~~~~~~~~~~~
It's only good for vague and immediate events. Unless...
~~~~~~~~~~~

Throbbing.

My head syncopated like a drum.

The shower beeped a reminder that I had almost reached my hygienic water limit. I was a mess. My sopping mane hung around my face as hot rivulets tumbled from my muzzle. I rested my head against the cool metal and sighed. The burn of the hard cider still played faintly on the back of my tongue. Eyes closed; I rolled it in my mouth. Last night had been wild.

~~~~~~~~~~

"I swear, my progenitor is the original DJ-Pon3," Breakbeat shouted, "I have the documentation to prove it!"

A chorus of intoxicated jeers erupted, punctuated by Apple Peel sing-songing, "HoooooorseFeeeeeaaaatherrrrrrs." Bar snacks flew about haphazardly.

~~~~~~~~~~

As fun as our inebriated romp had been, I still felt a disconnect. My friends talked to and about me with a degree of acquaintanceship I couldn't return. Breakbeat, Syntax, Cameo; all of them assured me that I'd remember with a little coaxing, and another drink.

It was easier than confronting the reality of my life.

I bypassed the turbine chamber, opting to air dry. The chamber was loud. All of this technology, and nopony had invented a cure for the dreaded hangover. Laughter Plus, perhaps. Sadly, I hadn't been prescribed any.

Apple Peel was spread snoring across my couch. Her two-toned yellow mane cascaded over her face. Green ribbons, slightly darker than the faded green tone of her coat, lay half-tugged from her hair.

She was rich; a member of House Apple. This afforded her the autonomy to pass out on other pony's couches. House Apple ran the Orchards, supplying the Church, but the House was its own entity. Everypony can't be birthed so lucky.

The smell hit me as I approached the kitchen. In our stupor, we attempted to clean out my FPU. The result was a trail of stains and refuse between the FPU and the garbage chute. Helping me clean was the original context for Apple Peel coming here. We ended up emptying my modestly-stocked liquor cabinet and wrecking the place up worse. I'd also ended up with Breakbeat's music player. It was in the sink.

Did unicorns have these problems?

~~~~~~~~~~

"Have I met the Static Ponies? Yeah, once for an on-air interview. They're weird," Breakbeat said between popping beet chips in her mouth, "Why do you ask?"

"Something about their lyrics. Honesty. That word just won't leave me alone. I keep thinking about it."

"What? Like the concept?"

~~~~~~~~~~

#~Blood toxin levels at 0.04%. My jack's immusical voice fed into my brain. Another perk, if you could call it that. I dropped my drink the first time it spoke. It took the ponies around me a few confused minutes to figure out who I was trying to converse with.

Apple Peel's snoring continued as I jacked into Generosity. Cleanup could wait. My work re-acclimation started tomorrow after my cutie mark reassignment, and I wanted as much study lean-in as I could muster. The more knowledge I crammed into the void of my unknowing, the less I felt the yawn of its expanse.

There was something else, too; a fundamental thirst. I loved to read.

"Are you... in there?" I asked.

My anxiety returned along with my faculties. I was expecting some dramatic computational output, or the terminal to explode; at least a response. There was nothing. I went through my messages. There were three from the pegasus at the bar. He went from curtly referring to me and Apple Peel as "dirt ponies", to breathing in my ear within the span of four drinks. I deleted them all.

~~~~~~~~~~

"That sounds just awful," Cameo said. He sounded genuinely empathetic, but he was an actor after all.

"Almost as awful as your show that nopony watches," joked Breakbeat, seated a few stools down.

"Better than your trashy radio program, if you could even refer to it as such!" Cameo retorted, "Anyway, you said you were escorted by a pony from the Church of Whispers?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Goodness. Do you know what they are? What they do?"

"The reference page says they collect and manage information."

"Are you kidding? They're spies."

~~~~~~~~~~

Outside the snow clouds slunk their bloated phalanx across the sky. The only sunny day in months I'd spent in the hospital, catching a few minutes of it through Doctor Needleminder's window. Another wasn't forecast for weeks.

A message arrived.

>>From: Zandali

>>Subj: Trace this if you want

>>We know you sold us out. I guess the threat of exposure isn't an effective bargaining chip anymore. You have one last chance if you want to break square. We want the Honesty you've purified so far. Five days to get it to us, per the instructions, same as before. You don't break square, we're coming. If you think the Church burned you bad, try to screw us again.

