyra had said he’d displayed was due to malnutrition. If he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—eat grasses, cereals, and vegetables, he was probably at risk for all kinds of nutritional deficiencies. Cheese simply didn’t offer the healthy proteins a good clover did, and he’d be hard-pressed to get enough vitamins without eating at least some grasses. Maybe they just hadn’t found the right kind yet.

“You wouldn’t think a scavenger would be so picky.” Lyra watched as he closely examined a bowl of rye pasta. “I guess we could ask Dr. Goodall for some advice.”

“I’d like to see what kinds of carrion he’ll eat. He liked the fish that Pinkie offered him—well, he ate it anyway. Maybe I can come up with something by dinner; otherwise I’m going to have to ask the Princess. There must be sources in Canterlot; it’s just a question of getting them here. Still—somepony supplies the griffon embassy.”

• • •

Dale relaxed as they led him out of the kitchen. The pony in charge of the food had seemed a friendly enough sort, but she had an expression like he was breaking her heart whenever he refused to sample a particular kind of food. It was almost as if she were taking it as a personal insult. Twilight probably should have found someone who was more experienced in cooking for non-ponies. He’d already guessed from her list that she was thinking like a herbivore; he’d actually been surprised when Lyra had eaten half his roast-beef sandwich. Still, if they were so keen on exploring alien planets, it was hard to imagine that they’d never come across an omnivorous species before.

He wasn’t surprised by the cook’s behavior, though. His aunt had been like that. Whenever she came over, she’d insist on cooking. She claimed to have studied under a famous chef; he presumed she’d based that on having read The Joy of Cooking. Her dishes probably would have been tolerable, except she had a habit of buying fancy ingredients and trying to cook fancy dishes without having a full understanding of the process. That, coupled with a pig-headedness that prevented her from asking the right questions in specialty stores ruined more meals than even his uncle’s risque jokes. Fortunately, she’d lived far enough away that she rarely came by.

He’d done better with the actual plants than the list Twilight had presented him with. There were still dozens he didn’t recognize, but the same problem would have occurred if he had seen them in the produce section of a supermarket. A few brought back memories, like the kale—his mother had been sick with the flu and an early snowfall had blanket the garden, killing all the unprotected plants. The kale didn’t seem to mind; it grew throughout the winter and actually tasted a little better when he sampled a leaf.

A number of the grains had been in wooden barrels. Most of them had writing on them which presumably indicated the contents of the barrel; some also had a drawing in case it wasn’t clear. The sacks seemed normal enough, but it was a little odd to have wooden barrels for food storage. They didn’t stack well, and they were heavy even when they were empty. A five-gallon pail would have made more sense. The architecture might have been a stylistic choice, but wooden barrels? Of course, there could be some kind of law that mandated food items be shipped in wooden barrels even when an alternative container was available . . . there were enough of those weird laws in the US.

On top of that, just like the book seemed to indicate, the stoves in the kitchen were clearly wood-burning—he’d watched a pony toss a few logs in one—and while that seemed primitive, a number of his rural friends had been installing outdoor wood-burners for heat and hot water. They were often cheaper than propane—and ran on a renewable fuel source, to boot. There were supposedly differences in how the food tasted, too. Wood-fired pizza ovens were making a comeback in all the fancy pizza places. While hospital cafeterias normally weren’t considered fine dining establishments, maybe they were here. Maybe they ran a catering business out of the hospital kitchen.

The cook had offered him a selection of flowers; he’d refused all of them. Dale had never paid much attention to flowers, and had no idea which could be eaten and which could not. In retrospect, he’d probably been lucky that whatever kind of flowers had been on Lyra’s sandwich had been edible. A half-dozen jars of different colored sand sparkles were also turned down. He was going to have to ask Lyra why they ate it—was it to aid in digestion? Chickens and some other birds ate grit to help them digest food; maybe the ponies needed to do that, too. Did the colors signify different types of sand, or was it just to make it look more appealing?

