Chapter 2: Picking Up The Package
The Everfree Forest fell away far beneath his hooves, and Falcon Punch relaxed. He never felt comfortable over the Everfree. Some of its denizens were capable of flight, though they rarely flew very high, and at night strange shadows gathered around the old ruined castle. Somepony from the University had once told him that there was once a great city in there, surrounded by rich fields and prosperous towns, but Falcon found this hard to believe. Anyway, even if true that had been a thousand years ago, and all that he'd ever seen was a vast wilderness, over which the weather was never even slightly dependable.
He wished he could have flown around the woods, but he wanted to make good time to Appleloosa, to impress Orange Streak with his capability as a courier. Military contracts could change his whole life, the lives of his whole family. Blackcherry -- his sweet little Cheerilee -- she was smart as a whip. He wanted to send her to a good college, a decade from now. And Raspberry would also need a good education. A decade -- two decades from now -- heck, he was only 49, he'd get to see his daughters graduate and marry and have good lives, before he passed on. Hopefully not before a long happy retirement, spent in the arms of his dear Strawberry.
But he had to complete this assignment first, prove himself to the Watch, so that future plums would drop into his waiting mouth. He gave the sky a careful scan once more to make certain that nothing nasty had followed him out from the haunted woods, just to be on the safe side. In safety is survival, he thought, repeating an old Guards adage. He'd never been the most cautious Pegasus in the Guard, but he'd been cautious enough that nothing had ever blindsided him. Most air fights are decided by the first attack, he remembered having heard somewhere, and half of the losers never even see what killed them.
He did not want to be a loser.
The sky was clear. He could see the scar of Ghastly Gorge far to his right, just at the edge of his visibility. He thanked himself that his eyes were still sharp -- when those start going, the active career of a Pegasus is starting to end. He thought to himself, That'll happen in a decade or so, anyway, I'll have to hire assistants then. By that time the military contracts should make it possible. He peered ahead. There was farmland -- orchards -- yes! The little town of Drumbeat, growing up around a Guards detachment, and running through it a brown track. There was a camp between town and the gorge, and he could see white steam rising. Oh yes, they've bridged the gorge, and the rail will soon run all the way to Appleloosa.
It would be a new world when the railroad was in regular service out to the frontier. All the towns in between -- even sleepy little ones like Ponyville -- would mushroom. New age coming, he thought. For real. I'll see some of it, Strawberry and the fillies'll see a bit more. Wonder if there'll be airships and railroads everywhere someday, and only crotchety old Ponies like me remembering what it used to be like when everything was a matter of wing and hoof? He smiled to himself. Five hundred miles on wing each way, I'll tell them. And every yard of it in a downdraft!
He swooped over the fort, wing-saluted the garrison. He saw a sentry return the salute. Technically he was still Guards Reserve, so the mutual military courtesy was proper.
It'll be a long, lazy run now, he thought. Just cruise over the road -- I'll lose a little time on the curve, but that's a whole lot better than losing a lot of time by getting lost. I'll be in Appleloosa within the hour, meet this Thermal Soar fellow, rest a half-hour or so and get him and his package safely to Canterlot. No problem.
The green land unrolled beneath him, starting to subtly brown as he swept out into the plains.
***
"The courier is in view, my Princess," reported Coxus, putting down the wide-angle binoculars. "Still at least four miles out."
"It's about time," said Ceymi sharply. "And my name is Thermal Soar, remember? I hope you can remember it when the courier is present, or this special assignment will become dangerous very fast."
"Of course, your ... Thermal Soar," Coxus replied.
Ceymi sighed to herself. She liked nothing about this mission. Coxus was allegedly an Infiltrator, but he never would have passed one of her demanding courses of instruction. Good genes or no good genes, she reflected, some lings are just plain dim. At least he has good eyesight.
Too bad Thermal wasn't a Changeling, she reflected. He was clever -- cunning -- among his other good qualities. The brood he'd sired on her had done fairly well. I could get results with one such as him. Why did he have to be born prey?