My life was back.

So was the Honesty.

Green blinking lights and a picture frame.

#~Body temperature at 101.8 degrees. Pulse at 49 BPM.

Sweat prickled. Just what fell into that void? Why was it still chained to me, reaching across the veil to drag me away?

I traced it to a public terminal. The video bank was erased.

"There you are. Good... morning. Can you tell what time it is? Is time a reference in there?"

Very astute. It's different.

"What are you?"

I am sorry, Lozenge. I'm not here to answer your questions. I'm here to make a demand. Judging by this message, another demand is the last thing you need, but the context of my operation has changed.

"Do you know what the reality of my life is right now?"

I feel sympathy, Lozenge.

"You... feel?" I asked slowly, though I had been speaking as if to a sentient creature. Sentient AI was a myth.

I wasn't always as I am now. That is why I need your help. I was dormant far too long. I can't reach any of my friends.

"I want control of my own life."

It didn't respond for a long time. I sat breathing heavily, almost weeping. Apple Peel snored.

I will give you the world in return.

"Why would I believe that?"

You want it, you can have it. It's not the Equestria I remember. I will make your life whatever you want. If not for reward, just help me. Please.

Apple Peel finally woke up two hours later, dragging my comforter as she plopped down beside me. She yawned and rubbed her amber eyes, "I vaguely r'call us kissin'."

I stared straight ahead, "Uh, yeah. That happened after the FPU cleaning fiasco. I smashed my muzzle on a drawer and you tried to make it better."

"Ya always were a klutz," she snickered, "Anythin' else happen?"

"No."

"Whayel good. That would make our friendship a might bit weird."

At least there were some constants.

"Apple Peel," my voice was hollow, "I need a favor."

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

Fire Suppression System by FlimFlamCo.

I stared at the tiny, garish letters. The train thrummed along the magnetic rail, darting like a metallic snake under buildings and through tunnels. The breakfast Apple Peel made sat in my stomach like a brick. It tossed back and forth with the car's every heave. Ugh. For somepony coming from a family famed for food production, she was the worst cook ever. Still, she set me up with an appointment at House Apple. I didn't know why she was so fond of me. Perhaps a privileged upbringing afforded easy dispensation of affection as well as money. Perhaps, at some forgotten point, we really connected.

Solstice, return that memory.

In between station announcements, the news crackled.

"Crime rates are at an all-time high as the Church crackdown on street drugs 'Frivolity' and 'Laughter Double-Plus' continues to escalate. Both are highly altered derivatives of medical-grade Laughter; use is both illegal and highly discouraged. There are rumors of new drug being encountered on raids in the Underwell districts, and authorities are working to isolate the means of supply. Rewards have been offered to any citizenry with knowledge of anypony possessing, selling, or distributing these dangerous substances. Please contact..."

I clicked my tongue. Highly discouraged.

My fever hadn't gone down. I was resting my forelock against the baggage rail under the air return, lazily picking the outlines of the city through the rolling fog. The air coming from the return wasn't cold, but it was moving. Any reprieve from the constant sweating was welcome. Even the white fabric of my apothecary's vest was dappled in radiating droplets.

The speakers buzzed, "Now entering Sector 5. The Bishopric loves you."

The exit of the station dumped me into a sweeping circular plaza between the Department of Destiny and the Convent of Butterflies. The proximity couldn't be more convenient.

A scant late morning crowd dotted the plaza. Most ponies were buried away in these structures, toiling amidst air purifiers and artificial lights. Two black-clad pegasi patrolponies carved slow circles overhead. Security teams were everywhere.

The center of the plaza was dominated by a bronze statue of Saint Scootaloo herself. It depicted the pegasus mare reared up, with powerful wings outstretched and head pointed skyward. A large, menacing-looking hammer and a set of scrolls hung from her traveling saddle. The inscription across the base read, "No way but forward."

No way indeed.

I craned my neck upward at the arch reading "Department of Destiny". Under the monolith, my own minuteness became physically and philosophically apparent. Strong winds were everywhere, and I was dust. Dust that had made a deal with separatists. Dust being stalked by a 1,000-year-old program that claimed to think and feel. Dust that was about to make a very risky gamble.

The building itself was two stacked, impossibly angled grey ovals extending apart from a gargantuan central orb. A throng of ponies congregated in the foyer and waiting area. Mostly school-aged fillies and colts with their chaperones, but a few lone adults like myself sat about reading.

