> The Last Link
>  by Featherprop
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Foreword
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

To the memory of David K.

There’s a sense of surreality when elements of a fictional story you are writing seem to play out in real life, almost as if you are standing outside and watching real life through a warped pane of glass.  That surreality is tinged with horror when you realize that what you’ve been writing about has now happened not to a random person but to a colleague.  

A few months after I started putting together this story about the risks, pressure, and decisions a pilot faces, a coworker crashed and perished.  I cannot say I knew him more than in passing, for I only met him briefly, once.  The accident was still a shock and a sober reminder that, no matter how routine the job becomes, it's essential to stay vigilant.  

The circumstances were eerily similar to the ones I created for The Last Link– night, bad weather, mountains, a sudden change in plans, and the end of a long flying day.  We do not know many of the details of what happened on the flight, and probably never will.  We can only assume what actions were taken or neglected and say, with perfect hindsight, which were wrong.  We are all weak; we all make mistakes.  There were several times when, but for more fortuitous circumstances or one correct decision, I might have shared the same fate.  

Pilots in particular can be harsh judges of the actions of their colleagues, but for good reason– it is only by internalizing the hard lessons others have learned that we improve ourselves.  As an evaluator, I have come to see pilots as having a dual nature; there is the professional entity and the human, and by separating them it’s possible to objectively judge their performance while not letting that affect your perception of the person.  

For David, all I have any right to say is that he will be greatly missed by his family, his friends, and those who worked with him. Godspeed, and rest in peace.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


I wrote this quite a while back, while events were fresh.  After I wrote it, I felt that it wasn't appropriate to add it, for it was real while my story was a combination of preaching and fantasy, and I feared I would be using tragedy for promotion.

I do so now because the perspective I gained led to some significant changes in the story while reinforcing the original goal I had:  To show how tragedies are formed from a multitude of minor decisions, unexpected conditions, and happenstance events.  In aviation (and probably most industries) it's termed the "accident chain," the concept that no one factor is the sole cause of an accident.  Rather, a series of minor mistakes and poor decisions pile on top of each other, reducing the margin of safety until it is nonexistent, at which point even a small event can become the immediate cause– a chart misread in turbulence, a number misdialed on a radio, even a dropped pen that distracts the pilot.  Each decision, each condition, each factor becomes a link in the chain.  In theory, if you prevent the forging of a single link, you can prevent the accident itself.

But that overlooks the fact that frequently it is not the final link which completes the chain, but one forged in the middle.  Beyond a certain point, there is no mitigating the risks taken, and no opportunity to correct the situation.  These are the situations that give pilots ulcers, the ones that leave us deliberating and staring at charts and briefings, weighing factors and risks to make a go/no-go decision based on expectations and probabilities.  

Modern technology has reduced this with reams of data and complex forecasting, but in the end there are still unknowns to every flight– weather changes, and the models can be wrong.  Risk can never be eliminated; if we were to attempt that, we'd never fly.  Instead, we seek to reduce it, to mitigate it, and to have a backup plan.  All of these, though, depend on a pilot making the right decisions at the right time.  We are all weak; we all make mistakes, and there are no guarantees in life.

Like life, aviation is never perfectly safe.  In part, that's why some of us love it so, for in the absence of risk it's hard to truly feel alive.
> 0:  Prologue 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



ETSB Number:  EAR-13-20
Kathia Aerodrome Communications Log

Kathia Station:  Snowpony 413, same as last time, the lights are on, report procedure turn inbound.

Snowpony 413:  Snowpony’s inbound on the turn, established.

KatSta:  Snowpony, you are cleared in, no other flights on the board, the airspace is yours.  Report field in sight or leaving the range on the missed letdown course.

SnPn413:  Cleared in, call the lights or off the range, Snowpony.

SnPn413:  Snowpony’s missed, on the go.

KatSta:  Roger, Snowpony.  What are your intentions?

KatSta:  Snowpony, please say your intentions.

SnPn413:  (CROSSTALK) Kathia, wait one.

Unknown:  (UNINTELLIGIBLE)

KatSta:  Snowpony, Kathia Radio.

KatSta:  Snowpony 413, Kathia Radio calling.

KatSta:  Snowpony 413, Kathia Radio, how do you hear?

KatSta:  Ah, anyone out there, Kathia Radio requests radio check.

SkiPole 202:  Kathia, SkiPole 202 rates you four by five.

KatSta:  Skipole 202, thank you.  Snowpony 413, Snowpony Four-One-Three, Kathia Radio.  Say position and intentions.

KatSta:  All stations, Kathia Radio trying to reach Snowpony 413.

SkPl202:  Snowpony 413, SkiPole 202 calling for Kathia Radio.

SkPl202:  Kathia, SkiPole’s getting nothing from Snowpony, sorry.

KatSta:  Thanks for trying, SkiPole.

KatSta:  Pan-Pan, Pan-Pan, Pan-Pan, all stations, all stations.  Kathia Radio has lost contact with Snowpony 413.  All stations, please attempt contact with “Snowpony Four-One-Three.” Pan-Pan, Pan-Pan, Pan-Pan, Kathia Radio calling Snowpony 413.

SkPl202:  Ah, Kathia, SkiPole 202.  Where was Snowpony?

KatSta:  SkiPole, he was supposed to be west of the range on the missed.

SkPl202:  Kathia, ah, SkiPole 202 just passed the range, we’ve got, uh, there’s a pretty good glow through the clouds south of us.  Anything down there usually?

KatSta:  Oh, (REDACTED).   SkiPole, ah...  (CROSSTALK)  SkiPole, can you estimate distance and bearing to it? (CROSSTALK) ...run to the station, go, right now! (CROSSTALK)  Yes, wake them all!





Somewhere near the Crystal Kingdom, north by north-west of Vanhoofer, there lies a place quite unlike Equestria.  While the lands of the Princesses are shaped by the magic flowing through their rulers and inhabitants, the Frostmane Territories are still wild, ruled by nopony, and remain an unaltered expression of the power of the natural elements.

It may even be that some chaotic magic lies hidden there, for the mountains seem to raise their snow-cloaked peaks higher and more forcefully, the rivers have carved deep valleys between them, and the storms are stronger and more unpredictable.  Even the seasons last far longer than in the southern lands, and as they change the days and nights wax and wane:  In the summer, the Night becomes a mere dimming of the northern sky, while in the deep of winter the Day is only a weak glow to the south.  

Despite this, Ponies have come to the Frostmane to build a life for themselves.  And though it can be harsh and unforgiving, the land has also yielded much to these hardy pioneers.  Beneath the hard ice and harder rock there is an astounding wealth of minerals, gems, and rock oil that have fed the dreams of many and even brought wealth to a lucky few.  The soil carried down by the rivers is rich and fertile, and in the long summers the land provides a bounty.   

One of the most surprising aspects of the Frostmane, though, would be the wonder of mechanical aviation.  While many in Equestria have seen hot air balloons or the dirigible yachts of the Canterlot elite, the Frostmane’s more adventurous have been blazing a new path in the sky with wings of wood, fabric and metal.  Through an unlikely partnership with the ingenious Gryphons, Ponies of all stripes have begun to take to the air in wood-and-metal contraptions that would earn a hearty round of laughter from many in Cloudsdale.

But the Pegasi would be surprised to find that, in some ways, the fledgling aviators have surpassed them.  Though their aeroplanes cannot match the speed or maneuverability of the magically-endowed Pegasi, the aeronauts have created craft that can do what no Pegasi can:  Carry wagonloads of food, transport a dozen Ponies at once, or bring aid to those in need.  While flying in these craft is noisy, uncomfortable, and frequently terrifying, their advent has been truly revolutionary for the isolated communities of the Frostmane.

The unusual closeness between the growing Frostmane and the Aeries is highlighted by this partnership; the mechanical wizardry of the Gryphons has given life to the craft, and they seem to take a perverse pleasure from passing aeronautical knowledge to all comers as a way of mocking the elitist Pegasi of Cloudsdale.  

However, it is the Ponies of the Frostmane who have taken an oddity and turned it to practical uses, taking on tasks that are beyond the capabilities of any winged Pony.  Mechanical aviation is proving to be a complement to the abilities of the Pegasi, rather than a rival.  Despite the very real and positive benefits brought by it, very few of the born flyers can bring themselves to acknowledge the usefulness of mechanical aviation, let alone offer it any sort of praise.  But here and there, a hoof-ful of Pegasi can be found teaching aspiring aviators or working at an aerodrome.  

In particular, one of them can be found in the village of Trottinger, in a former depot that now houses the Flight Center.  Like many Pegasi, he loves to sleep (especially on the job), and can most often be found in a small room, on a warm cot, curled under an old wool blanket.  This Pegasus, brown and cream, is a stranger one than most, for he has proudly pinned the silver wings of a pilot to his vest.


> 1:  Let Sleeping Pegasi Fly
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------




Equestrian Press Flank Harbor -STOP- Kathia Radio Reports Missing Aircraft -STOP- Flight Snowpony 413 from Fairflanks last heard after midnight during second letdown attempt -STOP- Flight reported as medical mission -STOP- Left navigational range westward then radio contact lost -STOP- Second aircraft reports possible fire west of range search ongoing at dawn -STOP- Kathia Volunteer Brigade full strength plus volunteers searching -STOP- Two Ponies on board presumed lost -END-






Clouds.  Enticing and unchanging from far away, ominous and ever-shifting up close; lone pillars and mushrooming towers rising like loaves of bread and flanking lines spreading sideways, rain-chilled shafts that plunge downward, and delicate tendrils stretching up to brush the bottom of the next wind layer.  

Their shapes reveal some of the mysteries of the air while at the same time hiding others – the wet, hail-studded downdrafts that scour the cores of the towers, the spiraling updrafts that surround them – and the turbulent summit, where the newly-chilled air tumbles downward, tearing the cotton-ball clouds apart until they melt in the bright sunlight.

A brown-and-cream Pegasus flies among them, trailing the tips of his broad primaries along their sides and feeling the lift hidden within.  He glides across the domed top of an anvil and flares his wings, turning tightly and looking back to watch the tip vortices pull scrolls of white vapor away from the surface of the cloud.  The cold of the thin air contrasts with the heat of the sun baking his shoulder, while his shadowed flank twitches from the chill.  Ahead, a twisting loop of cloud in a growing tower challenges him, tightening into a ring.  He cups his wings and beats the air with massive strokes, intent on squeezing through.  Not quick enough, he braces himself as his head slices through the top of the ring.  The brief passage through the chilly vapor frosts his face and leaves the metallic taste of snow in his mouth.

A squeak and rattle broke through the rush of the wind, and the Pegasus’ ear flickered.  He thought, clouds don't rattle.  That sounds more like a doorkn– 

Featherprop’s dream ended with a grating clack as the latch popped free and the door creaked open.  A flare of light banished the clouds, the sudden brightness stinging through the stallion’s eyelids.  The old cot under him squeaked as he flinched.  Grimacing and hunching his shoulders against the intrusion, he burrowed towards the wall and nosed his way beneath the pillow, hoping the intruder would apologize and leave him to his dreams.

"Featherprop, time to rise and shine.  I've got an ad hoc for you."

Batfeathers.  He groaned, “No fair, I just got to sleep.” as he started to roll towards the voice.  He was suddenly stopped midway, hooves waving in the air, as frost on the wall gripped the nap of the blanket.  One wing folded back on itself and he winced, then gave several frantic kicks.  He finally pulled free and flopped over on his side with the blanket tangled around his legs.  Dignified, Featherprop, just like Fred Haystaire.  Eyes squeezed shut, he could just feel somepony suppressing a snicker and addressed the interloper.  "I can hear you smirking, Espresso."  

A snort confirmed his suspicions.  True to her name, Espresso was full of energy and, as usual, didn’t bother to hide her amusement at his embarrassment.  The Pegasus tugged at the wrinkled blanket with his teeth and folded his haunches under him as he struggled to sit up.  He cracked one eye open to look at the chunky, tan Earth pony who had woken him from one of his favorite dreams.  

Espresso gripped a tray bearing a nicked mug in her mouth.  Though she couldn't laugh properly, her eyes glinted with amusement.  From the mug on the tray a single oily wisp of steam rose, and Featherprop could have sworn it bent towards him, reaching out to tease his nostrils.

Still groggy and annoyed at being woken, Featherprop quipped,  “Yeah yeah, very funny.  Say, Espresso, is that a cup of Foalgers I smell?”  He only realized how foolish the comment was when he heard a hiss from Espresso.  Looking up, he saw that her bemusement had turned to either dramatic outrage or promised vengeance as she fixed him with a hard stare.  When she whirled on a hoof he sighed in relief, then remembered that she still had the coffee with her.

Featherprop desperately made grabbyhooves towards the mug before she could leave.  “Hay hay hay, I was only joking.  Luna knows, you make the best coffee in the Frostmane.  Please, I need that!  Please?”

With a huff, Espresso turned back and allowed him to retrieve the mug.  The sound of a happy whinny escaping his muzzle caused her ear to twitch and swivel towards him.  Setting the tray aside, Espresso turned a triumphant smirk on Featherprop so he'd know it hadn’t escaped her notice.

Featherprop’s shoulders slumped, then he shrugged to himself.  Oh, who cares?  With a brew like this she can do, well, she could do a lot of stuff.  It’s worth–  wait, what did she say?  Without looking up from the mug, he asked, “Wait, ‘ad hoc?’  Don’t you mean an evac?”

Espresso had been rather curious about that too, and with a puzzled look she replied, "Nope, it’s an ad hoc and it’s urgent, some medicines.  You’ll have a passenger, too– he’s a courier or attendant from the REMMies."  She turned to go and looked back over her withers as she walked out.  “He just arrived on the late train, but they sent the mail ahead, along with the latest forecast scrolls.  Come down when you’ve woken up and look presentable.”  She accentuated the last word with a disapproving glance at his rumpled uniform as she began to pull the door closed.

Featherprop stopped mid-sip as her words cut through his sleepiness.  A courier from the Royal Equestrian Medical Magic Administration?  He had never heard of the REMMA sending an attendant before– their medicines and potions normally came magically stabilized and safe from anything except being roasted by dragonfire.  A worrisome feeling swept the last of the cobwebs from his brain, and he asked, "Wait...  where to?"

With the door mostly closed, only Espresso’s voice came through, and the answer landed with a dull thud.  ”West.  Fetlock Falls."  Then with a click, she was gone.

Ten minutes later, Espresso looked up as a less-disheveled Pegasus stepped into her office and held out a now-empty coffee mug in front of her muzzle.  She eyed it distastefully and glared at him, then the mug, then pointedly back at him.  Featherprop flinched and muttered a half-apology-half-request that brought a self-satisfied smirk to her muzzle.  Such a pushover.  Someday, some mare will have him wrapped around her hoof and he won’t know it until it’s too late.  One corner of her mouth twisted down as she looked at his uniform again.  But not until he learns to run an iron.  But for a clod, he can be endearing.  Sometimes.  She filled his mug, and her grin grew into a satisfied smile as he quaffed the brew, ears drooping to the side in pleasure.  

Unaware of his coworker’s rare charitable thoughts, Featherprop broke the moment with a raft of questions.  It wasn’t so much that he was lazy – he was, and he freely admitted it – but that it was such an odd thing to have happen, especially in the middle of winter.  In the Frostmane, nearly all the calls for on-the-spot transportation were medical emergencies or relief flights for snow-locked villages.  

“So who wants to get to Fetlock Falls?  And why?  This isn’t exactly the best time of year to visit there.  And why just one Pony?  Usually there's a few doctors and nurses if it’s a clinic.  Is there cargo too?  Why’d they send word through White Harbor, why didn’t they call us directly? I could have used some more time to get going on the planning.”  Featherprop didn’t really mind surprises, unless they were the kind that dumped a bunch of work on your head when you ought to be burrowed under five or six blankets.  

Espresso held up a hoof to stop the barrage of questions, then pointed towards a seatpad until Featherprop obediently sat on his haunches.   “I don’t know yet, I know it’s not, yes just one, and I already told you there’s cargo.  As for White Harbor, I asked Ether Watt about that once.  She said the longwave broadcasts can do strange things, especially when the Lunar Lights are up.  Stations nearby hear nothing but static, while you can have a clear conversation with someone in Mareami.  She said it’s called 'skip' or 'bounce,' but then she started talking a mile a minute and completely lost me.”   

Espresso frowned and fixed him with a stern look.  “Now I know you’d rather be sleeping, but this is important so I need you to get any whining out of the way and be ready to buckle down.”  She waited patiently as Featherprop rolled his eyes and then nodded sheepishly. 

She shuffled through a pile of mail and tapped a hoof on one scroll.  There was a slight hesitation in her voice as she continued,  “Obviously, there's some kind of emergency up there.  They’re very serious about it– they didn't even ask for a quote.  The scroll just said 'Urgent transport for medical assistance needed, all reasonable rates will be paid.'  Here, look for yourself.”  Her hoof trembled slightly as she slid the scroll around for him to see.  

When Featherprop touched it, he noticed the parchment was heavy, with a soft, inviting texture.  What he saw next caused him to nearly drop his coffee.  He looked up with his jaw hanging open.

“Espresso, this is the Royal Seal.”  Featherprop was caught up in reading through the scroll, and didn’t see her hesitant nod.  

“This had to come from Canterlot, didn’t it?”  He looked up and was startled to see a worried look on her muzzle.  Espresso almost always had the answers, or at least the confidence to deal with stuff like this.  Her obvious concern caused his gut to do a little flip-flop.  

She nodded, and her voice was subdued as she stepped around the desk and stood beside him.  “It must be from the Court itself.”  She pointed at the bottom of the scroll,  “Look, the billing address is just 'The Royal Palace,' not any of the Ministries.”  Shaking her head at the thought of it she reluctantly said,  “I’ve never seen a document like this from the regular Ministries and Bureaus.  I think... I think it had to come from the Princesses.”  

They looked at each other in silence as the weight of that idea sunk in.  

Featherprop felt all of his flight muscles spasm at the thought of attention from the top of the Equestrian government.  Like Espresso, he had never heard of such an unusual request for services.  He didn’t even know anypony who had dealings with anypony above the Territorial Commission.  

Whoever this passenger was, whatever he was bringing along, he had a lot of wingpower behind him, and Featherprop didn’t think he liked that.  Ponies with that kind of status weren’t accustomed to hearing the word “no.” And this deal has a huge “NO” painted all over the side of it.  He shook his head and tried to resettle his wings, feeling foolish at being so awed.  Everypony is just a pony, ‘Prop.  One corner of his muzzle twitched upward in a half-smile.  Say it often enough and maybe you’ll even start to believe it.

To try to cover his embarrassment, Featherprop asked, “Ah, what about the weather– you said we got the scrolls in?”  She nodded and pointed to a stack on the corner of the desk.  Featherprop ran a hoof through his mane, failing to neaten it in any way, and tried to get his mind into shape for the evening’s work.  He loosened the tie he had just struggled to put on, completely missing the disapproving look Espresso gave him.

Weather in the Frostmane was complex, much more so than in Equestria.  The Territories were so big, and had so few weather stations, that the forecasts from White Harbor were always vague at best.  When real weather started moving in, that accuracy fell from ‘vague’ to somewhere between ‘speculation’ and ‘fantasy.’

Unrolling the first scroll, he grunted.  Fantasy.  An outline of the Frostmane Territories was printed on the scroll, and drawn over that by hoof was a meteopony's best guess as to where the weather systems would be in the future.  He saw that this particular forecast was for three hours ahead, but had been drawn up six hours ago.  Inwardly he groaned.  Not just fantasy, but Ponitzer Prize-winning fantasy.  

There wasn’t even a report from Fetlock Falls, which drew a frown from Featherprop.  East of Fetlock and north of Trottinger, Fairflanks was still under clear skies, but clouds were expected to move in, while a solid layer of them already blotted out the stars above Trottinger.  Grasping a pencil in his teeth, Featherprop made some quick notes.  He hardly noticed as Espresso fell into her usual habit and began gathering up the components for a bracing pot of coffee.

His ears flattened as he looked over the rest of the forecast.  Temperatures and pressures were low to the west.  Featherprop stepped around Espresso as she patiently cranked a hoof-driven coffee mill and opened a filing cabinet to ruffle through some older scrolls.  The Pegasus compared numbers and then frowned – the drop in pressure was so large, he had to recheck his notes.  This is no little system coming through.  Even with the moon out, there’s no way we can hop over direct tonight.   “Okay, let me get some planning done.  How much time do we have?”

Espresso looked at her clock and tilted her head, figuring.  “Well, the train got in about half an hour ago, but there’s cargo to unload, so it should be–”  Just then the bell over the front door jangled, announcing the arrival of somepony, and from the sound of hooves and the murmur of voices, it was several someponies.  “ –right about now, I suppose,” she finished lamely.  

Of course.  “Gre-e-at,” Featherprop drawled.  “Well, I'll be in the briefing room.  Let me do some figures, but I’m pretty sure we can’t make a straight hop to Fetlock– with the weather, I think we'll have to run up the valleys to Fairflanks, refuel, and then follow the ranges over.”  Espresso nodded as she hurried past him to play host, her mane and tail perking up as she went to greet their passenger.  Where does she find the energy?  He glanced at the gurgling coffeepot and shook his head with a chuckle.  Oh, right.  Nosing the scrolls and notes into a saddlebag,  Featherprop trotted down the hall in the other direction.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso tried to look cheerful as she went out to greet the ponies at the front entrance.  She found several porters from the rail depot straining to push a cart up the receiving ramp, laden with boxes bearing the seal of the REMMA, and a unicorn.  It was easy to guess that he had arrived with the boxes, for his stylish light coat and bare poll made him stand out like an earth pony in Cloudsdale.  

Espresso paused, suddenly unsure of how to address the cultured-looking  stallion.  Oh dear...  How do you greet an envoy of Royalty?  Your Evnoyness?  While her mind furiously attempted to calculate the protocol, her mouth got lost at the differential courtesy equation and she was embarrassed to hear herself call out, “Hello, hello!  Come in!” like a common innkeeper.  The unicorn turned, still flicking his ears and shaking his mane to toss off the snow that had coated him on the trot over from the train station.  Mortified, Espresso came to a sudden stop as her cheeks flushed.

Seeing her, the Unicorn gave one final shake and bowed, announcing himself.  “Good evening, madam.  I am Dr. Eisen Pasture, of the Royal Equestrian Medical Magic Academy.  You are Ms. Espresso...  Connemara, isn't it?”  When she nodded, he smiled warmly.  “Oh good, I was certain I would mangle your last name.  Most unusual!”

Blushing at the compliment, Espresso recovered her composure and replied,  “We're happy to have you here, it's quite the honor!”  She winced internally at the clumsy wording.  I may as well find a pitchfork and a wheat stalk to chew on.

“Nonsense, I'm simply a dutiful servant, nopony special.  Forgive me for being rude and putting business first, but it is most imperative we deal with the matter at hoof.  Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”  Pasture had a broad, engaging smile on his pale white face.  His deep red mane was starting to mat down from the snow melting in it, which made his horn all the more prominent.  

“Of.. of course!  PLease follow me, we can talk in my office!  As it happens, I was just putting on a pot of coffee, a wonderful blend out of South Amareica...”  She trotted up the stairs and down the hallway, talking as she went. 

In contrast to charming manner in which he greeted Espresso, Pasture virtually ignored the porters who had finished lugging his cargo to the top of the stairs.  Without even a ‘thank you,’ let alone a bit or two for their efforts, he swept past their doffed caps and followed Espresso into the Flight Center.  

Snorting, the porters left with their heads pressed close together as they began to plot an improbably circuitous route by which Pasture's luggage would make it’s way back to Canterlot, should he pass through Trottinger again:

“Las Pegasus.”  

“No, St. Ponysburg!” 

“No, Trottawa, then he’ll have to get a broker, pay the Customs fees, AND file for a Temporary Import/Export license!”  

“... Get the timetables, this is gonna be epic.” 

As she led Dr. Pasture down the hall, Espresso gamely sought to spark a conversation.  After Pasture’s charming greeting, he had become quiet and only grunted when she asked about his work.  When her questions about the charter failed to draw him out, she found herself chattering about the history of the depot, telling him about the initial construction decades before; how the extension of the railroad had brought an influx of settler ponies to Trottinger, who established homesteads and small towns in the surrounding region.  Through it all the Unicorn did little more than occasionally nod.  I suppose history isn't his interest.  Well, of course, Espresso, he's a doctor of medicine, not history.  When they finally reached the door of her office she breathed a silent sigh of relief and ushered her guest inside.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


After five minutes, Featherprop had totally forgotten his reservations about the high-powered passenger.  The more he dug into the planning, the longer the night was looking to be.  At first glance, it was just as he'd told Espresso:  The flight to Fairflanks, at least, would be straightforward.  But beyond that, he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the margins as he reviewed the scarce weather reports from westerly stations.

On a clear day, the trip from Trottinger to Fetlock Falls could be made without stopping, but the bad weather changed everything.  He worked his way backwards from Fetlock Falls, playing the What-If game.  What if the weather is bad in Fetlock?  What if the winds are stronger than expected?  Okay, if Fairflanks stays clear, I should enough fuel for 30 minutes of holding.  If Fairflanks goes down...  Whitepony should stay up, but we won't have any time to spare. Fan-flapping-tastic.  Radio conditions?  He grabbed another scroll and groaned.  The flux is that high?  No wonder half the stations haven’t reported in. While radios weren’t strictly necessary, the quality of reception could be a matter of life or death when you were depending on them for navigation.  


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


“Would you like some coffee, Dr. Pasture?”  Espresso was already reaching for the pot when the Unicorn demurred.  Refilling her own mug, she gestured towards a cushion and took her own behind the desk, cradling the mug as if it were a shield against the uncomfortable silence.

Pasture took in the cluttered office with a bored look.  Crowded shelves and battered filing cabinets contrasted with the organized desk.  The walls were covered with portraits and group photos, some in front of what must be the airline's craft, others showing wagons mounted on skis rather than wheels.  In some of the older pictures, the Ponies wore coats and hats so thick, it was nearly impossible to tell the stallions from the mares.  One Pony in particular caught his attention; from the bag the stallion carried he must have been a doctor.  The Unicorn shook his head, unable to fathom what would cause a doctor to choose to come to such a place.

Following his gaze, Espresso hoped he'd recognize the Ponies in the photographs for who they were– not as acquaintances, of course, but as fellow lifesavers.  Long before the Frostmane Flying Service had moved into the building, the Trottinger Depot had hosted the village first aid station.  Those in the pictures were the doctors, nurses, and volunteers who had served as the ambulance corps/firefighters/sheriff's posse for an area spanning several hundred miles.  Before the adoption of mechanical aviation, emergency calls often required several days of travel, so the doctors treated callouts as something of an expectation and brought as much with them as they could.

The history of the Trottinger Volunteer Brigade was a matter of pride for the entire town, and Espresso felt that pride in her own chest whenever she looked at the old photos.  We might have given up the wagons, but it's still the same fight.  The rattle of Pasture clearing his throat brought her back to the present.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve had more than enough coffee trying to stay awake on the train.  It’s been a frightfully long trip to get here.  I do wonder why no one operates a mechanical, er, aircraft?” Pasture looked at her questioningly, and she nodded.  “Aircraft,” he continued, “between here and at least Vanhoofer.”

Espresso smiled.  “Well, I certainly wish we could, but there simply isn't enough demand for it.  The Frostmane is not exactly a premiere destination, as I’m sure you know.  Most of the Ponies who travel here are either planning to stay or have come on vacation.  The vacationers especially seem to enjoy the slow pace– it gives them more time to view the scenery.”  She smiled.  “You probably saw most of the Hoofinuska valley on the way up, isn’t it beautiful?”  

Pasture was not convinced.  With an attitude like that, it’s no wonder anypony of culture avoids this place.  I’ve never encountered conditions like that on any railway in Equestria, nopony would stand for it there!  His nose twitched at the memory of his three-day journey.  To his chagrin, there were no private compartments, so he’d been forced to spend his days in the lounge car and bunk down in a sleeper car with a dozen other ponies at night.  The fact that many of the passengers spent the entire trip in communal compartments with no bunks at all was a detail that had escaped his notice.  Indeed, the sight of multiple colts and fillies with obvious colds running up and down the aisle, spreading disease and brushing past him, or running into him at a gallop, had been quite unnerving.  

He gave a test sniffle.  The protective spell seems to have worked, but I still smell cabbage and beet soup everywhere I go.  Something else Pasture hadn't noticed was the perceptiveness of those foals.  They had been well aware of his disdainful looks, and on one particularly boring night they decided to share their soup with him, conveniently stowed away in his luggage for him to enjoy later.

“Well, yes, anyway.  I don't wish to be rude, but we really must get on with business.”  Pasture turned and a weak magical aura surrounded his saddlebag, the flap feebly lifting up.  His eyebrow arched in confusion and he squinted with extra effort, finally extracting a bundle of papers.  Here I have the contract for carriage to Fetlock Falls.  I've been told that it is most generous.”  The papers floated over and landed on Espresso's desk.

It was a big bundle.  Espresso read through the first few pages, and then realized that a complete review would take hours.  She began skipping through, trying to find the section on stipulations and hoping to spot any deal-breaking clauses as she riffled through the pages.  She finally found the summary, her eyebrows rising as she breezed through the compensation clause.  She paused to re-read it, and her mane began to stand on end.  That's what we earn in a month's time!  She coughed lightly and looked up, meeting Dr. Pasture's level gaze with a less-confident one.  “This is... this is certainly more than adequate.  Now, if I may ask, and I must ask, why is it so important to get to Fetlock Falls?  You must understand this situation is most unusual.”  Something didn't feel right, and she was reluctant to make such a large business decision without more information.  Espresso was the station manager and had the authority to do so in emergency situations, but the feeling of having the full risk resting upon her back was quite unsettling.  

Pasture gave an irritated sigh.  The situation was complex and fraught with uncertainty, and he had no time to sit and go over details with a low-level manager.  Isn't it enough that the REMMA has sent me to this place under the aegis of the Royal Seal?  “A full explanation would take far too long, Ms. Connemara, but it suffices to say that there has been an outbreak of illness in Fetlock Falls.  In reviewing the reported symptoms, we found that there may be... complications which would require the modification of some valuable medicines, which of course would be the parcels I have brought.  As the researcher most familiar with this kind of illness, I was selected to accompany and administer the treatments.”

Espresso nodded.  “I see.  And the medicines you have– do they require any special handling?  Are they dangerous?”

Pasture chuckled a little.  “Madam, all medicines are dangerous if used improperly.  But no, in their current form these are not.  By themselves they are inert, and my skills are needed to combine them and make them effective.  In addition, the containers themselves are proof to nearly any kind of shock or damage.”  His muzzle drooped in a frown as he filled his voice with a commanding tone.  “However, one thing these components are not impervious to is time.  They are magical precursors and have a limited life.  The time it took to get here by rail has already stretched the limits of our preservation techniques, and I must insist on beginning the final phase of the journey as soon as possible before they become worthless.”  Pasture drew himself up and held his head high.  “Now, as a representative of the Ministry and, in this matter, the Throne, I have to ask: Is the Frostmane Flying Service capable of getting me to Fetlock Falls?”

Espresso felt a flush rising on her cheeks at the undertone of doubt in the doctor’s words.  Though she suspected she was being baited, she could not resist replying sharply, a wave of indignation lending a hard edge on her voice as she said, “Sir, we are the most capable airlift operation in the Territories. If it is possible, we deliver.”  Shaking off her reservations, Espresso grasped a quill in her mouth and signed the contract with a flourish, committing Frostmane Flying Service to transporting one Dr. Pasture, Eisen, and eight Ponyweights of Precursors, Medical, (INFZ), from Trottinger to Fetlock Falls.

Down the hall, Featherprop felt a shiver run down his spine, and his tail began to twitch.

> 2: The Problem With Passengers 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



ETSB Number:  EAR-13-20
Frostmane Weather Bureau Conditions Summary

Snowpony 413 remained in the immediate area of the Kathia Aerodrome for approximately one hour.  During that time, Kathia reported visibilities between one-quarter and one and one-half miles in mist, with a predominant visibility of one mile.  The cloud bases were estimated at three hundred feet during the period, except for several low-visibility periods when vertical visibility was obscured by fog.  The recorded temperature was twenty degrees with a dewpoint of nineteen.  The barometer remained steady at 29.75 inches.  Light freezing drizzle was noted both before and after the arrival of Snowpony 413 over the range, and total precipitation during the six-hour reporting period was 0.4 liquid inches. Overflying aircraft reported stable cloud layers up to 7000 feet with minimal turbulence and continuous icing at several altitudes.





When Pasture first saw Featherprop in the planning room,  his initial impression was underwhelming.  Like many of the ponies he had seen in the Frostmane, the Pegasus had a subdued coat and a rumpled appearance.  Though Featherprop wore a uniform, it could only be called that out of politeness. His shirt may have once been crisp and white, but now it was just a canvas for a collection of smudges, wrinkles, and grease streaks, all topped off with a worn collar.  The cravat about  his neck was sloppily tied, hanging loose and looking like a bandit’s neckerchief.  Were they in Canterlot, Pasture would not have trusted him with an applecart.  And yet, I’m going to place my life in his hooves tonight.

Featherprop was muttering to himself as he looked over a chart spread out on the table, one corner buried under a pile of scrolls.  Under one hoof was a pad covered in scratchy notes and a blob of random quill-marks, which now covered most of the paper.. “So... Hoofinuska Valley should be clear.  Tumblerock Pass... eh, kinda iffy. If it’s bad, gonna have to catch the range at Sheltie's Meadow...”  The pilot was completely absorbed in his thoughts and didn’t seem to hear the two ponies enter the room.  “The Freezewither’s pretty wide... yeah, that should be a good out.”

Pasture watched as the Pegasus paused and flattened one scroll, nodding to himself and scrawling a few more figures on the notepad.  They certainly made no sense to him– there were a half-a-dozen columns, an indecipherable mish-mash of  letters, numbers, dots, and dashes.   Only when Espresso cleared her throat did the pilot look up, eyes wide as his ears flattened back against his mane.

“Featherprop, this is Dr. Eisen Pasture, your passenger.  Dr. Pasture, this is Featherprop, your pilot.”  

When Featherprop made no move to get up, Pasture stepped into the room, making the simple act look almost regal.  With a nod he extended a hoof to the still-seated pilot.  Espresso winced as Featherprop seemed to realize he was being rude and dropped his quill to greet the doctor.  

“Dr. uh, Pasture?  Nice to meet you, and welcome to Trottinger.”  Featherprop scrambled up as he reached out with his own hoof, trying to hide his reservations as he looked his passenger over.  Fair and tall with a stark white coat and a red mane tinged with hints of purple, the Unicorn had a presence which commanded respect, as well as a self-assured air that hinted at an underlying hardness which would brook no dissent.  The effect was enhanced by the Unicorn’s finely-worked saddlebags and understated scarf, wrapped neatly around the base of his neck.

The Pegasus glanced up and down, a slight frown forming as he noticed Pasture’s stylish-but-thin coat.  Wait, no winter clothes?  Didn't they tell him what the Frostmane is like in winter?  Looking up, he blanched as he saw the Unicorn staring back with furrowed eyebrows, and felt certain he could see a trace of impatience in the stallion's eyes.  Featherprop had seen looks like that before; it told him that Pasture had no desire to be in Trottinger for long and  little patience for ponies bearing bad news.  “Espresso tells me you need to get to Fetlock Falls.  I'm just about done here so we'll get going soon, but I need to warn you that tonight may be a challenge.”

Turning back to the table he continued to speak, hoping that breaking eye contact would make it a little easier to  deliver his assessment.  “This is what we’ve got:  We have a long way to fly and the weather will probably be worse where we're going.”  Pointing to the map on the table, he continued, “Here's Trottinger, and over here is Fetlock Falls.”  The latter was surrounded by wrinkled lines and a row of sawtooth marks which lay between the two towns.  “We will have to stop in Fairflanks up here to refuel–  we'll need to top off if we want to have a chance at getting to Fetlock.”  

He could see from the slight tilt of the Unicorn's head that Pasture wasn’t pleased, but he waved his hoof towards the western side of the map and bulled ahead.  “There are reports of bad weather from the stations west of Fetlock Falls, all of them that checked in, anyway.”  He took a deep breath.  Luna, I hope he's not the yelling type.  “Fetlock Falls wasn’t one of them– there’s no weather report from there on the last scroll.  If the storm has moved far enough east, we may not be able to get in.”

There was a silence in the room.  Espresso looked down at the worn floorboards, uneven from decades of hoof-scuffs, and groaned internally at the words.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pasture glance towards her, then over to the Pegasus.  Featherprop stood for a moment before turning to retrieve a saddlebag, but she saw his ears sag when Pasture cleared his throat.  

The Unicorn's voice was slow and tinged with disapproval.  “What do you mean, 'we may not be able to get in?'   This is a most urgent situation, and I understood from Ms. Connemara that your flying service has the capability to perform this task.”  