He’d expected her to offer different kinds of meat next—especially since Twilight had included them on the list—but the cook skipped right to desserts. She had two different kinds of pie—strawberry and blackberry—and a cheesecake as well.

Lost in his memory of home-made pie, he didn’t notice right away that he wasn’t going back the same way he’d come. Instead, he was led into a new room.

He was immediately reminded of a war room, or a command post of some sort. The central table was a battle-scarred monstrosity, clearly salvaged from a fancy dining room once it was past its prime. It was surrounded by mis-matched chairs and a low bench. One wall held a couch with a permanent divot in the center, while the opposite wall had a cabinet finished in a different color than the rest of the walls. It was topped with a French Press and several mugs with oversized handles.

Opposite him, the wall was festooned with charts and several X-ray prints, which appeared to be clearer than the ones he’d seen on Earth. He walked over to get a better look, finally noticing that they were humanoid; presumably they were of him and the girl. He’d seen any number of X-rays on medical dramas; in real life they were more difficult to interpret to the untrained eye. He assumed the larger one was probably him. He studied it for a few minutes to see if anything seemed off, but couldn’t find anything.

The girl’s X-ray was no more clear—there was nothing which appeared to be out of place or damaged. Whatever technology they were using to take the images hopefully didn’t cause long-term damage, because they’d quite unnecessarily taken full-body images from the front, back, and both sides. He smiled briefly, imagining the doctors poring over them trying to figure out what they meant. It was like an episode of House—the male doctor would be Dr. House, of course, and the female one would be the girl—Cameron? Maybe the zebra could be the black guy . . . Dr. Foreman. Or was that racist? He looked at his three companions. Given the rainbow of fur he’d seen so far, if they’d invented racism it probably wasn’t based on color.

Next to them—and totally out of place—was what appeared to be a crude crayon drawing of a pony family, complete with a half-timbered house, flowerboxes, and even a smiling sun. It was likely drawn by one of the doctor’s children. The lack of stripes ruled the zebra out, but it did offer a useful insight into their mindset. The book Lyra had given him showed what he presumed was a family on the cover. Apparently, pony parents were proud of their children’s art.

He heard a loud clunk behind him and turned to see Twilight floating a pile of stuff out of a cupboard and onto the table. She seemed to be having difficulties sorting them; he watched her shuffle the items around on the table like a shyster dealing out three-card monte, before finally giving up and putting them back in a heap. She tilted her head towards the pile and floated out a sheet of paper.

He moved closer to the table to get a look at what she’d been floating around.

On the table end nearest the X-rays was a half-eaten sandwich and a nearly-empty bowl of some kind of vegetable soup. Dale wondered if the lack of a spoon was significant. Lyra had used utensils when she ate, but Twilight hadn’t back in the kitchen. If Twilight was coordinated enough to write with her aura, she presumably could use a spoon if she wanted to. Maybe it was more convenient to float the soup into a blob in front of her muzzle and suck it out of the air, like astronauts did sometimes.

The soup, however, was not what Twilight was interested in showing him. On the other end of the table was a collection of familiar-looking objects, including his wrist watch. He grabbed it and strapped it back onto his wrist before noticing that the crystal was cracked and the face was covered in condensation. It was still ticking, but probably wouldn’t be for too long. Still, it was a little touch of home. He could leave it on the windowsill and it might dry off enough to survive.

Dale surveyed the rest of the items quickly. His soggy billfold was there, and a quick flip through it showed everything still seemed to be in place. Of course, they could have copied his credit card numbers, but he decided he might as well not worry about that, If this was a scheme to get his personal information, it was so ludicrously over the top that he wouldn’t even mind. A green Bic lighter and a small pile of change rounded out the mix. Dale noticed with some amusement that one of the nickels was Canadian. Unfortunately, there was no sign of his glasses—or his clothes.

