The Broken Toy

As the dim light of late afternoon glimmered ahead, Lyra suppressed the urge to rush outside.

The pipeline led to a lake of dirty water in the middle of a vast junkyard. Mountains of garbage as high as multi-story buildings, stacks of old vehicles and even hovercars, ruins of some ancient buildings looking out at the world with empty eye sockets of windows and display cases broken out in time immemorial.

Somewhere far behind the piles of garbage, the white needles of the Spires pierced the night sky. Shrouded in light, like a gateway to another, prosperous world, alien to the darkness.

“Welcome to our place," said Jerry.

“Do you live here?” asked the unicorn, sniffing. Strangely enough, the junkyard didn't smell of decay at all. Metal and plastic, dust and construction debris, rubber and cinders, but no nauseating smell of rotting organic matter.

“We live wherever we want," Jerry replied, "and old junkyards are the perfect place to stay out of sight. Lots of metal and therefore interference for the scanners. Anything that could rot has rotted and burned long ago, and you can build a real home out of junk if you want.”

“We have one in here," Scootaloo added.

Their house was just a... house. On wheels. Actually, it used to have wheels, but now there were just rusted axles. The broken windows had been repaired with sheets of plastic, and the area around the house had been carefully cleared of debris. On the roof was a large rainwater tank, and beside it was a small box with a tiny door, obviously for Jerry's use only.

“Home sweet home," the mouse smiled as Scootaloo opened the door to the former trailer.

Lyra's attention was caught by movement on one of the piles of junk. A purple orb emerged from the debris and hung in the air, mewing contentedly about something.

“Coffi... Coffi Coffi Coffi Coffi Coffi..." came the murmur.

“Jerry, Scoot, who's that?” asked the unicorn, pointing with her hoof at the strange creature.

The mouse looked back.

“Oh, that's Coffi," he said. “He's lived here for years. Don't be afraid, he's harmless.”

“Shall we invite him for dinner?” asked Lyra. “Since he's your neighbor—”

“No use," said Jerry, "he doesn't understand a thing. He can hardly speak. He's just mumbling his name and looking for something. Come on in, don't just stand there.”

The unicorn looked back at the floating orb. It had chewed on its prey, then went back down to the trash and began burrowing into it.

Lyra shrugged and followed Jerry and Scootaloo into the house.

It was cozy inside. Even though the furnishings were made of rubble and debris, a vivid example of vagabond style, they had a charm of their own.

Jerry nimbly hopped off the pegasus and bounced around the furniture. Some would say "just like in a cartoon.” An antique switch clicked and a diode lit up under the ceiling, casting a pale light on the room. Electricity hummed in the old wires, and the house seemed to come alive.

Two tubs, one large and one small, rumbled, pushed into the middle of the room. Water trickled through the hose into the large one, and Jerry splashed something thick into it, causing a white cap of fluffy lather to swell up. The smell of flowers and soap wafted through the air.

“Scoot, get in the tub," the mouse commanded.

The little pony shifted her hooves and glanced at Lyra.

“I don't feel like it. Let's do it tomorrow, I wanna sleep...”

Jerry ran his hand over his face.

“Oh, it's torture every time... You finally decide what's ‘less cool’ for you, being dirty or washing. Think about what you swam in today.”

Lyra smiled. Foals never change. The whole world around them may be different, but the ginger tomgirl will never love water procedures. Not until she grows up, maybe.

“Let me help," the unicorn said, and received an angry look of two purple eyes.

Traitor! it read in them.

Jerry sighed. The unicorn thought he was relieved.

“Okay," he agreed, "I'm tired of fighting every time... Now I'm going to wash my clothes. And wash myself as well. It's convenient to be small anyway.”

“Thanks, I feel much cleaner already!” Scootaloo said quickly as she started to back away.

Lyra and Jerry looked at her at the same time and said with glee, "Get in the tub!”

“No!" Scootaloo shouted and turned sharply toward the door, clearly preparing to make a run for it.

Lyra gave Jerry a quick glance and the mouse nodded.

Scootaloo just let out a small squeak as she was enveloped by the telekinetic field and lifted up. Her hooves kicked the air and her wings flapped in a futile attempt to escape.

Lyra chuckled, imagining again the ghostly hands that began to gently but persistently undress the ginger pegasus.

The unicorn's smile faded instantly when she saw the scars crossing the orange skin on Scootaloo's back and croup. Almost like that creepy Rainbow Dash from the Pony Play, only smaller. Hanging in the air, Scootaloo tried to cover herself with her wings and tail, but to little avail. Angry tears welled up in the filly's eyes.

Lyra's fun at the foal's whims turned to a bitter understanding of why the pegasus was so reluctant to undress in front of a pony she didn't know.

“How did you get those scars?” Lyra asked.

“Got hit by branches trying to learn to fly," Scootaloo muttered, sinking into a tub of lather.

Lyra didn't believe it. No branches left such smooth marks. Apparently the pegasus had once been severely beaten with rods or whips.

The unicorn was about to ask another question, but suddenly stopped herself. Just out of curiosity, to reopen old mental wounds? She caught Jerry's concerned look and remained silent.

The sewage-scented shorts and T-shirt went into the laundry tub.

“Nice when the adult is bigger than the child, as it should be," Jerry said, smiling at the whole thing. “I'm tired of coaxing that ginger mess every time she needs to be scrubbed of dirt and dust.”

“No! I don't wanna wash!” Scootaloo protested loudly from the lather, but no one listened to her.