She had respected Thermal. Did respect him, actually, as he wasn't dead, and hopefully would last for many years cocooned back at the Hive. The other two members of her team were already on their way back carrying his sleeping form. Surprising amount of love in that Pony, she reflected. I'll make sure to tap him directly, at least once. For old times sake.
Ceymi did not like the plan. If she'd had her way, they'd have taken the notes and package along with Thermal back to the Hive, quit this Pony town, leaving behind only a mystery. There'd be a brief sensation about how Appletree had seen Greenapple and Longnose when both had been sick in bed at home -- wonder if they'll even realize Greenapple was drugged? -- then it would all blow over. Just another prospector running off into the desert, just some incompetence in a sleepy desert town. Instead, I'm supposed to first hand the goods over to the courier, then ... ugh. This is just too risky!
She knew exactly why Queen Chrysalis had given her these orders. It was a test, one of her never-ending tests of loyalty, of utter devotion to whatever new whim she had, or -- more frighteningly, to the new ideology she had developed ever since she'd begin reading that damned book.
In secrecy lies saftey, Ceymi thought. Deliberately terrorizing the prey, fighting them directly, even by ambush -- this is stupid. Picking off one old scientist near the Hive is one thing, attacking a courier of the Watch deep in Equestrian territory quite another. Chrysalis talks about "sending a message" -- but that's exactly what we must never do to them! She looked around at the life of the small town -- just a frontier settlement, yet with more bustle and vitality than in the whole Hive. They are a sleeping giant, she thought, and if we ever make the mistake of awaking them, their wrath shall be terrible. Why won't she believe me?
If she had been Pony it would have bothered her that she couldn't convince her own mother of the folly of this course. As it was, she felt a dread creep down her back at the imagined scene of the Equestrian Guards storming the Hive, invading its inmost chambers, slaying the Queen, destroying the nymphs who were their future. Primal fears briefly shook her.
She thinks I'm soft, Ceymi knew. That's why she insisted that I perform this mission personally. She wants to see if my supposed liking for Ponies will keep me from killing one in cold blood.
Nonsense! One can admire a prey species, even enjoy their presence, without mistaking them for lings. I admired Thermal, and I captured him without difficulty. But one does not charge into the midst of a herd of buffalo and challenge them face to face! Nor does one kill or torture them just because one can. There is a difference between courage and rashness, between feeding and cruelty.
I wonder sometimes if the Queen remembers this.
***
Falcon landed in the town square, sauntered over to the small structure which said "Sheriff" and "County Jail" upon it. The door was open, and in it stood a yellow Earth Pony stallion with an orange mane, wearing the hat and badge of the Sheriff's Office.
"Hi," said Falcon. "I'm Falcon Punch, civilian courier on contract to the Watch. I'm here to pick up a Professor Thermal Soar, and a package, both for delivery to Canterlot." There was nopony else in earshot, so he felt safe saying this aloud in front of the jail.
"Good," said the Pony. "Longnose. Deputy Longnose. He's inside."
The pony's speech patterns were a bit odd, but one heard all sorts of strange dialects out here on the frontier. Why, even in Ponyville, some of the Apples from Sweet Apple Acres sounded a bit rustic, and the folks out by Dunnich ... Falcon dismissed his odd feeling, and stepped inside.
Sitting at a desk was a wiry little dark-tan Pegasus with a graying brown mane and alert eyes. Orange Streak had said that Professor Soar was in his sixties, but the life of a geological prospector must be a healthy one, for he looked to be a decade younger. Falcon could well believe that he was up for the flight to Canterlot.
"Professor Thermal Soar?" Falcon asked. "I'm Falcon Punch, Lt. of the Day Guards, retired. I'm on civilian contract from the Watch, to escort your person and package to Canterlot."
