II. In the Dark Backward

Oscar sat in the foyer and eyed the door to Furlong’s office. He kept fluffing and resettling his wings. His eyes darted among the contents of the folders he had brought with him.

Oscar was more jittery than usual. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that he didn’t have an appointment. Whenever that thought crept up from where he was keeping it squashed down he would either go pale or flush – which, given his red coat, had him slowly cycling between crimson and a pink almost as pale as his feathers. He’d then rebury that thought, but only for a little while.

The secretary, Miss White, had checked her boss’ schedule when Oscar had shown up trailing paper and notes. Oscar had asked if Furlong was busy that morning. She had raised an eyebrow in a most pointed fashion, while her mild (and imminently professional) voice had informed Oscar that yes, Furlong was quite busy, and (more importantly) that she didn’t have Oscar himself down in the appointment registry. Oscar still found it distracting that Miss White was chocolate brown with a mane that held at least three shades of darkish blue. There wasn’t anything white about her! Even the scent of her perfume was, Oscar noted, Midnight Breeze.

Miss White, thankfully, showed no signs of asking Oscar to leave. Oscar wasn’t sure what this meant, exactly. His mind raced down the possibilities, analyzing away – which was his job here at the League after all. Perhaps it came from his talent with numbers and calculations (a talent reflected in his abacus cutie mark) but sometimes it seemed almost as if his thoughts were beads shifting on the strings of his mind, all held together by the frame of his will. Sometimes he even fancied he could hear the clicking sound of his own thoughts rearranging themselves.

Click-clack, went one thought-bead.

Perhaps Miss White rather liked him, and was affording him extra latitude by subtly and indirectly facilitating access to Furlong? Not enough information to support this hypothesis. Oscar didn’t know Miss White any better than he did the rest of the secretarial pool. Oscar frowned at the realization that this might be a critical failing in information gathering, given that he, himself was effectively part of that pool.

Oscar noted there were six pictures on Miss White’s desk. Three of her dogs, two of her parents, one of a seascape. Two of the dog pictures were new as of this week, but the frames which held these new pictures were the same old frames that had held the earlier ones.

Click-clack, went another bead.

Perhaps she rather disliked him, and was affording him the proverbial rope necessary to get into substantial trouble with their boss? Again, not enough information to support this hypothesis either. While his general nervy-ness often kept him from normal office socializing, Oscar didn’t think he had offended Miss White so much so that she would have it in for him. Then again, social cues were his weakest point. Also, the Mares in Black didn’t exactly have truly “normal” office socializing. Super secret intelligence agencies were notoriously cliquish. Everything was on a need-to-know basis. Even the water cooler gossip!

Oscar noted that Miss White had four quills in the quill stand on her desk, rather than the usual three. Was she expecting extra paperwork today?

Click-click, went a third bead.

Perhaps Furlong had left some sort of directive about what to do when analysts spontaneously dropped by? That seemed somewhat likelier – Furlong hadn’t gotten to his position in S.M.I.L.E. without the ability to foresee and react to what would otherwise be unexpected developments. Without other data, Oscar decided this would be the likeliest of the three scenarios. At this conclusion the shifting beads of his thoughts seemed to settle into a more stable pattern.

Oscar noted that the hoof-shaped dent Agent Drops had left in the wall had been plastered over and painted sometime in the past two days. Whatever statement Furlong had intended to make to his other agents by leaving it there for a week must have been sufficiently delivered.

Through all these considerations, observations, and reflexive calculations it didn’t occur to Oscar that, even in this current time of heightened vigilance and danger, Miss White might just be a bit bored with the routine of scheduling meetings and that she was simply curious to see what would happen next.

Miss White had already buzzed the break room with a directive that roughly translated as “I'm going to need more Popcorn.” If Oscar pulled his head out of numbers and patterns and data once in a while, he might have known what an MP08 was.

The door opened. Agents Foxtrot and Bravo came out. They looked worried and Furlong’s “ … be sure you’re armed,” was a very troubling footnote to the otherwise unheard conversation.

Foxtrot blinked at Oscar in surprise. Oscar, in turn, was practically juggling his papers and reports as he tried to rush nonchalantly into Furlong’s office. Rushing nonchalantly wasn’t a trick Oscar had ever mastered.