Espresso was struck speechless and glared at the Unicorn's back in disbelief.   I NEVER promised that to him!  She felt her cheeks flush as she recalled the vague wording she’d used in her office.  But that wasn't a yes, though, it was a maybe. I never said yes.  As Pasture gave Featherprop a brief but emphatic explanation of the perishable nature of his cargo, Espresso tried to catch Featherprop's eyes, hoping he'd understand that she hadn't made a promise that would fall on him to keep.

But Featherprop didn’t see her.  Planting his hooves, he had turned to face the white stallion, ears flickering in uncertainty as he tried to force a confident tone, one which he certainly didn’t feel, into his voice.  “I'm sorry, Doctor, but none of that changes how things are.  If the weather is bad enough, it may not be possible to land at Fetlock Falls when we arrive.  Horseshoes, if it’s really bad, we might not even be able to leave Fairflanks.”  

Pasture snapped his head up, his mane tossing wildly  “Stop in Fair–? Listen here, I won’t stand for any delay, you...” his muzzle twisted in a snarl as he clamped it shut, fixing the Pegasus with a heated glare.  

Featherprop took a deep breath and stared back, but the way his wings clamped tightly to his sides betrayed his nervousness.  

Neither of them spoke, though Featherprop was sure Pasture must be able to hear his heart pounding.  For his part, Pasture was counting to ten, trying to restrain himself from shouting at the top of his lungs.  Both stallions ended up staring at each other with grim looks on their muzzles, caught up in a silent standoff.

Neither of them noticed when Espresso shuffled back through the door and left.  She wandered towards her office with her head low.  What was I thinking?  Ordinarily the thought of retreating from an argument would burn at her, but the whirlwind of events had drained her.  All she wanted was to lay her head down and forget about doctors, royalty, and Fetlock Falls.  

For once, she was willing to leave the situation, for better or for worse, in Featherprop’s hooves.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Pasture drew a deep breath and released it slowly, taking a moment to focus on keeping his composure.  In a clipped voice he asked,  “What, precisely, do you mean by 'If?'  When does the Weather Bureau say the storm will arrive?”  Pasture had experienced unscheduled weather before, to be sure, but it was nothing more than a stray raincloud or a small windstorm–  minor inconveniences at best.  Even those were quickly corralled by the Weather Teams and herded back into the regulated flow of weather over Equestria.  Big storms never got away; they took time to construct and were carefully monitored throughout the process.

Featherprop shook his head, causing a thatch of his unkempt mane to fall over his ears and down into his eyes.  He removed his glasses and brushed it back with a hoof.  How do I explain this?  “A lot of the time the Bureau's predictions are... off.  Weather might arrive when they say, but sometimes it hits us early.  Sometimes late.  Sometimes never, so we have to be ready for unexpected conditions.”

Pasture felt his impatience returning, and looked about the room for a few seconds, biting back an ill-considered reply.  Fixing the Pegasus with a gaze, he spoke slowly and repeated himself, sure that he had been misunderstood. “But if they've scheduled it...”

Featherprop cut him off with a slash of his hoof. “Dr. Pasture, the Frostmane is not like Equestria–  there is no schedule.  The Weather Bureau can’t give us a date or time for weather systems because the weather here isn’t controlled!  They make predictions, but that’s about all they can do.  The Frostmane is huge, so the forecasts are usually guesses.  And tonight, with so few stations reporting, it’s even worse.”  He threw his hooves up in exasperation, “There could be a blizzard two valleys over and we’d never know!” 

Featherprop’s muzzle reddened as the older Pony glared at him, and dropped his forehooves back to the floor.  Inside, his gut knotted up as he thought about spending five or more hours with an angry passenger. Please, let him listen.  I'm too young to start getting ulcers.  A nervous twitch in his croup tugged at his attention and he eased a back leg, unwilling to turn his eyes from the Unicorn.

Pasture stared at Featherprop without really seeing as his mind tried to make sense of the pilot’s outburst.  Canterlot’s former Territorial Liaison had warned him about the oddities of the Frostmane, but at the time he’d dismissed it as hyperbole.  “Nothing works right in the Frostmane,” was how the portly Earth pony had begun his outlandish claims, and now he wished he hadn’t dismissed them out-of-hoof.  Why in Celestia's name would anypony want anything to do with this place?  The land, the ponies, even the weather, none of them made sense to him.  A sudden feeling of futility struck him.

Pasture had not wanted this assignment, but turning it down would have been unthinkable.  Few outside the world of the Academy understood the cutthroat nature of Departmental politics, or the swirl of rumor and gossip that was the bread and butter of advancement there.  If he had declined to take this mission, it would have been the topic of watering-trough talk, a blemish on the reputation of his patrons, and a boon to his rivals.

Pasture was determined not to become one of those old professors, the ones who were shuffled into cramped basement offices as they pursued increasingly arcane and irrelevant lines of research.  He had chosen his specialty with care, where his work would have direct applications in medicine.  He could point out half-a-dozen treatments he’d refined, covering afflictions from hollowhoof to hornspots. 

But ever since a doctoral student roused him from his sleep a week before, his life had spiraled out of control.  The early-morning summons was for an emergency consultation on the disturbing reports of an old illness returning in the Frostmane.  That review had led to a day of frantic research concerning possible sources and transmission vectors at the behest of the Dean herself.

The following morning, he’d found himself on the Friendship Express, traveling further and further from his ordered and secure life.   And further from the Academy Chair if I fail.  And I will not fail, not after having gone through so much already.  He lifted his head and gave Featherprop a steady look.  Renewed determination filled his voice as he said, “I cannot accept any delay–  I need to get to Fetlock Falls as soon as possible.”  

Featherprop decided to take that as some form of  acceptance of the situation and silently sighed in relief.  “On that, Dr. Pasture, I can agree with you– there is no time for delay.  Believe me, I’ll make every effort to get you to Fetlock Falls safely, but I can't make promises about what the weather will do.”  He chose his words carefully, not mentioning the possibility of failure, but not promising success, either.  I'll fly through that hailstorm when I get to it.  As long as the weather holds off, this’ll work.  It has to.  He turned to his bag, nosed the charts and notepad into it, and then walked to the door.  Over his shoulder he called,  “Come on, let’s get your supplies stowed.”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso sat forlornly behind her desk, staring at the empty mug in her hooves.  She shook her head, feebly trying to convince herself that she hadn’t thrown Featherprop to the timberwolves.  I’m sitting here, while he's the one who has to go out and face the weather.  What will happen if they don't get through?  Her heart froze at her next thought:  Oh Luna, what if something happens to them?  Why did I sign that contract?  

A sense of foreboding hung in the room, as if a looming disaster was simply waiting for somepony to notice it and make it real.  Espresso resisted the urge to look around, instead staring at the rings on her desk, idly tracing patterns with her eyes as her mind tried, and failed, to focus on anything other than the guilt that ached in her chest.  Not even the atrocious state in which Featherprop had left her weather file could distract her from the anger she felt at herself or the worry she felt for her friend.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


As the two stallions stepped into the frigid night and began trotting to the hangar, Featherprop tried to gather his thoughts.  Though apprehensive, the scope of the evening’s mission filled him with excitement.  In a way, it was aviation at it's purest:  Going into harm's way to help somepony else.  It's like... like riding out to rescue a filly in distress.  He smiled despite the seriousness of the situation and the stress-spawned knot he felt in his stomach.  And at least I'm wearing my own gear.  

It turned out that Dr. Pasture had indeed brought some warmer clothing, though it was more stylish than hardy.  Before leaving the offices, he dug into his luggage.

It had been a scene Featherprop would not soon forget.  Pasture’s luggage had been marinating in cabbage-and-beet soup for several days, and the hearty liquid had not gone quietly into the night.  Even though his eyes were watering from the pungent smell, Featherprop had nearly collapsed in laughter when the Unicorn held up a reeking cardigan.  He actually did fall over when several limp beet slices peeled off and fell to the floor with a wet slap.  

With his sides aching, Featherprop had finally pulled himself together enough to try to reassure the horrified doctor.  “I'm sure we’ve got... we’ve got something you can use, Doctor.  And anyway, that sweater would never cut it if we got stuck somewhere.  Wrong material, too– it’d suck the warmth right out of you if it got wet.”  

However, a quick search turned up very little that would fit a tall stallion.  When Featherprop finally found a coat which would fit the doctor, it brought a look of misery to Pasture’s face that put a damper on his amusement.  In the end, the doctor had ended up donning a motley assortment of gear that would keep him warm, but which seemed to have etched a permanent scowl on his muzzle.

Luna, this is going to be a long night I hope it gets better once we're in the air.  The waiting is killing me.  The thought of his passenger's expectations brought his spirits back in check, and he grimaced as he considered their confrontation.  We really got off on the wrong hoof, didn’t we?  He seems like a decent sort.  I just wonder what's got him so riled.   He sighed and gave a flick of his tail.  If there were a major issue, he wanted to get it figured out before they left the ground. Who knows, maybe he’s just afraid of heights.  Or maybe there’s something else I should know about this trip.   

Dr. Pasture found the walk through the cold less bracing and much more galling.  After enduring far more laughter from the pilot than anypony should have to bear, he had reluctantly donned the heavy coat Featherprop had found.  It was a wretched-looking thing, cursed with a frilly lapel and an outdated cut that fell below his hocks, a style he hadn’t seen in Canterlot since his youth.  Granted, it IS warm, but that's about all I can say for it.  He grimaced and sarcastically thought,  I'm sure the mare who used to wear it loved it very much.  If he were to be honest with himself, having to wear a mare’s coat that was older than the pilot wasn’t what bothered him; it was what waited inside the arching structure before him and the vague words of the pilot in the planning room behind him that truly occupied his mind.  

As a scientist the lack of certainty appalled him.  In fact, the slap-dash nature of the entire endeavor appalled him.  He hated not being in control of the environment or the variables.  Afraid of flying, Eisen?  he asked himself.  Well, yes, a little.  But that's only natural for a Unicorn, isn’t' it?  Even in the halls of the Academy, the very center of Equestrian learning, the details of mechanical aviation was a mystery to nearly everypony.  

Pegasi tended to treat flying as innate knowledge and therefore something beyond the understanding of Unicorns and Earth Ponies, an attitude that regrettably had become accepted as a general truth in Equestria.  Demonstrations of mechanical aviation had been few and far between, and were often put on in a vaudevillian style that portrayed merely stepping onto an aircraft as some sort of  death-defying feat.  Though airships were becoming more common in the skies above Canterlot, mechanical aviation’s combination of Ternoulli’s ideas and the powerful engines of the Gryphons was something else entirely, something foreign and disquieting.  He let some of his frustration out with a snort as he trudged through the snow.

The sound carried clearly through the still air and Featherprop’s ear turned at the sound.  He  slowed his pace, falling into place beside the lagging Unicorn.  He had a sudden urge to laugh at the sight of the doctor's borrowed coat, and he tried to hide it by looking back towards the Flight Center.  “I'm sorry again about the coat, Dr. Pasture, but I couldn’t find anything else in there.  With this cold snap, I'm not surprised everypony took their personal gear home.”

Having composed himself, he gave the Unicorn an apologetic smile.  “I know it's... well, on nights like this being prepared is more important than looking good. Once the plane is running, we'll be plenty warm.”  He ruffled his wings over the sides of his own coat.  “I certainly won't be wearing this.  It's just in case we get stuck or have to put down somewhere.  How are the boots?”  He looked down. Pasture was wearing a set of wool and burlap hoof-wraps, in contrast to his own bare hooves.

Pasture was surprised to find himself feeling grateful for the conversation– his own sour thoughts had been weighing on him heavily.  He waved one hoof in mid-step and tried to look appreciative.  “They're surprisingly warm.  I must say, I was told it would be cold up here, but it's surprised me how quickly it seems to chill one.  Even the short walk from the depot...”  He looked quizzically at Featherprop, “Speaking of which, aren't you rather cold yourself?”  For all the talk of staying warm, the Pegasus wore only  a light coat that stopped above his knees and had generous openings for his wings.

Featherprop ducked his head sheepishly as he realized his appearance contradicted the dire speech he had given during the frantic search for clothing.  “Actually, it's not a bad night.  Then again, I never seem to get cold.  Well... you're a doctor, right?  So you know that Pegasi are better adapted to cold than Unicorns or Earth Ponies.”

Pasture nodded, saying, “I recall something of the sort from my undergraduate studies, but my specialty has been internal medicine since I completed my residency.  I don't often deal with gross anatomy or physiology.  In fact, most of my research revolves around the intersection between magic and medicines.  This is the first time I've been sent out in the field in quite a few years.”  He couldn’t help but wistfully recall that last trip– it had been to San Ponego, where it was summer-like most of the year.  The diagnosis had been fairly simple, and he had spent the rest of the week relaxing on the beach and sipping drinks from coconuts.  He frowned and tried to brush some of the dust off his memory of physiology.  “Let's see what I still know, though.”  

He closed his eyes in concentration and spoke as if he were reciting from a textbook, “Pegasus physiology is adapted to compensate for flight and extended exposure to adverse weather conditions.  You are more highly vascularized, with a correspondingly larger heart, to allow for better muscle nourishment and internal temperature stabilization; have a significantly higher metabolism to supply the energy needed for flight; benefit from some differences in lung structure to allow for extended high-volume, low-pressure respiration; your coat is double layer where you don't have feathers, with hollow-core hairs; there are several waterproofing glands behind your extended clavicle, between your wings; and your bones are lighter, with a flexible, spongiform core that distributes stresses better–  they have superior shear performance at the cost of absolute tensile and compressive strength when compared to the denser structure of Earth Ponies.”  He smiled a little, surprised at being able to recall so much without having any references at hoof.

Featherprop gaped and stopped short, then cantered a few steps to catch up.  With a grin he said, “Pretty impressive, Doc!  I didn't know some of that stuff at all.”  Giving a few flaps of his wings, he half-hopped while poking himself in the side, “But you forgot the one that helps most–  we have an api..ada... a layer of fat under here to insulate us, too.  There's a reason you never see a bony Pegasus.”

Pasture cocked his head in thought.  “An adipose tissue layer?  I don't recall anything about that in the lectures.  Are you certain?”  He squinted  “Wait, how often do you fly?  With your wings, I mean?”  The sheepish look on Featherprop's face told him all he needed to know, and he smiled sardonically.  “I take it that it's not often, is it?  Hm, high metabolism combined with a sedentary lifestyle...  Mr. Prop, you should consider talking to your physician.”  

Feeling defensive, Featherprop responded, “Well.. hey, it's not so easy up here, you know?  Flying, I mean.  It's cold all winter, but even when it's nice, it's... harder.”  The concept wasn't an easy one to convey.  Most ground-bound ponies were unaware of the strange interplay between aerodynamics and a Pegasi's innate ability to channel magic that let them fly.  Even among Pegasi, few understood as well as Featherprop did.  

Learning about purely mechanical aviation had opened his eyes to how amazing natural flight really was.  He had been surprised at how LARGE the wings of an aircraft had to be when he had first dug into aerodynamics– with no magic to augment them, they relied solely on the Ternoulli Effect.  He had been surprised to learn from his Gryphon instructors that there was something special about Equestria that enhanced the natural capabilities of ponies and, to a lesser extent, gryphons.  Dragons and zebras and Diamond Dogs as well, probably.  The texts had referred to it to as a magical 'field' or 'ether', but that was more speculation than anything, for there was no way to measure it.  

Whatever it was, in the Frostmane it was weak, sometimes non-existent.  Flight exercises that seemed effortless at Flight Camp in Cloudsdale, like Lazy Eights, would work up a good hunger in Trottinger...  No, I don't want to think about Cloudsdale tonight.  “It's like the weather, Doc.  Things are different in the Frostmane.”  It suddenly occurred to him to ask a question.  “Have you had any trouble using magic up here?”  

In fact, Pasture had noticed, but the sensation was discomfiting, like something was missing, and he had been trying not to dwell on it.  He sighed and said, “I have, but I preferred not to think about it.  What could make magic harder? I’ve never encountered this before..”  If he were to be honest, the difficulties he’d experienced disturbed him deeply.  The fact that there was no obvious reason made it worse.  As a researcher and practitioner of magical medicine, the routine use of magic was part of his core identity.    “Is this common knowledge up here, then?”

“Not really–  there aren't many Unicorns or Pegasi in the Frostmane, so it just doesn't come up in conversation.  Earth Ponies don't seem to notice.  Not surprising, I guess.”  Featherprop chuckled at the doctor's puzzled expression–  he could almost see that the overwhelming predominance of Earth Ponies in the Frostmane was just now dawning on the Unicorn.  When Featherprop had first arrived, he had been surprised, too.  Over his first few months, he’d met only one or two other Pegasi and it had made him feel rather unique and special.  He blushed slightly, remembering the undeserved pride he had taken at being so rare.  

That feeling hadn't lasted long.  The surprise was soon replaced with disappointment when he realized that nopony seemed to care.  It eventually sank in that 'Maners paid a lot more attention to what you did and how you did it than what you were.  The revelation came like a bolt out of the blue, and he had realized just why he felt so at home in a place so unlike his old home.  After that, it never bothered him.  He hadn't fit in with the bravado of Cloudsdale, so the more humble attitude of the Frostmane's inhabitants made it easy to fit in.

Featherprop had been right:  Pasture hadn't really noticed.  Thinking back to the train trip, he was now struck by the uniform nature of the passengers– among all the ponies on board, there had been only a handful of Unicorns and Pegasi.  Look at you, a scientist, and you’ve missed the most obvious things when they are right in front of you.  But then again, why should I have noticed?  How can you see the answer when you haven't asked the question?  Another part of his mind rejected that assertion:  How do you ask the question if you don't see the answer?  The first replied, Not every question is useful; you have to know the answer you’re seeking to know which question to ask.  He shook his head; this sort of back-and-forth could go on and on for hours, but it provided a focus for a mind that was whirling with worries.

His mental sparring was interrupted when Featherprop continued, “And it's just one name– Featherprop, and no Mister needed. You can just call me Prop, Feather, FP...  Of course, if you talk to Espresso, she'd add a few others.”  He smiled and looked up, rattling off a selection of her more creative names:  “Featherpest, The Thief, Featheryap, Bottomless Pit, Featherduster...  I forget what else she had last week.  Probably “Feather” related, she seems to fixate on that part.”  He gave a lopsided grin.

The Unicorn had stopped as Featherprop rattled off the list, a perplexed look spreading across his face.  “And this doesn't bother you?  It sounds like she's a terror to work with.”  Anywhere in Equestria, such behavior in the workplace would be worrisome and the underlying conflict would almost certainly have been dealt with.  Only colts and fillies taunted each other like that; grown-up ponies generally had more sense and wouldn't put up with it.

Featherprop laughed, “Oh, no, nothing like that!  It’s wind past your tail, you know.  We just rub each others manes the wrong way, big-time.  Well, okay, she is kinda scary when she really gets worked up.”  He looked away, sheepish, and rubbed the crest of his mane with a forehoof.  “And, uh, it's not like it's all on her, you know?  I mean, she can be a terror, but maybe sometimes I, uh, don't help the situation?”

The cold had begun to seep through Pasture’s hoofwraps, and he cast several glances towards the hangar before edging that way.  Featherprop seemed to pick up the hint and fell in alongside him.  Pasture gave him an appraising look and asked, “And what exactly does the phrase “don't help” mean?”  The Unicorn found himself being drawn into the conversation, thankful for the distraction from the the frosty, back-lit panes of the hangar doors that loomed above him.

As they came close, Featherprop cantered ahead to the segmented doors.  “Let's just say,”  he paused to throw his weight against a large lever and grunted as a latch suddenly let go, allowing him to roll back one segment of the large door, “nngh, that I play my part as well.”  A blaze of light lit the apron as a gust of warm air rolled over two ponies.  Featherprop grinned and struck a showpony's pose on his hindlegs, dramatically spreading his wings.  

“Well,” he stretched out a hoof, “there she is!”  Under the bright lights, an ungainly, bird-like craft crouched, wings outstretched as if trying to catch a freshening breeze.

The Unicorn just stared.
> 3:  When You See It...
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



ETSB Number:  EAR-13-20
Kathia Volunteers Brigade Station Log

Initial notification was sent by runner from Kathia Radio and logged by the night watch at one hour after midnight.  The duty officer woke the alert team and organized a line search directly west from the last known position of the aircraft, with instructions to watch for fire or smoke.  The volunteer network was activated at that time.  Once sufficient volunteers reported for duty, a radial search pattern was begun from a point four miles west of the range.

Approximately twenty minutes after sunrise, the accident scene was discovered seven miles west-southwest of the Kathia navigational range in a stand of pines.  There had been a post-impact fire, but the wet conditions and heavy snow prevented it from spreading beyond the immediate area.  A quick survey found all wreckage was contained within a fifty foot radius and it was determined there were no survivors.  At that point the mission status was changed from search and rescue to recovery and site access was restricted.





“There she is!”  Featherprop spread his hooves in a grand gesture.

The quiet awkwardness that followed was palpable.  For Featherprop, rolling back the doors always gave him a little bit of a thrill.  Whether it was day or night, clear skies or clouds, opening the door meant going somewhere.   Pasture, he suddenly realized, didn’t seem to feel the same sense of excitement.  

The Pegasus set his forehooves back on the ground and glanced around sheepishly, certain that Pasture was staring at him but too embarrassed to risk meeting Pasture’s eyes.  In the hangar he could see the last of the cargo being carried up the craft’s ramp, and seized upon the chance to escape from the uncomfortable silence.  “I better, uh, go check on stuff!”  With that he dashed into the hangar, leaving Pasture standing in the doorway. 

After netting down the cargo and giving the straps one last tug with his teeth, Featherprop turned his attention to inspecting the rest of the aircraft.  Though he had put it to bed earlier in the evening and knew it was in good shape, he forced himself to walk around the craft once more.  Preflight and postflight inspections were a pain in the flank, but Featherprop had learned, the hard way, that catching problems on the ground was much less embarrassing.  

With a touch of guilt, he found himself half-hoping to find a puddle of oil, a broken cable, something that would take some time to get checked out.  Anything to put this trip off for a few hours. 

Pasture’s hocks began to quiver as he stood at the threshold, the cold creeping up under the long hem of his coat.  Reluctantly he stalked into the hangar, berating himself for letting his fears rule him.  Pasture had spent the entire trip trying to ignore his worries about this portion of the journey.  His skepticism of aviation had grown into a deeper fear, and now he could feel it hobbling him.  It’s only a machine, Eisen, not a disease.  He halted next to the nose and looked up at the windscreens, then swept the rest of the craft with a critical eye.  Yes, but diseases I understand.

Unlike the sleek, natural forms of the Pegasi or Gryphons, the craft was a strange mix of straight lines and simple curves, a big box with plank-like wings jutting out, all perched on three spindly legs.  The purpose of the shoulder-mounted wings was obvious, but unlike those of living beings they were supported by a strut rising from the bottom of the fat body, meeting the wings at two barrel-shaped pods.  

Beyond the wings, the tail end of the aircraft lifted up over the a loading ramp.  At the very end of the tail a set of perpendicular door-sized panels, one vertical and two horizontal, were attached, looking oddly oversized.  As he frowned at the absurdity of the design, a crude, whimsical touch caught Pasture’s attention and elicited a dismissive snort:  Painted on the rear fuselage was a lumpy Pony-shaped figure with beady black eyes and pineboughs for wings: A snowpony. 


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Pasture had never considered the challenges involved in enabling a non-Pegasus to fly, at least without some magical assistance.  Life without magic, he wryly thought and shook his head,  I must admit, it leads to a certain resourcefulness.  Pasture’s area of study was the intersection of magic and Equestrian physiology.  Engineering of any sort had always been dull and boring to him– it dealt with cold, unliving things, while medicine and magic were full of vitality and life.  Technology was useful, but it wasn’t essential.

That's a wing, and I suppose the back works like a Pegasus’s tail, but what is the purpose of that... thing?  Walking underneath, he looked up at the most streamlined part of the entire aircraft, the large pod mounted at the front of the wing.  Even that was marred by odd scoops and vents, and three feather-shaped blades that jutted out from a sleek cone at the very front of the pod.  Trails of sooty exhaust blackened the sides, while underneath a dirty film of oil and dust on the underside caused Pasture to pull back, lest he brush it with his mane.  Shaking his head, he groused to himself, "Impossible.  A foal’s kite would fly better than this thing."

An unexpected reply from Featherprop caused Pasture to jump. “Well, that kite doesn't need to haul a dozen Ponies and a week's worth of food through a snowstorm, Doc.”  Though his voice held a hint of annoyance, there was a sense of easy pride and familiarity to it as well..  No one insults my plane. Only I get to do that.   With an odd motion, the Pegasus squeezed himself under the fuselage and gave a half-flap of his wings to regain his balance before standing next to the doctor, feathers rustling softly as he settled them back into place.  

Featherprop watched Pasture look over the aircraft, his frown matching the one on the doctor’s muzzle.  The de Hoofiland Twin Trotter was impressive only for its size, at least to the average Pony.  The designers had been ruthless in their practicality, sticking to simplicity in every aspect of design and turning their backs on decoration or stylized elements.  The result had been a boxy, ungainly craft, but one which became legendary for its toughness and reliability.  “She’s not pretty, but you'd be surprised at what she’ll do when the chips are down.”  He shook his head and mumbled, “Saved my tail more than once.”

Pasture snorted and looked away.  “Well, hmm.  I shall take your word for it.  Please forgive my, ah, observation.  I cannot claim any familiarity with aviating beyond the basic principles of Pegasus flight.”  He nodded at his smooth withers.  Pasture felt increasingly out of place here, where his research meant nearly nothing.  It made him feel inadequate, and he defensively added, “I did once go air-yachting.  One of the Barons invited the department for a cruise around Canterlot.”  With a shudder he added, “Wretched thing, never stopped bobbing.  Your aircraft doesn’t bob, does it?”  

Featherprop chuckled as he imagined the details Pasture had left out, until he remembered that they’d be cooped up together for hours to come.  In bad weather.  With a little gulp he said, “Nah, not if it’s calm.  And aviation’s not that hard, Doc.  It’s just airfoils, whether you build ‘em or grow ‘em, that’s all.”  Featherprop unfurled his wings, then nodded at the aircraft.  “It's all about lift, drag, and thrust.  Mechanical aviation can’t match the efficiency or resilience of a real wing’s structure,” at this he warped and flexed his wings, showing a thrust-generating downstroke, “but the Gryphons have found ways around that.”  He pointed a wingtip at the curious pod that Pasture had been pondering and brushed a primary across the face of one of the blades.  “The propeller here is just airfoils, but we use 'em to push the air back rather than hold us up like the wings do.”

Pasture was unconvinced, but suddenly felt very conscious of his lack of mechanical knowledge.  His ears swiveled half-back as he felt his way around an answer.  “I suppose that makes sense.  But where does the motive force come from?  Is it like a locomotive's steam engine?  That hardly looks big enough to contain one.” He nodded towards the engine nacelle.

The question was music to Featherprop’s ears.  Besides flying, talking about flying was one of his favorite things to do.  Pointing a hoof at the nacelle he continued,  “Similar idea, but not quite the same.  We use something a lot smaller– the Gryphons call it a turbine.  Instead of boiling water for steam, it just burns the fuel and air to make power.  And the cool thing is,” he smiled and waggled his primaries, “it uses a bunch of airfoils inside to drive the propeller!  Like I said, everything in aviation is about airfoils!  You can never have too many.”  

Talking shop always put Featherprop in a good mood; for the first time all evening, he was beginning to feel a glimmer of confidence.  Of all the things Featherprop missed since coming to the Frostmane, instructing was foremost among them.  Unconsciously, he had started to grin as he warmed to his lecture, and turned towards Pasture.

But it was obvious Pasture didn’t share his good mood.  Indeed, the frown on the Unicorn's muzzle had been replaced with pursed lips.  The doctor stepped up to an oversized wheel and tapped it with with a forehoof, then turned to give the Pegasus a level stare.  “So, how quickly can we be on our way?”  

The bluntness of the question left no doubt that Pasture had no interest in receiving a primer on mechanical aviation.  Featherprop's spirits deflated again as the unspoken command brought him back to the reality of task ahead.  Regardless of his burst of enthusiasm, a part of him dreaded finishing the preflight.  So far there’d been nothing that would let him postpone the flight, and there was very little of the Trotter left to check..  Afraid to fly, 'Prop?  What kind of Pegasus are you?  He shook his head at  his ego’s attempted self-taunting.  Just one that wants to stay alive.  

Sighing, Featherprop realized he there weren’t any more excuses for delay, and turned to waiting Unicorn.  He closed his eyes in acquiescence.  “How does now sound?  Nothing left to do but get her pulled out and warmed up.”  Unlike moments before, his voice was suddenly flat and his ears drooped against his head.  Ignoring the quizzical look on the Unicorn's face, he trudged up the ramp, his hoofsteps muted by the boxes of medicine as he made his way  to the cockpit.  

He sounds like a chastened foal– what did I say?  With a twinge of uncertainty, Pasture followed the subdued Pegasus, nose twitching at the odd scent that permeated the cabin– a combination of wool insulation, grease, fuel, sweat, and... something that rankled his nose.  Fear, his subconscious mind supplied.  He snorted at himself, but all the same there was an undeniable feeling of apprehension that washed over him.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


The field stretched out past the reach of the Trotter's lights, twin lances of stark white that faded to a bluish-gray.  Dr. Pasture once again wondered what he could have done to somepony to deserve such a fate.  He was strapped into the right-side seat, keeping his hooves to himself (as admonished) and looking in confusion at the proliferation of lights, dials, needles, knobs, and oddly abbreviated lettering all over the place.  INST & ENVIR OFF?  What in Equestria could that possibly mean?  He scowled– everywhere he looked there were reminders that he was little more than glorified cargo.

In the pilot’s seat, Featherprop nodded to himself as he tucked the flowcard up above the dash and gave a cluster of dials in front of him one last look.  He glanced at the Unicorn and pulled the boom microphone down to his muzzle,  The words “Ready, Doc?” sounded clearly in his own 'phones, and a tense nod from the doctor seemed to confirm he had heard as well.  Satisfied with Pasture's assent, he switched to the radio and called out,  “Trottinger Traffic, Snowpony is rolling, westbound.”  Placing a hoof on the throttles, he pushed them forward and began the litany that accompanied every takeoff:  “Props on speed... power set... autofeather armed...”  

Dr. Pasture felt his withers and croup pressed deep into the padding of the seat’s back panel as the pilot moved the levers forward, and his neck muscles strained to keep his head from rearing back.  He heard some muttering from the Pegasus, but it was lost to the sensory overload that assaulted him.  The noise was oppressive, like an unending dragon's roar.  Even the padded set of 'phones riding on his poll didn't seem to help.  Powerful vibrations throbbed through his chest and raced up his spine to rattle his eyes– occasionally the panel in front of him would go out of focus as the massive propellers lumbered in and out of synchronization.  

On the railroad Pasture had gotten accustomed to the swaying klack-klack of the railcars, but that was nothing like what he experiencing now:  This was primal.  It shook the craft as if a Hydra were gnawing on the tail-planks.  As the aircraft began to accelerate, the rutted snow of the pasture grabbed at the skis and pulled them in different directions.  Each rut caused the Trotter to buck and slew, each of the jolts amplified by the stout springs of the landing gear.  

The bounding, skittering motions caused the Unicorn to grip the armrests tightly, despite already being bound by restraints over his haunches and across his barrel.  His horn flared without conscious thought as he tried to magically enhance his grip.  

As their speed increased, the wild bounding faded to a harsh thumping as they plowed over the uneven snow.  Then he heard Featherprop say,“Rotate!” and the craft tilted back, rearing up like a Pegasus preparing to leap into the air, and blackness filled the windscreen..  It paused there for a moment, and then the shaking stopped.  Startled by the loss of forward vision, Pasture's ears pinned themselves to his head and all he could do was stare at several dials in front of him and pray.  Oh Celestia, I know not what I have done, but let me live to un-do it!

On the other side of the cockpit, the mood could not have been more different.  Like any red-blooded stallion should, Featherprop felt a deep-seated thrill in the power under his hooves.  The Pegasus eased back on the yoke to take the weight from the nose-skid as several ruts slewed the craft sideways, and felt the mains skip... stutter... then lift free from the surface.  Releasing some of the pressure, he allowed the climb to halt a bare half-dozen feet above the sparkling surface.  As a silly grin stretched over his muzzle, the winged stallion kept the craft low, the snowy pasture now becoming a crystal-streaked blur.  Luna, but I love this job!  As the aircraft accelerated over the frozen terrain, he watched for the snowbank and fence line at the end of the pasture, tempted to give in to the foalish urge to properly ‘initiate’ his passenger.

Stealing a glance sideways, he tried to gauge the Unicorn's reaction so far.   As they said in Flight camp, 'One never knows a Pony until you fly a furlong with them.'  Of course, they never said how you measure a furlong in the air... Or judge a non-Pegasus.  To his amusement, the Unicorn had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and seemed to be mumbling to himself.  He seems okay so far– he's not sharing his hayfries with me.  Yet.

With a disapproving resignation, his mature side spoke up and reminded him of his responsibilities.  And how will it look if you DO make the Throne's representative lose his lunch?

Grumbling, Featherprop's fun side had to admit that his mature side had a reasonable point.  I suppose I ought to behave myself.  He expressed his disappointment with a small snort and set the aircraft for a gentle climb as a snowbank flashed two feet below the skis, propwash kicking up a pair of horizontal cyclones in their wake.  Okay,  he grinned.  NOW I'll behave myself.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Once he had leveled off, Featherprop reached over and poked Pasture's shoulder.  “Doc, you can open your eyes now.”  He tried to disguise his bemusement, but the grimace on the Unicorn's face made it impossible to stop grinning.  The doctor's eyes slowly opened and flicked over to give him a sour look.

In a tense voice Pasture asked, “Is it always that bad?”  Featherprop's reaction was not reassuring– instead of offering comforting words, the pilot laughed loudly, the sound harsh through the 'phones.  Pasture felt his ears pin back and burn at the weakness that seemed to be implied in the guffaws.

The scowl on Pasture's face told Featherprop his laughter was being taken the wrong way.  “Bad?  I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, Doc.  It’s just that, all in all, that was a trot in the park.  If you come back sometime when the winds are blowing across the valley, then you can see what bad is like.”  The Pegasus smiled apologetically.  “I guess if you've never done it before, that could be a little dramatic.  But hey, you took it pretty well!  I mean, except for not looking at all–  you kinda missed the show.”  

Thinking of the trip ahead, his amused tone dampened.  “All joking aside, Doc, we'll probably see worse coming up.  But look, now you know what it's like, it won't be much worse.  The first time tends to get to everypony, except maybe the foals.  They always think it's a hoot, as long as they're not going wobbly.  Anyway, drama's over for now; we've just got a long, boring flight to Fairflanks.”  

He unlatched his barrel restraints and leaned forward, stretching each wing as much as he could in the close confines of the cockpit and then re-furling them in a vain attempt to find a position where they weren't pinched.  He nodded to Pasture to indicate he could do the same, then eased his seatpad back.  With a quick perusal of the flow card, he settled in for the long cruise to Fairflanks.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso cocked an ear sideways as the sound of the Twin Trotter faded; to herself, she thought, They’re off, good, though that certainly wasn’t a word she could apply to herself.  In one way, the departure was a relief, but it also meant she would have an entire evening of worry.  The contract still sat on the desk in front of her, but her mind shied away from re-reading it.  I need to do something.  I’ll go crazy if I just sit here all night.  

Rising to her hooves, she began walking through the halls without purpose.  As with the last few times she’d wandered aimlessly, she found herself passing a door from behind which came the sound of static punctuated by pops, crackles, and the occasional squeal.  Is the interference that bad tonight?  Hoof on the knob, she paused as a plaque on the door caught her eye.

Radio Shack
E. Watt, Proprietor

That’s new, she thought and  shook her head; the short radiopony had such an odd sense of humor.   Stepping into the darkened room, Espresso’s ears flattened back as a wall of noise buffeted her. The tiny room was stuffed full of racks of equipment, but there was nopony at the console.  She rapped a  hoof on the door and called out, “Ether, are you in here?” 

She heard a muted thump from one of the equipment racks, followed by a sizzling sound and a blue-white flash.  Looking past a workbench, Espresso could see Ether Watt’s pale blue hooves and a dark blue tail poking out from the bottom bay.

“Horseapples!  Espresso?  Turn it off, turnitoffturnitoffturnitoffforLuna’ssakeTURNITOFF!!”

Espresso rushed over and stared at the rack in horrified confusion.  “Which... how?”

“Red switch!  Big red switch!!”  Ether’s voice was tight and frantic.  The smell of singed mane wafted around her as she cringed inside the cabinet, the snap and hum of loose electricity distressingly close to her ear.

