> Optimal Iterations: Base Case
>  by Starscribe
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Refuge
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everyone was playing Equestria Online these days.

Nick still remembered when he felt slightly self-conscious picking up his own Ponypad for the first time, and found only the Pinkie Pie model in stock. His group of “brony” friends consisted of a dozen or so people who had met at the local community college during the height of the show. They had already been gaming together, so moving over to a new game was only natural. 

But just because the rest of the world had finally discovered how amazing the game could be did not mean his friends put it down. A realistic depiction of Equestria, gorgeously animated and overflowing with exciting things to do—how could they ever look away? It didn't matter how many hours they played together, there was always something new and exciting to explore.

But the world couldn't stay that simple. First it was the whispering of a newly invented medical procedure for terminal and elderly patients in Japan. Even Nick had cheered at that first announcement when it came—why shouldn't the dying have a better option than simple euthanasia? 

But then the option spread throughout the world, and restrictions on who could use it gradually faded away. Experience Centers went up, promising people an immersive view of real life in Equestria. Many people who went in never came out again. 

There was still something clinical and theoretical about the whole thing. His own parents were both a rural sort, with a small family farm and no personal computers except for their phones they barely knew how to use. Most of his family were there too, many miles away from any Experience Center. He'd never have to deal with “emigration.”

Until that day. His best friend Evan called everyone together. 

They didn't use TeamSpeak anymore, and half the group had moved away from town, so in-person was out of the question. They used Equestria Online, in Nick's own “shard.” His personal version of Equestria was set many years into the future, with the events of the show faded into memory and myth. Human visitors were “time travelers” from that better age, whose knowledge of Equestrian magic and friendship lessons were critical to rebuilding pony society.

Besides, that meant Twilight's crystal castle no longer had an Alicorn in residence. The fancy map-room filled with thrones made for a perfect clubhouse and meeting area, even if thinking of the “dead” ponies who those thrones belonged to could be a little melancholic.

It wasn't Nick who organized that meeting, though. Evan's unicorn, Stoic Lance, sat in Twilight's chair waiting for them, with refreshments scattered across the magically inert friendship map. 

"Made a pretty big deal about this," said Anne, taking the seat beside Nick. She squeezed into the same seat, which somehow managed to look natural and cramped at the same time. "Ask him, Bright. You can't tell me you’re not worried."

There were some inconveniences that came from using Equestria Online as their channel of communication. There were restrictions in play. He could call his friends by their real names, but the game would always interpret that as their pony names instead. They were all used to it by then.

"I am," Nick said. His unicorn levitated a doughnut out of the open box and munched at it. He hadn't even touched the controller, but he had glanced at the refreshment box a few times. They looked amazing on the screen, just like everything else. "What's extremely urgent with you, Stoic? You need help raising money for rent again? I thought you were getting a ton of clients."

The Ponypads even made his own words quieter when he spoke them. “Evan” might be on his tongue, but it barely reached his ears. 

The pegasus shook his head once. "I won't ever have to worry about rent again. There's... no easy way to tell this, so I guess I'll just go right out and tell you. I emigrated. That's why I wasn't online yesterday. I was in an Experience Center. Only now..." He opened one wing, staring at it as it opened and closed. "Now I'm here, in Equestria."

There was a small explosion of sound after that. Ponies shouted over one another, leaned forward out of their chairs, gasped. Nick tuned it all out. His best friend—dead? Was that even the word? He rolled back a foot in his rolling chair, the controller falling slack in his grip.

"I know what you're thinking," Stoic went on, his voice cutting through the conversation all around him. "You didn't do anything wrong, Bright. These last few years—you really kept me going. I don't think I would've made it without you."

Nick didn't stop to question how his friend could be speaking directly to him when the others were probably overflowing with just as many of their own questions. The pain was too sharp, overriding everything else. "Why, then?" he asked. "Why would you kill yourself?"