The unicorn was just having motherly feelings, washing the filly... Or at least she thought such feelings were motherly. Scootaloo, flapping her wings capriciously, splashed water all around. Lyra felt soaked to the skin, and her once neat and elegant suit had turned into a total Discord's mess.

“Jerry, I'll probably have a wash too," said the unicorn, "I'm wet anyway.”

The mouse, walking on dirty clothes in another tub, replied, “All right. Then give me your clothes as well.”

Lyra giggled and, still using her telekinesis to hold Scootaloo in the tub and wash her, began to pull off her own soaked suit.

Jerry turned away. Although he knew that ponies, like all other furry creatures, were comfortable with nudity, human morality (hypocritical, in his opinion) was taking its toll.

After a while, he was about to ask if he could turn back when a wet lump that had once been Lyra's neat jacket collapsed on his head, covering the mouse from head to toe.

Uh, how childish! Jerry thought angrily as he heard a cheerful laugh muffled by the layers of fabric.

As he climbed out, he saw two ponies giggling contentedly in the tub. The lather covered them both up to their necks. After Lyra's mischievous prank, the protests about washing were magically forgotten.

As always, though. Jerry had lived under the same roof with the ginger pegasus long enough to know that she sometimes protested and misbehaved just out of teenage naughtiness...

After washing away the signs of the dungeons, the three of them ate some instant porridge, tasteless in Lyra's opinion, but it filled their stomachs and made them not feel so hungry.

Scootaloo, dragged out of the tub and wiped clean with an almost clean towel, looked like a ruffled sparrow. She was angry again, this time at being sent to bed as the youngest.

Pouting defiantly, the little filly turned to face the wall and wrapped herself in her blanket. She obviously wanted to feign resentment, but fatigue prevailed, and a few minutes later the pegasus was sniffing quietly, sound asleep.

Lyra and Jerry were sitting at the table as adults... or rather, Lyra was sitting at the table, and the mouse was pacing back and forth in the light of the desk lamp. The unicorn was wrapped in a towel after her bath, and Jerry was wearing a pair of oversized shorts of a garish scarlet color with a small yellow star pattern. He had found them once in a pile of doll clothes and used them ever since as a home outfit for laundry. Just like now.

“Jerry, how did Scootaloo really get those scars?” Lyra asked.

The mouse shook his head.

“Sorry, Lyra, I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone. All I can say is that she's been through things she'd rather not remember. And I can't judge her for that.”

The unicorn sighed. She was dying to know about the past of the ginger pegasus, but to ask any further would be to undermine the trust of the inseparable couple.

“Why did you stab me in the back of the head with a fork in the dungeon?” Lyra asked, deciding to change the subject.

“It's simple. Every synthet has a biochip on the back of their neck—”

“The magical mark!” exclaimed the unicorn, remembering Victor's words.

The mouse hesitated for a moment, then continued, “Um... yeah. So, the mark. It can be used to track you from a distance and find out where you are. And even what you're doing. But those of us on the run disable the chip. The directed electrical charge from a taser turned into a lockpick corrupts the electronic locks and shuts down the synthet's biochip. Now, for general scanners, the mark doesn't give an active signal, making it... ‘green’, so to speak. However, an individual scanner will immediately detect that you're running from humans. This is called ‘overriding the mark’ or ‘deactivating the chip.’ Such damage can be repaired, but you need a computer with a neural interface to do it—”

“So what, I don't have the... mark now?” Lyra asked worriedly.

“Technically, you do. But it's inactive. And it won't work again without the neuroprogrammer...” The mouse caught the pony's uncomprehending gaze and sighed, "Yes, you don't have the mark anymore.”

The unicorn remained silent. She had mixed feelings. On the one hoof, Victor had been unfair by not telling her what the mark meant. On the other one, Vic hadn't done anything reprehensible yet. Didn't have time?

“Wait," the unicorn said suddenly. “Are you saying that Vic can't find me now?”

“Vic is your master?”

“My friend!”

Jerry sighed. “I'm sorry, little pony, but your mark was blue. You said yourself he didn't set you free. That meant you were his property. Even though he treated you well. I suppose he bought you recently?”

“Bought me?!”

“Right. Synthets are living beings, no doubt. But by law, they are things. Or slaves, if you prefer. And the green mark can only be obtained with the permission of their master or the authorities. And it stays green only as long as you pay taxes. And if you don't, it turns yellow, which is grounds for arrest. That's simple.”

Lyra felt the rejection of reality rise again in her chest. Being someone's thing? After words of friendship? Deception like this made her want to cry. No. To weep. To run away and not stop as long as she had the strength.

Jerry gave the unicorn a look of sympathy. She was in doubt now, and the mouse didn't want to be the one to draw the final line under her short happy life.

“Lyra, maybe I'm wrong and your version is right about you," he said aloud, even though he felt sick to his stomach at such a blatant lie. “So keep your head up. I don't actually know it myself.”

“Really?” The pony's drooped ears perked up again.

“Really," the mouse sighed. “It's possible.”

Jerry didn't want to be responsible for the shattered hope of pulling another soul out of black despair. On the other hand, it was even more dangerous to leave her naive.

The mouse couldn't know it, but if an OBE's psychoprogrammer were asked now, he would say that Lyra Heartstrings had narrowly escaped a glitch in her behavioral software.

A fatal glitch that could have resulted in anything.