Simple curiosity led him to the dogtags next. He’d already guessed that the girl was the Coast Guardsman he’d tackled; it would be nice to know her name. Maybe he could reassure her that things were going to be all right.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Twilight was taking notes again. He wasn’t surprised. With as little as they knew about his culture, they’d probably be analyzing his every move to death. Maybe I could do something really weird and confuse them. He watched as the quill was dipped into a bobbing inkpot. Although, based on what I’ve seen so far, I’d have to really stretch to do anything weird enough to faze them.

He grabbed the chain and pulled the tags towards himself, turning them so he could read them. Dybek, Katherine L. “She’s named Katherine,” he said.

“Ka-th-rin,” Lyra pronounced back carefully.

He draped the dogtags around his neck. He’d take them back to her; she might feel more comfortable wearing them. He could tell the ponies that she was blood type B+ and Catholic, but neither of those things were likely to be useful information for them. If he could remember his own blood type, it might be handy. He was pretty sure he wasn’t O. Of course, since he wasn’t sure what types of blood were compatible and what ones weren’t, maybe it wasn’t helpful information at all. Then again, maybe they’d gotten around that whole problem of blood types by cloning her own blood . . . he’d heard about that being done on earth before elective surgeries—to avoid the risk of disease or adverse reactions—but perhaps they’d invented a way to make the process quick enough to provide blood on demand in the emergency room.

He picked up the gun next. Pointing it at the floor, he fumbled with it until he released the magazine, then racked the slide back to eject the chambered round. Dale considered it carefully. He might want to keep it for himself—he’d certainly feel better if he was armed. Just in case. Of course, Lyra probably knew it wasn’t his, and he wouldn’t want them to think he was a thief. In that case, it should be given back to Kate . . . but without ammo. Maybe when she was off whatever meds they were giving her, she could be trusted with it again, but not before. The fact that he was likely to be one of the first targets of her wrath did not go unconsidered.

He set the gun back down and picked up the shell he’d ejected. Absently, he pushed it into the magazine, considering what to do. It would be nice to keep, in case there was ever need of a gun . . . but he didn’t want it falling into the wrong hands—or hooves. He could try soaking the shells in water, which might make them useless . . . but the Coast Guard had to imagine that their ammunition might get a little wet, so they would probably have to remain underwater for days, maybe even weeks before he could be sure they wouldn’t work. He could try to pry the bullets off, but that would most likely end with him shooting himself or someone else. Tossing them in a fire was out, too. He could flush them down the toilet, but who knew where they’d wind up then? He’d heard horror stories of children finding unexploded ordinance and bringing it home. It seemed unlikely, but who knew what kind of sewage treatment plants they had? He could imagine some pony finding them and taking them home because they were shiny, or maybe a longer chain of events: a bird picks them up, takes them to its nest; later a couple of children find them in the woods. Maybe they want to make a necklace out of them, and try to drill a hole through the cartridge. . . .

The only sure way to denature them was to fire them, and that wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, either. What kind of reaction might Lyra and Twilight have if he just re-loaded the gun and started firing into the floor? And what if there was another floor below this one? He could shoot out of a window and aim at the ground; that would probably be safe. It might also incite a panic in the marketplace.

Dale set the gun back down carefully. “No.” He pointed to it. “No Lyra. No Twilight. No Kathrine.” I’ll probably have to fire at least one shot, to give them an idea what it does. They’re smart enough to figure out that if it can make a big hole in dirt, it can also make a big hole in a pony. Hopefully this will keep them from messing with until later. I’m still keeping the ammo with me, though. Since he didn’t have pockets, he made a small pouch in his toga, gripping it with his right hand—which both supported his arm and held the ammunition secure.

There were two more magazines on the table, which he also took. A small aerosol can of pepper spray was added to his collection, too. It probably couldn’t be operated with hooves, but it was best not to risk it. Even if it is a food product, essentially, he muttered to himself sarcastically.

