Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies

by Georg

Rating: teen
Tags: Cutie Mark Crusaders, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Human, Other
Length: 235661

When a disaster causes Princess Twilight Sparkle to evacuate most of Ponyville, the inhabitants find themselves in a much different place than expected. The people of Kansas are a little surprised about it too.

During an attack on Ponyville in the middle of the Summer Sun Festival, Princess Twilight Sparkle evacuates the town by teleporting the entire population to safety in Manehattan. It turns out that her idea of safety needs some work. As well as her aim. And spelling.

Meanwhile, on a hot summer day outside of Manhattan, Kansas, Jonagold Bruener had a fairly successful life with few complications. Until while out mowing hay, he had a very strange visitor fall from the sky. And then another. And another. And another....

Editors: Tek, TheMaskedFerret, Peter, BluePaladin42, Edward Becerra

Picture credit: Manhattan Water Tower

Published 2019-04-10 03:40:02 UTC
Last updated 2024-09-17 12:48:26 UTC

2. Riley County Emaregency Response

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Riley County Emaregency Response

"Doctors are men who prescribe medicines of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, in human beings of whom they know nothing."
— Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire (1760)

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:58 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Highway 77, Northbound out of Manhattan

- - - ⧖ - - - -

If asked, Steve would never admit that sounding the siren on the ambulance was the best part of the job. That and the ability to drive just as fast as practical on the highway without worrying about getting another ticket. The big engine in the ambulance really did not counter the heavy contents enough to get up to the same speeds he could in his Mustang convertible, but it was about the only fun part about being a paramedic and having to deal with auto crashes, household accidents, and the occasional messy suicide. Still, it was better than his four years doing much the same job in the military. At least nobody left bombs under bodies in Kansas.

"Turn right at the next exit onto the utility road, then another right onto a gravel road," said Dave, his fellow paramedic from the passenger seat where he was securely buckled in and clutching his phone as if it would save him from a collision. The GPS onboard the ambulance was good, but once you got off the highway, it was handy to have a backup. "About three quarters of a mile, we’ll want to turn south into a hay field and look for a swather. You know what a swather is, right Steve?"

Since he was busy braking in anticipation of the sharp corner, Steve did not respond in the profane and profound manner he wanted to, but instead grunted as he hit the gas after the swaying S-curve and barreled down the gravel road in a cloud of dust with the barbed-wire fences on both sides of the road passing in a blur. Injured little kids were the worst, particularly farming accidents. He had grown up on a farm in North Carolina, so he was fully aware of just how many sharp edges and uncaring power take-off shafts there were on the equipment, as well as how dangerous it was to drive at the speed he was going down the gravel road. He slowed down, but just a little.

"Dispatcher said it sounded bad," said Dave. "I hope the kid doesn’t lose a foot."

"I’ve seen worse." Steve slowed down a little as the indicated corner came up, although he was a little distracted by the sight of circling hawks or vultures above the hay meadow that appeared to be his destination. It was even more distracting as he pulled into the open gate in the barbed wire fence and stopped, because a small grey horse ran up to the window and tapped on the glass with one hoof.

"Are you the ambulance?"

It was a horse. A small horse, but still quite certainly a horse, even though it was dressed in golden armor in the Roman style of lorica segmentata with articulated plates and a one-piece galea helmet bearing a rather mussed blue fuzzy frill. Really, Steve could have handled the talking, as a lifetime of talking cartoon animals had somewhat hardened his mind to the concept, but armor was something he really had not considered. He had a full set of display armor from his days in the Society for Creative Anachronism, so he knew what the difference was between costumes and real armor, so even if somebody had decided to dress a little horse up in an outfit as a prank, he would be able to tell the difference.

And as he looked around, he realized nobody could possibly be carrying out a prank on this scale.

There were hundreds of ponies scattered out across the field, in a dazzling array of colors, making it look more like some twisted Easter egg hunt than a hay meadow. Not all of the ponies were lying in the green grass like eggs waiting to be found either. What he had originally thought were hawks were actually flying ponies, wheeling around the sky in a large open circle, whose purpose became obvious as there was a somewhat weak flicker in the sky accompanied with a loud popping noise, and yet another colorful equine appeared at least a hundred feet up. Two of the flying ponies immediately swooped to intercept the falling pony before Steve became aware of the prodding of one golden-armored hoof to his chest through the open window of the ambulance, which he had rolled down out of habit.

"Hey!" The same armored hoof tapped Steve on the side of the face in a mild slap that brought him abruptly back to earth, or at least able to look at the armored pony without his mind going off into a corner and babbling to itself for a few hours.

"Accident!" said Steve before his brain could catch back up with what he was seeing. "Paramedics. Kid hit by farm equipment. Yes, this is the ambulance," he finished as a set of flashing lights in the rear view mirror caught his attention. "That’s probably the police."

"Good!" snapped the armored pony. "Your patient is over there by the big metal wagon. Do you have additional medical supplies for our injured?"

"Y-yes," stammered Steve.

“Excellent! I’ll dispatch one of the civilians to assist. Now move it! Move! Move!”

His foot hit the gas pedal without asking permission from his brain, and the ambulance lurched forward out into the bumpy hay meadow. There had been a pony-free path cleared between the gate and the swather, which was a very good thing as Steve was not too certain of his ability to drive at the moment. He barely remembered to set the parking brake when he pulled the ambulance up next to the swather and dashed over to a large bare-chested man who was holding onto one leg of the patient.

Who was a pony.

As was the blood-splattered mostly-white pony to her side.

"Blood pressure is dropping, and we’re having problems controlling the bleeding without supplies," said the white pony while she shifted to one side to provide space for Steve, who had grabbed for a tourniquet out of reflex immediately after seeing all of the blood.

"Dave!" he bellowed while wrapping one pink leg with the plastic band and moving it down the hairy leg to get it closer to the bloody wound concealed by the blood-soaked shirt the man was holding. "Open as many Celox packs as you can lay your hands on! Do you know what his blood type is?"

"P-negative," said the nurse, as Steve’s brain had conveniently pigeonholed the pony into that human category as not to cause any additional mental strain on a mind that just wanted to stand there and stare.

"Crap," he muttered while fixing the tourniquet right above the bloody injury and giving it a firm yank. "I know we don’t have that kind of blood at the hospital."

"A-am I going to die?" sobbed a very female voice from the little pony, who had not quit hanging onto the farmer with her good forehoof while bawling her lungs out. "It hurts! It hurts so much!"

It was no wonder her leg hurt so much, with as little Steve had seen under the blood when he had applied the tourniquet. He slapped the coagulant packs on the jagged wound and applied pressure while trying not to swear. The swather’s steel cutter bar had nearly severed the little pony’s leg, with a deep chunk cut out of the bone and the odd pinkish stringy look of cut tendons and muscles that made Steve’s leg ache with sympathetic pain. Even if she survived the blood loss, she was likely to lose the leg, although he would kill the first person who suggested that she was just a horse to be shot and put out of her misery.

"Not a chance, missy," said Steve with as much of a smile as he could muster while he worked. "Ten minutes from now, you’re going to be in a big hospital full of nice doctors who will all be fussing over you like you’re the new Princess of England. Now let’s give you a little something for the pain."

He paused with the morphine injector in one hand before plunging it into what he could best estimate as the right spot and giving her a partial dose. It seemed to be exactly the right decision in hindsight after he finished with the emergency pressure bandage over the coagulant when the little pony finally began to relax slightly and muffled her anguished wails to a quiet whimpering.

Congratulations, Steve. You’ve just been promoted to Extraterrestrial Veterinarian for taking a wild-assed guess that our medicines aren’t toxic to colorful little alien horses.

"We found Doctor Stable," called out a voice in the distance. "He fell into a gully and twisted his ankle, but he’s headed this way."

"Dispatch, this is Riley County EMS-5," said Dave into the radio behind him. "We’ve got a mass casualty event with over a hundred victims, mostly blunt trauma and fractures, possibly some fatalities. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. We’re going to need at least a dozen ambulances at our location. Notify KSU Vet Med and clear Manhattan Memorial Emergency to receive a large number of… um… unusual patients."

Author Notes

In real life, the two hospitals in Manhattan have been consolidated, with the older one sold/given away to K-State and the new one renamed Via Christi (formerly Mercy Regional Health Center). I’m keeping the Memorial name for the story in order to keep away from the hospital’s legal department. The Society for Creative Anachronism has a fairly large presence on the K-State campus, and has some of the most wonderful people as members. K-State Veterinary Medicine is one of the top-ranked vet schools in the country. The road between the pony landing area and the hospital is mostly K-77, which is fairly straight and in good repair, but only two lanes, which will cause problems later in the story.

For those of you who have used Google Maps to identify where the ponies landed, you will notice the sprawling metropolis of Randolph, KS (Pop. 163) right next door. It will come into play later. Tuttle was created primarily for flood control, but they added recreation as a selling point.

By the way, if you really want to see somebody looking confused, go to your local emergency management agency and ask just what their process would be for a few hundred aliens dropped into a field just outside of town. Make sure you tell them you’re an author, though. They’ll still think you’re crazy, but won’t lock you up. (You know, there has been a police car parked outside for the last few weeks. Naaa, probably a coincidence.)

3. Chain of Command

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Chain of Command

"I was constantly amazed by how many people talked me into arresting them."
― Edward Conlon, Blue Blood

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:41 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Highway 24 out of Clay Center, en route to Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Occasionally all the good policing in the world could not beat coincidence, but then again, coincidence is where random chance meets good planning, and the Riley County Police Department tried to plan for everything. Prisoner transfers normally went to the lowest rank officers, but on a whim, Captain Samantha Rietz had decided to run up to Clay County herself to pick up the check kiter they were holding for booking back in Manhattan on prescription pad forgery.

Friday was a fairly relaxed day, and it had been a productive trip in the early morning Kansas sunshine, with the ventilated plexiglass partition between the back and front seats allowing a conversation with the young lady involved, and the electronic recorder chugging along silently while they chatted. All it had cost was a cup of coffee for the bleary-eyed prisoner, and the woman-to-woman talk that had resulted was happily revealing all kinds of names who were going to be of great interest to the detective division back at the station on Monday. It was a little deceptive, but so was running drugs into town. Naturally, everything she said was going to have to be checked pretty hard, since the check kiter had a long history, but jails were built one brick at a time.

Unfortunately, the radio crackled when the prisoner was just getting to a good part.

"Captain Rietz, we have an emergency call in your vicinity. Mister Jon Bruener in Randolph is reporting that he hit a child with some farm equipment, and said that there are a large number of casualties in his area. He sounded pretty rattled, and the dispatcher said it sounded like there might be gunfire in the area."

"Jon Bruener?" she asked while flipping on the light bar and mashing down on the accelerator. "Over on Seacrest road?"

"Yes. An ambulance is en route."

"So am I." She hit the siren as the police car continued accelerating to a totally unsafe velocity, despite the muffled curse from the back seat when the prisoner spilled her coffee. "Send any of the other cars in the vicinity. I know Jon from church, and he’s not one to exaggerate."

To her credit, the prisoner was silent during the most of the short trip until the sharp S-curve onto the gravel road, where Sam had to leave up on the accelerator. The ambulance the dispatcher had mentioned managed to beat her to the K-77 intersection by less than a minute, and she moderated her speed in order to keep from running it off the narrow road. While they were driving through the resulting plume of dust, the prisoner leaned forward as close to the plexiglass partition as she could get and raised her voice to be heard over the road noise.

"I’ve got my CNA and I'm working on my RN, you know. In case anybody there is hurt."

"Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remain in the car," snapped Sam while concentrating on keeping from running into the ditch or the back end of the ambulance from all the dust in the air. She swung a little wide to one side when the ambulance pulled into an open barbed-wire gate and stopped, before a…

Sam took her glasses off and ran a quick cleaning cloth over them. It looked like a bunch of calves were out — if somebody had gone insane with food coloring — and she could have sworn that first calf that had stuck its head into the ambulance window had been wearing some sort of golden object over its back. She had just gotten her glasses back on when there was a sharp rapping at her car window.

"Officer? Do you represent the governing authority in this country?"

That’s not a cow.

Her finger had moved to push the electric window button out of habit, although that was the last conscious muscle movement she was able to make for a few moments as her brain tried to make sense of the stern and possibly just slightly panicked horse outside the car window. It was dressed in golden armor of some sort with a distracting blue fuzzy frill on its helmet, but there was a trickle of blood oozing down the pony soldier’s pale grey cheek that brought Samantha back to awareness of the rest of the multicolored little horses spread out across the green grass, all of whom seemed to be injured or traumatized in some fashion.

"Yes, I’m the local law enforcement officer," she could hear herself say. "What seems to be the situation here?"

The armored pony saluted, in a sharp motion that appeared to be reflex. "Evacuation, Ma’am. The town of Ponyville had been attacked by some shadowy creatures from the Everfree Forest. The creatures had captured or trapped many of the townsponies, and were proving resistant to magic and physical force when Princess Twilight Sparkle ordered Contingency Plan Twelve Delta to be enacted."

"Contingency Plan Twelve Delta?" she echoed.

"Mass evacuation by means of a teleport spell to the Manehattan Teleportation Beacon on the shores of Turtle Lake by the town of Rain." The pony looked around with an expression that Sam caught immediately. It was a look of suppressed impending panic while searching for the elusive Somebody Else In Charge Of This Clusterfuck.

Oh, no. That’s me.

"And they evacuated here because… why?" she asked, afraid she was going to get an answer and still a little… well, more than a little rattled at talking to a horse.

The armored pony shrugged. "I suppose, since the creatures were resistant to magic and the civilians were not, it cleared the field of non-combatants so that the Princesses could give them one serious flank-whupping."

That really did not answer her question, and it was a little odd that she could hear the capitalization of the word ‘Princesses,’ but since Sam was talking to a small horse while looking out at a field of injured colorful talking horses, some of whom were flying above the whole mess, she put that question a few pages back on her list. It was getting to be a long list, and it was still quite early in the morning. And she was almost out of coffee.

"So how long…" Samantha Rietz tried to put together a set of words that would indicate how her police department was pleased to have their unexpected visitors, but would like to know what their plans for going home were. Thankfully, the armored pony officer was thinking along the same lines.

"The Princesses should have a return portal up shortly, so we should be out of your mane in an hour or two," he said. "I hope." There was a thread of doubt in the pony’s words when he looked up into the air. "One of our unicorn officers confirmed that we’ve been displaced dimensionally, so the evacuation spell must have glitched somehow. At least the regular evacuation was nearly completed before the spell was cast, or we would have had a lot more residents here, along with the diplomats attending the Summer Sun Celebration."

Sam looked out at the ponies scattered across the field, trying to wrap her mind around unicorns mixed in with the pegasi and ‘normal’ ponies. "So this is all of them, right? Any other major injuries?"

"At the moment, it looks like all scrapes and fractures, with Widget over there being the most injured. As for if this is everypony yet?" The guard shrugged. "The original spell was supposed to cover all the remaining citizens in Ponyville over the course of a few moments, but we’ve had ponies drop through individual dimensional interfaces for about twenty minutes now with decreasing frequency. It’s just one or two now in an expanding circle, so there could be some sort of interference between worlds that stretched out the spell on this end, or it could be a result of chronological imbalance where time flows at different rates between worlds. The unicorns will know more after the civilians finish triaging the wounded and we take roll call, but for now the situation seems to have stabilized."

"I better move the car so the ambulance can get out," said Captain Rietz. "We’ll set up a command station right here by the entrance to the field so any of the injured can be loaded without bumping across the uneven ground. I’ve got a couple patrol officers on the way up so we can set up a perimeter, look for any injured who might have fallen where they would be overlooked and so forth." She hesitated with a long look at the field full of colorful ponies. "I better brief them over the radio before they arrive, and have Search and Rescue notified in case there are any stragglers out there."

"Thank you, ma'am!"

The armored pony moved a few of his frightened multicolored brethren to one side so Sam could park the cruiser, and after a moment’s worth of consideration, she released the prisoner with the cruiser’s first aid kit to assist with whatever medical treatment she was able. A Certified Nurses Aide in the hand… or hoof, was worth any number of trauma specialists miles away.

For a long moment, the only sound Sam could hear was the wind blowing over the grass. There had to be over a hundred ponies scattered across the field and drawing together in small clusters around their injured, but the wind caught their voices and blew them away. It was the calm before the storm, but the calm would not last long. Whenever humans met aliens in the movies, there were always explosions and gunfire as the earth became a battlefield, or buffet, or just an inconvenient place that happened to be in the way of two well-armed armadas. For all of their alienness, Sam could not put the ‘alien’ tag on the small horses, because they were all acting and reacting much the same as people would have in the same situation, only with less wide-eyed panic.

The contemplative quiet quickly changed as the wind shifted back around, and Sam took the moment to get her phone out and record a long panoramic shot of the ponies, from several older ponies who were gathered together to watch the sky for more falling ponies, to several younger ones who galloped through the tall grass with all of the restraint of their youth. The little wounded pink pony being loaded into the ambulance was the most heart-rending, as she whimpered and clutched onto the paramedic’s neck with one working foreleg while the other stuck out in an awkward fashion, wrapped from hoof to shoulder in a thick restraint.

Reluctantly, she considered pushing the stop button on the voice recorder in her pocket, but decided against it for posterity's sake and continued to work with the phone and radio until the pony soldier came trotting back up.

"Ma'am, our unicorn detachment reports the dimensional incursions appear to have ceased, leaving this area with somewhat over two hundred civilians, seven members of the Royal Guard, Household Regiment, and Spike. Are you going to need any of our pegasi detached for courier duty?"

"Um…" Sam considered her phone for a while before answering. What she was about to do broke several dozen rules and regulations, as well as hopped over some significant links to the Director of the RCPD who may have been on vacation in Montana today but was going to be livid when he found out. Then again, she was the officer in charge at the scene, talking to a little horse from another dimension, and that warranted some extreme measures no number of regulations could possibly take into account. Somehow, ‘First Contact by Disaster Response’ had been left out of the manual which she had inherited when she had been been promoted to Patrol Captain a few years ago.

Still, jumping over the chain of command as far as she could felt like the right thing to do at the moment, so regardless of any possible repercussions, she pressed the 'send' button on her phone and turned back to the short and quite otherworldly visitor.

"No, I've talked to the office and gotten the process started to get most of my available patrol officers out here, so I don't think I'll need any couriers, Officer…"

"Sergeant Hardhooves," responded the pony with a sharp salute. "I know this is quite unexpected, and we appreciate what you’re doing for us, Ma'am."

"I hope you still are willing to say that in a few hours," said Sam. "If your Princesses do manage to whisk all of you home here in the next few minutes, that’s one thing, but if you’re here for a few days or even weeks…"

She eyed the narrow country road and tried not to think of a stereotypical movie military convoy sweeping down it to capture all of the little aliens and shove them into big laboratories. The situation should not get that out of control, even though there were certainly Military Police on the way from Ft. Riley even now. Their participation in mass casualty events were fairly routine, although they too would have quite a bit of adjustment in front of them, and simply having the MPs present to maintain order in the upcoming chaos would be a hell of a good idea when word got out.

And she was positive it would, particularly because of where she had forwarded her phone video.

The longer it took for these ‘Princesses’ to pick up their wayward ponies, the larger the impact on human society and the more insane it would drive people until some important people who were living examples of the Peter Principle did something really, really stupid. If the ponies had shown up in parts of Sub-Saharan Africa, it probably would have only taken a few minutes for them to have been turned into cutlets. In Southern California, they would be declared some sort of endangered species and dragged off to a nature preserve, but people would still steal them to keep in their basements as pets. In Washington D.C. even outside of an election year… The police officer suppressed a shudder. Better to not even think about that.

When the incoming call she was expecting began to buzz on her phone, she turned her back on the wind and touched the screen. "Hi, Brian. You still on the governor's protective detail? No, slow down. Yes, the video clip I mailed you is real. Yes, I expect you to believe it, because I’m standing right here. Alien ponies, that’s right. About two hundred of them. No, I don’t think they’re registered to vote."

Sergeant Hardhooves raised one hoof and whispered, "Actually, I’m registered with the Lower Reach party. My wife is a pegasus, you see, and she talked me into it."

Taking a breath, Samantha continued, "Well, I suppose they’re registered to vote in whatever place they came from."

"Equestria," whispered the soldier.

"Equestria," echoed Samantha, although after a moment she added, "No, it’s not on Earth anywhere! Look, just put the governor on the phone so I can— Oh, hello, Governor Brown. This is Captain Rietz of the RCPD in Manhattan. We have a little problem. A few hundred of them."

Author Notes

As a reference for people who don’t live in Kansas, Topeka is just down I-70, about a little more than an hour away from the scene location. The governor has a security detail drawn from the Kansas Highway Patrol who handle driving him or her places, which once made for a brief panic when Gov. Joan Finney caught a ride with a friend to work and did not tell them. Even though it is a generally conservative state, the governorship has bounced back and forth between republicans and democrats for years with fairly friendly (as compared to certain other states) relations between the parties, with the most hard-fought battles being over school funding and taxes for school funding. And I’m going to stop there before about half of the readers get all aggravated. (Really, don’t get me started.)

The Riley County Police Department (RCPD) covers the entire county including Manhattan, Ogden, and Randolph, as the various city police departments and the sheriff’s department were consolidated back in 1974. Most of the rest of Kansas counties have an elected sheriff and deputies, but RCPD has a director, with several direct staff and five captains (Captain Sam Rietz is the Patrol Captain of the Patrol Division) with the officers in the field holding the title of Patrol Officer.

Just a reminder: Any names used in this story are made up, and should not match any real people. If they do (by accident), and the person doesn’t like it, just tell me and I’ll change the name.

Author's Note

Part of the fun of this is little notes stuck in by the editors, such as this:

On the Manehattan Teleport Beacon
Me: It's a spell tower. (snerk)
Seether: How is that a joke?
Me: Say these phrases rapidly back to back
Cell tower/ Spell tower Manehattan/Manhattan Turtle Creek Lake/Tuttle Creek Lake
Masked Ferret: American geography jokes ^^;

Me: The fun part? I live here. I drive by the intersection off 77 about once a week

Peter: I think you need to do a section where they discuss where they are going to take Widgit. The hospital, or the Vet. .... Euthanasia is not an option.
Masked Ferret: Pretty sure the vet will know as soon as they see the coat and she talks.

Me: Lee Killough worked at the KSU Vet facility when I was in college. She's a published sci-fi writer with The Monitor, The Miners, and the Shree. I did get a hold of Lee Killough, and she said it was fine to use her, as long as I didn't abuse the character too much :)

Tek: I almost feel there should be a comment that there are no regulations written for this scenario
Masked Ferret: Yeah, saying it breaks the rules feels like you're implying there are rules for ponies falling from the sky into a field.
Me: added. 'Somehow, 'First Contact by Disaster Response' had been left out of the manual.'
Masked Ferret: Bwehehe.
—
Seether: Thank your stars it wasn't Philly. I think New York would probably just go "whatever"
Georg: Ey! Yer tying up traffic here! Move it!
Tek: Might have been funny if they landed in Kentucky, maybe even during the Derby,

4. Family Matters

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Family Matters

"Youth can not know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young."
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:47 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The life of an independent reporter in the era of the internet was a crazy thing, with one long hustle after another to get stories written and sold. It also would have involved starving to death if Koni had attempted to survive entirely off the proceeds, so she also had a number of side-jobs, one of which was a Canine Search Specialist. Well, technically Poppy was the employee. Koni was just the chauffeur/chef/medical officer/trainer/entertainment coordinator and best friend to the mixed-breed chocolate labrador who had a mind of his own.

Something must have gotten into Poppy's dog food this morning, because instead of waiting for a reasonable time of day to go on an early-morning run, Koni had been awakened by an enthusiastic licking to the face and that plaintive whine that indicated sudden and immediate failure of bladder control unless somebody got up right now and took him outside to water a bush. The stupid dog ran circles inside the apartment while Koni stumbled out of bed and groped for her clothes, shoes, and the most inconvenient ringing cell phone.

What she heard on the call banished all thoughts of sleep from her head. Five minutes later, her station wagon was peeling out of the driveway with Poppy loaded into the portable kennel in back.

Emergency. Lost kids. Special circumstances. Texting directions. Hurry.

Leaving the navigation to Google Maps, Koni was treating the speed limit as a bottom instead of a top as she roared up Tuttle Creek Boulevard with a brief and succinct curse for whoever decided to get themselves lost out in the outskirts of Tuttle Creek Reservoir without even giving her enough warning to get coffee. An explosion of sparkling red and blue lights in the rearview mirror made her curse again as she pulled over to the side of the road, only to see a RCPD cruiser zip by without even a pause. The same thing happened twice more, only with ambulances, and the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach grew as she tucked in behind one of them and tore up Highway K-77 at a speed that had the old Taurus station wagon straining.

In far too little time, she reached the turnoff Google indicated, but there was an officer there who flagged her down and was bellowing even before she got the window all the way down.

"Sorry, ma'am, but we've got a situation here. You're going to have to—"

"Search and Rescue," she snapped back, holding up her identification from the bugout bag she had thrown into the front seat.

"Ahh…" The cop froze with a glance over the top of her car at more flashing lights headed in their direction. "We're trying to set up a perimeter. Use channel 14 on the radio, give me your phone number and drive up this road until you hit the intersection and turn right. Keep your eyes out for injured ponies and I'll give you a call once we have a better idea where we're going to need you."

"Ponies?" Koni handed over a business card, but the officer waved her on before she could get any more clarification.

There was a farmhouse a short distance up the road, but no signs of activity despite all of the flashing lights in her rearview mirror. The intersection the police officer had seemed to indicate was more of a dry dirt track beside a hedgerow, but it lined up roughly parallel to where the flashing lights were heading. She drove the old Taurus down the track about as far as she was comfortable before parking and opening up the back. Fighting down the habit of taking the keys with her in case somebody would need to move the car while she was out searching, she shouldered her knapsack, checked her phone and radio, and opened the portable kennel with the intent of attaching Poppy's leash. The dog had other ideas, bolting past her and across the pasture at a dead run.

"Wait up, you dumb dog! Heel, Poppy! Heel!"

Whatever had triggered the half-trained labrador's instincts was far too strong and far too fast for Koni to keep up. She cursed the high probability of a stray cat or rabbit while scrambling down the narrow earthen walls of a shallow gully in the pasture, hopped over the stretch of mud at the bottom, and climbed up the other side.

"Poppy, if this is just a rabbit, you're getting dry dog food for a month!" she bellowed at the howling dog. Koni bent over for a moment to catch her breath and to wipe off some of the mud she had not quite been able to jump over, but nearly fell back into the gully at the sound of another voice.

"Excuse me! Have you seen Dinky?"

"Wha?" Koni whirled around, looking for the source of the voice, but it was not until she looked up that she spotted the speaker.

There was one long moment where all she could do was critique its appearance. Over the years, Koni had gotten into several hobbies, one of which was drawing horses. Fantastic horses with horns on their heads or wings on their back, leaping through rainbows or standing in misty forest glades. She had even sold a few of the paintings, but after accounting for the cost of supplies, she would have needed a winning lottery ticket to break even as a painter.

The coat is too pale to be a proper grey, no horses have manes that blonde, the postman's hat and uniform look totally out of place, the saddlebags are overstuffed, the wings are too small to hold it up, the eyes too big and mournful, and they don't even both point the same way.

Wings?

The excited barking of Poppy broke Koni out of her trance, as well as the small, thin voice of a child crying out, "Mama! There's a dog over here! Mama?"

"I'm coming, Muffin!" The light-grey pegasus zipped away in the direction of the young voice, vanishing into a copse of green trees around the intermittent stream with a crunch and crackle of broken branches and a loud thud, which sent Poppy into a frenzy of barking again.

Koni stumbled as she began to run forward, shaking off the unreality of the hovering pegasus with the realization that the colorful specks she could see in the sky were most certainly not bald eagles from the South Tuttle spillway park. If it was an alien invasion, they were at least cute and harmless looking, although so were gremlins until they were fed after midnight.

She shouldered her way through some thick brush and eased down a cow path over to a tiny muddy puddle, even though it didn't have any cows around it at the moment. Poppy was barking vigorously at the three creatures who were in the small clearing. A few envelopes were scattered around the grey pegasus from before, who had become stuck up to her shoulders in an old hollow tree with various muffled exclamations and a vigorous struggle that indicated she was only inconvenienced for the moment. A much smaller and mud-splattered little violet unicorn was darting back and forth between the stuck pegasus and an elderly green pony, who was draped across the muddy bank and glaring at Koni with a sharp frown.

"Oh, fiddlesticks. You ain't one of them hummans that my granddaughter's been all bent out of shape about, is ya? Hep me out of this dad-blamed mud so I can go give Princess Twilight a piece of my mind."

There was something wrong about the way the elderly mare's rear leg looked, made only worse as she tried to stand and the leg twisted in the wrong direction. Koni splashed through the low water to put a hand on the little horse, calling out, "No! Down! Stay! It looks like you broke your leg. Your back leg. Your…" Swallowing once, Koni pulled out her radio and mashed down the talk button, hoping that she remembered the correct frequency for the police band the deputy had given her.

"This is Koni with Kansas Search and Rescue Dog Associates, approximately a half-mile north north-east from the K-77/Gardiner-Seacrest turnoff. I’ve got an injured patient here with a broken femur… or whatever you call that bone in a horse. She's elderly—"

"I ain’t elderly, I'm old!"

"—and in no condition to be moved without a stretcher."

Koni gave a quick glance to the pegasus, who had managed to pull her head out of the hollow tree and was sitting down, blinking those impossibly large eyes to get the dust out of them. Other than her eyes still pointing in different directions, she did not seem to be severely injured, and Koni added, "I’m in a clearing in the middle of a clump of trees with two other… ponies, neither of which appears severely injured. Tell the ambulance crew to watch their step. The brush is pretty heavy in here, over."

The radio crackled briefly and a female voice responded, "Search and Rescue, this is Captain Rietz. Ahh… You said you’re in a clearing. How is your overhead cover, over."

She glanced up at the open circle of blue sky and keyed the microphone again. "Too small for a helicopter, officer."

"Search and Rescue, please stand by."

Koni stood by as requested, eyeing the elderly green pony, who had stopped struggling against her hand and was just laying on her side while muttering. It was remarkably quiet, although her head was still whirling a mile a minute while she looked around. The little unicorn filly and the pegasus were sitting side-by-side while talking back and forth. Poppy had quit barking in exchange for a considerable amount of petting from both little horses, and Koni decided that if the dog liked them, they could not be too dangerous. Then again, Poppy had tried to make friends with the wrong end of a skunk. Twice.

"Do you want me to go get help?" asked the grey pegasus with a helpful expression just one step away from pitiful begging. "I’ll be right back," she added before Koni could take a breath.

With a whir of grey feathers sounding much like a spooked quail, the pegasus shot straight upwards, somehow managing to clip two tree branches and send a rain of leaves over everybody else in the clearing. There was something else that drifted down too, which took Koni's overloaded mind a few seconds to understand.

"…Letters?"

"Don't let 'em fall into the water!" called out the wrinkled little horse who Koni was still resting one hand on. "Ma cousin is supposed to been writtin' me for the last week, and I ain't seen none of 'em yet!"

"I'll get them, Granny Smith," declared the little pale-purple pony. The stubby horn that barely stuck out of her mane flickered with golden light, which matched a light around each of the falling letters, making them flutter off to one side and land in the tall grass instead of the water where they had been headed. "Whoops, I'll get them."

"She’s a good kid," whispered the old green pony to Koni as the little pony dived into the tall grass after the letters. "Dinky's a little odd like her mother, but she's smart as a whip." The old pony shifted positions with a pained wince. "I didn't want to make her all nervous or anything, but mah hip hurts like the dickens. I right appreciate you calling for the pegamedics on that fancy gadget of yours, but if I'm gone by the time they get here, make sure she doesn't get all worked up over it."

"Don't say that," whispered Koni over the sound of the little unicorn rustling through the tall grass. "You're going to be fine. I saw more ambulances and firetrucks on the road than I could count. It might take a chainsaw to get them through the brush, but they'll be here in just a few minutes."

The elderly pony's eyes drooped as she smiled up at Koni. They were an odd color, which was saying something for the day so far. The irises were somewhat of a reddish-orange, much like a variety of ripe apple, with a little twinkle to them that age had not dimmed. She placed her head down on the damp gravel at the edge of the small pool and sighed, giving one last futile attempt at getting her hindquarters out of the water before relaxing under Koni's hand. "I've lived a long life and seen a lot more than most ponies half my age. Didn't never think I'd see a hoomin, though."

"Well," started Koni, "I really didn't think I'd ever see a talking pony either."

"Ah really wish we had more time to talk," said the old pony, relaxing a little with a yawn.

"We've got lots of time to talk," said Koni in a rush, suddenly horribly afraid of where the conversation was headed. "I'm a freelance reporter, and I'd love to sit around and talk to you all day. I mean, you must have all kinds of stories, what with as old as you are," she added in order to keep the old mare from fading away in her sleep.

"I may be old, but I ain’t foolish enough to miss you tryin’ to poke mah buttons, you young ‘un." The old and wrinkled pony opened one eye to wink at Koni. "When you get good and into your second century, ah bet you’ll have a few wrinkles too. Lessn’ you hoomins don’t age, or something like that."

"We age," replied Koni, trying to figure out just who was trying to manipulate who in the ongoing conversation. "I’m almost thirty."

"Shucks, you ain’t barely got the yolk licked off yer egg then," said Granny Smith, shifting positions painfully in the mud. "Already got a feller and a house full o’ young ones then?"

"No!" she spluttered. "I’m still looking."

"Look fast, and strike while yer iron’s still hot. Theirs too. I reckon stallions are all the same, hoomin or not."

While waiting on who or whatever would come next, they sat there for a while. Human, dog, old mare and young filly. Dinky sat by the pile of letters, petting Poppi, while Koni sat next to the old mare, trying not to pet her. The radio crackled with police commands, mixed with the call of meadowlarks from the nearby meadow, and the low buzz from Koni’s phone.

She shifted position to get partially out of the sucking mud before pulling her phone out with her unoccupied hand. "Hi, Sheila." Koni glanced at her otherworldly companions. "Yes, I’m out in the field." Pause. "Yes, I found two of their lost ponies already." Pause. "Ponies." Pause. "Po-nees. Little talking multicolored horses." Long pause. "Look, Sheila. I’m a little busy right now. Why don’t you talk with one of them on speakerphone?"

Koni reached out as close to Dinky as she could and held out the phone. "Here you go, kid. Sheila’s with Kansas Search and Rescue Dogs. Talk into that end and listen— Oh, you’ve got it." The golden glow surrounding the android phone tingled her fingers a little as the phone took flight and floated over to the little pony, who promptly began chattering into it. "Smart kid," she remarked to Missus Smith, who had perked up a little at the strange noise.

"Town’s full of ‘em," said Granny Smith proudly. "Mah granddaughter’s the smartest of ‘em all. Her and her little friends just got their cutie marks not long ago, an’ they been so excited about it, they’s been even more active than before."

A chill breeze swept down from the treetops and made Koni suppress a shudder in the humid Kansas summer air. The whisper of wings followed, along with the blonde pegasus who plunged down through the opening in the clearing with a glad cry of, "Here they are! Watch out for the— Whoops!" The pegasus rebounded off the thickest tree surrounding the clearing and ricocheted out of sight, although her progress could be tracked by the crashing of limbs and twigs that followed her path and the ground-shaking thud afterwards.

"I’m fine!"

The little unicorn seemed less than reassured by her mother’s reassurance, and galloped off through the cluster of trees with a barking dog in close pursuit. Almost right behind the crashing pegasus were two more of the flying ponies descending through the clearing, only these pegasi were nearly snow-white with matching blue manes and golden armor. They were carrying a bright blue medical backboard between them, which had been modified for their use by the liberal application of duct tape and two long wooden boards on the sides, sticking out far enough for each pegasus to fit between and hold onto with their forelegs. Almost as if they were angels stepping from heaven and reluctant to set hoof on base soil, the matching pegasi touched gently onto the ground right next to Koni and held very still as the unicorn on the backboard rolled out onto the ground with a soft thud.

Amazed at how quickly she was adapting to flying ponies and unicorns, Koni nodded to the newcomer and cleared her throat. "Excuse me, are you some sort of doctor?"

"Just a guard, Ma’am. Don’t like flying," rasped the dark green unicorn, who was still intently staring at the ground and swallowing as if she were about to be sick. The metal armor on this pony was significantly different than the golden-armored pegasi, more violet shading to black and slightly chased in silver around the edges, with what appeared to be a dark frill on the back of the helmet instead of the bottle-brush horsehair crest like a Roman legionnaire that adorned the helmets of the two pegasi. It really did not appear to be effective as body armor, and left the throat and sides of the little horse vulnerable, but did not appear to impede her movements when the female unicorn staggered up to her hooves.

"Sorry about that, Specialist Grace," said the first of the two identical snow-white pegasi, who was looking between Koni and Missus Smith with an evaluating expression as if he were trying to figure out the ‘hoomin’ diet and if Pony were on it anywhere, although they maintained their hold on the modified backboard. "Granny Smith, your grandson wanted us to ask how are you doing."

“About ready to go kick Princess Twilight Sparkle’s little royal tush," snapped the old mare. "Jus’ as soon as this hoomin lets me get up.”

"She’s got a dislocated hip, at least," explained Koni rather quickly while putting a second hand on the warm pony to hold her down. A faint green glow began to filter out from between her fingers and Koni stared in amazement as the glow began to chase up and down the old mare’s legs and hips.

"Shear fracture on the upper fovea and lacerations on the stifle," said the dark green unicorn as she stared at Granny Smith’s hindquarters as if she could see through the skin to the bones underneath. The glow filtering out from between Koni’s fingers matched the color of the glow around the unicorn’s horn, and made the sensation of tiny insects seem to tickle all of the hairs of her arm as it passed back and forth under her fingers. "There are loose pieces of bone in the area, but nothing seems to have cut through any tendons or arteries. Yet," she added with a firm glance at the older pony. "You need to be securely immobilized for surgery at the very least, Ma’am."

"Oh, horsehocky," scoffed Granny Smith. "Find out where my walker went and I’ll be fine."

"You need surgery," insisted the unicorn again. "Ma’am, if you would step back, please."

Reluctantly, Koni took a step backwards while green light crawled all across the elderly pony, lifting her up into the air and placing her gently on the backboard in exactly the same position as she had been in the muddy puddle. A series of white bandages seemed to just materialize out of thin air and began to tie around Granny Smith’s hindquarters as the unicorn continued to concentrate, eventually leaving the elderly pony tied securely to the backboard and looking a lot like a partial mummy in the process, although still dripping a little mud.

"Ah can’t move!" complained Granny Smith.

"Good," said the unicorn. "Specialists Left and Right, please transport our reluctant patient to one of the human ambulances. Put her at the front of the line and make sure to pass along her condition."

"Shear fractures on the upper fovea and scratching on her stifle bone, with loose pieces of bone in the area," repeated the first identical pegasus. "Are you sure you don’t want us to fly her directly to the hospital, Grace?"

The unicorn eyed both armored pegasi, who somehow seemed to just radiate the same eager attitude that Poppy displayed whenever she spotted a squirrel. "No," she said flatly. "As much as you want to go explore, taking the injured grandmother of the Element of Honesty on a tour of the unfamiliar countryside in an unexplored dimension is not on the agenda for today."

The second pegasus seemed ready to object, but was quickly quashed by a pointed glare from the pointed mare. Together, they ascended into the sky with the subdued muttering of their reluctant passenger fading into inaudibility as they flew off in the direction of the farmhouse and all of the ambulances in the vicinity.

"Thank you for your assistance, ma’am," said Grace as she stood on the driest ground in the muddy clearing and began looking for the nearest cow path out of the copse of trees. "We should be out of your mane shortly, as soon as Princess Twilight realizes what has happened and opens a portal for our return."

"Wait a minute!" blurted out Koni, slogging out of the mud and looking around in the dry grass for where her phone got dropped when the little unicorn went chasing off after her mother. Grabbing the phone and ruthlessly hanging up the call, she flipped it over and punched record. "Where are you from, and who is this ‘Princess Twilight’ that Granny Smith was talking about? And why are you here?"

The forest-green unicorn paused before turning back to Koni. "Equestria, a Princess of Equestria, and Her Highness apparently has made a—" Grace paused, looking at the phone in Koni’s hands. "Is that some sort of weapon?"

"No, it’s an android phone." Seeing no spark of recognition in the unicorn’s expression, Koni elaborated. "It’s a communication and recording device."

"So we’re being recorded?" The unicorn straightened up her shoulders and settled the dark violet armor across her back with a faint green flash from her horn. In a moment, her armor was left looking freshly-polished and her mane brushed back under the violet helmet with only a few small strands of reddish-brown mane still peeking out around the edge.

"Yes," said Koni, putting on her best encouraging smile and thinking about Pulitzer Prizes.

"Pending a resolution of the ongoing investigation into the circumstances of our extradimensional jaunt, it would be inappropriate for me to comment in this regard. If you will leave me your contact information, I will be certain to pass along a copy of the investigation once it has concluded and been reviewed. In the meanwhile, I can assure you that our visit here is totally accidental, and that with the combined efforts of the Royal Princesses, we should be out of your mane shortly. If there are any further questions, I would encourage you to bring them up with our public liaison, who will be glad to answer whatever she can. Will there be anything else before I return to my post, Ma’am?"

Author Notes

I’m not saying Kansas has a relatively low crime rate, but when I started attending K-State, it took forever for me to get used to taking my car keys with me. Summer is an interesting time around a university town. Most of the dorms are empty, with only one kept open for the students, although other groups such as Upward Bound and Boys State use the facilities for their activities. The size of a "Small Town" place like Manhattan always baffles me. If needed, two hundred and fifty ponies could vanish into a small fraction of the dorm space available or just the old Holidome (It’s a Holiday Inn, which is now the Four Points hotel)

Other than the ATA busses, Manhattan does not have a very robust public transportation network compared to many major cities, because just about *everybody* owns a car or sometimes two. We drive everywhere. We drive a block away to get something that would take less time to walk. Had a friend send his kid to college with a truck pulling a trailer with a second car on it, *both* of which would spend the entire year in the dorm ‘archive parking’ area and undriven for nearly the entire school year (because finding a parking place on campus stinks, particularly for dorm residents, who are most likely to find a parking place further away from their target than if they had just left it in the original spot.)

Author's Note

Editor notes:
Tek: (On Granny's comment "I'm not elderly, I'm old!" - Other contenders in my mind are "Well preserved" "I'm a young 87"

Me: Dag-nabbit, I didn't live no century plus a little to be called some whimpy little word like 'elderly' or 'frail' like ah'm about ready to lie down in no hole and have you shovel dirt on toppa me. I'm old and darned proud of it, like that green critter in that Star Wart movie

On Specialists Left and Right
Peter: LOL, are these place holder names?

Me: Nope, real names. Left goes on the right and Right goes on the left, while Left has a cutie mark of a right wing and Right... Well, you get it. Their parents were a little weird. They're twins, and some of Celestia's favorite drivers.

Kansas Search and Rescue Dogs Association is real. Poppy is *not* a representative sample of the fine well-trained dogs there. He needs a lot more training.

5. Army Strong

Farmer Bruener Had Some Ponies
Army Strong

“But in the military you don’t get trusted positions just because of your ability. You also have to attract the notice of superior officers. You have to be liked. You have to fit in with the system. You have to look like what the officers above you think that officers should look like. You have to think in ways that they are comfortable with.

The result was that you ended up with a command structure that was top-heavy with guys who looked good in uniform and talked right and did well enough not to embarrass themselves, while the really good ones quietly did all the serious work and bailed out their superiors and got blamed for errors they had advised against until they eventually got out.

That was the military.”
― Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Shadow

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:15 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Colbert Hills Golf Course, Manhattan Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

There was something magical about sunrise at the golf course, with the cool morning wind coming from over one shoulder and the feel of the damp grass underfoot. With all of the chaos and confusion surrounding the entirety of Fort Riley every day, it was important to have at least one day a month when the stress in General Hackmore’s life was forgotten and he turned into his other identity, just plain old Gregory Hackmore attempting to chase a little white ball around a bunch of green grass. It was a driver day on the fourth tee, or at least that was the club he was most comfortable with making the attempt at par. Straight down the middle and between the rough, address the ball, ease up on the backswing, and twitch when his aide’s phone started buzzing away.

“Corporal,” he started, keeping an eye on his ball as it bounced down the fairway on the left side, where he was going to have to loft it over the stubby trees to even get close to par. “Didn’t I tell you to shut that infernal thing off? We’re playing golf here, not babysitting my second in command. He can handle the job for a few hours.”

“Just a moment.” The corporal looked up and handed his phone over with a whispered, “It’s Lieutenant Colonel DeJoya with the Division MPs, sir. They have a situation.”

His first instinct was to simply order the captain to deal with the situation, but DeJoya was a competent officer and would not have jumped ranks like this for any ordinary problem. Hackmore listened on the phone for a while, interspacing his grunts of acknowledgement with short comments such as “They can fly?” “So, where is their spaceship?” and “The only weapon the police reported was a spear?”

At the end, he remained silent for a while as he thought. He had seen far too many movies where the sole use of the US military might was to provide popcorn for technologically advanced aliens to detonate in pretty explosions, even if most of the movies had been so tactically ridiculous that he had to keep himself from shouting orders at the screen. There had been a science fiction story⁽*⁾ he had read in his youth once which seemed to roughly parallel the situation as described, where a starship full of little teddy bear-like creatures had landed their steam-powered spaceship in New York, marched out with their flintlocks and black powder weapons, and had been promptly chopped into hamburger by the modern military response.
(*) The Road Not Taken by Harry Turtledove.

He had never dreamed of being in a First Contact situation, but as described, the ‘situation’ was little more than a cosmic bus with a flat tire, breaking down by the road until a few friendly neighbors helped patch it up and send them on their way. Still, the potential for an international… make that interdimensional incident of immense magnitude existed, and would only be exacerbated by micromanaging on the massive scale that modern electronic communications tended to lean toward. Plus, there was always the possibility of this being some sort of feint or diversionary tactic for a larger invasion of… herbivorous quadrupeds, out to strip the green and fertile earth of its grass.

That’s a story Hollywood will never film. Killer Cows from Mars Invade Kansas. Take me to your alfalfa.

There really needed to be somebody on the scene to properly evaluate the situation before a few hundred generals in the Pentagon started demanding mutually-contradictory actions from his division. Hopefully, if what the RCPD had told the MPs was true, long before that would happen the odd alien invasion would be over and they would all be gone except for the inevitable trash. Besides, he was curious. He had never seen an alien before and most likely would never see one again before retirement.

“Colonel DeJoya, I presume you’re already sending some MPs to the scene. Send one of the cars to stop by the golf course and pick me up. Yes, Colbert Hills. I’ll be at the clubhouse, waiting on them, so don’t make me wait long. Just to be cautious, we’ll be going to FPCON Bravo just as soon as I get a hold of the S3, so expect the orders shortly. If the aliens are really peaceful, I don’t want any screwups, but I’d rather not wind up in a Pearl Harbor situation either. We’re going to be balancing a thin line here between preparedness and not having a bunch of people screaming about an invasion, so make sure your men are properly briefed. And thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure it doesn’t roll back downhill on you. Dismissed.”

Thank God I threw my ACU’s in the car, or I’d be meeting aliens in my golf pants.

The general tossed the phone back to his aide with a short sigh. “Golf is going to have to wait. We’ve got some unexpected visitors from out of town, and I need to go say hello. Send a text to the wife telling her something’s come up, but don’t mention aliens. God, please don’t mention aliens.” Then, thinking about his granddaughter who was staying with them for the week, he added, “And ponies. Whatever you do, don’t mention ponies.” Grabbing the handle of his golf bag, Hackmore began walking back along the cart path to the clubhouse as he got out his own phone, turned it on, and started to make calls, unaware that the first meeting between the two military forces had already begun.

* *

Lieutenant Nicholas ‘Nick’ Comena had been determined to make the most of every minute of his extended weekend away from Fort Riley. With his civvies in the truck and all of the camping gear packed, he had been on Hubner road out of the fort five minutes after final inspection, and cruising down the gravel road leading to the Tuttle Creek Off-Road Vehicle Area less than a half-hour later. Well, after a brief stop for supplies, including a bag of ice and a case of Prince of Pilsen, a fine pale lager horribly underappreciated in this barbarian state.

A friend of a friend of an army buddy who knew somebody had told him of a little farm pond just jumping with hungry perch, and a few phone calls had gotten him permission to pitch his tent in the spillway as long as he picked up his trash and didn’t scare the cows with fireworks. Since the only cows who wandered by his camp kept to the other side of the barbed-wire fence, he had free rein over his little slice of heaven, which he could imagine as his native Georgia if the heat was a little more intense and the mosquitoes twice the size. It beat the holy hell out of the dusty baking clay of Afghanistan, which was probably where he was going to wind up redeployed again if things kept hissing and popping there.

The night had been filled with cold beer, hungry fish, and a hot campfire full of miniscule perch fillets, without the primary negative aspect of Georgia night campouts: alligators.

Morning had dawned just a little too brightly and too early for Nick, but the rest of Four-One was supposed to show up sometime before noon for a little team bonding where their big black boss would show them the world did not revolve around the sixty tons of steel and depleted uranium of their charge. They were a fairly new team, and a day of informal drinking and bullshitting outside of the range of spouses and girlfriends would help cement the working relationship they had so far. Still, whatever politically incorrect asshole who had alliteratively assigned Nick a gunner nicknamed ‘Spic’ and a driver named Rick deserved a few dozen trips through the extensive collection of Army training materials on harassment, doubly so for whatever wise ass who had named their tank ‘Fury.’

Nick unzipped the nylon cover to the tent and took a cautious step outside in his bare size-fourteens, wriggling his toes into his sandals and enjoying the morning breeze through his boxer shorts. He had picked the fairly remote location in order to be away from the constant pop-pop-pop of training at the fort, or the earth-shuddering thuds of rounds on the impact range, but some asshole over in Randolph had started the Fourth of July early, and had been popping off firecrackers in the distance for nearly half an hour. The first pop had woken him up out of a sound sleep with the thought of incoming fire, but the pitch and timbre of the sharp sounds was all wrong for small arms, and the erratic popping ever since had just made him regret the inability of calling in a drone strike in the middle of Kansas.

“Asshole,” he muttered before shuffling over to the open tailgate of his truck and rummaging through his campout gear for something to deal with his headache. He washed the Motrin down with bottled water, because twisting open another bottle of beer this early in the morning was for Marines.

Halfway through drinking the bottled water, all thoughts of his headache went away. “Sheeet.”

Something high above had given off a sharp pop, followed by a hideous squeak of pure terror, and it sure was not a Bald Eagle from nearby Tuttle Creek Reservoir. The noise grew into a louder scream as Nick threw the bottle back into the cooler and looked for the origin, but at first glance, he could not see anything.

It could not be good news. Months of experience in the mountains and hills of Afghanistan had trained him that unexpected events were never good. Fighting an urge to drop his seat down into the comforting coolness of sixty tons of steel, Nick nearly jumped out of his sandals when the water out in the pond geysered up into a fairly large splash and the high-pitched screech abruptly cut off.

He started toward the pond, then broke into a dead run with his sandals flying behind him when the voice of whoever was flailing for their life out in the water called out, “Help!” The greenish water splashed to both sides as he hit the surface in a long dive and swam out to the flailing child with strong strokes, snagging the struggling victim under the forelegs before turning and swimming back toward the shore. Only then, did a certain peculiarity soak into his mind.

Forelegs?

“Thank you, mithter,” gasped the little horse he had trapped under one arm in the approved American Red Cross lifesaving technique. “I can’t thwim.”

“Really?” It was all he could say as he swam, but he managed to catch his breath a little as he stood up and began wading up onto the shore. It also gave him a better view of the little dog-sized horse under his arm, which might have been some sort of a delusion if it had not also been wearing a huge pair of glasses in addition to the reddest blaze of its mane and tail.

It could not possibly be a joke his new crew was pulling. That was the only possibility which floated to mind at the moment, but standing almost naked and soaking wet while holding a little pony under one arm was not conducive to coherent thought.

He sat the soggy little pony down on the grass at the edge of the pond and picked off a few strands of water weed. It did not help his state of mind. Despite the huge purple glasses, the little pony had a fascinated gaze that scanned him from top to bottom, making him suddenly self-conscious about having slept in his boxer shorts last night. “Let me get you a towel,” he blurted out, fumbling his feet into the discarded sandals and digging his towel out of the truck. “Where did you come from?”

“Mama alwayth thaid thhe found me under a cabbage leaf.” The little pony shook vigorously before taking the towel he handed over and starting to dry her glasses. “Did you thee the retht of my friendth?”

“No, I…” Nick blinked several times as he looked around the sky, his eyes finally making sense of the odd birds in the distance as horses with wings, circling in large loops and curves as if they were searching for something. It was weird enough to shut his mind down for a few moments as the little pony behind him excitedly lisped something about some huge dark monsters which had attacked their town during some ritual involving sunrise, treating the attack just as if she were describing a trip to the county fair.

A second motion over by the edge of the scrub brush at the other side of the pond caught his eye as a dark, shadowy creature much like the little pony was talking about paused at the top of the low hill, then began to gallop at full speed toward him. It certainly looked like some strange and hostile alien from this distance, about the size of a small horse, but with glossy violet armor plates wrapped around its pale grey coat and a featureless visor across where its eyes probably were, although weirdly enough it had a floppy hat perched on top of the helmet with a broad brim much like a black sombrero.

Nick was just wondering if the bizarre creature was going to dive into the pond too when it spread a huge pair of wings for its size and almost casually glided across the water directly in his direction. He took a step backwards and groped for a piece of firewood as the cyborg-dragon-horse swept nearer, grabbing the biggest chunk of wood he could find and bracing himself in front of the little pony he had just rescued. If this was one of the aliens who had attacked the little pony, he was going to be damned if he did not put up a fight.

Yesterday, I was commanding a twenty-first century fighting vehicle able to kill anything within sight, and now I’m a nearly naked black man with a club. This isn’t fair!

The weird hybrid pony slowed its skimming forward across the pond as it grew closer, eventually hovering over the shallow water with almost laconic strokes of its wings that—according to his knowledge of aerodynamics—could not have possibly held it up. It looked at him from under the sombrero, then craned its head to look behind him where the little pony was still cleaning her glasses and chatting away, and then it looked back at him again.

“Twist,” it called out in an extremely female voice, completely different than the robotic voice he had expected. “Are you safe?”

“Mith Gooth!” exclaimed the little pony, shoving her water-splattered glasses back onto her face and squinting. “I’m thafe now. Thith nith minotaur fithhed me out of the water. Where did Mith Twilght’th thpell put uth?”

“We’re supposed to be at the Manehattan emergency teleport beacon,” said the dark batwinged pony, still hovering casually over the edge of the pond. She eyed Nick again from under her dark sombrero before adding, “I think she missed.”

“Wait just a second,” said Nick, trying to resist a powerful urge to hold his hands over his boxer shorts. “What are you? Where did you come from? What’s going on?”

“Just one moment, sir.” The armored pony put one hoof up to her helmet and tilted back the visor, revealing a pair of big golden eyes with vertical pupils which were contracted to thin lines in the bright morning sunlight despite her broad-brimmed hat. “Sergeant Hardhooves, this is Wings. We’ve got a straggler. I just picked up Twist outside the perimeter by almost a furlong, so we’re probably going to have to increase the search area. Uh-huh. Yes, sir. No, sir.” She held up a hoof as Nick was about to interrupt. “She’s in the care of one of the locals, sir. Name of…”

“Nick,” he blurted out.

“Nick,” repeated the batwinged pony. Yes, sir. Copy and out.” Taking her hoof from the side of her helmet, ‘Wings’ looked at Nick with a brisk nod. “We appreciate your assistance, Nick. If you could rendezvous with the rest of the civilians about four or five furlongs that way—” Gooth waved a hoof vaguely in a westward direction “—and take Twist with you while I check out the perimeter for more stragglers, we’d appreciate it.”

“I’m not a civilian,” said Nick somewhat defensively, despite his near-total lack of uniform other than the army-issue boxer shorts. “Lieutenant Nicholas Comena, platoon leader for 4th Squad, Fourth Cavalry, Armored.”

The dark batwinged pony seemed impressed at that, with one eyebrow vanishing up into the shadows under her helmet and a sly smirk on her face. Still hovering, she saluted and snapped off in a military-precise voice, “Cadet Goose Down, Pegasus Trainee for the Royal Guard Academy, provisionary.” Goose gave a sharp nod at the end and a small smile for Twist. “You two had better head to the rendezvous point. Princess Twilight Sparkle will probably have a return portal set up by now.”

Nick found himself saluting back, because it was a thin thread of normality in a world gone suddenly crazy, although he used his other hand to cover something which the thin, wet boxer shorts were doing an insufficient job of concealing. “Let me grab my pants first, Cadet. Don’t want to show up there in only my underwear.”

This time the dark pegasus most definitely gave his wet boxer shorts a subtle glance, although there was nothing subtle about the brief lick of her lips and the sly wink afterwards.

“Why not?” she said. Then Goose turned and glided away across the pond, extending her legs like landing gear and resuming her rapid gallop once she was back on dry ground, which left Nick to stare until she vanished behind the trees.

Still, Nick put his ACU shorts on and his ‘Army Strong’ t-shirt before taking the damp young pony in the direction indicated, talking on his phone as he walked.

Author Notes

One of the joys of living in a city right next to Fort Riley is the artillery range. There’s a thick layer of limestone that goes right under the impact range (that’s where the artillery shells land when they’re practicing) and all the way under Manhattan, about a half-hour away or fifty seconds worth of acoustic travel along the rock plate. One of the things the fort does is practice what are called Time on Target barrages, in which *all* of the shells in a barrage blow up at the same time in order to catch the enemy troops out in the open. It’s a little distracting, particularly the first time your pictures rattle on the wall, but after a few years, you get used to it, even at 5 AM. At this very moment while I’m typing, the windows are rattling in my house because the fort got a new Paladin artillery system and they have to play with their toys. For the record (and measured on the map) I’m 37 miles away from the impact range. I hope they’re wearing earplugs.

(FYI: For those of you in California who get jittery when the earth moves and the pictures rattle, tough. We refer to the time between those events as ‘reloading.’)

Goose Down is an aged-up to late teens version of Luna’s Nocturne from Peter’s story, Jake and the Kid as well as the sequel, How To Train Your Batpony. She will be one of four Nocturne caught in the transdimensional portal accident along with Pumpernickel, Laminia and Stargazer, although you may want to count Laminia twice as she is newly pregnant (again) even while nursing Stargazer (which I looked up, and is not that odd of an occurrence in equines). Goose is indeed the odd duck, because… Well, you’ll see.

Author's Note

Editor notes:
Peter (on generals): And the longer they go without a real war, the worst the situation gets. The Canadian Army has more generals now than they did when they were fighting world war two. and the army is a tenth the size.
Me: Time Bandits. Ten generals, one private.
* * *
Peter: The only thing that popped into my mind was the "Hokas" But if this scene appeared it would have been a dream scene as Ambassador Jones imagines a worst case scenario for his naive and overly literal and imaginative charges. If you have not come across them before you really should check out the Hoka stories. Even if only the first short story. And then imagine what they would do if they encountered the Pony stories.
https://www.amazon.com/Hoka-Gordon-Dickson/dp/0671577743
* * *

6. Volunteer Service

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Volunteer Service

“Life’s most persistent and urgent question is, What are you doing for others?”
— Martin Luther King, Jr.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:05 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The annoying buzz of her iPhone dragged Claire up from a fuzzy dream involving being violated by an affectionate octopus, only to find it less than a dream. Krystol had her arms thrown over Claire’s shoulder, but her long, thin fingers were not reaching for anything on her body. They were reaching for her pillow, and the wallet concealed inside it.

It had happened before, and even though Claire was upset about her friend’s tendency to steal anything that was not nailed down to feed her habit, she was still a friend. A good friend, well-worth spending a day with her to help clean up before the landlord did an inspection, even though Claire had to provide the cleaning materials, the pizza, and most of the labor.

“Kris!” Claire rolled off the couch, taking the rolled-up pants she had been using as a pillow with her. “What did I tell you about getting into my wallet?”

“I wasn’t!” protested her friend. “I was just… turning off your phone.”

“Yeah, right.” Claire scooped her phone off the charger on the end table, checked her messages, then unrolled her pants with a brisk snap. They had made a good pillow when she fell asleep on Krystol’s couch, with the credit card wallet and cash on the inside where her friend would be unable to steal them, and more particularly, the Sneaky Pete holster and contents.

“Sorry, Krystol. I gotta go. It’s an emergency. Dad says he hit some girl on the swather, and they’re taking her to Memorial. Wants me to run over there. Look, if you need some money…”

Claire paused with her pants half-on to dig into one pocket and pull out her clip, peeling off a pair of twenties that only lasted an instant before the long, dark fingers of her friend plucked them away.

“Just to cover expenses,” said Krystol, stuffing the bills into the waistband of her panties.

As much as she wanted to comment on what drugs those ‘expenses’ covered, Claire kept her mouth shut until her pants were fastened and she had gathered up her stuff. Sparing a quick kiss on the cheek, she darted out the apartment door and unlocked her mountain bike with a few motions, then was pedaling fiercely on her way to the hospital. Thankfully, it was just a few blocks away, barely enough distance to get a good rhythm before she was flinging the bike into the rack and locking it down.

“Excuse me?” Walking in the emergency exit of the hospital, Claire caught the arm of a passing nurse and added, “Do you have a Bridget here? My dad hit her with a swather up in Randolph, and he wanted me to come over and make sure she was okay.”

“Oh!” The nurse held one hand up to her mouth as if Claire were some sort of celebrity. “We’ve got a half-dozen ambulances on the way from Randolph now. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s going to get very busy here in a few minutes. You may want to stand out of the way.”

Trying to imagine just how many kids her father could have hit with one piece of haying equipment, Claire countered with, “My father wanted me to see what I could do for the girl. I’ve taken the Introduction to Nursing course offered by Highland, so I could help, if you need me to. Since you’ve got so many ambulances coming in, that is.”

“Ahhh…” Catching the eye of a short Indian doctor, the nurse physically turned Claire and gave her a little push. “We’re really busy right now, but see if Doctor Putt has anyplace you can be helpful at.”

“Doctor Putt?” Turning to the doctor, who only came up to Claire’s admittedly short shoulders in the first place, she put on her best smile and gave him a brief bob of the head instead of shaking hands.

In clipped but precise enunciation, the doctor took her hand in a powerful grip and said, “My name is Doctor Singanluru Puttaswamaya Muthuraju, but I tell everyone just to call me Doctor Putt. It saves time.”

“I’m Claire,” said Claire, “but everybody calls me Claire. I take it Bridget isn’t here on the ambulance yet?”

“She should be here shortly,” said the doctor without stopping his progress toward the emergency room doors. “Nasty wound, from what I’ve heard on the radio. Nearly cut through her wrist, although the paramedics did not specify how much bleeding the injury caused, or what blood type the child had. I’ve got nurses finding the testing kits to cross-match her blood and orderlies scrambling to find more beds for the other patients they told us about, but what I don’t have is somebody to hold her other hand and reassure her. A friend of the family would be useful.”

“I can do that,” volunteered Claire, trying not to think of the babysitting sessions she had where ‘reassuring’ was the last thing her presence did to a screaming toddler. They held position at the doors for several minutes while the doctor passed on instructions to the nurses running by, then the ambulance pulled in, and everything started moving really fast.

The only thing Claire could do was try to stay next to the doctor when the blood-splattered gurney was pulled out of the ambulance and wheeled into the hospital. He was rattling off orders and the nurses were darting in all directions, but one huge thought occupied her head and scrambled her thought process by the time they had all gotten situated in the treatment room.

It’s a pink horse. It’s a sobbing, crying, panicked pink horse who keeps calling out for her mother.

“There, there,” whispered Claire into one of the horse’s ears. She had to hunch her back to bend over the gurney, and the hoof that she was holding had her hand in an unbreakable grip somehow, but the words seemed to calm the horse slightly. “What’s your name?” asked Claire for lack of anything else in her confused brain.

“Widget,” sobbed the little horse.

“I can’t find a vein in all this fur!” protested the nurse, running her fingers up and down the blood-splattered leg that was not bundled up in a gigantic white bandage.

“Horses don’t get IVs in their legs,” said Claire automatically, thinking of the time the veterinarian had visited their farm well over a decade ago. “You have to shave a patch on her neck to put the needle in. And are you sure that’s… horse-friendly?”

“Don’t want needle!” squalled the horse and a horn poking through the blood-matted mane on the front of her head glowed blue, much like the aura surrounding the IV kit the surprised nurse was holding. Claire reached out with one hand and grabbed the glowing horn, feeling a sharp but not unpleasant tingle travel up her arm while the light faded away.

“You have to let them give you an IV, sweetie,” said Claire firmly into the horse’s ear. “You’ve lost a lot of fluids. Just trust me, okay? Don’t be afraid.”

“Not afraid,” whined the little horse. “M’big pony.” The pony’s actions spoke louder than her quiet words when the tight grip she had on Claire’s hand only strengthened.

“Paramedics say they gave her two milligrams of morphine sulphate,” said the nurse who was shaving a patch on the horse’s neck, right back at her job despite the weirdness of the situation. “Doctor, do you think we should give her another milligram?”

“Hurtsss…” whined the little horse.

“It doesn’t seem to have caused an allergic reaction. One for now, be ready with a second if she’s still in pain,” said Doctor Putt. “Let’s get this arm… or leg immobilized so we can cut away the bandages and see what we’re working with.”

“Don’t leave,” moaned Widget, holding onto Claire’s hand with a powerful pinch between her hoof and foreleg. “Please, don’t leave.”

“Don’t worry,” said Claire. “I’ll be right here. I’m not going to leave you.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:15 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

One of the advantages of retirement was supposed to be more free time and not being called into work on a moment’s notice. The call Lee Killough had gotten from KSU Vet Med pretty much put the end to her lazy Friday morning, and thankful that she still lived fairly close to her former employer, allowed her to pull into the campus parking lot just a few minutes later. She was fairly certain that she was going to get a ticket for parking there without a current permit, but the campus cop directing traffic did not seem bothered at all by it. Instead, he just waved her on into the half-full parking lot, which looked a lot more busy than any normal Friday during summer school. There was even an ambulance parked back in Equine Receiving, but not the large animal transport Vet Med had for moving horses or cows. It could only mean one of the animals had injured a staff member or student, which gave her a cold lump in her stomach due to the morning’s panicked phone call.

Lee had barely parked the car and started up the front steps of the building before being met by a young lady she recognized as a grad student back before her retirement. She was babbling too fast to be understood, but had the strength of the young and obviously knew what was going on by the way she practically dragged Lee through the familiar hallways of the Large Animal section of Mosier Hall. The sound of complaining came from ahead, growing louder when they burst into the Large Animal X-ray room to see a panicked huddle of students and faculty gathered around. The complaining of itself was not unusual, particularly when an animal disagreed with whatever the staff was trying to do and managed to fight back, but the complaining was coming from an equine patient, which seemed to be patently impossible. That is until Lee got a little closer and saw the small green pony, strapped down to a blue backboard with what appeared to be about a mile of white bandages. The little pony glared straight at her and talked.

“Another durned hooman? Ah’m tellin’ you, ah ain’t gonna let you use that durned contraption on mah hip, no way, no how! Get me out of this thing and get mah walker!”

The muddy pony, who was struggling fruitlessly against her bonds, drew Lee’s attention like a magnet. She was talking, actually talking! Lee walked right up to the little horse, violating all of the rules of equine handling, and knelt down beside her with a popping of old joints. “You’re talking,” she said in a near whisper.

“Yeah, it’s getting her to shut up that’s the problem,” mused one of the younger student assists behind her.

“Shut it, kid,” called Lee over her shoulder. Turning back to the pony, Lee said, “I’m sorry, Ma’am. He’s just a mouthy kid who doesn’t know how to treat his elders.”

“Humph!” snorted the wrinkled little pony. “Hoomins and ponies are a lot alike, I guess. So, is you the hoomin in charge of all this foolishness?”

“No, ma’am. I retired a few years ago, and got a call from one of my former students that she had a patient who was right up my alley. I’m Lee Killough, by the way.”

“Granny Smith, of the Ponyville Apples. You gonna get me outta this cocoon or do I need to turn into a butterfly first.”

One of the rattled staff flipped through a few sheets of paper behind Lee. “The paramedics said she supposedly had… Shear fractures on the upper fovea and scratching on her stifle bone, with loose pieces of bone in the area. There’s supposed to be a bunch of other ponies with lesser fractures being sent to hospitals all around the area. The paramedics said something about a….”

The hesitation swept through the surrounding crowd, as if none of them wanted to repeat rumors about their obviously alien guest. Lee rolled her eyes and turned back to Granny Smith.

“Miss Smith, do you know how you came here?”

“In that big ole’ wagon with the nice para-whozie-whatizits, of course. They said Princess Twilight accidentally sent us to this parallel dee-mension where all the cities got weird names, but I ain’t got time to lollygag around. I need you to dig me outta these bandages so I can get back. Princess Twilight’s probably got the return portal set up by now, and I got sewing circle in an hour.”

“Unless you’re not hurt as bad as the vet said, that’s not happening, Miss Smith. We’re going to have to take some pictures of your injury.”

One of the students behind Lee cleared his throat. “The old goat won’t let us get her into the x-ray unit, Miss Killough.”

Lee looked over the well-wrapped elderly pony, who had only one hoof free at the ankle. “You really have the staff terrified, Miss Smith.”

“Call me Granny.” The pony gave a harrumph of frustration, but she did sound more comfortable talking to somebody closer to her own age. “Bunch of crying little foals, if you ask me.”

Unable to keep from smiling, Lee gave the collection of embarrassed students and staff a quelling look. “Well, after we get their diapers changed, how about we get you onto the station and see about getting that hip of yours looked at. If you hold still, I’ll even see if one of the students can run and get you a cold apple juice while you wait. Does that sound acceptable?”

“Send the mouthy one,” responded Granny Smith almost instantly. “He looks like he could use some exercise.” With as little as the pony could shift inside the wrapped bandages, she still winced when trying to get comfortable. “Ah might need just a little something more to take some of the edge off the pain, though.”

It made sense, although this was the first time Lee had dealt with a patient who could talk back. “Okay kids, let’s get Chris in here and see if we can get Miss Smith… I mean Granny a little something to make her more comfortable without knocking her out. While we’re waiting, how about we get you up on the platform and I’ll have them bring the x-ray unit down so I can show you how it works.”

Suppressing a giggle, Lee added, “I’ve published books about alien races for longer than most of them have been alive, so I suppose I’m used to it by now.” She patted the elderly pony gently on the uninjured shoulder. “Welcome to Earth, Granny Smith. We’ll take good care of you.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:17 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Claire was tired beyond words, holding her awkward hunched-over position for what seemed like hours even though some friendly nurse had scooted a plastic chair next to her. It was a nice gesture, but she could not both sit down and still hold one arm over the unicorn’s head to brush at her blood-crusted mane, a caring touch which seemed to calm the young pony. Doctors and nurses had come and gone in a long stream, but every time one of the nurses suggested that Claire go somewhere else to get some rest, that desperate pressure on her hand increased and the young unicorn trembled. At some time, the bags of fluids had started to be replaced by red containers of whole blood, and the little gap in the doorway of the exam room that Claire could see out of showed colorful winged ponies hesitantly clattering past, some of which had bright white bandages against their necks indicating just where the blood donations had come from.

“Ah, there you are.” A golden-brown unicorn a little taller than Widget poked his nose into the crowded room, taking in the sight of the two doctors working on her leg with a worried expression. “Doctor Putt, I presume? I’m Doctor Stable. How’s our patient?”

The doctor in question looked back, took a brief moment to get acclimated to the species of the new physician, and responded, “Not good. We’ve managed to get some circulation back, but she needs to get to KU Med for microvascular reconstruction or she’ll lose the leg.”

“And this Kay Who Med is where?” asked the unicorn, seeming hesitant.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time:12:05 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

A LifeStar helicopter could fit four passengers, or five if they were fairly light. Fortunately, Claire’s weight when added to a paramedic and two unicorns, one of whom was the patient, came in under the limit. Unfortunately, Claire had never been on a helicopter ride before, and after over an hour in the air fighting turbulence and a punishing noise that even the provided helmet did nothing but dampen, she never wanted to go flying again.

Still, she was doing better than the other two equine passengers, neither of which had a head the same shape as a human, thus making the helmets provided nearly useless. They did have foam earplugs, and Widget was so wacked out on morphine that Claire thought she could sit through a speed metal concert. She still had a tight grip on Claire’s hand, and whenever she thought her human teddy bear was going to get away, that strange hoof-clench was boosted by whatever stranger thing she was doing with her horn.

The landing at KU Medical was bumpy, but it was solid ground, filled with busy nurses and doctors who escorted their patient and the rumpled young lady still being dragged along at a good clip into the building. Somehow, Claire had managed to retain her backpack, most probably because the injured unicorn had not let go of her hand yet, but there was something very important that was becoming even more important with every step.

“Widget!” hissed Claire. “I gotta pee!”

“Pee?” The unicorn’s tight grip slackened. “You’ll come back, right?”

“Yes, yes! Just— thankyou!” Claire burst out running, following the pointing fingers of several of the nurses and heading down one of the featureless hallways of the hospital. It only took a few frantic minutes to find the aforementioned bathroom, a short time to do what one did in bathrooms, and when she came back out…

You are in a maze of twisty passages, all alike.

Heading off in the direction she thought was right turned out to be wrong, and asking directions only amplified the wrongness of her location. Eventually, Claire found a map and backtracked to the helipad in the hopes that she could just head in the direction they had last taken and have at least a small chance at finding where Widget had gone.

There was another LifeStar helicopter landing, and Claire stood back to allow the gurney and associated pushers, pullers, and walkers alongsiders to pass at a near jog. This patient appeared to be some sort of green wrinkled pony, like an apple than had been left out in the sun to dry, and to Claire’s amazement, was being followed by a fast-walking dark pony with wings.

Big honking wings.

Admittedly, Claire had not seen many ponies with wings other than brief glances back at Memorial Hospital in Manhattan, but those wings had all seemed undersized for the volume of the pony carrying them. This pony had a full set of membranous bat-like wings that were large enough to poke out behind him as well as cover his shoulders up to the neck. In addition, he was wearing a full set of glossy violet armor like some knight, complete with a helmet that had a darkened visor which must have functioned as sunglasses, topped with an odd, broad-brimmed hat much like a sombrero. Since they were most probably going the same place that Widget was going, Claire picked up her pace to walk alongside the dark pony, trying to ignore the astonished looks from the patients and staff they were passing, and said, “Hey.”

It was the only word she could think of at the time.

“Hey,” replied the pony in a stiff, controlled, and female voice, not slowing her brisk pace by one step. “Are you with the hospital?”

“Not… um… No. I came here with Widget.”

“I need to get a message back to my sergeant,” said the dark, winged pony. “I’m under orders to accompany Missus Smith to the physician’s office, but I’m out of range of the communication spell in the helmet and I’m really a long way away from anything in the manual and was that helicopter flying?”

The last word came out in a squeak barely louder than a mouse, far from the kind of voice that Claire expected. In fact, the pony had a very young voice, and sounded much like Claire imagined she might feel if stuffed through some sort of portal and dropped in the middle of a bunch of aliens.

All of the alien invasion movies she’d seen had terrifying aliens, not terrified ones. It tweaked her compassion, and Claire found herself walking next to the little winged alien horse thing, resting a hand on her trembling back. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “Did your ship crash by my dad’s farm?”

“It’s not an airship,” said the pony in short, clipped syllables. “It was an evacuation spell that went wrong and dumped us out over the farm. Princess Twilight Sparkle probably has the return portal up by now, but Missus Smith is hurt really bad. Broke her hip in the landing, and I’ve been ordered to stay with her.”

It was a lot for Claire to take in at once, but there was something obvious she could do to help. She dug out her cell phone while walking along with the strange pony, behind the collection of nurses, doctors and whatever else clustered around the hospital gurney. Missus Smith, whoever that was, seemed well attended, and her father’s phone was busy when she called, so an alternative was needed.

“Miss… what is your name?” Claire fumbled with her phone while the dark pony gave her a quick sideways glance from under the brim of her broad sombrero.

“Cadet Goose Down.” Goose gave a nervous flick of her immense wings, which made a stiff breeze move down the hospital corridor before she continued in a rapid patter. “On loan from the Academy to the Household Regiments, assigned to Princess Luna’s personal detachment as her personal command. I was the covering staff member for Hoofmaiden Laminia while she was indisposed due to maternity issues, and have not yet been reassigned.” Goose’s rigid shoulders tensed up more and she glanced from side to side as they passed through a connecting corridor. “Do you think this will reflect badly on my record?”

“D-o-w-n,” said Claire while typing on her phone. “Smile.” She poked the camera button when the dark pegasus looked back, then resumed typing. “I texted mom, and she’ll pass it on to whoever else you’ve got back there, unless mom and dad both forgot about me. Dad didn’t text me once, and nothing’s on voicemail. Now, let’s go find the other ponies in the hospital before Widget freaks out.”

Author's Note

Author notes: Lee Killough, author of The Monitor, the Miners and the Shree, worked at KSU Vet Med until her retirement in 2000. She’s still in the area, and one of these days I really need to get my copy of the book autographed. I bought it back in 1980 when I first went to K-State. She’s a really good author, and I asked permission before putting her in here, so be nice. Her growing book collection is available on Amazon.com so feel free to stop by and pick up a few of her works.

9. Power Games

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Power Games

“The measure of a man is what he does with power.”
― Plato

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
KU Medical Center, Kansas City

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The second FBI visit to the alien’s hospital room took place much later than Deputy Attorney General Gates wanted. The last few hours had seen just about every obstacle thrown into her path, starting with the failure of the agent sent to secure the aliens, and progressing rather quickly afterward when the video of the agent’s visit hit the internet.

Hit like a water balloon full of gasoline into a fireworks factory.

Reporters for every newspaper, radio station, tv station, internet blog, and local penny press had started crowding into the hospital like bureaucrats around an open bar, and there was no end in sight. Tow trucks did a merry business keeping the emergency room entrance clear, the local police had to break up three fist fights between photographers, and that was before Gates found out the few additional ponies three hours away was actually more than two hundred of them, already under the protective custody of the US Army.

Several of the FBI agents later privately hypothesized that Gates had once been a sailor.

By the time Gates managed to make it up to the patient’s floor, she had cooled down to simply seething. At this rate, evacuating the two ponies here would take until past midnight before their medical charter plane would touch down at Reagan International. That would push the entire team of agents into double-overtime, and that was without even considering the difficulty in getting enough agents into Randolph to handle the mass of aliens there.

After all, the last humans who should control supposedly friendly aliens was a bunch of soldiers! It would only be a matter of time before some half-trained private just out of school would panic and shoot one of them, then the whole situation would break down into chaos. The crushing crowd of civilians outside the hospital only made it more obvious in her eyes that the creatures needed her government protection, and the quicker, the better.

There was a Kansas Highway Patrol officer standing outside the hospital door, who nodded and stepped aside when Gates flashed her identification, but only after examining it closely, along with the badges of the other four agents she had with her. Since the local police were involved, this first transfer should proceed without any more problems, which was a good sign.

The hospital beds were much as they had been pictured in the video, only with more wires and tubes around the extraterrestrial visitors. There were two nurses around the Granny Smith alien, carefully monitoring a blood pressure cuff around one green leg and adjusting sensors, but both of the aliens appeared to be sleeping, which was good. The aliens needed to be kept anesthetized and unconscious until their arrival at a detention center in Walter Reed, because Gates was not looking forward to finding out if a taser had any effect on their alien physiology, doubled since they were already injured. None of the agents in the delegation assigned to transport the two aliens to Maryland were nurses or doctors, but one of the agents was hiring an anesthesiologist to keep them drugged up during the flight, and should have him at the charter by the time they were ready to take off.

Before Gates could say anything, a distinguished older man in a rumpled suit stood up from a visitors chair near the window and moved forward.

“Ah, Deputy Gates. I was wondering when you would arrive.”

At first glance, the man in the rumpled suit did not look like a physician, or even that impressive. Age had made his hair go entirely to grey while his gut expanded, making him look a little like a Santa Claus with a shorter beard and less of a jolly attitude. There was no twinkle in those dark eyes, or smile making his cheeks dimple, but rather an expression of great solemnity that bothered Gates.

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” said Gates. “We have two patients to transport.”

“Actually, not.” The old man produced several sheets of paper bearing official seals and dark signatures. “A restraining order prohibiting the removal of two individuals listed as Jane Doe One and Two, from the Kansas University Medical Center until their medical situation has been suitably resolved. Oh, and another one for a group of Jane and John Does currently residing in Randolph, Kansas. You see, Miss Gates, you lack Federal jurisdiction, as the individuals have been determined by Judge Pendergast to be present in Kansas without having crossed across any state borders. It’s an interesting legal question that our founding fathers seemed not to have anticipated, and I’m looking forward to seeing how various legal counsels interpet interdimensional portals in regards to existing law. In any event, since they are here, and the Kansas authorities have not requested assistance from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, you’re stuck.”

Gates spluttered. “This is outrageous. Who’s going to provide security? Who’s going to protect them?”

The older man continued to put away a number of things into his briefcase, only stopping when his chair was clear of the papers he had been working on. “Currently, local law enforcement and members of the military are doing a fine job, from what Governor Brown has told me. He will be putting in a request to the president to allow the continued use of the National Guard and related forces to counter any major security risk, while the locals handle the day to day activities of our guests until they return home. Isn’t that right, Governor Brown?”

“Quite correct, Judge Pendergast,” sounded a voice in the room which Gates identified as coming from the speaker of a cell phone sitting on the nearby table. “Deputy Attorney General Gates, I presume? This is Governor Brown, and I’m the one who contacted the Federal District Court to get a restraining order against your agency until things can get worked out legally. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” snapped Gates. “The aliens need to be under Federal protection.”

The governor laughed. “I think you’ll find it easier to think of them as misplaced tourists, stranded in our state for a day or two rather than aliens. It’s only right that the State of Kansas makes sure they’re taken care of until their metaphorical bus comes back and picks them all back up again, and that will be a very difficult time if they’re all ‘protected’ in Washington when their governmental leaders get their return portal set up here.”

“But they’re aliens! From space!” added Gates while pointing at the sleeping ponies, but lowered her voice at the gesture of one of the nurses who put a finger up to her lips.

“We’re considering them just to be extremely foreign nationals without citizenship papers,” explained the governor. “We’ve notified their home nation, and duplicate copies of their paperwork will be sent here as soon as possible. Their home seems very organized.”

“You’ve… talked to their leader?” Gates gave a nervous look at the door to the hospital room as if some giant space-horse was about to step into the room, but there was nobody there except the Highway Patrol officer who was pretending not to listen to the ongoing conversation.

“We’ve exchanged several letters,” explained the governor. “Between us, we have determined it will be best to keep the Equestrian nationals as close to the site of their first appearance as possible to facilitate their return when they get their return portal set up on Monday.”

“There are security matters with that—” started Gates before the governor cut her off.

“Security is taken care of. The entire First Infantry Division is parked about thirty minutes away from Randolph, if that will make you feel any better. In any event, it is my judgement as governor that our interdimensional visitors are peaceful, and mostly a little embarrassed about dropping in on us without an invitation.” There was a clicking from the phone and the governor started talking faster.

“Well, that’s a call from the 202 area code, so it might be the president. Sorry to step on your toes this way, Deputy Director, but you might as well stick around Kansas City for a few days, see the sights, and stay available if your boss needs anything. Enjoy your stay in our fair state. Later.”

With a sharp click, the call cut off.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:45 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It was a quiet and sullen group of FBI agents who waited at the hospital elevator, with Deputy Attorney General Gates holding the leading position in both position and mood. She quirked her lips to one side while working through her thoughts, then turned to Agent Anacostia and held out her hand.

“Phone.”

“What, Ma’am?” Karla Anacostia swallowed, but took her phone out from under her jacket and passed it over to the deputy AG, then unlocked it when she passed it back with a frown.

“Personal phone too,” said Gates with her other hand out.

“I don’t have a personal phone on me any more,” said Karla. “We’re permitted to use our government phones for limited personal use, and it was a pain to carry two since I never called anyone on it. I’ve got a TracFone in my glove compartment for emergencies, if that will help.”

Gates only grunted and thumbed open the call history on Karla’s phone, as well as the few of her recent text messages, before passing it back. “Somebody clued the governor in to our visit here,” she grumbled. “And if it came out of our department, I’ll skin the bastard alive.”

“Probably one of the press downstairs,” suggested one of the other agents.

“Maybe.” Gates jabbed the illuminated down button on the elevator again. “When we get back to the conference room, I want to get every agent we’ve got together and work out a plan to transport the aliens to Quantico. The governor’s restraining order only applies in Kansas. Once they cross state lines, they’re a Federal responsibility, and I want them in Maryland before they know what happened.”

“You’ll want one of the hospital staff to notify us in case they move the patients,” said Karla. “If you give me one of your business cards, Miss Gates, I’ll leave it with the nurses. I sat my coffee down back there anyway, and that gives me an excuse.”

“Good idea.” Gates peeled off several business cards and passed them to Karla, who turned and headed down the hall just as the poky elevator arrived. She kept her pace regular and measured, passing the nurse’s station and nodding at the Highway Patrol officer at the door before slipping inside the hospital room with a quick glance behind her.

“Claire!” Karla nodded her head at the elderly judge and gave a quick cough. “Judge Pendergast. Um…” She tugged at one ear with a questioning expression directed at Claire.

“I’m not recording,” said Claire.

“OhthankGod,” said Karla in one burst, turning back to the judge. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“Just talking to these two lovely, intelligent ladies,” said the judge, casting a quick glance at the tall nurse and Claire Bruener in a borrowed set of scrubs. “Seems quite a coincidence that the governor of Kansas had my personal cell number. I distinctly remember giving it to you during that kidnapping affair a few months back, although things here seem to have worked out for the best.”

“About that.” Karla gave Claire a sharp glance. “What did you do with the tablet camera? I saw it propped up in the corner there.”

“Turned it off when you guys left.” Claire produced her android tablet and showed the video window with Director Gates in the rough center, frowning fiercely. “I was just about to upload it to YouTube, but the hospital wifi sucks.”

“A few hundred reporters sponging off it drags down the bandwidth,” said Karla rapidly. She peeked out the hospital room door to make sure no other agents had wandered back in her direction before turning back to Claire. “Don’t. Just don’t. Putting that on YouTube is a really bad idea.”

“What, is it illegal?”

The judge interrupted. “Kansas is a one-party consent state, so technically recording Miss Gates and myself was not illegal. It was, however, unwise.”

“You don’t get to her position in Washington by being nice,” said Karla. “You get it by winning fights. She wants to win this one bad. A nice, mutual press conference in Walter Reed with all the major networks listening to how she provided assistance to our alien visitors would play nicely. Then in about a year after the next election, the Attorney General retires, and she moves up, along with everybody who helped her.”

“I see.” Claire slid the video into a folder and closed it. “And anybody who doesn’t help—”

“Bounces under the bus like a dead possum. Oh.” Karla pulled out the DAG’s business cards, then scribbled a number on the backs of two of them. “Deputy AG’s cell on the front. My personal TracFone on the back. Find something that makes her look good, give her a call. Otherwise, give me a call, and we’ll try to fix it. And try to keep them in Kansas. If they cross state lines, she’s going to try to hustle them off to Quantico, but I don’t think she’ll break a restraining order. Go around your back maybe, but she’s got enough respect for the law to keep to it. Unless she can get somebody else in the court to overturn it.”

“I’ll talk to my peers. I think the quieter we keep this, the better off everybody will be.” Judge Pendergast took one of the business cards and tucked it away before looking at the tall nurse in the room, who had been very quiet to this point. The nurse silently nodded back and put a finger to her lips before turning back to Granny Smith and checking a sensor wire. Likewise, the Highway Patrol officer at the hospital room door gave them all a short nod, touched his lips like he was closing a zipper, and returned to his silent observation of the corridor.

Karla picked up the foam coffee cup she had intentionally left behind and took a quick drink. “Well, that’s it for now. Not enough coffee in the world to handle the upcoming hours-long meeting on my day off to deal with planning for an alien invasion ex post facto. Uh,” she added, looking around the room. “Speaking of which, where is the scary one? Goose, I believe?”

“Watching my granddaughter. She was visiting today, and I had to tear out of the Federal Building so fast, I didn’t get a chance to find a sitter,” said Judge Pendergast.

He opened the door to the bathroom where the young girl and the dark batpony were sitting quietly in the middle of the tile floor. The judge’s granddaughter had stripped Goose of her armor before giving the reluctant human-sitter a long brushing, ending in what had obviously been an epic fun time of tying the batpony’s long mane up in colorful ribbons, including one that held the short mane on top of her head straight up like a dark violet haystack. “Come on, honeybunch,” called out the judge. “Time to go.”

“Aww, Grandpa. I wanted to braid her tail.” The little girl looked heartbroken, although her ribboned and bowed pony target perked up as if she was being released from a jail sentence.

“You can come back later,” assured Claire. She scribbled a phone number on a nearby piece of paper and handed it to the young girl. “You and Goose were very good, and since we’re going to be here for a few days, you can come back and braid her tail then.”

Karla stood next to Claire and watched the judge and his granddaughter go away, with one tiny wave thrown back over the girl’s shoulder before they went around the corner of the corridor. Then Claire looked back into the bathroom and giggled.

“Don’t take those ribbons out. They look adorable, and if you’re going to go visit the children’s ward like you promised, they’ll keep the kids from being spooked.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:40 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Glad that’s over,” said Governor Brown as he thumbed the phone over to the other call. “Hello, who is this?” He listened for a moment, then hung up with a low grumble. “No, I don’t need to refinance my student loans, spammer!”

“At least you can use your phone.” Jon Bruener jabbed futilely at his iPhone, barely able to clear out one text message before another dozen flashed across the screen. “Damned Google. Everybody across the world sees my name on TV, Googles my seed company, and has my phone number to send me a text.”

Spike laughed with a remarkably human sounding snort at the end. “Glad I don’t have that problem. Only Princess Celestia and Twilight have the spell to send me—” He put both hands over his face, then belched mightily with a burst of green flame that spilled out over the dining room table and left several packages behind.

“Whoa,” said Jon, patting a scorched corner of the tablecloth. “Careful. My grandmother embroidered this.”

“Sorry.” Spike thumped his chest with one clenched fist to get the last burst of smoke out. “Ow. Well, at least Twilight sent me a snack along with the mail. Good thing, since I missed breakfast.” He picked up a bag full of sparkling rocks and popped one into his mouth with a deafening crunch.

“Pill bottles?” asked Governor Brown, poking cautiously at the collection of items on the table.

“Prescriptions, most likely,” said Spike as he unrolled a scroll and popped another rock in his mouth. “Registration papers, spell notes for the unicorns here to help out with the portal spell in three days. Ah, and a note.”

“Are those… gemstones?” asked Jon, reaching into the neck of the bag and running his fingers through several red and green stones that looked a little like… no, that was quite impossible.

“Rubies, emeralds, a few opals, some peridot, and citrines,” verified Spike, grabbing one chubby handful and popping them into his mouth with a noise like an industrial gravel grinder destroying a boulder. “Some of these are fresh, too. Rarity must have just dug them up today.”

“Uh… Yeah.” Governor Brown peeked over Spike’s shoulder at the long letter, written in the indecipherable Equestrian script. “So what does your Princess Twilight Sparkle say this time?”

“Not much.” Spike kept eating while reading down the page, but talked loud enough to be heard over the destruction. “A week’s worth of prescriptions for everypony with any health issues, just in case. Affirmations of Equestrian citizenship for the ponies stranded here. Uh, I’ll translate them for you later. Extra quills, ink, parchment, and a note for me. That’s nice. I was starting to feel a little ignored.”

The little dragon popped the last of the gems into his mouth and shook the empty bag to get the last fragments of gem dust out, then flattened the scroll down on the table. Jon took the empty bag as it was passed to him and tried to wrap his mind around just how many millions of dollars worth of precious stones it had held. Some of the rubies in the collection were as big as his thumb… or had been that large before being consumed.

“Dear Spike,” started the dragon. “Oh, good. She remembered my name. Anyway, I’ve sent a full week’s worth of prescriptions for all of the residents, along with forms of identification that I hope that world’s governmental authorities accept as official. Included are spare writing materials for you to return a note in case I’ve forgotten anything, and extra writing materials to request any more writing materials if you get low.”

Jon tried to keep a straight face. “I think your Twilight needs a good, long talk with my wife, the therapist.”

“She just drives them crazy,” said Spike. “Anyway, some more about writing, she’s going to try to keep the library sorted without me, Starlight Glimmer— Uh-oh.”

“What?” Jon and Governor Brown looked over the dragon’s shoulder, despite not being able to make heads or tails out of the letter he was reading.

“She’s a really powerful unicorn, and she tries hard to be good, but sometimes she gets a little… scary.” Spike took a deep breath and continued down the page. “I’m supposed to give the notes on the portals to the graduates of Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns who wound up here so they can work the problem from this end too, and use the Ponyville Emergency Fund to pay any expenses we run up until our return. Uh-oh.” Spike looked at the empty bag that had recently held gemstones, then turned it over to reveal a series of Equestrian symbols that seemed to say ‘Do not eat!’ if Jon squinted at them just right.

The governor patted the dragon on the shoulder. “The State of Kansas and Riley County will pick up most of the security and housing tab, since it’s only going to be three days. In all odds, the increase in tourism will make up the difference and then some.”

“Besides, I’ll chip in for any immediate expenses,” said Jon. “You landed here, after all. One of the phone calls I made was to my lawyer back in Leonardville and the bank. She’s setting up a lead trust for your town’s use if needed, and I moved some of my savings into it so the bank can issue a debit card. She should have it here this evening, pro bono.”

Governor Brown checked his own phone, which had been buzzing fairly frequently. “I’m not sure it will be needed. Every charity from the American Red Cross to the Lutheran Women’s Missionary League is lined up to help. The Shriners are even covering Widget and Granny Smith’s hospital bills. My aide says the hardest thing the Riley County Emergency Management staff is dealing with is people who think that we’re going to need a few semi-trucks full of hay and bottled water.”

“As long as it doesn’t get as bad as ‘93,” said Captain Samantha Reitz. “We must have thrown away a couple semi’s worth of the most amazing useless stuff after the flood. Anyway, Governor, I’m headed back into town, but the other shift commander will be along shortly, and we’ve borrowed a few deputies from surrounding counties for traffic control. We’re not having to tow as many people as I first thought to keep K-77 clear, but—” She paused, then continued a little slower. “I’ll have to show you the video the highway department shot. It’s really… different.”

- Ω - -

The Riley County Highway Department pickup was covered in blinking yellow lights and signs like the pace car at a race, but regularly poked along fairly slow like today. The crew it carried could normally put in about four traffic control signs an hour, due to the time required to assemble the sign, dig the hole or hammer in the post, and make sure everything was all correct. Roberto was driving his truck down the edge of the road at a fair trot this afternoon, which was more than unusual because normally he never would have used ‘trot’ as a measure of speed. However, the chunky armored unicorn trotting along just to the side of the pickup was setting the pace, along with one of his companions sitting in the bed of the pickup and using his ‘magic’ to assemble signs. It was a fascinating sight to see Specialist Epsilon surrounded by glowing bolts, nuts, poles and the ‘No Parking - Tow Zone’ signs, spinning and tightening all the parts together until he would float the assembled sign over the edge of the pickup bed to Specialist Titan, who would—

There was another one of the strange ‘chunk’ noises and the bottom half of the steel signpole Titan had floated in front of him just vanished underground, leaving a perfectly straight ‘No Parking’ sign in his wake as he trotted forward to the next location.

- Ω - -

“In any event,” continued Captain Reitz, “the MPs are set up, we’re arranging for shift changes, and we’ve got less of a traffic problem than anticipated, mostly because we’ve been pretty stringent about who we allow into town and the farm. After discussing things with the mayor, we’ve decided to house the children both here and in the Brueners’ old farmhouse next door, since keeping them together will allow us to move them to the return portal in one herd, so to say. Mister Bruener has been coordinating with Randolph to see about housing the rest of our temporary residents in something other than the Emergency Management cots starting to stack up at the Methodist church. How did that go, Jon?”

- Ω - -

Jon really had expected to see just a few Winnebagos and travel trailers in the flat grassy field around back of his house. The field was really too small to rent out for grazing, since it had once been a horse paddock a decade ago until his father had gotten too old to deal with the horses and sold them. Then he passed away and Jon could not keep up with mowing the fenced area either. So he had pulled up the fence and hayed the sparse grass off it every summer while waiting for the compacted soil to spring back.

Years ago, his father had traveled the country with a Winnebago-Itasca Travelers group, and once had brought them over for a visit which filled the yard up with their expensive motorhomes, but Jon really had not expected to see quite so many of them parked in neat lines behind the house again. Thirty or forty was a good guess, under a set of shady clouds that the pegasi were anchoring above the motorhomes. Technically, almost all of them slept four comfortably, or six uncomfortably, so between them, dad’s old house, and his own home, they could probably temporarily house the whole collection of Ponyvillians, even if they would be a little cramped.

The only question he had was why there were so many motorhomes and fifth-wheel trailers in his back pasture next to the dirt utility road that ran up toward Randolph. Jon had called Pastor May and asked if he could bring his fairly small RV up because it had a toilet, although Jon could vaguely remember asking if he could spread the word among the RV crowd.

It had not seemed like too much of an imposition because the pastor only really used his fifth-wheel trailer for the Fourth of July church youth group fireworks stand, and Jon could see it next to his own worn Winnebago Rialta. Then there was Mister Foreman’s travel trailer next to it, and… actually, quite a few of the motorhomes looked familiar, and when Jon went over to the pasture where the owners were showing the temporary residents, it was like going to a church meeting.

Ponies and humans were crawling all over the vehicles because RV owners loved to show off their expensive toys, and the ponies were tickled pink—literally in some cases—to explore and prod the strange machines. About half of the RV owners wound up being from Jon’s church or social circle of some sort. A few quick questions around the gathering revealed the calling tree had caught fire and spread out to the point where Jon noticed Pastor May answering his phone every few minutes with a “No, I don’t think we need any more RVs, but leave a note in the church office in case we need to give you a call.”

To Jon’s intense amazement, the clouds being ‘parked’ over the RVs by the pegasi were also being shaped and moulded by energetic pegasi hooves into temporary housing. The sight of a winged pony climbing over a cloud and patting it into roof or a wall was stunning at first, worthy of a few minutes of video for Facebook, but after everything that had happened today, he was starting to feel more than a little stunned.

Still, not as stunned as some of the people in the town of Randolph.

- Ω - -

Howard Baker was retired, which had a lot of ‘tired’ in it, and enough ‘re’ to repeat tired many times. Oh, there were still activities and such going on in his life, but today he had taken the peace and quiet of the empty house to catch up on his magazine reading and sand a few more pieces of the parquet table he was assembling out in the garage. The wife had been at Vacation Bible School at the Randolph Methodist church all day and had returned just a few minutes ago, talking a mile a minute about some sort of disaster that had dumped a bunch of ponies into the town with no place to keep them. She was a wonderful wife, but entirely too volunteering for Howard’s preferences, in particular the way she had volunteered their back yard to hold several of the lost ponies until they were picked back up.

He was just considering how large the truck accident had to have been to keep all of the ponies from being penned in some farmer’s pasture when the doorbell rang, and he got up from his recliner to answer it. After all, the wife was busy in the kitchen, and she would have needed to walk past him to get to the door anyway, which would have gotten him a sharp talking-to.

“I got it, hun,” he called out as he opened the door and looked out… at nothing.

“Mister Baker? Ohmygosh another human! Isn’t this great, Bonnie?” said a voice down below his line of sight.

There was a grinning horse… well, not really a horse, because a horse would not have been that shade of mint green, or nearly that short, and certainly would not have a mane with blue-green and white stripes flowing down its neck. And a horn. Really, the horn threw him most of all. With the horn, it looked like a unicorn, and nobody sober or sane saw unicorns standing at the front door in the middle of the day. Admittedly, he had gotten out a beer for lunch, but just one beer, and a domestic one at that.

The hornless pony standing next to the green one was a more normal golden-yellow, but with a totally impossible blue and pink mane that curled up in front. She was not grinning so intently as her companion, but rather looked around at her surroundings with a casual intentness. “Lyra,” she admonished in a high, squeaky voice. “They’re all humans around here.”

“But this one is a baker!” said ‘Lyra’ with an even larger grin that nearly could not fit on her face. “You two will get along great! Do you throw parties or are you more a bread baker or a candy maker like Bon Bon here or—”

“Lyra!” The cross-looking yellow pony stuck a hoof right into her companion’s mouth. “Manners.” Turning back to Howard, Bon Bon gave a small, respectful nod of her head and a polite smile. “Mister Baker, the human ladies at the Methodist church were looking for volunteers to house us while we’re waiting on Twilight to make a return portal. Your wife, I believe, said you have a spare bedroom.”

“Honey?” called out Howard. “It’s for you.”

10. Moving Party

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Moving Party

“There is no real need for decorations when throwing a barbecue party - let the summer garden, in all its vibrant and luscious splendour, speak for itself.”
― Pippa Middleton

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:15 A.M. Pacific Standard Time, June 19, 2015.
San Francisco Chronicle building, California

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The San Francisco Chronicle was smaller than most people thought, and still large enough to harbor the worst of energy-sucking parasites. Staff meetings drew them out like ticks to a hound dog, so Dakota Henderson felt glad that the lead editor had limited the pony-discovery discussion between various writers to a brutal few minutes. A story such as this out in the blighted American midwest would be of interest to the newspaper readership, even if it did not measure up to some of the fanciful editorial theories about the aliens fleeing an ecological catastrophe or being oppressed by a carnivorous race. Two poor suckers had been selected out of the volunteers to travel out into the wilderness to gather information for the more enlightened writers back home to craft into columns, and to Kota’s hidden delight, he was one of them.

Kota had not disclosed that he found out about the aliens over an hour earlier from a military buddy, and had already hit Orbitz for a plane ticket to Kansas, so having the Chronicle pay for his purchase was going to be a nice bonus for a part-time stringer. The fly in the ointment so to say was the other reporter volunteered for the trip, who chattered along by his side with a cell phone held to her ear as they walked through the halls of the building.

“They’re ponies, like little horses who talk English of all things, Dawn. Isn’t that just divine! Romping through the grass, naked to the world. It’s no wonder they’re advanced intelligences who can travel through dimensions. Of course, I’ll bring you one of their crystals for your girlfriend. Hey, Kota! Are you going to make our plane reservations for tomorrow?”

It took him a second to realize the question was directed at him, and Dakota shifted the duffel bag higher on his shoulder before responding. “I keep a bag at the office for just this occasion. My ticket is for about two hours from now, so I’ll have to hustle to make the plane as is.”

“Just a sec,” said Crystal, mashing her thumb down on the Android phone ‘mute’ button. “Look, weirdo. You’re not stealing my story! Jeff is sending us there together! I’ve got to pack and make arrangements and get tickets and—”

“And I’ll be in Kansas City in five hours,” said Dakota. “I’ve got my bug-out bag, my laptop, some clothes, and my traveling gear, so I’m good. I’ll be talking to alien ponies by the time you’re done talking to your plants tonight. Bye.”

It probably spelled the end of his journalism career at the Chronicle, but it still felt good to slip into the Uber he had called for the trip to the airport and leave the blonde chatterbox behind. There was no time to relax, because what little he had managed to get off YouTube and his Army buddy at the site indicated that the town was going to be sealed off from anybody who was not a resident, and that included a few thousand reporters—domestic and imported—who most probably would be trying to crowd into the tiny town in the next few days.

Thankfully, he had actually written a chapter in one of his fantasy novels about such a dilemma, and it took literally less than ten minutes during the drive to the airport for Zillow to find an affordable house for sale in Randolph. Then a call to his lawyer in North Carolina to set up the deal, a conference call with the real estate agent, and he had a purchase agreement by the time the car reached the airport.

Over the last ten years, his lawyer friend had taken care of his book deal, the life insurance his parents had left behind, and whatever other money Dakota had sent his way, leaving a tidy growing balance locked away from his ex-wife’s grasping fingers. A fellow Marine, he also held a power of attorney over his investments, so by the time Kota was in line for TSA, a little over sixty thousand dollars of his cash reserves from his parents’ estate was on the way to a bank in Leonardville, and the digitally signed documents were being finalized to be delivered to his mailbox while the airplane was still in the sky.

Bruce Wayne had it right. Cash is its own superpower.

TSA was moving at a good clip for a change, although Dakota had a brief moment of panic over the thought that a few loose pistol rounds may have been lost in the corners of his carry on bag from his last trip to Montana to go hunting with some military buddies. After some time in line checking for spent brass, it turned out to be a false alarm, allowing him to pass through TSA and head for his gate without incident.

Boarding pass, ticket, debit cards, check, check, and check. Transportation was going to be a sticky link at the far end of the trip, and Dakota was not looking forward to sleeping on a bare floor or in the backseat of a subcompact rental car, but there was an option he had always wanted to try.

And surprisingly, it only took another ten minute phone call and the wave of a magic credit card to accomplish the task of creating Cinderella’s pumpkin in Kansas City, all ready for pickup when he got there. A two week RV rental was probably guessing long, but he had the cash, and if this worked, he would be one of a very few reporters in the world with alien access, which should be able to make back his investment plus some.

He was feeling pretty good about himself and mentally putting together some story outlines for his horsey interviews when a sharp fingernail poked him from behind and a familiar voice said, “Hey, Kota. They’re boarding in a few minutes, so you might want to get that bag checked.”

“Crystal!” Dakota whirled to find the blonde bombshell looking back, with her beaded purse slung over one shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“My friend got a plane ticket and texted it to me,” she explained, counting off points with her immaculately manicured nails, “and I’ll get a hotel in Randorf tonight. She’s going to FedEx me the bare essentials today, and they should show tomorrow morning. Until then, I’ve got my little red dress and some spare underthings. How about you?”

Dakota could not resist. “There’s no hotels in Randolph. I bought a house there, so I’ll be staying right there at the landing site, while you get a hotel room in Manhattan and have to fight your way through a few thousand reporters to get a story.”

“Manhattan?” Crystal wrinkled up her perfect nose. “Isn’t that a long way away? Like I didn’t think Kansas was that close to the coast.”

Three hours of being trapped in an aircraft seat next to the blonde did nothing to raise her level of conversation. She was smart enough to swap seating assignments to be next to him, but dumb enough that Dakota could feel his brain cells begin to wither and die with every word she spoke.

Or at least until the refrigerator door opened and he could see a little light bulb turn on.

“Dakota Henderson, single, divorced father of two,” she mused almost under her breath, or at least loud enough for him to hear over the aircraft noise. “You bought a house in this podunk little Kansas town.”

It was certainly not a question, so Dakota just grunted and kept writing in his notebook.

“Scuttlebut around the newsroom said your ex soaked you for every dime she could get her hands on,” said Crystal. “So what, did you dig a hole and bury some cash?”

“After our divorce, my parents passed away,” said Dakota. “The estate only split two ways with my sister, and I locked down every dime of the insurance money I could keep out of my ex’s hands. It’s still not enough to buy a reasonable condo in San Francisco, and I’m not about to pay the highway robbery rates that a mortgage would cost me, particularly with taxes and the way real estate prices flail around. So I held onto a down payment in cash, just in case an opportunity came up.”

Crystal snapped her gum and gave him an evaluating look. “You know, if I were your ex, I woulda dragged you back into court and got you to cough up extra child support money.”

“She did.” Dakota shrugged. “She found a female lawyer and a friendly female judge and was all ready with her girlfriend to take me to the cleaners. Then I showed up in court with a friend of one of my Marine lawyer buds from a few years ago. Got caught in an IED explosion and lost an arm, so he left the service and decided he… well, she liked it better on the other side of the gender fence. The courthouse railroad ran right off into the ditch at that point, particularly when he showed that my ex’s girlfriend had moved in with her for the last few years and no longer kept a separate address. Their combined income is at least one decimal point or two away from mine. That’s the only way I still have the money to buy a house on short notice, although it made getting visitation with my kids absolute hell.”

Crystal pursed her lips in a silent whistle. “So you bought a house.”

“Is there an echo in the plane? Yes, I bought a house. It was dirt cheap, compared to about anything in Frisco that isn’t on fire, and unless the authorities seal off Randolph totally and ship everybody to a hotel somewhere, which I’d do if there were a bunch of aliens there, the only people allowed in or out will be residents.”

“And we’re residents now,” said Crystal with a long, slow nod. “Makes sense.”

“I’m a resident,” clarified Dakota, although with immediate second thoughts about his fellow reporter, who had much more experience in the business than he did, and occupied a far higher link in the food chain. “You can be a paying guest for expense account purposes,” he added with more than a little reluctance, but a recognition that some mutual backscratching would assist his career.

“Paying?” Crystal gave him a pouting look with a curled-out lower lip.

It took very little effort for Dakota to pick up his mechanical pencil and return to his notebook. “This project is going to be expensive, and you’re not going to flirt your way out of paying the bills. Besides, you’ll get them reimbursed. You’re the lead reporter, so you’ll get the bylines too. Even if the aliens are only here until Monday, we’ll be writing stories on them for several weeks. Then it’s back to the Chronicle, I’ll sell the house in Randolph, and life returns to normal. My ex has been making noises about us getting back together. We’ve started dating again, and the kids are talking to me for a change. I’m not going to screw this one up.”

“Or screw this one?” added Crystal with a wink.

“Darned straight.” Dakota flipped over a page and started to draw a sketch from one of the pony pictures he had stored on his phone. “It’s the only way I’m going to get to see my kids for more than once a year.”

Crystal remained blissfully silent for a time while watching him draw, then settled back in her seat and returned to her book reader for the rest of the journey.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Kansas City International Airport

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So this is your idea of a rental car?” Crystal climbed into the passenger seat of the RV and remained relatively quiet while Dakota and the portly driver exchanged pleasantries, only resuming her carping once they had traveled down the road to drop off the driver at his home. “The paper will never reimburse this,” she grumbled. “It’s like a portable hotel room.”

“I bought an empty house,” said Kota once he had gotten the heavy vehicle back on the road and up to highway speed. “They don’t come furnished, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to sleeping on the floor. The house is just to get me… I mean us access to the town. Think of it as a portable bed and breakfast. I’ll park the RV in the driveway and we can sleep in it. If it takes more than two weeks, I’ll get us a couple of air mattresses for the house and rent a car. I’ll bet there’s not a regular hotel within thirty minutes drive of Randolph, and I guarantee the traffic will stretch that out to hours.”

“Huh.” Crystal looked marginally impressed, and went back to explore the strange vehicle once they were on a fairly straight piece of road with no bumps. “There’s only one bed— Oh, wait. There’s one over the driver too. And there’s a toilet back here!”

“It’s a lot better than that trip to Uganda I got to go on last year,” said Kota. “There’s still a couple hours to Randolph. If you want, get my laptop and hotspot out of the bag. You can probably have a story filed by the time we get there. Bold, adventurous reporters off into the American West in search of alien pony encounters and all that.”

“K. Cool.”

That was all Dakota heard out of her for some time, other than the clicking of keys and the murmuring of her phone. He drove in silence with the occasional glance at his phone for Siri’s directions, picked up the ticket to get onto the turnpike, then paid to get off of it in Topeka an hour later.

“Hey!” objected Crystal during one of the sweeping turns the interstate had put in their way. “Are you lost?”

“Nope,” he called back. “I-70 doesn’t have a straight bypass here, according to Siri. We’re going to stop at Walmart for supplies, get coffee, and be back on the road in about a half-hour. Worst case if we have to camp outside of the town, we won’t starve.”

“Can we stop by Neiman Marcus?” asked Crystal. “I can get a couple of blouses to tide me over until my girlfriend gets my stuff shipped to me. Oh, poo,” she added, poking at her phone. “The nearest one is in Kansas City. Can we go back?”

It wound up taking more than the expected time to buy supplies at the local Walmart, but they still managed to get back out on the road with Crystal stocking the small refrigerator and complaining about the lack of organic vegetables in their purchases. She typed for a little more while he drove, then settled into the passenger seat to stare out the window as the lights of civilization became fewer and the darkness closed in.

“So why did you buy the carrots?” asked Dakota in order to fill the silence without random radio tuning.

“Well, duh!” Crystal flicked one wrist. “They’re ponies, right? I grabbed a little bit of everything in the grocery aisle, but ponies are supposed to really love carrots.”

“They’re aliens, not people,” said Dakota, who was really appreciating having a second person to talk to while driving, although he kept wanting to change her channel to something smarter. “Humans are wildly different from state to state, let alone on the other side of the world. You never would have made it during the Uganda trip. We were held up at gunpoint twice, and ate things that you just can’t find in California. These creatures may look like ponies and even act like them a little, but they’re not even people. We’re going to have to be careful not to anthropomorphize them too much.”

“They were eating pizza in one of the videos,” pointed out Crystal.

“Err… Point taken. I don’t know why anybody would feed horses pizza. Their digestive systems can’t take it.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
City Park in Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Normally, a group of displaced people who have gone through a disaster will be depressed, huddle together with their families, and worry.

To counter that, the people of Randolph got together and decided to have a party at the city park for their new guests, with a barbeque (corn on the cob and carrot dogs) and music. The crowds could have easily gotten out of hand, but the radio and TV stations were very careful to specify that the party was by the residents of the town, for the ponies, so piling into the car and trying to visit was only going to get people trapped in a miles-long traffic jam before being turned back. Besides, several local TV stations broadcast live feeds, giving the watchers a far better view of the festivities than sitting in a stalled car in the Kansas heat.