Foxtrot extended his back leg and caught the door, holding it open an extra moment so that Oscar could squeeze in.

Furlong looked up from his desk. He frowned.

Oscar’s attention darted around the chamber. His thoughts tumbled and shifted, rearranging themselves as half-noticed details raised the relative importance of some lines of inquiry while lowering the importance of others. Oscar noted that Furlong had made an abortive move to shift a folder and cover the map on his desk. The map was of the Badlands. There were notations on it, too many of which were skulls and crossbones. The folders were dossiers on agents and other intelligence assets. Missing assets, judging from the color of the tags peeking out. A chess set sat nearby, the game there well underway. Oscar noted that black would achieve mate in three moves.

What worried Oscar the most was that Furlong’s plants hadn’t been watered properly. They were at least a full day overdue, judging by the slight drop in the vibrancy of their color. If Furlong was too distracted to take proper care of his plants, then things were far worse with their work than Oscar had suspected.

“Mr. Furlong, sir. We may have a problem,” Oscar began.

Furlong’s frown deepened. One corner of his mouth hitched up in something that was most definitely not a smile.

“We’re the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria, Oscar. We always have problems. What’s important enough that you felt the need to barge in here today?”

Oscar dropped his folders on the desk. One of them dumped its contents on the floor. He scrambled among the falling papers as he said, “Sorry! Sorry! It’s just …”

Furlong sighed. He checked his pocket watch.

Oscar noted that Furlong’s gaze wasn’t on the time but rather on several of the mystic crystals that ornamented the inner lid. Given some of the recent rumors galloping around the office Oscar would say the odds were strongly in favor that at least one of those crystals was enchanted to warn of danger. Or imposters. Possibly both.

Oscar continued, “I’ve found a discrepancy.”

Furlong raised an eyebrow, “Only one?”

Oscar flushed. “Well … no … but this one bothers me. I thought you should be informed immediately.”

“What’s the discrepancy?”

“Sir … if … er … if the reports I’ve been looking at are correct …”

“Spit it out, Oscar.” Furlong’s tone was surprisingly patient.

“We’ve lost a changeling.”

There was a momentary pause.

“What do you mean, ‘we’ve lost a changeling?’” Slightly narrowed eyes, a hardening in the expression, and a tone of voice that had become considerably more blankly professional than before. Oh yes, Oscar had Furlong’s attention.

“Well, reports from Manehatten have both Drones Three Ten and Eight Zero Eight …”

Furlong interrupted to say, “Thretan and Bob, go on, Oscar.”

“Yes sir. Thretan and Bob are both on their way to Applewood.”

“And?” Furlong continued to stare quite intently at Oscar.

“And the last two reports from our operatives in Hive Naught – the ones in Albion – provide their usual list of the staff of that theatrical agency as well as their activities. Forty eight ponies of various types and occupations, a contingent of zebras retained as security, and – of greatest interest to us – eight changelings.”

Furlong frowned.

“Eight?” Suddenly Furlong didn’t sound pleased at all. “Eight in Albion and two on their way to the west coast of Equestria makes ten, Oscar.”

“Quite right, sir.” Oscar nodded. This was going better than he had dared hope.

“Hive Naught Theatrical Production Company employs eleven changelings.”

“Quite right, sir.”

“Is this just a problem with the reporting?” Furlong didn’t sound particularly hopeful.

Oscar winced. “Well, that’s always a possibility, sir. But …” Oscar drew a deep breath, “The last two reports were consistent on that point. Two of Hive Naught’s changelings are now here in Equestria and under observation, eight are overseas.”

Furlong cocked his head to one side and narrowed an eye.

“Only two reports?”

“Last Thursday’s and today’s, yes sir.”

Furlong rested his chin on his fore-hooves and his elbows on his desk. His brow furrowed with thought. Behind him, the framed portraits of Celestia and Luna seemed to stare down at Oscar. Oscar found he was holding his breath.

Furlong shook his head. “It could be nothing, Oscar. There are inconsistencies in our reports all the time, as you well know. ‘Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence’ …”

“’Three times is a conspiracy,’ yes sir, I know. I just …”

“You just what, Agent Oscar?”