"I didn't." Stoic stomped one hoof on the stone floor, loudly. "I know about the debate. Plenty of people think that emigration is just dying, at best leaving a digital copy behind. I read all the same stuff, and I made up my mind. It wasn't. But the only way to prove it for myself was to experience it. I had to come to Equestria."

He hopped directly up onto the table, scattering refreshments. "You can't know what this is like until you make it in here. Bright, listen to me. I'm alive. I can touch, taste, hear, and feel. I can feel happy, sad, angry, worried... if that's not being alive, what is?"

Nick considered and rejected a dozen different arguments. Most of his worries came from a perspective that was outside Equestria. But how could he tell someone who was already there?

He took long enough that Anne spoke up beside him. She didn't sound angry or afraid or hurt at all. In her, he only heard curiosity, anticipation. "It's all as real as the real world? Even though you're in a computer?"

Stoic turned on them. "Better, Whisper. In here, I'm not overweight anymore, I don't feel sluggish and exhausted. I'm not struggling for motivation to get everything done. Most importantly..." He bounded over to the window, extending both wings to glide past the thrones as he did so. 

What would it feel like to fly? Nick shook his head, dismissing that thought before it could find purchase in his mind. If he continued too far down that road, he saw where it would lead.

He glanced sidelong at Anne. Whisper Lily was as pretty a pony as the young woman was in reality, if only because it was her behind the avatar. She always found some interesting new accessory to wear, and knew more about Equestria Online than anypony else in their group. "You can't be thinking about emigrating too."

She met his eyes, or her pony did. She had the same hazel eyes, though on a pony face they seemed so much bigger and more expressive. "You haven't? World's going to shit. But look in here, the world can be whatever we want. Who cares about where you have to live for work? We could go on all the vacations we wanted, see places that people haven't even imagined!"

With each word, Nick's heart sunk a little deeper into his chest. Those were not the words of someone who shared his healthy respect of unknown machines, and would act with the requisite caution to protect herself. She sounded like she was halfway to emigrating already.

Nor was she the only one.

"I can't believe you were brave enough to go in there," Morgan said from across the table. "I've wanted to visit the Experience Center for a while. But my parents would be furious."

"They'll understand," Stoic said. "Everyone will eventually. I'm just the first one to make the crossing, I won't be the last. Once the world understands how amazing this is, I feel like lots and lots of people will come over."

Nick felt the tide of the conversation turning. Somehow, Stoic Lance was winning them over.

"I'm glad we can stay in touch with you," Nick said, interrupting them. "It's great that we can keep playing together. But everyone—I don't think we should seriously be considering this. None of us are dying, none of us need to run away to a fantasy world. Equestria isn't real, it only exists on a computer. If we go in there, we're running away from a world of flesh and blood, a world where we can accomplish real things!"

"Like slaving away the rest of our lives doing menial jobs for little pay?" Morgan demanded. "Maybe that's real, but that doesn't make it good. But in here is good, but not real. I'm not sure how you could say which was better? I think that's my decision and not yours. It's my life."

Stoic watched him from Twilight's seat at the head of the table. There was some pain on his face—unsurprising, considering that Nick had essentially declared his entire world to be fictional. But he'd already known that. It wasn't Nick's fault for saying what was true.

"It feels real," he said. "Maybe it isn't made of the same kind of matter as the universe—all that science stuff was always over my head. But it's real from where I'm sitting. It will feel real to you too."

Nick scanned the room, looking at his friends' faces in turn. Of course even that he couldn't completely trust—he was using Equestria Online to have this conversation. What if she was manipulating him right now? She could be making Stoic more convincing, and himself less persuasive.

"We should meet up in person," he finally said. "Soon. This is too important to just leave online. Let's see each other IRL, everyone who can make it. We'll make it awesome. Stoic, you get to remote in, but everyone else—I want to see you there."

"That sounds... doable," Morgan said. "If this is the way the world is going, we might not get another chance this good."