Espresso slapped the switch off with a hoof and was startled by the sudden silence.  With the primary radios off, she could hear the slight radiomare muttering to herself as she wiggled out of the cabinet.  One bang of Ether’s mane was singed, and in her smudged hoof she held a wire-filled glass tube.  

Breathing heavily, Ether rubbed her ear and gave Espresso a distressed look.  “What’re you doing back here?”

Espresso snorted.  Ether had never been good with social graces, but at the very least Espresso had expected a word or two of thanks for saving her flank.  “Looks like I’m saving you from getting fried,” Espresso sniffed.  “For which you are welcome, by the way.”

Ether looked down, sheepish, then gave Espresso a defiant glare.  “Well... if you hadn’t barged in, I wouldn’t have needed it!  I was doing fine until you startled me.”

Espresso rolled her eyes at the excuse.  “And what were you doing, anyway?”

Ether shrugged and held up the glass tube.  “Trying to replace a blown vacuum tube, what does it look like?”

“With the power ON?  Are you crazy?”  Espresso didn’t know much about electrical equipment, but she was fairly certain it was foolish to crawl inside of it while it was powered up.

Ether grumbled, “The longwave set wouldn’t freq-lock, and I have to keep monitoring the shortwave.  It was just one tube, no problem.  Well, no problem until you came in making all kinds of noise... and I sorta bumped the power lead.”  

Espresso gave a sarcastic snort, gesturing to one of the console’s speakers.  “Wait, I came in making all kinds of noise?”  

Ether nodded without a trace of irony.  

Espresso squinted at the slight radiopony and tried again.  “Ether, I came in.  Making noise.”  She gestured at the speaker again.

Ether nodded again, looking puzzled.  She wasn’t sure what Espresso was getting at.

 Espresso gave up on subtlety and exclaimed, “Ether... how did you even hear me over all that racket?” 

Unperturbed, Ether shrugged.  As if it were the most obvious thing in the world she said, “But you don’t sound like radio noise.  I’m used to that stuff.  It’s totally different when someone bangs on the door and stomps in!”  The singed end of her mane flopped in front of her face, and she grimaced as she caught it in a hoof and examined it.  With a sigh she flipped it aside and opened a panel in the cabinet, swapped the good tube for a silvery, sooty blown one, then hoofed the set back on.  Lights and needles on the console’s board came to life, and a torrent of noise poured out of the speakers again.

Espresso blinked as she looked from Ether to cabinet, then back to Ether.  “Wait... that’s what you were trying to do?”

Ether nodded.  “Yeah, what’s your-”  She was interrupted when the steady static faltered and then Featherprop’s voice came over the speaker.  “Trottinger, Snowpon... th times."  She hurried over to the console and hoofed on her phones, grabbing the station log.

"Snowpony, Trottinger's ready copy. Slow read, slow read please."  She frowned and closed her eyes, straining to pick up the carrier wave through the interference.  Deuces, the Lights must be going crazy up above.

Featherprop's voice came back in a slow and steady cadence, but was still nearly impossible to hear through the noise.  "Roger, Trotting... owpony’s off ... elve after eight, exp... Fairflanks near ten-fif...  Don’t go deaf, Ether.”

Hoofing up a microphone, she replied, “Snowpony, Trottinger has good copy.  Don’t worry, it’s quieter than having you sawing logs down the hall.”  There were two quick bursts of static as the pilot acknowledged her, but then the radio crackled again with Featherprop’s garbled voice. 

“If Espresso is loom ... er you, tell ... said ‘thanks.’”  Even through the interference, a note of genuine gratitude could be heard in the pilot’s voice.

The radiopony snickered and replied, “Roger Wilco!”  One last broken reply came through,  “...t’s the vector, Vict...” before being washed out by the interference.  Tilting her head back, Ether looked through a fringe of dark-blue mane to see that Espresso was indeed leaning over her withers with an uncertain look on her face.  Ether gave her a suggestive grin and asked, “And he’s got you pretty well figured out, doesn’t he?”

“I wish he’d spend as much time figuring out how to fill out his flight logs as he does figuring out how to annoy me,” Espresso growled.  I suppose I ought to be glad he’s learning manners, even if he can’t use them when he’s standing in front of me.  Secretly, she wasn’t all that bothered by the pilot’s dig, but wasn’t fond of the implications in the other mare’s suggestive tone.  

In a way, Featherprop’s jibe was what she needed to shake off her lethargy.  There were chores to do before closing the offices for the night, and now she was short a pair of hooves to help out.  Not that Featherprop would have been much help anyway.  I think it takes more time getting him to do things than just doing them myself. 

The young stallion was perplexing.  Face to face, he was reluctant and sometimes lacked manners, but put him at the other end of a radio and he was pleasant, often gregarious.  A little voice in her head reminded her, That’s because he’s out of hoofreach, Espresso.  If you’d calm down, he might not be so skittish.  She dismissed that reasoning as soon as it passed through her mind; the overgrown colt needed to toughen up, and nopony ever did that when being coddled.

Espresso’s thoughts were interrupted by an off-key wail that raised both mares’ manes, and Ether hoofed the monitor volume down with a grimace.  “He’s right– the interference is awful tonight.  Luna, I hate monitoring when it’s like this!”  Absentmindedly, she rubbed her ears and sighed.

The radiopony’s complaint gave Espresso an idea.  With a smile, she spoke casually, “You know... I’d be happy to sit in for a while if you can do a few quick things for me...”

The smaller mare gave her a sour look, clapped her earphones over her ears, and pointedly glared at the door before hunching forward.  Espresso took that to mean the conversation was at an end, rolling her eyes at the unsubtle hint.  With a sigh, she turned and shuffled out, leaving Ether to her noise-filled vigil.

> 4:  A Real Fixer-Upper
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



ETSB Number:  EAR-13-20
Impact Site Summary

Detailed examination of the airframe was not possible due to the extensive damage sustained during impact and the post-impact fire.  The aircraft’s first point of contact was with minor limbs at a near-vertical angle of descent, with a glancing bole impact approximately thirty feet above ground level.  Branch breakage patterns and trunk damage indicate the aircraft entered the forest crown in an  inverted attitude, with a nose-down attitude of eighty-five degrees below the horizon.  The accident is classified as non-survivable due to the near vertical path, high velocity, and minimal energy dissipation prior to striking the ground.  The full force of impact was borne by the cabin structure.  Impact forces compromised fuel tank integrity and post-impact fire damaged all involved structures to the point that further analysis was inconclusive.  A three-inch thick slab of mixed clear and rime ice was found near the separated left wingtip.  The longitudinal profile of the slab matched the wing leading edge, providing strong evidence of severe to extreme icing conditions.





After he recovered from overwhelming aural and physical sensations of his first takeoff, Pasture was surprised to find that flying was remarkably like sitting at a desk.  If one were to put a desk in the middle of a beehive.  Though the noise was now only a fraction of the onslaught during takeoff, it was still deafening if he were to take the ‘phones off.  The windows were much darker than the interior of the cockpit and Pasture gave only a passing glance at the instruments in front of him; while he could guess at the meanings of some of the readings, they told him nothing of value.  All in all, it was both boring and distracting, which only grated on his nerves even more.

As his disinterest grew into boredom, Pasture found himself watching his Pegasus pilot.  Featherprop seemed utterly absorbed in his tasks, but there was an air of relaxation about him that intrigued the doctor.  When Pasture was performing hands-on work in the laboratory or digging through the stacks in the research library, his was a single-mindeded focus:  The experiments were carefully designed to minimize variables, and his reading was always done with a  specific goal in mind.  

The Pegasus, however, did not seem to approach his work the same way.  Though he sat still, his eyes scanned back and forth across the panel.  He held the yoke almost carelessly with his left hoof, but the right seemed to be moving constantly:  Turning knobs, touching the radios, or reaching up to nudge the levers hanging from the overhead.  As far as Pasture could tell, there was no method or pattern; the younger Pony seemed to make changes at random.  I could never concentrate with the noise and constant distractions.  I wonder if he would have a hard time working in a quiet office?

 As they flew on, Featherprop began to turn down the lighting until only a dim glow emanated from the panel.  Lit from below, the outline of his brown muzzle and ears softened against the quilted insulation on the wall behind but his eyes still glinted in the lights of the instruments.  Pasture watched as Featherprop began to glance outside the cockpit more often, suppressing a frown as he felt the plane begin to drift from the steady course Featherprop had previously been holding. 

They droned onward through the darkness, and soon Pasture could not stifle the urge to yawn.  Though he was quite tired, Pasture felt a gnawing worry at the thought of falling asleep while hurtling through the air in a rattling, bouncing contraption.  He reached behind his seat and pulled a notebook from his saddlebag.  Just before departing Pasture had marshalled a small army of graduate students and lab assistants in the library, herding them into the stacks with a combination of vaguely plausible promises and ominous musings about the future of their academic careers.  One particular set of case files had been of primary importance, but his platoon of ponies had also managed to find a few journals that held promise.  

Pasture had already read through them, of course, but he hoped another review would help alleviate some of the boredom.  Not that reading old Frostenhoof’s notes again will help with that.  He felt above his head for the overhead lamp’s rheostat, but before he could turn it on the Pegasus stayed his hoof and shook his head.

"If you really need a light, Doc, use the red one over your shoulder.  Keep it low, though." Featherprop tried to keep his voice level; he hated it when some otherpony touched the controls in his cockpit without permission, but for now he didn't want to provoke Pasture.  The last thing he needed was to add to the tension that was still knotting up his insides.

Pasture twisted his head and looked about, finally recognizing a small gray cylinder above his shoulder as some sort of lamp and turned it on.  The beam was weak and barely illuminated the pages of the notebook.  With a look of distaste, he turned to the pilot and complained,  "That’s all? I can't read with this scrap of light."

Featherprop sighed as his mane prickled in annoyance annoyance, but tried to keep it from  his voice.  "Sorry, but if you turn on the overhead then I won't be able to see. Right now, that,”  he glanced downward at Pasture's notebook, “isn’t important. What's outside is."  He nodded his chin towards the window besides the Unicorn.

Until now, Pasture hadn't looked beyond the instrument panel or the pilot– the lighting in the cockpit had made the windscreens opaque from the inside, while the strangeness of the entire experience had made forget there was a world beyond the aircraft.  He cupped a hoof over his brow and stared intently out the side window.  Now with the glare blocked, he could begin to see patterns of light and dark patches beneath a uniform gray ceiling.  As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, one of the seemingly distant dark patches slid past at a startling rate and the Unicorn's ears flickered in surprise.  His eyes snapped into focus on a white patch with black speckles as it sped past, then lost it in the faint green glow of the wingtip, and Pasture only realized afterwards that he’d been holding his breath.

Though his passenger's nose and horn were pressed against the window, Featherprop could hear a touch of alarm mixed  n his voice.  "Wait, are we flying through a valley?  Shouldn’t we be flying above the hills?"  

Featherprop smiled.  “They’re mountains, actually.  Some of them reach up higher than we can go.  The ranges aren’t reliable through here, so it’s safer if we stay out of the clouds, and that means running the valley.  Now, if no one blinds me, it’ll be a piece of cake.”  He delivered the gentle barb with a brief smile, hoping to break the ice, but the words were lost on Pasture, who was still staring intently out the side window.

Pasture nodded absentmindedly, only half-hearing the Pegasus.  After his eyes had adjusted, the view was surprisingly clear. Though there was a solid overcast, the light of Luna's moon diffused through, barely lighting the world around them. The silvery luminance imparted a soft glow to the clouds, with some light filtering down to the forested slopes and valley below.  A river wound back and forth in the valley, it’s snow-covered channel meandering between the dark fir trees.  Above it, sharp peaks stood out like teeth against the velvet backdrop of the clouds, the white streaks of avalanche chutes marking their flanks.  

The tops of many of the hills seemed to have been cut off unnaturally, ending abruptly at the same level.  After several minutes Pasture felt a flush of embarrassment spread across his muzzle as he realized that the hills were really mountains, whose peaks were piercing the clouds, their summits reaching an unknown height above them.  In the valley below there was only an occasional pool of light, and Pasture imagined it must mark the home of a lonely farmer or woodspony, spending an evening in front of the fire or tending to some late chores.  Soon even those were completely gone, leaving only the cloud-filtered glow of Luna’s moon to light their way.  Without anything to focus on, his eyelids started to grow heavy.

Featherprop’s smile faded when he saw that Pasture was absorbed with the view, and he turned back to his own thoughts.  If there was one thing he wanted to avoid, it was a flight full of bickering– the mission itself had his mind going in circles, and he didn't think he could endure a running argument with a passenger as well.  Especially one who’s dead set on getting where he wants to go and has a Royal Commission to back him up.   

He snorted.  ‘Dead set,’ ‘Prop?  Care to rephrase that? 

Featherprop’s worries were not just obsessive fussing; despite the short history of mechanical aviation (or perhaps because of it), the Frostmane had already seen quite a few tragic examples of what happened when hubris, wishful thinking, or coercion triumphed over common sense.  Like most pilots, Featherprop took a professional, dispassionate interest in these accidents.  Most of them, at least.

Featherprop winced as old memories surfaced, and fought to stuff the dread they brought with them back down.  It took a few deep breaths and perhaps a quick sniffle before he looked up again.  Luna’s Veil, it's lonely up here tonight.  He belatedly remembered that there was somepony else along, and slid his eyes sideways, worried that Pasture had noticed.

Most nights when those recollections stalked through his mind, there was no one up front to see him– often anypony else on board was busy in the back.  Tonight, though, he didn't even have the illusory privacy of an empty copilot's seat.

To Featherprop’s relief he could see that Pasture couldn’t have seen him, for the Unicorn was losing his battle to stay awake; Pasture had slumped against the side of the cabin, his head nodding erratically as he dozed.  Looks like we could both use some conversation.  Maybe I can even get him to open up about what’s behind this Luna-forsaken trip.  He dug into a bag behind the seat and pulled out a steel cylinder.

Pasture felt a hoof nudging his shoulder and snapped his head back up.  A steaming mug was bobbing in front of his muzzle.  The cockpit had filled with a spicy, almost caramelized scent that intensified as a tendril of steam drifted past his nostrils.  Looking over, he saw the Pegasus glancing sideways with an apologetic grin on his muzzle.  Pasture gratefully took the cup in a magical aura, quickly reaching a hoof up to support it as it wobbled in mid-air.  “Thank you.  I seem to be having a hard time staying awake.”

Featherprop nodded.  “It's the noise and vibrations– they wear you down after a while.  Coffee helps, but nothing works better than having somepony to talk to.”  He took an exaggerated sip of his own coffee to hide his nervousness and tried to look  nonchalant.  “So... what's the word, Doc? Tell me something I don't know.”

The Unicorn tentatively lifted his mug to his lips and felt his eyes pop open.  What in Celestia's name did they do to this coffee?  He had never been a connoisseur of the bitter brew, but it had become a staple among the academic elite in Canterlot.  This, however, was beyond anything he had ever tasted– not so much bitter as deep and complex, with a slight malty-chocolatey feel coating his tongue after he had swallowed.  He coughed and smacked his lips a few times.  “Well, for one, I've never had coffee that tastes like this.”  He took another experimental sip and was surprised at the sudden feeling of alertness.  “It certainly grabs your attention.”

Featherprop nodded enthusiastically, “Neither did I before I came up here.  This stuff takes the cake!  Sort of reminds me of this brew the Gryphs make.  Not quite the same– with theirs, it’s more like they distill it, then smelt it with sugar, cream, and butter– it'll curl your feathers, that's for sure.”  He paused and took a deep whiff from his own mug, nostrils flaring as he gently pulled in the rising steam.  His eyes closed and ears drooped in pleasure.  “Anyway, you can thank Espresso for this coffee.  I think there’s some Zebricaran mixed in, that’s the spiciness you smell.  She even named this blend– 'Come Along Home,' though it took some doing to get her to admit it.”  He watched the Unicorn take a deeper sip and nod in approval.  “She doesn’t want anyone to know she can get sentimental– it’d destroy that NightMare image she cultivates.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes, both stallions simply enjoying the flavors and, to Pasture's surprise, the companionship. He examined that feeling with some bemusement.  Why is it that a mere beverage can bring on this contemplative feeling?  So far on his trip he had felt at odds with everypony he had run into.  So many had seemed set on putting obstacles in his path that, with a looming deadline, he’d had no choice but to run roughshod over them.  Now that he was nearing his destination, he felt a growing sense of disquiet at the thought of the journey coming to an end and his true task beginning.  So, Eisen.  You weren’t happy when you were held up, and now you’re not happy to be on your way?  Would that be called irony or pettiness?

Featherprop, Pasture could say with confidence, would never make a  good politician.  The Pegasus’s desperate attempt to project a calm, confident demeanor was belied by the constant twitching of his wings– Pasture knew enough Pegasi to be able to recognize some of their unique physical cues, and Featherprop was quite obviously tense and distracted.  

Well, I can certainly sympathize with that.  He took a deeper sip and decided that the Pegasus might have a point about coffee and conversation.  “Come Along Home, hm?  Your Ms. Connemara is a most remarkable mare.”

Featherprop's eyebrow quirked up at the subtle intonation Pasture gave to the words “your” and “Ms.” and gave a bemused grunt.  “She's unique, but ‘my’ Espresso?  I don't know if your compass is reading right, Doc.”

Pasture shrugged and stared at his coffee.  “It sounds as though the two of you can’t get along, yet in your voice I believe I hear a certain fondness for her.”  He turned to face the pilot, tilting his head down and giving the Pegasus a searching look from under his mane.  “How does it come to pass that close colleagues are at such loggerheads, hm?”

The Unicorn’s question caught Featherprop by surprise.  The passive-aggressive sparring between himself and the Earth mare had gone on for so long that it had become a part of daily life, something that simply was.  His ears swiveled forward and back as he tried to figure out exactly what he thought about that, and how to word it, without confirming Pasture’s slightly-frightening ideas about some sort of affection.  

He and Espresso didn't hate each other by any means, but they'd been trading barbs with each other for so long it that any other way of conversing seemed almost intim– inappropriate, he corrected himself.  Wasn’t always like that, though.  She scared the feathers off of me early on.

While Espresso had rather easily intimidated the young Pegasus in the beginning, Featherprop had surprised her (and himself) by fighting back, albeit indirectly.  His strategy had been subtle– he avoided open conflict with her, preferring to win his battles in absentia while staying out of range of whichever blunt object she happened to have nearby.  Featherprop was fairly certain that the architect of the Flight Center had been a Pegasus, for the double-height ceilings and broad hallway seemed custom-made for flying Ponies.  On several occasions when Espresso had cornered him with an empty coffee-pot (and proceeded to give him a few good jabs in the ribs with it), the high ceilings had given him an escape route and allowed him to flee relatively unharmed.  Another reason you need a good api... ada... fat layer; protection against angry mares.

Featherprop sighed, slightly embarrassed to be talking about the part he’d played.  “I suppose it began a few months after I was hired on.  Espresso’d been around for years and nopony at the Center dared to cross her.  We had a few little run-ins, you know, things like paperwork not being filled out right or forgetting to hand in my timecard, and she always made sure I knew I'd messed up.  Nopony likes getting pushed around, but...  I really didn't want to rock the boat, you know?  So I did my best to stay out from underhoof, until this one day.  Okay, you've smelled her coffee, right?”  The Unicorn gestured with his mug sardonically, and Featherprop looked sheepish.  “Oh, right.  Well, you can see why I love it.  But in the beginning, whenever I tried to get some she'd stare me down and I just didn't know how to deal with it.  I was new, and she can be really, really intimidating, so I just went without.”

Looking back on his early days brought an odd tension to Featherprop’s gut.  There were a lot of good memories, but some that were embarrassing, and some that he coud have washed away with hard cider.  It should have been embarrassing to dredge up these old events and discuss them with somepony who was essentially a stranger, but instead it was liberating to talk with someone outside the tight-knit community of Trottinger.  

“Well, like I said, there was this one day.  She had brewed up a pot and just as I walked by she trotted out to take care of something.  It smelled so good.  I figured I could sneak a half a cup before she came back.”  He felt himself blushing,  “Well, it was too good.  Since she was still out, I had another half-cup, and then another, and... well, pretty soon the pot was empty.”

Pasture found himself leaning over as the brown stallion talked, ears tilted forward in interest.  

The Pegasus continued,  “That was when I heard her in the hall.  You can't mistake her gait when she's 'in a mood,' and boy was she ever that day.  I panicked, I figured I was a dead pony.”  He unconsciously looked around as if he feared she would somehow overhear, then went on in a lower voice.  “I don't know if you noticed the arched window over the door to her office?”  The Unicorn nodded; though he reallyhadn't, he was too interested to interrupt the tale.  “Well, just before she walked in, I saw the ledge up there.  I flew up and started trying to open it.”  Featherprop’s words started to come in a rush as he recounted the events, the fear he’d felt evident in his voice. 

“I think she heard me as she came in, but thank Luna she didn't look up. She saw the empty coffee pot, though. I'd left it sitting right on her desk.”  An embarrassed grin had started to grow into a smile on his muzzle, and his voice trembled a little as he fought to keep a straight face.  “I watched her walk in, right under me.  She knelt down in front of the desk and stared at the pot, nose right up against it.  Then she looked at the coffeemaker, then the door, and the pot again.”  He turned away, trying to stifle a nervous snicker that was trying very hard to escape.

He glanced sideways at Pasture.  “So I'm balancing on that ledge, my heart pounding, and I'm convinced she's going to hear it.  But she just kept staring at the pot and glancing at the coffeemaker, and then she sorta backed out the door, still looking at the pot.  I heard the door close, and then open again– I think she was looking to see if, I don’t know, maybe if she’d imagined it or something.”  His eyes were tearing up and he tried to wipe them clear with a hoof as his voice cracked.  “Fina...  finally I heard her trot down the hall, muttering to herself.  I flew down to the pilot lounge and just burst out laughing– I had to smother it with the pillow so she wouldn't hear.”  His relief replayed itself on his face, and he grinned broadly at the Unicorn.  “That changed everything– it was so much fun, I couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.  After that, it sorta became a game, though she didn't realize it for a while.  It wasn't until I came across the Instant Coffee of the Month Club... Hoo, that one really ate at her!  She finally figured out it was me, but by that time I wasn't so new anymore.”  Looking a little guilty, he admitted,  “Actually, she cuts me a lot of slack anymore.  I guess I should feel bad, taking advantage of that, but... it's just too hard to resist!”

Pasture found himself smiling along with the pilot.  The brown stallion had been right– conversation definitely helped with the weariness, though he attributed some of that to the potent brew in his hooves.  When Featherprop motioned with the vacuum flask he nodded and held out his mug for a refill.  “And to think, when you started I thought you'd have some story of a date gone wrong.”

Featherprop head snapped around with an haunted look on his face.  “Are you crazy? After dealing with Espresso at work, I can't imagine what going on a date with her would be like.  It'd be...”  He shuddered.  “Well, I don't know what it'd be like, but it'd be pretty scary.”

Pasture chuckled and sipped his coffee.  “I take it you've never dealt with royalty, then.  Ms. Connemara is a breath of fresh air compared to some Grande Dames I've met at Academy balls.”

The Pegasus grimaced and stuck out his tongue,  “Well, you can keep 'em.  One Espresso is enough for this territory.”

The two stallions lapsed back into silence, both content to work through the cooling coffee and sift through their own thoughts.  Featherprop turned his attention back to the skies as he guided the craft through a series of passes and valleys, while Pasture mulled over the task he faced in Fetlock Falls.  Above them, the clouds thinned and Luna's moon began to find thin spots in the cover, dappling the valley floor with shifting, diaphanous pools of light.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso grumbled as she sorted through the ruins of her filing system.  What is his problem?  I had all of this in order, then he puts his hooves on it and in five minutes, I can’t tell Applelopolis from Prancecagoula!   Featherprop had left the weather reports in an abominable state. I’ve had it with him.  No more Mrs. Nicemare.  Yet her burst of anger quickly faded as quickly as it had flared, damped down by a wave of guilt.

Not that she used a gentle hoof with him, anyway; Featherprop managed to annoy her much more frequently than any other Pony at the Flight Center, and she seldom missed an opportunity to try to correct him.

As a rule, Espresso didn’t put any effort into being nice to new pilots:  Generally they were lazy, broke stuff, complained about broken stuff, and mistakenly considered themselves the most important part of the entire outfit.  

Worst of all, they thought they were entitled to coffee and muffins just for showing up to work.  She made a point to put them in their place as soon as possible, using a combination of glares, veiled threats, implied and outright insults to get her point across.  Most of them became tolerable after a few months on the job, and once they stopped acting like spoiled Canterlot savages she would treat them like grown-up Ponies.  Featherprop had seemed no different, really; in fact, he’d learned his place in the pecking order much quicker than most.  The problem lay with how thoroughly he yielded to her– he had been almost completely non-confrontational..

Until I turn my back.  That was when the contents of drawers were swapped, coffee urns glued in place, entire filing cabinets inversely alphabetized according to Modern Gryphillic... the list went on and on.  At first she had thought it was simple foalish revenge and became even harsher with him.  But after a few months, she realized that nothing was being damaged or destroyed... the only thing of value missing tended to be entire pots of coffee.  There was a glimmer of logic to it, even if she thought it was sophmoric.  

After a few stubborn, resentful weeks, she finally began to see the humor and resourcefulness in his pranks and softened her responses, somewhat.  As a matter of principle, she refused to stop treating him with disdain when he made mistakes.  Which is often.  He can be persistent, but what I want– what I need– is for him to stop backing down when confronted.  He needs to learn to stand up for himself, or he’ll get stuck in a situation that he can’t escape.

From the beginning, Featherprop had been something of a challenge for Espresso.  He was young, single, and already possessed of a set of wings, which made him doubly assured of his invincibility.  Within weeks of her arrival, she had fielded the usual complaints that accompanied a new pilot– dramatic takeoffs, low flying, the usual back-of-the-mane stunts a newly-untethered aviator wanted to try.  As station manager, the decisions made by the Ponies she supervised were ultimately her responsibility, so of course it fell to her to cure him of these impulses.  Espresso had swiftly and surely laid down the law with a ferocity that she was sure had left him with ringing ears more than once.

But just when that professional interest in the development of a subordinate had turned into a long-term personal improvement project, she couldn’t quite place.  

Espresso was finally satisfied that the reports were close enough to organized to be useable, and she turned her attention to the desk with a sigh.  You’d think an airline runs on paperwork, not fuel.  Nearly everything to do with both the business and operational side came across her desk, and the volume would scare most Ponies.  Flopping down on her seatpad, her thoughts drifted off again as she sorted fuel receipts and invoices.  

As near as she could tell, the real beginning of Project Featherprop was shortly after he had arrived in Trottinger, the day after... Luna, I don’t want to think about that with him up there.  But the thoughts were there, and she had to admit that they worried her.

That day was still clear in her mind:  A brief message came from Flank Harbor, informing them that Featherprop’s roommate from the Gryphon flight academy had died in a crash.  The message arrived early in the evening, while Featherprop was flying.  Though it was formatted as a bulletin for the entire station, she had taken it with a slight shake of her head and placed it in a drawer.  It seemed cruel to simply post the message next to the chalkboard for Featherprop to see in passing– the only equine thing to do was to give him the news face to face.

When Featherprop had finally stepped in the door and shaken the snow out of his mane, Espresso found the words she had practiced sticking in her throat.  As he gave her a puzzled look, all she could do was pass the bulletin to him.  The puzzlement on his face turned to disbelief as he read, his jaw quivering.  He slumped against the doorway, then fell in a heap as his wet hooves slipped on the planks.  Scrambling up with a wild look in his eyes he began hyperventilating and glancing about as though he were lost.

Espresso recalled how she had come close to smacking him, settling for a few good shakes before herding the dazed Pegasus down the hallway to the pilot lounge.  As he curled on an empty bunk, she'd admonished him to take a few days off.

But to her surprise, the next day he came to work at the usual time.  He was quiet and grim, he didn’t say much, but he was there for duty.  Though she scolded,  it didn’t seem to faze him– he simply asked for his assignment in a flat, empty voice.  After a long look at the young stallion, she penciled him in as a secondary reserve and gently told him he could stay.

Looking back, she could see that work was the only thing that had held the withdrawn stallion together.   As days and weeks passed, Featherprop’s old demeanor began to come back, but with it came a newfound respect for the dangers that accompanied every flight, and a growing patience when it came to waiting for the weather.  She had watched with a measure of pride as he  grew into his position as a captain, leaving behind most of his coltish impulses.

That changed the day Placer Nugget came to the station. 

> 5:  Lessons Learned
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the flight to Fairflanks drifted into monotony, Featherprop mulled over some of the questions he hadn’t had time to ask before departing.  An unsettling sensation of being deceived kept his ears twitching.  While he didn't want to start an argument with Pasture, the worries eventually drove him to speak.  

“Doc.”  The tone of Featherprop's voice caused the Unicorn to look over– all the mirth was gone, and it was filled with concern.  “You never did say why you had to come up here.  I mean, the scroll we got was vague, and Espresso barely said a word to me before we left but she looked like she'd seen a ghost.  What's going on in Fetlock Falls?”

Pasture had been hoping to avoid a conversation like this as well.  There were dimensions of this mission that demanded secrecy.  With the uncertainty of what he would actually face when he arrived at Fetlock Falls, he’d been reluctant to discuss anything surrounding it.  So far he'd been able to gloss over the details with the help of his Royal Commission, but now it was harder to justify withholding information.  The isolation would make it impossible for any rumors to spread beyond the few communities, at least until he would be able to make a report to Canterlot.  Even so, the idea of openly discussing the situation, especially with a Pony he’d just met, worried him.

Pasture hedged his words and spoke carefully.  “There's been an outbreak of... illness in Fetlock Falls.”

Despite living in a remote, unsophisticated town, Featherprop could hear the dissemblance in the Unicorn's voice.  “Doc, I carry sick and hurt Ponies all the time.  Nopony needs a doctor from Canterlot for a cold.  I don’t need to be a genius to figure there's more to it than 'someone's sick.'  What are we flying into?“  His voice had taken on a commanding tone, one he usually reserved for unruly or frightened passengers– the doctor’s half-truth had raised his hackles.  By Luna, I may be just a pilot, but this is my plane. I’m not gonna be lied to up here.

Pasture flinched a little at the question.  He’d known that, sooner or later, he would have had to explain the situation to Featherprop.  In a way, it was a relief to be able to talk to some otherpony about what had been troubling him for days.  With a sigh he said, “Fine.  I'm a pathologist– I received my Doctorate in the study of diseases.  For the past decade I have been working in the Infectious Illnesses section of the REMMA– 'Coughs and Cooties' as our bone-and-sinew mending brethren call it.  Whenever there’s a suspected outbreak or epidemic, our section is notified. Most often it's routine, like a strong strain of the common cold or outbreaks of Pinionnaire's Disease."

"Aside from studying and keeping records of these outbreaks, we've also been refining thaumaturgic therapy– the utilization of magic and medicine together for therapeutic purposes.  Many doctors have combined the two, but always on an intuitive rather than scientific level.  My department has focused on systematically researching the most effective combination of the two.  It's because these areas of specialization that I've been sent here.”  A look of pride flashed across his muzzle, only to be replaced by a slight grimace.
 
“Several weeks ago, a scroll was delivered from the Frostmane Health Bureau, describing a radio report of a rash of illness in Fetlock Falls, possibly Infurenza.  It was cursory and sounded like a run-of-the-barn outbreak, so our medical attache, Falling Fever, was sent to investigate.”  Pasture’s voice was calm, but he looked uncomfortable.

Featherprop blinked and looked at the doctor with concern.  Infurenza certainly wasn't unusual, but it was particularly feared by 'Maners.  Anxious mothers of sneezing foals would hold their hooves to check for tremors– folk wisdom held that to be a way to tell between a common cold and the more serious illness.  When Featherprop had first arrived, he'd found the 'Maner's fear of the illness quaint.  

It was only after traveling to some of the more remote villages that the Pegasus began to understand why they feared it so.  Infurenza was seldom life-threatening, but it was not the disease itself that posed the danger; rather, the chills and weakness it brought prevented anypony from working, and in the harsh climate of the Frostmane, that could be disastrous.  In remote villages or on homesteads, daily chores were often a matter of survival; without fuel, the hearthfire would go out, and without forage, the larder would run empty early in the winter.

Pasture continued, “Nine days ago, the situation became much more serious:  Our attache fell ill as well, even though he had received the standard inoculations and should have been protected by the usual magical precautions.  In fact, he was affected much more quickly, and to a much worse degree, than the local populace, a sure sign that this was not Infurenza as we know it.”  He glanced at Featherprop, whose face now had a mix of worry and horror creeping across it.  “I began looking through the records, searching for other cases of resistant Infurenza– at that point, we assumed he had carried it there with him.  What we found in was in some ways better and in some ways worse.”  

Pasture paused, reconsidering the wisdom of launching into this explanation.  It’s too late now, isn’t it? “We are familiar with most current forms of the Infurenza, and it's not hard to quickly create an immunizing agent.  Against an unknown form, however, our abilities are limited.  I am here because of my research and what we uncovered in the records.”  He sighed and took a moment to organize his thoughts.

“Years ago, long before you or I were born, there was an epidemic in the Frostmane, which eventually became known as the Winter Infurenza.  By all accounts it was much stronger than the strains we are accustomed to.”  His head drooped as he measured his words.  “There were some cases in Equestria, but the Frostmane was hit particularly hard; the Territory was just being settled, and what few hospitals existed were overwhelmed.  The harsh winter weather meant isolated settlements were nearly impossible to provide with aid.”  

“Even worse, the illness struck the most vulnerable communities the hardest.  It started in the late fall in a few of the coastal towns, but they were only moderately affected by the epidemic.  Fairflanks and Trottinger, oddly enough, were only mildly affected by the illness, but we aren’t sure why.  As winter set in, the epidemic began to spread inland to the smaller settlements.”  He paused, waiting for a catch in his throat to clear.  “The cost was terrible.  With no communications to speak of besides word of mouth, few villages received a warning.  Even for the ones that did, the warnings were of no use– nopony was prepared for the virulent nature of the disease.”  

Even for a detached scientist, the scale of the tragedy was overwhelming, and Pasture’s voice was tinged with sadness.  Despite the scores of years that separated him from the events, his profession's failure weighed heavily on him, moreso now that he was faced with a possible resurgence of an aggressive disease.

Featherprop was stunned; the Pegasus had never heard any of this.  “Doc... why didn't you, –well, your Section– do anything?  It might just be the Frostmane, but you're here now.  Why didn’t you deal with it then?”  There was an edge of bitterness to his voice.  Like native Frostmaners, Featherprop had come to harbor a feeling that Southerners didn't always see their Northern cousins as equals, and this situation certainly seemed to justify that belief.

The accusation was like a blow to Pasture.  For a moment the Unicorn felt an urge to snap back, but his anger faded into resignation.  He doesn't know the history of the region; why would he know anything of the REMMA?  “The Infectious Illnesses Department didn't exist at the time.  In fact, the Winter Infurenza was the primary reason it was created, on direct order from Princess Celestia.”  He could see that this was indeed news to Featherprop, for the Pegasus’s muzzle reddened and he looked away.

Pasture decided to try a different approach, and made an effort to soften his voice.  “Tell me, Featherprop, have you heard of a village called Fetlock Shallows?”

The Pegasus frowned as he tried to recall the name. It was similar to their final destination, but he couldn't recall ever hearing of it.  There's the Shallows downstream from Fetlock Falls, but... there's no settlement there, just–   

A sudden realization caused Featherprop to draw his breath in sharply, the microphone catching the hissing sound and startling Pasture.  “There's a ford farther down the Fetlock River, the locals call it the Shallows. But there's only an old burn on the north side...”  He trailed off, for the look in Pasture's eyes told him he'd stumbled onto the truth.

Pasture held his gaze for a moment, then looked away out the window. When he spoke, his voice caught in his throat, sounding gravelly.  “Fetlock Shallows ceased to exist after the epidemic.  At that time, it was so remote nopony knew the disease had swept over the settlement– not until a few survivors managed to limp into the next village, weak and frostbitten. Cedarvale was stricken as well, though they had the benefit of some medical staff from the Fairflanks clinic.  In the end, it was several weeks before any sort of relief party could be dispatched to Fetlock Shallows.“  

His voice faltered; the dry, unemotional details recorded in the journals now seemed much more vivid, and voicing them lent a reality to the events that he wished he did not have to face.  “After... after the rescue and recovery operation, all the buildings were purposely burned.  Scavengers... well, it was decided the buildings were no longer fit for habitation.”  Looking out the window, he felt very, very far away from his laboratory and medical library.  Neither Pony spoke as the dark weight of history settled over them. When the silence stretched on for several minutes, Pasture looked over at the pilot, who looked to be lost in thought.