So the party started with the population of Randolph(163), a certain small fraction of Ponyville(243), various MPs and other soldiers from Ft. Riley, a dozen or so of the local media, and the Kristina Craig Band. They had arrived in Nebraska before Country Stampede to do a little catching up in their hometown, and since it was only a three-hour trip away, took the opportunity to do a gig for the new alien guests.

The humans really did not understand that ponies considered music to be a participatory sport.

By eight o’clock, the temporary stage had about as many ponies as people on it.

By eight thirty, the only human not dancing was on the drums, while the rest of the band positions had been supplemented by musical members of the audience.

By nine, the humans had experienced their first spontaneous musical number. It was viewed by most of them as a stunningly unique and special experience. There was one exception.

- Ω - -

“So is that your father?” Widget blinked drowsily at the television set and flopped her head over to look at Claire, who was typing on her tablet. “He looks familiar.”

Claire looked up for a moment, then returned to pecking away on her wireless keyboard. “Oh, God. Yes, that’s my father. Mom’s the one dancing with him. If you can call that dancing. Can we change channels?”

“That’s nice.” Widget yawned and wiggled her wrapped-up hoof slightly. “Ouch.”

“I think we can cut down the morphine in her IV tomorrow morning. How about we turn off the TV in a few minutes and let you both get some sleep,” said the short chubby nurse who was watching over Granny Smith. The elderly pony had gotten up once to be walked back to the bathroom and for the doctor-unicorn to examine her hip, but had gone straight back to bed afterward and seemed to be content to just sleep with a quiet snore.

“D’wana,” muttered Widget, turning back to the television where several humans were dancing while pegasi flew above them in complicated patterns. “Wanna dance. Go see the world. Wanna see it all.” Her horn lit up in a flickering aura and the can of Sprite on the table wobbled, but Claire caught it before it could fall and held it up to Widget’s lips for a drink. “Wanna see the bathroom,” she said carefully after getting her drink.

After a few more keystrokes, Claire got up and began to move the blankets on Widget’s bed with a yawn. “Okay, but once you go pee, it’s back to bed and sleep.”

“K.” Several other nurses slipped into the room while they were undergoing the complicated maneuver of getting twice as many legs out of bed and onto the floor than Claire was used to, although Widget held her injured foreleg up on her own during the short walk to the bathroom. “Good friend. Claire’s good friend.”

Waiting until the unicorn had finished the awkward task of peeing in an alien toilet and underwent the long trip back to the bed, Claire finally mumbled, “I’m not that good a friend.”

“Iz too.” Widget leaned out as far as her IV would let her and brushed her cold nose against Claire’s neck. “Called that nice judge for me. Stopped the nice agent lady. Nice.”

Claire held her hand over the pony’s mouth, then carefully began to get her comfortable on the hospital bed. “Let’s not talk about that, please. Why don’t we talk about… Ponyville?”

“D’wanna.” Widget yawned, smelling a little horsey from the applesauce she had eaten today without brushing her teeth afterward. “My parents are from Ponyville, and their parents too. I’z an only foal, so I’ll be there too. Runnin’ the shop. Fixin’ stuff. Marry some stud, have foals, stuff like that. Never see the world.”

“I’ve seen our world,” said Claire. She held up her tablet and showed the screen it was on with a picture of mountains in the background. “Bicycled the Alps. Visited all my mother’s crazy relatives in Portugal. Spent six weeks in Japan with a youth conference. It has its awesome and sucky spots.”

“Heh.” Widget settled down on the pillow with her eyes closed. “Bet you never saw a Sonic Rainboom.”

“Bet you can’t finish describing it before you fall asleep,” countered Claire, turning the tablet camera in the direction of the sleepy unicorn. “I’ll video it for proof.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
K13 Bridge by Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“How do you know this is the right bridge?” Crystal peered out into the darkness as the Winnebago quietly hummed along. “It’s so dark out there.”

“You think it’s dark here, you should have seen Afghanistan.” Dakota Henderson peered out the windshield and pointed at the glow. “Looks like Randolph right up there. Street lights, running water, and everything.”

“You don’t think there are any… indians out there?” asked Crystal. “This far out in the plains, that is.”

“You’ve got one right here.” Dakota grinned. “What do you mean ‘we,’ white man?”

He paused for the expected indignant response, then caught a good look at Crystal’s stressed face reflected on the auto glass. “No, there’s no wild indians here,” he added with as much reassurance as he could force into his voice without laughing. “The ponies are probably all sleeping at whatever shelter the government set up for them, so we’ll just follow Siri to my house and sack out until tomorrow morning.”

They drove in silence for a short while until Crystal spoke up. “We have to get through the roadblock first,” she said once the side road to the town loomed up out of the darkness and the MP could be seen, holding out his hand. Dakota slowed the RV into a turn, bringing it to a halt beside the soldier and rolling down the window.

“Hello, Private… Fitzgerald, “ said Dakota with a short salute and a squinting look at the soldier’s ACUs in the light of the RV’s interior. “Looks like our alien visitors brought out the Army.”

“Yes, sir. Do you have business in the town?” said the MP, who sounded relieved to get some company.

“Just headed to our house, sir.” Dakota thumbed off Siri and unlocked his iPhone. “Let me get the bill of sale for you.”

“Oh, you’re a resident.” The MP waved them on. “Have a nice night, and watch out for our visitors. Most of them are down at the park, but there’s a few out and about.”

It took a moment for his words to soak into Dakota’s tired mind, but he tossed his phone onto the dashboard and thanked the MP before driving slowly forward, past the roadblock and onto the dark street. Crystal at least waited until the checkpoint was behind them before breaking out in a bad case of the giggles.

“You didn’t even have to buy a house,” she managed through her laughter. “They just let you in.”

“Indian luck,” he retorted, leaving the window open and sticking his elbow out into the cool breeze. Even though small towns tended to roll the streets up at night, he could hear the distant sound of loud music, so somebody at the park was active. Maybe the ponies were party animals. “We native Americans got screwed on everything else, but—”

A blur of orange flashed across the headlights, and Kota’s slowing reflexes barely were able to slam the Winnebago’s brake pedal to the floor before the blur resolved itself into…

The weirdest pony he had ever expected to see. And it was flying.

Most of the pictures he had seen showed three kinds of ponies in muted pastel colors, with occasional vibrant blues and pinks. This pegasus was different. Way different. The powerfully pink pegasus fairly glowed neon in the headlights, and almost literally to boot, overshadowed only by the vibrant orange of her mane and tail that practically ensured her complete and total safety during deer season, as well as anyone within a few dozen yards.

The human eye was not meant to see this kind of color explosion at close range and without time to brace. Every time Kota blinked, she seemed to strobe in the headlights, until she swooped up to his open window and spoke in the most beautiful plaintive voice.

“Um, excuse me, sir or madam. We’re trying to get the students back to their sleeping quarters, and we got turned around in town, so if you could direct us to the Bruener’s farm, we’d be deeply appreciative.”

Several more blinks on Kota’s part made him realize that the colorful mare was wearing armor of some dark blackish-blue material, thus making her one of the military members of the stranded ponies. He reflexively saluted as the concept of ‘Officer’ triggered neurons that had been properly trained by the Marines over several years of service.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he snapped, putting the stopped Winnebago into park. “Let me just pull up the map on my phone and we’ll get you and…”

Distracted by the pegasus’ vibrant colors, Kota had not noticed the smaller horde of ponies that followed her, most of which were gathered around the front fender of the motorhome and making noises like “Cool!” and “Neat!” In the darkness, they would be more invisible than deer, and if there were any other vehicles driving around, the first thing they’d notice would be the thump of the first interdimensional traffic fatality.

“Crystal, open the door,” he called back. “We can drive Miss…” He paused and looked at the pegasus with a bit of a squint.

“Specialist Thermal,” she said with a shy smile from where she was still hovering. “And my son, Standing Water.”

It took a second for Kota to spot the sleeping pegasus colt in the carrier to Thermal’s side. His light blue and dark blue coloring merged with the mottled shadows, plus his mother’s vibrant colors kept dragging Kota’s eyes away. The rest of the little ponies who came stampeding up into the RV were easier to pick out, although all he could do for a few moments was marvel at the diversity of pony accessories and color schemes.

Particularly when a glowering bat-winged demon pony followed them all inside.

Glowing golden eyes swept across the squabbling children, sucking away a lot of their youthful energy and making the little colts and fillies settle down on seats and the carpeted floor. It even stopped three little fillies from using the bed in back as a trampoline, although it took a second fierce glare to stop the last bounce.

“Better,” she rumbled, turning her dragon-like gaze on Dakota and obviously forcing what was supposed to be a friendly smile if not for the glint of razor-sharp teeth exposed to the interior lighting of the RV.

Crystal gave a muffled shriek. Dakota did his best to appear non-threatening, carefully retrieving his phone with no sudden moves and pulling up Google maps. After all, the creature had not eaten any of the little ponies, and it was wearing the same dark armor as the other military mare.

“All accounted for, Lamby?” Specialist Thermal popped her head in the side door and looked around at the quiet children-ponies while the demon nodded her head.

“Just missing Lucky. We should have headed back to put these troublemakers in bed an hour ago,” grumbled ‘Lamby’ with another quelling glance where several of the young ponies had discovered the refrigerator.

“But the party was so much fun!” declared one of the ponies with a bounce on the bed that made the ribbon tied in her mane flop like wings.

“There were all kinds of carrot dogs, and they just kept feeding us!” declared a little pegasus, who also started bouncing on the bed with the assistance of real wings.

“And new music!” declared a white unicorn filly, who nearly bounced out of the bed with an enthusiastic bounce from the other two.

“Echaw! Booya!” declared a small similarly bat-winged filly in a carrier that ‘Lamby’ had across her armor. Despite looking almost identical to its terrifying mother, the little filly was just heart-rending adorable with big golden eyes and a shock of brilliant blue that swept down her mane like a stroke of lightning.

There was a sharp rattling at the passenger side door and it popped open, allowing a scruffy green pony the opportunity to hop up into the open seat. Like the other mares, he had a foal carrier across his back, which he wriggled out of in order to get his rear seated in the cushioned chair, but unlike them, he was not wearing any kind of armor.

“Here we go,” he declared, pulling the door closed and getting the sleeping green foal in the carrier situated on his lap. “Hello, sir. Thanks for giving us a lift.”

“No prob… Lucky,” said Dakota, still holding the phone. Instead of opening up Google Maps as he originally intended, he thumbed open the camera app and swept the inside of the RV, getting several pictures of the smiling ponies, both large and small. “Bruener,” he murmured while changing applications and zooming into Google maps. “I think…”

“Down this road,” said Lucky, leaning over and pointing with one hoof at the map. “Then you will need to make a—” He tapped several times on the phone with the edge of his hoof before frowning sharply. “This is a lot easier with fingers.”

Dakota shifted the map on screen and Lucky nodded. “There we go. Turn right about there and park with the rest of the RVs. We’ll get the little ones sorted out to the correct sleeping quarters then, if they can stay awake for five minutes.”

“Fie!” declared one small voice from behind them. “Fie! Fie!”

“No flying until we get everypony settled, Stargazer,” chided Lucky without even looking back. “Then you and your mother can keep watch over everypony. Shall we be going, sir?”

“Oh. Yes.” Dakota passed the phone over to the green pony, who was fastening his seat belt, then shifted the Winnebago into low gear and began to roll down the back roads of Randolph again, this time a lot slower and keeping a much sharper eye out for any wandering ponies.

Author's Note

Face it, once you've seen Specialist Thermal, all other ponies look normal. She's got some shock value to her color scheme. From The Night Guard - Night Mares

“She started as a sky glider⁽¹⁾ in Canterlot as a runaway back before she even got teats. Used to come in with the vice squad every time she needed a good meal and an unoccupied bed for the day. They practically adopted her as a decoy. Just set her up and watch the criminals flock to her. That’s her natural color, by the way. Shocking Pink and Oh-My-Stars Orange. Under the right streetlights, she practically glows.”
(1) Sky gliders are much like street walkers, only in the pegasus section of town.

11. Saturday Morning Cartoons

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Saturday Morning Cartoons

“The more wonderful the means of communication, the more trivial, tawdry, or depressing its contents seemed to be.”
― Arthur C. Clarke

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:04 A.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth Floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Allison Short was proud of being the KC Star’s best staff photographer for good reason. She refused to think of her occupation as being a dying breed in an expiring industry, but had fought hard in her career to capture on film just as much of any story she covered as the reporters she was paired with. Her photos would not be the first pictures of the aliens, or even any of the first thousand of them on the internet, but hers would be first and foremost in the upcoming Star article on the injured aliens and their medical treatment.

And the first thing any reader would see in the article would be her photo.

Despite Allison’s early arrival, the reporter assigned to write the article would only be along a few hours later, depending on how his or her interview with the unicorn doctor went this morning. With him out of the way at Doctor Schwartz’s house where the pony had been staying as a guest, Allison was free to capture a time-critical scene in the most accurate and memorable way possible.

The natural tendency of a hospital when one of their patients was going to get photographed was to throw themselves into a beautification program just a degree away from the Miss America pageant. It probably had something to do with them being lawsuit-shy. One cancer patient had even been dragged through the indignity of a perm and makeover just so she would look good for the camera.

The official time the Star had worked out with the hospital for the interview with the alien patients was about eleven or so. Dawn was still a half-hour away, but the lack of strong light would not be a problem. Allison’s camera had some of the most sensitive night mode sensors Nikon had ever blessed on silicon. A few candid shots with the sleeping aliens in the dim light of the pre-dawn sun would be wonderful background, even perhaps framed as something that the national media would run to tug the heartstrings of people all across the world.

If I do this right, the residuals could send my grandkids to college.

It took a few moments to check in with the nurses on duty and show them the email between the hospital and the newspaper, which they took with a great deal of skepticism and close examination of her identification. It seemed the ‘alien watchers’ had been more than a little annoying, and the head nurse had promised that the next weirdo to try dressing as a doctor or nurse to sneak in was going to get ‘probed’ before being tossed back out into the parking lot.

From the fourth-floor window.

Once the nurses were comfortable with Allison’s identity and authorization, she took a few vanity shots of their dutiful alertness at their stations, which might or might not be used in the article but would wind up in the newspaper clip file just in case. Then all she needed to do was promise not to disturb their sleeping patients and she was free to slip on down the hallway. By luck, the Highway Patrol officer on duty at the doorway was just strolling down the hall in the direction of the coffee pot when Allison came around the other corner, so she gave him a few moments to get some distance, then slipped into the room unseen.

Thankfully the evening lighting cast a shadowless glow across the room, allowing a good look at the two ponies snoozing in their beds with the young girl draped across the couch in the background. Allison crouched, lifting the camera to frame the shot and—

—something silent and terrifying surged out of the darkness.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:20 A.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth Floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Claire?” An insistent hoof prodded Claire Bruener where she had tried to make herself as comfortable as possible on the visitor’s couch. Thankfully, most of a day and part of an evening of conversation with the young batpony had given Claire enough experience not to give out a sharp screech at the sight of her glowing yellow eyes. After several blinks and yawns, Claire checked the time on her plugged-in phone on the nearby table.

“Goose? It’s not even five thirty,” whispered Claire with a quick look at the two patients, both of which seemed to be beeping and breathing according to their monitors. “Did you finish all the Batman movies I queued up on my tablet? I told you, Batman and Robin isn’t worth it.”

“Not… really. I wanted to ask you something. Is this a laser gun?” Goose’s massive wings flexed at her sides, giving a light breeze to the room, before she reached under them with one hoof and produced a fairly large chunk of electronic equipment.

“No, it’s a camera,” said Claire. She picked it up and examined it in the light coming from the window and the pre-dawn glow of the distant sun. “Darned expensive one, too. Where did you get it?”

Claire was getting a better handle on the ‘tells’ of the ponies, from the way Widget’s horn would spark when she was angry or upset to the way Goose’s wings got little twitches from nerves. There were a lot of twitches now, like a wave of chiggers crawling across the dark skin of her huge wings, and the batpony glided across the hospital tile with the ghostly soundless tread that Claire thought she would never get used to.

Following closely behind, Claire tried not to gasp when Goose opened the bathroom door of the hospital room to reveal a middle-aged woman with wide eyes, who was hog-tied and gagged in the middle of the floor. Expertly tied up, at that, considering that Goose accomplished the task using only hospital self-adhesive pink binding wrap and her own hooves.

“Um,” started out Claire, eventually following it with, “Ahhh, you do realize that The Dark Knight was just a movie, right? And that the number of criminals sneaking into hospital rooms with high-tech guns that look like fancy cameras is pretty much zero. Although we probably should ask her.” Claire produced a knife out of her pocket, bent over the lady, and cut the gag away from her mouth, which allowed the photographer to cough and get a full breath of air.

“Thanks,” she gasped, shaking some of her shoulder-length red hair out of her eyes. “Allison Short, photographer from the Kansas City Star. Thought I’d drop in early and get some candid shots.”

“Sorry,” said Goose with her bat-like wings creeping up to cover her head.

“Are you kidding?” blurted out the photographer before taking a quick glance at the other room and lowering her voice. “That was awesome! God, I’ve never had my heart beating like that before! I think I peed myself a little.”

“Is something wrong, ladies?” Attracted and puzzled by the conversation, the Highway Patrol officer outside the door leaned in, holding his coffee in one hand.

“Goose caught a wild photographer in her natural habitat,” explained Claire. “You want to come in here and help cut her free?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:37 A.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Outside the Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Dakota Henderson was used to waking with the dawn or before. After all, the rising sun was something special that God had blessed upon the Earth, and it would be a crying shame if any Marine in service to the country could not appreciate it to the tune of a bugle blasting in one ear.

Thankfully, he was no longer in active service, but once a Marine, always a Marine it had been said. A true Marine would not complain about getting any sleep anywhere, even in the reclined RV driver’s chair, but he did not miss the bugle at all. After a pained yawn, he scowled at the tiny fleck of sun peeking over the horizon that put a line of illumination across the RV’s main room, then grabbed for his phone again once he saw what it illuminated.

Their short trip down the dirt road to the Bruener’s RV parking area last night had been taken at the slowest speed, in order not to run over any alien visitors. The resulting slow rocking sensation had affected the hyperactive little ponies like several shots of sedative, making it so that once Kota had eased his rented RV into a section of mowed grass next to the other parked vehicles, he had been the only conscious creature remaining inside. Well, other than the batwinged mare with her bright-eyed baby. She had merely looked at him, then at the sleeping tiny ponies, and slipped out the door like some sort of ghost.

This morning, the interior of the parked RV could have been mistaken for a room full of adorable plushies, with at least six or seven of the little fillies and colts curled up on the bed in back, and Crystal snoozing in the middle of them. Various other sleeping ponies were scattered around the cabin, and from the pair of tails dangling from above him, at least two were in the over-cab area. Once Kota had finished his impromptu photography session, he pulled up his email and sent the whole batch straight to the Chronicle newsroom with a note indicating that they had arrived in Randolph and were making friends with the natives. Then he very carefully extracted his professional camera from his bag and took several close shots in high resolution of Crystal and her sleeping pony companions. They probably would not fit with any story the Chronicle would run, but there was a lot of good-natured blackmail potential that he just could not turn down.

A faint tapping outside of his window made Dakota stop taking cute pictures and roll the window down so he could greet the scruffy green pony he had met yesterday night in Randolph. The blue-eyed stallion was awake and alert with a smile, smelling slightly of coffee and with his fedora sloped forward to shade his eyes. Only this time the similarly green unicorn foal in his carrier was all bright and curious instead of sleeping.

“Morning, Mister Henderson. Your friend is in the old house, making pancakes.” The pony pointed over his shoulder at a nearby square-ish two story house that had seen better days next to a sleek ranch-style home with a multitude of ponies scurrying around it. “If you can get the kids up and generally together, we’ll get you all fed. No sausage unless you want to go to the Brueners’ house, I’m afraid, although I think there may be a piece or two of bacon stashed aside for humans.”

“B’kon!” announced the little unicorn in the carrier, bouncing up and down with glee. “B’kon! B’kon!”

“You’ll have to beat Clover to it, though,” he admitted.

- Ω - -

“Hey, Kota!” Nicholas Comena dropped into the seat next to Dakota and plunked a foam plate full of pancakes into the middle of the table, which had seen better days. All of the furniture in the old house was… well, old, so the ponies had made temporary tables out of boxes low enough to the ground for ponies young and old to eat without any chairs. Colorful towels kept the syrup and foam plates from making too much of a mess, and most of the plastic silverware had been eschewed in favor of just sticking pony noses down on plates and chewing.

Although all of the unicorns seemed reluctant to dine in that direct fashion.

The kitchen table where the humans were eating breakfast was the exception to the design scheme of ‘early storage container with bathware slipcovers’ because it had been the Bruener family table before the new house was built. All the kids had scattered to every corner of the room while Dakota had managed to get a seat at the old farmhouse’s kitchen table with a regular chair. He already had company for breakfast, because Lucky had his foal sitting on the middle of the table and suckling out of a bottle that he was holding with both forehooves. The kid was adorable beyond measure, but Lucky had put all four feet down about keeping her out of the photographs, so Kota had limited himself to the rest of the pint-sized herd until Nick was done volunteering behind the griddle.

“Hey, Nick. This is Lucky and his kid, Clover. How’s life in the tin cans?” Dakota stabbed one of the pancakes with his plastic fork and dropped it on his own plate, following it up with a drizzle of syrup.

“A lot better than you unemployed journalist types,” said Nick with a bright grin that showed a lot of white teeth in his dark face. “I can at least shoot back at my job, although I’ve been promoted to rugrat watcher for now. Went and kept one of the little ones from drowning, that one over there with the red hair, I think. Suddenly, I’m a big damn hero to the Army.”

Clover snorted and let go of the bottle’s nipple, giving a shake of her head to clear it of foam before looking right at Nick and repeating, “Dam hero. Big dam hero.”

“And bottle,” said Lucky, nudging her with the plastic nipple until the foal started nursing again with such force that the sides of the bottle bowed in. The adult father figure looked at the two military men and mouthed “No” while shaking his head so hard that his fedora bobbed.

“Right, Nick,” chastised Dakota. “You Army types are all profanity. Think you can keep your mouth clean long enough for Crystal over there to get a story out of your heroic actions?” He bobbed his head in the direction of the statuesque blonde, who was busily chatting with several female ponies and exchanging frequent giggles. “We work together in San Francisco at the Chronicle, flew down last night, and spent the night out in my rental RV, so I’ve got a little swing.”

“Dayum,” said Nick with a low whistle afterward. “You’re moving up in the world, hoss.”

“I’m just a spec photographer for the Chronicle, and besides, it’s only until the ponies go home… tomorrow, right Mister Lucky?”

“Best guess is somewhere around two to three in the afternoon local time on Monday,” said Lucky, still holding onto the rapidly emptying bottle with both forehooves. “Twilight sent an update this morning. There’s going to be a news announcement at around eleven today from the park in town. We’ve got most of the injured back from the surrounding hospitals, leaving about two to three in Manhattan to get back sometime today, so Twilight will probably have to make a second portal next month sometime to get Granny Smith and…”

Lucky trailed off, but Nick picked up the conversational thread. “Widget. Her parents were begging to go to KC to fuss over her, but the local military here think that’s a bad idea. Probably because they won’t let go when the return portal is up. Headstrong bunch.”

“Unicorns are stubborn like that.” Lucky held onto the bottle even harder as air began to suck from the bottom. “The two of you might—”

Clover, obviously upset that the bottle was empty, rammed her head into it. The plastic bottle fairly vanished in an upward direction, and a trail of plaster dust filtered down from above to indicate where it had gone. Lucky tumbled backward out of the chair and across the floor, and only the quick reflexes of Nick and Kota caught the unicorn foal before she could fall off the table too, although they both caught a brisk little wing into the face for their troubles.

“Sorry about that,” said Lucky as he picked himself up and looked around for his hat. “Mama’s little girl always has a little extra energy in the mornings.”

“I got it, Mithter Green Grath,” said Twist, bolting for the nearby staircase in a clatter of shod hooves and vanishing upstairs, leaving the two military men to help Lucky get his foal stuffed back into the shirt she had been wearing.

“Why are you hiding your daughter’s wings?” asked Kota. “They’re adorable.” The filly in question took that moment to give a short and accurate flap, making Kota spit out little bits of feathers. “Yuch. I think I see now.”

“She’s just an ordinary winged unicorn,” explained Lucky as he got the last bit of shirt over the little filly’s wings and picked her up for burping. “Nothing odd, other than she hasn’t been using her magic, which is probably good. Infant unicorns don’t know what is impossible, so they can do some really extraordinary things that even adults can’t match.”

“Hey, I thought you was a unicorn too,” said Nick. He bent down and scooped up Lucky’s unusually heavy fedora, depositing it back on the green pony’s round and hornless head with a thud. “And why did she call you Green Grass?”

“Ow.” Green Grass gently patted the back of his foal while looking vaguely guilty under his crunched hat. “Look, guys. Don’t make a big deal about this. We’re going home the day after tomorrow, so for just a day or two, I’d like to be just plain, simple Lucky with no—”

“Here you are, Mithter Green Grath,” said Twist, stampeding down the wooden stairs like an avalanche with the crumpled plastic bottle in her mouth. “Thee’s really chewing them up, ithen’t thee?”

“Thank you, Twist.” Lucky tried to shuffle the contented foal, his slumping hat, and still grab the bottle, only to have Nick pick the mangled piece of plastic up and set it on the table.

“Thanks, Twist,” he said with a smile. “What’s Miss Cheerilee have on the schedule for you kids today?”

“I’m not thure?” said the little pony with a nervous glance over her shoulder at where the rest of the smaller ponies were romping about out into the yard. “There’th all kind of carth out on the road, tho we’re thuck here, I think.”

“People are probably lined up for the announcement later this morning,” said Nick, tapping the mangled baby bottle against the table. “I walked up to the checkpoint first thing this morning and listened to some of the sob stories people are telling in order to get in. Traffic’s moving at a snail’s pace, and Four-One’s not going to get here until around noon. They’re helicoptering in the rest of my platoon to a LZ they’ve set up at a horse farm about a mile south of here.”

“Your platoon?” prompted Lucky, still gently patting the sleepy foal on the back.

“A horth farm?” asked Twist with her ears perked up in a way that alerted every one of Kota’s rusty parental warning indicators.

“Crew in shifts for four M1A2 Abrams tanks we’re going to deploy around the farmhouse,” said Nick, oblivious to Twist’s signals and obviously proud of his metal children. “I really thought it was overkill, but the MPs have been catching all kinds of weird people parking a mile or two away and trying to walk into the area.” He muffled a snort of laughter into his short-sleeved ‘Army Strong’ t-shirt. “I thought they might have better luck putting a mine plow on the Abrams and just plowing their way here, but the Division Commander has been treating it as a real-world example of what we’d have to go through in a war deployment with refugees on the roads.”

“We’ve got a few pegasi around with nothing to do,” said Lucky thoughtfully. “Maybe they could fly your tanks here?”

Nick and Kota both laughed, and so did the foal in a sleepy/happy/entertained sort of way, along with a quiet burp. “It’ll make more sense when you see my babies,” said Nick.

“There you are, Twist!” A mulberry-colored pony came bounding into the kitchen wearing a happy smile and nothing else, which Dakota was still trying to get comfortable with. Voices still made him think of clothing, and having a bunch of four-legged nudists galloping around was a considerable shock to somebody who had not even seen a talking pony until yesterday evening. This pony had bright eager green eyes that were almost level with Dakota’s line of sight, giving him the strange feeling of being categorized as ‘Teaching Supplement: Human, Male - Type 14, dark hair, medium brown skin. Smells slightly ripe from not showering in a day. Use as example in upcoming biology and hygiene class.’

“Good morning, Miss Cheerilee,” said Lucky. “This is Dakota, and you know Nick already. I was talking to Governor Brown this morning—” he glanced at a cheap flip-phone clipped onto his foal carrier and saddlebag “—and I think he found an activity to keep all your students busy and out from underhoof.”

“I know!” gushed the energetic teacher, bouncing up and down so hard that her pale mane was bouncing in counterpoint. “I talked to the principal at the school here and he said we could borrow his school busses and go to Manehattan and tour the Discovery Center and the KSU butterfly gardens and even out to the university research farms where they raise this world’s cattle! They’re all going to have so much fun! It’s just—” She paused for a moment and looked back over her shoulder out the door where a few seconds ago, a number of small ponies had been playing. “Where did they go?”

“You’d be mobbed,” said Dakota as fast as he could in order to cut off the dangerous idea before it set roots. “Even if you got into town before this evening, there’s enough people out there who want to look at a pony that they’d— It would not be pretty,” he added. “Even if none of your students was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Cheerilee’s dark green eyes were as big as saucers. “You can’t mean that.”

Both military men nodded, although Nick spoke first. “Human beings are fairly nice, but we’ve got a number of real hard a—” He stole a look at Clover. “Cases,” he finished.

“People have been violent to each other since there have been people,” said Kota bluntly. “They kill for sex or because somebody has stuff they want or just because. We’re just barely tolerant savages with a coat of civilization paint and cell phones. Most people around here who found one of your adorable little ones wandering around would do anything to bring them back to their kind, but there’s still a lot of vicious brutes out there.”

Kota wanted to get in a dig about Army tankers, but thought it would take away from the message, and nothing really came to mind anyway. Maybe later, when he could get Nick cornered and could find out just what it was like to be in the middle of the first few hours of a fuzzy alien invasion. Might even write a useful article out of it. Or better, Crystal could write it. Despite her focus being in the society pages, he envied her ability to cram so much emotion into her articles.

Thousands of sobbing single women across the country will thank me. And Nick will be buried in scented letters. Oh, Hell yeah. Big damn hero, indeed.

“There we go,” purred Lucky, gently cradling his snoozing foal. “Would one of you ‘savages’ mind helping me get Clover into her carrier so she can sleep? Then I can get a cup of coffee safely, and we can chase down the kids for a day of something that they’ll like.”

“Like the Discovery Center in Manehatten?” asked Cheerilee with a re-perking of her alert ears. “It’s inside, so they should be able to close it off to other humans, and if we bring the children in by way of the roof—”

“Whoa there,” said Nick, waving his hands while Kota was busy helping the little winged unicorn into her father’s foal carrier. “You’re not landing a helicopter on the roof of anything in Manhattan.”

“Yes and no,” said Lucky. “I’ve got a couple of ponies out checking on a possibility.”

- Ω - -

“We can’t thank you enough, Mister Bruener. Our Widgie is all we have.” Widget’s mother, a milk-chocolate colored mare with grease stains in her pale white mane, brushed up against his leg on one side as they walked. “I can hardly wait to see her again. We were so frightened, but your wife has been a tower of support, and all the humans are so nice here.”

“What she said,” echoed Widget’s burly father, a stout earth pony named Heavy Roller who looked like he did not need a jack to lift up a car to change its tire. A strong and silent type, he had been only a few steps away from the house at all times until the present, as if he were determined to be available at a moment’s notice for whatever was needed.

Jon flipped on the light in his machine shop and stifled a yawn. He liked getting up early in the morning, but ponies believed in getting up before morning had even reached for the snooze button. At least breakfast had softened the blow of finding a half-dozen ponies in his kitchen and a line stretching out the door of the old house across the yard. Dad would have been proud of how the building was still providing shelter to those who needed it, even though Maria had floated the possibility about tearing it down once or twice over the years since he passed away. The distinction between the old house’s food and his house’s food today had been something that Jon had not really thought of before.

His house had bacon. And deer sausage. And a pony who had seemingly rooted himself permanently in front of the stove until he ran out of things to cook, or humans to cook for. Jon did not have the time to pay the unicorn much attention, even after being served a hamburger last night that had been simply amazing. Other human volunteers who had been unable or unwilling to return to their own homes after helping the ponies get settled down agreed with his carnivorous food evaluation, and the line reaching out of his kitchen door indicated they had told others also. And some of them brought meat-related supplies just in case Jon’s freezer ran dry before the ponies went home.

So, vegetarian ponies with pancakes and eggs across the yard, slightly less than pure vegetarian ponies and a unicorn keeping the oven constantly busy and feeding the humans a breakfast diet of sausage and other products in his own kitchen. It was distracting to see the way the ponies in his house had just moved in, with the earth pony bakers and their twins in the guest room, a number of teenaged ponies taking over the basement and the entertainment center for an all-night movie binge, and the bat-winged and golden-eyed family moving upstairs into Claire’s old room, under the bed of all things. It was probably less than twenty ponies living in the house, but they moved faster than guppies, which only made Jon think of the rest of the displaced residents scattered around Randolph and the vicinity.

And, of course, the parents of the little unicorn he had hit with his swather, who were looking around Jon’s farm shop like Howard Carter going into the tomb of King Tut.

“Such wonderful things,” breathed Heavy Roller. He moved almost immediately to examine the Volvo station wagon that Claire had pushed into the shop a month ago to get a blown cylinder gasket replaced. The project had never progressed beyond the first few steps, leaving parts scattered all over for him to marvel at and examine at close range.

“You have an inert gas welder!” squealed the mother, much as if she had just seen Elvis. She lit up her horn, which still startled Jon, and floated the TIG welder out into the main floor. “It’s almost like ours,” she added, pulling out the manual and paging through it. “There’s some changes, of course. It even welds aluminum,” she added with a gasp.

“The bicycle parts you were asking about are over here,” said Jon, waving a hand at the entranced ponies until they looked up. “Claire buys broken and scraped bikes after classes at K-State are over, and puts them together for garage sale season. I really don’t understand, though. What do you need a bunch of broken bicycles for?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:48 A.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Randolph, Kansas Main street entrance

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The radio by Captain Samantha Rietz’s side gave out a short noise, followed by a precise, “Randolph Main Gate, this is Iceberg. Testing of First Flight is complete with zero failures. We will be landing at your location in two minutes.”

“Roger, Grace,” said Sam with a squeeze to the shoulder microphone. “We’ll clear a space for you.”

She looked up at the car full of sincere family members who seemed so much like the stereotypical ‘We want to see the ponies, Daddy’ cars they had been turning back all morning. This one had three young girls in the back seat, who all gave a subdued squeal when a smiling Corporal Rose floated three pieces of paper in through the open window while giving the same speech she had given an infinite number of times this morning.

“I’m sorry, sir. Access to Randolph is restricted to invited members of the press and residents until Tuesday. Please turn your car around here and follow the officer’s directions to get back onto K-77.”

The dark-pink unicorn in the dark armor sat down on her ‘booster box’ that brought her up to eye level with the drivers and added a little wave to the three girls in the back seat of the car, who were snapping cell phone pictures like crazy. Then the father turned the car around in the indicated space and went back in the direction of the highway, leaving Sam to gesture at the next car ahead.

“You’re just encouraging them,” said Sam to her equine partner. “Giving them a souvenir sheet and a picture is like spraying for ants using sugar water.”

“But they love it so much. After all, they’ve been in the car for over an hour,” said Rose, looking sideways at the taller police officer. The box gave her a much more comfortable position to talk to the drivers in line, and having a pony give the speech made the line travel so much faster that Sam was considering drafting a few members of the pony populi to carry out the task when the equine police officers took a break.

“They’re tired and cranky, and all they want is to get a look at us before we go home.” Rose looked at the proffered credentials of the next vehicle, a rental car with the back stuffed full of camera equipment, and waved it through to where the rest of the press were setting up around the stage. “Besides,” she added once the car had passed, “don’t you see how adorable those children are? I wish we could take one home—” The next car had pulled up, but Rose was looking past it, at a series of three vans several back in line.

“Trouble?” asked Sam.

“Nothing. Yes, move on,” she added to the driver, floating a paper flier to him as he began to pull away. “Just a moment, Samantha.”

The unicorn guard put a hoof to the side of her head and spoke a few quiet words in their musical language, then paused as whoever on the other side of their pony communication equipment talked back to her.

“Captain Rietz, do you have any habitual troublemakers who show up at media announcements,” asked the quiet police pony in a flatter tone of voice than Sam had heard from her so far. Even her cheery magenta coat seemed to have shifted down a step or two in color, making the middle-aged mare seem far more dangerous than she had been just a few moments ago.

“A few protesters at times,” said Sam. “When George W did his Landon Lecture, we got about a hundred of them, but they stayed mostly peaceful. Waved their banners and kept in the security area. Why?”

“Just nerves. Hello, sir. May I see your identification.” Rose glanced down at the driver’s license, then back up at the reddening face of the overheated chubby man. Before he could say anything, she waved a hoof to have the volunteer open the barricade and gave him a nod. “There’s ice water at the other end of the park, sir. Tell them Corporal Rose said to give you a cold bottle and let you sit down for a while in the shade. I’ll send one of the townsponies down to talk with you shortly.”

The car had barely rolled out of reach when Rose reached up to the shoulder pauldron of her armor and squeezed the terrestrial microphone she had on loan from the RCPD spares. “Any medical unit in Randolph, we’re needing medical assistance at the north end of the park. Possible heatstroke. Look for an overweight man driving a—” The unicorn officer gave Sam a sideways look.

“A periwinkle blue Buick Regal with Sedgwick county plates,” said Samantha into her microphone. She nodded and watched as Rose dealt with another car, then looked up as the newest pegasus carriage on Earth swept in to land in the open turnaround spot, dropping almost straight down and rolling less than a foot on the bicycle tires that made up the wheels.

The rest of the odd vehicle was similarly themed, from the expanded aluminum mesh making up the floor to the five lawn chairs welded to it, and the thin tubing that made a ‘fence’ around the outside edge. Both preening pegasi in the minimal traces were obviously enjoying the sudden attention from all of the news crews by the nearby park and the near-universal photography taking place from every single stopped car in the line.

Specialist Grace wobbled cautiously off the skeletal rig, looking much as if the dark green unicorn wanted to kiss the ground instead of walking over to their traffic station and giving a sketchy salute.

“Brought you some cold water,” managed Grace, looking greener than her regular colors. The case of dripping plastic bottles took flight off the pegasus cart in Rose’s magic while Grace simply stood in place with her legs spraddled for stability.

Rose shook her head and nuzzled up to her fellow unicorn, giving her a pat on the back and a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry about that, hun.”

“Don’t like to fly?” asked Sam while opening one of the new chilly bottles and suppressing an overwhelming urge to just fling herself into one of the chariot’s lawn chairs and see what flying was like.

“They did a loop,” said Grace. She reached out with an unsteady hoof and grabbed her own bottle of water. Instead of opening it, she sat down solidly on her rump and literally bit the cap off the bottle. After spitting the cap to one side and taking a good drink, she added, “In Canterlot, I’d have them on charges for violating restricted airspace norms and they’d spend a month peeling carrots.”

Out of her sight, the two pegasi exchanged glances and a high-hoof, although their happy faces abruptly settled into serious when Rose put a hoof to the side of her helmet and said some more horsey words over their private communication channel. Where the landing had been an exercise in delicacy and grace, the takeoff now was almost the exact opposite. One moment the two pegasi were standing there, and the next there were only a few swirls of dust, with the shiny aluminum craft exhibiting a perfect chandelle vertical climb and vanishing into the distance.

“They’re going to get Specialist Titan,” explained Rose while gesturing the next vehicle forward, one of the vans that Sam was starting to suspect. “If there’s any shooting, get behind me. The guard armor should be able to stop any of your projectile weapons.”

“Shooting?” One hand drifted to her waist where her duty issue Glock 22 was secured in a retention holster, but Sam forced herself to take a deep breath and act instead of reacting. She was not some trigger-happy rookie over her head. The Equestrians were armored soldiers, after all, and from the informal discussions she had with her hooved counterparts yesterday, the female ones had extensive experience in their civilian police force before becoming royal guardians, somewhat like the Secret Service, with spears. Well, one spear.

Of course, when the van stopped and the people inside flooded out, waving ‘God Hates Fags’ signs, Sam forced herself to move her hand away from her pistol. All three of the vans had been filled with members of the Felts family, young and old, who lined up and began to shout and scream their usual slogans while the television cameras that had been arrayed to cover the upcoming Equestrian announcement all turned in their direction. Both Rose and Grace looked puzzled at the commotion and the line of screaming that seemed to imply they were extraterrestrial gay lovers from the earlier kiss. Sam kept her back to the majority of the cameras as she bent down and tried to explain Topeka’s most irritating family to the extraterrestrial ponies.

It probably would have gone better if the Felts family had not been only a few feet away, arrayed around the security checkpost and screaming their lungs out. Sam made several attempts at an explanation while trying not to let the shouted vitriol get to her, but the sheer volume of the family’s chants made communication impossible.

At least until Grace’s horn glowed a light green and their voices cut off as if she had hit the ‘Mute’ button on an obnoxious television set.

“—bunch of assholes,” said Sam into Rose’s ear, although thankfully not loud enough to be caught by the legions of television cameras and cell phones pointed in their direction. “What happened?”

All of the family protesters were still screaming and shaking their placards, but in complete and total silence. The rest of the people in the more distant crowd were still perfectly audible, including one grateful person (not a police officer, thankfully) who shouted “Thank God” before being hushed by his nearby companions.

“Mute spell,” said Grace in her usual flat delivery with her horn still glowing a faint green. “It doesn’t actually affect the target, but the space immediately surrounding them, so it is not a violation of Article 14 of the Equestrian Civil Rights code. They can still hear us perfectly fine.” Grace looked at an overweight, middle-aged woman with reddening face as she tried to out-scream the spell to no avail. “You can stop at any time, Ma’am.”

“Actually, you are all blocking traffic,” announced Rose, who had stepped up onto the ‘booster box’ that brought her up to the window height of the cars she had been processing. “Please proceed back into your vehicles, and the Riley County Police Department will guide you to the designated protesting area set up behind the gas station a furlong to the north. If anybody needs a bottle of water for the heat, I’d be glad to provide them.”

The middle-aged mare lifted her bottle of water in her magic and took a sip, giving a pleasant smile to the woman who had worked herself into a such a screeching frenzy that Sam expected foam to start coming out of her mouth, or for her to start speaking in tongues. Very silent tongues.

The RCPD, much like all other police departments, had been well trained on what to do with protesters: remain in control of the situation, keep the protesters away from counter-protesters, and never escalate force inappropriately. In most cases, a protester was much like a peacock, spreading its tail and displaying for the cameras, with no real intent of physical violence. In special cases — fairly rare in Kansas outside of the occasional Aggieville celebration after a football game — individual protesters were violent, and needed to be picked out of a crowd and detained fairly rapidly before they triggered their companions to similar acts, like fire spreading in dry grass.

The Felts family were anything but ordinary protesters. In fact, they had turned protesting into a profitable business model. After all, they were lawyers. The only violence that would occur at a Felts demonstration would be against one of their own by some poor sucker who was so incensed by their signs and rhetoric that they would throw the first punch, and then be sued through the courts for the rest of their lives, as well as anybody else the Felts could include in the suit. Property owners, random passers-by, police, or anybody who dared ‘libel’ them in print, they all were fiscal grist for the mill. The Felts never threw the first or second punch.

Which was why Patrol Captain Samantha Rietz was caught flat-footed when the chubby Felts family member lifted her sign and clubbed the middle-aged unicorn mare like a baby seal.

The moment of stunned inaction did not last. When the stunned unicorn dropped off her platform with all the grace of a sack of potatoes and the middle-aged woman lifted the stick to strike again, this time stripped of its offensive message by the impact against Corporal Rose’s helmet, Sam launched herself forward in a tackle fully worthy of a Nebraska Cornhusker linebacker.

Cameras! Cameras! I’m on camera!

The two of them hit the pavement with Sam grabbing for one clawed hand that was trying to scratch her eyes out and heaving it up behind the woman’s back. She wanted to dislocate it, but not on national television or anywhere else where the action would come back to haunt her.

“You have the right to be silent,” she growled, reaching behind her back for the cuffs. Something behind her crunched like broken bones, but she focused on her task like no arrest she had ever done before. This one was going to stick, damnit. By the time Sam had finished with her Miranda warning and cuffed the thrashing woman, she looked up and saw…

Well, it took her a moment to get her mind wrapped around what was going on. She had to break what she saw into sections, and even then it did not make individual sense.

Every adult member of the Felts family was flat on their bellies, and the ones who were looking in any direction, were not looking at her.

The children, which Sam had never really understood the logic of the Felts dragging along to their profanity-laced protests, had jumped forward and were huddled around the dazed pink unicorn, alternately crying and casting dagger-like looks at their adult family members.

Corporal Rose was lying sprawled out on the pavement and did not appear severely injured other than her helmet being knocked a little askew, but it was hard to see for all the worried little children huddled around her.

Specialist Grace was taking another sip of water, just watching as if this kind of thing happened every day.

And… there was a new pony crouched just a few feet away, with the splintered remains of a protest sign stick scattered around him and a look that made Sam want to flatten down on the ground too. Sam had confronted some violent individuals during her career, some of which had been so hopped up on drugs they had no idea of pain or danger, but this dark pegasus had red murder in his eyes, and from his sharp bared teeth with a few small wooden splinters still sticking out of his snarling mouth, was considering just who to vigorously disembowel first.

Oddly enough, Sam had never felt safer.

Things began to move a little faster after that, and it was not until many hours later when Sam looked up the video clip on YouTube that the whole story became clearer. The dragon-winged pegasus guard named Pumpernickel had just dropped into the growing fray, plucking a stick out of the hand of one of the Felts men who looked as if he were about to take a swing at Sam’s back. It was difficult to tell, although from the dozen or so video clips on YouTube, some of which were set to music, a jury would be looking at a full 3-D reconstruction of the events during the trial. Which would blow another few months out of Sam’s useful life.

When a grey body-builder body type unicorn named Specialist Titan arrived at the scene, he began using his magic to carry the three unoccupied vans across the highway and deposited them in the ‘Tow field’ for later removal, while the RCPD collected the prisoners. All of the Felts clan then was taken to Manhattan for processing, a task which Sam could not help but think about. After all, the trials would probably take up a huge fraction of her life for the next few months, with video.

She was just standing around with the pony officers, watching their replacements start the process of making the ‘Randolph visitors line’ start moving again, when the older pony officer came walking up to their positions. Both Rose and Pumpernickel tensed when they saw him approach, but Grace looked up at her with an apologetic expression.

“Allow me to apologize in advance, Patrol Captain Rietz. Sergeant Hardhooves tends to more… descriptive language when he’s angry.”

And the snow-white pony stomping his way in their direction did look angry. Furious, even. The tips of his ears were red, and Sam could swear she saw steam wafting out of them.

“Corporal Rose Thorn!” he bellowed once he was within firing range. “Am I to understand that a civilian struck you?”

“Yes, sir!” responded Rose, who was drawn up into a stiff salute.

“A human civilian?” he continued, coming to a halt just a few steps away. “One of these slow, ungainly, awkward, unbalanced, humans managed to hit one of Luna’s elite guard?”

“She had a stick,” volunteered Pumpernickel, who promptly seemed to melt into the ground like a scoop of chocolate ice-cream in the Kansas heat when Hardhooves turned a fierce glare in his direction.

“A stick,” he managed through his clenched teeth with great effort. “Was it a pointed stick, perchance?”

Pumpernickel returned to his rigid, eyes-forward pose. “Sir, no sir!”

Hardhooves slowly turned back to Rose, much like a cannon moving to a new field of fire. “Corporal Rose Thorn, you are officially relieved of duty pending the outcome of the investigation, and also reduced in rank one grade. You will report to the command post at Farmer Bruener’s house for a full debriefing, which will be sent to your Divine Sovereign, Princess Luna, for her close examination to see if you are worthy of remaining in her service. During this time, it is my job to see what can be done with your disobedient, incompetent, idiotic self! Grace!”

“Yes, sir?” Grace remained exactly as she had been, in a perfect ‘attention’ pose that Sam suspected she could have remained in for weeks, without showing a single hair out of place.

“Escort Specialist Rose to the human paramedics and have her injury examined. Dismissed.”

“One moment, sir.” Grace turned to Pumpernickel, who seemed ready to flee into the sky at the slightest provocation. “Stick out your tongue, Optio.”

Pumpernickel shook his head and kept his mouth closed.

Grace turned to look at Hardhooves. Hardhooves turned to look at Pumpernickel. The dark bat-winged pegasus opened his mouth and stuck out his oddly-orange tongue.

“I see,” said Grace after moving closer to examine the damp digit. “Splinters.” She turned back to Hardhooves and continued in her regular measured speech, as if she were lecturing at a classroom. “Optio Pumpernickel has been on duty since our arrival, an estimated two full days counting the Equestrian period pre-portal. Once he has been treated for wood ingestion, I would suggest that he be ordered to bed until this evening, when he can resume his duties.”

“There’s too much—” started the dark pegasus, only to cringe back at the looks he received.

“Agreed, Grace. Take both of our injured children over to the aid station so their wounds can be treated. I expect to see your report by this evening, just in time to upset my dinner plans.” Hardhooves waited until the three other ponies had moved away before nudging Samantha wordlessly in the direction of the roadside, where they had a moment of privacy.

“Sorry about that, Miss Rietz,” murmured Hardhooves without moving his lips. “I suspect Rose triggered that whole event just to milk a little sympathy for our presence here. I’ll make sure she’s properly punished. I hope we did not inconvenience you too much.”

“Not at all,” said Sam after bending down far enough to talk directly into his ear. “By the way, this conversation never happened.”

“I understand totally. Other than I apologized for the incompetence of my officers, and you accepted,” said Hardhooves with a tiny hint of a suppressed smile in the corner of his cheeks. “I suspect this will make it easier for your people to deal with those annoying twits.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to be a royal pain in the ass.”

Hardhooves nodded. “A Code Blueblood situation. I know it well. We’ll try to make it up to you. I’ve been talking to some of your military, and I suspect your office will find a little Equestrian present before we leave the day after tomorrow. After all, armor enchants are fairly easy.”

Samantha rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of the ballistic vest in the Kansas sunshine. “If you can just make them self-cooling, I’ll… be appreciative. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got hours and hours worth of delightful paperwork to deal with.”

“Also here,” said Hardhooves. “At least those crazy people will be locked up and out of our manes until we’re gone.”

“Probably not, other than the one who attacked your officer,” admitted Sam. “The rest will be out on bail by this evening.”

Hardhooves gave her a baffled squint.

“Of course, your legal representative should probably file a restraining order against them,” added Sam. “Which should be trivial, given the video from today. They’re going to sue, of course, so a countersuit… well, you should talk with your lawyer.” She thought for a moment and added, “I can swing by the house tomorrow night and add a copy of our police report to yours, fill in any discrepancies, and by coincidence, bring along a fine bottle of twelve year old Glenlivet scotch. No lawyers involved, I promise.”

The old soldier’s mouth turned up in a smile despite his best efforts to remain somber. “Thank you, kind lady. We’ll take you up on that. Off the record, of course. I just hope the next place Princess Twilight throws us is somewhere without lawyers and criminals, but I repeat myself. Maybe on a deserted tropical beach, surrounded by palm trees and gentle breezes.”

“Where you’d get sunburn, hurricanes, and tropical diseases,” completed Sam. “At least here we have swimming pools and friendly neighbors.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:20 A.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Living Water Ranch, Olsburg Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

For humans, the definition of ‘A Fun Place’ varies by age. Old ladies may like to spend the entire day in the quilting store, while teens are perfectly happy in the mall all day, but when the sun is hot and the kids need a place to play, nothing beats a swimming pool.

Particularly a pool where the kids don’t need swimming suits.

“Cannonball!” declared Featherweight, launching himself off the diving board and making a leisurely double flip with a half twist before knifing into the water below. He surfaced in a spray with tiny wings beating against the water surface while calling out, “Brr! That’s cold!”

“I see Pulitzer,” mused Dakota Henderson, turing his camera to frame the next shot of three young ponies preparing to jump off the diving board all at once while a panicked Cheerilee bolted in their direction. He splashed his feet in the cool water and looked over at Nick, who likewise had taken off his shoes for the expedient of sitting at the edge of the pool and watching the ongoing Equestrian youthful chaos. “Crystal doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

“I ain’t going in,” said Nick. “Didn’t bring a pair of trunks, and the last thing your Frisco paper needs is a picture of a naked black man in the pool with the kids.”

“Natives of San Francisco don’t call it Frisco. Besides, they’d probably say it was avant-garde,” said Kota, popping off another shot and looking around for another target.

The adult ponies who had accompanied them via the newly built pegasus carriage to the Christian retreat (which thankfully had a vacancy for today) were sprawled out on their own towels with their little ones, taking the opportunity to nap under the shade of pool umbrellas or out in the sun to bake. There was the dark, dragon-winged mare with her little foal draped over her back, who both looked washed-out in the shade, as well as the brilliant neon pegasus who fairly glowed while stretched out on a sunlit towel. They were all asleep and snoring, other than Miss Thermal’s energetic young colt who Nick was taking care of in the shallow end of the pool.

“I think Standing Water needs another swim diaper,” said Nick, holding up the bright blue pegasus and moving back along the swim deck toward a trash can.

“Got it,” declared Lucky, who was sitting right next to Kota so his little filly had a good view of the fascinating camera, all full of switches she was not supposed to flip and buttons she was not supposed to touch. “Here, hold Clover for me, please.”

Reaching behind him to put the camera out of reach into its bag, Kota scooped up the squirming little filly and looked deep into her sparkling violet eyes. “You think you can give me that look and play with my camera, don’t you, little girl? Well, no you don’t! No you don’t,” he added, rubbing his nose against hers regardless of the chance of catching interdimensional sniffles.

Clover giggled and smiled, which was worth all of the Pulitzer prizes and press accolades in the world. Kota held her lower so she could splash her tiny hooves in the water without actually swimming, an activity that seemingly terrified and fascinated both her and her father, but it gave Kota the opportunity to watch the odd sight of Lucky digging around in his diaper bag at the side of the pool.

At first glance, it did not look much odder than anybody else digging around in a bag, but when Lucky had dug down a distance and put his head into the bag too in order to guide his exploration, Kota could hear his grumbly voice drifting out.

“Swim diapers, where in the world did she file those? Diaper cream, diaper powder, dippy-doo picker-uppers for when you can’t find diapers and she does her business in the grass… Ah, here we go. Diapers, types thereof. Zero to one month, one to three months, diapers with cloth coverings on the outside for formal occasions, extra absorbent diapers for long trips…” By this time, all but the hindquarters of the green stallion had vanished in the bag. “What age is Standing Water, Mister Henderson?”

“I don’t know.” Dakota looked at where his army buddy was trying to de-diaper the uncooperative colt. “Nine months, I think. Old enough that he really should be potty trained.”

“Potty?” The blue colt quit fighting and squirmed around so all four hooves could be on the concrete pool deck. “Potty!” he declared with the staccato clatter of tiny steel shoes on concrete that was not getting him anywhere soon. “Potty! Potty!”

Nick, looking very uncomfortable at his parental role, led his winged ward in the direction of the Mens room while Kota split his attention between them and the sight of Lucky struggling to get back out of his saddlebag before it devoured him.

“A little help, here?”

Kota sat the infant unicorn/pegasus on the pool deck, a sufficient distance away from the water that he could still make a grab for her if she decided to dive in, and went to haul the heavy stallion out of his bag. Lucky emerged with a number of items in his teeth, which he spat out onto the concrete before rubbing his neck.

“I think I may have toppled one of the stacks,” he admitted. “It’s going to be a mess to clean— Clover!”

Kota whirled around, only to see his camera vanish back into the bag in front of the tiny infant pony. For just the smallest fraction of a second, he could have sworn the camera had been disassembled into all of its component parts, but when he scooped it up out of the bag and examined it, everything was still just perfect. The foal, on the other hand, looked as if she were about to burst out in tears, and Kota scooped her up in his other arm.

“Hey, don’t cry. And no, I’m not giving you my camera,” he added when the tears vanished and little green hooves promptly began to reach.

“That’ll last five minutes, tops,” said Lucky. He dropped a tube of sunscreen, a foal’s floppy sun hat, a small swim diaper, and several other things next to Kota before heading to the bathroom with the larger swim diaper. It took far more than five minutes, but when Lucky returned alongside the owner of the Living Water ranch carrying all the chips and drinks for a snack break, Kota was holding the camera up in front of both of them and letting the little unicorn/pegasus trip the shutter.

After all, it did get more smiles from his audience.

While the ranch staff distributed lemonade in red Solo cups to the thirsty horde, Lucky sat back down next to Kota and passed him a loaded platter, which he had been balancing on his back somehow.

“Iced tea for us, plenty of ice, and enough sugar at the bottom to form drifts.” The pony tilted his fedora forward to cover his eyes better and stretched out on his beach towel, taking a sip out of the glass and just relaxing in the sun. “You know, I’ve been needing a vacation.”

Clover gave out a little coo of agreement and took one of the extra camera filters in her mouth, climbing down Kota until she could curl up next to her father and examine her trophy in greater detail. Kota wanted to take their picture, but went along with Lucky’s desire for anonymity and returned to photographing the thirsty horde. Or herd. Or whatever you called a whole collection of cute young ponies. “So what’s taking Nick so long?” he asked after several more pictures, including the start of a water ball game of some sort masterminded by one green unicorn filly that he could have sworn had a mermaid tail while under the water.

Lucky slipped on a pair of sunglasses and flattened out a little more on his towel. “He’s attempting to potty and diaper Thermal’s young colt, a task that ancient heroes of both worlds would have despaired at. Give him about an hour, and we’ll go in with a bucket and a mop.”

In the end, Lucky was wrong. It took two buckets.

Author's Note

Please, no comments about who you think I used the Felts as examples. They have a Google alert, in all probability, and I'm allergic to lawsuits.

12. We Can Build It For You Retail

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
We Can Build It For You Retail

“The road to success is always under construction.”
–Arnold Palmer

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:45 P.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: The Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

General Gregory Hackmore was supposed to be in command of the situation.

The problem was to define the situation, even while he was at the situation.

Technically, it was an alien invasion. If that was the extent of the issue, the solution would have been relatively easy. That is easy for Hollywood. Reality had rules that film could never duplicate, and a cast that did not break into dance numbers on cue. He had a division of soldiers with helicopters and armored vehicles about forty to fifty minutes away, on a good day. Hell, in extreme circumstances, one of the HIMARS units that had been prepositioned north of their usual areas could put artillery on anything he could see in less than two minutes.

Even the Chair Force wanted to get in on the action, and if they had their way, B-52s and Strike Eagles would be orbiting overhead 24/7, waiting for bombing missions. The only thing keeping the Navy’s thumb out of the pie was the fact they were in Kansas, and as such, a carrier strike force would have a slight issue getting near enough to do any striking.

Thankfully, the Joint Chiefs of Staff had decided to centralize decision making for the situation, focusing on the commanding officer at the site, which was a good euphemism for ‘Hackmore hasn’t screwed anything up with the aliens yet. Let him take the blame if anything explodes.’ Sink or swim, here’s your anchor, complete with chain. He supposed that was the Navy’s contribution to his oncoming ulcer.

‘Trust but verify oh God yes verify’ was General Hackmore’s watchword of this strange invasion.

The HIMARS units had been informed with extreme intensity that there would not be any accidental firings, and that unless he personally was on the phone with the artillery coordinator, the missile pods and transport units would remain cold, inert, and turned off under camouflage netting or heads would roll.

About twenty metric tons of paper were in the process of being filed, an Airborne unit at Fort Riley was being kept on ten minute alert status, and the armored maintenance division was working double-overtime to bring all vehicles up to snuff just in case of emergency.

And an emergency had been defined as ‘What General Hackmore says, not anybody lower on the food chain and particularly not any nitwit in the five-sided puzzle palace who thought it was perfectly fine to jump the chain of command for their particular critical important bit of trivia.’

It was an example of what kind of power General Hackmore had been granted. Even with all that supposed power, it had still taken eight hours to get four blithering tanks and associated command vehicles the relatively short distance from there to here, between the traffic tie-ups, accidents, one insanely frustrating truck running out of fuel due to a malfunctioning gauge, and rules defining just how long a driver could be behind the wheel before being swapped out by another soldier who needed to be delivered through the same disaster zone.

If the balloon had ever gone up in Germany, this kind of cluster-fuck would have been the norm across Europe. Thank God for Reagan.

He had relocated his informal command post to the Bruener family farm, not strictly because of Jonagold’s beautiful wife Maria, but because it provided a good view of the proposed security deployment. Besides, Maria had brought out iced tea to the three of them, and stayed behind to watch the slow progress of the tank transporter as they unloaded Four-Two at the top of the hill.

“Good thing they’re finally here, general,” said Jon with just the slightest snark in his voice. “We crunchies were always told the tread-heads would be there when we didn’t need them, and would be called away the moment we did. I was starting to think they wouldn’t show until the ponies go home on Monday.”

“My S-3 and S-4 are going to get raked through the coals until they’re done on both sides,” said General Hackmore. “The longer I wait to roast them, the more self-roasting they’re doing to themselves, so it can wait.” He took a sip of iced tea and nibbled on his bottom lip for a time until the question he was suppressing leaked out. “You don’t think I can get one of the Equestrians to drop by my house and say hello to my granddaughter, do you? She’s been bugging me something fierce.”

“Not a problem, General. I’ll talk to Hardhooves and see if Flash Sentry is available.” Jon unlocked his new iPhone and checked the contacts list. “The ones working with the police are using the cop radios, but one of your soldiers picked up a dozen pay-as-you-go phones from Verizon for the rest of them. The ponies can flip them open to answer and most of them can dial the address book with hooves.”

“It’s a lot easier than trying to tie into their communication network,” mused Hackmore. “There’s nothing in those communicators they use other than a few crystals. We can’t detect any electromagnetic flux from their operation at all, but they do have range issues.” He craned his neck and got out his own phone in order to enter the pony commander’s number while Jon waited for the ringing to finish. It only took a few minutes to set up the ‘public affairs visitation’ for Flash, which sounded like Hardhooves was grateful to get the pegasus out of his hair for a while.

“Any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic,” said Maria, who had been fairly quiet until then. As a practicing psychologist, she listened a lot more than she talked anyway, and still had the Portuguese instincts of her childhood around older men. “I wonder if the opposite is true. The ponies talk about their princess raising and lowering the sun and moon, after all. If those are just some sort of technological… or magicological—”

“Thaumaturgical,” said Hackmore. “It’s the latest buzzword on all of my teleconferences. The wonderful boffins of the Army think the secret to mastering Equestrian magic is to use as many large, indescribable words as they can. There’s more useless technobabble running around behind the scenes than you can shake a stick at.”

The conversation continued as the tank at the top of the hill was nudged into position and the tank transport moved away. They were just getting into interesting speculation as to how long it would have to remain in place when several ponies came around the corner of the house in their direction.

“Ah, General Hackmore. Mister Bruener,” said the smallest of the bunch, a brick-red earth pony who had to stand up on his hind legs in order to shake their hands. “My name is Big Brick, of the Big Brick Brothers And Partners, Reconstruction, Assembly, Transformations, Installations, and Niceization Guaranteed⁽*⁾ company.”
(*) BBB A+ RATING Contact Midknight Defender for franchise opportunities. Become a Big Brick affiliate today!

“You’re Big Brick?” Jon’s nose twitched, quite obviously from the effort of restraining a laugh at the mental image that immediately sprung to Hackmore’s mind. Ponies had a tendency to match their names in ways that baffled logic, and this short, chunky one was no exception with a few strands of grey hair in his mane and the image of a square brick on his rump.

“Yes, sir. And this is my son, Little Brick.” They each shook hooves with the far larger earth pony, who could have looked into Hackmore’s eyes easily, and did quite a bit to wipe away the mental image that his shorter father had conjured up. After the vigorous hoofshake, Hackmore’s eyes drifted to the other two ponies on the porch.

“So these must be your brothers, then?”

“Naaa,” said Big Brick with a disparaging flick of the wrist. “Ash Hole made it out of Ponyville during the evacuation. These are my accountant, Double Billing, and my work crew supervisor, Cost Overrun.”

Hackmore found himself shaking hands… well, hooves with a greasy-looking unicorn and a somewhat mottled pegasus who looked as if he had not taken a bath since ever. Thankfully, he did not have to think of what to say since it was Jon Bruener’s problem, and welcome to it.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Or ladies,” he added, since Jon was obviously suffering from the same work in progress in trying to guess gender on furry quadrupeds. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s what we can do for you,” said the small earth pony with a disturbingly happy smile that Hackmore had last seen on the repairman who had replaced his water heater. “You see, our company has quite a reputation around Ponyville as the place to go for all of your structural needs. We specialise in erecting structures all across the tri-county valley, and although we do some of the finest commercial erections in all of Equestria, we’re also the ponies that others come to whenever they find themselves in dire need of our other, more personal services.”

That mental image was getting very difficult for Hackmore to ignore, but Jon was made of stern stuff and nodded anyway. “So what servicing do you think I need?”

“For that, I’m going to refer you to my lovely wife,” said Big Brick.

“Right, right,” said Double Billing in a disturbingly sexy female voice, moving the toothpick she was chewing on to the other side of her mouth and floating a clipboard up in her magic. The sheet of copy paper it held was covered in squiggly Equestrian symbols including a line of numbers to one side which almost looked normal if squinted at and one were to ignore the comma placement. “Youse has a problem wit your road, sir. Seems one of our boys found a culvert at the bottom of that first hill thats got all kinds of rust eatin’ away at it since the cathodic protection washed out during the gravel getting undercut, an’ the first big load it has to take is gonna make it buckle like Overrun here facing a raincloud.”

“The road’s gonna break, dude,” said Overrun, continuing to stare in fascination at the tank transporter starting to move down the hill. “That’s one big chunk of metal. Gonna break it like a toothpick.”

“Yeah, you should probably go wave that truck off,” said Double Billing. “Else they’re going to rupture the existing culvert and dat’ll cost extra to fix.”

“Wait a second,” said Jon. “That’s a county road, not mine. And they put that culvert in just over ten years ago. It’s not old enough to fail yet. The county was very insistent about putting in a heavy culvert when I started my company, and I’m pretty sure my mil levy went up because of it back then.”

Both humans took a glance at the huge truck and the squat main battle tank it was carrying. Undoubtedly, there was a lot more weight involved than semi trucks carrying normal seed deliveries for Bruener’s storage facility. Still, caution was probably indicated.

“Maybe I should—” started General Hackmore just as the truck reached the bottom of the hill and the driver shifted into a lower gear to take advantage of engine braking.

The road took care of that first.

They were just far enough away that the sight of the rear dual wheels breaking through the gravel surface of the road was visible before the sickening crunch of collapsing steel echoed around the farmstead. The heavy transporter vehicle, which fortunately had been traveling at a very low velocity, lurched and appeared to break in half, with the truck cab sticking up in the air and the front wheels off the ground by a considerable margin. To the rear, the hefty main battle tank did not shift off its platform, but the weight drove the fifth-wheel coupling straight down into the resulting hole, and most certainly bent the hell out of the transporter’s whole structure.

“Yeah, dat’s gonna cost extra,” said Double Billing, making an entry on her clipboard even as the crunching sounds of the wreck were dying down. “We’s gonna have to rent some equipment in town, get a couple of you humans to drive it here, and work thru’ da night to get ever’thing done afore we’re gone Monday. We’s talking about serious overtime. Mebbie even have to get a crane to lift dat huge hunk of metal off the back.”

“That ‘huge hunk of metal’ can drive itself out,” said General Hackmore, who wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose but instead turned the gesture into a brief scratch before getting out his SMEPED to take a picture. “I’ll get a Hercules down from the Fort to pull our transporter out. Sorry to have busted your road, Mister Bruener.”

“It’s the county’s road,” said Jon. He took a picture with his phone and opened up Facebook. “I don’t think there’s any need for your services in this regard, Big Brick. I’ll bet the county is out here in a few hours, even if it is Saturday. Sorry about that.”

The smallish earth pony made a throwaway gesture with one hoof. “Pshaw, not a problem, sir. It’ll do the boys good to watch how the humans rebuild roads. It’s just…” Big Brick moved closer and raised his voice. “Hey! Overrun! Stop gawking and go help dat lady out of the truck! An’ the rest of youse, go see what they need done. We can call it a free estimate. Now git!”

Once the other three ponies were on their way, Big Brick cleared his throat and asked, “So, as I was saying. My boys, they get a little antsy without nuttin’ to do. I means around Ponyville, there’s always something blowin’ up or like that, and den when Princess Twilight’s crystal castle popped up witout even a single flush terlit or sink in it, I thoughts we were set for a couple years. Soo…” The short pony looked in both directions. “You got anything I could use to keep ‘em busy until Monday? I’ll get’cha a ten percent discount.”

“There’s some things I’ve been bugging my husband to do about the old house, and our house too,” said Maria unexpectedly while Jon was distracted by the way Cost Overrun was flying the transporter driver to the ground. “Since the Army has their mobile kitchen setup now, the ponies won’t need it for a lunch stop. Let me go get my list.”

Jon’s wife vanished inside the house, and Hackmore felt the same sensation whenever a military project needed ‘just a few changes’ in the contract.

“Just… try to keep it under control,” Jon urged.

Big Brick grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:20 P.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: The Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“You idiots broke my fucking tank!” Lieutenant Comena stalked around the broken transporter, trying not to grind his teeth. “I hope you plan on working for the Army for the next hundred years, because they’ll be taking this out of your check for centuries!”

“But the road—” started one of the support crunchies.

“Screw—!” Nick stopped, considered the Division Commander standing on the porch of the Bruener house a hundred meters away, and changed his words. The fact that a few ponies were standing around helped.

“You boys got my baby unchained, right?” he growled. “Because if Corporal Frey breaks something getting it off the transport, the general’s not going to be very happy.”

Nearly an hour of close inspection to verify the unchaining of said tank later, including laying out a series of movement flags and planning with his driver, Nick gestured all of the observers back—including the four-legged ones—while hoping that Rick was as good at driving the tank as his records indicated.

The big Abrams barely trembled when the turbine fired up on schedule and Rick began going through his checklist, allowing Nick a moment of thanks for at least one thing going right in this deployment. It seemed to be taking longer than normal for Rick to get the tank ready to move, which could have just been from all the ponies and humans who had started to gather behind the barbed-wire fence with him. Gathering a civilian audience was normal for any kind of tank movements, but the longer Nick stood and watched, the more ponies gathered with him. One thing Nick knew for certain was that if he was watching some Equestrian equipment maneuver, he would have appreciated some sort of explanation, so it was only fair for him to provide one now.

“We don’t normally drive the tank off the transporter at this angle,” Nick started, narrating as if he were standing in the War College instead of in front of a dozen curious ponies and several reporters. “The only other option would be to get a crane down here, and that could take a week.”

“Bet I could do it,” rumbled a deep voice to his left, which when Nick turned and looked, belonged to the hefty Equestrian Royal Guard who he had thought was mute. If there ever was a unicorn who could lift sixty plus tons of steel, this one was it, being about a pony and a half wide across the shoulders.

“Hang on, Titan,” said Nick. “Don’t want you straining yourself over something we can handle another way.” Out of the corner of his eye, Nick could see the rest of Four-One’s crew likewise by the barbed wire fence, although each of them had their phones out to record the tank extraction for later reference and most likely ribbing of Rick if he managed to flub it up.

“This is Four-One,” sounded the laconic voice of Corporal Frey from the radio. “We are ready to attempt extraction.”

Restraining the urge to call Rick on the carpet for implying he was a ‘we’ of sorts, or a dentist, Nick closed the contact on his own radio. “This is Four-One Actual, you are clear to move backward. Proceed slowly.”

The last line was extraneous, but since he could see a few news cameras among the gathering crowd, and the Abrams could probably go in reverse up the hill at over forty miles an hour, emphasizing caution was a wise precaution. Thankfully, Rick was not in the mood for stupid displays for the camera. The big main battle tank moved in reverse just as smoothly as if General Dynamics was doing a demonstration, crunching over the boards at the back of the transport and gliding to a halt on the road where Rick took the opportunity to move the turret so the main gun pointed up the road, away from the spectators.

“This is Four-One, are we clear to move to the destination?”

Nick looked back and forth down the road, checking for loose ponies or other wandering civilians who might be dumb enough to get in the way. Seeing none, he triggered the radio again.

“Four-One, this is Four-One Actual. You are clear to proceed.”

Once again, the bulk of the tank just seemed to glide down the road, heralded only by the sharp popping of gravel being turned into dust under its treads. It moved into the designated firing position, paused for a moment, then did a neutral 180 steer to swap ends while the turret remained fixed in place, leaving the entire tank pointed up the hill and situated for its short stint as mechanical sentry. It was a little bit of a show-off, but Nick could not really criticize his driver for it, because he had pulled it off so well. As the turbine whined down to a halt, Nick turned to the audience and announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, that is how you park a tank.”

Through the scattered applause, the hefty Royal Guard Titan moved up to Nick’s side and saluted. “Sir. You need that other thing moved too?”

His first instinct was to discourage the unicorn, since they were going to send a Hercules transport vehicle out from the Fort to deal with the mess anyway. Something in the unicorn’s eyes convinced him otherwise, because he looked much like a weightlifter who had been told he could not lift somebody’s Toyota.

“Just a second, Specialist Titan.” Fumbling in the pocket of his ACU’s, Nick pulled out the short contact list and his iPhone, feeling odd to be making a phone call to an extraterrestrial military officer to ask permission to use one of his soldiers as a tow truck. A short conversation later, Nick hung up the phone and turned to the eagerly anticipating soldier. “He says to wait until he’s here.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Titan with a sharp salute that just barely ‘ticked’ against the steel of his helmet.

It took about twenty minutes for the pony sergeant to show up, along with a few dozen more ponies, a news camera or two, and for all Nick could tell in the growing mixed crowd of ponies and military, the whole of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Titan had spent his time checking the broken transporter and lighting his horn in places while he squinted or sniffed different areas of it.

“Specialist Titan,” called out the old pony commander. “Give the humans a good show, and try not to hurt anypony.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Titan turned back to the truck and lit his horn, making a beam of silvery light vanish under the crumpled steel where the cab and the trailer met. He gained a distant expression, much as someone poking around inside their mouth for a loose tooth, before the wreckage gave a loud noise that sounded like a disengaging coupler. “There we go,” said the unicorn under his breath as he braced his hooves and the silver of his magic surrounded the cab. “One piece at a time.”

There was a ripping noise as if the world's largest sheet of paper was being torn, then the massive front end of the transporter floated up in the air, much like a lead balloon, and Titan turned with it, causing it to glide through the air and land gently back on the road headed uphill. He then repeated the action on the twisted bed of the trailer, sending it flying through the air to land behind the cab where it remained, looking warped and misshapen like a child’s toy that had been stepped on.

This left a fairly large rust-ringed hole in the road along with a washed-out section below it, which Double Billing strolled right up to, made a note on her clipboard, and walked back to the house, most likely to increase her estimate.

Nick walked up to the panting unicorn and clapped him across the armored shoulders. “That was pretty darned incredible,” he admitted.

“The hard part was getting my field all the way around it.” Titan gave a heave and pulled one hoof out of the gravel where it had sunk up to his fetlock, then repeated the task until he was free. “I think I can bend it back more or less into shape, if that will help.”

And a little over an hour later, the tank transport looked only slightly off-center and wobbled a bit as it trundled up the hill, leaving the rest of the Army unit to their duty.

13. Saturday Night Fervor

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Saturday Night Fervor

Dorothy Gale: Why, what is that?
Coach Driver: That, my dear, is a 'horse of a different color.'

― The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:12 P.M. Central Standard Time, Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: The Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The proper celebration for getting the mess tent and all of its associated generators, water systems, and stuff up and running for the ponies was, by default, a gathering of the military crunchies and tread-heads away from military food and over by the Bruener farm for an old-fashioned cookout. It had not really been planned, per se, so there was no HIWIC⁽*⁾ involved, only the natural tendency of military to herd when off-duty and trade stories about the strange places they had been, and were in now.
(*) Head Idiot What’s In Charge. Sometimes ‘Of This Cluster****’ is implied.

“So there I was,” said Specialist Left, holding a hoof up above his head in an angled dive, “losing feathers out of one wing faster than Celestia after a cake, with a horde of angry warthogs below waiting for me to drop out of the sky on them.”

“You were drunk, too,” said Specialist Right, who followed up by hoisting the last Prince of Pilsen in a salute to its fallen comrades. “And you forgot to mention those warthogs were all sows.”

Left brought his hoof over to his chest and looked down at the dry grass that the human and Equestrian soldiers were gathered around in a circle. “After three months in Zebrica doing embassy protection with my brother, they were looking mighty fine indeed.”

The soldiers roared with laughter, including both of the pegasus twins. The evening was getting off to a good start with various beers and sodas in the iced kiddie pool back by the house and the Weber gas grill, actually two grills, one for the Equestrian military and one for the humans.

Which brought another oddity to the collective group once a few more Bud Lights were consumed.

“You guys are stationed in Canterlot,” said Nick to the four Royal Guards in the group, “and yet more than half of your stories have been about this tiny little town at the bottom of the mountain. What gives?”

Titan took an unusual interest in a passing bird, the unicorn Epsilon took a hefty bite out of his potato salad, Left looked down at the fascinating ground, but Right simply lifted his own beer. “We have our weird stuff in Canterlot too, you know.”

“The former Nightmare Moon as a princess,” said Left. “That was a shock.”

“Not as much as Princess Twilight Sparkle coming out of nowhere,” countered Right.

“Technically, Princess Twilight is in Ponyville now,” said Left. “Along with that royal goof of hers. And don’t forget the wedding.”

“I’d say the Princess of Love’s wedding beats it because it happened twice before she moved out into a kingdom of her own,” said Titan. “And had that baby of hers, but that doesn’t count, I suppose.”

“Alicorn babies,” said Left, rolling his eyes. “They’re princess-powered adorabombs. Talk about strange.”

“Specialist Grace!” said Epsilon, straightening up and using a napkin to wipe a dab of potato salad off his face. “What brings you here?”

Nick had not gotten the opportunity to get a good look at the jade-green unicorn since his abrupt introduction to the Equestrians yesterday, other than a few direct orders snapped in his direction much the same as if she were a bomb disposal technician giving directions on which wires to cut. The scruffy green stallion to her side was a far better communicator and social partner, and the little grass-colored unicorn foal in his carrier far more fun to play with, but Specialist Grace was all business, with a fierce intensity all her own.

Those pale green eyes swept across the military gathering, and unconsciously every soldier, human or pony, pulled in their gut, straightened their spine, and adjusted the fit of their uniforms. Without changing her serious expression in the slightest, Specialist Grace announced, “We have arrived at the party, ‘Lucky.’ What are your orders now?”

“I just needed some time away from the townsponies,” said Lucky, pushing his fedora back on his head so he could look up at the humans without shading his eyes. “The Methodist church found a projector, so they’re going to show The Wizard of Oz on the side of one of the buildings downtown. I’ve seen it a couple times in a different dimensional excursion, so I thought I’d take a break.” He scratched one ear and frowned. “I wonder how different this one is.”

“How many dimensions have you visited?” asked Nick.

“A few.” Lucky gave a non-committal flip of his wrist. “It’s a lot more interesting to hang around with the natives and learn about them than to sit around all day and talk about my boring self.”

“Which is why you will never be proper royalty,” said Left, lifting his beer bottle despite a sharp look from Grace. “Thank Celestia. Somebody get Greenie a beer.”

The little foal in Lucky’s carrier had been looking around with bright eyes and twitching nose during the whole conversation, but finally locked her eyes on Dakota Henderson. Kota had the misfortune of putting his unfinished bacon cheeseburger back onto its foam plate when the mismatched pony trio had arrived, and then putting the plate down on Four-One’s tracks while trying to get his camera out without making a fuss.

“Cam’a!” she declared, wriggling in her restraints. “Cam’a! B’kon!”

“Bedtime,” said Lucky in a very firm, parental tone.

Five minutes later when Dakota was holding the cute foal in his lap and trying to wipe off the considerable amount of drool that even a tiny scrap of bacon makes when fed to a winged unicorn, he was starting to recognize some of his own failed history with child rearing. Or at least the small fraction he had achieved before the divorce.

“You need to set some boundaries,” said Kota while holding his foam plate away from the appealing little foal and trying not to see the resulting irony. With one quick bite, he finished the last of his bacon cheeseburger and resumed mopping up Clover’s drool before it made puddles around her chin. It was just him and Lucky now, since the conversational circles had broken into smaller groups with the arrival of Grace, who acted much like a fast neutron in a cluster of unstable isotopes. “Did you have any kids before this one?”

Lucky swallowed his bite of potato salad and shook his head. “We were pretty lucky to have this one. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was trying to keep us from reproducing.”

“I think that can be said about any pregnancy,” said Kota while thinking of his first daughter, who was born while he was on deployment. “Are you and your wife going to have any more?”

It was only reflex for Dakota to look up at Specialist Grace nearby while asking the question, since both ponies were different shades of green. He had thought she was out of earshot, but ponies ears were more sensitive than humans, and she seemed to take his casual glance as something with far more meaning. She stopped cold in the middle of a drink, and lemonade sprayed everywhere.

“We will have to deal with that as time permits,” said Lucky. “Do you need any help, Grace?”

“I’m fine,” she managed between coughs.

“That does remind me,” added Lucky. “I understand you and your significant other in the guard have been getting serious, Miss Grace. Have you considered having any foals of your own?”

Dakota had known some real bright people in his time, even in the Marines. Men who knew it all and were not afraid to tell you all about it, from their unlikely experiences in war to their unbelievable stories about women. Most of them were frauds to one degree or another, but some of them were off the charts brilliant, and had thought every thought in existence, from Plotinus to Present. Dakota had pegged the forest-green unicorn as one of those oddball geniuses from the first time he heard her, a thought that had been reinforced by every off-the-cuff comment of her military peers.

The comment did solidify two firm facts in Dakota’s mind. The first was that Grace and Lucky were not a couple, despite her constant presence at his side. Which was probably a good thing, since Grace was wound tighter than a clock spring, and Lucky was a friendly, open, chatty type, particularly around children of whatever species.

The second fact he realized was that Grace had quite probably never considered the possibility that her body might one day produce progeny. It was obviously a thought with considerable impact. From her expression, Lucky might as well have hit her over the head with a sledgehammer.

- Ω - -

Several hours later under the moonlight, after the informal party had nearly completely wound down, Nick found himself alone with the pegasus twins, who had both been fairly light with their drinking. Normally, a couple of beers would loosen the tongue of a military man. In pegasi, it simply seemed to be turned into energy at an accelerated rate. And in unicorns… Well, since Specialist Titan had not touched anything stronger than an orange soda since his arrival, Nick really had nothing to compare against. Then again, the stout unicorn was entrusted with a spear, the only weapon that the entire invasion force possessed, so a little bit of teetotaling was not out of line.

“I’ve got to admit, I’ve seen a lot of stuff in my life, but nothing like the weird crap you guys deal with on a daily basis.” Nick nodded in the direction of the Bruener farmhouse, where one of the ponies was still frying up hamburgers for a constantly refreshing line of townspeople, soldiers, police officers, and any innocent passers-by who happened to catch wind of the ongoing operation, even this late at night. “Sizzler there could go to work for any five-star restaurant in Kansas City pulling down a six-figure salary. An entire nation of herbivorous equines and you have the greatest meat-cooking chef in history.”

He turned slightly to point at the Bruener’s porch, where Lucky was rocking his wide-awake foal on the bench swing in a futile attempt at inducing drowsiness. “Greenie there seems to have visited more dimensions and other worlds than Carter has little pills, and his daughter is so cute she could induce heart attacks at a quarter-mile range. And yet, you have to pull teeth to get him to talk about himself, and he tries his best to keep that little cutie out of the camera lens.”

It took only a small motion to indicate a smaller earth pony colt a few feet away from Lucky, where he had set up an art easel at ground level and was sketching with a pencil clutched in his teeth. “Then you’ve got kids who can do stuff better than some of our adults who train their entire lives. That one does drawings, there’s a pegasus I saw training one of the search dogs, and one of the kids dug up a fossil. Not just a bone fragment, a whole skull. She’s got a skull on her rump and she digs up skulls, for Christ’s sake.”

Nick turned and pointed uphill at where a faint green light was tracing up the road toward the highway, around the blinking yellow lights of the barricades put up to prevent anybody from dropping into the hole in the gravel county road. “Then you’ve got Specialist Grace, a unicorn so bright she could be used as spotlight with a bonus talent of perfect memory, if I remember right. Why in the world did she go from second in command of the city police force to a simple recruit?”

“Not a simple recruit,” said Left. “Anything but. Luna put her and three others into the Royal Guard as a message.”

“Look out, here come the girls,” declared Right, giving his bottle of soda a quick heft and draining the last out of the bottom. “Well nigh onto a thousand years of male-only Royal Guards and I will be sent straight to Tartarus if I didn’t agree that they’ve really helped shake us out of our slump.”

“Nightmare Moon could have gone through us like a spear through butter,” volunteered Titan, which was more words than he had said during most of his time in their little group. “Changelings stomped us flat during the wedding. Discord treated us like toys and Tirek didn’t even break stride when he drained all of our magic.”

Left grinned, looking somewhat predatory in the shadows of their meeting place on the other side of Four-One. “Yeah, but Twilight Sparkle and her friends beat him like a rug. There’s a crater out by Ponyville that’s all full of water now, but you can see it from Canterlot without a telescope. Princess power. Ain’t nothing like it.”

“Wait a minute,” said Nick. “Are the princesses unicorns or pegasi? I’m getting them confused.”

“A little of each,” rumbled Titan. “Unicorn magic, pegasi flight, and earth pony strength.”

“Oh,” said Nick as the light dawned. “Like Lucky’s daughter. Does that mean she’s a—”

There was something about the air that shifted around Nick, a sense of restrained danger that made his fingers reach unconsciously for the lever that would drop him into the belly of his tank despite being several steps outside of it. Both of the pegasi shifted on the tips of their hooves with wings ever so slightly raised, and Titan’s magic glowed brighter on the spear.

“Stand down.”

The voice was low and predatory, like James Earl Jones stalking toward them in the darkness. The three guard ponies tensed, then relaxed to what could be considered parade rest when a much darker pegasus just fucking appeared as if he was fading in from the shadows around the tank. Thankfully, both bat-like wings were relaxed and tucked securely on his back, and his fuzzy ears were perked forward instead of laying back, which were behavioural cues that Nick had been learning how to read.

There were other cues that Nick was more nervous about, in particular the white tracery of lines across the pegasus’ wings and hide, showing more well-healed scars than any horse-creature should have picked up in a lifetime of fighting. One notched ear flicked, and those big golden eyes turned up to give Nick a neutral stare, much as if the pegasus had already calculated that Nick was harmless enough that he didn’t need to be killed and buried somewhere out in the dark.

The problem was that Nick’s mind was working its way up the chain of observations without being prompted, something that had kept him alive out in the field but could possibly kill him now, or so it seemed.

“She’s a princess. You were trying to protect the prince and the princess when you all got caught up in that… portal thing,” he said flatly. “Wingless Prince Lucky and Princess Clover, stranded in a violent dimension full of human beings. No wonder you’re jumpy, and Lucky didn’t want any pictures taken of his little girl.”

“We protect all ponies,” rumbled the dark pegasus in a voice like distant thunder. “We swore an oath.”

Nick returned the stoic gaze of the pony guards. Their expressions reminded him a little of a Seal team he once had the pleasure of partying with, at the exact moment one of his fellow tankers had said something derogatory and physically impossible about the Navy. And if what he had heard so far was correct, the Equestrian Royal Guards would make a fair fight against most of the Seal Teams. Which meant...

“We’re on the same side,” said Nick. “Anything comes after that little girl or any of you, for that matter, and we’ll defend you to the last man. We swore an oath too.”

“Defend us with what?” The dark pegasus rapped on the hull of Four-One with one shod hoof, making a dull thudding noise. “Your siege engines are slow and clumsy, needing to be transported from place to place by your wheeled vehicles upon paved roads, and even then, they fall through the bridges. None of your warriors are even armed with more than projectile weapons. No swords, no spears, not even clubs. Against a threat like Tirek, you could do nothing but inconvenience him.”

“Inconvenience…” Nick struggled to keep his composure. “Look, Lieutenant…”

“Optio Pumpernickel,” said the dark pegasus. “Personal guard to Princess Luna, heir of Clan Starlight and Blutwache to the High Nest of the Griffon Empire.”

“Lieutenant Nicolas Comena,” said Nick after a quick breath. “United States Army, commander of 1st Squad, Fourth Cavalry. Two deployments into Afghanistan, and I guarantee you that if Tirek comes over that hill looking to harm you ponies, we will leave him with more holes than a sponge, including a couple in his center of mass that you could throw a bowling ball through. This baby—” Nick patted the cool bulk of Four-One “—can put a sabot round through a gnat’s ass a mile away while driving across a plowed field, or spray a thousand ball bearings across a few hundred yards of killing field, leaving nothing but chunks of dead bodies behind. It’s got three machine guns to lay down fire, my favorite being the fifty cal, and that will take an arm off with just one shot. Yea though we drive through the Valley of Death, we fear no evil because we’re the baddest motherfuckers on the planet. There is nothing that walks, crawls, or drives that the main gun can’t blow straight through before they even see us. So while your Tirek is scratching away at the armor, we’ll be sitting inside blowing holes through him until there won’t even be shoes left. Sir.”

The grim expression on Pumpernickel’s face turned up at the very far corners of his lips. “I checked with Specialist Grace. There aren’t even any enchantments on your armor. He’d tear your vehicle apart with his bare hands, like tissue paper.”

“What, like you could poke through it with that spear?” asked Nick while pointing to the only weapon the ponies had brought with them. With a silver leaf-shaped blade and a wooden shaft that left the whole thing shorter than Nick, the spear did not look very dangerous. That didn’t stop Pumpernickel’s smile from getting bigger when he motioned Titan to pass over the spear, then walked over to the front of the tank.

“Wait a sec,” called out Nick. He climbed up on the tank and rapped against the half-open hatch. “Sergeant Spasowski, get your crew up here. I think you want to see this.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a series of scuffling noises from inside of Four-One before the alternate crew began to pop out, mostly looking as if they had been dozing or reading to pass the time. Spasowski was the least mussed of them, because Nick suspected the tall Polish NCO secretly occupied his leisure time by ironing his clothes instead of more Army-like activities. Once he had all of the crew briefed and watching, Nick gave a nod to the dark pegasus holding the spear and sat back on the tank to watch.

The first thrust Pumpernickel made was interesting, because Nick had not expected the pony to grasp the spear under one foreleg and one wing, giving a three-legged hop forward that scraped the tip of the spear along the front glacis plate and peeled off a long thread of paint. A second and third thrust made little more progress, although it did slowly remove Nick’s anticipatory smile. There was a lot of force behind those legs, and if the spear had been pointed at Nick’s own guts, it would have gone through him like a hot knife through butter.

“I don’t understand,” muttered the pegasus, who peered at the scratches he had made on Four-One’s armor. “Titan, come here and look at this. Do you see any enchantments?”

Nick suppressed a comment about the hardened steel used on the outer skin of the tank, and the far tougher ceramic core that—

A last strenious jab of the spear broke through the outer steel skin of the tank and into the ceramic Chobham armor with a loud crunch. Only about a third of the spear’s blade had actually penetrated into the armor, which was still far more than Nick had expected, particularly after seeing one of the M1s in Afghanistan that had taken a half-dozen RPG hits with nothing more than paint scraping and some metal pits to show for the effort.

Getting the spear back out was a more complicated process, involving a lot of pony frowns and tugging, along with some masculine grunts. Eventually, Pumpernickel got the spear extracted and passed it over to Titan, who continued to use it to give little pokes and prods to the small hole as if it were some sort of toy.

“You were right,” admitted Pumpernickel grudgingly. “I was basing my estimates on the other armored vehicles I visited earlier.”

“The APCs the MPs are using? Aluminum,” said Nick. “That’s why I went into tanks. I’m not beer, and I don’t deserve to be in a can.”

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” rumbled Pumpernickel, looking significantly more abashed than his previous fierce demeanor, much like a fierce rottweiler who had just been whapped across the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

“Think nothing of it,” said Nick with a dismissive wave. “I’m pretty sure if I was responsible for guarding one of the British little princes or princesses in some foreign dimension, I’d go stark raving mad. It’s bad enough just shepherding my crew through a deployment overseas.”

“We love you too, Lieutenant,” said one of the men on the tank, which triggered a group laugh, both humans and horses, although the laughter died away instantly when Titan put the tip of the spear against the tank’s glacis plate with his magic and pushed.

There was… Nick wanted to call it a noise, even though it was more an absence of sound and the intake of a half-dozen lungs as the magic-driven spear punched into the M1’s Chobham armor until the blade had completely vanished, and the hefty unicorn could not push the spear any further in.

Or pull it out, no matter how much he pulled, until his magic flared up in a white flash and he stumbled back, holding onto the wooden shaft of the broken spear.

“Fuuuuck,” said Nick in one long breath as he scrambled over to the hole in the tank’s armor and peered at the broken spear blade buried inside. “Holy fucking Christ.”

“Sergeant Hardhooves is going to kill me,” murmured Titan, still holding onto the spear shaft in his magic. “I don’t know if we can make another one before we go back on Monday with the tools here.” The hefty unicorn lowered his voice and cringed, looking up at where the humans were all peering wide-eyed at the hole in their tank. “Is your general going to be mad?”

“That you broke our tank?” Nick put both of his hands up to his face and breathed out. “Or that the aliens that are going home the day after tomorrow left an example of their technology embedded in a sixty-ton mobile safe? He’s going to yell a little, probably make some threats, but tomorrow I’ll bet there’s a brand new tank here while my baby’s going back to the most secure storage location Ft. Riley has. A few hundred scientists from the five-sided puzzle palace will be studying this until I’m old and grey.”

The baffled unicorn seemed to be having difficulty with translating his English, so it warranted some Mil-Speak clarification. “No, he won’t be angry. In fact,” added Nick as an officer-level idea came to life in his head, “didn’t you say something about making a replacement spear? Because the Army maintenance division has the metalworking equipment, and if your sergeant gives permission, I’m positive General Hackmore would roll out the red carpet to make it happen tomorrow. That is unless there are any classified enchantments on the weapon that your people wouldn’t want our people looking at.”

“I don’t think so,” said Titan, his solid face set in an expression of intense memory searching. “Specialist Grace would know for certain. I just don’t think we should leave…”

All of the pony guards looked over at the house, where Lucky had just managed to rock his little foal to sleep on the porch swing. It made a beautiful scene, with father and dozing daughter taking a few minutes of relaxation in the cool Kansas night, while a few feet away a small pony with a paintbrush gripped in his jaws was painting their picture in a fierce blur of motion.

“You don’t want to leave your secret Very Important Ponies unguarded,” said Nick. “Speaking of which,” he added, turning to the backup crew of Four-One and clearing his throat. “They’re classified need-to-know as of now, and nobody else needs to know until they’re gone. If I hear one fucking rumor about Prince Lucky or Princess Clover, or see one picture posted…”

Several of the crew promptly began poking buttons on their phones, while Sergeant Spasowski gave a short nod. “I understand, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“Very well.” Nick turned back to the embarrassed unicorn. “Security for your special case shouldn’t be a problem. I know there’s a squad of Army Rangers out at the fort. I can ask the general quietly about rotating them in here while you gentlesapients forge a few spears and drive our physicists crazy. And in exchange, I’m positive the general will be more than happy to show off our human weapons out at the firing range.”

While the pony guards used the communication devices built into their helmets to contact the most probably sleeping and therefore more crabby then usual sergeant, Nick got out his phone and proceeded to hopscotch over about six superior officers as General Hackmore had ordered him to do in case anything weird happened.

And this certainly qualified.

“Hello, general,” said Nick when the phone was answered. He could hear cheering ponies in the background from where the pony movie marathon had proceeded into an extra show or two, so he relaxed slightly since he had not woken the general up, thankfully. “This is Lieutenant Comena. I’ve got something a little important to show you, but not critical, so it can wait a few hours if you want. Uh-huh. Okay, I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you over the phone.”

Restraining a smirk, Nick continued in his best military fashion. “Sir, I’m pleased to report that our tank platoon has disarmed the entire alien invasion. Yeah, when we were talking shop, one of them was playing around and stuck their spear into the bow of Four-One. Oh, not all the way through, sir. About half-way. Yes, it’s stuck as much as anything has been stuck in the history of stuckness. You’re coming out to see it? I don’t blame you a bit, sir. Oh, and we’re going to need a new tank. This isn’t coming out of my pay, is it sir?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: Saturday June 20, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth Floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

A hospital was a place where one stood a smaller chance of dying from a disease than from boredom. Claire was starting to think that she should pass the title of pony-sitter to some other human and sneak away before she expired from some of the most interesting boredom she had ever been through.

Then again, she had never been able to interview such fascinating people… err… ponies about places she was dying to go see herself.

She had recorded most of an hour of video with the KC Star photographer snapping away in the background, then edited a short segment of it for her blog, Claire Out There with Widget and Goose looking over her shoulder. Both ponies were a fascinating study in contrasts, small town and big city, light and dark, excited about people and excited about mechanical things, and both just as frustrated that they had been unable to see most of their world’s fabulous places.

Since the interviews were about them, not herself, Claire limited her own input to gentle conversational nudges to move things along or focus on the things that humans would find interesting. Granny Smith was awake during their chat, but kept perfectly silent, as if she too was feeling like a young pony back on her farm, looking at the big unapproachable world out there. Claire would have loved to talk with all of them for days on end, if not for the visit of US Ambassador Power, who turned out to be only the first in a long stream of visitors. Thankfully, the FBI temporary office somewhere in the building regulated the room time of the various ambassadors, representatives, and various VIPs to a maximum of ten minutes with five minute breaks. It miffed Claire just a little, since she had developed an irrational possessive streak toward ‘her’ ponies.

It was hard to think of them as their own creatures, even after Claire had caught herself talking in baby-words to Widget. Thankfully, the young unicorn was the forgiving type, and reassured the human that she did not resent the treatment, although she promised to remind Claire if she started to backslide.

Oh, and ear scratches were perfectly fine as an apology. Encouraged, even.

So for most of the remainder of Saturday morning, Claire had remained in the background as human VIPs of various stripes visited the incapacitated alien patients. Widget and Claire had even made a game out of it by counting how many of the same phrases the guests used, from ‘I and all of the nations of Earth are wishing you a rapid recovery’ to ‘We hope your medical treatment is to your liking’ and ‘May we take a few photographs?’ Each of the visitors had been given strict orders not to touch either of the ponies in order to reduce the chance of them catching some sort of new germs, so the visits resembled some sort of dance, with gestures, motions, and steps similar but not identical to each other. In the brief pauses between visitors, Granny Smith would open her eyes and chat with Claire, or one of the ponies would use the bathroom, or sometimes Goose would lift her head out of the pile of pillows she was hiding under and give the room a brief examination before returning to sleep. It was a unique perspective on a First Contact situation, but after several hours of it, the appeal was wearing off. After most of an entire day of it, Claire was really needing a commercial break in the ongoing reality tv-show, or perhaps an action scene to break up the stress.

Since part of the job of a pony-sitter seemed to involve being a gopher, Claire had slipped out of the room during dinner to run errands in the hospital gift shop and the cafeteria. Her mother had put some extra money into her debit card, so there was no risk of running out of money here, and she really wanted to know what Widget thought of the entire spectrum of junk food available in the CVS pharmacy down the street from KU Med. After a very thorough shopping trip, she was carrying two grocery bags full of snack foods and blank thank-you cards back upstairs in the elevator when she bumped into a familiar FBI agent who seemed to be headed the same direction.

“Agent Anacostia!” Claire quickly sat down one of the bags so she could shake hands with the dark-skinned agent. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk since yesterday’s little misunderstanding. I just wanted to—”

Claire stopped due to the FBI agent’s rapid negating hand motions and the way she was mouthing ‘no’ , which ran completely counter to her calm and professional voice. “Miss Bruener, it is a pleasure to see you again. Do you think I could have a few minutes with your associates to pass along the Deputy Attorney General’s best wishes?”

It wasn’t until the agent tugged on her ear, then opened up her hand to show a half-dozen tiny black devices that Claire twigged to what was going on, and she could not help but smile to herself at what was going to happen next.

“Why, of course you can see Widget,” said Claire, giving Agent Anacostia a quick thumbs’ up. “I was just taking a quick break to pick up some things for her and vape, since they don’t let me do it in her room and I’m not sure what kind of reaction she’d have to nicotine vaping fluid.” Claire carefully opened up her Sneaky Pete holster and produced her cobbled-together vaping unit, which was entirely too bulky to store anywhere else. Besides, it leaked sometimes.

The look of realization on the FBI agent’s face was priceless, so Claire only shrugged and put away her damp vaper while the elevator door opened. The agent picked up the extra shopping bag and followed along, through the hospital corridors and past the two Highway Patrol officers on watch, until they reached the room.

“Hey, Widget.” Over the course of the day, the injured unicorn had been slowly losing bandages and gaining the same state of alert stir-crazy that Claire was suffering. Each gap between an ambassador or political functionary visit let the nurses check her condition, and allowed Doctor Stable the occasional quick visit to adjust his treatments. A human in the same situation would be unable to walk for a week or more, but the unicorn (with assistance from the unicorn doctor) had been able to put just a little weight on her foreleg by the afternoon, and was expected to be able to go back to Randolph by Monday, hobbling but mobile enough to go through their return portal. The ponies’ departure was going to be a great disappointment to Claire, because she had gotten more comfortable in their presence in a few hours than she had in years with her human friends. Plus the ponies didn’t try to go through her wallet when her back was turned, or if Widget did, she put everything back.

She placed her bag of goodies carefully on the nearby table and started unpacking. “I got one of every brand of chips and candy they had at CVS, a sample of everything in the cafeteria buffet downstairs including the chicken salad you asked about, and an FBI agent. No biting,” she cautioned at Goose, who had stirred from her pony pillow pile and was regarding the new visitor with baleful yellow eyes from beneath narrowed eyelashes. “She’s probably not good for you anyway.”

“Hello, Miss Anacostia,” said Widget, although her huge eyes abruptly widened, and her horn lit up. “You brought some of them too!”

The small black objects the agent had been carrying in one closed hand glowed and floated over to Widget, who peered at them with great delight, joined by Claire shortly afterward.

“The listening devices are smaller than most of the ones the other ambassadors left behind,” observed Claire. “I like that one there. It looks like a button.”

“This one’s magnetic!” observed Widget, floating the little black dot over and sticking it next to several others on a tablespoon. “They’re not very strong, though. I can barely hear them.”

“The FBI probably has some sort of base station repeater nearby,” said Claire, peering at one of the bugs. “I think this one has video. Hello, other FBI agents!”

“That’s…” Agent Anacostia hesitated, then came over to the meal tray across Widget’s bed where she had arranged the bugs. “You said the ambassadors left these listening devices?”

“Most of them did,” admitted Widget. “I didn’t understand until the second or third one, and Claire explained it to me. They’re just such neat devices! I mean I thought the infusion pump was just so nifty when it broke and the nice hospital repairman left me a toolkit so I could look at it and see how it worked but these are so much smaller and you can’t take ‘em apart with even the teeniest screwdriver.” The injured unicorn hesitated in her rapid chatter and looked at a second table, nearly covered in small circuit boards and tidy lines of wires with every screw and part laid out in a neat array. “I should put that together again, shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t think the hospital will mind.” Agent Anacostia took a deep breath and regarded the mechanical devices spread out on the unicorn’s tray table. “And it was quite impolite for the ambassadors to leave these behind. If you want to keep them, I suppose we can consider them gifts.”

“Cool,” breathed Widget, and both of her ears perked up sharply. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Anyway…” The young woman took a deep breath. “The FBI has been informed that your portal home should be ready on Monday afternoon. We’ve been in touch with your parents—” Widget’s ears noticeably drooped “—and Doctor Stable agrees that you should be well enough to travel by then, so if it is acceptable, I’d like to drive you back to Randolph first thing Monday morning.”

“Not flying?” Goose’s voice was low and trembling, although she did not come out from under her pillows, and Agent Anacostia only twitched a little when she spoke.

“No flying,” assured the agent. “And no ambulance, unless it is really needed. The reporters are chest-deep out there since Randolph has been cordoned off from any non-residents. The Ponyville mayor has been holding news conferences for the press in Manhattan or I’m afraid there would have been a riot by now. It will be safer sneaking you out of here in a normal car, provided nobody leaks word of your departure,” she added, facing the collection of listening devices.

“As long as we don’t fly,” said Goose’s voice from inside the pillow pile.

“We?” asked the female agent.

“I’ve been texting my mother,” admitted Claire. “Monday morning, the ponies were going to send one of Missus Apple’s relatives here to watch over her for a few weeks, along with replacing Goose with one of their regular guards. They’re flying here, so Goose was a little worried.” Claire lowered her voice and whispered, “She’s afraid of heights.”

“Am not,” denied Goose, who stuck her head out of the pillows to voice her objection. “I’m afraid of open spaces. I’ve lived most of my life in Canterlot, and that’s about as high as you can get without climbing the rest of the mountain.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” said Anacostia. “We’ve been watching Miss Bruener’s videos down in the conference room. Short, factual, and quite entertaining. Some of the higher-ups in Washington—” The agent came to a sudden stop and glanced down at the listening devices, making Claire hurry to fill in the empty conversational space.

“I’m sure they’re all curious about our visitors. It seems to be a common trait of humanity.”

Agent Anacostia looked over at Granny Smith, who was feigning sleep again, then back at Widget. “Some of my superiors were hoping you could stay for a week or two, since your country is going to open a portal for Missus Smith then. They would be delighted to put you up in the finest hotel so all of the people in Washington could meet you. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I… don’t know,” admitted Widget, and Claire could feel a little burst of warmth in her heart when the injured unicorn looked at her for reassurance. “My parents will be expecting me, after all, and I’m not sure if Princess Celestia would want me staying here, even if it is just for a few weeks.”

“You’d need a guard,” said Goose from under her pillows again. “Since you’d be all alone, in a hostile dimension. I’m sure Optio Pumpernickel would be overjoyed to watch over you. I’m just not sure what the body count would be.” There was a brief pause, then a sigh. “Thank the stars, we’re out of communication range. Please don’t repeat that to him. He’s a little sensitive.”

“You could come with her,” suggested the young FBI agent. “We’d fly… I mean drive you out to Washington in your own limo, first class all the way.”

“That’s…” There was a longer pause, and Claire instinctively moved to the pile of pillows to scratch the single fuzzy ear that was visible.

“I’m afraid not, Agent Anacostia,” said Claire. “Goose is still a little traumatized from her trip here, what with her uranophobia and being dropped through a portal and then flying here in the medical helicopter. And I don’t think it would be very good to drag Widget through an all-day car ride across the country just to be gawked at by the politicians in Washington since she’s just out of surgery and still has to recover. I know my parents would never give me permission for such a trip after major surgery. Even though I’m old enough I don’t have to ask them,” she added quickly.

After a few more pleasantries, the FBI agent excused herself, and Claire walked with her to the elevator. It felt good to be alone with another human for a few minutes. Widget was admittedly fun and great to talk with, but all three of the ponies in the room knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives: Granny Smith was going to raise Apples until the day she died, Widget wanted to pry into the mechanical secrets of every machine she saw, and Goose was determined to be the best pony guard that ever was.

Claire, much to her own internal consideration, was lost by comparison. She was not even able to get a full-time job doing what she wanted to do because she was not sure exactly what that was. Even her Marketing degree was a compromise from her start in Feminist Studies, then her change to Criminal Justice, then a desperate grab for anything she could use to just graduate. She liked writing and traveling and interviews and editing informative little snippets out of it, there just was no real money involved in producing travelogues unless she wanted to work overseas for the CIA, and that had never quite appealed to her.

“So, did you always want to be an FBI agent?” blurted out Claire while they were walking through the sterile hospital corridors. “And are we still being recorded?”

“Watched, at least.” Anacostia gave a little wave at one of the hospital cameras they were passing. “The agency has taken over surveillance in this area. And I’d guess we’re still being recorded somewhere. They’re starting to express some real interest in why I went into the aliens’ room twice in rapid succession, for starters. And I didn’t really consider a career in law enforcement until my father was killed.”

“Oh,” said Claire. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it. An undocumented immigrant shot him during a robbery attempt.”

Claire bit her lip. The memory of her own robbery a few years ago was still far too close, and she really did not want to talk about it, so she shook her head and tried to play it casual. “Wow. You even sound like an FBI agent off-duty. Then again, we might be recorded, so I see your point. Hold up a sec.”

The soda machine thankfully took credit cards, so Claire dug into her pocket and regarded the selection. “Let me buy you a pop, at least, Agent Anacostia.”

“Call me Karla, please. And anything with a sublethal dose of caffeine would be welcome.” The FBI agent yawned and rubbed something out from under one eye. “I’ve drank enough coffee to pee black since I got dragged into this. We’ve been watching the news and video about the ponies nonstop downstairs. Including yours, I might note. Very well done.”

“Thanks!” Claire made her selection and watched the machine whir and clunk. “Did you have any questions you wanted me to ask Widget for the next segment? I thought about just having a girls Disney movie night, but with the way they get into everything, I figured we’d wind up watching Frozen and she’d be dancing around the room, freezing everything.”

The FBI agent snorted while punching in her selection on the keypad, then looked thoughtful. “Really?”

“Really.” Claire fished out the bottle of Diet Coke and passed it over with a grimace. “Icky stuff. Widget drinks regular Coke, and Goose drinks Sprite like water. Have you seen her tongue? It must be a foot long. I think her kind of pony is some sort of nectar drinker.”

“I thought vampire ponies drank blood,” said the agent with a shudder as Claire plugged the machine for another bottle.

“Naaa,” scoffed Claire. “She’s the sweetest, kindest, most adorable little ball of fuzz in the world. And I’ll bet she can kick your ass across the mat at the dojo easy.”

“Really?” Agent Anacostia took a drink of her Diet Coke. “I’d almost take her up on that, but the closest mat I can think of is over at the FBI field office, and that’s in KC Missouri, outside of the Kansas governor’s restraining order. The agency would have them bundled into a plane and off to Washington in a minute.” The agent hesitated for just a moment before tugging her ear and adding, “As would be appropriate, since they are the first aliens ever to land on Earth, and Washington DC is the best place for them to be properly greeted by the leaders of other nations.”

“Nice catch. You’re really quick on your feet,” said Claire while punching in the code for Diet Pepsi. She had an idea rattling around in the back of her head, and it would only make sense if she could say it out loud. “Would you like to stay up with us tonight and talk? I was going to record a livestream for YouTube, and Goose thinks you walk on water, since you’re sort of like her world’s Royal Guards. It would help you get used to her, and if you’re going to drive them back to Randolph on Monday…”

“I was going to go home and try to sleep.” The FBI agent looked at her bottle of Diet Coke with disgust and screwed the lid back on. “Try, that is.”

“How often do you get to talk with a real alien?” asked Claire. “Besides, I could use another human as backup. One who doesn’t wear surgical scrubs,” she added, brushing one hand against her borrowed outfit. “Your boss will appreciate having an FBI agent in the room, and the girls know you already.”

“I’m not sure I’d be comfortable in the room with them,” said Anacostia.

“I’ll let you braid Goose’s mane,” said Claire.

“Okay, you win.”

Author's Note

Mechanical cutie marks are so useful. So is a built-in antenna.

14. A Day of Arrest

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
A Day of Arrest

"A friend should always underestimate your virtues and an enemy overestimate your faults."
― Don Vito Corleone - The Godfather

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:30 A.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth Floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Karla was in pain. More physical than mental, but pain nonetheless. It had been a long time since Karla Anacostia the college student wound up couch-surfing through the night at a friend’s home, and Agent Anacostia the FBI officer always had a hotel room to stay at during long deployments, so she had obviously gotten soft.

Shifting her weight and moving the thin hospital blanket to one side, her first thought was to check on the Glock 22 in her shoulder holster, which had made a nasty lump in her already uncomfortable sleeping surface. Then badge, phone, wallet, and keys, all where they were supposed to be, thankfully. Cracking her eyes open only showed one pony in the room, however.

Granny Smith looked right back at her, with a look that Karla’s own grandmother had used far too often when she had overslept at her home. “So, yer up finally.”

“Yes, Granny Smith,” managed Karla, swinging her legs down off the hospital couch and looking for her shoes. “I didn’t mean to drop off like that, but it’s been a long—”

“T’be honest, I fell asleep first,” admitted the old mare. “You young girls all chattering about stallions and such. It’s been a long time since I’ve been off with a bunch of young ‘uns.” Missus Smith paused and looked… oddly plaintive. “Actually, growing up on a farm didn’t rub me up against most mares. Between our fight with our neighbors and my pappy’s naturally cranky nature, weren’t no real friends to be had. Mah grandfoals done did so much better despite me.”

“As I recall,” started Karla, who was starting to feel a little better. “One of them is the Element of Honesty, one is that little filly you can’t quit talking about, and Big Mac, who sounds like one heck of a guy, and what is that?”

There was a strange, wind-like noise from out in the hallway, together with a young child shrieking in laughter. It was probably what had woke her up, although not anything that seemed dangerous, mostly from the way the Highway Patrol trooper in the doorway was looking while trying not to laugh.

One of the nurses, who Karla had not noticed before, stirred from a chair next to the older pony and said, “The girls got up early and decided to go entertain the kids in the next wing. The energy of youth, I guess. Those three make me tired just watching them.”

Granny Smith chuckled. “There’s three little ponies I know that’ll make them look like little old mares. Go out and see what they’re up to, Miss Anacostia. Just be glad there’s no tree sap around.”