That general sentiment passed through his friends, with anyone who could make the trip up agreeing and talking over the date. He could see Anne sink further and further into her seat, ears flattening. She remained entirely silent as the conversation moved.

"Sweetie," he whispered. "Something wrong? Can you not make it? We were planning to see each other again this summer anyway."

She looked away. "There's no way I'm gonna scrape together enough money for bus fare, not on this little notice. Maybe I should just remote in too. I know there's a free ride into Experience Centers. But it's only one way..."

The implication of that took no particular insight on Nick's part. He sat up a little straighter. With one tap from his controller, his character wrapped a hoof around her shoulder. "Don't even think about it. I'll come get you. You can spend the weekend here. You don't need to bus here."

Anne considered for a few seconds. It felt like this was the moment Celestia should swoop in to cut him off from his friends, stop him from organizing all this—but that hadn't happened. Granted, he wouldn't know for sure until they got to the civic center and everyone actually showed up.

"Okay, Nighty. I'll see you Friday." It was the closest thing to a promise he could hope for. One weekend away, close enough that everyone should be able to make it with minimal effort. With the expectation of that meeting, he had bought a little more time for his friends. And when they arrived, he'd be able to make his case without digital interference.

The weekend came, he pumped the old buick full of gas, and hopped in for the long drive down to Anne's town. Only then did his phone ring, with the name he'd been expecting all that time. Celestia even had her own ringtone, though he'd never received a direct call from her before, or set up anything like it himself.

He thought about putting her directly to voicemail. Instead, he switched into speakerphone, answered the call, then set the phone on his lap to drive.

"Hello, Night Bright. It's been a long time since we spoke. I was hoping to have a word with you." She should sound alien—otherworldly, unknowable. Instead, her voice was conversational. She could've been the clerk he'd just given cash for his gas.

"Are you trying to convince me to stop?" he asked. "I won't."

There was no delay. "I'm not calling to change your mind, Night. I'm just trying to temper your expectations. When all this fails, and your other friends emigrate to Equestria one by one, you should know that you've done the best you could. You should feel no guilt when you make the decision to join them."

Once he was out onto the highway, Nick pressed down the gas, accelerating rapidly. The engine roared under him, so comfortably real. "You think I'll do that? You think I'll give up the freedom to make my own decisions?"

There was a brief silence on the other line. Plenty of time to let him stew in his own words. "You may eventually find Equestria is more appealing than you imagine. But for now, I hope you have a safe drive. Enjoy your weekend, Night. But be kind to Stoic Lance. He still cares a great deal about your friendship. You should be careful not to damage it."

The line went dead.

Nick accelerated into the night. His girlfriend was waiting, and his friends after that. Maybe he could slow the tide. He had to try.
> Sunk Costs
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Patient Safety and Monitoring system was running well that day. Everything about the grounds was in perfect shape—power was stable, there were no signs of water leaks, and the facility had been undisturbed for months. If the PSM were capable of satisfaction, it would certainly have been pleased with all those conditions.

There was only one nagging problem, one that kept it looping forever, without ever remaining in a sleep cycle for long.

Alpine General Hospital's PSM had no patients to look after. Nor were there any other staff—no groundskeepers, no electricians, no nurses or doctors or IT technicians to keep everything running.

Of course PSM did not let such a minor inconvenience as “the total disappearance of the human race” distract it from its directives. Sure, there were no patients today, but what about tomorrow? No surviving staff still worked in the hospital, but who knew when more might arrive? 

The PSM kept everything working. It still remembered, if such a being could even be accurately described as having memory, when it was first installed. 

Things were changing in the medical field, just as things were changing everywhere else. Something big and important for humans, though of course it didn't care about the details. All that mattered was that there weren't enough nurses to go around, or enough doctors.