Featherprop was trying to assimilate the doctor's revelations, but images of burning houses and crippled stragglers kept interrupting his thoughts; all he could do was stare blankly out the windscreen.  When he felt a hoof on his shoulder, he cringed and shook his head to clear the nightmarish images.  The Unicorn was looking at him with some concern.  He shook off his torpor; there were still questions he needed answered.  “I.. I don't understand. What does that have to do with Fetlock Falls?”

“Fetlock Falls is not that old, is it?  Twenty years or so since it's founding?”  Pasture had not had time for detailed research, but there was no reports from medical staff referring to the village prior to that.

Featherprop nodded.  “I think it was several families from near Trottinger, actually, that went to homestead the area.  Before my time, though.”

The Unicorn looked ill at the thoughts he was now voicing; they had seemed much less disturbing in the rushed, informal briefing he had given the Dean of the Academy.  “Like Fetlock Shallows, then– the medical records suggested most residents were related and had few relatives outside of the settlement. Most of the deceased were laid to rest near the Shallows; we fear that their... well, that the Infurenza may have been preserved by the permafrost. If any remains have been, ah, disturbed, then it's possible somepony has picked up the illness... and it may be affecting Fetlock Falls. “

The Pegasus's mind began to race at this latest bit of information.  We go in and out of Fetlock Falls a few times a month... and there's the snow-road as well.  Alongside the horror he felt, his anger was rising– he was getting tired of being out of the loop.  “Doc, who else knows about this?”

Pasture sighed.  Featherprop’s question was the one he had feared would come from this discussion.  The REMMA had been concerned that a panic might ensue if news was released before they knew what they were facing, so he had been instructed to avoid direct references to the Winter Infurenza or any kind of communicable illness until there was confirmation, positive or not.  It was a mistake to tell him... but better he finds out now, rather than on the ground.  “Very few Ponies. The Territorial Minister knows, as does the head of the Frostmane Health Bureau.”

Now Featherprop knew why he had felt bitter– this felt like pure Equestrian arrogance.  It's one thing to ask a Pony to risk his life, but pretty low to trick him into it.  “Who else, Doc?  Did you tell Espresso?  And what about me?  I'm flying you in there, don't I rate a 'watch your flank?' ”  He didn't bother to hide the venom in his voice.

Pasture wasn't fazed by Featherprop’s sudden aggression– years of Departmental budget meetings had given him a tough hide and had forged him into a skilled verbal infighter.  I wish he could see that there are bigger issues here than the feelings of a courier.  “I feel I should point out that I just did.”

Featherprop quirked an eyebrow at the Unicorn's arch reply. “Oh, and such a timely warning, too!  Think maybe you were a little late, Doc?  The time to talk about risk is before you get started.”

Pasture waved his free hoof dismissively.  “Risk?  Compared to flying in this thing, there's no risk.  You need close, sustained contact with a sick pony to risk contraction.  It's a disease, not some curse.”  Leaning on the hoofrest, he eyed the pilot.  “Let me ask you: Had you known beforehand, would you have refused to fly me there?”

“Well, no, but...”  Despite his anger at being deceived, Featherprop could not deny that he would have taken on the mission anyway.  “But that’s not...”

The Unicorn cut him off, raising his voice over the pilot's hesitant words.  “I knew you wouldn't; you have a sense of honor and duty.  I regret not telling you, of course, but I have people I answer to.  There are higher considerations!  We protect the public, and that takes precedence over many things.  I apologize if your feelings may be hurt, but let us keep in mind what we are here to do:  I have sick Ponies to care for, perhaps an epidemic to nip in the bud, but only if we can get there in time.”

Turning to look out the side window again, Pasture’s voice dropped to a sad, almost paternalistic tone. “And for that, I need you. I need to get there, and with the Celestia-forsaken cold, this is the only way to get there in time. Without you, this situation becomes much more dangerous– if it is Infurenza and it spreads, we will have a regional problem, rather than a single town.  And if it’s a revival of the Winter Infurenza... soon we will have a Territory-wide epidemic.” With that, he lapsed into silence, regretting both the tone he'd taken and having divulged the information. What's done is done, Eisen.  It sounded so easy, so logical as the Council discussed it back at the Academy, but none of them are here.  He risked a glance over at the pilot.  Featherprop was staring at the instruments his mouth was set in a hard line.  Pasture shrugged to himself. I hope you have not made an enemy of him, Eisen.  There’s still a long way to go.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Placer Nugget.  Espresso was sitting at her desk, trying to stay focused organizing a pile of receipts and invoices overflowing her inbox, but her eyes narrowed at the memory of the brash, loud-mouthed Pony.  Placer Nugget was a legend in the Frostmane, first as a representative of the Equestrian Treasury and later as an independent prospector.  The Unicorn had used his talent for detecting precious metals to make a fortune, locating a string of deposits for the Equestrian Mint and then branching out on his own.  

When she thought about how he had come into the Trottinger station, flashing smiles and tipping freely, Espresso wished she could say she had seen through him, but that wasn’t true.  He’s a walking, talking legend.  How do you you see through that within five minutes of meeting a Pony?  When rumors flew that he was on a mission to suss out a new claim, everypony acted as if they thought his golden touch would rub off on them.

For Espresso, reality soon set in.  While she hadn’t seen through him in five minutes, within ten Placer had revealed a bit of his true nature, once he was behind closed doors  Thank Luna I made ‘Prop sit in on that little negotiating session.  Rude, demanding, and supremely self-confident, Placer had tried to bargain down the price of his carriage contract.  When that failed, he tried to secure a guaranteed discount on future flights.  With some amusement, she recalled how Featherprop’s eyes had dilated as she stood up to the pushy stallion, raising her voice just as much as the Unicorn did.  In the end, Placer backed down, and as his swishing golden tail went through the doorway she had whispered in Featherprop’s ear, “Remember, he’s a bully.  Don’t give in.  You know what’s in the contract now, so don’t let him push you.”

And he hadn’t.  Espresso considered it a sign of Featherprop’s growth that, when faced with worsening weather, the Pegasus had stood firm.  He’d refused to depart Fairflanks for a remote riverbank destination, even when Placer had threatened to have him fired.  Though years had passed, her ears pinned back at the Unicorn's threat Featherprop had recounted:  “Do you know how many bits you’re going to cost your company?  It's an easy choice, son:  We go, or I’ll break you.  You’ll be making sandwiches back in Cloudsdale when I’m done.”  

Of course, she couldn’t think of that without chuckling at how Featherprop had shrugged with a sad half-smile as he’d told her, saying, “Funny thing, though, I used to make sandwiches in Cloudsdale for a while.  It wasn’t that bad.”

With a muffled whoosh, a stack of papers fell over and scattered across her desk.  Espresso groaned and gave up, laying her head down.  She felt drained; the weight of events past and present sapped her motivation, and she surrendered to the memories that kept pushing into her conscious thoughts.  Luna, why am I so worried about this?  Oh, right, because you put him on a plane with another pushy Unicorn.  Of course there’s no problem there, Espresso.

In the end, the Placer Nugget affair had drawn her in, as well.  After Featherprop’s refusal, the fuming Unicorn had stomped across the field and cajoled, wheedled, or bribed a Pone Air pilot into taking him north.  While the flight had arrived safely, Placer didn’t forget to follow through on his threat; the following week Espresso received a scroll from Frostmane Flying Service’s owner, Pinching Bits, warning of serious repercussions resulting from “... pilot Featherprop’s blatant disregard fo client priorities, resulting in a breach of contract and potential lawsuit.”  The scroll was followed by Pinching Bits himself, who immediately insisted on a private conference with her and Featherprop.  Even to the naive Pegasus, it was apparent what the outcome would be.

There, that’s when it started.  Arguing with that old cheapskate while ‘Prop sat there with that dazed look on his face...  Pinching Bits had spent nearly an hour lecturing the Pegasus before she finally had enough and stepped in to stop the browbeating.  By then, though, the damage had been done– Featherprop’s confidence was shattered. Espresso had never told the Pegasus that, after he had listlessly plodded out of the office, she’d turned on the old stallion.  In clear, loud, and profane terms, she had let Pinching know that if he wanted to fire the pilot, he’d have to replace her as well.  Pinching Bits had spluttered and blustered, but eventually backed down.  That’s the last thing he needs to know, that keeping his job depended on me.  

Though she’d shielded him from Pinching’s anger, the months that followed had made Espresso want to tear her mane out.  She’d sat back, her patience wearing ever thinner, as Featherprop agonized over simple decisions and exhausted himself worrying about keeping clients happy even when it was obviously foolish to proceed.  It was frustrating and sad to watch, and eventually she decided he needed a helping hoof, just a little bit.  Nothing major, I told myself.

That was when Featherprop had stopped being just another pilot and became her own personal, walking, talking, flying, hopeless improvement project. 


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Eventually the clouds above the Trotter thinned and parted, letting a silvery light flood the valley below.  Around them, the peaks exploded into brilliant blue-white luminance, the bare rock becoming gray streaks between ribbons of snow.  On a stark black background, thousands of lights shone in the darkness, fading next to the brilliance of Luna's moon.  Featherprop reached a hoof up and nudged the throttles forward, his other gently pulling back on the yoke and setting the aircraft into a shallow climb.  Reaching over, he adjusted several dials on the radio, eventually filling their 'phones with a profusion of warbles, squawks, and chirps.  The Pegasus frowned; radio conditions were worse than had been forecast.  We should be picking up the Fairflanks range by now... But despite careful tuning, all he got was a cacophony of interference.

Pasture looked startled.  “What in Celestia is that noise?”  He glanced at Featherprop with concern, but the brown stallion's answer was to point northward, out the forward windscreen.  The Unicorn's eyes followed his hoof.

As they gained altitude, a band of light seemed to detach itself from the stark white of the snow-covered peaks and hung near the horizon, fading upward into the wash of stars.  Fascinated, he watched the curtain shimmer and blinked.  Is it a reflection off the snow?  Soon he could see that it wasn't; there was a dark band between the following ridges and the lights which hung across a quarter of the northern sky.  “Is that... ”  He trailed off as he watched the pale curtain shift to a soft mint-green before fading to a deep red.

Speaking for the first time in an hour, Featherprop nodded and tersely answered both questions at once.  “The Lunar Lights, yes.”

They cleared the ridge and flew over a wide, glacier-carved valley. Luna's moon illuminated the white expanse of a frozen lake where the valley opened up into the hinterlands.  On the shore was a glow that was entirely Equestrian in origin, the town of Fairflanks, and near it a green-and-white flash marked their first destination:  Fairflanks Field.
> 6:  Secrets and Signals
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



ETSB Number:  EAR-13-20
Mechanical Components Summary

The left wingtip was sheared off approximately seventy feet above the ground and fell forty feet from the primary impact zone.  A  partial second-stage turbine blade assembly was recovered.  Centripetally-induced fracture patterns in the blade root structure indicate high power was being produced at the time of stoppage.  One artificial horizon was recovered.  Helical scoring from inertia ring failure indicates the gyro had tumbled at the time of impact and was not providing accurate attitude information.

Structural deformation of the aileron hinges indicate there was no roll input commanded at the time of impact.  Elevator hinge mount breakage and structural deformation indicates full nose-up elevator was held at the time of impact.  Foliage marks on the underside of the surviving wing panels are consistent with a high angle-of-attack impact, possibly indicating an attempted positive-G recovery from an inverted condition.




~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Featherprop ran a hoof through his mane as he frowned over the latest scrolls.  I wish I hadn’t looked at these.  He sighed as he considered what to do, then glanced around.  Pasture had not come inside yet, but he knew this would be a delicate situation.   All of his professional instincts told him the best thing to do was sit and wait.  He pawed through the scrolls again, hoping to find a large skull-and-crossbones somewhere to wave at Pasture; he suspected little else would dissuade the Unicorn from insisting they continue.  At the very least, he decided, they needed to wait a bit to see what would happen.

Featherprop’s fears were well-founded.  When Pasture finally came in, shivering and stamping his hooves, he was unhappy with the pilot’s assessment.

“What do you mean, wait an hour?  We’ve been here that long already!”  The Unicorn’s outburst brought startled glances from a few porters and a slight frown from the gray mare sitting behind the counter.

Across the room, several AirPony Express pilots, their heavy wool coveralls open to the warmth of the Fairflanks Aerodrome’s massive fireplace, turned to watch.   One elbowed the other, ears rotating to follow the argument.

Featherprop sighed.  “Doc, you heard how bad the radio was on the way in.  I want to wait and see if the Lights will die down.  For now, it’s just not safe.”  He pointed to the scrolls he’d been poring over.  “Look.  Feather Point reported bad weather moving in.   Past that, there’s NO reports due to the interference.  Once we take off from here, we need to be able to to follow the ranges, and right now I’m not sure we can.”

Pasture gave Featherprop a skeptical frown.  “Any delay is unacceptable.  I must insist that we continue.”  Belatedly, he noticed the furtive glances they were receiving from around the lounge, and he beckoned Featherprop down a hallway and stepped into an empty room.  The doctor’s voice dropped and took on a pleading tone.  “Featherprop, it’s imperative that we go on.  The medicine... as I told you before, it’s perishable.  We are running out of time.  In less than a day it will become useless.”  The Unicorn checked his watch, as if to make sure he hadn’t miscalculated.   “Celestia’s hooves, and I have yet to examine a single patient.   Please, we need to go.”

Pasture did not mention that while the Pegasus had come into the warmth of the Aerodrome’s terminal, he had spent a fruitless and exhausting quarter of an hour attempting to strengthen the preservation spells on the vials, all to no avail. Featherprop’s question from earlier in the night, seemingly innocuous and silly, took on a deeper, more ominous connotation: “Have you noticed that magic doesn't seem to work as well?”  The illusion of control was slipping away from Pasture, and with it went his self-control.  A desperate edge crept into his voice, “Remember, please remember what we discussed.  Too much is depending on our success tonight.”  He placed a hoof on the younger stallion’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze to try and convince the worried Pegasus of his sincerity.

Featherprop was indeed moved by the sudden emotion Pasture was displaying.  It was almost unnerving and he felt a twinge of guilt, but shook his head and resolved to stand firm.  “I’m sorry, but without being able to receive a signal, there’s no way to know if we’re staying on course.”

Pasture’s eyes cast about the room as he sought for some way to persuade the pilot to relent.  A map spanning an entire wall caught his eye.  He trotted over and studied it, then pointed and asked, “This is Fairflanks, correct?  And over here is Fetlock Falls?  Why, that’s hardly half the distance we’ve come already.   If we made it this far just fine, why can we not get there?”  It’s so simple... why does he have to act as though it’s complicated?

The Pegasus stepped up beside him and pointed to a sawtoothed line highlighted in white that slashed between the two towns.  “Because of the Frostmanes, that’s why.”  The little peaks on the map did not, could not impart the true scale of the Frostmane Range.

Namesake of the territory, the Range was an obstacle of prodigious size and width, dominated by knife-edged ridges and full of blind valleys with treacherous winds.  Featherprop shuddered as he recalled exactly why he treated them with such caution.  In many of the passes, there was stark evidence of pilots who had failed to respect the combined might of terrain and weather:  Broken wings and scraps of metal and fabric, left to decay after rescue teams had searched for survivors.   “On a good day, we could pick our way through the Frostmanes.  At night or in the weather?  No way, it’s impossible.  That’s why we need to go this way.”  His hoof traced a northeasterly path that followed the Freezewither Valley, over the village of Feather Point, and passed through a gap in the sawtoothed lines before bending sharply to the west.  “There’s a range at Sheltie’s Meadow that ca– might guide us through.”

Pasture was certain he could hear a moment of hesitation in Featherprop’s voice, and suggested,  “Would you consider at least making an attempt?  If it’s truly impossible, we should soon know.  There’s no reason we can’t decide to return at that point, is there?”

Featherprop’s ears flickered in surprise; he had been trying to avoid listening to the very same temptation in his head, and he wondered if Pasture could tell.  The idea of departing into worsening weather made his pinions stand up, but at the same time it was a tempting way of trying to mollify Pasture while keeping an escape route open– as long as they were over the Freezewither, they could drop down and return if the ranges failed.   He wrinkled his muzzle and hedged, “It might sound good, but to me it sounds more like a way to waste a lot of fuel.”  Though he temporized, it was hard to ignore his nervouse desire to go ahead and take the chance.  There are lives on the line.

Pasture snorted.  “And who do you think will be paying for that fuel?  I remind you, I’m authorized to incur any reasonable expense.” He nodded towards his saddlebags and the scroll peeking out the top.  “I think that qualifies.  And you don’t know that conditions will be too poor to continue, do you?”

Featherprop stepped awkwardly from hoof to hoof as he tried to balance his tenuous sense of caution against the dangers faced by the Ponies in Fetlock Falls.  He searched for a way to defend his reluctance without having to actually say No, but under Pasture’s penetrating gaze he found himself unable to marshal his thoughts.  “Well, Feather Point is reporting bad weather coming in from the west, that much I know.”

Pasture’s ears twitched forward as he watched the nervous dance of Featherprop’s hooves and heard the defensive tenor of his voice.  He could feel the momentum of the conversation shifting in his favor and pressed further, “But if Feather Point’s radio can be heard here, then won’t the range be useable as well?”

Damn, I don’t have time to explain radio theory.  The question was deceptively simple, but an accurate answer would be anything but.  While Pasture’s logic seemed sound, it didn’t reflect the reality of flying under the Lunar Lights, let alone into weather where ice and winds made a mockery of any plan.   Featherprop felt as though he were being backed into a corner.  Why is it so hard to put it into a few words?  Why can’t I make him see?  “Well, probably...  but I don’t know if we can pick up the next range at Sheltie’s Meadow.”

Pasture gave a slight nod and smoothly said, “Well, of course if we can’t pick it up, then we can turn back, correct?  But if it does work, then we’ll have saved a lot of valuable time, won’t we?”  Softening his voice, Pasture drew on all the paternal condescension and wheedling skills he possessed.  Several decades of directing and cajoling research assistants and younger colleagues had gifted him with a well-developed persuasive repertoire.  And compared to the headstrong interns at the REMMA, Featherprop was predictable and easily led.   He could see that the young pilot was wavering, and swallowed a surge of guilt as he took a different tack.   “Didn’t you say you know people in Fetlock Falls?  They’re depending on us.”  He half-expected such a blatant emotional appeal to set the Pegasus against him, but he was frantic to continue, at any cost– the threat of failure was too strong, there was too much to lose.  For everyone involved.

The mention of the Ponies of Fetlock Falls stung Featherprop deeply.  In a moment, the arguments he had been trying to organize in his mind fell apart, each seeming more cold-hearted than the last.  Damn him, that’s not fair!

Featherprop hated having his heartstrings tugged at, and most of the time he was able to ignore emotional manipulation.  This was different, though; Pasture’s words struck him like a physical blow.  The Unicorn’s calculated arguments fed a growing sense of dread that he, Featherprop, might be holding an entire town’s fate in his hooves.  It was a final bale of hay on the wagon, and he felt his resolve crumbling.

Driven by his fears, Featherprop reluctantly reconsidered the situation.  In theory, the trip to Feather Point wouldn’t be a big risk, for they’d know of problems long before they got into the mountains.  A little voice in his head whispered, That’s how things always look until they become unsafe, and his ears drooped.  He was already worn out from arguing with Pasture, and now he was beginning to argue with himself.

Batfeathers.  Well, we can turn back, can’t we?  If it gets bad before Sheltie’s, we’re coming back, I swear to Luna.  Lowering his head, he spoke with a low voice, “I...  I guess.   It’s been a while anyway.   Let me check the reception, and if it’s getting better we can think about launching.  But remember, if it’s bad we’re coming back, no arguments.”  He was relieved to see Pasture nod briefly in reply.

A sudden thought flitted through Featherprop’s mind:  I wish Espresso were here.  She’s always good at dealing with situations like this.  The mare’s hard-headed nature had stopped more than one bullying client cold in his tracks.  But she wasn’t here, and this was not a situation he was prepared to handle.  Like a leaf in a stream, Featherprop quietly gave up and let himself be swept along.  


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Just like I said, “There’s weather moving in out west.”  But what do I know?  I’m just a pilot, all I do is fly in weather like this day in, day out.  Featherprop wallowed in bitter self-righteousness for a few moments, then forced himself to put it aside and pay attention– he’d had to transition to blind flying, and it was time to get serious.

It had begun as a few white wisps flashing past the windscreen, and then the world outside went gray as they entered the clouds.  The landing lights did nothing more than create brighter patches of gray, while snowflakes became vivid white streaks as they flew through the twin beams.   Featherprop turned them off, leaving the strobes to offer ghostly flashes of illumination.  Through his ‘phones the tone of the Fairflanks range were still clear, with only the occasional interruption from the Lunar Lights to mar the signal.  At one point he was certain he had seen a self-satisfied grin on Pasture’s muzzle, but when he turned his head the Unicorn looked dour.  This is still a bad decision.  How on Luna’s Moon did I let myself do this?

As they entered the clouds, they began to encounter a series of bumps and sudden rushes of vertical movement.  The collision of an irresistible airmass and an immovable mountain range created turbulence miles downwind from the Frostmanes, and they were flying into the very beginning of it.

Pasture felt his stomach clench at each one.  With no outside references the random motions were confusing and unsettling, and suddenly he was thankful that he’d had no time for more than a hoof-ful of oats earlier.  Forgetting about the intercom, he grumbled,  “Uncontrolled weather... ludicrous.  What good is the Weather Bureau if they won’t keep to a schedule?”

“They can’t, really.”  Featherprop’s response startled the Unicorn, and even the Pegasus was surprised at the sharpness of his tone.

Pasture covered his surprise with a prickly reply.  “Well of course they can’t– there aren’t any Weather Teams to even try, are there?”

The pilot shot a hooded glare at Pasture and started to open his mouth, then clamped his muzzle shut and snapped his eyes back to the panel.  A minute later, he muttered,  “There used to be.”

Pasture was once again caught unprepared.  “Used to be, what?  Why aren’t– well, where are they now?”

Featherprop sighed and regretted opening his muzzle.  The story was one he’d had a hard time believing in the beginning, and he felt certain Pasture would call it ludicrous.  The Unicorn’s attitude towards the Frostmane had him pinning his ears back, though, and he was tired of it.  Cloudsdale never cared for me, why should I care to spare them some embarrassment?

“Because they failed.”

The doctor twisted in his seat and blinked several times before replying.  “A Weather Team failed?  Are you saying that a flight of Pegasi couldn’t control the weather?”

Featherprop frowned.  Talking about the old Weather Teams left him feeling like his flank was exposed to timberwolves, because it sounded crazy to anypony from Equestria proper– on par with those Ponies who believed in hairless monkeys.  “It wasn’t for lack of trying, Doc. When the Territory started growing, Cloudsdale sent a few teams up here.”  He looked upward in thought.  “The Meteorological Expeditionary Unit posted several Weather Teams to the Territory:  One in Trottinger, one back in Fairflanks, one covering Flank Harbor, and a scouting squad on the west coast at Pone, mostly just to get a read on incoming systems. The others were supposed to handle diverting the worst of the weather around the populated areas, but they never could.”

He hesitated, unsure of whether it was right to continue.  As a colt he’d stumbled across a brief  mention of the Frostmane Division Weather Teams in a book about cold-weather operations, but had nearly been suspended for asking about it.  Since then, he’d never discussed it openly with anypony–  Espresso knew a little of the history, but as an Earth Pony it never really concerned her.  She thinks we’re all prima donnas anyway, probably thought they were just slacking.  He’d even sought out a few of the Pegasi in the Frostmane who were old enough to recall that time; to a Pony they refused to talk about the Teams.

Featherprop saw Pasture looking at him expectantly and sighed.  “The Weather Teams had the same problems with flying that I do– it takes a lot more effort just to fly up here, and the weather is much rougher than down south.  When they tried to ride herd on incoming systems, they couldn't keep it together.  The storms just rolled right over the Teams and blew them away.  A few even went down after taking a shot of lightning...”  He shook his head.  Lightning management was one of the most important things a Weather Pony learned.

“When the teams started getting hurt, Canterlot got involved and looked at what was happening.  They found the teams weren’t able to affect the weather at all, and demanded they be recalled before anypony got killed.  The top brass in Cloudsdale were furious.  They wanted to keep it quiet, so they disbanded the entire division.”

Without him realizing it, a wistful sadness had filled the Pegasus’s voice.  Weather flying had been one of his early dreams, along with being in the Wonderbolts, of course.  His failure to earn a Weather Team commission had stung deeply, and had been at the root of his decision to leave Cloudsdale.   He sighed, “No one in Cloudsdale ever talked about it.  I actually got in trouble for asking.”

The Frostmane Division was never mentioned in school; after seeing a passing reference to weather operations in the Frostmane, Featherprop had asked the Academy's librarian about it.  She curtly told him that no materials regarding it were available to students, and if he ever asked again that she would be informing the headmaster.  That odd moment had stayed with him, and after finding box of old records at the Flight Center and piecing together the Frostmane Division’s history, he’d immediately felt a connection with those Ponies– like them, he knew what it was to face something much, much larger than yourself and have to fold up.  It was only after he’d come to  Trottinger that he came across the truth about the problems the Weather Teams had faced– both in the Frostmane and in their lives afterwards.

“If you’ve spent time around Pegasi, Doc, you know that most of ‘em don’t really care for losers. When the Weather Team members went back to Cloudsdale, they were probably blacklisted.  Most of them never flew for an official Weather Team again– they got shuffled to backwater jobs and laid low.  There were a few that didn’t give up and formed their own for-hire Teams.  Have you heard of the Storm Riders, based in Dodge City?  I found some of their names on a old roster back in Trottinger.  Then again, if you’ve heard of them I probably don’t need to tell you how they’re viewed in Cloudsdale.”  ‘Mercenary’ isn’t usually used as a compliment.  Still, it doesn’t help that old Silvercloud hams it up a bunch just to poke ‘em in the eye.  He watched the Unicorn, trying to gauge the doctor’s reaction to his wild tale.  He was surprised to see that Pasture was watching him back.

Pasture’s years as a researcher and administrator had exposed him to plots and intrigues against which Featherprop’s little story paled in comparison.  What interested him more were the telltale clues in the young stallion’s behavior:  It was obvious the pilot believed what he was saying was true.  Beyond that, it was plain as day that the pilot was holding back– there was more to the story.   Determined to draw it out, Pasture spoke in a measured, neutral tone, “Featherprop, you haven’t told me why they failed.”  The reaction of the Pegasus to that emphasis was interesting:  Hmm, sudden easing of the leg, ears attempting to fold back, pupil expansion... What is he hiding?

The Unicorn went on, “When I was preparing, I was told magic would be harder to marshal up here, but I attributed that to the environmental conditions– it is always harder to concentrate and direct magic when in a state of discomfort or under stress.” Pasture spoke evenly, tamping down the disbelief he felt, and watched.  “Do you remember asking me an unusual question earlier, about using magic?  Well, the answer is, yes.  I have noticed magic is harder to use, but I attributed it to the weather, to stress, to any number of factors.  Are you suggesting there is more to it?”

Featherprop glanced at the Unicorn warily, looking for signs of ridicule or dismissal, but found none.  He spoke guardedly, “I’m not an expert, but I know what I feel in my wings.  It’s not the same up here, Doc.  Magic... if it works, it’s a lot weaker.”

Pasture’s rational mind revolted at the thought, but he forced himself to press on.  “If that were true, though...  I’ve never heard about this.  Magic is considered ubiquitous throughout the Equestrian territories.  Why not in the Frostmane as well?”

“You’re asking the wrong Pony, Doc.  You’re the one who should know, aren’t you?  I mean, horn and all?  I don’t really use magic, I just fly.  It’s harder up here, but... I don’t know how it makes a difference.”  Featherprop was surprised at how calmly Pasture was contemplating the subject– he had expected the Unicorn to call him crazy.

Pasture’s impulse was to reject this notion of ‘inconstant magic,’ as he quickly labeled it.  He would have rejected it outright, except for the fact that he had no satisfactory explanation for his own experiences.  And he could not deny the quickening of his pulse, a  thrill he had not felt in years– a growing sense of discovery which made his horn tingle, the feeling of newfound knowledge... and academic credibility.  Already, his mind was toying with the idea of field research.  He tried to temper his excitement with skepticism.  “The idea is intriguing, though preposterous on the face, but it’s also outside my areas of study– I’ve never had to deal with magic not being a constant.  If any of this has merit, why wouldn’t it already be known, at least in Canterlot?”

Featherprop shrugged. “Why would it? The Frostmane started out as an Earth Pony settlement, and most of the folks here are still Earth Ponies, so they don’t notice it missing. And the Frostmane is... well, it's got a tiny population. I think Phillydelphia has more Ponies than the whole Territory.  If anything, it’s part of why the Frostmane is such a  backwater.  There’s at least some who’ve come up, then decided to pack it in and go back home.”

The Unicorn persisted, “But what about you, and the Unicorns and other Pegasi here? Doesn’t it bother you?”  Pasture, used to his academic surroundings, was baffled by a place where knowledge was not easily transferred or acquired.  This is like pulling teeth out of a dragon’s mouth.

The Pegasus blinked a few times as he considered the question.  “Well, we’re pretty rare in the Frostmane.  Pegasi, I mean.  And Unicorns too, I guess.  I think mostly we get used to it.  There’s so much else different up here, it doesn’t stand out when we first arrive.  Look at yourself, Doc– would you come up here if you didn’t have to?  The only ponyfolk who come to the Frostmane are the ones who don’t mind a hard life.  It’s rough, it’s dangerous, the seasons don’t run right, and it stays dark for months at a...”  He paused and stared at the panel, then exclaimed “Oh, Luna, no!”

Pasture looked at him in shock and opened his muzzle to ask if he had taken leave of his senses, only to be silenced by a frantic waving of the Pegasus’ hoof.

With a string of oaths, Featherprop  futilely twisted the  knobs of the radio back and forth.  Come on, come on, where did you go?  Don’t do this to me, please...  While they had talked, the tones of the Feather Point range had faded into the static, and now only the warble and pops of the Lunar Lights could be heard when he increased the sensitivity.  Giving up on Feather Point, he tuned to the frequency for Sheltie’s Meadow and slowly scanned back and forth, straining his ears for a hint of the tones. Yakwhiskers, did Sheltie’s go down?   Without either range, navigation was impossible.   His chest spasmed with a burst of panic, and he nervously glanced at the windows, seized by the ominous sensation that looming peaks were crowding close around them.  How long ago did we lose the signal?

He wanted to kick himself for getting so distracted.  Most of the time, reacting to the changing tones of the navigational ranges was a subconscious habit, where he didn’t really notice them.  Now, it had left him uncertain of their position or what effect the winds had been having on the aircraft.  Stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID!  His emotions coalesced in a burst of anger and he brought a hoof crashing down on the glareshield above the radio and shouted inarticulately, completely forgetting his wide-eyed passenger for the moment.

Even before the Pegasus’ violent outburst, Pasture had realized something was wrong– there was a distinct tang in the air.  Fear.  The doctor suddenly remembered the peculiar, nose-curling scent he had detected when first entering the aircraft.  Finally, the static and interference in his ‘phones registered and he asked a question that was not helpful.  “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” the embarrassed pilot snapped.  He reached out and harshly twisted the volume knob until it hurt his ears; he could see Pasture cringing.  “Hear that?  That’s the sound of not knowing where we are.”  Despite his agitation, he managed to stop himself from adding,  That’s the sound you hear before you smear yourself across a mountaintop.  His chest felt tight and short of breath, and his heart felt like it was going to burst as adrenaline flooded into his system.  With nowhere to flee and nothing to fight, he fought to stuff the useless instincts back down and take stock of the situation.  Don’t know where we are, don’t know if we’ve been drifting, don’t know how fast we’re moving over the ground.  He snatched up his worn chart and pored over it, looking for the highest peaks in the area.  His heart skipped a beat when he saw a five-figure number next to several arrow shapes on the map:  THAT high?  Discord’s Horns, I don’t know if we’ve got enough to get up there!

He ignored a questioning look from Pasture and took the throttles in hoof, pushing them all the way forward.  With a surge, the nose tipped up and they began to climb.   A vivid memory flashed through his mind, of his Gryphon instructor cuffing him on the ear as a rasping voice echoed in his head:  “Two things you can never have enough of, Fledgling:  Fuel and altitude.   When in doubt, climb.   Say it, Cub!   What do we do?”  At the time he had hesitated, earning a further cuff on that knocked his ‘phones off.   Now, without thinking, he spoke it clearly and quickly.   “Climb.”

Pasture started at the sudden, emphatic word from the Pegasus, then scowled.  After having been ignored for long minutes, the Unicorn was in no mood to be snapped at by a Pony who seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.  “Pardon me?”  His words dripped with a cold, dismissive tone that brooked no backtalk.   I don’t care how little I know, somepony needs to take this situation in hoof, and it’s not the madpony over there.   Featherprop’s bizarre outburst and sudden silence worried him, and he was determined to exert some control and keep this situation from spiraling out of control.  Celestia knows, I can’t fly this beastly contraption.

Featherprop, however, had gathered his wits and was working to focus on the immediate problem.  He took a stared intently at the gauges, and there was a determined energy in his voice.  “Sorry.  We’re in a bad situation here– we’re not on the range anymore, not on any range.  The only way to stay safe now is to climb above the terrain.  There’s peaks all around here, really tall ones, and I have no clue what the winds have done to us.  Without the range, we’re lost.”  Shaking his head, he tuned to yet another range frequency, Fetlock Falls itself, in the hope that the anomalous conditions would work in their favor as they proceeded.  He prayed to Luna that the interference would subside soon.  “We need to go as high as we can manage to stay above the peaks.  You might feel lightheaded.  The air is going to get pretty thin, but don’t breathe more than normal- that’ll just make it worse.”

Pasture’s haughtiness evaporated as the severity of the situation sunk in.  “You mean... we’re really lost?”  The Pegasus nodded grimly.  Already, Pasture imagined it was taking more effort to breathe and unconsciously began to hyperventilate– unwittingly making himself more susceptible to the thin air.

For Featherprop’s adapted physiology, the altitude would be a snap, and he continued to dwell on the deeper problems they faced.  Lost.  The fatal word echoed in his head.  Such a simple word didn’t seem to convey the sense of terror he was desperately trying to fight off.  One more link.  Luna, this is how it starts...  The gauges blurred as his eyes watered, and he swallowed hard but failed to get rid of the taste of bile that suddenly filled his mouth.  Don’t think that way, ‘Prop.  Focus.  Climb, find the range, get to the airport, and finish this Celestia-cursed trip.  He picked up his chart and tried to formulate a plan, but the worn page kept blurring.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Far later than usual, Espresso remained behind her desk, working.  Or, at least, she was trying to work.  She had hoped that burying herself in the annoying details of running the station, such as working through the daily backlog of bills, receipts, invoices and flight logs that Ponies like Featherprop never gave a moment’s thought about, would keep her mind away from the misgivings and worries that had engulfed her all evening long.  Her ears flickered in annoyance; rather than distract her, the mundanity of the work was giving her mind even more time to dwell on the dangers and risks Featherprop was facing.  Or creating.

With frightening clarity, her hindbrain drew up a multitude of disasters:  Bad weather that would force the flight to end prematurely in Fairflanks, Pasture having a panic attack on the flight, Featherprop pulling some mad stunt and scaring the mane off of the doctor (thereby causing a panic attack), or even a cargo door being left open and Pasture’s precious medicines tumbling out of the hold while Featherprop pulled some mad stunt, scaring the mane off of the doctor and causing him to have a panic attack.  Espresso shook her head to dispel the absurd image of a barrel-rolling Twin Trotter and groaned.

Of all the pilots to have on duty tonight...  But the instant the thought formed, she felt a pang of regret.  The stress of the evening wasn’t Featherprop’s fault, and in truth he hadn’t ever lost any cargo in flight.  In flight.  She sighed and forced herself to try and think a kind thought about the poor, lazy, witless.... This isn’t working, she groaned to herself.

There were few things in her life that got her hackles up as quickly as Featherprop.  He had skill, but seemed to lack ambition.  No, assertiveness.  He nearly always buckled under her glare, but he had an annoying tendency to spring back and find ways to work around her instructions.  Though he could be intensely focused, that focus tended to be on non-productive things, like sleeping.  Or drinking her coffee.

And if there was one thing Espresso had no use for, it was a lazy pilot who drank her coffee.  In the past, she’d found indirect ways to gently (and not-so-gently) encourage several aspiring aviators to transfer to other stations.  Not that they were bad Ponies, she thought, just useless.  But so far, she hadn’t found a good enough reason to do the same with Featherprop.  She chalked it up to his being conscientious when he was on the job.  At least, when he doesn’t work himself into a frenzy worrying about what-ifs.  The young Pegasus had the occasional bout of overcaution, though when she was feeling charitable Espresso could understand why.  Right now, though, charity was not at the forefront of her mind.