Her feet hurt when she put weight on them, which was probably a sign that she had been spending too much time standing as of late, and there was a hammer chorus in her forehead from caffeine deficiency. At least there had been no drinking, so she was not hung over after their long girl-party last night. There had been stories about dating, games of Truth or Dare, video clips from YouTube, one pizza daringly snuck through hospital security, and last but not least, a movie at the end. The ponies most certainly did not like horror movies (thankfully), so Pacific Rim had been picked out of pay-per-view options, and by the end of the movie, Karla was positive that the mechanical-oriented unicorn was planning on building her own Jaeger.

And darned if Karla wasn’t starting to think she could.

The corridor was empty of any strange sights when she reached the doorway, although the Highway Patrol trooper was still snickering, and all of the nurses in the hallway were looking in one direction. She wanted to ask what was going on, but whatever it was seemed to be a recurring phenomena, so she used her time to run fingers through her hair and arrange her clothes to make it a little less obvious that she had slept in them.

In due time, the strange ripping noise sounded through the corridor again, soon followed by a sight at the far end that Karla never would forget. Riding on the back of the dark batpony like some fairy-tale princess in a nightgown was a little girl, who was squealing at the top of her lungs while Goose made a sharp turn, nearly touching the ceiling tiles and floor at the same time with her enormous wings. When she leveled out, both wings were brushing against the walls on either side of the corridor as she glided in Karla’s direction with the little girl on top, still whooping up a storm. That is until her Royal Steed finished losing altitude, retracted her legs, and skidded to a halt on her furry chest just a few feet away.

“Whee!” declared Goose, sounding just out of breath.

“Again!” declared the skinny little girl on her back.

“One ride to a customer.” The dark monster stood up and began folding her massive wings in a process that gave Karla a little flutter of fear in the back of her head. “There’s three more little human fillies waiting in line, and we don’t want to keep them waiting. Glad to see you’re awake, Karla,” called back Goose as she trotted off with the clatter of steel shoes on tile.

“Furthest she’s made it so far,” said the Highway Patrol officer once the pony and her energetic passenger had vanished around the corner. “The kids were a little skittish around her until they found out she could fly. Now they can’t get enough of her.”

“Weirdest alien invasion ever,” murmured Karla. A task of higher importance shook her out of the moment of stunned amazement, and FBI Agent Anacostia pulled out her cell phone.

“So what are you doing?” asked Granny Smith, who had moved near the doorway with the assistance of her personal nurse.

The pony’s face was still looking drawn and pale, although it was difficult to see through all the hair of her coat. The old mare had been fairly quiet last evening, contributing to the conversation only in small bursts and when Claire had used her phone to call Big Mac. Then she had lit up like a happy light bulb, and told a half-dozen stories in a row about Ponyville and her early life there as a little filly.

“Turning off airplane mode so I can send video of their next run to the field office director, Missus Smith,” said Karla. “Clyde’s gotta see this.”

The cell phone promptly rang before the next exhibition started, and since several of the nurses had their phones out too, and the caller id showed it was Clyde calling, Karla decided on employment over recreation.

“Good morning, Agent Anacostia,” said the director immediately. “This is Agent in Charge Smith. Before you say anything, Miss Bruener set her tablet up last night to livestream your little party on YouTube, and it’s still broadcasting.”

Karla looked over her shoulder at the innocuous tablet sitting in the corner of the room and said something which ought to have been self-censored before going out over the internet. A second thought about the eavesdropping devices all lined up on the window sill where Widget had placed her precious toys did make her change languages in order to add something special that Grandmother Tashi once taught her when she had hit her thumb with a hammer. A few minutes later once Karla had gone down the hallway to the soda machine and away from her career in mass media, she managed, “Thanks, Clyde. I should be where I can talk now.”

Clyde always had been a sensible boss and liked to be on a first-name basis with his employees, so the way he continued in clipped words with formal protocol on the call twigged Karla solidly to the suspicion that he was not the only person on the line. And from Karla’s interaction with ‘Quills’ Gates yesterday, she was hoping that older and more mature members of the Department of Justice had decided to give up on their hairbrained scheme of effectively kidnapping several of the peaceful (although cute/frightening) aliens off to the hive of scum and villainy that was Washington.

Unfortunately, only good ideas die in a bureaucracy. Bad ones grow.

“Good. Agent Anacostia, I have to say you’ve done a fine job of gaining the aliens’ trust and incidentally reducing the public’s natural fear of the unknown.”

Translation: Good work on snuggling up to the cuddly aliens on YouTube. Wait.

“How many people were watching that stream?” blurted out Karla. “I mean a few hundred viewers watching me and the girls—” leaving unsaid just when Karla had transitioned from viewing them as ‘scary aliens’ to ‘frightened teenagers’ in her mind “—talk about nail polish and dating can’t be that…” She took a breath and swallowed. “How many people were watching?”

“The actual number of viewers local and international is not important,” started the director, to Karla’s growing horror. “What is important is that we have the opportunity to introduce the Equestrian nation to the world at large, and we can’t do that where they are.”

Translation: Outside of the restricted hospital. To the United Nations. Or diplomatic embassies. In DC or New York, not podunk Kansas. Damn.

“So with that in mind,” continued the director, “we want you to see if your new friends can be enticed into taking a little trip for a few days. They’ll be treated like royalty, meet the cream of society, and still be back for whenever their home—” the hesitation was almost imperceptible “—dimension puts up a portal for Granny Smith’s return.”

“You do realize, sir, she’s over a century old and just had a hip replacement,” said Karla despite her best efforts to remain silent and not get into trouble.

Control your expression and nod. Several of her peers had informed Karla that was the appropriate response when talking to anybody more than four levels above your pay grade, and she was getting the sinking sensation that one individual on the line was the top of the pay scale. After all, he had two young daughters who would be tickled just as pink as Widget to meet an alien pony.

“You are quite correct. It has been determined that the elderly pony is too fragile to be moved.” The director took a breath into the handset of his cell phone, which was one habit he had been very insistent on telling every agent under his command not to do, because it was unprofessional and bugged the heck out of him. “Therefore, we believe the two younger ponies should jump at the opportunity to see our nation’s capitol, if encouraged. Arrangements have been made for Air Force Two to be placed at KCI so they can be picked up in style and flown to where we need them to go on Monday.”

Passive voice, using the Royal We. They must be practically holding Clyde at gunpoint.

“Monday, I’m supposed to be driving them back to Randolph, sir,” said Karla rather cautiously, particularly since Clyde absolutely hated to be called ‘sir’ in an informal discussion just between agents. “And we can’t legally remove them from KU Med because of the governor’s restraining order, since it’s in Kansas.”

By a few hundred feet.

“We don’t believe that will be a problem, Agent Anacostia,” said Clyde again, which only reinforced Karla’s suspicion that there were other listeners on the line. “Just find an excuse to bring them to the field office in Missouri on Monday, and we’ll take it from there.”

“I understand, sir.” Karla was deep in thought when she closed the call and considered the nearby hospital surveillance camera, which was most probably pointed at her. A day ago, she had almost shot the little ponies, and now she was being ordered to betray their trust. It warranted at least some profanity, perhaps kicking a nearby trash can, but she put her phone away and walked back to the room instead. The pains of aching joints from sleeping on the couch were almost gone now, overwhelmed by the thought of what the sweet and innocent Widget would think when her new human friend stabbed her in the back.

Even watching Goose carry laughing children in gliding paths through the hospital corridors did not cheer her up. In fact, it made the feeling worse, because the dark batpony—

Oh, no. If they try stuffing her into Air Force Two, she’s going to kill somebody.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:44 A.M. Central Standard Time, Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Olsburg Lutheran Church, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Of all the things in the universe, having aliens drop in on his farm was the second most unlikely thing Jonagold Bruener had ever thought would happen to him. Taking one of them to church was… way off the chart.

“Hi everyhuman.” Derpy waved at the congregation from where she was hovering behind the lectern. “Wow, that’s not very loud. Do I just talk into THIS?” she added, moving close enough to the microphone to brush it with her nose.

He had to wonder if his wife — who had taken the indescribable unicorn Grace to the Methodist church — had really thought this idea through. They were aliens, after all, even if they had hooves instead of pointed ears. Well, hooves and pointed ears, to be technically correct. The area churches had pitched in like crazy to help the dimensionally displaced ponies, and it was only right and proper to thank them for their generosity, but he could not help but think a polite Thank-You note with perhaps a signed picture would have been a better idea. Worse, or better perhaps, was the way the idea had caught fire with the community. Practically every church in a one-hour radius wound up with a pony visitor, a human volunteer escort, and a deputy or two in plainclothes lurking in the background just in case. Even the Kansas governor had gotten in on the event, and was sponsoring the Equestrian mayor at a Catholic church in Topeka, although they were flying there by pegasus cart instead of driving.

“I recognize some of you from when we crashed in Mister Broomer’s farm,” continued the cross-eyed pegasus. “Like you over there. And you with the white hair. And you drove the fire truck. Sorry about the windshield. And setting fire to the hose.”

Thankfully, the traffic had calmed down due to Randolph being effectively sealed off except for residents and ponies. A few thousand cars being turned around for two days discouraged the vast throng which would have certainly followed, making the traffic on the highway this morning fairly close to normal during the short drive to Olsburg. It gave Jon a few minutes to talk with the pony chosen to pass along their thanks, much as she passed along letters ballistically in her hometown. Since they were all leaving tomorrow, Jon figured she could not screw up too badly.

“I was supposed to read off of some note cards, but I lost them,” said Derpy, whose voice was muffled since she was rummaging around in her saddlebags with her nose and bumping letters out onto the church floor. “Oh, I found the instructions the mayor gave me.”

And to Jon’s surprise this morning, Derpy and her young daughter had listened to his cautions and a three-minute lesson on Martin Luther’s version of Christianity during the drive. They had both been very quiet and subdued, greeting the other congregants and the pastor with hoof-shakes, sitting in the pew during the service, and even singing. Thankfully, the singing did not turn into an event, like it had during the Friday concert. That was exceptionally good, given that Lutheran hymns tended to evoke feelings of severe depression and grief.

“Don’t muffin this one up,” read Derpy off the card. “Try not to break anything, or set anything on fire, or drop anything on any human, or step on anyhuman’s toes, or break anything… Hey, she said not to break anything twice. I wonder why.”

The hovering pegasus turned to look at Pastor May, brushing a candle on a stand in the process, which fell toward the altar in a chain reaction that had most of the candelabras tipped over, the communion cups scattered all over, and a flock of a half-dozen church congregants scrambling around to chase, wipe down, or extinguish what needed, respectively.

“Wow,” said Derpy. “When something bad happens, humans are right there to help. You’re really amazing.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the aging pastor, moving forward to gently nudge Derpy’s trajectory back to the pew where Jon was sitting, thus saving the life of a fragile glass vase full of flowers nearby. The congregation rose to their feet to quietly applaud, there was a considerable amount of hoof-shaking for anybody who had not been shaken already, and the whole crowd moved in the direction of bible study.

It made Jon more than a little nervous to see Dinky go bounding off to the sunday school rooms with her chattering child peer group, but there was a plainclothes member of the RCPD in the congregation who was volunteering in their class also. The worst thing that could happen to the extradimensional foal there would be returning with a paper model of Noah’s Ark. Technically, Vacation Bible School started on Monday, but with all the hustle and scrambling that was going to happen… Then again, it would put all of the energetic little ponies in one spot instead of scattering them all over the town. It was something to bring up to the Methodists later, since they had the most space.

Sitting through the adult bible study class today with a pony at his side could not have gone much better. Derpy was more attentive than Claire or any of his sons had ever been, and asked one or two questions about Paul’s trips through the book of Acts that showed she really understood how dangerous travel like that could be. In fact, the bible study class turned out to be far more ordinary than he had expected, except for Derpy managing to dump his coffee into his lap.

Once church was over and it seemed that Derpy got to shake hooves with every member of the congregation again, Jon almost started to head home before he remembered that they had been invited to Pastor May’s house for lunch, an event that several dozen other ponies were probably experiencing all over this end of Kansas. Lunch was sponsored by the Lutheran Ladies Aid, which Jon could have guessed because the May’s house had a buffet with more food than a restaurant chain, containing only a few incidental meat dishes.

“I can’t tell you how honored we are,” said Pastor May once all the guests were inside, including several deacons of the church. “It must be terribly frightening to be so far away from home, in the middle of so many strange creatures.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” said Derpy with a remarkably human wrist flip. “I fly the mail up to Canterlot all the time.”

“Well…” said the pastor, who seemed taken slightly aback. “I also wanted to tell you that we took up a special offering at church, and we raised over four thousand dollars to help out with your town’s expenses.”

The surrounding church deacons and Jon politely applauded as the pastor passed over the envelope, although Derpy had turned her back on them to root through her saddlebag. A moment later, she emerged with a pencil and began writing on the front of the envelope, talking quietly to herself with the pencil held firmly in her teeth.

“Need to remember to have an Equestrian postal code assigned to the house, so we’ll just use the unassigned code for now, and the mayor’s name all swoopilly like she likes it, and there!” She put the pencil back into her half-full saddlebags, and removed a small fleck of sticky paper that stuck to her nose. “I guess you don’t have two Equestrian bits for the stamp, so I’ll have the mayor take it out of the donation.” Several strong hoof-stomps later, the sticky alien postage stamp was secured in place, and Derpy turned back to the pastor with a lopsided smile. “Did you want the stamp back after I deliver the letter, Mister Pastor May? Some of the human people really like to collect stamps, just like Dinky.”

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” said the pastor. “I—”

There was a gust of wind, a thump from the front door, and the room contained one less pegasus.

“Sorry,” said Dinky, the pale purple unicorn foal whom everybody tended to overlook when her more energetic and accident-prone mother was in the room. “She gets like that whenever she sees an envelope. When you were passing the collection plate around, I had to hold her back to keep from delivering all the little envelopes inside.”

“That’s perfectly fine.” Pastor May braced his hands on his knees so he could bend over and talk to the young unicorn, who was shorter than the young humans the tall pastor normally interacted with. “So, I understand you collect stamps also?”

“You bet!” Dinky’s face lit up nearly as much as the pastor while they looked through his stamp collecting books and special little treasures. Once they were well into mutual philately, Jon pulled the president of the congregation into the other room and asked him a very pertinent question.

“So when Derpy brings back the cancelled stamp, will it go to Pastor Mays or the church?”

“The pastor, I suppose. Although I…” Congregational President Thurgood looked at the Ebay page that Jon had pulled up on his phone and stared wide-eyed.

“A few of the ponies won’t be going back with Monday’s portal,” said Jon. “The nonprofit expense fund we set up to support them should be able to cover their outstanding medical and housing expenses, but it would be a nice gesture if the church were to auction their stamp off and donate the proceeds. Am I right?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Thurgood wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead. “I suppose since they are aliens, that makes whatever stamps they brought truly unique collectors items. Auctioning them to support the ponies would be a really good idea, Jon.”

“Wasn’t mine.” Jon poked a few more buttons on the Ebay page and showed him the auctions for authenticated Equestrian bits with signed certificates. “There’s a pony named Filthy Rich who thought of it, and personally, I’m glad he’s going home on Monday, or he’ll wind up owning half of the country by next year. Two of his ponies and my wife are busy running the site, certifying bits, organizing cancelled Equestrian stamps, and whatever else the ponies brought that will sell. I expect Chinese counterfeit merchandise will start coming out after they’ve gone home, but that’s out of our hands. We’re looking at well over a million dollars from just the auctions, then you add in personal appearance charges and interview fees and…”

Jon shook his head and put away his phone. “My lawyer had to hire five other local lawyers and an accounting firm from another state, and wound up splitting the first account into actual Equestrian expenses and their earnings, and a separate account for incoming human charitable donations, domestic and international. Mostly for tax purposes, although the Equestrian Foundation has been actually discouraging large donations for fear of turning it into some bloated whale with million-dollar directors and private jets. And you know the craziest part of it?”

After taking a quick peek into the other room where the pastor was explaining the various grades of his stamps and making a small pile for the cute little unicorn to take home for her own collection, Jon continued in a quiet voice. “Get this. After they leave, the charitable foundation will work on returning the money to other international charities for several years until it’s empty, but they want the leftover funds in the expense account to reimburse the county and state for their expenses, and pay for the Army units guarding them. It’s the first alien invasion ever that will pay for itself.” Jon hesitated. “In addition to being our first alien invasion too, I suppose.”

“That’s… amazing.” Thurgood had used the time while Jon was talking to take out a cigarette and tap it nervously against his knuckles. “Was it safe to send Miss Derpy out with a million dollars worth of stamps and envelopes, though?”

“I… um… hope so.” Jon took out his phone and started typing in a text message. “I’ll just warn my wife that she’s coming so they can keep an eye out for her. I don’t think anybody is going to be stupid enough to try kidnapping one of the Equestrians before they go home, but you never can tell.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:12 A.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Ooo, they’re just so cute and adorable I want to steal them all away and keep them forever!” Missus Felbaum ran her fingers through the purple mane of the little sleeping batpony, all curled up in the ‘Pet Bed, Cuddle Type’ that Stargazer had been put into a few hours ago. The sleeping foal gave a yawn, showing off her sharp teeth and long tongue, before curling up against Standing Water, a more conventional pegasus-type foal who had somehow wandered over into the occupied dog bed when everybody was looking the other way.

It didn’t matter to the foals that one was a dusky grey and the other a bright blue, only that they were each warm and snuggly against the duck cotton of the bed. It had made Nicholas Comena a little uncomfortable to see the half-dozen or so infants sleeping in dog beds, even if they liked it so much that the mothers said they were going to take them back home to Equestria. Those pony mothers of the kids were all out at various churches right now, spreading a four-legged thanks to the volunteers who had pitched in so vigorously during the Equestrian exodus. The armored Equestrian guards likewise had been scattered out to watch over their VIP charges, and it had only been sheer dumb luck that Nick had not been assigned a pony and church too. Leon from Four-Three had not been so lucky, and found himself escorting Laminia and Pumpernickel to the Second Missionary Baptist Church of Junction City while Nick had been voluntold to this task.

Babysitting.

Truth be told, Nick would never refer to breaking in new tank crews as babysitting again. He did not really like kids, and would have been more comfortable in church this morning, even if he probably would have nodded off. Several members of his division called the Baptist church in JC their home church, and their energetic services always made him feel like he was back in Georgia. Instead, he got to share the sun room of the Bruener home with six sleeping foals and two civilian volunteers, including Grandma Felbaum, who could not have been happier with her task if they had all been her own grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Nick had just worked up an excuse to let him go out and take a nap in the porch swing outside when one of the foals woke up all rested and ready to explore. And, of course, it was Princess Clover. Or just plain Clover if Nick could keep his big mouth shut for another day.

“Oooo, she’s awake!” cooed Missus Felbaum, who scurried over to the alert infant with the homing instinct of the maternally inclined. “Does ‘ums want a bottle, you cute little thing?”

“Shh,” cautioned Tiffany, a college student in pre-veterinary studies who had won the student lottery for today. “You’ll wake them all up.

“I’ll get her,” volunteered Nick, snagging a fresh diaper, a bottle of milk, and a box of wipes from the ‘Clover’ pile. The little green foal reared up just as Nick scooped one arm under her, and nuzzled up to his side as he headed for the door, just as coordinated as if she had a human babysitter since she was born. “I’ll be right outside on the porch swing,” he added. “Call me if you need me.”

“B’kon?” declared Clover once they had gotten outside.

“Diaper,” he countered, sitting her down in a patch of clean grass. “Then bottle, then play. Then maybe if you’re good, I’ll sneak into the house and get you a little piece of bacon.”

“B’kon!” Clover wriggled free of her wet diaper with one quick motion and held still while Nick fastened the clean one on. The Equestrians could probably pay for their entire visit and purchase an island of their own if they just patented their variety of diapers. They didn’t leak, absorbed an entire baby’s weight in pee, and kept the front and back connected until an adult wanted them disconnected. It was just unfair to humans, particularly with the way Nick’s baby cousins had seemingly been able to poop out of their diapers sideways.

The bottles were likewise examples of Equestrian technology that made human baby equipment look like rocks and sticks, Clover’s in particular. The ‘plastic’ bottles were always cool to the touch, the contents never spoiled, and when Nick shook a few drops on his arm to test, the milk was just right. He let Clover take the bottle, whereupon she immediately rolled over on her back and held onto it with all four limbs while nursing with specific intent.

“I have no idea why your mother prefers bottles,” said Nick in his least sarcastic tone of voice. “Other than you’d probably bite her tits off.”

The little winged unicorn stopped sucking on her bottle long enough to look at Nick, giggle, and say “Tits!” Then she went right back to nursing, leaving Nick to wonder how many of Earth’s ‘special’ words were going back to Equestria in that tiny, innocent creature. At least she was keeping out of trouble while her father was off in Topeka with the mayor and the Kansas governor.

Last night had been quite busy, what with the county workers dropping by at 2AM to replace the broken culvert, something which probably took an alien invasion to see happen. Several of the unicorns had even taken care of levitating or telekenissing or whatever the old, rusty culvert out and placing the new culvert into the resulting hole, then earth ponies with shovels had covered and packed until the tank transporter from Ft. Riley had arrived. This time there was no problem with it passing over the culvert in either direction, and only the most acute observer would be able to notice the difference between vehicles if they squinted at the numbers encoded on the new Four-One’s bow. The replaced M1A2 was on its way to a secure corner of Ft. Riley with most probably munitions and metallurgy experts taking microgram samples for extensive classified papers on the incident. Heck, there was a possibility Nick and his crew would get a medal on the grounds of ‘Here’s something to make you happy that you can never pin to your uniform and a few thousand bucks on the side to keep your mouth shut.’

First military engagement of the Equine War resulted in one combat-loss tank and the expenditure of the entire invading army’s munitions. Pentagon declares victory, invests in new spear-proof tank armor kit for five billion dollars.

The morning light spilling across the nearby gravel road to the highway revealed no signs of the drama of yesterday or the determined repair by Riley County in the pre-dawn murk. Just a clean road with level gravel and a lot of hoofprints where the earth ponies had tamped things down. And by this time Tuesday, it would be the most visible sign of their visit. Which was a pity, because Nick was really getting to like the fuzzy little surprises.

“Hey, Nick.” Sergeant Spasowski was leaning out of the hatch of the newly christened Four-One, holding onto an embarrassed little winged unicorn under one arm. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching this one? She just poked her nose in here like she owned the place.”

Nick’s eyes flashed to the flat section of grass where the little foal had left the empty bottle, then across the gravel road to where the tank was sitting. “She couldn’t have gotten over there that quick. I just took my eyes off her for—”

“A moment, yeah,” completed Spaz. “My daughter did that too at her age. Do you want to come get her before she disassembles the targeting computer?”

“Puter!” Clover’s legs started to churn in mid-air and she fluttered her wings. “Puter! Puter!”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Nick hustled across the gravel road and let Spaz hand her down to him. “I’m not calling the general about ponies breaking another one of his tanks. And what’s this, little lady?”

‘This’ was a small black knob that the little foal had tucked under one wing, which on closer examination had several other bits of military equipment as company. “Isn’t this one of the AIDATS knobs?” he asked. “And a radio knob, and your earbuds, I think.”

“Leon’s earbuds, I’m guessing,” said the frowning sergeant. “Just a sec.” He vanished into the tank’s interior and returned in a few minutes. “Dangit, we need to loan that kid to the Russians and have her steal one of their T-14 tanks. Lucky even said she hasn’t used her unicorn magic yet. Once she gets her horn and wings going, nothing’s going to be safe.”

“Sergeant!” Nick held the little winged unicorn close and put one thick-fingered hand over her ears. “Don’t encourage her into a life of crime at this young age. What do you think she is, a Ranger?”

“Hey!” objected a nearby bush. The Ranger behind it, all kitted out in a ghillie suit and dark camouflage paint leaned out and gave Nick a quick thumbs-up. Thankfully, General Hackmore had added the Ranger squad to the limited Above Top Secret list who knew of Clover’s special royal status, or they would not have been on guard duty, and the Equestrian guards would not have been free to help with Operation Church Visits. “Don’t look at us for moral guidance. You’re the one teaching her bad habits, sir.”

* * ✹ * *

The flat patch of grass over by the house seemed to be a fair location to keep Clover out of trouble, away from classified military technology, and away from kidnappers, although Nick was starting to think he was actually protecting anybody stupid enough to try stealing the foal. There was a red rubber ball sitting in the grass which seemed innocent enough, and that kept the little unicorn’s attention with the simple game of roll there and roll back.

Roll the ball there. Roll it back. Watch Clover giggle. The more he did it, the more he was tempted to steal the little creature away himself. Darned if the ponies didn’t grow on you. His phone chirped after some time, and Nick pulled it out one-handed so he could keep up the entertainment while checking his text message.

“Mom sent me your number. Thought you’d like to see your fillyfriend with the kids. Hm.” The smartphone was processing the attached video when more messages started rapidly popping up. “No stop delete. Go back. Don’t read that. Siri how do I delete a sent message thingie. No no no no. Widget I need a time spell. Don’t make me break it. What do you mean it was sent already. No I’m not going to talk to him. Neigh snort fladdlapp. Give me that. Siri scent. Send. Go. Why are all your words showing up on the little screen. I’m telling your mother.”

If it was spam, it was the weirdest spam text he had ever gotten. At least the wireless in the area had gotten better with the removal of a few hundred cars stacked up on 77 and the restoration of fairly normal traffic patterns, so downloading the video only took a few minutes.

Comprehending it took a little longer, and playing it twice.

The big-winged pegasus, Cadet Goose if he remembered right, was flying through a hospital corridor in the video, actually flying, although her batwings were brushing both walls, and the little boy on her back was clutching onto her mane and grinning so much the corners of his lips were threatening to touch his ears. They were next to the camera for just a moment, and then she was gone, and the phone pivoted to catch the near-vertical turn that took winged horse and young rider around the corner, although the joyous shrieks could still be heard.

Clover gave out a grumpy cry, and Nick found he had not rolled the ball back to her, due to his brain having been badly distracted. He gave the ball a push and considered just what trouble a teenage girl with a phone could get into with four-legged accomplices. It was Bruener’s kid Claire, if he remembered right. The batpony family had taken over her room at the farmhouse while she was in Kansas City, which explained why he had not seen Goose since that one memorable near-naked occasion.

Another aggravated noise from the little pony he was supposed to be watching made him remember to roll the ball back while he was thinking. It probably wouldn’t hurt to send the batpony family home with Army Strong t-shirts and a signed picture from The Big Red One or something. In fact, it would be an Army coup to set up the returning ponies with appropriate Army swag instead of any of the other branches of the armed forces. After all, the government budget spigot was open for a limited time, t-shirts were inexpensive, and most likely every pony going back was going to be loaded down like tourists leaving Disneyland. A little interdimensional loot exchange would be a good thing, moreso if he could mention it officially to the general once he returned from Topeka.

This time when Clover made her impatient noise, he accidentally rolled the ball back a little hard, which he did not realize until it returned at just under the speed of sound, ricocheted off his rib cage, and knocked him backward into the grass. Upon impact with the unyielding ground, all he could do was try to breathe for a few moments while watching the red ball bounce across the gravel road, roll toward the new Four-One, and take an awkward hop that made it vanish under the tank.

It was a fairly unimportant observation. Getting air back into his lungs had a higher priority.

“Ball?” asked Clover, who had galloped over to him and was looking down at his face with a terrified expression. “Ball?”

Across the road, the glowing bulk of Four-One just fucking lifted off the ground as if it were some sort of balloon, the red ball started rolling back in their direction, then the sixty-two ton tank dropped the three feet or so back to the dirt emplacement with a low thud that shook the ground. By the time the ball had rolled back to Clover, Nick had pulled himself into a sitting position and waved back both Sergeant Spasowski and the Ranger who had pulled himself out of his camouflaged position.

“Ball,” he managed after as deep a breath as he was able. “Throw ball gently,” he added, taking it from her, and then rolling it a few inches back to her. “Put tank down gently. Not scare the nice sergeant.”

“Scare?” Clover gave Nick the most heart-melting, big-eyed look of pure repentance.

“Scare,” said Nick firmly, which was made a little easier by the stinging sensation around his chest where the ball had impacted and the aching ribs under it. “Not drop tank. Now come on, and we’ll go apologize to the nice man and his crew for waking them up.” He hefted the baby winged unicorn up and carried her over to the somewhat misaligned tank where all four of the crew had scrambled out onto the hull, one of whom was mopping at a scratch on his forehead.

“See,” said Nick, pointing to his second-in-command. “Sergeant Spasowski was a little frightened when you dropped his tank. Weren’t you, Sergeant?”

“Scared the f— I mean, yes, sir.”

“And you knocked the tank out of alignment,” added Nick, looking at the deep treadmarks. “He’s going to have to tidy that up sometime before anybody notices, right?”

The tall Polish NCO opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could get a word out, the tank floated up a few inches, realigned itself with the previous tread marks, and settled back down just as lightly as a multi-ton feather. It didn’t even dislodge any of the crew members, who kept to their precarious perches like a bunch of mottled tan crows with wide open mouths.

“Very good, Clover. Say you’re sorry,” said Nick, trying to figure out just how this was going to get written up in the After Action Report, if at all.

AAR: Tank Four-One encountered two accidental telekinetic attacks from one of the immature alien life forms, resulting in negligible damage and one minor contusion on Private Liam, the loader. The attacks were repulsed and the alien sent to time-out. No request for a Purple Heart is anticipated.

“Sowwey.” Having that sorrowful expression directed away from Nick gave him the moral strength not to break down in tears and worship the tiny goddess-horse. The tank’s crew was less lucky, and Nick could swear he saw unprecedented tears in Spaz’s eyes when he turned to head back to the house.

“Now, we’re going to go back inside with the other kids, Clover. I want you to play nice with them and not hurt anybody. If you can do that, we’ll come back outside and play with the ball later.”

“Ball!” declared Clover, who promptly curled up around the red rubber ball like a cat around a rubber mouse. It gave Nick a warm feeling despite the recent events, a warm feeling that went away fairly quickly when he strolled back into the room with all the little foals.

Two of the human babysitters were hiding in the closet, all of the sleeping beds had been piled into a giant bed-fort of some kind, the walls had become decorated with crayon pictures, and the little barbarian ponies were all dancing and flapping around the room on their individual missions of pure destruction.

Nick was starting to think he had gotten the easiest little pony to watch out of the bunch.

16. Call of Duty Too

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Call of Duty Too

“A cavalryman's horse should be smarter than he is. But the horse must never be allowed to know this.”
― Steven Pressfield, The Virtues of War: A Novel of Alexander the Great

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:00 P.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, First floor conference room

- - - ⧖ - - - -

There were exactly twelve FBI officers of various ranks and positions in the room, just like the twelve Apostles, making Agent Karla Anacostia feel entirely too much like Judas for her liking. She recognized absolutely none of the other agents, and to make matters worse, did recognize the FBI District Director sitting silently at the other end of the room.

Pearlie Litz was a legend in the agency, mostly from people who had been stepped on in the process of his ascent to his present position. He was effective, determined, loyal to his superiors, and never allowed a grudge to die. It was said that to wind up on his list was a death-stroke to an agent’s career, because sooner or later, no matter what happened, even if an agent were to accomplish some glorious achievement, eventually that entry on the list would be checked off.

Clyde had told her once of an bureau-wide teleconference where one of the agents had unwisely asked one of the Questions That Shall Not Be Asked of the higher-ups on the call. Pearlie had moved to intercept, deflected the question, and said that he would be more than happy to consult with the agent who had asked the question later by saying, “Ah’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

The agent, quite wisely, did not give it, and nobody on the call admitted to knowing him by his voice. So far today, Agent Anacostia had not done anything to get on Mister Litz’s list, as far as she knew, unless he had been watching Claire’s livestream and took issue with her growing friendship with the ponies.

“If there are no further questions, please pass your briefing packets back to the front so they can be collected.” Agent Hallman opened up his briefcase and began replacing the numbered folders inside, another indication of impending doom that Karla could not help but notice. In the event this all went to hell and back, there would be no paperwork on file she could point to, and blame flowed downhill.

“I actually have a question,” said one of the other agents. “Why isn’t Agent Anacostia driving the flying pony back to their base while one of us takes the unicorn straight to the airport? It seems to be a lot of trouble to take them both on a tour of the stadium before going to the FBI headquarters building to separate them. And isn’t the unicorn a little young to be representing her species in Washington?”

“Agent Anacostia has a friendly relationship with the aliens,” said Hallman. “Since the alien mayor refused our offer, headquarters believes the unicorn will be easier to deal with.”

You mean manipulate. And why separate them?

As if reading her mind, Hallman continued, “Headquarters analysis says the probability of a successful extraction is higher if the two aliens are brought to a secure, friendly setting where they can be peacefully separated in order for the unicorn to be persuaded to travel. Then the transition from the field office to the airport should be easier without any awkward interruptions. It was in the packet you received earlier.”

“Still, why involve a local agent in the transportation at all?” continued the agent as if Karla was not sitting right there, suddenly aware of the packet she had not received.

Hallman gave a quick glance back at Director Litz, who did not nod or otherwise make a single indication that most of this chicken dance was his idea. Although if everything went well, he undoubtedly would be the one up on the podium with the President accepting the citation. The unfairness of the situation had simmered for a long time, and Karla decided to let off some steam before something popped.

“For starters, their names are Widget and Goose,” she said abruptly, because if her career was going to go down in flames, there was no reason not to pour on some gasoline to make the trip memorable. “They are not just aliens; they are a teenage girl with a penchant for engineering and a dedicated military cadet, so you should be thinking that way. I am quite certain Goose would be tickled pink to visit the Navy Academy, and Widget would most certainly saw off a limb, pardon the phrase, to be let loose in one of our nuclear submarines with a wrench.”

Karla stopped there, because every word just brought her closer to calling the idiotic plan exactly what it was. Particularly, the stupid idea of separating them.

“I’ll pass that suggestion along,” said Hallman without changing his serious expression in the slightest. “Now, since the aliens have been broadcasting across the internet with Miss Bruener, you will be the sole point of contact inside the hospital so we don’t expose any of the other agent’s identities. With that in mind, you should be here with the agency car bright and early at oh nine hundred hours, for a departure time of nine thirty. With the side-trip to Kauffman Field, it should take you less than two hours to reach the FBI field office. At that point, we will convince the alien guard to accompany you back to their base, and the other agents will transport the unicorn alien to the airport, and then to Washington. Other than that, your involvement in the plan will be minimal, limited to transportation only. Do you have any questions, Agent Anacostia?”

Karla shook her head rather than say anything, because several rather pithy comebacks that would have gotten her reprimanded were fighting to be spoken. She collected her leather-bound portfolio and swept out of the door when dismissed, leaving the rest of the FBI agents to whatever follow-up briefing they were planning. What was worse, she had seen a number of cheery yellow plastic pistols stuffed into a cardboard box under a table along with extra Taser cartridges. When the FBI ‘invited’ Widget to take a trip to the nation’s capital without her friends and family, it did not look like the agents were going to take no for an answer.

And she couldn’t warn Goose or Widget.

Although later, when she was looking at the bag of movies she had picked out of her collection at home, she thought of something that just might work.

- Ω - -

Foxhole Paintball. The two words did not go together, except near Fort Riley. There was something to be said about people who train for hours and hours how to shoot artillery, fire tank cannons, use machine guns, and qualify with rifles, and then go out to find something fun to do that involves shooting each other with plastic balls filled with paint and pain. It is said there is something for everyone, and in this case, a dozen ponies and people in mixed array were darting from one plastic obstacle to another, trying their best to paint each other in polka-dots.

To be honest, the pegasi started it by asking just the right question.

And the unicorns contributed by magicing up a leg-mounted rig with velcro straps for one of the more common paintball guns, and a way to practically mutate a standard plastic visor into fitting onto the pony guard helmets.

General Hackmore tried to pick up the tab from the paintball store who ran the field, but was rebuffed by the proprietor, who was tickled twelve shades of pink paintballs to have this kind of publicity. He even offered Gregory a loaner paintball gun and equipment in case the general would like to lead his troops from the front lines, which was promptly turned down. Thankfully, the soldiers and miscellaneous civilians enjoying the festivities saved him a spot behind the plexiglass shield for the observation area so his uniform did not get smeared by erratic shots, and after most of an hour watching his soldiers, men and women alike, get reliably paint plastered, found himself rather enjoying himself. Even if there was no way he wanted to be out there himself.

“Colonel,” he called out during a lull in the festivities. “A word, please.”

LTC DeJoya passed his paintball gun to a fellow MP and moved close enough to the general to have a conversation, despite the noisy crowd. “Yes, sir?”

“As much as I like seeing our out-of-town guests enjoying themselves, it seems that the — as they say — Honor of the Regiment is at stake.” He indicated the field of battle, where Left and Right had just popped up over an obstacle to provide synchronized crossfire for one of the unicorns, who was taking the entirely unsportsmanlike approach of using his paintball gun by floating it around the corner and pasting the distracted artilleryman with four rapid shots to the chest. “Do you think you might win one of the matches for a change?”

“We’re trying as best as we can, sir. The Quartermaster Corps had them down to a pair of pegasi once.”

“Hm…” General Hackmore got out his SMEPED and punched in a phone number. “I didn’t ask you to win fairly.”

A little over an hour later as the sun was just starting to go down, four black SUVs pulled into the parking lot and the Ranger platoon that had been at the farm strolled over. Most of the people had started to go home since it was getting dark, but the soldiers were fully kitted out in their night vision gear and apparently ready to take the fight through the night.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Forsythe,” said Specialist Grace, whose emerald-green coat had taken far more than her share of paintballs over the evening, making her look oddly beleaguered instead of stoic for a change. She sharply saluted the husky Ranger, then wiped a blob of purple paint off her hoof. “Were you wanting to get in on the festivities? We still have plenty of paintballs left.”

“Yes, Ma’am. If you’ll accommodate us for the next few hours.” The lanky soldier grinned, making his teeth gleam from behind the camouflage paint that he was still wearing. “We may not be Navy Seals, but we own the night.”

“We will give you our best. This should be interesting,” said Grace before trotting back over to the paint-splattered guards.

And for the next hour, it became increasingly so. The deepening twilight corresponded with the Rangers getting more accustomed to their new weapons and the tired ponies getting more inaccurate. When it became dark enough for the Rangers to put on their night vision gear, the tide turned dramatically. General Hackmore could not even see what was going on any more other than sharp commands out in the darkness and the splat of paintballs hitting their armored targets. After the last round where the ponies only managed to get one of the Rangers before being eliminated, the paint-splattered unicorn from before trotted over to the general and saluted.

“Sir, you seem to have placed our forces at a disadvantage.”

Hackmore smiled even though the decorated mare could not see him well in the gloom. “Our men train to fight at night. Every soldier, truck, tank, and plane can fight at any time of the day.”

Grace nodded very slowly. “Trust me, General. We understand completely. Optio Pumpernickel?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The voice came from right behind General Hackmore, in an area that he could have sworn on a stack of bibles that was completely empty of man or beast. It was absolutely unfair how a pony who did not even come up to the middle of his chest could make Hackmore’s heart slam into panic mode, much like having a silent grizzly bear appear at your elbow, complete with mouth froth and bloody claws. After all, the only time he had seen the hefty batpony was during the day, which upon a few moments of thought seemed quite appropriate. To make matters worse, Pumpernickel’s sharp-tongued wife was standing right beside him, with their energetic little foal in the back-carrier who seemed to be laughing at him just as much as Grace was keeping her humorless stoic appearance.

“If we may take a few minutes, General. I’d like to brief the Optio on the scope of the exercise tonight and get him fitted for a paintball gun.”

“Very well.” The general saw them off with a distracted salute and waved over the Ranger commander when they were far enough not to be heard.

“Lieutenant Forsythe, do you think you can take him?”

“Him?” Forsythe looked at the lone batpony, who was awkwardly being equipped with one of the pony-adapted paintball guns. “One on nine, and us with night vision? Fish in a barrel, sir.”

After about five quick games with the rest of the pony guards standing on the sidelines beside Hackmore, he had to admit the Ranger was right. Pumpernickel made a good show of it in the dark, and managed to nail one or two soldiers every round, but the result was fairly predictable.

Until it wasn’t.

“Gentlemen,” announced Grace in a loud voice once the game was over. “Before we go back to the farm this evening, I would like to make a minor change in the last game tonight. Over here, please. Laminia, follow me.”

The Rangers all lined up in the observation area, chatting casually as victorious soldiers tended to do, while Grace strolled out into the dark combat arena, lit only by the glow of her horn. Lamina twisted around in the impossibly flexible way that ponies were able and hefted her little foal out of the backpack carrier, giving Stargazer a little nuzzle, then plunking her firmly down on General Hackmore’s lap.

“If you would please watch Stargazer for us, General.” Laminia gave him a sharp-toothed smile. “We’re going to incentivize my husband. Oh, and hold this.” She passed over the sheathed blade that Pumpernickel had been wearing every time Hackmore had seen him over the last few days, much like it had been part of his body. “It’s the Honor Blade of Clan Starlight. Try to keep her away from it. She’s got a few years before it becomes hers. And if you lose it, my husband will kill you.”

The two objects were awkward to juggle, so he settled for tucking the sheathed blade under one arm while holding the little foal much like a human baby, only heavier. Both of the dark ponies were out of sight by the time he looked back up, and in a few moments, Grace came trotting out of the darkness as well and stopped in front of the cautiously jubilant Rangers. Something was obviously up, because each and every member of the pony guards had stopped whispering among themselves and were watching the paintball arena with considerable trepidation, much as if they were dreading something terrible about to happen.

“For the sake of this exercise,” announced Grace, “both sides will be treating this as a non-lethal combat exercise. No force will be permitted more than simple blows or touch-strikes. We Royal Guards refer to this as Wolf, Sheep, and Hounds. Your goal, gentlesapients, is simple. Shoot the sheep at the other end of the arena.”

On cue, somewhere out in the darkness Laminia’s melodic voice called out, “Baaa.”

The little foal on Hackmore’s lap stopped wriggling and called out, “Mama.”

“You, are of course, the wolves,” Grace continued. “Optio Pumpernickel has been given strict instructions not to shoot any of you in the face or the balls. You, however, may try to shoot him wherever you want. Your side will be victorious if you score a torso hit on the defender and the sheep, and our side will likewise if all of the defenders are disabled without the sheep being tagged. Begin.”

With that, the paint-splattered unicorn walked over to General Hackmore and sat down a short distance away. “You can sit next to me if you want,” he offered, because there was the possibility of getting ponysitting assists if Stargazer continued her wriggling ways.

“I’m leaving space for the first of your soldiers. Own the night indeed,” she responded with a faint sniff. “I expect it won’t take Pumpernickel too long.”

“Dada,” exclaimed the little foal, clicking her forehooves together in horsey applause. “Dada.”

- ☾ - -

Corporal Menendez loved being a Ranger, and this evening had been the crowning glory of his career to the present. Paintball with aliens, what a concept. Even better, paintball that they were winning. Sure, the ponies had some pretty unhuman tricks, like literally firing around corners, but they were newbies to the sport, and fresh meat, particularly when the sun went down. Even the spooky batpony with all the pale stripes in his coat was nothing but a fast target that needed to be led more than usual.

Admittedly, adding another one of them to this last game was going to be tricky, but scuttlebut had it that the only reason the batmare mom wore armor was because of a scare she had a year ago, and that she really did not have any military training other than how to keep it polished. So shoot the fast one, shoot the fat one, and enjoy a break until tomorrow when everybody would meet up at the farm to see the ponies go home. Easy, peasy.

All of the platoon lined up behind one of the plastic obstacles and began to work their way forward, crouched down while keeping all the fields of fire covered. Which was when Menendez noticed something missing.

“Hey, where’s Fitzgerald? He was right behind me.”

“Fitz?” Lieutenant Forsythe gathered up the platoon and counted noses, only to find one missing. “Anybody see where Fitz went?”

“Maybe Batman got him,” said one of the Ranger with a chuckle.

“I didn’t hear a paintball,” said the lieutenant. “Okay, pair up and watch each other’s backs. Treat it like a horror movie where you don’t leave anybody by themself. This alien has some tricks we may not have seen yet.”

“You got it, Ripley,” called out one of the Rangers to a general wave of chuckling by the rest of the soldiers.

“Dude,” said another Ranger, who was crouched down by an obstacle and looking back over his shoulder. “If anybody say ‘Game over, man!’ I’ll shoot ‘em mysel— YOW! SONOFABITCH!” The Ranger jumped up in the air and grabbed at the gap between his helmet and the back of his neck, which oozed paint. “The bastard shot me! He was right here!”

“Suppressive fire,” hissed Forsythe. “Hose down that area.”

The air was filled with the hissing thump of paintballs vanishing into the green-lit darkness of their night vision equipment right about at the same time that Menendez realized he was at the back of the group. Unfortunately, his realization was triggered by the feeling of a powerful furry limb sweeping around his neck at the same time two legs grabbed him in a crushing grip around the waist. Then there was a brisk and muffled whoosh of air, and he could see the glare of headlights along the road from between his feet, although a few hundred feet down. Or so it seemed.

“Hold onto your weapon so we don’t drop it on anypony,” hissed a gravely tenor voice in one ear, which was boosted by the muzzle of a paintball gun pressing into the underside of his jaw. “Try to shoot me and I let go.”

“Yessir,” squeaked Menendez. In a matter of seconds, he was dumped next to Fitzgerald, under the watchful eye of the division commander.

“And that’s two, Stargazer,” said General Hackmore, holding onto the bright-eyed foal while pointing at him. “One, two.”

“Twoo,” burbled the happy little pony.

By the time the exercise was over and the last Ranger accounted for, she had gotten up to five.

* * ✹ * *

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:45 P.M. Central Standard Time, Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: The Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Summer spruce-up, summer spruce-up,” hummed Dakota as he took pictures of the busy ponies scurrying around the farmyard. He could not have been happier. In San Francisco, he had the odd privilege of living in the basement of his ex-wife’s sister’s house, and occupied his evenings and weekends doing household maintenance and painting for Cynthia and Karl when he was not down at a club working security. It kept him busy and made for a tidy little sum under the table at the cost of living in a space that officially was a one-car garage, although it was the cleanest garage in the whole state, and a damned sight larger than his bunk on the Saipan back when he was in the Marines.

Sunday afternoon here bore a striking resemblance to his usual weekend household tasks in San Francisco. Some of the ponies had decided to travel in order to send their thanks to the various churches and philanthropic organizations this morning, so while Mister Bruener and his wife were being kept busy in Topeka doing various meet-and-greet social things with the pony mayor and her bodyguard, the ponies were engaging in one of the their social activities here.

Rebuilding.

The farmstead had a lot of outbuildings but only two houses, one old roughly cubical one that the elder Bruener had lived in, and the new, larger mostly flat house that Jon Bruener had built so his physically infirm father could move in with them, not have to deal with stairs, and have the rest of the family to support him. Unfortunately, the old man had passed away a few months after the new home was built, leaving the newer Bruener house for the remaining family and the older house used as box storage for most of a decade. Big Brick’s construction company was in the middle of painting and minor alterations on the newer house, so the ponies had decided to fix up the old house as a way of saying thanks.

Seeing how much a single pony could work was a shock to Dakota. Having over a hundred of them digging in to shingle, paint, rework windows, pour concrete, plant flowers, trim bushes…

He shot enough pictures of the process that Dakota was getting a blister on his shutter finger. The SF Times had become the place to get pictures of ponies in action over the last few days. And if they followed the rules on his employment contract, Mister Dakota Henderson was going to wind up with enough money to buy the Winnebago he was renting and still have the cash for a down payment on a condo in San Francisco.

As the afternoon sun turned to dusk, Dakota found himself helping to set up a video projector outside of the Bruener seed warehouse. It was a variant of the quonset hut that he had seen on many military bases, only with a concrete back wall that was being painted white so the outdoors projector would have something to work on, and speakers being arranged in an arc around the concrete slab at the base.

“Now basketball is a game I bet we can beat you at,” said Dakota when he spotted a familiar shade of green in the ponies milling around the basketball goal. They had the obvious objective of getting it removed intact so it would not cast a shadow across the movie ‘screen’ behind it, but were having some issues. “You need some help, Lucky? Up for a game of one-on-one?”

He was taking photos while asking the question, so the effort of keeping the green stallion out of frame was distracting. Not so distracting that he did not notice it when Lucky’s adorable little filly glommed onto his leg and looked up with those huge violet eyes.

“C’ama!” she declared.

“Oh, you little rascal.” Dakota scooped up the little foal and held her in the crook of his left arm while still holding his camera with the opposite hand. “Guess I’m not going to be helping you take down that basketball goal now.”

“Actually, I was just looking for somepony to keep Clover busy while we worked,” responded Lucky. “Everypony… and lift.”

The steel pipe lifted straight up in the air, supported by a unicorn’s magic and two pegasi on the far end and a half-dozen ordinary ponies on the other. In a matter of minutes, it was placed up against the side of the quonset hut building with some other awkward chunks of machinery that needed to be put out of the way, and Lucky trotted back to him with a happy smile.

“By the way, Mister Henderson,” he started, “I talked to the Chronicle editors by phone this afternoon. They’ve been very happy about your photography, and they made a generous donation to the town’s relief fund out of the proceeds. And Clover has one of your lenses.”

“What?” The camera bag was on the opposite side of the little filly, so how she wound up holding his macro lens and peering through it was beyond him. She was holding it very carefully, though. And the way she wrinkled up her nose while peering into it was cuter than heck. Dakota eased the camera out, let it focus, and took an adorable close-up of the introspective little foal.

“Can I use that one?” asked Dakota, showing the camera’s preview to her father. “I know you didn’t want any pictures of her getting out, but that’s just cuter than words, and only shows her face.”

“Well… I suppose. Since you asked.” The stallion snagged a pair of water bottles from a passing pony, took a look at how Dakota’s arms were overloaded, and gestured him to the nearby picnic table. “You know, Jon’s going to be tickled pink when he gets back and sees this,” he added, waving a water bottle at the farmyard in general. “Nopony told him.”

It was an impressive sight indeed, from where Kota was sitting. The chicken coop was gleaming under a fresh coat of red paint inside and out, all the grass had been trimmed within an inch of its life, every flower bed bloomed with abandon (minus a few snacks here and there). There was just a tiny bit of painting cleanup remaining on the old house, supervised by an unusually young pair of ponies.

Even the equipment had been taken out and exercised by a combination of eager ponies and local farmer volunteers who showed their guests just how the unfamiliar tractor and big round baler worked. The swather had been cautiously cleaned while all the younger ponies were lectured on how dangerous it was while running, then each of the smaller ponies was chased out of the tall grass so there would not be any other accidents.

After everything was prepared, they went to work. It was a little like a parade, or some farming movie where every tractor and truck moved in perfect harmony, and made for some very pertinent photos. Once the incomplete hay field Mr. Bruener had been working on was all swathed, dried, baled, and the big round bales placed in neat rows at the end of the field, there was a small celebration along with a few samples of the end product, which the ponies agreed did not taste quite the same as home. Then the tractor and equipment had been brought back into the yard to be polished until they gleamed like the tin outbuildings.

The riding lawnmower had been an exceedingly popular attraction, and the line to drive it around the already trim yard was constantly refreshed by ponies who would finish their time in the seat, then run around to get back in line with the rest for another run. Personally, Dakota thought the hardware attention was mostly from the farming ponies who had never seen an International Harvester or John Deere before, and they were certainly making the best of their time by seeing the most interesting sights (in their opinion) before returning home.

It was a little distracting to see a half-dozen multicolored tails hanging down from the inside of the threshing chamber of the combine, but the engine had been disassembled across several nearby tables so there was little chance of it starting up randomly. The oddest part was the one mullberry-colored pony standing in the combine’s cab, doing nothing but looking around.

After taking a picture, Dakota had to ask Lucky just what was going on.

“That’s Miss Cheerilee,” he said. “She’s a teacher. Can you say teacher, Clover?”

“Tch!” said the foal, squinting at the distant pony through the lens she was still holding.

“She’s watching for the Cutie Mark Crusaders,” continued Lucky. “I figured that a combine with so many ponies poking around the insides would be an irresistible target for them. Since they found their cutie marks, life has gotten quieter, but there are still times…”

Dakota snickered as he shot several zoomed in photos of the combine with all the twitching tails hanging out of it. “Remember, I helped put out the fire in the kitchen that Sweetie Belle started, and kept Apple Bloom from kicking that poor peach tree in the back yard to pieces. I still don’t know why you call them crusaders. I mean how important is one of your cutie marks anyway?”

“Shh!” The steel shoe of Lucky’s forehoof felt cool against Dakota’s lips, and for a little green horse who bore more than a passing resemblance to Kermit the Frog, he seemed to be far more serious than anybody had a right to be over a tattoo.

“Cutie marks are extremely important to young ponies,” said Lucky in a dead serious tone of voice. “The longer a pony goes without one when growing up, the more stress they are under, but paradoxically, the more powerful the cutie mark can turn out to be. There’s even a mental disorder, Late Onset Symbol Trauma that can be caused if a pony doesn’t get their cutie mark until they’re an adult. I know one who didn’t get his cutie mark until after he had been in the Royal Guard for nearly a year, although it turned out well in the end. Bloody, but about as good as it could have gone.”

“So, a kid who doesn’t know what they’re going to do with their life until they join the Marines.” Dakota raised his hand. “Guilty as charged. Got the cutie mark to prove it.” He rolled up his sleeve to show his bare shoulder, and the globe/anchor tattoo. “Didn’t want to go as far as the rest of my unit since I thought I might want to work for The Company when I got out.”

“Um… yeah.” Lucky nodded while keeping Clover between his forehooves. Despite the infant pony just peering through her new toy at everything around, it was fairly obvious how quickly she could change directions and escape. “Anyway, I sent them down to the machine shed, because there’s a mother cat there who just had kittens. That should distract them. Those three darling little scamps just got their marks a week or two ago and they’re still trying to find out just what they mean.”

“Like that unicorn horn mark on your butt means you… Um…” Dakota scratched his head. “I got nothing.”

“It’s a young unicorn’s horn,” clarified Lucky, turning a little sideways to show his mark off. “With sparks to show their early spellcasting. It relates to my talent of teaching young unicorns how to use their first magic.”

“One of the crusaders is a unicorn,” said Dakota, who had moved to scratch Clover’s ears like she seemed to want. “I remember her cutie mark was a musical note, but her talent seems to be setting kitchens on fire.”

“Sweetie Belle’s special talent seems to be related to music,” said Lucky. “If you’re lucky enough to hear her sing, you’d understand. It’s far, far more powerful than setting things on fire. The remarkably interesting thing about the crusaders’ new cutie marks is they are all the same in some regards, which is exceedingly rare, like they have a linked talent. Up until a few weeks ago, there were ponies who could have sworn they all had linked invisible cutie marks in destruction. When I started tutoring Sweetie—” the green pony let out an amused chuckle and wrinkled his nose up at his daughter “—they acted like I was galloping through the streets of town with a barrel of fuel oil and a torch.”

“They can’t have been that dangerous,” countered Dakota. “They’re just kids.”

“The town has a special insurance bracket for those three,” started Lucky. “They’ve wrecked at least five buildings, damaged a dozen more, disrupted nearly every event for the last few years except for Nightmare Moon’s release, and that was before they really got together so it doesn’t count. They did, however, manage to set loose our world’s source of elemental chaos from being imprisoned in a statue, so that makes up for it.”

Dakota really felt he should stand up for the cute little rascals. After all, if he could kidnap them all back to San Francisco, his girls would award him the Best Dad of the Century award, and even his ex-wife might be impressed enough to grant visitation again. Well, before he was thrown in jail for a thousand years by the cops. “Yes, but while they’ve been here—”

“In three days, they’ve managed to accidentally start a fire truck’s pump and made a hose run wild in a crowd, taken a police car out of gear and let it coast until it hit the back of another police car, dropped a policeman’s talkie device into the bathtub, made the Catholic priest in Topeka say the f-word in the middle of the service, twice, and somehow managed to flood the underground parking area at the Kansas statehouse. And that,” Lucky concluded with unbreakable certainty, “is why Miss Cheerilee is standing guard over the combine’s cab even with the engine taken apart and the key in my saddlebag.”

The green pony reached one leg into his bag, felt around for a while, then emerged with a small zippered bag, which he opened.

It was, of course, filled with keys except for one empty space and a note.

“Taking the big scooter down to the cool dirt pile area, signed Scootaloo,” read Dakota with his head turned sideways. “What big scooter?”

There was a snarl of gasoline-powered fury from the equipment shed, screams of tiny pony terror, and the farmer’s four-wheeler went bolting in the direction of the road, with all three of the Cutie Mark Crusaders hanging onto various parts of it for dear life.

“Can you watch Clover? Thanks!” And the chunky green stallion was off like a shot, headed after the vanishing four-wheeler and followed by the teacher who had been watching the combine, along with several other townsponies. It was educational to see certain other members of the community who promptly turned and started walking in the opposite direction, leaving Dakota to presume they had directly experienced one of the crusaders’ previous ‘events’ and did not want to wind up in any more of them.

Dakota promptly rescued the rest of the keys from Clover before she too decided to drive something, and stuffed them into his knapsack. “I don’t think your father wants to chase you down too, little lady. Tell you what. Why don’t we walk around the festivities and take a few more pictures. Do you think you can ride on my shoulders?”

She could. And it made everybody who looked in their direction smile, so Dakota could not complain one bit.

17. Sunday Night Movies

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Sunday Night Movies

"He, who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows that plan, carries a thread that will guide him through a labyrinth of the most busy life."
— Victor Hugo

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: The Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The last night of the alien invasion, and Nick had just gotten off work. In theory, the Army’s tanks were supposed to be firing away at tentacled monsters from the time they emerged from their saucer until they fled back into the stars, but that never seemed to go well for the soldiers, and Nick preferred this kind of invasion.

“Thank you, lovely lady.” Nick took the can of soda that Lyra floated over to him and returned her smile without even breaking stride. He had gotten used to pony magic faster than he ever had expected, from the way the earth ponies had ‘landscaped’ Four-One into the surrounding greenery with such ease to the small cloud ‘sunshade’ the pegasi had left over the tank, which cut down the Kansas heat by an appreciable margin. The rest of his crew had headed back to the fort for the night so they would be fresh during tomorrow’s pony sendoff, but his pickup was still parked with the rest of the RVs, so he could always sack out in the tent there or snag a cot in the Army’s temporary quarters for the night.

For now, he wanted to see what had been going on all evening.

Movie night for the ponies had started before it got dark when the pegasi had shaped a cloud-sunshade over the shiny tin building they were using as an outdoor projection screen. Nick had watched the activity from the tank, but still had problems getting his mind wrapped around the ability of the flying ponies to just grab a cloud and shape it like a clown making a balloon animal. Still, it made an impressive outdoor movie theatre, which was ‘remodeled’ after the sun went down so the pegasi had their own bleacher section.

The criteria for selecting the movies had been backwards from what Nick expected, mostly because of removing movies that the human hosts did not think quite appropriate. After all, they were aliens, but actually showing Alien to the peaceful ponies…

The same could be said of the entire horror genre, most war movies, anything that used over a hundred rounds of ammunition at once, and… dirty movies.

The Mating Habits of the Common Hollywood Starlet normally start with a pizza delivery, for which she cannot pay…

The result had been eclectic, to say the least. Disney mostly, with Mary Poppins in the lead, and Frozen right behind, followed by Man of Steel for some strange reason. Then Secretariat if any of the early-rising ponies were still awake, although all Nick knew about the movie was that it involved a race horse.

He had intended on just walking around the outskirts of the outdoor trot-in theatre and community gathering space to take a look before heading to bed. After all, he had been on-duty at Four-One when Mary Poppins had played, and that had been about as close as he wanted to get to a song-and-dance number. A fortuitous glance into the darkness spotted the faint green glow of a military chemlight, and a little bit of navigation brought him to an empty lawn chair next to his ex-military buddy.

“Hey, Kota. You make a darling father figure.” Nick snickered a little while settling down into the empty chair, then held his open soda can over for the immobilized Marine to get a drink. The little infant princess had obviously fallen asleep on Dakota’s chest while nursing a bottle and was sprawled out like some boneless pony, all of her legs dangling down his sides while making a little drool puddle on his neck. Kota sucked down most of the soda and passed the can back with a finger held to his lips and a quiet whisper that barely rose over the sound of the ongoing destruction of Krypton on screen.

“Just got her to sleep a few minutes ago. We were dancing around during the end of Frozen, and I think it finally tired her out. Did you get a chance to let Crystal interview you for the Chronicle like you promised?”

“What, is she here?” Nick peered around the screen-lit audience for Crystal’s telltale blonde hair. For a moment he thought he spotted the bimbo, but it was just one of the pegasi who had curled up nearby with a sleeping unicorn foal at her side. “Whew. Don’t spook me like that, man.”

“She’s harmless.” Dakota gave a brief shrug, careful not to disturb his sleeping guest. “Unless she thinks some big handsome Army tanker would be good in the sack. Just watch out if she invites you back to my RV for your interview.”

“Like I haven’t got enough troubles with weird women. Bruener’s daughter is trying to set me up with Goose. That big-winged batpony who’s up in KU Med with the crippled kid,” he added at Dakota’s puzzled look. “Bumped into her when I was playing—” Nick paused, obviously self-censoring “—big hero rescuing Twist. She’s been texting me, and I swear she’s going to send dirty horse pictures next. That Bruener kid is in hog heaven with those two ponies, but I can’t blame her. Ava and Zora would be too.”

Nick shook his head, then drained the can. “Your girls would sure get a kick out of being here, that’s for sure. They’re what now, six?”

“Nine and seven.” Kota patted the infant pony on the back. “I get to see them about twice a year, more now that their mother is starting to get interested in me again.”

After a quick glance around at the rest of the ponies scattered across the farmyard’s grass, who were trying to make sense of the opening scenes of The Man of Steel, Nick lowered his voice. “Man, ditch the bitch already. She cut you cold during the divorce. Timing it when you’re overseas and she’s pregnant with your second so you get screwed in the courts? You ain’t gonna find no woman worse.”

Clover stirred, nuzzled down into Kota’s chest again, and murmured, “Bitch.”

“I swear it’s a universal constant across the multiverse,” whispered Kota. “You can’t get a baby to say what you want, but they’ll repeat a profanity in an instant.”

“Excuse me. Pardon me. Whoops, didn’t see you sitting there.” A familiar scroungy green pony picked his way through the movie audience, then settled down in front of the two humans in with a thump as his rump hit the chemlight-lit blanket spread over the grass. “Good thing you had that light. Mister Henderson. Lieutenant Comena. I see you got Clover to sleep.”

“And I see you’re watching Superman,” said Nick, giving the screen an absent wave of his empty can. “I know they wanted a movie that related to Kansas somehow, but do they know how violent it is?”

“Blood and guts violence or just a lot of punching and gunfire?” asked Lucky almost immediately.

“Well… Punching and explosions,” admitted Nick. “The messiest part was the birth at the beginning. I don’t remember any other blood, and they didn’t use any of the tanks the way they should have,” he added with a grumble.

“Ah, that should be fine,” said Lucky, straightening up on the blanket in the grass and making an obscure gesture that brought the unicorn soft-drink pony around again, with her floating a soda over for each of them. “Ponyville is used to explosions. Or at least since my wife came to town.”

There was a mutual respectful silence between the three males as Krypton met its fate on screen, then Kota raised his can in an off-hand toast. “To your wonderful wife, and her little mistake that gave our world a brief peek at your unique people, without which we would be far poorer. And to the safe return of her daughter and husband, who have been well-guarded during their visit by both of our armed forces.”

“To the safe return of all of us,” said Lucky before a long drink. “And to a thick sheaf of photographs that I can show to Clover when she’s older.”

“I emailed them to Walmart for pickup tomorrow before your departure, Your Highness.” Kota took another sip.

“Was wondering how long it’d take you,” said Nick. “Being an unobservant Marine and all.”

“What? I was the one who found them hitchhiking back to the farm my first night here,” said Kota. “I should have known then. That masculine physique. His noble brow. That square chin. And that was just me looking in the rear-view mirror.” He patted the little pony sleeping on his chest. “Honestly, I caught on because there hasn’t been a minute without one of your Equestrian Royal Guard within eyesight, including that plainclothes… or plain naked pair. The green unicorn and the tan earth pony with the strange voice,” he clarified. “I swear they’re in about half of my photos whenever you’re around.”

“Technically, they’re in some secret agency I’ve never heard of, not the Royal Guard,” said Lucky. He leaned back and rested his head on the diaper bag. “I’m looking forward to going back home and seeing the wife also. I’ve been so busy here that I haven’t had time to relax and enjoy it. Then just when I’m getting two seconds to myself, I start to feel guilty that Twilight isn’t here.”

“Had that feeling in Paris once,” admitted Kota. “Walking around the tourist area all by myself after covering a story. Made me so homesick I called my ex-wife. International rates.” He stopped talking and petted the tiny alicorn’s mane for a while. Nick wanted to say something sympathetic, but he had never been married before despite a few close shaves, unlike Dakota who managed to get completely fleeced and sheared.

“My oldest daughter picked up the phone,” Dakota eventually admitted in a very low voice. “She must have been seven at the time, and barely recognized my voice. I told her about Paris, and the lights, and how I could see the Eiffel Tower from where I was calling. Then her mother took the phone away from her.”

Kota sniffled at that, and briefly wiped his nose on his shoulder. “She told me the check was late and hung up.”

“Cold, man,” said Nick.

“It was.” Kota petted the sleeping alicorn some more. “Things got better. Ava got her own phone last year. I’m not supposed to call her, but we text whenever her mother’s not around. She’s getting to be so tall, and such a good big sister to Zora.” It took a little work to get his phone out without dislodging the sleeping Clover, but eventually he extracted his phone and flipped it to a picture of two adorable little girls posing for a selfie.

“They’re sure cuties,” admitted Lucky, leaning forward to get a good look in the reflected light of the movie screen. “The wife and I spent so much time and effort getting our little Clover that I don’t know what I’d do if I were kept away from her.”

“Your wife must be going crazy with you trapped a dimension away and with your daughter to boot,” said Nick.

“I have Spike to write back and forth, and I promised to bring her a stack of books when I get home.” Lucky nosed around in his saddlebag and came out with a flat object, roughly tablet-sized. “Got this from one of our visitors. I suppose I’ll have to find somewhere to plug the Kindle in at the castle. Speaking of gifts, Mister Henderson, may I borrow your phone for a moment?”

The green pony was lit by the reflections from the projected movie, holding his hoof out until Kota passed the phone over. “It needs charging,” admitted Dakota.

“It has enough battery for this.” Lucky had pulled a stylus out of his vest and was poking and swiping away on the phone like a teenage human, only with the short stick in his teeth. “There,” he declared, holding the phone in the crook of his leg and out in front of himself. “Hello Ava and Zora. My name is Lucky, and I’m a friend of your father. This is Lieutenant Comena,” he added, panning the cell phone’s camera over. “He’s another friend I made here. And this is your father, who you already know. That little cutie on his chest is my daughter, Clover. She’s very special to me just like you are to your father, and she trusts your father so much that she fell asleep on him this evening.”

Clover took that moment to give out a tiny yawn, stretched her wings, and nuzzled down into Kota’s shirt, looking just absolutely adorable from the end of her stubby horn to the tip of her tail.

Keeping the camera on Dakota, who smiled and waved back, Lucky continued. “Our arrival on Earth has caused a big disturbance and gotten a lot of people far too excited, so only residents of this town have been permitted to stay around us for the last few days. Thankfully, your father owns a house here, and he has been helping all of the ponies from our town stay out of trouble.”

There was a crash somewhere in the background, the movie was replaced by a bright white light, and three familiar voices chorused, “We didn’t do it!”

“Sometimes, that’s a lot more work than other times,” admitted Lucky. “Anyway, all of the people of the town have been very nice to us, particularly your father. That is why I’m making this recording, so you two fillies will have something to remember us by after we have gone back to our home. Then when you get older, you can follow in your father’s hoofprints and make friends wherever you go, all over the world. Thank you for sharing him with us, and I hope our brief time here helps your world make more friends also. Good night.”

Lucky nipped the stylus out of his vest again and poked the phone. “There, and sent,” he said while hoofing it back over to Kota. “It’s not much, but—”

“It’s wonderful,” said Kota. It was difficult to understand him because of the tears trickling down his cheeks and his suppressed snuffling. He almost made a move to get up, only to stop when Clover gave out a brief snort in her sleep. Turning his head to Nick, he jerked his head in the direction of Lucky and said, “Hug him for me, would’ja bro?”

Hugging a pony was not a part of the informal Bro Code, but Nick lowered himself to the task with little reluctance. Lucky’s coat was both softer than he expected, and thicker with more rigid hairs, giving the hugged pony a resilient attribute much like some sort of living plush animal, so it was not that bad.

Until he spotted Kota taking their picture.

“That’ll make Stars and Stripes,” said Dakota, tucking his phone away. “If you don’t give Crystal that interview you promised.”

- Ω - -

Tomorrow was going to be a busy day, so Dakota should have headed off to the RV for at least some sleep. Even though the ponies were supposed to be departing in the early afternoon, the morning would be filled with organizational tasks, both pony and people. He found himself staying behind to talk with Lucky when Crystal took Nick away for his delayed interview.

There were several exceedingly good reasons to stay up late after all, first of which was Clover’s enthusiastic embrace of a people mattress for comfortable sleeping, complete with a tiny teakettle snore. Lucky shared a quiet fatherly fist-bump with Kota when she started up, and told him about Twilight’s similar nighttime noises, which blended into a mother-daughter duet during some nights where he would just lay there for upwards of an hour or more, just to listen. Oh, and Spike snored too, so sometimes the nighttime chorus would be a trio.

It was remarkable how an alien could be just so plain friendly, and Dakota found himself exchanging stories and laughing about their past until after the end of the midnight movie while everypony else headed off to their own beds. Kota could easily see how the modest pony taught their young how to cope with the undoubtedly stressful times of youth, because he was just so comfortable to be around without all the power games or word-twisting of adults. The pony children trusted him with their own world-ending disasters such as being disliked by other ponies, or having lost something that a bigger pony would be upset about, because he would soothe their concerns and suggest a solution without any of the condescending or posing that adults tended to use far too often on children. He was a piece that fit perfectly into the four-legged puzzle of the strange alien townsfolk, just the same as Lyra and Bon Bon seemed never to be more than a step away from each other, or the mayor moved instinctively to any other representative of authority, or even Spike acted as the perfect assistant to whoever needed his services.

He was carrying the sleeping Clover in the crook of his elbow as they walked back to the Bruener house for her last bottle of formula before bedtime when an idea came to mind, and he had to ask.

“Have you and your wife thought about having any more children?”

There was no immediate answer forthcoming, so Kota continued, “I mean since the two of you are apart so often. In our world, military deployments scrap more marriages than anything. And your wife goes all over your world, doing friendship things.”

Lucky stopped walking and stood in the house’s pool of yellow porchlight for a time, just nodding his head. “We’ve thought about it,” he admitted. “She’s just so busy with the rest of the girls, saving all of Equestria every week or two. Sometimes I feel like a single parent, but she’s needed by so many, and when they call, she answers. I wouldn’t have her any other way.” He looked up at Clover, who had stirred with a faint smacking of tiny lips. “Of course we still have time together. That’s pretty obvious. I may be a teacher, but she’s taught me to appreciate every minute of every day, with or without her, and that’s a lesson I really needed when we met. So if we have more wonderful foals like this one—” he shrugged with a smile “—I think we can handle it. Ponyville’s insurance rates may rise, but that’s fine. And speaking of insurance.”

There were several gold-clad pony guards strolling down the road in the direction of the farmhouse, laughing and talking among themselves but keeping their voices low. A few of the Army Rangers were among them, but after spotting the house, they waved and headed back to their vehicles, presumably return to Ft. Riley. Dakota had been getting used to the varied colors of the ponies, but it was blatantly obvious this bunch had been playing paintball, and on the receiving end to boot. The yellowest of them under the paint splotches, a unicorn named Bug Light if Dakota remembered correctly, drew up in front of Lucky and saluted with a grin.

“Sir, we have met the enemy, and plastered him.”

“You mean painted, right Corporal?” Lucky turned slightly to one side and regarded the enigmatic Specialist Grace, whose dark green coat and darker armor was nearly obscured by colorful splotches. “So how did your scouting of the human military go, Specialist Grace?”

Grace looked at Dakota, then back at Lucky, who nodded. “We have nothing to hide from our hosts, Grace.”

“Very well.” The colorful unicorn set her lips in a thin line that only reinforced her unspoken opinion that Dakota was not to be trusted with the intelligence summary she was about to deliver. “As you ordered, I spent the entire day with our human military hosts in an attempt to make friends. Which I… did.”

She paused at that point, and did not continue until each of the gold-armored guards had stepped forward and passed Lucky some coins. To a polka-dotted pony, they seemed quite happy with losing their wager, and even the dark bat-winged mare had lost most of her normal Resting Bitch Face while passing over her coins. Once Lucky had secured his winnings, he gave a nod, and Grace continued.

“The human soldiers are not quite as aggressive and conquest-oriented as I originally expected. Should they be ordered to lethally engage Equestrian forces without due cause on our part, there is a substantial possibility they will refuse the order, or otherwise interfere on our behalf. On the other hoof, if we were to provide a threat, they would respond…” The unicorn paused, as if she were looking for a word in her vast collection.

“No greater friend,” said Dakota impulsively, “no worse enemy. When we went into Iraq to help them rebuild and fight the terrorists that wanted to run the place, our general said that we were to be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everyone we met if we had to. We were there to help.” He hefted Clover a little higher on his shoulder and patted her on the back, since she had started to wriggle. “We really tried,” he added after a moment.

“In conclusion, I cannot begrudge humans their positive qualities, despite their propensity to violence,” admitted Grace. “I’ll have a full report for you and Their Highnesses once we return.”

“A couple of them kept apologizing to Grace whenever they shot her,” said one of the pegasus twins.

“That didn’t keep them from shooting her,” admitted the other. “The game is quite educational. We’re going to take back a dozen paintball guns and a barrel of the little plastic balls.”

“Not just for shooting Iceberg,” said the first pegasus guard again, who shot the paint-splotched unicorn a sideways glance then shut up.

“Anyway,” continued Grace, seemingly unperturbed. “Lieutenant Colonel DeJoya took up a collection among his soldiers, and is going to buy out Walmart of something called nerfs as a present for Their Highnesses.”

Lucky spent a moment resting his hoof on his forehead before taking a deep breath, but Grace beat him to the words.

“Little foam darts with suction cups on them,” she explained. “Less messy than paintballs. Human children play with them. I suspect their introduction to the Royal Sisters will cause the staff to curse our names frequently over the next few weeks.”

“We suggested it,” chorused the pegasus twins. Both armored pegasi nodded briskly, with matching grins.

“Oy.” Turning back to Grace, Lucky dug his Kindle out of his saddlebag and passed it over to the painted mare. “Very well. Once you get cleaned up, could you please load books onto this for me? Just whatever you find that looks interesting. Mister Bruener says it’s tied into their computer in the house. But first, I want your whole squad—” the tired stallion waved one hoof at the Royal Guards “—to get shot again.”

“Pardon?” Grace regarded the otherwise plain stallion with one raised eyebrow.

“Ladies and gentlecolts, you have participated in the first interdimensional armed forces competition in the history of the Royal Guard, and from those smiling faces — excepting Optio Pumpernickel’s frown over there — you have all upheld the honor of our princesses. And that needs a photograph to take back to Our Dread Sovereigns as a symbol of your victory.”

“Oh,” said Dakota, who had become entranced by the interplay between the ordinary pony he had been chatting so casually with and the relaxed deadliness of the armored guards, who most reminded him of a group of SEALS he had once met in a bar. “Let me get my camera, and you can all line up by the porch so I can get the light on you.”

“I’ll hold Clover,” sounded a voice around Dakota’s right elbow. The elusive dark pegasus that he had been trying to get photographed for his entire visit just lurked there, radiating that frustrating You Are Only Alive Because I Have Decided Not To Kill You aura that seemed so natural.

“All of you,” said Lucky. “I can hold my own daughter. Plus, it will keep her out of Kota’s camera bag.”

While all of the grinning paint-speckled guards lined up for their shots, with the nocturnal pegasi in front, Dakota considered his role as staff photographer for alien royal guards. It was nothing like caging desk duty from his fellow Marines, filling out after action reports and documenting battles with his camera. Somehow he could not see these experienced ponies hunched over typewriters or standing around in front of doors for hours in dress uniforms, despite their claims. And what they had been through in the last few years baffled him to no end. ‘Celestia’s Speed Bumps’ constantly went through his mind whenever they told about their experiences, because they had never actually stopped any of the threats they had been set against, just slowed them down.

For the second round of photographs, even the other guards got into the picture, including the neon-colored pegasus, the ever-grouchy Hardhooves, and the middle-aged unicorn mare who looked more like she should be wearing an apron than dark armor. Despite what certain generals in the Pentagon surely must be thinking, this was most certainly not any kind of invasion force, but if they were hiring, Dakota certainly would have considered putting in an application. That is if he could still have bacon a few times a week, instead of living on grass.

Once the guards were dismissed to get cleaned up, Dakota took one last moment to shake hooves with the scruffy green stallion. “It will probably be busy tomorrow morning, so if I don’t see you again, it was a joy having you and your friends here for as long as we had.”

“It hasn’t been too bad from this end either,” admitted Lucky. “Other than Cloud Kicker sneaking off with some of your humans to do a little extradimensional hanky-panky, Lyra collecting all those little plastic dolls, having to leave Big Mac to watch Granny Smith in the hospital for a few weeks, and somebody getting my little darling hooked on—” He paused, then mouthed the word ‘bacon’ with great care.

Kota chuckled and checked his phone, which had just chirped. “I’m going to head off and upload these photos— Or not,” he added. “Crystal’s interview with Nick is going to run long, it seems. Until morning in the RV, if I’m reading this right.”

“Come on up to Claire’s room,” said Lucky, turning for the farmhouse. “You can use the house’s computer network and sleep in her bed. This time I’ll sleep on the floor in the doggie bed Mister Bruener bought so Clover doesn’t go wandering around the house in the middle of the night.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kota stifled a yawn while following the scruffy pony. It felt more than a little odd to be taking advantage of an alien prince’s hospitality, but the other option involved a long walk to Randolph in the dark so he could find his unfurnished house, which he had not even seen yet.

A bed was far better.

18. Be Prepared

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Be Prepared

"By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail."
― Benjamin Franklin

Time: 6:00 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener farm, Randolph Kansas

The night had been far too short, and the morning swift in its arrival. But at least there were no bugles. Former Lance Corporal Dakota Henderson nosed his way out from under the comfortable sheets and blearily regarded the two additional ponies in Claire’s repurposed bedroom, who had made enough noise entering that his Marine instincts had dragged him up out of a perfectly good sleep.

One of the ponies was obviously Grace, looking rumpled but at least clean in her dark armor without the paint splotches of last night. She was prodding the immobile green lump that was Lucky, who was still curled up in the doggie bed on the floor. His little daughter was nowhere to be seen, but she could be felt, because there was a warm lump who had settled down in the blanket covering the crook of his knees, and the tiny sound of snoring.

He would have moved around to see about picking up the tiny foal from her comfortable nest, except there was a second unicorn in the room, who had to be Sizzler from his blood-red coat and bone-white mane. Kota had only seen him from a distance, because the rest of the military people had practically mobbed his grill three deep when he was cooking, and the military ponies preferred not to talk about him at all. The steak cutie mark on his red flanks probably explained a lot of both, and was amplified by the way his magical aura was a nearly colorless field with wobbling bits of red that made the plate he was carrying look slightly as if it were bleeding.

Well, not so slightly.

“He’s up,” hissed Sizzler, nudging Grace with one hoof and rattling on in a rapid avalanche of short words. “Can I give him breakfast now? The sausages are starting to cool and I’m not too sure about the eggs. I’ve never really done eggs before and I know Mister Bruener said that the yolks should be soft and runny but not too much so I tried but the bacon was all done and getting—”

“B’kon?” asked Clover, coming abruptly awake with perked-up ears and an eager expression. Dakota managed to get an arm around her before she galloped off the bed in search of her favorite snack, then scooped up the plate with his other hand so it would look less like it was bleeding all over the sheets.

“Good morning, Mister Sizzler,” managed Dakota. He put the plate on the bedside table and broke off a tiny bit of bacon for the eager foal he had trapped under his arm. “Are you excited about going home today?”

“I… um…” The suddenly nervous unicorn gave Grace a quick look, and at her nod, turned back to Dakota. “Yes, I am.” There were obviously other words bottled up behind his lips, because Kota had never seen that kind of energy in a unicorn before. His watery eyes were streaming slightly into the dark patches of fur beneath his eyes, he shifted his weight from one hoof to another almost constantly, and his head practically vibrated up and down.

While Clover gummed and drooled over her tiny bacon bit, Dakota regarded the rest of the breakfast plate, which was far more meat-heavy than his expectation. There were two sausage patties, fried to a golden brown and dripping just the tiniest bit of fat at the crispy edges, with two full strips of bacon done just to that delicate stage before crispy and above floppy where the flavor really shone.

And then there were two eggs, oozing yellow yolk and just a little crinkly around the edges. By comparison, they were so plain that he had to go look at the perfect bacon again.

“It’s… art,” murmured Dakota.

Sizzler nearly wriggled his butt with happiness like some stub-tailed terrier who had just been patted on the head and offered a treat.

“Yes, it’s an art form,” said Grace with the flat tone and odd posturing that made Dakota think she was holding her breath as much as she could in order not to breathe in the delicious scent of sausage and bacon, done to a perfect…

Oh. Herbivores.

“Let me take this downstairs,” said Dakota fairly quickly, managing the ballet of getting his shirt and pants on while keeping the rest of the plate away from Clover, then heading barefoot down the stairs of the main house with Clover under one arm. He was not quite sure just why he picked up the infant pony, or why in the world the pony prince upstairs trusted some California photographer with the adorable alien princess, but the job came with bacon, so what the heck.

“Good morning, Jon. Missus Bruener.” Despite his casual attire, Dakota slipped into the only empty spot at the kitchen table, sharing his breakfast with at least two governors and the Assistant Secretary of State for Public Affairs, a fairly long title for ‘Secretary Kerry is stuck somewhere else in the world and somebody has to say goodbye to the ponies.’

“You brought the little cutie!” Maria Bruener fairly squealed with delight and held her arms out. “Come to Auntie Maria. Oh, I’m going to miss you so much tomorrow.” Clover seemed to agree with her appraisal, and leaped to trade human carriers for the reward of another tiny piece of bacon and some feminine snuggling. “So how did you sleep last night, Mister Henderson? Oh, nevermind. I’ll go get a bottle while you eat.”

Dakota was relishing a bite of the first sausage patty, and could not have replied even if he wanted. The entire rest of breakfast was like that, until he was seriously debating licking the plate right in front of the various informal VIPs in the kitchen while Sizzler made himself busy at the stove, just in case he wanted seconds. Or thirds.

“Didn’t sleep too bad,” he managed after snagging a piece of toast and using it as a plate sponge. “Nothing can ever beat the comfort and peace of a Navy bunk at sea, but it was close. How’s today’s schedule looking for the departure?”

Spike looked up from his notes with a piece of bacon still stuck to the corner of his cheek. “As far as I can translate Twilight’s last letter, and given that time passes at different rates between our worlds, my best guess is just after noon, probably close to one. There’s still a lot to do today. We sent Big Mac off before dawn with the K-State Vet Med students. The school will be shuttling a van back and forth as long as Granny Smith is in physical therapy. Oh, and we sent Miss Koni and Missus Killough also. Granny asked for them specifically. Well, not exactly asked,” he corrected. “And Koni’s dog is in the back yard with Zipporwhill.”

“How about the pony I hit with the swather?” asked Jon. “Widget, I believe?”

Spike checked his clipboard. “Grace and the twins are headed to Kay You Med later to pick her up. She’ll be back here before noon. They should be here well before the portal opens, but will miss all the morning speeches. I went over things with the CNN crew by the movie area and put together a tentative speaking schedule for the morning for the mayor’s approval, once she gets done with breakfast over at the other house.” He passed over a sheet of paper to the nearest governor and continued.

“This television thing of yours is really useful. There must be a dozen politicians lined up to make speeches in person or on the screen all morning from now until Twilight gets the portal open this afternoon. Or at least hopefully opened,” added Spike. “Only a few hours have passed on that side of the portal by now. I’m thinking she may not be able to reverse her spell this soon.”

“Something certainly to consider,” said Governor Brown. “We’ll try to keep expectations under control. The last thing we need is to get the press all riled up. They’re self-riling.”

Dakota wiped his face with a paper towel and reluctantly moved away from the stove and its tempting contents. “Speaking for the press, just throw a few of Sizzler’s delicious hamburgers at us and we’ll be fine. I’d be more worried that one of them might kidnap your excellent cook.”

It was physically impossible for the blood-red unicorn to look even more red when he blushed, but somehow he managed. Sizzler bent over the frying pan with the spatula gripped in his disturbing magical field and murmured something in return, squirming more uncomfortably when Governor Brown suggested, “You could stay here in Kansas a week or two until Granny Smith goes home, you know. We’d be proud to put you up at the mansion in Topeka.”

“Or in Missouri,” suggested a different governor. “You could tour Branson, maybe even get some fishing in. You like fishing?”

“Oh, no,” said Sizzler almost instantly with his ears flopping down against his skull and a look of extreme woe sweeping across his placid features as the pace of his stammering words accelerated, much like a verbal machine gun. “I don’t cook fish any more since… Well, they blame me, even though I wasn’t… Nopony or griffon died, but the entire diplomatic contingent… I poisoned an entire banquet hall. By accident. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t have the experience to detect the henbane with my magic and they almost died!” he finished with a miserable sob. “And it made Chef—” The blood-red unicorn broke into a series of fierce chirps and squawks, ending with a sharp snapping noise as if he had just closed a very sharp beak, which seemed to be all Sizzler could say before breaking out into a torrent of tears and practically thrusting his face against Dakota’s side. How Kota had become the Designated Despondent Unicorn Support Human was unknown, but after a few comforting pats on the head and a gentle ear scratch, the rather odd pony recovered enough to murmur, “I want to go home.”

“I understand,” said Dakota while the rest of the room looked uncomfortable. “You’re a long way from home, you miss all your friends—”

“I don’t have friends. None of the other chefs like me,” said Sizzler in a rather muffled fashion with his nose still buried in Dakota’s shirt, which must have still reeked of sweat something fierce because he had not gotten a chance to shower or change yet. “I think I’ve talked to more creatures in the last few days than ever. This is the first time I’ve been away from Canterlot, ever. I didn’t think I could do it, but Princess Celestia insisted. Really hard, although it may have been because I tried to get her to try—” Sizzler broke into the strange chirping and squawking language again for a few words. “It’s supposed to be served rare,” he added almost apologetically. “Although I may have needed to sear it for a few extra seconds to keep it from bleeding on the plate, I suppose. I haven’t seen her so upset since I let all the griffons in the diplomatic banquet get poisoned. There are so few ponies who appreciate meat. That’s my special talent, you know,” he said, looking up with his big pinkish eyes. “It’s very rare. I never thought I’d get a job, and then I was offered the Meat Station in the castle kitchens, preparing food for the guests. They must be having so much trouble now.”

There was a hesitation in his flood of words, which Dakota tried to fill before one of the other people in the room said something to set him off on another crying jag. “Because you’re the only pony talented enough to cook for meat-eaters, in a world of herbivores?”

“No, because I locked the kitchen’s Meat Station when I left,” said Sizzler, looking much like he critically needed to use the bathroom and speeding up his words accordingly. “It was only for a few hours. Nopony ever goes there, but since I poisoned all of the griffons in the banquet, I’ve been very careful to keep it safe against anypony who would poison the hydra heads I have soaking back in cold storage, or the — you call it Polska kielbasa wedzona — that I’m preparing, although I didn’t have enough time for it to cure properly before I left so it’s hanging all over the Meat Station and I made some here out of the meat Mister Bruener’s icebox since he said this place obeys the Treaty of Menagerie and it’s safe although I put paprika on some of it because I think it’s better with paprika even if that’s not the traditional way of preparing it in—” he gave three quick chirps and a squawk “—except in the south and it’s out in Mister Bruener’s smoker right now so somepony will have to take it out when we leave or it will get all dried out like all the sausage I have hanging all over the Meat Station. Oh, it’s all going to be ruined,” he moaned. “I thought I’d be right back.”

“So…” Dakota considered the emotionally fragile pony and caught the eye of Lucky, who had just come downstairs, and was looking like an Explosive Ordnance Technician trying to come up with a good reason to grab the lit stick of dynamite that everybody else was treating like a pretty candle. “You look tired. When was the last time you slept?”

“When did we get here?” The unicorn blinked several times, and Dakota could not help but notice how small his pupils were. “I remember we were falling… I’ve been cooking ever since.”

“Why don’t you lie down until the return portal is open,” said Dakota, giving the odd pony a nudge in the direction of Lucky as it seemed both ponies wanted. “Just remember to take your key with you when you go home so you can unlock that door. And save the sausage,” he added out of reflex.

Sizzler shook his head with a yawn, making his greasy bone-white mane sway. “Oh, I don’t have the key. I keep it hanging on a hook by the door to the Meat Station. I don’t want it to get lost.”

“Bed. With a shower first,” said Lucky, nudging his fellow pony down the hallway, away from the human audience, who were all looking at each other and their plates. Dakota could understand why, due to Sizzler’s confession about poisoning the diplomatic dinner, but it had sounded more like an accident than intentional. And besides, breakfast had been so good, it was well worth the risk.

Silence reigned until the two ponies were out of earshot, then Jon Bruener gave out a low whistle. “You know, when the first pony found out I had a freezer full of meat, I thought there was going to be a riot. They all looked at me like I was a serial killer. I had to spend about an hour repeating that Earth didn’t have any intelligent species other than people, and that cows and deer here were dumb as bricks. Then that baker griffon brought Sizzler over, and the tables flipped from fear to fascination. I was wondering where all my sausage makings had gone, and why the smoker in the backyard was fired up.”

Spike had dealt with the last of his eggs by licking the plate clean during the conversation, and looked as if he was seriously thinking about eating the plate too. “Princess Celestia says that everypony in Equestria has a purpose. Some of them just are a little more difficult to place than others.” He waved the empty plate in the direction of the empty hallway. “Like them.”

Governor Brown cleared his throat and said, “You handled Sizzler’s anxiety attack very well, Mister Henderson.”

“We had worse in the Marines,” said Dakota. “Take a whole stack of young kids who have never seen the ocean, put them out on a ship for weeks on end, and the squirrels come out.”

“I could tell you so many stories,” said Spike, who had stood up on his toes to put his plate into the sink. “I used to think Ponyville attracted all the nuts because we lived in an oak tree. Then we started traveling Equestria and I found out we’re fairly normal.”

Dakota withheld his opinion. After all, normal was relative. And the Equestrians were like the odd side of the family relatives, with all of the weird uncles and odd cousins.

“To be totally honest,” continued Spike, “the townsponies have been fairly quiet here. Kansas has been like a vacation, only without the ability to get out to the countryside and be tourists. There’s so much to see.”

The governors shared a mutual chuckle, leaving Jon to speak up. “I’ve been to a lot of places over the world, and I’ve never heard Kansas described that way before. I mean Equestria has dragons and griffons and all kinds of ponies, from what you’ve said.”

“But you don’t have monsters in the exciting places around here, so it’s safe to go looking,” countered the little dragon, who pulled a number of glossy fliers out of his shoulder bag. “There’s this place, and this one…”

“Second largest hand-dug well in Kansas,” said Dakota, passing the fliers along to Jon. “The Davis memorial, K-State’s insect zoo. I don’t know. There’s probably a waiting list.”

“If Twilight can’t get the portal open today, we’ll have time. She’ll be upset, but that’s fine,” said Spike with a short glance in the direction Sizzler had taken on his path to bed. “Our friends will have to calm her down, she’ll mope for a day or two, then she’ll think of something brilliant. She always does.”

“If you don’t think the rest of the ponies will mind, and provided Sizzler feels better, a delay might let the President attend your going-away event,” said Secretary Franz between bites of his own meat-heavy breakfast. “Since the Secret Service determined that it was not safe enough to fly Air Force One into the area with unidentified portals opening up today.”

“That is a zoo today,” said Governor Brown, pointing at the window with his empty fork. “Toss the President into the mix and we’d have cars backed up to the Nebraska border, and a potential riot. We’ve already got CNN’s video feed to the K-State stadium and any other place that can handle a crowd. Besides, I don’t think Mister Bruener has any more guest rooms.”

“There’s a three governor limit in the basement,” said Jon, who had remained fairly quiet. “I hope the kids didn’t keep you fine gentlemen up all night with their video marathon. There must have been thirty teenagers stuffed into the TV room down there.”

“It could be our last chance to see human movies,” admitted Spike with a muffled yawn. “I liked Godzilla the best. Game of Thrones is too violent, and the dragons are just little squeaky things.”

All of the men in the kitchen chuckled, leaving Maria looking a little puzzled from where she had come back into the room with Clover tucked comfortably in one arm and shaking a bottle of milk with her other hand. She shook the confusion off and passed the baby pony (with bottle) to her husband, who took up the feeding task with the experienced motions of a parent. “Spike,” she stated firmly, “I noticed everybody else from your town has bags for taking souvenirs back. How about I get you one of our old suitcases so you can pack your things also.”

“I don’t want to take too much stuff,” protested Spike. “That’s a really bad idea. Dragons grow according to how many valuables they hoard, and… Well, I wouldn’t fit through the portal for starters, and I don’t want to be stomping around the farm while the tanks shoot at me like that movie we watched last night.”

Maria frowned. “Superman?”

“Godzilla!” declared Spike. “We found all kinds of movies on Dee Vedee. Scary movies, mostly. Black Beauty and the Star movies, and some movie with a crazy nightmare monster.”

“You are going to want to bring souvenirs back for your friends, so I’ll get you a small bag,” said Maria, who checked the back end of the little foal’s diaper with a wrinkled up nose. “You’ve certainly been helpful enough with tasks around the house to deserve it.”

“Like changing Clover?” he asked, taking the foal as Jon handed her over. It only took a second for the little cutie to commence a licking attack on the dragon’s face that claimed the last bit of bacon that had been stuck to his cheek. “Yuch. I’ll get right on it, Missus B. Anything else for the schedule?”

“Nothing I can think of. It looks like everything is all set for your return home.”

* * *

Time: Zero five hundred hours Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Classified, Washington D.C.

“Gentlemen, I don’t believe we can afford to let an opportunity like this slip through our fingers. It could seriously affect the balance of power on this whole planet.” The various generals had been repeating similar phrases for most of an hour while Colonel Wright stood quietly next to a simple cardboard box. Pentagon coffee and donuts were terrible at best, but the subdued stress of trying to run an Army-only meeting made that stolen cruller just lie in the bottom of his stomach like a concrete puddle.

The ongoing discussion had see-sawed all over the map with suggestions on how to retain the Equestrians for a few weeks or years. It would only be until US manufacturers could do whatever the unicorns had done with the Small Arms Protective Insert samples that lay scattered across the table, sporting pits and craters from enthusiastic gunfire at the Fort Riley gunnery range. Personally, Wright thought the best example was the one with the ragged crater in the middle, sporting a label to show it had been subjected to a 25mm Bushmaster cannon round.

Since normally a 25mm explosive round would go straight through a piece of boron carbide and spread out the soldier behind it like strawberry jam, having body armor that could make that survivable would be a plus, even if it was created by a horse with a horn.

A week ago, the idea of being yanked out of his secure Pentagon office to jump on board a C-37A for a rapid trip across the country, then a rapid trip back with a cardboard box full of magic armor… Pulling Excalibur out of his bathtub would have been more likely.

Still, Wright had listened to the radio during the aliens’ first interview, examined the photos on the internet for signs of digital manipulation, and had been practically glued to the TV for every interview that had been aired afterward. He would have gladly cut off his left arm for an hour with that green unicorn he had spotted in one of the news broadcasts, because if she was not an intelligence officer from the Equestrian world, he would eat his socks. While being grabbed at random to be flown to Fort Riley had been exhilarating, being passed a cardboard MRE box of ceramic plates on the flight line and not permitted to deplane while the aircraft was being refueled was a little like driving a kid past Disneyland’s front gates and back to the orphanage.

Thankfully, General Hackmore had included a thick sheaf of reports for him to read on the trip back, and provided the company of one of the Army Rangers who had been responsible for guarding the alien ponies. After most of an hour talking to Fitzgerald, he had seriously thought about ordering the pilot to return to Kansas. At least it would have kept him out of this ongoing meeting that had more general’s stars than a galaxy.

“If what they’ve been saying for the last few days is true,” started a stout general, “they’re planning on leaving and never returning. I don’t see why we can’t just hold onto the unicorns for a few months until they tell us how they did—” he tapped one of the pitted SAPI plates “—this.”

Wright could not hold back a response, despite his surroundings. “General, with all due respect, that’s a terrible idea. The unicorn officers gave General Hackmore templates for the… enchantments, and a set of basic magic instructions, although they said it might take us a century or two to work them out.” He opened up a manila folder and put a short sheaf of paper on the desk for the first general to page through. “They said other races of Equestria could use their magic without unicorn horns, so we might be able to understand it too. With patience and time.”

“It’s garbage,” said the general who was regarding the enchantment instructions with a sharp frown. “How are we supposed to make heads or tails out of this?”

“That’s what the unicorns said.” Colonel Wright checked his notes. “Each of the Equestrian races have their own magic. Some of it is fairly personal and minor, like the regular ponies can grow things, from what I understand, and pegasi can fly. Griffons even have a rune magic, minotaurs have something involving mechanisms, and changelings can alter their appearance to look like other ponies. None of them can learn the other’s magics except for alicorns, who have the magic of the three major pony races. Humans can’t do their magic. You’re looking for a shortcut that isn’t there. By detaining the unicorns, all we would be doing is pissing them off. And that could lead to a disaster far worse than you can imagine.”

Producing another sheet of paper, he skimmed it across the table to General Wallace. “I don’t know if that should be classified to a new level or published on the front page of the New York Times. At one time on their planet, groups of unicorns used to move their sun. It took a bunch of them, and had a risk of exhausting their magic, but apparently their world doesn’t have the same stellar mechanics as ours. The leaders of their world are two alicorns, one who moves the sun now and the other moves the moon and before you call this a foolish myth,” he added while raising his voice to be heard over the murmuring of the other generals, “think good and hard about how they got here, how they can speak the language, and how comfortable they seem to be here. The number of parallels between our world and theirs is far too high to be coincidence.”

“So you’re saying the Equestrians have been here before?” asked one of the generals. “That’s poppycock.”

“Explain our legends of unicorns, then,” countered Colonel Wright. “In the notes I received, one of their military unicorns suggested that it was possible for spontaneous portals to open up between worlds at random times. Small ones, sufficient for seeds or animals to pass through perhaps, or larger ones on rare occasions. Our worlds have to be what you might consider to be next-door neighbors for the malfunctioning evacuation spell to have forced open a connection.”

Seeing the general looks of disbelief on the generals, Wright changed his approach. “Think of it as electron potential energy. Each electron in an atom orbital can be considered to be unaware of the electrons in other orbitals, until they are nudged into changing their state. The larger the orbital shift, the larger the energy required to change states. Since only one Equestrian triggered the spell to send all of the ponies here, it only stands to reason that they could not have been sent very far. The problem, when put into their terms, is the large number of nearby dimensions around us. According to the notes, their evacuation spell used multiple tiny portals all tied into one larger guidance spell, or they would have scattered the evacuees all across the neighboring multiverses.”

“Tiny portals?” asked one of the generals.

“Inverse cube law,” said Wright. “The bigger the portal, the far greater amount of energy it takes to create and maintain it as a cube of the… Well, it’s described in the notes, and more. That sheet of paper has the spell they claim they used to raise the sun on their world. If we ever do develop magical technology, what you are holding is the equivalent of every atomic bomb equation, from the ones developed during World War II all the way to the present and including fusion reactors, wrapped up and delivered straight to us with a pretty bow on top.”

“I find that hard to believe.” General Wallace picked up the sheet of paper and squinted at the squiggles and marks. “If we encountered this alien race on their own territory, we would never give up our own military secrets like this.”

Wright shrugged. “They’re not us. They’re also not like any alien race we’ve envisioned. My preliminary analysis, or best guess, is that the concept of atomic weapons scares the heck out of them, and the idea that a warlike planet full of omnivorous monkeys has thousands of them and hasn’t managed to kill themselves off… confuses them. Heck, at times it confuses me. If a few centuries from now we accidentally stumble across whatever rules of magic we can control, if we can use it, of course, there would be a good chance we would destroy our entire civilization. This—” he tapped the stack of paper he was still holding “—is a life vest in an oncoming flood. It’s also a very good sign. If the Equestrians decide to keep a channel of communication open between our worlds, I don’t see any reason why we can’t have a peaceful relationship.”

“Captain Cook said much the same thing to my people,” said one of the generals who obviously had some Hawaiian in his ancestry. “If they’re as peaceful and trusting as I’ve seen on videos so far, they’d be a lot better off to run screaming back to their homes and slam the door on us, not give us the key.”

There was an uncomfortable silence around the room before General Wallace began putting his papers in order. “On that sobering note, we’ll adjourn. I have to say that our response to this alien invasion has gone far better than any movie I’ve ever seen.”

There was a low round of laughter that went around the table, but Wallace was not done yet. “Mostly because of what we did not do. Now, since the vast majority of the Equestrians will be going home this afternoon, we should at least be prepared for a sequel, or possibly a spin-off in the event they change their minds and decide to keep a channel of communication open. I expect you all to be busy planning for the next few days. Colonel Wright, you will come with me so we can brief the heads of the other armed forces branches. The flyboys, at least—” Wallace tossed one of the damaged SAPI plates into the cardboard MRE box “—are going to want a whole herd of stealth unicorns of their own, and the Navy will want to teach them how to swim. I think a little collective discouragement of their plans is in order before we brief the President later this morning. I’ll want summaries of your ideas focusing on three possibilities: peace, degrees of conflict, and outright war, with special emphasis on the peaceful ones. I’ve seen the damnedest things on video since they showed up, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if they could throw the Earth into the sun if they got sufficiently frightened. If they’re gone this afternoon as planned, we’ll at least have a process to go on for the next bunch of aliens that drops in unannounced, and if they miss their cosmic bus and have to stay a while, I’d like them just as happy to be here as possible, not herded around like scared animals.”

“And if the next batch of aliens is hostile?” asked one of the generals.

Wallace grinned. “Hopefully by then, our grandchildren will take them to the cleaners in ways we can’t imagine.”

19. Removing Day

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Removing Day

"You don't know how to lie. If you can't lie, you'll never go anywhere."
— Richard Nixon

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:00 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Agent Anacostia woke to the muffled chirp of her phone, and the painful realization that she had just spent another night in the hospital, although this evening had been spent on the floor with the stack of cushions that Goose had collected.

And, to her embarrassment, with Goose as a pillow.

“Did I do something wrong with your phone?” whispered the dark pegasus through the stylus in her teeth. “I was just looking up zoos when it started making noise, so I pushed stop. I didn’t look up any naked people pictures like you warned me about but there’s a lot of them.”

Karla was just starting to relax into her warm nest of cushions again when Goose added, “And some of them were with ponies.”

All thoughts of going back to sleep for a while with the furry pegasus as a pillow vanished. “Give me that!” she hissed, grabbing her government phone and unplugging it from the power cable. It took a few moments to find the browser cache and wipe it, although nothing was gone forever on a phone, and she seriously thought about just ‘accidentally’ wiping the memory. It would only take a few touches, and she could blame the pony having done it by accident instead of her own instincts to keep pony-porn off her government-issued iPhone. Then again…

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she added in as reassuring tone as Karla could manage. “There are some strange people on our planet, and— Wait. People with earth ponies or Equestrian ponies? No, no, no. I don’t want to know. Somebody with a computer probably put together pornography of you an hour or two after you arrived. I mean Equestrians, not you personally,” she added at Goose Down’s obviously flabbergasted expression. “Oh, God. This is too much to explain before breakfast.”

“I wish we could go to the cafeteria,” said Widget with a yawn from the nearby bed. Both of the beds had been cranked down to their lowest height out of deference to the pony patients, which had impressed Granny Smith with the practicality, and made it more difficult for Widget to tunnel underneath the mattress to figure out how the mechanism worked. And most probably to take it apart.

“It’s a fairly long walk,” said Karla now that she was feeling more human. “And you would probably get mobbed with reporters. The hospital staff is keeping them off this floor, but down in the lobby it looks like a congressional hearing.”

“Oh.” Widget’s ears drooped, but quickly perked back up again. “Oh! We’re going to the ballbase stadium today, aren’t we? And you were going to show me your car!”

“Baseball, yes, and can I get some coffee first?”

- Ω - -

It turned out a shower was on her list also, by unanimous vote of the room. Since her own apartment was too far across town, Karla was thankful that the hospital room had one, along with shampoo and conditioner, although she was missing her clothes once she stepped out of the tub.

“Oh, pardon me, Miss.” The rear end of the pony surgeon was within touching distance when Karla cracked open the door of the bathroom, and her clothes were hovering in front of him. With one last glow of blue magic, the blouse and associated clothes floated over to the door while Doctor Stable pretended to be interested in something on the other side of the room. “Just a minor cleaning spell, and I left your weapon alone, since I understand that’s a sensitive spot with you humans. Have to keep them covered, like your delicate bits. Seems a little odd for us, but I suppose that’s because we really can’t cover our horns without affecting our spellcasting.”

“I understand. I think,” added Karla as she slipped into her underthings. “Where are the girls?”

“Next bathroom over, in the empty room.” The unicorn poked a hoof in the general direction of the doorway. “Widget has a half-dozen nurses watching after her, and Granny Smith is critiquing. Think she rather enjoys it, as a matter of fact.”

“She reminds me of my grandmother,” admitted Karla.

“Mine too,” said the doctor, who she had actually begun to think of as a doctor over the last day. The unicorn remained outside the bathroom door until she was dressed, but stopped her before she could leave. “Could we talk privately for a moment, Miss Anacostia? Widget took all of her little devices with her and your phone. If you’re worried about other eavesdroppers, I’ve always got—” Doctor Stable’s horn lit up and a faint shimmer lit up the area just outside of her arm’s reach, making a full sphere that muted the sounds of the hospital corridor outside to faint thunks and clicks.

“That’s… impressive,” admitted Karla. “Are you in the spy business too?”

“Medical privacy,” he responded, looking slightly embarrassed. “Although you can’t be a physician to Equestria’s greatest unsung heroes and their families without writing a few reports that start, ‘Dear Princess Celestia…’”

“True.” Karla nodded and adjusted her blouse in the bathroom mirror. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Where are you planning on taking my patients this morning? Because you twitch just under one eye whenever you talk about it.”

“I…” Taking a breath and checking the shimmering magic around her, Karla decided to skip several minutes of denial and obfuscation in order to cut straight to the point. “I’m taking them to the FBI Field Office in Missouri, which is outside of the restraining order. Some of the higher-ups think they can convince our guests to fly to Washington and be… paraded around as VIPs I think. They don’t mean any harm by it; they’re just convinced they are right and nobody is going to talk sense into them.”

“I see.” The doctor had a very compassionate look, even with the wildly different features that Karla had been getting used to over the last few days. “And I thought we had difficult nobility in Equestria. Do you agree with them? Well, of course not. Otherwise you wouldn't be so tense, I suppose. And taking my patients straight back to Raindolph would probably get you fired, right?”

“It would be a pretty thick black mark on my record,” she admitted. “Almost as bad as…” It took a much deeper breath for Karla to continue. “Did you know I almost shot Widget when I first met her? I was hungover, short of sleep, and in a very bad mood when my boss dragged me out of bed on my day off and sent me up here.”

“Then you saw this alien creature all covered in bandages and beeping machines,” said the doctor in a very compassionate tone of voice. “I hate to admit it, but I was hiding from the humans for a time when we first arrived. The first human I saw was covered in pony blood, bent over Widget’s body and shouting into a little box. I… panicked. I reacted by diving into a bush and hiding instead of thinking. It was not the act of an intelligent creature, or a physician.”

“A human being is intelligent,” said Karla. “People are dumb, panicky animals. It’s from a movie, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

The doctor nodded, but with a thoughtful frown. “If Widget and Goose are delivered to your police office, listen to your superiors, and still want to return to Raindolph, would they be prevented from doing so?”

“I… don’t believe anybody in our agency would be so foolish as to detain them against their will,” hedged Karla. “Hopefully.”

“I don’t think detaining them is a possibility.” Doctor Stable brushed Karla’s short hair back with a brief touch of magic while he straightened up and actually smiled. “As long as you are willing to transport them back to Raindolph, that is.”

“Oh, of course.” Karla winced. “I really don’t think I can go against my orders, though. And I’m certainly not going to fight my fellow FBI agents.”

“You won’t have to.” The doctor turned to open the bathroom door, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. “You do know what Goose is, correct?”

“A cute little fuzzball with huge wings?”

As Karla tried to puzzle out just what seemed to be so serious, the doctor continued, “She’s the little sister of a dozen or more older brothers, uncles, and cousins, all of whom are in the Royal Guard. She’s wanted to be a guard since she could walk, and she’s wheedled and begged her big brothers for training every day and night since. She’s a remarkable young talent, and if it wasn’t for her ouranophobia and a certain reluctance among the guards regarding mares in that position, she would have breezed through the Academy and taken a position at Luna’s side. For star’s sake, both Luna and Pumpernickel trained her.”

“So she can fight?” asked Karla.

Doctor Stable shook his head and dismissed the odd magical sound shield around them. “Take care of my patients, Miss Anacostia, and see that they get back to Raindolph. I’ll stay here with Granny Smith for the second portal when she has recovered sufficiently. And do try to be safe.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:30 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph KS

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It was a little weird to feel like the party for the ponies going home was the end of a roller-coaster ride, but Dakota Henderson was feeling oddly let down by this morning. Sure, he could go out into the crowd and take photos of the various VIPs mingling with the ponies, but there were already a half-dozen professional photographers all operating under the authority of the KC Star with some sort of pony pool arrangement, much like the SF Chronicle had its pool of one lone indian for the last few days.

There was a sense of completion to his musing. All of his photos had been uploaded to the Chronicle’s server, the goodbye gift of paper 3x5 glossies from Walmart had arrived, and he had gotten them tucked away into Lucky’s bottomless saddlebags. That left Dakota casually walking around the crowd, getting both wide shots and close-ups of individual ponies next to their various stacks and bags of human souvenirs.

With practice, he could pick out the individual ponies in various spots around the yard and vicinity getting ready for their departure. Sparkler and some of the other teenage ponies were trying to figure out how to pack one of the smaller large-screen televisions for shipment, along with a stack of freshly purchased/donated/begged DVDs to their side that was almost as tall as they were, although he could not see a DVD player anywhere in the collection. Lyra was sorting through her own loot pile of plastic dolls, trying to bring it down to a size she could carry on her back, while Trixie was arguing with Lucky, most likely having something to do with the Winnebago next to them, and how difficult it would be to fit through any return portal. And quite possibly, if she owned the vehicle in question.

He was just getting focused in on the Cutie Mark Crusaders, who in turn were being photographed by the cute redhead from the Kansas City Star, which would have made a good ironic picture of a picture bit, when his phone rang. He let it go long enough to finish the shot, then hooked the phone under his chin.

“Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, Fowler here.”

There was a pause, a faint giggle, then an older woman’s musical voice said, “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I was calling Mister Henderson, the photographer who has been—”

“That’s me, ma’am. Sorry about that.” The voice was obviously a pony, since people were incapable of sounding constantly like they were about to break into song at the slightest whim. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

“Could you direct me to a photographer able to videotape an event for us? They would need a camera that did… why do you call it videotape when there’s no tape?”

Caught off-guard, Kota said, “It used to involve magnetic tape, but we’re all digital now. My camera can even shoot video. I can probably explain better in person. What did you want me to film? I mean video.”

“It might be a little dangerous,” continued the voice. “I mean I hope it isn’t, and I don’t think you will be hurt, but I’d feel a lot better if I had an unimpeachable witness on this trip. And Grace gets so sick when we travel.” There was a short huff of air over the phone. “She said you used to be a soldier.”

“There is no such thing as an ex-Marine, ma’am. But if you’re doing something dangerous, don’t you want one of the regular soldiers to guard you?”

“I really don’t want this to be official.” There was another short huff of breath. “We’re going to Kansas City to pick up Widget and Cadet Goose from some people who may not want to let them go. If they do, no problem. If they don’t—”

“You want proof that you didn’t start it,” said Dakota while he was putting his camera back into the bag. “No harm, no foul. Yeah, I can do that, as long as there’s no gunfire. Do you need me to jog up to the highway to meet you?”

“No, just get ready. We’ll pick you up.”

It took just a few minutes to get all of his gear stowed, his knapsack on, and the camera bag slung while he was walking down the gravel driveway to the road. Despite RCPD’s best efforts, Highway 77 was a sluggish mess of cars again. People were idiots. They were willing to drive and sit in their cars for hours just to catch a glimpse of the ponies going home when they could have turned on the television to see as many as they could imagine, in HD. A trip to Kansas City was going to take forever, unless the Army was going to let them use a helicopter. He turned at Nick’s tank to look up the gravel stretch to where the roadblock was, then back at his squat black friend, who was leaning out of the turret hatch and waving with a gleeful grin.

“Ho! Tonto go into town to find bad guys?”

