A Kaleidoscope of Doorsby eraserChaptersBroken PromiseAposematicTo Sand 1Broken Promise“—Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me.” The alien bibliographer and the embarrassed violet pony eyed each other. Ponies had little trouble reading humanoid facial emotions. Unless the uniform hats got in the way. The guests claimed those broad brims were just low-profile head armour, a necessary precaution for more savage worlds, but she was sure those face-concealing brims were meant to make them faceless and opaque. Was it really an accident, when he walked in on her? How much did he see? Did he understand how much it meant for her? She couldn't see through the hat. Time was ticking. Finally, the alien broke the awkward silence: “Do you want me to Pinkie Promise not to tell anyone?” “Y-yes... That... will be OK.” Good. Just as planned. “I, Curve Lightning, promise to never tell anyone what I saw here. Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” Making all the necessary motions the agent calling himself “Curve Lightning” mused how much it reminded him of the promises he made as a kid. Usually they involved a promise to cease fighting his brother and a permission to fight dirty if the other party breaks the peace. “And let us never speak of it again,” he added. The violet pony looked relieved and... perhaps a bit disappointed her guest was so disinterested in her secret vice. But relief dominated. After getting out of her sight the agent touched his bracelet to signal the completion of stage one. An hour later he convincingly imitated surprise, when an embassy messenger brought him an order to leave the planet. Apparently his linguistic talent was urgently needed elsewhere. Digitizing all those books would be done by someone a few pay grades lower. And discussing them with Equestrians can wait. * * * What followed was a mad rush through interstellar gates. False documents, rubber masks, being smuggled in a cryostat across at least two borders, collapsing gates right after arrival... He mentally sneered every time he violated “No Mutants Allowed” law. Then was a tedious sublight flight to a frozen asteroid fortress deep inside a denial zone. When his employer wanted the trail fouled, no effort was spared. After the mostly fun stage two came waiting. Even more tedious two weeks. Just sitting in his cabin under many kilometres of rock, rereading the books he copied. His boss refused to meet him and locked himself in his own cabin. The fortress was too small for any sightseeing — at least outside forbidden areas. Even the daily scans (that pronounced him clean every time) did little to alleviate the boredom. Finally, stage three was over. On the fifteenth day “Curved” was woken up by an intercom call. His boss wanted to see him immediately. Four minutes later “Curved” locked the vault door behind him and turned to face his immediate superior. “'Curved', eh? Why do you still use this name?” For some reason the new boss wanted to know the story behind his new nickname. Not much to tell, really. “I liked 'Curve' better than my real surname. It's not easy having such an infamous great-uncle. Somebody misheard, and it became 'Curved'. I don't mind.” “Yeah, the first time I saw it, I thought 'The hell?!' too. You can always make the change official if you want.” “I'll think about that.” “Now, what was the secret you've been burning to tell me?” Finally! “Curved” inhaled, preparing to speak. But something felt wrong. He turned around and saw the door was open and an unhappy pink pony was standing in front of it. “Lightning! You've Pinkie Promised your friend to never tell. Why did you make a Pinkie Promise you were going to break?” Just as planned. Now came the tricky part. “I wasn't going to tell. We just pretended to attract your attention.” “OOOOOOOOH! That was a fun prank!” She jumped excitedly. “Now that you are here, could you tell us how did you track me down? And how did you get here? That's gotta be some story. Perhaps over some tea and cakes?” “Yes-I'd-really-love-to-stay-and-chat-but-I-promised-to-folasit-the-twins-later-today-and-I've-left-muffins-in-the-oven-and-I'm-already-getting-late-so-I'll-have-to-talk-to-you-later-bye!” and she dashed through the open door before “Lightning” could ask her to come back tomorrow. Well, that part could've gone better. He threw an inquiring glance at the boss. “Yes, I tried to restrain her with non-corporeal means, and yes, she shrugged them off without noticing. Optic cameras in this room saw her. Cameras in the corridor didn't. Other detectors paint an interesting picture...” “How interesting?” “With a bit of luck we are going to get a new communication technology in a year. Either that, or a new FTL drive. And a plethora of security holes to cork. Well done, Curved.” Author's Note I couldn't come up with a name for the human, so I picked the first name mentioned in some blog and translated it. This is the name of the embarrassing ancestor after whom Curved was named. I'm not telling who he is. Comments are always welcome. Aposematic“Juicy Apples HQ, CEO's secretariat.” “Good morning, this is Big Macintosh—” “Good morning! Everything's ready, 8 AM, as we agreed. Should we send a car to your hotel?” “Thanks, but no, thanks. I'll just walk there.” “I would