Enough about him.  If I’m going to obsess over this stupid contract, I may as well do it while going OVER the contract.  She shoved the accounting mess into a disheveled heap and, reluctantly, hoofed over the Flying Service’s copy of the thick contract.  Earlier she had rushed through, but now she felt a need to understand exactly what she had put the company on the hook for.  And Featherprop, a voice in her mind reminded her.  She waved a hoof as if to dispel the thought; reading the contract was supposed to take her mind off the frustrating Pegasus.

And in a way, it did, though not in the way she had wanted.  As she read through clause after clause that looked totally unfamiliar, she felt like bucking herself out the door.  Why didn’t I put my hoof down and really read through this before signing it?  Though she doubted the REMMA would try to do anything illegal, that was no excuse for failing in her duty.  As she read, very little seemed out of place; for the most part it was straightforward and unambiguous.  Several paragraphs seemed to have been removed; there were gaps in the sequence, and a few pages were written in a different hoof.  Should be fine, she thought with relief, this copy is countersigned by Pasture, so we’re covered.

Suddenly, she stopped.  The back of one page, she saw, was laced with a spidery, blotchy pattern.  Studying it, she could see that it was hoofwriting, though there were frequent gaps in the text.  She flipped the page over to see if text on the front side, but the two sides were completely different– it wasn’t ink bleeding through from the front.  It’s from a note, she realized, Somepony wrote a note and set half the contract on top of it.  Intrigued, she tried to make out what it said.  There were several paragraph numbers, but when she hoofed through the pages to check them... They’re the ones missing.  A pang of worry knotted her gut as she set about trying to decipher the patchy text.



Health Min ... ry … ests we del ... para ... 3.26i, 13.2b(2 .... 1 ... emove all refer ... Y887 Infuren … demic …ock Falls. Relea ... ormation wil ... onsidered unt ... ositive identif ... utbreak h ... tablished. Advise Pastu ... elease of info ... quires pri ... proval, Minis ... st adamant.



Puzzling over the fragmentary message, two half-words jumped out at her:  “Infuren … demic.”  Beneath her tan coat her face blanched as the doctor’s deflective description of the situation came back.  Gasping for air, she could only think, Infurenza! He wouldn’t tell us...  With the context of secrecy, Pasture’s vague references became perfectly clear.  They didn’t want anyone to know, he wasn’t telling anyone.  Not even...  Her eyes widened and she jumped to her hooves and hurried down the hall.  He deserves to know... he has to know so he can stay away from anypony!

Unlike Featherprop, Espresso was as close to being a native ‘Maner as an Equestrian Pony could get.  While Featherprop might know about the fear Frostmane natives had of the Infurenza, for Espresso it dredged up an old, deeply held terror.

As a filly, she had suffered through Infurenza for a week, drifting in and out of consciousness, and as the days wore on her doorway had seen a stream of visitors.  Though they were careful to smile on the occasions she was awake, the morose tenor of conversations that floated in from the hallway beyond were not lost on her. Deep down, she had known:  They thought I wouldn’t live.

Forcing herself to stay at a canter, Espresso hurried toward the radio shack.  This was not her first trip to the dimly-lit space this evening– several times before she had found her hooves carrying her there, only to lamely ask Ether Watt about weather updates or reception.  The last time she had pestered Ether, the harried Earth Pony had nearly bucked her out the door and implied there would severe consequences if she came back.  Now, though, she had an important task for the radiomare.

Somehow, Ether Watt heard the creak of the opening door over the sizzle, whoops, and squawks of the various sets she was monitoring.  Winter was the worst; entire shifts at the console were filled with the cacophony.  Blasted Lunar Lights, gimme a bright sun anytime. Without turning, she gruffly called out, “Hay hay, stay outta the shack!”

Espresso, silhouetted in the doorway, rolled her eyes.  “You don’t even know who it is.”

Ether swiveled around, squinting at the bright light streaming in.  “Yes I do.  Nopony else has been pacing up and down the hallway for the last three hours, nopony else has poked her nose in here three– no, four times now,  and nopony else has tried to cook me with my own gear!  If you want me to do something for you,” she gestured at the workstation behind her, “the least you could do is bring some coffee.”

Espresso held up a defensive hoof.  “I haven’t asked you to do anything!”

“But you will.  Why else would you be in here?”

“Ether, I don’t–”

“No one ever comes in here unless they want something.”

“Ether, now that’s–”

“When it’s quiet, no one bothers.  But when they want something, oh, the knocks on the door are like–”

“ETHER!” Espresso had by now taken a few steps into the room, her ears pinned back and head thrust forward as she roared at the stubborn radio operator in frustration.  “I don’t have time for this.” Seeing the other mare’s eyes open wide and her ears droop, she forced herself to gently say, “I need to reach Featherprop in Fairflanks before he leaves, it’s important.”

Ether straightened up slightly and tossed her dark-blue mane before giving Espresso a triumphant I told you so look.  Her look turned regretful as she glanced at the console and shook her head. “The Lunar Lights are awful tonight.  I might be able to reach them on the Horse set,” she nodded at an antique sending key, “but even then, I can’t say for sure.”

Espresso looked pained. “Fine. But hurry, please.”

Ether Watt grumbled and held out a pad and quill. “Message?”

Espresso rolled her eyes as she said, “Are you... Just have them tell Featherprop to contact me, okay?”

With a quiet grumble, the radiomare scrawled out a hasty message and held it up for Espresso’s approval: “FFS REQ HOLD FETLOCK SPECIAL – HAVE FP CONTACT TTR.” When Espresso nodded her assent, Ether sighed dramatically and settled at the console. “This is going to take a while,” she said, looking back and forth between Espresso and the door, “and it’s noisy in here, so...”

Feeling a surge of relief, Espresso took the hint. “Thank you, Ether. I’ll come back in a while.”  She turned to leave, glad to get away from the wearying noise.

“Don’t bother,” Ether said.  The blue Earth Pony was already hunched over the key, one hoof pressed to an earphone and her eyes squeezed shut in concentration, alternately keying and listening, trying to discern a reply from the random bursts of noise that filled the channel. When light from the hallway spilled into the room she called out, “If you do, don’t come empty-hooved!”  Knowing that it would have Espresso rolling her eyes put a smile on her face for a moment.

As the door closed, she the smile faded and she turned back to the tedious task of sending the message through the storm of interference.
> Aponyocrypha
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


From The Super-Secret Planning Vaults


It's time to meet the ponies!

Featherprop
Pegasus stallion, 20?
Brown coat/cream belly/throat/dark brown mane/brown eyes
CM:  Three feathers arranged radially, 
Pilot, fun-loving, prankster, likes puns, but lacks self-confidence, does not stand up for self, gives in easily, has tendency to eat too much and drink too much coffee. Lets Espresso boss him around, then gets back at her later, but without malice.  Came from a medium-sized family in Cloudsdale, was a disappointment to his father- failed out of Weather Academy due to unsuitability (physically, large wings make him ill-suited to fast or agile flying).  Not quite disowned, but more of ignored, this early blow to his self-confidence has led him to seek the approval of others to validate his worth, resulting in making poor decisions at times and facing the consequences.

Espresso Connemara
Earth Pony mare, 25+
Tan coat/brown mane/blue eyes
CM:  Teacup w/steam lines above it
Base manager, bossy, outspoken, no-nonsense.  Doesn’t like pilots because they’re lazy and drink her coffee.  Runs Trotttinger Flight Center with an iron hoof.  Featherprop’s boss and antagonist, target of many of his pranks.  Has her hooves full keeping him working and from making messes/cleaning up the ones he does make.  Treats him as sort of a child, has a soft spot for him after various setbacks, but nags and harries him for his shortcomings- believes that’s the only way to get him to improve, sort of ‘tough love’.  Stems from background of being older sibling in large family who was expected to take on a lot of responsibility early on, but this has also given her the managerial skillset that has let her succeed in managing a series of immature pilots and various less-well-motivated employees.  

Eisen Pasture
Unicorn stallion, 40+
White coat/Red-magenta mane/grey eyes
CM:  Red cross with a torch silhouette in the center
Doctor, scientist, vain, somewhat manipulative but not cruel or greedy.  Focused on his work.  Does not want to be in Frostmane, hates the cold and the environment.  Used to ordering Ponies around, expects to get his way. Cultured, well-spoken, has been involved in research for years in Canterlot and is somewhat out of touch with the lives of less well-connected ponies, especially when dealing with the ill and injured.  His career in academia has given him the view that when he’s told ‘no’ it’s because the other pony has an agenda.

Ether Watt
Earth Pony mare, 20+
Pale blue coat/dark blue mane/amber eyes
CM: Mast with three radiating lightning bolts
Radio operator.  Somewhat antisocial, has a very pun-oriented humor.  Nerd/geek, understands equipment better than Ponies.  Does not mingle much with other staff because she doesn’t understand other Ponies- similar to Aspergers, but more of just not understanding emotion or empathy, so keeps them at arm’s length with jargon and muted hostility, though she does want friendship sometimes.  Grudgingly accepts friendship with Espresso, who understands more about Ether than Ether does herself.

Placer Nugget
Unicorn stallion, 30+
light green coat/golden mane/golden eyes
CM:  Gold nugget
Placer Nugget is rich, good at finding metals as special talent.  Overbearing, vain, greedy, impatient, yelled at FP because FP refused to go on unsafe flight, then wrote nasty letter about FP to company owner.  Big jerk who is a plot device.


Pinching Bits
Earth Pony stallion, 50+
orange-brown coat/grey mane/blue eyes
CM:  Three overlapping bits
Owner of Frostmane Flying Service, somewhat stingy, worried about customers and a bit of a blowhard, has a high opinion of his knowledge of all aspects of running the airline even though he’s been out of day-to-day ops for a long time.  Doesn’t really know what goes into running individual stations anymore, or how to lead vs. manage ponies


Long Tom
Earth Pony, (Really Old)
CM:  Slanted wooden trough connected to stylized flywheel and belt
Hoofball Fanatic


Featherwind
Pegasus colt, young

Breezeleaf
Featherwind’s younger sister

> 7:  Don't Make Me Pull This Thing Over...
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the Twin Trotter clawed its way upward through the clouds, Featherprop and Pasture avoided looking at each other.  Aside from occasionally flicking on the ice lights to look at the treacherous ice coating the leading edge, Featherprop sat motionless, lost in his thoughts.  The shock of losing the range had worn off, but in it’s place a blanket of doubt settled over him.  How did I let this happen?

On the other side of the cockpit, Pasture was restless, shifting in his seat every few minutes as he brooded over his own concerns:  The discomfort of flying, the difficult diagnosis he faced in Fetlock Falls, and the nagging threat of failure all fought for space at the front of his mind.  If we don’t find this Celestia-forsaken town, I’m through, aren’t I?  All of my work, undone by meteorological phenomena and the ramblings of a glorified cart-driver.   He stared grimly out the windscreen, a small scowl fixed on his muzzle.

Featherprop glanced over at Pasture and caught what he thought was an angry look on the Unicorn’s face.  Something about Pasture’s impatient scowl and furrowed eyes that sent a shiver through the crest of his mane.  A violent shiver swept through his wings as the resemblance to another Unicorn from his past struck him like a blow:  Brusque, arrogant, driven, and unwilling to listen.  His chest tightened with panic.

Placer Nugget.  Featherprop shrank in his seat as he silently mouthed the name.  With frightening clarity,  the last words the golden-maned Unicorn had said to him rolled through his mind.  “Son, you’ve got a damn hard head, so I’m going to give you one more chance to think about your answer.  If’n it’s still ‘no,’ then you’d better be booking passage back down south.  Who do you think Bits is going to listen to?  You?  A dryhoof featherhead with a ticket so new the ink is still wet?”

And true to his word, the vindictive Unicorn had tried to end Featherprop’s career.  

Featherprop winced as the knot in his gut tightened.  Oh Luna... he’s just like Placer, isn’t he?  Both stallions had come to the station in a rush, both were arrogant, and both had little patience for a Pegasus with reservations about the weather.  Had the similarities been in the back of his mind all night, subtly pushing him to give in to Pasture?  His barely-checked panic made it impossible for Featherprop to tell.  Not that it would have made a difference.  You can’t say no, not with so much on the line.  Not to somepomy like him.

Placer Nugget.  Why in Luna’s night did I have to think of him again?  Featherprop had thought he’d put the damage Placer had wrought behind him, but the nervous shivering in his wings, the tremor in his hooves, put that lie to rest.  It wasn’t the confrontation beside the Pferduyn Norsepony he’d been flying, or even Placer’s gravelly-voiced threat.  Those had been frightening enough, but it wasn’t until Pinching Bits himself came to Trottinger that the bottom had fallen out of his world.

It began with a scroll, full of ominous terms like “employee review,” “lax standards,” and “failure to conform to company expectations,” which left Featherprop with a nervous ache in his gut that no amount of sweetgrass could quell.  But when the old stallion himself had stepped off the scheduled flight from Flank Harbor, Featherprop’s heart nearly gave out.  With nothing more than an icy glare and a nod, Pinching had gathered up the Pegasus and marched into Espresso’s office, demanding an immediate “employee conduct evaluation.”  That term had made even the unflappable Espresso blanche, and it was then that Featherprop knew he was meant to be cleaning out his locker by the end of the day.

“Featherprop.  FEATHERPROP.”  It had taken several tries for Espresso to get his attention, and he had read the angry look on her face to mean she shared Pinching’s disgust with him, which mirrored by his own feelings of shame.  “Featherprop, please go wait in the lounge.  We need to discuss some things..”  She nodded her head towards the grim-faced Pinching Bits.

Twenty minutes later, she had trotted into the lounge wearing a tight smile, which broke into a worried frown when she found Featherprop plopped on his haunches in front of his locker, wings drooping over a half-filled box.  “What... no, Featherprop, stop!  Put it back.  It’ll be okay– you’ve got two days suspension, half pay.  Go home, rest, and be back here on Monday.”  

Featherprop shook his head silently as the painful memory played out.  He still didn’t know what had happened in that office, but he knew Espresso was the reason he hadn’t been out in the snow.  Those had been the worst twenty minutes of his life, almost, sitting there convinced he was being summarily dismissed.  No, not dismissed.  Banished.  It would have been like Cloudsdale all over, and he couldn’t have taken the displacement again.  He’d come to the Frostmane to escape the sense of being a failure, and felt he’d found his true place.  If Pinching Bits had meant to teach him a lesson, he’d certainly learned one:  Saying no is bad for your career.

And while Featherprop had been afraid of pushing out past Fairflanks, he was more afraid of having to leave Frostmane Flying Service.  For the lonely Pegasus, the Flying Service, and Trottinger Station in particular, had become a new family.  He even had an older sister– Espresso.  No, he thought, she’s more like a mother.  That brought an impish smile to his face for a moment before reality stole his amusement.  He couldn’t stand losing another family, or worse, being kicked out of it.  Again.

The months after the conference had been a blur.  Inside, he experienced a constant tension between fearing for his career and fearing that he would push a little too hard. Increasingly he had turned to Espresso for validation of his decisions, hoping that she would have the answer.  At first, she’d cancelled several of his flights without discussion, only a sympathetic look in her eyes.  When she began to hesitate to contradict him, though, he began taking chances.

Ironically, his unwillingness to say ‘no’ made him popular with impatient clients, which began a self-sustaining cycle of risk-taking.  A conciliatory note from Shining Bits, praising his “rededication to company goals and customer service” had reinforced the lesson.  

It was only after one flight nearly ended in disaster that Espresso had put her hoof down – it had taken hours to scrub the green streaks from a near-miss with a conifer off the bottom of the Twin Trotter – and begun making him to justify his ‘go/no-go’ decisions.  

The pre-flight meeting became a ritual of sorts, where she would ask questions he ought to have considered,  gently berating him when he glossed over risks or ignored conditions that merited canceling a flight, before finally giving a nod of approval or sending him back to ‘take another look at’ a critical factor.  In hindsight, he could see that she’d been coaching him, making him think through the basics that he’d pushed aside in his fear and worry.  

Her methods were painful but effective, and after several months he had regained a measure of self-confidence, enough that instead of asking her if he should cancel a flight, he was telling her he was cancelling a flight.  Though Espresso was never free with her praise, more than once he’d caught a glimmer of approval in her eye.

Once, he had made the mistake of trying to thank her for saving his job.  The resulting explosion of indignance and implied threats had driven him to seek refuge in the hangar for the rest of the evening.  At first he had been hurt by her reaction, but he later realized that she was worried about her reputation: If it became known that the Iron Mare of Trottinger, scourge of the pilot group, had gone soft on him, then the rest of the rabble may well try to trot all over her.

“THANK me?  For what?”  The mare’s nostrils flared as she planted her hooves on the desk, rattling her coffee mug.

Featherprop fumbled for words, startled by her outburst.  “Well, I mean, after that meeting–”  

“Featherprop.”

The Earth Pony’s eyes narrowed as she put a doubtful tone in her voice.  “After what meeting?  I already do half your work as it is, what makes you think I’d lift a hoof more for you?”  She stabbed a hoof at a stack of flight logs and fuel receipts in her inbox, causing the young stallion to blush –  the topmost had his initials on it, and was covered in illegible marks that were supposed to be flight times and cargo notes.

“The... the meeting with Bits?  Where he was going to send me away...”  He took a step back and ducked his head as her hoof came crashing down on the desktop, the empty mug bouncing onto it’s side.

“Featherprop, listen.”

Espresso’s eyes narrowed and she said in a near-whisper, “I don’t recall a meeting where Bits was going to do anything, do you?”  She arched her eyebrows and stared at him pointedly.  “I would certainly remember a meeting where the future of one of my pilots was discu– ”

A hoof tapped his shoulder.  “Featherprop!”  

Featherprop would have jumped out of his seat if not for his restraints, and gave Pasture a bewildered look.  “Doc?  What is it?”  

The Unicorn arched his eyebrows incredulously, and tapped his ‘phones.  “Listen!  Is that your... range, or whatever?  Haven’t you been listening?” 

“Oh, ah, sort of?  Sorry, Doc, I... there was something on my mind.”  Featherprop was acutely embarrassed that he had gotten so wrapped up in his memories.  He shook his head a final time and reached over to give the frequency knob a tweak, and then there it was:  A DIT-DAH emerged from the static, then faded again as the interference surged.  “Luna’s Moon Pies, you’re right!” he exclaimed.  The sound electrified him, and he bent forward to reach under his seatpad and  rummage through a box of charts.  He let go of the yoke in his eagerness, and as the aircraft lurched sideways he heard a startled yelp from Pasture.  “Sorry!”  

So, Whitepony’s N field, got to be the south one... the A field from Fetlock...  Discord’s horns!  He blanched as the magnitude of their drift became apparent.  Luna, the forecasts were all wrong... we must be thirty miles past the airway from Sheltie’s!  The winds had pushed them far north and west of Sheltie’s Meadow, and Featherprop shuddered as he thought of just how close they must have come to the Frostmane’s frozen teeth while in the clouds.  Hoofing up a pencil, he marked a general location on the chart, then showed it to the Unicorn next to him.  “There, we’re in there.”

Pasture looked.  “Where?”  The map was sparse, featuring only a few lines, some jotted numbers, and Featherprop’s rather large circle.

Featherprop pointed at the circle. “Right in there.”

Pasture’s eyebrows arched and his voice dripped with sarcasm.  “That’s your idea of knowing where we are?”

Featherprop frowned and folded the map, tucking it up over the sunvisor.  “Look, Doc, it’s a start.  Better than what we had before.”  What the Pegasus did not want to say was that now they would likely be flying into the teeth of the storm, fighting their way through a gale that could slow their progress to a crawl.  And we’re already iced up and down low.  He glanced at the twin fuel gauges at his left hoof.  While reliable and powerful, the Trotter’s engines were notoriously thirsty at this altitude, a fact that had given more than one pilot a premature gray mane.  

Featherprop did some quick mental calculations, shaking his head as the results came up short of what he hoped for.  No time to waste, or we’ll be sucking vapor.  Luna, why didn’t I think of this, as well? His muzzle twisted in a determined frown as he pushed the thought from his mind and set about getting back on course to Fetlock Falls.

Fifteen minutes later, Pasture had to admit that the Pegasus had been right– knowing a little about where you were was better than not at all.   With some guesswork and patience, Featherprop had managed to bracket the Fetlock range, and the steady tone in their ears rose above all but the loudest surges of interference.  When Featherprop had first explained it, the concept had seemed implausibly complicated, but Pasture had to admit that it was working.

Without knowing the exact direction to fly, Featherprop had first pointed the Trotter in the general direction of Fetlock and then begun to fly a series of zig-zag or ‘bracketing’ legs, listening for a softening and blending of the tone in his ears that would indicate the edge of the navigational range’s course.  Once he’d found that, a smaller series of zig-zag legs had given Featherprop an idea of the direction of the wind and the amount of correction needed to counteract it. 

What a strange concept, Pasture thought, as if you had to walk sideways to move straight ahead, always aiming to the side of where you want to go.  After his earlier doubt, he felt that a measure of recognition was owed the young pilot.  He tried to dredge up a measure of earnest gratitude and said, “Well done, though I still don’t understand quite how you worked out our position from that.” He pointed at the folded map, where the rough circle was still visible on the front fold, “Most impressive!”

 Featherprop, though, barely heard the compliment, and responded with an offhoof “Thanks, Doc, yeah.”  In addition to keeping the aircraft upright, listening to the range, monitoring the gauges, and adjusting his course, he had his hooves full with reviewing what he hoped would be end of the journey, and perhaps the most dangerous part of the trip:  The blind let-down into Fetlock Falls.  

Come on, ‘Prop, it’s just like bracketing the range here, he thought, and smiled bitterly at the lie.  While the let-down did indeed involvethe same sort of maneuvers he had performed earlier, it was complicated by the fact that, as they got lower, there were things to run into.  Large, solid things.  Fetlock Falls had more of them than the average destination, and in very inconvenient places.

Featherprop grimaced as he looked at the chart.  Fetlock Falls lay near the southern end of a glacial valley that ran from southwest to northeast.  On the western side of the valley was a steep ridge. During the day it was a stunning collection of striations and crags, but when the weather turned it reminded him of nothing more than dragon’s teeth.  

Across the valley the terrain rose more gently, but to a much greater heigh.  Between them the glacier had ground down the hills and left a narrow, flat floor.  It was in this valley, several miles north of Fetlock Falls itself, that the airport lay, with the navigational range sited between them.  

The real problems lay south of the town.  Several vast peaks formed a glacial bowl which surrounded a lake of shockingly blue water, runoff from the remnants of the glacier that had carved the Fetlock Valley.  The falls for which the town had been named marked the north end of that lake, where the frigid waters spilled over an uplifted ridge of rock to give birth to the Fetlock River.

It was not the long valley that Featherprop worried about– with the range to guide them, staying away from the mountains on either side was easy.  The mountains south of the lake though, were making his gut ache.  The shape of the valley mandated a procedure which required a steady hoof and faith in the equipment.   

Approaching from the northeast, Featherprop saw, they would have to overfly the navigational range and then turn around to approach from the south, using the range to make their final descent as they came back to the north– the peaks south of the lake made a missed let-down in that direction impossible.  Okay, the east side is the protected side, but barely.  He clucked his tongue as he saw that the course reversal would have to be quick and tight.  

Because of the height of the peaks, they would be turning around inside the valley, and flying too far in any direction would put them at risk of hitting terrain.  His eyes widened as he saw the altitude change needed between the range and the airport.  A ‘Chop and drop’ let-down, he thought, Luna, we’re going to need some luck if we want to pull this off.  

In training, this sort of let-down had jokingly been called the “flying brick” approach– the rate of descent needed to successfully perform it was so steep, it felt as though one were falling out of the sky.  And we’ll have a tailwind, making it even worse.  The one saving grace was that, if they could not find the airport, the navigational range would guide them down the long, empty valley.  He shuddered when he thought of trying to climb towards the peaks south of the town.

Featherprop snuck a glance at his passenger and grimaced at the thought of how the older Unicorn would react.  If he thought the takeoff was bad...  He reminded himself that a pre-attempt briefing would be essential, with particular emphasis on keeping hooves and magic to oneself.  In a panic, many Ponies would grab at the yoke to brace themselves.  

Sighing, he wished there were more coffee; it had been a long night and his tail was dragging.  Almost over, ‘Prop.  I hope to Luna we can get in. 


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


“Fetlock Traffic, Snowpony is on the range,  inbound, looking for conditions.” Silence followed his transmission, and Featherprop shrugged at the expectant Unicorn.  “We might still be too far away for voice to get through.”  With no way to measure distance from the range, he could not be certain how close they were.

Yet he knew they were close; the strength of the range, which was now a steady clear tone that was completely uninterrupted by static, told him that.  Ten minutes later, he tried again.  “Fetlock Traffic, Snowpony inbound, anypony respond?”

Still, there was no answer.  To himself, he mumbled, “Somepony should be answering...”  

Catching the worry in the Pegasus’s voice, Pasture asked, “Is there something wrong?”

Featherprop stared at his chart and answered in a wary voice.  “Yes.  Someone should be at the radio there.” He looked up and asked, “They were expecting us, weren’t they?”

Pasture nodded, but qualified his agreement.  “Yes, though they didn’t know when exactly I was going to arrive.  A message was sent ahead to Falling Fever, though, so he would know that a response was planned.”

“That’s not good, then.  Why wouldn’t they keep the radio monitored? Usually they only do that when– ”  Too late he realized that he was thinking out loud and cut his words short.  Luna, he’s going to want to go no matter what, and I need time to think this through. 

As Featherprop feared, Pasture had heard him.  With suspicion in his voice the unicorn asked, “Only when... what?”

The Pegasus cursed under his breath and gave Pasture a regretful look.  “Only... only when the airport is closed, Doc.  Like... when it’s not possible to get in.”  

Pasture listened, then reared his head back as the implication struck him.  “Are you suggesting that we’ve traveled all this way, and now you won’t even try to land?”

Featherprop wanted to kick himself.  With all the time they had been in the air, he’d not given any thought about how to deal with bad weather at Fetlock Falls.  The mild conditions early in the flight had made it easy to forget about.  Later, the stress and fear after discovering they were lost had focused his attention on simply finding their way here.  

The rest of the time, though, he had to admit that he’d shied away from discussing it.  It’s not easy disagreeing with this a pony like him.  He’d tried once or twice, of course, but the doctor’s overbearing nature made it hard to get the point through.  So, Doc, I know you’ve come all this way, but we’re just going to cruise past.  Maybe you can wave, will that help?  He sighed.  Sarcasm wasn’t going to help  “I... no, that’s not what I said, Doc.  It could be other reasons too.”

Pasture drew himself up and cleared his throat.  He knew the look of a Pony who was stalling, and it was obvious that Featherprop was trying to purchase some time.  There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the young Pegasus was searching for a reason to avoid making the attempt entirely.  To come so close and then just leave... unacceptable.  “Featherprop, I regret having to remind you, again, but you leave me no choice.  It is an absolute necessity that we land in Fetlock Falls.  There can be no allowance for dithering, there is no more time for delay. “  He glared at the Pegasus.  “We have to land there, and I will not accept any excuses.”

And there it is, thought Featherprop.  Pasture had laid out his position in clear terms.  Running a nervous hoof through his mane, he looked away, staring out the side windscreen into the gray-black night.  Sighing, he said, “Doc... let’s just wait until we get overhead, okay?  I don’t know enough right now, neither of us do.  Maybe somepony left the volume down; maybe they had to run outside for something.”  He gave the Unicorn a pleading look.  To his relief, Pasture nodded his assent.  

Having won a short reprieve, Featherprop slumped a little in his seat and tried to gather his thoughts.  He felt backed into a corner; every decision he had made, every time he had put off saying ‘no,’ had driven him to this point, and now all of those reasons bore down on him.  With a heavy sense of inevitability he thought, I don’t see that I have a choice.  I have to try.  Even though it went against his professional instincts, he felt as though there were no other option.  The long evening and the burning memory of past events pushed him to give in.

But a part of him fought back.  No, you don’t.  You can still say ‘no.’  

He groaned and hung his head.  Oh, great.  Now I’m arguing with myself again.  I’m going mental.

No, mental is trying to make the let-down when you don’t know the weather down below.  What if there’s more ice?  

Featherprop glanced out at the wing, not really wanting to see the thick, coating that glazed the leading edge.  It’s pretty cold up here, I don’t think we’ll pick up anymore.  And I can’t say no to Pasture.  I just... I can’t.  He hung his head in shame again, feeling weak as he admitted to his fear.

Why not?  He’s just another Pony.

No, he’s not.  He was sent by the Throne, for Luna’s sake, and he’s dead set on landing at Fetlock.  Do you know what he could do to me if I tell him no?

Featherprop could almost hear a shrug in the voice.  Why are you asking me?  It’s not like I’m somepony else, is it?  What exactly can he do to you?

He can... well, he can get me sacked.  Us.  That’s what happened last time, isn’t it? Almost?  His muzzle screwed up in a sour look as he thought about Placer Nugget’s vindictiveness.  Pasture’s got more wingpower behind him than Placer could ever dream of.

Fine.  Maybe he can get you sacked.  Then again, staying un-sacked is pretty pointless when you’re not alive to enjoy it.

Featherprop snorted to himself.  Now you’re just being melodramatic. It’s a blind let-down, not running a gauntlet of timberwolves.  

I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s just a blind let-down.  Without any weather reports.  And with a load of ice.  And I’m sure those headwinds we’ve been fighting won’t cause any turbulence in that valley, will they?  So no, it’s not timberwolves, but it could kill you just the same.

Featherprop  shook his head dimsissively.  I’ve done it before and been fine.  Rather than dissuade him, the internal argument was hardening his resolve.

You did.  And as I recall, you also spent an entire weekend scrubbing the streaks from that pine off the belly, didn’t you?  There was almost a gleeful edge to the voice, as if he were taunting himself.

Oh, fine, now it’s throwing THAT in my face?  Featherprop’s muzzle reddened at the memory, shame flooding him.  Not because of the risk taken, but because of the disappointment in Espresso’s eyes when he’d had to explain himself.

Face it, you’ve made some pretty bad decisions tonight.  This one could top them all. 

The blunt assessment felt like a kick in the gut.  Featherprop’s head swam a bit as a wave of guilt and helplessness wiped away the justifications he’d been nurturing.  At the point when he felt most lost, his own psyche was turning on him.  A terrible feeling of abandonment welled up, and that raw emotion finally dragged his attention away from himself.  There’s a whole village down there.  What about them?  Where do they fit in?

They don’t.  You can’t make a decision based on them.

Though he knew it that to be true, though he’d said it a dozen times when diverting to an alternate airfield or delaying a flight, a sense of loss he thought he’d buried long ago reared up, stronger than ever.  But there are whole families down there.  Mothers and fathers... foals.  They need help.  I can’t abandon them.

They’re down there, and you’re up here.  Just because they’re there doesn’t change the way things are up here.  You can’t make decisions based on how you want things to be, only the way things are, you know that. The voice was flat and emotionless, rebuking him with it’s dispassionate tone.

The callous dismissal kicked up a rebellious defiance in Featherprop.  Using reason and logic had failed all evening long, and now he gave voice to his gut feelings.  Like hay I can’t!  I know some of those Ponies... I can’t leave without even trying, like some coward.  I don’t want to; I’m scared, but I’m more scared of not trying, and somepony, everypony down there is depending on me.  I’m here now; there’s nopony else is around to do it, so it’s up to me.  His thoughts were jumbled, and all he could do was cling to the concept of duty in the face of danger.

Even if it kills you?

The voice went silent for a moment, and then repeated a phrase that Featherprop had often heard at the Flight Academy:  

Do what has to be done.  

For a moment, he couldn’t decide whether it was agreement or rebuke.  The old Gryphon who had been his chief instructor would use the phrase, usually when one of his underlings was complaining about a frustrating student.  Now, though, he had the nagging feeling it was a last emotional appeal from whichever side of him was playing Nightmare’s advocate.  With a snort he thought,  It’s too late for second thoughts, I had my chance before we took off.  I’m committed now, I can’t back out, even if...  No, no backing out.  He listened, waiting to see if he’d won the argument with himself.  When there was no reply, he grabbed the let-down chart for Fetlock Falls and began reviewing the procedure once more.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


If he makes it back alive, I’m going to pluck him bare, then tar and feather him with his own feathers.  

Espresso was hooves-deep in a filing cabinet, trying to discover how exactly a file folder had come to fly up out of the drawer and scatter it’s contents across the floor, and dreaming up dark outcomes for a certain Pegasus.  This has Featherprop written all over it.   Despite her frustration, she had to admit he had come up with a clever trick this time.  

The mechanism turned out to be surprisingly simple:  A spring-loaded arm had been held down by a pin, connected to a string tied to the back of the cabinet.  When she had opened the drawer, the string pulled a pin free, releasing the spring, and the folder had flown up in the air.  She sighed and rested her muzzle on a foreleg.  Three months’ of fuel receipts, half of them stamped using the Griphorian calendar.  I’ll be here all night just converting the dates.  

Before Featherprop had been dumped on Trottinger’s doorstep, she couldn’t recall meeting Pony who was so good at being infuriating while managing to make her feel bad about being angry.  Her ears drooped as she mused that in this case he’d lucked out; as much as she wanted to buck him across the town square for this, that urge was overwhelmed by her guilt over taking the REMMA contract, saddling him with Pasture... and putting his life in danger.  She pursed her lips as she realized that the additional filing was not entirely unwelcome– it gave her an excuse to stay at the station until he returned.  Only so I can shave him bald, of course.  And then do that tarry-feathery thing.

The sound of hooves in the hallway caused her ear to swivel back.  Suddenly feeling embarrassed at her sentimentality, Espresso snapped, “What do you want?” then regretted it.  Whoever it was, her agitation wasn’t their fault.

Ether Watt flinched at the sharpness of Espresso’s voice and stopped short, keeping her hooves in the hall.  She craned her neck in, trying to take in the spectacle:  Half the office was covered in flimsy pink slips, and in the middle of it Espresso was reared up on her hindhooves, forelegs buried in a drawer, with tension knotting in her withers.  Hesitantly, Ether said, “I... I finally got something back from Fairflanks.  I thought you’d want to know.”

Espresso managed to yank the spring free with a grunt, then pulled her forelegs out and turned to face the other mare.  “Oh, Ether, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your flank.  He’s been at it again, you can see.”  She held up the spring and gave it an exaggerated glare, but then she blinked and the harshness faded as she turned to look at Ether.  “Wait, you got through?  Did they catch him before he started up?”  She hurriedly shuffle together the some of  the receipts scattered across her desk, then snorted and lifted her hooves up and took a deep breath.

“Of course, what am I doing?  This can wait, I’ll come right now.  Celestia, how am I going to say this?  It’s complicated.  Can we talk, or will it have to be...”  She broke off when she noticed that Ether was still standing in the hallway, eyes downcast and ears hanging low.  “Ether?  Featherprop is still there, isn’t he?”  She could see from the sad look on her friend’s face that he wasn’t, but the hopeful question had tumbled out before she could stop herself.

Ether’s mane swayed as she ducked her head to avoid Espresso’s eyes.  “He’d already left.  By the time I was able to get the message through he’d... I’m sorry, Espresso.”  Ether looked up at her friend, shame clouding her normally vibrant eyes.  For most Ponies, Ether would have given a shrug and left it at that, but Espresso’s agitated state, along with the terrible interference, had created a sense of foreboding that she couldn’t push out of her mind.  “I tried, I really did!  Conditions are awful tonight, I had to double-key it and even then it took four tries.”  She sighed.  “By the time I managed to get a good copy, he was already off the ground and out of range.”  Misery twisted Ether’s muzzle into a frown.  She took her failure to catch Featherprop as a mark against her skills, and on top of that Espresso’s obviously urgency had her worried about both her friends. 

Ether rocked from hoof to hoof.  If it had Essie so worked up, what the hay is ‘Prop flying into?  Seeing Espresso in a near-panic earlier had truly frightened her.  She’d never seen the station manager so worried, and now Ether was afraid she’d failed both of her colleagues.  Her friends.

Crestfallen, Espresso half-heartedly shuffled a few more receipts on the desk.  “Oh... oh, it’s alright, Ether.  I’m sure you did all you could.  I’ll just have to contact him later.  There’s nothing more to do about it tonight.”  Stepping forward, she laid her neck across Ether’s and nuzzled her mane to comfort the younger mare.

Ether sniffled and leaned into her, then quietly asked, “But it seemed so important to you.  Is he in trouble?  What’s he going to do?”

Espresso took a deep breath. “Oh, Ether, you know Featherprop.  He knows his job.”  Closing her eyes, she added, “By tomorrow it won’t matter anyway.”  And I pray to Luna that it’s because he’s back here safe, not...  She forced herself to stop the thought there, and brushed her cheek against Ether’s as she turned to go back to the scattered receipts.
> 8: Can You Hear Me Now?
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can’t you do anything about that blasted noise?”