Oscar was sweating. “I … I just …” suddenly his voice was filled with passion, a passion that was usually reserved for numbers, “It didn’t add up, sir.” His tone, and his face, fell. “I … I thought you should know.”

There was a pause. One that stretched out far too long for Oscar’s liking.

“You can go now, Oscar.”

Oscar’s heart dropped. It felt surprisingly like entering free-fall, and his wings twitched reflexively in an attempt to catch himself. It also felt like somewhere inside his mind the strings had all come undone. Like the abacus had broken. It was as if the constant, shifting order of the beads of his thoughts was slowly spilling out, tumbling into a messy heap on the floor. He had miscalculated. This had been a bad idea after all.

Oscar rose, and reached out to gather up his files. He had begun to tremble quite badly.

Furlong stopped him by placing one of his own hooves there first.

“I’ll keep those.” Furlong’s gaze had already dropped to one of the loose papers that had fallen free from its manila folder.

Oscar backed towards the door. On the bright side, at least he hadn’t gotten fired on the spot.

“Oh, and Oscar?”

Oscar froze.

“Good catch. Check the next report as soon as it comes in. If we’re still only counting eight Hive Naught changelings in Albion, let me know immediately. Miss White will be informed that you’re to have access.”

Oscar let himself out. He was suffused with relief. He felt like he was floating. In his mind, the strings were back in place, the beads bright and polished. And, best of all, it added up. He hadn’t miscalculated after all.

Meanwhile, Furlong flipped between a couple of the pages. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see, whether something different or simply corroboration of Oscar's suspicions. Furlong knew Oscar’s eye for these sorts of details was considerably better than Furlong’s own. What Furlong had was an eye for talent. That was what had landed him in a management role. Even if Oscar was relatively new to the agency, Furlong’s gut told him that if Oscar was worried about this, then this was something worth worrying about. Furlong trusted his gut.

But what to do about it? S.M.I.L.E. was already critically over-tasked. To the average pony, things seemed to be sailing along smoothly in Equestria and the world at large. That the average pony hadn’t noticed anything strange, odd, unsettling, or unusually dangerous was due, in large part, to the hard work of Furlong’s field agents.

Unfortunately, with agents and intelligence resources in the Badlands now going missing in disturbing numbers, it simply wouldn’t be possible to find somepony within the agency who had the free time needed to babysit Mr. Mortalis and keep him out of harm’s way.

Furlong sighed. He opened a drawer and reluctantly pulled out a folder. It was one he had hoped he wouldn’t need to use. Certainly not this soon. Furlong flipped it open and stared at a photograph. At a glance, it was an image of a unicorn in a doctor’s coat. A closer look at the picture showed a stallion with what one might call a clinically stern expression, an expression that grew more unnerving the longer one stared at it. Probably because it was clear the unicorn in question was attempting a friendly smile ... but that smile did not touch his eyes.

There was considerable information appended to that image. Several pages of notes. Furlong eyed the latest entry to that folder: copies of tickets for an ocean-liner bound for Manehatten.

Doctor Tarrant Fether, Professor of Abnormal Psychology, was coming to Equestria. He was accompanied by the Knott twins, an identical pair of massive and brutal earth-pony orderlies with whom the good doctor had frequently worked.

They were hunting for Cantor Mortalis. They believed him to be insane, delusional, and in need of psychiatric care … lest the “voices” Cantor believed he heard drove him to commit dangerous acts.

Furlong wasn’t certain that Doctor Fether was entirely wrong in his professional assessment. Even if Doctor Fether was too personally biased by his past experiences with Mr. Mortalis to be able to offer up a truly dispassionate analysis of Cantor’s mental condition.

Doctor Fether wasn’t chasing Cantor just because of the outstanding court orders for Cantor’s detention and treatment. No, for Doctor Fether, this was somehow personal. Furlong frowned. The details on exactly why it was so personal were still unclear, and that was troubling. Furlong preferred to have all the relevant details at his hooves. When there were skeletons in the closet, Furlong wanted an exact count of all the bones. Regardless, Furlong did know was that for Fether this was somehow about Fether being right and Cantor being wrong; this was about the proper order and structure of the universe; this was about there being no such things as ghosts ... just a well intentioned pony with a sadly broken mind.

Not ideal, as far as leashes went, but it would have to do.

