Spike in Space

Remora
Fomalhaut system
Right ascension: 22h 57m 39.1s
Declination: −29° 37′ 20″

"He's an…associate, of sorts," the gray mare said. "He's with me. It's OK."

The guard ponies grimaced, but let Spike through; he adjusted the baldric around his tuxedo as he passed through the door, which he closed behind him. "Thanks," he acknowledged.

The musicians' room, Spike thought, was surprisingly poor—he'd expected it to have been maintained better. The air inside was damp and had a musty note about it. The red knotted carpeting was torn and worn, with stains along the wall; the ceiling fared little better. The walls were unexpectedly concrete, an odd choice for a hotel set in the clouds of a gas giant, and had suffered some cracking as the hotel's structure had settled. The only doors were the one through which he'd just passed and one on the opposite wall. Some fluorescent tube lights lined the ceiling; a few had gone out, and one flickered and buzzed. Inside, there was one pony tending to a cello, the quality of which stood out in contrast to the failure of the rest of the room. "You really ought to keep a lower profile if you want to keep your head," she noted, not looking up from her task.

The dragon snorted. "Says the world-class cellist. Your reputation precedes you."

"As a cellist, maybe, but that's the secret—hiding in plain sight. Your problem is the hiding part."

"You said you had something for me?"

The musician opened the cello case but did not store her instrument. "I had to call in a lot of favors for this," she said, her voice lowered in volume. With her mouth she picked up a bag.

Spike detected an oblong form inside—one that looked fairly heavy despite the small profile it offered through the velvet pouch. He grabbed it and upended the bag, dropping the item into his free hand. "A rock," he observed.

"Turn it over."

Spike did as instructed; the opposite face of the rock contained an inset grid of tiny square jewels, whose color distribution appeared more or less random. "A very pretty rock."

"You have a Singer on call, don't you?" asked Octavia. Spike's head snapped upwards; his pupils contracted. The pony smirked. "I'll take that as a yes. She should tell you all you need to know about it. I don't know all that much myself, I'm afraid, only that my contacts said you might find it of use."

"So why help me?"

The pony faced him. "Even before the war, I was a mare of some prestige. I fared better during the war than most."

"That doesn't answer my question."

She swallowed. "The way I see it, it is my lot to help others when I can. You are hardly the first, and I hope you won't be the last."

A muffled murmur broke through the door; both Spike and Octavia instinctively turned to look. The murmur turned to dulled screams, and Octavia backed up nervously. "I was afraid of this."

Spike reached for his sidearm. "Friends of yours?"

The musician shook her head. "They are rather the opposite, I fear."

"Is that door secured?" asked Spike, pointing.

"Have we any other choice?"

Spike opened the back door and came face-to-face with four tall diamond dogs, weapons drawn. "Get down!" he bellowed, pushing Octavia to the floor and upending a table for cover.

The enemies fired their weapons as Spike fired his; his aim was true and the attackers fell. He noted that he wasn't dead and felt the sensation of shattering crystal on his scales—gem projectiles.

A stain on the floor caught his eye, one that looked different than the traces of moisture he'd seen coming in. He followed it until it changed its path, wandering up the pony's front legs. It finally clicked—blood.

"Find her," said Octavia. She went limp.

Spike looked at her body for a second, then closed her eyes. He grit his teeth and barreled through the door he had come in.

Spike wondered why whatever he tried to do always seemed to end up going sideways. Several diamond dogs and griffins stood in the lobby, islands of stability amongst the rushing onslaught of terrified attendees. His eyes found a sign reading "UNDER CONSTRUCTION" taped to a slab of drywall and he headed for it, throwing his shoulder into the plaster. It collapsed; he broke through into a corridor choked with pipes and wiring.