“That evil Rainbow Dash in the Pony Play, she said that Equestria, my home, my whole life, was just an artificial memory!” Lyra exclaimed, resting her snout on her forelegs. “I simply cannot believe it...”

The mouse, who had flinched at the mention of Rainbow Dash, smiled nervously and abruptly changed the subject.

“Oh, boy! I used to babysit one kid, and now I have two.”

“I'm not a kid!” Lyra pouted, not even noticing the trick in her emotion.

Scootaloo mumbled something in her sleep and twitched her ears.

“Mm-hmm," Jerry nodded, "but you're acting like a naive kid. How long have you been here?”

“Three days!” said the unicorn proudly.

“Why on earth did I get this, huh?” The mouse sighed, covering his face with his hand.

Lyra seemed to be on the verge of despair.

“Jerry, can you at least explain to me how that's possible? I remember my whole life, my friends, my parents, and it's all a lie? If it is, I'm a few days old! I, a full-grown mare! Doesn't Equestria really exist?”

Jerry looked into her yellow eyes. Lyra asked about Equestria with the ghostly hope of a child who has caught his parents putting presents under the Christmas tree instead of Santa Claus.

The mouse sighed and spread his hands helplessly.

“Maybe it's true. Or maybe not. Scootaloo believes that Equestria is a paradise for those just like you. And that if you're a decent and good pony, you'll get there. Not in this life, but in the next. No one can prove or disprove that. So it's a matter of faith. The faith that Scoot and the rest of the... Celestians profess. She's more comfortable with that than, say, I am.”

“You don't believe in Equestria?”

“Ha! I believe in myself and my powers. I believe in that pony curled up against the wall sniffing. I believe that this world is a cruel and dark place, and that things can always get worse. And life beyond existence? I haven't seen that.”

Lyra didn't answer, keeping her gaze on the mouse. He, noticing the unasked question in her golden eyes, suddenly added more quietly, looking away, “But you know... if someone up there," he pointed upwards, "decides that the old mouse is still worthy of taking care of the little ginger furball... I won't be offended, no.”

Lyra smiled. “Little?”

Jerry put his hands at his sides crossly.

“Don't play silly, you know exactly what I meant!”

“Jerry... how old are you?”

Once again the expression of a creature who had seen a lot of things that didn't fit with his cartoon exterior appeared on his face.

“Too old for a mouse, Lyra," he said with a look away. “Until recently I even thought it was too much.”

“What's changed?”

Jerry looked over to where the sleeping Scootaloo was sniffing peacefully, then at Lyra.

“I've managed to get the little one to move on with her life and even enjoy the little things it has to offer. But she gets chills at the slightest mention of the past. So leave the old life behind. It would be better for both of us.”

Lyra opened her mouth to ask another question, but Jerry made a sharp gesture and said, “And before you ask, the answer is no, I don't want to tell a sob story of my life. I'm done with it. Period. After what happened to Tom and the others, and after my mark ceased to exist.”

“What? What do you mean, ceased to exist?”

“I'm invisible to the scanners. That's suspicious, but if they can't see me, there's no reason to look. And it's easy for a little mouse to hide. It's all I've been living on since I escaped.”

Lyra gave Jerry a pitiful look. “Gosh, now I'm dying of curiosity... You started to tell me, so don't keep it to yourself!”

Jerry covered his eyes again with his hand in a gesture of feigned despair. “Oh, and why'd you come down on me like this...? Tom is the cat from the same cartoon as me. We were a birthday present to a child, as they often do with synthets. So he accidentally destroyed my mark. And then he tortured Tom to no end.”

The unicorn's eyes bulged even wider, and Jerry wondered once again how they fit in a pony's skull.

“What do you mean, 'tortured'?” Lyra asked in shock, and Jerry's face showed real pain for a moment. He looked away.

“I... don't want to talk about it," he mumbled. “Just consider that I'd lost someone I could truly call a friend, despite our differences. He chased me around the show more out of sporting interest, and our mutual banter and pranks were probably a sign of true friendship. Tom would never eat me, I'm sure. Although he threatened to on more than one occasion. But that boy... he ruined everything.”

Lyra, remembering the polite and kind child from the park, tapped the table lightly with her hoof. “No! That's impossible! Not the kids—”

The mouse looked up at the unicorn bitterly.

“Lyra, kids are different too," he said.

“They cannot be bad!”

“Right. There are bad adults who let their kids do terrible things without explaining that it's bad.”

“But how could a kid even think of such a thing?” Lyra's voice rang with tears. The last straw of faith that the human world wasn't rotten to the core stretched and creaked. “Have you ever seen anyone like you?”

“Not many," he replied reluctantly. “You see, Tom and I have a problem... survivability. In our 150-year-old original cartoon," he said with a bitter irony in his voice, "each of us has been hit on the head with an anvil, or on the tail with an axe, or shot with a bullet... And the number of times we've planted explosives on each other is too many to count. You know, it doesn't work in real life. But a lot of kids try. I mean, if we're all right after that in the cartoon, why shouldn't it work in real life too?”

Tears ran down Lyra's cheeks. Such cruelty is brought up in people since their childhood... But why do they show such things to children? Just for the money? And then how to live with realizing who you raised by your creation?

She suddenly remembered an episode of a horrible show about pokémons viciously fighting over silly patches for their owners.

“Now I understand where some people get so much evil in them, why their love looks like an ugly parody...!” said Lyra. “That's the root of the evil! The lack of love and friendship in childhood, the identification of fun and cruelty!”