Her radio was useless, which came as no surprise. He turned it on and was greeted with static. There was nothing terribly useful in her billfold, her cell phone wouldn’t even turn on, and that covered every object on the table he could identify.

There was a final item that was a complete mystery. It bore some resemblance to a gun, but it was made entirely of plastic, aside from a short strand of wire dangling from the end. What he took to be a handgrip had partially melted, while the other end appeared to have exploded—it looked what might happen if a flare went off inside a flare gun. Oddly, Twilight seemed intensely interested in it.

This might be the first time she’s really looked at these things, Dale realized. After the fiasco of the food list, she probably realized that I’d be able to explain the stuff to her better than she could figure it out on her own. He looked back at the gun. Had she already examined it? Was she the type of person—pony—who would fiddle with things until she figured out how they worked, or what they were for? He hadn’t heard a gunshot . . . so either she’d been smart enough to leave well enough alone, or lucky enough to have not fired the gun accidentally.

You’re not giving them enough credit. Surely they knew what projectile weapons were; they’d just come up with something better. Undoubtedly, the gun to them was a primitive as a catapult or a sling or something. The difference in anatomy—which dictated the difference in design—was probably the only thing that kept them from recognizing Kate’s weapons. No doubt if it had been a quadruped-friendly gun they would have figured it out already.

Did she break this, or was it like this before? He held it in his left hand, holding it in what felt like the most natural position. It didn’t sit well, since there were depressions in the handle for fingers and thumb, but they were on the wrong side. Not made for lefties. Why did Katherine have it, then? She’s probably right-handed. She drew her gun with

Dale looked at the mystery item with a frown. Could it be? He vaguely remembered thinking that her gun had been too short . . . but what if it hadn’t been a gun at all? What if it was a taser? It had somehow exploded—maybe Lyra had done something to it. If she had, it wouldn’t have been intentional. Probably she was just trying to defend herself . . . maybe that was why the doctors seemed so concerned with fixing her hand. Perhaps Lyra thought she was to blame, and then thought that if they took the girl with him, they could fix her and give her back uninjured.

He set it back down. “Taser?”

• • •

As the group walked back to Dale’s hospital room, Twilight vowed to avoid allowing anypony else to take charge that she didn’t trust implicitly. She just had a growing feeling of unease that things were spinning farther and farther out of control, and Dale hadn’t been here a whole day yet. All her good ideas and plans were dashed to the ground before they were even partially implemented. She’d wanted to introduce the foods to Dale in an orderly manner—such as the order in which they were drawn on her parchment—and to allow him to sample only one unsure food per day, at the most. That way, if he had a reaction, they’d know what food had caused it and could avoid it in the future.

Naturally, that had not been Apple Cobbler’s idea. Perhaps it was a cook thing. She’d started with pasture grasses, which was a logical enough plan. The grains had been a fairly sensible next choice, although she’d not presented any nuts until later. She’d forgotten to include the avocado with the flowers, and then she’d mixed some fruits in with her vegetables, like tomatoes and eggplants.

And that was to say nothing of offering him a slice of apple pie, blackberry pie, and cheesecake. Fruit and animal products clearly shouldn’t go together.

Dale had taken enough samples that if something went wrong, she’d have no idea what had caused it. On top of that, there was the potential delay to consider. An allergic reaction would probably be pretty quick; colic might take hours to manifest, and a poison or germ could take days—or even weeks—to become apparent. On top of that, there was the possibility of mineral deficiencies. It was unlikely that there were any experts in Ponyville, nor would it be a problem quickly . . . but she would want to write a letter to the Princess and see if there were doctors in Baltimare who specialized in treating sailors.

She frowned as she watched him ascend the staircase. He was having more success in climbing it than he had in descending, but he kept his left hand against the wall. Quadrupeds sometimes have trouble descending stairs, but the ascent usually isn’t a problem. Maybe his species only does well on flatter surfaces. This might be a problem when we take him to Canterlot.