Regaining his footing, he noticed light streaming in through the far end of the corridor and ran for it. He turned his head back; a griffin was following him. Thinking quickly, he aimed his pistol at the largest pipe and fired. His intuition was correct—a geyser of steam rushed out. He heard the startled cry of pain from the griffon and faced forward again, slapping the panic button on his baldric as he ran and hoping his friends would get the message.

He rushed through some dirty translucent plastic flaps and noticed the area he was now escaping through was open to the atmosphere. Pipes and scaffolding littered the exterior; a few work lights stood on platforms, one set knocked over. The piping was either brass or covered in some shade of white, complementing the beige-and-pink clouds. The dragon skidded to a stop near an unfenced edge, almost falling into the depths of the planet below. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself wondering what sorts of safety codes were on the books in this jurisdiction.

The arrival of his pursuers broke him of his distraction. As they walked closer he inched his way out onto a beam jutting out into the clouds, his weapon darting back and forth between targets. His pursuers aimed their guns at him, expectant. He hoped that his plan would work.

A spacegoing vessel bobbed up with a metallic roar, its weapons systems slewing to aim at his attackers. Success.

Spike hopped onto one of the landing feet below one of the thrusters, breaking his gaze with the intruders only long enough to secure his footing. The ship gained altitude as the entry ramp opened, and as it flew away the foiled enemies could see three blue diamonds painted on its side.

Spike walked up the closing entry ramp past the weapons interfaces and onto the flight deck. A few rarefied clouds sunk down below the field of view of the windshield as the ship climbed through the atmosphere, and switches, gauges, dials, indicators, and lighted buttons assaulted him from all sides. Scootaloo sat in the pilot's chair, staring at the console; Apple Bloom was under a console, fixing something like always. Babs Seed sat on a chair on the lower deck in front of the ordnance controls, which exuded yellow and orange light into the relative darkness of that area. Sweetie Belle sat in her own seat on the flight deck, head turned so she could look out the window.

"Welcome back," Babs said.

Spike paid her no mind and dropped the item in front of Sweetie Belle, removing it from its pouch. "Can you tell me what this is?"

The unicorn looked at it. "A rock."

"Besides the obvious, thank you. Somepony died giving me this."

Sweetie Belle sat up. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Now, can you tell me what this is?"

The glowing magic of Sweetie Belle's horn enveloped the rock. Instantly, her eyes widened and her voice hushed. "Rarity made this."

All eyes—Spike's, Scootaloo's, Apple Bloom's, and Babs' as she craned her neck to see—turned to Sweetie Belle. "Are you sure?" asked Spike, slowly.

The unicorn nodded. "I think I would remember my sister's aura, even after all this time."

"What else can you tell me about it?"

"I'll have to study it," said Sweetie Belle. "You'll have to give me a few minutes."

Scootaloo grabbed a pair of earmuffs.

Sweetie Belle was a Singer, her Cutie Mark an eighth note based on a padlock. Inside her skull sat a library of information encoded in verse and melody, regurgitated by recitation. Using her horn she tumbled the rock gently in front of her, humming so she could recall the required details. Several times, she undertook jarring changes in key and meter as she switched songs and topics. Finally, she softly placed the rock on the console with the ornate side up.

"This was made for diamond dogs," she explained. "The jewels are a code of sorts—this one was made for someone in the capital."

"On Granite."

"How are we going to get to Granite?" asked Scootaloo. "I mean—no offense, Apple Bloom or Babs—but the family names can only get us so far. Same goes for the ship."

"None taken," replied Apple Bloom.

"I suppose blasting our way through the blockade is out of the question," said Babs, joining the others on deck.

"Treason is punishable by death," Sweetie Belle mentioned.

"I wasn't actually suggesting that."

Scootaloo raked her hooves through her mane. "I don't suppose we can just ask them."

"No, that's exactly the plan," said Spike.

"What do you mean?"

"Set a course for Bellerophon."

"Bellerophon?" It took Scootaloo a second to register what Spike implied. "You mean…"

Spike moved to his chair and sat. "This plan needs a dash of authority."