Furlong buzzed his secretary with a businesslike, “Miss White?”

“Sir?”

“Have Agent Tango report to me at once.”

“Sir.”

Time to put a few contingency plans in motion. If Furlong was right in his suspicions then once Cantor Mortalis finished dealing with the business in Canterlot’s Crypts, that half-crippled scholar would be ignoring Furlong’s warnings and plunging directly into danger. An unexpected move from Hive Naught, who were old friends of Cantor’s, potentially indicated they were shifting resources to support the ill advised researches of the self-appointed “speaker for the dead.”

S.M.I.L.E. would need to stop that from happening. Cantor might actually be what he claimed. After his activities in Albion, Cantor had moved to the top of the short list Furlong maintained of ponies who could potentially be gifted with the ancient and lost magic of necromancy. If so, Furlong would prefer him alive to deal with other hauntings as they came up. But then the problem became how to contain Cantor.

Furlong grimaced at the Doctor Fether’s folder. He was already having second thoughts. Third thoughts even. It was risky. But ... it didn’t spend bureau resources to keep the situation with Cantor under control. And bureau resources were already overtaxed.

Cantor wouldn’t like it – but a temporary stay in Bedlam was preferable to permanent occupancy of an unmarked grave in the Badlands. Furlong’s resources were stretched thin, but he was reasonably sure that with a few of the right nudges he could finesse the timing involved to keep events with that oh-so-charming unicorn mystic from spiraling too far out of control.

And if Hive Naught was getting more actively involved again, well, Tango had served with distinction the last time S.M.I.L.E. had deployed “Operation Swiss Cheese.”

Furlong only hoped that Cantor was wrong about what was going on in Dream Valley in the Badlands.

“If you are quite finished playing in the dirt, Doctor Caballeron, we should continue. Dawn will be here in a few hours.” The Pony of Shadows’ voice was as cold and whispery as ever. Worse she was beginning to sound annoyed. She lingered in the cave mouth and eyed the sky.

Caballeron growled, “These are necessary precautions, mon cher. It is better to have these resources and not need them, than need them and not have them.”

“And you’re sure you don’t just need them to further line your pockets? I’ll remind you Ahuizotal is paying quite handsomely for this job.” As usual, there was an undertone of mockery – Caballeron suspected she was implying that Ahuizotal was wasting at least some of the money he was spending to retain the rogue archeologist for this mission.

“We’re already on one detour, to repair those magical rings you pointed us to. At least this is a minor side trip and along our planned route rather than something hundreds of miles in the exact opposite direction of our actual goal. If we do meet others out here in the Badlands, we’ll need something worth trading. Whether to get information out of them, or to convince them to leave us be.” Caballeron’s own tone sharpened considerably, “Unless you think making yet more corpses would be a productive activity. It turned out to be so very helpful last time.”

She chuckled at that, damn her. But she fell quiet. Caballeron’s jibe had hit its mark. The last time she had indulged her taste for killing it had cost them considerable delay and exposure – and it ultimately led to a confrontation with that hardier-than-he-looked unicorn Cantor. A confrontation that had proved far more difficult than Caballeron would have initially suspected.

Cantor had very nearly burned away this particular pony-shaped scrap of shadow and hatred that lurked under a tattered cloak. From things she let slip, and Cantor's own insinuations, there were probably more tatters of her at large in Equestria. There was least one more that Cabelleron knew of ... the one who stood by Ahuizotal’s side and thus allowed that jungle devil to speak, through her, to Cabelleron himself.

There were days Caballeron regretted intervening to save her life from Cantor's assault. If, in fact, the Pony of Shadows was technically what one could call “alive” at all. But Caballeron couldn’t really continue this mission for Ahuizotal without her aid. At least … not yet. Soon, though, if all went as Caballeron had planned.

Caballeron almost had the central grave open. The rest of the buffalo had been interred around it in the sandy cave. This desert holy site had been abandoned for quite some time. And, like many such places, it looked as if the buffalo were only the most recent ones to make use of it. Many of the carvings were familiar to Caballeron. They spoke of Chicomoztoc, although Caballeron’s own grasp of the Nahautl language was rather shaky, so what exactly those carvings said he couldn’t know for sure. The important part was that this dated the cave back at least a few hundred years. Long enough to have the possibility of something truly interesting buried within.