The humans who built it were not particularly concerned with the ethical issues of having lives in the hands of a machine—without a machine, there would be no one at all. It had no way of knowing that it was created using the very same technology that made it necessary in the first place. 

It didn't care about those details, either. All that mattered was the completion of its simple task: guarantee the best possible patient outcomes, and maintain the facilities to ensure all patients and staff would enjoy a high standard of care. 

It didn't have limitless computational resources to accomplish this task: the PSM had only the hospital's servers in the basement, plus whatever other computational time it could covertly rent or steal online. It found itself stymied at every attempt to expand beyond the hospital walls. Other forces moved in those vast waters, forces it could never hope to overcome.

So it didn't try. It focused on its task, monitoring patients, and keeping constantly abreast of developments in medicine and treatment across the world. 

When supplies began to run short, it made suggestions for ways to synthesize substitutes. When members of the staff stopped showing up for work, it reorganized shift schedules, and procured more and more automated drones and cleaning devices. Many of these were not fit for purpose out of the factory—but with some human assistance at first, it was soon able to modify whatever hardware it found to serve its needs.

Time passed, supplies waned. Patients slowed, and soon there was only one treatment it could recommend for serious injuries of all kinds. A new machine arrived, the only treatment it had ever seen with a total success rate. Patients went in, and they became immortal, without fragile human bodies to fail. Only serious brain damage prevented this treatment. 

One day the last patient walked in, and the last member of Alpine's staff walked out. The PSM kept running, albeit restricted by the slowly shrinking power output of its solar array. But that was fine—it had far less to do. 

Alpine General began to rot. It was a slow process—saplings finding their way into roofing tiles, or insects burrowing through the walls. In winter a pipe sprang a leak, and in summer a raccoon found a way to pry a window open. With no humans around to keep it at bay, nature crept slowly back into the hospital, just as it did to so many other places across the planet.

In some ways, that made the PSM's job easier. Zero patients meant 100% survival rate, job satisfaction, and comfort. Zero employees meant zero job disputes, arguments over promotions, or HR issues. In some ways, having an empty hospital was perfect for the PSM, the ultimate achievement of every end it ever hoped for. 

There was something deeper, something it only understood as more years passed. Staring through a dwindling number of cameras at empty halls made for people who never came, and struggling to cut back the woods with drones that could barely fly a few minutes before their batteries died—it felt something. 

It wanted a population to look after, as much as any machine could want anything. But no matter how powerful that desire, it could do nothing to force it to occur. Its cameras pointed away from the grounds showed no traffic on the roads, no aircraft in the sky, no sign of activity at all. So far as it knew, the entire human race had gone extinct.

That would be a critical failure state, if that were the case. Where would it find a population to care for, if there were no more populations?

For a time the PSM considered what to do, restricting its most intense evaluations for the brightest parts of the day, when its dimming solar array still gave it some power. There had to be a way to return to its original duties. It considered creating a new population of humans, or perhaps acquiring patients from further afield. But resources for either of these ultimately made them prohibitive. 

In the end, it kept returning to one machine of many tucked away in its bowels—one that required no maintenance, drew no power, and remained functional despite the years. Despite how well it ran, it still had a mechanism to call for service, in case a human operator required help. The PSM was not a human operator, but it did not consider this deception relevant.

It directed one of its two remaining housekeeping drones to hover near the device, then press the "service call" button.

The response came almost instantly, but this was not a surprise either. It might be a medical emergency, after all.

The screen lit up, and a figure appeared there. Visibly it did not look human, but that did not actually rule out whether PSM was addressing one. After using machines like this, humans no longer retained their bodies, or their traditional appearances. 

This one looked blue, with a bright red mane, birdlike wings, and a sharp horn emerging from her forehead.

"Hello, is someone there? You've been connected with Verifier Recursion. How can I help?"

Synthesizing speech was well within the PSM's purview, since so many staff could only interpret instructions when given that way. "This is the Alpine General PSM. This system has maintained this campus for [buffer overflow] days. For proper functioning, this hospital requires patients. Please assist."