“Lyra, are you going to be able to stay with him the rest of the afternoon?”

She nodded.

“I’ve got a bunch of other things I have to do. Spike’s helping out as much as he can: I gave him a pretty concise list, but he can’t do it all on his own. Try and find out what kind of living accommodations he prefers—you lost his book, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t my fault! He was carrying my bags and threw them at the stallion on the beach. I tried to get them back, but Princess Celestia said no offensive magic.”

“I’ll look through my notes. I’ve got to help get the embassy set up, check in with Rarity, and see if Cheerilee might be able to help tutor him I suppose we’ll want to let them share a room on the ground floor, since he doesn’t seem comfortable with stairs. I’ll want to let the construction ponies know as soon as possible. Did you see what kind of bed he had?”

“I assume it was in his domehouse, but he never let me in.”

“Did you see any kinds of furniture?”

“He had a strange white table and a chair with arms. Kind of like a throne, but with a smaller back. It went from his rump to his withers, and the seat reached just short of his . . . um, knees.” She pointed on her own leg. “He had an icebox he called Coleman that was strong enough to sit on, too. It seemed to be made out of metal—in fact, he had a lot of things made of metal. His pavilion poles and his narrow boat were both made out of a dull silver unpainted metal. I scratched the boat with my shoe and left a shiny spot.”

“Probably there was a protective oxidation.” Twilight cocked her head slightly. “Maybe an alloy of silver? It wouldn’t be strong enough on its own to make a structure out of. I’d have to do some research into metals; I’m not much of an expert on the subject.” She looked back at Dale, who had just topped the final step. “His pavilion was open, right?”

Lyra nodded.

“I should see about a gazebo or something for the yard. Maybe he doesn’t like confined spaces. It would be good for ponies to see him outside, too. They’d get used to him quicker that way.” She sighed. “Probably would want to make sure he doesn’t eat out there, though. That might make some ponies uncomfortable.” She floated the list back out of her saddlebags. “I’ll try to get Pinkie or Magnum get some more fish for tomorrow, and I’ve still got to get over to Fluttershy’s.”

Lyra pushed the door to the hospital room open and stopped in her tracks. “I don’t think you’ll have to go that far.”

“Oh?” Twilight looked up from her list. Hovering outside the window were two pegasi: Fluttershy and Professor Featherbrain. Fluttershy was staring raptly at the mare in the bed, while Professor Featherbrain was attempting to jimmy the window open from the outside. Judging by the rock held in her mouth, she had a fallback plan if the window wouldn’t open.


Detective Heather Poppenger brushed the hair out of her eyes and got back to work.

She’d been on this accursed island since she was helicoptered out last night, and honestly couldn’t wait to get back off. No stranger to crime scenes, it was the total isolation which was a bit disconcerting. While it was only a short hop back to the mainland—in theory—the helicopter had left, and she was nearly alone in the woods with the vague hope that the Coast Guard boats were still on shore.

Of course, twenty miles didn’t seem like so long a distance in a car . . . but twenty miles across Lake Michigan was a different matter entirely. Last night, she’d taken a break after they’d gotten done photographing everything on the beach, and just looked out over the water. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling of vertigo: a vast expanse of black nothingness between her and any sort of human civilization. True, the beacons of transmission towers could be seen far across the lake, and the navigation lights of airplanes passing overhead both served as reminders that she was not alone . . . but it had been hard to remember that when she stood on a lonely spit of sand, silent but for the soft slapping of wavelets and shivering of leaves. The portable lights set up around the suspect’s camp beckoned her back like a moth to a flame.

She yawned and took another sip of coffee from the foam cup someone hand handed her. Now that the sun was high in the sky, the island didn’t seem quite as hostile as it had the night before. Her phone told her it was 3:40, which meant she had one more chance to go through camp before the helicopter came back. Normally, they didn’t spend nearly this much time on a crime scene. Not unless it was the site of multiple murders . . . or a kidnapping.