recommend against that. This time of the day the industrial zone can be somewhat unsafe. It would be a terrible loss should anything happen to our dear alien guest. At the very least don't forget your gas mask — the weather forecast warns about smoke today.” This clerk's concern at least sounded sincere. Most locals had not yet decided how to treat extraplanetary talking ponies. Opinions ranged from “cute toy critters” (usual for younger humans) through “oddly shaped humans” (promoted by Juicy Apples officials) to “mind-eating alien monsters” (the saleswoman at a greengrocery, into which Mac had a misfortune to wander; as a consolation the manager let Mac keep all the cabbage thrown at him). Since most alien humanoids got the latter label from the start, ponies seemed to have been luckier than most. “Don't worry. I won't.” “Anything else?” “No.” “Goodbye then, we'll be waiting for you. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,” and the clerk hanged up. * * * The industrial zone stretched for miles in every direction. Most of it were warehouses and shut down small factories. (As Mac's hosts explained, it was the legacy of the times when the planet's population was many times higher.) Somewhere in that labyrinth was the warehouse that doubled as Juicy Apples headquarters. Because it was cheaper than an office building in the city proper. The wind stank with smoke, but not enough for the mask yet. Mac was replaying the contract in his head again and again. Newly-formed Equestrian Produce Company promised to deliver so much produce. Juicy Apples promised to buy it at such-and-such prices or higher. Juicy Apples promised to be an intermediary for purchasing metalwork. The exact prices will be negotiated a month later, and not by Mac, thank Celestia. He'd had enough trouble juggling volumes and timetables. All in all, the conditions seemed reasonable. He could finish this job today, go back home, where he could finally relax. Speak as he is used to, rather than what's considered proper... His train of thought was interrupted by ferocious yapping. A small dog, barely reaching Mac's knees, was deliriously protecting a warehouse gate. Despite its rabid courage it stayed far from the reach of the pony's hooves. Mac has been warned about local stray dogs. Some lived by a particular warehouse and protected it, some were effectively feral, but hanged around a particular warehouse or several, were fed there and protected their territory from intruders. Occasionally they attacked a wrong human, after which a pack could get exterminated. Later another pack appeared in an empty place and the cycle went on. Meanwhile, the yapping attracted half a dozen dogs. A couple dared to step a bit closer, the rest barked from the distance. Seeing the dogs were content to see him leave their territory, Mac felt it safe to just trot away. Ten seconds later pain pierced his right hind leg, just above the hoof. The stallion did what he did best — bucked. He felt his left leg hit something soft and sent it flying, but the right dog dodged the blow. It snarled, lunged at Mac, but didn't try to bite again. Mac stomped, and the dog retreated, joining the barking group. It showed the interloper who's the boss and didn't feel like fighting any more. The wound didn't look good, but the destination was near. He would manage. * * * The guards at the gate recognized Big Macintosh. No wonder, he probably was the only red pony in a business suit in the city, if not the whole planet. One of them brought the first aid kit and started treating the wound, another started making phone calls. The clerk, who talked with Mac earlier this morning, came running before the guard finished bandaging. Her speech was too fast and confused for Mac to understand fully. "...so sorry... ...already reported the dogs twice... ...they keep hiding... ...so sorry... ...should've insisted on sending the car... ...so sorry... ...will get the best treatment... ...Lifegivers... ...no scar... ...so sorry..." Mac has assured her that he'd had worse, living near Everfree and all, but she didn't stop monologuing. Meanwhile, the young guard finished bandaging and continued explaining his theory of correlated dog-human behaviour: “...Let's take, for example, me. I'm a simple guy, and my dog is like me. I don't trust strangers, and the dog would growl and bark at people he doesn't know. But he won't bite unless you try to hurt him. Or me. Or my friends he knows. If you hang with me a while, he'd see you are my friend too. Now, this Pflyskfignotrofhm.” The name made Mac cringe inside. He may have learned the language, but local names still sounded utterly alien. Especially the ones derived from dead languages. “The security officer in the warehouse where you were bitten. He's foul. The foulest man I know, and you meet all kinds of scum in this business. He always strikes in the back, and his dogs are just like him too. Like... wheeze...” It took Mac a few moments to realize something was wrong with the guard, and a few more to figure what exactly. “Quick! Give him anti-histamine shot! Call ambulance!” the pony blurted. Mac started to rummage through his pockets. He was sure he kept a few dozes for accidents like this one. The clerk was searching the first aid kit. * * * Police