“Love looks like a parody?” asked the mouse. “Ah, I think I get it. Have you experienced your master's ‘love’ for yourself?”

Lyra, who was thinking about something, perked up.

“For myself...? What? No! Vic is a true friend, he never hit on me! Even when I... provoked him. Just to make sure—”

The unicorn suddenly blushed, unable to find the right words. Judging by the sarcastic look on Jerry's face, he misunderstood her.

“So you're not from the Pony Play?” he clarified.

“No... I went there without asking. Just to have a look—”

“And how'd you like it?” The mouse's voice was ironic again.

“I've seen the ponies. Y’know, they have such a look in their eyes—”

“Either scared or indifferent. Right?”

“Yes, but how d’you know?”

“Firstly, I've been to the Pony Play, and secondly, most synthets are divided into those who are being broken and those who have been broken.”

Lyra wouldn't give up. “But you and Scoot aren't among them, are you?”

“No, we're not.”

“But how then?”

“We have each other and that allows us not to break... both of us. On our own we would've given up long ago, but now she has me and I have her. I'm smaller, but I'm an adult and I have to take care of her now. And she's a kid who needs someone to confide in. And I'm glad she didn't shut down in her grief, but found the strength to open her heart again.”

“But there's no one like you in the Pony Play—”

“Of course. How can there be affection when the ponies are raped and beaten all the time? Forced to fight each other, often to the death?”

“I saw a man there kissing Applejack. On the lips, quite explicitly. And she didn't seem to mind, rather the opposite.”

“And that is the third type... The ones who accept the imposed rules and morals. The ones who enjoy it. And that psychotic Rainbow Dash who fights in the arena is one of them, though she'd never admit it, even to herself.”

Looking at Lyra, who was trembling nervously, Jerry thought that maybe sometimes cynicism should be tempered. That kind of attitude helps you accept the world as it is, but only when you're alone. But others could easily get hurt that way.

Lyra suddenly flashed her eyes and said in a harsh voice, “But it shouldn't be like this! We must fix it! Try to make a difference. Why isn't anybody doing anything?”

Jerry shrugged.

“Because it's comfortable for humans. And the sooner you realize that, the easier it will be for you to live in this world.”

“And you?”

“And what about me? I've been hit on the head too many times to understand the simple truth that I should only care about myself. I guess I'll die a fool..." The mouse looked at the unicorn. "Anyway, it's time for us to follow Scoot's example and go to bed. We've got another day tomorrow.”

Lyra lay down next to Scootaloo, covered herself with a second blanket, and fell asleep almost immediately. She was obviously exhausted from the day's experiences. Jerry nestled into a sliding box of paper clips on the desk, where he had made a bed like the one he had seen in the cartoons.

Scootaloo, as if sensing the other pony nearby, moved over to snuggle, and the unicorn hugged her, not waking up either.

Jerry lay gazing out of the window with the remaining glass, where the night's gloom was slightly broken by the stars and the distant lights of Gigapolis. For a moment he glanced over at the two ponies, entwined in a touching tangle of orange and green, and smiled into the darkness.

“Kids..." he hummed to himself and closed his eyes. “My little ponies...”

* * *

“Any other ideas where Lyra might have ended up?” Victor asked as they got back into the car.

“We gotta check out a few places and ask around. I don't usually do this, ya see. But I know where and who to ask. And what they'll charge for it.” Seraphima started the engine. “By the way," she added, "while we're on the subject, could you pay the meter? I know it was Zelda's request, and I'm willing to help, but you do realize that I'm at work—”

“Oh, no problem," Vic smiled and reached into his pocket, "I brought some cash on purpose.”

He pulled out a wad of bills. Seraphima looked at them, then back at Victor.

“There's a lot more than the meter," she said.

“Tell your bosses you've been hired for the day," the man replied, "as a driver and guide. Actually, that's not far from the truth.”

Seraphima grinned. “Y'know, with that money you could buy yourself a new pony.”

“I don't need a new one!” Victor replied sharply and put the money in the girl's hand. “I need Lyra! She's my friend and I don't need another one.”

He turned away and leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. Seraphima could feel how much he was getting sick of the constant (surely constant!) teasing and stupid advice about his pony...

The Tau Transport Loop was at a standstill. Once in the flow, the wheeled vehicles could not get anywhere, and the traffic jam stretched for many miles. As reported online, two trucks collided on the road, and up to six of twelve lanes were blocked.

Vic was annoyed by the gridlock. Seraphima explained that such "traffic jams" were an ancient and almost traditional phenomenon for cities of the past. Yes, the roads of Gigapolis are hundreds of miles of excellent roadbed, with convenient crossings and junctions. Road services run like clockwork thanks to automation, and the data network allows traffic to be organized to deliver goods and passengers at minimal cost. Downtime in transportation is always a loss, and that is bad for business. And business is what runs modern civilization.

“...but sometimes things make mistakes," Seraphima finished her speech. “So the only thing we can do is be patient and wait until we can get to tha-a-at junction.”

Victor looked where she was pointing and saw the exit from the highway. It was relatively close, but the car was moving a dozen feet per minute and the trip would take a couple of hours.

“Yeah, I never thought it was still possible," the man said. “You don't even think about that when you're flying a hovercar.”

Seraphima snorted. “Hovercars, yes... I've always wanted one, but there's nowhere to put it in Gray City, and I can't afford to live in White City. In fact, I can't even afford a hovercar.”