“No, Tonto no go into town,” quipped Kota back. “Bad guys always beat up Tonto. You want to find out what bad guys are up to, Kemo Sabe, you go into town and get beat up.”

Nick gave a loose salute through his chuckling. “Yeah, I’m one hell of a Lone Ranger. You out here looking for Blondie?”

“She’s back watching the speeches by the barn,” said Kota, jerking his thumb in that direction. “I’m waiting for a pony to pick me up for a trip to KC.” His phone promptly rang, and Kota scooped it up in one hand. “And that’s her. Good morning, ma’am. Where did you want me to go to be picked up?”

“Right there is good. Do you have everything you need to make videotapes of our visit?”

“Yep.” He patted the knapsack on his back. “Along with a few tricks that have come in handy in the pas—”

There were feathers involved, although he did not really comprehend them until later. All he could see for a split second was white, the impact of an aluminum rail right around his thighs, then he hit the lawn chair. The whole chain of events took only a fraction of a second before leaves and twigs from the passing trees went scattering in all directions, and the pony chariot rocketed into the open sky.

“Grace calculated that it will take a little over an hour to reach the hospital,” said the otherwise ordinary pony sitting in the lawn chair to his side, seemingly completely unfazed by the lack of solid ground below the perforated aluminum mesh of their conveyance. “Of course, that’s assuming we can find it from the air. That will be cutting things a little fine, but we didn’t want to take off early and raise too many questions. Breath mint?”

The unicorn in the golden armor to his side seemed to be Specialist Rose, if Kota remembered correctly, and if the staccato pounding of his heart was not affecting his memory. That would make the two pegasi flapping away in front of him Left and Right, the empty lawn chairs to their sides for Widget and Goose’s return to Randolph, and the slightly damp spot he was sitting in a natural response of being scared out of his wits.

“So I take it we’re not driving?” he managed weakly.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:00 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“The reporters are monitoring FBI frequencies,” said Agent Karla Anacostia in the hospital room where she was huddling with the two young mares and trying to fight back a bad case of the butterflies from their actions so far this morning. “They just about have to be. Or…” She held out the GoDark bag to Widget again and gave it a shake. “Any other souvenirs you’re holding out on us?”

Widget closed her eyes and concentrated, making the pale blue light of her horn highlight her face. “Nothing in the immediate vicinity. And the bag is suppressing the devices inside to the point where I can’t hear them either. Can I… um… have that bag when I go home?”

“Let’s not try making another run at it again right away. I almost got trampled by photographers the last time we tried to make it to the car,” said Claire. “There must be a hundred pictures of me with my hands up, trying to stop the stampede from flattening Widget when the elevator doors opened.”

“The higher-ups don’t want us to clear the press out of the hospital,” huffed Karla. “Bad publicity. The other agents can’t make a path to the driveway because the reporters are swarming everything with sunglasses and an earpiece.” She tapped the microphone clipped to her blazer in thought. “Agent Hallman is going to give the order to try again shortly. We can’t even have a car idling outside to pick us up because it gets just as swarmed. Maybe if we had a sheepdog to herd them somewhere.”

Granny Smith chuckled from the next bed over, and shook her head. She had become a lot more active over the last day, and Karla was going to miss the old mare. There was no way the FBI would assign a local agent to this task again when there were so many worthwhile agents in the national office who deserved to have ‘On the alien’s protective detail’ somewhere in their personnel folder. Even if Widget and Goose were overjoyed about being hustled off to D.C. and Karla could return to her routine, her life would never be the same again.

“You girls sound just like Twilight and her bunch when they’re planning something,” said Granny Smith once she was finished chuckling to herself. “What you need is my youngest granddaughter. She’s a sneaky one. Them other fillies she runs around with get into more trouble than a pack of timberwolves. If’n I saw them three all hunched over talking among themselves, I’d know there’d be something blowin’ up or catchin’ on fire pretty soon.”

“I don’t think the Agency would like it if we set a fire as a distraction,” said Karla.

“We don’t want anypony to get hurt,” said Widget.

“Or any flying,” said Goose.

“Wait a minute.” Karla bit her bottom lip and concentrated. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. The reporters know the FBI is taking Widget out of the hospital, so they’re watching us, and they know Goose is her guard, so they’re watching her. Have you ever heard of the Kansas City Shuffle?”

- Ω - -

“This is insane,” murmured Goose, who was huddled next to Karla’s leg in a mass of dark trembling as the elevator doors began to close. “I can’t fly around the lobby. I’ll get frightened and freeze up.”

“It’s a huge open area, but not as bad as you think,” said Kara in as much of a reassuring tone as she was able. “The skylights are thick enough to bounce hailstones, and the roof has three inches of concrete and steel to separate you from your phobia. There’s no way you could get blown away by an errant gust like you did when you got your cutie mark. There is literally no way for you to wind up in the sky. You might as well have an anvil tied around your legs.”

The trembling slowed, but the solid pressure of a heavy batpony pressed against her thighs did not abate while Karla continued. “I saw you flying for those little kids. All you have to do is make a few long, slow circles around the lobby while all the reporters and photographers snap away. Then when Claire texts me, I’ll make a break for the front door. That will be your cue to follow, land at the doors, and we’ll run outside and jump in the car where she’ll be waiting with Widget in the back seat. No flying outdoors needed, and you’ll have all kinds of pictures for your Princess Loony—”

“Luna,” grumbled Goose. “They’ll photograph my… naughty bits,” she added with a bit of a slump. “The other guards will stick my pictures on the bulletin board!”

“Just keep your tail down,” said Karla while the lights moved down the elevator indicators. “Besides, you’ll be home before any of the papers with the pictures come out.”

“What if I can’t land?” asked Goose with almost a plaintive whine. “My talent is gliding. I could be making circles up there for hours.”

There really didn’t seem to be a counter for that particular point, or at least one that did not seem totally off the wall and insane. Still, it had to be asked. “How much weight can you carry while gliding?”

- Ω - -

A reporter’s instincts had to be listened to in order for them to be any good, and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had tuned Liam’s instincts to acute precision. There were only so many ways for a patient to get out of the hospital, and he had volunteered to cover the walkway going out to the parking garage, so there was no need to complain.

He still snuck a look at the group texting window on his phone every minute, just to ensure he was not missing another attempt by the FBI to smuggle out their pet alien without some serious questions being asked. And pictures taken. An alien, an actual real, live alien, and they were just going to let it get away!

The elevator bell dinged at the same time his phone chimed, making Liam try to look at both. There was almost nothing to see of the nurse pushing the wheelchair out of the elevator, since she had a gauze mask and blue mob cap over her short hair, but the kid in the Pediatrics chair was even more difficult to make out with all the bags of medical equipment in her lap. A baby blue blanket surrounded the poor thing, tucked in on all sides and with only a few balloons tied onto a plush pink unicorn tucked against her head as a pillow to cheer the most probably cancer treated child on her way home. The nurse murmured a few words of encouragement as she pushed the wheelchair along, giving Liam a brief nod as she moved toward the second-floor walkway headed to the parking garage.

“Big announcement in the lobby,” read Liam as he finally managed to get his phone out. “Can see a pony and FBI. Lucky schmucks,” he muttered, resuming his position. Once the FBI decided to move the wounded alien again, he needed to be ready to notify the rest of the reporters.

He never even noticed the departing ‘child’ peer over the back of the wheelchair at him with the stuffed pink plushie tied to her horn.

- Ω - -

“He didn’t notice,” whispered Widget once they got on the other side of the steel breezeway door. “How could he not notice? I’m a unicorn with a unicorn on my head!”

“People see what they expect to see,” whispered Claire back. “He saw the unicorn plush, and whatever shapes he saw under the blanket that didn’t fit into his head as some kid from pediatrics he classified as the plushie. My mom taught me about it once, had some video with a bunch of kids throwing a ball around in a room. You don’t even notice the guy in the bear costume walking through the room in the middle of it all, because the human brain can only see what it expects, and filters out the rest. Now hush while I find her car.”

Several pokes of the unlocking key fob later while darting around the parking garage later, Claire hustled the wheelchair over to a perfectly ordinary Ford Taurus and yanked open the back door.

“It’s a car!” said Widget entirely too loudly for their present sneaking. “Can I see the engine?”

“You can see the back seat!” hissed Claire. “Get in, and stash your crap!”

There were six bags of hospital medicine, self-adhesive binding wrap, an extra ankle brace, several plushies signed by every nurse and doctor on the pediatrics floor, various circuit boards from unsuspecting equipment, and the GoDark bag with all of Widget’s bugs to get stuffed in after the clumsy unicorn. It only took an extra second to yank the blue blanket out of the chair and toss it over her, although she popped right out from under it before Claire could push the empty wheelchair to one side for eventual pickup by the nurses.

“Can we bring the wheelchair?” she whispered while tucking the pink unicorn plushie (with balloons) into the trunk. Widget had at least paid attention to that part of the plan, and had the one side of the back seat folded down for access to her loot storage chamber before she had even gotten settled. Each bag of loot followed the plushie in rapid array, surrounded by Widget’s pale blue magical aura.

“It won’t fit, you crazy fuzzball!” Claire flung herself into the driver’s seat and jammed the key into the ignition. “I don’t even know if there’s space in the trunk for Goose now. We have to get down to the driveway before Karla gets eaten by reporters. Seat belts!”

“Got it!” called out Widget to the clicking sound. “Are we going to have a car chase?”

Claire did not respond at first, since she was tearing off the gauze mask and scrubs. Thankfully, one of the nurses had laundered her clothes during her visit, but there was no pocket in her shirt, so she was reduced to holding her debit card in her teeth as she eased the bulk of the heavy Taurus out into the concrete maze of the parking garage.

“I hope not,” she called back. “I gotta pay to get us through the exit first, and… We’ll wing it from there.”

And contrary to Claire’s worst expectations, getting through the pay booth at the exit went as smooth as silk. She stopped the borrowed government vehicle just outside of the booth’s wooden arm, got out her phone, and pressed send on her text message.

The reporters were about to go nuts.

20. The Best Laid Plans

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
The Best Laid Plans

“I'm not good at future planning. I don't plan at all. I don't know what I'm doing tomorrow. I don't have a day planner and I don't have a diary. I completely live in the now, not in the past, not in the future.”
― Heath Ledger

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:02 A.M. Central Standard Time, Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Outside the Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It was certainly The Star Spangled Banner.

The notes were in the right place, and played with all the energy the performers could muster, so the song could scarcely be anything else. It also had probably been played on electric guitar before, but not this way since Woodstock, by what many would consider to be hairy aliens also.

It was also so beautiful that Nick could not keep the tears out of his eyes, despite being at attention. Thankfully, he managed to wipe a hand across his face after the last howling notes of the anthem died out across the Bruener farm and scattered applause began. The stage where the day’s activities were about to start had been rigged up with lights and speakers overnight, and two earth ponies were unplugging their electric guitars in front of the projection screen.

Since this was the last day all of humanity would have with their alien visitors (except Granny Smith, who was expected to be out of the hospital in a week or two, and be quietly portaled home then), the natural tendency of Federal and State authorities was to have the kind of send-off that would send the aliens fleeing back to their home dimension, never to come back. The US State Department was taking itself entirely too seriously, and had scheduled going-away speeches and presentations from just about every UN nation, which Nick figured would rapidly go to heck if somebody did not have their thumb on the cut-off switch when the bloviating bureaucrats inevitably went over their time slots.

Due to the festivities, the press pool had been dramatically upscaled, and Nick could pick out the veterans in the group by their salutes during the flag raising. Apparently, Equestrian flag code was similar to the United States, because the royal guards were also drawn up into formation at attention, but not saluting the raising of a foreign flag. Protocol always gave Nick a headache, but due to extensive Army training he knew when to do what, where. If the Equestrians ran their flag up the pole, he would be standing at attention while they saluted.

“Thank you, Fender and Gibson,” said Spike from the center of the stage, in front of where the two earth ponies were putting away their instruments. “That was… interesting. Now, we’ve got a tight schedule this morning, so we’ll get started with the Assistant Secretary of State who will say a few words, and then the rest of our scheduled speakers. Is everything working correctly for the television cameras?”

Off to one side, a pair of cameramen gave thumbs’ up to the dragon on stage.

“Looks like they’re ready. Here you go, Mister Franz.”

In the audience, General Hackmore gave Nick a brief nudge, and spoke up once they had walked far enough away from the ongoing gathering of humans and ponies to speak privately. The general was in full dress blues with every unit citation, crest, and ribbon in precise alignment, leaving Nick feeling more than a little undressed in his simple ACUs and his helmet still sitting on top of Four-One somewhere. He was wearing his patrol cap, however, not just because he had to, but the hot Kansas sun was fierce against his dark bald head.

“Lt. Comena, did you happen to find time to watch the YouTube video of our Equestrian guests in the hospital over the last few days?”

“No, sir. I’ve been a little busy, what with our surprise deployment.” Then, since a General bestowing a question directly upon a lowly Lieutenant was more than a little odd, he added, “I suppose Mister Bruener’s daughter sent me a video of Goose taking some of the children for a horsey-back ride. Was there something else I should know, sir?”

“Probably,” hedged the general. “They livestreamed most of their evenings. The… batpony in the group seems to have admitted to your… relative state of undress during your rescue of the… Well, the whole bunch in KU Med was gossiping like teenagers most of the night, and Miss Bruener and Widget were egging Cadet Goose about it. A few million people have watched the video, and—”

“Million?” asked Nick with his eyes growing wider.

“Including the President,” continued General Hackmore. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Secretary of Defense. Most of the National Security Council. I think it’s safe to assume everybody you see in the next few days has a… rather inappropriate view of your relationship with our Equestrian guests. I know better, of course, or I would have yanked you out of your position by now, which only would make the rumors worse.” The general made a face. “Thankfully, the activities of Cloudkicker and a few of our less than discreet military members have not become public, and we intend on keeping it that way. With that in mind, when Widget and Goose return from KU Med, we’re setting up a short meet-and-greet on camera to show the two of you acting in a totally professional manner before the Equestrians go home. I’m afraid if we just locked you in Four-One, the rumor mill would grind out no end of nasty little stories for the next few decades, so this is the best we can do.”

“Understood, sir.” Frankly, Nick did not totally understand, because his mind was still struggling with the concept that millions of people had the impression that he was in a… relationship with an alien horse.

“Very well.” General Hackmore checked his SMPED. “I for one will be glad to see the last of their tails vanish into their return portal this afternoon. For a nickel, I’d retire tomorrow and let my replacement deal with ten years of paperwork that are sure to be sitting on my desk, but I’m fairly sure they’d stop up the retirement forms until the day I die. So, what is the rest of your morning schedule like, Lieutenant?”

“I’m actually off-duty until noon,” said Nick almost automatically. “Spaz is… I mean Sergeant Spasowski is taking care of the platoon while I help Kansas Search and Rescue Dogs with a little demonstration to keep the kids busy for the morning. They’re going to practice finding lost ponies,” he added. “It sounded like something the kids would like, and keeps their teacher from dragging the whole bunch to some educational landmark in the middle of this traffic nightmare, then having them miss the first portal home.”

“Excellent.” The general began poking buttons on his SMPED to bring up the first of what Nick assumed was an infinite series of emails. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: bright sun up grass cool rabbit chasing time after horrible noise
Location: other home in yard with pony-dog and bird-pony

- - - ⧖ - - - -

poppy was good dog. when warm-bitch-canopener-koni took poppy to play, she always say poppy-good-dog or poppy-bad-dog depending on how she feel. taking to play in big field with other good-dogs was always fun, only this time had many good-ponies who ran around and shouted and played back. it was a very good time, and poppy-good-dog met wonderful bird-pony who said poppy-really-good-dog and made his tail thump thump thump. bird-pony was happy, and tell poppy-good-dog what a good boy he was.

cool breeze bright sun up in sky time even better when poppy meet dog-pony who played just like real dog, only smell like pony bitch and sniff back when sniffed. new dog-pony called good-screwy by bird-pony and made friends with all other dog-dogs with sniffing, even though bird-pony look at her funny.

then came best time of big field play time when people take smelly plastic things that smell a little like people and hide them for good-poppy to find. it made tail thump and run around barking with other good-dogs chase squirrels and bark more time.

only bad thing was bird-pony not happy. she bring good-screwy over to good-dog-poppy. have all small pony run around and hide. talk to good-dog-poppy and good-screwy. say very important. not run. not bark. not chase squirrels. not fun. small ponies in danger and only good-dog-poppy and good-screwy can find.

good-dog-poppy try to tell bird-pony fun. run around. bark like always do. make warm-bitch-canopener-koni chase. shout in people barking. walkies for people so they not pant hard when walking. bird-pony say…

no

make good-poppy sit. stay. take good-screwy as bird-pony look for small ponies. bird-pony dumb. not want to play. good-screwy dumber. not sniff ground right. walk right past small pony hiding, then come back and find. small pony pet good-screwy. get treat made out of liver!

bird-pony comes over and calls for good-poppy. says good-screwy not able to find other small ponies. need good-poppy. small ponies need good-poppy. not run. not bark. not chase squirrels.

find first small pony easy. good-poppy show good-screwy how to sniff. good-screwy show how to spot broken branches where small ponies hide. good-screwy smart even if can not sniff well. find all small ponies. get more liver treats! can hardly wait to show warm-bitch-canopener-koni how to play finding game right.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:15 A.M. Central Standard Time, Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Outside the Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

As director of Kansas Search and Rescue Dogs, Sheila had seen a lot of exercises with search teams, some of which had Koni and Poppy. This was the first time she had ever seen Poppy actually find one of the subjects, let alone the final exercise where he and the other… dog had worked together like the best trained searchers she had ever seen in over two decades at the job. No hiding pony was safe, even when the Terrible Trio demanded that Zipporwhill let the two… dogs find them over and over again.

Actually, watching a talking young pegasus have Poppy of all dogs actually find subjects was the second most strange thing of the morning. ‘Screwloose’ was most certainly at the very top of the list, as a pony who seemed to think of herself as a dog, right up to the point of running alongside Poppy, and ‘barking’ at the subjects once they had been found. Shelia almost was convinced that the pony really thought of herself as a dog, except for the surreptitious way she would take the liver-flavored treat from Zipporwhill, and then pass it over to Poppy whenever she thought nobody was watching.

“I’ve got to talk to Koni when she’s done in Kansas City with her ponysitting job,” she murmured. “The first time that dumb dog has the short-circuit in his head close, and she’s missing all the excitement.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:41 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Third floor… Second floor… Atrium…

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Karla Anacostia had only thought she was afraid when she walked in on their alien visitors… was it only three days ago? It seemed to have been months, and yet her heart was beating faster than when she had inadvertently drawn her gun on an injured teenaged girl who happened to have hooves and a spiral horn on her head.

And now she was alone in an elevator with a monster that could have stepped right out of a horror movie, although it was difficult to determine which of them was the more frightened.

“You’re nuts,” muttered Goose Down as her expansive wings twitched at her sides, driving sharp gusts through the tight confines of the elevator. “And trust me, I know nuts. I’ve met Pinkie Pie. I’ve survived working with Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

“There’s a thin line between genius and insanity,” said Karla just as quick as she could before the idea escaped. “Like rappelling down a mountain, sometimes you just need to step forward and embrace it so you can find out which one it is.”

She keyed the microphone and spoke as clearly as she could. “Agent Anacostia with our guest stepping out of the elevator on the atrium now.” Then the chime binged, the elevator doors opened, and Karla had the distinct pleasure of seeing the backsides of a few dozen journalists all leaning over the rail of the atrium, focusing their cameras on the lobby downstairs where they expected the FBI to be escorting a bright pink unicorn out of the building. For one brief moment, she wanted so much to walk right up to them with Goose at her side, but the shock would probably knock one or more of them over the rail into the seething mass of the Fourth Estate downstairs, and that… No, not a good idea. Satisfying, but not good.

She settled for a firm, “Gentlemen and ladies,” as they stepped out of the elevator. “Could you please move to one side or the other? We have an announcement that I’d like to make to the press downstairs.”

Thankfully, none of the reporters fell, although they did crowd in too close as Karla stepped forward, and only a few sharp pokes with the edge of Goose’s wings gave her enough space to stand at the rail without feeling as if she were going to be pushed off the edge too.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the press,” she called out over the roar of reporters and flashing of cameras on the floor below her. Well, not so much over as under. Quite possibly, even the reporters sharing the atrium floor with her would not have heard her either due to the background noise. It gave Karla a moment to look out across the open area, taking note of the signs hanging from the roof that could be problems in the upcoming exhibition. Two or three more attempts at getting attention left her just as unheard, so she put two fingers in her mouth and just blew as hard as she could, making a whistle that could have peeled paint.

“You could have warned me,” said Goose into the sepulchral silence that followed, leading to a wave of giggles and laughter among the press gathered below. The batpony’s reflective visor was up to show her big golden eyes with razor-thin pupils, and both of her dark ears had been flattened against her skull, but at least the nervous pony was not twitching any more, and Karla turned to the press arranged below before the noise could start up again.

“As I was saying,” she shouted, “due to some crowd control issues, we will not be bringing Widget out this morning, but—”

It took two whistles this time to get the press to be quiet, the second with Goose having walked up beside her, putting both forehooves on the rail, and looking down at them. The flashbulb barrage started immediately, and Goose dropped the tinted eyepieces down on her helmet in response. There had been an argument about if she should wear her sombrero to the announcement, and after several encouragements by the nurses and supportive doctors, the huge dark hat had been rolled up and put into Widget’s luggage. It did leave the dark pony guard looking suitably official-impressive instead of odd, so it seemed to have been a good idea so far.

“Anyway, since you won’t be seeing Widget leave,” she shouted, “we thought it would be a good idea for Goose to give you a sample of Equestrian life to take to your readers. So if you will get your cameras ready, please, and give us a little space. Cadet Goose Down, if you please?”

It was impossible to see Goose’s expression with the dark visor down and her jaw set in a sincere ‘Royal Guard’ pose, but the assembled press below gave out an astonished gasp when the batpony extended her gigantic wings and paused there on the railing.

Karla could not help herself. She lowered her voice to a gravely register and called, “I’m Batman!”

The reporters all thought it was funny, at least. From the sharp voice in Karla’s ear, Agent Hallman was not amused.

“Agent Anacostia, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing! Where is the patient! You were supposed to bring her to the elevator so—”

A simple twist of the fingers made the volume knob of her radio give off a brief click. Karla gave a short glance downstairs where FBI agents were packed in around the elevator doors, smiled to herself, and swung one leg over the pony’s flanks just as Goose stepped forward…

And glided.

For one brief moment, Karla was afraid she had peed herself. Spelunking, rappelling, flying in an airplane, they were all pressing forward into the unknown, but she had never looked down from a horse’s back nearly this far before. Both hands curled up in Goose’s short mane by instinct, sliding under the thin armor plates that protected her neck and giving a little pressure to one side so Goose would start on a long circle around the open area. Her feet managed to find purchase on small nubs of metal near the back of the batpony’s armor, although she did not want to clutch onto Goose’s barrel nearly as hard as she was afraid she was going to, because there just was not all that much there to squeeze. Goose was unmistakably a child-size ride, although her sedate glide around the atrium was almost walking-speed even with Karla’s weight added to her own. What was even more exciting was that their glide path rose ever so slightly while Karla guided her aerial mount in a long, wide circle, slaloming around the edge of the enormous space, then a figure-eight for variety.

As much as she wanted to wave at the reporters below, it most certainly would not make the FBI look very good to have one of their agents fall to their death while pulling this kind of stunt, so Karla kept her focus on guiding. Using gentle pressure as if she were in control of some strange airplane-equine hybrid, they swooped down across the crowd of reporters, swept up into a wide turn, then repeated the pass going the other way. It seemed like only seconds had gone by, but it had to have been a few minutes while Karla’s phone buzzed with incoming phone calls from an irate Agent Hallman, then gave out a familiar two-toned chirp of Clair’s text.

“And that’s our cue, Goose. One last pass toward the doors… A little lower… Apply some flaps or whatever you do to slow down. Extend landing gear.” One hoof nearly clipped a tall reporter as they descended in the direction of the big glass exit doors, which seemed to be growing larger too rapidly for Karla’s nerves, and not helped by the possibility of a crash and having several pounds of glass picked out of her skin.

“Brake!” she commanded just an instant before Goose’s hooves hit the hospital tile floors with a clatter and she began to retract her wings. Karla had to hop a few times on the dismount, which would probably cost her points from the Russian judge, but managed to catch up with Goose right when she reached the double doors and put one hand on her neck while running. “There’s the car! Run!”

“Trying!” gasped Goose, who was managing fairly well at the awkward task of getting all that wing surface put away during her dash. Still, her wings remained bent slightly at awkward angles when she bolted into the open back door of the Taurus, followed almost immediately by Karla.

“Go!” she gasped quite redundantly as Clair let off the brake and moved smoothly forward, leaving the three passengers in the back seat to untangle themselves while their escape from the hospital press proceeded without further incident.

Well, until they reached the Cheesecake Factory.

- Ω - -

“What do you mean you had your eyes closed the entire time!”

The stop had been the obvious solution for multiple problems. Karla had to contact Hallman to inform him about the status of their trip to Kauffman Stadium (en route, arrival soon), get the mess of Goose’s wings and Widget’s scattered souvenirs all straightened out (mostly shoved into the trunk with a Goose-sized cavity for the trembling batpony), and to switch drivers (Federal Management Regulation 102-34 strictly forbids non-governmental employees from driving GSA vehicles). Plus, Karla had to pee. Badly.

The objective had been a quick stop in the parking lot. Both ponies had been out the doors before the car had stopped completely, and were ordering at the counter by the time Karla and Claire had swapped keys, so the brief stop had turned into a pony refueling visit in the amount of time it took Karla to make a bathroom stop.

Form 302 notes: Unicorns seem to run on vanilla and strawberry, while batponies appear to function on a diet of pure chocolate.

“I didn’t want to close my eyes, but I was so afraid. I thought it would be easier since you were on my back, and I could tell when we were getting next to a wall by the way you tensed up.” Goose dropped nose-first into her chocolate-chip cheesecake and did not stop until she was licking the plate with her abnormally long tongue.

“I wish I could have seen it.” Widget’s eyes were wide open and sparkling with mischief. “We could have gotten a moving picture of it to send to your coltfriend.”

“Widge!” Goose Down hunched her shoulders and gave her fellow pony a weak glare, but Karla could see the tension fade out of her trembling wings, and she finally got those huge membranes tucked up on her back and stationary. “Just for that, give me your plastic card.”

“What?” Widget held onto the Visa debit card and floated it up above the reach of Goose’s snapping teeth. “Miss Anacostia gave us each one.”

“And you can buy the next piece of cheesecake with yours,” said Goose, taking another snap at the floating card.

“Order it to go,” said Karla as firmly as she could. There were not very many other fascinated customers at this time of the morning, and the Cheesecake Factory employees had taken two talking pony customers with remarkable aplomb, but there was a schedule to think of. “I told the other agents that we would be at Kauffman Stadium shortly, and if we’re late, they’re going to worry.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:16 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kauffman Stadium, Kansas City Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Leon was late to work, and he didn’t care. It was a chump job anyway, and only paid minimum wage, even if he got into Royals home games for free. Besides, this was an optional day. Some foreign VIP was getting a special visit with all of the team there to greet them and some of the fans up in the stands to cheer. Not even an exhibition game, so barely worth collecting his ‘showing up’ money.

The city bus had dropped him off in front of the stadium like a normal day, only everybody had already gone inside, and he could hear the organ honking away. He was walking through the VIP parking area when something interesting and lucrative caught his eyes.

Late model Taurus, windows rolled down, GSA plates so there’s no optional equipment like alarm systems. This cow is getting rustled.

His eyes flickered up to the security cameras, and in particular the broken one covering this area. Then back down to the car. Easing his cell phone out, Leon took a look around while dialing. It only took a few minutes to get Edgar notified and a meeting spot agreed upon, behind the closed IGA store where the cops would not notice for the short time it would take to strip the Taurus bare. And a ten percent cut of the stripping would pay one heck of a lot more than the fifty bucks or so he would have earned for showing up and playing parking monkey for the Royals.

One casual stroll later, Leon peeked in through the open windows of the big car and noted the absence of any large police dogs, and likewise no obvious cop equipment like radios or guns. Cop equipment would have been pure gravy, although a dog would have been an instant deal-breaker, much as if Leon could not hot-wire the car.

Thankfully, it was an American car.

“And come to Uncle Leon,” he whispered as he slid into the cloth driver’s seat and closed the door after himself. Leather seats would have been so much better, and raised the amount of cash this was going to earn him, but meh. Leon already had his knife in hand to slide under the dashboard and begin a little electronic surgery, when the ‘ding-ding’ noise soaked in through his head.

“Dang,” he murmured. He thumbed the gravity blade open anyway and poked the keys dangling from the ignition. “Who the fuck leaves their car with the keys in it any more.”

“My friend,” said a low and entirely too sexy voice right next to Leon’s ear, complete with a short burst of warm breath down his cheek.

Leon turned his head ever so slowly and met the golden gaze of the most terrifying monster he had ever seen. What was worse, the creature was smiling, with a line of sharp, white teeth.

“That’s a very nice knife,” she breathed. “May I see it?”

Author's Note

Trunk Pegasus, by Suburban Auto Group.

(After all, Goose was not about to go into the hot stadium in the middle of the day, so they left her sleep in the dark trunk with the windows rolled down and one of the seats folded forward to give her a breeze.)

21. Pony-People Interactions

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Pony-People Interactions

“Common sense is the most widely shared commodity in the world, for every man is convinced that he is well supplied with it.”
― Rene Descartes

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:40 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: KAKE News at the UPS Sorting Facility, Kansas City, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“As you can see behind me, people from all over the world have been sending our alien visitors gifts and presents for their return home. United Parcel Services here in Kansas City has been so kind as to donate one of their shipping hubs for the task of separating out a smaller selection of the gifts, since we don’t think the portal they’ve been talking about for the last few days is going to fit a dozen semi-trucks.”

Travis Pratt took a long wave around the yard with stacks of boxes in all directions, and one large UPS semi in the last stages of loading. Several men in dark suits and ties were supervising one last set of boxes, and a UPS driver in his traditional brown uniform was right behind them, checking things on a clipboard.

“We here at KAKE News would like to remind our viewers that there just isn’t space for everything you’ve been sending to the ponies. Since they’re going home today, many of the gifts are going to be wasted or wind up donated to the Salvation Army. Even they may be overloaded with the worldwide tide of generosity, so their divisional headquarters in Kansas City has put out a call for volunteers in order to sort and divert the flood to other charities.

“If you would still like to donate to the ponies, the charitable fund they’ve set up will be in operation for several more months, and the list of suggested charities we have on our website includes various horse rescue organizations and of course the American Red Cross will welcome any financial contributions.”

“Excuse me!” A grey pegasus with flyaway mane came fluttering down to hover at about Travis’s eye level, to his shock. Her identity as Derpy was obvious, because just about everybody had seen one or another of her crashes on YouTube or television. “Have you seen a box of hot sauce from—” she held up a piece of paper and squinted at it, or at least one eye squinted “El Fuego’s Hot Sauce Emporium from some place called Amazon? Miss Laminia said I should make sure it gets to her before the portal opens or—” the pegasus swallowed “—it wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m on the air,” hissed Travis, splitting his attention between the hovering pegasus and the television camera without the advantage of Derpy’s independently pointing eyes.

“I thought you were standing on the ground?” she asked, turning her head and entire body sideways and looking down, while somehow remaining airborne. “I’m in the air, and you’re not flapping or anything.”

“Just a minute, folks.” Travis gave the camera a weak smile. “I suppose there’s nothing like live television.”

It took several minutes of walking around with the volunteers before the errant box of hot sauce was found and Derpy hefted it up on her back. “Wow, that’s heavy. I hope it doesn’t fall off before—”

The UPS driver gave a huff of effort when he caught the sliding box with a jingle of the internal contents. “It’s probably full of glass bottles, Ma’am. Let’s get it loaded into the truck instead.” He hefted the large box up and added it to the rest of the cargo, then rolled the back door closed. “You can ride back in the cab with me if you want. They didn’t know if we were going to get to Randolph before the portal closed.”

“Oh, Twilight wouldn’t leave me behind.” Derpy hopped up into the semi-truck’s cab, and after several tries, managed to scramble over into the passenger seat with little property damage other than a coffee cup flying out and shattering on the pavement. “She says reading her mail is the high point of her day, because she gets to go visit so many of her friends in Ponyville to track it all down, and nobody delivers mail to friends like I do.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:45 A.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kauffman Stadium parking lot A, Kansas City Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The low whine of the electric golf carts cut off abruptly and both side doors of the Taurus popped open with Widget’s pink magic aura, followed promptly by the unicorn crawling into the back seat. She poked her nose into the darkness behind the other folded-down seat, talking just as fast as she had been doing for nearly the last hour.

“...had a hot dog or at least just a nibble off one end and Claire finished it for me and you should have seen the football players because one of them just shrieked when Doctor Stable went up to shake his hoof but he got over it and I talked to Mr. Berry and he’s just the nicest guy even though he’s so huge but not as big as Warpaint and you should have met her and Susie because all of the baseball and football and all the other ball teams came out to see us and I just barely got time to see the whole television studio and scoreboard before Miss Anacostia said we had to go and they autographed a bunch of their balls and…”

Claire considered the bouncing tail end of the unicorn, which had not quite gotten all the way into the Taurus, and turned to the two mismatched doctors on the other KC Royals golf cart, which had followed them up to the car.

“Doctor Stable, are all of the teenaged unicorns from Ponyville this excitable?” she asked.

“You should see Pinkie Pie.” The unicorn physician snorted and rolled his eyes under the shadow of his Royals ball cap. “Actually, she might be at the portal opening in a few hours, so brace yourself. Sorry I’m going to miss it, but I’ve got hospital rounds, and I’m sure she’ll tell me all about it when we bring Granny back. Doctor Schwartz really wants to meet Ponyville’s party legend.” Doctor Stable lowered his voice and added, “He wants to introduce his granddaughter to her. If we coordinate it right, the return portal for Granny Smith might just open on her birthday.”

“Sneaky.” Claire hefted the two tote bags full of autographed baseballs, footballs, several jerseys, both a baseball and football helmet, and more loose autographed baseball cards than she had ever seen. Going around to the other side of the car, she pushed them in through the open window and tried to find a space for them in the back seat that would still let Widget be comfortable. “I noticed you two were already at the stadium when we arrived, Doctor Stable,” she added, giving the football helmet an extra push to pack the unicorn loot down tighter. “Did the FBI sneak you out of the hospital last night under the cover of darkness?”

“No, I just walked down the back employee staircase and had Doctor Schwartz pick me up at the food service loading dock. You have to know the door code, though.” The unicorn doctor took another long drink out of his souvenir glass. “We’ve been doing that to get in and out of the building ever since Friday. Why, did you have trouble getting Widget out of the hospital?”

Claire stopped trying to stuff souvenirs, considered her words, and shook her head. “Goose and Karla distracted the press, and I snuck Widget into the parking garage. I’ll get the whole story out of those two on the way back to Randolph and call you tonight after they’ve gone home. Oh, and who’s this? Hey, where’s Karla?”

The incoming FBI agent walking across the parking lot could have easily been a football linebacker in his previous career not too many years ago. He did not sport the same Royals ball cap that the rest of the tourist group had received, although he still had the same bulldog-with-a-burr-up-his-ass expression that they must have taught agents on their first day of class.

“Change of plans.” The husky agent nodded at Claire. “I’m Agent Hallman. You’re going to have to find another way home, Miss Bruener. I’ll be driving our alien visitors on the next leg of their journey. This is official business, so I’m afraid I can’t allow any passengers.”

“What?” As Hallman slid into the driver’s seat, Widget stuck her head out of the car door, emerging out into the sunlight with her KC Royals baseball cap tilted slightly off to one side despite the anchoring effect of the hole in the brim where her horn emerged. “Of course Clarie is coming with us. And where’s Karla?”

“She’s been reassigned.” Agent Hallman started up the car and flipped on the air conditioner. “Ma’am, if you could move the rest of the way back into the car, we can get started.”

“No.”

Widget finished backing out of the car considerably more cautiously than she had entered and sat down on the hot asphalt. Well, briefly.

“Yikes! That’s hot. Anyway, I’m not leaving without my friends, Mister Hall Man.” With that, and a brief glow of Widget’s horn, the engine of the Taurus turned off, the windows all rolled back down, and the car horn honked several times. In the distance where a number of the FBI agents had gathered together in a dark clump much like a flock of crows, Claire saw a familiar face look up, shake her head, and begin striding in their direction, looking down at the asphalt parking lot surface every step of the way.

“Widget.” Agent Anacostia took a deep breath and gave Claire a sideways look, like she had somehow instigated the equine rebellion. “Agent Hallman is a perfectly good driver. Besides, I’ll meet you over at the office anyway. I left my truck there.”

“Then you can drive us there,” insisted Widget. She limped over to the reluctant agent and rubbed her short mane against Karla’s side, which exposed the bare patches of skin on her neck where various nurses had trimmed away her mane, shaved down to her dark hide, and left a number of puncture wounds during her ordeal. “You’re my friend,” she said in a trembling voice. “You and Claire were there for me when I was scared out of my wits, and I’m not going to get to spend much time with you today before I have to go home. I want to make the most of it.”

“And get more cheesecake,” drifted Goose Down’s trembling voice from inside the car. “I-I’m still recovering from that flight. The cheesecake helped.”

Karla gave a tense chuckle and opened the front door to the Taurus. “Come on, Hallman. Widget can turn the car off faster than you can work the key, so we can sit out here on the hot pavement and argue all day or we can head off to the air-conditioned office for a quick tour with our guests. Your choice.”

“Well.” Hallman gave a furtive glance at the distant cluster of FBI agents and reluctantly climbed out of the driver’s seat. “I suppose if I ride along—”

“Shotgun!” declared Claire, dropping into the passenger compartment on the other side as Widget scrambled up into the crowded back seat. Karla Anacostia slid behind the wheel and slammed the door, leaving Hallman standing alone in the parking lot as four mismatched female friends sped off to the next stop on their trip.

Form 302 notes: After discussing the standoff with Agent Hallman, we came to the conclusion that interspecies relations would be enhanced if the subjects had a driver who was familiar with their physical needs. With that in mind, and taking Claire Bruener as an impartial witness, I conveyed the subjects to the Kansas City FBI Field Office where the incident under investigation occurred.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:05 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Riley County Police Department Prisoner Pod B, Manhattan Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Lunch!” announced the perpetually cheerful voice that Samantha appreciated so much, but that Marge Felts must have begun to loathe with the heat of a thousand suns. “We’ve got a delicious rice dish with—” there was a brief hesitation “—chicken fried in it, beans, cornbread, the sweet vitamin beverage with two ice cubes so it’s nice and chilled, and guess what’s the best part of all?”

Samantha remained around the corner of the cell, trying her best not to snicker out loud. The entire Felts family except for Marge had made bail, with the one exception being held “out of respect for the foreign government representative she assaulted while diplomatic relations were being established, in case extradition was requested.” Some massive judicial wheels had been turning behind the scenes in rapid sequence, because while Sergeant Samantha Rice had just barely gotten comfortable speaking directly to the Governor of Kansas, getting a call from the former Governor of Texas on Saturday night had set her back a pace. Then when the private jet carrying a contingent of legal assistants from the law firm of Kirkland and Ellis landed at the Manhattan airport Sunday morning, she had the feeling a box turtle must experience whenever a semi-truck safely passed over it on the highway.

She had no idea who the legal firm had been hired by, only that their orders seemed to be ‘Make our guests happy.’ And she was happy not to be the target. That was no fun for the turtle.

One of the parts of the whole glorious process was that Jailbird, one of the Equestrian ponies with the strangest of cutie marks, had been available to be a Trustee for the limited human prisoner population of the Manhattan RCPD detention center. Seriously, last Friday she was just getting used to ponies having marks on their rumps that defined what their special talent was when she found one who had locked himself into the back seat of her cruiser and refused to come out until he was transported to ‘an appropriate prison facility as per Equestrian law regarding inadvertent interdimensional incarceration, Section 407 Stroke B Subsection 12.’

After considerable inspection, he had determined that the RCPD detention facility would suffice on a short-term basis and moved right in like he belonged there, leaving Sam to seriously wonder about the Equestrian criminal code.

“You’re getting cake!” announced Jailbird with all the joy one would expect from someone receiving a lottery check. “Angel Food cake with whipped frosting and sprinkles! And if you dig in and clean your tray, I’ll see about getting a cookie from the kitchen.” Samantha could hear the scrawny stallion’s chest swell with pride as he added, “I suggested we add them to the menu for our model prisoners.”

It probably was only going to be a minute or two before Marge flung her tray at the cheerful Equestrian, so Samantha decided to take the opportunity to step forward and call out, “Prisoner Jailbird, are you prepared for transport?”

There had not been any orange shirts small enough for his skinny chest, and frankly Sam thought even if they did have a shirt his size, it would drape like a tarp over his bony frame. She had no idea where he had gotten the matching orange cloth cap, but Jailbird stiffened to attention and locked his eyes straight forward.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Then follow me, and we’ll get going.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” They made a brief detour to the pony’s cell to pick up his belongings, which had swollen with the RCPD ‘donations’ of the multitude of logo things that the department had put out over the years, including key chains, coffee mugs, and pens. Although Jailbird had wanted to carry everything in a pillowcase — tradition, she supposed — the officers had convinced him to take a pair of RCPD branded duffel bags and tie the handles together so they fit over his back like saddlebags.

From the way they were stuffed, most of the RCPD members had slipped ‘a little something extra’ into his bags before he left. Sam certainly would have struggled to carry them both, although Jailbird did not miss a step under the heavy load. They checked out at the front desk, shook hands/hooves with all of the on and off duty officers, and headed out to Sam’s patrol car.

“You know,” mused Sam while they walked, “you’ve been such a good prisoner, what with cleaning your cell, taking up your trustee duties, and even calming down that one juvenile detainee we had last night, that I may just send a letter back with you, asking for them to shorten your sentence.”

“Don’t you dare!” gasped Jailbird, which made Sam chuckle while she was loading his heavy bags, although there was a suspicious clank when she put them down in the back seat.

“What in the heck?” She let Jailbird hop on into the back seat, then opened up one of the bags to see what made it so heavy.

“Ah,” said Jailbird with a happy smile. “Post-incarceration inspection of personal effects. It’s so nice that you follow the rules.”

“A crowbar?” Sam removed the heavy steel bar with a frown and examined the tag. “From Doctor Freeman, very funny. And a file. A hacksaw. No, several hacksaws. Sledgehammer and chisels.”

Jailbird was ecstatic. “Oh, good. I’ve been meaning to get the Ponyville Jail signs properly inscribed.”

“And a pneumatic angle grinder?” She hefted the tool out of the bag and gave Jailbird a skeptical look. “Really?”

“The emergency shelter toolbox in Ponyville doesn’t have one,” he explained while digging through the other bag. “Oh, they found the oxy-acetylene torch I asked for, but no tanks. I’m not sure ours will thread the same way yours do, but I can always get Quick Fix to re-tap the threads. Is the handle for this hydraulic jack in that bag? I can’t find it.”

Samantha wordlessly handed over the steel bar and began repacking the bag for their trip up to Randolph.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:04 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Subway Restaurant, Topeka Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So, Mister Henderson. Just about every restaurant here has meat in their salads?” Specialist Rose produced a Visa debit card for the awestruck clerk, floated it into her hand, and watched as she put it into the credit card machine. “And you can use money on plastic cards anywhere?”

“Just about anywhere,” said Dakota. “Soda machines are hit or miss, and most personal transactions want cash. You know, I can pay for my own lunch.”

“And just where do you think I’m going to be using this card back in Equestria?” Rose accepted the card back from the clerk, engaged in some friendly banter that involved an autograph/hoof stamp, and resumed their conversation once they had moved to one of the restaurant tables. “Besides, you’re doing us a favor by videotaping our meeting in Kansas City.”

“Which I’m going to upload to the Chronicle site and collect residuals on,” he pointed out while claiming one of the macadamia nut cookies. “Showing the respectful way that the FBI and our guests are interacting is a good thing for both of us.” He eyed the two sweaty pegasi who were sitting at the next table, demolishing a pair of tuna wraps each. “They don’t seem to have problems with any kind of food. Tuna, at least.”

“You say that now, but in about an hour, you’re going to regret being downwind of them.” A lock of Rose’s short pink mane fell over her eyes when she took a bite of her salad and chewed. “For now, let the boys have their fun.”

“If you just let them have their fun, they’d still be dive-bombing random police cars on I-70 like they tried on their way here.” Kota got a good bite of his own teriyaki chicken sub and considered just how oddly-normal it was to be sharing a Subway sandwich and joshing with fellow military members again, no matter how many limbs they had.

“Rose is a lot more fun. Grace never lets us get away with stuff,” said Left through his mouthful of sandwich.

“Always by the numbers and by the book,” said Right. “Boo-ring.”

“She’s been like that ever since she joined the police force. I helped her through that trying time.” Specialist Rose used her magic and a napkin to clean a bit of lettuce that was sticking to her lip. “It’s part of having a cutie mark for photographic memory. Every bad thing she experiences, every paper cut or heartbreak, she gets to carry for the rest of her life just like it happened a few minutes ago. She likes you two lunkheads, and if one of you got seriously hurt, she’d never forgive herself.”

Both pegasi slowed down their rapid chewing and seemed to think, which was one reason why Kota suspected that Rose had been promoted before her fellow female guards. It warranted a change of conversational direction, and Kota cleared his throat.

“Rose, are your helmet communication devices able to reach Goose Down yet?”

“Just barely, or I wouldn’t have stopped for lunch.” Rose tapped the side of her helmet with a sharp click. “They had cheesecake, visited the ballbase stadium, and now they’re headed for the FBI office and a tour there. Oh, and Cadet Goose met one of the locals who sold her a knife. Apparently, she just gave him the card in exchange instead of using one of those machines. Kids don’t know how to manage their money, I suppose.”

They shared a few comments about their respective children, Rose with her adopted trio and Kota with his absentee pair of girls, before heading back out to the bicycle-chariot and taking to the air again. Kota was really looking forward to things going well at the FBI office, because he never had toured one of them before, and thought it would make a nice bookend to the upcoming video.

Later, he would look back and wonder how he could have been so optimistic.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:37 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Kansas City FBI Field Office, Kansas City Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Are you certain you have all the listening devices in the bag, Widget?” Agent Karla Anacostia shook the bag in question, which was also bulging with all of their cell phones, just in the odd case that some hacker was going to remotely turn them on and listen in. It could be called paranoid by somebody who had not gone through so many of the classes that the FBI had put her through.

“Everything,” said Widget, who was looking over the backs of the seats with her horn faintly glowing. “Even that cute little magnetic one that was stuck under the dashboard.” She gave a little squeal of joy. “Oh, I can’t wait to show them to Mom and Dad when I get back.”

Karla glanced in the rear-view mirror and made the last turn on the way to the FBI office, trying to keep calm. “Look—”

“You told us before. Your fellow agents are going to try to push Goose and Widget around,” said Claire. “The bigwigs in DC want a pony in the worst possible way. Chillax. All they can do is try to pressure cute little Widget, and she’s a stubborn kid.” Claire Bruener ruffled Widget’s short mane, which she put back with a brief glow of her horn. “Besides,” added Claire, “worst case, they order you to sort penguins in Antarctica and try to split up the Trouble Twins back there. They’d have to be flipping nuts to use force on the first alien visitors on Earth, friendly aliens to boot. So even if they order you away and toss my butt out of the office, all our two friends have to do is walk out to where I’m sitting on the curb, I’ll call an Uber to pick us up, and we’ll get back to Randolph on our own. Worst case, it takes us so long that they miss their portal and have to hang around a week or two for the next one.”

“And that would be so sad.” Widget gave her best ‘sad face’ complete with pouting lip and big eyes. “I mean we’d have to go to the Cosmosphere or the Boeing airplane factory or something to cheer me up.”

“I still haven’t gotten to see a human mall yet,” said Goose from her nest in the trunk. “And we’d need an FBI agent to keep an eye on the dangerous aliens, right?”

Karla let out an aggravated huff of breath. “After this is over, I’m going to be lucky to be counting penguins. It’s going to take a week for me to write up a reasonable Form 302 on the last few days, Hallman’s going to want my ass—”

Both of Widget’s ears perked straight up and brushed against the top of the car. “I thought he was wearing a ring, and you said those were off-limits.”

“Not in that way.” Karla swiped her card to open the office gates and let the big Taurus roll forward, trying not to look at the trail of other vehicles behind her. “Look, maybe they’ll back off after you tour the facility, get some pictures with the leadership—” except there was no sign of them at the stadium “—and play with some of their toys. Heck, maybe Goose can toss Hallman around on the mat a few times to loosen him up.”

“Really!?” The batpony popped her head out of her trunk-cave, just as alert as if Widget had passed a Radio Shack. “You think he’d let me? I mean I’ve practiced with minotaurs before, but they always want to use weapons.”

“Let’s just… play it by ear,” admitted Karla. “Smile, wave, enjoy yourselves, and keep an eye on the time so we can get you back to Randolph at least somewhere near your departure time.”

“As long as we visit the gun range,” said Widget while they were parking.

“And I get to work out in the gym,” added Goose with a stretch of her neck and the popping of vertebrae.

* * ✹ * *

To be really honest, Claire had not known exactly what to expect out of an FBI office. Something out of Army boot camp maybe, with broad-chested men wearing cut-off shorts running laps followed by shouting drill sergeants. She really didn’t expect it to look like some insurance agency office, although with several small conference rooms for what she assumed were interrogations… or more likely several bored FBI agents taking notes while some disreputable white-collar criminal detailed their accounting scam. The firing range was far smaller than the one she used in Ogden, with only two lanes and barely enough space for two shooters and two observers.

Although that kept the lurking FBI agents outside of the room.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Agent Anacostia held up the QUI-99 paper target and counted holes. “One magazine, fifteen yards, fifteen hits. Too bad you didn’t bring your gun.”

Claire patted her Sneaky Pete holster. “If I had, where would I keep my vaping gear? Besides, I’ve never needed it around Manhattan, and I wouldn't want Krystol to get her hands on it when I’m sleeping over at her place. It’s bad enough when she gets into my vaper and tries to mix up cannabis fluid to get high. Last one she broke, sold to a pawn shop, then I didn’t find out it was broken until I bought it back.”

“Sounds like a wonderful friend.” The FBI agent got out another loaded magazine, then looked over at the pony observers, both of whom looked considerably discouraged by the noise despite their earmuffs. “Widget, do you want to try a shot? I’ll load one round, and as long as you keep it pointed downrange, you can’t really hurt anything.”

“I-I think so.”

The pink unicorn moved cautiously up to the firing line, clunking a little due to the plastic brace she had around her leg. The tour of the facility had not taken very long, but Widget seemed to have run out of most of her boundless energy after her tour of the ‘ballbase’ stadium, and Claire was starting to think she might have to be carried out to the car if this went on very much longer. The blue aura surrounding the pistol did not flicker with fatigue as Claire expected, and after a brief amount of squinting and trying to find a comfortable position to look downrange, the glow intensified, and the gun fired.

“Wow,” breathed Widget, who was in the process of turning toward Karla when the FBI agent retrieved her gun, which likewise had been turning. “Oops. I wasn’t thinking. But it’s empty, right?”

“No,” said Karla and Claire at the same time. The FBI agent removed the empty shell casing which had not fully ejected and handed it over to the unicorn, who tucked it away as if it were her most precious souvenir so far.

“Four major rules of gun safety,” said Karla. “Well, maybe three for unicorns. First, consider all guns to be loaded, even if you’re sure they’re empty. Never point them at something you don’t want to shoot, because even if you’re positive the gun is empty—” She pointed the gun downrange, paused, and pulled the trigger with a click.

“I thought it was going to go off,” said Widget with her eyes wide open.

“That’s why I won’t buy a Glock,” said Claire. “Part of the cleaning process involves pulling the trigger on an empty chamber. As much as you try to follow the process correctly, all it takes is one mistake and you shoot a hole in something.”

“Third rule is never to put your finger on the trigger unless you’re ready to fire,” continued Karla, looking only slightly irritated at the slight on her Government-Issued weapon. “Unicorns… may have to adapt to that one. And the fourth rule is always be sure of your target, what it is, what is behind it, what may get between you and it during a shot. Just because we’re at a gun range doesn’t mean somebody isn’t doing something stupid like walking downrange to pick up a target or untangle one of the wires.”

“My dad always said the vast majority of gun safety is learning how not to shoot,” said Claire. “When you’re scattered out to go pheasant hunting, there’s always at least one idiot who shoots at a low bird and sprinkles some shot in your direction.” She touched the holster at her waist and took a short breath. “Then again, being able to shoot is something you have to train for. I was a witness at a liquor store robbery once in Chicago.”

When Claire could not say any more words, Karla gave a short glance over her shoulder at the watchers in the hallway behind the glass wall and patted her on the arm. “Not here,” she said in a low voice. “Maybe you can tell us about it on the way back.” Standing back up straight again, Karla picked up the second magazine from her pocket and put it on the shooting bench. “Tell you what. I don’t see any holes in Widget’s target down there. Do you want to give it a try before we visit the gym?”

“I… suppose.” Claire hefted the empty Glock and peered down the sights. “I’ll try not to limp-wrist it like you did, Widget. If you don’t keep a firm grip, the action doesn’t cycle right, and the slide fails to eject the empty round.”

“Oh.” Widget peered at her empty brass treasure. “It’s bent. That could have gotten jammed in the mechanism.”

“Yep.” Claire hefted the gun and looked at the paper target. “RSO, range seems clear.”

“Range is clear. Load,” said Karla, passing over the magazine.

The Glock was a little different than her range gun, so it took a moment to seat the magazine and work the slide. She pointed it downrange and called out, “Ready.”

“Commence firing.”

Taking her time and reminding herself that she was not showing off, Claire fired until the slide locked back, then ejected the empty magazine and double-checked the chamber. “Clear.”

“Cease fire,” called out Karla, taking the gun back. “Let’s see how you did.”

Widget was impatient, and did not wait for the paper target to get all the way back to them before she plucked it off the clips and floated it over for closer examination. There were holes in it at least, and not quite as neat as the FBI agent’s target, but nothing that Claire felt particularly bad about. After all, there were holes in the center of mass.

“Better than I expected.” Karla checked the chamber of the gun, put the empty magazine back in, and closed the chamber before holstering it. “And I’m out of ammunition, so we might as well keep going with the tour. Widget, do you want to keep that?”

The unicorn’s magic was already folding up the perforated paper for storage as she headed for the door. “Yeah,” she said with obvious fatigue in her voice. “We better catch up with Goose. She headed for the exercise room after your last shot.”

* * ✹ * *

The mat-covered gym was the largest room in the FBI office so far, probably a little small for a game of volleyball but big enough that a dozen agents could toss each other around, if they were careful. It was lit as brightly as outside and included several skylights, so Goose had slipped the shaded visor back down over her eyes as she stretched.

It was a sight that Claire was never going to get used to. If ponies ever got into the adult film industry, the batponies were going to clean up royally because ‘double-jointed’ only began to describe her flexibility. Thankfully, there was nobody else in the room other than Widget, because FBI agents just did not need to be exposed to this degree of feminine contortionism without a bottle of lotion and some tissues.

“Just getting warmed up,” said Goose, who was resting her chin on the base of her tail with one wingtip extended so she would not tip over. “I probably should tape up my hooves so I don’t scrape you, Karla. Do you have any pads?”

“Uh… no?” The FBI agent walked across the floor to where they had stacked the bags of Widget’s souvenirs against the wall and began to shed her jacket and shoulder holster. “Normally, I’d just take my shoes off, but that’s not an option for you, I guess. Catch.” She tossed a roll of blue self-adhesive elastic bandage over to Widget and kicked off her own shoes with the rest of the stuff. “You know we can’t spar for very long.”

“Even a couple of falls will help.” Goose shook one hoof and held it up for Widget to start wrapping it. “I’ve gotten so fat and lazy over the last few days. Plus, I’m going to have to tell my brother Shadow all about it. He trained me when I was getting ready to go into the guard, and he’s going to have words about your first visit to the hospital room.”

Claire stole a look at Widget, who appeared angelically innocent as she finished wrapping Goose’s hooves, although the light on her horn did not go out when she was done and stepped over to the side with her human friend.

Ever so slowly, Karla nodded, looking a little silly in her bare feet and white shirt but still quite focused. “Here, we have what we call a Tueller Drill, or the twenty foot rule. It’s based on the average reaction time for somebody to draw and fire on somebody closing on you with a knife. Closer than twenty feet and you most likely can’t get a shot off in time. Further and you might. Want to give it a shot?”

“Sure.” The batpony arranged herself a distance away from Karla, who made a ‘finger-gun’ and acted like she was tucking it into her waistband. “Claire, you say when we go.”

“Ok go!” she called out.

Being quadrupedal was a distinct advantage, considered Claire, both in the ability to lunge into a sprint and stability, although she remembered a story from history class about Jesse Owens running a 100 yard dash against a horse and winning. The thing was that particular horse did not have wings to give her an instantaneous burst of speed at the beginning, and the same wing swept forward as Goose shot past her target, catching the FBI agent at the ankles and sending her tumbling.

The same thing happened when Karla tried it with more distance between them, only since Goose could not pass her target without plowing into a cinder block wall, she came to an abrupt halt just inches away.

The problem was the enormous blast of air that accompanied the instant braking maneuver, knocking Karla backwards into the wall and stripping every single piece of paper from the nearby bulletin board into a huge vortex of government documents scattered around the room.

Once Karla had gotten to her feet and Widget finished snagging all the floating paper, they decided on a more close-in sparring method which had less chance of demolishing the building by accident.

“So you want me to hit you as hard as I can?” asked Karla a little hesitantly. “Even where you don’t have armor?”

“The armor should absorb whatever you can dish out,” reassured Goose, who moved in front of Karla and turned sideways. “Unicorn enchantments let it protect exposed areas just about as well as everything else. Go ahead and give me a thump.”

“Well…” The agent ‘thumped’ Goose Down like a watermelon, which only made everybody in the room giggle. Then she balled up a fist and gave her target several blows, increasing in strength. “It’s like a punching bag. Does the armor effect get stronger, the harder I hit?”

“Yeah. But it stings a little. That’s on purpose. It tells us how close the blow is to overwhelming the spell.” Goose twisted out of the way of the next blow, then ducked a quick grab. A rapid exchange followed, with the batpony hopping up into the air to avoid a leg sweep, then staying there to feint a rear hoof blow at Karla’s face.

“Hey, unfair!” Karla tumbled backwards on the mat, coming to a halt in a breathless squat with one hand held up. “People can’t hover.”

“Not my fault.” Goose touched back down on the mat, looking as happy as Claire had ever seen her.

“Time!” called out the agent, who vanished into the bathroom for a moment, emerging with a short length of rope. “Ok, had to get something from my locker for a different approach. You’ve shown what you can do with wings, so let’s see how you can function without.”

Goose snorted. “Shadow made me train with one wing in a sling, both wrapped up or tied together, and blindfolded. Tie ‘em up.”

“No, just keep them together for now,” said Karla, settling down into a crouch and making a complicated knot in the rope. “This time, I’ll attack and you try to defend. Provided I still remember how to do this from my college rodeo days.”

“Oh,” said Claire as realization struck. “Oh, that’s cruel. Oh, my.”

The dark FBI agent took the loop of rope in her teeth, looking much as if she were grinning while Goose gave a quick, troubled look back at Claire, who also could not help but grin. Ponies had a jump on humans in a lot of situations, but this was something they probably had never experienced before. “On your mark,” called out Claire as she got out her phone and tapped record. “Set. Go!”

Karla darted forward, left hand held low and feinted a blow at the batpony’s face, which Goose reared back in order to block. Then the FBI agent kept going past her target, reaching out with her right hand to grab the pony just in front of her opposite side hind leg while her left hand grabbed onto Goose’s ear. Planting her feet and heaving just as hard as she could, Karla managed to flip the startled pony onto her back, then darted down with the rope. In seconds, Goose was hog-tied and flopping around on the mat.

“Time!” called out Claire and touched the stop button on the recording. “Nine seconds. I believe that’s the current record for Equestrian pony roping. Hold up a second so I can get a good photograph.”

Goose was not much of a good sport about it, but she did hold relatively still while Claire got a picture, complete with the out-of-breath FBI agent leaning casually on her captive.

“Hey, what’s this?” asked Karla as she began to get up. She scooped a metal object off the mat and examined it while Goose rolled forward to a relatively upright position, then lifted off to hover with slow, steady beats of her enormous wings.

“It’s the knife I bought off the human who visited the car while you were in the ballbase stadium. I think it’s broken,” said Goose.

She brought her nose down to the loops of rope and began nipping them loose while Karla turned the knife over in her hands, giving it a flick to extend the blade, then retracting it. Claire had to come over and look too, and returned the questioning look by the FBI agent with a shrug of her shoulders. Widget, however, seemed entranced.

“Mister Auto Kershaw must have put a spring inside it,” she said, lifting the black blade out of Karla’s hands for closer inspection of the mechanism and brand name. “The button makes it flick out, and you have to push the button back in to fold it. You probably can’t get the button pushed without a thumb, unless I add a fetlock bump there. I’ll get the welder from our shop and fix it up for you when we get home, Goose.”

“So you bought it,” said Karla, taking it back out of Widget’s magic aura. “From some guy in the parking lot with your Visa card. Did he come up to the window and offer to sell it to you?”

“No, he got into the driver’s seat and looked like he wanted to start the car.” Goose managed to get her last hoof unwrapped and started to coil up the slightly tattered rope. “He must have been hot and wanted to run the air conditioner. I may… have startled him a little.”

“Explains why the seat felt damp,” muttered Karla. She turned the knife back over to the batpony and watched as it was tucked away into what little of her short purple mane that could be seen peeking out from under the dark armor. “And oh crap,” she added when the doors at the other end of the gym opened and a line of FBI agents began to filter in.

“Don’t worry, Miss Anacostia,” said Widget, who swallowed and continued to look even more worried. “I’ll just tell them I want to go home and they’ll let me.”

“We hope,” murmured Claire as the agents spread around the outside edge of the small gym, and the bulky Agent Hallman stepped into the room.

Author's Note

Nothing bad could come of this, right?

22. Newton's Law

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Newton’s Law

“Plato is my friend, Aristotle is my friend, but my greatest friend is truth.”
― Isaac Newton

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Above the FBI Field Office, Kansas City, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So did you have anything you wanted to say before I turn this on, Rose?”

Kota arranged the ‘Press’ badge clip on his shirt and checked the battery indicator again. It was a nice bit of craftwork with ‘Dakota Henderson’ written in thin silver script right over the word ‘PRESS’ and a discreet ‘San Francisco Chronicle’ logo below, but the important part of the body camera was the wide-angle lens that blended right into the black plastic. Admittedly, it was fixed-focus and did not record in the dark very well, but it had provided more than one photo for the paper when unwary officials had made him put away his real camera. The air chariot was still relatively high in the air, but had just made a minor course change and started to descend, and the three Equestrians had begun talking to each other on their helmet communication systems, so Kota was taking this opportunity to get prepared. However, he was not prepared for what came next.

“I love you, I always have. Those lips, that smile, the way you always call me Rose instead of Specialist Petal. I don’t think I can resist your masculine attraction any more.” The unicorn stood up on her hind legs and put both forehooves on his chest, pressing Kota back into the chariot’s chair. “Kiss me, you fool.”

“Uhamanuawha?” Kota almost dropped his Nikon, which brought him back to reality with a snap. Seeing two thousand dollars worth of camera vanish over the side of the aluminum air chariot would have really made his day. He really did not catch what was going on until the giggling unicorn sat back down and brushed one lock of her pink hair back under her helmet.

“Oh, Mister Henderson. You make me feel like a young mare again. I just wanted to be absolutely certain you weren’t recording already.” Her face straightened back up again and she looked directly into his eyes. “Just to be clear, I’m happily married.”

Kota nodded, because he was not quite sure he was ready to say anything yet. At least the brisk breeze of the chariot’s progress allowed his cheeks to cool off.

“Good.” Rose nodded back. “I need your opinion, as a military human. Do you think your FBI will respond better to a female Equestrian officer ordering them to release Widget or a male officer?”

“Male,” said Kota almost instantly. “But if things go pear-shaped in a hurry, they’re far less likely to attack you. Men have this ‘thing’ about not hitting girls. Particularly on camera.”

“How about if it were a princess doing the asking?” There was a flare of green light, and a different Equestrian mare was standing on the chariot, much larger and darker. Rose’s mane flowed back over her shoulder in an ebon river with little glints of light in it, and a pair of wings now spread out over her back. It obviously was not a surprise to the twin pegasi pulling the chariot, because they glanced back to see what the light was all about, then returned to their regular flying without a single comment. The changed alicorn standing in front of Kota stretched her neck, gave a brief flap in the cool slipstream of the chariot’s passage, and cocked a curious eyebrow. “So, praytell, wouldst thy world’s guards give due courtesy to Luna, our Princess of the Night?”

There was another flare of green light, and when he could see again, there was a different alicorn standing in the wind. This one was a snowy-white with a flowing mane made of pastel colors, and tall enough she could look Kota right in the eyes when she spoke.

“Or do you think I would need to pull out the big boss lady,” said Rose in a rolling alto cadence where each word seemed to be a statement. “Princess Celestia has more of a direct influence on anypony she meets, although I’ve never tried to use her visage before in a serious discussion. I’m not sure I could pull it off, and there’s no way I’m going to use Princess Cadence.”

“I… um… think they’d know you weren’t in the original number of visiting ponies,” managed Kota after a few quick breaths. That one entry on the Equestrian census that read ‘changeling’ suddenly fell right into place, as well as the reason why the other guards had been so reluctant to talk much about their buggy Ponyvillian, although his mind was working fast enough to add, “But you could tell them you just came through the opened portal.”

“No, I don’t think so. Complicated lies never work well,” she admitted, and green light surrounded the pony again, only to have Rose standing there on the chariot decking when Kota blinked away the spots. “I’ve never been able to do either of their voices very well,” admitted Rose, “but ever since I told my husband—” Considering that the magenta unicorn was really a disguised pony-sized bug, she had an amazing blush right up to the tips of her ears and shut her mouth with a snap. “Nevermind,” she managed. “We’ll just have to manage on our own.”

The fenced yard around the building ahead of them was getting fairly close, but Kota hesitated before turning on his cameras. “Miss Petal, if the portal doesn’t get opened today like they’ve said it might not…” He paused, then blurted right ahead, “Can I get you to pose for me later? Decent poses, of course.”

With a giggle that made the middle-aged mare seen half her age, Rose held a hoof to her lips to hide the resulting smile. “If you want indecent poses, I’m sure Specialist Thermal can provide. I’ll even watch her foal for you. But right now, I’d appreciate it if you could keep your mind on the job.”

* * *

Agent Darius Newton was about as conflicted as the rest of the FBI team, but he was not about to admit it out loud. Getting pulled out of Chicago on a moment’s notice and flung into Agent Hallman’s team did not foster much of a sense of camaraderie among his teammates, although the task was simple. That is the task was supposed to be simple. The Equestrians were supposed to be loaded into separate cars at the hospital, and the bat-winged freak shuttled back to Randolph while Pinkie the Unicorn was given the tour. Then the whole team bungled the evacuation, fouled up the extraction at the stadium, and now Hallman was probably going three for three with the current scheme inside the office. Whatever reward Pearlie had promised Hallman to run this cluster of fail, he had better have gotten it in writing.

So in theory, the weird pony and the civilian were going to be escorted out of the multipurpose room in a few minutes, where Anacostia would then drive them to Randolph. Then once the pink unicorn was calmed down, she would be loaded up into the windowless panel van and Newton would drive them out to MCI to the waiting aircraft. Celtic and Capri had originally been scheduled to meet their alien visitor for the trip back to Andrews on Air Force Two, but there had been a great deal of behind-the-scenes shuffling due to supposed ‘security’ concerns, resulting in a half-dozen aides and a few over-energized White House volunteers being the only official escorts for the trip. For one, Newton was just glad Capri was not going to be on the flight because he’d probably wind up petting (or pinching) their alien visitor and starting some sort of intergalactic war. Plus the Secret Service would probably pull rank on their guest escort mission, and he would find himself sitting on the tarmac in the heat while the big jet headed to Washington. And Newton had always wanted to see the inside of Air Force Two.

The sound of wheels on pavement behind him made Newton turn abruptly from his introspective inspection of the building door. Some sort of amalgamation of metal mesh and bicycle wheels had touched down in the FBI parking lot, pulled by two of the Equestrian pegasus ponies, and with a unicorn and a dark-skinned human photographer in the back.

“Hey,” he managed, taking several steps forward and waving one hand out of habit. “This is a restricted area. There’s no unauthorized parking.”

“Oh, really. I didn’t see any signs when we were landing.” The magenta-colored unicorn in the passenger compartment stepped out with one quick hop and began walking up to Newton while the human photographer exited the contraption with much more care. The unicorn drew Newton’s full attention with the way she seemed to sway her hips with every step, making the dark armor look more like a naughty costume than a uniform. “Boys, take ten while I talk with your macho counterpart here.”

Newton barely noticed the pegasi leave the aluminum carriage behind as they vanished into the sky with a rush of air. He was busy trying to think while protesting, “No, you can’t come in here, ma’am.” The normal process for stopping somebody from walking forward was to put a left hand on their chest, but to do that Newton would probably have to kneel.

“I’m going into that building, sir.” The armored magenta unicorn continued to walk forward while talking. “I’m going to pick up two of our citizens, and we’re going to Randolph for our return portal home. Unless you’re going to stop me.”

The cool plastic of the taser felt unnatural to Newton’s right hand, but he remembered far too many stories of panicked police officers drawing their service weapon instead of the non-lethal plastic device. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Ma’am. You’re not permitted—”

“Mister Henderson,” said the unicorn, who had stopped abruptly when the taser was pointed at her. “Is that a weapon?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the photographer. “It’s called a Taser. It shoots two darts that conduct electricity.” The photographer moved a little sideways so he was not directly behind the armored unicorn. “It’s not supposed to be lethal,” he added.

“Very well.” The unicorn turned back to Newton and smiled, in a technical way that involved the corners of her lips lifting, but no actual amusement. “Please note that an Equestrian Royal Guard on an official government mission has just been threatened with a weapon, one that is supposed to be safe, but the user has no idea how it will react to our physiology.”

“I’m warning you—” Something grabbed the end of Newton’s taser, yanked it down to his thigh, and the trigger depressed itself under his finger. The sensation of the darts penetrating his trousers was dwarfed by the excruciating pain that swept over him, like a thousand electric bees had decided to repeatedly sting and sting and sting…

“It does seem to be effective,” said the unicorn, who remained where she was and watched Newton writhe around on the ground. “You say it’s supposed to be non-lethal, correct?”

“Um… Yes.” The photographer moved a little closer, from what Newton could see through his teary eyes. “Um, Rose? You’re supposed to let up on the trigger after he falls down.”

“Oh! Sorry about that, Agent…” Still twitching on the pavement, Newton was unable to resist when something ghostly ruffled through his suit and pulled out his badge. “Agent Darius Newton,” she continued. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Specialist Rose Petal of the Equestrian Night Guard, and just to keep you from shooting me in the rear…”

Newton’s taser went skittering under the van, followed by his service pistol. The handcuffs that had been clipped to the back of his belt found a second use with one arm cuffed securely to his opposite ankle, and the unicorn bent down to whisper in his ear.

“I really am sorry about this, Darius. If Twilight doesn’t get the portal open this afternoon, come by the town sometime and I’ll make it up to you. I’ve got a young colt at home just like you.” It was a disconcerting change of tone from the alien, made worse by the way she winked at him.

“Anyway,” said the unicorn loudly after she stood up and began walking forward to the building’s door. “Let’s see if our little lost lambs are ready to go home yet, or if they’re still playing.”

* * *

Hallman was a family man. As much as the FBI liked to say it considered the agents under its command to be a big family of sorts, at times he considered it to be a lot like the Mansons.

“Agent Anacostia,” he said as the rest of his team moved around the periphery of the FBI field office’s multipurpose room, “please take Cadet Goose Down and Miss Bruener to your vehicle. I’d like a few words with Miss Widget.”

And they would be private words, since the FBI office did not have any cameras in this section of the building, and certain not-threats had been made to the rest of his team with regard to recording any portion of their alien-human interactions.

“With all due respect, sir. Widget’s had a very hard time, and I don’t think—”

“That’s an order, Agent Anacostia,” said Hallman.

“I’m not leaving—” started the Bruener girl, who Hallman cut off before she could get started.

“Miss Bruener, your invitation to visit this facility is hereby rescinded. You can leave on your own power, or you can be tased and tossed out in handcuffs. Anacostia, take them outside.”

The bat-winged military pony shifted forward and held a precautionary wing in front of Bruener girl. “I’m really sorry, sir,” she said in that squeaky voice that was half-ragdoll and half-porn star. “I’d rather Claire stay with us.”

“You really don’t have a choice in the matter,” said Hallman bluntly. The agency psychologists had included a few pages of advice about dealing with the creatures in the bulky packet he had managed to read overnight. It had not helped much, and he suspected most of it had been cribbed from terrestrial animal husbandry, but they had been fairly confident that the aliens exhibited herding behavior. That meant being larger and acting obviously in charge should make the aliens more likely to follow orders, which seemed to bear out as the dark pony reversed her wing and gave Miss Bruener a little nudge from behind.

“Go on, Claire,” she said. “I’ll stay here with Widget.”

That’s the hard half. Now once Anacostia gets Miss Bruener outside, we can work on separating the two ponies. Hopefully, we don’t have to tase either of them. That’d put me on Pearlie’s list for sure.

“Leave the bags of medical gear for later,” he added as Anacostia took the lighter-skinned but similarly built young lady toward the exit door. “I’ll have one of the agents load it when we’re ready to go.”

“Isn’t that sexist?” asked Miss Bruener, who stopped walking in order to turn around, except for Anacostia’s hand on her arm pushing her in the direction of the door. “All right, I’m going.”

Hallman was just turning around to face the two ponies again when there was a sharp knock at the door behind him.

“That’s our ride,” said Cadet Goose, scooting her fellow pony forward with one broad wing. “It’s been an honor to be at your facility, Mister Hallman, but it’s time for us to go.”

“Not yet,” said Hallman, moving in front of Widget with his Taser pointed at the floor. The fuzzy grey bat-pony looked like a plushie and sounded like a teenaged pop star, but he distrusted whatever hocus-pocus the unicorns could do with their horns even more. “I need to have a discussion with Miss Widget here.”

“Go ahead,” said the dark bat-winged pony, who moved her wing in front of Widget’s chest now.

“A private discussion,” said Hallman as forcefully as he could.

“The discretion of the Royal Guard is inviolate,” stated Goose as if she were reciting out of a manual. “We are to ensure privacy to any and all parties to any conversation in our vicinity while on active duty. Failure to abide by this restriction will result in loss of commission and further prosecution as in Section 7, Subsection 5, Penalties and Restrictions of the Royal Guard Manual.”

The further hammering on the steel fire door made Hallman call over his shoulder, “Somebody get that Goddamn door! And Cadet Goose, please step outside. My superiors were very specific that I should discuss this with Miss Widget in private.”

Preferably on Air Force Two at twenty thousand feet, headed east.

“Good afternoon,” caroled a pleasant middle-aged voice that rather reminded Hallman of his eccentric aunt. “What a fine group of humans we have here. My name is Specialist Rose Petal of the Equestrian Night Guard. Cadet Goose, are you and your charge ready to return home?”

There was another unicorn in armor who had just come through the steel fire door, looking much like a dowdy horned housewife who wore her armor on weekends. She looked up at Hallman with a happy twinkle in her eyes and a pleasant smile to add, “Unless there are any objections.”

“Yes, we have objections,” snapped Hallman with an aggravated wave of his taser. “Go back outside and wait. Goose, go with them. And Anacostia, take his camera. There’s no photography allowed in here.”

“Careful.” There was an enormous flash from the skylights, followed immediately by the tremendous sound of thunder that shook the building and knocked some dust down from the exposed metal struts holding up the roof. It left Hallman to stare wide-eyed at the smiling maroon unicorn, who still had one hoof up to the side of her helmet. She nodded at his taser. “You may want to put that away. Mine are bigger.”

In the resulting silence, the unicorn moved over next to the wall beside the door. “Don’t worry. I understand your situation completely,” said the maroon unicorn politely. “Mister Henderson, if you would hand your camera over to Miss Anacostia and stand over there, please. And if you could stand here, I’ll get the door closed so we don’t let all the cool air out. Wonderful invention, your air conditioning. Now, as you were saying?”

“I was saying you need to leave,” said Hallman, still feeling a little alone from the recent crash of thunder directly above his head, despite his fellow FBI agents around him.

“And if we leave,” continued the unicorn, “you plan on attempting to separate my young cadet from her charge, with force if needed, correct?”

After a quick glance at Agent Anacostia to make certain she had retrieved the photographer’s camera and had at least seemed to turn it off, he nodded. “I have my orders,” he explained. “We do not intend any harm.”

“So many big, strong men with intents,” mused the middle-aged unicorn, looking around the room at the suddenly uncomfortable FBI agents who looked a little like children being taken to task on the playground. “I’m sorry, I can’t trust your intents with regards to my cadet, or her charge. And,” she added before Hallman could respond, “it is not my place to interfere. The assigned guard is responsible for the safety and freedom of movement of her charge.”

“Me?” squeaked Goose Down like some sort of plush toy.

“Certainly.” The unicorn gave another nod to both of them. “Cadet, you may consider this an exercise. You have reached a point of irreconcilable differences with our host nation. Your opposition force is eleven US federal agents armed with nonlethal weapons, and with the ability to use lethal weapons if disarmed.”

“Excuse me,” said Anacostia, standing rather stiffly and tapping the unicorn on her shoulder armor with the tic-tic-tic of a fingernail. “I don’t have a taser, or any ammunition for my service weapon since we left the firing range. Besides, I’m not going to fight Goose.”

“Very well, dear.” The unicorn turned back to Hallman and smiled. “Ten federal agents, then. Cadet Goose Down will be graded on her final results, with points taken off for any injuries that require medical attention, or broken limbs. Are you ready, sir?”

“No!” snapped Hallman. “What—”

“Good,” said the unicorn. Her horn lit up briefly, the light switches next to her all swept down, and the room was plunged into pitch darkness with only her voice to be heard.

“You have twenty seconds. Begin.”

Author's Note

Hey, Rose helped. She reduced the number by one outside.

life·guard - /ˈlīfˌɡärd/

noun: lifeguard; plural noun: lifeguards
1) an expert swimmer employed to rescue people who get into difficulty in a swimming pool or at the beach.
2) the designation for the military security guards who protected royals and nobles from danger.

23. Things Left Unsaid

“Sometimes stupid is right," Megan said, then paused. "Hell. I hope nobody ever quotes me on that one.”
― Brandon Sanderson, Calamity

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1:30 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Hunting Hill Farm, Randolph KS

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Ethan Alexander was not a happy bureaucrat. His co-workers at the USDA Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service could have told anybody that particular fact about their stocky red-headed field inspector without even looking. Grabbing a flight on short notice on Friday and winding up in a small town in Kansas on the edge of an alien invasion had not improved his less than cheerful demeanor one bit. These creatures did not obey any kind of disease protocol at all! If they carried some sort of deadly disease, a parasite, or one of a dozen cross-species viruses, or a thousand other things, the entire planet could be wiped out, something that APHIS had been created to stop, not just check for fruit on international flights. Um… APHIS and the Center for Disease Control, which Ethan kept forgetting about, since they dealt with people and he for the most part did not⁽*⁾.
(*) The other people appreciated that.

Through strenuous effort and possibly some threats, he had managed to get one of the blood bags from the Manhattan hospital packed and shipped back to the CDC for proper international distribution and testing, but there were hundreds of the creatures less than a mile away, and in an hour or two, they’d be gone forever. All he wanted was to get his isolation garb on, go over to the alien landing site, and collect a blood, urine, and tissue sample from each of the aliens. Was that so bad? He had talked for hours… well, raved if he was going to be totally honest with himself, to the mayor of the displaced town, and the best concession he had managed was first dibs on pumping out the septic tanks of all the recreational vehicles once the evacuation was over. For samples, human and alien fecal matter mixed together was better than nothing, but not by much. Every gram of it was going to be distributed to various health agencies worldwide, although not under Biosafety Level 4 protocol as he would have wished. To be honest, if there was something contagious between alien and human, it probably was far too late to prevent, but he would be darned if he was the one—

A burst of happy laughter from the hay barn brought Ethan’s attention up from the report he was writing, but only momentarily. The rest of his team’s children had been treating this serious occasion as some sort of farm-based vacation, although the three other members of his team had buckled down to work with all the professionalism he expected. Just why they had brought their spouses and children along baffled Ethan, and how they managed to talk his wife into bringing their own two offspring also was… something he was not brave enough to take up with Eve. Still, they had all managed to follow Ethan’s strict rules about not walking most of a mile down the path to the Bruener farm so there would be at least some sort of biological separation between their children and the alien subjects.

Although some of the happy voices from the barn where the children had been set up for their extended Kansas sleepover did not sound quite right.

“What’s going on here?” Ethan stopped at the door to the hay barn, totally flabbergasted at the way a half-dozen children and about the same number of alien ponies had managed to make the tidy collection of camping sleeping bags, fans, coolers, and snacks into a chaotic playground.

“There aren’t supposed to be any ponies here!” he spluttered, waving one hand in the direction of the paddock. “This whole farm is under quarantine to prevent any contamination of Champion by—”

“Hi, I’m Apple Bloom,” said one of the smaller aliens, who looked larger due to the enormous bow she had tied in her mane. “This is Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo, and Sparkler over there, and Miss Thermal up there trying to get her colt unstuck out of the rafters, and…”

To be honest, the little pony chattering away at full speed named a number of other small ponies dashing around the barn, jumping off stacks of hay bales, and playing with unabashed energy, but Ethan’s mind temporarily locked up with the sight of a hovering pegasus directly overhead. It was not the presence of the unearthly mare, but the brain-shocking shade of pink coat that fairly lit up the area of ceiling she was in, with a short cascade of hunter’s orange tail waving underneath, and a sizable pair of pert equine teats indicating that the mare had not completely dried up yet after weaning her foal.

“Eve needs to see— No, wait.” Ethan shook his head and tried to get horse tits larger than his wife’s out of his mind. “I’m using Champion as a test subject,” he managed after a few quick breasts… breaths. “He’s Miss Hunter’s show horse, and the Hunters have been so kind as to permit us to monitor him for any changes due to… your presence.”

“He means if Champion gets sick,” said the small white unicorn who had been introduced as Sweetie Belle. “Only he shouldn’t since Starswirl’s spell uses a… it’s a filter of some sort like Rarity’s vacuum cleaner, so as long as nopony was really sick coming through the portal, they shouldn’t be carrying anything.” The eager expression of the little pony changed almost immediately to a mournful look that could have melted stone. “Can we go play with Champion today, mister? The other children said he was off-limit because you didn’t want him to get sick, but we promise to be careful, and none of us are even sniffly. It’s going to be our last chance because they said Twilight’s going to get the portal open real soon now, and we’ll have to leave.”

What Ethan wanted to do was dash back to his equipment, put on his biohazard suit, separate the aliens and the children, and proceed to have one giant decontamination shower for them all. The Kansas heat only made the idea more tempting. The problem with that was his role as a father, and the sight of his two boys actually engaging in interpersonal… that is interspecies interactions instead of being glued to their pocket video games gave him a little twinge in the chest. Paul was almost nose to nose with one of the unicorn aliens, watching her move a piece of hay with her magic horn, while Phillip was holding onto a very small winged foal and bottle feeding it with an expression of pure concentration and joy.

He had managed the bio-isolation of the nearby terrestrial chestnut gelding for nearly two days without exposing it to direct alien contact, but close exposure to those begging green eyes made the importance of that sample set seem less important. And—

“I really can’t let you have contact with Champion and our children,” started Ethan as the plan began to form in the back of his mind, “until after I check to make sure you are all healthy.”

“Yea!” cheered the little ponies, along with their human playmates.

* * *

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:30 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015 (plus twenty seconds)
Location: FBI Field Office, Kansas City, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

For the night is dark and full of fuzzy terrors.

From the screaming in the darkness around her, the loud thud of bodies hitting the mat, and the occasional crackle of a taser going off, the FBI were getting a full Game of Thrones introduction to the adorable little lump of a dragon-pony that Claire had gotten to know over the last few days. One of the agents even had the presence of mind to turn on his phone to use as a light, which lasted just long enough for him to realize how much of a target that made him. As the darkness returned to the sound of a phone smashing against the wall, it was strange how Claire had never felt safer.

To one side, the armored unicorn was holding a leg across Claire at about thigh level, while on the other side, the photographer was holding one hand out across her chest, although not to cop a feel as she had thought when she first felt the pressure. It was actually a markedly short time before the room got quiet again and she could hear Goose call out, “Clear!”

The lights went on with a sweep of Specialist Rose Petal’s magic across the light switches, and Claire had to blink a few times to make sense of the resulting carnage. Thankfully, there was no blood, but there were a few low groans, and at least three of the agents were tossed together into a loose pile against one wall, while the rest were scattered around the mats, with Goose standing alert and with wings partially-spread in the center of the room.

Without saying a word, Agent Anacostia passed the camera back to the photographer, who resumed his job of documenting the event.

“Twenty-two seconds,” said the middle-aged unicorn with a certain flatness to her delivery. She stepped forward to the nearest prone agent and bent down to look at his face, which Claire noticed had a horseshoe-shaped red mark on the center of his forehead. The unicorn peeled back the agent’s eyelid to look into his eye, then nodded. “No permanent injury. Good.”

She repeated that action with the rest of the agents, some of whom had begun to stir but apparently made the decision to stay down rather than get knocked down again. The most uncomfortable of them was the poor agent who had apparently used his taser to shoot his fellow agent in the back, which left trails of silver wire across the floor when Rose tossed the expended plastic device to one side in her magic. “You would lose quite a few points for this, if it were up to me,” the unicorn said in an apparent aside to the groggy agent. She pulled out his gun and tossed it gently over next to the discharged taser, then checked his badge. “Agent Dane, your superior will receive a letter. And…” The unicorn looked around, apparently counting. “We’re missing one, Cadet Goose.”

Goose looked up.

Everybody else looked up too.

Agent Hallman looked down from his precarious perch, lodged between two of the open metal support beams that was holding up the roof and next to one of the dark skylights that seemed to be packed solid with clouds outside. From the reddish rash of a horseshoe imprint on his forehead, he also had been ‘Goosed’ during the fight, and looked in no condition to get down by himself, even if it were not a dangerous drop to the floor.

Specialist Rose nodded with a notable smile. “Extra credit for that one, Cadet. Miss Widget, if you would assist, please.”

Between two unicorns providing magical support, Hallman’s trip down to the floor was sedate and without incident, allowing him to slump in place and pant for breath while Rose relieved him of his badge. “Agent Hallman, I see. Thank you for providing a credible training session for my cadet. It’s so hard to find a good threat in Equestria that the Elements of Harmony have not dealt with already. Now, I presume you have no objection to Widget and Goose leaving.”

“No,” he managed, still sitting down on the cool plastic mat.

“Very well. Come, children.” Rose turned for the door. “Let us be off.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:00 P.M. Central Standard Time, Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Outside the Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Secretary Doug Franz was in heaven. He had been to many places in the world, talked to an enormous variety of people in high places, avoided being killed by some of them, managed offices full of hundreds of Washington personalities (which was a challenge all by itself), and put out four books during his life so far.

Talking history with an alien pony was the high point of his life. The only difficulties they had was taking turns. He would talk about Istanbul and nuclear weapons, Lucky would talk about Tirek and Nightmare Moon, and they each scribbled notes while the other lectured. The perspective of an alien herbivorous pony on magical villains from a thousand years ago contrasted so much with his own stories of jihadist fanatics killing each other in the hopes of getting a few pounds of fissile material. They both had world-ending potential, but somehow Doug had problems picturing a crack squad of pony SEALS dropping in by helicopter to raid an ancient monument designed to bring back banished radioactive evils.

Maybe as a movie.

The other diplomats at the event drifted in their direction after each of their turns making speeches in front of the podium were over, and contributed to their historical discussion, but more in a passing fashion as other important ponies caught their attention and they moved away. Maybe it was because Doug was starting to feel more than a little possessive about his new friend, and had considered just how he could smuggle the pony back to Washington in his luggage. The conversation had become so engrossing that Doug was momentarily at a loss for words when a mulberry-colored pony strode right up to them and passed over a scroll to Lucky.

“Hello, Secretary Franz. Mister Grass. I mean Lucky. Twilight just sent this for you.” Doug had gotten a fair handle on the names and occupations of a lot of the ponies by now. Cheerilee was easily the most recognizable to him, due to her cheerful demeanor and some burning desire to turn every occasion into a lesson for any small pony child who wandered into her vicinity.

“Pardon me, Doug.” Lucky unrolled the scroll, read for a minute, then let it roll back up. “So, two hours?” he asked the schoolmare.

Cheerilee shrugged. “Plus or minus some. Epsilon says the time difference between dimensions hasn’t been completely stable. I just hope we don’t wind up returning after school has started. I wanted my class to write a report about their experiences here.” She craned her head and looked around. “Speaking of which, have you seen any of the children?”

There was a small portion of his own heart that remembered the days of carefree galloping… err… running around out of the reach of older and more responsible humans. If the kids were enjoying themselves and staying out of traffic, Doug really did not want to corral them up for some sort of summertime school for their last fleeting hours in a new world.

“Sparkler and one of the guards are watching them,” said Lucky. “They’ve got my daughter too. I just hope Miss Thermal’s little scamp doesn’t give her any bad ideas. Just a few months old and I’m already trying to keep the colts away from her,” he added under his breath.

“But where?” said Cheerilee, still looking around. “I’ve been searching the farmgrounds and the town for a few hours now.

“Is there any place where you told them not to go?” asked Doug.

“Well, just the horse farm over there next to where the Army has been landing their helicopters,” said Lucky with a wave of one hoof, “but one of your government agencies is trying to keep that area under quarantine, so I strictly instructed them to stay away from it this morning.”

Experienced parent as he was, Doug checked his watch. “It’s afternoon.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:35 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: FBI Field Office, Kansas City, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The brilliant Kansas sun hit Claire’s face like a warm slap when they emerged from the FBI office. Several years of farm labor had toughened her to the experience, so she hefted the bags of Widget’s hospital souvenirs a little higher and headed in the direction of the aluminum mesh chariot out in the parking lot without complaining.

“Whoops,” said Specialist Rose, slipping ahead of her and carefully moving a hefty bald black man in a suit out of the way. He obviously must have been one of the FBI agents, although the handcuffs holding his arm to his ankle told of a story that Claire was itching to hear.

“Sorry again, Darius.” The armored unicorn’s voice was very low, and only chance allowed Claire to hear it, but the resulting glance down at the two of them caught the sight of a handcuff key being passed over to the agent’s hand by a low pink glow.

“I’m so glad that’s over,” said Claire. She walked across the hot asphalt parking lot with Widget clattering irregularly right behind, and only jumped a little when two identical white pegasi dropped out of the sky and began shrugging into the harness on the front of the chariot. There was space in the back of the mesh box of the chariot to hold all of Widget’s junk, which Claire secured by tying the tops of the bags together so nothing would blow out during the trip. Then she turned to help Widget up into her seat, only to realize that it was not over at all.

Goose was frozen in the office doorway, her eyes focused down on the sunlit pavement and her wings still tented out behind her like a dragging parachute.

“Oh, crap.” Claire’s thoughts were echoed by Karla just a few seconds later when the FBI agent looked back also.

“We’ll take my car back to Randolph,” said Karla while digging out her keys. “Claire, go start it up and get the AC running or we’ll melt.”

Claire was going to ask what she had planned when Karla brought out her cell phone and jabbed a speed dial. “Hey, Clyde. I’ve got a friend who isn’t feeling well, and I was wanting to take leave for the rest of the day to drive her home.” There was a pause. “No, Agent Hallman doesn’t need me anymore. Thanks, Clyde. I’ll get my 302s done this evening and have them in your mailbox by morning.”

“I’m going with her,” said Widget in a small voice once Karla hung up the phone. Several of the bags in the back of the chariot lit up with her pink magic before the photographer moved to intercept, getting about half of them on one arm while Claire collected the other half.

“Don’t hurt yourself, fuzzball,” chided Claire as she moved toward the parking lot and the collection of vehicles arranged in neat rows. “Let’s get you home, then you can do dangerous things without driving me nuts.” She lifted the key fob and pushed the unlock button, watching for the flash of taillights, then gave out a low whistle while walking.

“That’s a love boat,” said the photographer walking on the other side of Widget. “You need a couple feet of water and a gay captain to put that thing out to sea.”

“It’s beautiful,” breathed Widget.

“It’s pink!” Claire gave the unlocking fob another push just in case a better car were to flash its taillights. “It’s this huge pink… Expedition,” she added with a look at the tail. “How do you drive this thing through traffic and still hold your head up?” She popped the tailgate, tossed in the bags, then scooted over to the side door before Widget could try the leap to get into the back.

“I could have made it,” pouted the unicorn, although she was favoring her injured leg.

“You could have wound up going back to the hospital,” chided Claire. “Come on, Mister…”

The photographer turned off his camera and tucked it back into his bag. “Dakota Henderson. San Francisco Chronicle. You’ve probably seen some of my photos of the ponies from out at your farm, Miss Bruener.”

“Actually, I haven’t had a chance to get online,” admitted Claire. “Were you watching our livestream from the hospital?”

“Actually, me neither,” admitted the photographer with a shrug. He bent and lifted, showing more muscle than Claire had expected. Once the injured unicorn was situated in the back seat, he turned to look in the direction of Karla and Goose, who were both shuffling across the parking lot. “Do you girls mind if I tag along to Randolph? I think I’ve had quite enough of flying for one day.”

“Fine with me.” Claire climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “You’ll have to check with Karla, and sit in the back.”

“I’ve got the back,” hissed Karla. She barely managed to climb in through the open rear hatch, followed by Goose who gave her a boost and managed to pull the door closed behind them, although it took two tries before she could keep the tip of her tail out of the gap.

“What’s wrong?” Claire turned the air conditioning on full while trying to peer over the seat backs.

“She won’t tell me,” said Goose, sounding just a little irate, even though her eyes were still wide and white from her un-hatted passage through the Kansas sunshine and the wide-open sky.

“I threw my back out throwing your fat ass onto the mat back there!” Shoving the tote bags of hospital stuff to either side, the FBI agent flopped face-down against the short carpet and groaned. “Motrin! Motrin! My kingdom for a Motrin!”

Widget floated a pill bottle out of her collection of bags and checked the label just before the armored unicorn guard tapped at the SUV’s back door. “Don’t want you children getting dehydrated on your way home,” said Rose once the door was open. She floated several bottles of water up to the photographer who redistributed them, then took the wad of bills she passed up with a curious look.

“The FBI’s contribution to your safe trip back to Randolph, since it looks like you don’t want to ride herd over the twins,” she not-explained. “I’m going to have them drop me off at the hospital, then they’re headed back to Randolph too. Cadet Goose,” she added, turning slightly to look at the fidgeting batpony in the back of the SUV. “Your score is adequate, considering your lack of experience with humans. Do not neglect your training.” Then she closed the door with a wink and trotted off to the pony air chariot, whisking her tail behind her.

“I swear, she’s just like my grandmother,” mused Claire. “And this truck is like my grandmother’s grain wagon,” she added once the big SUV was urged out of its parking space and in the direction of the FBI parking lot’s exit gate, which obediently opened when they approached. “Thankfully, I worked harvest a few summers. How about you, Mister Henderson?”

“The Marines wouldn’t let me. I joined straight out of high school.” He leaned back and fastened his seat belt, then looked into the back of the SUV at where Goose was gently prodding on Karla’s back with the sway of the moving vehicle. “Couple of the guys I served with blew their backs out in Afghanistan. Young kids who don’t know better with a heavy pack go jumping onto a truck, and a couple of discs blow up sideways. It’s no picnic.”

“Doctor Stable showed me the spell he used on my leg,” Widget put forward hesitatingly. “I could—”

“Do it,” moaned Agent Anacostia.

Claire withheld any further comments about Widget’s licence to commit Equestrian veterinary medicine until they were actually on I-70, because Kansas City traffic — even in the afternoon — required a certain intensity to her maneuvers with an unfamiliar vehicle. The sight of Goose in the back of the vehicle, apparently walking on Karla’s back with her wings spread out to the sides of the Explorer for stability, did not help her concentration.

“So, Mister Henderson,” she asked in order to keep her mind off of the interdimensional massage parlor behind her, “you’re a newspaper photographer?”

“A little of everything, to be honest. I write articles when I can, bouncer for clubs in the evening, go overseas when the Chronicle needs somebody.” The photographer plugged his laptop into the power port in the back seat and messed with some cables. “So your neck of the woods is pretty tame. This is the first time I’ve really been on my toes since I had a knife pulled on me in the club back in San Francisco about two weeks ago.”

“Ooo, I have a knife, Mister Henderson!” Goose lunged over the seat back, locking eyes with Mister Henderson at a range close enough that he probably was getting the tip of his nose wet. “Corporal Rose said I was supposed to practice with some humans.”

Claire was not quite sure just how the batpony was able to retrieve the gravity knife from where it was clipped under her neck armor with just her wingtips, particularly in the tight quarters of the SUV’s luggage space, but Mister Henderson fairly jumped out of his own seat when the closed knife was presented to him, hilt first.

“Err… ahh… later?” he said, gently pushing it away. “And please call me Dakota, or Kota if you’re feeling like it. Ahh…. Where did you get that?”

“owowowoo,” moaned Karla.

“Oh! Sorry,” said Goose before she began hoof-kneeding the FBI agent’s back again. “It’s just that we buy weapons at stores in Equestria. I really wasn’t ready to have somebody sell it to me while I was waiting in the car over at the ballbase stadium.”

“Baseball,” murmured Karla from somewhere behind the back seat.

Claire suppressed a grin and tried to keep her concentration on the road. “You know, we’ve got time,” she called back over her shoulder. “If you want to see a store where they sell knives, we could stop at Cabelas on the way home.”

“No!” protested Karla weakly.

“Yes!” declared Goose.

Widget retrieved Goose’s hat from one of the bags and stuck it on the batpony’s head, then took a drink from her bottle of water. “I’ll stay in the car this time, Goose.”

“This is a bad idea,” managed Karla in a muffled tone, mixed with short grunting noises as her masseuse found sore spots on her back. “Help, help. I’m being kidnapped.”

“I should stretch my legs anyway, and find a bathroom,” said Dakota. “I’ll vote for a short stop. I need to let the laptop finish uploading the last video I shot anyway.”

Claire hit the turn signal and took the exit. “Don’t sweat it, Karla. I think they’ve got a cafe in there too, so I’ll bring you a sandwich. And if they’re closed, we’ll swing by Hooters.”

“I am so fired,” moaned Karla. “Leading our extraterrestrial visitors on a tour of violence and sexual immorality. Ow! Yeah, right there, Goose.”

She did not say anything while maneuvering the heavy SUV, but Claire was fairly sure a short stop at the Russel Stover chocolate shop on their way out of the shopping center would go far to reduce any complaints by their kidnapping victim. Besides, turnabout was fair play.

And Cabelas had an awesome aquarium.

24. The Best Plans

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
The Best Plans

“When have any of our plans actually worked?
We plan, we get there, all hell breaks loose.”
― Harry Potter, The Deathly Hallows

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Hunting Hill Farm, Randolph KS

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Assistant Secretary of State Doug Franz was beginning to think ‘alien race’ was a literal phrase. If he knew he was going to be running this much while doing his ‘diplomat thing’ in Kansas, he would have brought his tennis shoes.

“Hold on,” he gasped, running at about full tilt down the dirt path that an unknown number of Army soldiers had made between the temporary helicopter landing pad and the Bruener farm. There were indications that the ponies had contributed to the project, from the ‘coincidental’ flower beds scattered here and there, to the arched footbridge at the bottom of the hill done up in little stone hearts and interlocked diamonds. Lucky had kept ahead of his dead run with the most casual loping stride, and slowed down even further as the unadorned dirt path tilted upward when they approached the other horse farm. Four legs most certainly had the edge on two, particularly when pitted against an aging bureaucrat who mostly just ran for departing aircraft.

“Sorry, Doug,” called the pony back over one shoulder. “Need to catch Cheerilee.”

To be honest, Doug doubted that an Olympic-class sprinter could have caught the reddish schoolteacher. The moment she had even a hint that her students could have been in trouble, the mare had taken off like a shot, leaving the poor mismatched historians far behind. When they reached the end of the path where it crossed the neighboring Hunting Farm gravel yard, he slowed to a halt behind the pony and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

There were two doctors, or at least people in white lab coats in the Kansas sun, sitting in a grassy spot with several impatient small ponies lined up in front of them. It appeared to be the end of a line to visit the chestnut horse in a paddock behind them, with several human children and pony children spoiling it rotten, scratching its ears, and generally adoring the big red thing.

Cheerilee, being a teacher, had come to a halt at the end of the line, obviously conflicted between going to ‘rescue’ her students from the unscheduled and unauthorized extradimensional educational experience, and the importance of following the rules.

“Should we get in line for the doctors, Doug?” Lucky had a quirky smile on his face, most likely because of the sight of his tiny foal curled up next to the brilliant pink of Specialist Thermal, with the little colt Standing Water snoring right alongside. The line must have been going slow enough for the little ones to have gotten bored and fallen asleep right there on the short-cut grass, and as a new mother, Thermal had followed suit.

Doug understood totally.

“It doesn’t look like too much of a disaster,” he put forth cautiously. “The kids are having a good time with the horse, and… they’re getting blood drawn.” Doug tried to reconcile the sight of patient small pony children and the dour veterinarian, with a tiny little chinese nurse handling the needles and blood samples.

“I guess they really wanted to see the horse,” admitted Lucky. He moved up behind the last pony child in the line and chatted with her for a bit before returning to his own child, still snuggled up to her foalsitter.

It was cute enough to make Doug Franz really concerned about having a heart attack.

“Well, at least all of the kids are fairly close to the Bruener farm,” admitted Doug. He settled down on what looked like a stepping stool for people to use for climbing onto tall horses, with Lucky beside him. “That way when your portal home gets opened up by Princess Twilight—”

The little green foal’s entrancing violet eyes popped open and she blearily looked around. “Mama?”

Lucky patted his foal until she snuggled back down into Miss Thermal’s sun-warmed coat, which gave Doug a warm feeling of his own until his internal calculator added up some disconnected numbers.

“If she’s your foal,” he started, “and calls… the princess who sent you here, ‘mama’ out of reflex…”

“We’d rather not spread it around,” said Lucky, giving the little foal an additional pat. “For your world’s sake, that is.”

“Our…” Doug swallowed and lowered his voice so the last young pony getting her blood drawn would not be able to hear. “Our world?”

“Of course.” Lucky sat back down next to Doug and lowered his own voice. “You see, young unicorns in their first year or two of life have no real knowledge of what they can’t do. Sometimes, they accomplish magical feats that adult unicorns would strain to accomplish. Well, in our world, two alicorn princesses raise the sun and moon. If a little alicorn gets angry and tosses the sun to one side, or turns everybody in the county into an orange, another alicorn princess can turn them back and put the sun back where it belongs.” Lucky shrugged. “You don’t have one, so we have to be careful.”

“The… sun? You mean that literally?” Doug was very glad he was sitting down, and made a mental note to apply serious thought to the more fantastic legends that Lucky had been talking about.

Lucky nodded. “Of course, my daughter hasn’t shown any of the ordinary magic that a newborn unicorn might display, so I don’t think she’ll go tossing your planet into the sun, but it never hurts to be cautious.”

A buzzing noise sounded from the cell phone that Lucky had clipped to his saddlebag strap, and while the pony was extracting the phone and studying whatever text message he had just gotten, Doug watched in stunned amazement. Some sort of ugly stuffed animal with huge ears floated unnoticed out of Lucky’s saddlebags and crossed over to the sleeping alicorn foal, who shared it with the similarly sleeping blue pegasus foal at her side, allowing the two adorable little disasters to snuggle down and resume their slumber while Doug considered the intelligence briefings he had recently received.

“You know, I was told one of your ponies might visit Washington this week,” he managed after some consideration. “Voluntarily, of course.”

Lucky snorted through the stylus he held in his teeth. “Yes, I heard that too. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure Specialist Rose sent them back here hours ago by pegasus carriage.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:45 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: FBI Field Office, Kansas City, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Agent Hallman grimaced while the other restless agents around him pretended not to notice. It was a considerably uncomfortable phone call, and explaining how some little slip of a bat-winged pony who did not even come up to his waist just creamed his entire group, and then strolled away with the ‘guest’ that the FBI leadership expected shortly in Washington…

If he had been smart enough to fake a brain injury, perhaps a stroke or chain migraines, he could have picked one of the other agents as designated scapegoat and taken a pleasant ride to the hospital in an ambulance. Too late for that now.

“Of course, sir. We’ll catch up with them on I-70 before they get to Topeka. The batpony… that is the darker one doesn’t like the sunlight, so we shouldn’t have any problems apprehending Miss Widget and returning her to the airport a few hours later than expected.” He held a hand out as one of the agents began to say something, then continued, “I’ll get to it then, sir. I’ll call when we’re on the way back to the airport with Miss Widget.” He closed the call, made absolutely certain that he had hung up, and returned to thumbing through his electronic address book.

“Why didn’t you tell them the other ponies arrived by air?” asked Agent Dane.

“That red devil horse left by air,” said Agent Newton. “The two cute ones piled into Agent Anacostia’s giant pink SUV and left by ground.”

“I hoped that was the case.” After dialing Anacostia’s number, Hallman rubbed his head, which still hurt like he had been beaned by a baseball pitch even with the bottle of motrin that had been passed around, post-encounter. “The briefing said Cadet Goose was agoraphobic, and those two seem awfully stuck together. We’ll just take a lights-and-siren run down I-70 and look for a huge pink SUV. The sooner we get going, the quicker we’ll be taking Widget back to the airport and getting her out of our hair. And Anacostia’s not answering her phone.”

“One problem, sir.” Agent Newton stopped patting himself down and seemed to be fighting back a pained grimace. “I can’t drive without a license. Did that devil-horse steal your wallet too?”

She had. And from the quick inventory of the rest of the agents, Specialist Rose had accumulated a collection of several badges, cell phones, and one granola bar an agent had tucked away for a quick snack later.

The resulting profanity while they piled out into the parking lot was epic, and continued for several hours while the column of FBI vehicles went zooming down I-70 westbound without a single sign of their quarry.

They really should have checked the internet for videos that people were posting from behind them.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Cabelas by Legends, Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I had no idea you were going to break into song when you came into the store,” said Claire. “And that we were going to sing along.”

“I don’t think they expected it either,” said Dakota, taking a look at the small crowd of shoppers who had managed to recover from their synchronized dance number, climb down off the shelves, put the merchandise back on the hangers, and generally return to their original tasks, but with considerably awestruck attention to their Equestrian visitor. “I got it on film, but nobody is going to believe it.”

“Hey, how did you get the fish in the aquarium to dance along too?” asked one of the bystanders, who was climbing down from a stuffed bear.

“I… um…” The chagrined batpony darted off past the aquarium tanks and the impassive fish — who showed no more signs of choreography — but stopped cold after fluttering up into the air and getting a good look around the store. “Are those…?”

“Nothing sapient,” said Claire, who had nearly forgotten about the vast collection of trophies scattered around the store, who stared back with glass eyes. “They’re all animal trophies taken by hunters. It’s a barbaric tradition of a less civilized time that some of my professors in college could spend just days ranting about, but you know, venison,” she added quietly. “And elk steaks. And quail and pheasant, the way my father cooks it up. Speaking of which, I better text him so he knows we’re on our way.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Hunting Hill Farm, Randolph KS

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Whoops, correction,” said Lucky, prodding his phone with the stylus. “Claire texted her mother and the telephone group she created for her. On their way back, they took a quick stop at some place called Cabelas, then grabbed a bite to eat.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:47 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Hooters at Legends, Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I can’t believe this,” muttered Agent Karla Anacostia.

“I was hungry,” said Claire. “They’re hungry. Hooters has salads.” She continued following the two energetic ponies who were prancing and peeking in all directions, to the astonishment and fascination of the mostly male clientele. Kota had quit taking photos, most probably to keep his record of their trip to an E rating.

“Besides, there’s a Victoria’s Secret across the parking lot,” continued Claire, which only cemented her position on the local FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Felons list. “I thought we could take Goose shopping to get some frilly underthings for her studly boyfriend.”

Goose promptly turned about as pink as Widget around the ears. “I d-don’t need any underthings,” she stammered.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:50 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: The Bruener farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Nickolas Comena had been sweating up fairly well during the afternoon speeches, which thankfully he had not needed to be standing as some sort of prop during all of them or he would have been out cold along with the rest of his crew. The Class A Uniform (Dress, Army) he was wearing had been prepared somewhere on post and delivered by courier, glossed and arranged to perfection by an orderly this morning, and just as uncomfortable as ever.

Still, something was bothering him. He scratched one ear right under his cover and looked around, obviously enough that Corporal Frey caught his eye and strolled over.

“What is it, sir? Something the matter?”

“No, Rick.” Nick finished scratching and checked his gold cap braid to make sure it was on straight before replacing his cover. Being bare-headed outside after this long in the army was the next thing to being stark naked. “I just got this strange feeling that somebody’s talking about me.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Cavender’s Outfitters at Legends, Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I have to admit,” admitted Kota through the viewfinder of his camera, “that really works for you.”

The armored batpony had been shucked of her metal shell, and was presently being fussed over by two of the store’s employees who were dressing her in an entirely different fashion than she obviously was used to. The black cowboy hat needed to have ear holes cut out, and one of the employees had snipped wingslits into the frilly dark cowgirl shirt, which she promised to hem in the back room before they left.

To one side, Widget was modeling much the same outfits in bright white and pink, only without the need for wingslits, and with the need for a hole in the cowgirl hat so her horn would stick out. There were, however, two items of clothing they refused to try on. One of which was pants. The other…

“I just don’t see how you can wear things made out of dead animal skin.” Goose stuck out her tongue at where Claire was trying on a new pair of cowgirl boots. “Ok, can we go now?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:45 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Dave and Busters at Legends, Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“But there’s a sale sign on the machine,” wailed Widget. “It has turtles and ninjas in it! We can get it into the back of the Expedition if we fold the seats down and move the rest of my stuff around!”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:15 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Sweet Frogs at Legends, Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Just one bowl of ice cream,” insisted Goose, who was wearing the black cowboy hat over her helmet as a replacement for the floppy sombrero. “Each. To go. I still have some money on Widget’s card.”

“I still think it would have fit in the back,” grumbled Widget with her ears folded down and a semi-permanent frown. “Can they mail it to us?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:45 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Tee Pee Junction, Lawrence, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Can we stop?” chorused both ponies from the back.

“No!” said Karla. “We need to get you back to Randolph before it gets dark!”

“Ladies,” interrupted Kota. “Those aren’t real indian tepees. They’re concrete buildings made to look like them. Back in the 80’s, stores just like them up and down every road in the US held whole rooms full of souvenirs, and,” he continued before the two ponies could get a full breath drawn to protest, “from the looks of them, they’re somebody’s houses now.”

“Maybe the owners could show us around,” suggested Widget.

“If you girls miss your portal,” snapped Karla, “I will use my awesome FBI powers to see if the owners will give us all a tour. Now will you two sit down and stop hopping? I don’t want Claire to drive into a ditch or something.”

“Look!” Widget jabbed at the back window with one hoof. “There’s another one of those big trucks. The drivers make such funny faces when we put our noses up against the glass.”

“I sense a Kodak moment,” murmured Dakota, moving closer to Karla and getting his camera out. “How old did you say those two were again?”

“Goose just started at their military academy, so I’ve got her spotted at about nineteen in people-years,” whispered Karla back. “Widget, I’m putting a little younger, about our eighteen. God, I was just like them at that age.”

“I was through Basic Training by then, just met my wife, and wound up with an overseas deployment just as she got pregnant,” said Dakota. He took several photos of the two ponies with their noses pressed up against the tailgate glass, then shook his head. “Never thought I’d be here. Thought some news organization would pay me to be a foreign correspondent and report on the places I wouldn’t go back to unless they shoveled money into my hands. I didn’t realize the agencies buy their news stories mostly from local stringers a lot cheaper than me.”

“So you’re married?” Karla tried to keep the hope out of her voice, but the close quarters of the back seat and a certain amount of not showering on Dakota’s behalf was flipping a number of interesting switches in the back of her head.

“Divorced, two kids in San Francisco,” he declared, waiting with one finger on the shutter release for the two ponies to do something else cute. “Working on getting back with her. My daughters need… Well, I better not get into that. I’m the only guy in a car full of girls, so I’m probably not going to get much fatherly sympathy.”

“My father wasn’t in my life much,” admitted Karla. “He was this big guy from Venezuela, part Indian and part Irish, so he always said he was born to drink and break stuff. At least he showed up occasionally. My mother dumped me on her mother when I was really young. I think I saw her about once or twice a year when she came by to ask Memaw for money. Dad dropped by whenever he got off an oil rig, gave my grandmother some cash out of his paycheck, spent some time with me, then headed out to the bars to drink until his next job.” She patted the slipcovered SUV seat. “This was hers.”

“How did she get the pink paint job?” asked Kota, disregarding the antics of the terrible twosome for the moment.