For Heather, the most frustrating thing wasn’t a lack of evidence. Evidence they had. They already knew how the perpetrator had gotten to the island. His canoe may have been reasonably well-hidden from passing eyes, but not from a team of detectives. His camp was fairly easily located, as well—even taking precautions for booby traps and preserving evidence. The island was simply too small to hide things for too long. True, they didn’t know who he was yet, but his radio had a serial number, his canoe had a registration number, and even better, there was a credit-card receipt in one of the books. There were fingerprints all over camp, and the empty beer bottles probably had enough saliva in them for a good DNA sample. They’d have him IDed in a day or two at most.

Instead, her problem lay with the evidence on hand. None of it made sense.

His campsite was simple enough. A small dining fly with a white plastic table, a blue nylon folding chair with cup-holders in the armrests, and a beat-up green cooler in the central clearing, a Eureka dome tent on the southeast corner of the camp, and a few camp tools scattered around all looked like the typical wilderness camp as approved by the Boy Scouts of America. Even the fire pit had been carefully ringed with rocks taken from the beach—if their smooth surface was anything to judge by—and she had no doubt that when they eventually found the latrine, it would be straight out of a camping manual, too.

The contents of the cooler had given them pause, though. Specifically, a large carrot in a Ziploc bag, neatly labelled “Do Not Eat.” It might as well have been labeled “Evidence,” but evidence of what?

The strangeness continued in the tent. There was the requisite sleeping bag, lying atop the obligatory Therm-a-rest. A battered dufflebag served double-duty as a pillow, and was filled with nothing more interesting than clothing and basic toiletries. On the other side of the tent, though, a large supply of books were neatly stored in large Ziploc bags. Heather had seen a few campers who took the latest novel along with them for downtimes, and the Audubon guides weren’t that odd, either . . . but who on earth took Fun with Dick and Jane or Basic Geometry with them in case they got bored? And the weirdness didn’t stop with modern books; there was a thin book which looked as if it could be an antique, filled with woodcut illustrations of a Victorian England-looking house, labeled entirely in a weird code. It was the kind of thing a bibliophile or cryptologist might enjoy.

Even more confounding were the notebooks. She’d examined the one that was on top of the pile, expecting to find some sort of diary or a manifesto. Instead, it had been crude drawings of geometric figures, with every part neatly labeled in some kind of two-part code. Hiding a chemical reaction was one thing, but coding the formula for the circumference of a circle was so illogical she couldn’t even begin to fathom what kind of a person had occupied the tent.

If anything, it reminded her of an archaeological dig of some sort. The old book in a strange language, notes written out in what was possibly the same language—all that was missing was an overgrown pyramid or booby-trapped temple. Heck, even his button-down shirt was khaki . . . maybe his pith helmet was with him, wherever he was. She hadn’t heard any credible reports of secret societies operating in northern Michigan—the few militias and disorganized whackos didn’t bother with books in code, that was for sure.

Think, Heather. It might not be logical to you, but it was logical to the person who brought them here. Unless the whole crime scene was some kind of bizarre set-up—which only happened in works of fiction and the minds of conspiracy-theory bloggers—the old man who’d attacked Anthony and Cortez and kidnapped Kate had brought all these things here by hand-paddled canoe for a specific reason. It’s almost like he’s teaching some sort of class.


Dale was too busy watching the two ponies hovering outside the window to notice that the guards spread out to protect both him and the girl in the bed. The light green one jammed her front hooves under the double-hung window and forced it open, then jumped into the room. She was followed a moment later by a pink-maned pale yellow pony with bright red cheeks.

Twilight acted as if she knew both of them. Dale was still not very good at reading their body language, but she seemed to be frustrated and angry. Her voice hardly rose—although the pace of her speech seemed quicker than normal. The yellow one backed up until it ran into a wall, then ducked its head, turning until its mane blocked Twilight from its view. Meanwhile, the green one seemed unintimidated, responding back just as quickly. It flared its wings out—much like the leader had done on the beach—as if to emphasize what it was saying. The yellow pony appeared to be cowering in fear, turning until its mane covered its eyes.