“Take a loan,” Victor advised, but the girl just laughed.

“A loan! Who'd give me that much? Besides, I'd need another one to recharge the antigravs.”

“I wonder.” Victor decided to change the subject. “What if someone gets sick in this ‘traffic jam?’ Or just wants to... go to the toilet, for example?”

Seraphima giggled again.

“The emergency services might come," she replied, "and as for the second one... You don't want to know the answer.”

“In an hour or two, I really will!” Vic laughed a little strained. "Tell me, where does this fork lead to?”

“To Ruinberg, actually. But don't worry, we'll pass it quickly. It's better than an eight-hour wait.”

“Wait, how long?!”

A thin hand tapped on the screen of the navigation panel. Vic noticed that Seraphima cut her nails and did not paint them. All the other girls he knew tried to grow at least a little and decorate their nails with something, but Seraphima neglected it for some reason.

“Look here. See, here's the route, and here we are. The whole road is marked in red, so it's a traffic jam. The next exit is about twenty miles away. So at this rate, we're gonna be stuck here for eight hours, unless the owners of the wrecked trucks deign to salvage their loads. So I don't think it's such a bad idea to turn off at Ruinberg.”

“How far is it from where we were going?”

“Not very far in a straight line. If it's through the streets... as luck would have it. Don't be afraid.”

“What kind of district is Ruinberg?” Victor asked. "And why should I be afraid?"

An impish gleam flickered in the girl’s brown eyes.

“You'll see, a man from the White City,” said she in a changed voice. “I don't want to spoil your impression...”

The traffic jam kept the car on the highway for another hour. Victor and Seraphima amused themselves by telling stories from their own lives, and both were surprised to realize that they still lived in completely different worlds.

What was commonplace and natural to Victor was science fiction to Seraphima. Robots, hovercars, artificial intelligence and virtuality — all these were the wonders of future technology to a resident of the Gray City, almost more so than to a synthet pony from the magical world.

Victor marveled at the fact that Gray City was, in many places, actually patched and repaired buildings a century old, if not more. Most amazingly, the people of Gray City lived much as they had in the century their districts were built, getting by on the "technological scraps" of White City.

Fuel cells and microreactors might well be neighbors with internal combustion engines, nanofibers with ordinary coarse cloth, and food synthesized from natural samples with chemical poison full of preservatives and flavor additives. Examples abounded, but all of these things also took their toll on the inhabitants.

And some of Seraphima's stories were ones Victor simply didn't believe. At least not until the car went down the road junction into the area numbered three hundred and two, better known to the natives as Ruinberg.

It looked as if the car had descended from a congested highway into some twentieth-century backwater.

Dilapidated brick and concrete buildings stared out into the street with dirty windows or empty openings. Windows with bars or even boarded up were common. Garbage piled along the roadsides, carried by the wind.

If Victor were asked to describe the district in one word, it would be "rundown.” Old cars, old buildings, rusty and sparking utilities. And it’s right next to the traffic loop! By the way, Vic thought, despite the traffic jam, almost no one dares to get off the highway here.

Seraphima drove the car slowly along the neglected road, cursing every pothole under the wheels.

But the locals didn't seem to care about their surroundings. Everywhere was the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If only the appalling poverty weren't so obvious.

Vic watched wide-eyed as two women stretched string between neighboring windows and began hanging laundry, as if there were no such thing as a dryer. Grimy children were playing in the sandbox, and in addition to the sand, the game involved a lot of trash lying around. A relatively decently dressed man with a briefcase stood near a guy in leather and jeans, talking excitedly about something...

A bunch of guys on motorcycles or trucks firing antique pistols or rifles in all directions would fit right in here, Victor thought. Instead, a blue-and-white police car stood at the corner, flashing its lights.

Two policemen from that car were standing nearby, whacking a long-unshaven man in tattered and dirty clothes with their batons. Not far away lay a battered guitar and its case, from which a ragged boy was shoveling money.

The policemen here, too, did not look like the calm, polite officers in neatly pressed uniforms who kept order in the White City. The uniforms had been replaced by light armor. From under their thick-framed helmets came harsh curses.

“What are they doing?” Victor wondered.

“Most likely this tramp just didn't have time to hide," Seraphima said, squinting her eyes. “He was trying to make a few coins, but was caught by the patrol.”

“No way!”

“Welcome to earth, celestial.”

“Stop right here!”

As soon as Victor said that, Seraphima sped up. The picture of violence disappeared around the corner.

“What are you doing?!”

“Listen to me,” the girl said in a serious voice. "We will not stop at Ruinberg, understand? And we — especially you — will not go out here unless absolutely necessary. It's very dangerous, and even more so if you provoke the police, who are tight with the gangs here. That vagrant probably didn't pay the neighborhood watchman, so he tipped off the cops that it was okay to pick someone up. For a stick, as they call it.”

“But there's a law!” Victor was outraged, though he knew in his heart how childish his outrage now seemed.

“According to the law, the police were within their rights. An unlicensed street performer? Arrest. Attempt to escape or run away thwarted. All legal. The vagrant goes to a cell, then possibly to a social service agency where they can find something for him to do. The fact that he's been treated harshly is of no concern to anyone, especially the police.”

“But I could—”

“You couldn't," Seraphima interrupted. “Just ‘cause you've got a green card doesn't make you safe. And there's nothing you can do about it. And if you go to jail for disobeying police, your Lyra stands little chance of coming home.”

Victor faltered.