“Memaw knew a bunch of old ladies who sold Mary Kay. One of them was all full of herself, but she could sell ice to eskimos. Had a big old Chevy Traverse in Mary Kay pink, and if you heard her tell it, she built it herself. So Memaw makes a little deal with the local dealer and their paint shop next time she’s in the market for an Expedition to replace her horse trailer puller. Shows up in this monster, parks right next to that Traverse, and when the women’s group came out into the parking lot after their meeting was over, it was like she poked the blowhard with a pin and all the air came out.”

Karla let out a brief chuckle. “She died two years after that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dakota.

“Don’t be.” Karla shifted in her seat to get more comfortable and looked out at the passing Kansas landscape. “The old girl lived her life at full throttle. When she found out she had cancer, she sold the horse farm, the house, all of the equipment, and traveled to all the places she wanted to see in her life. My mother and her siblings howled. All that money, vanishing out of her grasp. Memaw had me fly down and pick up the Expedition so there wouldn’t be any drama after she passed away. My family fights over money like seagulls over a tin of sardines.”

“I’ve got bad news,” said Kota. “Everybody’s family fights over money that way. Thank God my sister and I were on good terms when my folks passed. With just two of us, there was no way to gang up on each other.”

Karla gave a little grunt of acknowledgement and put on her best Agent Face. “It’s going to be dark by the time we get to Randolph and send Tweedledee and Tweedledum on home, since we’re going the back way. Know of any empty motel rooms I can rent for the night?” She hefted the stuffed GoDark bag and gave it a little shake. “Because when I take my phone out of the bag tomorrow morning, it’s going to be a nutcracker, and I’m going to be the nut.”

“We’ll find a place.” Kota snapped off a shot when the two ponies were making a particularly funny face at the trailing truck driver. “Worst case, you can stay in my RV with Crystal, the other reporter from the Chronicle while I bunk in the house. Tomorrow’s going to be mostly cleanup for me, since the ponies will all be gone, and I’ll sleep in… Oh, wait. Miss Bruener will probably want her room back. Maybe I can wrangle a blanket and sleep in the house I bought. You know, I still haven’t seen it.”

“Mom will find a place for you both if she has to,” called Claire over her shoulder. “Here, go ahead and text her.”

As the designated official representative, Karla took the cell phone she was handed and opened the texting app. FBI instincts drove her thumbs from there, and to one chain of texts in particular.

“Krystol is your druggie girlfriend, right?”

“She’s not a… Well, kind-of,” hedged Claire while cruising down the highway. “I haven’t texted her back because she’d just want us to stop by, and she’d freak out about an FBI agent in the place. She’d spend the whole trip in the bathroom, flushing. And then she’d be mad at me.”

“And I thought taking the girls to Hooters was bad,” mused Karla while reading on the phone. “Your parents are on the other group text here, I presume. Oh. Uh-oh.”

There was a thump from the back as both ponies threw themselves prone, a brief pause, then Goose peered over the seat. “Sorry,” she said. “Ponyville instinct.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:28 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Hunting Hill Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I never get time to just sit back and watch things unfold in Ponyville.” Cheerilee gave out a sigh and leaned up against the paddock’s rail fence, watching her students and the human children spoil the big chestnut gelding with baby carrot snacks and petting. “There’s always papers to grade, or a monster out of the Everfree Forest, or some celebration around town. An unexpected celebrity dropping by. Princess Celestia just walking right into my classroom without even a note to warn me.” She looked up at the sky and shaded her eyes with one hoof. “I keep expecting a meteor. It’s the only thing our town hasn’t gone through. Is that speck in the sky moving around in a big circle?”

“Probably a bomber just sent here to watch,” admitted Secretary Franz. “The Air Force wouldn’t admit it, but there’s a portal getting opened up in the area really soon, so if they didn’t have an arm of the strategic triad covering the opening, I’d be shocked.”

“You live in a strange world, Doug Franz.” Cheerilee returned to watching her students, obviously resisting an urge to run out and keep Scootaloo from getting a turn in the horse’s saddle. “Humanity’s greatest enemy seems to be humanity, while ponies…” She paused to think. “It does seem to be mostly unicorns, I suppose. At least half of them.”

Lucky just grunted and kept his sleepy foal cradled in the crook of one foreleg, a pose that constantly baffled Doug with its impossibility. The intense pinkness of Miss Thermal had moved up next to the gate, although she still seemed to be sleeping along with her small colt. It was difficult to think of her as some sort of dangerous guard, except for the breastplate and the armored shoes. It was far easier to think of her as some sort of pegasus of the evening, calling out invitations from open windows.

“I’m really glad Equestria isn’t hostile,” admitted Doug. “Humanity is a little proactive about such things. We’re like children shouting, ‘I hit him back first.’”

Cheerilee stifled a chuckle into her fetlock. “Been there. Heard that.” Her expression evened out while still watching the mixed collection of children playing. “After what I’ve heard from the other humans, I have to admit that I’m glad Princess Celestia doesn’t intend on setting up any permanent exchange here. Your history doesn’t show a very high regard for human tribes with inferior technology who have natural resources you want.” She stomped one hoof against the ground, kicking up a small puff of dust. “All across your world, tribes have owned land, had it taken from them, and taken from the takers, all the way back to the first humans. Mrs. Bruener let me see some of your textbooks and talked about it with me.”

“Historians see all the bad things,” said Lucky abruptly. “Children see all the good. Those kids out there don’t care about natural resources, or global conflicts. They just want to enjoy what’s left of today… and Sweetie Belle is looking somewhere she shouldn’t be looking. Miss Cheerilee, do you want to explain what a gelding is to the children, please?”

All of the adults at the fenceline turned their attention to a welcome distraction, as a loud cheer echoed in the distance from the direction of the pony encampment.

“And that would be the portal,” said Doug, pulling out his phone and looking at it for the first time in several hours. To be honest, it was self-defense, because if he had been responding to the constant string of text messages from State, he never would have been able to carry out his responsibilities. “Strange, I was supposed to get an alert from General Hackmore when it opened.”

“He could just be distracted.” Lucky shrugged his little filly into the foal carrier and turned to trot away, closely followed by Miss Thermal, who had shifted almost instantly from sleeping to alertness while doing nearly the same foal-stuffing maneuver for her own foal. “Just leave the children play while I go check it out. I’ll call you either way on the cellular telephone.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:20 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Sir?” There was a tug on General Hackmore’s dress slacks leg, caused by a fairly innocuous young colt with big turquoise eyes. Since the diplomats on the distant stage had long since been replaced by projected speeches from Very Important People Around The World Giving Passing Words of Support To The Alien Visitors, Hackmore was more than willing to give the paint-speckled alien kid a little attention, and knelt down carefully so he would not wind up with grass stains on the knees of his dress blues.

“Yes, son?” he started, taking a fairly educated guess about the young creature’s gender. “Did you need me to find your parents?”

“Actually, I wanted to show you my painting, sir.”

Hackmore could remember the little thing watching when he had visited Four-One yesterday, particularly since he had to chide the tank crew for letting two of the unicorns look around inside what was supposed to be a secure area. Still, the littlest one, Ripple if he remembered the name right, had been so tickled about seeing the turbine opened up, or at least as far as it could be without a crane, that she had not let anybody get a word in edgewise. Specialist Grace had been much easier to deal with, despite the difficulty they had getting her pulled back out of the interior with two of the crew lifting and one pushing.

And through it all, the little creamy tan earth pony had just sat nearby and watched, like a bump on a log.

“Oh, you made a painting of my soldiers, did you? What’s your name?” Hackmore chuckled. With luck, he would be able to keep this one and stick it on the refrigerator door at home for his wife to see. It would make a nice souvenir to show the grandkids, and far easier to explain than the knife that kept reappearing in his pocket whenever he left it somewhere.

“Turpentine, sir. And it’s not quite done,” hedged the little pony.

“I don’t see why that would be a problem,” said Hackmore, standing up. “Let’s go look at it,” he added with the unspoken relief of getting away from bloviating politicians for a few minutes. He followed behind the little pony as he trotted across the farmyard, which brought up another question.

“I don’t see your little friends,” said Hackmore, looking around the crowd.

“They went to see Champion, sir. I… um… We snuck up and saw it yesterday. That’s what made me so slow with your painting. I had to paint it after we stayed up late last night with Grace to watch Patton on the television.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Hackmore let out a sigh of relief as he passed into the cool air conditioning of the old Bruener home, and picked up a glass of fresh lemonade from the nice earth pony couple who had been spending almost their entire visit in the kitchen there. “Thank you, Mrs. Cake.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” The chubby earth pony mare put a leg out to stop Turpentine before he could pass, and waited until the colt got a smaller glass of lemonade and drank it all. “Any word on the portal yet, Mister Hackmore?”

“Not yet. I’m sure they’ll tell us when it shows.” He finished his lemonade and placed the tupperware glass in the sink before asking, “Are your twins with the other kids?”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Cake managed the job of talking while using a potholder in his mouth to remove a muffin tin from the stove, then slip a second tin in to cook, a process which still boggled Hackmore. “Apple Bloom said they were all going somewhere together for an educational experience. One of the guards was with them,” he added, giving the bottom of the muffin tin a solid thump with one hoof. The hot muffins arched across the room, and Mrs. Cake was underneath them, holding a large, towel-lined bowl, into which every muffin fell perfectly.

Well, except for one snapped out of the air by a rapidly passing grey pegasus, which was a sight that General Hackmore would never get used to.

“This way, General Greg,” said the little pony as he clattered across the linoleum floor and ascended the staircase around the corner. From the racket, Hackmore guessed that the old house would have been quite lived-in and cosy when Bruener’s father had been raising four children, or more put in modern terms, cramped. As he followed the pony up the narrow wooden stairs, which creaked beneath his weight, he could tell the amount of work the ponies had put into remodeling in just a few days. The air still held the scent of drying paint, the wooden steps glowed with new varnish and fresh non-stick strips, and the bedroom that he walked into at the top of the stairs…

This was Kansas. This was not an oceanside house. There was most certainly no underwater beach spread out below, an impossibly blue sky above, and fish swimming around at just under chin level. The repainted bedroom shimmered just like the underwater grotto it was obviously meant to depict, a happy place that any mermaid would have been overjoyed to make her home, right down to the swirl of bedcovers on the twin bed that seemed like some sort of aquatic nest.

He had a sudden and almost unstoppable urge to hold his breath and swim for the surface, except for the little colt from before who just kept walking forward to an easel in front of the window.

“Missus Bruener loaned me her painting stuff, but I wasn’t able to get your noses quite right with her brushes,” he said. “I’d like you to have it as a thank-you gift when we leave, although not everything is painted yet. It’s a good start, I suppose.”

Hackmore pried his eyes away from his painted ‘underwater’ surroundings and the beautiful fish swimming through green water weeds so he could look down at the easels where the young painter had been hard at work on several other projects. Among the damp canvases drying in his vicinity was a painting of a chestnut gelding who looked so real he might have been able to step into the room through the beams of evening sunlight and gallop away.

Or swim. Hackmore had still not been able to convince his hindbrain that he was not actually underwater, and he kept trying to hold his breath. It didn’t help that the main painting, a larger one that filled the whole knee-high easel literally took his breath away.

On the surface, it was an intensely good representation of Four-One out across the road, which he could probably see if he looked out the porthole. Err, window. The only thing was in addition to several Equestrian guards and the four crewmen lounging on the top of their tank, with General Hackmore chatting between them, there was… something concealed in the trees and shaping the clouds that kept catching his eye the longer he looked at it. Soldiers dressed in Confederate grey and Union blue. Two generals that could only be Patton and Montgomery squabbling over a map while Erwin Rommel in his dress field greys waited patiently. An ancient Sherman tank, battered and scarred flying a Confederate flag nearly concealed behind a cloud. An anti-tank gun dug into the Kansas scrub brush and camouflaged to help the M1A2 with its duty. The faint V of Equestrian pegasi in antique armor flying high above. And worse, the painting still had empty spaces where other enticing details had been sketched in, but not complete.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff would have paid a mint for it. The Smithsonian would have matched them, and pulled rank. The little pony had just offered it to Hackmore for free. There was only one thing he had to do first.

“Thank you, Turpentine. I’m honored. Let me make a call.” Hackmore got out his SMPED and dialed a number he had memorized by now.

“Hello, Lieutenant Comena. This is General Hackmore. You’ve turned my world on ear so many times this last week that I thought it would only be appropriate to return the favor. Come over to the Bruener’s old house, up on the second floor. Turpentine and I have something to show… What’s that noise in the background?”

The sound of loud cheering filled the room from outside, and Hackmore moved to look out of the window.

“Well, that’s something I didn’t expect,” he murmured.

25. Only a Minor Technical Glitch

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Only a Minor Technical Glitch

“Just as planned.”
― Yagami Raito, Death Note

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:00 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Mister Bruener?” The polite pony had caught Jon during one of his trips back and forth between the impromptu stage against the back of his seed warehouse and his house, since there always seemed to be something that he needed to do in the other place when he was in the one. The State Department had set up their organizational mess in a mix of the TV station vans and the Army communication vehicles that had displaced all of the RVs into yet another field, so he was starting to feel a little surrounded, outnumbered, and a visitor at his own home.

“Ah, Miss… Golden Harvest?” asked Jon, who was getting better at identifying the more common ponies around the farmyard. Some of them were still comfortably waiting in Randolph, mixed in with the townsfolk and enjoying a little less of the Fifth Estate’s attention than the supposed landing spot of the second alien portal, i.e. somewhere out in his back yard. “Can I help you?”

“Well, we’re going home soon, and you’ve been so good to us,” she started, nodding her head along with her words, which made her bright orange mane bob. “So a number of us wanted to give you a going away present. We hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Jon. “There’s been more presents around here than Christmas. The Bricks have gotten that plumbing problem fixed in our new house, and my wife gave them my whole collection of DeWalt tools as thanks. Spike was interested in my son’s old comic book collection, and I haven’t even figured out where we stored the box yet. And…” He hesitated, but decided to ask anyway. “Do you have any idea why Lyra wanted all of the kids’ GI Joe and Barbie dolls?”

Golden Harvest shrugged. “It’s Lyra. If we wondered about all the things she does, we wouldn’t have any time left in the day. Anyway, it’s around the other side of the house. Since you had a garden, and your wife said it was okay, we went ahead and did a few things to make it work better.”

Once he came around the side of the house and looked, Jon had to wonder what ‘more than a few things’ would have looked like. Perhaps a greenhouse.

The stubby rows of okra plants had been transformed into four times as many rows, each of which was coming up in full bloom with tiny okra pods starting to set on like mad, while the tomato cages seemed to be much like zoo cages, holding back the vibrant tomatoes from bursting out all over the lawn. Peas, beans, and of all things, several thick rows of carrots occupied a section of ground that had not held anything more than scrubby weeds and a few stones, while the raspberry bush around the old mulberry tree had expanded enough to double its original space, plus some.

And all around the garden were little kneeling pads, or nametags, or colorful sprinkler hose holders, like Better Home and Gardens had assaulted his yard with an unlimited budget and a penchant for pastel paint. And a half-dozen pastel ponies looking expectantly at him.

“This is Junebug, and my cousin Carmel Apple, and Carmel, of course. And over there behind the dill is Holiday and Berryshine—”

“The pickles aren’t going to be ready for the going-away party!” called out the smaller of the two, a pale mulberry-colored mare who was almost nose-down into a clump of cucumber vines with the other pony gently patting her on the shoulder. “It’s all going to be ruined!”

“And Cherry Berry,” continued his guide, who then looked around. “Where’s Cherry?”

All of the ponies pointed to Jon’s old Montmorency cherry tree, which had just about been ready to harvest when the first pony had fallen from the sky. It looked as if the tree had been mostly gone over by now, but he didn’t see any buckets. He did see a darker mulberry-colored pony quite near the top of the tree, wrapped around one of the branches tight enough that he was concerned about prying her loose when the portal finally opened.

“She’s a little stressed about the way she got here,” said Golden Harvest in a low voice that should not have carried all the way to the tree-top mare. But it obviously did.

“I’m perfectly fine with flying!” she shouted from her perch. “Give me a balloon or an airplane or even a hang glider, and I’ll fly that thing anywhere! I’m not okay with falling! And I’m not coming down until Princess Twilight shows up right here and apologizes! Or I run out of cherries,” she added in an aside.

“That’s… um… impressive,” managed Jon, turning his attention back to the leafy garden. “But if all of you go home in about an hour, I don’t think between the wife and me, we’re going to be able to eat that many beans.”

All of the ponies gave out a short laugh, with Golden Harvest tucking a part of her bright orange mane back and looking up at him. “Really?” she asked. “Twilight Sparkle getting her spell right the first time?”

“I’ve got my bits down on four tries,” called out Caramel Apple.

“She’s really good when she’s under pressure,” admitted Caramel in a masculine musical tenor that made Jon itch with jealousy. “When she’s got time to get all stressed, not so much.”

“Now stop it, all of you,” chided Holiday. “She’s a darling young mare. We wouldn’t be here without her. It’s not quite the location she wanted, but it’s a far sight from where you all would have been without her, right?”

“How many attempts do you have your bet on?” asked Jon out of instinct.

“Two,” admitted Holiday. “And I don’t mind the time off one bit. You humans have been nothing but polite, and our Scootaloo has been having the time of her life.” There was a rising of crowd noise from the impromptu stage in the distance, and Jon craned his neck to see what was going on.

“Come on, girls!” called out Holiday as she sped off in that direction, followed by the rest of the equine gardners. “That’s got to be Spike with Twilight’s announcement!”

Jon shook his head and followed along, after grabbing several of the pea pods for snacking. At least if the portal was a no-show, he would have vegetables for his guests this evening. Maybe the ponies staying at his house would like some creamed peas with fried okra and fresh green beans for dinner.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:10 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Years of military training had left Nick Comena highly resistant to boredom. That included two deployments to the ‘sandbox’ where being bored was highly preferred to the alternative, plus the training that was required to hold the treasured position of Lieutenant. As an officer in a public display, it was his job to prevent any underlings from likewise succumbing to the dreaded disease of sloth, or at least not anywhere the surrounding VIPs could see. Thus he found himself standing at a variant of Parade Rest on a little tuft of trampled grass in the very back of the Official Announcement Audience, wondering if he and the rest of the primary crew of Four-One could be replaced by some cardboard cutouts.

The ‘Birds of a Feather’ tendency of the military assisted in his thoughts. With all the other military branches around him, they were going to need a lot of cardboard.

“Hey, boss. You in?” Corporal Rick Frey ambled over with a red Solo cup full of ice water for his superior officer and arranged himself so his back was toward the television cameras, just in case one of them panned the crowd again and caught them being social. Each of the military branches had their own little cluster of Dress Uniform (Class A) peer groups, even the Coast Guard who had sent three of their officers down from Topeka. Just why the Coast Guard had an office in Topeka, Kansas was something he didn’t want to think about.

“Depends,” said Nick. “You deflecting a diplomat in my direction, or another reporter all hot to trot about my horse-girlfriend?”

“One of the ponies has been asking about you,” said Rick. “The reporters have been easy. The boys have just been looking at them like their heads are on backwards and asking, ‘Is this the same pony Lieutenant Comena met for about a minute back on Friday?’ Then if they ask any more, we tell them to go talk to Pumpernickel. We don’t hear any more after that.” Rick looked thoughtful. “Maybe he eats them.”

“Ah, there you are.” A smallish white pony mare with the most enticing violet eyes sauntered up to Nick and Rick, giving a little toss of her head in a forlorn attempt to get her golden blonde mane out of her eyes. “So glad to finally meet you, sir.”

“Lieutenant Comena,” said Nick, sticking out his hand and bending down a little. “And this is my loader on Four-One, Corporal Frey.”

“Sunspot,” said the cheerful mare, giving the outstretched hand a brisk hoofshake that betrayed the strength that Nick was starting to expect from her kind of pony. “I just have a few minutes, and I wanted to check something with you. In the event Twilight Sparkle doesn’t manage to open the portal to Equestria today, do you see any problems if her little ponies were to remain here for a week or two more?”

“That’s above my pay grade,” started Nick, “but if I had to hazard a guess, the locals would be overjoyed to show them around the state for months, and the President would do backflips of joy if he could get a photo-op out of it. Speaking for myself, the extra pay is pretty sweet,” he added, trying to put as casual a face on his words as possible. The pony’s name was not familiar, but there was something else… off about this pony, an attitude of altitude that you only got from hobnobbing with the rich and famous on a regular basis. Every word was crisp and pronounced with care, and her every step like a ballet. Maybe she was a dancer of some sort?

“Nick!” Another one of his tank crew, Corporal Liam it seemed, was striding in his direction with that distinctly Army bearer-of-bad-news expression and a cell phone clutched in one hand. “Lieutenant,” he added once he got closer and practically shoved the android phone into Nick’s hands. “You gotta see this.”

“A little busy right now with our guest,” started Nick, although the expression on Liam’s face made him at least look at the phone in the sincere hope that it wasn’t yet another piece of pony porn from his Kansas City ‘marefriend.’

“The cellular internet here is blown to hell with all the people around,” continued Corporal Liam in a rapid patter, “so I got Mrs. Bruener to let me use their wi-fi password to upload a quick video of Lyra juggling tomatoes for my mother. She said the ponies up in Kansas City got into a fight with the FBI. The video has been all over the internet.”

“Holy motherfucking crap,” murmured Nick as he watched the low-resolution video. “That Rose guard just walked over an FBI agent with a taser. Made him shoot himself.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Liam, who was practically dancing by shifting his weight from one foot to another.

A few minutes later, Nick had to agree. When the lights went out in the FBI office, he expected… well, it was difficult to say what he expected. Having the lights come on later to see men tossed around the room like dolls and one of them needing to be removed from the rafters was really not a great surprise. At least that poor crippled pony from the hospital seemed to be headed back in this direction, even if Nick had not seen her arrive yet.

“What fucking moron planned that disaster?” Nick rewound the video clip and expanded the scene, feeling at least token relief that none of the taser-carrying idiots were Army. That good feeling went away instantly when he felt the tug of a pony hoof at his pants leg, caused by the smallish earth pony mare that he had just plain forgotten about.

“Pardon me, sir,” she asked with a smile, “may I see that?”

He should have stalled, since the ponies were supposed to go home very shortly. Nick sat down in the grass instead and touched the playback. The smallish mare did not seem concerned by the fight, but actually giggled at the end where the guardspony was walking through the defeated FBI agents, checking for injuries.

“Oh, my.” Sunspot passed the phone back up to him, then helped Nick stand up. “Well, it looks like things are well in hoof. I had better get back to work. Thank you, Lieutenant Comena. Carry on.”

After watching the white mare head out through the crowd, dodging and weaving so smoothly that she might not have even bumped into a single one of them, Nick gave the phone back to his loader. “Liam, I thought ponies were about as weird as they could get. I’ve changed my mind. They’re weirder.”

“They certainly have their little idiosyncrasies,” said a sexy voice by his left ear.

Nick took a step backward when he turned, otherwise he would have been nose-to-nose with an African goddess, or at least what passed for one in the state of Kansas. Due to her gold-rimmed sunglasses, he only got a peek at her entrancing eyes, a pale blue in stark contrast to her dark features, and her subdued smile made his heart skip a beat. She most certainly was not one of the reporters, because the jeweled necklace and matching hairband she was wearing probably could have purchased a Lexus, the dark silk pantsuit would have purchased a chauffeur, and each one of those diamond earrings was probably worth a private jet. For a moment, he thought she might be one of the foreign diplomats or VIPs, but dismissed that idea because their attention was exclusively on the four-legged guests.

“I just wanted to meet the fine young man who has been in the news lately with that rather odd pony,” said the mysterious woman. “Good evening, Lieutenant Comena.”

Nick managed to make a stammering noise. Liam faded away in the direction of the rest of the tank crew, looking much like he was taking cover from social artillery fire. The dark woman ran one finger up Nick’s cheek, placed her hand against his chin, and turned his face to the left so she could look at his profile.

“A handsome military man,” she mused. “No wonder Goose has fallen under your spell.”

“We met for all of about a minute back on Friday,” protested Nick in reflex.

“And yet you made such an impact in that short time,” she purred, then gave Nick a gentle pat on the cheek. “Do be careful with her.”

By the time Nick was capable of sapient thought again, the dark woman was striding off in the direction of the diplomats, where the press and ponies were mixing in equal measure. In moments, she was lost to his sight, and when he turned to see where the smallish white pony had gone, there was no sign of her either.

“What in the world was that about?” murmured Nick, brushing his cheek and trying to place the elusive scent of jasmine that remained.

“Can’t say, sir.”

The voice was unmistakably one of the Equestrians, although it had a friendly James Earl Jones quality to it in the daylight. Thankfully for Nick’s nerves, this was a problem that he was far more willing to deal with. Optio Pumpernickel was drawn up next to Nick’s inseam, much like a well-trained Rottweiler, with that same grim expression that seemed to have been frozen on his face at the moment of conception.

His poor, poor mother.

“What can I do you for, Optio?” asked Nick. “Did Grace get stuck in Four-One again?”

“I checked there already. It is nearly time for Princess Twilight Sparkle to open the return portal, and we are unable to locate Specialist Grace,” said the stern batpony. “She is not responding to her communication system, and—”

“She’s in the house,” said Nick, getting out his phone and breathing an internal sigh of relief. “Said she had some last-minute research to do on the Bruener’s computer, so she probably tossed her cover to one side while typing. By the way, why do the military ponies always drag all their problems to me?”

The hefty dark pegasus made as if he were going to respond, paused to think for a time, then shrugged. “I suppose because you answer questions instead of sending us to somepony else or trying to duck the issue. You’re like a princess in that regard, I suppose.”

Nick hesitated with the intent of countering the accusation, but he had already hit speed-dial, so he just pushed speakerphone when Grace answered.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m busy. Someone has posted something wrong on the human’s internet, and I have to fix it!”

“Time check, Specialist,” said Nick, trying to sound as much like an officer as he could. “Princess Twilight is about to open the portal, and you’re nowhere to be found.”

“But… they’re wrong?” came the weak protest over the speakerphone, followed by a brief sigh and the sound of armor being put on. “I’ll be there in two minutes,” she continued. “I’m just glad we’re going home. Over.”

To the prim and proper unicorn’s credit, it was probably fairly close to the estimated time when Grace made her appearance out in the yard, slightly ruffled and smelling just slightly like sweaty horse. She briskly trotted up to Pumpernickel, gave the dark batpony a sharp salute, and asked, “Where’s Lucky?”

“Keeping out of trouble with one of the diplomats,” said Nick before his laconic four-legged counterpart could say anything. “Tank crew reported that Thermal took the kids across the road just after noon, and I saw Clover with them, so they’re not underfoot here. Wish I could have gone with them,” he added under his breath.

“Goose is bringing Widget back by the long route,” said Pumpernickel. He produced a flip-phone from under one wing and passed it over to Grace, who promptly flipped it open. “It seemed a fair precaution, since they were unable to fly back, and Claire Bruener has been sending updates whenever they stop to look around. Missus Bruener added me to the electron mail group when I asked.”

“Unacceptable.” The emerald-green unicorn’s stiff upper lip could have been turned to stone for as much emotion she put into her words. “The citizens are not prepared to return by Princess Twilight Sparkle’s portal when it is opened, and Goose’s charge is not here yet.”

“Goose,” said the dark batpony with just the slightest menace, “is making friends.”

There was an obvious context here that Nick was not catching, made only worse when Pumpernickel added, “She flew today. Indoors, and with a human on her back, but she flew. Missus Bruener sent her mother a picture of the three of them outside, all in some sort of cowpony hats.”

Both of Grace’s ears twitched, and Nick could see a tremor travel down her neck, across her back, and down to her flanks. With a sudden jolt, he realized that the officious unicorn was the subordinate, and Pumpernickel was above her on the chain of command. Not at the top, because Sergeant Hardhooves had that position, standing up near the front of the stage with Mayor Mare and Spike. Still, ‘Optio’ when fed into Google a few days ago turned out to be a Latin term that must have translated out by the Equestrian spell for the lack of any directly related English title. It roughly meant “Executive Officer in charge of something” and from the way Grace retreated from her position with less than perfect grace, he did not normally exercise that authority.

A big hammer, used only when needed. Like a tank. I think I like him.

“Just relax, Specialist Grace,” said Nick in his most soothing voice. “All of the ponies seem to have any souvenirs packed up and ready to go—” he could not help but look at the distant RV parking area where Trixie was negotiating furiously with what could only be the owner of a purple and white Winnebago “—or at least the ones they can carry. If Widget gets back a little late, I’ll bet the Brueners will spoil her rotten until that second portal that they’ve been talking about gets opened for the old mare up in Kansas City. Then they both can go home, just as slick as it gets. Nothing is going to go wr—”

Both of the ponies promptly kicked him in the shins, thankfully with enough restraint that his legs were not broken, just extremely painful, and Nick barely managed to avoid falling down.

“Don’t use that phrase around Ponyvillians,” hissed Grace.

“It brings out giant stellar bears and Cutie Mark Crusaders,” said Pumpernickel with a shudder.

They were not supposed to sit down until the ponies had gone home, but Nick dragged himself over to a nearby empty lawn chair and collapsed to rub his legs anyway. The rest of his military peers a few feet away maintained a respectful social distance, perhaps to avoid getting kicked in the shins also.

“Jesus,” managed Nick while rubbing his legs.

“Sorry,” said Pumpernickel. Grace remained silent.

“You know,” started Nick once he got to the point where he did not need profanity, “if I’m ever deployed to your lovely country, I might not ever unbutton the tank. You say our world is crazy dangerous? This whole town lives on the edge of a monster-infested swamp, has god-level disasters sweep over it every month or two, and they’re still a bunch of cheerful, singing, bouncing…” Running out of adjectives, he just rubbed his shins for a while and watched the televised overseas politician projected onto the white-painted concrete of the Bruener seed warehouse.

After a certain amount of time where Pumpernickel remained perfectly immobile, much like a statue, Grace moved closer and made no objection when Nick scratched her behind the ears, keeping his hand low so if one of the TV cameras covering the event swung in their direction, it would be covered by her positioning and therefore not look too bad.

“To be honest, this is my first deployment where I’ve been scratching the ears of our allied military units,” he admitted. “You don’t want to know what kind of hanky-panky goes on between units in some of the places I’ve been.”

“Then you don’t want to know what has been going on in some of the RVs over the last few days,” countered Grace instantly. “I do not understand just why Claire Bruener takes such joy in implying you are somehow romantically linked with one of our Night Guard. You are completely different species, after all.”

“Troublemaking kids like to tease each other.” Nick inched his fingers forward to scratch around the base of her horn much like Grace seemed to want. “Thank God I don’t have any. Do you have any children, Grace?”

After a long, long pause that included cursory applause from the audience as one tele-projected diplomat on screen replaced another one, Grace managed, “We have begun negotiations in that regard.” It was so funny that Nick almost burst out laughing, made only worse by the way the immobile Pumpernickel ever so slowly pivoted one ear in their direction. In order to maintain his composure, Nick switched topics.

“I know you’re upset that the civilians aren’t all lined up and ready to go, ma’am. In this case, I think you need to sit back just like you’re doing now and relax. I served under a colonel once who told me ninety percent of leadership in a troublesome situation is just looking like everything is going the way it should.”

“The other ninety percent is planning,” she said.

“Yeah, like your town planned to be dropped into another dimension full of humans,” scoffed Nick. “They’re doing pretty well, regardless. I think if a town full of humans were dropped into your world, half of them would have gone through a mental breakdown by now.”

He took a moment to watch a barking pony gallop past, followed by a brown dog that was all big paws and floppy ears, then an older huffing pegasus with glasses and a form-fitting shirt who was obviously trying to get them under control.

“How could you tell,” droned Grace in what certainly was not a question.

“Shh,” cautioned Nick. “It looks like Spike is having a fit up there on stage.”

It was a fortuitous coincidence. The dragon was trying to get Mayor Mare’s attention, eventually winding up giving her a solid poke while continuing to gag and choke on… whatever he was doing. The ponies did not seem too concerned, although when the mayor grabbed onto the microphone and announced that Spike was having a brief fire issue since Twilight Sparkle had been sending so many updates today, and if anypony had an extra gem or two, she would be more than happy to pay them back later. A few colorful rocks later, the dragon finally gave out a weak puff of flame, and a scroll dropped onto the stage.

“Finally,” rasped Spike. He picked up the scroll and unrolled it while muttering something under his breath, then read for a short while as the crowd grew silent and the mayor held the microphone closer to him for the expected announcement.

“Uh-oh,” he said, and there was a solid ‘whump’ from all around Nick as every pony threw themselves flat, except for the military ones who were looking up into the sky and scanning for threats, and three young mares who had curled up around each other and were wailing something about the horror, the horror.

“No, not that!” said Spike with a waving gesture from one clawed hand that shook the scroll free of a few drops of something sticky. “It’s just there’s custard on the scroll, and that means Starlight has been helping with the spell, and that means she’s having trouble with it because Twilight doesn’t like to ask for help. It’s probably nothing,” he added while reading.

“That’s good to hear,” said the mayor, standing back up and moving smoothly to the center of the stage. “Now, when the portal forms, I would like you to all form an orderly line without any pushing or shoving. I’m certain the Princess has customs waiting for us on the other side, so that means no agricultural products such as fruits or vegetables, and any seeds will have to be surrendered to the Royal Agricultural Division for examination. This is your last chance to get photographs of your human sponsors, and—”

“Uh… Mayor?” said Spike, still looking down at the scroll. “Twilight can’t get the portal open until at least two weeks from now, our time.”

The mayor said something in the musical pony-language that Nick was certain could not be repeated in polite company.

There was a very long silence over the accumulated ponies.

Then a bright red blur as Sizzler jumped straight up, declared “My roast!” at the top of his lungs, and darted in the direction of the old Bruener house, closely followed by a small brown colt wearing a propeller beanie and making remarkable speed for his size.

“To Azeroth!” he shouted. “Hang on, fellow warriors! We shall raid the depths of the citadel, and Archimonde shall fall! For the Horde!!”

The mayor watched their departure, blinked once, then turned back to the waiting crowd.

“Looks like we’ve got a few weeks to spend here. Any suggestions?”

Author's Note

The Coast Guard station in Topeka is a Pay and Personnel station. Don’t dis the people who sign your checks. Besides, even in the worst case scenario of Global Climate Change, Topeka ain’t getting flooded by either ocean. The DeBeers scene and the Congress scene got pushed to the next chapter, as well as Green Gardenia, since this was getting long.

Also, custard courtesy of Starlight Repeatedly Teleports Into Custard by Loganberry, part of the Custardverse.

26. Wrong Number

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Wrong Number

“If you think this Universe is bad, you should see some of the others.”
― Philip K. Dick

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:30 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Jon was about ready for anything when he came around the corner of the old house.

Anything except for ponies line-dancing.

The sound system was blaring You Can Depend On Me by Restless Heart while about a hundred ponies strutted their four-legged stuff, matched by most of the diplomats and press. Some of the humans had the wide-eyed expression of somebody who had never line danced before, and could not figure out just how they were doing it now, but Jon had been there for the ponies’ first party, so he understood far too well. This time, he was determined not to join in. If he wound up dancing, he would inevitably begin singing too, and that would bring a swift end to the festivities.

There were days he really wished he could sing on key. Or anywhere near the keyring, to be honest.

And after looking over the celebration, he had sympathy for the DJ, who somebody had tied up with about a mile of rope and perched on a chair. He never really got the impression that the white unicorn was a country music fan, and the cowboy-hat wearing pony manning… um, crewing the soundbooth seemed to be doing just fine on his or her own. Still, there was no reason Jon could not enjoy the party for a while, and shoot a minute or two of cell phone footage for his own records.

The western music selection was probably due to a few representatives from the upcoming Country Stampede down at Tuttle, who had been around for the last day or two, since many of the port-a-potties had been ‘borrowed’ from the upcoming festival, and many of the rural ponies loved country music. And pop music. And techno music. And he could have sworn he heard several of them practicing Gregorian chants last night. The hoof-stomping activity was a fair indication that the ponies were going to be around for a few more days, and they were taking their crushing disappointment in stride.

“Excuse me?” A young golden earth pony with a curly mane that made her appear somewhat like an odd peach looked up at Jon from around the corner of the old house. To be honest, the coil of rope over her shoulder was not what made him hesitate to respond. It was her voice, an absolute beautiful contralto much like the rest of the ponies, only with a strange hitch to it.

“Can I help you… Daisy?” he guessed, only partially because of the flower on her flank, and mostly because he remembered her from the ponies’ first party as the one who was holding back, watching the rest of the singers. Although she had not been carrying a rope at that time.

“I was just checking to make sure you were not going to sing along this time,” she said.

“And… um… The rope?”

“To make sure you were not going to sing along this time,” explained Daisy. “The town’s been stressed pretty hard by all of your press and the television cameras today, and a little singing number will help. And if it gets out of hoof—” she shrugged “—I’ll join in and stop it.” She squinted up at him, then shook her head. “Never mind. Just… try not to sing.”

Jon watched her trot off, considering that it only made sense for a race who seemed to break into song so easily to have some sort of way to put on the brakes. Although it was a little offensive to think she would just tie him up to stop him, as if he would not pay attention to a simple request. He stopped tapping one toe and focused on just how disappointed all the ponies looked back on Friday. It helped.

The trotting mare passed the familiar scroungy green form of Lucky headed his way, with the strange little foal on his back waving her hooves to the music while her father bounced along, looking as happy as he always did.

Somepony is going to get so spoiled rotten here that her mother will never let her go hopping across dimensions again.

“Hi, Jon.” Lucky came to a relative halt in front of the human, although he continued to dip and sway with the music. “Doesn’t sound like a going away song.”

“Probably not,” agreed Jon. “Oh, let me grab the little dickens before she wriggles free.” Tiny green limbs had nearly gotten the last strap undone when Jon swept in and bounced the little alicorn up. Thankfully, he remembered to keep a good grip on one hind leg or the buzz of miniscule wings would have let Clover continue an upward trajectory. “She’s really learning how to use those flappers.”

“Yes, she is. It’s getting harder to keep her under wraps.” Lucky yawned and stretched, looking back in the direction of the crowd. “Ah, and here comes the main wrapper herself.”

Jon tucked the foal under one arm and tickled her tummy, which was something that never grew old. He had come to the conclusion that plain simple Clover was something special almost at first sight, or at least when his wife brought his attention to the tiny golden crown buried deep in her tangled violet curls when it was baby bathtime. From there, it was a short dotted line back to her mother, the princess who had sent most of Ponyville on their inadvertent vacation.

And her extraordinarily unprincelike father.

“Grace!” said Lucky with a short set of steps to one side. “Why aren’t you out dancing with— Ouch!”

The impassive green unicorn nearly did not break stride as she passed Jon, calling over her shoulder, “Mister Bruener, please bring Clover.”

“Ow! Hey, where are we going?” asked Lucky, who was walking nearly sideways with a green glow around one ear, much like a disobedient student being towed by a magical nun.

“Your wife is incapable of opening a second portal to this blighted place,” growled Grace as she increased her pace. “A simple task for anypony who can replicate Starswirl’s Universal Portal Transmogrifier. It is the most cross-verified spell ever created. I could teach Snails how to cast it given enough time and patience.”

Jon maintained his speed while following them, to Clover’s bouncing joy. For some reason it seemed like Grace’s path was cutting around the crowd to the other side of the seed barn. The military ponies had asked his permission to store some of their things securely in there, and since the insides of the barn were not being used, Jon had agreed. So far, the locked sliding door had kept any other ponies from poking their noses into the fairly empty storage area beyond.

The lock turned out to be less of an obstacle than he expected. Grace did not even pause as green magic surrounded the metal door, the padlock popped off, and the door slid open the bare distance for her to squeeze through, followed by her involuntary prisoner. From inside the seed barn, he could still hear the muted sounds of the ponies outside, and the throbbing of Shut up and dance with me that started up on the heels of the cowboy line dance.

There was some light coming through the plexiglass skylights in the metal roof, but he flipped on the light anyway so the dim green glow of Grace’s horn would not throw creepy shadows around the empty barn and he would not trip on the extra spears or stored aluminum chariots stacked to one side. The unicorn came to a halt at the concrete back wall of the barn, released Lucky’s ear, and began to trace lines of bright green magic across the concrete, muttering all the while.

“Celestia is toying with your wife! There is no way a princess can be this blithering incompetent. All it takes is a mere matching spell to tie the far end of the portal to a world that resonates with our magical signature. A foal could cast this.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure Princess Celestia has been here before,” said Lucky, giving his ear a rub to get some circulation back. “I was talking with Secretary Franz, and there are odd parallels in their history here and there for centuries.”

“You can’t possibly think Her Highness slips over to this world on weekends,” snapped Grace, not turning away for one moment from her inscribing of green lines all over Jon’s concrete wall. If the lines remained after the ponies all went home, he’d be able to close the door and tell all the tourists that there was nothing to see here. Or charge admission.

“Their Highnesses,” said Lucky. “Luna shows up in several places too. Thankfully, not Cadence.” He shuddered. “I don’t want to know what she’d do with the human’s internet.”

“I don’t care if all three of them use this place as some sort of bordello.” Grace fairly slammed a glowing green line across Jon’s concrete floor almost against the wall, most likely to use as some sort of indication where ponies needed to step up to get over the edge of the portal she was about to create.

“Um… Why make your portal in my barn?” asked Jon, who was making the most of holding the adorable little alicorn foal, since this looked like the last time he was going to be able to entertain extradimensional royalty.

“The rest of the guard flew around and collected all the loose dimensional microfractures from the previous evacuation portals. They’ve been storing them here while they dissipate. The microfractures are not required to make the return portal, but their magic will make the casting easier.”

Grace waved her horn and the intricate drawing she had been making on the concrete wall lit up in glittering lines and sharp points of purple light that made Clover wriggle to get free. Jon tightened his grip instead, and went for the reliable underwing tickle to keep her from getting into trouble.

“If you say so,” said Lucky, who did not seem convinced even while Grace lit her horn up brighter and began to pour magic into the inscription. “Don’t worry, Jon. This should be perfectly safe. Starswirl made most of his released spells idiotproof. The ones he didn’t release are little nutcrackers made of razors and springs. There’s a whole wing of them in the Canterlot Restricted Section.”

For somebody who had never seen any real magic until a few days ago, Jon felt comforted. After all, the swirls and pictographic patterns of the spell on his mundane concrete wall corresponded fairly well to what a lifetime of watching movies and television had convinced his logical mind was what spells should look like. The low thrum of magic that followed and a faint gust of wind that rattled the door behind him only helped reinforce the idea, but when the wall shimmered into a silver barrier, he could no longer hold his tongue.

“It’s a Stargate,” he managed, with what sounded like a strange double-echo.

“No, it’s an ordinary Class One, Single-Phase portal,” said Grace with the same odd echo, reflected in a more base register. “There are no stars involved, and… why does my voice sound that way?”

“It’s not an echo,” said Lucky, looking at the way the portal was shimmering. “It’s like… Oh!” He stopped, put one hoof over his mouth, and proceeded to laugh hysterically.

“It’s not that funny,” sounded a female voice from somewhere in the barn.

Grace obviously did not find it funny either, particularly when the scroungy green stallion called out, “Come on over. Ladies first.”

And another green pony looking much like him stepped through the portal onto Jon’s concrete floor.

The new pony bore obvious parallels to Lucky, from the foal in a carrier on his back to the hat he was wearing over his tangled longer mane, but there were also some obvious differences. The hat was far more ornate and frilly than any male would ever voluntarily wear, and his… that is her body was shaped in a subtly different way, from a rounder and more shapely muzzle to a pair of enlarged teats barely sticking out just where they should be on a horse.

“Greenie!” she declared loudly, moving forward to embrace Lucky. The foal in her carrier likewise gave out a childish coo of joy and wriggled to be free just like the winged unicorn that Jon was holding.

“It’s good to see you again, Gardenia,” said Lucky once he got free of the embrace. “I’d like you to meet Specialist Grace,” he added, waving at the stunned unicorn. “And Jon Bruener.”

“Charmed to meet you, Madam,” said Jon out of reflex. “Are you Lucky’s… um…” The phrase ‘sister’ wanted to come out, but the number of mirrored characteristics between the two ponies and a youth of reading his father’s science fiction books made Jon say, “You’re a mirror universe pony, correct?" He barely kept himself from saying, “Thank god you don’t have a mustache and beard.”

“Your host is as smart as ours,” said Gardenia, taking a step to the side when her foal managed to make it halfway out of her carrier and sprawl upside down, still caught by one hoof. “Here you go, you little vampire. Go say hello to your sister.”

Jon found himself putting Clover down once the other foal had gotten untangled, and both tiny winged unicorns moved toward each other in short erratic steps until they touched noses.

The world did not end in a matter-antimatter explosion. Jon relaxed.

“Clover,” announced Lucky, “meet your brother by another mother… um…”

“Clover,” said Gardenia while wrinkling up her nose. “I swear, Dusk named him. He’s as bad as your Twilight.”

“I was the one who wanted to name ours Clover,” insisted Lucky.

“Goes to show I’m smarter than you,” said Gardenia. She gave a sideways glance at Grace, lifted the befuddled unicorn’s chin so she would not catch flies in her open mouth, then sat down on the concrete floor with a sigh of relief. “Stars, you stallions have it easy. I waddle like I’m still carrying another thirty pounds of baby weight, and Clover’s so fussy with his nursing. I swear he’s going to bite my teats off before we can get him weaned.”

“Now that I can help with.” Lucky shrugged out of his saddlebag carrier and stuck his head into the bag flap to one side, making his voice sound muffled as he continued. “My Twilight was concerned about Clover getting natural milk whenever she and the girls would gallop off to save Equestria, so she used a lactation spell to bottle some spares.”

“Ouch,” said Gardenia. “I know where this is going.” She shrugged out of her own saddlebag and stuck her nose into what had to have been an identical space-folded storage area. “I think I’ve got some shelves free. Jane, can you hand the bottles down while Greenie passes them over?”

“Sure,” said Jon, trying not to think of what his own counterpart looked like on the other side of the portal. At least he was being more useful than Grace, who was just looking back and forth, back and forth, while Jon passed bottles of warm milk from one green pony to another.

“You know, we really need to visit when we have more time,” said Gardenia. “Not tonight. Since the town’s stranded here for a few weeks, I’m going to be busy with the mayor all evening, trying to find some activities to keep everypony out of trouble. Just a couple more bottles and this shelf is going to be full, Greenie.”

“See if you have some space for extras,” said Lucky. “There’s a few foals in our group who may need a little supplementing if the mothers get upset and can’t let down enough milk, so your group probably has that problem too. Stars knows I have enough bottles here.”

“Good point.” Gardenia moved a little further into her saddlebag until only her hips were sticking out. “Ah, I can put them on the empty diaper shelves for now. Keep ‘em coming, Jane. I mean Jon.”

“Just a minute.” The passing of milk bottles had attracted attention, and Jon was unable to resist the mournful hungry expressions on two nearly identical foals. He passed them both bottles, which they promptly held in all four legs while rolling up on their backs and beginning to nurse right there on the concrete floor.

“It’s amazing what you can get used to,” he murmured while passing more warm bottles down to the busy mare.

“Hurgumph,” said Grace, who still had the wide-eyed expression of somebody trying to find sense in a nonsensical place.

In relatively short order, the supplies were packed away, the two ponies were given assistance to get pulled out of their respective xtra-large saddlebags, and Gardenia was checking her mane before stepping back through the portal. Oh, and both cute green foals had been returned to their respective green parents.

“It was nice meeting you, Jon,” she said, giving him a warm hoofshake. “When Grace recovers, make sure you tell her too.”

“I will. Take care, Missus Gardenia.” Jon gave the giggling foal in her carrier a pat on the head. “And you too… Wait a minute.”

It took a moment for Jon to boost the little winged unicorn out of his straps and give a brief rump examination before exchanging the giggling filly for the colt still sitting on the concrete floor with his bottle.

“I have no idea where they get that mischievous streak,” said Lucky, helping to get the right foal buckled back into Gardenia’s carrier.

“I suspect you can find it if you look in a mirror. And hold on there, girl!” Jon snagged the rapidly moving Clover who was trying to sneak around behind them and dart through the portal. “One of you per dimension is probably an upper limit.”

Once Clover was properly restrained (and tickled), Jon watched the otherworldly mare trot through the silvery portal and vanish, then gave Grace a nudge.

“Does that thing have an off switch? Or am I going to have an unexplained door in my barn from now on?”

It took a second poke in the ribs, but Grace eventually blinked several times and lit her horn up, leaving the concrete wall with a few glittering sparks once the portal vanished. Then she turned to Jon, swallowed, and seemed to consider her words.

“I apologize,” suggested Lucky. “I’m sorry I second-guessed you and Princess Twilight, and I promise I won’t do it again unless I really think I need to.”

“And,” added Jon, “I’ll help Lucky keep his little colt entertained this evening when he’s helping scope out the tourism trips with the mayor and—”

“Colt?” Grace’s voice was nearly a raspy squeak, although her momentary startle was offset by a fierce glare moments later. “That wasn’t funny!”

Clover obviously thought it was too. Although Grace checked her behind twice before putting the little filly back into her father’s carrier, and let Lucky guide them on the way out of the barn.

“I’ll just lock up and see you back at the house this evening,” said Jon, leaving the ponies trot off to their fellow four-legged crowd. They were turning out to be excellent guests, because they brought their own unexpected entertainment. It seemed as if they were even going to pay their bill before skipping town, too. To think at one time, he had complained to his wife that the house seemed so empty with all the kids out living their lives.

He had just gotten the padlock put back onto the sliding truck door and was walking back to the house when he happened to glance in the seed barn’s people-door and noticed the green glow from the concrete wall inside. And if Jon noticed, it was inevitable that others would also. In particular, three curious little fillies who were drawn to trouble like magnets to steel, and a simple padlock would not stop them.

“Better tape up the window,” he grumbled, getting out his keys. There was a metal desk inside where he normally sat and dealt with organizing seed tags and patching broken bags, so he slipped in through the door and scrounged around the drawers for some paper to cover the glass.

“We’re going to get caught, Flurry!” The voice from behind him in the empty barn seemed familiar to Jon. He held still when the glowing lines on the wall brightened and a considerable number of ponies began to just step out of the wall with much less glowing and portal-ing than his last dimensional visitor. They were younger ponies, with the youngest being a glasses-wearing unicorn who was alertly looking around in the dim lighting, and the oldest two looking like teenaged alicorns.

“We’ll be fine, Clover,” hissed the taller of the two teens, a pinkish mare with huge wings. She nudged a pair of white pegasi colts forward and began counting noses. “Skystreak, Boomer, Dolce… where did you go, sis?”

“Here,” murmured a small white earth pony with an aggressively pink mane. Even that small amount of attention made her cringe back and hide behind one of the pegasi, who extended a wing protectively over her.

“And Stargazer,” continued the pony that Jon assumed to be Flurry. “Where’s Stargazer?”

“Over here,” sounded a quiet voice from somewhere in the shadows.

“Good,” said Flurry. “Cross Stitch, Clover and Bookworm,” she finished with a stern authoritative nod that looked a little silly on a teenaged filly.

“My name isn’t Bookworm,” said the smallest filly in their group, looking up with her glasses sliding down her nose. The much larger teenaged Clover reached out with her wing and gently bumped the glasses back where they belonged.

“Shh,” she admonished. “You need to be quiet, sis. This is ultra sneaky quiet time. If we get caught, we’ll get into trouble!”

“And we’ll never get another chance to see those monster movies they’ll be showing in the basement tonight,” added Flurry. “Don’t you want to see Frankenstein? Or The Invisible Man?”

“Well…” The little unicorn fidgeted much like she needed to use the little filly’s room. “I did want to see how human cinematography handled lightning back in their early days. And Clover won’t take us to the movie studio.”

“You know I can’t do that, Booky,” hissed Clover. “They’d see us. There’s only so much that Flurry’s spells can disguise us. Since there are ponies here already, this is the only timeperiod that’s safe from paradox.”

“So what if some human saw you tonight?” asked Jon.

There was a very long silence, like a half-dozen young ponies all caught with a hoof in the cookie jar.

“Bust-ed,” sounded a female voice in the shadows.

“Girls,” said Jon before things could get out of hand, “I’ve seen a lot this evening already. All I want to hear from you and your little time-traveling herd is one word. Are you going to get into trouble tonight, watching movies in my basement?”

“No,” said all of the little ponies at the same time that the teenaged Clover said, “Yes. Well, not right now tonight, but we’ll probably get into trouble when we get back because my mother always seems to be able to figure out when we’ve done something against the rules and I don’t think we’re going to have any paradox issues from our trip unless you do something to block Mom’s portal in a few weeks which shouldn’t be an issue because this portion of space-time is already inaccessible to her due to the—”

A pale magenta magical aura formed around Clover’s mouth, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“She says, ‘No.’” Bookworm swallowed and looked up at him with her horn still gently glowing. “Hello, Mister Bruener.”

He smiled back. “Hello unnamed little pony who I haven’t seen and all of your friends likewise. When you get to my house’s basement, all of my Universal monster movies are on the third shelf up, far right side. There’s a number of other young ponies who have been watching movies all last night, so make sure to tell them you have my permission to watch whatever you want off that shelf tonight. Otherwise, I think they’d binge through the fifth season of Game of Thrones by the end of the week.”

Bookworm wrinkled up her nose. “Aunt Sunset says the last season sucked.”

“Booky!” Clover gave her little sister a gentle thwap of a wingtip on top of her head. “What did I tell you about paradox?”

“Sorry.”

Jon opened the door to the barn and watched the group of young ponies happily trot out into the growing twilight, accepting Flurry’s reassurance that they would all be gone by morning and Clover’s earnest promise that nothing at all could possibly go wrong to get anypony in trouble. Bookworm somehow managed to paper over the little window in the barn’s smaller door while he was distracted, and Jon counted noses when all of them were outside, including a slinky teenaged batpony who practically oozed from shadow to shadow.

He was just putting his key into the deadbolt when Jon became aware that the littlest one of them had not trotted away with the rest, but was sitting quietly while waiting for him to finish locking up.

“Is there something I can get you, young lady?” Jon had to bend down quite a ways, since the tiny unicorn was… well, small.

“The movies aren’t too scary, are they?” Bookworm’s eyes flitted back and forth, looking in the growing shadows for possible wolf-men or invisible creatures.

“If you get frightened, you can always come upstairs,” said Jon in his most reassuring voice. “You can snuggle up to my wife and talk about it, since she’s a therapist and used to talking about things that make kids frightened. Or if you just want to read, I’ve got a whole bunch of books in my office.”

That was just the button to press, because Bookworm’s eyes lit up and she gave his face a brief hug with both little forelegs. “Thank you, Mister Bruener!”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:04 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Highway 24, Wamego, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Karla was just starting to relax. It made her tense. Things always happened when she relaxed. It made relaxing difficult. There was a sound of snoring from the back of her SUV where Goose was demonstrating the military’s ability to snatch bits of sleep wherever they could, which seemed to apply to both two- and four-legged branches of the service. Widget was fairly pasted to the window, observing the houses and countryside flowing by with wide-eyed fascination. Her phones were still in the Go-Dark bag, which helped with the relaxation since they were not chirping or ringing every few minutes. And the photographer from the Chronicle was sitting right beside her.

He was a male about her age. He also did not like horror movies. He was intelligent, well-mannered, respectful, and clean-shaven. Unfortunately, he was also carrying a flame for his ex-wife, the controlling influence over his two daughters, the oldest of which had been born just nine years ago.

The good ones are either gay or married. Or both.

“Hey, Karla?” Claire Bruener looked up into the rear-view mirror and caught her eyes. “We’re about to Wamego. Did you want to stop at the Kreem Kup for a drink and maybe some ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” Widget bolted to the seat back separating her from the rear seats and stuck her head forward between Karla and Dakota. “Where?”

“I don’t think we should stop,” said Karla. “The FBI is probably going sparse, and we’ve made so many stops already that we’re way late. You haven’t seen anybody panic like a bureaucrat who isn’t in control of something.”

“Ice cream?” asked Goose Down, who pushed her head right next to Widget’s. “Where?”

“Up ahead,” said Claire. “I’m getting tired of driving into the sun anyway.”

“I’ll drive, then.” Karla stretched, feeling only a minor twinge from her back. “Doctor Down here got my spine all fixed up, so all we need to do is stop and swap.”

“But I want ice cream?” protested Widget.

“I want ice cream too,” said Goose. “And we still have some money left on the cards.”

“No,” insisted Karla, only to have the two ponies start singing in perfect harmony.

♫ The ice cream store, the ice cream store
We want to stop at the ice cream store
Sprinkles and cup cakes and so much more
We want to stop at the ice cream store ♫

“Urk!” managed Karla. Weaponized cuteness at that range and in stereo was dangerous.

Claire turned on the blinker.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:48 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Highway 99, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“We are going to get back in the dark,” mused Karla. She was still in the back seat since Claire knew the roads, and they were going to be taking a shortcut through Westmoreland, a small town that she had never even heard of before.

“The text message from Missus Bruener says we’ve got another two weeks to explore, starting tomorrow morning,” said Widget excitedly. She rubbed up against Karla and left a few long pink hairs behind. “If you took time off from work, you could ride around with us.”

“That would be… nice,” admitted Karla. Since Widget had crawled into the back seat between her and Dakota, the rational part of her mind was working better. The familiar but somehow different scent of laundered horse did a wonderful job of getting her mind straight again. Really, there was only so long a girl could go between nookie when most of the men she met were either way off limits or skeezy scum.

“I still don’t think my boss will let me take off from work,” she continued as a sudden realization made her stomach sink into the floorboards. “Oh, wait. Dakota recorded that little episode in the FBI office, didn’t you? And you sent it to your newspaper. It’s not going to be released for a few weeks, right?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:05 P.M. EST Monday June 22, 2015
Location: The Monocle restaurant, Washington D.C.

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Representatives like to call their colleagues in the Senate ‘The Hundred Kings.’

Senators generally don’t call their colleagues in the House anything. They’re too refined for that.

Republicans don’t talk with Democrats, and vice versa.

They do talk to their polling units. And the polling units talk to everybody. As long as they are registered voters.

Most Representatives and Senators don’t realize their polling units talk to each other.

They just like to keep that part of their job quiet.

So when eight men and three women got together in a private dining room at the Monocle, one of Washington’s most private and exclusive locations, nobody said anything.

At least officially.

Unofficially, they agreed on one simple thing: Nobody was to blame for the video showing the FBI officers trying to strongarm one of the ponies to Washington. One of the young, crippled, pink ponies who could not have had higher poll numbers if she walked on water and healed the sick. Because if there was going to be blame, it would come in buckets. The President was a Democrat, but the FBI chief had been appointed by a Republican, and once the blame game started, there was no end.

No blame. Miscommunication, perhaps. A few… well, more than a few lower-level agents who jumped the gun were to be offered up as sacrifices for whatever screaming horde of a pitchfork-carrying mob that might form. Some early retirements. The Kansas City Field Office was needing a new chief anyway. True, he had not been involved in the mess, but it happened in his building, so everybody would be far better off if he just offered⁽*⁾ his resignation. Spontaneously. Tomorrow.
(*) The pollsters did not know Agent Clyde at all.

The ponies were a far larger problem. Since the Chronicle’s posting of Widget’s inadvertent encounter with misinformed Federal agents (a phrase that several hundred person-hours of expensive consultant time would be billed on in the future), there were no end of Doomsday scenarios that ensued. Several of the more complicated solutions were dismissed out of hand, such as simply getting the Area 51 complex to send them home with one of their stored saucers.

Pollsters did not get out much.

The high-resolution video of Specialist Rose’s memorable entry into the Kansas City FBI field office played on various phones in almost a constant loop during their not-meeting. Several of the members kept close-ups of particularly poignant portions, such as when one of the FBI agents managed to tase himself in the leg, or the expression of fear on Widget’s face as Goose held one wing across her chest in a protective gesture. The brief battle in the dark was almost ignored, because that would not make very good television, but there was one particularly good frame of Widget out in the parking lot, looking up into the giant pink SUV like a mangled Irish Setter getting ready to jump.

It took a long time, well into the dessert phase of the expense-account dinner, before one of the pollsters got up the nerve to mention Elián González, and the political ploys that had revolved around that tense time. At least, thank God, none of the FBI agents had been caught on camera pointing an automatic weapon at the terrified pony.

The image of terrified pony-aliens huddling in terror at the thought of having cruel FBI agents drag them off to some unknown fate did not poll well for any congresscreature of whatever party. Arresting the FBI agents responsible and shipping them in irons to the pony homeworld was considered and discarded because the FBI tended to be more than a little vindictive to people who considered such treatment of their agents, and the pollsters were not about to be traced back to the origin of that particular idea. In any event, the FBI was a large organization. A dozen agents could vanish completely from the face of the planet without a trace for months, and nobody would notice.

Sticks having thus been discussed and discarded, the conversation turned to carrots.

Citizenship for the traumatized little pony would make her immune to the unpredictable machinations of the US Citizenship and Immigration Services office, much like Republicans had nearly managed with the González case during the Clinton years. Extending that to all four ponies at the hospital would be better.

The President would want to meet the ponies anyway, and this would make a good excuse for the meeting. Roll out the red carpet for the Presidential visit, withdraw the military from their refugee camp, maybe move in some Red Cross tents and a wave of government psychologists to help them deal with the trauma of being displaced persons… or whatever. Some government scientists to help set up the portal and learn how it was done. Government social workers to help care for the traumatized little children… er… foals.

The UN had agencies to deal with refugees, but they could not be controlled by the President or Congress, so something would have to be set up to keep them out. Same for foreign diplomats. The local authorities were obviously making a mess of the situation, so Federalizing the pony refugees was only logical, maybe evacuating the town and setting up a tent city for the honored guests and the government scientists who would be studying them for the next few weeks. And of course a delegation of VIP diplomats would need to be selected to travel to the pony homeworld when their portal was opened. A small list of big donors made it easy to pick out potential candidates, with perhaps a particular presidential candidate to lead. Admittedly, the ponies had been quite adamant about not permitting any humans into their world, but some delicate diplomatic maneuvering should see that objection set aside.

All it took was an extra hour and a few bottles of wine to draw up the right questions to ask this evening to a few hundred select polling units across the country, and by tomorrow morning, each powerful Senator and Representative would have their opinions properly shaped, and every news organization would have their morning news angles meshed into a synchronous whole. The world having been saved and things pointed in the right direction, our heroes took their leave of the restaurant back room to engage in the ancient art of bill-padding as they headed for the door.

For a moment, there was silence in the room, with nothing more than a beam of moonlight shining through the window, which may have been considered a little odd by people who track such things, since the moon had not risen yet. Then a tall, dark woman dressed in shimmering silks stepped out of a shadow and regarded the dishes pushed to one side of the table, and the few small green bills stuck out from under a plate as a tip.

“They are far too much like our own noblity,” mused the woman. She added a few golden coins to the tip, picked up a half-full glass of wine from the table, and swirled it absently under her nose with a sharp wince. “Yes, far too much.”

Reaching under the table with one hand, the woman rummaged around for a moment, then emerged with two small dark objects, one of which looked somewhat like a piece of chewed gum, and the other like an insect trap. “And yet, they are different in others. Such clever devices.”

And when the tired servers trudged into the room to clean up the dishes, she was gone. The pile of Equestrian bits baffled them for a moment, but thankfully they were evenly divisible between the underpaid help, and therefore vanished without comment.

The wine sommelier had much the same experience when he discovered a similar stack of bits in place of a bottle of Silver Oak Cellars Napa Valley Cabernet 2014 in the restaurant's wine cellar.
(*) From the site: “dark ruby in color and entices you with a nose of raspberry, cassis and loose pipe tobacco.” The kind of wine that you have to bring to your family members so they can also ask why, why, why?

* * *

The task that Yongyue was focused upon was considered critical by his superiors in the Ministry of State Security, located in a tiny subdivision of the massive agency that did not have a name, only a number. He much rather would have been listening to the devices placed in the US hospital where the aliens had been treated for their injuries. The little dribs and drabs of their musical language fascinated him, like a symphony set in a forest with all the creatures singing in heavenly harmony. Listening to a number of capitalist number-twisters talk about the divine creatures like they were some sort of cattle to be driven and herded bothered him. Oh, if the People’s Republic of China were in charge of the creatures, he had no illusions of how their lives would be controlled moment-by-moment for the benefit of his Illustrious Superiors in the Central State without the need for ‘pollsters’ to manipulate the same politicians. But this was different.

The only thing bothering him was the end of the conversation he had just listened to. It baffled him, so Yongyue merely clipped it off the transcript before sending it on to various other specialists in his unnamed agency. Perhaps it had been cross-talk with some other listening devices in Washington. The place was an electronic stew anyway, in addition to being sweltering hot and humid in the summer. The only time he wished he could leave the embassy compound was in spring, when the cherry blossoms spread their magic across the otherwise miserable place. Still, the placement here was his duty, and he would not complain. Far too many secrets had passed before him to simply get a job as a painter in some small village back in China when he retired. With considerable luck, he would find his evening years being spent in a state-owned village, surrounded by other elderly state employees who could not talk about their past either.

By the time he had returned to his tiny bedroom inside the embassy staff quarters, he had nearly forgotten about it. When he woke up the next morning to find the crushed State Security listening device from the restaurant sitting on his nightstand, and memories of an odd dream speaking for hours to a beautiful dark-haired woman with eyes like stars, he remembered it far too well.

However, he did not say a word to his superiors.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:38 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Dad!” In order for her equine guests to have a shorter walk, Claire pulled the big pink SUV right up next to the house in an area with a few State tags and one Highway Patrol car. Her father met her right at the SUV door and caught Claire before she could fall out of the unexpectedly high door. She didn’t want to admit it, but she had missed his strong grip and support over the last few days. “Easy, Dad. My butt’s a little numb. Where’s all the press?”

“Sent them home.” Jon jabbed a finger in the direction of the forest of RV’s and television trucks over in a nearby pasture. “They were getting up into the faces of the kids and trying to sneak into the house, so I just told them all to get lost until tomorrow. Private property is a wonderful thing. Thought I’d have to arrest a couple of them, but the Highway Patrol talked to them, and off they went.”

“Wait a minute.” Dakota Henderson stopped partway around the SUV. “Did you want me to bug off too? Because I wanted to get some pictures of Widget meeting you. I think the public would appreciate it.” He hefted his camera. “It will only take a jiffy.”

Setting the stage for the event was slightly more difficult, due to the time of night. They had to re-park the SUV closer to the porchlight and frame out the shots, but at least the scene only required one take. Kota got some good pictures of Karla helping the injured unicorn down out of the back seat, then Mister Bruner shaking hooves, and finally a spontaneous hug with sniffle as all of the stress of the last several days came leaking out.

“I was so scared,” she sobbed. “There were the shadow monsters, then Twilight cast her spell and the world turned upside-down, and I was falling, and I thought my leg was chopped right off! Then you came around to me, ripping your shirt off and wrapping it right around my leg. I was so scared!”

“That’s okay,” said Jon, gently patting the unicorn on the back of her KC Royals t-shirt. “You’re safe.”

“Thank you for sending your daughter to help care for me,” managed Widget between the tears. “She wouldn't leave me.”

Claire could feel her cheeks getting hot and she didn’t want to say anything, so she just looked down at the well-trod grass and mumbled something appreciative while Widget regained her composure and Dakota stayed silent behind his camera. After a time, they broke off the awkward embrace, leaving her father to stand back up and Widget to blow her nose on a tissue that Claire provided. That apparently was the signal for Dakota to stop filming, and a general wave of relaxation swept over their small group.

With one last sniff, the unicorn gave the tissue to Dakota and looked around. “Where is everypony? It’s not that late.”

“It’s been a long day, so most of them are getting ready for bed,” explained Jon. “Hey, Sergeant Hardhooves wanted to get a picture of your Goose meeting Nick, something official and boring to deflect some of the really, really weird things the press has been dreaming up. While we’re doing that, why don’t you take Claire over to the shop and find your parents? I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed to see you, even if you are limping a little.”

“That’s… I suppose,” said Widget with very little enthusiasm, although she perked up almost at once. “Karla, did you want to meet my parents?”

In short order, the three mismatched unlikely friends were strolling over to the tin building where the Bruener farm kept all of its metalworking tools and a fair amount of shop space. Claire had grown up with a welding rod in one hand, as she liked to say, and had considered it as a career if everything else fell through. There were always welders needed. It made more sense than becoming a truck driver like her oldest brother, who lived in Oregon with a cheerful wife and three boys according to his Facebook posts and yearly phone calls.

Maybe Widget would like to go visit him? She’d get a kick out of the logging equipment.

“The light’s still on, so they must be working on something,” said Widget. “Just brace yourself. Whenever I’ve been gone, they get awfully clingy.” The pink unicorn took a deep breath at the door, then swung it open with her magic.

There was a very long pause, and when Claire moved forward to see inside, Widget shut the door very quickly without slamming it.

“Is something wrong?” asked Karla, drawing her Glock, then giving it a sour look and putting the empty gun back in the holster. “I could throw rocks at it,” she muttered.

“No,” said Widget very plainly. “Absolutely not.” She shuddered, a wave of revulsion practically pouring off her patchy coat. “Eww,” she finally declared.

“The shop’s not that bad,” said Claire, moving to get around the pink obstruction. “I probably needed to clean some of the junk out and—”

“No,” declared Widget a little more firmly, and wrapping a thin band of blue magic around Clair’s chest. “Eww. Let’s just go… somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

“Look, if something is wrong—” started Karla

“Do you remember how I told you I was an only foal?” said Widget rapidly. “Well… they’re working on a baby brother or sister for me, okay? Now can we please go somewhere else?”

Both humans barely restrained identical bursts of laughter, with Claire recovering first. “I never would have imagined a machine shop as a romantic getaway. Come on, while Goose is getting pictures with her boyfriend, we’ll go over to the house and you can get some reloads from dad’s stash. Federal hollow points okay with you, Agent Anacostia? And I can show Widget his gun collection.”

“Collection?” Widget’s ears perked up as she walked alongside them. “He has more than one?”

Author's Note

Rural folks in the midwest get a little confused when the press reports somebody was arrested with an 'arsenal' of weaponry that turns out to be something like seven guns and a few hundred rounds of ammunition. We refer to that as a 'starter collection'

An average family here has a mix of deer rifles, shotguns, a plinking gun or two, the 'youth' shotguns and deer rifles that the kids have outgrown, a collector's piece or two including an AK type of rifle or an SKS, several pistols of various calibers, maybe a black powder pistol or rifle for fun, some serious collecting firearms that don't get shot, maybe something that granddad brought back from one of the wars, maybe a bow or two for the special deer hunting season, etc...

27. Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

“You have to get up early in life to succeed.”
― Rip Van Winkle

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:58 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Dawn struggled over the horizon with the distinct air of an evening spent foolishly.

If the sun had been from Equestria, one might have thought it had wasted far too much time watching pony videos on late-night talk shows, or perhaps it was getting tired of seeing so many reporters interviewing other reporters at all hours. Much like the sun, Mister Bruener had been most adamant last night about his property being off-limits until after eight this morning — and after at least one cup of coffee. After all, the networks had months worth of footage to fill the early-morning talkies time, so the reporters were taking it easy this morning.

From the relative lack of activity around the farm and town, it seemed the ponies were sleeping in also. Or at least until the first reporter caught an interview with the driver of a truck who was making the rounds of the press’s porta-potties just outside of the Bruener property line.

* * *

“Ken Smith, owner of Cats Cans,” said the broad-shouldered man wearing a ‘Cats Cans’ shirt and matching ball cap. He shook the reporter’s hand vigorously while smiling at the camera. “Just cleaning out the sumps before we load up these units and move them to the Country Stampede.”

“I see,” said the reporter, masking an obvious urge to wipe his hand. “And how has our little alien invasion impacted the bottom line of your company? Are you, as they say, cleaning up?”

“Oh, we donated our product and labor,” said Ken. “Didn’t want to take advantage of them, after all. Wouldn’t be a nice thing to do for unexpected company. Anyway, Honey and I are taking advantage of the lull to get all of the potties and the RVs here pumped also.”

“And Honey is your wife?” asked the reporter.

Ken laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, even though she is the sweetest little thing. Honey Dipper, would you come over here and say hello to the nice reporter?”

A golden, almost honey-colored mare with her dark brown mane and tail fairly bouncing in the early morning Kansas sunshine came around from the back of the truck and trotted up to the reporter. “Oh, you must be with this world’s video newspapers,” she said in a cheerful tone with one hoof stuck out to shake. The hoof was a little odd to the casual onlooker because most ponies were the same color from body to bottom, but Honey had off-white ‘socks’ on three of her four hooves, as well as something the reporter obviously did not like while shaking that forehoof.

“So, you’re a beekeeper back in Equestria?” asked the reporter almost desperately in an attempt to change the subject.

The golden pony laughed and shook her head in a cascade of short brown mane. “Oh, no. Same job as I do here, only without the pumping equipment. It makes the job so much easier.” She patted the side of the truck, leaving a light brown smear. “I may just see if I can take one of these back with me.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:30 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Reporters are not stupid. They can display cunning in ways that boggle the mind when tracking down a story. The problem with their mindset is mostly in preconceptions. If they are doing a story about a child care center being accused of child abuse, they are going to find child abuse, no matter how hard they have to work, or what interviews they may need to ‘color’ for correct interpetation. Eternal optimists, they are willing to dive into a pile of horse poo with the absolute knowledge that there is a pony in there somewhere, or in the inverse, if they are determined to do a story that vindicates their favorite politician from some false and misleading charge of prostitution or gambling, they can develop a considerable blind spot for scantily clad women visiting his office.

The town of Randolph had ponies yesterday.

The portal to take them home had been delayed for two weeks.

Therefore, the town of Randolph should have ponies today.

It was simple logic.

Reality did not seem to match very well this morning.

Several reporters with associated camera and sound crews were wandering the streets of Randolph, and since there were so many reporters in the area and so few streets, more than a few metaphorical feathers were ruffled by turf confrontations that any anthropologist would have been fascinated to watch. A disinterested observer might consider it stalking, or perhaps a particularly odd episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom without a convenient Jim Fowler as bait.

After a period of time where their prey did not emerge, one of the braver reporters gingerly approached one of their lairs and rang the doorbell.

A particularly grumpy old man with a fringe of white hair around the edges of his head and a look of perpetual annoyance answered the bell. It was fairly obvious that he did not want to be up this early in the morning, both due to his expression and him still wearing slippers.

“Can I help you?” he huffed.

“Mister Baker,” started the reporter while trying to peer past the old man into the house, “could we talk to your guests, please?”

“If you had dropped by a couple hours earlier,” he responded. “They took off already.”

“They left? I didn’t think their portal—”

“Took the school bus somewhere to see the sights,” continued Mister Baker. “Wife went with them to act as a guide. Bunch of the Methodist ladies too. Do you want to come inside and have some fudge? Them two used up all our sugar last night.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:01 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: USDA Plant Material Center, Ashland Bottoms, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

There was something about early morning in Kansas that made Rick Winia really love his job. A hundred and seventy acres of individual plots maintaining fertile cultivars of everything from aldous little bluestem to sunglow grayhead prairie coneflower and everything in between were under his control, but the real pleasure was just being there in the middle of it all. The cyclical pattern of planting and harvesting left patches of the year fairly slow, although summer had a great deal of sweating out in the Kansas sun to manage certain cultivars that had specific needs for their well-being.

He pulled into the gravel parking lot a minute or two later than usual, which was fine. Most of the employees shifted their hours to way early in the morning during the summer so they could get off after two and skip the hottest portion of the day. At first, he thought a herd of deer had wandered onto the property, but deer did not come in a multitude of pastel colors, and most certainly did not come trotting up to his truck with smiles all around.

“Hi!” chirped one of the ponies, a cheerful golden mare with a cascade of orange mane down both sides of her neck, but cut fairly short across her forehead. “Secretary Franz said he’d call Secretary Vilseck—” she pronounced the name with great care “—and ask if we could come over this morning and look at your farm.”

Admittedly, Rick had seen the ponies on television. That had in no way prepared him for actually being surrounded by the fuzzy, friendly, smiling creatures. Admittedly also, he was not the smallest human being on the planet, and knew that he resembled a bear with a beard in some regards, but none of the ponies looked frightened in the least. It was almost funny in a way, and even funnier to imagine Secretary of State Vilseck being woken up at some ungodly hour of the morning with the request.

Introductions followed, and Rick began to understand the importance of color-coded names. Holiday was the leader of the mixed group of earth ponies, and organized their activities as the rest of the PMC’s employees showed up, including the student summer help from K-State. Normally, a tour group would have a few polite questions about the facility phrased in vague generalities, but ponies were curious like cats, and knew more about agriculture than most graduate students from the university who worked summers with him.

It turned out there had been some pegasi in the group, but only to provide transportation, much like an aerial bus with several stops. It certainly was a more adventurous schedule than Rick would have wanted if he were in another dimension filled with strange creatures. Actually in the same situation, he might have just climbed a tree and stayed there until somebody came to get him.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:12 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Al Goldstein was many things. He was one of many students on the Veterinary Medicine School waiting list, an employee of a company in Albuquerque who manufactured lasers for Sandia labs, a locksmith, a ‘source’ whenever the K-State Chemistry department needed to have some odd piece of equipment built or acquired, and the only student in KSU history to successfully claim Kansas residency while living in the dorms (for in-state tuition).

As part of the Vet Med horde, he had volunteered at the Bruener farm, which was how he found himself in his present situation once they found out he was also a Certified Flight Instructor with an Instrument Rating.

“All systems check, throttle at idle, we’re ready to begin taxiing. Now do you remember the radio protocol, Cherry?”

The magenta pony in the co-pilot seat nodded and adjusted the headset over her fuzzy ears. “Manhattan tower, this is Cirrus aircraft november eight five seven sierra whisky requesting permission to taxi to runway two one for immediate VFR departure.”

“Cirrus seven sierra whisky, you are clear to taxi,” came the immediate response, although what came next was slightly non-standard. “Ahh, we have you cleared VFR altitude thirty-five hundred course one nine zero en route to McConnell AFB in formation with other aircraft, but we don’t see a flight plan for anything else.”

“I’ve got this,” said Al. He keyed the microphone and continued, “We have an invitation from General Nachez at McConnell to visit their flight line and take a tour of the air base. He said they were going to fly in some aircraft from other bases for our guests to look at, and take them up for a flight in one of their KC-10s, but we thought it would be more polite if we flew in with a Mode C transponder and a radio. We wanted to eliminate the possibility of any flight incidents.”

“Ahhh, seven sierra whisky, continue to taxi and hold short of runway for further instructions.”

Al looked over his shoulder at the two passengers, one a cute brunette music major, and the other a whitish-grey pegasus with the most unlikely green and violet streaked mane. “Are you girls doing all right?”

Both nodded, and Al turned his attention back to piloting the expensive Cirus along the bumpy taxiway until he pulled up next to the runway and set the brakes. The flight plan was already programmed into the GPS, he had been talking almost nonstop to the two ponies since they had gotten the aircraft out of the hanger, and it was a good time to just look around to check for any unauthorized aircraft. Or other flying creatures. A bird strike was one thing. A pegasus strike would be tragic on so many levels. That’s why he wanted to keep the Equestrians away from the airport until they were airborne and headed south.

“With this aircraft, we don’t have to worry about vee-one or vee-two, right?” asked Cherry, who was swapping her attention between the ground school book on her lap and the morning Kansas landscape.

“With the length of this runway, we don’t have to worry about it,” corrected Al. “We could probably take off and land three or four times. The Cirrus—” he patted the dashboard of the aircraft “—is one of the more expensive rentals. I’m more used to a Cessna 172, but I’ve qualified on this one so I can fly VIPs. It’s a sweet ride, with all the bells and whistles on the dash, oxygen for going to high altitude, and even if everything goes to absolute sh— Ahem. If the aircraft becomes unstable and can’t be recovered, there’s an emergency parachute. Don’t even look at it now, because once you pull that lever, it puts enough strain on the airframe that it’s totalled, and only good for scrap. Half a million dollars worth of airplane turns into loose change with one yank.”

Blossomforth prodded him with one wingtip by stretching in a way that equine bodies were not meant to move. “Mister Goldstein, if I can make a suggestion. Don’t ever let the Cutie Mark Crusaders within a mile of this.”

A few minutes of idle conversation and idling engine passed before the radio sounded again. “Seven sierra whisky, we are currently in contact with McConnell AFB to verify your— HOLY SHIT!”

There was a brief pause.

“Ahem. Seven sierra whisky, one of your ‘guests’ just flew up to the control tower and knocked on the window. Sorry about the language. He’s pointing to his watch now. Are you on a schedule?”

Al pressed the radio button. “Yes, we are, tower. If you could clear us for departure, we’ll work out our arrival with McConnell en route. Worst case, we’ll land at Augusta and take a bus in.”

“Very well. Seven sierra whisky, you are cleared to depart runway two-one on VFR flight. Winds are out of the south at ten knots, gusts to fifteen. We just received instructions for you to squawk one-two-seven-seven until contacted by McConnell, and they will advise on new transponder code for your arrival.”

“Squawking one-two-seven-seven. Thank you, tower. Seven sierra whisky out.”

“Sky is clear,” said Cherry Berry, who had begun looking out the windows intently while Al reset the transponder code. “No flight hazards, no balloons, no cloud structures.”

“Roger that.” Al pushed the throttle forward and the little aircraft fairly leapt into the air with a short run along the runway. He actually had to throttle back once he reached three thousand feet in order to keep from overshooting his altitude, and in a few eventless moments, had the nose of the aircraft pointed to Wichita. “Ok, we’re set,” he called back over the intercom. “Where are our escorts?”

In response, Blossomforth put one hoof to the ornate earring she had dangling to the side of her head. “Hey, guys! We’re off to the airport with all of the jets! Come on up and we’ll get set for the flight.”

Al could see the glint of aluminum Equestrian vehicles rising up from the old drag strip across the road, mixed with the colorful cascade of pegasi who did not need to ride when they could just fly on their own. He had not heard of any other air traffic around, but just in case he touched the radio switch and added, “Manhattan tower, be aware there are Equestrian aircraft taking off from Midwest Raceway to rendezvous with me, so please alert any other aircraft in the vicinity.”

“Roger that, seven sierra whisky. We see them just fine. There is no traffic in the pattern and they should be clear. Thanks for the warning and have a good flight. Manhattan tower out.”

* * *

The story was remarkably similar wherever the reporters looked. Sometime in the dark of the morning before the first ray of sunlight touched Kansas, the entire population of ponies had slipped away for various destinations, leaving behind several polite notes. Likewise, the Bruener girl had vanished, along with the small fleet of aluminum wagons the ponies had welded together over the last few days, and worst of all, Widget was unavailable to be interviewed. The video from her attempted FBI abduction had gone viral overnight, and she was news! The reporters were even willing to (shudder) pay for interviews with the terrified pink alien!

Instead, all they had was a waste disposal expert, and two musicians who paid little attention to anything but a cello and an electronic keyboard (with headphones).

PBS might have been happy. The rest of the alphabet of media was not.

Another characteristic of the media is they had no idea why the ponies wanted a little alone time, away from them.

To understand, we have to travel back in time to the previous evening. Thankfully, we have an alicorn for that. And a psychologist.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:40 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Where did your world get so many—” since she was holding the last drops of a shot of good whisky in the crook of her foreleg, the Ponyville mayor’s hoof-motion in lieu of a likely profanity was fairly subdued “—reporters?”

The Bruener living room had turned into an impromptu conference room, mostly due to the fact it was right next to the liquor cabinet, and nearly every participant had one sort of booze in front of them, with various liquid levels. Jon’s Bar and Vegetable Grill had a strict one drink limit before getting into the cans of soda, mostly because the owner of the establishment was not sure if some of them could stop. It also had a ‘No Phones’ rule that was being enforced vigorously, as well as a rule for ‘Sneak in a little something for the bar if you think you can get away with it but don’t take chances being spotted.’

“We think they breed like cockroaches,” said General Hackmore before taking yet another measured sip of some fine Johnnie Walker that had been provided courtesy of RCPD.

“One of them caught me in the bathroom,” hissed the pony mayor. “And I don’t mean just while I happened to be in there, I mean they came bursting in there with a camera during—”

“I caught one of them provoking Scootaloo,” said Cheerilee, who had eschewed the traditional glass for a large Tupperware tumbler containing her scotch on the rocks, heavy on the scotch and light on the rocks. “She was in tears, tears! Asking why she couldn’t fly and just not backing off in the slightest when he saw how traumatized she was.” Cheerilee took a brief drink and reduced a guilty ice cube to pulverized fragments with short, deliberate motions of her jaws.

“Please tell me you didn’t hit the reporter?” asked Sergeant Hardhooves, who had taken the depleted bottle without any need for a glass or other drinking crutch.

“She didn’t hit the reporter,” said Lucky. “Or at least I don’t think a flying piledriver could be considered ‘hitting’ of any kind in court. The paramedics say he’ll recover with no permanent brain damage that they could tell. He landed on a patch of soft ground and only hurt his head a little.”

“I used to roughhouse with my sister,” said Cheerilee.

“Well, they certainly seem to be all greedy fingers,” grumbled Hardhooves. “When I put an armed guard on the seed warehouse like Jon asked, every one of the reporters who came by to get a picture tried to steal the sentry’s spear.” He took a measured drink out of the bottle and did not stop until it was dry. “Then every single one of them wanted an ‘exclusive’ interview with Cadet Goose Down the minute she shows up with Widget. They’ve tried to bribe me. Bribe me! If they tried that in Canterlot, I’d toss ‘em out of the city.”

“Please don’t take the actions of the Fifth Estate as representative of our species,” said Governor Brown, who was holding onto a bottle of Coors Light that he had barely dented. “I’m starting to regret encouraging you to allow them in.”

“Starting?” asked Lucky with a quirked-up eyebrow. “They were trying to steal Clover’s dirty diapers. Thankfully, bacon gives them a little something extra. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

Colonel DeJoya winced and explained for the rest of the room. “I caught the Rangers slipping his little girl a whole slice of bacon. They’re out dealing with the aftermath now.”

* * *

“Oh, God!” Corporal Menendez tried not to breathe inside his full MOPP gear complete with M50 gas mask while struggling to get the adhesive tabs disengaged from the little pony’s diaper. It was a difficult task, made all the more difficult by being performed on a hairy pony, on top of a poncho liner in the middle of the Bruener’s driveway, at night, by the light of a military flashlight. “It’s oozing all around the edges, like it’s alive.”

“You two idiots fed her the bacon,” said Lieutenant Forsythe, who was standing behind the two ‘volunteers’ and holding the flashlight. “You get to deal with the— Uhk! Fuck! I’m upwind! Gods! I can’t see! Somebody get me a mask! How can that smell travel upwind!”

“Don’t move the light,” managed Fitzgerald through his tears. “We get any spillage over the poncho liner and they’ll have to call in a hazmat team for the whole driveway! Oh, Christ on a crutch, I think the stuff is dissolving the seals in the filters!”

One of the remaining Rangers managed to edge close enough to give Forsythe a mask, which he donned in probably a record time for his unit.

“We lost containment, sir! Shine the light back here… Oh, God. I can’t un-see this. Wipes! For the love of God, somebody get us a few boxes of wipes!”

“If this wasn’t you two idiots’ fault,” managed Forsythe in short, frantic gasps inside his M50 mask, “I’d put you in for some sort of commendation. Put the wipes in the bucket when you’re done,” he added, pushing the orange ‘Home Depot’ bucket a little closer.

“Dry ice,” gasped Menendez. “Freeze the stench. It’s the only way we’ll survive. Oh God I breathed in through my mouth I’m dying!!”

Clover obviously thought it was funny, and kicked her little legs through the process, which involved three entire boxes of wipes, two diapers (one having been accidently dipped in the residoo-doo), and a second flashlight when the first one was dropped and cracked a lens. In the end, by the power of Army ingenuity and MOPP gear, the three brave Rangers faced their disarmed opponent with matching smiles. The discarded diapers and resulting toxic waste had been stuffed into the frost-covered orange plastic bucket, the air in their vicinity was slowly returning to non-toxic levels of pony poo pew, and the disaster was over.

Then there was a second rumbling noise, even louder than the first, and the process began all over again.

* * *

“It shouldn’t be too bad,” said Lucky. “Stars only knows I’ve diapered a few blowouts. Anyway, Doctor Ethan Alexander from APHIS says he’s going to pack the used diapers in dry ice for shipment back to his agency so they can be examined. Those poor laboratory technicians.”

Lyra and Bon Bon had not said much other than to quietly nurse their glasses of chocolate milk, but with a little nudging from her friend, Lyra cleared her throat. “A few days of getting out of here to see the local sights will be good for the townsponies. To be honest, those reporters frighten Bon— I mean me. They’re worse than parasprites. The principal at the school and General Hackmore—” she nodded at the general “—are willing to provide busses and drivers for a few of the local tourist areas. The only thing is if the reporters are that aggressive trying to grab a diaper, they’re going to terrify poor Widget. She’s a sweet young mare, but I don’t think she’s as strong as all that. Nopony really is.”

Cherry Berry raised one hoof. “I think our group can keep her out of the reporter’s hooves for tomorrow. Maybe two days if we go to the zoo in Wichita, also. But, um… I saw the telephone video of what happened to Widget. It has some of the ponies frightened.”

Governor Brown put his half-full bottle down onto a coaster. “I’ve had quite a number of the Kansas Highway Patrol volunteer to be escorts for your trips. Get me a list of your groups, and I’ll make sure each of them has an officer assigned. Unless one of your ponies breaks a Federal law or goes outside the state borders, the FBI has to request permission to claim jurisdiction, and they’re not getting it. Period. So what time do they need to be ready to leave tomorrow morning?”

The mayor told him. Upon due consideration, it seemed to be a rational hour for them to sneak away. Nobody sane would be working at that hour of the morning.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:00 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“We are in need of a therapist,” said the absolutely serious unicorn sitting on the chair in Maria Bruener’s home office. A week ago, if she had seen a unicorn, she would have been absolutely sure she was going crazy. After the last three days, she was getting used to the concept. And today, she had a unicorn for a patient.

It was amazing what you could get used to.

“By we, do you mean—”

“Four members of the Night Guard have scheduled weekly therapy sessions. It is only appropriate that they be continued while we are in this world. We are willing to pay for the treatment out of the Ponyville general fund, and since you are both present locally and licensed in your world, we were presuming you would not mind a few well-behaved patients,” specified Specialist Grace. Her horn lit up with a pale green light and four sheets of paper floated out of her saddlebag to rest on the desk. Each one of them was filled with neat inked script, giving a short description of the individual’s major issues, the general discussion history of previous sessions, and other technical tidbits of the horse-patients. “Optio Pumpernickel and his wife, Cadet Goose Down, and Specialist Thermal.”

“With you, that’s five.” Maria got up from behind the desk and moved over to her chair. “I presume you are excluding yourself because you are avoiding the issue until you return home?”

“I… um… Yes.” The emerald-green unicorn looked up at her. “And I presume you want me to move to the couch?”

“If it makes you more comfortable. Remember, you can speak your mind here.”

“It would make me more comfortable to be home,” grumbled the unicorn while she scrambled up onto the couch. “It’s a waste of bits to have a new therapist. You have no idea what has been bothering me.”

Maria hid a small smile while she settled down in her chair, a notebook and pen close at hand. “If you’re this eager to get home, you must have a hot boyfriend waiting for you.”

“Oh, yea—” Grace broke off with a low cough. “I am currently engaged in a romantic relationship, yes.” Her horn lit up, and a green-tinged image of a dashing unicorn guard appeared in the room, which startled Maria for a moment.

“My word, he is a keeper. Have you written him since your arrival? Told him you were uninjured and explained what this world is like? I saw a number of the Ponyville townsfolk having Spike send their letters, after all, and you are a guard. He must be worried.”

The very tip of Grace’s tongue emerged, made a cautious circuit of her lips, and vanished again, but she did not say anything right away. Maria simply hid a knowing smile and made a few quick notes. The folders she found on her desk this morning had been quite useful to get a handle on the Equestrian patients, although not quite as useful as the odd dream she had last night of a tall woman with dark, flowing hair.

The only question she was left with was just exactly how one bills a therapy session conducted in a dream.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:57 P.M. Monday June 22, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Nick had never appreciated a quiet night more in his life. Well, as quiet as it got where he was standing next to the tank’s armor skirt. The APU was running on Four-One, charging the batteries and running the hydraulics for most of the evening’s watch, so the high-pitched whine drowned out the distant party-like atmosphere around the media’s trailer park where a certain degree of celebration had taken over.

Reporters are paid by the piece. The ponies were going to be around for another two weeks. Therefore, the reporters were already sharpening their metaphorical knives and drooling over flank steak interviews and ribeye character pieces, all on expense accounts. Crystal had joined the rest of her peers, and Nick was quietly ignoring the buzz-buzz of his phone and her attempts to lure him into their den of inequity… ineqineity… whatever one would call what they were planning on doing with their captive audience of pony-sitters.

To be honest, Nick just wanted to get out of his itchy Class-A uniform and back into cammies for a good night’s sleep. He was half-tempted to dig out a sleeping bag and crash under the tank, if that would not have been asking for trouble. It wasn’t bad enough that General Hackmore and Equestrians were asking for his advice, oh no. The MP colonel in charge of the whole local security operation had confided that Lieutenant Comena was going to get a sudden rank boost once the last tail had waved goodbye, and that the gravy was going to get spread around thickly. He really was not looking forward to it very much. It probably came with an assignment to the Pentagon, and would leave him trapped behind a desk for the foreseeable future.

The crunch-crunch of hooves on gravel alerted Nick to the approach of a pony from the house’s direction, although he could not see a darned thing, or at least until a shadow uncoiled in front of him, and one of the batponies just freaking appeared close enough to touch. With those huge wings, it could only be Goose, although she looked rumpled and nervous, with frequent glances over her shoulder.

“Um… Hi,” she managed in that pure mezzo-soprano that still unnerved him whenever he heard it. “Nick, right?” The batpony sat down in the dusty grass and swallowed, looking up at him with big golden eyes, although with her ears folded almost all the way back. It disquited him for a moment, because she looked a little like a dog that was in pain— Oh.

“Hey, Spaz!” Nick tugged on the piece of string dangling down from the top of the tank, and eventually Sergeant Spasowski poked his bare head over the edge to look down at him. “Can you cut the APU for now? The lady wants to talk.”

“Sure, Loot. We’ve got most of a charge anyway, so we’re good until morning.” The Polish NCO ducked back out of sight and the whine of the APU died down, allowing Nick to squat and bring his face down closer to the young batpony’s level.

“What can I do for you, ma’am? Do we need more photos?”

“Actually…” Goose pawed at the side of her dark armor with one hoof. “The latches are stuck, and I was wondering if you’d help me get out of this.” One big furry ear flicked and turned to face back across the road, leaving Nick to wonder just exactly what was going on.

Particularly when he heard giggling, and saw the faintest flash of pink from the direction of the Bruener house.

“Always willing to help another armored service… um… creature,” he finished. If nothing else, he had been terribly curious himself about how the pony armor fit, and where the catches were. He fumbled around the smooth edge of the warm metal where it met her fuzzy coat, trying to figure out just what went where in the dark. If the undeniable evidence of two mischievous girls across the road were not bad enough, he could hear the occasional click and thump from the tank behind him, indicating some of the members of his own command were peering at his extradimensional brass bra fumbling and probably getting sarcastic comments ready for later.

That is until a quiet thump sounded from in front of him, and a second batpony appeared out of the shadows.

It was Laminia, a welcome relief to Nick. If the pony had been Pumpernickel… No, he didn’t want to think about that. He had come close enough to peeing himself. The batpony mare was bad enough, and somebody that only an idiot would have attempted to argue with, but somehow Scary Bat and Bitch Bat went together like peanut butter and jelly. The resulting Baby Bat was sleeping quietly inside Laminia’s foal carrier, giving off her usual mixed signals of “Pick me up and cuddle me” crossed with “My daddy will rip your arms off if you touch me.”

Nick held himself still. Goose instantly whirled in place, striking a perfect rigid pose with one hoof raised to touch her helmet.

“Armor inspection,” snapped Laminia. “Now.”

Nick had once seen a man field-strip and reassemble a M4-carbine in less than a minute. It made him curious to how fast a motivated pony could accomplish the same task. Bits of pony armor fairly flew as Goose stripped, and in less time than he ever expected, she was standing behind a neat pile of armor.

“Acceptable,” said Laminia, with the same low glower. “Now, take your armor inside and see Missus Bruener in her office. I need to have a few words with your… human friend, and your other friends need to get to bed.”

“But—” The older batpony had an absolutely vicious glare. Nick was fairly sure it could have peeled paint straight off Four-One. In a matter of moments, Goose had scurried across the driveway and into the Bruener’s house, where undoubtedly she was conspiring with the other two troublemakers.

There was relative silence for a short time, followed by Lamina giving a short flap and a glide so she could sit on the tank instead of the ground. It was more comfortable for Nick too, because all he could think of while talking to the Bat-Bitch on the ground was how she could easily bite his balls off.

“Nick,” she started, then hesitated. “I can call you Nick, right? I still get messed up on talking to ponies, so figuring out what pisses off humans is an exercise in frustration. When I was talking to one of the reporters, I asked if she was a nigger and I thought she’d pop.”

Nick snorted, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Um… Yeah. That’s probably a word to stay away from. Were you needing Spaz to make a list? Because there’s a lot of them, and I think he knows ‘em all.”

“Gee thanks, Loot,” drifted down from the top of the tank turret, just out of sight.

“No, I…” The big charcoal-grey pegasus put her head down on her forehooves and let out a sharp breath. “Fuck, this is a pain in the plot, so I’ll just say it. Goose is fucked in the head just about as bad as my husband and me, but you know what I didn’t see when she came trotting over here, trying to get you to peel her armor off?”

“Her… hat?” said Nick cautiously.

“Huh.” Laminia flicked her tail forward and sat up a little straighter. “You’re not as dumb as you look. Anyway, the kid’s got a problem. She got her cutie mark in gliding.”

“That explains the ‘v’ symbols on her rump,” mused Nick. “I guess they’re supposed to look like seagulls. Is she afraid of birds?”

That earned him a Look of Very Limited Amusement.

“When she was very young,” started Laminia in slow, distinct words as if she were talking to an idiot, “her aunts used to take her kiting at the park.”

“They flew kites?” The minute the words left his mouth, Nick knew it was a mistake, and he waved his hands in front of him. “No, never mind. Just keep going.”

“Nocturne females live very protected lives,” said Laminia with only a slight baring of her sharp teeth. “It’s Traditional, since we’re a small fraction of the population, and we have to be careful to avoid inbreeding. So the Canterlot nest that she belongs to really did not like her flying. They thought it was dangerous, particularly when she was young. The mountain has all kinds of tricky currents and updrafts. So her aunts used to give her a piece of thick cord, she’d bite on the end, and that way she could—”

“Oh, God,” gasped Nick. “That’s such an adorable image. Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long day, and i’m a little punch-drunk. Keep going.”

“Anyway. The wind came up when an unscheduled storm blew in, and Goose got swept up above the clouds. With those wings, she almost was too high to be captured. It took three days, and she was catatonic when they brought her to the ground. She never even went outside for the next few years, got a wild hair up her cutie mark that she wanted to be a Royal Guard, which I still think is another form of mental disability. Threw herself into training, wheedled her uncles and cousins into teaching her how to fight and didn’t that ruffle some feathers among the wise old coots who ruled the roost. They thought she should be a proper little foal factory and insisted that she learn how to clean and polish the clan house all night long.”

“She sure cleaned the FBI’s clocks in Kansas City,” said Nick. “The boys have been calling her One Punch Mare.”

“If we can find an inside arena, I’ll see if my husband and Goose can show you how to really fight,” said Laminia with a tiny hint of arrogant smugness. She tapped the dark armor she was wearing and added, “It would probably be good to find her some regular human sparring partners, as long as we’re here. But getting back to where I started, Goose has been working on overcoming her fear of the sky. It’s a long, slow climb. When I first met her, she had this umbrella-thing, like a tent that she could carry over her head whenever she went outside. She used to freeze up cold when she even saw the horizon, but with therapy, practice, and a lot of struggling, she worked her way down to that broad-brimmed hat you saw a few days ago.”

“Falling out of the sky on Friday must have freaked her out something fierce,” mused Nick. “She had to keep going, because so many of your ponies were depending on her.”

“But she still was wearing her hat,” continued Laminia. “She keeps that on every Day and Night whenever she’s outside. Until tonight. I don’t think she even realized she wasn’t wearing it. True love has a way of distracting the mind, I guess.”

“Now, wait a minute,” started Nick before he caught the unexpected smile on the crabby batpony’s face. “Hey! You’re yanking my chain.”

“Maybe a little.” Laminia shrugged. “It comes with the territory. Almost every single Nocturne female is a hopeless flirt. Gotta keep those eggs warm to save the species, after all. But Goose has gone through a lot of trauma. Until today, I never saw her so much as look at another pony’s ass.”

“Oh, no,” started Nick. “Not me.”

“Oh, no indeed,” said Laminia with a smile, or at least she lifted dark lips away from her sharp teeth. “She’s made more progress in three days than I’ve seen in three moons back in Equestria. If it helps to have her chase your monkey butt with those two nitwits egging her on, then so be it, but I expect you to run. If she catches you—” Laminia tapped the tank’s hull with her shod hoof, making a series of dull thuds “—you better hide in there and never come out, because if I don’t kill you, my husband will. Understand?”

Author's Note

Honey Dipper provided courtesy of Admiral Biscuit's story Gardening With Rose - Honey Dipper

Rich Wynia was one of the greatest Plant Material Center managers I've known. He passed away a few years ago. I'll miss the big bear of a guy.

Alan Goldstein was one of my best friends during my first year in college, and yes, he did all that I listed and far more. I miss him.

28. Pony Pachinko

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Pony Pachinko

“For some reporters, access is more important than solidarity.”
― Jim Acosta, Enemy of the People

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:45 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Somewhere Over Central Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

With as much as Agent Karla Anacostia had been through over the last few days, she expected to sleep in on Tuesday. To be honest, this morning was going to be a real nutcracker once she turned her phone back on, so sleeping in a little was justified. She had enough accumulated annual leave to choke a goat, so a few days off would be nice. Delusional, but nice. Once the phone turned on, she would have to return Clyde’s inevitable voicemail, and every single moment of Karla’s life for the next few months was going to be spoken for, mostly by FBI bureaucrats who were going to tell her what to say, where to stand, and to look suitably FBI-ish while it was all going on.

She would be expected to produce a report of her actions since the moment she took the hospital elevator up to Widget’s room until… well, the time she was writing the report, in fifteen minute intervals, including sleep.

2:15 A.M. Sleeping on couch in alien visitor’s room, dreaming about chocolate.
2:30 A.M. Shifting restlessly on couch. Granny Smith snores.

At least Claire had provided a sleeping bag for their girls night sleepover at the Bruener house. The fitting of each one of them to the appropriate bag had been… interesting. Humans were more I shaped while ponies tended to the H, which left Widget able to fit into one of the bags with a little squirming around, and Goose…

The more Karla tried to think about the big-winged batpony twisting herself into a knot to get comfortable, the more she wanted a drink. With all the associated wings and limbs, Goose had looked somewhat like a knot of blacksnakes dancing on a live electrical wire. At least the night had been cool, so they had left the windows wide open while curling up in the four-creature bedroom huddle to look out at the star-strewn Kansas sky. Whatever the FBI had in store for a misbehaving agent tomorrow was worth it, just for the experience Karla had lived through so far.

Although the breeze seemed a bit excessive for Clarie’s bedroom. As well as the voices.

Karla opened one eye and peeked outside of the sleeping bag.

This was not Claire Bruener’s bedroom.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:45 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Somewhere Over Central Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Nick had never slept better. There was something to be said to living through an aborted alien invasion return portal failure… or whatever you wanted to call the Equestrians missing their return bus. He had gotten changed into his cammies just after midnight, curled up in the Army bunkhouse for the temporary deploy-ees, and been asleep before his head hit the pillow.

The suspiciously furry pillow, now that he thought about it. And warm. And why was there such a stiff breeze? And so bright?

He opened one eye. Determined that he was not in the mobile bunkhouse that had been moved to the Bruener farm pasture. Turned his gaze downward through the perforated aluminum floor of the Equestrian chariot, and the exceedingly long distance until the Kansas farmland below.

Fuck. I’ve been kidnapped!

“Shh,” hissed Widget, who was holding one plastic-splinted foreleg to her lips just a few inches away. “We don’t want to wake Goose.”

“You couldn't wake Goose with a gong and a trumpet solo,” said a pegasus next to them. The mare had a mottled white coat that looked a lot like clouds, if not for the sleek teal mane that would have made her easier to see in the sky. Every indication he could see just shouted ‘Nurse!’ from her short-trimmed mane to a bobbed tail, in particular the Red Cross symbol on her rump, another parallel element between humans and ponies that Nick was just baffled about.

Then again, the nurse was an unlikely kidnapper. Nick rolled his head enough to look Widget in her big, dangerous eyes, but before he could say anything, she pointed at the unconscious batpony.

“It was her idea!”

Sitting behind her, Claire Bruener nodded vigorously. “We had to give her some Valium to come along… Well, Nurse Crosswind did. She’s like the B.A. Baracus of our team. And since you’re assigned to guard the Equestrians… You know, this sounded like a lot better idea when we were sneaking you out of the Army barracks.”

A restless motion one pony over made Nick look down and lock eyes with an unfamiliar woman, or at least one he had not met in person. “Oh, Agent Anacostia,” he managed, “I’d like to report a kidnapping?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:02 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: The Bruner Farm, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Rank Hath Its Privileges, but it also came with some real hum-dingers.

One of the privileges appeared to be baby alien princess morning snuggles, from the soft, pleasant shade of green that greeted his eyes when he awoke, still a few minutes away from his alarm. The Brueners had ‘loaned’ him one of the basement guest bedrooms with the understanding that a small herd of smaller ponies would be watching the big-screen TV all night doing some sort of horror movie marathon, and therefore there might be some screaming to disturb his rest. So while his 2IC and staff took care of incidentals outside in the Kansas summer heat, he had sacked out for a good night’s sleep without even a twitch from the ecstatic movie audience just a few feet away.

Although he did admit to sneaking to the doorway and taking a picture of them before going to bed. Apparently, he had not closed the door afterward, and little Princess Clover had been wandering the house, much like a lonesome puppy seeking a comfortable spot to nap.

“You are a cutie,” admitted Hackmore, giving the sleeping foal a gentle push to get his face out of her furry side. “But Grandpa Hackmore has to get up now.”

Clover relaxed with a tiny sigh and snuggled down to press her cold nose against the side of his neck. Gregory Hackmore decided a few more minutes in bed would not affect the earth’s defenses against the alien invasion, such as it was. Surrender, for at least a few minutes, was a perfectly valid option, at least while he snagged his SMEPED off the bedstand and checked his email.

It kept him from using profanity as he scrolled down his emails.

“They’re sending them by the dozens,” he murmured. “It’s like a plague. He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance. We’ll have ten times the men here tomorrow than we have now! I’ll bet half of these ‘working groups’ didn’t exist before yesterday, and if any of them know what end of a rifle…”

Consideration as to exactly how he wanted to properly respond took some time, and during his morose meditation, the familiar scroungy green of Lucky’s nose poked in through the bedroom doorway.

“Ah, General. I see my daughter found you. Gave us a bit of a panic.” The shaggy stallion came the rest of the way into the bedroom and shrugged out of his saddlebags. “She doesn’t need to be changed, does she?”

“No, but I think I do.” General Hackmore turned off his SMEPED and tossed it back onto the bedstand. “The Pentagon is sending a ‘few’ working groups and committees on fact-finding missions. They’ve got about everybody on board, from the SEALS sending one of their teams down to AMEDD flying down what seems to be a hospital. Army Medical Department,” he added to quell Lucky’s obvious confusion. “Then to make matters worse, I’ve been ordered to turn over the direct security detail to the National Guard, which some genius thinks will remain under Army control. Governor Brown will have a declaration of emergency out by the afternoon, and the whole thing will wind up in his hands.”

“Why not just tell them all no?” asked Lucky. “Your Army has been doing a fine job keeping the site secure and any threats away. Although I think Sergeant Hardhooves wants to take one of your humm-vees with us when we go. One of your crews gave him a ride, and he won’t stop talking about it.”

“I can’t… Well…” Stood on its head, the problem seemed far too simple, sort of the exact opposite of what Jim Carrey did in Bruce Almighty. Worst case, the CinC would relieve him of command and he could retire, secure in the knowledge that he would save about ten years of paperwork in the process. All it took was a simple message to his second-in-command.

Deny all Pentagon requests for any visits unless and only if ordered directly by the president.

It was difficult typing with only one hand, but he didn’t want to give up holding Clover. A few minutes of texting later, he leaned back against the headboard and shifted the sleeping foal to a more comfortable position. It was a lot like cradling a sleeping grandchild, complete with the warm glow of love under his ribs. Only with sharp hooves.

“You will hear vast amounts of screaming from the east in a few minutes,” he added, “from hundreds of crusty old men and women in the Pentagon. Unfortunately, I’ll still have to turn over your security to the National Guard, and that’s going to be a nightmare. The Posse Comitatus Act prevents the Army from engaging in law enforcement activities. The problem is you’re friendly. If you had been invading, and the Army was fighting you off, we could stay as long as needed.”

The shaggy stallion had a look of intense concentration, and Hackmore had to remind himself that Lucky had an advanced degree in history back in Equestria, and although he looked cute and cuddly like the rest, he was as much a professional as Secretary Franz. And he didn’t know anything about the US military.

“The National Guard is a transition from the regular service,” added Hackmore in about as brief a summary as he could manage. “They’re reserve units who train a few weekends a year and hold down civilian jobs. The governors of the states can ‘call out the guard’ for declared emergencies like disaster relief or… well, alien invasions in this case. The equipment they’ll be moving in are hand-me-downs from the armed forces, so I suppose we could transfer the tanks and vehicles to the Kansas units to avoid the cluster it took to get them here.”

“So… you could transfer the existing security people to the reserve guard while we’re here, and hire them back when we’re gone?” asked the pony. “They’d still be under Governor Brown’s command like the Highway Patrol, and we haven’t had any problems dealing with them. Except when the Cutie Mark Crusaders drove one of their cars into the lake.”

“I… um…” General Hackmore reached out one hand and flexed it into a claw. “Not a bad idea. I just hate the idea of losing control over the situation. I just want to grab it. Human nature, I suppose.”

He snugged the sleeping alien princess up higher on his shoulder and grabbed his SMEPED again.

Begin procedure to transfer all on-site personnel and equipment to the KSNG. Both will remain in place under NG command to comply with Posse Comitatus act. Off-site units remain in place on standby as before.

Punching the send button turned into a scramble to change his grip on the SMEPED, which had started to ring and incidentally finished waking up Clover from drooling on his shoulder.

“Phon?” she murmured.

“Bottle,” said Lucky, and scooped her up so Hackmore could answer his call.

“General Hackmore,” said Greg into his secure phone. “Go ahead.”

He limited his comments to mostly grunts, although he had to say “Kidnapped?” when the topic came up, and scribble a few notes for later. The information Nick transmitted was simple, straightforward, and indicative of much higher rank for him in the future, perhaps even a spokesman of some sort, although he might need a step-stool to reach the microphone. Tall soldiers just didn’t go into Armor, for obvious reasons.

“Lieutenant Comena, you’ve done such a good job here that I’m not going to write you up for Failure to Repair. Instead, I think you deserve a break. Take a three-day pass and enjoy yourself with the Equestrians in Wichita. Just not too much. I’ll even send your crew to bring your gear, so you make a good impression on the locals. I’ll see you back here when they return. Dismissed.”

Lucky was eyeing him when Hackmore hung up the call. “I recognize that expression,” he said, still holding the bottle to Clover. “Feel like everything is slipping out of control?”

“I’m trying to figure out just why I was suffering under the delusion that I was controlling the situation in the first place,” said Hackmore. “Apparently an FBI agent and three children have kidnapped my top TC and are flying down to Wichita. I knew your bunch was going to play tourist for a few days, but this is a bit much.”

Lucky shrugged and continued to feed his daughter. “Kids. We’ll be gone in two weeks. Time will just fly by. Trust me.”

The SMEPED took that opportunity to ring again, and Hackmore thumbed it on.

“Yes,” he snapped, then sat up at attention. “The President? Yes, I’ll hold.”

Things were getting more complicated. Two weeks from now could not come fast enough.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:16 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Somewhere Over Central Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So…” The crippled pink unicorn had the most plaintive eyes that just bored their way into Nick’s heart. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, I’m fine.” He handed the phone back to Miss Bruener, but did not get up. There was entirely too much air between him and Kansas right now. “Apparently going AWOL by being kidnapped by aliens is worth a three-day pass now. Do you have an itinerary for this kidnapping, Ma’am?”

“Landing first,” said Agent Anacostia. The dark-skinned woman was up on her knees, but no further, to look around. “I really don’t like being on anything I’m not flying.”

Widget nodded vigorously, making her shortened and patchy mane flutter in the breeze. “Claire showed me a bunch of places on her phone. After your Air Force takes us on some airplane rides, except for Goose there—”

Goose gave out another Valium-induced snore.

“—there’s a big zoo and a huge flower garden and a bunch of museums, but I want to go to boing.”

“Boeing,” corrected Miss Bruener.

“She says there’s a bunch of really big buildings there, and I thought Goose could fly around in them without triggering her fear of heights.”

“It’s a fear of wide open areas,” said Nick, but he most certainly did not add that Laminia thought of himself as Goose-therapy. He had enough trouble with the kids egging her on. “The hangers may actually be too large, if I remember right. Boeing built whole airplanes inside of them.”