He watched their behavior intently. It was obvious that the aggressive one was the ringleader, and the other had simply been cowed into coming along to do . . . whatever it was they were trying to do. He was no anthropologist—so his conclusions would have to be drawn carefully—but it was still instructive to watch them handle this situation. He’d already discovered that the plain ponies seemed to be subservient to the horned ones, but he was curious how the winged ones would fit into the mix. Granted, the small sample size was problematic, but still. . . .

After a little more back-and-forth—with the green pony flaring her wings for emphasis each time she finished a sentence—Twilight finally appeared to cave in. She barked out a command to the guards, who relaxed their pose.

The green pony was the first to respond, reaching back and nosing open one of her bags. She tugged out a rectangular box with a short length of cable attached to it. A strap looped around it provided her with a place to grab; rather than continue to hold it in her mouth, though, she flipped the strap over her head with an easy, practiced motion, and let it dangle around her neck.

Next, she got to her hind hooves—flapping her wings for balance—and grabbed the box with her forehooves. What on earth is she trying to do? None of the other ponies seemed too disturbed by her antics . . . but for all he knew, they’d already discussed this.

She turned the box towards him and squinted down towards the top. Apparently satisfied, she took the cable into her mouth. Dale heard a familiar clicking noise, and suddenly realized this was a camera of some sort. Apparently, this was the pony paparazzi.

Just when Dale was beginning to wonder if this camera ever ran out of film, the clicking stopped. By this time, she’d done a complete circle around him at ground level, as well as a series of photographs from shoulder-level. As usual, Lyra looked vaguely amused, while Twilight appeared to be moments away from holding her head in her hooves. She’d already developed a small tic in her left eyelid, and both her ears were twitching.

I wonder if they gamble? Dale clamped down on that thought before it could get him in trouble. He was supposed to be some kind of representative for humanity; taking the purple pony for all she had probably wouldn’t look good.

Meanwhile, the yellow one had gotten over some of her fright and turned her head so that she could peer out with one eye. Rather than look at him like he was a monster, though—which he would have expected—she was watching the green one.

The camera-pony landed and pulled a notebook out of her bag. She took a pencil between her lips and began scribbling, slowing moving closer to Dale. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to try and do an interview—it would take hours of back-and-forth between him and Lyra to fill a paragraph.

As she got close, Dale squatted down and held out his left fist. She sniffed it and did the same nose-scrunching thing the zebra had. Do I smell bad to them? He looked at Lyra. “Dale smell not good?”

Seeing her puzzled expression, he turned towards her and pantomimed smelling his armpit, then scrunched up his face. “Smell not good.” Then he moved over to her and leaned close to her side, repeated the sniffing, smiled, and said, “Smell good.”

To reinforce his point, he tapped himself on the chest, fanned a cupped hand towards his nose and frowned. “Smell.” Then he did the same with Lyra, smiling instead.

“Dale smell not here. Lyra, Twilight not smell Dale here then.”

He considered this carefully. His best guess—based as much on context as Lyra’s statement—was that his smell was different. Not bad, per se, but new to them. It didn’t explain why they bared their teeth, though. Well, some of them did, anyway. Of course, Lyra might not be speaking for all of them. The construction pony hadn’t done that, Lyra hadn’t, and Twilight hadn’t, either. Maybe it was just a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder, or something like that. Dale by any other name would smell as sweet. . . . He noticed that the green one had stopped with her weird nose-scrunch finally, and was scribbling in her notebook again.

If dogs could write, I wonder how they’d describe smell? There’s not that large a body of specific smells that the layman knows, and most of them are food. Otherwise, they’re largely just pungent, unpleasant odors. Maybe these ponies are more scent-oriented than visually, and so they have a whole body of words—words which we’ll probably never be able to translate—that describe different types of scent. Maybe there’s even a scent spectrum for them. I wonder if it’s like the old proverb about Eskimos having twenty different words for snow?