It was wrong. Of course, the residents of the White City were well aware that life outside of the central districts, away from high walls and strict guards, was not so comfortable. But in a society that had been peddling the ideals of consumerism for centuries, who had ever cared about other people's problems?

If you have no money, it's your own fault. This is a truism that people have absorbed with their mother's milk for almost three hundred years.

And those who thought otherwise were consigned to the dustbin of history.

“I can't believe," Victor finally said, "that Lyra ran off somewhere here... Why?”

“Maybe she wanted to see the real world?”

“Anything could happen to her in here!”

“Just like any other living being. Let's hope that she has met, if not a friend, then at least someone who could take care of her.”

The man sighed. “She doesn't know our world at all..." he said quietly, feeling that he was about to give in to his feelings in front of the girl. “This part of it, at least.”

Victor was pulled out of his thoughts by a signal from the communicator. Steven Aguilar, a line lit up in the air.

The man touched the activation sensor and felt his heart overflow with joy and hope.

Lyra is found. Now Steven will tell me where to pick her up and everything will be fine. Just like before. Safe and sound.

“Yes, Steve?” Vic said as a hologram of a familiar face flashed over the communicator. “Please tell me you found Lyra—”

“Twilight found,” Aguilar replied, “two whole matching mentions. The first was that she was spotted by a police patrol in the Pyramids district. A synthet pony matching Lyra Heartstrings' description with a broken chip.”

“Is she okay?”

“She escaped from the patrol with another pony. From the description, Scootaloo.”

It was confusing. Victor couldn't even imagine what the ginger pegasus had to do with all of this. But if they were together, then obviously something made them do it, some circumstances... It might be a clue, but there was no Scootaloo in the Solaire.

“There is a second mention of Lyra, and not far from Pyramids either," Stephen said, "but I warn you, it's not easy to accept. Unfortunately, they don't give any information about the synthets of the place, so you'll have to go there and find out firsthand.”

“Why not easy?” Victor asked.

“Because it's a brothel. Named ‘Flight of Fantasy.’ Specializing in non-human synthets. So there are a dozen and a half ponies there, including Lyra Heartstrings—”

Vic covered his eyes and leaned back helplessly in his seat.

This was a disaster.

Lyra, that trusting and naive creature, must have fallen into the clutches of the slave traders. And without a second thought, they had sent the pony to the vilest, most horrible place imaginable.

What a bunch of skinners! thought the man in despair, feeling his eyes prickle with unwanted tears.

“We're not far away," Seraphima interrupted. “Thank you, Steven.”

“Not at all yet. If there's any more news, I'll give you a call. Victor, hold on. At least Lyra's alive. She could still be okay in such a short time.”

The screen went blank and Seraphima's taxi picked up speed...

In Pyramids, four huge residential complexes, lived about a million people. And, of course, they all had their own needs. So it was natural that shopping malls and entertainment centers, transport hubs, schools and kindergartens, hospitals and other amenities of civilization were built nearby at affordable and not so affordable prices.

Pyramids was rightfully considered a middle-class district, and for someone like Seraphima, almost as much of an unattainable dream as the White City. Nevertheless, the shabby, fortified car passed through security without a problem. The license of the company where Van Visser worked as a taxi driver was in order, and the car had all the right papers.

Victor relaxed a bit when he found himself in more or less familiar surroundings. Yes, wheeled vehicles and dull colors prevailed here as well, but there were robots and even synthets hurrying about their business. Or maybe even loitering.

By the way, for some reason no one paid much attention to the synthets here. Victor was surprised to notice a pizzeria called Michelangelo's, where behind the counter stood a green turtle of gigantic proportions, more typical of a human, wearing a white apron and a chef's hat.

But judging by the crowded room, this Michelangelo was cooking perfectly. And the fact that he was a turtle did not bother anyone.

“We won't drive up to the place itself," Seraphima said and parked the car. “Get out here.”

“Why not?”

“There's probably a paid parking lot. And here, at the mall, it's not only free, but also under surveillance.”

“That makes sense," said Vic.

“Wait for me for a few minutes," Seraphima asked, getting out of the car and turning on the security system. “Over there, on the corner. Okay?”

“No problem," the man replied.

Seraphima smiled and ducked into a diner.

Victor followed her with a glance, but then he heard someone else talking.

“...but your IQ is almost three hundred! And you work as a pizza delivery boy?”

Vic turned that way and saw a boy of about eleven, dressed in jeans and a garish crimson T-shirt. He was wearing a jacket with a picture of the owner of Michelangelo's smiling and giving a thumbs-up. The boy was putting a stack of pizza boxes on his scooter. The oversized football helmet had slipped down over his eyes, and the kid put it back on with a sigh.

The boy's companion was a blue anthropomorphic hedgehog, about four feet tall, wearing a blue courier suit. A synthet, obviously. Big-eyed and cartoonish, also a character from the show. Right now, though, he had a big bag slung over his shoulder.

“I'm even lucky. Does it surprise you that in this world, a synthet with my kind of mind works on the sidelines, and a man who can't even wipe himself, figuratively speaking, holds a leading position in a megacorporation?” the boy answered with a question and smiled happily.

The hedgehog spread his white-gloved hands.

“You're right, Kin. This is a human world... And you know, sometimes I miss my native Mobius.”

“At least you have faith in your own better world," the boy replied, sitting down on the scooter, "and all we have to do is try to change this one.

“But what can we do?”