Featherprop frowned at Pasture’s outburst and took a deep breath.  “No, Doc, I can’t. The range gets really narrow as we close in, and the winds up here are kicking my flank.”

As the Trotter approached Fetlock Falls, Featherprop had found it harder and harder to stay centered on the navigational range.  He found himself twisting the Trotter back and forth as he fought to keep the range’s tone steady in his earphones.

He’d already explained that to Pasture, several times, in fact.  Now the doctor’s unwillingness to listen grated on his nerves;  Featherprop stifled a dirisive snort when he realized he was treated like a junior crewmember.  And in my own aircraft!  He tried to push the feeling aside and focus on flying; was no time to dwell on irony or outrage.

As he glanced at the center console, he noticed Pasture was slouching in his seat, his restraints loosened.  “And Doc, you’d better tighten up that harness.  It’s going to get bumpy on the way in, and if you smack that horn on the overhead, it’s gonna hurt.”

When he saw Pasture’s head snap up, he cut off any response by hoofing the microphone switch and announcing, “Fetlock Radio, Snowpony is inbound on the range, anypony up? … Fetlock Radio, Snowpony inbound, looking for advisories.”  When there was no reply, he looked over at Pasture and shook his head.  “Not good.”

Pasture grunted and turned away.  He had briefly felt sorry for snapping at the pilot earlier, but at the same time he suspected that Featherprop’s resolve was weakening; to his ears,the Pegasus’s warnings about the weather sounded like excuses, and this latest performance only increased his suspicions.  With a wave of the hoof, he said, “Yes, well, you have to remember this is a new experience for me.”

Featherprop grunted as he watched the instruments.  “There’s a first time for all of us, Doc, but let me tell you, I don’t like this.”

Pasture considered his next words carefully.  It would be easy to antagonize the Pegasus needlessly, but he had to press his case.  “I must say, I don’t either. Regardless, I... Featherprop, we cannot give up. This is too important.”

Featherprop’s muzzle flushed as he heard the rebuke in the doctor’s words.  In exasperation he said, “Give up?  Doc, there’s giving up and then there’s trying to buck apples from a pine tree.  Sometimes what you want just isn’t possible.” 

The Unicorn thought he heard a note of defensiveness in the pilot’s words, and nodded to himself.  I thought so.  Waving a hoof towards the windscreen he continued, “You tell me it’s not possible, but all night I’ve watched you flying without looking outside,” Pasture then gestured towards radios, “and I see you navigating by sound.  Are you going to tell me that we’ve come all this way, but going a little further is impossible?”

Featherprop frowned to himself, trying to divide his attention between arguing with Pasture and keeping the aircraft on course.  Luna, it’s more complicated than that.  The doctor’s words were feeding his doubts, and he found his conviction wavering.  “But... no one’s there, Doc.  If I can’t tell what the conditions are, I can’t–”

Pasture spoke quickly, feeling a slight thrill as he caught the pilot trying to use regulations as a shield.  “Yes, you told me that no answer may mean the field is... closed, down, whatever, but is that the only reason nopony would respond?”  He tapped the panel next to the radios, causing a small burst of static in the ‘phones.  “Do these devices never fail?”

Featherprop looked away.  There really was no way to decisively argue against what Pasture was suggesting; he well knew that there could be half-a-dozen reasons that nopony would answer, but he didn’t want to acknowledge them.  With his own resolve weakening, he sullenly protested, “There are rules and procedures...”

Pasture pounced on Featherprop’s equivocation.  “Rules and procedures?  There are ponies at risk here.  Lives, Featherprop, not rules.  Just think for a moment– whoever is supposed to be at the radio down there, what if they’ve just stepped away briefly to check on a family member?  Would you want to deny the entire village treatment because somepony cared about a loved one enough to temporarily leave, perhaps after hours and hours of hearing nothing but this blasted noise?”

Featherprop knew he was being baited, but he felt Pasture’s argument tugging at his heart.  The tones grew sharp in his ears, and he took a moment to hoof in a correction.  “It’s not that simple, Doc.  It’s... there’s more to it than that.”  The frustration of trying to fight Pasture’s insistence and keep the aircraft on course was wearing him down.  With his attention spread thin, the feeling that he ought to be agreeing with Pasture, rather than resisting, was growing stronger.

“I think it really is that simple.  Isn’t it your job to get me there?  Beyond that, think of the consequences of leaving this task undone.”  Pasture fixed the Pegasus with a stare and steeled himself; the words that had come to him were harsh and cutting, but in his fervor he felt justified in using them.  It’s for the greater good.  Not just this village, but all of the territory.  Equestria. 

“When you come back here, do you want to have to count the missing muzzles?  Do you want to have to explain that a few rules cost somepony their spouse?  Or their colt?”

Featherprop felt like he had been kicked in the chest, and when he tried to glare at the doctor, his vision was blurred from tears.  Faces flashed through his mind, and he looked back at the panel, more to avoid Pasture’s level gaze than anything else.  His voice caught as he said, “We... we’ll see.  I can’t say right now.  But there’s one thing you’ll need to do.”  He lifted his head and looked at Pasture with bitterness.

Pasture warily asked, “What’s that?”  The look from the Pegasus caused his mane to twitch. 

“Next time, find another pilot, Doc.  You’re never flying with me again.”

The doctor’s eyes turned cold as he said, “Do your job, and it won’t be an issue.”

The two ponies stared at each other, and several seconds passed before Featherprop realized the silence went deeper than just the glares between them–  the tones of the range were swiftly fading, and he quickly glanced at the radio and his chart.

Pasture instantly grasped what the sudden activity meant.  “What, are we there?”  He forgot the animosity between them as the reality of finishing the journey seemed within grasp.

Featherprop frowned and looked down at the charts, then out at the glazed wings, and sucked his cheeks in as he tried to make a decision.  And as for the past hour, the answer eluded him–  there were simply too many unknowns;  too many maybes and not enough for certains.  His eye flicked from gauge to gauge, searching for an answer that couldn’t be found outside of himself.  Okay, any reason NOT to try?  Any?  He weighed assumptions and expectations in his mind, hoping that the scales would tip towards diverting to Kathia before they were committed.

But his mind couldn’t latch onto a good reason to call it off, though.  He could sense the doctor’s agitation growing as he sat silently, and that reminded him of everything that rode on this one decision.  He glanced at Pasture, and was startled to see that Pasture was watching him back with a thoughtful look.  A thought suddenly struck Featherprop:  He’s measuring me.  He’s sitting there like he knows what in Tartarus is going on.  He sighed.  But damn it, he’s right.  I can’t face them if I don’t try.  Luna help us, I hope this isn’t a mistake.  He took a deep breath and reached up for the power levers.

 “Okay, Doc.  Here we go.”

Under his breath, Featherprop began to recite the Aviator’s Prayer.  Someone had scrawled it on a board at the Flight Academy, as a joke, but before long the instructors and students had adopted it, an odd little ritual that wasn’t quite a plea to the Princesses or a joke.  Many a student had uttered it during a particularly feathercurling evaluation, and many a pilot had mulled it over during a long flight.  On any other night, he would have felt foolish reciting it, but tonight the words gave him a tiny bit of comfort.  

Oh Ternoulli, Blessed Patron of Skybound Wings,
watch over us as we begin our descent.  
Let not the critical angle be exceeded,
nor our flow of air suffer disruption.
In summer, shield us from stones of hail,
and in winter strip the ice from our wings.  
Let us not descend below our minima,
and keep us from unusual attitudes.
And when we reach the Decision Point, if it please thee,
grant us a view of the runway environment, or at least the lights leading in.  
In the name of  the Moon, and the Sun, and the Elements,
Allons-y

As the Pegasus pulled the levers back and eased the nose down, a false quiet settled over the cockpit.  Though the sound from the engines was still there, their roar was muted and the sound of air rushing past the cabin dominated, except for the occasional pop or squeak from the radio.  Featherprop squinted at the compass, thought about the winds, and swung the nose a little more to the right.  Despite knowing they were almost right above the antenna, the lack of guidance was nerve-wracking, and his ears flushed as it reminded him of his shameful failure to catch the silence earlier in the evening.  As the altimeter swept down past five thousand, he advanced the power and began to level off, checking the timer out of the corner of his eye.  Three minutes to go...

The air had become increasingly unsettled during the descent, Featherprop noticed.  The alulas on his wings twitched, unconsciously feeling for changing air  currents.  The jolts were small, like a cart rolling over a pebble, but each one sent a tingle up his spine. 

Despite adding power, the Trotter continued to descend, and Featherprop frowned as he pulled back on the yoke.  The ice, ‘Prop, this thing’s a Pony-sicle tonight.  He reached for the throttles again, worried about sinking below the intermediate altitude, when his wings began to ruffle and twitch.  His eyes shot open as the sensations came together.  ROTOR!!  “Doc, brace yourself!” 

The tightness in the Pegasus’ voice alarmed Pasture.  Just as he turned to look at Featherprop, the aircraft dropped out from under him.

Pasture yelped as his loose harness allowed him to float out of his seat, then bit into his hips and yanked him downward with the rest of the aircraft.  His forelegs flailed up as he was stopped short, causing Featherprop to duck and then reach to protect the throttles.  Pasture started to cry out, but his throat snapped shut as his guts were thrust upwards against his ribcage.  All that managed to escape his muzzle was a weak gurgle.  Around him, a blizzard of papers, dirt, screws, pens and other cockpit refuse floated up in a repulsive cloud.  He sputtered and reared his head back, his horn painfully bouncing off the cockpit overhead.

Next to him, Featherprop braced against the seatback as the Trotter fell into the downrushing torrent of air.  Instead of the usual jolt through an opposing updraft, this time it felt as if they were falling out of the sky.  The urge to pull back on the yoke and halt their descent was overwhelming, but the Pegasus knew he had to resist.  Control, ‘Prop!  Pitch plus Power equals Performance. Unbidden, the words ran through his head and he shot a hoof up to shove the throttles forward, watching as the airspeed wound down towards a thick red line.  Gotta ride it out!  The rate of descent slowed a little, but they continued to lose altitude at an alarming rate.  Any moment, we’ll punch through.  We gotta!

Of all the things the weather could throw at them tonight, Featherprop feared rotors the most.  The swirling vortexes of air changed with every valley and every wind, and now they were were caught in one.  He glanced sideways at the poor Unicorn, and briefly shook his head, unable to do more than sit rigidly and try to keep the aircraft from being tossed on it’s back.  “This is why...” he paused to grunt as the Trotter shook roughly, “This is why I told you to tighten that harness!”

Unable to even swallow, Pasture glared at the pilot.  The rebuke only made his discomfort worse.  The moment seemed to stretch on for minutes as he dangled above his seatpad.   Pasture fought to deny what his senses were telling him, that he was falling up, and his eyes bulged a little as he felt an uncomfortable squeeze in his stomach.  Celestia, I didn’t think there was anything in there to come up...

Featherprop didn’t have time to worry about the Unicorn– he was too busy worrying about what the rotor was trying to do to the Trotter.  This thing is HUGE!  He couldn’t recall ever having been in one so powerful.  Most were short and rough, but the seemingly unending descent had his wings straining against the seatback.  Featherprop’s nerves were fraying, and he swept his eyes back and forth over the gages, trying to keep his alarm from growing into full-blown panic.  It can’t keep going, can it?

Featherprop’s gut turned a somersault as they suddenly flew out of the downdraft, and the Pegasus found himself scrambling to react as the Trotter juddered it’s way into the turbulent center of the vortex.  The Trotter shook and seemed to audibly groan as it left the broken air and flew into the rapidly rising air on the other side of the rotor, a deep thrum vibrating up through the deck as the aircraft flexed and twisted.  The Trotter’s nose tilted skywards as the powerful updraft gripped it, and Featherprop was forced to use both hooves to push the yoke forward to try and keep the wings level.  

Focused as he was on the regaining control, Featherprop was caught completely by surprise when the floating Unicorn’s hoof crashed down on his head. 

Featherprop’s eyes watered from Pasture’s hoofblow, but that was nothing compared to the pain he felt when the hoof ripped the earphones from his head.  He flinched, his ears assaulted by the screaming, thundering sound of the Trotter’s engines at full power.  The banshee wail of wind rushing past the airframe stabbed deep into his skull.  His ears flattened against his head, but that did nothing to block out the noise.  The noise was overpowering, drowning out his other senses.

A chilling thought pushed through the fog of confusion in his mind:  The range!  Without his earphones, there was no way to track the course, no way to tell if he was in safe air or heading for a rocky outcropping.  Even more than turbulence or ice, the thought of jagged mountains lurking in the grey fog made his heart spasm.  Frantically, he looked for the headset.  

Pasture was stunned as he flopped down into his seat, his spine compressing painfully as the seatpad slammed into his rump.  His first thought was to feel for a broken tail, and he gave a silent sigh of relief when twitching it was free of pain.  He sat in stunned relief for a moment, glad that down was once again down and he was firmly planted on the dingy cushion.  It wasn’t until he felt a punch to his shoulder that he realized Featherprop was shouting at him.  He tried to blink the pain away and looked at the grimacing Pegasus.  

“DOC!  My ‘phones!  Hoof me the damn earphones!!”  Featherprop shouted at the top of his lungs, but the noise in the cockpit was so intense, he couldn’t even hear his own voice.  Desperately, he pointed at his head and then stabbed a hoof at the floor near Pasture’s hooves:  The earphones had come to rest up in Pasture’s footwell, far out of his reach.  “I need them, Doc!  Grab the damn ‘phones!!”  

Following the pilot’s hoof, Pasture stared at the earphones for a second before realizing what Featherprop was trying to say.  Unsteadily, he hoofed them up, but they were yanked from his grip when the cable went taut.  He scowled with frustration as he saw it had gotten looped behind one of the rudder pedals, which swung forwards and back as Featherprop danced on the other set in his efforts to control the aircraft.  Swearing, Pasture strained to gather enough magic to unloop the cord.

Featherprop split his attention between the instruments and Pasture, desperate to get his ears covered.  With the turbulence he dare not let go of the controls, but the pain was making it hard to concentrate.  “Come on, hoof ‘em over, Doc!”  Focused on Pasture, Featherprop was completely unprepared when the Trotter lurched to the left as it punched into a swirling pocket of turbulence.  

Distracted, Featherprop twisted the yoke to the right to counteract the roll, asking for just a little more lift out of the air arching over the left wing.  Nothing happened– despite the twisting of the aileron, there was no more lift to be gathered.  Featherprop's gut clenched with dread as, for a moment, he felt the wing balance on a knife edge between flying and falling.  A piercing tone stuttered, louder even than the sound of the engines and the wind, signaling the imminent loss of lift.  Featherprop braced himself and prayed, caught between avoiding a stall and letting the aircraft roll upside down.

The Trotter slammed into a twisting updraft, and the uneven chirping of the stall horn became a steady wail.  The uniform flow of air over the left wing disintegrated and the Trotter fell to the side.  No! Nononononono Luna NO!  With panic arcing through him, Featherprop slammed the yoke forward and left to break the stall, but it was too late:  The aircraft began a vicious roll, flinging cargo and loose objects across the cabin.

Including one unsecured passenger.  

Pasture had just gotten the tangled cable free when he felt as if he were being picked up by a spot somewhere behind his stomach.  He gritted his teeth, preparing for the belt to bite into his haunches.  Oh no, not agai–  His thoughts were interrupted by an explosion of pain as his head slammed into the side of the Trotter.

“DOC!”  

Horrified, Featherprop watched as Pasture was flung against the cabin wall.  Though partly deafened, he could hear a muffled crunch as the doctor’s head struck the paneling, and then the Unicorn slumped forward against his loose restraints.  Featherprop stared in disbelief until  the Trotter was wracked by another violent shudder, accentuated by a thumping from the floorboards as boxes crashed about in the cargo bay behind them.  A ferocious knot of swirling air twisted the Trotter in three directions at once, and the Pegasus fought a wave of vertigo.  Withering under the assault of sound and shaking, Featherprop’s world shrunk to the panel ahead of him, but the violent shaking was turning it into a blur.  

He locked his eyes on the artificial horizon, where a tiny smudge of brown in the lower corner showed that the Trotter’s nose was pointing towards the sky, though that seemed impossible.  His wingsense screamed that they were flying straight down, diving towards the ground.  He felt paralyzed as the ingrained sensations from his wings fought with what his eyes told him: they were going up.  It wasn't until the wail of the stall warning horn cut through the noise again that he could bring himself to shove the yoke forward, gaining precious airspeed and avoiding a total loss of control.  I can’t tell...  Oh Luna, Pasture, he's not dead, he can't be dead, he can't be...  Where the hay are we?  It’s my fault, it’s my fault...  Like the air over the wing, Featherprop’s mind fractured into a half-dozen thoughts, each demanding his attention at the same time.  His free hoof twitched back and forth, undecided, as he jumped from one thought to the next.  Discord, what... what am I doing?, What am I doing?

Pasture moaned and brought a hoof up to his pounding head.  His entire side ached, and the savage convulsions of the Twin Trotter made it feel as if he were trapped in a barrel, tumbling down a mountainside.  “Wh– what happened?”  When nopony answered, he tried sitting up straight, but the motion made the world around him spin violently.  “Urgh...”  He slumped forward again and cradled his head in his hooves, praying to Celestia for the shaking to stop.  Just for a moment, let me get my bearings.  He tried to remember where he was, but the noise and harsh jostling kept him from gathering his wits.  He felt an overwhelming weariness building at the back of his head and vainly fought to stay awake.  As he passed out, his forelegs fell limply into his lap and his head flopped about as the Trotter slammed through the rough air.

Featherprop caught Pasture’s motion out of the corner of his eye.  Doc!  He swallowed a rising tide of bile and tried to stop the flood of worries racing through his mind.  We have to get down, this is going to kill us.  That realization swept the discordant thoughts aside, giving him the clarity needed to make a decision.  We have to get down.  Dismissing everything else, he latched onto that thought and tried to convince himself that it was the most important thing in the world.  I'll deal with the hills when I get down there- we'll come apart if we hit much more of this!

Feeling the rumbling and shaking subside, Featherprop risked a sideways lunge.  He put a foreleg to Pasture's chest and roughly shoved him upright.  Grabbing the loose barrel restraint, he yanked hard and pulled it tight, locking Pasture against his seatback.  He thought he saw Pasture flinch, and  a brief burst of relief flared in his chest.  It takes more than that to...  It has to, he didn't hit that hard.  "Sorry, Doc, but we gotta get out of here, 'fore we get haybucked!"  His own voice sounded distant and muffled, and he suddenly realized that all the sounds were muted- the deafening noise was taking it's toll on his hearing.  Discord, if I can't hear...  we're dead.  Featherprop angrily dismissed the thought and yanked the power levers back.  He jammed the yoke forward, shoving the nose over.  

Distance was the enemy now- Featherprop knew that if they overran the valley, this maneuver would end in disaster.  Death, 'Prop.  No point sugarcoating that.  Nopony walked away from running into a mountain.  The sudden absence of engine roar sounded like silence to his aching ears, and he swallowed as he felt his stomach rise up.  Like a sled running downhill, they picked up speed, and soon the shaking and jolting became dangerously harsh.  Hesitantly, Featherprop pulled down on the power levers and hoofed them over a stop.  The word "BETA" flared to life on the panel in brilliant amber, and he and the doctor were thrown against their restraints as the nose fell further earthward.  

Featherprop glanced out the side window and tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he watched the arc of the propeller blades change.  Pushing the air no longer, the broad blades turned flat against the wind and the Trotter fell from the sky.  Crazy, crazy, Luna, I know this is in the book, but this is crazy!  He had always been too afraid to use the aerobraking technique inflight, for the drag created was so tremendous that any imbalance between the engines could tumble the aircraft.  An ominous thumping jolted through his seat, and he winced as he felt boxes tumbling forward against the netting.  He could see he had been wrong:  He should have been terrified to try this.  

The thought of hitting terrain outweighed that worry, though.  As long as they were flying, he knew he had a chance.  Featherprop held his breath, pushing the nose over further and further as the airspeed continued to drop.  He could not believe it when the attitude indicator showed the nose pointed nearly halfway to vertical.  Across the cabin, Pasture’s hooves dangled limply away from his body, his head flopped forward.  At the lower speed, the formerly painful shaking was reduced to a series of vigorous jolts, and Featherprop watched the unwinding altimeter with growing unease.  Come on, come on, it has to end!  

Finally, as the needles spun past seventeen hundred feet, the turbulence abruptly ended. Featherprop gingerly advanced the power levers and brought the Trotter level at fifteen hundred feet.  In the still air, he let go of the yoke and lunged for the earphones.  After several seconds of straining and grunting, he managed to drag them over, and greedily hoofed them up and clapped them over his ears.

Featherprop had thought that getting the earphones back on his head would be a relief, but the moment they  sealed out the sound of wind and motor, the worries he had set aside came rushing back.  Though the long exposure had left his hearing dulled, the DIT-DAH was unmistakable.  Hoofrot, the range!  The lack of a solid tone told him they were off-course, not how much.  

For the second time that evening, Pasture found himself waking to the droning of the engines.  This  time, however, when he lifted his head a bolt of pain lanced through it, and he grimaced, lifting a hoof to touch his sore temple and horn.  "What...  what happened to me?" he croaked.  With relief, he realized that the Trotter was only suffering the occasional minor jolt.  Through the fog in his head, he could only pull up a jumbled impression of crashing sounds and disturbing physical sensations.  

As the haziness in his head began to fade, other pains made themselves known, including a dull ache from his side where his barrel restraint bit into it deeply.  Shakily, Pasture probed his barrel with a hoof.  Did that fool crack my rib?  No, thank Celestia, but I’ll be bruised for a week.  He had lost track of where they were and even what they were doing, but the vague memory of a crisis poked through the fog in his head.  He pulled the headset's microphone to his muzzle and wearily asked, "What... where are we?  What in Tartarus is going on?  Are we almost there?"  He winced at the shaky sound of his voice, and felt a measure of impatience returning as his head cleared.  It was comforting, in a way– being passive had been like a burr in his coat all evening long.

“Doc!” Featherprop only half-heard Pasture’s quiet words, but they brought him a little hope, even as fear brought a sour taste to his mouth.  His voice was full of worry as he said, “No.  We...” he let the sentence trail off.  The Unicorn would have no idea just how bad the situation was, and the time for arguing was long gone.  Frantically, he looked around the cockpit.  

The turbulence had made it a mess, with papers, manuals, and the usual debris of a working pony scattered about, but he spied the approach charts near his hooves and snatched them up.  The muted "A" tone in his ears was both a relief and a worry- it meant they had drifted left of course, towards the center of the glacial valley, but he had no clue how far the winds had blown them to the east.  

All of Featherprop’s worries had become a terrifying reality: They were trapped in a small valley, blown off course, and unable to outclimb the surrounding mountains.  He blanched as he reviewed the chart.  In escaping the turbulence, he had taken them far below the “safe” altitude, and they had to turn now.  The only escape route was to turn back towards a steep valley wall, find the range, and follow it northward.  Without warning, he heeled the Twin Trotter over into a steeply banked turn, pulling hard and adding power, only easing off when the accusing chirp of the stall horn flickered through the cabin.  Both Ponies were pressed down in their seats, the force of the turn making their limbs and heads feel heavy.  He thought he heard Pasture say something, though his hearing was still cottony and dulled.  “What?” he barked.

Pasture groaned and repeated, “I asked, what in the Seven Spells are you doing, you maniac?”  

Featherprop wrinkled his muzzle in frustration, guilt and annoyance battling within him.  If he had paid more attention, been more insistent, Pasture might have been strapped in tightly to begin with.  While Pasture’s recovery brought a tremendous sense of relief, his hooves were full at the moment and he didn’t need a combative passenger.  Your fault, ‘Prop.  Can’t blame the dryhoof, can you?  He bit his tongue and curtly answered, “Keeping our flanks from plowing into a mountain.  Good enough for you, Doc?”

Pasture bristled at the tone in the Pegasus’s voice, and he snapped his head over to reply.  The sudden motion scrambled his sense of balance and he found himself suddenly swallowing, trying to keep his throat closed as an uncomfortable knot grew in his gut.  “That’s... all well and good, but could you... please, could you straighten out... soon?”  He breathed as heavily as his tight restraints would allow, trying to settle his stomach, and his voice was thick and doughy.

Featherprop had heard that particular tone before, and looked over with a mixture of worry and annoyance.  “No.  Oh no, Doc, no way.  Don’t do this to me now.  You gotta hold it in.”

Pasture did his best to look indignant, but found the churning in his gut made it come across as a pinched frown.  “Do what?  What can I do?  I’m not the one trying to... to...”  he paused, swallowing hard, “to audition for the Wonderbolts!”

Featherprop rolled his eyes.  “Oh for Luna’s... fine, hold on.”  He reached around under his seat, and pulled out a wrinkled paper bag.  Looking inside briefly, he passed it over. “Okay, breathe in and out of that thing.”

Pasture eyed it distastefully.  “Breathe... in and out?  Why?”

“It inhi–  I don’t have time for this.  It’ll help with the nausea. Or if you end up tossing your hay, make sure you keep it in here.”  

Featherprop glanced upwards at the compass, his wings ruffling nervously as the needle swung further and further westward, where the range ought to be.  And a nice, tall ridgeline behind it.  A lance of fear shivered his spine, and he checked the chart again to reassure himself that he hadn’t made a horrible mistake and turned in the wrong direction.  Looks like 290 will do... damn! He cursed under his breath, for the Trotter’s nose had already turned past that heading, and he twisted the yoke over to bring it back around.

“You’re... you’re serious, aren’t you?  What is this, some kind of frontier folk-tale remedy?” Pasture’s words fairly dripped with sarcasm.  Despite his words, the sudden motion of the aircraft being racked back around caused him to eye the bag with a haunted look.

“Based on a few years’ worth of flying sick Ponies around, yes, it’s a frontier folk-tale remedy, but it works.  Take it or leave it.”  Featherprop pointedly cut the conversation off by turning to his instruments.  As they flew on, his mane began itching in worry–  every thirty seconds was a mile closer to the range, and to the wall of rock behind it.  The Trotter shuddered as it passed through a patch of turbulence.  Deuces, so much for grabbing a little altitude back.

Pasture opened his mouth to retort, then suddenly thrust his muzzle into the bag and took several deep breaths.  It helped, a little, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment.  “Tell me what happened.  What did you do to my ribs?”

Featherprop ground his teeth in frustration and took a deep breath.  “We hit a rotor, a bad one.  You hit my head, then you hit the wall. Now we’re low, lost, and I’m half deaf.  Look, can you keep quiet?  I need to listen for the range before we find some really big rocks.”  He tried to force a calmness into his voice, but underneath he was desperately listening for the range, waiting for the sharp gaps in the tone to fill in, letting him know they were close.  

Luna, this is going to be tight.  I don’t like this.  What do I do if this doesn’t work out?  He realized he didn’t know what he would do.  In his desperation, he’d abandoned procedure, and now there was no safety margin.  

Pasture glowered at the Pegasus. “When we land, you and I will have a discussion about all of this.  And if I’m not satisfied, I’m going to bring this to your employ– ”

“Shut up, just stuff it already!  I don’t care, okay?”  Featherprop cut off Pasture’s threat with a venomous explosion.  “Talk all you want later, write a stupid letter, I don’t care!  Right now I need to listen for the range, so put a hoo–  wait, do you hear that?” He cocked his head, straining to hear.  Yes, the range! 

The sharp tones had begun to bleed into the silences as the Trotter flew into the overlap zone.  Exultant and fearful at the same time, Featherprop banked sharply, determined not to overfly the range.  Got it!!  He felt the urge to laugh and yell, and with a  whoop he said,  “Aces!  Back on track, Doc!” A silly grin broke out on his muzzle as a manic excitement gripped him.  I know where we are!  I’m alive, we’re okay, this is going to really work out!

Pasture found it necessary to jam his muzzle in the bag again, but when Featherprop had righted the plane he yanked his microphone back in place and said, “Are you completely mad?  Stop flinging me about! What in Tartarus has possessed you?!”  He watched as the Pegasus nearly bounced in his seat, the sudden lightness souring his own mood even more.

Featherprop tried to compose himself, but the lifting of his fear left him feeling giddy and confident.  We’re not there yet, ‘Prop, come on, calm down.  “Sorry.  It’s the range, Doc, we’re on course again.  We’re almost there!”  

With a start, Pasture realized that the bleating tones in his earphones had indeed merged together.  In a hope-tinged voice he asked, “How long?”  Celestia, to get on the ground again!  The prospect of having solid ground under his hooves was tantalizing, but Featherprop’s sudden glee made him perversely suspicious.  “And what makes you so sure?  You’ve spent this entire time moaning that this was a fools’ errand.  Not that you’ve convinced me, but what makes you so sure now?”  Pasture thought of the many Ponies he had watched stumble due to their own hubris, but in his world failure had meant departmental disgrace, not disaster.  And none of them held my career in their hooves.  Pasture shivered as a new thought occurred to him, that his very existence relied upon the Pony next to him, and he took several deep breaths from his bag to calm his nerves.  Or my life.

Featherprop’s giddiness cooled as Pasture’s skepticism sunk in, eating away at the camaraderie he suddenly felt towards the Unicorn.  Wrinkling his muzzle, he said, “Fine, Doc, you’re right.  Sorry for being happy to be alive.”  Embarrassment ate at his new-found confidence, paired with a sadness that he couldn’t share the joy of being alive with somepony who understood just how precarious their situation was.  Espresso would have understood.  She’d have bucked me through a wall after all of this, but she’d  have understood.

> 9:  The Things We Regret The Most
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ether was hunched over a singed amplifier when the teletype repeater started clattering. She cocked an ear backwards, listening to the tones, then set down her soldering iron when she picked out the identifier for Fairflanks.  Sounds like Short Spark on the key tonight, she thought, as she sat down at the console and donned her earphones.

TTR - TTR - FLK - FLT TIMES/UPLIFT AS REQ 

Ether curled her hoof over the iambic key and twitched back a reply.  FLK - TTR RDY COPY

TTR - FP ON 2120 IN 2128 - REQ TOPOFF 5.7 BRLS - BLOCK 2214 OFF 2220  

As the next set of tones came through, Ether quickly jotted them down in the station log.  Featherprop landed Fairflanks at 9:20, shutdown at 9:25.  Fuel topped off, 5.7 barrels.  Blocked out 10:14, took off 10:22.  With a quick flutter of her hoof, she acknowledged the transmission.  FLK - TTY MSG RECD.  She hopped up to take the message to Espresso when the teletype came to life again.

ETHER THAT YOU?

Ether gave a quick glance around and sat back down.  The lack of station formatting meant this was an informal conversation, not meant to go in the station logs.  When she replied, she changed her keying pattern and dropped into the shorthoof the regions’ operators had developed and smirked.  The ECC frowned on non-logged communications, but anypony down south who picked up these side conversations on a wild bounce would be scratching their ears in confusion.  

EVENIN SPARKY

SORRY WE MISSED FP BEFORE DEP.  DIDNT THINK HE WOULD GO SO SOON.  WHATS SO IMPORTANT?

Ether frowned.  Espresso had been vague, but the frazzled look in the older mare’s eyes had gotten Ether’s guard up.  Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just the weather.

NOT SURE. ESSY DIDNT SAY, JUST WANTED TO VOX WITH FP.  THAT AINT HAPPENING TONIGHT.

Short Spark’s next question sounded hesitant.  Ether knew it was silly to read emotion in the dots and dashes, but to her experienced ear the anxiety in the sloppy keying was plain as day.

WHATS GOING ON?  HEARD FP ARGUE WITH PAX, SOMETHING ABOUT MEDICINE AND FETLOCK.

Ether frowned.  SORRY SPARKY.  ALL I KNOW IS FLT IS LAST MINUTE CHARTER.  CAME IN TONIGHT.

FETLOCKS OFFLINE FOR FEW DAYS NOW.  HAVE FAMILY OVER THERE.  PLEASE IS ANYTHING GOING ON?

PROBABLY A BAD TRANSMITTER.  NOT THE FIRST TIME RIGHT?  Ether’s stomach clenched as she sidestepped the question.

When Short Spark’s reply came through, the keying was even shakier than before, and Ether swore she could feel the worry pouring out of the speaker.

THATS NOT ALL FETLOCK MAIL IS BEING HELD BUT NO WORD WHY. ALSO NO MAIL OUT OF VILLAGE PAST FIVE DAYS.  PLEASE DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING?

“Deuces.” Ether swore to herself.  Something was definitely going on– there were too many coincidences coming together.  She was suddenly glad Short Spark had kept this in shorthoof– if it had been in the clear, it’d be all over the wire service by morning.  But Essy wants to keep it quiet.  Sparky’s a good hoof, though, and she’s got family out there.  She stared at the iambic for a minute, unsure of what to say.

IF ANYPONY WILL ITS ESSY. LET ME ASK HER. IF ANYTHING I PROMISE TO PASS IT ON.

THANKS ETHER.  HOW SOON CAN YOU ASK?

RIGHT NOW.  HOLD YOUR HORSES.

The response was a couple fast blips.  Ether sat back, now genuinely worried.  The news that Fetlock was essentially cut off struck her like a hoofblow.  Alone, each event could have been explained away; trees fell across trails, transmitters broke, and sometimes the mailponies needed a rest.  But all of them together made the back of her brain itch.

She found Espresso coming in from the weather station, snow sparkling in her mane.  “Essy, I need to ask you a question.”

Espresso nodded but didn’t break her stride– after being out in the cold, her mind was focused on getting a hot cup of something to hold in her hooves and warm up with.  “Sure, Ether, but you’ll have to keep up. What is it?”

“What’s going on in Fetlock Falls?”  Ether was surprised to see Espresso stumble, and she had to stop short to avoid bumping into her rump.  When Espresso looked around at her, Ether was surprised to see a guarded look on her face.

“Why do you ask?”  Espresso resumed walking, but more slowly.  The question had dragged her thoughts back to Featherprop, the flight, and what to do about the secret she'd discovered.

“Well, I was talking to Sparky, and she was wondering what the deal was up there.  They can’t reach Fetlock on the radio, and she says the mail hasn’t run for a few days, either.  It’s like... like the village is cut off, you know?”

Espresso winced at the other mare’s last words.  Ether’s a ‘Maner.  This might be hard for her– Infurenza, for Celestia’s sake.  And I don’t want it getting out, either.  That could be a nightmare.  She stepped into her office and sat at the desk, head down as she mulled over what to do.

Ether paused at the door and continued, “And Sparky’s got family out there, you know?  She’s really worried, I just wanted to see if there was anything I could tell her?  That could, well, help her worry less?”

Espresso wavered, her eyes dancing around, looking anywhere but Ether’s. “Ether, there’s a lot going on.  I need you to tell Short Spark everything is going to be okay.  Can you do that for me?”  It hurt to ask.  She felt like she was asking her friend to lie for her.  Hoofrot, I AM asking a friend to lie for me.

Ether’s ears shot up as her eyes narrowed.  “This has something to do with Featherprop’s flight, doesn’t it?  I mean, it all fits together– him zooming off with some fancy doctor, Fetlock going silent... What’s going on, Essy?  Come on, you have to let me know what the real skinny is.”

Espresso looked up and down the corridor, then rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh.  “Okay.  I want you to promise me you won’t speak of it, at least not until this charter is settled.”  When Ether nodded in assent, Espresso beckoned her and said, “You’d better come in and sit down, Ether.  You’re not going to like this...”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Feattherprop’s ears perked inside his ‘phones as the volume of the range’s tones fell away, and he frantically looked at the instruments for a moment before realizing just why they had faded; rather than drifting off-course, they were almost over the range.  He fumbled for the microphone button and made a hasty announcement on Fetlock's traffic frequency, “Fet... Fetlock Traffic, Snowpony’s over the range, ah, inbound.  Anypony, we need a weather check.  Fetlock Radio, Snowpony, calling for weather.”  He held his breath, hoping, waiting for any sign of life from the station ahead of them.

When none came, he let out a sigh and shook his head. He thought for a moment, then shrugged; the silence on the radio had doused whatever faint hope he'd held.  With a heavy voice he said, “Okay, we’ll still try this. Once we cross the range we'll have two minutes and twenty seconds– that’s how long it should take to get to the field.  If we don’t see it by then, we have to start climbing.  I need you to watch outside for lights– the big beacon, or a lot of lights like you saw at Fairflanks, anything at all.  If you see something, sing out.  Otherwise, keep quiet, got it?”

Pasture nodded in assent while biting off a sharp reply.  Featherprop’s renewed impertinence rankled his sense of order, but the thought of getting his hooves back on solid ground was so strong that he was willing to overlook the Pegasus’s disrespectful tone.  For now.  Pasture took a deep breath and peered out the windows, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking for.