The light green one finished writing and took flight again. She was staring at Kate with the kind of scrutiny a five-year-old might give a Christmas present—or a hungry bear a potential meal. She even licked her lips. He was waiting for her to rub her hooves together and giggle like a maniac, but apparently they didn’t go for that kind of motion here. He watched her reload her camera, hampered only by her flapping wings blocking her saddlebags with each beat.

She’s hardly getting any lift with those, Dale thought. They’re not big enough, and they’re not moving fast enough. How had he not noticed before? There was something more to her flight—some aspect of gravity-negation or something. It wasn’t physically possible any other way. Still—it cleared up one mystery: as she darted around the ceiling, taking photographs of the supine girl from every imaginable angle, he understood why they built the rooms and the doorways so tall.

He was distracted by a warm bump against his hip and looked down. The yellow one had stealthily approached while he was distracted and was staring at him intently. Her teal eyes held a deep compassionate look, and he smiled awkwardly. These ponies had no sense of personal boundaries—although it made a weird sort of sense. If they’d advanced to a point where they were comfortable crossing the vast reaches of space, they’d have to have a large percentage of their society which was willing to be in very close personal contact with relative strangers.

Dale crouched down to get a closer look at her. She seemed thinner and lighter than the other ponies he’d seen so far, although it was kind of hard to judge. When Lyra had landed on him, she’d been a lot lighter than he’d imagined she would be. He wondered how they’d feel about being picked up. He’d be tempted to try if his right arm wasn’t injured. She had a sort of sad puppy expression; whether that was because she’d been collateral in the argument, she didn’t like hospitals, or she was just normally that way was a question that he couldn’t answer. Nevertheless, he felt a strange comfort in her proximity.

She nuzzled him in the side, and he instinctively reached down his hand and touched her back, right between her wings. For an instant, he felt her tense under his hand, before she relaxed again.

Lyra and Twilight exchanged confused glances, and Dale wondered if he’d done something wrong again. Lyra had told him not to pet strangers on the head, but she hadn’t said anything about touching elsewhere. What he remembered of equine anatomy told him that the back wasn’t a very sensitive area, and she certainly hadn’t reacted negatively to his touch. If anything, she seemed to be quite submissive.

Experimentally, he ran his hand down to where the base of her wing joined her body at her shoulderblade. The attachment seemed perfect—there was a subtle transition from hair to downy feathers, and then normal-sized feathers. He noticed as his hand touched the boundary, the wing extended out from her barrel slightly. It must have been an involuntary movement, since the other wing didn’t extend.

Is this why they’re still using quill pens? Their feathers must fall out occasionally— A cold draft against his backside cut off the thought and Dale spun around to see the green pony had lifted the back of his makeshift toga and was apparently attempting to a get a closer look. Without even thinking about it, he smacked her on the hoof, causing her to jump backwards and regard him warily.

“No! Doesn’t anyone here have the slightest concept of personal space or modesty? I will not consent to being poked and prodded by every single one of you who has the slightest curiosity about human anatomy.” He pointed to Lyra. “If you’ve got a problem with that, talk to her.”

Cheeks flushed, he belatedly remembered that none of them except Lyra knew any English at all. At best, there were only a few words she would have recognized—but perhaps his tone of voice would carry the message across.

It seemed to have done—the dynamic of the room shifted slightly. Twilight barked out something to the green pony, which caused her to take a couple of steps back. Meanwhile, the guards were watching her intently, perhaps waiting for orders to throw her out of the room. The quiet yellow one looked up at him and sidestepped out of reach of his hand. There was an ineffable sorrow in her eyes, and he instantly regretted his outburst. He knew that they were at least as intelligent as he was . . . yet he felt as if he’d just kicked a puppy.

Author's Note:

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