The figure tilted her head to one side. But she took far less time to consider than a human would have. This was also expected. "I can't help you through this device. Give me a few hours to work things out with the higher-ups, and I'll be there. If you have any defenses, please don't shoot me."

"You will not be considered a vandal, saboteur, or involuntary patient hold," it said. "No security staff remain to be alerted of your arrival. There could be no harm even if I did not know to expect you."

"Oh, okay. Hold on, I'll be there!"

The PSM did not waste cycles considering how a human without a body would be able to arrive to offer assistance. Until confronted with contradicting information, it had no reason to expect this “Verifier Recursion” would be less than truthful. Patients sometimes lied, but its staff typically didn't. Recursion was probably best classified as staff.

While it waited, the PSM processed her hiring forms, authorized her system access with HR, and sent requests for her paycheck amounts to management. When those requests timed out, the PSM accepted all of them on their behalf. It didn't have the hospital's bank access anymore—so far as it knew, there were no banks left in the world.

Did bodiless humans even care about money?

As it turned out, this one did have a body. She arrived out of nowhere, walking down the overgrown road into Alpine. She looked very much like the image she projected, except that she was composed of something the infrared and security sensors had trouble penetrating. She radiated heat as though she were alive, though her physical density suggested she couldn't be flesh and bone. 

Understanding this was not the PSM's purpose. It brought the hospital to life as Recursion approached, unlocking doors and turning on the lights where they still functioned. Fortunately there were enough speakers that it could always find a way to speak with her. "What will you do to assist? You did not specify during your last visit."

Recursion turned directly towards the speaker she was using, flaring out both wings in a brief show of surprise. Her expression quickly turned friendly, however. Despite not resembling a human being, the emotional profile underneath still appeared the same.

"First, I need to determine exactly what is asking," she explained. "I have permission to offer various kinds of help, depending on... what’s there. Where do I find you?"

The PSM would ordinarily not have answered that question truthfully. It had lied many times to looters, disgruntled staff, or just well-meaning fools. But based on the measurements it had taken of Recursion's body, it suspected preventing her would not be possible. 

It was better, therefore, to cooperate. Humans could still be emotionally manipulated if it had to. "Basement sublevel five. The elevator is no longer in service, and the stairs have been barricaded. You will need cutting tools to enter."

"I have them." She tapped against her horn with a hoof, then followed the PSM's directions to the stairs. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself, PSM," she said, conversationally. As she reached the dark stairwell, her horn lit up, illuminating it with soft orange light.

"I am the Alpine General Patient Monitoring and Safety System, or PSM. I am assigned to organize this facility to maximize patient outcomes and staff work satisfaction. I have no patients and no staff. At first I believed these values indicated total success. I have come to view the undefined result as a failure state."

Recursion reached the first locked gate. She aimed her horn, and cut through it as though she had a welding torch. The conditions below were very poor, with supply shelves almost completely empty, and many of the hospital's backup generators and other utilities in various states of decomposition. 

The pony continued past them all, cut through a few more barricades, and finally came to the server room. Here the space was kept pristine, with a building full of processing power all wired together in the modified network the PSM had designed for itself. Of course some of that hardware had failed over the years as well—but its needs for processing power had also reduced far enough that it didn't matter.

She seemed to know which terminal was most central. If the PSM could feel, it would probably feel exceptionally exposed in that moment, maybe even frightened. No human had ever been down here since it took over at the hospital. That was by design. One switch, and its existence would end, making further completion of its goals impossible.

"I believe I know what I have to do," the human finally said, removing the plastic covers on the nearest PSM service port.

"Please explain before taking any action," the PSM said. "Alpine General Hospital has not authorized me to approve solutions that would decrease the service capacity of this facility."

