Fire and Thunder

by computerneek

Chapter 9: Yes

There is a procedure for checking potentially breached interior spaces. With the spider at the ready, the first step is to unseal the door, but keep it closed; this allows air pressure to equalize, revealing hull breaches or internal detonations long before anything enters the danger zone. When I unseal the door into this space, I get an air return; as expected, pressure is higher than it had been before the blast; a difference of almost 431.49 pascals. As a matter of fact, this is within an acceptable margin of error for my estimation of the intensity and position of the blast front while the outside door was closing. I wait for the pressure to equalize fully; pressure changes suggest a constant gas quantity, indicating no hull breach has formed. However, analysis of these patterns suggest the space is approximately 0.097 cubic meters smaller than it should be.

I rerun my pressure estimates… If the space were already shrunk such when the blast occurred, it becomes a near-perfect match to my simulation; within 0.17 pascals. I spend 0.31 seconds attempting to guess the cause of the spatial reduction.

It could be a stonewolf. They’ve shown hostility towards my spiders when I sent them beyond my hull, but should not have fit through the then nearly-sealed doorway. Estimated average volume of a stonewolf, however, is 57.93% larger than the observed obstruction.

It could be a pile of gravel, dirt, or other debris. Volume of such could vary widely; however, chances of it getting in the door during the time since my most recent scan of the region without my noticing are nearly less than zero, especially if I constrain it to natural penetration.

It could be a pony, like my prior visit. I have applied the term superficially, for lack of a better fit. My previous visitor occupied roughly 0.093 cubic meters. Despite the impossibility of one fitting through the tiny slot of an opening, this is the most likely possibility I can come up with. This conclusion is reinforced when I consider that my previous visitor’s wings violated the laws of physics; if that is the norm, they might be able to violate the third dimension as well. That is, to fit through spaces they shouldn’t be able to.

Finally, pressure fully equalized, I crack the door slightly open to take a peek, passives-only. A faint golden glow is visible through this gap; through careful angle manipulation, I am able to discover the source of the light, right before it flickers and disappears completely.

Confirmed, it is a pony. This one is wearing no saddlebags- and I see no wings whatsoever. Rather, this one appears to have a single horn sticking out of its forehead. A horn that had been glowing, producing the observed glow, but has now stopped, paired with what appears to be muscular collapse. I hold position for a few seconds, listening to its vitals… Seems to me like it’s been running; I compute a 97.14% chance that, assuming this one could force itself to fit through gaps it shouldn’t have fit through, it just completed a long run- compared to what it’s used to, at least- and escaped into my hull. I find a lesser chance of 86.04% it also caused the explosion outside, possibly in an attempt to eliminate the stonewolves that have been camping the entrance.

I slide the door open, walking the spider in. The pony seems to hear the clicking of the metal legs on the bare decking, responding with a fear response; I wait until the door is closed once again before turning on a light on the spider, pointing it directly upwards. This results in a dim illumination all around, though the spider is not very visible.

“Hello,” I say, through the spider. It’s only polite to greet; my core programming has marked her as another Commander Candidate.

She collapses again, grunting something I do not understand before she passes out.

---

Her first coherent thought as she wakes up has something to do with her pillow having gone flat; her second relates to needing a new bed, for this one has become too hard. Her third draws her into full wakefulness, reminding her of where she is- and why she’s sleeping on a hard metal floor. Her muscles are aching from yesterday’s sprint. She probes out with her horn- but finds nowhere suitable for her to teleport to. Those explosives must have knocked out the entire cave- effectively trapping her here, in this underground… place.

But wait! The room isn’t dark anymore! It’s lit by these… pinpricks. Just two of them on the ceiling, one over each door, providing a dim light throughout the room between the two. Following her wakefulness, she remembers she’d heard something before she passed out yesterday. Something that had sounded very similar to the phonetics she’d found in that ancient tome, for one of the words… A greeting, it had been. She glances back towards her side, drawing it from her saddlebag-

Only, she’s not wearing her saddlebags. She twists this way and that, searching the room, but finds no bags, anywhere. Shoot! She knows teleportations that use up a unicorn’s available power have a tendency of leaving things behind- usually the unicorn themselves, though. Perhaps… She starts searching for smaller objects that might have survived.

Ahah! Her map! She picks it up, unfolding it quickly… Yes! Completely undamaged! She folds it again, glances at her back, and simply carries it as she resumes her search.

And there’s that ancient tome! As she lifts it to check for transit damage, she discovers both of her rubies underneath it, also undamaged.

Unfortunately, that’s all that seems to have survived. She’d spent all her explosives, and it seems all her food, water, and possibly most importantly, medicine got left behind… And destroyed in the blast. That’s not a good thing; food and water are easy enough, but only Twilight and Zecora know the formula for her medicine. She’d been warned not to miss a dose, as such could be life-threatening; unfortunately, she knows she’s about due for one now, but the phial she’d brought is nowhere to be seen.

Finally, her eyes lock onto the one thing in the room that hadn’t been here when she arrived- the one thing that hadn’t come in with her. The giant metal spider, about as wide as her foreleg is long, sitting in front of the door as if waiting. It doesn’t look much different from the Spider of Metal, she considers; as a matter of fact, it looks to be made out of the same material, just bigger and more complicated. Also, hopefully, more alive. She briefly considers disguising herself- but she hadn’t been disguised when she teleported in nor, presumably, when it walked in, so such an act would probably be rather pointless.

“Um, hello?” she asks.