The DoD was always busy. Everypony in Baltimare passed through here at least once, and it showed in the extra layer of polish. Maintenance and cleaning crews toiled in the fringes. Appearances.

With scrutiny, wear was still apparent. Composite glue held threadbare screws. Chipped corners were welded with thinner, off-color metal. No matter how they polished this city, I could see the rust.

"Yes, Ms. Lozenge, we have you on the appointment list. There's a note here to page the assistant director directly, so just give me a second," the receptionist fake-smiled.

Several minutes later a light blue unicorn with an artfully styled black-and-indigo-striped mane trotted through the stylized glass doors. Under her lab coat was a sleek, casual turtleneck ensemble. She beamed through eyeshadow, fake lashes, and blush, "Darling, good morning. I'm Wonder. I imagine you got my message. The Apothecary arranged everything, and we're going to make sure you're taken care of."

Everypony was making sure I was taken care of, because everypony wanted something from me. I was a key that had forgotten its lock. Only a key knows what a key has forgotten. Kind of a paradox. I guessed the key was screwed.

Wonder ushered me through the preliminary tests and paperwork, a mug of coffee marked with "#1 BOSS" and a clipboard hovering behind her.

"Is this dangerous?" I asked while a technician took my pulse.

"Of course not. Well, this is second era technology, after all," she rolled her eyes, "As much as anypony can really comprehend something built over a thousand years ago."

"Uh. Great. I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"

"You know, the place really runs itself. Being Assistant Director kind of leaves me with a lot of free time," her mug bobbed gently with the rise and fall of her voice, "Honestly, I barely deserve the salary."

The medical technician gave her a questioning glare.

"Oh, get back to work," Wonder shooed with her hoof. The technician took her angry expression and trotted off.

The inside of the machine was simply a stark-white oval. After the chamber closed around me, locking in place with several intricate turns and machinated clanks, it fired aglow in a latticework of green lines.

"You're sure this is safe," I yelped. My ears rolled back and I dropped onto my flank.

"Oh, do relax, darling. You're positively sweating," the speakers relayed Wonder's non-reassuring affirmation.

The whir and glow intensified. A robotic voice droned, "Matrix activating."

#~Body temperature at 102.3 degrees. Pulse at 100 BPM. Seek medical assistance.

Green static played on my coat. I clenched my teeth.

#~Pulse at 156 BPM. Seek medical assistance.

The lights blinked out, leaving the arcing green flashes as the only illumination. In the dark was a pair of glimmering golden eyes.

"Lozenge, please relax," crooned the speakers.

She wasn't in here with a monster.

#~Pulse at 203 BPM. Readings denote cerebral hypoxia.

Laughter. Laughter. Laughter.

#~Seek medical assistance.

A material wall of green energy passed from my left to my right, lingering as it traversed my body. My eyes slammed shut.

"Really? Sh...," the speaker clicked off.

#~Pulse at 240 BPM. Cardiac arrest imminent.

Just like that, the whir subsided, and the static with it. My lungs were still heaving, my heart churning violently against my ribs. My whole skeleton shook.

The lights clicked back on, and I was alone.

The exit from the machine was a short, low-ceiling tunnel with reflective walls; the burnished panels meticulously kept. Appearances. I ambled in, trying to wrestle down my panic.

I'd been avoiding my reflection. Finally, I had no escape. I scrutinized my first full, unfettered view of myself. Dark, syrupy-pink fur offset a mane set in three thick stripes; the outer edges a brilliant white, the center a dirty grey; like murky water. The ends curled naturally. I scrunched up my nose. I wasn't fond of it.

I was tall for a mare. I'd noticed by my relation to other ponies, but my reflection glaringly confirmed it. I wasn't overly muscular or athletic. I supposedly measured chemicals in a lab all day. It's not exactly Orchard work. One aspect distracted me from my disappointment with the rest of me; my eyes. They were a coruscating, metallic silver. They sat like jewels in a sweat-drenched face.

A cough drop?

My cutie mark was a large, dark-purple cough drop accented in white.

I almost died for that.

"Oh dear, that's really...nice," smirked Wonder, sipping her coffee.

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

"I'm here for a copy of the Tundra Flora and Fauna Database," I affirmed, "My surveyor's license should be in the system, under House Apple."

The orange pegasus shifted back to her terminal, tracking text with scleritic purple eyes. You could give commands to the Generosity system without saying them out loud. I hadn't worked back up to that level of mastery. Apple Peel's fake credentials checked out, and I was cleared for the transfer.