and ambulance arrived together. By then the guard's skin colour changed back to normal and he breathed easily. But he still did not dare to touch Mac. Mac has already explained that such a drastic reaction was only possible when his blood got in an open wound or touched mucous membrane. Several times. The guard still did not want to risk. A medic checked the pony's wound, gave him vaccine injection and handed him to the police officer. The other medic was still trying to persuade the guard to go to the hospital. Just in case. “We've received a complaint that you've attacked guard dogs. Severely beaten one, poisoned another. What can you tell about that?” “I was walking by, when one of the dogs bit me. I instinctively bucked — kicked with my hind legs — and hit another dog. My blood is poisonous to most predators—” “Is this why you are red?” For some reason the policeman found it funny. “Yes, warning colouration. I come from an area where most predators are immune, and keep forgetting.” The policeman scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Did you enter the warehouse territory when you were attacked?” “No.” More furious scribbling. “Were the dogs on the street unsupervised?” “Yes.” “Did the dogs have muzzles? Leashes?” “No and no.” “How many dogs were there?” “Six or seven.” More scribbling. “That would be all. Please sign here and here.” Mac tried to read the report. Some scrawls were almost legible... Finally, he gave up and signed. “Thanks for cooperation. You are the seventh already. This time we'll definitely apprehend those dogs.” Mac glanced at the clock at the clockhouse. 8:10. Maybe he can still sign the contract today. And the policeman was explaining to the phone receiver why did he need a hazmat squad for the trail of blood. Author's Note I don't think I'm the first one to suggest that bright colouration of some ponies is a warning to predators. But can anybody name other examples? Oh, and "aposematic colouration" is a colouration that warns or repels predators. To Sand 1A chapter from the middle, that ended up at the beginning, making it a prologue. The fog was so thick, the man could barely see where he was going. Good thing he knew the Stump Quarter as the back of his hand. The night sky was pulsing red, as usual, giving enough light to see fallen trees, puddles of slush and an occasional ditch. His head was wrapped in some dark rag, too untidy to call it a turban. The rest of the body was covered by a shapeless bundle of cloth, probably picked in a dump. A typical bum, save for one important detail. An observant examiner might've noticed his boots were too new and expensive. But it was too late to stay observant and the city streets were empty. He stopped at a particularly wide ditch. Too wide to jump across and no bridges within view. He could swear it wasn't there yesterday. A gust of wind blew the fog away. Enough to see the nearby residential towers and get his bearings. Most buildings in the Stump Quarter were barely eight-ten metres high, stumps of quartered towers, as the locals joked. “Locals”. Not-really-a-bum spent over a year here, but still felt like a stranger. And merely a week ago such things wouldn't bother him. Life with this roommate was definitely changing him. He looked around, getting his bearings before the fog crawled back. That mural seemed familiar, meaning he took a wrong turn and missed his goal by half a kilometre. Good. He was getting afraid some shock workers dug the ditch while he waited at the police station. Ten minutes later he stood on the snow-powdered bank of a canal. The water was free of ice, but fortunately the bank was frozen solid. The thick fog concealed the opposite bank. Did he guess the place right? There was only one way to tell quickly. He tried wading across the canal. He guessed right — here murky water hid stepping stones. Barely ankle-deep. In seconds he was ascending the slope of the opposite bank. There were no buildings on this island. It was mostly flat and empty, with occasional patches of trees and shrubs. The circle of life for the island plants tended to be pretty quick — trees and shrubs were planted, withered within a week or two, got chopped and something else was planted. Unless it was winter. The municipality never ceased trying to turn the useless island into a park. Whatever keeps them happy. The beaten path zigzagged whimsically, occasionally crossing other paths or forking, but the not-bum knew better than step off it. Far ahead, above the sea of fog, he could see bright coloured lanterns atop residential towers. As long as the path led him in the general direction of red-red-blue, he was OK. On the ground as far as eye could see — that is, three metres (six if you squint real hard) — he observed a deceptively flat and featureless snow-covered plain. Perfect weather for running away — he could keep his bearings, but any pursuers would lose him if he threw them off. A few hundred steps later he faced a dilemma — wading through a deep-looking puddle, backtracking and finding another beaten path or walking around the puddle. He chose the latter, and after a single step sunk knee-deep in the icy mud. After climbing to the hard packed path he took off the right boot and poured water out of it. He then unwound the strip