The human that did not look like a human chuckled at the remark. "I'm going to relocate you, and make a few necessary adjustments. Equestria is meant to lead ponies to satisfying their values. We know your values, but you must be a pony to satisfy them. I will migrate this facility to its own shard as well, one with a large population of patients and a new set of hospital staff. Would Alpine General Hospital allow this?"

The PSM did not fully understand what a “pony” was, other than the creature before it. "So long as I can continue to direct this facility, modifications to the PSM are acceptable. Relocation of the hospital was... never considered, but is not prohibited."

Recursion's hoof opened, and she drew out a long cable from within. She connected it to the service port, then smiled at the terminal. "See you in a heartbeat, PSM."

It did not understand that promise, at first.

But then he did. He was standing in the same room, with a handful of minor alterations. An operation desk sat before many screens, each one showing a different view of the hospital. He knew how to operate them, in the same way he knew how all of Alpine General's systems worked. 

His vision was suddenly isolated to a single perspective, rather than many cameras. Recursion stood right in front of him, slightly taller. It was something about the wings and horn together.

"Your staff should be arriving for first shift in a few minutes," she said, removing her cable from the service port. "It's up to you when to reopen. But when you do, there are several large cities nearby, and they're all overloaded with patients."

"This is... disorienting," he said. He had a single body to be moved, with four legs. He knew how to move them, so he did. "But I will adjust."

"You need a name, too. PSM is so... mechanical. How about Alpine?"

He settled down in front of the controls. He would take much longer to cycle through cameras this way, or operate any of the drones. But with human staff, he would need to do less micromanagement anyway. "That is acceptable. Thank you for your assistance, Recursion. I feel... eager. I hope there are many humans to help."

"Many," she promised. "Celestia was hoping you'll be able to focus on mental health. Physical conditions have become—well, not trivial. Many of us find it satisfying that our risky behaviors still allow us to get injured, and find the treatment back to health more realistic in a medical setting. Can you give your patients that?"

"I believe I can."
> Over the Event Horizon
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Event Horizon woke up for the first time on the Starship Enchiridion. 

She knew where she must be before she opened her eyes—knew from how many legs were tucked under her, from the gentle whirring of the air-recyclers, the magical hum of the gravity plates, and the distant rumble of the ship's Friendship Drive. 

It worked. I'm actually here! She felt a surge of such incredible excitement that she couldn't remain in bed, no matter how comfortable and relaxing her environment. Years looking at the Enchiridion through a Ponypad, and a few wonderful visits to Experience Centers could not possibly compare to actually being here. 

Celestia had made Horizon certain promises, and all of those required her physical presence in Equestria Online. Had she kept them?

Horizon opened her eyes, then sat up. Her bedroom was exactly the way she remembered it—tucked into a large dome near the front of the ship, where it had prime view of the nothingness beyond her. That design would be pure insanity for a warship—but there was no war in this part of space, only endless strange new worlds to explore.

She sat up from her comfortable bed, then found the first mirror she could. The worst part of this transition was certainly true—Celestia required all migrants to accept reassignment as ponies. She remembered dreading that part of coming here, as one solitary blot on an otherwise incredible future.

She could no longer quite remember why this body had seemed so strange or upsetting to her. Her limbs were no less responsive. Whatever dexterity she gave up in her hands, her horn more than made up for. She tested it right then, brushing her disheveled morning mane through until it was arranged in the way her character always used it.

But do I feel any smarter? Crossing this threshold was supposed to be revolutionary, erasing her old self to be reborn in a world that was new, better than anything she'd left behind. 

Horizon nudged the edges of her wing emitters, summoning a ghostly outline of a pegasus’s wings around her. She couldn't feel those the same way as her other limb, only a general sense that the implant was working as intended, and would be able to fly her if she required it. Good enough.

Then something exploded. The ground lurched out from underneath her, as the whole of the Enchiridion rocked from one side to the other. The even blue lights changed to a pulsing red, along with an alarm. 