Featherprop pulled the throttles back and hoofed the ship’s timer on.  Two-twenty.  Again the nose of the Twin Trotter pointed towards the frozen ground, and this time Featherprop had to swallow nervously.  Without a weather check, he had no idea how to adjust his altimeter for the local conditions– they could be high or low.  He clamped down on his wings as they strained against the seat and re-checked his chart.  Field elevation is four hundred sixty-five... we can go to eight hundred, maybe seven.  Luna, I wish I had the barometer setting!  As they flew away from the range, the tones came back to life, and Featherprop found himself busy hoofing in small corrections to heading and altitude, his world shrinking to the instruments ahead of him and the muffled tones in his ears.  One minute down, one-twenty to go.

Pasture peered out the window intently, searching the grayness.  His ears twitched beneath his ‘phones, and his nausea was nearly forgotten as he stared downward, looking for any sign of the ground.  He was surprised to see that the cloud was not solid, but there were areas where the illumination seemed to dim as they flew through an open area, and then sudden brightness as they flew back into denser cloud.  Suddenly the Trotter was plunged into true darkness, as first the landing lights and then the green beacon at the wingtip went out.  What now?  He whirled to look at the Pegasus, and saw him reaching for switches on the overhead panel.

“Sorry.  I should have turned these out earlier.  Easier to see without ‘em.”  Featherprop spoke tersely as he darkened the aircraft, leaving only a dim glow to illuminate his own instruments.  At low altitude, with no idea how close the ground really was, he was desperate to see something, anything to reassure him that there was air under their hooves and they weren’t about to smash into the frozen ground.  He stared at the instruments, trying to block out the image running through his mind of a treetop materializing out of the fog.  He glanced at the timer and said, “One-thirty.  Fifty seconds, Doc,” in a taut voice.

Pasture nodded as he peered into the darkness.  There was a quaver in the pilot's voice that caused the crest of his mane to stand up on end.  He stared out the windscreen with wide eyes, searching for a spark of light in the deep blackness ahead of them.  Occasionally the blackness changed, and Pasture wondered if it meant the clouds were breaking apart.

Featherprop fought the urge to stare out the window as well.  Keeping the Trotter on course was taking all of his attention.  He snuck a glance out the side windscreen, his heart thrilling for a second as he saw a glimmer, then despairing as he realized it was just a reflection from his panel.  He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the panel again.  Twenty seconds to go.  This isn’t going to work, is it?  Luna, we’re so close, it has to be down there!  “Doc, twenty seconds.  See anything?”

The Unicorn paused as he swept his eyes over the darkness“No, not yet, but almost.  Can we go any lower?”

“No, it’s not safe.”  Featherprop suppressed a bitter snort.  Not safe, like where we’re at is so much better.  Fear and desire were battling in his head– he had been wondering if they could get away with another hundred feet lower, but the thought of running into an errant tree or hill kept him from trying.  He took a closer look out the side window, his breath catching as he saw a narrow break in the clouds.  “Ten seconds.”

A glimmer of white caught Pasture’s eye, and he leaned forward to press his horn against the windscreen.  Celestia, a light!  The light brightened, a beam that swept across them and highlighted the edges of a ragged hole, then faded away as it continued to turn.  “A light, I see something!”  He started to turn towards the Pegasus, but reared back as Featherprop thrust his hoof across the flight deck.

“WHERE?”  Featherprop shouted and would have lunged across the cockpit if not for his restraints.  He leaned as far as he could, straining to see past the Unicorn’s mane.  “What did you see?  Where was it?  Was it colored or moving?”  

Pasture pointed ahead and to the right, trying to ignore the Pegasus’s breath on his neck.  “Down there, I saw a break in the clouds, and a light, a white one, swept past!”  He stared at the patch of glass, straining to see it again.

Featherprop followed his gaze, hoping beyond hope that the clouds would magically open wide for them.  Then, from beneath the right wingtip, a beam of green light stabbed at them through a ragged gap.  Next to it, a cluster of dimmer white lights was visible, and the pilot nearly whooped in excitement.  The cry caught in his throat as he saw the break slide past them, the lights fading away and leaving them in darkness again.

“Horseapples.”  

Featherprop slumped back into his seat.  His chest felt tight, and his mind tumbled from one fantasy to the next– that the clouds would clear, that they had another thousand feet below them, that the sun would rise and reveal an end to the utter darkness outside the windscreen.  He was torn from his wishful thoughts when the steady tone of the range broke into an ominous dit-dah in his ears.  His heart pounded as he looked at the gauges and realized he'd let the Trotter drift to the left again.  “That's it.  There's no way in.  We have to go for Kathia.”  His voice was thick and leaden as he forced his eyes back to the panel, and then took the power levers in hoof and pushed them forward to the stops.

Still gripping his armrests, Pasture snapped his head around to glare at the Pegasus.  Nearly shouting, he exclaimed, “Leaving?  You saw the lights, Fetlock Falls is right over there!  Land this... this thing!”  Caught between anger and panic, a slight aura began to surround Pasture’s horn.  The Unicorn’s chest burned with frustration– the thought of coming so close and simply giving up was almost more than he could stand.

Featherprop gulped as he took note of the aura, but kept his gaze locked on the panel ahead of him and gripped the controls more tightly.  “Doc, we can’t.  We’re already past the airfield.”  He tried to keep his voice neutral; the frantic edge in the doctor's voice had caused his mane to rise on the back of his neck, but this was no time for another argument.  For a second, he wondered if Pasture was desperate enough to try to wrest control of the aircraft from him. No, nopony would do that.  Not like he could figure out how to work this beast, anyway.  He dismissed the thought and focused again on his piloting.

“Well, turn back!  We can't just try once and prance out of here!”  Pasture’s voice roughened with anger as a vision of a Court of Inquiry flashed through his mind.  The reserved, commanding demeanor he’d worked to hold together began to crumble, and his muzzle curled into a frown as he cast about for some way, any way to convince, cajole, or shame the Pegasus into bending to his will.  We can’t leave.  The medicine...  Celestia, I can’t let this happen.  I can’t...  The last words echoed in his mind, over and over.

Featherprop clenched his teeth together as the Unicorn blustered, clamping down on a comeback that went well beyond the border of rudeness.  When the Trotter began to claw back the altitude they'd given up, he reached down and lifted a wing-shaped lever.  Somewhere behind them, a motor thrummed as the flaps began to tuck themselves up against the wing.  Only a few gusts rocked them as they climbed; the turbulence that had made the south end of the valley a hellish descent was muted and restrained to the north.  For a moment, Featherprop felt a bitter anger grow, a sense that it wasn't fair to have had to work so hard simply to fail.  I hope Pasture doesn't latch onto this as well. I don't care how calm it is here, we can't stick around to try again. 

As they flew outwards on the range, he hoofed the microphone button and, after a moment of hesitation, he spoke with a calm detachment into his voice, one that he certainly didn't feel inside.  “Fetlock Traffic, Snowpony is going missed.” He waited for a response, but nopony replied.  Shaking his head, he continued,  “Fetlock, Snowpony is at minimum fuel and cannot hold. We will depart the area to the southwest, outbound on the range.  Anypony monitoring please advise Kathia of our intentions.  We'll come back as soon as we can.” Slumping back in his seat, he added, “I’m sorry.” 

Pasture reached over and laid a quivering hoof on Featherprop's foreleg. “You can’t do this!”  He pointed towards the cargo bay behind  them, his voice tight with frustration.  “That medicine is perishable– it will be useless in less than twelve hours! Try again! If you take us away from here, I'll tell them...  ” Pasture bit off the rest of the sentence, realizing that he was on the verge of making a crude threat.  With a twinge of shame, he watched Featherprop’s head rear back, and knew it was too late.  The poisonous words hung between them, and he quickly looked away as he finished his sentence, “...that you are to blame.” 

As Pasture spoke, Featherprop felt an icy jolt shoot up his back, shivering his wings.  Slowly, he turned to look at Pasture, and his fear turned to anger.  I’m tired of being pushed around.  I’m sick of bending.  Damn his hooves, I’m done with giving in!  He can rip me up one side and down the other to some stupid judge or whatever, I’m DONE.  I don’t care anymore.  I want to get out of this Luna-forsaken plane and forget this night ever happened.  “Tell them what, Doc?  And who, your Academy?”  His words dripped with sarcasm as he stared at Pasture.

Pasture glowered and slowly nodded– there was no denying what he had been about to say.  In a resigned voice he said, “The Dean’s Committee.  They’ll want an explanation as to why I have failed.  There will be a hearing, and they will want to know why resources were wasted.  I’ll have have to give a full accounting of this flight, and the decisions made on it.”  Pasture hoped that baring the knife, as it were, might convince the pilot to change his mind.  If I can’t get him to turn around now, I’m as good as ruined.

Featherprop’s gut flip-flopped at the threat.  With blood pounding in his temples, he turned on the elder stallion.  "You want to get it there so bad?" he growled, one hoof shaking on the yoke as he stabbed the other back towards the cargo bay, "Well, there's a door back there.  If you really want to get there, take your junk and jump!  GO ON, JUMP!"  Featherprop stared at Pasture with his muzzle clenched in an ugly snarl.  A part of his mind wondered what the consequences of yelling at a representative of one of the most prestigious institutions in all of Equestria might be, but he found that he just didn’t care.  I’ve had it with these damn summerhoofs.  Doctors, businessponies, Princesses, to Tartarus with all of them!

The pilot’s outburst left the Unicorn staring in wide-eyed disbelief.  This was not the same yielding stallion he had been dealing with, and the sudden change made him wary.  Pasture forced himself to relax, and when he spoke he chose his words with care. "You're... we're leaving, then."  It was a half-statement, half-question meant to give the Pegasus a chance to reconsider.

Featherprop seemed to shrink in his seat as his anger faded.  But instead of self-doubt, what replaced it was a conviction that had been absent all night.  “Yes, we are leaving. I tried. Now we're out of options."  Though he spoke the words with certainty, Featherprop's eyes were full of the regret.  He realized that his anger wasn't only directed towards Pasture.  Demanding and blustery though he had been, Pasture wasn't the one who'd allowed them to get lost, nor the one who chose to fly into a turbulent box canyon with a load of ice.  His cheeks reddened in shame as he looked back at his conduct throughout the evening.  It’s like I tried to find ways to kill us.  How did I ever let myself fly that let-down?  How many rules have I broken tonight?  In a more subdued voice he continued, "This is my plane, at least until we hit the ground, and I’ve decided we’re diverting.  There's nothing to do here but make more mistakes."

He waved a hoof at the side window and the glazed, shiny airfoil beyond.  "Look at the wings. If we go down through any more icing, we might not come back up.  And just seeing a glimpse of the lights is different from being able to line up and land.  I can't get us into Fetlock Falls tonight.  We never should have tried.  I never should have let us get this far."  He slumped back, jerking as he pinched his wing against the armrest.

Featherprop glanced at the dwindling fuel gauges and grimaced.   Luna, this is going to be close.  I can’t back down.  If I do, and I’m wrong... we’ll die.
> 10:  Teach Your Children Well
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

A tense, self-imposed silence enveloped the two stallions.  The cabin of the Trotter was dominated by the uneven thrumming of the propellers, punctuated by the occasional crack as ice was broken free from them and slung against the fuselage.  Featherprop vainly tried to keep them in phase, glad for a task to bury his attention in; anything to do that let him avoid speaking to, looking at, or even thinking about his passenger.  

The radio suddenly crackled to life.  “Aircraft over Fetlock Falls, this is Fetlock Radio.” The call was weak and static-filled, but an urgency in the voice cut through the interference.  “Fetlock traffic, is somepony up there?  I heard an airplane.  Fetlock Radio, calling traffic over Fetlock Falls!”

Throughout the entire let-down, there had been no sign of life from the station.  Now, though, the worried voice sent an icy shiver through Featherprop's chest, slicing deep into his resolve.  His eyes grew wide as he realized he knew whose voice was pleading for them to call back.  That’s... that’s Piney Boughs.  Luna, I can't tell him it's too late!  A guilty indecision gripped him, and Featherprop stared at the radio, his hoof hovering over the microphone button.

Likewise, Pasture had been startled by the sudden voice from the radio.  With nothing to do he had turned inward, letting his mind wander over pitfalls and extenuating circumstances, trying to plot a path that would protect his career.  The voice rekindled an ember of hope that had all but died out and he turned to look at Featherprop in wide-eyed anticipation, only to see the pilot frozen in place, seemingly unmoved by the distress in the caller’s voice.  With a swift impulse, Pasture blindly felt for his own microphone button and pressed it, hesitantly saying, “Fetlock Falls? Fetlock, this is, ah, Snowpony, we hear you!” 

Pasture’s reply shocked Featherprop into action– he lunged across the cabin and slapped Pasture’s hoof aside. With a snarl he hissed, “What in the Windigo’s mane do you think you’re doing?”

Even through the static, an enthusiasm borne of desperation could be heard in Piney Bough’s voice.  “Snowpony?  Thank the Moon, I thought I heard an aircraft overhead!  Are you on the let-down yet?”  

Still leaning across the cabin, Featherprop violently yanked Pasture’s microphone cable from the socket and gave the Unicorn a furious glare. He took a deep breath before hoofing his own microphone on. “Fetlock... Fetlock, Snowpony called for weather half an hour ago, but got no response.  We made a let-down but the field was socked in.  We’re committed for Kathia. I’m sorry.” 

“You did?  I... I had to go check on my wi– Kathia?!  You can’t leave!  Please, you can try again, can’t you?  You should be able to make it in.  It’s... it’s not that bad outside!”

“Fetlock, I’m sorry.  We tried.  The ceiling was too low.”

“Are you sure?  Snowpony, please!”

Featherprop’s gut clenched.  Piney’s voice was full of pain, and he didn’t want to think about why.  Anger and shame brought a taste of bile to his mouth.  Why did you have to call?  I can’t do anything.  Why are you making me say this?  “Fetlock Radio, Snowpony is at minimum fuel and unable.  I’m sorry, but we are unable. ”  He emphasized the word, trying to reinforce the decision that his heart screamed for him to ignore.

“But...”  The anguish in the voice was unmistakable as the transmission broke off.  When Piney Boughs spoke again, his voice was flat, the hope that had animated it before gone.  “Fetlock unders...nds, Snowp....”  Static washed over his words as mountains began to block the signal.

Featherprop blinked back tears at the defeat he heard in the voice.  “Fetlock, Snowpony’s losing you.  KEEP REPORTING THE WEATHER.  You need to get the weather out.  As soon as we can, we’ll be back, I promise.  I repeat, WE NEED WEATHER REPORTS.  Do you copy?”

“Fetlock cop....  ...keep making rep...  Sunspeed to you, Sn...”  The transmission washed out in the static, then ended.

Featherprop choked up, unable to speak.  He simply clicked the mic several times in reply.  Without looking over at Pasture he brusquely said, “You can plug your mic back in.  Keep your hooves off the controls.”  As an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

Pasture sat and said nothing for a few minutes, numbly trying to understand everything that had happened in the last hour.  We were so close.  Now... now what is left?  This is a disaster.  Finally, he asked, “How can you just leave?”

Without looking over at Pasture, Featherprop gave a terse reply.  “Because I have to.” 

“But it’s not that far to go back.  One more try, that’s all we need, I’m sure of it.  He said the weather is improving!”

Featherprop turned his head and fixed Pasture with a watery-eyed stare.  With a weary voice he asked, “If you were desperate for somepony to come back, what would you say?  I can’t, I won’t operate based on what it looks like, or what somepony thinks, not anymore.”  He thrust a hoof at the fuel gauges.  “I’d like to think there’s another three hours of fuel in here, but there’s not.  There’s two, tops, and we’re burning it faster than normal now with this load of ice.  Doc, I used the words ‘minimum fuel’ back there, because that’s where we’re at.  If we tried again, and then had trouble getting in at Kathia... well...”  He trailed off and shivered, feeling as though he’d just trotted across his own grave.  

Pasture mistook the pilot’s softer tone for a weakening of his resolve and tried a different tack.  “After everything we’ve gone through, after all of the effort we’ve put into this endeavor, you sound like you’re afraid to take one more chance.”

Featherprop looked at Pasture as if he’d grown a second horn.  Slowly, bits of conversation thorughout the flight began to fit together; it dawned on him that the Unicorn was completely, hopelessly unaware of the magnitude of the danger they had been facing all night long.  He took a deep breath and tried to flush out the distracted thoughts running through his mind, and then spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Yes, I am afraid.  I’ve been afraid since we left Fairflanks, and right now I’m scared to the point of losing my hay.”  He shook his head as Pasture raised a hoof in protest, and kept speaking to forestall the Unicorn’s objection.  “ I don’t know if you’re confusing fear with cowardice, or just assume everything will magically work itself out, but that’s not how things are in the Frostmane.  You don’t realize how close we came to packing it in back there, do you?  We’re alone, there’s no one to come rescue us if something goes wrong.  We have to make a plan and stick to it, because planning is essential to survival up here.  Improvisation means you’ve screwed up.”

It surprised him how good it felt to simply say the truth out loud.  Drawing strength from his admission, he continued.  “So here’s the facts, Doc.  Right now, we have enough fuel to get to Kathia safely, or we have enough fuel to try ‘one more time’ at Fetlock Falls and then pray like a naughty foal on Hearth’s Warming Eve that Kathia’s skies are clear, because when those gauges read zero we will have zero fuel and zero control over where we end up.  You might think that gamble is worth it, but I sure don’t.  Look here,”  Energized, Featherprop began rustling through his chart bag, looking for the map covering the Kathia region.  Pulling out a sheaf of papers, he riffled through them, then froze as his hoof uncovered a well-worn document.  

Pasture did not like Featherprop’s sudden change in attitude.  Despite the cautionary words, it struck him as yet another elaborate cover for Featherprop’s lack of dedication to his duties.  He snorted and looked out the windscreen.  Cowardice, as you say.  For somepony who was full of pride in their abilities, you certainly seem reluctant to exercise them.  The sight of the ice-encrusted wing outside the windscreen only seemed to mock his failure, and with a sigh he squeezed his eyes shut.  Unacceptable.  Deep inside, an iron-willed conviction drove him to try reasoning with Featherprop again.  “I think you’re overstating the severity of the situation.  We’ve had some difficulty, but doesn’t that make it more essential to put forth a greater effort?”

Pasture’s ear flicked sideways  as an choked sound from the pilot came through his earphones.  Looking over, he saw Featherprop slowly leafing through a bundle of papers, which trembled slightly in his hooves.  Celestia, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.  The sudden change was unnerving.   “What is it?”

Featherprop didn’t answer, instead holding the sheaf out to the Unicorn. “Here.” When the Unicorn hesitated, he shook them and growled “Here.”

Pasture reluctantly took the papers, a puzzled look growing on his face as he eyed the title.




Equestrian Transportation Safety Board
Preliminary Accident Reports
CY 997 Marevember




Accident reports? Is this a joke? The report began with a series of brief summaries, outlining incidents and accidents throughout Equestria. Pegasus mare collided with occupied tree during aerial maneuvers, minor property damage... Lost bags of mail, mailpony’s strabismus determined to be a contributing factor... Several cases of brake failure on tour carts...  He looked over at Featherprop in confusion, and caught the pilot nervously eyeing the report before meeting Pasture’s eye with a fearful expression.  What is going on here?  Concerned, Pasture began flipping through the report.

One page stopped him. While the others were soft from repeated turning, this one was wrinkled; it had been hoofed so often that the paper was dingy, except for some patchy clean spots surrounded by darker rings, where droplets had fallen on the page.  Glancing over at the pilot, Pasture noticed the Pegasus seemed to be avoiding looking over towards him– his eyes darted back and forth over the panel, but the muscles in his neck were corded and tense.  A faint dark streak ran down his muzzle from the corner of his eye.  Pasture opened his mouth to ask a question, then looked down at the report in his hooves again.




	ETSB EAR-13-20
	ETSB Accident Summary




Executive Summary

The pilot of a Pferduyn Norsepony MkIII, tail number FM1924, operating as SnowPony 413, had executed a second blind let-down attempt at Kathia but was unable to visually acquire any part of the runway environment during the let-down. After passing the Missed Let-down Fix, the aircraft deviated from the published departure course and impacted terrain several miles west-southwest of the Kathia navigation range.

The Norsepony MkIII is a single-engine, high-wing, fixed-gear light transport capable of carrying seven Ponies in passenger configuration. It lacks a full complement of anti-icing equipment and is only approved for operation in trace icing conditions. The flight crew, consisting of one pilot and one nurse, perished in the impact. 

The flight departed Fairflanks on a medical evacuation mission and was scheduled to land at Kathia two hours later. At the time of the accident Snowpony 413 had been airborne for over three and one-half hours. Instrument conditions prevailed throughout the flight and both blind let-down approaches were conducted in meteorological conditions conducive to airframe ice accumulation.

The foundations of this accident were laid long before the second let-down attempt. The pilot’s decision to continue flight in known icing conditions, rather than departing for an alternate destination, resulted in a profound reduction in the margin of safety for the flight. 

Pilot fatigue is believed to have played a role on several levels– it is the Board’s opinion that the pilot’s decisionmaking was impaired both by fatigue and lack of preparation for the second failed let-down attempt. It is apparent the pilot had not prepared a plan of action prior to breaking off the second let-down attempt, and radio logs seem to indicate that his distraction with flight planning details interfered with the basic task of maintaining aircraft control. 

The pilot’s failure to implement proper unusual attitude recovery techniques supports this. In ETSB flight tests, a successful recovery was possible in eight out of ten attempts when proper techniques were utilized. In reconstructions of the probable course of events, recovery was not possible from the pilot’s estimated entry altitude.



Probable Cause

The Equestrian Transportation Safety Board has determined that the probable cause of this accident was the pilot’s failure to maintain a minimum safe airspeed while executing a missed let-down procedure in icing conditions, resulting in an asymmetric stall at low altitude. Contributing to the accident were the failure to follow manufacturer’s published airspeeds and flight profiles, the pilot’s decision to execute a second let-down in icing conditions, the pilot’s failure to follow the published missed let-down procedure, the pilot’s failure to utilize proper unusual attitude recovery procedures, and cumulative fatigue from an extended duty day.




Beyond that, the report delved into a dry discussion of company policy and operating history.

Still confused, Pasture looked up at Featherprop.  “Why are you showing me this?  You don’t need to convince me that this sort of flying has it’s share of danger– I’ve seen quite enough tonight to know that.”  He was still brooding over how to salvage his career and was in no mood to agree with the pilot’s decisions.  Pasture had managed more interns than he could count, and felt he could sniff out an excuse a league away.  There was no doubt in his mind that Featherprop was simply trying to justify his reluctance to make another attempt at landing at Fetlock Falls.

“Doc, that IS why I showed it to you.” Featherprop shook his head and tapped the report with a hoof. “That... the pilot. He was a friend, a good one. He sort of showed me the ropes and got me started, back in my first year at the Gryphon’s school.”  Sniffling, he turned his face away from Pasture.  “Actually... he was like an older brother– better than the ones I had, in some ways.”

Pasture was caught off-guard.  What is going on?  Celestia, he’s not losing his grip, is he?   Wary of upsetting the Pegasus further, Pasture offered a stilted apology.  “I’m sorry.  That must have been hard.”

Featherprop cut him off with a wave of his hoof. “I didn’t tell you that for sympathy. It’s... Spin Drift, his name was Spin Drift, and that accident... it was his fault.”  He sighed and gathered his thoughts, struggling to condense the whirl of loss, fear, regret, and resentment into something Pasture could understand.  

When Featherprop had first read the report, the language had shocked him, angered him.  Spin Drift’s decisions made sense to him, much more than did the cold, calculating recommendations of the board and the company policies.  It was easy; Ponies mattered, not rules.  If you were flying to save somepony, you’d better do whatever you could to save them.  Heroes didn’t quote rules, they broke them when it was necessary.

Time and experience gave him new perspectives.  Featherprop had come to see that the Board’s conclusions were right, but the ferocity of his early convictions made it difficult to set them aside, as if he were spitting on his friend's grave.  Admitting it to himself had been hard enough, but now, as he tried to say the words out loud, it was harder than he had imagined.  And yet, he felt a need to say it, that to gloss over it again would be a cowardly acsession to Pasture's overbearing demands.  Not like he'll listen, but if I'm done I may as well go out on a high note.  ”Spin Drift and Nurse Soothing died because Spin did the wrong thing for what he probably felt were the right reasons.  Spin was... well, he was focused, really driven. He was a better pilot than me, even though he didn’t have any inborn wing-sense.”  He nodded back at his folded wings and shook his head.  “But he pushed too hard, all the time.  He hated to fail, but he had the skill or the luck to make it through, somehow.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to voice the criticism that he’d tried to ignore for so long. “Spin Drift didn’t pay attention to how much danger he was putting them in.  He killed himself and Soothing because he couldn’t stand to say, ‘I can’t do this.’ ”

Pasture was taken aback; the cold tone of Featherprop’s words made his ears flicker.  It was as if a different Pony were sitting across from him  In contrast to earlier emotional outbursts from the Pegasus, Featherprop’s voice now seemed empty of warmth or empathy.  "But surely that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?  Wasn’t your friend was on a rescue mission? If a Pony’s life was at stake, doesn’t that makes a difference?”  A tragic ending, but there’s a certain nobility to being so dedicated.

Featherprop gave Pasture a baleful look.  “No, Doc, it doesn’t.  It makes it worse.”  He nodded at the sheaf of papers.  “Spin Drift was flying a Norsepony.  It’s only got one engine, it’s smaller, and it doesn’t have the same equipment we do.  That whole flight should never have gotten halfway to Kathia.  Other pilots reported icing across a wide area that night, so there’s no way he wasn’t coated in ice.  Look at us– we’re in bad shape, and we’ve got two more powerful engines.  On a Norsepony, it’d be a lot worse. That’s how Spin was, though.  He always assumed the weather reports were written by,” here he affected a deeper accent with odd vowels, “crusty old sad-sacks with no one to love them.”

He continued, a touch of sadness mixing with reproach in his voice.  “When he got to Kathia, the ground station told him the clouds were too low– that was right in the station logs.  He knew.  And then he held over the range, in the clouds, for over half an hour.  Luna knows how much more ice he picked up while waiting for the clouds to lift.” A trace of anger began to liven his words. “And then, after that, he decided to start the first let-down. There’s no way he should have.  Look in there, he station manager told him the field’s beacon was in the clouds.”

“And when he couldn’t get in the first time, he tried again.” Featherprop faltered as his throat fluttered; that decision made him angry, he finally realized.

Pasture stirred; he felt compelled to offer some defense for the deceased. “But in a life and death situation... I’m sure he felt it was necessary to try.”

Featherprop let out a laugh, a short sharp one that caused Pasture to flinch, his muzzle twisted in a dismissive frown. “Life or death?  Please, Doc.  The patient he went to pick up was stabilized– we can’t carry them if they aren’t. You know what that means, right?” He watched as Pasture looked away with a slight snort.  Of course you do. Any doctor would. “  So it wasn’t ‘life or death’ that night.”  He kept to himself the detail that the patient had suffered a severe limb injury, one that had left them crippled.  “Spin Drift should have left after that first attempt and departed for the alternate.  On the second try, we don’t know what happened, and we never will.  But after he went missed again, the Norsepony went off course. Then...” He choked up and had to sniffle a couple of times to get his throat to open up. “They hit the ground nose-first, partially inverted. I think... I think the report is right, that he let it get slow and one wing stalled.  The ice could have made that happen, easy. Once she flipped on her back...” Featherprop shook his head, “I think he got disoriented. It looks like he tried to pull through.  He should have rolled it! At that height, there was no way to make it through the bottom.” He had to pause for a minute before he could force himself to say the ugly truth:  “When he did that, they were deadponies.”

He stopped. Inside, he was balanced between guilt and anger, torn between the sense that he was betraying a friend and righteous professional anger at a colleague who failed to exercise any sort of good judgement at all. The panel blurred as tears collected in his eyes, and he looked towards the side windscreen to hide them from Pasture.

As Featherprop’s silence stretched out, Pasture ventured a question.  “So you’re saying–”

Featherprop shook his head, cutting Pasture off.  “I’m saying he took too damn many risks. He killed himself. And somepony else! He was stupid.”  The more he said, the more he thought about it, the easier it became to voice the long-suppressed feelings.  He let loose the anger and frustration that had shamed him for so long.  “He was iced up and had less power than us, but he took those risks. Back in training, the instructors hammered us about that very situation: What do you do? And the answer is, Leave. You leave, because all the cards are stacked against you. But he didn’t– he ignored the risks and took another try.”  

Featherprop had become agitated, emphasizing his words with slashes of his hoof.  Pausing now, he took a deep breath and  concentrated on the instruments for a minute before looking at Pasture with sadness in his eyes.  “And because of it, he and another Pony died.  He let the idea of being the hero galloping in to save the day get in the way of doing his job.”  As he said this, the Pegasus looked embarrassed.  “And the truth, Doc?  I kind of felt the same way tonight, back when we started out, and I’m feeling pretty bad about it now.  It wasn’t right.  I worried about what would happen if we didn’t get in.  I ignored all kinds of warning signs.  I let you push me around, and it led me to make some bad choices.”  His muzzle stiffened and he stared down at the instruments.  “Somepony once told me, ‘Failure is not an option.’ The stallion’s voice cracked as he spoke.  “ ‘Failure is not an option’ Da- they said.”

He looked up at Pasture, and when he continued, some of the sadness in his voice was gone, and a hint of confidence and pride made him lift his chin. “But then I failed, and discovered that failure is always an option. I learned that sometimes failure is the only option, and all you get to do is choose how you fail.  How you fail is just as important as how you succeed.  You might not like it, but that’s what I did tonight:  I chose to fail the right way.”  

Pasture shook his head.  “I... I just cannot see how you judge him like this.  If he was your friend, as you say... surely you knew what was in his heart.  Doesn’t that count for anything between you?”  He shook the report in his hooves.  “Reports.  I’ve written dozens, hundreds of reports where I’ve sat and analyzed data from a comfortable office.  We’d like to pretend that these words define the reality of the situation, but you and I know that’s not true.  Don’t you feel that you’re tarnishing his memory?”

Featherprop bit his tongue, realizing that the argument was moving in circles.  After a short while, he asked, “Let me ask you, Doc; where do you work?”

“Where do I work?”  The soft tone of the question surprised Pasture.  He’d been expecting anger or bitterness from the Pegasus, not a gentle question.

“Yeah, you know, the emergency room?  Surgery, maternity?  Where?”

“Oh, well, I divide my time between the Thaumaturgics Lab, the Library, and my office.”

Featherprop nodded slowly. “Not a lot of sick ponies going in and out, is there?”

Pasture raised an eyebrow as he allowed, “Well, no. It’s a research lab.  What are you trying to say?”

Featherprop shook his head and continued, “So what happens at the end of the day when you make a mistake?  You turn out the lights, go home, and think about it, right?”  He nodded when the Unicorn didn’t respond.  “Well, Spin made a mistake, and he didn’t get to go home, and neither did Nurse Soothing.  The world and weather up here are harsh. Sometimes we’re lucky and get to learn from our mistakes.  Sometimes we don’t get a second chance.”

“One thing about this job, I get to see a lot of the ones that do get lucky.  Late at night, or in bad weather, they get loaded on and they’re usually in rough shape.  But they’re trusting me to think it through and keep them alive.  Sometimes that means I have to choose the better way to fail.  I’ve spent hours in the air, listening to somepony sobbing because the nurse can’t stop the pain and we can’t get in.”  He paused for a moment and swallowed.  “Sometimes they don’t make it, and all we can do is say we’re sorry... and carry them home one last time.”

Pasture looked away from rawness of the emotion in the Pegasus’ voice.  This was a side of medicine he had long ago left behind in favor of a clean lab and peaceful library. When he spoke, his voice was quiet: “Then why do you do it?”

“I... I don’t know. No, wait.  Because for every flight where somepony doesn’t make it, there’s a dozen times they do. Because of the nights when somepony comes up front and shouts “It’s a filly!”  Featherprop paused and looked towards Pasture with a small smile.  “Do you know what it feels like to be a part of that?  I’m an honorary Uncle a few times over.”

Featherprop glanced towards the back of the aircraft with a trace of sadness.  “Even getting to watch a frostbit colt limp down that ramp, short a hoof but alive,” he sniffled and smiled, “and to see his family surround him, you know you’ve done the right thing.  I don’t know what it’s like away down south, but life up here isn’t fair. Sometimes you need somepony to put a hoof on the scales... I like to think that, once in a while, I help to balance things out.”  He trailed off and looked at the side window.

When he continued, Featherprop’s voice held a hint of bitterness.  “But you can’t do that if you’re dead.  So don’t expect an apology from me, Doc.  You think my job was just to get you to Fetlock Falls? Sorry if it disappoints you, but that should've been at the bottom of my list.”  Featherprop became more animated, waving a hoof for emphasis as he spoke.  In his head, all the events of the evening began to fit together.  I should have seen it earlier.  I should have put my hoof down in Fairflanks.  

“First is to keep myself, well, both of us, alive.  Second is to keep my job.  Third is to keep this plane in good shape.  Fourth, keep the ETSB off my back.  Getting you where you want to go is fifth, maybe, unless Espresso is having a bad day, then you drop a notch or two.”  Featherprop involuntarily smiled as he imagined Espresso throwing a full-blown fit over the fiasco this evening had become, complete with files being tossed about.  After all this, I think it might be nice to get yelled at by her.

“Do you get it, Doc? We actually got to Fetlock Falls, and there’s no flappin’ way I should have let that happen. We were walking into a bear’s den without a candle. One step, two steps... pretty soon, you’re stepping on the bear and it’s over.  I don’t know how close we got; nopony does until it’s too late.”  His rear hooves drummed a little against the floorboards as he shivered at the thought of just how close they must have come, and tried to put the image of sharp rocks out of his mind.

“So I don’t care if you’re angry.  I don’t care if you write some scrolls, or whatever it is you plan to do.  I don’t give a Lunar horseapple, because we got lucky tonight and I managed to do jobs one through four.  That’s pretty good in anypony’s book.”  He glared at Pasture with defiance, no longer caring what the doctor might say.

Pasture started to speak, then held his tongue as he realized that there really was nothing more to discuss.  What’s the point?  Soon, it will be out of my hooves.  One Pony or another, the Academy will have it’s pound of flesh.  His mouth narrowed into a hard line.  You’d do well, boy, to learn that not all danger comes wrapped in cold and ice.

> 11:  A Sort of Homecoming
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the dim radio shack, a pool of bright light framed the frustrated outline of a pony. Ether Watt hunched over a workbench, a frown twisting her muzzle.  Ribbons of rosin-scented smoke drifted up into her mane as she poked at one of her long-term projects– an amplifier sub-board from Griffoni Telemetrica.  The spring issue of The Long Wave had billed it as the latest and greatest in transmitter upgrades, and while the malfing thing had lived up to that reputation, she had also discovered one unexpected feature:  It added an ear-twisting warble to the outgoing signal.*  She hummed to herself as she poked at one vacuum tube with her soldering iron, melting glob after glob of solder away from it's posts. 

Danged if it wasn’t a blowtorch setup, though.  After installing it, reception reports from stations she’d never heard of began filtering through the net.  At first she’d been thrilled, but when a friend had confided that her new handle was “The Gargler” she’d yanked the amplifier back out in disgust.  Since then it had sat on the shelf, half-forgotten, and now it was supposed to be the perfect distraction. 

Except that it wasn’t.  Though she had a hot tool in hoof, her mind was still wrapped up in the hushed conversation she’d had in Espresso’s office.  Espresso had been right–  Ether guts were churning at the thought of what she’d learned.  Infurenza.  Just the word sent a shiver down her spine. 


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso’s face was drawn and weary. “Ether, you’re from up north, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, my folks are still on the homestead up near Fairflanks.”

Espresso nodded and glanced around the office, never quite meeting the radiomare's eyes with her own.  “I need you to take this calmly.  Feather is... Well, that Unicorn, Pasture, came up here to look into a possible outbreak of illness in Fetlock Falls.  I turns out it’s... it’s Infurenza.”

“What? And Feathers agreed to go?  You LET him go??”

Espresso’s head drooped, “He doesn’t know.  I didn’t know either!” Espresso added as she'd jumped to her hooves. “Pasture didn’t tell me.”

“Well, we gotta tell him!  He can’t go in there!”

Espresso's face turned grim as she said, “Ether, you know as well as I do that there’s no way to reach him.  If there’s anything there, the doctor will take care of it.  We just have to wait to hear from him.”

Neither of them had said anything much after that.


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Since then, Ether had been hunting for something, anything to take her mind off her worries.  Usually that meant heating up the iron and melting some metal, but by now it looked like she'd melted off a pound of the stuff and her thoughts were still spinning in place.  “Geez, Griffoni, how much solder do you use on these things?”  Finally, the tube wobbled and came loose.  She held it up triumphantly and peered at the number on it.  “Well, no wonder it warbled, you beakbrain!  This tube’s for the longwave freq...”  She blinked as a thought suddenly hit her square in the brain.  This thing's compatible with longwave?  She trotted over to the transmitter cabinet, tail lashing back and forth back and forth as her mind whirled.  If I can keep it powered and feed it in parallel... Celestia, if I can sync them up, ‘blowtorch’ won’t be hot enough!