of cloth from his foot and shin, wrung it out and wound the dry end around his foot. He mentally smiled. If he had money for proper socks, he'd rub his foot sore. A few minutes later he reached a paved area atop a short knoll, with a red granite stela in its centre. Or did they really cheat everybody? Was it really sandstone? Paved paths led into the fog, toward the two bridges and a dozen dirt paths met here. If not-bum was interested in sightseeing, he would've enjoyed the view of towers surrounding the island, dark silhouettes over the dim red smouldering sky, rising above the sea of fog, decorated with coloured lanterns, each tower with its own combination. But he was quite familiar with the view. He walked to the stela careful not to slip on the iced flagstones and checked the rock for signs of recent vandalism. There were none. Good. The last thing he wanted tonight was altering his plans to account for another vandal. His improvisation skills sucked. He pulled a sledgehammer from under his clothes. Looked around one last time. There had to be some people guarding this site, but where were they? Let's find out. His hammer hit the stela. Four men with long police batons rose around the monument. Now that they stood up, the vandal could see where they'd been hiding. They've dug small pits (unnervingly similar to graves), covered themselves with camo cloaks and had been covered with snow. They probably spent several hours freezing there, waiting for the likes of him. Yes, the stakes were definitely getting higher. The vandal stood waiting with his back to the stela. The four guards stood cautiously in a semicircle, well outside the hammer reach. No one dared to move first. Finally, the vandal got bored and swung his hammer, hitting the stela behind his back. One of the guards rushed, seeing the opening. A moment later he desperately tried to stop, to prevent his face colliding with a hammer. His feet slipped and he fell, hitting the pavement with the back of his head. The vandal dropped the hammer, jumped over him and quickly disappeared in the fog. Two guards followed him, the fourth helped his fallen colleague back to his feet, and they joined the pursuit. Several minutes later the guards returned rubbing bruised elbows and knees and with nothing for their pains. The culprit was moving silently and they immediately lost him in the labyrinth of passages. They ventured further for conscience sake, but gained nothing and barely found their way back. They were greeted by a most unusual sight — a small horse with an oddly styled long mane. It was too dark to tell the colour, but its mane and tail seemed too bright, obviously artificial, contrasting the dull body fur. If any of the guards had ever seen a real horse, or even paid attention to pictures of ones, he'd have noticed abnormally short muzzle and disproportionately large head with huge eyes. But none of them was a zoology buff. “What the hell?.. Is that a horse?” one guard asked. He wasn't very familiar with the area. “I think she belongs to this photographer guy, and gives rides to children.” The one who answered was a local. “Why is it here this late?” “He got arrested for public intoxication again. Right on this spot. She's probably waiting for him to come back.” “Poor thing, freezing here all alone,” the third guard sad. Hitting his head made him more sensitive to the plight of others. “Nah, he said she's real smart. Knows geography, can find her stable on her own. Maybe she wants some fresh air before going to sleep.” The first guard eyed the picture on the horse's haunch. “This colour doesn't look natural. Does dyeing animals with aniline count as cruelty?” “If you hope for her owner to pay you off, forget it,” the local shot his hope down. “He's greedy and usually broke. Do you think he'd get arrested today if he could pay?” “Probably no...” Their musings were interrupted by a barrage of snowballs. The snow was wet, and the balls were hard. The ice-flinger was none other than the audacious vandal. Already riled by the previous chase the guards rushed after him, disappearing in the fog. They did not stop to think why would the vandal come back after being chased off. Meanwhile, the inconspicuous dumb animal intently stared at the dented granite slab. Probed it with her front right hoof, knocked on it a few times listening to the sound and scowled in disdain. Then abruptly turned around and bucked the stela. It crashed to the ground, shattering into grains of sand. The horse picked the sledgehammer with her teeth and trotted away. Tomorrow morning was going to be busy, and she hoped to catch enough sleep. Author's Note The planet Tontu is similar to the 20th century Earth. No cell phones, no digital cameras, and their import is banned. As are many other nice things. But its population is much less mobile, hence townies' unfamiliarity with horses. When I started to write this story, I kept getting distracted and doing time skips. I ended up with 3 distinct chapters: slice of life, adventure and aftermath. After a month of trying to finish it, “adventure” is the most coherent one. Enjoy. If you think you've recognized the pony, please comment. If you think there's a better pony for this role, please comment. 2016-01-11: Let the unnatural colour be the cutie mark instead of a mane.