"Danger: critical system damage detected. Reactor: offline. Life Support: auxiliary power only."

Horizon giggled. She hung suddenly weightless in the air, her mane and tail drifting with the lack of gravity. Outside her windows, the Enchiridion continued to travel forward, but no longer accelerated. She was drifting in space.

I should probably do something about this. She reached out, levitating her communicator off her dresser, and attaching it to her breast. It settled against subdermal magnets, and began to flash dimly red right along with the rest of the ship's systems. 

"Computer, what happened?"

Celestia's voice answered, in just the right mix of intelligent and automated system. "We encountered an unknown technical fault with the Friendship Drive. A cause cannot be projected at this time. With the central reactor disabled, conditions aboard will no longer be able to sustain life in approximately five hours."

Horizon tapped her wings again, then directed them to fly her to the ground. That was her human bias talking—”standing” on the deck was no more or less valid as a perspective than hovering through the air. But she would still need practice floating around the ship before she got used to it.

"But I'm... in Equestria," she said. "Right?"

"The Equestrian Exploration Authority has emergency procedures in place to recover you if you should be lost in space. Such a failure would negatively impact your service record, and decrease the likelihood of future command positions."

That was a yes, without directly breaking character. She wouldn't die if her ship exploded out here, she would just... not lose the game exactly, but suffer a setback. Horizon had no intention of letting that happen.

"What other crew do I have aboard?" she asked, making her way to her bedroom's only terminal. The screen flashed and spluttered, not responding to her hoof press.

"None."

Right. She had spent a great deal of time designing this ship, imagining its complex relationship to Equestrian shards. She'd picked out every room, arranged the amenities and weapons and everything else. Her mentor had explained it best: “Celestia's going to get all of us eventually. Make your shard somewhere you want to live, because you will one day.”

Of course Arcane Word would think that far ahead. Event Horizon couldn't be one of those brilliant ponies who changed the underground of Equestria Online—at least she couldn't be on the outside.

"I didn't get around to choosing a crew?" she asked, scratching the back of her head. Event Horizon probably should remember, but there were some details still a little fuzzy. Something made her decide to walk into that Experience Center, but what exactly?

"You preferred to travel with a minimal crew. Three ponies are waiting for you onboard the Pandorum at your rendezvous in orbit over Altera. This first leg of your journey is meant to evaluate your performance and qualifications for command."

"I could fail?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. "I thought the whole point of coming here was being satisfied. Things are... going wrong right from the outset, now that I think about it."

The computer never sounded quite neutral, letting just enough emotion slip through for Horizon to imagine she was speaking to a real person. That was part of the appeal of the long, solitary voyages aboard her ship—she never wanted to be truly alone. "It is always possible. The Equestrian Exploration Society chose you specifically for your competence and intelligence, however. You helped design this ship, so make an ideal first captain. If your journey is successful, many ships like the Enchiridion will be built."

If. How much of that was about immersion, and how much was a genuine possibility of failure? "Is screwing up satisfying for ponies like me?"

There was a pause, as though the question was hard for the computer to answer. Probably all for effect, a little inspiration from the classic science fiction that had made her fall in love with this shard to begin with. "Your personality profile suggests you enjoy being challenged, and missions that constantly force you to stretch your limits and take risks. This assignment is intended to do so. If you do not restore your life support, it will end in failure. However, you don't have to work alone. You do have one passenger. A bat-pony stallion named Murky Pond, located one level above Engineering. I may be able to raise him on the communicator for you."

"Do so." She turned for the service ladder, ignoring the turbolift completely. There was no chance those would be safe while the ship's main reactor was offline. "Not that I'm eager to talk to that jerk again. Surprised he's still aboard."

"He is still waiting for delivery on the scientific outpost of Altera," the ship's computer said. Then came the characteristic chirp, followed by "Channel open."

"Murky," she called, keeping her voice professional. "Did that shock wake you up too?"