"Heh! Pleased to meet you," said Professor Soar, smiling. "I've got the package right here beside me," he said, pointing to a tarpaulin-wrapped object on the floor, secured by knotted ropes to keep it from unwrapping. "Treat it delicate like," the Professor instructed, "it's mummified remains, and is fairly brittle -- I have some padding in there, but I don't want it falling part."
"No problem, Professor," Falcon reassured him. He gathered up the package and attached it to his undersling. It was sufficiently compact that it would only interfere slightly with walking, and not at all with any but the most tight aerial maneuvers. "Do you have any other luggage?"
Professor Soar threw on and buckled a harness with closed bags to either side. "Got my papers here," he jerked his head to the right, "and my personals there," this time jerking it to the left. "I'm ready an' rarin' to go!" He sounded jovial.
"Very well," said Falcon. He waited, looked at Longnose expectantly. When Longnose did nothing, he said: "The paperwork? To sign?"
Longnose stared at him blankly.
"He means to sign so that you know he's taken charge of me," Professor Soar said, with a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Over there. On the desk."
Longnose did a double-take and grabbed a clipboard with papers. He passed it over to Falcon.
Falcon looked for but did not see a pen. Fortunately, he had one of those new fountain jobs in his own sidebag. He put the clipboard on the desk, pulled out the fountain pen, and signed at the usual places. Then he handed the board back to Longnose, who took it without expression or thanks.
Mystified by the deputy's odd silence, he turned to Professor Soar. "Well, are you ready to fly?" Falcon himself felt slightly tired, but he decided that he would take off right away rather than spend any more time with the taciturn deputy. If he got a cramp, he could always roost somewhere for a few minutes, as long as they weren't over the Everfree. And Professor Soar seemed like much more pleasant company than did Longnose.
"Sure thing," said the Professor. They left the jail and launched themselves together into the sky.
***
Back at home, Strawberry was getting bored. She had left her last job, as a bartender, to take care of little Raspberry full time, and that was fine, but it did mean that the days dragged when Falcon was away. Soon, Raspberry would be going off to school, and Blackcherry would be big enough to watch her little sister after school. It would be nice to go back to work.
There were chores, of course -- with two energetic growing fillies running and bumping around the house, there were always chores. But these were routine -- nothing interesting happened such as happened at a bar, and when something interesting did happen it usually just meant another mess to clean up. Like when Raspberry had redecorated the whole kitchen, with flour and molasses. That had been interesting.
At least drunks usually left their messes in a single spot, or at worst a trail. They had nothing on toddlers.
Thinking of drunks made Strawberry think of liquor. She liked liquor. She liked liquor entirely too much. And when she had gotten pregnant with Raspberry, she had sworn off alcoholic beverages. Strange -- keeping this resolution hadn't been as difficult back when she was carrying Blackcherry. But she'd been younger then, and not under as much stress. Blackcherry had been only five when Falcon had knocked her -- visited the miracle of life upon her for the second time, and taking care of a five-year-old and feeling that her belly was as big as a cow's at the same time had not been a pleasant experience.
Since Raspberry's birth, she'd occasionally drunk, but only in moderation. She wasn't going to wind up a raving drunkard like her Aunt Blueberry. It seemed to run in the family, a weakness for drink, and while in some of them it manifested itself as a constant amiable semi-inebriation, in others it hit them hard, until they lived only for the next glass of liquor. It was really a shame that the main family fortune came from their vinyards, but some of the amiable and functional ones had obviously decided to turn their hobby into a source of income. What could a pony do about that? It was family tradition.
She rarely felt she needed to drink with Falcon around. He was almost fifty now, but it was so difficult to believe -- his eye was keen, his muscles firm, and his voice still resonant with the timbre of a Pony in the prime of his stallionhood. And his -- other -- parts still worked as well as they had ten years ago. She blushed slightly as she thought about the homecoming she'd promised him. He could still, after ten years of marriage, make her feel like the tender maiden she'd been when he first caught her eye at that dance.