Broken Promise“—Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me.” The alien bibliographer and the embarrassed violet pony eyed each other. Ponies had little trouble reading humanoid facial emotions. Unless the uniform hats got in the way. The guests claimed those broad brims were just low-profile head armour, a necessary precaution for more savage worlds, but she was sure those face-concealing brims were meant to make them faceless and opaque. Was it really an accident, when he walked in on her? How much did he see? Did he understand how much it meant for her? She couldn't see through the hat. Time was ticking. Finally, the alien broke the awkward silence: “Do you want me to Pinkie Promise not to tell anyone?” “Y-yes... That... will be OK.” Good. Just as planned. “I, Curve Lightning, promise to never tell anyone what I saw here. Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.” Making all the necessary motions the agent calling himself “Curve Lightning” mused how much it reminded him of the promises he made as a kid. Usually they involved a promise to cease fighting his brother and a permission to fight dirty if the other party breaks the peace. “And let us never speak of it again,” he added. The violet pony looked relieved and... perhaps a bit disappointed her guest was so disinterested in her secret vice. But relief dominated. After getting out of her sight the agent touched his bracelet to signal the completion of stage one. An hour later he convincingly imitated surprise, when an embassy messenger brought him an order to leave the planet. Apparently his linguistic talent was urgently needed elsewhere. Digitizing all those books would be done by someone a few pay grades lower. And discussing them with Equestrians can wait. * * * What followed was a mad rush through interstellar gates. False documents, rubber masks, being smuggled in a cryostat across at least two borders, collapsing gates right after arrival... He mentally sneered every time he violated “No Mutants Allowed” law. Then was a tedious sublight flight to a frozen asteroid fortress deep inside a denial zone. When his employer wanted the trail fouled, no effort was spared. After the mostly fun stage two came waiting. Even more tedious two weeks. Just sitting in his cabin under many kilometres of rock, rereading the books he copied. His boss refused to meet him and locked himself in his own cabin. The fortress was too small for any sightseeing — at least outside forbidden areas. Even the daily scans (that pronounced him clean every time) did little to alleviate the boredom. Finally, stage three was over. On the fifteenth day “Curved” was woken up by an intercom call. His boss wanted to see him immediately. Four minutes later “Curved” locked the vault door behind him and turned to face his immediate superior. “'Curved', eh? Why do you still use this name?” For some reason the new boss wanted to know the story behind his new nickname. Not much to tell, really. “I liked 'Curve' better than my real surname. It's not easy having such an infamous great-uncle. Somebody misheard, and it became 'Curved'. I don't mind.” “Yeah, the first time I saw it, I thought 'The hell?!' too. You can always make the change official if you want.” “I'll think about that.” “Now, what was the secret you've been burning to tell me?” Finally! “Curved” inhaled, preparing to speak. But something felt wrong. He turned around and saw the door was open and an unhappy pink pony was standing in front of it. “Lightning! You've Pinkie Promised your friend to never tell. Why did you make a Pinkie Promise you were going to break?” Just as planned. Now came the tricky part. “I wasn't going to tell. We just pretended to attract your attention.” “OOOOOOOOH! That was a fun prank!” She jumped excitedly. “Now that you are here, could you tell us how did you track me down? And how did you get here? That's gotta be some story. Perhaps over some tea and cakes?” “Yes-I'd-really-love-to-stay-and-chat-but-I-promised-to-folasit-the-twins-later-today-and-I've-left-muffins-in-the-oven-and-I'm-already-getting-late-so-I'll-have-to-talk-to-you-later-bye!” and she dashed through the open door before “Lightning” could ask her to come back tomorrow. Well, that part could've gone better. He threw an inquiring glance at the boss. “Yes, I tried to restrain her with non-corporeal means, and yes, she shrugged them off without noticing. Optic cameras in this room saw her. Cameras in the corridor didn't. Other detectors paint an interesting picture...” “How interesting?” “With a bit of luck we are going to get a new communication technology in a year. Either that, or a new FTL drive. And a plethora of security holes to cork. Well done, Curved.” Author's Note I couldn't come up with a name for the human, so I picked the first name mentioned in some blog and translated it. This is the name of the embarrassing ancestor after whom Curved was named. I'm not telling who he is. Comments are always welcome.