Caballeron was sweating as he pried away with a shovel. In part from the labor involved. Mostly because of what he hoped to find.

Five days since they had made landfall in Horseshoe Bay and now they were deep in the Badlands. It was even creepier than the last time the two had ventured here at the start of this little retrieval mission for Ahuizotal. A month or two shouldn’t make so much difference, Caballeron thought – that it had was worrying. What was going on around here?

Nothing good.

Then again, ‘nothing good’ was the usual state of affairs when things like the Pony of Shadows wound up involved. It was one of Caballeron’s main reasons for insisting on this grave robbing detour.

The carved stone gave way. It shifted aside, revealing the previously undisturbed grave beneath.

Caballeron grinned in triumph. Over his shoulder he called out, “Make sure nothing’s creeping up on us.”

“Very well. But this is the last one, Doctor. After this we trot.”

Caballeron began hunting through the personal effects of the mummified body he had unearthed. As Caballeron thought, it was a pony, not a buffalo. One that had been buried here centuries before the buffalo tribes decided this was holy ground. The pony's heart had been removed and his leathery face still bore the yellow and black striping sanctifying the body to Tezcoltlipoca. Hoof-rings, feathered headdress, robes, dried flowers, a cracked obsidian mirror, ritually broken clay flutes … all useless. Caballeron gritted his teeth and tore into the burial site, crushing artifacts beneath his hooves. There had to be something here. Something that would serve as a charm. Something that would protect him from her.

It was here ... somewhere ... he knew it! He could almost feel it. And he was rarely wrong about such intuitions.

There! In the hole where the pony's heart had once beat lay a small, golden medallion. It was set with sun-stones and was beautifully carved. It bore an inscription of the calendar of eternity and other celestial imagery. Caballeron could almost feel the protective energy as he held it in his hoof. He quickly threaded the thing through a leather thong and hung it about his neck. It lay against his chest, concealed beneath his scarf.

Caballeron paused in his desecration. He felt … better. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing eased. The contrast was, he found, unnerving. Over the past week, he had come to suspect that the near constant presence of the Pony of Shadows as his “assistant” in this work was somehow magically influencing his general mood … but with that influence suddenly blocked, it was as if a deeper darkness had lifted from his naturally dark heart.

Poisonous. Caballeron thought. She’s poisonous. Just being near her corrupts.

Now, Caballeron grimaced, time to see if she noticed that he wasn’t quite so vulnerable to her dark influence any more.

He casually bagged a trio of anklets – silver with turquoise, same as most of the jewelry he had already stripped from the long dead buffalo shamans interred here – and called out, “I think that’s all, mon cher. We should be good to go.”

“Good.” Her reply strongly implied that it was about damned time. To Caballeron's considerable relief, she gave no sign of having noticed his new trinket.

Brushing dust and sand off his jacket, Caballeron fell into step beside her. They set off into the maze of canyons and crags. Overhead the stars slowly turned. The Pony of Shadows huddled beneath her scorched cloak, as if even their dim and distant light were painful to her.

Caballeron reflexively checked the flashbangs and the white phosphorous grenades he kept concealed on his person. If it came to a fight, he knew light and fire could do a number on whatever passed for her body. Once she realized Caballeron was moving to cut her out of this mission for Ahuizotal, there was almost certainly going to be a fight.

Caballeron still couldn’t piece together what, exactly, such a wicked thing as the Pony of Shadows actually wanted from all this. Ahuizotal wanted a mystic diamond from a vault somewhere in the distant north. Caballeron and the Pony of Shadows had already acquired another diamond from Albion, one which could deactivate the vault’s guardians. Caballeron had been slowly trying to piece together the precise location of the vault from the clues the Pony of Shadows had dropped in conversation. Given that the diamond they had already retrieved came from Princess Platinum’s coronation regalia, specifically from her father, King Bullion’s, scepter – the Rod of the North – Caballeron strongly suspected their ultimate target was the legendary treasure-vault of the last Unicorn King from those now frozen lands. A place abandoned when the ponies of old had fled the windegos to come south and found Equestria.