As long as she had her Falcon, she would never need any inebriation but that which she felt in his strong embrace.
***
They swept over the scrub plains, the land becoming increasingly arid as they went north from the oasis of Appleloosa into the semi-aridity of the Northeastern Palomino. This was nowhere near as bad as the deep desert, but it was still a thirsty land. One day, Falcon thought, there'll be towns all along the rails, and wells, and irrigation ditches, and orchards stretching far out into what used to be desert. Maybe some of my descendants will settle these parts.
"Do you think this'll be good land for berries?" he asked Professor Soar. He figured the old geologist had to know this country well.
"It's pretty dry," the Professor said. "Takes hard work to get anything out of the ground. I wouldn't advise coming out here to farm. Especially not toward the Badlands -- the land's pizened from whatever blew that huge crater."
"Crater?" Falcon asked. "I've done recon flights out over the Badlands, never seen much in the way of craters ..."
"No," said Professor Soar. "The whole Badlands is a crater. You can see it on the really large-scale survey maps. Something really big blew up there during the Cataclysm -- a very strange explosion, as if it affected some materials differently than others. The Macintoshes are part of the crater wall. Nigh on four thousand years ago whatever it was blowed up, but the land ain't mostly come back from it."
Falcon tried to imagine what could make a detonation so stupendous, and utterly failed. Even if one built a black powder works the size of the Palace at Canterlot, and set it all off together, he didn't think that even that would be enough to explain a crater the size of the Badlands. He remembered old legends, of earthfire and sunfire bombs, and wondered if something like that had done it. They could supposedly destroy whole cities -- but this must have been an explosion of much greater magnitude.
His wings were getting a bit tired.
"Mind if we roost for a bit?" Falcon asked his companion.
"No problem," said the Professor.
They set down on a green patch, by a small lake that still had a little water in it. There were some stunted trees, and they sat in the shade.
"Thanks," Falcon said. "I flew all the way over from Ponyville. Meant to rest in Appleloosa, but that Longnose was a bit creepy -- I decided I wanted to leave right away.
Professor Soar winced. "Yes," he said, "Longnose is a mite dim. Don't know how he got his badge."
"Have you ever been to Canterlot before?" Falcon asked the Professor.
"Yes -- went to the University there, taught a bit -- that was a donkey's age ago."
Both did the automatic look-around and then chuckled -- there were no Donkeys within miles to whom they might need to apologize for the expression.
Falcon grinned at Soar. "You don't seem like most professors I've known."
The Professor tensed. "In what way?" he asked.
"You're not all stuffy and academic," Falcon explained. "You seem kind of plain and homespun, if you catch my course. More like some grizzled old prospector."
"Well, I've been a prospector over twenny years now. Left the University just cause it was a stuffy place." The Professor gazed off southward. "Pony like me's gotta think on his feet, face the challenges of the land, keep my eye out for what I can, another eye peeled for danger. I've had some close calls out there, deep in the desert, beyond in the Badlands where there ain't nothing and nopony who'll welcome you. Had to be tough, to survive." There was a strange look on his face. "Won't come back, someday. Hope whatever gets me respects who I was."
"That's an odd attitude," said Falcon. "Most Ponies are scared of predators."
"Most Ponies don't ever have to face them up close," pointed out the Professor. "I've faced things that wanted to eat me, closer than we're sitting together right now." He looked at Falcon. "I think they respected me, when we came to the clinch. I think a good predator respects her prey. She has to, you see. Or she'll find the tables turned."
"She?" asked Falcon, then thought a bit. "Oh, I guess the fiercest predators probably are female, at that. It's mostly stallions in our military, but I suppose the most dangerous predator would be a mother hunting for her children, now wouldn't she?"
The Professor nodded. "Or protecting her children from someponies hunting them," he added. "Anyone -- pony or otherwise -- will go pretty far to protect their kinfolk."