Aposematic“Juicy Apples HQ, CEO's secretariat.” “Good morning, this is Big Macintosh—” “Good morning! Everything's ready, 8 AM, as we agreed. Should we send a car to your hotel?” “Thanks, but no, thanks. I'll just walk there.” “I would recommend against that. This time of the day the industrial zone can be somewhat unsafe. It would be a terrible loss should anything happen to our dear alien guest. At the very least don't forget your gas mask — the weather forecast warns about smoke today.” This clerk's concern at least sounded sincere. Most locals had not yet decided how to treat extraplanetary talking ponies. Opinions ranged from “cute toy critters” (usual for younger humans) through “oddly shaped humans” (promoted by Juicy Apples officials) to “mind-eating alien monsters” (the saleswoman at a greengrocery, into which Mac had a misfortune to wander; as a consolation the manager let Mac keep all the cabbage thrown at him). Since most alien humanoids got the latter label from the start, ponies seemed to have been luckier than most. “Don't worry. I won't.” “Anything else?” “No.” “Goodbye then, we'll be waiting for you. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call,” and the clerk hanged up. * * * The industrial zone stretched for miles in every direction. Most of it were warehouses and shut down small factories. (As Mac's hosts explained, it was the legacy of the times when the planet's population was many times higher.) Somewhere in that labyrinth was the warehouse that doubled as Juicy Apples headquarters. Because it was cheaper than an office building in the city proper. The wind stank with smoke, but not enough for the mask yet. Mac was replaying the contract in his head again and again. Newly-formed Equestrian Produce Company promised to deliver so much produce. Juicy Apples promised to buy it at such-and-such prices or higher. Juicy Apples promised to be an intermediary for purchasing metalwork. The exact prices will be negotiated a month later, and not by Mac, thank Celestia. He'd had enough trouble juggling volumes and timetables. All in all, the conditions seemed reasonable. He could finish this job today, go back home, where he could finally relax. Speak as he is used to, rather than what's considered proper... His train of thought was interrupted by ferocious yapping. A small dog, barely reaching Mac's knees, was deliriously protecting a warehouse gate. Despite its rabid courage it stayed far from the reach of the pony's hooves. Mac has been warned about local stray dogs. Some lived by a particular warehouse and protected it, some were effectively feral, but hanged around a particular warehouse or several, were fed there and protected their territory from intruders. Occasionally they attacked a wrong human, after which a pack could get exterminated. Later another pack appeared in an empty place and the cycle went on. Meanwhile, the yapping attracted half a dozen dogs. A couple dared to step a bit closer, the rest barked from the distance. Seeing the dogs were content to see him leave their territory, Mac felt it safe to just trot away. Ten seconds later pain pierced his right hind leg, just above the hoof. The stallion did what he did best — bucked. He felt his left leg hit something soft and sent it flying, but the right dog dodged the blow. It snarled, lunged at Mac, but didn't try to bite again. Mac stomped, and the dog retreated, joining the barking group. It showed the interloper who's the boss and didn't feel like fighting any more. The wound didn't look good, but the destination was near. He would manage. * * * The guards at the gate recognized Big Macintosh. No wonder, he probably was the only red pony in a business suit in the city, if not the whole planet. One of them brought the first aid kit and started treating the wound, another started making phone calls. The clerk, who talked with Mac earlier this morning, came running before the guard finished bandaging. Her speech was too fast and confused for Mac to understand fully. "...so sorry... ...already reported the dogs twice... ...they keep hiding... ...so sorry... ...should've insisted on sending the car... ...so sorry... ...will get the best treatment... ...Lifegivers... ...no scar... ...so sorry..." Mac has assured her that he'd had worse, living near Everfree and all, but she didn't stop monologuing. Meanwhile, the young guard finished bandaging and continued explaining his theory of correlated dog-human behaviour: “...Let's take, for example, me. I'm a simple guy, and my dog is like me. I don't trust strangers, and the dog would growl and bark at people he doesn't know. But he won't bite unless you try to hurt him. Or me. Or my friends he knows. If you hang with me a while, he'd see you are my friend too. Now, this Pflyskfignotrofhm.” The name made Mac cringe inside. He may have learned the language, but local names still sounded utterly alien. Especially the ones derived from dead languages. “The security officer in the warehouse where you were bitten. He's foul. The foulest man I know, and you meet all kinds of scum in this business. He always strikes in the back, and his dogs are just like him too. Like... wheeze...” It took Mac a few moments to realize something was wrong with the guard, and a few more to figure what exactly. “Quick! Give him anti-histamine shot! Call ambulance!” the pony blurted. Mac started to rummage through his pockets. He was sure he kept a few dozes for accidents like this one. The clerk was searching the first aid kit. * * * Police and ambulance arrived together. By