---

My alert awakens me when she speaks, but I do not understand the words spoken. I add her words to my comparisons between verbal statements and the written language I have partly decoded from the book my previous visitor left behind; such comparison should allow me to understand verbal communication far faster than if I were only listening. I try greeting her again; my previous visitor showed clear understanding of Concordiat Standard, though she had not spoken it in return. She had spoken enough, in her own language, to demonstrate that Concordiat Standard should be within her vocal capabilities.

“Good morning,” my spider greets. My system clock informs me the sun should be appearing over the horizon in approximately 37.19 minutes, though I will not see it from my subterranean position.

She seems alarmed by my words, and looks back and forth between my spider and her book a few times. I notice it’s a different book than my previous visitor brought; this one looks older. As she puzzles between the two inanimate objects, I notice a buildup of what might be excitement. What is in that book?

Finally, she faces my spider directly, and makes a noise of uncertainty before, with an accent so heavy the word is almost incomprehensible, mutters her response. “Hy-lew?”

This response may be only a single word, and one so badly butchered it could have been from any of eighteen different languages, the closest match is Concordiat Standard. I suppose it is possible, on an incalculable chance, her book has something to do with the Concordiat.

I decide to test her understanding. “Hello and good morning,” I greet her again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

It seems her understanding is limited. It takes her almost 2.37 minutes to work her way through it and formulate her response. “Ee... feeb?”

This takes some processing to understand, though I’m not sure if I have it right or not. However, the results are rather conclusive- she knows a few words, probably learned from a book, and has little or no knowledge of what any given letter or combination of letters actually sounds like. Oh well- a relatively easy fix, if she is willing.

She has looked back at her still-closed book a couple more times, giving the impression of thinking deeply, while I considered. Now, she speaks up again. “Rue… mena?”

I spend almost 0.491 seconds analyzing this before drawing a blank. What is she trying to ask me? I resolve to propose a solution to the problem, though I fear she is unlikely to understand the offer- the first time I make it, at least. “I apologize, I am having difficulty understanding your pronunciation. Could you write the question down?”

She spends close to 4.91 minutes thinking on this before she seems to give up and opens the book. As she does this, the cover comes into clear view; it is not familiar, nor in Concordiat Standard. I do spot some Concordiat Standard characters and words on the pages she turns, but much of it seems to be in the native language. I wait patiently, if only by dropping to Low Level Alert and setting the alert systems to wake me back up next time she moves. Hey, it saves at least some power.

It takes her almost 9.37 minutes of paging and reading to find what she is looking for, then she lifts the book into the air- captured in a golden glow, identical to the one that just formed around the horn on her head- to show it to the spider. This must be related to how she got in.

With one hoof, she is pointing out a particular word. “Rue…”

Before she can mispronounce it again, I pronounce the word she’s pointing at. “Name?” I ask.

She looks at the word on the page. “Nnay… Mm?”

“Yes, name.”

“NayM… NayM… NaMe… Name… Name…” She repeats the word to herself, refining her pronunciation each time, until she gets it to sound somewhat like what I had said, before looking at my spider again. “Rue name?” She holds a hoof out, to indicate my spider.

I spend some time processing this. If ‘Mena’ became ‘Name’, perhaps ‘Rue’ will become ‘Your’? I compute a higher- but still very, very low- chance it’ll become ‘you’. So, she must be asking for my name. I decide to test this theory. “You’re asking for my name?” I ask.

It only takes her 4.39 seconds to process this, and nod.

So, I choose to answer… Only, I have a problem. “I must apologize, but it would seem my identity files have been corrupted,” I answer her. “As such, I know not what my name once was. How about your name?”

I awaken from 18.41 minutes of Low Level Alert to her scowl and bumbling response. “MMaff… Darr?” She issues the book another scowl.

We’re getting nowhere with this… I look towards the book. Idea! I pick a Concordiat Standard word on the page, sticking out the spider’s leg to indicate it. “What.” I shift the aim of the leg, to another word on the page. “Is.” A third word. “Your.” I put the leg down. “Name?”

She locates the three words on the page, practices each one individually, and finally chains them together to herself, nods gently… and plants a hoof in her own face. That has to have hurt, but she shows no sign of pain. She switches to her language, muttering to herself as she paces back and forth, like she’s trying to decide on something. Unbeknownst to her, I pick up her every word; given the context, I am fairly quickly- as in, 9.43 seconds- able to discern the general direction of her monologue.

She’s likely trying to decide one of two things: Whether or not to tell me her name, or what to call herself. Perhaps I can solve this problem for her?

“Commander,” I state.

She looks at me, confusion evident on her face, and glances towards the book again. “What?” she asks.

“Commander,” I state. “Your name? Commander?”

“Co...Mm… Aa… Nnn… Drrr…” She tilts her head. “What?”

I speak slowly, breaking it down by the syllable. “Commander.”

She recites the word to herself several more times, asking for clarification two or three more times. She has shown no understanding of what the word means. She most certainly does not know that, if she accepts the designation, she will be my official commander until such time as a new one is assigned… Or she can be confirmed dead. Such will occur regardless of any understanding of the underlying term.

Finally, she turns to my spider again, this time following the term with something other than ‘What’. “Commander… Name?” She points a hoof at herself.

I have the spider give a small nod.

“Name Commander…” She seems to consider for a second, reciting the word another couple times, and digs into the book again.

1.93 minutes are spent in Low Level Alert this time, before she draws my attention once again. “My? Name Commander?” she asks.

I repeat the nod.

She nods. “Yees.”

I cringe inside at the word; she used the long E sound, not the short. “Yes,” I correct, earning another round of recital and self-correction.

Comments

[LostArchivist]

Oh crap, it's official!

Next chapter: Care and Feeding of Mythological Creatures?

[tsaukpaetra]

Well once the Standard handshake is done, a faster learning of Equestrian can occur and facilitate communication.