Falcon thought about it. "Hmm, I don't generally think of predators as prey."
"Any critter can be predator or prey, in context," Professor Soar said. "Big predators hunt smaller ones. Bigger predators hunt the big ones. And even the biggest predator can get `et from the inside by diseases ... or drained dry by parasites."
"So where do we Ponies fit in here?" asked Falcon.
"Ponies don't eat other critters, but Ponies do kill critters what threaten `em," said Soar. "Far as those weaker predators see it, they might as well be prey to the Ponies -- don't matter nohow to them whether their bodies get `et or not by the Ponies, only iffen they get killed by the Ponies, see?"
"But Ponies aren't predators," Falcon pointed out. "We only kill things that try to prey on us."
"Like I said," clarified Professor Soar, "We ain't predators in terms of our vittles. But that don't matter to what we kill. Ponies're spreadin' out everywhere, explorin' and settlin' everything, -- coverin' up the whole wide world and convertin' it into more Equestria. Predators -- true, old-fashioned predators what might try to eat Ponies -- you ever stop to think that they might be afeered o' us?"
"Well," said Falcon, stroking his chin with a hoof. "I suppose -- when you put it that way ..."
"When you was in the Guards," the Professor asked him, "did you ever have to put down beasts?"
"Of course," said Falcon. "That's one of our regular duties -- monster hunting. There's always something coming out of the Everfree, or the Ice Wastes or the Badlands or the Deep Desert, something that thinks it can make a meal of Ponies. We show them they can't -- not if they expect to keep living."
"An' as far as the predators know this," the Professor said, "they're darn tootin' skeered o'you. Many of them're stronger'n you Guards one-on-one, in what Ponies call a 'fair fight,' but that ain't how you meets 'em, now is it?" The Professor's eyes were unreadable, his expression somehow dark even in the full light of noonday. "You have numbers, an' organization, an' fancy weapons like these repeating crossbows we're both packin'. So, face-to-face, they don't stand much of a chance, now do they?"
"No," said Falcon. "I guess they don't. And if they were stronger -- strong enough to stand up to massed crossbow fire, we'd just send airships to hit them with bombs and rockets until they died. And if they were strong enough to stand up to that, Princess Celestia would unload a can of Sun right at them, like she did to Syhlex and his sons in that old poem. We'd use whatever level of power we needed until they were dead." His jaw firmed in pride, at the might of his own nation.
"And why not?" he continued. "Why should we lose Pony lives fighting monsters? Ponies have friends and family, they have meaningful lives. Predators are just -- wild beasts. What do they love?"
A strange light flickered in the Professor's eyes.
"They may not see it your way," he pointed out. "They may have friends and family too, and care for their own lives right well enough."
"Then they should stay off Pony lands," replied Falcon. "We leave them at peace in their homes."
"But Pony lands keep spreadin'," the Professor said. "What do the predators do when the Ponies -- when us Ponies -- eat up all the best land, and force them out into the wastes?"
"I suppose they perish," said Falcon. "Aside from the fact that we are Ponies, and hence should favor our own kind, isn't that the Natural order of things? The strong survive, and the weak go to the wall? Survival of the Fittest?"
There was at that moment a Pegasus foal in Cloudsdale -- surprisingly enough, closer kin to the one calling itself Professor Soar than to Falcon, who twenty years later could have greatly enlightened both of them as to the actual implications of evolutionary biology. However, right now she was just one year old, and thus her main philosophical musings were limited to feeding times, diaper changes, the fascinating exploration of her own sensory and motor capabilities -- and getting attention from her mother. And neither of them would ever get the chance to meet the High Lady Fluttershy. At least not in these lifetimes.
"I wouldn't know rightly," said Professor Soar. "I'm a geologist, not a biologist. I just know predators the hard way, from makin' sure not to get `et by them, and I know t'aint safe to press beasts too hard. They might turn on ye. Press `em hard enough, they darn tootin' will turn on ye."