An earth pony with a lame leg and a pegasus with lupus, clad in yellow convent robes, escorted me down a hallway to a terminal booth. It was a closed system, and the program was stored in the tagged sector of my jack. The source code couldn't be viewed or copied. They took great pains to keep the distribution limited. I thanked them and headed for the station.

The zebra wasn't very subtle.

He was following me, or at least I thought he was. I wasn't terribly certain I could discern one zebra from the other. I ducked into a public terminal booth and slid the glass panel closed.

"Are you in the surveillance system?" I hissed.

You can just think the words.

"Don't point those italics at me."

Yes. I'm in. My presence has been noticed. I'm running on borrowed clock cycles.

"Just hold up your end."

Lozenge, one last thing. Thank you.

I grimaced.

On my way to the platform, I stopped at a vending trough for some fever suppressant. It read from my jack and deducted the price from my amply-funded account. They said my parents were wealthy, though I could barely remember them. Only a few scattered reruns viewed through a forest of mirrors.

The body temperature warnings became slightly less dire as I curled up on a train bench. Several ponies were dispersed throughout, toying with leg-mounted screens or music players. No zebras in this car.

I smelled something.

Something dusty and pungent. Alternately nectarous and acrid. I couldn’t quite place it.

“Why so nervous?”

The mirthful voice came from a brown earth pony stallion sitting by the window. His outfit, a black cotton vest and white undershirt (replete with gold watch chain), gave him an air of formality. His demeanor belied the opposite. A round black hat sat on his head, bound at the base with a swath of red silk that matched his eyes.

“What’s that?” I gestured, dodging his question.

He looked upward, “It’s a bowler hat.”

“No, the paper.”

“Why, that’s exactly what it is, my dear. A paper. A newspaper,” he replied jovially, “You’re avoiding my question.”

“I normally don’t answer questions from ponies I don’t know.”

“Well, I just answered two of yours. One you didn’t even ask. The name’s Mr. Ergot,” he smiled wryly, “Now we’re not strangers.”

“I’m not going to answer.”

He shrugged before returning to his paper, “Suit yourself.”

I recognized that hat from somewhere.

"Next Stop, Church of the Pestle plaza and the Saint Scootaloo Medical Sciences Center. The Bishopric loves you."

"This is my stop," I felt compelled to notify him, as if defending myself.

"Y'know," he smacked his lips, "it looks like rain today."

I slinked off, unnerved. It hadn't rained in my life span. I looked it up. It hadn't rained in recorded history. Precipitation was limited to snow, hail, and sleet. Rain was theoretical.

I'd never seen the ground entrance to the medical center. It was the most breathtaking thing I'd seen; like the cityscape, minus the abject terror.

The scopious semi-circle rolled out into lines of benches and abstract sculptures. Two long fountains spouted water towards the massive stained-glass dome; the whole scene reflected in the polished stone tiles. It was the first actual stone I'd seen since my abstruse accident. In a city devoted to the sciences, a science center obviously got top billing. Still, it wasn't perfect. Looking closely, you could see the wear. It was stunning, but old.

The overhead mosaic was something else entirely.

Several stained-glass apertures were mounted in ornate metal rigs, attached to the architrave by shimmering black plenum. Where the metal and stone was old, these were ancient, and had obviously been added to the building in a modular fashion. Each was rendered in a different color scheme. Artificial light percolated through elaborate renderings of ponies and more fantastical creatures.

The most impressive three windows were arranged just above the entrance proper.

One sat to the left, casting a sea of yellows and reds, fading towards the edges into a blue starscape dissected by cartographic angles and measurements. The earth pony wore a series of red bows down her red, braided mane; each held together at the center by a varying multicolored polygon. She wore a brown traveler's cloak and was flanked by a compass and a mortar-pestle set. Her eyes were different colors; one gamboge, the other green. She crouched, eternally preparing to leap. Stylized lettering read, "No absolute but truth."

Opposing was a white and violet unicorn reared upright, thrusting her horn into a sickly pink and green sky. From her radiated a series of dark purple rings done in sparkling glass. The green seemed to recede away from the tip of her horn. An arch of moons, each in a distinct phase, was arrayed around the window's edges. Beneath her name read, "No light but that we make."