“Oh.” The pink unicorn was slowed, but not discouraged, and shoulder-nudged the FBI agent to her side. “And we’ve got Karla with us for security. With Goose, of course. She says she can rent a car and go bar-hopping. Oh, wait. That was Claire,” she added at Karla’s brief objection. “And sing karaoke! Whatever that is.”

“We are going to lose dozens of you in Wichita,” said Agent Anacostia. “You’re going to get lost, and I’m going to get fired a dozen times. We need—”

“Phones,” declared the medical pegasus, producing one tucked into her wingtip. “Each group has one, and the Air Force base general said he’d assign an air man to each group. They’re wonderful devices! I’m going to take a dozen of them home with me and give them to all of my friends.”

Nick started to object, considered he was on a flying wagon pulled by pegasi with a unicorn by his side, and closed his mouth. Who knew, maybe they could find a way to make them work without cell towers. They certainly were no end of surprises, as the Navy was about to find out.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:36 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: An undisclosed location south of the Bruener farm, and a few hundred feet up

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Everything about the mission bothered Captain Kevin Rogers, USN, which was one reason he made such a good officer in the Navy Seals. After the first notification he had of the alien invasion last Friday, sufficiently verified, he had put out the word to his team, expecting to be airborne out of San Diego in a matter of hours.

And then, nothing…

Google Maps had provided terrain for the surrounding area, the San Francisco Chronicle of all places had no end of photos, and… Nothing could possibly be that cute without being dangerous too. The world was full of creatures with bright colors who were advertising their lethal abilities, times ten in the ocean depths. True, the aliens could be what they claimed, but they also could be a convenient group of their civilians being used as guinea pigs, shoved through a portal into an alien world to see what kind of response they would provoke.

Without time to prepare a mock-up so they could practice an assault, Rogers had improvised, then improvised again when it turned out the aliens were being dispersed among the civilian population of the area. Various elements of higher rank discussed their responses while Rogers tried his best not to over-train his men, or allow them to grow too attached to the helpless creatures. They repeatedly played the video of the Felts family assaulting the local Kansas police officer along with the related response by the ponies, determined weak points to concentrate on should force be required, and modified their equipment loadout in return.

By the evening of the alien’s supposed return, the ‘ID cards’ of their targets were expanded until every one of the men under his command could ID them by silhouette or rump-symbol. The way the local military mixed freely with the aliens was of a particular concern. If the aliens indeed had some sort of mind-control abilities, they would also have control over four tanks and associated armored vehicles. That concern was only magnified by the video that the Army provided of their joint exercise, both at Camp Victory and the paintball arena, as well as a report detailing the ‘enchantments’ they had on their armor.

If their observation mission turned into a fight, any alien in armor was to be targeted first, and shot until they were no longer a threat. In the head, preferably.

Then the video of the batwinged alien’s fight with the FBI agents in Kansas City became available, and priority shifted again. The dark pegasus aliens had only three adults, so any assault (if needed) would start with neutralizing them. Hard.

With the ‘failure’ of the alien’s return portal, prepared wheels within the Navy began to turn. In short order, Captain Rogers and his team was headed east, leaving the sunny beaches and friendly girls of San Diego for a long, noisy trip in a C-130J into America’s heartland.

Still, it was planned as an observation mission, with the observation, “Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill everybody you meet.”

His current observation point was five thousand feet AGL and closing fast.

A proper HALO jump was never complete without some jackass landing a few hundred feet off-target, despite endless training. This one was going according to plan, which made Rogers look for anything else that was going wrong.

Sixteen men, oxygen bottles, hundreds of pounds of gear, sniper rifles, bean-bag guns, LRP packages, gallons of water, all jerked to near stops as they pulled their rip cords in unison. A short period of maneuvering later, they were all standing on Kansas grassland, stuffing their chutes into bags and looking around.

“Hell of a lot better than dropping in the sandbox,” said one of the men out in the pitch darkness, just barely lit by the glimmering stars. “There’s a shallow gully about twenty meters south of here, Cap. Good place to rendezvous?”

“Agreed.” Captain Rogers keyed his microphone. “All units, meeting at the green chemlight. Sound off.”

Thankfully, that also went without a hitch, and in moments his team was huddled up like the worlds most heavily armed football team, night vision goggles and IR chemlights giving out a faint glow sufficient to read maps or check gear. Every weapon was properly stowed, since Rogers did not want to take any chances with a negligent discharge or surprised farmer this close to the target. With this much gear and with as many other people were in the area, their landing zone was practically on top of the middle observation point. Just because SEALS could hump a few hundred kilos of concentrated death dozens of miles did not mean they had to.

“So far, so good,” said Rogers, orienting the map tablet to the surrounding terrain. “I’m just glad this is eastern Kansas or we’d be trying to find cover in prairie dog holes five miles from the targets.”

His men chuckled, but remained alert, just as he wanted.

“Alpha, you’re over there, Charlie off that way. Bravo is with me, about a hundred meters over the top of that hill. Find the positions we have marked, dig in, and get out your ghillie suits. Avoid the radio if at all possible, because we don’t know what these aliens are capable of. We’ve got about four hours before sunrise—”

There was a faint ripping noise like cloth in the wind, and a very angry dark shape landed right next to their huddle.

“What do you idiots think you are doing!” the armored pony hissed. It was hard to make out exact features in the green-tinted glare of his night vision goggles, but the dark pony looked like Laminia, the adult female ‘batpony’ and the unhappy foal in her back-carrier could only be Stargazer, due to the pale stripe that ran down her dark mane.

And Mama wasn’t happy.

“I just got her to sleep, and it’s been two weeks! Two weeks since I’ve had any free time with my husband. Then you idiot humans come plummeting out of the sky and off we go, ready to save yet another bunch of blithering fools, and it wakes up Stargazer and now I’ve got to pee because the other foal is giving me indigestion. For two bits, I’d dig a hole and bury all of you out here, but no! I’ve got to be friendly and nice! ‘Maybe the humans just forgot to tell us’ he says. ‘Maybe they’re just practicing’ he says. ‘Maybe they—”

Glittering yellow eyes darted to one side, catching Owensby in the act of trying to draw his pistol in the most subtle fashion possible.

“Pull that out,” she growled, “and I will stuff it up your ass, sideways!”

“Yesma’am!” stammered Owensby and saluted out of reflex.

“Where was I?” muttered Laminia, her face set in a disagreeable scowl.

“Ask them if General Hackmore is aware of their arrival,” said a deep rumbling voice out in the darkness, much as if a huge embarrassed panther was lurking there.

“Uh, no, sir,” managed Rogers.

“Well, what in the blazes are you doing out here, then!” snapped Laminia.

“We… uh…” This situation was certainly not in any scenario Rogers had ever run, and the truth seemed oddly compelling, mostly because he was just a little afraid of what would happen if he lied to the snarling mare and she ever found out. She was actually a lot like his first ex-wife, with fangs. “Observation mission, sir. I mean Ma’am. Some of the brass are concerned that you might be… influencing the other soldiers.”

Narrowed golden eyes carefully examined every one of his men, along with their gear. “Guns?” she asked.

“A few,” started Rogers, then corrected when she glowered at him even harder than before. “Each,” he added.

“Humans and guns are worse than Twilight Sparkle and her books,” she muttered. “I am not waking up Hardhooves for this. Or General Hackmore! And it’s too much bucking work to dig a hole big enough for all of you. I swear, you humans are as big as whales.”

“You have whales on your planet too?” asked Rogers, who rather liked whales at the proper distance.

“Yeah.” Laminia frowned and put a hoof on her barrel. “Every time I get pregnant, here come the whale jokes. Observation, eh?”

Rogers nodded. The rest of his team did also.

“Show me where you’re setting up, stay out of the way, and I’ll tell your general about you tomorrow during Day shift. If Hackmore and Hardhooves say you can stay, fine. If not, you go.”

“General Hackmore isn’t supposed to— Yes, that’s fine,” said Rogers when Laminia looked back at him. That crack she made about digging a hole suddenly did not seem very funny.

“Fine, fine,” she grumbled. “Just remember three things while you’re ‘observing.’ First, if I see one gun, even one of those blasted paintball guns, whoever is holding it is going to eat it. And second, there’s a little patch of yellow wildflowers over the hill that way.” She waved with a grim smile. “Any ‘observation’ in that area is going to be met with real violence. And third…”

Dark lips pulled back from sharp teeth in what could be technically be considered a smile. “We’re going to need somebody to watch Stargazer then.”

In the US armed forces, there is an unwritten rule: Never Volunteer

Breaking that rule turned out to be not so bad after all.

Even though Stargazer was teething and bit him.

Twice.

Thankfully, she did not like the taste.

It was probably better for the planet, anyway.

Author's Note

Quick references:
A Ghillie Suit is excellent camouflage, only hot.
US Navy SEALS come in groups of sixteen consisting of two officers, one chief, and thirteen enlisted personnel, which is indeed unlucky. For anybody who meets them.
Moonset on this day is 12:35 AM, so it's pitch black other than starlight for the SEALS. They like it that way.
The Posse Comitatus act forbids active duty military from being used for law enforcement purposes. There is a direct exception for the National Guard, who serve at the direction of the state governor (and it's a little more complicated, but it's a good thumbnail view)

30. Fore!

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Fore!

“I don't like going to the mall. I'm not really like the other girls. I just like to go out on the golf course and play. Golf is fun and feels really good.”
— Michelle Wie, The Making of a Champion

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:05 A.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Colbert Hills Golf Course, Manhattan Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

General Gregory Hackmore found it rather humorous to be out on the golf course again, the same place where he had first found out about the odd alien invasion. Officially, he was off-duty since transferring authority over the ‘Pony Patrol’ to the Kansas National Guard, but the corporal carrying his SMEPED was lurking around behind their foursome like a shadow, just in case he were to get a call from the Commander in Chief, so he considered himself off-center, but not really off.

“Good shot,” he called out as the pony’s shot bounced down the fairway, coming to rest at about the midpoint. Filthy Rich was using a cut-down set of used Callaway clubs that somebody had volunteered for their outing, which had been literally cut in half and fitted with a wooden paddle on the shaft for the pony to grasp in their teeth. Greg never would have considered getting that kind of range out of a stubby club, but apparently earth ponies cheated. The photographer from the Kansas City Star quietly continued to click her camera while Mister Rich returned his club to his caddy’s bag, and Greg fought an urge to scratch his nose for fear that it would wind up on the front page of the Time magazine special edition. After all, this golf trip was a fundraising effort for the stranded ponies, and all of the details had been worked out between Filthy… that is Mister Rich and the magazine before he had even been asked to participate. And he had to admit, the Star photographer was both professional and quiet enough to be in the background.

“Not a bad shot at all,” said the next golfer, who strolled up to the tee box and prepared his ball. “I still think we should have General Hackmore tee off first, since he’s the only one of us who has ever played the course⁽*⁾ before.”
(*)Colbert Hills map
—

“I’ve got a handicap of twenty-three,” said Greg. “There’s enough water hazards in Colbert Hills that I spend about as much on balls as greens fees.” The photographer stopped to scribble down a note, and Greg felt fairly confident that his quote was going to wind up in the featured article, which was not bad. A note that claimed the lazy general in charge of Ft. Riley spent enough time to be an expert golfer would have been a considerably different thing in the current atmosphere of finger-pointing and blame-seeking that had evolved over the universe’s insensitive failure to provide enough extraterrestrial ponies for all the politicians and media that wanted them.

Then there was a backswing, the swoosh of a TaylorMade driver, and the solid ‘Thwack’ of a ball well hit, straight down the fairway, with a bounce that put it at the very end.

“Good shot, Mister Woods,” said Filthy Rich.

Tiger Woods smiled and slid the driver back over to his caddy. “I’ve seen better. Still, if I had hit like that earlier this month, I could have chipped in more money to your fund.”

“Don’t worry, Tiger.” The next golfer stepped up and prepared his ball while continuing to talk. “You’re the world’s greatest golfer, bar none. It’s just going to take a little time to get back in the groove. Maybe Mister Rich can give you some unexpected insights into your swing.”

This backswing was considerably different, but still had good power when the ball gave a ‘Thwack’ and headed down the fairway, barely short of Filthy Rich’s stroke but not bad.

“Terrible shot, just terrible,” muttered Donald. “The course here actually isn’t that bad, but you really need to play a round at my resort in Mar-a-Lago. All three of you are welcome at any time. I’ll fly you up, treat you in style at the resort, my treat. I may not be able to be there personally since I’ve got this new project, but my people run the greatest resort, anywhere.”

“I probably should take a pass at that, Mister Trump.” Hackmore set up his golf ball carefully and got his feet planted. “Mister Rich and the rest of his town is going to make my every move political as all Hell from now until forever. I wouldn't have come today if he hadn’t invited me, to be honest, and taking any kind of favor from a political candidate…”

“You have a point. Tell you what, after this is all over, all the politics and the military service, both you and Tiger have an open invite to just sit down and talk some evening.”

Greg gave Trump a cautionary look, then set up and swatted the golf ball down the fairway just slightly to the side of the last ball. Since the rest of the golf outing turned into such a pleasant walk with three conversationalists he never thought he would speak with ever, he actually forgot about the offer until they were getting ready to tee up for the fifth hole.

“Donald, that invitation you extended to Tiger and Greg after our visit is over,” started Filthy Rich. “Seems a little unfair that we ponies don’t get anything out of it.”

“So what are you asking for?” asked Trump.

Filthy Rich continued with the beginnings of a smile. “All of the medical tests Doctor Alexander and Doctor Stable ran came up clear, so there shouldn’t be any trouble with any kind of communicable diseases between our species. On Saturday, President Obama is scheduled for a visit here, which should be the end of your government trying to kidnap any of us. That means we can leave the state to do some tourism, and we have a week before the return portal opens. How close to Disney World is Mar-a-Lago?”

“A few hours by road,” said Trump. “Now if you want to go to Disney World and Universal Studios, you stay at the Grand Floridian. Not as good as my resort, but right on the property, and they take care of their guests. If you want, I’ll pay for that instead.”

“I’d hate to take advantage of your generosity,” said the pony with a contemplative look. “I was wanting to bring my daughter and her friends. Tell you what. If I get closest to the pin on this hole, you pay for our trip to Disney World. If I don’t, I’ll bring them to your resort and take extra time to talk up the visit to the various press that have been hanging around.”

“Deal.” Trump shook hooves with the pony, who promptly stepped out of the tee box and gestured.

“It would be only fair if the three of you went first, right?”

It did make sense, and despite Mister Rich’s exhortations for each of them to do their best on the two hundred yard drive, Hackmore felt a little better at seeing his drive slice ever so slightly to the right and bounce close to one of the sand traps. Trump’s drive landed twenty or thirty feet short of the pin, and Tiger’s ball landed slightly to the right and rolled within easy putting distance.

“Dang,” he said with the distinct tone of somebody who had put the ball right where he wanted it. “Looks like it’s doable, Mister Rich.”

“No,” said Filthy Rich after teeing up the ball and taking a long look. “Too easy. My caddy could make this shot. Tell you what, Donald. Let’s make this interesting. He makes the shot, you pay for anybody in our town who wants to go to Disney World next week, stay at the resort, and a dozen or so human escorts like the ones running around with our tour groups this week. He misses, I’ll stay at Mar-a-Lago and spend the whole week meeting with whoever you want.”

Tiger spoke up while Trump was thinking. “If your caddy can make this shot, I’ll bring my kids and help escort whatever ponies you want. They love Disney World.”

Caught up in the moment, Hackmore was going to say something, but caught the eye of the pony caddy who was looking back at him and silently mouthing ‘No.’

“Deal,” said Trump.

The pony caddy took the shortened driver from Filthy Rich, took a firm four-footed stance, gave an additional glance downrange, and let fly with a solid ‘Thwack!’ of the club.

The ball bounced twice on the green and dropped into the cup.

“Fuck,” said Tiger, still looking downrange while pulling out his wallet. “Five hundred bucks says you can’t do that again.”

“Same here,” said Trump.

“Here you go, Ace.” Filthy Rich passed his caddy another ball while Tiger looked up from counting the bills in his wallet.

“Ace? You’re just screwing with us, aren’t you? Does he play pool too?”

The caddy placed the ball on the untouched tee and repeated the process, this time with three bounces on the green before the ball dropped into the cup.

“Depends on how much money you’re willing to put on the pool table first,” said Ace.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:15 A.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Towne West Mall, Wichita Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

As long as she didn’t have to arrest anybody, FBI Agent Karla Anacostia liked malls. It did not help her mood today that yesterday she had flown across the country to Quantico, then back to Kansas, checked into the hotel at far too late at night, and then was squeezed with great enthusiasm by a unicorn who did not know her own strength. Luggageless, half a state away from her apartment, awoken at dawn or a little earlier after just a few hours of sleep…

She was having the time of her life, to be honest, right until they reached the mall.

Then it got better.

Fifty ponies and scattered human escorts fit into the tour bus that picked them up at the hotel, with any of the leftover pegasi who could not fit inside flying above them. If Karla had even the slightest delusion that she was in charge of this parade, she would have gone off her nut, as her grandmother had been known to say. Aliens flying around Wichita just above the cars was a traffic hazard, a near-certainty of a fatal pony-vehicle collision, a violation of FAA rules somehow… and pretty impressive, from what she could see out of the bus window when they pulled up to the mall front door.

“Okay, we’re here,” started Karla while standing up and blocking the aisle. It took a moment to let the cheering die down before she continued, “Now, everybody stick with your respective group and the assigned human chaperone. The mall office was just notified of our visit an hour ago. They promised nothing dramatic should happen, and they’re going to keep the press out while we’re here. There’s a youth gymnastics event going on in the central courtyard, so we should probably avoid that, and I believe Noodles and Company has offered us a bulk discount, so that might be a good spot to meet up for lunch. Does everybody have your cards?”

Hooves and hands waved back, clutching a variety of Visa or Master Card debit cards that had been donated by the local businesses and the Wichita Chamber of Commerce, or purchased by the growing Ponyville bank account.

“Then let’s go have some fun,” said Karla before turning and helping Widget navigate the bus steps down to the concrete sidewalk, with Goose and Claire right behind.

“The sun is so bright!” said Goose as she scurried for the shadow of the bus with her head down and her hat back on.

“This day is so right!” declared the next pony out of the bus.

“To the mall we are going,” chorused the next two ponies.

“Our excitement keeps on growing!” declared the next several as the trickle became a flood.

And… to be honest, the next few minutes passed in a chromatic blur for Karla. There was an incredible amount of singing involved, and dancing as well while the ponies surged forward through the mall’s entrance. It grew rapidly from there, sucking in human passers-by and escorts alike, picking up music from a nearby piano and explosions of multicolored confetti. The gymnastics demonstration rapidly gained a third dimension as delighted little girls in pink tights and shoes were swept aloft by a whirl of pegasi, while their mothers were catapulted through the air by unicorns and earth ponies.

It was the most fun she had since… well, sex. And it left her breathing almost as hard when the music built to a crescendo, ponies and people were dashing everywhere, there was some sort of a rising pyramid of pegasi, and in one dramatic burst, the excited ponies scattered to the four winds, or at least the two levels of the shopping mall and in both directions.

Karla sat there and tried to get her breath back, and more importantly to stop grinning like an idiot. She was an FBI agent in public, after all. Plus, she had something very important to do, right away. Hooking an arm around the steel brace to her side, she cautiously removed her cell phone, resisted an intense urge to call Clyde, and instead touched her speed dial and listened to the ringtone on speakerphone since she wanted both hands to hold on.

“Hey, Claire.” Karla rolled her eyes at the sound of excited ponies chattering on the other end of the call. “I know you and the girls are having fun somewhere in the mall, but I’ve got just one tiny little favor to ask before you go shopping all morning. Nothing really, just go back to the entrance where all the people are looking up at the mall’s ceiling. Yeah, you left somebody up in the rafters after your musical number. Me.”

* * *

Claire always loved the mall, although she never had the opportunity to just lounge around one with friends before. She was always hustling for a part-time job, or saving every nickel or dime for tuition. In high school, she had a goal. It was a stupid goal, at least now, but she had always admired females in politics, and had some wacked-out idea of getting a degree in political science with a minor in women’s studies. Madame President sounded wonderful, and with as many political scandals that had torpedoed other notable careers, she had worked very diligently to keep her nose clean and her work record spotless.

And with the witless enthusiasm of the young, she had decided on the University of Chicago as her gateway.

So she had worked all the way through high school, saved every penny from working wheat harvest on a custom cutter crew two summers in a row, drove an old beat-up Volvo, worked sixty hour weeks for two years after graduation, and lived like a hermit to make her goal.

She made it almost one entire year in college as the oldest new pledge in her sorority before returning to Kansas. In hindsight, expecting to learn politics as a young woman in Chicago was like learning anatomy from a serial killer at a butcher shop. And the minor in women’s studies… Volunteering for a campaign in Chicago had an entirely different meaning for attractive college-age girls.

It didn’t matter how perfect your scores, or how many teachers urged you to go into a medical field. You could have a line of disabled Guatemalan orphans a mile long that you tutored into law school, and any number of pretty co-eds with banker fathers and socialite mothers would effortlessly collect every special award you competed for, so they could become socialite mothers and marry bankers to raise more of their ilk.

It was probably another reason why she had shunned malls since high school. People like her worked at the stores. People like the ones she was beginning to dislike with a passion shopped at the stores, or more correctly hung out and didn’t buy anything.

Ponies did buy things, but they just didn’t buy a lot of things, which was understandable since they were going to have to carry them all home. Well, except for Widget, who had Karla and Nick to carry her bags and push her bag-laden wheelchair when she was stationary enough to sit in it instead of clattering around the mall’s floor with her plastic leg brace on.

Claire used the excuse of shooting pictures of the two mares for her travel blog so she did not have to carry the swag and get bogged down under bags.

“How about a hermit crab, Claire?” asked Widget, standing up on her rear legs so she could peer into a cage full of the clattering creatures.

“I don’t know,” said Goose right beside her, only braced against the kiosk floor with her sizable wings so she probably could not have been tipped over by a linebacker tackle. “Pretty sure the mayor said we couldn’t take any creatures back with us.”

* * *

“But it’s only one giraffe!” wailed the Cutie Mark Crusaders while the Topeka Zoo docents led baby Hope back to the enclosure.

* * *

“Besides,” added Claire, “You don’t know if it’s going to have a bunch of crab babies and cover all of your city with crabs.”

“Parasprites,” said Goose and Widget in a flat monotone at the same time. The young unicorn regained her four-legged stance with a slight wince and smiled at the proprietor, which resulted shortly in a purchase of a plush octopus, a fuzzy stuffed crab, three shells with interesting patterns, an ocean-themed bag to carry it all in, and several selfies.

Actually, a lot of selfies, because of the crowd of children who seemingly materialized out of thin air whenever the group stopped. Widget and Goose had their own felt-tip pens by now, and Claire had attached a coffee can with a hole in the top to her wheelchair so people could stick a few bucks in for the Ponyville fund.

“You know, when I went to Comic-Con, the actors had custom photo sheets they would sign,” said Claire while helping organize the line of aspiring junior ponywatchers. “That way they didn’t have to sign body parts.”

“Thank you, Miss Goose,” said the brawny man in the skimpy t-shirt, who had half of Goose’s flowery signature across the back of his neck. He towered over the smaller children, but seemed as polite and gentle as a teddy bear as he gave a short bow and presented the ponies with a business card. “Sensei Koko would like to invite you to his dojo any evening for a cultural exchange in the field of martial arts, if you would be willing. Um… Ma’am?”

“I’ve got it,” said Claire, moving closer and beginning to pry on the smaller pegasus’ huge wings. “Goose, you need to let go. People are watching, and the children will get a bad impression about ponies if you squish somebody.”

“Thank you,” said Goose somewhat indistinctly into the large man’s chest, although she showed little indication of breaking off her full-body hug (with wings). “You smell good.”

It took a few moments to peel Goose off her victim, who was taking it in good stride, and she tucked the business card away in her chest armor with all the intense sincerity of a Civil War bride holding onto a last flower as her lover marched off to war.

“Aren’t you supposed to be hugging the nice Army man, Miss Goose?” asked the next child in line, who was holding out a school binder for endorsement.

“And kissing,” said Widget as she finished her own signature with a swooping motion of the pen.

As expected, the dark batpony got even darker red and stammered around her Sharpie marker while Claire giggled and all of the children waiting in line and clustered around added their own comments.

“Girls!” Goose recovered her marker and signed one last folder. “Can’t we… go on the carousel again instead?”

There was a cheer from the children, and a quick objection from Claire, because she knew where this was going. “I don’t know, you two have been on it twice already.”

Karla merely waved her hands and said, “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!” declared Widget.

♫ The carousel ride, the carousel ride
We want to go on the carousel ride
Camels and zebras all safe inside
We want to go on the carousel ride ♫

The crowd of human children singing along only made it more heart-wrenching, and Claire almost broke out in laughter as the whole bunch trotted off to the carousel again, with two of the children getting their own ponyback rides in the process, and Nick following behind with his wallet open, looking for some more money.

It was fairly easy to catch Karla tagging along behind the parade, because she was lagging too, with a wide yawn and an expression of anticipation, which was only expected because seeing the two ponies on the carousel was oodles of fun.

“Hey, Agent.” Karla went immediately stoic, then switched back to a cautionary frown when she saw who had called out.

“Claire, don’t do that. The President is showing up in three days, and all of the newsies are looking for a suitably bad video clip showing how badly we screwed up First Contact. So I need to be on my toes, or they’ll have something they can run every night—” she shifted to a lower vocal tone “—as we go to our reporters in Kansas, where they caught an FBI agent actually looking like a human being around our visitors.”

“Widget would take their cameras apart and Goose would kick them senseless.” Claire gave a dismissive flip of her wrist. “I swear, the press is everywhere. At least the girls are getting along like a house on fire, and when Widgie stuck her bottom lip out on camera, you got freed from Official FBI Detention.”

“I texted Deputy AG Gates a few times last night,” admitted Karla. “Nothing bad, just how are you doing and Widget was asking about you, stuff like that. Zip for response, so she’s had her phone stripped. So has the rest of the goon squad, I’ll bet. They picked up our phones when we walked into the plane. Had to throw a minor fit to get it back when they sent me here. Promised not to answer any calls that weren’t from the Bureau.”

On cue, her phone buzzed again, and after a quick look at the screen, Karla thumbed a button and put it back inside her jacket. “One of my feckless drug-dealing cousins.”

“Wonderful family you have,” snarked Claire. “And you criticized me for Krystol’s drug habit. She’s only a part-time roommate, after all.”

That earned Claire a peculiarly sympathetic look from the young FBI agent. “You know that soul-sucking feeling, when you want so much to drag them off to a drug treatment program and lock them inside for a few months but you know it wouldn’t do any good? Just about every time I meet a relative, I get it right here.” She thumped herself on her ample chest. “Can’t go to a reunion of any sort because mom’s side of the family treats me like a radioactive virus, and I’ve never been able to track down any of dad’s relatives.”

“I’ll loan you some of mine,” said Claire. “My brother the lawyer is in the Army OIG office, and my brother the hairy truck driver is up in Oregon, wrestling trees. Dad’s got a few dozen relatives scattered across the country, and my mother’s relatives just carpet Portugal. Haven’t even opened up my email this week because I can paraphrase about half of them with my eyes closed.” Claire tossed her empty coffee container into a nearby mall trash can before holding one hand across her chest. “Dearest Claire, we met when you visited, I saw you just now on the television, and I’d be glad to come help with the ponies if you would be willing to sponsor my visa. Of course, it would be in Portugese, and about three pages long, and they’d ask for a bundle of money in advance for expenses like food and transportation.”

“And then they’d cash the check and stay home?” asked Karla as they slowed down to watch the scrum at the merry-go-round with the ponies, the children, and a number of excited parents.

“Or vanish once they got inside the US, or maybe even get all the way to Kansas and stand here with their hands out. My mother’s a mutant or something in her lazy family. The only reason she doesn’t have a PhD in headshrinking is we moved here when Granpop got sick, then decided to stay when he passed away because we didn’t have to deal with Kansas City’s crap.”

“Hey, that crap is my living.” Karla drained the last dregs from her coffee and sat it next to them on the stone wall they were holding up while watching the ongoing equine entertainment. “If everybody decided to obey the law, I’d be out of a job. Just like if Goose didn’t have anybody in Equestria who wanted to attack her princesses.”

Clare stifled a laugh, and lowered her voice. “Nick confided in me last night, at the pool. The bitchy-bat wants Goose to keep hitting on him, as long as she doesn’t catch him and screw his ass into the mattress. Well, he didn’t say that directly, but he implied it. She said it was good for Goose’s mental recovery process.”

It looked as if Karla were biting her bottom lip. “Oh, God. I didn’t think we were pushing her that hard. Some of the reports we’ve gotten at the FBI were showing it’s possible, but—”

“Whoa, wait a second.” Claire brushed some hair out of her eyes and took a quick look at the carousel, just to make sure the subjects of their conversation were occupied. “Theoretically or practical?”

There was a significant pause before Karla admitted, “Practical. No photos, thank God, but several reporters proved more than willing to sleep with sources to get a story before they wound up around the Ponyville Poontang Brigade. Hell, if you took two hundred random humans at random and dropped them into an alien world, how long would it be before one of them was caught with a willing native?”

“An hour,” admitted Claire. “Less if they’re military. It pretty much happened everywhere human explorers landed throughout history. Captain Cook’s sailors traded nails for sex in Hawaii until their ships were about ready to fall apart.”

“In any case, it’s good that Goose is getting better. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for a pegasus who can’t fly outside,” said Karla while leaning back against the stone wall and watching the carousel go around, with Goose perched on a zebra and Widget reclining cautiously on a bench with two overjoyed children around her. “And a shame they’re all going home in a week and a half. Widget’s wasted in Ponyville. She’s bright, unintentionally manipulative, adorable, and curious as a kitten. They’re both having so much fun here and expanding their horizons.”

After clearing her throat, Claire addressed the FBI agent as she would a child. “Young miss, you don’t think you can get away with kidnapping them both and raising them as your own children in Kansas City. Somebody would notice.”

From the brief hesitation that followed, Karla had been thinking something along those lines. “No, you’re right. But I think… Now hear me out before you say no. I think Widget would really like going to Washington on her terms, not like the FBI wanted. I mean I’ve been involved with a couple of VIP visits, and being female I tend to get shunted off to deal with the wives and children. They have a ball going to all the places while the husbands get stuck shaking hands and getting photos.”

To be honest, it was not that bad of an idea, but it lacked one thing. “So first, we need to get Widget married,” said Claire. They shared a mutual laugh, then watched Nick helping Goose down from the carousel.

“To a pony,” clarified Karla.

“Spoilsport,” said Claire. They both laughed a little before she continued, “Damn, I’m glad you’re back. I’m outnumbered two to one whenever they decide on something crazy, and that photographer isn’t any help.”

“Mister Henderson?”

“Oh, it’s Mister Henderson, is it, Missus Henderson?” Karla had more of a dark chocolate mocha skin tone than Nick’s solid black, and Claire had never really seen a black person blush before, but Karla went red all the way to her ears while protesting.

“He’s the perfect gentleman!” she blurted out. “He never even touched me.”

Now that was a line worth rubbing in. “The way the two of you were making eyes at each other, I thought you were going to climb into the back of the SUV and make like teenage bunnies on the way back from KC,” she snarked.

“No!” protested Karla, then adding in a lower voice, “Not while I’m on duty!”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:15 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Evening, Mister Bruener!” Dakota slung his bag onto the couch and looked around the corner into the house’s business office, which was more of a cluttered den than any glass and steel cubicle. It also had a secretary much unlike any other terrestrial office. “Hello, Miss Grace,” he added, giving a nod to the solemn green unicorn at the office computer. “Any idea where the man of the house is? I just saw a couple Rangers bring some people inside, and wondered if they needed some photos.”

“He’s in the basement with some guests, Uncle Kota,” piped up a much smaller unicorn next to her, who had made a nest of sorts out of the books and magazines and had settled comfortably in for a long reading session.

“The guests are from DeBeers in New York,” said Grace, still seemingly entranced by whatever website she was browsing. “Spike, please go downstairs. I believe they are here for you.”

“Now that’s not ominous,” murmured Spike, who had followed Kota into the house.

“They are unarmed,” continued Grace, “although they still have two of the Army Rangers with them.”

“Girls, could you go with him?” said Kota to the other two ponies following them. “I need to talk with Grace for a minute.”

Once Bon Bon and Lyra had trotted down the stairs close behind Spike, Kota turned back to the two unicorns in the office. “I’m positive I didn’t take a photo of you over the last few days, young lady,” he started, “and I’m pretty sure I would remember—”

“Booky!” hissed a young voice behind him, and Sweetie Belle poked her nose into the Bruener’s home office. “Oh, hello Aunt Grace. What are you doing here?”

Grace turned to look at the young unicorn, then returned to her web browser. “Sweetie Belle is at the Great Wolf Lodge in Kansas City.”

“Uh… I had to come back early?”

Grace let out a sigh. “Changeling, clone, temporally displaced traveler, evil mirror universe, non-evil mirror duplicate, magically spell-created doppelganger, nemesis, or unknown?”

“Uh…” Sweetie Belle, or the small unicorn who said she was, put one hoof behind her neck and cringed. “Flurry said I’m not supposed to say. Because of paradox.”

“Time traveling, then.” Grace floated several sheets of paper off the nearby laser printer and over to Sweetie. “Pay particular attention to the second page, feel free to read while waiting to be picked up, and try not to be photographed.”

After a moment of stunned non-thought, Kota put the lens cap back onto his camera and headed upstairs to find a place to bunk tonight. There was probably another mind-shattering discovery in Mister Bruener’s basement that he could not photograph, so it made more sense to get some sleep while he could.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:12 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Jon Bruener had gotten used to a lot of strange things in the last almost-week. One was a dragon, of all things. Most of the rest were ponies. There was even a time-traveling pony from the future upstairs, curled up in his den while waiting for her friends to come back and pick her up. She had blamed herself for being so quiet and overlookable, but Jon was starting to think she had hidden when they left just so she could immerse herself in his late father’s collection of old science fiction magazines.

Aliens from another planet wanting to read stories about aliens from another planet. Dad would have flipped.

The last few days, the ponies had broken up into semi-autonomous groups, shadowed by various civic organizations and ‘off-duty’ police mixed in with more official individuals, tempered by the variable Equestrian tolerance for additional eyes and ears. The press would have badgered them day and night if not for the Kansas Highway Patrol, who had an official representative as ‘tour guide’ for each group. There were enough groups of ponies out and about that the house was feeling rather empty with only the sleeping batpony family upstairs and the odd tutor and his daughter playing downstairs. Some of the groups would probably return this evening, so it was only a brief break, but still welcome.

“Um, Mister Bruener, sir?” The Army Ranger in the doorway was armed like a sentry, with no grenades or other civilian-frightening gadgets visible, but the M4 he was holding across his chest was loaded, and Jon knew from experience just how many heavy ammunition magazines he had in his load-carrying vest.

“Private Fitzgerald,” said Jon. “What can I do you for? Some iced tea? Air conditioning?”

“Got a special visitor for your special visitors, sir. Can we continue this inside?”

It made more sense than standing in the doorway, so Jon gestured the Ranger inside, along with the two serious-looking men dressed like Orthodox Jews, and an additional armed Ranger to stand guard. It took the heavy briefcase held by one of the men to trigger Jon’s suspicions of the contents, and escort them all downstairs.

“DeBeers, I presume?”

One of the two men nodded as they headed down the stairs. “The officers of the company saw the issues your visitors were having, and are willing to offer assistance.”

“So Equestria doesn’t have to send a bunch of dragon chow through their portal,” continued Jon once they were downstairs. “Honey, these men are from DeBeers, and they brought some…”

Close proximity to cute ponies should have helped his resistance, but seeing his wife in her recliner with Clover curled up on her chest, and Lucky sprawled out on the other recliner with a newspaper over his face, made something in his heart twang like a plucked guitar string.

The sudden stop by the two dark-clad men behind him indicated that even they could be entranced by a sleeping alicorn foal, although Spike began pushing his way past the stopped humans on the stairs, followed by Lyra and Bon Bon.

“Come on, come on. Let’s get going. Clover sleeps like a log, so we’re not going to wake her up.” The diminutive dragon dragged one of the end tables to the center of the carpet, then went with the other two ponies to retrieve some chairs, calling back over his shoulder, “The diamonds smell really good.”

Lucky woke up with a start, and folded the newspaper as he struggled out of the recliner. His first instinctual glance was to his daughter, who was being properly cuddled by Mrs. Bruener, before looking up at the visitors.

“Are you selling diamonds door-to-door?” he asked. “Because I think we can afford some of them for Spike.”

The oldest and most bearded of the two hesitated, obviously caught preparing a practiced statement, then gave out a brief snort of bemusement. “The Girl Scouts you haff in your home, dey must haff the most strange cookie sales. Abraham Gufeston, DeBeers,” he added, sticking out a broad hand to shake.

“Lucky,” said the green earth pony while shaking the proffered hand. “You’ve already met Spike, and that’s my daughter over there being spoiled rotten by Missus Bruener. How may I help you, sir?”

The older man settled down in the chair that Spike brought over and scooted closer to the end table. “Ve need to speak to a person in authority among your people.”

“Go ahead,” said Lucky. “I’m listening.”

The old man hid his annoyance well, but Jon could still see the faint scowl when he responded, “No, I mean like your mayor or perhaps the commander of the military.”

At that point, the quiet schoolteacher did something more than a little odd. He took off his wrinkled fedora and passed it over to Abraham, who took the hat, nearly dropped it on the floor, then looked inside to find out why it was so heavy.

He did not say anything for a short time, except to share his observation of the ordinary hat with his associate. Eventually, he produced a jeweler’s loupe, peeled the edge of the fedora away from something golden that was hidden inside the brim, and took a much longer look.

“They’re all thirty carets across the top of the tiara,” said Abraham quietly. “At least. And flawless.”

“It’s a coronet, and I was keeping them in case we had serious problems finding fuel for Spike,” explained Lucky. “Rarity had to go through a whole basket full of diamonds to find that collection. Took most of the afternoon, so I didn’t want to break up her set unless it became necessary.”

“I… see.” Abraham passed the fedora back to the scroungy schoolteacher, who put it back on his head. “Well. I think your bona fides are in order. Let us proceed.”

The second man placed the briefcase on the table and opened it up.

Lucky promptly slammed it shut, then looked over at Spike, who had appeared out of thin air as if summoned.

“We’re not going to have another ‘Spike want’ incident, are we?” asked Lucky.

Spike shook his head, but kept looking at the closed briefcase until Lucky slowly opened the lid again.

The sight was… modestly underwhelming. Uncut diamonds looked more like plain pebbles than the millions of dollars worth of gemstones Jon had really expected. In addition, there were several larger colored rocks that Abraham placed on the table in a line.

“Synthetic rubies, sapphire boules, und some other man-made gemstones,” he explained as he put smaller stones next to each large one. “As well as the natural version uff each, so you can see if they vill do as substitutes for your young dragon’s appetites.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Lucky as he closed the briefcase again, just in front of Spike’s wandering fingers. “How much will they cost us?”

“Nothing,” said Abraham. “Provided they work for your purposes, and you do not bring any more gemstones across your portal. We wouldn’t want to see the market flooded,” he added.

“You mean your market,” said Lucky. “I was doing some studying while Spike and the crew were out shopping. Your company produces about half of the worldwide supply in diamonds, down from almost all of it thirty years ago. Things like this are exactly why Princess Celestia and Princess Luna aren’t going to approve a permanent portal, once Twilight figures out the spell.”

“Our company executives vill be so glad to hear that,” said Abraham, lapsing back into his accent slightly.

“My back was pretty glad to hear that too,” said Lucky, “because I’d be the one trudging back and forth with piles of books until my wife filled up her new library. And I’m not even sure we can fill it up. I swear the castle keeps adding rooms when we’re not looking. So…” Lucky tapped the top of the briefcase. “There’s not going to be any trouble because of this, will there?”

“No.” Abraham opened the briefcase, removed a glittering pebble that looked like cloudy glass, and passed it over to Lucky. “They look beautiful, and they’re worth several hundred thousand dollars, but they’re worthless to us at the same time. You see, many of the diamond mines that do not belong to our company are run by ruthless countries who mine them unethically, and sell the product in order to buy weapons. Ve call them conflict diamonds, and there is an international treaty to prevent their transport and sale.”

“I see,” said Lucky. “And when these illegal diamonds are confiscated—”

“We provide secure storage. At that point, Customs and Border Patrol are in a bit of a pickle. They can’t sell them, because they’re illegal, and can’t be recertified by the Kimberly Process. They can’t just destroy them, because they’re worth millions of dollars. So they sit in our vaults, and get inventoried every year. Und ve bill the government for it,” he added. “So ve gave a friend of ours a call, und he gave us the thumbs-up to bring some of them to you, and incidentally reduce their yearly vault rental expense. It’s good for all uff us, really.”

Lucky peered at the dull diamond. “So they’re not yours?”

“Vell, these are,” said Abraham, indicating the gemstones outside of the briefcase. “Vee are just a courier for the rest. Since vee vere not sure your dragon would like the diamonds.”

Lucky gave the glittering stone a toss.

Spike snapped it out of the air like a toad after a fat fly, and crunched happily afterward.

Abraham smiled. “On behaff of the DeBeers company and the US Government, Customs and Border Commissioner Gil Kerlikowske, ve vould like to present these gifts in the spirit of friendship between our two peoples. If you vould be so good as to sign this receipt, my associate will notarize it.”

31. Just For Kicks

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Just For Kicks

“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.”
— Bruce Lee, Striking Thoughts

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:05 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Hyatt Regency Hotel, Wichita Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So, tomorrow night can we go to the dojo, right?” For all intents and purposes, Goose looked like a begging puppy, and was just as irresistible. The problem was reality.

“Tomorrow we’re going to the Hutchinson Cosmosphere, and their salt mine,” said Karla. “Which is nice, because I’ve been in the state almost a year and the FBI never sent me to visit either. The salt mines are really big and really deep underground, so maybe you can get some flying time down there. Since the Boeing aircraft hangers were a bust, that is.”

That took a little of the starch out of the perky batpony. She had flown in the hangars, but with all of the chaos of the day, there had nearly been a catastrophic crash at the end, and that had set her back nearly as much as Widget’s nervous breakdown. The two ponies had developed far more than just a guard-guarded relationship. They covered for each other’s weaknesses, and tag-teamed Karla like professional troublemakers.

Widget had been poking her stylus at Karla’s phone during the conversation, and promptly perked up with, “It’s only an hour’s drive between them. We can go to the dojo after.”

“We’re going to have to get there first.” Claire pointed out the window at the crowd of people standing in front of the Hyatt, waving cameras and microphones. “It seems your people’s request to be left alone by the press worked right up until now. Wana sic Goose on ‘em?”

“No,” said Karla before Goose could respond. “They’re our people press, so I’ll go chase them off. Although,” she admitted, “it would be a positive for public relations if some of the ponies wanted to tell our hosts how much they’ve enjoyed their day in Wichita. Anybody?”

A few hooves went up in the bus, although most of the ponies looked genuinely spooked by the chaotic crowd of reporters.

“I’ll go calm them down,” said Karla as the bus came to a halt rather than plow through the Fourth Estate, no matter how tempting the thought was. Taking a deep breath, she stepped to the opening door and addressed the crowd that pressed forward, who were all shouting at the top of their lungs.

“Gentlemen!” she shouted. It took several times until she was able to make herself heard, and although she was slightly tempted to fire a shot in the air to calm them down, it would make no end of trouble, so she resisted. It did not look like the press was going to give the ponies even the slightest bit of slack, so interviews this evening were probably a bust. At this rate, the jittery ponies were probably going to spend a good chunk of the evening coming to her for reassurance, and her sleep deficit was only going to get deeper.

Her resulting short temper did not help when one of the reporters wedged himself to the front of the crowd and stuck a finger right in her face. “The people have a right to know about the alien’s plans here on Earth, and you have no authority to obstruct our— Yeeeahhh!”

To be honest, she really did not think she had broken the prodding finger, and one of his fellow reporters had probably nudged him in the middle of his tirade, so the scratch on her nose was most likely accidental. Then again, holding onto the damaged digit kept the obnoxious reporter’s mouth shut, so…

“Either he goes over there—” Karla jerked her head toward an open patch of grass outside of the hotel’s immediate vicinity “—or you all leave. Right now! You’re frightening our guests, and I’m not having it. Any volunteers to transport our reluctant reporter?”

Two of the more hefty cameramen took hold of an elbow each and guided the angry man away, leaving a much more subdued group looking at Karla when she began talking again.

“I’ll see if I can convince five ponies to talk with you this evening over there on the south side of the hotel,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You will be polite, calm, and examples of what humanity should be when faced with guests. Huddle up and pick your best interviewers, and split up the footage however you want when you’re done, but when they say they’re done, you’re done.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the hotel. “If you need me, I’ll be in the hot tub. Don’t need me.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:59 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Hyatt Regency Hotel hot tub, Wichita Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I am so fired, I am so fired…” Karla Anacostia opened one eye as the door to the pool room opened and the Terrible Trio came in with one swimming suit between them, although Widget was wearing a ‘Wichita State Shockers’ t-shirt to cover most of her shaved patches and a USS Wichita ball cap that had been modified to accommodate a horn.

Claire Bruener gave a cheerful wave to Nick, who was resting at the edge of the pool after swimming laps, but she was almost bowled over by a bounding naked (or at least unarmored) batpony, who dove in with a huge splash.

“Cowabunga!” called out Nick, followed by a startled yelp when Goose surfaced right underneath him. “Girl! Watch where that nose goes!”

Claire helped Widget settle down into the hot tub next to Karla and stuck a dry towel under her plastic-wrapped foreleg. Her own entry into the water was much more subdued, and with more than a few looks over her shoulder at the two idiots splashing each other in the pool.

“Good news,” said Claire. “Mister Acosta’s not going to press charges. Of course that may have had something to do with the state troopers who visited him while the paramedics were taping up his hand.”

Karla sank lower in the water until only her nose and mouth were above the bubbles. It helped keep her from hearing anything else while she repeated, “I am so fired, I am so fired…”

“And I got a call on my new phone,” declared Widget, waving the iPhone in question regardless of the pool water all around. “Mister President wanted to know if there was anything I needed when he visits on the weekend to give us our medals, so I told him I wanted you with me. And Claire,” she added. “Because you two are my favorite people friends.”

Karla vanished under the bubbling water.

“I don’t think she’s looking forward to Saturday,” said Claire.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:59 P.M. Wednesday June 24, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Manhattan Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I am so looking forward to Saturday.” US Secret Service Agent O’Malley stretched with a yawn that popped his jaw while walking toward the terminal. “We were in Kansas during January when Renegade had a speech in Lawrence, but that was strictly in-and-out. Secretary Johnson had a Landon Lecture at K-State back in May, but we weren’t involved there.”

“I’d think the towns would all blur together after a while. Other than the ponies in this one, of course. Wonder where they’re hiding.” Agent Washington took a long look around the otherwise plebeian airport terminal building where their government aircraft had parked, and in particular the uniformed police officer walking their direction.

“You’ll learn to see each town as different in their own ways, regardless of alien visitors. Hello, Captain Rietz,” added Conner with his hand outstretched.

“You must be Agent O’Malley from the Secret Service,” said the leggy brunette with her own welcoming smile and handshake. “Welcome to Kansas. I’ve been selected as RCPD liason for the duration of your stay, so please feel free to contact me if you have any questions. Enterprise has the rental cars for your officers, we’ve expedited hotel space at the Holidome, and made arrangements with the Equestrians for a member of their Night Guard to conduct a walk-through of the scheduled activities. We thought doing it at night would cut down on the reporters,” she added, sounding slightly embarrassed. “They’ve been following the Equestrians like mosquitoes, and I can understand most of their enthusiasm, but—” Captain Rietz let out a quick huff of frustration. “Are they all this bad in Washington?”

“I could tell you stories,” started O’Malley, “but the Secret Service keeps its secrets. Did you say one of their soldiers was going to meet us tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry!” The voice drifting down from above was angelic and frazzled, like some sort of fairy creature being pursued by trolls, and Conner felt an unreasoning urge to rush to her defense even if she was somewhere up in the sky above him. “We tried to leave Wichita in time to get back here, but Standing Water saw the Braum’s ice cream store in Salina since we didn’t want to travel cross-country without a trans ponder and we were following the highways but we got a little lost but the nice people at the Lion’s Den store pointed us in the right direction—”

It was a pony. It took several blinks to recognize that simple fact, mostly because of the color scheme. Even at night, in the reflected light from the airport terminal, the pegasus practically glowed pink, in such an aggressive tint that it tended to grab onto every neuron in an unwary brain. And just when Connor managed to come to terms with the iridescent pink drifting down out of the sky, the orange of her mane and tail ambushed any recovered neurons and proceeded to flog them mercilessly. If the colors were not bad enough, her shocking orange mane was in the process of unwinding from a tight braid, leaving a cascade of flowing color around her neck as she touched down lightly on the asphalt tarmac, still talking as fast as she could make words.

“—and there was this big truck beside the road and the driver was looking under the hood so I went down to see if I could help but he banged his head on the metal and his wife did not seem to like us there and I remember what happened the last time I tried to help a car that had pulled over and I know there were a lot of collisions afterward but it was dark tonight so I thought it wouldn’t happen again. But it did,” she added. “I’m sorry.”

“I was following that on the radio⁽*⁾ while waiting,” said Captain Rietz. “Only a five car pile-up by Abilene, and all minor fender-benders. Specialist Dahlia Thermal, I’d like you to meet the US Secret Service members who will be in charge of the President’s security detail, Senior Agent O’Malley and…”
(*) Sam was missing the current drama where the Highway Patrol was pulling three kilos of cocaine and meth out of the truck while arresting the driver and his wife.
—

“Agent Washington.” The black man stuck out his hand to shake and nearly jumped back when a dark shape on the pegasus’ back shifted positions and two curious eyes opened up.

“Mama?” asked the little blue pegasus foal, shaking some windblown mane out of his face. “Home?”

“Not quite yet, Standing Water. You can run around here a little, but don’t get too far away.” The colorful pegasus shrugged out from under some sort of metal crossbar, which was when Conner finally realized she had been towing an extremely minimalist cart, which was barely more than a pair of extremely small bicycle wheels and a padded passenger seat, with two small footpegs and no place at all to hang on. The hefty pegasus colt was almost too large for Thermal’s backpack carrier, and she had to twist around in some… interesting ways to get him extracted.

“Run! Run!” No sooner had the colt’s hooves touched the ground than he was off like a shot to the other Secret Service agents coming out of the aircraft, bouncing around them with short flaps of his wings and exuberant cries of, “Play!”

“I’m sorry,” said Thermal again. “He’s so much like his father.”

“Your husband must be one heck of an energetic guy,” said Agent Washington. “Is he here on Earth with you?”

Thermal shook her head, making the cascade of orange mane bounce around her like some pornographic movie star getting ready to shoot a sex scene. “Oh, no. He’s in VanHoover with a few thousand bits of jewelry out of the police evidence locker and a floozy from the Parking Division, but we have a number of leads in that area, and hope to have him in custody soon. Are you married, Agent Washington?”

The way the sexy pegasus said the words in that porn star voice was almost an invitation… Well, not almost, and in fact could be considered an engraved invitation on letterhead with gilded edges, so Conner quickly stepped into the conversation to prevent his junior agent from making some sort of extradimensional faux pas.

“He’s been happily married to a beautiful woman for three years now, and has the most adorable newborn that I’m sure he’d be willing to talk about for hours, but right now I think we should focus on the job at hand.”

“Oh!” Conner had heard about people jumping up in the air when they were startled, but people did not simply stick there in mid-hop like pegasi, and in particular when she put such a vibrant collection of colors at nose-length in combination with her rampant disregard for periods or commas. “I’m sorry, Agent Washington. If you would be seated, we can take a look at the preparations for Mister President’s visit and I can fly you out to the farm since it’s just up the road and it’s so easy to fly at night here since there aren’t any cloud structures but we only have an hour before your moon sets which seems really strange that your princesses don’t keep your sun and moon synchronized. Sam, can you watch Standing Water for me?”

“No problem,” said Captain Rietz. She put two fingers in her mouth and blew a sharp whistle, which earned her about forty pounds of energetic young pegasus to the chest a few moments later. “Oof, you giant puppy! No, don’t lick my face. The makeup can’t be good— Phuphttth!”

“Thank you, Sam!” declared the vibrant-colored pegasus before ducking underneath her harness again and shedding the saddlebags over her rump with an additional wiggle that attracted the undivided attention of every male human within a few hundred feet. “I’ve got one bottle of formula in the bag in case he gets thirsty, and don’t let him poop in the potted plants. Come on, Agent Washington. Let’s get started.”

Then there was a whoosh of air, and Conner found himself without his trainee.

“Are they… um… all like that?” he asked the police officer, who was holding onto the pegasus colt so he did not go chasing off into the dark sky after his mother. “I mean… she’s in their military?”

“Recent hire in the Night Guard, from what I’ve been told,” managed Samantha while getting a better grip on the colt. “The police got invited to watch a sparring demonstration they had with the Rangers one evening in the woods. She can hold her own with any of their guards, and she makes Rangers go flying through the air with the greatest of ease. And— umph —she can wrestle Standing Water, which should qualify her for the WWF. Welcome to Kansas, and the unique creatures within.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:04 A.M. Thursday June 25, 2015
Location: Discovery Center vicinity — Topeka, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Now gather around,” said the older man, squatting down in the grass. “My name is Joe Collins, and while we’re waiting for the smoke to clear—” he gave a quick glance in the direction of the glass-lined Discovery Center and the several fire engines around it “—I thought it would be a good idea to introduce you to some creatures who are very much like yourselves.”

“You mean ponies?” asked Applebloom.

“I didn’t think you have pegasusus on your planet,” said Scootaloo.

“I didn’t mean to start the fire,” said Sweetie Belle with a dejected groan. “It was just a vending machine, and I thought hot chocolate would be—”

Joe held out a hand and patted the depressed unicorn on her puffed-up mane, being careful to avoid the horn. “It was just a fluke,” he said, trying to sound at reassuring as possible. “Probably a short circuit. But while we’re waiting for them to make the building safe again, I want everyone to look around in the grass for one of these.” He produced a photograph of a speckled green-and-black lizard. “There may not be any in the immediate vicinity, so you’ll have to spread out—”

“Found one,” declared a lanky young unicorn named Snails, who had his nose almost against the ground. “Ooo, and here’s another one on this rock, getting warm.”

It was a little discouraging, since the children he normally had out on a lizard hunt always took most of an hour to find several of the lizards, but Joe took it in stride and picked up the first one to show his group of different students, who gathered close around him.

“This little fellow—”

“It’s a girl lizard,” said Snails, which was a little disconcerting since sexing them was not exactly an easy task, and he was supposed to be the expert.

“This little girl,” said Joe, “is known generally as an Italian Wall Lizard, or podarcis siculus which is Greek for agile feet.”

“Ooooo,” said Snails, who was watching cross-eyed as the other lizard crawled up his nose in search of a higher elevation.

“It’s normally found in Italy,” he continued despite the distraction, “as well as other places in Europe where they can find large rocks with cracks to hide in so they are protected from predators. But Europe is over four thousand miles away, with an ocean between us. How do you think they got here?”

“Did they thwim?” asked a small pony with enormous glasses.

“I bet they have wings!” declared another.

“Not even close.” Joe waved one hand in the general direction of downtown Topeka. “About fifty years ago, a man named Charles Burt had a pet store, and he imported all kinds of small creatures from all over the world that people like to keep as pets. Well, the store did not do well, and when it closed down, he did not send his pets to other pet stores, he just dumped them outside.”

“That wathent very nithe,” said the glasses-wearing pony. “They could have gotten eaten!”

“Or far worse, they could have thrived and overwhelmed their environment,” said Joe. “Our world has several species that were taken to new places where they did not have natural predators. Like rabbits in Australia, who have devastated large sections of the country because they don’t have any predators to keep them in check. Or pythons in Florida, or even some invasive fish species have caused millions of dollars worth of damage.”

“Are we an invasive specie that causes destruction?” asked Applebloom. “Because Sweetie keeps setting things on fire.”

“Hey!” objected the little unicorn. “It’s not my fault the vending machine caught on fire. Or the microwave oven at Mister Bruener’s house. Or that fire in Taco Bell. And Burger Princess said its food was char-broiled, so I don’t see why they got so upset.”

“Or when we roasted marshmallows,” said a chubby little colt right next to Snails. “They’re not supposed to blow up.”

“Or when you helped toatht thandwicheth at Thubway.”

“How about when— Oof,” added Scootaloo when Applebloom stuck an elbow into her side.

It should have been a premonition of danger, but Joe put it aside while guiding his little herd of students through the rest of the morning’s wildlife discovery and education, culminating in an old-fashioned cookout at the Topeka Zoo’s pavilion complete with roasted corn on the cob, carrot dogs, and various other vegetarian entrees.

Thankfully, Miss Cheerilee provided just as quick with the fire extinguisher as she had been inside the Discovery Center, or the unicorn-assisted fire over the grill would have gotten out of control, and everybody would have gone on to the next educational event hungry.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:38 A.M. Thursday June 25, 2015
Location: Strataca — Hutchinson, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I’ve never been in this kind of cave before. We’re further underground more than the tallest building in Manehattan,” whispered Goose almost reverently.

“And everypony else has gone to the Cosmosphere already,” whispered Widget back in a rapid cascade of words. “Which is fine. I mean the salt mine tram is so cool, and I’ve never been on a train so far underground, but… there’s a spaceship there.”

Claire put an arm around the shivering unicorn and pulled her closer. “Hey, if you stuck around, I could take you to the English Chunnel. It’s like twenty miles long under the ocean between England and France, and runs a hundred feet under the seafloor. Of course you can’t see anything like you can here,” she added, waving one hand at the greyish walls of salt on both sides of the tram. “Or I could take you to Florida and you could watch them launch a real spaceship.”

That stopped the shivering almost immediately. “You would?”

“Sure!” Claire took another photo of the two ponies, one of whom was enjoying her trip through the deep caves with almost indecent joy. Goose had admitted that most pegasi of any type did not like being underground, but as Claire had been reminded frequently, Goose was not normal. “We can even bring Goose’s coltfriend along,” she added with a grin.

“Nope!” declared Lieutenant Nicholas Comena from the next seat back. “Pretty sure General Hackmore isn’t going to let me take off in the middle of an alien invasion. All them tentacled monsters⁽¹⁾ ain’t gonna fight themselves.”
(1) Later, he would regret those words.
—

“I’ll bat my eyes at him and ask nicely,” said Goose with a giggle, adding yet another bat-pun to a long afternoon of linguistic humor.

“That would be so cool!” declared Widget. “I’ll ask Mister President on Saturday if Karla can come along. If that’s okay with you,” she added in a rush.

There was no response other than a quiet snore from the back seat where Agent Anacostia was taking advantage of the darkness to catch up on her sleep.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:04 P.M. Thursday June 25, 2015
Location: Cosmosphere — Hutchinson, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“There’s too much here to see in one day,” breathed Widget as she stared enraptured at the building index. “Can we live here?”

“They won’t actually let you go inside of the capsules,” pointed out Claire, “just like they’re not about to let Goose into the SR-71 hanging from the ceiling over there.”

“They just about didn’t let me into one either,” said a fairly nondescript older man standing near the Blackbird’s pointed nose. He certainly was not one of the Space Shuttle pilots that NASA had sent, because they were all unfailingly handsome middle-aged men trailed by a publicity photographer while meeting with the various ponies on tour. This man had been badly burned over most of his body some years ago, and nobody would make any claims to his attractiveness, but he carried himself with the same assertiveness as any fighter pilot, and given a flight suit, Claire would not have been shocked at all to see him slip into the pilot’s seat of the hypersonic craft.

Goose appeared in front of the man so fast that Claire could have sworn she teleported.

“You flew one of these airplanes?” she asked in a voice just one step short of worship.

“I flew dozens of jet aircraft, including this one,” he said with a gentle pat to the leading edge chine. “SR-71 Niner Six One. One of the A models, so it wasn’t quite so smooth as the others once we got up to about eighty-five thousand feet. Um, ma’am?”

“She gets this way sometimes,” said Widget, trotting over with a paper bag held in her magic field. “Breathe, Goose. Long, slow breaths.”

“Claire Bruener,” said Claire while the girls were occupied. The man’s grasp was just as firm as she expected, and he went on to shake hooves while she continued. “This is Widget, our local hero who likes taking things apart, and Goose Down, cadet in the Royal Guard Academy.”

“Brian Shul,” said the man. “Former Air Force pilot and author. One of my flying buddies asked me to come down today and talk with a young mare who had a frightening experience when flying once. I’m guessing that would be you, Goose?”

Unable to speak with her face in the paper bag, Goose merely squeaked and nodded.

“So would you like to hear an old pilot talk about flying jet aircraft?” asked Mister Shul.

Both ponies nodded vigorously, and followed the old man like obedient puppies while he started to walk around the suspended aircraft. Claire took advantage of the momentary break to wander back to Karla, who was discussing something with one of the museum employees. Once they were finished, and the employee scurried off to deal with some other four-legged customers, Carla nodded toward the talking trio.

“Interesting coincidence that we bump into a SR-71 pilot here, isn’t it?”

“I was hoping he’d be able to make it,” said Karla. “The FBI had him as a motivational speaker a few years back, and I texted him once the scheduled visit here was fairly firm. I’ve got all his books,” she added. “And he’s a flight instructor, so I got to do a little flying with him out in California. He’s a heck of a guy.”

After a few moments, Claire managed to get her mouth shut. “You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

“Networking.” Agent Anacostia produced her cell phone and scrolled down the extensive contact list. “You never know who you’re going to meet, and how they’re going to relate to a case.”

“Like a federal judge,” mused Claire. “I suppose that’s a lot better than my record. I’ve broken a few phones, so I really don’t have a good track on anybody other than a few girls from my Japanese trip and my grandparents in Portugal.” She pulled out her phone, regarded the messages she had not responded to yet, and stuck it back in her pocket. “Heck, I don’t really even respond to the emails I get from my travel blog. So many creeps on the internet nowadays.”

“I don’t know how you can treat your relationship to some of the first visitors to our planet so casually.” Karla waved at the two ponies, one of whom was using Claire’s tablet to take notes. “Clyde said you have millions of hits on your videos, and—”

“Wait.” Claire held up a hand. “Millions?” She scrambled to get her phone out again and poked with numb fingers to get her email application open, then waited impatiently while it loaded.

“Claire, didn’t you hear when Mister Henderson said he’s going to get well over ten thousand dollars for his photos? And you’ve been making videos of Widget, the world’s most famous pony.”

“They demonetized them,” said Claire numbly. “A few hundred dollars, and poof. Still, it’s a lot more money than I’ve made off the site in ever. There’s got to be a way to get them reactivated.”

After a few minutes while the ponies were otherwise occupied, Claire finished pushing things on her phone and scowled fiercely at the uncooperative technology. “This sucks. Karla, do you have any— Oh, you’re on the phone.”

“Yeah, Eddie,” said Karla with one hand out to keep Claire quiet. “You still have that YouTube channel? Uh-huh. Between jobs? Anything important?” She blushed furiously and snapped a sharp glance at Claire. “No, I’m not having sex with that reporter! I guess that means I don’t have to ask if you’ve been watching Claire’s videos. Uh-huh. Well, she’s been a little busy to post anything recently, and YouTube demonetized her income stream, so—”

Karla held the phone away from her head, and Claire could hear the man on the other end having a geekgasm. “So once Eddie’s calmed down,” she said slowly, “why don’t I put you in contact with a lawyer I know. You shoot footage, Eddie produces and publishes, split the income over the next week or two, and you can buy a car that isn’t spread out over your father’s shed in little pieces.”

Ponies were definitely rubbing off on them. Claire found herself giving the FBI agent a hug, and there were no objections from either of them.

And the Cosmosphere stayed open late just so Widget could crawl around the Mercury capsule and make ‘vrumm-vrumm’ noises for the video.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:34 P.M. Thursday June 25, 2015
Location: JanJan’s MMA Academy — Wichita, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“It’s probably too late,” fidgeted Widget as she looked over the back of the driver’s seat and breathed in Karla’s ear. “I mean it’s almost Sun’s set. And Goose is sleeping,” she added with a look over her shoulder at the back of the SUV where something dark and mysterious was… well, not snoring, per se. Breathing loud enough to be heard, which was somewhat unusual for the silent batpony.

Nick was quite obviously sleeping, with his head thrown back on the rear seat and occasional real snores.

“Marine instincts,” said Karla as she pulled into a parking spot. “I’ll bet if I bellowed ‘ten-hut’ loud enough—”

“What?” spluttered Nick, struggling with his seat belt. “I was awake, just resting my eyes.”

“Me too,” proclaimed Goose, emerging out of the back of the SUV like a wave of darkness.

Both of their protestations of enhanced alertness lasted all the way to the front door of the gym, which had all the windows lit up inside and a reasonable crowd of hefty men waiting around for their arrival.

“Welcome to my dojo!” announced a short but densely muscled Fillipino man, who advanced one step and gave a brief bow. “Most of my students call me JanJan, because they can’t pronounce my name in Tagalog. You must be the fabled Goose Down and Widget.”

“Yes, sir.” Widget gave a short bow while her guard simply stood behind her and slightly to one side. “I’m really not that interested in fighting, but Goose would like to compare her abilities to humans, and maybe teach each other something about ourselves.”

“A very diplomatic response.” JanJan gave a wicked grin. “I really wouldn’t want to fight you anyway, young lady. Magic seems to be cheating.”

“I don’t have any spells for fighting,” admitted Widget. “Just mechanical manipulation, and a few that Doctor Stable taught me.” Her horn glowed briefly, and she continued in a flowing language that Claire could only pick out a few words, mostly Spanish. JanJan’s smiling face dropped into astonishment, then lit up with entrancement.

They exchanged several more sentences before JanJan turned to Goose and continued, although the batpony obviously did not understand a word.

“Oh!” said Widget with her horn glowing again and a sensation like ants crawled over Claire’s skull. “I only copied the imprint of Tagalog from you. I didn’t give it to Goose or my friends. Sorry about that.”

“”

“” admitted Widget, “” She proudly produced a bright purple roll. “”

* * *

It took longer than Claire expected for any actual sparring to take place, although she took video of the process for Eddie and their mutual pony picture site that was taking place somewhere in Kansas City. Since it would give her an unfair advantage, Goose reluctantly gave up her armor while getting her hooves wrapped, followed by a fairly extensive review of what places on people and ponies that were not to be hit, or at least struck gently.

Then JanJan took Goose out in the center of the gym, and the fun began. There were no end of enthusiastic students to toss around, but the serious sparring took place with wooden swords and bo staffs, sometimes in such a blur of motion that Claire didn’t think the tablet camera had a prayer of catching the action. The thing that really unnerved the watchers was the way Goose could use her tail like some sort of monkey, and how it really did not matter how many attackers came at her at one time, because she seemed to perform better when attacked in groups.

‘Bat-Mane’ did not get out of the practice session unscathed, however. Several times, students or the teacher managed to toss or hit their speedy target, but after each impact, Goose bounced up like a rubber ball, requesting ever so politely for another attempt until she could counter or block it. A few of the more courageous students attempted judo throws or jujitsu pins, only to complain that it was like trying to pin down an octopus, since Goose had the advantage of extra limbs and a tail.

Midnight came.

It left, and so did several of the limping students who had to get up in the morning.

At some point after 1 A.M. and a few minutes more, Claire had to raise an obvious point.

“Sensi JanJan, you do realize Goose is nocturnal, and can probably keep this up until sunrise, right?”

“But Claire!” Goose tucked a sweat-soaked strand of mane up behind her ear and pouted. The rest of her coat was just as slick, with a few hints of froth beginning to show in the expected places.

“No buts,” she insisted. “We can come back earlier in the afternoon next week sometime. They’re going to want us all back in Randolph tomorrow to get ready for the president’s visit, and I for one don’t want to be standing next to a stinky pony.”

“I’m not a stinky—” Goose sniffed and changed the subject. “Only if you promise. Hey, where’s Widget?”

“Outside with some of the guys, who are showing off their cars. She’s probably got somebody’s supercharger torn apart by now. Come on, thank Sensi JanJan for tonight’s demonstration and let’s get back to the hotel.”

The thanks, of course, came in Tagalog, which made Claire wonder about how long she was going to retain the language. Thankfully, the batpony switched to English once they got outside, pulled Widget out from under a jacked-up truck, and they all headed in the general direction of Karla’s giant pink SUV.

“Was starting to think you two were going to be in the dojo forever,” said the FBI agent with a yawn. “You want to drive, Claire?”

“Yeah, looks like I better.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Lieutenant Comena, who was exchanging a few last words with some ex-military students of JanJan’s while carrying one of the gym’s embossed bags full of Goose’s armor. “Nick would probably try to park us on top of another vehicle if he drives this tank.”

It was only a matter of minutes before they were driving out into the dark streets with a wave or two for the few remaining students standing out in the parking lot and JanJan, who was still standing in the gym’s lit doorway. Widget gave a yawn of her own while waving, then bumped Nick in the ribs. “Hey, lovercolt. How come you weren’t out in the ring with the rest of JanJan’s students?”

“Three reasons.” Nick held up three dark fingers. “First, it would have been impolite to take up some of the instructor’s time when they were all there for our guest. Second, I didn’t bring any protective gear or a workout outfit.” He folded down a finger every time he marked off a point, leaving only his middle finger sticking up. “And third, fuck you if you think I’m going to fight Goose without a tank wrapped around me. She did damned good out there tonight. How are you feeling, Goose?”

There was a pause, a brief clearing of an equine throat, and Goose’s beautiful voice floated out of the back of the SUV. “Can I get a couple of your moe-trins, and when we get to the hotel, I might need somepony to carry me to the hot tub. Everything hurts. But it’s a good hurt,” she added.

* * *

JanJan remained standing in the doorway while the pink SUV drove away, only raising his voice once they were out of sight. “Sergeant Olson, a word, if you will?”

Senior Master Sergeant Olson, the hefty Air Force Special Forces soldier who had been slipped into the city a few days ago, ambled out of the small crowd of martial arts students, who were happily chatting among themselves while nursing various sprains, strains, and contusions. As for himself, he had to keep one arm down due to a pulled muscle in his shoulder, and both wrists were chafed with the number of times a wing or tape-wrapped foreleg had flung him a fair distance for an awkward landing on the thick mat. The only time he had gotten close to throwing the Equestrian was for a fraction of a second where he had been directly pressing a hold, small female horse muscles against human male biceps, then a tail of all things had grabbed him around an ankle and flipped his world. Worse, the action had singled him out for extra Goose-time, and right now he was feeling much like a tenderized steak.

“Did you need something, Sir?” Olson asked once he got close enough not to be overheard by the rest of the students.

“I’m retired, so don’t call me sir,” said JanJan tersely. “Go into my office, get the bottle of Percocet off my desk, and bring it to me. Then, once I’m able to walk, we’re going to take a nice, slow trip down to the emergency room, and I’m going to get an x-ray.”

“What, did you break something?” Olson gave his former commanding officer a once-over.

“Everything,” said JanJan.

Chapter notes (inline for e-readers)
- JanJan is based off my former martial arts instructor, Stan Wilson, who went everywhere and did everything in the armed forces. He only came up to your chin, but that just let him hit the important places on you better.

-Major Brian Shul is a real Air Force pilot, who lived through a horrible crash behind enemy lines and was back in the cockpit a few days after getting out of the hospital. He is now a photographer, public speaker, and excellent published author of several books.

-Joe Collins is a herpetologist at KU, and fascinating to talk with. And don’t worry. None of the little lizards are going home with the ponies other than Spike.

The Hutchinson Cosmosphere is an unexpected air and space museum about as far from Houston and Cape Canaveral as can be, and yet has one of the largest collections of space-based material anywhere, and their restoration specialists have a world-wide reputation. It’s well-worth the trip.

Strateca is what they call the Hutchinson Salt Mines now (I guess it’s more touristy) - Two elevators to to get down to the working depth, which is a layer of rock salt that extends for miles, and a tourist train. Yes, I plan on going sometime.

Specialist Dahlia Thermal is from The Night Guard - Night Mares. She was a skyglider in Canterlot (mare of the evening, that kind of thing) when she was young, but eventually joined the police as a decoy at first, since she seems to be drawn to criminal activity as much as it is drawn to her. (Thus her visit to The Lion’s Den, one of our more famous porn stores on I-70, and an accidental stop at a truck smuggling drugs)

She’s one of the first four female ponies to join Luna’s Night Guard, along with Miss Grace and Rose Thorn mentioned previously.

32. Politics Writ Large

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Politics Writ Large

“So, naturalists observe, a flea
Has smaller fleas that on him prey;
And these have smaller still to bite 'em,
And so proceed ad infinitum.
Thus every poet in his kind
Is bit by him that comes behind.”
— Jonathan Swift, Poetry, A Rhapsody

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:30 A.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Highway 135 — Salina, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“They still sleeping?” Lt. Nicholas Comena glanced into his rear-view mirror, but the two ponies in the king cab seats were under his line of sight, and he didn’t want to turn around while driving his truck. Zero-accident discounts were hard to come by, and it still was over an hour of driving until he got back to Randolph with his passengers.

“Folded into pony pretzels, but sleeping anyway,” said Agent Anacostia, who had been pushed up next to him in the front seat by the third member of the conspiracy. Claire Bruener had been everywhere with the two ponies, and had acted the filming instigator while Karla played the responsible adult in their tourism spree. The injured unicorn would have purchased the entire city of Wichita and most of the Cosmosphere if not restrained by a lack of funds and some frequent reminding from Claire and Anacostia that she would be carrying her loot back home.

Nick was fairly certain the upcoming portal was going to see a shopping cart of some sort filled to the top with Widget’s stuff. And to be moved, it would take bungee cords, a tarp, and a certain amount of loot redistribution and reduction. She would certainly be set at home for t-shirts and ball caps until Widget turned a hundred, and enough bumper stickers to paste on every cart in her town, much like the several that now decorated the bumper of Agent Anacostia’s truck.

Still, he was just glad his Army tank team had made a quick trip down to bring a vehicle to Wichita for them to drive around with this week, he just wished they would have brought his truck. Nick’s manly nature was hard-pressed to survive driving this giant pink SUV. He should have walked back from Wichita. Or hitch-hiked with the Kansas Highway Patrol vehicle he could see in his rear-view mirror, shadowing their route about a half-mile back.

“I really don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted to the FBI agent pressed up against his side.

“What, that your fellow Army buddies know you as—” Agent Anacostia jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping batpony “—her plus one?”

“Or that you’re all over the internet in videos with her?” asked Claire, holding up her camera phone. “Cheese.”

After giving a quick smile, Nick returned his attention to the road. “No, I mean for the next century, future military cadets will be studying my record, thinking the appropriate way to meet alien lifeforms is to be soaking wet dressed in nothing but your underwear, and then to run around the countryside with them playing tourist while they try to get into your pants.”

Anacostia stifled a snort and dismissed his protests with a wave. “We are never going to talk about how I met them, on or off camera.”

“Not even for blackmail,” said Claire, which made Nick a little suspicious of the conspiracy. He was the only male in the vehicle, after all, so he should at least protest.

“Just glad I’m not going to be up on stage with the Cee-in-Cee tomorrow,” said Nick instead. “And I heard a rumor that you’re all going to meet Mickey next week, so I hope you have fun without me.”

* * *

“So do you think we should send any military officers along with the aliens on their trip to Disney World?” said the Secretary of State rather reluctantly, moving a series of colored papers around on the briefing table. “It is supposed to be a civilian expedition for entertainment and relaxation.”

“At least this one,” said the President, pulling out one sheet marked ‘Lt. Comena’ and putting it to one side. “He’s a minority officer who certainly represents the Army well, and the ponies seem to like him.”

“A little too much,” muttered the SecState under his breath before turning to the next item on their busy agenda. “Gifts. I think we can all agree that an iPod full of speeches should not be on the list this time, correct?”

* * *

“So I’m just going to be chilling back at the farm,” continued Nick, “washing the tank, talking with the guys, and writing the world’s largest After Action Report about my week with—” He jerked his head in the direction of their passengers.

“Oh, shit.” Agent Anacostia buried her head in her hands. “I completely forgot. I’ve been so busy, and I’ve got to write my 302’s up and put them into the Sentinel system. They’re supposed to be done by three days after the event, and it’s been…”

“Just about a week,” said Clarie, looking at her watch. “A little over, actually. Feels like a year. I mean how many tourist places have we been to since Widget got out of the hospital? Fifty?”

“And I’m going to have to remember them all,” moaned Anacostia, still holding her head in her hands.

“Hey, it’s not that bad. I’ve got pictures and video from all of them. The only place you haven’t gone yet is Salina’s little dinky mall up there,” said Claire, waving her hand. “The only thing special about it is the giant aquarium.”

“Mall?” said a sleepy Widget, coming out of the back seat of the truck and sticking her nose almost in Claire’s ear.

“Aquarium?” asked Goose, adding her nose to the population of the truck’s front seat.

“We don’t want to stop,” protested Claire as both ponies breathed in. “It’s been ten years since I’ve been there, and they’ve probably closed the big aquarium with all the bass and catfish in it. I don’t even know if the Radio Shack is still—”

♫ The mall up here, the mall up here
We want to stop at the mall up here
Fishies and gadgets and stores so near
We want to stop at the mall up here ♫

Nick turned on his blinker to take the exit.

It was not as bad as Claire had tried to make it. He got to drop by the Air Force recruiter’s office and show off the local Equestrian air force, and the sports fish aquarium proved that there were really larger fish in Kansas waters, despite his erratic sampling over the last year showing otherwise.

And lunch at Carlos O’Kelly’s was certainly nothing to pass up. Particularly when he saw the way Goose slurped up jalapeno poppers like they were candy.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:15 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Are you certain Mister President would not rather send us a postcard?” drawled the Equestrian guard in a voice just one step away from being bored to death.

Well into the third hour of preparations for Renegade to visit Manhattan tomorrow, US Secret Service Senior Agent O’Malley was really starting to get annoyed at his horse-counterpart, although he fought to keep from showing it. For privacy, they had even taken their discussion outside in the fresh Kansas sunshine so the local employees of the airport terminal would not be eavesdropping, and sent the various other teams of USSS agents to check various small things in other parts of the airport. It was a lot easier to talk with Specialist Thermal, but far more difficult to remember what you were talking about afterward, because she moved in so many directions while talking, batting her big eyes, tossing her mane, giving deep sighs…

“Agent O’Malley?” Specialist Grace nudged Conner with her horn.

“Oh! Yes. Postcards.” Conner shook his head and turned sideways so he could no longer see the airport tower, as well as the fluffy cloud that Specialist Thermal had anchored to the radio antenna on top so she would have a place to give her toddler colt a nap. Even at this range, interesting bits and pieces of vivid pink could be seen over the edges of the cloud mattress, and her tail hanging down over the edge twitched on delightful occasions. “Yes, I suppose if you want to give President… You weren’t talking about giving him postcards, were you?”

Grace did not reply for a time, and just stared straight into his eyes with her implacable expression unmoved by any sense of humor, even though he tried.

“We may want to move Specialist Thermal somewhere else, if we want to avoid aircraft accidents tomorrow. I mean… She has…”

“Substantial assets. Yes, I know. I listened to the Army tank crews talking a few nights ago.” Grace heaved a microscopic sigh. “She also has huge tracts of land, impressive gazongas, a hot plot, is an epic mount for some reason, and a milf.” The unicorn cocked her head slightly to one side. “I’m really not quite certain of the last compliment. What does it mean?”

O’Malley almost swallowed his tongue. “It’s… um… Well, it can be…”

“I know it’s an affectionate compliment,” continued Grace, “but they did not think I qualified.”

“Err… She is a mother…”

Grace batted her eyes almost mechanically, which was apparently as sexy as the stuck-up unicorn could act. “Do you think I’m a milf? I mean I’m planning on being a mother in three to four years, provided our schedule is not put off by this unexpected side-trip.”

“I… um…” Realization hit Conner like a brick between the eyes. “You’re making a joke!”

With a nod and a completely straight face, Grace continued, “It is an acceptable bonding practice for military liaisons to make with their counterparts. And it is humorous provided there are insufficient other members of your peer group to see your embarrassment. I thought it wise to get such bonding activity out of the way before your Mister President arrives.”

“And it’s not funny if you explain it.” Conner shook his head. “Have you ever made a joke before?”

“Several. A unicorn, a pegasus, and an earth pony walked into a bar, and the unicorn says—” Grace pointed at him with a forehoof and frowned. “That’s not funny!”

“Oooookay.” It was Conner’s turn to nod. “Have you ever made a joke that was funny?”

There was a very long pause before the unicorn levitated the stack of folders and briefing documents up in front of them again. “I believe we have covered the pertinent points in your protection plan and supervised the placement of the stage and audience for tomorrow’s performance. Once your subordinate and Pumpernickel return with lunch from your taco establishment, we shall dine with your associates and return to our encampment to prepare for tomorrow. I see no appreciable difficulties upcoming, and the schedule we worked out should be acceptable to Mayor Mare so she may arrive at the appointed hour and depart after Mister President has carried out his tasks. Did you have any questions, Agent O’Malley?”

“One.” He reclaimed one of the USSS folders from the stack that Grace had appropriated and gave it a tap on the edge to settle the papers inside. “Did my words hurt?”

After a moment, Grace nodded. “I am particularly inept at humor.”

“I noticed.” A bare chuckle escaped despite Conner’s best efforts while they started to return to the airport terminal building. “Oh, you should have seen me when I started with the service. Most new agents act like they have a stick up their ass; I had a sequoia. Thankfully, I had a supervisor who taught me that not every agent had to be Johnny Lawman every minute of the day. There’s a line between work and not-work, and although it wobbles a little with every new boss, you have to step on it every once in a while so it doesn’t get away. I’ll bet you’re going about humor all wrong.”

“That’s obvious,” said Grace, flicking one ear while they walked in a signal of what Conner had learned signaled considerable concealed agitation, or at least her subdued version. More than twenty years of experience inside the agency had thankfully allowed him to read subordinates, and although Grace was the small-print version written in a foreign language, he was starting to get comfortable with the cultural differences.

“Tell you what,” he said, checking his phone. “FISH⁽*⁾ isn’t showing any serious threat warnings for this visit, most of the law enforcement personnel won’t show up until this evening, and the Diplomatic Security Service team that will be handling the Disney World security event is still a few hours out. Since Washington just texted me to say they picked up lunch, this is the last opportunity we’re going to have just to sit down in a small group and give a good yank to the chain of our peers. Do you have any lipstick?”
(*) FISH is the early warning system used to track suspicious letters and threats to executive and legislative officials.
—

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:35 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Agent Washington had never really expected… this.

He had been briefed on every stop of every Presidential trip since starting with this detail a year ago—feeling a lot like a freshman rookie sitting in on a pro football league game huddle—but this was so far out of the ordinary that his mind occasionally just had to take a step back and reconsider reality. As the newbie on the team, he was the one sent to get lunch. Apparently, Optio Pumpernickel held that low position in his equine peer group also, or maybe he just did not want to get on the bad side of his wife, Laminia.

Then again, there did not seem to be any way to get on the microscopic good side of that grouchy batpony, other than to shower adoration on her adorable little daughter, which was extremely easy.

In any event, the two of them had been sent to get lunch for a mixed crew of ponies, a dozen FBI agents, several Fort Riley MPs, some RCPD officers, and three glum unnamed individuals with unspeakable security clearances who it was far too easy imagining were there to carry out an alien autopsy in case of unexpected death.

At least Pumpernickel grunted once in a while when asked a question.

So after getting their combined order phoned in to Fuzzy’s Tacos, as the RCPD had advised, Anthony Washington, probationary agent for the United States Secret Service Presidential Protection unit, headed for his rental car, only to be pulled up short by his counterpart.

“Traffic,” grumbled Pumpernickel. The batpony guard shrugged almost effortlessly into the tiny cart that Washington had become quite familiar with last night, only ‘cart’ was too long a word for the far-too-small cob.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive the car?” asked Anthony. “No, I guess not. At least it’s daytime.”

It turned out that flying during the day only made it so he could see the obstacles they barely missed, which made him suspect the silent Equestrian was attempting to break him the same way he had been razzed by fellow service employees the first time they ran through D.C. traffic.

He had never flown under an underpass before yesterday.

It took a remarkably short time to pick up their order at Fuzzy’s, and no ID required (for obvious reasons), then they were in the air again, on their way back to the airport noon wrapup meeting.

“I just wanted to tell you how incredible this has been,” shouted Washington, who was loaded down with bags but feeling just as stable in his tiny seat behind a flying pony as if he were in The Beast.

“You don’t have to shout,” said the laconic batpony, who turned his head sideways while flying so he could look Washington in the eye. “You’ll scare the civilians.”

“Oh. Well.” Anthony resisted waving at the passing scenery with one hand, using it instead to keep a firm grip on their order of tacos. “Just this has been one hell of a ride. I thought guarding the President was going to be so different, then you guys landed, and… My daughter is never going to believe the stories her old man tells when she gets older.”

“You’ve got photos.” Pumpernickel banked to one side and gained some altitude so he could fly next to the water tower on their way to the airport this time instead of following the highway. “Cadet Goose said something about making tail hair friendship bracelets. If you want, I can cut a few hairs for your daughter.”

“That would be… probably against regulations,” hedged Washington. “Since I’m sure the value is over the twenty dollar limit we’re permitted to receive, according to the Office of Government Ethics.”

Pumpernickel grunted, then flew once around the water tower before continuing on their route, picking up speed on his way down the hill with the airport runway lights beckoning their approach. He remained wordless while they parked the minimal wagon next to the airport terminal and carried the take-out bags into the building, up the stairs, and into the executive lounge where the impromptu lunch meeting was to take place.

There was something… different about Agent O’Malley, and odd enough that Washington’s mind could not wrap around the concept while he took his taco order and seated himself next to Pumpernickel’s surley wife. Their foal Stargazer was enjoying her lunch too, nursing away while Laminia stuck her nose right down in the paper sack, only stopping occasionally to spit out a piece of paper from the wrappers.

There was no way he was going to ask the cranky batpony about the pink lipstick mark on Agent O’Malley’s cheek that perfectly matched the shade of pink on the lips of the Equestrian guard sitting right next to his side.

Right next to his side, and brushing up against him while they ate.

Realization trickled in at various rates from the rest of the meeting participants, with varying reactions. The police captain merely blinked several times, looked at Agent Washington, then returned to her note-taking without comment. The Army MP got suddenly wide eyes, then looked down at the table and made small twitching motions as if he were suppressing laughter. A generalized rise in restless and uncomfortable motions followed even as O’Malley laughed and joked with the rest of the mismatched planning crew about how the Last Supper would have been so different with ponies and tacos.

And every laugh or smile exchanged between O’Malley and Grace made a sudden wave of nervous glances travel around the table until Washington could not hold back.

“Well, that just about does it,” said O’Malley. “Everypony… I mean everybody has their schedule and contacts, and it looks like we’re about as ready for the President’s visit as we’re going to get. There’s going to be a lot of playing things by ear over the next day, so if I don’t get a chance before we leave, I just wanted to tell you all how much we appreciate your cooperation. Are there any questions?”

“Just one,” said Washington into the silence. “You’ve got a little… something on your cheek.”

“Oh!” Grace levitated a paper napkin up and wiped away the lipstick mark. “There you go, dear.”

“Thank you, honey.” Taking in the stunned faces of two species all around, Agent O’Malley put one arm around Specialist Grace’s furry shoulders. “I suppose I should have told you all earlier.”

“We’re hopelessly in love,” said Grace flatly.

“We’re going to each quit our jobs and move to Albuquerque so we can start a taco restaurant,” said O’Malley. “The marriage laws are liberal there, and our relationship won’t be subjected to harsh criticism.”

“Raising the children will be difficult,” admitted Grace, “since I’m a Reformed Monotheist and my husband-to-be is Methodist. Perhaps we can find some middle ground in theology.”

Laminia seemed to be having some sort of fit, like a piece of taco had gone down the wrong way, but after several fish-like faces, she pitched over backward onto the carpeted floor and began kicking her legs like an overturned crab. Her husband simply sat at the table completely immobile and wide-eyed, with their cute little filly tucked under one foreleg to keep her out of the taco fixings.

O’Malley, however, broke out laughing. “You should see all of your faces,” he gasped over the sound of additional laughter as others caught on. “We got you so good, didn’t we, Grace?”

“Indeed.” She rolled her eyes and added, “Although I must admit, running a restaurant would be a tempting challenge I’ve never attempted before. But not with a human spouse.” She raised one eyebrow and regarded O’Malley’s thinning hairline out of the edge of her vision. “No horn and not enough hair.”

Everybody laughed at that, including Pumpernickel who gave out a brief snort. It made a high point for the dismissal of the preparation meeting, and subdued snickers during the cleanup process. After the leftovers were bagged and Laminia took them to give Specialist Thermal a late lunch, it left Washington and O’Malley alone with the bulky form of Pumpernickel for a few moments.

“That was very funny, Agent O’Malley,” admitted the hefty pony guard. “It had me going right up to where I ran into the mountain. We’ve never been able to get Grace to admit to a sense of humor before.”

“I watched some of the videos that your Miss Bruener put on the internet,” admitted O’Malley. “Female guards are new to your service, and I’m willing to bet there is a certain degree of mistrust directed at her from the more traditional members.”

Pumpernickel snorted agreement, much like a squat winged angus bull.

Agent O’Malley went on, “It is difficult for the new to overcome the inertia of the old, even when the new is better.” Obviously catching something in the alien expression of the Equestrian, O’Mally clarified by putting a hand on Washington’s shoulder. “Two hundred years ago, you would never have seen a black man or a woman of any color guarding the President of the United States. Today, we have a black president, and Tony here could wind up in charge of the whole Secret Service if he keeps his head on straight.”

“Wouldn’t want to go that high, sir,” said Washington. “I’ve seen what it does to people. I’d like to have a family at home.”

“He’s got the common sense for the job,” continued O’Malley. “A position over others is not something you strive for because it gives you power. You get pulled into it because you can do it better than anybody else. You have to do it. Save lives, protect people, improve the world in small steps. Or protect princesses, right?”

Pumpernickel nodded slowly. “It changes you,” he said in deliberate, specific words, letting his scarred wings unfold slightly and refold along his back. “It changed me. Grace… I never thought would change.”

O’Malley shrugged. “You have to change to meet the job just as much as the job changes to meet you. No two people do it the same way. You can’t teach that. You can only learn it by being there, and learning from others.”

After another glacial nod, the dark batpony shook O’Malley’s hand, then very deliberately shook Anthony’s hand while looking him straight in the eyes. “Be careful,” he said in that low, rich voice that really deserved to be singing Blues in Louisiana. “The learning process can hurt a lot. Or kill you.”

“That’s part of the Secret Service’s job,” said Anthony.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:45 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Country Stampede at Tuttle Creek Park — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

There was no doubt about who the guest of honor was at the music festival, and no doubt about who was sponsoring her visit. Four burly young men wearing Miller Lite shirts were carrying Granny Smith around the crowd while two young women in cut-off shorts and indecent shirts were providing hand sanitizer for anybody who wanted to actually shake hooves with their resident Equestrian guest. Despite being recently released from KU Med, there was no real concern that Granny was in any kind of medical danger from the activity, because the waiting list to be on her escort team was nearly two pages long, and included more medical degrees than a room full of thermometers.

The whole afternoon had been spent with Granny meeting and greeting everybody from Blake Shelton to several awestruck children who followed the crowd like the Pied Piper was playing. The rest of the Equestrians attending the country music festival held up their end of the publicity just as well, including several pegasi who provided some cloud sunshades for several of the booths and impromptu ponyback rides for smaller children they could actually lift. As the sun set and the festival turned more to music, the main stage area was starting to fill just in time for Steve to go to his volunteer job.

Steve was having the best time a paramedic could have on a weekend, to be honest. Ever since his first high-speed run out to the Bruener farm, he had been overwhelmed by pony appreciation. His second trip that fateful day had been an anticlimax, since the first trip had been a near-amputation, and the second was a chatty elderly stallion with a wrenched shoulder who could not stop asking about Widget. Third time was not the charm, but it was an opportunity to spend a few hours wrapping hairy ankles and getting properly introduced to aliens that were more like his grandmother’s knitting society crossed with a college sorority.

Not that he was complaining. Present reality was far better than any movie. Besides, he had not actually gotten to meet Granny Smith for more than a brief glimpse as another paramedic crew was loading her into their ambulance, and he felt deeply privileged as well as lucky that he had gotten onto her ‘list’ for Stampede.

“My turn, Doctor.” All Steve really knew about Dr. Hylton, PhD, Md, DPM, and probably LMNOP, was that he was a Jamaican-looking fellow with a bald head and a black cowboy hat, and that he had a speaking role in the all-night Equestrian microbiology seminar going on back at the RV parking area, something that Steve was eager to avoid.

“Thank you, sir.” Doctor Hylton tipped his hat and stepped away from where Granny Smith’s ‘throne’ was currently parked by the porta-potties, leaving Steve to stand by the handle in case the elderly pony wanted to go somewhere else. Technically, her transportation was a litter, made out of a plastic table, several lightweight legs, a lawn chair, and two rods for four carriers to hold, all wrapped in about five rolls of duct tape, but Granny was being treated as much like redneck royalty as she could without a crown, so the title had stuck.

“Howdy there, young feller. Steve, wasn’t it? Good to see you again.” Grannie had her teeth in, so her smile had substance to it, and the green cowboy hat was pushed back far enough for her to get a good look at him. She stepped out of the blue plastic toilet with a lot more nimble agility than Steve could imagine if his own hip had a stainless-steel pin stuck in it, and climbed up into her seat with the assistance of Koni, the young woman who had been with the pony in Kansas City for most of the week.

“It’s about time to get down to the stage,” said Koni, holding onto the program in one hand and trying to balance a basket of sunscreen, bug spray, water bottles, and miscellaneous pony support items in the other. With the young lady leading the parade, it took remarkably little time to move through the crowd and over to the reserved section where several white plastic chairs awaited. Happy smiling people got out of the way or offered assistance, and chatted happily with the old mare until the lights over the audience dimmed and a spotlight swept down on the announcer.

“Welcome one and all to the 2015 Kicker Country Stampede!” After some time to let the frantic cheering die down, he added, “This year we’re setting a record for furthest visitor, proving that country music is universal. But before we begin, we have a special treat for everybody here. Give a warm round of applause to… the Ponytones!”

In the middle of the applause, Granny Smith leaned over to Koni and said loud enough for Steve to hear, “I really came here for my grandson, and to hear Sweetie.”

There were four ponies stepping out on stage, each wearing a natty red jacket, although the white unicorn was far smaller than the others, and looked nervous. They took their places next to the announcer, and a spotlight lit the stage around them, making the unicorn take a step back, then quickly return to her previous location with a nervous swallow.

“Ladies and gentlemen of all species,” said the announcer, “will you please rise for the national anthem of the United States.”

There was a vast shuffling as people got to their feet, as well as Granny Smith, and a general anticipatory hush fell over the crowd as the announcer handed his microphone over to the small unicorn, who floated it in front of her in a haze of green magic.

In the background, the roll of a snare drum started up, Sweetie Belle swallowed back a lump, then opened her mouth and let out a squeak. A faint titter swept over the crowd, followed by quiet shushing as the three other ponies on stage harmonized on a background note.

Sweetie Belle gave out another high-pitched squeak, then blushed fiercely. A tense wave of whispers swept over the crowd as she stood frozen in place, or at least until Granny Smith stood up in her chair and called out as loud as she could.

“You can do it, Sweetie!”

As if it were a pebble starting an avalanche, the rest of the crowd added their own encouragement and applause, with whistles and cheers until Blake Shelton came out from behind the stage and stood beside the small unicorn filly.

“First time singing in front of a crowd?” he asked.

Sweetie Belle nodded, then slowly shook her head. “Actually… the first time was a disaster.”

“They always are.” Blake laughed along with the audience, then made a motion to his stage crew, who scurried out with a cowboy hat, size small. “I was going to save this until after you were done singing, but I think this will help.”

The hat was obviously prepared for the small unicorn, because it fit perfectly on her head right down to the hole for her horn. She gave out a squeal of joy, turned around in place, then tugged on Blake’s blue jeans. “Boost me up! I want everypony to see!”

It took effort, since the ponies were remarkably heavy for their size, but a few moments later Sweetie Belle was perched ponyback on Blake, who lost his hat in the process but not his voice.

“Folks, since this is Sweetie’s first song in front of a human audience, I think it would only be fair if we were to sing along with her.” Blake passed a second microphone up to Sweetie Belle, who took it in her magic and gave a nervous squeak. It took some encouragement to get the anthem started again, but when it did…

♫ Oh, say can you see ♫

Steve was enthralled by the way Sweetie Belle just tore into the song. He had attended football games before where the singer stammered or hesitated in the wrong spots, but Sweetie Belle was a boulder starting her way down a mountain, and she rolled through the first stanza on her inevitable path through it, not even twitching when ‘the rocket’s red glare’ came screaming out from behind the stage in the form of several crimson skyrockets that burst above the stage with a roll of thunder. Tears were unabashedly pouring down Steve’s cheeks by the last words, broken only when Sweetie announced at the top of her lungs “Play ball!” and a sheer cascade of fireworks erupted from either side of the stage with a gigantic American flag unrolling behind them.

There was not even a moment to sit down after the cheering. Blake Shelton promptly started up ‘Friends’ with Sweetie Belle still on his shoulders, which of course set the Equestrians dancing around the area too, both on the ground and in the air.

It was a blast, but Steve had one question while they were clapping and stomping along with the music. He leaned over to the other Granny-carrier beside him and snuck a peek at his nametag before asking, “Doctor Mermin, aren’t you supposed to be at the microbiology seminar being run over by the RV park?”

“There’s limited seating, so Director Khabbaz is sitting in my place,” he shouted back into Steve’s ear so he could be heard over the music. “It’s just a formality at this point. I don’t think there are any Equestrian hemagglutinin proteins that can attach to human sialic acid receptors and vice versa, although they seem to have quite a knowledge of neuraminidase glycoproteins that I’m sure our researchers will be drooling over for months. Why, are you an infectious disease specialist?”

“Ah… Hole-plugger and trauma, mostly. I’m a paramedic here, which left me as one of the first humans at the site of their landing. Doctor Stable said if it wasn’t for our work, Widget may have lost her leg. Pretty good work for an ex-corporal, if I do say so myself.” It made Steve feel slightly better until the doctor chuckled.

“Rear admiral myself. I didn’t see you on the VIP list for the President’s visit tomorrow. Want to come as my guest?” The doctor flipped out a business card that had more titles than a bookstore and pressed it into Steve’s hand. “Call me and we’ll carpool with the rest of the CDC bigwigs. Just be ready to tell them all about your experience with Widget. They never get out of the office much,” he added. “I wouldn’t trust most of them with a band-aid.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:30 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Briggs Jeep-Eagle Auto Sales — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It would have been nicer to be out at Country Stampede with the ponies, but Captain Samantha Rietz really did not like country music, and to be honest, was looking forward to a week from now when they were all supposed to go home. Again. Only this time for certain. It wasn’t that she did not like the fuzzy little menaces, just that life got so complicated when you added an alien race that seemed to have no horse sense at all.

“I’ll check around, Mister Aarmand, but I don’t know how long it will take.” Sam looked up at the giant empty flagpole and mentally marked the Cutie Mark Crusaders off her list of suspects, since Scootaloo’s maximum elevation was about two feet, and Sweetie Belle’s carrying capacity was about a pound, if you didn’t mind whatever it was catching on fire from sparks.

The Armenian manager was only one step of frustration away from wringing his hands. “I hope you hurry, ma’am. There are so many people coming into town in the next week, and without our flag—”

The ripping noise of cloth in the wind cut off the manager mid-word, and both of them looked up to see the enormous United States flag seemingly flying down out of the sky, with a few wingtips visible to guide it. In relatively short order, the four happy pegasi finished clipping it to the flagpole, with one of them calling down, “Thank you, sir! The crowd loved your flag.”

“We were wondering where it went!” called Sam back up into the dark sky, illuminated by the floodlights at the flag’s base.

“We left a note,” explained the colorful pegasus. “And one of the money cards as a deposit, right here on top of the knob. Hey, girls! Look at this!”

The pegasus that Sam could finally identify as Blossomforth fluttered down and landed next to a red Nissan convertible, soon followed by three of her friends who oooh’d and ahh’d over the sleek car.

“So… Going to press charges?” asked Sam under her voice.

“Hell, no.” Aarmand covered his mouth, but the Equestrians did not seem to notice since they were still geeking out over the high-horsepower vehicle. Sam was mentally figuring out how many ways a group of college co-eds with wings could get into trouble, then multiplied that by about four to adjust for recent experience.

“Mister Aarmand, the girls seem to enjoy the car, and they probably need to get back to the Country Stampede. How about if you take them on a test drive in that direction?”

Sam could not have gotten a more dramatic reaction if she had thrown an entire handful of food pellets into a flock of ducks. Instantly, they were surrounded by chattering pegasi, and in a remarkably few minutes, Sam was alone in the parking lot, watching the stunned auto sales manager drive off with an entire convertible filled to the top and then some with multicolored feathered females.

“Kids,” she scoffed, slipping her phone back into the holster after checking the photo she had snapped, then writing a few more lines into her notebook.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:45 P.M. Friday June 26, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm outskirts — Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The Kansas summer nights really did not bother Captain Kevin Rogers as much as the insects. At least they weren’t sand fleas, which viewed most bug repellents as some sort of BBQ sauce for humans. And there were various local bug-eating creatures populating the night also, from the near-invisible flitter of bats to the low ‘whoom’ noise of nighthawks, and the occasional glitter of a passing dragonfly, sucking up mosquitoes.

Three days in the sun and humidity had left the team fairly ripe, although it was a fraction of time a SEAL deployment could remain under cover observing a site. It did not help during odd times when the wind shifted, and they could smell the hamburgers grilling outside the Bruener family house.

“Situation remains fairly stable,” murmured Captain Rogers into his lavalier microphone for the evening transmission. “The ponies do not seem to be overly excited about ‘Mister President’s’ visit tomorrow, although you have to consider their proximity to the Equestrian capital and the number of times their country’s leaders have visited Ponyville. It would be like somebody in England who lives next to the queen’s summer house.”

“Provided Her Majesty’s summer home had monthly monster attacks,” murmured Lieutenant Howell, who was prone on his belly in order to watch the house’s vicinity with a set of low-light binoculars.

Ignoring his snarky subordinate, Rogers continued, “Nearly all of the ponies around the Bruener house have settled in for the night, which appears to be normal. Once the sun sets, they go straight to bed. The exception is the batponies, who… are weirder than the standard, I suppose is the best explanation. This bunch got the oddest lot of the odd species, but they’re up all night and part of the day.”

“The last of them has been inside for about twenty minutes,” reported Howell, “and all the lights are off, so the ponies remaining here are in bed. Well, except for Mister Henderson’s RV, and those two troublemakers. We can watch their girly-girl YouTube video tomorrow on nail painting if you really want to know what’s going on there.”

“Pass,” said Rogers. “How many RVs do we have left?”

“About half.” Howell counted for a while, then gave up. “According to their publicity website, over a hundred of the ponies are at the Country Stampede this evening, and a number of the human hosts… you know, we need to come up with a better name for that if we’re not going to disturb the admirals. Are you recording this, sir?”

“I don’t think anything involving our guests has an off switch.” Rogers tapped a small black device they had found in their gear. “The CIA has probably been planting bugs all over the place this week. Our job is getting less important by the day. Pretty soon, they’ll know whenever one of the ponies takes a crap.”

* * *

Claire tapped gently on the door to the RV’s bathroom. “Goose, are you alright in there? I told you not to eat so many of those jalapeno poppers.”

A low groan was the only reply that could be heard over the sound of the electric exhaust fan.

* * *

“In any event,” continued Rogers, “since all the ponies were out playing tourist today, and they’ve got an early morning scheduled, looks like it’s going to be a quiet night.”

“Afghanistan taught me any night without gunfire is a good night.”

Lieutenant Howell returned to scanning across the area while Rogers made his report, and there was not any gunfire to be heard across the entire area except for a few distant early fireworks. After a time, there was a movement, though.

“Looks like one of the lower windows in the house just opened,” said Howell over the top of Rogers talking on the radio to some group of admirals in the Pentagon. “They’ve got central air, so it’s not to beat this blasted heat— and there goes a pony.”

“Which one?” Rogers grabbed his own binoculars as a second shape dropped out of the window, then a third. “Is this going to be like that batch of ponies that snuck from the grain storage warehouse to the Bruener’s house this afternoon? I swear their colors didn’t match anything on file, and I don’t believe our cameras and radio just happened to coincidently quit working.”

Howell took a quick glance at the radio equipment. “Radio’s still on, sir.”

“And the ponies look…” Rogers squinted through his binoculars and tried to adjust the focus. “Scale’s all wrong. Oh. Oh, no.”

“Looks like five of the young ones,” said Howell. “And they’re dragging a book.”

“I’ll bet they were all sleeping during the drive home,” said Rogers numbly. “So their parents put them to bed, and they’re not sleepy, so they’re sneaking out to get more storytime.”

“Smart kids,” said Howell.

“Why me?” Rogers put down his binoculars and spoke into his microphone again. “Admiral Wilson, I’m afraid this report on the invasion is going to be slightly delayed by a smaller invasion.”

As invasions went, it was about as non-threatening as could be. Pumpkin Cake and Pound Cake were the largest of the group, following the much smaller batpony toddling along with her nose next to the ground like some sort of draconic bloodhound. Then came a blue pegasus, helping balance a huge Doctor Seuss book on the back of a small filly who was just barely visible as bits of green fur under her bibliographic burden.

“Buk,” she declared when the five of them reached Observation Station Bravo. Big violet eyes peered out from under A Hatful of Doctor Seuss, her stubby horn glowed faintly in the moonlight, and the ghillie tarp that was guarding their hiding hole flipped back to reveal all of Captain Rogers’ squad, including the two members who were sacked out for their sleeping shift. All of the little noses wrinkled up, and Clover declared, “Pew. Stinky.”

“We’re made, Captain.” Howell rolled his eyes. “Should we call for exfil?”

“No,” admitted Rogers, picking up the offered book and looking at the cover by chemlight. “But while I pick out a story for our little invaders, you are going to get on your phone and call Hardhooves.”

“Suppose we’re going to need help carrying the sleepy tots back to bed.” Howell got out his SMPED and checked his short list of pony contacts.

“No, I want him to tell little Stargazer’s parents that she snuck out tonight.” Rogers changed positions so he could pick up the cuddly batpony foal and tuck her under one arm in a good position for her to see the book. “Otherwise, we’re going to have at least one panicked parent that I don’t want to see mad visit us shortly.”

“Good point, Cap.” Howell poked buttons on his secure phone and added, “I don’t think she has a setting on her dial for anything other than angry. Oh, hello Sergeant Hardhooves. You answered the phone really fast. Are you missing five young— Yes, they’re here. Yes, they’re fine. Captain Rogers is just reading them a story, then we’ll bring them— What was that noise? Oh, Pumpernickel is sitting on his wife. That’s… good, I suppose.”

“It’s fucktastic,” muttered Captain Rogers, trying to find a way to grip the squirming pony and the book.

“Buk!” announced the smaller green unicorn/pegasus. “Fuckstik.”

The rest of the squad stopped trying to get the ghillie tarp put back and stared, much like Rogers and Howell were staring at the small green foal, who let out a joyous giggle.

“Fummummph,” she declared again, muffled by Roger’s hand over her mouth.

It felt weird as all hell to be putting hands upon alien royalty, size small, but the secret was certainly a We Don’t Talk About This Because The Brass Would Go Bonkers. After all, he could do the math. 1+1+1=Trouble, or One set of wings plus One horn plus One tiny golden crown he could see under her tangled purple mane meant one of the alien leadership who moved the fucking sun on their planet. Explaining at his court-martial to some admiral how Former Captain Rodgers had managed to doom the entire Earth to burning or freezing by angering a tiny alien was not a very pleasant prospect. Letting Clover sit on his lap while he rearranged the book in front of them was actually a hoot and a half, as his grandfather would say.

“Naughty little—” Rogers edited out the word ‘princesses’ and replaced it with the much less-brass-rattling word since the radio was still on “—foals don’t get stories read to them. You want a story, right?”

Earnest little heads all nodded vigorously and the alien children gathered around him like baby chicks around a mother hen.

“Very well then,” said Rogers, settling into a task that he had never dreamed of when he first decided to become a SEAL. He was after all a Captain Rogers, not a Mister Rogers. “A person’s a person, no matter how small. By Doctor Seuss, who dreamed about small persons far stranger than any of you little rascals.”

“Rascal,” declared Clover.

“Much better,” said Rogers, taking a moment to scratch at a strange itch in the corner of his elbow. Having this many furry kids gathered around in the Kansas evening was uncomfortably warm and comfortably friendly, much like being surrounded by purring cats.

If he had noticed several small black creatures hopping off the foals’ coats in search of nesting spots of their own, he might have stopped an interdimensional incident the next day when the ponies met ‘Mister President’ at the airport.

The SEALs were experts at concealment.

Earth fleas had centuries of experience on them.

And nobody really notices fleas until too late.

33. Close Encounters of the Fuzzy Kind

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Close Encounters of the Fuzzy Foal Kind

“I'm sure the universe is full of intelligent life. It's just been too intelligent to come here.”
― Arthur C. Clarke

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:45 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

As a child, Director Clancey had dreamed of aliens visiting the Earth. The movies had filled his young head with spinning grey saucers landing on the White House lawn and disgorging pale grey aliens with either ray guns or gifts of world peace in a dangerous nuclear era. The years had faded those childhood dreams, but his present job brought all of those old films right back, with far better seating. Through being hired at the Secret Service, several moves, and one divorce, he had kept a Japanese toy ray gun in his collection of memorabilia, and although he had the urge to bring it along to Kansas and have a real alien autograph it, this was a serious occasion.

This was supposed to be a serious occasion. The first meeting between the US President and little green men was supposed to have world-shaking repercussions, not be upstaged by little green foals twisting around in their foal carriers so they could make cute scrunched-up faces at him while four-legged little green ponies were trying to talk to him.

“I’m sorry, Lucky,” said Clancey, forcing his eyes back down. “Your daughter was being distracting again.”

After a quick laugh, Lucky turned around in that flexible boneless fashion that Clancey could not get used to and scooped his adorable daughter out of her carrier. “Do you want to hold her while we talk, Mr. Clancey? She’ll calm down in an hour or two after a bottle, but right now she just wants to play.”

“Pla!” declared the wriggling little foal, looking uncomfortable in the Kansas heat with her K-State purple t-shirt. She fairly jumped into Clancey’s arms and snuggled up as he petted the top of her horned head, leaving a few small green hairs behind on his fingers.

“So you were talking about your Secret Service’s security provisions during Mister President’s visit?” said Lucky in an obvious prompt. From their location on the elevated platform next to the switched-off television camera, they had a good view of the airport tarmac and surroundings. The taxiway was cleared, the platform set up next to where Air Force One would park, and the general semi-circle of press and VIP positions had been staked out, so everything was ready and ahead of schedule to boot. Or to hoof.

It all was progressing far better than he had expected, and most of the credit belonged not to the USSS, but to the tight coordination between his advance USSS team, the local law enforcement, and Ft. Riley. The ponies bore a small percentage of the credit also, because any vehicle that ‘broke down’ on the nearby four-laned section of Highway 18 was promptly visited by a flatbed tow truck with a bulky gold-armored unicorn inside. Normally, it took on the order of a half-hour to clear a disabled vehicle from the highway; Specialist Titan and Mike’s Wrecker Service could almost do it without stopping.

And while he watched, another prospective presidential rubbernecker and security concern out on the highway was treated to a quick floating onto the flatbed, and away they went.

“Washington D.C. could use a dozen of those during rush hour,” he mused. “Anyway, I was mostly worried that ground transport was going to get overwhelmed before the press got set up, but it looks like your unconventional methods are working the way they should.”

Lucky nodded and pushed his hat down slightly to shade his eyes. “I was concerned also. You humans use cars for everything. When the airport opened this morning at sunrise, it looked like a wheeled bunny stampede. At least it looks like your reporters are getting the interviews they wanted.”

There were more than two dozen ponies down among the media pool, being swapped back and forth for interviews depending on which reporter was available. From this altitude, he could see the white cast on one of the Washington reporter’s hands, and internalized a brief prayer of thanks that it had not been one of his officers who had injured the blithering twit.

There supposedly had been an apology from Miss Anacostia, for what good it did. Reporters only pretended to let bygones be bygones while in pursuit of revenge for their fragile egos. Once they had their own attacks coordinated with their peers, the resulting ambush would pelt in from all sides. In short order, no matter how popular Agent Anacostia was with the public she would be forced to resign. At least she could write a book from her short experience with the aliens, even if none of the major publishers would dare print it.

“I wish the President had more time to spend with your people,” admitted Clancey while scratching behind the infant pony’s ears like she appeared to want. “Higher-ups think having him visit your landing spot on Marine One would be too risky, both from the chance of an accident and having him exposed to so many…”

“Aliens,” said Lucky, still looking out across the sea of expectant humanity. “It’s strange that you humans haven’t met any other intelligent races, but you’ve written more about them than any of our authors. Mister Bruener’s father collected science fiction,” he added.