"I suppose there's always that danger," said Falcon. "But we Guards will always be there to meet them, in such an eventuality." It did not matter to Falcon at this moment that he was retired. 'Once a Guard always a Guard' was the saying, and it was quite true, in a far more profound sense than the fact that Falcon was still listed on the Reserve rolls. One never really retired from the Guards, at least not in one's heart.
"Is there anypony you love?" asked the Professor. "Anypony you'd do anything for, especially to protect them from harm?"
It was a strange question, but understandable in light of what they had been discusssing.
"Sure," said Falcon. "My wife, Strawberry, and our two foals, Blackcherry and Raspberry." He thought about them. "I'd die for them -- but I'd much rather live for them, if you see what I mean."
The Professor scrutinized him minutely.
"Yes," he said. "I reckon your love for them is very strong. What a waste --" he paused, "-- if it turned out you died for them, instead of living for them. You should look out for predators."
"Well," said Falcon, "that's why I have this crossbow." He took out and inspected his weapon. It was a beautiful Rammy Tong `54 special, six shot spring-wound action, capable of firing one shot per second as long as it was kept well-maintained. The bolts were light, but enough to kill or seriously wound a pony-sized target, and rate of fire was often more important in an air fight than stopping power, as a wounded foe would be at a serious disadvantage in any subsequent maneuvers.
The Professor copied Falcon, taking out and inspecting his own weapon. Falcon looked at it too. It was an older, Colt '48 three-shot repeater, with heavier bolts but slower action, capable of bringing down slightly bigger game. A single shot from one of these would definitely stop anything Pony-sized, at least long enough to pump another bolt into the target.
Falcon noticed a muzzle guard. "What's that for?" he asked. "Shielding the tips from the air?"
"I coat my bolts with a paralytic agent," the Professor explained. "Basilisk venom. Even greatly diluted, a scratch from this will quickly render a buffalo-sized target immobile."
"Yeowch!" commented Falcon. "One shot, one stop, eh?"
"A necessity," said the Professor. "I don't have the luxury of too many shots, as you can see from the magazine. And I'm not the world's greatest shot either, so I wait till the varmint's almost on me afore I pull the trigger. So I want to stop him fast."
"I can see that," said Falcon, smiling. "Be careful where you point that thing -- I'd hate to get paralyzed somewhere over the Everfree!"
"Sure," said the Professor. "Wouldn't want something to happen to the feller who's protectin' me, now would I?"
"Well, my wings are nice and rested now," commented Falcon, rising to his hooves and flexing the aforementioned members. "You feeling up to resuming our flight?"
"Oh yes," said the Professor, following suit. "I was cooling my wings back at the Sheriff's office, and the Sheriff left me a nice little meal too."
"Then let's be off. We can cross the Everfree before sundown, mabye even get you and your package delivered before it gets too late. Heck, maybe I can even sleep tonight in my own bed!"
The Professor smiled at him.
"Can only hope," he said. "Can only hope."
The two winged creatures, Pegasus and otherwise, took to the skies and headed north.
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*his
*This sentence is a statement, not a question.
*Missing a space
*What? I think this is supposed to be "younger."
*This needs punctuation. Either "said, 'The" or "said: 'The"
*there'll; towns
*land's; "pizened" is a rather uncommon accent for "poisoned", and might throw people off
*Missing quotation mark
*least
"I'd hate to get paralyzed somewhere over the Everfree!"
HA HA HA oh don't be ridiculous, Falcon. What are the odds of that happening?
Should'a sent more than one guard.
Thank you -- I really typo'd the heck out of that chapter 2.
Nonsense, why do you envision the good former Guardspony plummeting to his death with one of those bolts in him? Why, as soon as he gets back home, he'll finally be able to go on that vacation he's always dreamed of, cure the common cold, and gain world peace! As soon as he gets back home!
Yeah, He's not makeing it out of this alive.