If they could reactivate Trotwine’s old ring gates, then Ahuizotal’s diamond (not to mention and all the other treasure in that lost chamber) could be dumped at the old jungle devil’s feet as soon as they breached the Silver Vault. At a little less than a meter in diameter, Trotwine's rings were a bit too small to serve as a mystic gateway for Caballeron to escape through, though. So afterwards it would still be a long hike south for the archaeologist himself. Regardless, Caballeron would get a share of the treasure in addition to earning a king’s ransom for turning the magical diamond over.

So then Ahuizotal would get the diamond – whose properties and purposes Caballeron didn’t know and wasn’t keen to find out. It was probably something to do with weather magic, judging by Caballeron’s past experiences with that particular villain. For this service Caballeron would get paid, and paid well. Further he’d get the satisfaction of actually beating Daring Do in the grand game of relic acquisition. That alone was worth almost as much as the money. Maybe more!

Caballeron’s mind turned away from happy thoughts of his own rewards to the troubling puzzle of his incorporeal assistant. So what, then, did the Pony of Shadows get? Oh, she acted the part of a cowed minion to the jungle devil Ahuizotal. A simple messenger and go-between. She acted it well. But Caballeron was no longer convinced that she didn’t have some game of her own. And whatever game that was, Caballeron suspected it was likely far nastier than anything Ahuizotal could dream up.

Caballeron didn’t like being played for a fool.

But Caballeron also rather enjoyed being among the living, so he wasn’t about to bring his suspicions up to her any time soon. Even when she didn't have reason to suspect he was preparing to move against her interests, the Pony of Shadows had casually toyed with his life and sanity. That business with the Red Knife back in Albion still gave Caballeron shivers when he thought about it. And he was a stallion that didn’t get the shivers easily or often. He was exceedingly glad that she hadn’t wanted him to keep the accursed, whispering blade around, but instead had mailed it somewhere else. Holding it for a few moments had been more than bad enough.

“So, mon cher, how much further to Dream Valley?”

“As the vulture flies? We’re less than a dusk away. But since you haven’t got wings …” the Pony of Shadow’s mocking pause seemed to imply that she, herself, wasn’t earth-bound, “We’ve still got three nights left to walk. Perhaps a little less.”

“Hm.” Caballeron frowned.

They trotted on quietly for a while. As they rounded a rather fanciful natural rock formation, sculpted by wind and blown sand over many hundreds of years, Caballeron spoke up.

“This feels wrong.” He was worried and he sounded it.

“How so?” She didn’t sound nearly as mocking, nor as cold, as she usually did. Caballeron suspected she agreed with him.

“The land. It’s … empty.”

“It was but little populated when we were here last.”

Ah yes, fun times stealing a fallen meteorite – a lunar rock as it turned out – from a dig-site in the desert.

“Yes, and since we’ve returned to the Badlands we’ve seen, what? Three ghost towns, the shattered remains of one stage-coach, half-a-dozen abandoned camp-sites, and one … just one … tribe of buffalo – a tribe that was on the move and had armed outriders. We’ve seen more bones than ponies.”

She was silent.

“And the buffalo didn’t even send a scout to check on us, mon cher. I know they must have seen us against the skyline.”

Her cloak twitched in a fashion Caballeron had come to interpret as a shrug.

A few more moments passed in silence.

“If you’re asking me what forces are at work here to cause this ... localized distress, then I have no answers for you, Doctor.”

“Really? No answers for me? I’m shocked and surprised.” Doctor Caballeron’s tone indicated he was anything but.

“It could be thunderbirds. Or vampiric jackalopes. Or skin-walkers. Or chupacabras. Or changelings. Or Oniate Dry-Fingers. Or Itopa’hi Sharp-Knees. Or Tlanuwa Iron-Feathers. The list goes on and on. And that assumes there is only one unusual danger at large rather than several of them. These are the Badlands after all. Even the dimmest of ponies should be able to work out that this means it isn’t safe here. ... Regardless, in three nights we’ll be able to rule out one possibility.” She almost sounded worried.

Caballeron raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll be at Dream Valley. If Lost Tambelon has returned … if Grogar’s back … we’ll know it then.”

“And what will we do if he is, mon cher?”

“You can do whatever you like. But me? I’ll run.”

The chilling thing, Caballeron realized, was that – for once – she was entirely sincere.