“That’s probably why the country’s been in such a tizzy about your visit,” admitted Clancey. “There aren’t many movies or books where the aliens just visit by accident, then do little more than look around and take pictures. Mostly, there’s armed conflict in one way or another. Personally, I prefer this.” Clancey took the opportunity to tickle little Clover on the tummy, which earned him a delightful giggle. “Anyway like your briefing sheet specifies, we have ground-based checkpoints for three tiers of invited visitors, from the press up front, the local luminaries behind them, and a limited standing area behind that with two projector screens, and the weather’s been just—”

Clancey stopped, but Lucky caught his intent. “We looked up Air Force One on the computer network and it seemed awfully large to use this airport, so twenty pegasi from Ponyville’s weather crew have been keeping the local weather patterns suppressed for today. We really didn’t want to bother you with the details, but since the whole area is under some sort of mechanical flight restrictions, they volunteered to make Mister President’s trip comfortable. And they cleared it with your flying people first,” he added.

* * *

“Viper Seven to Bandsaw, we’re getting some strange objects on visual scan, please advise.” While waiting for a response from the AWACS, Captain Karen Aanstrand flipped the APG-68 radar on her F-16D from standby to ACM, since she did not have an optical tracking pod equipped to visually spot whatever the specks of orange in the distance were.

“Spot, what are you doing?” asked Growler from her back seat.

“There’s unidentified aircraft in our zone, vector zero seven zero range approximately five miles,” she responded to the older pilot who had wedged himself into the GIB role by studious arm-twisting among his less-promoted peers. “Thought we should get a better look.”

“Shut it down, Spot,” he drawled over the intercom. “Didn’t you listen to the mission briefing?”

“Those can’t be the aliens,” said Karen, looking at the radar. “They’re at angels fifteen.”

“And you’ll cook them like a microwave oven if we leave the radar on when we close,” said Growler. “That’s why we have an AWACS assigned to the zone about a hundred miles back. Shut it down, now.”

“Switching back to standby.” She thumbed the APG selection switch back, then returned to scanning the sky at about the same time the AWACS crew responded.

“Viper Seven, confirmed your targets at zero eight zero range four miles are friendly Equestrian weather patrol who are, and I quote, ‘flattening out the top of a nasty updraft.’ Do not, repeat, do not engage your radar when within a half-mile. We have a request from their team leader for you to make a low speed pass so they can get a better look at you. Would that be acceptable, Seven?”

“Affirmative! Ahem. I mean affirmative, Bandsaw,” said Captain Aanstrand, starting to throttle back the F-16 and trim it for low-speed flight. “Give us a vector, please.”

“Excited to see the ponies, Captain?” said Growler from the back seat.

“Shut up, Major,” said Karen with a grin. “The reflection in the cockpit shows you’re getting your phone out to take pictures. Take a couple for me and I won’t say a thing.”

* * *

Director Clancey nodded slowly. “As long as we don’t have any kind of incident with your pegasi and Air Force One. I don’t know how familiar they are with aircraft.”

“Too familiar, I’m afraid. Some of the pegasi want to take one home. I’m just glad Rainbow Dash isn’t here,” said Lucky. “She’d race them. And beat them. And she’d insist on being first up there to meet your Mister President. I’m more concerned about the setup of your defenses here. Specialist Grace?”

The trim green unicorn beside Lucky was so quiet that it was hard to notice she was there until she spoke, in clipped precise words like she was typing a letter on an electric typewriter. She floated out a clipboard with the Equestrian copy of the Secret Service security plans and tapped it with a ballpoint pen.

“The Ponyville mayor will be arriving within the hour, so we just wanted to make things perfectly clear. If I am reading this correctly, you have given us a full listing of all security measures taken within the airport vicinity, as per our agreement. So would I be correct in assuming that any armed human forces within the vicinity that are not listed on our report are hostile, or at least ones which may have slipped out of the report for some reason?”

The Equestrians were not supposed to be able to read thoughts, but Director Clancey tried his best to keep his mind a cool blank while he responded anyway. “There should not be any armed humans within the perimeter who are not listed on your report. If there are any, I would appreciate you notifying our personnel so they can be appropriately confronted.” Clancey blinked several times, then looked out into the sea of reporters where one fairly nondescript pony with a neck ruff was being interviewed. “Wait a minute. Your mayor is here already.”

Grace moved a hoof to the side of her helmet. “Decoy One, please look at me and wave.”

The grey-haired earth pony took a moment to look around before spotting Director Clancey and giving a cheerful wave, then returning to her interview. The little foal in Clancey’s arms suddenly felt twice as heavy as she squirmed, shedding short green hairs on his suit, but the plan for the President’s visit was to have reserve forces tucked away just in case of some unforeseen alien disaster, and he took the revelation in stride. “So your mayor is still in Randolph?”

“At Country Stampede until we call, actually.” The trim green unicorn tapped her ballpoint pen against her breastplate and frowned. “Never will understand earth pony musical preferences. Now, to the subject at hoof. Are you quite certain there are no armed humans within the security perimeter who we have not been notified about?”

“Positive,” lied Clancey.

Grace put one hoof to the side of her helmet again. “Day One. Night One. Investigate your targets and report back.”

* * *

Being deployed with the FBI Hostage Rescue Team was never very comfortable. Today was worse. Ten men crammed into an empty tin hanger under the Kansas sun for a day had left Lead Agent Winston Jordan wishing he had never left the Marines. If everything worked right on the President’s visit, they would continue to bake before, during, and after Air Force One’s visit, then a few hours after all the hubbub died down and night fell, several rental vehicles would stop by their hangar for them to load their gear and leave.

Until then, they also served who sat on the oil-stained concrete floor in full battle-rattle and waited.

Thankfully, he had the USSS radio feed in one ear and the local television station playing on somebody’s iPad, so he could keep track of what was generally going on outside. Whatever in the hell some unnamed FBI director thought by deploying them here…

No, bad thoughts. Don’t think bad thoughts. They tend to come out in words at the wrong time, in front of the wrong people.

In case the aliens were really some sort of advance reconnaissance force here to capture the President before a larger invasion, his team was to burst out of concealment, aid the Secret Service in defending him (or fight them, depending on if the wacko telepathic mind-control rumor was correct), and ensure the President’s safety. It bore about as much probability as the typical movie script, but he cashed his paychecks every two weeks, and that came with obeying orders.

So here he was, commanding nine other heavily armed agents less than a hundred yards from the platform where the President was to meet with aliens. Real aliens, despite their odd appearance vs any movie monsters he had seen before. It helped to think of the more probable human fanatics, but either way, it would suck. Yeah, he really wanted absolutely nothing to happen today.

And then something did.

The sliding door to the hangar slid open a few feet and pink poked in. It was a shade of pink that really should not be seen by anybody who had spent the last few hours in relative darkness, and locked up Winston’s mind almost cold, until he recognized it belonging to one of the pony soldiers dressed in dark armor.

It helped to focus on the armor. Otherwise his brain kept oscillating between the startling pink of her coat and the vibrant orange of her mane.

“Specialist Thermal,” he managed between blinking away tears. Part of their briefing was identification of all the pony military officers, and out of the whole bunch she was the most recognizable by far, and could probably be spotted by a blind man a mile away, in a pitch-dark night, during a thunderstorm. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Actually, yes,” she said in a breathless contralto and looking up at him with huge pink eyes. “As a deputy officer of the RCPD, you can identify yourselves and show me your authorization to be here, or I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest all of you. Oh, and don’t try using that,” she added, glancing behind him at where one of the other agents had casually begun to raise his MP5 submachine gun. “Specialist Epsilon has a combustion suppression spell over this section of the building.”

“Now, you can’t just come in here and—” Pointing turned out to be a bad idea. One pink wing flickered forward and grabbed him around the extended finger, giving him a quick Jujitsu twist to one side and holding Winston off-balance as a pair of unicorn soldiers appeared behind her with glowing horns.

“Identification first,” said the quiet mare, giving him slightly more pressure on his bent finger. “Please. I really don’t want to hurt any of you.”

“Yes, ma’am. IDs everybody. Nice and slow,” he managed through the pain. The thought of hitting her back or maneuvering for a hold of his own did cross his mind, but the blurred video of the bat-winged guard and her ‘playtime’ with the FBI detachment, as well as the footage from Goose’s visit to the Wichita dojo, had gone around the squad several times to discourage such actions. Plus, the foal in her carrier was sleeping, and he really did not want to find out how mama would react if he woke her baby.

* * *

FBI counter-sniper teams were nearly as close as husband and wife. Thankfully, Agent Marion’s wife and his partner’s wife understood that, and got along reasonably well also. Their kids fought when they all went on vacations somewhere together, but all kids did that.

The advantage of sitting up on the roof in hot weather was the breeze. The disadvantage of sitting up on the roof in Kansas summer weather was the breeze was about as cool as sitting in front of a blowtorch. The old hangar building at the Manhattan airport was a stone structure built around World War II, and about as sturdy as a bunker, so it provided a convenient if unshaded spot to observe the crowd from a higher vantage point, although seemingly closer to the sun. Needless to say, Marion and his partner were not wearing suits as they scanned the crowd with binoculars, listening to the USSS radio feed. They were wearing military boots to protect their feet from the hot roof asphalt, however, which went well with the cameo cargo pants and green t-shirts. Honestly, Marion was starting to think the wool blankets they had brought to shield themselves and the equipment from getting sticky tar all over were going to be lost causes at the end of the protective mission.

“Excuse me.” One of the dark bat-winged Equestrian guards just rose up from the outside wall and landed gently on the edge of the roof, no more than an arm’s length away and with less noise than a dropped feather. “Didn’t want to surprise you, since you’ve got that big gun.” Cool golden eyes shifted under her helmet to glance at the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle laid out on a blanket to one side, then back to Marion with a bored expression as if she were about to yawn.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Agent Marion said instead.

“Depends,” she said flatly. “Can you identify yourself and explain what you’re doing up on this roof?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Marion somewhat uncertainly. Procedure was not to interact with civilians while on overwatch, but normally since they were on a roof, the number of wandering flying curious onlookers was normally zero. Plus, the Equestrian was wearing dark armor, and part of their mission today had been to remain far enough back and unidentified as not to gain any attention from their military.

“Would you identify yourself if I asked nicely?” said the bat-winged pegasus with a toothy smile that certainly was not friendly.

Before Marion could respond, there was a quiet clearing of a throat directly behind him, much as if a huge lion had just coughed up a mouse. “Dear,” rumbled a deep voice from the same rooftop location that Marion had been absolutely positive could not have contained another creature just a few moments ago. “Be nice. We’re guests.”

A slow backward look in the direction of the voice showed a second bat-winged pegasus guard crouched behind them, only if the first one was like a rottweiler crossed with a black labrador retriever, this larger one was some sort of armored pony who could eat either breed of dog, without ketchup. The bright sunlight made his colors wash out into a lighter shade of grey, although the fine white lines through the darker hairs stood out like some sort of three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

“You’re Pumpernickel,” he said reflexively. “Agent Washington in the Secret Service told me about your trip into town. So you’re—” he turned around to look at the first bat-winged pegasus, finally recognizing the sleeping foal on her back, who blended in with the grey colors of the mother. “Laminia,” he added. “The dangerous one.”

Pumpernickel snorted behind him.

Laminia merely looked more like she was sucking on a lemon, no matter how difficult that seemed.

The adorable little foal shifted in her sleep and nuzzled up to her mother’s soft grey hide.

There was a comparable reduction in radiant hostility from the mother, which Marion grabbed while he could.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” started Agent Marion, “but since you are, and it’s obvious we’re not going to be able to keep our presence secret from your security, here’s my ID—” he nudged his partner with an elbow to promote his speed in doing the same “—and we’re sorry for having distracted you from your jobs.”

The female batpony sniffed both ID cards with a short nod, then turned and looked behind her at where the baby batpony had begun to wake. “Oh, puckernuts. Stargazer’s looking for her feeding.”

“Since I have to call in to my supervisor, do you want me to call the airport terminal too, ma’am?” asked Marion quickly, since he was fully familiar with his own wife nursing, but was not eager to see how the other four-legged half lived. “They’ll have air conditioning and some privacy.”

“Oh… we’re fine up here,” she said in a rush as the little foal began to wriggle her own way out of the back carrier. “Hubby, get over here and help me with the clamps. I can’t get the tit-shield off the blasted armor by myself. Designed by stallions, I swear.”

“Let me get you some space and move…” Marion paused his motion toward their Barrett, then moved much slower to scoot it to the edge of the wool blanket under the watchful eye of the male batpony. In short order, the foal was doing what hungry foals did, and both humans were back to their binoculars in order not to watch. “Are you sure you don’t want to move into the air conditioning, ma’am?” he asked once the initial metallic scrambling of armor removal had died down to a contented sucking noise that he did not want to see.

“And freeze my tits off?” asked Laminia. “You’ve got the best place to sunbathe in the whole airfield. Once she’s fed, you wouldn’t mind if we took a nap here.”

“Say please,” rumbled Pumpernickel. “It’s their roof, since they had it first.”

“Yeah, please,” said Laminia behind them. “I was going to say it, Lunkhead.”

Thirty minutes later when the C-32 normally used by the vice-president landed, the grey pile of three sleeping batponies did not even stir. However, there was a tail wrapped around the Barrett rifle, and if it was needed, Marion was not about to move it without asking. Politely.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:58 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Above Manhattan Regional Airport — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Wish it was practical to have Secretary Clinton with us,” mused Dennis McDonald as Air Force One eased down on final approach to the tiny little runway by the tiny little Kansas town. As much as he wanted the space of a 747-200 to hold all of the people who wanted to be on this trip, the vice-president’s C-32 was subbing for the aging Air Force One today in order to be able to actually take off from the stubby mile-long runway after the visit was over.

As Chief of Staff, he had pulled enough strings to get himself onto the minimal Presidential delegation to greet the aliens that he could probably weave a rug, but there had been an enormous amount of string-pulling going on in the White House, and he was really starting to wish for a pair of scissors. Or a chainsaw. At least he had not needed to ride with the White House Press Corps charter, because nudging a reporter out of that packed airliner would have probably earned him a knife between the shoulderblades. Or at least a cutting news article.

“You know as well as I do that having a Presidential candidate along today would have been a distraction,” said Robert, the General Counsel to the President, who had come in second on the string-pulling contest. “We had to fight like tigers to reject every senator or representative who demanded their place in line, or we never would have gotten off the ground in Washington.”

“Should have made an exception,” Dennis considered for about the twelfth time that day. “Besides, she’s going to be the next President, and she doesn’t forget a grudge.”

“She’s not going to hire you,” said Robert. “She’s not going to hire any of us, and good riddance. I’m perfectly happy leaving the General Counsel office and going back to the firm in a year. I’ve heard too many stories about the craziness of her years in the White House, and I’m not going to spend the most productive years of my life covering up Bill’s messes. Besides, she’s got Disney World, and you can take credit for that.”

“True,” admitted Dennis with a short chuckle. “You should have heard them when I called. It was all ‘Yes, Mister McDonald’ and ‘Of course, Mister McDonald’ until I told them I wanted Hillary Clinton as former Secretary of State to welcome our visitors to the park. Then it got really, really quiet. I expected them to demand she wear the mouse costume, but they came around in short order. There’s still some heft left in being Chief of Staff. And Hillary.”

“Don’t cross a Clinton,” said Robert. “Or be around one, if you can. I plan on being several states away when she meets our visitors. I just wish we could get some of them to stay for longer.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the low rumble of the landing, not nearly as loud as any commercial aircraft, but still present. The other VIP visitors started taking off their seat belts while the plane slowed, although Dennis remained in place, thinking about the Equestrians and what it would take to tempt at least one of them to Washington for an Oval Office photo. It would be the peak of his career, and leave him with an accomplishment that no other bureaucrat in the anthill could match. Still, they were going to be opening up a portal and leaving a week from today, taking every single Equestrian off the planet forever, according to the reports.

If only there was some way to sabotage that portal and keep them here a few months.

In precisely one week and two hours, he would regret that exact thought.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:20 A.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport reception stand — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“I can’t go up on the platform with you, Widge,” hissed Claire over the sound of the US Army band, which was happily belting out various marching tunes to fill the time while waiting for things to start. “I’m not invited, and there’s only so many places to stand before somebody gets bumped off the edge. Besides, you’ve got Karla up there with you.”

“And when they show up, the mayor, and Granny Smith,” added Goose,who had donned her broad shading hat again, although from the way she was shifting from one hoof to another, she was still having a hard time with this many humans and ponies around her. Or the jalapeno poppers were still bothering her insides.

Karla should have been more nervous than anything, because she had never met the President before, and she was about to go on television and be The Official Female African-American FBI Agent Who Had Been Assigned To The Aliens/Visitors etc, etc… One of the ponies named Cocoa had helped get her suit perfectly pressed in Randolph, and an aggressively happy pony named Junebug had helped her get dressed in the airport parking lot, or more correctly, in Dakota Henderson’s RV parked there. It had made a perfectly useful home base for the ponies out in the airport media scrum, or at least until Four Seasons camper company had set up three of their larger models for equine convenience. It was a little disturbing for Karla because she had shopped for condominiums that cost less than each one of the massive motor coaches. Plus, Widget would want to buy one and take it home so she could disassemble it at her leisure.

“We’ll be fine,” said Karla, trying her best to look all ‘Agent Anacostia’ for any cameras that certainly were pointed in their direction. She added a reassuring back-pat and nudged the reluctant unicorn in the direction of the wheelchair ramp. “They’re telling me through the earpiece that it’s time to go.”

“And I’ll get lots of photos for your friends back in Ponyville,” said Kota, who took a photo just for emphasis. “Remember, after this you get to fly to Disney World with about a hundred ponies.”

“But…”

Widget’s sad eyes could crumble steel, but Karla kept her nerve. “I’ll drive Goose to Florida in my SUV and meet you there. I’ve got a few weeks of vacation time from the agency. It’s literally like twenty-four hours on the road with your fuzzy buddy, but I’ll take… Dakota, you want to go on a trip?”

“What?” Dakota ruffled what little mane on Goose Down that he could reach with her armor on. “Miss taking my favorite fuzzball to the mouse house? Never. And I’ll get lots of photos for your coltfriend too.”

That earned a quick chuckle from both ponies, and Karla hustled them up the ramp with a look around for the rest of the guests of honor. All of the humans were there, of course, with the President getting ready to step to the podium, but there were three notable equine absences.

It seemed odd for the ponies of all creatures to be late, but one of Karla’s classes in college covered dominance-based behavior in political negotiations with Israel and the Palestinians, paralleled with the Soviet Union and the US. In short, the parties who obeyed the rules tended to display submissive behavior to the rule-breakers, which was a counter to the tendency of greater powers to suppress lesser powers. So in order to gain parity or more over a powerful negotiating partner, the weaker parties ‘acted out’ by misbehaving or even arriving—

“Agent Anacostia, this is Central,” came the voice of the Secret Service coordinating station over her borrowed earbud. “Please inform our guests that the mayor and Granny Smith are inbound from the music festival and will arrive in just a few minutes. Just a minor delay, nothing to worry about.”

“Roger, Central,” she murmured into her lapel microphone, then well-aware of how many listening devices were probably in the area. Widget had been reminded several times not to pick them from her surroundings like raspberries, but Karla still was fairly certain she was bugged more than a flea ridden stray dog.

The Equestrians’ order standing next to the President had been the responsibility of Those Far Above Her On The Food Chain, so Karla took her place at the far end of the line and tried not to scratch her nose, which had started itching something fierce. After a minute or two just standing there, a rather short man to her side tapped her on the elbow and asked under his breath, “Where are the other aliens?”

“Still flying in, Doctor Fauchi,” she managed without moving her lips much. Then after a short time waiting where nothing was still happening, she added, “Did you enjoy the medical conference out at Country Stampede?”

“Didn’t attend.” The doctor pushed his glasses back up onto his sweating nose in the hot Kansas sun. “Had too many things to do before this trip. Had to direct the department to prepare procedures for any potential outbreaks due to the introduction of unknown pathogens into our environment.”

After giving a short sideways look at the two ponies she had been using for pillows at various times over the last week, Karla let her eyes slide back to watching the crowd, although she did add, “We’re a lot alike, but Doctor Stable said that the Equestrians and humans didn’t have any obvious cross-contamination vectors, and that in theory, even our blood plasma would only be interchangeable with considerable filtering until it was almost salt water. That’s not even counting what he said about Starswirl’s spell on the portals.”

“He’s merely a country doctor by his own admission.”

Standing up in front of a crowd while television cameras captured their every action was certainly not the time to school the head of some DC agency on just how one of the most qualified four-legged physicians on their planet just ‘happened’ to wind up in the same town with their princess’s personal student and all of her high-risk friends. It was also not the time to tell anybody about how while still in KU Med, she had let the unicorn examine the troublesome knee she had dislocated in training years ago, or the quiet bit of unauthorized surgery that had followed.

What Blue Cross Blue Shield and the AMA doesn’t know, won’t hurt them.

A moving fleck of color caught her eye, as well as the eyes of most other people waiting for things to start, if the number of pointing fingers was any indicator. The wind was out of the south, but the pegasus-powered carriage came right down runway three-one without regard for crosswind procedures or laws of physics. A critical thought about the tactics of the approach drifted up in Karla’s mind, since the carriage slowed rapidly, and never pointed directly at POTUS or the platform, even though the Secret Service sounded nervous.

* * *

“Do you think we’re going to need—?” started Agent Marion with a backwards glance at the sleeping batponies next to the tail-encumbered Barrett rifle.

“Not a chance,” said his partner, still glued to his binoculars as Left and Right flared their wings and the Equestrian chariot settled to the ground like thistledown right next to the ‘31’ on the runway in a perfect photo op. “You know, if the pegasi stick around, Marine One pilots are going to be out of a job.”

* * *

It was difficult to restrain a smirk as the Equestrian chariot touched down on the concrete runway to the tune of the Army band, and all Karla could see was the backs of people’s heads. With the expertise displayed by the Royal Guards, she really thought they could have brought the chariot to a hover inches away from her so Granny Smith would not have to climb the wheelchair ramp, but that would have gone over like a lead balloon with the Secret Service. It certainly would have been popular with the crowd, though. Elvis could have gotten a less-enthusiastic welcome from the people who parted in front of the approaching Equestrians, and they probably would have thrown flowers if they had them.

As the four Equestrians in cowboy hats approached, Karla could not help but feel just a little more nervous, although she restrained herself from petting the nearest pony. The Cutie Mark Crusaders were on the opposite side of the podium after all, and there was an empty space to her right where Big McIntosh was going to be standing next to his grandmother.

There had been a few snippets of discussion trickling down to Karla’s phone by way of the occasional text message, but apparently there were no end of bureaucrats in Washington who had been rather solidly thumped for attempting to bump Big Mac off the platform for their own self-important presence. If Karla had not gotten in the way a week ago, quite probably the Washington bureaucrats and politicians would have successfully abducted both Goose and Widget. It was uncomfortable thinking about those two exposed to the smile-and-handshake circuit 24/7 for an entire week, for every Washingtonian from the President all the way down to the Deputy Under Secretary for the International Trade Association, who would have been pressuring them to accept Wisconsin apple imports.

Widget would not have gotten any rest to heal, and Goose would be near-catatonic, instead of their both bouncy selves.

Karla lent a hand when Granny Smith made her way to the top of the ramp, and got her securely placed next to her grandson. That left her coincidentally bent over at the right angle to catch when Mayor Mare passed by on her way to the podium, and the faint scent of Johnnie Walker Red Label that wafted along in her wake.

“Excuse me, Doctor Stable,” managed Karla as she stood up and looked at the last pony, who really needed where she was standing in case Granny Smith had any complication pop up. “You can stand here, next to Doctor Fauchi.”

“Oh, I was hoping to meet you, Doctor.” The unicorn gave the startled doctor a quick hoof-shake and moved to stand next to him, with Karla right behind where she could eavesdrop. “I was talking with the physicians at the Stampede virology seminar, and they told me about your work with polyarteritis nodosa. I was hoping we could compare notes after this, because there’s an Equestrian disorder with similar symptoms that we’ve never been able to isolate.”

“Greetings, my little ponies!” Mayor Mare’s voice was unexpected since the President was supposed to speak first, and from what she could see from a subtle sideways glance, several of the human aides were likewise confused. Despite the rustling of their quiet discussions, the equine mayor continued with her speech, standing on her hind hooves and leaning against the podium.

And it was a very good speech, quite smooth and practiced, with pauses for applause and the occasional bit of cross-universal political humor that even had Karla chuckling under her breath. Upon reflection, it was also most probably the exact same speech that the mayor gave at every major event, because Karla could catch Widget’s lips moving along with the words at times. To be honest, the mayor’s speech was a better glimpse into the broader Equestrian world than anything she could have written for the specific occasion, and most likely would be dissected by thousands of Earth scholars for generations.

Which probably explained the faint scent of Johnnie Walker. In the same situation, Karla was not sure she could stop drinking before the bottom of the bottle. Or the case.

The pony mayor finished her speech with a flourish and expected applause, then moved the ‘booster box’ out of the way and stepped to one side of the podium for the President. The box had been a simple solution to a complex problem, since the President was over six feet tall, and an average pony on her hind legs was barely five. The complexity was in finding a box of the correct size on short notice, and in keeping a duct-tape-wrapped case of Pepsi cans out of the sight of curious reporters, who would have certainly blown it up into some scandal or advertising blitz.

The last thing Karla thought she would have to do during a speech by the President of the United States was suppress laughter. All she could think of was Clyde, and her boss’s imitation of the same speaking style. Worse, she had mentioned it to Claire Bruener, and she could see the young lady at the front edge of the crowd, counting every instance of ‘I’ or ‘me’ on her fingers.

After an interminable amount of self-control and several other brilliant luminaries taking the podium, the speeches finally wound to an end, and the President moved through the Equestrians, handing out folders containing citizenship papers. It felt a little less like some sort of historic First Contact situation and more like High School graduation, but then again, she had never experienced something this important from the other end of the camera. And oddly enough, she could almost feel the moment the cameras cut away from the presentation when the President began leading his guests over to the photographer’s station, which was behind the platform.

The release of stress made Karla almost giddy, and she restricted her responses to the various other luminaries in the area to simple nods or brief head-shakes, which were less likely to get her into more trouble while maneuvering to get where everybody else was trying to go. It was a crowd of chaos with USSS agents acting as sheepdogs for far too many sheep, but Karla gained her own suit-clad agent almost immediately upon stepping down the stairs at the back of the platform.

“Agent Anacostia? Agent O’Malley, but you can call me Conner for the time being.” Secret Service agents were not supposed to be able to smile, but the older gentleman gave Karla a quick smile and took her by the elbow. “Right this way, ma’am. The President wanted to get a photo with you and our guests before taking them on a tour of Air Force One.”

“Better keep Widget away from any screwdrivers,” said Karla, falling in line with his route around the back of the well-connected crowd.

“We’ve already locked down any toolkits. I don’t think I’m going to underestimate any Equestrians again,” admitted O’Malley, nudging several onlookers to one side. “Excuse me. The President wanted Agent Anacostia for a photograph.”

Widget and Goose were standing to either side of the President, although the photographer was trying to get the dark batpony to shed her broad hat, probably because it put Goose’s face into a dark shadow that would not show up on the photo. Karla was trying to figure out where she would stand when Goose suddenly rose up on her broad wings and whispered something in the President’s ear while hovering.

“Oh! I understand, ma’am.” The President pointed at Air Force One, which was providing a colorful backdrop, and the jetway stairs headed to the open hatch. “Up the stairs and to the right. Just ask one of the stewards—”

There was a blur of motion that left Goose’s oversized hat drifting down in her wake, and the rapid clatter of hooves. The Secret Service agent at the bottom of the stairs might as well not even have been there because Goose went by him like… Well, the analogy that came immediately to Karla’s mind was ‘corn through a goose’ but she really did not want to say that out loud.

“Jalapeno poppers?” asked Karla.

Widget nodded, although with a glance away from the crowd and over her shoulder at the big, tempting aircraft just sitting there, waiting to be disassembled. “I think I need to use the restroom too,” she lied. “Really soon. So I’ll just… Wait up, Goose!”

Karla got her photo with the President, but it was very brief. Immediately after the shutter clicked, he excused himself to head for Air Force One where his wife and children were waiting. When the Cutie Mark Crusaders went galloping after him, Karla almost called out a warning, but she kept her mouth shut rather than start a kerfuffle. Not everything Widget said about those three cuties could possibly be true, and several of the other Equestrians were coming over to the photographers, so she had public relations responsibilities.

Later, she would regret not warning the President.

* * *

“Gentlesapiants.” At a momentary lack of words, the trim and proper unicorn leading the impromptu meeting looked up at the imposing height of General Hackmore by her side, displaying the first sign of uncertainty that he could remember in the short week plus that he had known her.

“You said you wanted to give them a gift, from your military protective unit to theirs,” prompted Gregory. “It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“It is a gift, and not dangerous.” The armored unicorn produced several woven bracelets, each of which had a glittering copper coin tied into the strands. “The question is much the same as when we gave General Hackmore the knife. The mayor has presented gifts identical to these for your President and his family, but we understand the value of such a gift means that your government will certainly demand that your gifts, not theirs, be given up when we depart. This is unacceptable.”

“Oh,” said Gregory as the clue dropped.

“We wove the bracelets with tail hairs volunteered from our citizens,” continued Grace, “and the smidgen sewed to the center is the smallest unit of our coinage, so our best calculation is that the whole piece is worth less than one of your dollars in materials. That should place their value below the exception threshold in your admirable Code of Federal Regulations, Title Five, Chapter Fourteen, Part 2635, exceptions to the prohibition for acceptance of certain gifts, mainly that they be twenty dollars in value or less.”

“Except the bureaucrats will record them as collectables worth a few thousand dollars a piece and demand they be turned over,” continued Gregory. “Just like the knife.”

“True.” Grace’s horn lit up and she floated the colorful bracelets to each of the four Secret Service agents and Agent Karla Anacostia, who had remained behind when her equine wards vanished into Air Force One. “The problem is one of trust. If a carnivore race wished to place an unknown enchantment on a gift placed with a member of Princess Celestia’s personal guard…”

She ran a hoof across her dark armor with a scrape of metal on metal. “Equestria has faced this problem several times throughout history. Every time it occurs, Princess Celestia extends a measure of trust that most of us find… uncomfortable. When we have conflicts with other races, our society incorporates elements of their culture as part of the resolution process. For example, when the three tribes united, each tribe contributed to Princess Celestia’s regalia. The unicorns provided the crown, the pegasi the peytral, and the earth ponies her boots. Since then, griffons, minotaurs, and even recently changelings, have added their efforts to our growing nation. All because she trusts where others do not.”

“I believe I understand,” said Agent O’Connor. He looked pointedly at the cell phone clipped to Grace’s armor and added, “If Equestria were to remain connected to our world, Verizon and Apple would sell phones to the Royal Guard like your apples sell on market day.”

“They are useful devices,” mused Grace. “As are the devices we have given to you, with the correct enchantments. Or at least I believe the blocking enchantment that Epsilon came up with will function correctly under most circumstances. We did test it, after all. And it was an example of how much trust already exists between us.”

* * *

Captain Samantha Reitz looked at the bracelet with the tiny copper coin woven into it, then to the green unicorn holding her Glock service pistol in her magic field. “Yes, the bulletproof vest should stop a round at this range, but—”

The unicorn ejected the magazine on the pistol and removed all of the bullets, then returned it to the pistol with a click. “I only should need one round in the chamber to test,” said Grace. “Try not to flinch.”

* * *

“If you decide to accept the enchantment on the device,” said Grace reluctantly, “you probably should wear it on your less-dominant limb, and not one of your legs, because that would be… awkward in the event you are shot, and the enchantment moves the smidgen to block it.”

“Shot?” asked Agent Washington, then stared in wide-eyed amazement at the next bracelet that Grace floated over to him, only with the small copper disk twisted and mangled, and a lead slug caught in the middle like a fly in a spider’s web.

“She’s fine. Minor sprain, treated with ice. And Scotch too, for some reason.” Grace hesitated, then nodded. “I understand. This is far too early in the diplomatic relationship between our two entities. I should never have—”

Then it was the nitpicky unicorn’s turn to stop as Agent Washington held out his bracelet with the shiny copper coin side up. “Everything in my training says to turn you down and promptly notify my superiors, but I’ve personally seen how seriously you protect your people.”

Agent O’Malley cleared his throat. “As your direct superior, I understand totally. If we submitted this proposal to the appropriate authorities, they might come through with a decision by the time my grandchildren take up the badge.” He held out his own bracelet. “Sometimes, you just need to take things on faith. Humanity doesn’t trust you, and that little stunt the higher-ups tried to pull with the FBI HRT shows it. If you’re willing to make this offer, to extend the trust of your Royal Guard regardless of their actions, it is our responsibility as thinking homo sapiens to reciprocate. I just have one question.”

O’Malley flipped out his Secret Service badge. “Why not use these for your bullet-blocker spell?”

“Because… um…” For a unicorn who seemed uptight enough to arrange her morning Cheerios so every spoonful had exactly the same number of O’s, Grace did not appear to take the suggestion with much enthusiasm. “Because I didn’t think of it,” she muttered at last.

General Hackmore had remained silent so far, but he could not resist a quiet laugh, giving Grace a pat on the armored shoulder. “The mark of a good leader is to recognize good advice. We can’t always see everything from our point of view, and sometimes the grunt in the ditch knows more about the situation than a dozen generals in the Pentagon. You just have to be willing to seek out that kind of experience and learn from it.”

“It’s humiliating,” groused Grace.

Agent Anacostia shook her head and produced her own badge. “No, it would have been humiliating if the Secret Service had made the suggestion after you zapped each one of the bracelets. And I really don’t want to be a spoilsport, and thank you for the offer, but if you’re going to zap our badges to be magic bullet-catchers, you should probably hurry.” Karla took a look over her shoulder at Air Force One. “I don’t know how long Widget can be in there without taking apart something important, and I don’t think the President wants to walk home.”

* * *

Claire figured she was about the tenth most happy creature on board Air Force One. The President’s wife and two children had met the Cutie Mark Crusaders much like matter and antimatter mixing, and all she could hear of their rapid discussion now was a general indication that the vice-president’s pull-out bed was as bouncy as anything the little ponies had ever seen, and it was in the process of having all the springs bounced out of it.

The FBI spent so much wasted time and effort trying to get Goose and Widget onto a plane. It’s going to take twice as much work to get the Crusaders off the plane so the President can go home. I wondered why Big Mac brought that rope.

On the other end of the aircraft, Goose and Widget were in the cockpit with the pilots, not quite as noisy as the Crusaders and their teenaged friends, but the thought of having the pony groups reversed really did not make Claire very comfortable. Widget had a lot of stories about those three little horses, and in theory, Air Force One had electronic countermeasures and flares. Having a Crusader trigger hundreds of white-hot magnesium blobs spewed among the nearby reporters most certainly would make far too many unpleasant news stories for the Equestrians before they went home in a week.

Still more than a little stunned at her august surroundings, she nodded at a nearby military officer and managed a nervous smile. “Hello, sir. Are you one of the pilots?”

He chuckled while shaking her outstretched hand. “Navy rear admiral, actually. Ronald Jackson, White House Physician. And you must be Claire Bruener. I followed the medical history of your friend, and I think your father did both of our worlds a great favor with his rapid reaction to Widget’s injury. If he’s here, I’d love to shake his hand.”

“He’s still out in the crowd, getting interviewed.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Half of the reporters want him to perform open-heart surgery for them, the other half claim he was practicing medicine without a license and want him arrested.”

“Your father’s cleared for entry into Air Force One,” said Director Clancey, the Secret Service agent who had escorted Claire up into the aircraft. “We’ve got another half-hour before we start to clear out visitors for departure. Would he like to meet the President?”

“Ehh… Just for a handshake and a photo,” admitted Claire. “Neither of my parents are really fans. Particularly my mother. Just a moment. Looks like you’ve been making friends.”

Reaching out carefully, Claire attempted to pluck a tiny green hair off the Secret Service agent’s collar, one of many that became obvious under closer inspection.

“Oh, it’s from the baby unicorn,” explained Clancey, trying to help brush off more of the fine hairs. “I swear, they’re some sort of Equestrian secret weapon, with those big eyes and plaintive noises when you scratch behind the ears.”

“I haven’t gotten to play with many of the foals,” said Claire. “Been too busy with the adults, or at least the ponies who are old enough to be considered adults,” she added over the sound of Widget squealing in joy over the discovery of a new toy in the nearby cockpit, and the Crusader’s ongoing attempt to bounce the First Bed into rubble in the other direction.

Doctor Jackson helped brush some of the fine hairs off Director Clancey’s suit while chuckling to himself. “I’ve seen all of the medical data on Widget, the tests, videos, and everything APHIS has sent up the line from their station, but nothing prepares you for— Hey, what’s this?”

Agile fingers grabbed for a small black speck that jumped away at the last second, starting a chase that ended when Director Clancey pinned it up against the wall. “It’s not squishing,” he said, keeping pressure on it. “And I don’t think Bo left any fleas in the plane.”

Some additional maneuvering got the tiny creature into a plastic vial, and the three of them stared at it with thoughtful frowns. Claire had more practical and local experience, so she was the first one to bring up the possibility of…

“The mother cat out in the barn back at the farm had fleas,” she said. “She was scratching back when the kittens were born, and we didn’t want to spray because we were afraid of what it might do to the kittens, and I don’t think any of the little ponies could resist playing with—”

She broke off suddenly, grabbing for her phone and dialing. “Doctor Stable, I have to ask you a question. Yes, right now. Is there any chance that any of the ponies brought fleas with them from Equestria? Uh-huh. Starswirl’s portal spell would have filtered them out. Well, that’s a relief. Why? Oh, because we found a flea inside Air Force One, and thought it might be originally from one of the ponies.”

“Ask him if ponies can host earth fleas,” whispered Doctor Jackson.

“Can ponies— Oh, you heard. Yes, but everypony goes through Dipping Season after Winter Wrap-Up,” she echoed for the doctor. “Here, let me put this on speaker.”

“—pyrethrins based on an extract of the chrysanthemum flower,” said the equine doctor. “The chemical residue lasts through multiple washings and should prevent any earth fleas from attaching to—” There was a brief pause, then the sound of galloping. In just a few minutes, the unicorn doctor clattered in through Air Force One’s hatch and up to the conversation.

“Sorry for the interruption,” said Doctor Stable. His horn lit up with a faint blue-green light and swept the area like a flashlight, ending up pointing at Director Clancey. “Ah, there’s one of the creatures now. Two, actually.”

A pair of tiny black specks floated off the Secret Service agent’s suit and into a waiting plastic vial, then the doctor scanned his magic around again before turning it off with a satisfied expression.

“There, that should do it. They’re certainly very similar to immature Equestrian fleas, but no magic, so they have to be from a Terrestrial source.”

“Like a cat?” suggested Claire.

“Highly probable,” said the doctor. “Starswirl’s Penultimate Portal Delimiter filters out all sorts of external parasites and dangerous chemicals, and if there are too many to filter, it rejects the transport. Quite a clever spell, actually. It’s suspected that Clover the Clever was instrumental—”

“Chemicals like pyrethrins?” asked Doctor Jackson.

“Why yes, but—” The unicorn’s pleasant smile did not so much fade as it practically slid off his face, and Doctor Stable lit up his horn again to scan himself this time.

The translation spell did its best, but what came out next was somewhat a mix of a whinny and a long wet raspberry. Both Widget and Goose promptly poked their heads out of the nearby cockpit doorway.

“Doctor!” chided Goose.

“Watch your language,” said Widget, although she gave Claire an embarrassed look and added, “Did we do something wrong?”

“Hold still,” snapped Doctor Stable. He scanned his hornlight over the two nervous ponies before giving a short sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. You’re both pyrethrin free, but no fleas, and no bites. And no bites on any of you either,” he added, giving the rest of the onlookers a free bite-check with his magic also.

Claire did not say anything. She just pointed in the direction of the happy horsie sounds being made by the Cutie Mark Crusaders and their Presidential Pals, and Doctor Stable blanched far whiter than she imagined a hair-covered creature could manage.

“Cadet Goose, take Widget and your human friend out to your transportation here, but don’t go in until I can scan it for fleas.” The unicorn swallowed and gave his human doctor peer an uncertain smile. “Let’s go break up the Crusader’s play date and do some debugging.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:30 P.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Manhattan Regional Airport parking lot — Manhattan, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The mood was not exactly somber, but a great deal of the morning enthusiasm was no longer found anywhere in the vicinity of the two drooping ponies. The only perking-up that Widget did was when Air Force One had thundered to the end of the runway and lifted dramatically into the sky, while Goose looked down at the ground and gave an involuntary tremble under Claire’s supporting hand.

Since then, it had been relatively quiet.

“Hello, girls.” Dakota Henderson eased his backpack of photographic equipment down to the ground next to the RV’s front wheel. “Why so glum? The horse doctor said none of you got bit, and I got my clean bill of health just a few minutes ago.”

Claire wordlessly turned her phone over and let Kota look at the last text message she had received.

Disneyworld cancelled. Charter plane recalled. All bitten ponies are under quarantine for the rest of the week.

“Oh.” Kota passed the phone back over and moved to the door. “Well, I need to plug in my laptop to get the rest of my photos uploaded to the Chronicle, so—”

“The doctor hasn’t scanned the inside of the RV for bugs yet,” explained Claire, holding an arm out to block his path. “He’s looking at the big RVs first, and from the commotion, I’m presuming he’s finding fleas.”

“Don’t even say fleas around me.” Agent Anacostia came trudging up, looking bedraggled and with a bandage around one finger. “Agent Washington had one and got bit, so he’s going to be staying at the Bruener house for the next week. I checked out clean, thankfully. The National Agency of Something Horribly Healthy And Verbose has determined that overkill is better than common sense, so they’re quarantining every human who got bit to Randolph, and chasing all the unbitten non-residents out, like it’s some sort of zombie plague. Or at least a plague of mosquitoes, because every human who got bit gets to have their blood drawn daily for the next week, and shipped down to the CDC.”

“They better not draw as much blood as they did for me,” said Widget, nervously rubbing one of the shaved patches on her neck. “By the end of the week, all you’d have is shriveled-up raisins.”

Kota did not stop getting his computer out and pushing buttons. He undoubtedly was getting set to transmit the bazillion photos he had taken over the course of the day, and seemed fairly cheerful doing so, probably because each one was worth a certain amount of money in his pocket. “I’m crediting my survival to a general hatred of sand fleas when I was deployed with the Marines,” he happily chirped. “Mixed the lemon eucalyptus and DEET we bought at Wal-Mart about fifty-fifty. Keeps the chiggers down too, but didn’t do anything about the reporters.”

The joke fell as flat as day-old beer.

“Look, we can go somewhere else around the vicinity. Topeka, maybe.” Kota waved absently at the Kansas scenery. “I’m sure the quarantine police won’t mind cutting us some slack since we’re not bugged. Well, once Doctor Stable gets here to debug the RV. And speaking of yon unicorn. It is he who comes hither, brought by the appeal of four virginal maidens.”

Karla snorted. Claire rolled her eyes. The two ponies looked curious.

Thankfully, Doctor Stable was headed in their direction with sharp clicking noises of shod hooves on concrete, so there was no time for uncomfortable questions about human sexuality as it related to mythological unicorns, as opposed to the physical kind.

“It’s a mess, just a terrible mess,” muttered Doctor Stable, lighting his horn up before he ever stopped trotting. “Thank the stars none of Mister President’s family were bitten. Fourteen of the ponies here had flea bites, and two reporters, including your young lady, Mister Henderson.”

“She’s not my young lady,” protested Kota. “She’s screwing—” The photographer came to an abrupt halt and looked pointedly at Widget, who floated out a GoDark bag and began to stuff small bugs of the electronic sort into it.

“You’re all still clear,” pronounced Doctor Stable after finishing his magical scan of their group. “Let me look over the recreational vehicle and you should be clear to go back to Randolph.”

Claire raised her hand while the doctor was scanning. “Mister Henderson brought up a good point. If we’re not bit, we should be okay to visit some of the local tourist spots instead of being trapped back at the farm. After all, if Widget got bit by a leftover flea before next Saturday, it could set her recovery back.”

“I seriously doubt there’s any danger at all from earth fleas carrying diseases between our species,” said the doctor as he climbed into the RV and continued scanning. “We’re just being cautious, like our hosts… I mean the humans would prefer. They’re a rather flighty lot, and we don’t want to frighten them with any actions that might cause wild rumors. Still…”

Once he was done scanning, the doctor turned around in the tight quarters of the RV and coaxed Widget up on a chair so he could take off her plastic brace. “Recovering quite nicely,” he mused, doing doctor-like things with her joints. “Starting to grow your coat back in too. All of the exercise and care you’ve been getting has certainly promoted your recovery. You’ll be fit enough to get your shoes back on by the time we get home. Um… although I understand your actual shoes have been rather… ‘scienced’ by the humans.”

“Chopped up into pieces and sent to all kinds of laboratories?” asked Widget. It really was not a question that Claire had wanted to ask, because she could see in her mind how the wearer of those same shoes would have been treated if she had been the only one to come through the portal and died in the process.

“They certainly are a curious bunch,” admitted Doctor Stable. “I suppose if you want to visit a few local tourist attractions, I can check with the human authorities to see if it would be permitted.”

“And I can video our trip,” added Claire. “That way the ponies back in Randolph can see where we’re doing, and Karla has a record to write up her reports,” she said in a lower voice. “A few tourist traps will give her a chance to catch up on paperwork, Kota can take photos, and the girls can explore our world. I mean they both were up last night watching Disney videos from the park, so humans are not the only curious creatures on our world.”

“And I got the boxed set of Harry Potter to watch tonight,” said Widget while the doctor was strapping her leg back into the brace. “Because Orlando had Harry Potter World, which we’re not going to see since it’s several countries away and they cancelled the airplane for the trip.” The young unicorn swallowed. “Since we can’t fly there, we’ll just have to go where we can drive. Right?”

“Correct.” Doctor Stable got out his phone and made a call, which Claire had to admit was a weirdity that she was getting entirely too used to seeing. After all, a unicorn using a floating cell phone was such a mental clash. She occupied her time by going into the back of the RV and turning on the air conditioner, then changing out of the prim and proper blouse into a Miley Cyrus t-shirt and shorts.

“Hey, there’s a half-naked girl in my RV,” called Kota as he dragged his computer and assorted equipment over to the living room table.

“Two,” called out Goose as she started dumping her armor into the closet and shaking out her sweat-damped mane.

“Three,” said Widget, waving her plastic-wrapped leg.

“Four,” announced Agent Anacostia while shrugging out of her jacket. “I am ditching this bullet-proof vest before I fall over from heatstroke. What’s our plans for the rest of the day? Chipotle? Because I’m up for about anywhere. I’ve got every worldly possession I own within a hundred miles right here, but no lunch.”

“I packed for a week and tossed my hiking backpack into the RV when we were at home,” admitted Claire, passing over a can of cold Country Time lemonade to the sweaty agent. “When we stopped off in Manhattan to pick up my bike, I pulled everything out of Krystol’s apartment that she didn’t pawn, and I’m set for a wilderness vacation in Kansas. If we had any wilderness that wasn’t just grass and trees.”

“When I called the Thompsons to rent their RV, they specified no off-road travel,” said Kota, still glued to his computer.

“Thank you very much, Doctor Fauchi,” said Doctor Stable into his phone. He hung up and turned to Agent Anacostia, who was working her way into one of Kota’s t-shirts with a wriggling motion that Claire could never have duplicated with her less than ample figure. “Good news, ma’am. Your human authorities say you can take Widget for a tour outside of the quarantine, if you check in every day and keep us updated on your position and condition.”

“Thanks, doctor.” Karla shrugged into her shoulder holster and caught the keys that Kota tossed to her on the way up to the driver’s seat. “You going to ride home with us?”

“No, I need to get back to the Stampede virology seminar and scan all⁽*⁾ the participants.” Doctor Stable took the can of lemonade that Claire passed him and popped the top. “Not sure where we’ll put them in Randolf if too many got bit by fleas.”
(*) It turned out Blake Shelton had been bitten twice, which turned out to be less of a problem than one would expect, because his band was at the end of a tour anyway. They used their free time in Randolph to produce a new duet album with Sweetie Belle titled Best of Friends with the proceeds directed to a fund to promote new country and western singers.
—

“They can use my house,” said Kota with a dismissive wave, then digging out his phone and unlocking it. “It’s the least I can do since I haven’t even seen the thing yet. I’ll text the Randolph real estate agent so you can get my door key. And thanks for the help!”

Dakota got his electronics secured while Karla was maneuvering the RV out of the airport parking lot, leaving Claire to flop down in a chair and watch him. She stayed quiet until the FBI agent had the big vehicle out on the highway, then asked, “Where are we going?”

“Interstate,” announced Karla. “I think getting through Aggieville to reach Chipotle in this traffic would take a few hours. This way we can cut over to one of the local towns.”

At Widget’s request, Dakota passed his phone over, then watched as the two giggling ponies retreated back to the RV’s bedroom. “You don’t think they’re making faces at people behind us again, do you?”

“Who knows.” Claire drummed her fingers on the railing and watched the Kansas countryside flow past. “Every restaurant within fifty miles is going to be packed, you know.”

“I’ve got enough sandwich makings in the fridge to keep us for a few hours. And Missus Cake packed the crisper full of vegetables, and added a pan of zucchini cake. I swear, between her cooking and Sizzler, I’d put on ten pounds a week staying at your farm, Claire.”

“So anywhere specific you want to go?” asked Karla, changing lanes to get behind a slower semi so she did not have to fight against people who wanted to drive twice the speed limit.

“Take I-70 East,” called out Claire. “Maybe they’d like to go to Paxico. It’s full of antique stores, and the Longbranch bar there has good food.”

There was not exactly silence as they drove, but a far more relaxed amount of conversation regarding the scenic beauty of Kansas, the richness of Louisiana plant life, and the relative scarcity of any kind of life where Dakota had spent much of his Marine years. Claire had missed this kind of time among friends, mostly because she did not have many friends other than a drug user whose idea of appreciating life and relaxing came with a few micrograms of LSD.

They had almost gotten to the Paxico exit when Widget and Goose came scurrying up to the front of the RV, giggling like schoolfillies.

“No, don’t turn here,” said Widget. “I put the path into Kota’s phone using Miss Siri, and I called the Thompsons to make sure it’s going to be okay for us to take the RV there, since it’s a long trip.”

“They said it was fine, as long as we visited their granddaughters when we get there,” added Goose, who was as smiling and happy as Claire had ever seen her. “And I promised to give them each a short flight, provided we find a place inside big enough to fly.”

“We checked it on the Google maps and called Claire’s friend in Kansas City who is doing the page of webs.” Widget nodded so rapidly her patchy mane gained little standing waves of vibrating blue hairs. “He said he’s going to buy her a video camera and we can pick it up as we drive through, so her videos are better quality for the website money-atzation during the trip.”

“Wait a minute.” Dakota held up a hand. “Where are we going?”

“Orlando,” said Widget.

“Florida,” added Goose.

“Oh, no,” said Dakota.

“Oh, YES!” declared Widget. “We’re going to Disney World!”

The two ponies cleared their throats.

♫We're off, on a Disney road trip
Our ride might be tiny and small
But road trips are a great way, we've been told, to get along
I'm glad we're sticking to it, we've already got a song
We're off, on a Disney road trip
Side by side, just like peas in a pod…♫

Author's Note

No, not like Blueshift's excellent Two Peas in a Pod. (which you should read, if you're a mature person)
Speaking of immature persons...

34. The People That You Meet

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
The People That You Meet

“The human spirit is not measured by the size of the act, but by the size of the heart.”
― Yakov Pokhis

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:30 P.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Highway 65 Southbound, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“We’re doing a video log!” Widget bounced in her seat and mugged for the camera while Goose Down squirmed around to get in the seat beside her. Without the armor, the smallish mare could maneuver into the smallest of spaces, despite her large wings, but it still was a tight fit even if she was grinning more than her partner in equine crime.

“We have to check in with the mayor first,” chided Goose, finishing her wriggling in order to look straight at the camera Claire Bruener had secured on the tripod, but was interrupted before she could say another word.

“Are we on the air yet?” bubbled Widget. “I know you said you didn’t have enough bandwidth on the hotspot to do a livestream—”

“Just go,” said Claire, waving one hand for emphasis. “Eddie will edit out the awkward spots before he puts it up on the channel.”

“Okay. Okay. Oh-kaaaay!!” Widget waved frantically at the camera. “We’re going to Disney World and driving in this big Whinneybago only they won’t let me drive and seeing all kinds of things.”

“And we’re going through Missourah now, or Missouri or however you pronounce it because they say it both ways,” added Goose just as fast while fumbling out an iPhone. “I’ve got pictures of where we stopped at the Brass Armadillo only Claire wouldn’t let us buy an actual giant brass armadillo to take home so we bought a plushie—”

Said stuffed armadillo sailed through the air and landed on their table with a clatter of plastic claws, which Widget promptly turned around so its beady black eyes were facing the camera.

“Thanks, Karla!” Widget waved again and settled back down. “So we couldn’t stay as long as we wanted if we’re still going to make it to Disney World because we could have stayed days with the antiques.”

“And bought enough that we couldn’t take them all home,” added Goose with a superior sniff. “I restricted myself to a T and some fudge,” she added, straightening up so the camera could get a good look at her ‘Bats are my Spirit Animal’ shirt.

“They love bats here,” admitted Widget.

“And unicorns,” said Goose, giving Widget a quick head-rub and wiping her hoof afterward. “We still don’t have all the cotton candy out of your mane.”

“And we got squooshed pennies,” said Widget quickly. “There are squooshed penny machines everywhere, and they’ll help keep track of where we stop and stuff so Karla can finish her homework.”

“It’s important FBI documentation,” said Karla from out of sight. “I’m so far behind and was getting behinder before you two kidnapped me off on a trip to mouseland.” There was a brief pause. “Eddie, edit this part out of the video, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Yeah, don’t want the world to realize that FBI agents are real human beings,” said Claire from behind the camera. “Relax. We’re going to see Elvis tomorrow.”

“Graceland!” squealed Widget. “I got to see one of his movies when we were in the hospital, the one with all the singing and colorful clothes and surfing and the little blue alien. I’d love to go see where they made it, but it’s over across the ocean and Goose can’t fly.”

* * *

“Nelson!” snapped Jan Schwartz. “Can we get them comped tickets on any of the ships going from California to Hawaii before the ponies go home.”

Nelson grabbed for his notepad among the mess in the middle of the conference table where the board of directors for Princess Cruise Lines had been taking a coffee break before diving back into their meeting. ‘Pony tourism’ had been a unanimous choice for viewing material, although many of the older members of the board only admitted to the video choice reluctantly.

“Star Princess leaves in two days from Los Angeles,” he said, scribbling a quick note. “If the ponies turned around now, did a Cannonball Run to LA, and we held the ship for about an hour or two, we might be able to get them on board, but it’s a fifteen-day cruise, and they’d get back to Kansas about a week after their portal home closes. And they’re serious about not being able to fly. Goose has some sort of acrophobia bad. My daughter follows everything they do online,” he admitted.

“Darnit,” growled Missus Schwartz while pulling out her phone. “Disney will probably monopolize them once they’re in the park. Let me see if we can’t work out some sort of pony-sharing so they can at least get a tour of one of our ships instead of— Hey, Bob. Jan here. Sorry about the hour, but it looks like the Terrible Two are headed to Florida, and I was wondering…”

* * *

Claire had to admit she loved watching the two ponies happily talk about the places they had been and driven by in just the last few hours. She kept the camcorder rolling until Widget gave her a wave and closed the video blog with a happy bubbling about Elvis, then clicked it off.

“I’ll upload it to Eddie along with the photos, and he should have something out by tonight for your mayor,” said Claire. “You two menaces go look out the windows and wave at passing cars.”

“Carefully!” added Karla from where she was scribbling on her notes. After checking her phone, she added a note that most probably read ‘Observed blog taping session’ before turning the page and giving out a low groan.

“Trying to remember where we were a few days ago?” prompted Claire.

“No, the FBI team back at the office put together a time framework out of all our video footage and Widget’s little bugs,” said Karla, rubbing her temples. “So all I have to do is think of something meaningful to write inside each half-hour section. By the time we hit Memphis, I should be caught up and ready to hand it off to the agents who are going to meet us at Graceland.”

“And FBI agents for the next century will be criticizing your spelling,” said Claire.

Karla quickly erased a word and re-wrote it. “Don’t remind me. I don’t write well when starving. Are we going to stop for something to eat!”

“There’s still some sandwich stuff leftover in the RV fridge,” called back Dakota from the driver’s seat. “Fix me a sandwich too, woman.”

“Give me the armadillo,” muttered Karla as Claire grabbed for it first. “Gimmie! I think I can hit him from here.”

“All right, all right!” Dakota peered out the windshield at the passing signs. “Anyplace in Ozark you want to stop? I’ll buy you real food, if you promise not to pelt me with stuffed animals or anything else.”

“Oh, I got this.” Claire slid into the passenger seat with her phone out. “Dad took us here once when we made a Branson run. It’s a couple of exits ahead, and should soothe the savage beast that FBI agents turn into after dark.”

Agent Karla Anacostia turned back to her late homework without a word, but acute ears could probably hear a low growl nearby.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:25 P.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Ozark, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Lamberts Cafe was no stranger to famous people dropping by, since they were so close to Branson. Natasha was only famous by reference, but she was still friends with several of the employees, so she ate here whenever she got the chance, even if she still had to wait for a table to open during their busy times.

Famous aliens, however…

There was no trouble for the five travelers to get a table, because the waitstaff and the other customers were practically scrambling over each other to see them. Perhaps a little too eager, because if the crowd that quickly grew in their vicinity were not suppressed somehow, the ponies were going to starve and miss their trip to Disney World.

“People!” called out the young lady Natasha recognized as Claire Bruener, who had climbed up on a chair to get above the crush. “Chill, please. We’ll sign some placemats… And pose for selfies too,” she added, looking over at where Widget and Goose were mugging it up something fierce for an older grey-haired lady and her cell phone. “We just want to get dinner and be back on the road. We’re hoping to overnight in Memphis to get an early start on Graceland. They’re going to open two hours early so they don’t have to fight a crowd there either.”

Elvis had passed away before Natasha’s time, but she had visited Graceland several times, and the experience had been educational. Natasha had avoided the rush forward, because her younger years contained many good learning experiences on how famous people could so easily get overloaded by their fame. She watched the happy ponies over the last of her coffee while the crowd took pictures and drifted back to their tables, chattering about their brief moment of celebrity exposure.

It gave Natasha some time to make a few mental calculations as the waitress took the pony party orders and some sanity began to return to the restaurant. The distances and times for their Branson visitors all worked out, but in the direction of disaster. She just had to figure out who was in charge in order to bring up the obvious flaws in their travel plans. It wasn’t Goose Down, who had just bounded up into the air to catch one of Lambert’s famous ‘Throwed Rolls’ or Claire Bruener, who had encouraged the pony into her startling action. From what she had heard, the photographer was more of a bus driver, and the FBI agent was a bodyguard, so that left…

Natasha stifled a girlish giggle at how she would have reacted as a child if her father had returned from one of his many trips with a live pink unicorn instead of a plushie. Dad was going to flip. He knew just what it was like to be a foreigner with his own traditions coming into the strange but wonderful world of America.

* * *

“Hey, girls!” Widget bounded over to their table in slower, cautious hops than before. The tile floor had proven slightly treacherous to her normal bounds, and the plastic brace had kept her fall from injuring her ankle any more. Blue unicorn magic snagged a passing overhead roll and she dropped it on her plate as she hopped up into the bench seat. “I’ve got good news, and I’ve got not quite so good but not totally bad news.”

“Is it about Graceland?” asked Dakota. “Because I was talking to the Highway Patrol officers who have been tailing us—” he waved at a pair of officers at another table “—and they said there’s enough druggies out at night in Memphis that driving there and camping across the street from Graceland would be like waving a cookie in front of Widget here.”

“Wugmph?” asked Widget, who had managed to butter and jam her fresh roll on the fly and was trying to see how much of it would fit into her mouth at once.

“It’s going to be bad enough trying to stay on that dinky highway all night,” added Kota with a yawn. “I don’t want to be unarmed if we have to fight drug dealers for turf when we get there.”

Claire looked up from where she was signing placemats and passing them over to Goose for hoof-stamping. “Do you need a loan? I picked up my M&P when we were in Manhattan and stuck it into a drawer in the Winnebago next to my LCR. With all the ponies running around the farm, I didn’t want them getting into the wrong little hooves.”

Dakota pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize Nick has tanks at the farm, right?”

* * *

Sergeant Spasowski heaved upward, dragging the kicking and struggling little pony out of the tank hatch and finally silencing the goose-like honk-honk-honk of the magical alarm. “Scootaloo, is it?” he asked, getting a wingtip to the face in return. “You’re too late. Nick had Specialist Epsilon drop by and put some sort of warning spell on each of the vehicles when they were transferred to the National Guard this morning.”

The little pegasus slumped and let herself be set down on the tank’s skirt next to her two accomplices without further struggling. “We just wanted to see how the big gun worked— ouch,” she added when Spaz flicked the end of her nose with a finger.

“No begging eyes,” he pronounced sternly. “Captain Rogers said he would be willing to show you kids some of the Army’s more polite toys over at the local firing range tomorrow, but one more stunt like this and the demonstration is off. And that includes trying to get into Mister Bruener’s gun safe again,” he added to the three of them with the wag of a forefinger. “Epsilon put a spell on it too. Guns are dangerous even when we know what we are doing. The vast majority of our training is to keep us safe when we are using our equipment.”

* * *

“They’re not my tanks,” said Claire. “But they’re my pistols, and I’d feel terrible if any pony got hurt with them.”

“Which is why I promised not to look at your guns without your direct supervision but that’s not the point right now,” said Widget in one long roll of words while waving her iPhone over her head. “I talked to the Graceland people and they didn’t like the idea of us parking the Winnebago there overnight either, but I met this nice woman here at the Lamberts and she said we could park at her father’s house in Branson since it’s already getting dark, and he would love to see us. And I didn’t want us to hit any deer in the dark,” she added with a nervous frown, most probably from the number of dead deer they had passed in the ditches on their way here. “So I have Mister Pokhis’s address in Siri and she says it’s less than an hour away.” Widget gave a little squeal. “Oh, it’s just like Twilight Sparkle, going to new places and making new friends!”

Several of those new friends tried to pay for their dinner at Lamberts, but Claire told the restaurant to apply the generous customers’ money to a rather large tip before pulling out what she was starting to think of as her ‘Pony Express’ card. It was an otherwise normal debit card, which was linked to the revenue generated by her videos and other elements of Widget and Goose Ltd.

A large name for a tiny limited company which was going to be dissolved in a week anyway.

After one final group selfie with the staff of the restaurant (and a doggie bag for the road), the mismatched bunch piled back into the Winnebago and headed south. The scenery was comfortably lumpy and green with sharp road cuts exposing the rocky underlayer of the Missouri landscape, which Widget tried her best to capture with her new video camera despite the oncoming darkness.

“I can take this home with me, right Claire?” asked Widget, clutching the camcorder after a particularly good shot of a natural landmark.

“As long as I can get a copy of the SD card inside,” said Claire. “I think there’s a lot of people who want to see your first reaction to our tourist stops, and what you think is most interesting.”

“Like all the places full of new cars,” said Widget, taking a picture of a passing car dealership. “You have so many cars all over your country, it’s like everybody has one.”

“Or two sometimes,” said Claire. “Oh, the turn is coming up.”

Two fascinated ponies watched the gathering darkness with house porchlights scattered around as Siri guided their path. Personally, Claire was glad Branson was not as ‘Hillbilly’ as the other sorority members from Chicago had thought when she had gone to college there a few years ago. It was amazing how hundreds of miles had turned Kansas and Missouri into one state in their teenaged minds, but then again, when Claire had gone to Japan as a high school student for a few weeks one summer, physical distance and social scale had been just as much of an issue. Rednecks in the country appeared to be a universal constant, in Japan or the US. Even Widget and Goose had social tiers to them, since Goose had been raised to be a proper Canterlot mare who obeyed her clan structure while Widget was an only child of country wagon mechanics, and displayed a glorious lack of sophistication at times.

It was difficult keeping both ponies in the video frame at the same time while the RV was traveling through an expensive housing development, but Claire was doing her best while Kota narrated for the blog.

“One of the locals offered us a place to park so we don’t have to drive through the Ozarks in the dark,” he said in his best voice. “Miss Anacostia checked him out online so we don’t have to worry about any stalkers.”

“He’s… not quite what I expected,” said Karla in the passenger seat, turning to look at the camcorder with a suppressed grin. “But I talked to my boss, and we decided this was about the best possible experience for our guests in the area. After all, he’s an immigrant from a foreign country also, with all kinds of stories about his experiences in America.”

“And an entertainer like Elvis,” said Kota as he turned on his blinker for a turn. “Just not quite the same.”

From her spot near the middle of the RV, Claire could not see what had gotten the ponies so excited, but when Dakota pulled the Winnebago up into the open driveway, it took a few moments to realize just exactly what was going on.

Underneath a paint-smeared bedsheet banner, there was a small but polite crowd waiting for them. It was only about a half-dozen people, which was probably about the best size for the two ponies. From the glittering outfits, several of them obviously worked at one or another of the Branson attractions and had dashed right over after their shows, but the short man up front with curly hair and a trim beard was instantly recognizable to all the humans.

The banner proclaiming ‘Velcome Pony’ with a red star in the middle only made it more obvious.

“Hi!” he called out as they came out of the RV. “My daughter, she called and said you were going to be staying with us for the evening. We would be glad to have you in Branson for the whole week, but—” he shrugged “—we understand the overwhelming appeal of long lines, crying children, and giant rodents.”

“Ah…” Widget gave a nervous look over her shoulder at Claire, only to have Karla hurry up to her side, looking as giddy as a schoolgirl.

“I guess some humor is not universal,” she said, sticking out her hand to be shaken. “Mister Pokhis, we’re honored to be your guests this evening. I didn’t tell Widget who you were because I thought it would be better for you to introduce yourself, so—”

“I’m Widget!” said Widget, who had regained a good portion of her original pep when the conversation turned in a familiar direction. “This is Agent Anacostia of the FBI, and Kota Henderson from the San Francisco Chronicle. My friend Claire Bruenner is running the video recorder, and Goose…” Widget looked around, not finding anything batpony-shaped in the gathering darkness. “She does this sometimes, because she’s shy around groups.”

“Is good to meet you, Widget. My name is Yakov, and I am famous comedian in America.” Yakov waited a moment of relative silence before continuing, “Apparently not as famous a comedian as I thought. Come, I’ll introduce you to the rest of my neighbors from Branson, and if you have a few minutes before you go to bed, we’d love to talk with you.”

Widget squealed and danced on her hooftips before following Yakov over to the rest of the people, who received her with open arms and a few girlish squeals of joy also. Karla closely followed, seeming just as fascinated by Mister Pokhis as the people were of having an actual talking unicorn as a guest. Claire followed last, turning off the camcorder so the ongoing informal chat would not be spoiled by being broadcast to their web audience later.

Which left Dakota stifling a yawn in the driveway. He had been driving fairly solid since they left Manhattan, and the idea of Ozark roads in the dark really… No. He was starting to think their idea of road construction was to follow existing cow paths and deer trails, because the roads always seemed to be going up, down, left, right, or some combination of the four all at once.

“Mister Henderson!” The tall lady from Lamberts hurried up to Kota with a quick look around. “I guess dad took our guest into the back yard to introduce them around already. I would have been here sooner, but I had to run an errand, and parked a few blocks away so there would be space for more cars. Some of dad’s friends are rotating through in small groups, because we didn’t want to overload poor Widget. I saw the way she looked during the President’s visit.”

“Some of your father’s friends from the entertainment industry here in Branson?” asked Kota. “Will there be banjos involved?”

Natasha stifled a chuckle. “Yes, it’s inevitable. If you’d like, I can set you up in the guest bedroom. You look beat.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He touched his forehead in a half-salute. “I appreciate it. Just don’t let them take off tomorrow without me, please.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:45 P.M. Saturday June 27, 2015
Location: Farmer Bruener’s Movie Pavilion — Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Lieutenant Nicholas Comena of the Kansas National Guard (newly assigned) was unsure how he had been appointed Unofficial Equestrian Military Liaison Officer in the process of moving from Army to Guard. It had certainly been a far easier process than moving from the Marines to the Army, where each of the services had lusted after his body in different ways. 1st Tank Battalion would have been overjoyed to welcome him as a Marine officer, provided he met a long list of troubling qualifications. The Army was willing to poach him for OCS, provided he busted his ass and got his Business Administration degree. Making a move in the Army’s direction made the Marines suddenly decide that maybe he was worth keeping after all, and they promptly came up with a few tempting breadcrumbs of their own, although the Army eventually won the bidding contest.

There was none of that during an alien invasion. Lieutenant Comena signed one piece of paper that the top brass had produced, which instantly did everything, from uniforms to 401K straight to the National Guard. He was still a 2LT though. His pending promotion was most probably going to be forgotten in just under a week when the ponies all went home, and he would just have to struggle through normal Army paperwork for the rest of his career. The rest of his squad had teased him about writing a book, which would probably be easier than dealing with stubborn ponies for the rest of the week.

“No,” said Nick, bending down slightly so he could look his questioner in the huge mournful eyes by the dim illumination of the nearby walkway LED lighting. “I will not talk with the projectionist to run Apollo 13 again. It’s time to run Widget and Goose’s report about their activities before shutting down for the evening. Since most of you ponies are stuck here in quarantine, they’ve agreed to send us a status report to run after the movies are over. Why don’t you take the Apollo DVD downstairs in Mister Bruener’s house and watch it there?”

Cherry Berry scowled at the broad concrete wall that made up the outside-back of the Bruener Seeds warehouse, along with the flat slab that had once been a basketball court for the local children. “I just went there and asked. The kids took over the basement and are watching Japanese anime. The pony kids.” Cherry stopped and looked puzzled for a moment. “There’s something odd about them, though. I’m not sure they’re from Ponyville.”

“Oh, there you are!” Lucky came galloping up to them, displaying unexpected agility as he swerved around several ponies resting on beach towels to watch the evening entertainment finale. “Cherry, you left the house so quickly that Bon Bon didn’t catch you.”

He pointed one scruffy green hoof at the prim earth pony standing outside the Bruener house back door, who was wearing sunglasses despite the darkness.

“I want to watch the movie again,” said Cherry with a short stomp. “I just about figured out how they managed to get their space ship into a return trajectory.”

“Bon Bon will take care of you,” said Lucky with a nudge. He watched until the two ponies went into the house, then leaned up against Nick’s leg with a sniff. “New trousers?”

“New uniform, new everything down to my underwear,” admitted Nick, and as much as he wanted to scratch where the new clothes itched, he restrained himself. There were several static cameras pointing in their direction from across the dark field where the remainder of the new media was camping, and any awkward photos would be replayed ten thousand times on every TV screen in the country. “Looks like Clover conked out,” he said instead. “Ahh… young Clover, that is. How many time traveling kids you got in the house now anyway?”

“If I find out which pony taught my daughter time travel spells… Oh, I know who did it. Is going to do it. Whatever.” Lucky rested one hoof against his forehead. “The sole redeeming point in having that bunch of future troublemakers visit is that I know for certain that next Saturday is the end of our visit, because one of them let slip they had to scram once ‘Aunt Starlight’ showed up.” He started to frown. “I wonder if it’s fair to yell at her for something she hasn’t done yet.”

“I’ll miss you guys after Saturday,” said Nick with a short chuckle. He unfolded two lawn chairs and settled down as Lucky spread out a towel next to them. “I’ll bet you a dollar that Goose and Widget don’t get back by then, and you have to come back in a week or two so they can get pried loose from the east coast tourism industry. The President hadn’t even gotten off the ground before they were headed mouse-bound.”

“I… um… better not take that bet,” said Lucky as he settled down, getting Clover out to sleep at the far end of the towel. “Specialist Grace still hasn’t finished loading books on the Kindle we got as a present, and Mister Bruener says I can take his father’s whole library back with me when we go. I don’t think that will satisfy Twilight for more than a few months. It might encourage her. And if she gets here—”

“Mamma ain’t gonna leave without no fuss,” filled in Nick. “You think our media and politicians are going nuts now, just wait until they get royalty to pander to. Hey, Cap!”

The aforementioned Navy captain changed course and sat down in the offered lawn chair, passing over the red solo cups he was carrying. Any casual observer would never have been able to pick him out as Navy since he was wearing the same informal camouflage greens that the rest of the area seemed to have in such abundance. It would have been attention-getting if he did not have any rank or unit insignia visible, so in keeping with his unofficial status, Navy Captain Rogers was wearing the supposed rank of PFC in the Big Red One and also a grim expression visible beneath his billed cover.

“Comena,” said Rogers tersely once he was settled in his chair and arranged so anybody with a night telephoto lens in the distant press corral would have needed to see through Nick to get a good shot. “Lucky,” he added with a short nod to the green pony. The sleeping Clover, who was the one responsible for his presence here instead of still in his concealed location, was not referenced other than a brief glance and a softening of his serious expression.

“I hereby call this meeting of the Hindmost Puppeteer council to order,” said Lucky jovially after a quick sip of lemonade.

“What?” said Nick.

“Known Space series,” said Rogers. “Niven and Pournelle. The Puppeteers did not lead from the front, but from the very back. In this case, he’s right. I think we’re about as close to the back of this mess as possible. Any news from home, Lucky?”

“Specialist Grace has the new templates they’re going to use to set up the return portal on Saturday,” the pony said casually. “Twilight will be setting up a dimensional opening from her side, and the two will meet in the middle. She said it would be easy.”

“And you don’t think so,” said Nick, “or you wouldn’t have said that.”

“Some mountain tunnels on Earth are made that way,” said Rogers thoughtfully. “It takes a lot of accuracy. A lot more than your spouse has demonstrated so far.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Lucky in a tone of voice that indicated great insincerity. “So Grace and the other unicorns here will be using a set of magical templates that they don’t fully understand to go drilling through the dimensions in a direction they might not be able to control. What could possibly go wrong? So, anything new on your end of the world, Captain Rogers?”

Rogers was writing in a small notebook, and only looked up once he had finished his thought. “Washington has been under political pressure and is pulling out all the stops this week. The Admiralty had a conference call after the President’s visit and I got to listen in. On mute. Seems there is a contingent of political donors who are flexing their muscles. They talked about everything from cleaning up hazardous emissions after the ponies go home to ensuring our guests don’t get the wrong idea about how peaceful and non-violent humans are.”

Nick, who commanded a platoon of 21st Century war machines parked a short distance away, suppressed a snort of humor at the SEAL’s words by taking a sip of his own lemonade. “I see we’re going to be talking quietly to Sgt. Hardhooves so we can put together a private go-to-Hell plan in case the portal opening goes poorly. Your teleconference would have been a lot more frisky if you mentioned how you were going to give a gun safety class to a bunch of adolescent ponies over at the Fancy Creek range tomorrow.”

“No,” said Rogers. “Considering how certain congressmembers wanted all of the Ft. Riley officers court-martialed for showing the Equestrian military Victory Village a few days ago, not only no, but Hell no and no photos. The Senate Armed Services committee was on the call. A certain Senator from Hawaii wanted to know what nuclear defense measures might be needed to keep the ponies from swimming across the ocean and invading them.”

“Excuse me,” said Lucky, raising one hoof. “In your defense, I would like to point out that some of the nobility in our Parliament are quite probably dumber, and have suggested far worse ideas. Our country has probably a few more than a thousand Royal Guard. Inside a good day’s trot of here, I believe there are more than a thousand armed humans who go out once a year to shoot deer about our size, only not as colorful, and yet I am willing to bet cold hard bits that at this exact moment, a minimum of one of our nobility is proposing an invasion just as foolish.”

“Really?” asked Nick.

“Lord Trottingham,” said Lucky.

“Would you like to trade for one of ours?” asked Rogers.

“No,” said Lucky, “Because you offered so quickly, I suspect you have a list of them, and would help them pack. Will anything else from your conference telephone call affect us before we leave on Saturday?”

Rodgers made a sour face, but kept writing on his notes. “Not your people, I don’t think. Our military is going to catch it in the shorts. A committee will be redefining our rules of engagement down to what I suspect is ‘don’t shoot ever.’ Every action, no matter how small, will need to be evaluated by a committee with regard to how it will affect the ponies. The definition of ponies is even going to get an overhaul. Friendly non-aligned extra-dimensional alien something is as close as they could come during the call, but I suspect your end name will be unpronounceable. Half of the Senators think we should prevent you from taking anything home you didn’t bring, and the other half want to line up a bunch of semi-trucks filled with beads and mirrors. Oh, and there are a few who think we need to run a division of our soldiers through the portal the moment it opens, with your new shiny tank in front, Comena.”

“They should just binge watch Gate on Netflix. Apparently three wars at once on our planet aren’t enough for some people.” Nick considered the A/V station where they were trying to get Widget and Goose’s first nightly video to play. “I’d volunteer to go as a tourist in a moment,” he added. “Provided we stay away from a few of the dangerous places you mentioned, like the Everfree Forest and Parliament. Oh, wait. It’s starting.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:00 A.M. Sunday June 28, 2015
Location: Moscow, Russia

- - - ⧖ - - - -

There was nothing Colonel Vaslov could do to accelerate the download process other than scowl at his crew of specialists, who had gathered around the Japanese big screen television with snacks for this morning’s first “Vidzhet un Gus” show. While they were waiting, one of the men looked up from his laptop and called Vaslov over to speak privately about what seemed to be bad news.

“What is it, Yuri?” he asked once they would not be overheard, or at least by the other men. “Did the contact you were placing in Graceland get caught?”

“Worse, Colonel. He was assaulted.” Yuri ran his fingers through his thinning hair and let out a brief Ukranian curse. “Hit on the head and all his possessions stolen. Their police have him in the hospital now. His identity should hold until he is released, so no need for additional resources to retrieve him.”

“That, at least, is good news. The Americans are so violent. At least they believe in doing our surveillance for us,” he added as the splash screen for the video showed up across the room. “I just wish we had some Russian resources watching our two wayward ponies. For their own protection, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Yuri.

About thirty minutes later as they were watching the video of two happy ponies and a dozen Branson entertainers in somebody’s back yard, Yuri leaned over to his superior and asked, “Does Yakov count as Russian resource?”

“No,” stated Colonel Vaslov before pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. “What a country.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:30 A.M. Sunday June 28, 2015
Location: Branson, Missouri

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Dakota Henderson was having a very pleasant dream. Either that, or some warm woman had just crawled into bed with him and was running her short fingernails up and down his sides.

He opened one eye. He was not sleeping.

“Hey, Kota,” murmured Karla Anacostia. “You want to get up, or you want to get it up?”

It was a very fair question, and Dakota rolled over to answer it, although he did pull the sheet up over a very physical indication that showed what he was thinking about. It didn’t help that Karla was dressed as a Marine Playboy model, in little more than his faded Marine t-shirt and a shoulder holster, and looked delightfully damply rumpled in an early morning just-out-of-the-shower fashion. Thankfully, he was wearing his boxers, although they provided little more than token modesty at the moment. “I knew listening to you girls talk about sex all day while driving yesterday was going to come back to bite me.”

Karla bit him on the stubbly chin and wrinkled up her nose. “Those are things that will never make it onto ‘Out There With Claire’ or whatever she was calling her travel videos. This better not either,” she added with an additional stubble nibble. “The girls are out with our host to a traditional Branson Sunday church service. They were up most of the night chatting with the neighbors and being musically social, so I expect them to conk out once we start driving. So as much as I’d love to chase you around the bedroom this morning, you need to get showered and dressed so we can be on the road once they get back.”

It was a nice change of pace from Missus Formal FBI in public, and certainly a better way to wake up than a pony in the face. He rolled out of bed and scooped up his shaving kit from the bag he brought up to the room yesterday, although he paused before going into the guest bathroom.

“You know,” he called back over his shoulder, “the bathtub fits two.”

She threw a pillow at him.

And true to her prediction, an hour after they pulled out of Mister Pokhis’s driveway, Kota was the only awake person left in the RV, which was not all that bad. He got to listen to his country music and enjoy the scenery on the way to Graceland.

Author's Note

(somewhere, in a dimension left-twisted to our own)
“The humans will reign over us with an iron hoof! An IRON HOOF!” bellowed Lord Trottingham, hammering on the speaker’s dais for emphasis. “There is only one option available for us!”

Shining Armor gently rested his muzzle in his forehooves. “Lord Trottingham,” he said, slightly muffled, “how long until you’re done vacationing in the Crystal Empire and go home? I’m missing Lady Snowfall already. I think we got the worst of the trade.”

35. Sunday Night Games

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Sunday Night Games

“If you can't control your own emotions, you're forced to control other people's behavior. That's why the touchiest, most oversensitive and easily upset must not set the standard for the rest of us.”
— John Cleese on Twitter

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:30 P.M. Sunday June 28, 2015
Location: Elvis Presley Blvd, Memphis TN

- - - ⧖ - - - -

When talking about First Contact, nobody ever expected it to involve a half-dozen Elvis impersonators skydiving onto the Graceland parking lot. The Flying Elvi (call for any events) had to be rescheduled carefully because of the delay in Goose and Widget’s arrival, which turned out for the best because of the parachute group’s delayed schedule also. In any event, the news cameras were there, the local police had their mounted units at the ready, and several hundred cheering locals surrounded the Whinnybago (as it had been dubbed in the media) when it came to a halt in the parking lot.

It was generalized chaos, and Dakota Henderson was more than happy to sit this one out in the RV and recline the seat while the ‘girls’ headed out into the party. Since he had been the camera-guy for most of the trip so far, his own face was nearly invisible to the media, much like Elvis’ chauffeur he supposed. Once the parachutists had landed (with Goose determined to keep looking at the ground instead of up in the air) and a very short presentation took place, the ponies headed in opposite directions. Goose dragged Claire on a beeline for the mansion with all the memorabilia, while Widget took Agent Anacostia on a slightly slower path in the direction of the automotive museum. Hopefully, Karla would be able to keep her unicorn charge from disassembling any of the displays, or bringing back any convenient pieces.

He was just starting to doze off in the driver’s seat when there was a light tapping at the RV window. There were a pair of men standing there who practically had FBI stenciled on their foreheads, or else they were some sort of masochist cosplayers who liked wearing suits on a Memphis summer afternoon.

“Agent Lattimer. Agent Bering.” The FBI agents put away their badges. “I understand Agent Anacostia has some paperwork for us.”

“Oh, right.” Kota got up out of the driver’s seat and headed back into the living area. “Gentlemen, if you would care to step inside, I’ll get you a soda and we can wait on the young ladies to finish their tour.”

The agents put up a token resistance before slipping into the air-conditioning. They were a mismatched pair, but worked well together as a team. Kota had started to expect that every member of the FBI had played football in school, and Lattimer looked like a tight end with his graceful moves, while Bering was more of a nose tackle who was fighting an eternal battle to get those school pounds shed.

“Diet,” said Bering as he sagged into one of the RV’s captain chairs, making Kota swap the Coke he was pulling out of the fridge for one of Karla’s sodas.

“This is a rental, so please watch the coasters,” said Dakota. “Here’s Karla’s report, all done up in officialese, and I’m including a thumb drive full of photos for documentation. I’m sorry we didn’t get up here last night. I saw on the way in that there’s an RV park just north of here.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” said Bering. “Had a dry goods salesman get mugged there last night. Said he wasn’t looking for drugs, but for ponies.”

“Crime here isn’t as bad as its reputation,” said Lattimer, taking a swig of his Coke and looking very official as opposed to Kota in his Red Cross Blood Donor t-shirt, which was at least clean and new.

“You’re both armed. Druggies would hit me up in a minute to steal my gear. I live in Commiefornia, so I don’t have any of the weapons from my time in the Marines.”

Kota settled down at the table with his laptop, pointedly not mentioning the fact that he had checked Claire’s concealed carry license against Tennessee’s reciprocity laws. Despite the results, he had locked her IWB holster with included M&P Shield into the RV glove compartment before allowing her out of the RV to escort Goose on her tourist expedition. Just because she could carry in the state, did not mean she should carry here, particularly with so many of the press around and the near-certainty that Graceland had a ‘no guns’ policy.

“We saw the video of Goose up in KC,” countered Lattimer. “You’re as safe as if you had Rambo by your side. That’s why we’re in here instead of escorting your pony pals around Graceland and the museum.”

“But with the radio on,” said Bering, tapping his earpiece. “We’ve got one agent each shadowing your girlfriends. Somebody in Washington loves you.”

* * *

Agent Hallman was regretting volunteering. Well, there was little volunteering involved in what he had done, but unless you want what’s left of your career to go up in flames, you don’t just say no when Pearlie Litz calls. Now that Hallman was back in the Academy just like he was a green recruit of two decades ago, he was feeling unreasonable regret over not leaving himself a time capsule advising him to take that police detective’s position in New York like he had originally considered.

“Darius.” Hallman caught the hefty black agent by one arm as he passed in the dormitory hallway, which felt a lot like trying to stop a train. “You headed over to see the DAG?”

“Yeah.” Darius Newton ran one hand over his glossy bald head. “Been cooped up enough that I just can’t work the weight room enough. Thought she’d know more about when we get let out of political quarantine and back to work.”

“Free advice. Don’t.” Making a follow-me gesture, Hallman took the conversation out onto the balcony where the hot and humid air of Virginia surrounded them. Pulling the curtains on the suite, he closed the glass doors most of the way and turned his back to the open air.

“Paranoid much, boss?” asked Darius, who had assumed the same position to prevent any distant telephoto observation from reading their lips or heard by bugs inside the room.

“You’re only paranoid if they’re not out to get you. You haven’t… um… Dreams?”

“Tall dark pony with a voice like chocolate.” Darius nodded. “You?”

“Not officially. Not even unofficially.” Hallman rubbed his upper lip where he was starting on a mustache to record his captivity duration. “I’ve never been apologized to by the leader of a sovereign nation and a potential deity. I thought she’d be angry.”

“Pretty sure we don’t want to see that. Bad enough I got my ass tazed by the equivalent of a housewife.” Darius rubbed his leg. “Didn’t make the report, but Rose apologized too. Did Princess Luna say anything in your dream about Disney World?”

“Dress comfortably. It’s hot as Egypt in paoni. I don’t want to think of why she used that as an example.”

“I’m puzzled on how she’s going to spring us from the FBI’s tender embrace Oh, I know she’s going to,” added Darius. “I quit underestimating ponies after that polite middle-aged unicorn made me shoot myself with my own taser. I guess we have to wait and see.”

“And buy suntan lotion.” Hallman wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I don’t know if the pony princess plans on this being a reward or a punishment.”

* * *

By the time four jubilant tourists returned to the RV, Dakota was feeling pretty refreshed and ready to drive some more. It took very little effort to turn the driver’s seat around to face the front, and a lot of effort to keep a straight face when the two ponies came prancing in the door to musical accompaniment.

“Doyoulikethem!” announced Widget, turning around several times to show off each leg and the glitter of her ‘Elvis’ sequined tank-top. The socks on three of her legs were bright pink with repeating printed images of guitars and Elvis’ profile, but the most striking feature were the strobing blue and pink lights that flashed in sequence with a tinny tune of ‘Viva Las Vegas’ that filled the RV.

“They’re not too much, are they?” asked Goose, who followed her protective charge more carefully, and without her own sequined shirt. However, she wore socks on all four hooves, adding to the discordant music.

“Absolutely not,” declared Claire, who was following the ponies with her own colorful (although quiet) socks and a new t-shirt. She tossed an Elvis t-shirt to Dakota and flopped down in one of the captain chairs. “You only make it to Graceland once in your life, so I didn’t hold them back too much. They’re still going to have trouble carrying everything back through the portal once we get souvenirs from Disney World. It’s twelve hours of driving, so we should get going.”

“Can we make one stop?” Karla Anacostia leafed through a folder she had picked up from the departing FBI agents and regarded the locked iPhone attached to it. “There’s a guy who got mugged here last night waiting for you girls, and Methodist South hospital isn’t too far off our route.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:00 P.M. Sunday June 28, 2015
Location: 1300 Wesley Drive, Memphis TN

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It was not just that Dimitri had failed in a fairly simple mission, it was how he had failed that was going to look like slime on his record. The FSB had far less James Bond in the job than Ivan Orlov, writer of boring agricultural reports. Even if he had a Walther PPK last night in the Graceland RV park it would not have done him any good when the grinning negro with a cheap Hi-Point stuck him up in the darkness, then one of his dark friends had hit him over the back of the head from behind.

At least he was in a hospital bed instead of a morgue. Nothing like this had ever happened when he was weaseling corporate minions into giving him a copy of their internal reports or checking grain levels at local agricultural cooperatives. It was all grist for the mill, data that he recorded on stacks of DVDs and mailed to his drop in exchange for a monthly paycheck from a mythical US firm. What in the world his intelligence superiors thought they were doing by endangering his cover in order to get pony pictures when there were so many on the internet… Well, it was best not to think such thoughts.

“Mister Perkins!” The perky pony in question fairly flounced into his hospital room, chattering away as fast as she could make the words come out. “We stopped by Graceland like we planned and got socks but I’ve got them turned off so I don’t disturb the other patients and we saw all of Elvis’s planes and cars and he had a whole bunch of guns too but they wouldn’t let me take them out from behind the glass to get a better look at them but Karla said you were attacked around there last night and lost your phone and I brought it over only she was not sure it was your phone and here!”

His iPhone drifted over to the hospital bed in a glow of pink telekinesis, and Dimitri found himself frozen in place, too afraid to touch it and too curious not to keep watching the bouncing unicorn. Some small section of his paralyzed brain noticed that she was wearing some sort of souvenir socks on three legs and the expected brace on the fourth, which really did not help him recover from the stunning sight.

“Oh,” said Widget. “I forgot that not all humans speak the same language. Just a second.”

The pink glow shone down from above and his hair under the bandage prickled violently for a second, much as if ants were crawling over his injury. At least when the unicorn started talking again, she was slower, but speaking in his native Siberian-accented Russian.

“”

“” said Dimitri, thumbing the button and putting in his unlock code, taking solace in a practiced motion with considerable relief at having his phone back. “” he added out of inertia and a vague hope that it would earn him a little employer consideration from the FSB to counter the debacle of getting mugged.

“” The iPhone left his fingers and floated away a short distance, and the soft fuzzy unicorn moved up right beside him. “”

In far too short a time, Widget needed to go, and bounded out the hospital room door with an eager wave. The smile had not left his face when two tall Americans in suits stepped into the room, looking just as happy.

“” said the taller of the two in accented Russian. “”

The larger negro FBI agent gently plucked Dimitri’s phone from his nerveless fingers while the Russian-speaking agent closed the hospital room door.

“”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:45 P.M. Sunday June 28, 2015
Location: The Waffle House College Park, Atlanta, Georgia

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The US Midwest had one constant even more than McDonalds or Burger King, so much that FEMA had an actual ‘Waffle House Index’ they used for hurricane disaster recovery estimates. Even in the worst of storms, the cheery glow of an open restaurant was available for disaster workers and tired residents, or at least as long as the generator was running.

This evening, a much different group pulled up into the parking lot of the Atlanta Waffle House. A confused group, for the most part, in a Winnebago RV.

“So, we’re here,” said Dakota, putting the RV into park. “It’s almost midnight and I have no idea why you wanted me to stop.”

“You’re tired,” said Goose, holding her iPhone in the crook of her wing. “I don’t trust Claire to drive at night—”

“It’s not my fault,” groused Claire. “That semi wasn’t staying on his side of the road.”

“—and Karla is out of it,” she added, giving the snoring FBI agent in the captain chair a brief nod. “That’s why I texted Nick, and he gave me directions.”

“Why did he want us at the Waffle House?” Dakota peered out the windshield into the dark parking lot. “And why is that Highway Patrol officer coming over here?”

As they had crossed various state lines during their trip, the respective state Highway Patrol vehicles also had been trading off their trailing responsibilities, swapping vehicles as the Equestrian tourists traveled along. Dakota had been comforted by their presence in the rear-view mirror, although it moderated his normal lead foot into something that vaguely stayed generally around the speed limit for a change, more-or-less. The big black officer strolling up to the driver’s side window had a very serious expression when he tapped on the window and giving a gruff “License and registration” once Dakota rolled it down.

“No problem, officer.” Dakota reached slowly into his pocket for his wallet, then considered the holstered M&P in the glove compartment where the RV’s registration was stored. “Can somebody wake up Agent Anacostia so she can explain things to Officer—” Dakota glanced at his name tag “—Comena.”

The big black Highway Patrol officer grinned. Dakota hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Don! Ye gads, you’re huge!”

“My big bro only had pictures to show you when he was in Afghanistan, I suppose.” Dontell cocked his head to one side in order to see further into the RV and gave Goose a friendly smile. “Ah, Nick’s girlfriend, I presume? Mom would love to see you girls for a few minutes. She only lives a few blocks away.”

“Why don’t you take us there,” suggested Kota, “and we can park for the night. I’m beat, Princess FBI is sound asleep, and Miss Bruner can’t keep the RV from getting sucked into a semi’s air bubble when she drives.”

As it turned out, the very happy Mister and Missus Comena were built on the same rugged scale as their children, and both of them were more than happy to talk with Goose until very early in the morning. Then the happy tourists caught breakfast at the Waffle House and were on the road once rush hour traffic died down.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2200 Hours Sunday 28 June 2015
Location: Randolph, Kansas. Farmer Bruener’s house, basement

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Thanks, mom. Gotta go. Give Dontell a hug when you see him.” Lt. Comena put down his cell phone and tried to focus on the paper plate that his sergeant had just placed down on the table next to him. The lanky Polish NCO did not take his leave as expected, but continued to stand at the paperwork-strewn table like a waiter expecting a tip.

“I’ve got a few more things for you, sir,” said Sergeant Spasowski. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Would it break down morale if you just called me by name after hours?” said Nick with an exasperated huff, reaching up and touching his gold collar bars. “I was a Marine grunt until last year, so I recognize how important a good sergeant is to a lowly lieutenant. Thank you for keeping the platoon in proper order while I’m dealing with my mother, the upper brass, and the godawful mess that’s dropping on us, but we’re both adults so let’s act like it.”

“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Spasowski relaxed slightly and hooked a chair over, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the collection of colorful young ponies watching movies at the other end of the Bruener’s basement. “I’ve seen several butterbars go by over the years, and I keep expecting the worst.”

“Worst? I had a tank and a tank transport wrecked during an alien invasion under my command,” reminded Nick with a quick glance at his phone, which had just quietly buzzed. “Half the Pentagon and my mother think I’m in some sort of romantic relationship with an alien horse, and God only knows what else can happen before next week and they all go home.”

“Starting tomorrow bright and early, there are a number of Headquarters units from DC scheduled to arrive,” said Spaz promptly. “We’ve got a half-dozen military REMF units flying in to Ft. Riley, here to keep us poor reservists looking spick and span. Then there’s a photography unit from Stars and Stripes, a number of representatives from the Army Public Affairs so none of us are in danger of getting in front of a microphone, and last but not least, a section from the Judge Advocate General’s office with Mister Bruner’s son to lecture us on proper discipline and fire control, no doubt.”

“I’m in Hell.” Nick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Other than Jon’s son showing up, is there any good news? Did Harvard get set up yet?”

“Colonel Townsend of the Kansas National Guard is now in the main Army encampment up the hill so he can translate the governor’s requests into proper mil-speak,” said Spaz. “Since you seem to be the golden child of the Equestrians, he left unofficial word that if any of the new units try to give you orders, send them to him and he’ll break them in half. Of course, that comes with bad news. Lt. Colonel Clarke is being transferred down from DC as his subordinate. Craig Clarke.”

That was worth a brief wince, and Nick looked back up into Spaz’s glum expression. “Carbon Copy Clarke? Isn’t he the officer who got a tank commander busted for returning to base with an incorrect count of main gun ammo?”

“After a firefight, yep. The one and only.” Spaz nudged the paper plate full of food, which included a raft of Missus Cake’s potato salad abutting one of Sizzler’s artistic cheeseburgers with crisped onions peeking out from under the bun, and just a trickle of steak sauce running down the edge. “Better eat up. Once CC gets here, it’s MREs and Army chow.”

“I don’t have time for this,” muttered Nick, but he did pick up the burger and bit into it. “Ok, maybe this I have time for,” he added while chewing. “I still have to work out contingency plans with the Rangers and that Navy unit we’re not supposed to mention—”

“Already drew up preliminary movement orders with the Equestrians for traffic control in case you have to reposition the tanks,” added Spaz. “Then I took initiative to move the—” he coughed once “—squids into a location where they can provide better fire support in the event something comes through the portal that we don’t expect, and I set up an excuse for them to be there.”

Nick raised one eyebrow while chewing, and Spaz gave a very low chuckle. “Moved one of the rental RV units across the road into the field and put a ‘Official Photographic Unit’ sign on the door and a ‘Go Army Beat Navy’ bumper sticker on it. That gives them a private shower to cut down the stink, if nothing else. If they got spotted getting into or out of their foxholes, the media would get suspicious, but this way they can photograph our visitors to their heart’s content and nobody’s the wiser.”

“You’re spoiling the Navy,” said Nick.

“They just had satellite communications, not any SINCGARS units either,” said Spaz. “So I gave them three from the MPs and synced the encryption codes so they’re on the local communications net. Colonel Townsend said he didn’t want to know, so I didn’t tell him.”

“Really?” Nick finished off his cheeseburger, licked his fingers, and took the wet wipe that his sergeant promptly provided. “You know, when I was in the Marines, I had an officer tell me that a good sergeant and a lousy tank are ten times better than a good tank and a lousy sergeant. Anything else I need to know about?”

“Just that you have a meeting scheduled with Captain Rogers, Lieutenant Forsythe, and Lt. Colonel DeJoya of the MPs in about an hour. Oh, and Colonel Townsend said he doesn’t want to know about any local contingency planning either. Would you like me to finish up your paperwork while you get ready?”

Nick finished spooning in the potato salad, collected his empty plate, and tossed the used wipe on top of it. “Thank you, Sergeant. I think you’re going to be the only soldier awarded the Army Distinguished Service Cross and the Navy Cross at the same ceremony.”

“Wouldn’t want it, sir.” Sergeant Spasowski swapped places with Nick and began to sort through the paperwork with apparent practice. “I’ll have my twenty in at the end of next year, and my cousin promised me a slot at his insurance firm. Thought retirement was going to be smooth sailing, then God dropped a bunch of colorful horses on us. On the bright side, your friend Dakota said he was going to write his own book about the whole experience, and he’d pay to have some input from here. You know. Since he’s running around the country with your very respectable female friend Goose. Is that all right with you, sir?”

“As long as he cuts you in for a percentage.” Nick looked across the basement where a good half-dozen young ponies were entranced by the television, which was showing some sort of monster movie in black-and-white. “And I think a little self-editing might be needed with the facts before he publishes. Like I’m fairly certain none of those particular time-traveling troublemakers were in the original batch dropped on us. That Clover is a lot older for starters, and there’s a Bookworm upstairs in the Bruner family library who looks a lot like her.”

“I already put the Bruener house on the exclusion list for the new arrivals, so they won’t intrude on your young video addicts.” The sergeant picked up a fleck of hamburger from the table and dropped it into the nearby trash can. “Cleared it with Jon first. The new arrivals will have to stand in line for Sizzler’s burgers like the rest of us, and since he’s been put on forced rest and only an eight hour day for cooking until they’re gone, that’s going to be a long line.”

“My heart bleeds. Where’s the meeting I’m having with the rest of the mutinous bunch?”

“Dinner table upstairs. Sizzler left a tray of these little cheese and meat things in the fridge and there’s a case of Sprite on ice. Sergeant Hardhooves and Specialist Grace will be coincidentally in the room but they’re going to restrict themselves to Missus Bruner’s spinach puffs. The couple has already gone to bed,” continued Sergeant Spasowski as Nick shook his head.

“Lucky bunch of civilians. Not a care in the world.”

* * *

“...and SPANK went the spank on Ping’s back.”

“Spank,” said Clover, snuggling in between Jon and Maria with a yawn, highlight by the last remaining reading light on their headboard.

“Ow,” said Standing Water from the cloud crib to one side of the Bruener’s waterbed. “Spank bad.”

“Ping had been a bad little duck,” explained Maria. “The spank was a reminder for him not to be a bad duckling any more. Anyway…”

Picking up on his cue, Jon moved his finger to the bottom of the page and said, “Then at last Ping was back with his mother and his father and two sisters and three brothers and eleven aunts and seven uncles and forty-two cousins. Home again on the wise-eyed boat on the Yangtze River.”

“Sixty-eight,” said Clover.

Jon took a moment to do the math. “Right,” he said eventually, getting both arms under the little winged unicorn and lifting her over to the cloud crib that had been constructed beside their bed for winged foalsitting purposes. “Now, you two go to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day, and before you know it, your mother—” Jon gently touched Clover’s nose “—will open up a door and take you home.”

“Boom!” said Clover, snuggling into the impossible cloud with her small blue pegasus friend. “Boom, boom!”

Jon really did not understand Clover’s reaction for a few days. Then it became obvious to everybody.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: Sometime after midnight, Monday June 29, 2015
Location: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It was never really dark in the Oval Office, since the curtains were mostly pulled back and the grounds lighting kept an exceedingly dim glow around the room even in the deepest night. There should have been enough light for the security systems to notice the faint glow around an ornate scroll that silently appeared on top of the Resolute Desk, but various digital sensors determined the anomaly was far too small to be any kind of danger.

Or at least until the morning security crew walked in and found it.

A properly paranoid US Secret Service detail should have treated the unknown item like an unexploded bomb, evacuated the White House, and called for various bomb-disposal technicians who were always on call for just such an occasion, or one much like it. Agent Washington was still a little fatigued from his Kansas trip and too comfortable with pony habits to really work up the level of concern a horseshoe-sealed hot potato should invoke, but he finished his look around the office with appropriate attention to detail and casually left.

A few moments later, Agent Washington tapped the doorframe of the White House Chief of Staff’s office and took a look inside at the yawning executive, highlit in the faint rays of the morning sun. “Mister O’Donald? The President just got some mail from the Equestrians. They must have dropped it off in the Oval Office last night, and I thought you might want to discuss it in the morning staff meeting.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Dennis took the scroll, then took a second look at it as the weight soaked in. “Is that a real silver seal?”

“Probably. The ponies are like that. I need to finish my rounds, Mister O’Donald.”

With a renewed spring in his step, Agent Washington strode down the corridors of the White House, thinking about how the job just kept getting better every day.

36. Good Intentions

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Good Intentions

“Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. Their very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be ‘cured’ against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard as disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.”
-- C.S. Lewis, God in the Dock

“Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
— H.L. Mencken

With just over one week before the ponies went back home—this time for certain—there was a wide variety of opinions on what needed to be done in the limited time left to do it before there were no aliens to do it to. Since there were only a few dozen aliens trapped— that is limited to a certain areas under flea-bite quarantine and the rest were free to flee (so to say) anywhere in the local area, the resulting terrestrial treatment of the ponies became rather erratic.

For example, Widget and Goose had been left mostly alone by the press because of their relative velocity and erratic schedule, plus a certain amount of practical skepticism about the press person in question being featured negatively in one of their nightly video blogs.

Several reporters had requested permission from their superiors to ‘stake out’ Disney World for a few days until the Terrible Twosome arrived, but their plans for spending a few epic days on an expense account rapidly met reality much like an egg fired into a cheap concrete wall. Likewise, there were a few politicians who wanted to greet the arriving celebrities with open arms (and legions of photographers), but the Florida governor had made it quite clear that their visitors were not wanting to face the kind of maddening publicity that went along with that kind of insanity.

Many reporters muttered about conspiracies between the Kansas and Florida governors, but remained fairly quiet because the ponies had developed an effective ‘One-Strike’ rule about dealing with the Fourth Estate. A single unfair negative story from any reporter affiliated with newspaper or other media outlet resulted in an immediate cut-off of any future interviews from the whole chain, as well as a far-too-detailed breakdown of the story in question by Specialist Grace, which was sent to the other media for wide distribution and ridicule.

Still, reporters were motivated by… Well, reporters said they were motivated by the truth. In truth, nearly every reporter would happily trample over truth to get a story that would be noticed. Even the most sincere small-town columnist had a small—sometimes virtual, sometimes physical—shrine to Woodward and Bernstein.

Bureaucrats were motivated by… Well, bureaucrats said they were only out to help people. Since bureaucrats were people, some of them considered the first people they should help was themselves, and stop. A subtle bureaucrat in search of power would find other not-subtle bureaucrats and place them in strategic positions where they could be used to advance an agenda, such as pushing a political agenda for financial benefit or currying favor with a powerful figure by—as a random example—bringing visiting aliens to Washington DC so they could be properly controlled.

There has been no definitive count—much like guppies—but most people agree there are well over four hundred different Federal agencies in the US Government. Every single one of them employed a number of bureaucrats who saw ponies as bargaining chips, cash tokens, credits for future promotions, book deals, and steps to be trod upon on the staircase of success. With just barely over a week to make their mark in the history books, bureaucrats of all types began to flood in the direction of ponies.

You had to get up early in the morning to stay ahead of a bureaucrat on a mission. Thankfully, ponies did. Well, most of them. Some of them got up earlier.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: Too Bloody Early In The Morning Monday June 29 2015
Location: Bruener Family Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Jon?” A faint nudge woke Jon Bruener up from his morning rest, which was not a great distance to wake since the addition of his blankets a few hours ago. “Jon, I’m just here to pick up my daughter before the bus leaves.”

“Which one?” whispered Jon back. He struggled slightly more upright and looked over the colorful sea of Equanity that covered their bed, leaving his wife barely recognizable as a shock of black hair visible between both a pink and blue young pony snuggled up to her. “The daughter you brought with you, her teenaged version, or the younger one who has been reading her way through my father’s library?”

It only felt as if a dozen young ponies were snuggled up in bed with them, much like an organic quilt of many colors. Jon really did not think more than eight time-traveling children had slipped into the house to watch forbidden videos, although the kids were difficult to count at the speed they moved. Still, it deserved an explanation since Lucky was supposedly a pony of some importance, and it was obvious from his perplexed expression in the shadowed bedroom that he had questions.

“They decided to watch Jurassic Park last night,” explained Jon.

“Rarr,” growled the smallest Clover in a happy, sleepy way and snuggled a little closer to Jon with a flutter of her little wings.

“Ah, there she is.” Lucky eased the tiny alicorn from under the sheets and into the foal carrier on his back. “Come on, sweetheart. Daddy is taking the school group on a little tour this morning, and we need to get going before the lawyers show up.”

“Rarr,” murmured Clover in her sleep. “Nom, nom.”

And then they were gone, and Jon could go back to sleep, or at least as much as he could with a bed full of young pony hooves.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 05:30 AM Monday June 29 2015
Location: Blue Valley High School parking lot, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Isn’t this too early in the morning, Miss Cheerilee?” Sweetie Belle gave an enormous yawn. “I didn’t even get to help much with breakfast.”

Ethan Alexander gave a subdued shudder. Despite multiple university degrees and a stellar career in APHIS, cooking did not run in his family, or even walk. Thankfully, his children failed to inherit their parents’ genes for that particular skill, so they could make hard-boiled eggs in the instant pot, or enough mac and cheese with hot dogs in order to feed their parents for several days in a stretch. Mostly, the family lived on the four microwaved food groups: Canned, frozen, take-out, and instant.

Sweetie made his whole family look like gourmet chefs. She even exceeded the negative talent of his own wife, who once had cooked meatballs that even the neighborhood cats turned down.

‘Breakfast’ today had been a granola bar and a juice box for everyone in their family before being hustled on a short walk to the Blue Valley High School parking lot where the busses were being loaded for a special tour with all the quarantined children, plus affected adults and sponsors. With luck, the seat covers would be more nutritious than Sweetie’s surprise presentation of ‘toast’ earlier at the Bruener house. Ethan was fairly certain whatever was in the glass had ‘glooped’ at him in a vaguely hostile fashion.

“It would be nice if we knew where we were going, too.” Ethan nudged one of his boys to his feet before the child could sit down on the dirty parking lot concrete again. “And if breakfast is included, since we didn’t get the chance to enjoy Sweetie’s delicious toast before we left the farmhouse.”

“I was keeping it a secret until we left,” said the smiling equine school teacher, “but the Sternberg museum in Hays— Stop her!”

Parental reflexes as they were, even Ethan and his wife could not get a hand on the elusive unicorn as she bolted past, but the veteran Secret Service agent behind him could not have made a better stop if he were a linebacker for the KC Chiefs.

“Whoa, there!” Conner O’Malley turned Sweetie Belle around to face her teacher and gave one of Ethan’s children a quelling glance that stopped his quiet edging for freedom also. “Little lady, I think you need to hear the whole schedule before making a decision.”

“They have dinosaur fossils there,” said the unobtrusive green pony beside Cheerilee. He nudged the screen of his iPhone with a stylus held in his teeth and added, “And a tyrannosaurus rex—”

There was a blue-green blur of motion that streaked out of the bus, grabbed the reluctant Sweetie Belle, and vanished back inside along with her captive. The bus horn honked and a young voice called out, “Come on! Let’s go!”

“Petunia Paleo!” chastised Cheerilee as she made her way into the bus. “Get out of the driver’s seat and back to your assigned spot. I’m sorry, sir. She gets a little excited about fossils.”

“My grandkids are a little like that,” admitted Agent O’Malley, giving Ethan a nudge to the shoulder as his own children and quiet wife filed on board the bus. “Getting bit by that flea has been one of the luckiest breaks of my career.”

Ethan found himself agreeing. At least until they got to the museum and they all found out what a very small child with a ‘Come To Life’ spell could do to a life-sized tyrannosaurus model.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 0600 Hours Monday June 29 2015
Location: Rally Point One, Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Good morning, everybody. Everypony.” Lt. Nick Comena gave the Equestrian contingent of their morning platoon meeting a brief nod before taking a sip out of his coffee cup. The Equestrians had provided refreshments, which meant donuts that practically floated themselves off the plate, and tea instead of coffee. It was good tea, and military tea, which meant it had a fair chance of dissolving its way out the bottom of the cup if he did not drink it first.

“Morning, sir,” came the murmured response as the young men of the mixed tank platoon nabbed their own donuts. It was an unspoken rule that Rank Hath Its Privileges, and one of the first things you learned in military service was the highest rank in a meeting had first dibs on their preferred pastries, and Nick bit into his apple-cinnamon donut with a concealed smile. Normally, he would only be in command of the four-tank platoon, or sixteen total soldiers, but the powers-that-be had established a Gold/Blue rotation of personnel, so that put over thirty soldiers under his hasty command as a new National Guard lieutenant. It was not an unlimited power, since Colonel Townsend had sent his silent S2 to observe their meeting, but it was a heavy responsibility, particularly since Major Danson had briefed him on the operational situation beforehand and approved his action plan.

“As you are aware,” started Nick because some of the soldiers might well not be aware, or picked up a wrong rumor, “Lt. Colonel Craig Clarke has been assigned to Colonel Townsend’s staff for the duration of our deployment. When he arrives in a few hours, I don’t want to hear him referred to as anything other than Colonel Clark until we are back at Fort Riley, and perhaps a few months after that. Are we clear?”

“Does that apply to us?” asked Right, who had one wing occupied with a donut and the other with a hold on a paper cup of tea, much like he enjoyed blowing Nick’s mind in the morning.

“Fairly sure it does, bro.” Left had his own paper cup and donut, only gripped with opposite wings, like a mirror image of his twin brother.

“You two numbskulls knock it off or I’ll ship you back one feather at a time,” growled Sergeant Hardhooves. “Postage due. Proceed, sir.”

Nick nodded at the crusty old noncom. “Thank you. In addition, please refer to Sergeant Spasowski by his full name, not Spaz, and that goes for any other colorful names any of you have picked up.” He gave Sergeant O’Mera a pointed look, because ‘Spic’ as he had been willingly nicknamed, was particularly bad about inadvertent utterances around reporters, and Nick had already covered for him twice with ‘exclusive’ interviews in exchange for a certain amount of reporter amnesia.

“We have a few hours before Carbon— I mean Lieutenant Colonel Craig shows up,” started Nick with a wince. “With that in mind, I’d like to get some things ironed out ahead of time, and I’m dead serious. This is Private Rogers,” he said, pointing one dark finger at the SEAL officer. “You may have heard some incorrect rumors about him being a captain in the SEALs. Put those out of your mind. He is a member of an Army photographic team, headquartered across the road with a good view of the Bruener seed building and planned pony portal location by coincidence. His team does not have satellite communication or target designation authority in the event nuclear weapons are needed to seal any dimensional breach. In the event things drop in the pot and he gives you an order, I expect you to obey it like God himself is speaking, and we’ll pick up the pieces later. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” came the unified response, although Private Harvy Seiphert promptly put up his hand and asked, “Nuclear weapons?”

“Not that anybody is going to admit,” said Nick as firmly as he could. “Would you be willing to bet that every nation with nuclear arms who can target within ten feet of where we are standing, doesn’t currently have several ICBMs or bomber crews tasked to exactly that mission?”

Private Seiphert slowly put his hand down.

“Anyway,” huffed Nick, “Blue and Gold teams assigned to the armor units get to pick who is in the tank and who is standing around in their dress uniforms for the cameras. I’m going to be in the command tank, because the reporters have gone totally insane over—”

Nick paused for a long moment, trying to come up with the right word, only to have Private Howell volunteer, “Your marefriend?”