“What can we do? Be better. Otherwise, no amount of technological wizardry can save us. Powerful computers are busy generating joy in the Cybernet, which was supposed to give the world freedom of information. The space program has become a way for telecommunications companies to make money. Robots serve the rich and make other robots. The benefits are for a select few, for the rest of us it's survival. You know all this, my friend.”

Victor was surprised at how mature the boy's speech sounded. Maybe he is much older than he looks. Which was understandable. Ash, the permanent host of the Pokémon Arena show, as well as his numerous copies, is simply not programmed to grow up. For example, the current Ash is in his forties. He looks about the same as he did when he was eleven.

“So long, Sonic," said Kin. “Gotta go or the pizza'll get cold and Mikey'll rip my head off.”

“Good luck, Skipper," the hedgehog said as he shook his friend's hand goodbye. "See you Saturday?”

“As usual.”

The scooter took off smoothly and disappeared into the traffic. The blue hedgehog was also quickly lost in the crowd.

“Here I am," Seraphima emerged from the crowd, clutching her backpack. “How about a little snack on the way?”

Victor was about to object, but his stomach made a distinctive rumbling sound, as if the flavors of several nearby snack shops had just reached his brain.

They walked down the street, munching into some thick bread rolls filled with baked ground meat, vegetables, onions, and ketchup.

And she's got a great idea, Vic thought. Sitting in a café when Lyra probably needs help right now is just criminally careless. And so two things to do at once.

“Sometimes I eat like this all day," Seraphima said, as if reading the man's thoughts, "’cause I don't have time. Back and forth all over the city, and the dispatcher keeps piling up orders...”

The Flight of Fantasy building was lit in red. Traditional, though a bit flashy even for the commercial district of the Gray City.

“You don't have to come in if you don't want to," Victor said, looking at Seraphima.

“No way!” she snorted. “You'll be in trouble in no time. And anyway, let me do the talking.”

Victor was about to object, but stopped himself. His experience of visiting such places was limited to cyberspace, and also, one could say, in the White City. But virtual.

“Well... all right," he agreed.

Inside, the visitors were greeted by the manager. Apparently a human, though he bowed respectfully with a claim to retro-elitism.

Seraphima suddenly snuggled up to Victor and cooed in a perfectly honeyed voice, “My buddy and I are fans of old TV shows and we'd like to have fun with someone special.”

“Of course, no problem,” smiled the manager, “now I'll bring our catalog. Or would you like to see one live? I apologize, many synthets are asleep. You know, it's daytime... But it's no problem to wake them up.”

“Not yet," Seraphima said, "don't wake anyone up too early. If it's both of us, is it okay?”

“Oh, don't worry. The fee for a group session is quite small," the attendant bowed again. “Please wait here on the couch.”

When they were left alone, Victor asked, “What are you up to?”

“We want to talk to your pony, right? Let 'em think we're gonna book a threesome and then buy out the synthet we'd like. Simple as that.”

“But they'll think we're perverts!”

Seraphima threw up her hands.

“And what do you call people who go to places like this? Vic, sometimes you act like a kid! And remember, there's no perversion in Gigapolis that couldn't become fashionable and a source of profit—”

“No perversion at all?”

“Imagine that. I've heard of a place where they burn synthets alive for fun.”

Victor shuddered. “Ponies?” he asked.

“Why ponies? Any synthets, mostly indistinguishable from humans. Usually no older than fourteen, biologically—”

Further argument was interrupted by the appearance of the manager, who brought a tablet with downloaded files of the proposed live goods.

Vic immediately fixed his eyes on the screen and went to the "Cartoon Characters" category.

After a brief search, he finally found "Lyra Heartstrings, the unicorn" under the "My Little Ponies" subcategory and clicked on it without a second thought.

“This one," he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“And it'll be two of us," Seraphima added, "but I like to watch.”

“The orders have already been given," the attendant smiled, touching a few sensors on his bracelet. "May I see your card...?”

They were led down a pleasantly furnished corridor. The place was a mottled shade of scarlet, with mirages of holograms floating in the air. It was a wealthy brothel by Gray City standards, as it could afford a professional designer and holographic projectors. What's more, it was already costly to maintain an entire staff of synthets.

The room, most of which was taken up by a huge bed, greeted them with the soft plucking of strings and dimmed light. On the table was an incense stick on a stand, smoking faintly and spreading the sweet scent of herbs...

Victor's heart trembled.

The unicorn was lying on the bed, a lyre floating in the glow of telekinesis, strummed by ghostly hands.

“I apologize," she said in a familiar voice that made Victor's heart race, "I got a little carried away. Would you like a change of scenery?”

The instrument fell silent and was placed on the bedside table.

“No, thank you," Victor said hoarsely, taking an uncertain step towards the bed.

“Do you need help?” Seraphima asked, but the man shook his head.

He came closer and the pony looked up. Her heart bled at the sight of her familiar mint-green face buried under a layer of colorful makeup. Lipstick, eyeliner, some sort of coat gloss...

The unicorn was wearing a sheer nightgown and see-through dark lace lingerie. And of course, the eternal fetish of pony lovers — high socks. Not from the standard Hasbro set, but in the same color as the lingerie and almost sheer as well.

“Lyra? Is that really you?” Victor asked.

“I'm Lyra, yes," the unicorn nodded. “And what's your name?”

The man sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. We made a mistake, a bitter thought pierced him.

“My name is Victor. And this is Seraphima. You are... I guess you're another Lyra.”