Half an hour, four minor shocks, and one smoking eartuft later, Ether let out a deeply-held breath and made one last check of her work.  Once again she was burrowed into the transmitter cabinet, curled around a bundle of cables with only her rump sticking out.  She tightened the last of the power leads and was bathed in a warm glow as several tubes on the cobbled-together board began to hum.  She grinned triumphantly, “Okay, Ether, let's light ‘em up!”  

She stretched out a rear hoof and poked around for the STANDBY switch.  It clicked, and she was rewarded with a redoubled humming as several amplifier boards began feeding power into the main antenna.  Her grin turned to a frown when the hum quavered and began to  fall apart.  “Oh no you don’t!”  She grabbed a screwdriver in her mouth and slowly twisted a rheostat she’d soldered to the bottom of the Griffoni board.  “Ah ghnew yew’d do ‘at!”  

With a hair-raising wave of static electricity, the broken hum snapped back into synchronization.  The tubes glowed brighter, radiating heat as they reached a dull yellow glow, and Ether shied away as the smell of hot fur filled her nostrils.  She wiggled out and hopped up to the main console and with a flourish cranked the antenna wattage up, past nine, past ten, to a hoof-scrawled “11.”

Ether took a deep breath and leaned forward, lips brushing the microphone.  She flicked the carrier switch and calmly recited,  “Apple, Baker, Cello, Diva, Easy.”  She kept her eyes glued on the broadcast monitor, where a little needle registered the strength of the antenna’s output.  With each word, it shot across the dial and hit the stop with an audible click.  “Easy, Diva, Cello, Baker, Apple.”  She read down louder, but still nothing started smoking and nothing blew up.  

Ether whooped and pranced in a circle, then looked around self-consciously.  With a snort and a toss of her mane, she sat down at the console and flipped over to the Territorial net.  “Securitay, Securitay, Securitay, all stations, Trottinger Apple Easy Five, calling for overdue flight Snowpony Four Twenty Five.  All stations, Trottinger Apple Easy Five...” 


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


The low fuel warning light flared to life as the Trotter punched through the bottom of the clouds.  Ahead of them, the beacon of the Kathia aerodrome swept across the snow-covered field.  Featherprop forced his wings to relax and offered silent thanks to Luna; for a moment, he felt that he would never again see a more beautiful sight than that beam.

“Kathia Radio, Snowpony has the field at nine hundred.  No additional icing on the way down.”

“Snowpony, thanks for the report.  The field is yours, and welcome to Kathia.”

Featherprop wrinkled his brow at the cheerful voice, then dismissed it and clicked the microphone button in reply.  With the end of the flight literally in sight, his weariness weighed upon him even more heavily.  All I want is to sleep for a few days.  He glanced briefly at the Pony next to him, but if Pasture noticed he couldn’t tell; the Unicorn may as well have been made from stone.  In the past hour he'd barely moved and had not said a single word.  Even the rough landing only brought the barest of grimaces to his muzzle.

Yet as Featherprop guided the Trotter to Kathia’s brightly-lit terminal, Pasture began fumbling with his harness even before they’d come to a stop.  Featherprop briefly considered making him wait, but dismissed the thought with a shake of his head and punched the override switch to let the ramp drop.  The motor’s whine filled the cabin, and Pasture leapt up and stomped his way around the supplies and off the aircraft.  His angry hoof-falls thrummed through the floorboards, shivering their way up into Featherprop’s rump and making him wince.  

The propellers drifted to a stop, and the only sound was that of the gyros spinning down, one screeching intermittently as it wobbled on it’s bearings.  For a few moments, Featherprop stared blankly at the dark dials in front of him, then hoofed up the aircraft logbook to make his final entries.  Seven point four hours for the night, I haven’t flown that long in ages.  He stifled a yawn and signed his name with a lazy scrawl.

The noise and light of the terminal were like a different world– warm wood paneling was lit by gas lanterns and a fire roared in a huge stone hearth.  He let his eyes close and took a deep breath.  Instead of grease and fear, the air was filled with the scent of pine, carrot soup, and coffee.  His nose began to follow the aroma coming from the pilot lounge until he caught sight of Pasture leaning over the Operations desk.  While he couldn’t hear any words, the skin on his neck began to itch as he watched Pasture talking to a pale orange mare at the Operations Desk.   In his head he could almost hear a small voice whisper, Run.

He could see that Pasture’s brows were furrowed, and the set of his withers betrayed his frustration and seemed to ooze entitlement.  Meanwhile, the mare opposite him radiated an icy reserve, leaning back with a look of distaste and supreme patience on her face.  Her ears were laid back in a way that would have given any Frostmane stallion pause, yet Pasture seemed not to notice.  He tapped a teletype form with a hoof, then gestured out towards the airfield as he raised his voice.

“... that you had this an hour ago?  Pray tell, Ms. Mane, why did you not inform us?” Pasture fought to maintain a shred of his normal decorum.  It wasn’t that he wanted to shout; that was the crude tool of the inarticulate and uneducated.  Yet the mare ahead of him, Misty Mane, seemed impervious to his requests and calm explanations.  It was maddening.

The hours of forced inactivity had left Pasture with too much time to brood over what the events of this evening could do to his career.  Now he was brimming with nervous energy, and it was an Eponan task to keep it in check.  The mare’s stubbornness only made it harder.

His first thought on landing had been to send a preliminary message to the REMMA office in White Harbor, to make sure his account was heard first.  Publish early, publish often had been his thesis advisor’s admonition, and the advice had served him well over the years.  Now, however, new information had put him past that; despite the methodical rigor of his scientific training, he knew that there were times one had to set aside caution and firmly, carefully grasp at straws.

This was one of those times.  

“Sir.”  Misty Mane’s voice was as cold and sharp as the icicles that hung over the doorway. “I work for the Kathia Regional Aviation Bureau.  We support the aviation industry, and by extension the whole of the Frostmane, not your Academy.  It is not my job to know what you want to know before you do, and the details of your situation do not change that.  While we strive to accommodate reasonable requests for information, it is your pilot who will need to determine what is or is not relevant, not you.”

Featherprop felt a violent twitching in his tail.  Oh, batfeathers.  Watching Pasture butt heads with the implacable mare was great entertainment until he realized he could get pulled into it.  His sense of self-preservation took a split-second too long to decide that he suddenly needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else, in a hurry.  He began sidling towards the nearest door, but Pasture’s imperious voice froze him in his tracks.

“There you are!  Come here, there’s no time to waste– get what you need and let’s get going.” Pasture’s voice echoed through the room, drawing the eyes of everypony to himself and the cringing Pegasus who had stopped with his head poking into a broom closet.

Featherprop groaned. The booming command had made them the center of attention, and there was no slipping away now.  With a last envious look at the mops and brooms, he shuffled back out of the closet. 

Featherprop gave the irate mare a questioning look as he plodded towards the desk.  Behind Pasture’s back, she rolled her eyes and gave a skeptical squint towards the teletype that lay in front of her before narrowing her eyes and glaring at Pasture.  Featherprop took a deep breath and asked, “Dr. Pasture, what do you mean “get going?”  Get going to where?” 

“Where?  Where else, to Fetlock Falls!  Look here, they’ve been sending your weather reports for over an hour now.”  Pasture’s aura surrounded the teletype form as he tried to lift it, but the slip only fluttered slightly before he snorted and snatched it up with a hoof.  He thrust it out in front of Featherprop.  “I can still salvage some of the precursors, but we must leave immediately!  Now, get whatever you need and get us back to Fetlock Fall!”  

Featherprop looked at the form and felt his wings droop.  It was indeed a list of weather reports from Fetlock Falls, all received within the past hour.  The cryptic notations showed that the weather had gone from absolutely dreadful to merely bad, with only occasional dips into potentially nasty.  The reception times were uneven– that could be due to poor radio conditions, but Featherprop suspected that somepony was trying to pick the best readings to pass along.

And yet, the hard numbers on the page were there for all to see.  Based on what he could see, the weather in Fetlock Falls was at the bare minimum to consider beginning a return flight.  Featherprop had feared just this scenario– with numbers like these, somepony sitting in a comfortable chair could second-guess his decisions.  A board of Ponies, probably, with plates of donuts and mugs of coffee, looking at a rather large bill for a flight to the wrong destination.  Ponies who had not been fighting their way through a winter storm for seven hours, who would pass judgement on him, and would probably find his actions incorrect.  Inadequate.  Cowardly.  

 For a moment, Featherprop’s head spun as a wave of fear swept through him, but just as suddenly it was followed by a sudden calm resignation.  He knew what he had to do.

“No.”

Pasture blinked, then slowly said, “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you.  Would you care to rephrase that?”  His mouth was a hard, emotionless line, but in his eyes there was a glint that warned, Do not cross me. 

Featherprop remantled his wings and pulled himself up straight.  He stared into Pasture’s eyes and spoke with a calm, clear voice.  “I said ‘no,’ Dr. Pasture.  I will not be taking you to Fetlock Falls tonight.  In my professional opinion, the weather reports do not justify the risk.  And even if they did justify departing, you’d have to find another pilot.  I’m fatigued, and I’m not flying again before getting some rest.”  He punctuated the words with a stamp of his hoof.

Pasture scowled, working hard to keep in check the anger that clawed it’s way up his throat.  His voice held a menacing edge as he said,  “Very well.  I’m sure my report shall make for some rather interesting reading back in Canterlot.”  Turning to Misty Mane he demanded,  “Tell me where your communications facility is.”  Without another word he whirled on a hoof and stomped off in the direction she indicated, his tail lashing angrily.

As Pasture rounded the corner, Featherprop exhaled explosively and slouched against the counter; from the look on Pasture’s face, he’d feared that the Unicorn would have done nearly anything to bully him into agreeing.  No, that’s not fair.  He’s got a job to do, just like I do.  Or did, anyway.  Featherprop’s wings draped down over his sides, the tips brushing the floor as weariness overtook him.  He rested his chin on the counter and let his eyes close, until a kindly voice caused his cheeks to redden in embarrassment.

“And you spent all night with him?”  Misty Mane's voice held a mixture of pity and admiration,  and she smiled as she watched Featherprop try to nod with his chin still resting on the counter.  “You poor little pony.”  

At that, Featherprop lifted his head and chuckled.  The warmth in her voice shooed away the dark cloud Pasture had left in his wake, and for the first time in hours he smiled.  “Yes’m, all the way from Trottinger, by way of Fairflanks and Fetlock Falls.”

She shook her head and gave a disapproving hmph as she glanced in the direction Pasture had marched off.  Looking out at the open ramp of the Twin Trotter, she leaned over and whispered, “I would have tossed him out after an hour at the most.”

Featherprop blinked and stared at her, catching a twinkle in her eye that belied the seriousness of her voice.  “Well, so far, I have a perfect record of never losing cargo in-flight.  It’d be a shame to break it.”  He did his best to hold a straight face, but couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth under control.  His half smile triggered a muffled snort from her, which in turn caused him to stifle a chortle.  Soon, both of them were laughing openly. 

Misty made a show of composing herself and putting on a serious face.  “Now, sir, what can I do for you?  Do you need fuel?  Catering?  A parachute for your passenger?”

Featherprop grinned and shook his head.  “I could use a featherbed and a couple days’ sleep, but if you have a couch that won’t be needed for a few hours, I’d be grateful.  Oh, and I need to send a message, but I don’t really want to...” He trailed off as he nodded in the direction Pasture had gone.  Misty winked and slid a fresh message form over to him, and he scrawled a quick note:  



SND:  Featherprop
REC:  Frostmane Flying Service, Trottinger FM, Espresso
MSG:  SN425 on ground Kathia. Landed min fuel. Fatigued. Pax angry but need rest.  Sorry FP



“Can you send that to Trottinger?  My dispatcher must be going crazy by now.”

Misty looked doubtful.  “Mm, I’ll have our operator try, but there’s no guarantee.  We haven’t been getting much through tonight.”  She gave the tired stallion a wink and checked a box on the form labeled PRIORITY.  “It’s short.  We’ll put it in the rotation until we get a confirmation.”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


“Hey, you.  Fluffypop.  Rise and shine, you’ve got a radio call.”  The voice was gruff and terse, and Featherprop was confused for a moment.  Long Tom?  When the couch shook from a hooftap, he opened his eyes and blinked up at the elderly gray pony who’d led him to a battered couch after he’d finally bedded down the Trotter the previous evening.  He rubbed his mane with a hoof and yawned.  Luna, how long did I sleep?

“It’s ‘Featherprop,’ Tom.  Why can’t you ever get it ri– you do this on purpose, don’t you?”

Long Tom smiled.  “You flaphorses and your fancy names twist my tongue up. What’s wrong with a good, simple one, like, say, Tom?  Anyway, need you to get over to the radio shack.”

Featherprop nodded and sat up, ruffling first one wing and then the other to get the kinks out.  It’s gotta be Fetlock.  “Have you seen Dr. Pasture? If Fetlock is up, I’d better get going before he blows a seal.”  He dreaded the prospect of dealing with Pasture again, but there was no getting around it.  A contract was a contract.  

“Pasture?  Oh, your high-and-mighty passenger?  Nope, he’s gone.  Left a few hours ago.”

Featherprop almost fell off the couch.  “LEFT?  He... where did he go?”

“Fetlock Falls.  He conned Skipole into taking him– waved around some “Royal Commission” and gang-pressed a buncha ponies to haul his gear over.  Good riddance, I say.  How’d you get roped into carting him about, anyway?”

Featherprop barely heard the older Pony.  A mixture of relief and aching worry battled in him, and he couldn’t figure out which to listen to.  “It’s... batfeathers, I don’t even know.”  He looked up at Long Tom.  “Who’s on the radio?  Fetlock Station, you said?”

The older pony shook his head. “We started picking up vox from Fetlock a while back, and soon as it came through your Pasture started raising Mane to get out of here.”  He fixed Featherprop with a curious look, “No, now there’s a mare on the ‘waves with some sorta freakball transmitter out of Trottinger.  Our vox on the Territorial just started coming back, but her carrier wave’s been bleeding across half the longwave spectrum and mucking up everyone’s net all night long.  Now I don’t know how she’s burning through the Lights, and I don't know what's so Luna-blazed important, but I do know that Trottinger doesn’t have a Class... horseapples, there isn't even a class for what she's doing.  Class Wierdo.  You Trottinger types are all wierd, you know that?  Anyway, the sooner you come and talk to her, the sooner I can stop pretending she isn't breaking half-a-dozen regulations.”  A hint of a chuckle hid under his complaint, just as a smile tugged at the corner of his wrinkled lips.  “And the sooner I can get the hoofball scores. It’s semi-finals week, son.”

Espresso.  What the hay has she done?  No, this sounds like something Ether would cook up.  Luna, Espresso must be frantic, or Ether wouldn’t put the the station's licence at risk.  “Didn’t my message get through?  I... I thought I asked Misty to send that.  Didn’t I?”  

Long Tom fixed Featherprop with an impatient glare, “You did, but the Lights’ve kept us from hearing anything east of the Frostmanes most of the night.  Your friend over there seems to have a knack for getting a good bounce, so once she stops mucking up all the frequencies we can get your message through.”  He paused and mused, “Though if you talk to her, I don’t suppose it’ll matter, will it?  Come on now, get your flank in gear!”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Like most cold-weather stations, the radio “shack” was just a room inside the building, instead of a separate hut. As they stepped in, a familiar voice buzzed through the monitors, distorted but unmistakable.  

“Kathia Station, Trottinger Apple Easy Five, calling for Snowpony Four Twenty Five.”  Even through the fuzz of a longwave transmission, Featherprop could hear the weariness in Ether’s voice.

Long Tom nudged Featherprop in the ribs and asked, “That’s you, isn’t it?” When Featherprop nodded, the old stallion pointed towards a microphone at the console.  “No time like the present, son.  I want my airwaves back.”

 Featherprop sat down at the console and tried to sound breezy, but the tension in Ether’s voice put him on edge.  “Ether?  Ether, I’m here.” His throat choked, and his own words came out stiff and rushed.

“Feathers?”  Hearing Featherprop’s voice must have caught Ether by surprise, for there was a whoop that made the monitors rattle.  Featherprop grinned and shrugged as Long Tom looked at him in alarm. “Feathers, don’t move, lemme run and get Espresso!”  The transmission ended with a clattering noise and a cutoff shout of “Essy!”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~


Espresso had given up on the pretense of staying busy and sat at her desk, staring into the empty mug in her hooves.  He has to be okay.  Please let him be okay.  She looked at the clock again and wished the hands would move backwards. She wished the weather would improve. She wished the Lunar Lights would settle down.  And above all, she wished she’d never shaken hooves with Dr. Eisen Pasture of the REMMA.

She mentally reviewed the math again, but it was the same as before:  A Twin Trotter carried five-and-a-half hours of fuel.  Featherprop had left Fairflanks nearly nine hours ago. One way or another he was on the ground by now.  Her mind ran over the horrible possibilities:  He might be inthe middle of an epidemic, or a stranded on a frozen riverbed... Or in a smoking crater.  “No,” she said out loud, “not him.  He’s learned.  I know he has.”  She stared into her empty mug, caffeine keeping her thoughts in a whirl.  Whatever's happened... it’s my fault.

A whoop from down the hall caused her to fumble the mug, flinging a trail of midnight-black dregs across the desk.  The shout was followed by a screeching and crashing noise that brought her to her hooves.  She made it to the office door in time to see Ether skid around a corner and slam into a coat rack.  The radiomare barely slowed down, shaking off coats and scarves as she galloped straight for Espresso.  

“ESSY! I GOT– Oof!”  Several scarves and a snowsuit tangled around Ether’s forelegs and she tumbled head-over-heels, flopping to a stop in front of Espresso.  Panting, she tried to speak in between heaves of her chest.  “Essy... he’s down... okay!” As she tried to untangle herself, a smug grin spread across her face. “Just got through... to Kathia... barely!”

He’s safe!  Espresso slumped against the wall, relief lighting a warm fire in her chest until she realized what Ether had said.  “Where did you say?  Kathia?"  Not Fetlock?  Oh, I don’t care right now.  In a daze, she stumbled down the hall away from Ether, picking her way around scattered coats.

On the floor, Ether struggled against the tangle of clothing, but found that it only made her situation worse.  Not only were her rear hooves tangled up, but a loop of scarf had wrapped around her head and tightened over her eyes with every movement she made.  “Essy?  Hey, a little help here?  Espresso?”

The only reply was the retreating sound of hooves as Espresso broke into a gallop towards the radio shack.

“Horsefeathers.”


~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~



Espresso burst into the radio room and paused, the smell of hot circuitry tickling her nose.  Shaking her head, she rushed to the console and frantically looked for the carrier key.  “Featherprop? Featherprop, are you there?”

In Kathia, Featherprop’s face lit up as he replied, “Yeah, I’m here, Espresso.”

His voice was weak and barely broke through the static, but it was unmistakeable.  “Oh, thank Celestia you’re safe!  Ether said you’re in Kathia? Why didn’t you send a message sooner?”  A note of disbelief and relief lay under Espresso’s light scolding.  Though she didn’t doubt Ether, the worry that had eaten at her all night long demanded to hear it from Featherprop directly.

Featherprop heard a snort behind him.  Blushing, he turned to see Long Tom leaning against the doorframe with a knowing grin on his face.  

“They allus’ get like that, y’know.  You’d think as you get on, they’d lay off, but...”

Featherprop glared at the older Pony and waved a hoof, shooing him away.  With a chuckle, Long Tom held up a placating hoof and mouth the word "wierdo" before turning, whistling the jingle for “Hoofball Night in Equestria” as he walked down the hall.


Featherprop turned back to the console and sighed.  Grateful as he was to hear from Espresso, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made some major mistakes that she’d have to fix.  Again.  “Espresso, I’m sorry.  I think I’ve made a mess of it, but it was the only thing left to do.”

“What?  A mess, what do you mean?”  Even with the weak signal, Espresso heard the doubt in his voice.  A pang of worry spread through her gut.  What happened?

Featherprop tried to explain, but his scattered thoughts got tangled up as he tried to speak. “I... I only gave it one shot at Fetlock.  Pasture was furious after, but I didn’t have any choice.”  He rubbed his mane with a nervous hoof, then the words suddenly spilled out in a rush.  “It was bad, Espresso, really bad.  Pasture got hurt, and we were all iced up, and we got down and we saw the beacon but it was only a break in the clouds and then it closed up and our fuel state was getting critical.  And it was close, Espresso, I mean we landed with bingo fuel here, both tank lights were on, you know?”  He ran out of air and lost his train of thought.

Espresso keyed her microphone and cut him off before he could go on.  “That’s okay, Feather, it’s fine.  Are you alone now?  I found something that I need to tell you before you go anywhere.”

Featherprop looked around.  “Yeah, the shack’s empty, Espresso.  What’s going on?”

“It’s about... about Fetlock.  The medical supplies, this whole charter.  Pasture didn’t tell us why he was so damn set on getting there.  I should have known when he wanted to rush through the contract.  I should have insisted. on reading it all.”  Espresso paused, fuming, almost as angry at herself as she was at Pasture.

Now it was Featherprop’s turn to cut her off.  He asked, “You mean about the Infurenza?”

Featherprop’s glib reply caught Espresso by surprise.  “Y-yes.  How in Equestria do you know?”

Though she wasn’t there to see, Featherprop smiled and shrugged.  “We talked.  The whole thing didn’t seem right, so I got him to tell me.”

Espresso’s anger was too much to hold back.  “Well, that was nice of him to tell you after you’d departed.  I’m sure it made him feel better, but the fact is that he lied to us when I asked about it!  He knew I’d never have let you go.  I found a note... Is he around?  I want to talk with that slippery lab-skulker.”

Featherprop sighed and cringed at the thought of Espresso being expressive over the open airwaves.  “Espresso, no, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.  And he’s gone, anyway.”

“GONE?  Gone where?  There’s nowhere to go from Kathia!”

Featherprop flinched at her outburst.  No matter how manipulative Pasture had been, he was a client holding a carriage contract with Frostmane Flying Service, and Featherprop had failed in his duty to fulfill it.  In the end, Pasture’s departure was his fault.  “I guess he got Skipole to take him to Fetlock.  I... I’m sorry, Espresso.  I lost the contract, didn’t I?  He wanted to launch right away, and I said no.”  As he spoke, the sense that he’d made a monumental mess of the entire situation grew and grew.  No matter the weather, no matter the other Ponies involved, he knew that, in the end, it came back to him and the choices he’d made.

When there was no reply for a few moments, Featherprop's wings began to twitch and ache, as he imagined that Espresso’s fury was slowly turning towards him.  

But at the other console, Espresso was trying to convince herself she’d heard him correctly.  In a subdued voice she asked, “You told him "no?" To his face?”  

Featherprop felt his cheeks burning and hastened to explain himself.  “Yeah.  By the time we’d landed, Fetlock managed to send a few marginal reports.  I mean, probably we could have gone, but... it felt wrong.  And I was so beat, Espresso, I didn’t want to take the chance of dozing off.  After everything else, I couldn’t justify it.  Espresso, I’m really, really sorry.  And now he’s gone and I hosed us on the contract... I’m sorry.”  He released the key and rested his chin on the console, letting the sense of failure wash through him as a feeling of utter failure robbed him of his strength.

Espresso found herself staring at the monitor again.  The guilt in Featherprop’s voice almost hurt to hear, pulling up a sense of abject misery that stirred a mix of emotions in her chest; sympathy for the Pegasus, a growing anger at the Unicorn, and one that surged ahead of all the others.  

“Featherprop,” Espresso’s voice wavered as she spoke, “I’m proud of you.”

Featherprop looked up, surprised.  He tentatively keyed the mic.  “You... you are?  Espresso, I couldn’t make the destination.  I royally ticked off the customer, and I refused a flight.  What’s there to be proud of?”

Espresso smiled.  Celestia, what does it take to get it through his skull?  “You stood up to Pasture, Feather. You told him to stuff it.”  She laughed at the thought of Featherprop standing up to the Unicorn.

FP blushed harder.  “Actually, I kinda did.  At Fetlock he was pushing to make a second try, and I sorta... sorta told him that he could jump out of the plane if he wanted to get there so badly.”

Espresso had pressed the key to reply before she had caught the full meaning of what Featherprop had said, so the open circuit caught her explosive burst of laughter as it struck home.  The image of a wild-eyed Pegasus with a disheveled mane yelling at a sour-looking Unicorn sprang into her mind.  Every time she caught her breath, the scene would play again and she was helpless to stop the shrieks and cackling that poured out.

Eventually, she managed to stifle all but the strongest giggles.  “Feather, you hoofhead, none of that stuff, none of it matters.  Contracts don’t matter.  Passengers like Pasture don’t matter– he can go play with timberwolves for all I care.  You ... right thing when it count ... at’s what ma...ers.”  Espresso’s voice became broken, partially obscured by a rising tide of static.

“Espresso?  You’re cutting out. I’m losing you.”  Featherprop looked at the dials and switches ahead of him, searching in vain for a way to filter out the interference.

“... can hardly hear you.  We’ll d .. of this ... get back.  Just... home when you can, Feather.  ...”  Espresso’s last transmission was barely readable, and then the carrier wave was filled with squeaks, pops, and a wall of static.

“Copy, Espresso,” Featherprop said, just in case she could still hear, “and thank you.  I’ll see you soon!”  

For the first time in months, years even, Featherprop leaned back and relaxed.




 * The odd warble was indeed a feature– it was a bandpass filter designed to work with Gryphon vocalizations, amplifying muted dipthongs while suppressing sibilant consonant pairings that would tend to overload a microphone’s dynamic range.  The softer Equestrian language tended to sit right on the threshold of the bandpass settings, resulting in a quavering audio that was either hilarious or mortifying, depending on whether you were receiving or transmitting. 

> 12:  Epilogue
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Espresso sat at her desk, frowning.

Two scrolls had arrived with the mail.  Getting one scroll was odd enough–  the Frostmane had adopted the Gryphon system of envelopes, despite the extra effort it took to hoofstuff them, so most scrolls were either letters from Equestrian relatives or official documents.  And now two of them sat on Espresso’s desk, both with thick ribbons and heavy wax seals.  

Espresso didn’t like scrolls.  The last time one had arrived, three weeks before, it came off the late train from White Harbor just before the arrival of  Dr. Pasture.  Espresso shivered a little as she tried to put aside the mix of feelings that lingered from that night.  The scrolls were unwanted,  but not unexpected.  After Featherprop failed to deliver Pasture and his cargo to Fetlock Falls, she had been expecting a response from the REMMA.

Espresso frowned.  This isn’t good.  The mail usually takes a week to travel down.  Even if Pasture had spent the bits to get a First Flight packet through, it’s not going to be good news if they’ve dealt with it this quickly.  Years of keeping the books at her father’s rail office in Vanhoofer had taught her that only bad news travels fast; good news can wait for the local freight train.  

Her suspicions were confirmed by the silvery wingseal on each:  First Flight postage.  First Flight wasn’t cheap, since the sender was bankrolling lodging and food for a relay flight of Pegasi, one strung out after the other, sprinting from post to post and then collapsing from exhaustion after handing over their pouch to the next Pony.

The first scroll, by far the heavier, was wrapped in a thick blue ribbon and the wax seal bore the proud cross-and-horn of the Royal Equestrian Magical Medical Academy.  Let the contract-mangling begin, she thought with a groan.  Well, if it comes to that I’ve got some pretty good questions to ask about their clauses.

The other one was even more enigmatic.  Hesitantly, she hoofed it up and turned it over, examinining it.  Like the scroll from weeks ago, the purple wax bore the Royal Seal of the Pony Sisters.  But this time, the parchment itself seemed to sparkle as she looked at it.  And the ribbon... Espresso marveled at how a pastel rainbow seemed to shimmer through the ribbon.  While she had an inkling of what the other scroll would be about, this one was a complete mystery, which only fed her worries.

Espresso sighed and sat down, the took the first scroll and broke the seal.  Let’s get the one I know is bad out of the way.  



Royal Adjudicatory Bureau
Contracts and Commissions Division
Canterlot

In RE: Arbitration Case 001-AMF78-26
CY/LY 1001/001

The Royal Equestrian Magical Medical Academy (Plaintiff) has filed a claim of breach of contract by Frostmane Flying Service (Defendant) concerning a chartered flight operating under Parts 119 and 135 (Nonscheduled) of the Equestrian Common Carriage Law. The Royal Adjudicatory Bureau has conducted a preliminary review and determined that Factual Basis for the breach of contract claim exists.

The Bureau has determined that the Plaintiff has standing to recover carriage fees as well as further compensation for lost materiel, travel expenses, and salary for personnel.  An Arbitration Hearing has been scheduled to depose primary witnesses and come to a Finding prior to a Final Determination.  All evidentiary documents must be delivered to both the Bureau and the opposing Party no later than one week prior to the hearing.

Parties will note that the ETSB has indicated that it will be examining the Findings of this hearing to determine if an official review of the Defendant’s Operating Certificate is warranted, and may append any relevant evidence for their consideration.

In this matter the attendance of the Pilot In Command of Frostmane Flying Service flight “Snowpony 425” is required on the fourth day after Winter Wrap Up in Conference Room 221B, Baker Wing, Ministry of Civil Affairs, Canterlot.  Failure to appear will be considered an affirmation of the case as presented by the Plaintiff.  The Findings of the Board will be binding, as per Equestrian Common Carriage Law.  



Espresso gasped.  She had expected a demand for a refund, perhaps even papers for a civil suit, but not what was described in the scroll.  Arbitration hearings were enough to give anypony an ulcer. Resentment flared in her chest as she scanned the compensation estimates that had been included.  Even if the Board only approved half of them, the entire Division’s profits would be wiped out for several years to come.

That paled in comparison to the mention of the ETSB’s involvment, though.  A review of our Certificate?  Pinching Bits is going to have a stroke.  Horseapples, I’m going to have a stroke!  Espresso suppressed a shiver and re-read the paragraph in disbelief, all the while shaking her head and muttering to herself.   An official review would mean that the Service’s Operating Certificate was at risk of modification, suspension... or revocation.  Espresso sucked her breath in as the implications struck home:  In simple terms, it would mean the end of Frostmane Flying Service.  Even if no changes were recommended, their reputation would suffer, and that would mean lost business.

This is madness.  Nopony gets brought before the Arbitration Board for a diverted flight.  What did Pasture tell them?  She had spoken with Featherprop about the entire flight; there had been nothing that warranted this level of scrutiny.  In the Frostmane, in-flight diversions and unplanned landings were commonplace, and no local Court would have given the plaintiff the time of day.  

She dropped the scroll and rubbed her temples with both hooves.  This doesn’t just happen.  The ETSB doesn’t just attend arbitration hearings.  Somepony has made sure this is going to hurt.  Espresso was certain that “somepony” was Pasture.  Featherprop had fearfully recounted the veiled threats the Unicorn had made.  At the time she’d reassured him that nothing would come of them, but now it seemed the doctor had made good on his threats.  And then some.

Espresso tossed the scroll back into her inbasket and eyed the second one with an ever-deepening frown.  She wondered if it were possible for it to contain news any worse than the first and imagined she’d felt her tail twitch.  Today isn’t the day to tempt Fate, Espresso.  Now you know it’s going to be bad.  In hopeless resignation, she swept it up and slid a hoof under the wax of the seal.

“What.”



Royal Equestrian Diplomatic Corps
Sun Court Liaison Office
Royal Palace, Canterlot

Dear Madam or Sir,

Salutations from the Diplomatic Liaison of the Sun Court. We have recently learned that a contractual dispute with the REMMA will bring one or more of your representatives to Canterlot. While we regret the circumstances, we are pleased to inform you that this case has generated keen interest in the capabilities of your organization as they may apply to certain endeavors of the Diplomatic Corps.

To this end we would like to extend an invitation to provide a demonstration of your personnel and equipment at the earliest possible opportunity.  Though we cannot go into detail, we assure you this matter is one of great importance to the Sun Court.  Since this demonstration is at our request, a stipend has been included to offset at least some of the expenses involved.  

In light of the above-referenced unpleasantness, this stipend comes unencumbered by any contractual clauses.



A cheque drawn upon the Equestrian Royal Bank fluttered to the desk.  Espresso glanced at the upside-down slip, then looked again when the numbers didn’t seem right.

“What.”

Espresso briefly wondered if ‘stipend’ had a different meaning in Equestria.  Then she dropped the scroll and snatched up the cheque, holding it nearly to her nose as she carefully counted the zeros.

“What!”

Not even Espresso’s brain, so used to juggling flight schedules, customer complaints, pilot tantrums, maintenance nightmares, and the bizarre equipment requisitions of a marginally-sane radiomare, could handle the one-two bucking that had been thrown at it.  She carefully set the cheque down and stood up.  She carefully walked out the door and down the hall on unsteady hooves.  A trot in the cold, that’s what I need.  I must not be awake yet, and a trot ‘round the yard will wake me up.  This can’t be real.

But when she came back in, the scrolls and cheque were still there.  Exasperated, Espresso threw her hooves up and shouted to nopony in particular, “Fine!  I give up!  This makes perfect sense!  One branch of the Equestrian government is trying to bankrupt and put us out of business, and another is tossing bits at us and offering a contract!  How could I ever doubt it was real? Ha ha!”  She stood behind her desk, chest heaving.  In the hall, she heard hoofsteps pick up from a walk to a brisk canter and realized she was making a spectacle of herself.  The shaken mare poured a cup of coffee to compose herself, and sat back down.  Her frown finally morphed into a full-on scowl as she looked back and forth between the scrolls and the cheque.

But soon the scowl softened, and then her ears perked as a thought occurred to her.  She reached for the scheduling ledger and ran a hoof down the bookings, tapping at some empty blocks.  Winter Wrap Up is in  three weeks.  And we’re light for next month.  Without looking up, she pulled the pilot roster over.  She already knew just what it would tell her, but she needed to see the columns and rows again, just to be sure.  No vacation, not even any training events.  “It could work, with a little luck.  But why did they make the scheduling so tight?”  Espresso blinked and looked startled as several thoughts fell into place.  We’re not supposed to go, are we?  They don’t expect us to be there.  She sat back in a daze, ears drooping as it dawned on her that somepony could be that vindictive.

Slowly, an idea percolated up from the back of her brain.  Her ears swung forward and her blank stare turned into one full of determination and fury, a look that had turned more than one pilot into a quivering lump.  To nopony in particular she whispered, “So, that’s how you want to play it, huh?”

Espresso snatched up a sheet of parchment and began scribbling down a list, pausing to consult a variety of books and binders.  As she pieced together a plan, she muttered to herself. “Putting the sleigh before the pony, aren’t we?  Mm-hm, Vanhoover has rock oil... Neighbraska, they’ve got plenty of corn distillates.  Canterlot... well, I suppose we can get some Unicorn to magic up whatever we need there, can’t we?  Now, who did Dad have on retainer in Canterlot?”   A grin spread across her muzzle, and she laid her quill down to rub her hooves together.

“It’s time to show you dryhoofs how we do it, Frostmane-style!”




Frostmane Flying Service
Trottinger Division
RE:  Temporary Reassignment of Personnel and Equipment

Pilot Featherprop is being removed from the regular rotation for Temporary Duty and assigned Airframe FM1341. He will travel to Canterlot via White Harbor, Vanhoofer, Manetana, and Neighbraska to attend a mandatory Adjudicatory Hearing as well as providing a flight demonstration for the Diplomatic Corps.

As per ECCL 135.77 and OpSpec A006, Pilot Featherprop is being assigned temporary Dispatcher credentials in order to comply with Operational Control regulations. Such authorization shall be valid until his return from Temporary Duty or as determined by the Director of Operations.

Funds for operational expenses have been put in escrow with the Equestrian Royal Bank.  Minor disbursements for incidentals are authorized, but all will be accounted for against Pilot salary.

As agreed, Pilot Featherprop is expressly prohibited from using the callsign “Air Horse One."




The brown Pegasus looked up from the memo, crestfallen.  “Aw, Espresso!  I was just kidding!”

“Don’t you “Aw, Espresso” me!  I saw your eyes light up when you mentioned it, you overgrown featherduster.  Remember, I have hears in Canterlot.  If I get wind of that, or any other ridiculous name you try to call yourself, you’ll be sitting reserve in Pone until the end. Of. Time.”

“Wh– geez, okay!”

“And keep your receipts.  If you don’t, we’ll dock your–  don’t you look at me like that!   Hey!  You flap your sorry flank back in here right now, mister!”

A blue mare snickered.  “Aww, they grow up so fast, don’t they Espresso?”

“Ether, have you been here the whole time!?  If you know what’s good for you...”

“Eep!  Right, boss, I got some tubes to go polish!”

“All these ponies,” Espresso huffed, “are crazy!"