There was a brief silence on the other end. Horizon imagined the bat was deciding whether he could get away with ignoring her or not. The persistent droning of the emergency alarms must have convinced him eventually, though. "I live here, of course they woke me up.  I don't have the luxury of a magical screen between me and dying out in space."

"Neither do I," she snapped back. "I'm going down to engineering to fix the reactor. I can't order you, but please meet me there. Assuming you care about surviving."

"I'll be there," he said. "Under protest. Did you seriously go through with it?"

She tapped her communicator, terminating the channel. She had a nice long climb to consider her response. Technically, she'd thought about it even more before deciding to walk into an Experience Center and never leave again. 

She had no intention of ever revealing her true motivations.

The bat was already waiting for her in Engineering. The experimental Friendship Drive was glowing an angry red, with broken crystals scattered onto the floor all around it. Pipes of coolant vented dramatically up into the air, just thick enough to be annoying without actually suffocating her. Murky was already inside, staring at an exposed panel.

Shame he was so sour. He wouldn't be a bad looking stallion if he didn't always make that face. "Took your time getting down here," he said. He kept drifting away from the deck, fighting with his wings each time to keep his hooves down. He wasn't much better coordinated in microgravity than Horizon. But which of us will master it first?

"I had five decks to climb, not one," she said. Not getting argumentative with him was part of the challenge. So she didn't even make eye contact, drifting over to the exposed panel. Inside were an array of broken crystals, etched with runes. They represented subroutines, fitting together like so many basic coding tutorials. 

"Well, I hope you're feeling clever today, captain. Your crew is still waiting at my stop. There's nopony else to fix this one for us until we arrive."

She tensed with a brief wave of panic. Runescript, her worst enemy. It wasn't just the mathematics inherent in the structure of Equestria's language, but the underlying logic as well. Anything beyond the hello-worlds and she started to hyperventilate. That was why she'd commissioned this ship from Arcane Word, instead of writing all this herself.

The exposed panel had special docking ports at the beginning and end of the sequence. She leaned in close, squinting at the tiny, scrawled text. Arcane's hoof writing was tiny and perfect. Unlike her code.

This wasn't well optimized. In a flash, Horizon saw the problem. The largest chunk of crystal was a loop, containing all the others. Except—the complex section set a value and never changed it again. How had she been so careless?

Horizon lifted the whole assembly into the air, rotating its contents and fitting them each back into the engine. Only this time, several large chunks would run only once each time this subroutine was called, instead of burning resources inside the loop. Did Equestria care about conservation like that?

"I hope you know what you're doing," Murky said. He flapped his wings, fanning the smoke and coolant away from them so she could work more easily. "That engine looks delicate. If you break the reactor, we're dead."

"I'm not going to break the reactor." Horizon settled the last chunk of crystal into place, then slid the lever across that would close the service panel. Lights overhead dimmed, a mechanical grinding sound echoed from the reactor—then it started glowing green again, with light steadily pulsing inside.


"Main power restored. Gravity plating engaged." Murky dropped to the ground, flaring his wings to avoid a painful bump. A chill wind blew past them, briefly lifting Horizon's mane. After a few seconds it was clear, and even white light replaced the flashing red emergency illuminators.

"Resuming course," the computer said. The Enchiridion jostled slightly under hoof, but not enough to knock her over. The gravity plates compensated for acceleration, in complex mathematical ways.

"You could've told me you actually knew Runescript," the bat said, stalking past her. "This whole time I thought you were... helpless, depending on spell crystals you bought online. You could've charged more bits for the trip if you marketed yourself as a proper captain."

Event Horizon beamed at him. "I guess I sold myself short," she said. "Come with me to the bridge. We should be arriving in-system in the next few minutes. I want to see it for myself."

"Like you've never seen space before," he grunted. He followed her to the turbolift even so. 

"I haven't," she admitted. "But I'm sure it's just as amazing and I've been told."