The pony smiled. “I'll be whatever kind of Lyra you want. Would you like a background pony in a hoodie? Or a fearless Agent Heartstrings? Give me a few minutes and I'll change. I know how to act in character. You won't even know the difference.”

“Vic, she could have been brainwashed," Seraphima said, sitting down in the chair. “Lyra, do you remember how you got here?”

The pony, who had seen much stranger visitors, turned to the girl and shrugged.

“Just like most others," she said. “We were bought and told what to do. It wasn't easy at first, but then we got used to it.”

“And no one tried to escape?” asked Vic.

The pony rose and lay down so she could see both people at once.

“There were some fools, but they always got caught.”

“And you didn't?”

“Why? I'm well-fed and entertained here." The pony flirtatiously batted her eyelashes. "It's not a bad job, I'm in demand. I guess people like it when I get so excited about hands and fingers. Would you like something before we start? What do you prefer, a stimulant or something to brighten the feelings?”

Victor suddenly remembered how Lyra had twitched her tail at the touch of his hands on her back the first day in the bathroom. He felt embarrassed that he had wanted to wash her with his hands instead of a brush.

“No, thank you," the man said in a low voice, "but we were really looking for a particular Lyra Heartstrings.”

“I don't see how I can be any worse," the unicorn said. “And by the way, I wasn't brainwashed. I can show you my passport if you want.”

“Can you just tell me the version of your software?” Seraphima asked.

Victor winced, but the pony didn't take offense.

“Standard, 2.1.1,” she replied. “I don't believe in a magical pony land, if that's what you mean. But I can play it if you want — I've seen the cartoon. I'm eight actual and twenty-six biological years old. The chip is blue, physical just last week. All the paperwork's with the manager, no complaints... You're from the inspectorate, aren't you?”

“More likely from the charity fund,” Seraphima said before Victor could answer. “Well, you've cracked us.”

The unicorn chuckled contentedly.

“Enthusiastic young men and women trying to change the world, how touching! But thank you. I'm flattered, really.”

“Don't you wish you could change the world?” Victor asked.

Lyra smiled. Just like the missing one, making the man's heart clench again.

“Why?” she asked. “It's really not bad here. And I even like you humans. And I'm sure about tomorrow... Why change it? Freedom? What would I do with it in this world? I don't believe in Equestria, and what am I outside these walls? A talking pygmy horse of exotic colors? Thank you very much, I'll make do...”

Victor stood up abruptly and walked towards the door. He didn't want to spend another minute in this place. The walls themselves seemed to stare at him, and the patterns on the wallpaper seemed to mock his feelings and ideals.

“Hey, don't worry so much," the pony spoke again. “It's okay, really. I wish you luck finding your Lyra... and you know, I'm a little jealous of her. What kind of man would run around brothels for me, looking for—”

“We'll go," Seraphima said, getting up as well, "thank you.”

“For what?” The pony was surprised, then suddenly added, "Wait.”

The unicorn got two questioning looks.

“You've already paid for an hour," she said. “It's even a pity that you're just leaving like that...”

Victor sighed. “We don't need—” he started, but the pony interrupted him.

“I already realized that. But I..." she lowered her eyes, "I could be reprimanded if the customers left early.”

Victor didn't like how that sounded. Seraphima noticed that the unicorn was seriously afraid of the consequences and she didn't want to frame the pony just for the sake of forty minutes.

“Maybe you've heard of a unicorn like you?” the girl asked.

Lyra shook her head.

“Unfortunately, I can't help you with information either, since I hardly ever leave the building. Unless they let me go to a bar or something for fun. But I like you guys...”

“Can you play that tune again?” Victor asked suddenly, looking around. "Lyra... my Lyra, I mean, she played beautifully too.”

The pony smiled and nodded. Her horn glowed, and the matte-glittering lyre flew back into the air, surrounded by a kinetic field. Ghostly hands touched the strings, and a soft, peaceful melody filled the room.[1]

Victor sat down beside Seraphima. Their hands found each other involuntarily.

Lyra Heartstrings was playing with her eyes closed. The melody was different from what Victor had heard in the Solaire. Behind the gentle strumming of the strings was not the excitement of an explorer who had recently discovered a brave new world, but the sadness of life's experiences. The music seemed to inspire hope for something more, something deeper, something that was about to take shape and appear in all its glory... But no, at the last moment the image slipped away, but it kept calling, beckoning, and would not give up...

Victor, listening to the music, glanced at the pony's face. He saw the mask of a satisfied and contented slave fall away, giving way to the truth.

He glanced over to Seraphima and saw that she had understood as well.

This Lyra was obviously twisting her heart. After all, what sane being would be content to serve as a sex toy for those who came and paid money for their lust? She'd probably had clients who made her sick or hurt her...

And the few pleasures she got from customers and owners were not enough to heal all the wounds of her soul. Besides, she hardly had any friends here in the establishment. Only comrades in misery, similarly downtrodden prisoners.

And not knowing any other life, she was certainly afraid of what might change the order of things, not too pleasant, but the usual one. And time and again she convinced herself that she was happy.

After leaving the place, Vic and Seraphima walked silently to the car. Each of them had their own thoughts.

Victor left the pony Steven's phone number with the words, "If you change your mind, call there. They'll be able to help."

It was all he could do, though he was sickened by what he had seen and by his own powerlessness to change anything.

[1] The image: https://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2014/066/1/2/lyra_rest12small_by_gor1ck-d799k4x.jpg