then the guard's skin colour changed back to normal and he breathed easily. But he still did not dare to touch Mac. Mac has already explained that such a drastic reaction was only possible when his blood got in an open wound or touched mucous membrane. Several times. The guard still did not want to risk. A medic checked the pony's wound, gave him vaccine injection and handed him to the police officer. The other medic was still trying to persuade the guard to go to the hospital. Just in case. “We've received a complaint that you've attacked guard dogs. Severely beaten one, poisoned another. What can you tell about that?” “I was walking by, when one of the dogs bit me. I instinctively bucked — kicked with my hind legs — and hit another dog. My blood is poisonous to most predators—” “Is this why you are red?” For some reason the policeman found it funny. “Yes, warning colouration. I come from an area where most predators are immune, and keep forgetting.” The policeman scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Did you enter the warehouse territory when you were attacked?” “No.” More furious scribbling. “Were the dogs on the street unsupervised?” “Yes.” “Did the dogs have muzzles? Leashes?” “No and no.” “How many dogs were there?” “Six or seven.” More scribbling. “That would be all. Please sign here and here.” Mac tried to read the report. Some scrawls were almost legible... Finally, he gave up and signed. “Thanks for cooperation. You are the seventh already. This time we'll definitely apprehend those dogs.” Mac glanced at the clock at the clockhouse. 8:10. Maybe he can still sign the contract today. And the policeman was explaining to the phone receiver why did he need a hazmat squad for the trail of blood. Author's Note I don't think I'm the first one to suggest that bright colouration of some ponies is a warning to predators. But can anybody name other examples? Oh, and "aposematic colouration" is a colouration that warns or repels predators.
To Sand 1A chapter from the middle, that ended up at the beginning, making it a prologue. The fog was so thick, the man could barely see where he was going. Good thing he knew the Stump Quarter as the back of his hand. The night sky was pulsing red, as usual, giving enough light to see fallen trees, puddles of slush and an occasional ditch. His head was wrapped in some dark rag, too untidy to call it a turban. The rest of the body was covered by a shapeless bundle of cloth, probably picked in a dump. A typical bum, save for one important detail. An observant examiner might've noticed his boots were too new and expensive. But it was too late to stay observant and the city streets were empty. He stopped at a particularly wide ditch. Too wide to jump across and no bridges within view. He could swear it wasn't there yesterday. A gust of wind blew the fog away. Enough to see the nearby residential towers and get his bearings. Most buildings in the Stump Quarter were barely eight-ten metres high, stumps of quartered towers, as the locals joked. “Locals”. Not-really-a-bum spent over a year here, but still felt like a stranger. And merely a week ago such things wouldn't bother him. Life with this roommate was definitely changing him. He looked around, getting his bearings before the fog crawled back. That mural seemed familiar, meaning he took a wrong turn and missed his goal by half a kilometre. Good. He was getting afraid some shock workers dug the ditch while he waited at the police station. Ten minutes later he stood on the snow-powdered bank of a canal. The water was free of ice, but fortunately the bank was frozen solid. The thick fog concealed the opposite bank. Did he guess the place right? There was only one way to tell quickly. He tried wading across the canal. He guessed right — here murky water hid stepping stones. Barely ankle-deep. In seconds he was ascending the slope of the opposite bank. There were no buildings on this island. It was mostly flat and empty, with occasional patches of trees and shrubs. The circle of life for the island plants tended to be pretty quick — trees and shrubs were planted, withered within a week or two, got chopped and something else was planted. Unless it was winter. The municipality never ceased trying to turn the useless island into a park. Whatever keeps them happy. The beaten path zigzagged whimsically, occasionally crossing other paths or forking, but the not-bum knew better than step off it. Far ahead, above the sea of fog, he could see bright coloured lanterns atop residential towers. As long as the path led him in the general direction of red-red-blue, he was OK. On the ground as far as eye could see — that is, three metres (six if you squint real hard) — he observed a deceptively flat and featureless snow-covered plain. Perfect weather for running away — he could keep his bearings, but any pursuers would lose him if he threw them off. A few hundred steps later he faced a dilemma — wading through a deep-looking puddle, backtracking and finding another beaten path or walking around the puddle. He chose the latter, and after a single step sunk knee-deep in the icy mud. After climbing to the hard packed path he took off the right boot and poured water out of it. He then unwound the strip of cloth from his foot and