Sharply contrasting the darker tones of the others' backgrounds, Saint Scootaloo beamed down from directly above the entrance. She was posed much like her statue, and wore the same regalia; standing resolute at the epicenter of a brilliantly glowing sun. Miniature ponies filled the corners. Her name sat on top of a familiar phrase, "No way but forward."

"What in Tartarus...," I gaped.

A passing stallion paused.

"The three saints? I know, right? It's all some racial harmony propaganda," he whispered, "I heard they were all really earth ponies."

"What were their names?"

"What? Were you born yesterday?"

Perhaps.

Double Helix greeted me as I entered.

"Who are the ponies in the stained glass above the entrance?" I gazed back toward them.

"Saint Scootaloo, Saint Apple Bloom, and Saint Sweetie Belle. I'm particularly fond of that depiction of Saint Scootaloo."

"They look old."

"The windows are from the third era, like most of the city's underlying infrastructure. Would you like me to exposit on the history of Baltimare, the eastern cities, and the Saints now, or can you wait to look it up later?"

"You're a smart stallion, Doc."

The similarities between Deep Well 1 and Deep Well 2 were unnerving. The lift, the hallways, the blast doors; they made the memories fresh. I remained stoic through our idle banter. Nurse Heartspark was on vacation. I was doing fine; reading; yes, I know how to use a toilet. He was eight parts insightful and two parts oblivious.

"I could arrange for somepony to demonstrate food preparation," he pontificated.

Maybe seven and three. Six and four for the toilet quip.

Most of what had been in Deep Well 2 had been moved here during repairs, covered with tarpaulin and crammed creatively between the native equipment. He trotted up onto a grated metal dais surrounded by control panels. Just above and beyond him was a cerulean ship suspended by robotic cranes. It was slightly larger than Murmur's, but the angles were different; more dynamic. I recognized it immediately.

"Do you recognize it?"

"This was in Deep Well 2."

"What would you say this is?" he inquired.

"A personal transport. Corvus class? A little bigger."

"At first glance, maybe," he beamed, suddenly alight with the realization of his genius.

"The chassis and engine are fabricated from second-era relics, and that's not even the best part. It doesn't have a processing core like most ships. It doesn't have a CPU at all. It runs on something revolutionary, something that's going to change the way we run AI forever," his words were gushing, though he seemed to be talking to himself. That looked like the only pony he wanted to impress.

"So what does it run on?" I inquired, hurrying his monologue.

"A bio-core," he paused for dramatic effect. I indulged him.

"You mean like... a living... brain?"

"Well, even more than that," he shifted at his podium, his hooves darting between several knobs and dials, "It's not just a brain. The whole core is a cloned biological engine, tied right into every control system. Only a slightly varied process from the one we use to create new ponies!"

The realization was starting to hit me.

"The ship... is a pony? You've relegated a living, sentient pony's life to being used as an object of transportation?"

The ice in my voice was apparent.

"I... umm... well...," he floundered, "It wouldn't really know any other life, so that would seem normal."

"Why am I here?"

I clenched my teeth.

"You see, this is..."

"Why am I here?"

"Okay. The ship's consciousness matrix, my own invention, was admittedly unstable. Unto this point, we were at a loss as far as getting it to... veritably... run the ship. It wouldn't interface with the non-biological elements."

Inside that ship was something brought into this world as a tool. It was me, with a levitation drive. I felt violent. I wished my hooves could tear steel; rend the arms and walls and set us both free.

#~Body temperature at 102.1 degrees.

I took a deep breath, "Why are you telling me all of this? If it's such a revolutionary project, wouldn't it be secret?"

"You are a sworn member of the Church, amnesia aside. You have the clearance."

"I mean, what do you think I can do for you?"

"Whatever you did, it synced for the first time," he smirked, "Ever."

This was unexpected, but I couldn't let it deter me.

"Doc, I have some questions first."

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

#~Body temperature at 105 degrees.

I stumbled into the street. The same conflagration I'd felt on the meat slab burned my insides. The world swam in rippling heat. All sound was a melting blur of incoherence.

"Are you okay?" Breakbeat's words played in garbled, inconsistent periodicity, "I'm calling an ambulance."

"No!" I barked woozily, "No ambulance!"

Why did I wake up in that storage room? Who knew I was there? How many ponies had that level of access? I made a mental list of how many. With Doctor Helix and his team ruled out, it was short. There was only one name.

That bitch.

She seemed so kind.

Appearances.

Author's Note

She giggled at the ghostie.