shin, wrung it out and wound the dry end around his foot. He mentally smiled. If he had money for proper socks, he'd rub his foot sore. A few minutes later he reached a paved area atop a short knoll, with a red granite stela in its centre. Or did they really cheat everybody? Was it really sandstone? Paved paths led into the fog, toward the two bridges and a dozen dirt paths met here. If not-bum was interested in sightseeing, he would've enjoyed the view of towers surrounding the island, dark silhouettes over the dim red smouldering sky, rising above the sea of fog, decorated with coloured lanterns, each tower with its own combination. But he was quite familiar with the view. He walked to the stela careful not to slip on the iced flagstones and checked the rock for signs of recent vandalism. There were none. Good. The last thing he wanted tonight was altering his plans to account for another vandal. His improvisation skills sucked. He pulled a sledgehammer from under his clothes. Looked around one last time. There had to be some people guarding this site, but where were they? Let's find out. His hammer hit the stela. Four men with long police batons rose around the monument. Now that they stood up, the vandal could see where they'd been hiding. They've dug small pits (unnervingly similar to graves), covered themselves with camo cloaks and had been covered with snow. They probably spent several hours freezing there, waiting for the likes of him. Yes, the stakes were definitely getting higher. The vandal stood waiting with his back to the stela. The four guards stood cautiously in a semicircle, well outside the hammer reach. No one dared to move first. Finally, the vandal got bored and swung his hammer, hitting the stela behind his back. One of the guards rushed, seeing the opening. A moment later he desperately tried to stop, to prevent his face colliding with a hammer. His feet slipped and he fell, hitting the pavement with the back of his head. The vandal dropped the hammer, jumped over him and quickly disappeared in the fog. Two guards followed him, the fourth helped his fallen colleague back to his feet, and they joined the pursuit. Several minutes later the guards returned rubbing bruised elbows and knees and with nothing for their pains. The culprit was moving silently and they immediately lost him in the labyrinth of passages. They ventured further for conscience sake, but gained nothing and barely found their way back. They were greeted by a most unusual sight — a small horse with an oddly styled long mane. It was too dark to tell the colour, but its mane and tail seemed too bright, obviously artificial, contrasting the dull body fur. If any of the guards had ever seen a real horse, or even paid attention to pictures of ones, he'd have noticed abnormally short muzzle and disproportionately large head with huge eyes. But none of them was a zoology buff. “What the hell?.. Is that a horse?” one guard asked. He wasn't very familiar with the area. “I think she belongs to this photographer guy, and gives rides to children.” The one who answered was a local. “Why is it here this late?” “He got arrested for public intoxication again. Right on this spot. She's probably waiting for him to come back.” “Poor thing, freezing here all alone,” the third guard sad. Hitting his head made him more sensitive to the plight of others. “Nah, he said she's real smart. Knows geography, can find her stable on her own. Maybe she wants some fresh air before going to sleep.” The first guard eyed the picture on the horse's haunch. “This colour doesn't look natural. Does dyeing animals with aniline count as cruelty?” “If you hope for her owner to pay you off, forget it,” the local shot his hope down. “He's greedy and usually broke. Do you think he'd get arrested today if he could pay?” “Probably no...” Their musings were interrupted by a barrage of snowballs. The snow was wet, and the balls were hard. The ice-flinger was none other than the audacious vandal. Already riled by the previous chase the guards rushed after him, disappearing in the fog. They did not stop to think why would the vandal come back after being chased off. Meanwhile, the inconspicuous dumb animal intently stared at the dented granite slab. Probed it with her front right hoof, knocked on it a few times listening to the sound and scowled in disdain. Then abruptly turned around and bucked the stela. It crashed to the ground, shattering into grains of sand. The horse picked the sledgehammer with her teeth and trotted away. Tomorrow morning was going to be busy, and she hoped to catch enough sleep. Author's Note The planet Tontu is similar to the 20th century Earth. No cell phones, no digital cameras, and their import is banned. As are many other nice things. But its population is much less mobile, hence townies' unfamiliarity with horses. When I started to write this story, I kept getting distracted and doing time skips. I ended up with 3 distinct chapters: slice of life, adventure and aftermath. After a month of trying to finish it, “adventure” is the most coherent one. Enjoy. If you think you've recognized the pony, please comment. If you think there's a better pony for this role, please comment. 2016-01-11: Let the unnatural colour be the cutie mark instead of a mane.