Private Rogers gave his fellow ‘photographer’ a sharp look. Howell cringed and quickly added, “The respected Royal Guard cadet who has been protecting Miss Widget for the last week?”

“Exactly.” Nick removed a stack of papers from his satchel and began to pass them out. “What I expect to happen in eight days is a parade-perfect opening of the Equestrian portal and all of the ponies departing on schedule, with perhaps Cadet Down and her charge arriving in a whirl of dust right as it is about to close. The Army wants that as much as the Equestrians do, so that’s what we are officially planning to happen. What you are receiving now is—”

He paused, trying to come up with the right words, because ‘Classified’ was not not accurate. ‘Science fiction’ perhaps.

“Alternative procedures,” said Corporal Bug Light, a yellowish unicorn with a perpetual cheerful attitude who had been constantly at Sergeant Hardhooves’ side like a shadow. “Although we will be following Princess Twilight Sparkle’s detailed instructions when creating the portal home, there’s always the possibility of dimensional fracturing when thaumic turbulence exceeds a certain level. Which is a long way of saying I don’t recognize a single thing in the spell she sent us, so we have no idea what will happen when we fire it up. Unofficially, of course.”

“You will not make copies of those alternative procedures,” said Nick. “You’re not going to talk to any reporters, not even to point them to the latrines. If everything goes well, you’re going to turn them back over to me after all the ponies go home and we’ll use them to start a weenie roast and beer bash. If not—” Nick pointed at Private Howell “—we’ll need somebody to look into any difficulties involved in an evacuation for Option Two. Thank you for volunteering, Private. Speaking of which, after our meeting this morning, a number of volunteers will be needed to drive several RVs to an undisclosed location and one driver to bring them back in my truck.”

Nick held up his keys, then gave them a slow lob into the group of soldiers, one of whom was too slow to dodge. “Thank you, Corporal Frey. Bring it back without any scratches, please, and feel free to pick your own volunteers you trust to drive those expensive borrowed Winnebagos with our important guests inside. Now, Option Three resembles the conditions found in the anime series ‘The Gate’ which will be playing in the hay barn theatre in a few hours. Not Outbreak Company, Corporal Frey, so try to keep that off your laptop for now. Anybody who has not seen the series, human or Equestrian, is encouraged to attend, since the barn has been flea exterminated and should provide some privacy against reporter snooping. Option Four… Is anybody familiar with David Gerrold’s War Against the Chtorr series?”

In all, it was a pretty good morning for Second Lieutenant Nicolas Comena, soon to be First Lieutenant if all things ran well, but he just could not keep from thinking about Dakota Henderson and what trouble he was getting into with two troublesome young ponies out in the American Southeast.

He should have worried less about them, and paid more attention to Option Six.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:04 A.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: College Park, Atlanta, Georgia

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Kota had sacked out in the RV rather than the Comena family guest room last night because of the simple calculation that one guy and four gals (of various species) probably should not share the same bed. Besides, the rough calculation when he climbed in the RV was that at sometime after the morning sunrise, Karla would drive the first leg of their trip to Savannah, and he could sleep through that so his turn driving down the coastal highway would be safer. After all, the girls were up late chatting with Nick’s parents and recording their nightly video blog, so somebody had to drive around noon once they all were sleeping. Besides, the scenery was more interesting once they got closer to the coast.

He woke up briefly when the RV started moving, although it was still just barely light outside, but their scheduling was not his responsibility, so Dakota Henderson remained where he was and tried to sleep some more. After all, he could hear the happy chatter of the two ponies and their human accompaniment, so nothing was wrong. It did wake him up a bit when the big RV came to a halt and parked, but he could see the word ‘zoo’ on a sign outside the RV window in the thin rays of sunrise, so the ponies must have made arrangements for an early-morning tour before the place filled up with tourists. Maybe they would even get to feed the animals.

It was a photographic opportunity for his job, but Claire deserved to have some exclusive content for her blog, and Kota really did not feel like getting dressed and chasing the happy ponies around the zoo for a few hours. Besides, there was another reason he did not want to get out of bed dressed in nothing but his shorts. For that, he blamed being around a female FBI agent for the last few days, and in particular, the way the ponies had wheedled and coaxed her into talking about human… procreation for hours with them.

Curious ponies were too curious at times. The internet provided far too many excuses for them to explore.

The thumping and bumping of departing tourists out to get an early morning look at exotic terrestrial animals quickly faded into silence, and Kota was just considering getting into the shower for a brief wood-reduction session when something warm and dark slipped under the sheets and into bed with him. Agent Karla Anacostia was most certainly not wearing her shoulder holster, or anything else.

“Good morning,” she whispered at the end of his nose. “The girls are going to be running around the zoo for about two hours. I was going to take a nap, unless you can think of anything else for us to do.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 07:30 AM Monday June 29 2015
Location: USDA Plant Material Center, Ashland Bottoms, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Getting to work before his employees was something Rick Winia prided himself on, or at least until he had gained a half-dozen pony volunteers. Now, he was practically guaranteed to arrive at work after his four-legged workers began their day. Even if he tried to sneak in before the sunrise, he was fairly certain there would be one or two ponies stepping off one of their pegasus carts by the glare of his headlights.

He really could not fault the enthusiastic work ethics of the little workhorses. Summer for the staff was a fairly routine time of growth and monitoring, which was a good break from absolute frantic spring seeding and precise one-plot-at-a-time-every-seed-counts fall harvesting. The PMC resembled one huge garden with hundreds of little plots, and seeing a pony out in the middle of a bunch of prairie coneflowers, nibbling close to the ground, still gave him an instinctual reaction to chase them away like pesky wayward deer. The difference between normal pony agriculture and his was simple as food and seeds.

Or so he thought.

“Holliday!” The dusky orange mane of the earth pony boss/organizer/headmare/advisor was easy enough to spot headed in his direction, although there were quite a few more colorful ponies in the area than Rick expected. “Good morning, ma’am. Are you bringing over some of your friends for a tour?”

“Not exactly.” It was amazing how a guilty look on a pony was just like a guilty look on a human, with the added signaling qualities of drooping ears and a swishing tail. “Events snuck up on us when our niece Scoots found out she had fleas and your authorities put us under quarantine. The press back in Randolph was going absolutely nuts, even worse than ours, with some of them wearing these big orange suits and respirators, trying to corner one of us, so we asked one of the nice tank people to park several of our borrowed Arr Vees in the back of your facility and—”

“I understand totally,” rumbled Rick. “I don’t think anybody in DC will mind if you hide out here until it’s time for you to go home. Particularly if I don’t tell them until after you’re gone. Why don’t we discuss this over a cup of coffee?”

Holiday wrinkled up her nose, which looked unbelievably cute even this early in the morning. “Princess Celestia sent us a small sample of tea here from Equestria last night. Your Mister Alexander approved the leaves, since they were already heated up beyond the ability to germinate, and I thought as a representative of your agriculture department, you’d like to taste what our morning drinks are like for a change.”

It was worth scrubbing the office percolator for a good source of fresh hot water, and even with the relative primitive state of their tea set, Rick could feel the years drop away with his first sip. The tea was a tantalizing blend of flavors with the faintest bite that a short pinch of salt made even better, and although he had been a coffee guy ever since college, he could easily look out at the morning sunrise and imagine the pony princess somewhere just an eyeblink away watching her own sun ascending to start the morning.

Of course, not all humans were regarding the sunrise with the same enthusiasm this morning. Or with quite the same calm acceptance of their equine visitors.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 07:05 AM Monday June 29 2015
Location: Blue Valley High School parking lot, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Myron was quiet. As an Assistant Office Manager to Miss Henshaw, that was the safest approach to remaining employed. That and the unspoken benefit on his Civil Service appraisals due to a great-grandparent named Running Bear, who had claimed to be Cherokee but Myron suspected he was just a con artist since the family genealogy trees stopped rather abruptly on his branch with a number of rather wild stories involving his background. So he had remained quiet during most of his enlistment as a Navy clerk, put in his twenty, and transitioned into civilian life after his wife passed away and his children vanished off to college.

The Department of Education seemed to be a good fit for his skillset when he took the job. At times like this, he would rather have been deployed back to the Middle East, in the middle of summer.

Miss Henshaw had been on her phone constantly since they had left the plane in Kansas City. It was impossible not to hear what she was talking about, because her personal volume control had been broken years ago with no chance of being fixed, and most of what she was talking about was fault. Not her fault, of course. Other people’s faults. Vast numbers of them, drifts and clumps and oceans of faults, and the ownership of those faults depended on just exactly who Miss Henshaw was talking with, and what rung on the ladder of authority they occupied.

Myron’s rung was very low, and frequently stepped upon since he was still in his probationary period in his position.

Right now, the faults were remotely raining down on the local high school principal, who apparently did not have enough time to devote to being berated by Miss Henshaw on the phone, refused to acknowledge her unmistakable and inviolate authority over the education of the aliens—her words, not Myron’s—who were going to be under her jurisdiction for such a short period that even the delay of a few minutes could have drastic consequences, etc…

Really, Myron did not understand why Miss Henshaw was spending the last few minutes before they were parked on the phone with Principal Havercamp. In person, Miss Henshaw was a vast and impressive sight, with a temper that could be turned up to boiling at a moment’s notice and the ability to be offended by anything. She could use a pointing forefinger like a spear and had no sense of personal space, despite an abundance of her own space which had necessitated a seat in first class on the way here, and the importance of a larger American car from the rental agency rather than the tiny Versa Note which was the only vehicle available.

Personally, Myron liked the way it drove despite the quantity of luggage crammed into the hatchback’s trunk and the counterweight of his passenger. Miss Henshaw considered the car a personal insult from the president of the auto rental company and he was going to receive a Strong Letter about the insolent behavior of the check-in girl, the staff who retrieved the vehicle, and every single individual who built the tiny car with inadequate rear compartment knee space and a list of deficiencies that could fill an entire notebook.

Miss Henshaw collected spite-filled notebooks much the same way some people collected insects by gassing them and shoving sharp pins through their bodies. Myron could feel the ghost of that same pin pricking through his chest every time she got upset without somebody nearby to take it out on, and the phantom pain only eased slightly when he pulled up to the checkpoint outside of Randolph and rolled down the window, letting the warm humidity of the Kansas morning sweep into the car.

“Good morning, Corporal.”

Myron passed over the sheets of paper that the Secretary of Education’s office had approved for a limited number of agency representatives who were not part of the final going-away ceremony for the Equestrians. Well, if this was the last one. The checkpoint soldier reviewed the documents, checked them against their driver’s licenses, then waved them into town so he could check the next vehicle in line. It was simple, efficient, and to Myron’s practiced eye as he drove a zig-zag path through several concrete barriers watched over by a bored-looking MP on an armed humvee, sufficient to deter any ordinary terrorist attack or wave of overenergized tourists. Of course, this edge of Randolph was still about a mile away from the Bruener farm where four tanks were deployed, so any attackers would only face small arms and passive barriers. There were enough military vehicles within sight to provide a lot of associated guns, which gave Myron a sense of warm familiarity, even if they were all Army forces instead of Navy.

At Miss Henshaw’s direction, Myron slid the rental car into a handicapped spot in front of the high school where his passenger would not have a long waddle… that is walk up to the front door where one of the school staff was standing, waiting to hold the door open.

“Bring the teaching materials, Myron,” snapped Miss Henshaw once she had managed to get her bulk extracted out of the back seat.

“Yes, ma’am.” It was a reflex from his Navy days, and Miss Henshaw hated to be called that instead of her full name. It was a mark of how distracted she was by having a new victim within sight that she did not haul him over the coals for his blunder.

Hauling the hefty suitcase out of the Versa’s miniscule trunk was an exercise in wedging, but in short order he was trundling down the cool dark hallways of the quiet school, feeling a little like a misplaced child again. He got to walk the hallways several more times while Miss Henshaw proceeded to cluck and peck like some irate old hen, establishing her dominance over the principal and establishing that she was Not Pleased At All with the relative shortage of young aliens to educate in the proper way the US Department of Education had established for children of all races. That still did not leave Myron any slack time. After all, he had copies to make for the incoming students, signs to print, more bits and pieces to retrieve from the rental car, and whatever other tasks Miss Henshaw came up with on the spur of the moment.

By late morning, Myron had settled into his role as ‘parrot’ to Miss Henshaw, which generally meant sitting to one side and nodding whenever she said “Isn’t that right, Myron?” By his calculations, there were going to be eight days of this until the ponies escaped by portal, or fewer days if Miss Henshaw’s presence caused them to accelerate their departure.

By the time noon rolled around, Myron was wondering if he managed to intentionally foul something up sufficiently to be terminated, would the government pay to fly him back to his home duty station, or would he have to hitchhike halfway across the country to get home? If there had been any ponies who could soak up some of the ever-changing instructional materials, it would have taken some of the pressure off him, but most of the ponies were elsewhere on tourist runs or at other undefined locations. Thankfully, Miss Henshaw wanted a salad for lunch, and sent Myron out the door with exact specifications. Of course, that meant he would have to fight traffic to reach a nearby town with arugula and ocean-caught, not farmed, salmon, then do it all again on the way back before it wilted. Randolph barely qualified as a truck stop by East Coast standards, since it had no traffic lights and he could see both ends of the city limits from the high school concrete steps.

As he was going down the concrete stairs to the rental car, Myron met an Army private headed up, with of all things, an armored pony at his side. The sight made him salute out of reflex, catching the soldier by surprise and nearly making him fumble his clipboard, although the old pony ripped off a letter-perfect salute of his own.

“Sorry, Private Howell,” said Myron as the soldier was caught partway through a salute in return. It was easy enough to read the name off the nametape, although the gold armor of the pony did not appear to have nearly the same identification factor.

“Old reflex,” continued Myron. “What are you two doing at the school? None of our guests are present, just my superior and Principal Havercamp. Other than that, it’s an empty building.”

“Sargent Hardhooves and I were going to talk to the principal about using the school as a staging ground in the event of an evacuation,” said the private. “Nothing really big, but…”

“Better prepared than not,” finished Myron as he watched several other cars begin to enter the high school parking lot. “Looks like you have competition.”

And it appeared to be more governmental agencies from Washington, as the collection of rental Versas began to accumulate. There must have been some sort of charter flight for all of them to arrive at once, and Myron found himself in the appointed role as doorstop as the various bureaucrats, assistants, and volunteers tromped inside, almost none of whom acknowledged the presence of Sargent Hardhooves at all, other than the occasional sideways glance at the immobile stallion.

It did not seem like a very welcoming first impression for the pony, although it was obvious he was interested in the parade of various body types and outfits. Bureaucrats really did come in all shapes and sizes, some of which must have required custom tailoring. The proceedings must have been interesting for Private Howell also, because he stayed right there and watched, although he turned down any and all ‘requests’ to help lift and carry boxes of educational materials.

“Sorry about that, Sergeant,” said Myron once the parking lot was quiet again. “Bureaucrats.”

“Recognize any of them?” asked Private Howell with a quick glance around the parking lot in case there were any more of the odd creatures scuttling about.

“I think one batch was from the UNHCR,” mused Myron. “At least that’s the only people I can think of who would wear the UN symbol this far from New York. The rest appeared to be US Government. One lady was wearing an ORR nametag. That's the Office of Refugee Resettlement,” he explained at Hardhooves’s obvious confusion. “Homeland Security was most of the rest. I’d guess USCIS and ICE Homeland Security Investigations were most of them, since there was a lot of chatter around the office about how the ponies acquired their visas illegally, although exactly how it was illegal is a point of great debate.”

“Resettlement.” The old sergeant shook his head ever so slightly from side to side. “Fairly sure we’re not going to be here that long, Mister…?” Myron caught the pony’s glance at where a nametag should belong on his grey blazer.

“Myron Lapahie,” said Myron, sticking his hand out to shake, and then down to shake hooves with their alien visitor. “Assistant office manager in the Office of Migrant Education. My boss, Miss Mira Dean-Wilson Henshaw, Associate Division Director for the Monitoring and State Improvement Planning Division has been discussing the ponies’ education most of the morning with Principal Havercamp. I was sent out for lunch.”

“Good to meet you, sir. Glad to see you escaped.” Sergeant Hardhooves finished shaking hands and looked up at the old brick school building. “I don’t think this is going to be a very safe evacuation point any more.”

“Not unless the National Guard restricts the people coming into the town more than they already have,” said Myron. “Traffic was packed up fairly solid. I was amazed they let us in. All we had was a letter from the DOE. Department of Education, that is.”

“Colonel Townsend is overloaded,” mused Private Howell. “The Guard has a clearing process through the Department of State for admittance, but it is a mess. And we still have military units coming in without notifying us in advance.”

“Send them back until they ask properly, through channels. Let one in and they all want in,” Myron said with a sharp frown. He looked the Army ‘private’ over for a moment before asking the question that had been bugging him since they first met. “So what SEAL team are you with?”

“Pardon?” The casual looseness vanished as Private Howell jerked upright, then narrowed his eyes and looked around the school steps for any witnesses, much like a serial killer might scout out a place for slaughtering some nosy nitwit. Hardhooves, on the other metaphorical hand, looked like he was going to break out in laughter.

“You’re wearing the insignia of an Army private,” started Myron carefully, “yet you are far too old and in shape to have just gotten out of basic training. Most soldiers make PFC inside of a year, yet your uniform insignia lacks the bottom rocker under the chevron. So either you’re a real screw-up, or—” Myron pointed at Howell’s left wrist “—somebody who can put together a uniform perfectly and wears a Seiko dive watch in the middle of Kansas.”

“Fuck,” said Howell after a moment. Then after due consideration, he removed a thin wallet from an inside pocket of his fatigues and peeled off a twenty, which Hardhooves made vanish into his golden armor like magic.

“I withdraw the question, sir.” Myron gave a short nod at the mismatched pair. “SEALs have a much more robust vocabulary. Whatever group in the Pentagon put you here is probably classified far beyond me. I shouldn’t have poked my nose into your business, and I’m sorry. So why did you get picked to escort Sergeant Hardhooves over to the school instead of staying back and watching our—” Myron glanced back at the school doors to make sure Miss Henshaw had not unexpectedly appeared “—new guests?”

“Need to know,” said the not-private.

Myron nodded again and turned for the car. It was going to be a long drive through traffic to get to anyplace that could make a salad with the accuracy Miss Henshaw required. He had just reached the first step down on the stairs when a powerful hand caught him around the upper arm.

“What rank and service?” asked Howell.

Myron turned and gave a sharp salute. “Petty Officer Lapahie, NavSup in Norfolk, retired. Decided I wanted to see what life was like in Washington civil service, just in case I wanted to try for a political appointee position later.”

“Poor decision?” asked Hardhooves, obviously catching onto Myron’s unvoiced meaning despite the difference in species.

“Poor decision,” confirmed Myron, feeling a relief he should not have as the accumulated stress of the last few years bubbled out. “I should have stayed in the service, training… um… unqualified people to take CPO positions. I think I was forced to pass four people who wound up screwing up big after being promoted up, and then promoted up again to cover it up. After that, I hit my twenty and bailed before I said something I’d regret. Changed my title, applied to a civil service position I was overqualified for in the Department of Housing and Urban Development, and rapidly learned the grass was not greener on that side of the septic tank.”

Private Howell glanced back at the quiet school building, then back at Myron.

“Department of Education now,” he confirmed. “I haven’t made the one-year probationary period in nearly three agencies so far. Too qualified not to hire, too ‘disruptive’ to retain. I’ve been taking orders in the Navy for so long that practically everybody I work with in the government thinks I’m after their jobs.”

“And now you’re fetching lunch for bureaucrats.” Howell got out his phone and punched in a number. “Let me give you some advice, Petty Officer Lapahie. First, you’ll never make it to Manhattan to get lunch and back before dark with the traffic. The rest of the advice will wait until you get back.”

Ten minutes later, Myron found out that the pegasi version of DoorDash also allowed passengers, if properly strapped in and willing to help load.

An hour later, Myron found that Miss Henshaw had apparently gotten into some sort of fight with the other bureaucrats, and was currently en route to the Riley County Police Department for booking. It was a great relief, because her salad was wilted.

An hour after that, Captain Kevin Rogers (USN) passed a phone to him, where he found out directly from SecDef Carter that Petty Officer Lapahie had been recalled into the Navy Reserve as Chief Petty Officer and assigned in a cross-branch appointment to Colonel Townsend as a member of his staff. Still wearing his civilian suit jacket, Myron was introduced to Specialist Grace, a beleaguered unicorn who was trying her best to help with the ongoing chaos of scheduled arrivals to the town, both military and civilian.

An hour later, every rental Versa that was still in the high school parking lot had been towed, leaving the building clear for any evacuation purposes.

Just short of midnight, Principal Havercamp brought a pound cake to Colonel Townsend’s staff as a thank-you. Myron made sure Specialist Grace got a large piece, since he had not seen her eat anything all day.

When Col. Townsend dismissed the staff for the night, with orders to turn in and get some sleep, Myron quickly discovered the Army had set up a nearby tent as barracks for assigned personnel. That was quite welcome, because the only room Miss Henshaw had managed to find was in the Weaver Hotel in Waterville, and since that was one bed, he had expected⁽*⁾ to be sleeping in the car.
(*) The alternative was too terrifying to consider.
—

So it was with great relief that Myron settled down onto an Army cot, a little uncomfortable in his brand new (and temporary) Army fatigues, but that did not stop him from falling asleep with a smile before he even got his boots off.

Directly to his side, Specialist Grace settled down on a repurposed Furhaven deluxe dog bed and followed him straight into slumber.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:45 AM Monday June 29 2015
Location: Outskirts, Savannah Georgia

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“That was a mistake.”

Kota looked up from the passenger seat of the RV where he had the paper road map unfolded, then glanced outside at the road signs.

“No, we’ve got twenty miles or so to the I-95 exit.” He looked over his shoulder at where Claire and Widget were curled up on the RV bed, acting as mutual pillows, then up at the short violet tail hanging down from the cabover bed above them. “The girls are all still sleeping. Did you want to stop for lunch?”

The driving since Atlanta had been fairly quiet, with Agent Anacostia behind the wheel and every cell phone dropped into the GoDark bags, so there had not even been any phone calls to interrupt the drive. He even had left the radio alone, since if the silent FBI agent wanted to listen to her channels, she could. She was not listening, so she did not want to, and by proxy, that meant he should not turn on the radio either, even though Limbaugh’s daily “Ponywatch” opening segment was coming up shortly.

Really, the quiet was more than a little disturbing, particularly since their energetic morning activities. Karla had been the first one in the shower when they had finished, interrupted during what Kota considered a particularly good part by Claire’s phone call saying they were on their way back. Kota barely had time to clean up the evidence of their activity and slap a fresh set of sheets on the bed before the girls arrived. Then as Karla set all kinds of records getting dried and dressed, it was his turn in the shower, and the RV was moving again. Keeping up appearances was fairly important around the chatty ponies, because the last thing he wanted Widget to say during one of her video blogs to thousands of people was a comment on the prolific sexual habits of her human escorts.

“No, I mean that was a mistake,” said Karla with a short jerk of her head in the direction of the well-used bed behind them, currently occupied by a sleeping Claire and Widget.

“Um… There’s really nothing right for me to say about that,” said Kota, who glanced over his shoulder again to make sure they were not being eavesdropped on. “I mean I can’t argue the point, although I have to remind you that… No, that’s wrong. I wouldn’t have been a willing participant if you hadn’t asked. Is this going to hurt your career?”

“If it gets out?” Karla snorted and changed lanes very carefully, only talking again once she had the cruise control set. “No fucking clue, pardon my French. A male agent in the same circumstances could either get away with it or they’d be fucked over wholesale.”

“Because it’s a vector for blackmail,” said Dakota. “Crystal does it all the time to get her stories back at the Chronicle. Trust me, I’m not going to say anything. I’m trying to get back with my ex, and she’s a jealous bitch at times. We were supposed to have a date next weekend. She’s been marking off the days, and gave me strict instructions not to… um… use the equipment until then.”

“Sounds like she wants a third kid.” Karla scooped a can of soda out of the cooler and put it into the cupholder. “Which reminds me. Go back into my luggage and get my pills.”

“Which—”

“The pill pills.”

It only took a few moments rummaging through underwear for Dakota to identify the birth control pill dispenser and extract out the next tiny little fleck in the circle, which Karla chased down with a gulp of soda. It lowered the tension slightly, which he decided was a good time for an admission.

“You know, I saw you buy that box of condoms at the gas station yesterday. That’s why I wasn’t surprised back in bed when you got them out.”

Karla pinked up around the ears, which was adorably cute even though he wasn’t going to say anything about it. “I was just going to show them to the girls, since they say their stallions are so… I mean I thought about it before today, but… Okay, it wasn’t totally spontaneous. At all. But it was still a mistake.” A faint tremor ran up her leg, and Karla scratched at it before asking, “Your wife left you for another woman, right?”

Dakota nodded. “After just barely two years of marriage, yes.”

“And she taught you all of that? I mean I may have thrown my back out again,” continued Karla quickly. “And pulled several muscles. How are you still single?”

“San Francisco,” said Dakota. “It’s not exactly the safest place to fool around, and everybody who is available and approachable and clean is in therapy, which is a giant blinking red light. Either that or they need therapy, or they’re on so many drugs that you have to wonder what kind of personality is hiding inside, or they just don’t care to date a ex-mil with an ex-wife who tears out of the country for months at a time to take pictures. I almost convinced myself that my ex was having the Chronicle send me out of the country every time I started to see somebody.”

“I dated a lawyer once,” admitted Karla. “The FBI moves beginning agents around a lot. Then I had to move and he didn’t. Seems to be a habit of mine. Can’t date inside the workplace, can’t date outside it without finding somebody who would follow my moving.”

“And in a week, I’ll be headed back to San Francisco and my crazy ex, you’ll be in Kansas City, and…”

“No more bedroom boogie,” said Karla. “For me, at least. You’ll still have your ex. I thought it was a general rule not to put your—” she coughed into one hand “—into crazy.”

“They never say why that rule has to be said. It’s because crazy is a ton of fun.”

“Really?” Karla changed lanes again to get around a slow truck, then put the cruise control back on again. She drove the RV in silence for a while with only a few sips of soda, obviously thinking before she added, “How? I mean if you want to tell me. Since we’re not going to do that again, I might as well find out.”

It took some time, but eventually Karla convinced him to ‘spill’ about the first years of his marriage, and the crazy that it entailed. After all, she had a point. There was no way he would have told some of his experiences to a non-intimate partner, and although that particular ship had sailed, burned, and sank in the matter of a few hours, it had still sailed, and the stories behind his former marriage were too good not to share. Although with only certain people.

The stories were not totally one-sided, because Karla had a few doozies of her own that most certainly had not come out during her chatty talks with the Equestrians. It was a raunchy conversation that lasted hours and did a lot to ease the tension caused by their morning indiscretion, but came to an abrupt halt when Dakota realized something during his frequent checks over his shoulder to make sure Claire and Widget were still sleeping in back.

“... and then Clyde says to the Senator—”

“Just a minute, Karla. I just realized something. I haven’t seen Goose’s tail hanging down from the cabover in some time,” said Dakota while looking behind them, keeping his voice pitched low. “Goose, how long have you been awake and listening to us?”

“Just a few hours,” came Goose’s melodic mezzo-soprano voice in return. The batpony poked her head out of the cabover section and looked Dakota straight in the eyes—although upside-down—before continuing, “I knew what you were doing before we came back, because I could smell it all over the Arr Vee. Are you two going to have foals?”

37. Manners Maketh Man

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Manners Maketh Man

“Sir! There are ladies present. I would think that means there are gentlemen present also.”
— Sharpe

Patience: What you have when there are too many witnesses.
— Anonymous

The military chain of command can be much more like a spider’s web than actual links of steel. Social media has only increased the number of threads over the last few decades, in a way that dedicated intelligence professionals both loathed and used frequently. Facebook and Twitter photos of military equipment frequently have timestamps that indicated both when and where the photo was taken.

For example, reporters or spies—sometimes difficult to tell apart—tracked practically every Russian vehicle in the Ukrainian invasion of 2014 to the point where they could not only identify exactly which BUK anti-aircraft unit shot down a civilian airliner, but the exact path it took on the way to be deployed, and exactly how it was spirited away afterward. Military intelligence operatives tracking cell phone signals could only add marginally to that by identifying the names and service branches of the crew, but also the messages the soldiers sent to each other on forbidden social media or texts.

Messages like the one Lt. Comena had just received.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1340 Hours 29-Jun-2015
Location: Camp Rainbow, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Nick gave his cell phone a quick glance when it buzzed, then thumbed a one letter response that meant he was buying pizza for Private Rodriguez in thanks for his timely pre-planned alert.

“That’s the signal. Time to adjourn the meeting,” he said to the eight other soldiers who were slogging their way through paperwork in one of the MP’s tents. “Lt. Colonel Clarke has boarded the helicopter at Ft. Riley and is en route to the local landing site, ETA about twenty minutes. Since we have not been officially notified of his exact arrival time, I’m presuming he wants to make a surprise inspection, so I need everybody to act surprised. Gold teams should be deployed at their respective tanks and Blue teams dispersed among the remaining ponies, doing assigned tasks. If your teams don’t have tasks, give them some. Murphy, how is that baseball game coming along?”

Corporal Murphy tucked away a piece of paper as part of the cleanup with the rest of the tank commanders. “The ponies ain’t got no strike zone, but we think slow pitch softball rules might work, if we can get one of the unicorns to turn a regular baseball into something softer. On account of they ain’t got mouths big enough to catch a big softball, that is. Sergeant Hardhooves says it entertains the photographers, so I presume we’ll be able to get an exhibition game going this evening. Blue shift and off-duty MP units should be enough to fill up a team.”

“Good. Arbury, do you have the theatre in the barn shut down?”

“Not quite, sir.” Sergeant Arbury waved one thick-fingered hand in the general direction of Farmer Bruener’s big hay barn, which had been ‘repurposed’ as an indoor theatre once the exterminator had finished spraying for fleas and the mother cat had been relocated. “A couple of the elderly Equestrian ladies put in a request to watch the Hallmark channel whenever we’re not using it for—” Arbury coughed quietly “—training films. Also, they wanted to watch some martial arts movies. Humans move in interesting ways, I suppose.”

“Try to keep it on the Hallmark channel instead of Kung Fu Theatre when Clarke is inspecting, please.” Nick looked around at the soldiers making preparations to close down their meeting. “Where’s Rogers? I thought he was supposed to be here at least for snide comments.”

“Was meaning to talk to you about that privately, sir.” Sergeant Spasowski passed Nick a non-regulation iPad with a plastic flap cover. After examining the photo displayed and flipping through several more, Nick closed the cover with a solid click.

“I think I want to see this for myself, Sergeant. If we have time before Clarke gets here.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1346 Hours 29-Jun-2015
Location: Camp Five-o-Clock, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Captain Kevin Rogers was in trouble the moment he saw his opponent’s blade move. Pumpernickel was fast, even if he was fairly green with a sabre, and Rogers just barely managed to deflect the tip of the steel with his own guard before trying for a riposte by reflex. It was a move more suited for the collegiate mat than a circle of pounded-flat dirt, and although he managed to score a definite touch against the white-striped pegasus, it left him open for a full sweep of the Equestrian’s blade, clutched firmly in powerful equine jaws and swung with all the muscles in the big pegasus’ neck. Despite the enchantments on his fencing outfit, that much steel slamming into Roger’s ribs hurt, and knocked him flat.

There was no time to recover because the pegasus promptly pounced much like a lion, only to get the tip of Rogers’ practice blade straight into the armored chest. Of course, since the pegasus outweighed the human by a significant ratio, that only let Pumpernickel land on top of Rogers with an explosive whoof of expelled air as the blade skittered to one side.

“You’re dead,” he managed to wheeze.

“Just stabbed. I’ve been stabbed before,” stated the sweaty batpony through his mouth-grip on his training weapon. He lifted up one wing to show a particularly puckered white line along the base, right next to his muscled chest. “That’s where I got the Clan Starlight honor blade. Kept his arm pinned or he could have taken off my whole wing.”

Kevin gave the nearby supposedly sleeping equine spouse a short glance, along with the smaller batpony she had likewise secured under one wing, but before he could ask, Lamina opened one yellow eye partially and looked back. “No, he wasn’t defending me. He was being stupid, like usual.”

Since Laminia was also resting on top of the sheathed griffon sword, Kevin really did not want to press the issue. He had seen the way that otherworldly blade could carve through softer metal, and it was bad enough to be hit repeatedly by the practice swords the Ft. Riley engineers and Equestrians had made yesterday when Pumpernickel had asked. As the only military member who had fenced sabre in college, Private Rogers né Captain Kevin Rogers (USN) had volunteered to teach the neophyte. The problem was that Rogers fenced according to civilized rules, while the burley batpony was perfectly happy to accept a wound if he could kill in return.

Well, maybe that wasn’t a problem when something was really trying to kill you. Still, despite every enchantment the military unicorns had put into his outfit and the dented fencing helmet, Rogers was getting a well-needed workout beyond the level of his SEAL training, with probably as many bruises.

“Jesus Christ, Rogers.” Lieutenant Comena was built much like a dark brown bear, and came out of the surrounding bushes with a most unsubtle crunching and popping of branches. He gave one look around the clearing, a brief nod to Laminia, and removed his cover to wipe the sweat off his bald head. “Were these bushes here yesterday?”

“Equestrians put it together,” said Rogers, who had managed to get to a standing position so he could check a particularly sensitive rib. After determining it was merely bruised instead of broken by taking a deep breath, he took off his fencing helmet and gestured with the flat-edged training sword. “Hardhooves, mostly. Brought in some plum bush cuttings, a couple of hedge tree⁽*⁾ seeds, and a locust tree seedling. Keeps the press out, and gives the cavalry a space to unwind.”
(*)Osage Orange trees have inch-long thorns, enough sap to gum up a chainsaw, and spit vicious sparks when burned. The only reason farmers don’t have a little war of extinction on the hateful species is they make good hedges and fence posts, because they don’t rot either.
—

“And a place to kick the tar out of you.” Comena put his cover back on and shook his head. “You might as well stay here and play pinata with Pumpernickel. There’s no way you’d get cleaned up in time for Carbon Copy’s arrival.”

“Fine with me.” Captain Rogers executed a perfect presentation of arms salute in Comena’s general direction, then put his helmet back on and returned to a guard position, facing his opponent. “Reserve me a spot in the hot tubs for this evening if you can,” he added, referring to the pair of foam hot tubs that had ‘just appeared’ in the Bruener’s back yard several days ago, along with a sign advertising Manhattan’s Pool and Spa. They had proven quite popular with the Equestrians, and also with a few soldiers who were in good with Jon Bruener.

“Oh, and Nick,” said Lamina just as Comena was about to escape. The batpony mare tapped the hilt of the real sword she had in front of her. “This is the Honor blade of our family now. Goose Down has been officially adopted by us, and if anything should happen to make her unhappy when she returns from her guarding task at Dizy World…” She tapped the hilt of the sword again. “She said she has not received a telephone text from you this week.”

“I’ve been busy,” said Comena, who looked like he was about to sprint into the surrounding bushes.

“Would you like me to speak to this Lt. Colonel Clark about getting you some more free time?” asked the batpony with the faintest rising of her lips, which exposed sharp white teeth.

“No, ma’am.”

“Or see if you would be willing to assist Captain Rogers with my husband’s training?” added Laminia.

“I’ll… find time to text her,” stammered Comena. “Real soon. Before inspection.”

And he was gone with nothing but the rustling in the bushes to show he had ever been there.

Author note: Rogers fenced sabre at Harvard. One of the Royal Guard unicorns got together with the Ft. Riley engineers to make practice sabres the same weight and balance as Pumpernickel’s griffon honor blade. They’re practicing with a few variations you don’t see on a fencing strip, since the Guard believes ‘Train like you fight’ is mandatory.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 4:35 P.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: I-95 approaching Glencoe, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Decision time,” called out Dakota from the driver’s seat. “We can take a break at the Wal-mart here, although we’ll probably get caught up in rush hour traffic, or we can drive straight through I-4 down to—”

“Just a minute,” said Karla, still thumbing on her phone. “State has a special request for us to meet a VIP at the Disney area tomorrow. They’ve reserved a suite at the Grand Floridian and they’d like you to do a meet and greet this evening.”

“How many people?” asked Widget with a sudden quaver in her voice that Dakota could recognize as nerves, even though she was almost directly behind him.

“They don’t say. That normally means quite a few.” Dakota could see Karla’s lips compress into thin lines as she scrolled down on her phone, and he turned his attention back to the road so they wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of an accident this close to their goal.

“Do I have to go? asked the young unicorn.

“It would be nice,” said Karla in an obviously pained wince that betrayed her real opinion rather than the official subordinate government employee position she voiced.

“No you don’t,” said Dakota firmly. “If they wanted you this bad, they could have asked you a day or two back. The newspaper does this kind of thing all the time. They call it ambush journalism, because people lower their guards when an interviewer drops in unexpectedly at the last moment and scrambles your schedule. It takes advantage of a natural tendency not to object because it wouldn’t be ‘nice’ to the asker. Claire, do you still have the number for the Disney public affairs office that called yesterday?”

The young woman was also on her phone, holding a notepad and a pen. “Just a minute, Kota. Yes, we’ll call you right back, ma’am.” Looking up, Claire checked the paper map against the highway road signs. “Eddie put me in contact with a Jan Swartz of Princess Cruises, and she says they’d be overjoyed to have us overnight on the Caribbean Princess on our way to Disney tomorrow morning. They’re tied up tonight between cruises so it shouldn’t be a bother, and it’s only about an hour from there to the Disney parking lot.” Claire stared at her phone for a moment, then continued slower. “They made a nice contribution to the Ponyville charity fund.”

“Did they say anything about crowds of photographers or VIPs lined up to shake hands?” asked Dakota over his shoulder.

“I made sure to ask. She’s willing to discourage the lookie-loos if we follow the captain’s directions and you have an exclusive to take pictures, so there won’t be any strange photographers swarming over you like the State department event certainly has.” Claire considered her iPhone with a curious expression. “How much do you get paid for good publicity photos?”

“Anything from a twenty up to a car. A small car,” clarified Dakota. “So, Widget. You want to head out to Disney tomorrow, and make your nightly blog video from a cruise ship tonight?”

“Does it fly?” asked Goose quickly.

“No, it floats,” said Claire. “And it sounds like they’ll be tied up to the dock anyway, so you’ll get to see what a cruise is like without all the seasickness and crowds.”

“It would be nice to see one of your ships,” mused Widget with an obviously unvoiced thought about wandering around inside with a screwdriver.

“As long as it doesn’t fly,” added Goose. “And you probably shouldn’t bring back too much of it since we ordered all that stuff from Mister Amazon.”

“Let’s take Highway 1 on the way down there,” said Karla with the printed road atlas in one hand while trying to look out the window. “If we’re not pushing for time, we can stop at one more antique store and drive along the beach road.”

Claire poked her phone again. “And the cruise line says they have an early morning tour lined up for the two of you at the Kennedy Space Center. Short and sweet so we can still make it to the Disney area tomorrow and early, so no staying up all night.” She gave a short glance at Karla, then over at Dakota, before checking her phone again. “You know, Universal Studios has their Harry Potter park here, if you want to duck out on your State department event. They say they’ve got a special escort from the movies for you, if you’d like. Just one, so you’re not mobbed.”

“Ooo,” said Goose. After watching several of the movies during their trip, she had viewed the inclusion of Thestrals in the movies to be something worthy of intensive rebuttal, and was obviously looking forward to the discussion.

“As long as we don’t get dragged into some sort of stuffy meeting with a bunch of stuck-up politicians,” clarified Widget. “And they’ve got some interesting rides there… Which I promise not to take apart, even if it looks like it wouldn't hurt anything,” she quickly added with a growing smile. “This will be fun!”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1746 Hours 29-Jun-2015
Location: Equestrian Security Camp Post One, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Join the Army,” grunted Nick as he heaved at the end of a wrench with a shaft the size of a wrist. “See exotic new places. Learn how many different kinds of dirt exist on the planet and how it packs into uniforms.”

“One more pull should do it.” PFC Harvey Seiphert had soaked down his uniform with sweat, but hefty muscles under his shirtsleeves threatened to rip his ACUs clear off with every flex. Nick did not even try to match the private’s weights at the small rec facility the Army had set up in a nearby tent, but he could still do more reps on the lighter weights. Harv was just built for heavy mass movement, and few things required more effort than cracking the track on a M1A2.

“Four pulls,” grunted Nick. “Four. One. Is. New. There we go. We’re not going to be chasing T80s over the fields, but that should bring these nice shiny bolts torqued to spec.”

Both soldiers stood up and stretched, taking their gloves off and stowing them with the rest of the gear while a small group of press watched and took pictures. It was not a very exciting press pool because there were no ponies involved, and a bunch of grunting soldiers heaving around metal track links was probably not going to even get to publication. That is unless there was some sort of bloody accident, which would put the pictures right on the front page.

Nick was determined to keep that from happening.

When Lt. Colonel Clarke made his inspection tour, Nick had been about as ready as a human could be. A great deal of that credit belonged to Sgt. Spasowski and his encyclopedic knowledge of paperwork. The only thing Craig could find was a few missing rubber pads on Four-One’s tracks, and that was inevitable. Of course, it was unacceptable to the colonel. Each of the tanks in the platoon were dinged for that defect, and it burned Nick just a little. A little bit of exercise was the perfect thing to apply to that burn so it did not come out in words. He did still have to use words, though. Careful words, since the press were so near and recording everything.

“Specialist Frey,” said Nick into his Motorola field radio, “Four-One is ready for a test drive whenever you are set. How are things going with Four-Three?”

“Stripped some threads and had to swap in another track link,” came Frey’s tinny reply through the encrypted radio. “We’ll have it wrapped up in ten minutes or so.”

“Caution takes precedence over speed,” said Nick. “Coordinate with the Equestrians for traffic control before you crank the tank. I know all the kids are out of town, but let’s not take any chances.”

After all, it would be a mixed blessing if one of the tanks ran over a journalist, and far more work. Nick was actually missing a combat deployment where all the locals could at least be considered hostile instead of trying his best to keep STRAC and smiling in the dusty and hot Kansas sun.
(*) Skilled, Tough, Ready, Around the Clock, which involved more dress pleats and shine for the upper brass’s consideration than a deployed soldier might consider important at the time while under fire.
—

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:05 P.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Jon was getting a little more comfortable with the Equestrians every day, but he was still looking forward to them going home and giving him some breathing space. A prime example of that was the Polaris ATV he was driving at the moment, which took a bit of work to bring back to operating condition after the Cutie Mark Crusaders drove it into Tuttle Creek reservoir. Since then, Colbert Hills had donated a half-dozen golf carts to the ongoing refugee/tourist project, which was a little like giving Equestrian teenagers whiskey and car keys. He much preferred—and was safer driving—his ATV for brief trips into town and around the farm, mostly because he only had one set of keys, and he was darned well keeping them in his pocket. Well, until somewhere a week into July when the return portal opened and his guests left.

With luck, at least one of the golf carts would still be in condition to go back to Cobert Hills.

The house that Dakota Henderson had bought in town was in full pony-renovation mode, with several of the small horses on the roof and a blue Howie’s recycling dumpster at the top of the driveway for loose shingles. Jon pulled his ATV up on the lawn and gave a wave to the roofers before the boss came trotting up to see what was going on.

Big Brick’s dark red coat was speckled with sheetrock dust and flecks of construction debris, but he looked as happy as a pig in mud and about as dirty. “Hey, Jon! Come on in and get a beer. Blake’s looking over the studio we’re installing with Mister Rowe, and once we get the last of the wiring done, they’re going to start rehearsing.”

“Won’t it be a little loud!” Jon pointed up at the roof where Cost Overrun was holding a modified pneumatic nailer in one hoof and stapling down shingles just as fast as Little Brick could pull them out of the bundles and slide them in place.

“They’ll be done by dark.” The small earth pony held the door open for Jon and followed him into the first floor of the old house, which had obviously been subjected to the pony version of Severe Sheetrocking as well as Full Rewiring, and a number of trips to Home Depot. “Redid the whole house wiring when we blew out the fusebox the first time,” continued Big Brick. “Twelve gauge grounded with GFCI breakers for the bathroom, and replaced about an eighth-furlong of sewer pipe that had cracked. Hi, hon. About got the light done?”

Double Billing looked over at Jon, apparently not paying any attention to the ceiling fan directly above her or the screwdriver attaching it to the fixture, both illuminated in her pale green hornlight. “‘Bout done wit de wiring, dear. We snaked a bunch of Pex through de walls while we was wiring and we’ll have water soon as de humans downstairs get dat new heater in place. Dat PVC stuff was crumbling when we touched it. He’s gonna be real glad when we’s done.”

“How… um… much is this going to run Mister Henderson?” asked Jon carefully, since he had not yet received the bill for the two days of dramatic home improvements his own residence had experienced recently.

With a shrug, Double Billing removed an iPhone from her mane and began to poke at it with a plastic stylus, one of the many ‘Bruener Seeds’ giveaways that Jon had thought would clutter his house up forever.

“Probably a tek under ten thou,” she said eventually. “Little more once we add that shed in the back yard where we’s gonna have to put the mower and yard stuff since the basement’s all fulla sound studio stuff now. Plus labor, of course.”

“Of course. Quality costs,” he said out of reflex.

“Doin’ it right is cheaper than wrong and over,” said Double Billing with the iPhone stylus in her teeth, since she had progressed to juggling several tools and a notebook. “Blake and his boys are going to break in the studio good tomorrow, an’ the kids are going to be back from their tourist trip the day after, so we need to make sure this is all done up right.”

“I’d love to drop by to listen then, but I got a text from my daughter, and it sounds like UPS is dropping off a package or two here.” Jon considered the house under de/reconstruction. “If you’ve got a spot to put it until Mister Henderson gets back, that is.”

“Th’ kitchen’s clear, so we can stack ‘em there an’ toss a tarp over ‘em.” The unicorn moved the stylus to the other side of her mouth and chewed on the back end of it for a moment. “We ordered some stuff ourself wit dat Amazon ting, but there’s some sorta mess in your big city, so it’s gonna be delivered here late.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:15 P.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: UPS Sorting Facility, Olathe Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“We just get done with one set of gifts from all over the world and twice as many come in the next day. I don’t know how many trucks worth of junk we’ve sent to the dump and how many more are going into storage to be sorted out by the State department for the next ten years. Then you got ponies who order things off the internet that we gotta separate out.” Raife Peterson leaned back against the F-150 pickup truck and took off his gloves. “Ah think you critters is more trouble than you’re worth, even with the overtime.”

Morning Roast yawned and gave a high hop to get into the truck bed, which took a little boosting by Raife in order to get her over the tailgate. Once safe inside, she promptly curled up on the mat and gave a second yawn. “I’m starting to agree with you, Raife. If my sister Moondancer hadn’t invited me to Ponyville for this, I’d be back in Canterlot making coffee instead of inspecting an endless series of packages until they blur together. Can we go back to the apartment now? Overtime is great, but my horn hurts,” she added, opening one eye so she could look at the stubby tan horn poking gingerly out of her reddish curls.

“You just want to turn on the TV and lay around on the couch while I make dinner,” said Raife, although he moved around toward the driver’s seat. “I'm just glad the local Ladies’ Aid sent us a bunch of casseroles or we’d be eating TV dinners while watching Gravity Falls.”

“It’s the best television program I’ve seen on your technologic thingie yet,” protested Roast weakly. “My sister is going to go green with envy when I tell her— Hey, don’t knock any of my packages over.”

Raife started the big Econoboost V6 and looked back through the open window in the back of the cab. “If we packed your boxes in the bed, you could sit up front. The apartment is only five minutes away.”

“They might blow away, and I’d miss my nap,” said Morning Roast, nuzzling down into the mat and closing her eyes again. “Now hurry up. I want to see what trouble Dipper is getting into.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 20:46 Hours 29-Jun-2015
Location: Equestrian Security Camp Post One, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

By the time Nick made his rounds to ensure every rubber pad was in place on his squad’s tanks, it was getting close to mealtime. By the time he finished coordinating with the rest of the National Guard units in place, it was getting toward evening, and of course, Lt. Colonel Clarke had set him up with several press interviews behind the back of the Army’s Public Affairs section which was certain to come back and bite him in the ass later.

Still, he sat for the interviews since it was only prudent to pour cold water on the press and their hot takes on interdimensional romance. There were only so many times he could repeat the same lines, the same quiet discouragement of a romantic relationship with a horsey alien military cadet before snapping and saying something terribly unfortunate, but he managed so far. He was just glad he was going to spend the next twelve hours on duty, buttoned up in Four-One, and—

“Shift change. Blue teams report to your duty stations.” Sergeant Simon Spasowski’s voice was crisp and direct over the radio, although not as the Army Signal Operating Instructions Manual instructed with the correct call signs and unit designations. Since there were so few new National Guard units involved, at least the ones who were assigned to protect the pony site, communication protocol could afford some slack.

Nick made it back to Four-One without any real disasters interrupting his trip. The disaster happened after he arrived.

“Seiphert, what are they doing to my tank?”

It was fairly obvious what was being done to the tank, since the armored shield over the auxiliary power unit was off, and there were parts everywhere. Two ponies looked up at the interruption, or more correctly, down since they were up on the tank supervising the mechanical vivisection, with Sergeant Hardhooves lounging casually in the background wearing the expression of an experienced NCO not in the line of command for the ongoing process and just coincidentally in the vicinity.

PFC Seiphert saluted perfectly from his position as mechanic supervisor above it all. “Sir, we had a request to perform expedited maintenance on this piece of equipment in order to—”

Heavy Roller interrupted. “Laminia said she’d rip my unmentionables off if we didn’t fix the squeak in this power generator. Apparently it was causing her some discomfort, so we put it at the top of our list, so the tachometer sensor on your truck is going to be delayed a day.”

Silver Spanner shuddered ever so slightly, much like she had when she looked into the engine compartment of his truck and caught sight of the big Power Stroke diesel. When he had asked the mechanical specialist ponies about his tach issue yesterday, the unicorn had practically towed him to his truck by one ear. The couple had been going through broken vehicles and equipment like a whirlwind, so in the interest of not seeing them start to break things to keep busy, he had allowed his truck to be put in line behind Brunener’s disassembled Winnebago Rialta. Still, he had not really expected them to start working on military equipment so soon. The looks she had given the massive turbine engine of Four-One had been almost pornographic, and the concept of a couple of ponies making like bunnies inside the M1A2 engine compartment…

He turned his attention back to the APU and thought about his most recent encounter with the sulky batpony, particularly in the way she had her ears folded down while the whining APU was in operation. Officially, the tank was supposed to remain combat capable at all times while deployed here, but Lt. Col Craig had required them to crack the track on all four units at once so this was not the first time it was offline today. Nick was not about to risk having his own unmentionables removed because he was fairly certain Laminia was speaking literally and was not putting forth an empty threat. For the sake of interdimensional peace—and bodily integrity—changing out a bearing or two was cheap.

“How long until you’re done, Heavy?”

“Fifteen minutes. Honeybunch is really excited about your hardware.” The hefty earth pony beamed at his busy wife, who had her horn lit up in a pale white light that washed back on her face from her focus on the bearing in the middle of the APU. There was a trickle of sweat working its way down her cheek as various parts whirled and spun in her magic, but Heavy did not seem to notice just how… excited his wife was becoming during her work, because he kept going on about the job. “Would have been longer, but Private Seiphert was able to get a spare bearing from your ess-four.”

“Oh, he did?” Nick gave his loader a dry look. “Nice initiative. Now I’m gonna need to write this up. Have you been studying that Developing Leadership During Unit Training Exercises publication I printed out for you?”

“Ehh…” Harvey looked hesitant. “Haven’t really had the time, sir.”

“Dig it out and study it tonight while we’ve got some slack.” Nick climbed up on Four-One to get a better look at the ongoing upgrade. “I’m going to have to do your performance evaluation when this is all over. Sure you’re not considering going career?”

“No, sir. Four and out.” Harvey grinned. “Got a cousin in the Forest Service. With a five point veteran’s preference, I’ll be out in Washington state’s forests playing ranger a month after separation. They’ve got real trees there instead of these Kansas weeds.”

“And done,” declared Silver Spanner, floating a dark, grease-covered steel donut out of the APU’s disassembled guts. Her face was lit up in a beatific smile which seemed to be directed both at the equipment and her husband in equal measure. “Got the spare?”

“Here, dear.” Heavy Roller bit down on a set of kitchen tongs and fished a new silver bearing out of a nearby coffee can. Once his wife picked it up with her magic, a few small drips of grease made a trail over to the APU and its new home while the heavyset earth pony got out a red shop rag and cleaned up after it.

“I like your engineers,” said Silver Spanner as she worked. “All your parts fit without having to do any tweaking. Well, most of them. Some of the parts get installed in the oddest way, considering you don’t have magic.”

“You haven’t seen the antique equipment that Marines get.” Nick caught the quiet throat-clearing noise that Hardhooves made and followed his line of sight to an incoming soldier of the human variety. “Wait, head’s up. Lt. Colonel Clarke inbound.”

Nick scrambled down off the tank before saluting. The colonel was obviously unused to being outdoors in the Kansas summer sun, or about any sun for that matter. The rusty red on the bottoms of his ears and the bridge of his nose gave a fair indication that tomorrow would be a little less Clarke-y, or at least with some zinc oxide smeared onto the more sunburnt spots.

“How’s the position, Comena?” asked Clarke with a casual glance at the two ponies, seeming to miss the way that Sergeant Hardhooves had just faded off into the background. “And just why are two civilians tearing into your vehicle?”

“Bearing failure,” said Nick quickly before Harvey could open his big mouth. “Calling into brigade for maintenance would take several days, if the service vehicles could even get here through the traffic. PFC Seiphert procured the parts through our S-4 and the tank will be operational in a few minutes. Down less time than it took to do the track replacement,” added Nick when Clarke looked as if he were about to start criticizing.

“We really appreciate the practice,” rumbled Heavy Roller in the resulting silence. “This baby is one of the finest examples of small engine design I’ve seen.”

“I’ll say,” added his wife, who had her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she manipulated a half-dozen wrenches at the same time. “Runs on about anything short of grease and packed into such a small space. Harvey says there’s an upgrade in the works, too.” She swallowed, obviously attempting to keep control of her breathing. “Gonna be water-cooled, more power and more electronic controls.” Silver Spanner stopped with a low moan, but quickly recovered and kept doing whatever she was doing in the innards of the APU to get the bearing installed.

“I suppose.” Lt. Colonel Clarke, completely missing the subtext and having apparently exhibited the correct amount of military control over his subordinates for the immediate future, gave Nick a brief nod and turned to depart. “Keep me updated in case of any change. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Nick with a final salute. He waited until his superior officer was out of sight before turning to Harvy with a discouraging expression, aware of a set of pony eyes watching him from a nearby shadow. “Since there was no immediacy to this, you should have informed me first. I would have approved it in a heartbeat, and I wouldn't have been caught flat-footed in case Clarke had made it here a few minutes earlier and decided to ask me questions about my tank. Did you check with Sergeant Spasowski?”

“No, sir. I was—”

“Or the Four-One TC on Blue shift? I’m not discouraging your initiative, Harv,” clarified Nick. “In a combat situation, this would have been just fine. Even if we were getting ready to deploy somewhere, with all the chaos and mess involved, there’s nothing better than hearing somebody say they saw a minor problem and fixed it. The thing is we have more generals around this area than fleas, and they’re all itching to do something to prove they are needed. I’d trade them all for one muscle-bound Yankee who can tell the difference between a HEAT or sabot round when it comes time to load the gun, and who doesn’t lose track of the encryption codes for the radio. That’s you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Seiphert bobbed his head in a brief nod and added, “I suppose I should settle down in the tank and read that leadership publication tonight?”

“With the radio headset on so you can poke me if anything important comes in. I’m going to take a few notes on your future commendation, then be sound asleep in the TC seat for the rest of the night.” Nick turned to the pony couple by the APU and to a lesser extent, the senior NCO of the pony military. “This isn’t going to do anything weird like make the tank blow rainbows or anything, right?”

“Not unless you want it to,” said Heavy Roller with a look of deep contemplation that stirred an alarm in the back of Nick’s mind. “However—”

“Not now, Hev.” Silver Spanner gave a last twist to an unseen mechanical part, then pushed the APU on its built-in rails until it clicked into place with a hum of generated power. “That should do it,” she added with increasing speed. “Now if you humans would care to bolt the guard back in place, my husband and I will be in the Bruener’s shop for the rest of the evening. Come on!”

With little additional encouragement, Heavy Roller followed his wife at a brisk trot, quickly breaking into a gallop to keep even. Nick watched the two of them vanish into the darkness, gave Harvy an open-handed gesture to keep him in place, and asked, “Sergeant Hardhooves, do you have any questions?”

“Not unless you want to enlist in the Royal Guard,” said Hardhooves, poking his armored nose out from behind the tank. “Does my heart good to see an officer do his job without kicking the ones below him or sucking up to the ones above. And to see one who isn’t afraid to get his hooves dirty,” he added as Nick picked up a wrench and started to thread an APU retaining bolt back in place.

“Being shot at focuses the mind.” Nick started ratcheting the bolt in as Harvey began assisting. “Every piece of gear, every soldier, every radio frequency, every command, if it’s all in order when the shooting starts, you’re fine. One piece of the puzzle missing and it all goes straight to shit. You can plaster over a lot of missing parts during peace, have a lot of officers who can’t find their own shoes and men who sneak off to smoke a joint, but deploy the whole lot across the ocean…”

Harvey spoke up suddenly while getting a bolt threaded into one of the mounting brackets. “For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail. Or a bolt.”

“Huh,” said Hardhooves. “We have a saying much like that. Without the rider, of course.”

“Of course,” said Nick, focusing most of his attention on the ratcheting wrench. “I heard a rumor that your whole Guard got nailed good and hard during Princess Cadence’s wedding.”

Hardhooves seemed undisturbed. “We needed a good kicking. Shining Armor had been trying to shake some sense into the fossilized organization for close to a decade, like trying to push a rope. Now he’s off in the Crystal Empire, and it is amazing how much more attention our officers are paying to their jobs after having the changelings make us look like fools.” The short pony clapped a hoof against Nick’s broad back and turned to leave. “I’ll let you finish up so you can call Cadet Down.”

“It’s too late,” said Nick automatically.

“She’s nocturnal,” called Hardhooves over his shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It took very little time for Nick to finish buttoning up the tank with Harvey’s help, which gave him more time to scratch some notes for a few nice attaboys when they were done. It turned out Specialist O’Mera had taken his own initiative to inventory and lube both the main gun ammunition and the co-ax ammunition bin, which normally might have seemed a little excessive, but with Col. Craig in the area, probably not. It made the crew compartment smell more like gun lube than normal, which was fine. Nick had gotten so used to the odor that it was difficult to sleep without it.

The sound of Harvey on the radio below and to one side and the faint scuttling noise of Rick on the top of the tank were comforting, although he could not hear Carlos sitting outside with a M4 carbine on watch. The whole short platoon going half-on and half-off for the night was about right for now, although it was doubtful that Harvey was going to get much sleep before swapping in the early morning. He left the hatch open with the near-silent hum of the APU providing enough air conditioning to keep the Kansas summer air under control, and leaned back as much as he could in the commander’s seat.

He had just begun to drift off when he felt the ever-so-faint brush of a velvet nose against his, and the distinctive scent of fresh alfalfa.

“You didn’t call.” When Nick abruptly opened his eyes, it took a moment to recognize Lamnia hanging upside-down with her head through the hatch so she could scare the everloving begeebies out of him. “She’s worried,” added Lamina with a grim sharp-toothed smile at the end of his nose.

“I was just going to call her,” lied Nick, staring cross-eyed at the business end of an adult batpony mare about twice the size of diminutive Goose. “I thought the unicorns enchanted the tank hatches to sound an alarm when—”

Laminia withdrew from the hatch, then produced a glowing iPhone held in one membranous wingtip which she promptly held to the side of her face. “Cadet Down, I found your military liaison. Would you like to— Oh. Yes, I suppose we can fly over to Dakota’s house and check on your delivery, if it’s not too late. Humans go to bed fairly early.”

She passed Nick the phone and excused herself with something about needing to check on a shipment of Amazons, vanishing a few seconds later into the dark sky. Nick considered the phone, then settled himself on top of the hatch and mustered up his courage for at least a short and certainly non-romantic conversation with the most obvious place to start.

“You ordered some amazons? Don’t you mean you ordered something from Amazon? And it’s going to be small enough to take back through the portal, right? Knives, huh? Well, I guess that should work. What’s this I hear about you two stopping at a cruise ship?”

He should have asked more about the knives. And how many.

38. Guest Stars

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Guest Stars

"Politics is the ability to foretell what is going to happen tomorrow, next week, next month and next year. And to have the ability afterwards to explain why it didn’t happen."
— Winston Churchill

"I was brought up on the books of The Wizard of Oz and my mother told me that these were great philosophies. It was a very simple philosophy, that everybody had a heart, that everybody had a brain, that everybody had courage. These were the gifts that are given to you when you come on this earth, and if you use them properly, you reach the pot at the end of the rainbow. And that pot of gold was a home. And home isn't just a house or an abode, its people, people who love you and that you love. That's a home."
— Ray Bolger

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:15 P.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: Port Canaveral, Royal Caribbean Cruise Terminal, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Are you sure that thing floats?” Both Widget and Goose were glued to the side windows as Dakota Henderson eased the RV around a u-turn. To get a slower drive-by of the ship, he had ‘accidentally’ missed the parking lot turnoff the first time through, because once the Royal Caribbean people took over their visit, things would go fast. It seemed a fair precaution since the two ponies were a mixture of excited and apprehensive about their visit to the Caribbean Princess, much like his own first worries about boarding a US aircraft carrier as a Marine.

“I’ve been on bigger,” he responded casually. “On a carrier, you can go for days without seeing the outside. Of course, mostly all you’d see is grey water, so you don’t miss much. Most of the fun on a cruise ship is going to new places, so the ship is there to entertain while you’re traveling.”

“I wish we had more time.” Widget kept gazing up at the huge cruise ship every moment while Dakota took the RV the rest of the way around the traffic circle and headed back to the parking lot and the frustrated staff member who had waved at them on the way by a few moments ago. “We looked up all the things to do in Disney and two days just isn’t enough. Two weeks, maybe. And the rest of the city… We could spend our entire lives exploring the nifty places in your world and never even make a good dent.”

“The same thing goes for your world,” said Claire. “Magic fountains and cities in the clouds. I’d give anything to see that.”

“I don’t think the princesses are going to let anypony visit, at least not soon.” Widget took a nervous lick across her lips and kept looking out the window at the occasional stunned human giving a wave at the unexpected pony. “You heard the letter that Spike read once the mail started flowing. Everypony goes home first. Then they might start the occasional contact to see if interactions between our world are safe before they even think about actually sending diplomats back and forth. It could be years before you could return. Decades, even.”

“I know, I know.” Claire took a break from stuffing dirty clothes into a duffel bag for laundering later. There needed to be a certain amount of sorting afterwards also, because four females and one male generated some… interesting bits of smelly cloth.

Dakota called over his shoulder, “And I promised to get the RV back to the Thompsons in KC right after you girls go home, so no fair trying to get us back too late for the portal opening. I can’t just drive you all over the country, after all. I’ve got work to do when this is all over. I’m going to be indexing photos for years. Might even write a book.”

He didn’t think much of it while following the directions of the parking attendants to get the RV slotted into their reserved parking spot, but he was abruptly reminded of his statement when Claire smugly showed him the bottom line on the ‘Widget and Goose podcast’ that Eddie had been carefully editing and monetizing on YouTube.

“Dang,” he managed with a low whistle. “A long way away from buying your own country, but Uncle Sugar’s going to be happy as a clam when you file your income tax.”

“Income tax?” Widget flicked an ear in their direction, showing the exceptional ability of an Equestrian to listen in when least expected. “What’s that?”

* * *

There were certain advantages to living on a cruise ship, particularly on a relatively rare day of downtime. Normally, the Caribbean Princess would dock in the morning, unload all the passengers until around noon, load up another batch, and be gone with the evening tide. It made for an unending avalanche of feet and carts, screaming children wanting to go play in the sports court, or wet passengers in swimming suits leaving damp footprints everywhere. The churning happy chaos disrupted Anders’ normal routine of working from his balcony, but it had added entertainment value. There was something new on every trip. And today…

He closed his laptop and tossed it onto the bed, taking the time to snag his cell phone because of the obvious opportunity he had just spotted outside. It would have been perhaps more appropriate to put on a suit and tie to meet aliens from another world, but shorts and a polo shirt had been his dress for the last month and probably were going to be the casual dress of the day too, if he didn’t want to drop over from the July heat. Besides, he had watched several of the ‘Widget and Goose’ webcasts in the theatre downstairs over the last few days. The footage had no men in suits, but lots of kids of all varieties. The kids in the audience went nuts when the ponies had appeared on screen, and the crew had to show the episodes twice to calm them down.

Having the two tourist ponies show up today was extremely fortunate for the Equestrians’s sanity. If they had tried to take a tour in the middle of loading three thousand passengers and children…

The crew and contractors were scurrying around like diligent ants, maintaining and improving their floating anthill in the mere day they had before the next wave of passengers arrived. A monster like this ship required more than just the maintenance they could do while occupied, so the occasional day of concentrated activity had to be scheduled where it would fit. There was a crew laying carpet on his corridor, painting in the stairwell, and none of the elevators were in full working order. He slipped down the end staircase and headed over to the promenade where he guessed their brief visit would begin, only to be bowled over by both of the ponies before he rounded a corner.

“Sorry!” blurted out the pink one with a plastic brace on a forehoof. She appeared to be looking in all directions at once, mostly up, while the dark vampire-like pony behind her was mostly looking down and horizontally beneath her wide-brimmed Stetson. To be honest, the hat threw him more than being run into by a pink unicorn. One naturally expected a cowboy to be under a cowboy hat, not a yellow-eyed and bat-winged armored horse.

“Wait a sec,” he managed, holding up one open hand as he got to his feet. “I’m Anders Hansen, one of the longer-term passengers. Which one of you is Widget and which one is Goose again?”

“I’m Widget,” said the unicorn, sticking out a hoof to shake. “Glad to meet you, Mister Andershansen.”

“And I’m Goose Down,” said the dark bat-winged pony with a faint frown. She gave a glance down the hall where several people were trimming carpet, or at least had been doing so until the ponies abruptly showed up and captured their attention. “I thought all the passengers left the ship for a day so the maintenance ponies… I mean people could work on it.”

“I’m a long-term passenger.” Anders palmed his cell phone hesitantly because he had to get a selfie or he would never forgive himself, but didn’t want to embarrass the ponies. He might not have even worried because Goose Down and Widget immediately moved up beside him like selfie experts, mugging it up for the camera with matching grins as his phone floated a few feet away, clicked once, and floated back into his hand.

“Whew,” said Widget. “Glad there aren’t a dozen guests here. More than that and the crowds get really aggressive. I keep getting my sore hoof stepped on.”

“Disney’s going to be even worse,” said Anders before thinking. “It’s the middle of tourist season. They’ll be packed in before you show up, but Magic Kingdom should be able to scoot you through the corridors under the park if you get swamped. I took the tour once,” he admitted. “Aren’t you going there tomorrow?”

Goose Down and Widget exchanged guilty looks. “We were supposed to,” admitted the unicorn.

“There’s an event over at the big resort tonight,” said Goose mostly into the floor. “A big one. They’re going to be horribly upset when we don’t show up. I think. I mean I messaged the mayor on the telephone and she said something like she expected it but—”

“There you are!” It was easy to recognize Claire Bruener from their videos, although the young lady was already glossy from sweat in the Florida evening sun. ‘Farm-fed’ seemed to fit her well, although most stereotypical hillbilly women were more stacked up top, and blonde instead of raven-haired.

“Good evening, Miss Bruener,” said Anders quickly. “I was just talking to your pony—”

They had been there a moment ago. Now, all he could hear was the distant clatter of hooves somewhere deeper in the cruise ship.

“You get used to it,” said Claire, sticking out a hand to shake. “Claire Bruener. The others are still talking with the captain by the gangplank. Goose almost knocked him overboard. Dakota, that is. He stopped to salute the flag and…”

“They’re quicker than they look,” admitted Anders. “Anders Hansen, long-term guest here on the Caribbean Princess. Stock analyst.”

“Claire Bruner,” said the young lady. “Pony chaser and press agent, I think. Kota’s the photographer and Agent Anacostia the human security. You live on the cruise ship? That’s a thing?”

“Mostly,” admitted Anders. “I’ve got a condo ashore. It’s cheaper than living in New York.”

“If you want an earful, talk to Kota about how much it costs in San Francisco and how likely you are to be mugged,” admitted Claire. “I’m spoiled for my Manhattan, I guess. Not nearly as much to see and do, but the crime rate is so low I don’t concealed carry anymore. Well, not often.”

“Never have understood the Americans,” said Anders with a shake of his head. “At home, it takes a license to even look at a firearm. This state has them in shopping malls. There’s even a little store about an hour from here where you can rent machine guns and shoot up targets.”

“And how was it?” asked the young woman with a suspiciously innocent expression.

“Fun,” he admitted. “But expensive. And noisy.”

The two of them moved to one side so two men carrying carpet could pass by, then saw the ship’s captain walking briskly past them on the deck with Kota and Agent Anacostia by his side. “I guess you’ll be going now, Miss Bruener?”

“Actually…” Claire took a deep breath. “The girls should be fine. Everything has been going so fast recently. I need a break. Would you like to just sit somewhere and talk about your job? I tried to get into business with my degree in marketing, but the real world and college don’t seem to have an intersection of their sets. I just don’t seem to belong anywhere so it put me off working from the bottom up.”

“And I’m looking at businesses from the topside down,” said Anders. “Although at times I find it just as baffling. I understand you’ve got a limited business setup for funding their trip around the country. Are you wanting some pointers?”

“Oh, heavens yes,” said Claire. She let out a breath. “I’ve gone from clipping coupons and collecting tips at Pizza Hut to needing a tax expert in Kansas City and dealing with quarterly estimates that have to be paid before we know how much money is coming in. It’s overwhelming. I envy the ponies their lives so much.”

“I can understand,” said Anders with a glance at where he had last seen the ponies gallop away. “For a dime, I’d go back with them.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:52 P.M. Monday June 29, 2015
Location: Caribbean Princess, Royal Caribbean Cruise Terminal, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“This place is a huge city.” Widget stumbled into the staff pool area and began to ease herself into the hot tub. One of the remaining staff promptly scurried over with a plastic bag and wrapped it around her plastic brace while a second young lady brought over some towels. “I could get used to this far too easily.”

Goose grunted from where she was stretched out flat on the pool deck, spread out across a half-dozen towels. There were five maids putting oil on her wings and a huge Samoan in swimming trunks sitting by her head, feeding her grapes whenever she opened her mouth.

That was Mark. He still was not quite certain how he wound up in this position, but was not about to give up his bowl of grapes. Having a magical horse, now two magical horses in the room was a dream come true, something he had wanted ever since he was a child growing up on the islands. And he was feeling very much like a child now.

“I’m Mark,” he said. “Goose is a little worn out.”

Widget lowered herself into the bubbling water carefully, leaving her plastic-wrapped limb on the damp pool deck. “Sparring with you?”

“Cleaning with the housekeeping staff. She asked for it, since she was on your castle cleaning staff before she became a soldier. I really don’t spar much,” he admitted while flexing a bicep, which made interesting things happen among human guests during his normal days. From the sudden equine attention he gained, the attraction was cross-species, although most of the maids merely rolled their eyes. “Generally, I lead yoga classes and serve at the bar. Some of the guys are going to spar with her later, but she just got done learning about the room cleaning routine and towel animals.”

“So many different towel creatures,” murmured Goose from her flattened position. “Did you take apart the engines, Widge?”

“I only looked,” said the pink unicorn, which Mark was still trying to get his mind wrapped around. After all, he loved magical horses in fiction, and had several tattered paperbacks in his cabin dating back to before he bought a Kindle and the entire catalog of Valdemar stories to go on it. Talking unicorns were something else, and a bat-winged pony small enough to be tucked under one arm…

“So what happened to Claire?” he asked instead.

“I thought she would have been here with Dakota and Karla.” The unicorn’s horn glowed slightly, but one of the maids spoke up first.

“They used the weight room, swam a few laps, then your young gentleman excused himself to get some sleep.”

One of the other oil-scented maids giggled. “Your agent friend stayed in the hot tub just long enough to pretend she wasn’t following him.”

“Then she followed him,” said another maid, which set off a wave of oily giggling.

“We’re not supposed to notice,” said Widget. “They’re very careful. You know, Dakota’s children are real cuties and he’s got a bunch of pictures of them, so he’s trying to get back together with his ex-wife so he can have some influence in their life.”

“Only she’s a bitch,” said Goose without raising her head from her prone position. “Not even a nice bitch like Lamina. He tries not to say that out loud since he loves those girls.”

“Please don’t repeat that,” said Widget, slumping down a little in the hot tub. “They’d both get into trouble and they’ve been so good to us. Everypony… I mean everyhuman has so far.”

A general wave of friendly amnesia swept around the hot tub, leaving Mark to his task of quiet grape-dispensing. There was just too much for him to keep inside, but he had some time after the ponies were scheduled to leave and before the next wave of passengers boarded, so he planned on having a long phone call with his family back home.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:25 PM June 29, 2015
Location: Casa de Henderson, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“And I thought moving grain sacks was going to be the most physical part of our marriage.” Maria Bruener grunted as she took another box from the UPS truck and went back into the house again. “I hope Claire appreciates this.”

“I’m not sure she knows.” Jon picked up his box from the UPS driver and turned to follow his wife, making sure to keep to one side so the ponies helping load would not step on his foot by accident. “When she called me to make sure the boxes would get where they needed to go, it sounded like one of her little four-footed friends just made a catalog order. I don’t think she expected Widget to click on ‘knives’ in the Cold Steel website and just say ‘Yes’ to everything.”

“There’s some boxes from Museum Replicas in back,” called out the UPS driver. “Not too many, at least.”

“Ooo,” chirped Double Billing as she picked up a box of rapiers in her magic. “Do you think she’d mind if we unpacked a few of those boxes. Just to look, of course.”

Jon eased his way through the basement door to the corner where the boxes were being stacked. The thought of putting so much weight on the first floor above fifty-year-old beams had nixed their first unloading plan, because he didn’t think Dakota Henderson would like it too much if the house he had never seen since he purchased it was likewise destroyed by a knifealance. At least the house was insured. Jon had made sure of that, because he worked for an insurance company, after all, and it was the least he could do for a fellow military vet who was taking care of the mobile disaster area named Widget.

“I’m glad we got the recording studio done and the water heater installed before this all arrived.” Mike Rowe pushed one of the cardboard boxes full of knives into a more stable position before taking the box that Double Billing floated over to him.

“And you both autographed the water heater for Dakota,” said Jon with a smirk. “I wish this could have been an episode of Dirty Jobs but I suppose it hasn’t been too dirty and there’s too many happy ponies to call it a job. Are they going to get you to sing in the new studio?”

“Hell, yeah.” Blake heaved the box of knives he had carried in on top of the stack. “I know you’re just a volunteer, Mr. Rowe, but our fleabite quarantine is over in a couple of days, and we’d be honored if you could record a couple of tracks with the band. We’ll sign over the rights so you can fundraise for your foundation with it, if that’ll help. It’ll give us something to get warmed up on before Sweetie Belle gets back and we start on that project.”

“And I’ll stay way out of the way,” said Jon, who had no musical talent to speak of or to sing about. “Speaking of which, it’s been awfully quiet around here since Trixie took off so quick this evening. I wonder what the Crusaders are up to, now that they’re safely away from my farm equipment?”

“Trixie has that guard with her, and the kids have only been gone since this morning,” chided Maria as she brought another box in, stepping carefully in the glare of the porch light. “What kind of trouble could they get into in one day?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:30 PM June 29, 2015
Location: Hendrick’s Animal Farm Bed and Breakfast, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

It had been quite some time since Senior Agent O’Malley, US Secret Service, had tucked a child into bed. Thankfully, you never lose the skillset even without practicing for a time, although his upcoming retirement was supposed to come with enough free time to practice with his grandkids as plain old Grandad Conner. He straightened up and looked over the kid’s bedroom at Hendrick’s Animal Farm (with Bed and Breakfast), thankful that some things remained the same no matter the species.

The pony children went generally one to a twin bed, with the very small ones doubling up. The last young pony under the covers was a rather peculiar child who had spent the whole visit with the animals sketching away in his notebook, pencil held firmly in his teeth and never stopping for a moment. The small colt curled up next to his greenish unicorn friend without a word, but Conner made sure to collect his pencils and the notebook because of the high probability of midnight sketching lasting until dawn. Also, he took the screwdriver that the other pony had hidden, taking a few minutes to reconnect the parts of the bunk bed she had been in the process of disassembling before he arrived.

The last bed held three ticking time bombs, or as Conner had learned to call them, the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Apparently, the evening spent with the various camels, zebras, bunnies, peacocks, kangaroos, buffalo, and ostriches had worn them out.

The day certainly had exhausted the adults. Lucky was back in the room, soaking in the hot tub, and Miss Thermal had both her foal and Clover sleeping in a cloud-crib nearby so the two tiny terrors could be guarded against anything. Or maybe anything was being guarded against them. It was difficult to tell.

As soon as all the children were properly beneath sheets, Conner turned for his own room and the attraction of an hour soaking in the hot tub while while in discussions with a professional historian from the pony world, but something bothered him. Backtracking over to the Crusaders’ bed, he bent over and examined a fuzzy green and yellow alligator with a mottled pattern of blackish blotches. It was quite an unattractive and somewhat bland stuffed animal, or at least until its googly eyes popped open and it squeaked one word.

“Hi!”

It startled Conner enough to nearly fall down, but after a skeptical look at the alligator’s dopey and idiotic expression, he managed a fairly weak “Hi” in return before turning his head just far enough to look at Sweetie Belle. The sleepy little unicorn gave the animal a squeeze and snuggled down against its furry belly with a happy sigh.

“What… is that?” managed Conner.

“It’s Winslow,” murmured Sweetie. “Isn’t he adorable? I’m gonna take him home and show him to my sister.”

It left Conner in a thoughtful mood as he returned to the bedroom suite that he was sharing with the Equestrians, mostly because of the odd stuffed animal but partially since he was looking forward to a long quiet soak to end the day. Unlike the ponies, Conner put on swimming trunks before slipping into the hot tub with a sigh and one brief phrase that encompassed his entire experience so far.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Lucky closed his phone and gave Conner a puzzled look

“I think I just destroyed the world but I don’t know it yet,” admitted Conner.

“Oh, is it Tuesday already?” Lucky settled down in the water with a low chuckle. “The Crusaders used to be so much more difficult. Even in your world, I don’t think they can top some of their past disasters, and we lived through them all so far, though Apple Bloom's sister's eyebrows never grew back right after one incident.” He settled down further into the bubbling hot tub, although the dull-green earth pony kept one eye part-way open to watch the cloud crib and his own daughter.

They were sage words of advice from somebody who had been there and survived, so Conner tried his best to get comfortable in the hot tub and relax. After all, the Equestrians were probably more comfortable being in his dimension than he ever would have been in theirs.

It was Conner’s good fortune to have been bitten by a flea and assigned to the children’s all-Kansas tour. Otherwise, he would have been back in Washington and most probably assigned to the ‘Equestrian Welcome Event’ that had been slapped together on short notice. Politicians needed pony exposure in the worst possible way, since popularity rubbed off by close proximity.

Anthony had texted about his missed ‘opportunity’ to volunteer for the Orlando trip, and Conner had made sure to respond with a note stating the absolute inevitability of their communication being subpoenaed someday, and that there would be more chances for Agent Washington to advance his career in the near future, etc, etc, and other such official verbage.

It was probably for the best. The event did not go exactly as planned, to say the least.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:30 PM June 29, 2015
Location: Special Outreach meeting, Swan and Dolphin Hotel Ballroom, Orlando

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Isabella Schwant had been in the event coordinator team on Disney properties for nearly a decade now, across several hotels and resorts. This was a unique experience far above anything she had seen before. Through luck and a bit of weaseling to her boss, she had actually managed to wrangle the concierge position for the Equestrian who was going to entertain the absolute horde of wealthy politicians and donors at the ‘Special Outreach’ meeting. Now if the Equestrian would actually show up.

The close-packed collection of political power was more than a little unnerving to Isabella, much like a collection of lizards waiting on a fly. They were growing impatient in the Hemisphere ballroom despite the waitstaff circulating among the tables for drink orders and answering the inevitable question with “The Equestrian is almost to the hotel, so it won’t be very much longer.”

All she knew was her upcoming client was a unicorn, although that seemed to be an adequate description considering the two-legged overcrowded environment. Photographers clustered by the front entrance to the hotel mixed in with reporters taking breathless notes, leaving a dense mess that anybody would have trouble pushing through. Thankfully, there were several back entrances where special guests could be slipped in without drama, and most of the interior hotel spaces had been restricted to guests and convention-attendees.

Ben’s radio gave out a brief squawk, sounding much like somebody had stepped on the microphone at the other end, and the security guard looked down the corridor with a frown. “That should have been our guest arriving,” he said. “Stay here, Bella. I’ll go find out.”

“Men,” she growled under her breath, but only after the broad-shouldered guard had gotten out of earshot. After all, he filled out the uniform well, although he was already married and thus off-limits. She had paired with Ben several times over the last year, and he would have been ideal husband material. Nothing bothered him, like a still pool of water in the middle of a storm, and he had exquisite taste in food. There was no dining place in EPCOT unscouted by his nose, which made him an excellent companion when escorting a client.

Ben was gone for some time, so she took the opportunity to peek into the back door of the stage area and the podium set up for their extraterrestrial guest. It was a bit minimal, but as long as the client could string together two or three sentences, the politicians in the audience would stand and clap like trained seals. It would have been much more interesting to sit in on the Association of Insurance Adjusters convention going on just across the partition, squished to about half their original floor space to make room for this impromptu political gathering.

Giving a quick reassurance to the cast member backstage who was set to prepare the speaker, Isabella turned back to the corridor and the relative lack of horned equines it contained. Thankfully, there was a faint clatter of what could only be hooves headed in her direction, along with Ben’s breathless attempts at cautioning the equine to a slower pace.

Her first glimpse of a real alien pony was somewhat jarring, since she was headed down the corridor in her direction head-first at a good clip and did not look as if she was slowing down. Just out of arm’s reach behind the pony ran Ben, half stooped over in a futile attempt at grabbing onto the pony to slow her down and stumbling from his awkward position every few steps.

“Hello, I’m your host this evening—”

Really, Isabella did not think any syllable after the first word reached the galloping pony as she ran past, headed for the door into the public area instead of the backstage door like she should have been. Isabella sprinted to catch up, falling into line behind Ben as the pony burst through the door into the bright lights of the public hallways, paused, and made a sharp right turn just as Ben lunged forward to grab her.

His thick fingers almost closed on one pale-blue leg right over some sort of ‘sock’ that marked her fur, but the pony put on a burst of speed that made a curl appear in the throw rug right under Ben’s foot as he stumbled for footing and went groin-first into an overstuffed chair.

Isabella slowed down to check on him, decided from the way Ben was clutching his… midsection that he would very much prefer her not to look at his injury, and turned to pursue her client. That momentary hesitation let the pony get an extraordinary lead, which she used to duck into the ballroom door next to the event she was supposed to attend.

“Greetings Earthlings!” came a loud and male voice from the insurance adjuster’s meeting over the rising murmur of surprised business executives. “Behold, for Schadenfreude is finally here. You may applaud with great vigor and throw money.”

Another pony came bursting out of the door behind Isabella, only this one was dressed in dark armor with a frayed curl of reddish mane drooping down onto her face. Where the first pony had seemed young and dashing, this darker reddish one was more middle-aged and frumpy, with split ends and an irritated expression that indicated her transition to the next age bracket was taking place right now regardless of her wishes. She glanced from side to side, then caught Isabella’s eyes and blurted out, “Have you seen that bucking idiot?”

She pointed. The pony galloped past Isabella like she was not even there, giving her a good look at the reddish horn and sweat-soaked maroon coat of an actual unicorn that she recognized from the Bruener videos.

“Specialist Rose Petal,” she called while taking off after the armored guard. “I thought the Equestrian guest was a female unicorn.”

“She is!” snapped the guard over her shoulder as she skidded to a halt in front of the ballroom entrance where the insurance adjusters were meeting. Greenish magic formed around the doorknobs and the doors practically flung themselves open. “Schadenfreude! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Meeting and greeting,” declared the pale blue-white pony with one hoof out to shake. The middle-aged executive at the other end was caught totally unaware, and was staring at the hoof like it was some sort of snake. That was an understandable reaction, considering the startled human had been listening to a presentation about some insurance software before having a pony pop up in front of him.

Admittedly, Schadenfreude was a disconcerting pony. The pale blue of his coat was mottled and uneven much the same way his dark mane was tangled so tightly that Isabella’s fingers itched for a currycomb and a pair of scissors. There was an erratic dark ring around one ankle and his barrel that she mistook for clothes at first, along with a square-ish mark on his rump that was subtly tilted to one side like a mis-hung painting. He had the most honest expression of sincere care that she had ever seen, even compared to politicians and used car salesmen, and he turned that trusting smile back on the poor unsuspecting insurance executive like a wolf spotting a wounded sheep. Or at least until Rose snapped at him with an experienced voice that was one step away from cold-blooded murder.

“Well, get your stowaway tail out of there and next door where the official meeting is supposed to be!” If mere glares could set things on fire, Schadenfreude would have been incinerated to ashes. The unicorn guard moved to one side and held the door open for the pony’s departure from the insurance adjuster’s meeting, then said a few terse words of apology to the awestruck audience before leaving them to their original presentation, now shot to pieces.

“So you’re my client?” asked Isabella, rapidly picking up speed as she talked. “My roommates have been keeping up on the news coming out of Kansas and must have watched your beatdown by the protesters a dozen times.”

The middle-aged unicorn visibly flinched, and Isabella felt terrible about her first words, or at least until she noticed Schadenfreude had dodged between two impassive security guards and vanished into the political meeting where he was supposed to go in the first place.

“Behold, Humans!” he called out from inside the room. “Be humbled at the awesome powers we bring for your education. No need to grovel, but a few cheers or applause would be just fine.”

Rose skidded to a halt again, looked up at the two guards standing to either side of the doorway, then gave a brief nod to each of them in turn. “Darius,” she said quietly. “Senior Agent Hallman.”

It took Isabella a moment to realize this was the same FBI agent who she had last seen on video being lifted down from the rafters of their training facility after being severely ‘Goosed.’ There was a point of discussion among her roommates if any of the agents would ever be seen in public again, and it made her feel at least a little more comfortable at the thought that somebody with pony experience was involved in this presentation.

“Rose,” said Agent Hallman back, keeping a perfectly straight face even though his blue eyes flickered to Isabella and back.

The frazzled unicorn glanced over at the door leading to the backstage corridors, obviously concerned about her missing pony. “Can I trust you with Schadenfreude while I get the real entertainment ready for her presentation?”

The ghost of a smile passed over the hefty black agent’s face while Hallman next to him finally scowled. “How did you do that? Why are you here of all places?”

“Punishment detail,” said Rose. “You?”

“I think it’s a reward,” said Hallman with a glance over his shoulder where Schadenfreude was loudly mixing with the political elite behind the closed ballroom doors.

“Let me know if you still think that after you foalsit Schadenfreude.” Rose turned and began to trot away. “Come on, young lady. I’ll introduce you to the Greatest and most Powerful unicorn on the planet. Then she’ll be your problem.”

Unfortunately, there was no unicorn waiting in the back hallway. Well, other than the one Isabella brought with her. Ben had recovered enough to hobble after them and volunteered to see if their missing entertainer was still in the car outside, which left the darkish magenta guard alone after he headed down the hallway in that direction.

“So who was that?” asked Isabella as soon as Ben was out of earshot. “The quick unicorn, that is.”

“Schadenfreude,” growled Rose. “And he’s not a unicorn. He’s some sort of hellish demon from the depths of Tartarus.”

From the brief glimpse Isabella had gotten of the pale-blue pony, he had not seemed to be that terrible. She had dealt with human movie stars before, after all.

“He’s normally Blueblood’s butler,” continued Rose, practically spitting the name like it was a vile obscenity. “He was far too quiet over the last few days since we got thrown into your world. Made the guards more nervous than if he had been acting up. That’s probably why he was on his best behavior.”

“How did he stow away on your trip here? I heard you tell the FBI agents,” explained Isabella.

“He hid in the airplane icebox,” growled Rose again, matched by a growl from her stomach. “Mister Gates was nice enough to provide the loan of his transportation on short notice when Mayor Mare received the call. I was assigned to Trixie as security and we were in the air almost at once. I have no idea how he got to the airplane ahead of us, but he came popping out of the icebox once we were in the air, and Mister Gates refused to let me throw him out. Worse, he threw out all the food so he’d fit in there, so we’re all hungry.”

The unicorn gave out a frustrated huff of air that blew a tuft of frazzled mane out of her eyes, then looked down the hallway in obvious hopes of seeing her client. It gave Isabella a nearly irresistible urge to give a reassuring pat to the alien pony, but she was unsure how the unicorn would react, even since she had seen other humans on TV doing the same thing. After all, Rose seemed far more like her mother’s age than a pet.

“Our most annoying pony matched against your most annoying human,” Rose snapped. “The whole world uses his computer language. I purchased a portable computer to take home, but after a few hours trying to make it work, I threw it into a box. It was like a machine version of Schadenfreude, but at least you could turn it off if you pushed on the button long enough.”

Isabella gave up resisting. She reached out and patted the depressed guard on the head, running her fingers through her russet mane and scratching one dark magenta ear. There was something she wanted to ask ever since she first recognized Rose Petal, but it would be terribly embarrassing if she was wrong. Still, it wasn’t like she was ever going to get this opportunity again.

“The first news reports had a report about how many ponies crossed into our world,” started Isabella carefully. “They said there was one changeling in the group, but we didn’t hear anything about him or her afterward. My roommates had all kinds of theories about it, and since the dragon explained all the different kinds of ponies and griffons and changelings during that one interview and he said that changelings ate love that means they absorb emotions—” Isabella’s fingers found a snarl in the guard’s mane and started to unknot it because she really did not want to go any further.

“It’s not Schadenfreude, “ said Rose carefully. “Just because his cutie mark is tilted enough off-center that you want to straighten it up, and his mane is all tangled to the point you’d need a lawn mower to trim it doesn’t mean he’s anything other than a very, very, very annoying twit.”

“Actually, I thought it was you ever since we saw the footage of you reacting to those religious nuts before they came out of the car,” said Isabella very rapidly. “Now you’ve been cooped up in a plane for several hours with two annoying people—”

“Three,” said Rose. “Trixie is not quite as bad. Even though we had to stop three times on the drive here so she could pick up ‘supplies’ for her presentation. And something called a slurpy.” Rose hesitated, glanced up and down the empty hallways in search of her missing mare, and added, “They’re very good.”

“And you’re diverting again,” said Isabella. “That’s fine if you don’t want to say anything.”

There was a long pause, then a sideways glance up at her much like her own mother had given her when she was acting too smart for her own good. It said volumes.

“Do the others know?” she asked instead.

“Not Schadenfreude.” Rose shuddered. “Trixie knew since we met. She gave me pointers. Critiques, even. Did… you want to see?”

“Don’t change if you’re hungry,” said Isabella quickly. “If Ben gets back unexpectedly, he’d flip. He can’t even step on a spider.”

“I can’t either,” grumbled Rose, giving another look up and down the empty hallways. “Icky things. My husband puts them in jars and releases them away from the house. And you’re right. I’m hungry, but you’re helping.” She shifted positions to let the scratching fingers reach her other ear and let out a low noise like a purring kitten.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” squeaked Isabella, but recovered quickly and added a second hand for ear-scratching when the noise from the ballroom increased. “At least the politicians sound entertained. Your Schadenfreude has them cheering in there.”

“He’s a charming weasel when he tries,” said Rose with a grunt and leaning her armored torso into Isabella’s leg. “That’s probably the only reason he’s alive. And with Darius and Hallman watching over him, I can actually do my job. That should be enough scratching for now,” she managed. “I’m still running on fumes, although…” She cocked her head and looked at the closed door to the backstage area of the ballroom. “I’m getting a familiar bit of joy from in there.”

“She’s already at the stage,” gasped Isabella, who promptly found herself in a race for the back door. Unicorn… or changeling magic was quicker than her reach, and a green magical aura formed around the doorknob even as an overpowering amplified voice from inside the ballroom deafened her enough that she could feel her dental fillings rattle.

“Behold, humans!” came the loud—and more annoying—voice of Schadenfreude from the ballroom, along with a sharp feedback squeal. “The one! The only! Great and Powerful Truxie!”

Rose yanked the door open with her magic and revealed something that would stay with Isabella for the rest of her life. The crowd was filled with wide-eyed people, dressed in their finest clothes and staring up in fascination at their pet alien entertainer. She knew there were at least several congressmen and one ex-president out there, but all she could really see was her client’s backside.

The stage was occupied by a bright blue unicorn with a pointed hat and star-adorned cloak, standing proudly on her hind legs and giving a broad gesture to the crowd of politicians and donors packed into the ballroom. This was obviously the pinnacle of her career, the most important magic show she had ever given to the most important people in a brand new world, and she was going all out. Large boxes were spread out to either side of the stage, filled to overflowing with the products of several local fireworks stands, which were quite obviously the result of the side-trips by her client and one nefarious associate.

But Isabella’s attention was riveted by the sight of a spluttering fuse vanishing into the boxes.

She moved without thinking, hitting Rose’s side in a solid tackle that moved her behind the doorframe just as the explosions began. Screaming whistles and deafening detonations made any conversation impossible, although none of the whizzing and spinning fireworks came shooting back out of the open doorway. It made Isabella’s supposedly heroic tackle look silly in hindsight, but only while they were picking themselves off the floor.

The concussions of fireworks had not died down completely, but it was rapidly being replaced by a loud watery hiss and the earsplitting ‘Blat-Blat-Blat’ of the fire alarm. A fog of mist washed out from the open doorway, accompanied by a dripping-wet blue unicorn who was a far cry from the confident performer of just a minute ago.

“What kind—cough—of fire control enchantments—cough—are those?”

“They don’t have enchantments, you blithering twit!” snapped Rose over the sound of the alarm and hiss of the sprinkler system. She struggled the rest of the way to her hooves, pushing Isabella to one side. “You can’t counterspell when there are no spells to counter! You blew up our best chance to make a positive impression on the humans.”

“What?” said Trixie. “I can’t hear you.”

Even dripping wet with her pointed hat drooping over her face, Trixie was an impressive sight. She was only the second unicorn Isabella had ever seen, so that was understandable. There was something that twinged a thread of sympathy in Isabella’s heart to see a performer go from such heights to abject misery, and it brought a matching idea to mind.

She peeked in the back door of the ballroom and regarded the huge evacuation backlog in the sprinkler-spraying space. Politicians in dripping suits and wives in formerly elegant gowns stood eagerly in a rough wet line, all awaiting their turn with the pale cyan blur she could barely see though the artificial rain. She could still hear his grating voice despite the distance and the number of humans gathered around him.

“Thank you for attending, sir or madam. Would you like a picture with your telephone? Oops. I’ll just dry it off and it will be fine.”

“The most annoying pony in our world and the most annoying people in your world. How does this sound? I’ve got my concierge pass, so I can get you into EPCOT. It’s about a half-hour walk if we take our time, considering the crowds, and we’ll get you fed enough we’ll have to roll you around the parks.”

“What?” said Trixie again.

“And we’ll leave Schadenfreude to the politicians,” added Isabella.

Rose had looked as if she were about to object, but settled back down as the concept soaked in. “Happy people?” she asked.

“The happiest place on Earth.” Isabella plucked up Trixie’s hat and wrung out a puddle of water, along with a few damp playing cards. “They’re open late this evening, and the place is full of kids who will go bonkers over seeing an actual unicorn.”

“I think I can hear you a little,” said Trixie at the top of her lungs. “Can you hear me?”

By the time they made it to the EPCOT front gates, Trixie had regained most of her hearing, gained a collection of ecstatic children, and lost every bit of her depressed and miserable attitude. The trick where she turned Rose into various important Equestrians was particularly popular, although Trixie refused to admit that the stunt was achieved by way of changeling transformation.

Or at least out loud.

39. Now You See Them

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Now You See Them

"Wizards and computers get along about as well as flamethrowers and libraries."
—Jim Butcher

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 6:15 A.M. Tuesday June 30, 2015
Location: Port Canaveral, Royal Caribbean Cruise Terminal, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“This was a mistake.” Karla Anacostia scowled from the cruise ship bed before pulling the sheets to one side and looking for her clothes. After a few minutes of naked crawling around the bed, she blinked in the light of dawn and put one foot on the bedroom suite floor. A gust of warm Florida air stirred the drapes from where they had cracked the windows last night, and the hot perspiration on her body greeted it like a welcome caress of her Louisiana childhood home.

“Did you say something?” asked Dakota, who emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. “And you’re the one who showed up peeling out of your bathing suit last night. I rinsed it out and hung it in the shower.”

“I’m sick, so I’m going back to bed,” she muttered, but did not make a move to go back under the damp sheets. Karla picked several tissues out of the nearby box and blew her nose instead. “Gimmie a couple DayQuill and some Motrin.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Still wearing his towel, Dakota picked a Gatorade out of the room’s minifridge, added a drug packet from his medicine collection, and walked over to the bed. “I said you were hot last night, I just didn’t realize how literal that was until you started coughing. Besides, you told me it was a mistake the last time this happened. Oh!” He vanished out of the adjoining suite door and returned a few seconds later with an additional much smaller pill.

“I’m an idiot,” muttered Karla, but took the pills anyway with a sniff. “Last time, we got interrupted. I thought this time with the girls elsewhere… I’m not like this, honest! I’ve mostly got the sex life of a nun. I don’t normally find a guy I’m so much like but I’m only going to see for a few days, but the girls were talking all this time and I’ve been listening and something in the back of my mind… I’m an idiot.”

“We’re idiots,” said Dakota while checking his phone. “Are you going to be able to go with us to our Universal Hide-From-Disney-Chaos today? The girls sounded really eager about it. FindMyFriends says Widget is still out in the swamps, so we’ve got some time.”

The inter-suite door banged open again and two ponies came galloping in, both covered in sand and burs. “Dakota! Hurry up and get dressed. We only have a few minutes before our transportation to Universal gets here. I was talking to him on your cellular telephone thing when the gator kinda surprised me out on the tour and I dropped it but he was driving over from the air port with his sisters and Goose needs to use your shower since Carla is in ours and—”

Widget abruptly stopped since Goose had galloped past on the way to the bathroom, snagging Kota’s towel in the process. With the experienced reactions of a combat photographer used to embarrassing situations in foreign lands, he grabbed for his suitcase and a pair of briefs while keeping his bare back turned to the ladies (of different species).

“That’s interesting,” said Widget. “No cutie marks on either of you.”

“Not one more word before you check the suite for bugs,” said Kota quickly while scrounging for a matched pair of socks. It gained him precious time to get more clothes on, but Karla did not move from her bare-rumped sprawl across the bed and made no comment of her own until he was mostly decent.

However, she did watch until she blew her nose and continued.

“I’ll die if I have to go to Universal. Heatstroke, dehydration, and whatever else comes with the summer flu or a cold or whatever this is.” She coughed again and dumped the tissues in the trash. “Once the drugs take hold, I’ll drive the RV over to Wilderness Resort and park it where the agency said we’ve got a spot. You go have fun with the girls in the park. Just ignore me dying out in the parking lot. I’ll be fine.”

“No bugs,” said Widget with just the hint of disappointment after waving her horn around, but she produced a small metal device and presented it to Karla, who paid it only the slightest attention. “Mister Elon said I could keep a piece of the rocket that blew up. It’s a valve that controls liquid oxygen. Air so cold it turns into a liquid! That’s so magical that I can’t believe you humans don’t have our magic.”

Dakota chuckled, but crawled around on the floor looking for his other boot. Tracking where it went last night had not really been a priority. “We just can’t cure the common cold. I noticed the Comena family was fighting the summer flu bug, but I didn’t think much of it because you girls are supposed to be immune.”

Karla said something quite unspeakable from the bed, making no effort to cover her bare brown buns while Dakota continued.

“I got my flu shot this year. And all the rest of my boosters. Never know when you’ve got an overseas assignment on the spur of the moment.” Dakota pulled his cargo shorts up and applied some powder. “Gonna be a busy day out in the heat.”

“And while we’re out, we don’t talk about the two of you,” said Widget. “We had some reporters try to get us to spill the beans out in the swamp. It would help if you were a little more… subtle. Even the cruise shippers know about you.”

* * *

Claire managed to get out of the shower in record time, thankful that she had opted for shorter hair during the summer. Kansas did not have the monopoly on hot and humid, and even this early in the morning, she was grateful for a quick cool spray to wash out the over-enthusiastic amount of bug spray the whole group had applied for their pre-dawn trip to Cape Canaveral and the SpaceX launch complex, with associated wildlife refuge.

After a quick check in the mirror to see if she had picked up any hitchhiking ticks on her back, Claire searched for a t-shirt in her bag and looked up to see a fast-moving Filipino maid just coming in through the door, holding an armload of laundry. She was far older than most of the rest of the ship’s crew, and Claire had bumped into her once already out in the smoking area. There were so many rich and powerful people her odd mismatched group had met in a short time that it was nice to find an old lady who treated her like one of her shipborne grandkids.

“Oh!” Claire picked out a bra that wasn’t soaking wet from sweat, but still warm from the cruise ship’s dryer and tried to figure out a way to put it on while still wearing her towel for modesty. “Mama Nikko. Good to see you. Did you get to meet the girls, yet? We’re headed out to Universal shortly and probably won’t get a chance later.”

“Not yet,” the old lady admitted through a heavy accent. “Been running cover for you with my girls. Whole batch of reporters on th’ dock. Dere finishing up the last of th’ cleaning belowdecks, so when you want to pick up a cab, we can run your little horses out the service way wit the carpet delivery vans if you want. Dey’s less interested in th’ girls than your photo tographer and th’ cop, though.”

“Kota and Karla?” Claire nabbed a pair of low socks and looked for her sneakers. “Why would they want— Oh. I’ll go check.”

She opened the adjoining suite door and slipped inside, returning a few minutes later with her towel wrapped tighter around herself.

“Mama Nikko, you don’t have to pack my suitcase.” The elderly Filipino did not seem to hear, or at least ignored her while Claire continued. “The girls will be out in a moment and we can follow you down to the service corridors, if you say that’s the easiest way out of here. Thank you,” she added as the old lady passed over a pair of underwear and clean shorts.

“The staff and crew signed shirts for you an’ your little horses last night,” said Mama Nikko, who was tucking them into Claire’s luggage all neat and tidy. “Here. You’ll want somethin’ else topical to wear at th’ park with all them reporters around, so we gotcha a Quiddich t-shirt.”

“Thank you again,” said Claire, taking a moment to examine a different blue and white t-shirt with the “Carnival” logo on it and nearly covered in signatures. It was thoughtful and well worth hanging on the wall at home, so she left it in the suitcase and ducked into the bathroom to put on the Harry Potter shirt that Mama Nikko passed her next. “And merchandising,” she added, peering out the door to look at the crisp new Carnival Cruise LIne shoulderbags on the table, two of which had been modified for equine wear.

“Moychendizing,” said Mama Nikko in an astonishingly good imitation of Mel Brooks. “You be going into the heart of this magic book world. You betta have a good guide.”

“Eddie said he got some guy named James to escort us around Universal,” said Claire while trying to get her shorts and socks on. “Said he had a big brother who was an expert, and that he’d come along if he could get away from work.” Her phone took that moment to chirp, and she took a quick look at the text before typing back. “He’s pulling into the parking lot now. I’ll tell him to park back in the service area like you said, and we’ll meet him there. Should be no problem.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 0530 hours 30 JUN 2015
Location: Observation Post #1, Camp Welcome, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Lt. Nicolas Comena liked the mornings. Getting up before the problems started left the commander of his short platoon a little quiet time to enjoy the pre-dawn glow before Gold shift made way for Blue in a few hours. Rather than check in by radio, he made the short walk between the four M1A2 tanks to stretch out his admittedly short legs and get some of the kinks out of his back, courtesy of sleeping part of the night in the commander’s seat. Undoubtedly, Colonel Clarke had unexpected tasks for him once he was off-duty. Unwelcome, unpleasant tasks, but made up for by the discovery that Goose Down had discovered how to send photos by text, but not how to point the camera-phone quite as well as human teens.

The picture of the alligator’s tonsils and panicking reporters was a bit unnerving, but there were more pictures afterward so the encounter must have been relatively uneventful. Although he did not see as many of the reporters in the shot.

He was just getting back to Four-One when he spotted Colonel Clarke in the vicinity with two short soldiers at his side, and Nick braced himself for bad news.

“Good news, Lieutenant,” said Clarke once he spotted Nick. “I’m transferring two new soldiers to your detachment. Sgt Maria Rodriguez is Blue shift’s new loader for the command tank, and Lt. Caroline Miranda will take over Blue shift’s command functions.”

Nick had never been too terribly impressed with female tank crew candidates, with an exception for Sergeant Mazer in Four-Two. Although women were not permitted in combat armor positions quite yet, the current administration had been ‘nibbling around the edges’ for the last few years. Mazer had been an MP for years before being ‘Insta-Reserved’ like the rest of the short platoon with a intensely shortened training schedule of a day, and Nick was fairly certain she could still outshoot and outdrive anybody on Four-One, including himself. Once the green light was given for women to be in active combat positions, she was probably going to pack her Military History degree and head off to OCS to be a general some day, and one who could kick the ass of anybody in her way.

These two women seemed to be at least competent and more photogenic than Mazer’s fierce mug, which was probably the most important characteristic for the day shift who had the most press camera time. Unfortunately, Sergeant Rodriguez looked a bit like she had to have been weighed soaking wet in order to meet the Army’s minimum weight requirements, and Lieutenant Miranda kept eyeing the tank as if she could not wait to try it out, much like a child with a new toy. Worse, she was blonde and good-looking, so the guys from Stars and Stripes would be all over her.

Once Col. Clarke made himself scarce, Nick considered the way Sgt. Hardhooves and Sgt. Spasowski just appeared out of nowhere when tasks appropriate for senior NCOs of either race made themselves known.

“Sergeants, please show our two new recruits the ropes. Stars and Stripes has a photo shoot scheduled this morning at Four-One. I was going to run it, but if you feel Lt. Miranda is up to the task, they’d probably cut her more slack.”

“Why us, sir?” asked Lt. Miranda with a shake of her head that made the bob of blonde hair at the back of her head sway, and reminded Nick that neither soldier was wearing their cover. Once that minor detail was taken care of, he continued carefully, well aware of the verbal minefield he was tiptoeing through.

“Because the Ess an Ess thinks they should have a monopoly on me because I rescued one pony during the initial quote ‘invasion’ unquote,” he admitted. “And I’m getting a little tired of it. The more other soldiers getting in front of their microphones and being more photogenic than me, the better. And although I hate to admit it, their crew is a bunch of stuck-up males.”

There were a number of other character descriptions he could have used instead, but things got bigger when repeated, and less is more.

“So go along with the schedule they sent us. Oh, and run over to stores and pull a set of helmets your size.” He rapped his knuckles on the Desert Tan CVC helmet he was carrying. “They should have a brand-new set right out of packing, with the new camo pattern. And pull any gear you don’t have yet. We’re on display for the public here, be all you can be and all that. Every weeb on the internet will notice if your boots aren’t bloused right or your cover isn’t fastened. Make sure you have everything right down to the gas mask. Sergeant Spasowski will walk you through the process, and I’ll see you two at the end of your shift. Dismissed.”

With his tasks over for the moment, Nick headed to the barracks tent for an hour or two of sleep before CC dumped something else on him.

Only something in the sky caught his attention. Thankfully, it had nothing to do with his military responsibilities, so he kept walking.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:57 P.M. CST
Location: Beijing, China (Classified)

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Again?” Specialist Cho scowled at the image being relayed from halfway around the world as the drone spiraled into the ground. All he could see for a few minutes was a whirling blur of blue sky and grey pony feathers before the view became entirely green with Kansas grass. Then the Chinese-made drone was flipped over and an enormous face filled the projection screen his intelligence collection group was watching.

“” declared the giant grey pony face. “”

“Third time this week,” muttered Manchu. “CNN is getting to be our best customer. They’re going to be putting in another order in a few hours, so make sure to get the modified drone configured and boxed up for next-day air. Better prep a few of them.”

“Probably should give them a few percent discount,” grumbled Specialist Cho as the image changed to bouncing along the ground. “They let her keep the drones for her unicorn child. They’ll have a full collection by the time the children get back.”

They watched as Derpy brought the damaged drone back to the pony mayor, who rolled her eyes and let her keep the device as expected. Then the scene changed with another ground-level tour of the Equestrian encampment all the way to the aluminum trailer she called home and the cardboard box where the rest of the broken drones had been placed.

“Any update on the two troublemakers in Florida?” asked Manchu. “Either of the groups.”

“We can’t get an agent near Schadenfreude,” said Cho. “Their Secret Service picked up his security and took him to Washington for talks. Apparently, he’s some sort of high-ranking diplomat who works for one of their royalty. He’s been making deals right and left, and they seem to expect a mutual defense treaty by tomorrow.” He checked an entry on his tablet computer. “Much the same for the teams trying to make contact with Trick See and the police officer inside the magical kingdom.”

“They can’t find them? Two alien ponies in an amusement park and they’re hiding?”

“No,” said Cho bluntly. “The police officer sniffed out our agents all night long and Tricks See steals their wallets. Several other countries are having the same issue.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:05 AM, June 30 2015
Location: Magic Kingdom, Orlando Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Looks Italian.” Ben turned the wallet over in his thick fingers. “No cash. Just like the rest of them.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” declared Trixie, who happily pranced in front of him with her tail whisking back and forth. “You humans are just naturally clumsy. I don’t know how you manage to make the clever little birds in that building.” She stopped cold and considered a nearby stand with a long line in front of it. “What’s a Dole Whip?”

Ben had been distracted by handing the wallet to one of the plainclothes security who had been lurking nearby, but his attention returned in a flash. “Ambrosia in a cup. Cut or no cut?”

“No cut, of course.” Trixie began trotting to the far end of the line where a half-dozen children had begun to jump up and down while pointing at the pony. “The line is the best part. Within reason, of course.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:15 AM, June 30 2015
Location: Magic Kingdom Main Street, Orlando Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Whoa, there. Whoa!” Isabella Schwant waved her hands at the crowd like she was shooing back a flock of ducks with much the same effect. “Rose has been taking pictures with all of you for an hour now, and we’re obstructing traffic from people entering the park.”

“Just one more?” Rose Thorn bobbed on the tips of her hooves. “It’ll be really quick, and then we can go further into the park. Everypony line up on two sides here, with a space in the middle. Come on, hurry up and get your camera telephones out. Phillip can’t take pictures of all of you at once.”

The Official Disney World Photographer who had been working his shutter like a maniac for the last two hours nodded in response, shaking his right hand to get a cramp out.

“About that far apart,” directed the reddish female unicorn, as Isabella tried to keep thinking of her. She certainly displayed her police officer roots, because tourists followed her direction like marching soldiers until there were two lines of park guests facing each other, all of whom had a camera in one or both hands. “A little further back, there. Children up front. There we go. Everybody get your camera telephones ready? Okay, start taking pictures…Now!”

Darting from one side of the crowd to another, Rose proceeded down the parallel rows of tourists like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon, holding two kids by the shoulders one moment, then kissing an older bald man on the cheek while she stole his hat, and putting a young couple in handcuffs after another dash across the line. When she reached the end of the line, she turned to the crowd and took a bow to thunderous applause.

“Okay! Everypony, that was the first part. Now, go across the gap and find the human you took a picture of with me so you can trade photos and introduce yourself to a new friend you made here at Walt Disney World! And have a wonderful rest of the day!”

With a series of bounds, Rose Thorn bounced back to Isabella, taking a moment to get her handcuffs back from the young couple and making a delightful face at a baby in a nearby stroller.

“Overcharged?” Isabella could not resist the minor jab, but Rose merely nodded back with a broader grin.

“Enough love to be dribbling out my ears.”

“Enough to survive meeting with the politicians Trixie was supposed to meet last night?” asked Isabella. “Provided not all of them caught a cold.” She checked her phone messages. “Two more of them just canceled. Summer flu.”

“Doc Stable says we’re immune to just about everything cross-species.” The maroon unicorn took a deep breath. “I suppose, in the name of interdimensional unity. Any idea where Schadenfreude went?”

“Jetted to DC last night with his Secret Service contingent. Sounds like he’s going to be busy for the next few days until they fly him back to your portal.”

Rose slowed her brisk trot for a moment. “Do you think they’d like to keep him?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:04 A.M. Tuesday June 30, 2015
Location: Port Canaveral, Royal Caribbean Cruise Terminal, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Everything takes longer and costs more.

Dakota determined that the saying did not apply to ponies in a hurry. It was unfair to leave most of their luggage for Agent Anacostia to load into the RV, but by the time Claire had her Carnival Cruise Lines shoulder bag hefted, a dripping wet batpony and a high-speed unicorn had her in a human sandwich and headed down the cruise ship corridor at a gallop. The cruise line employees had adapted to their equine guests, because they lined their path, pointing the way and taking pictures as the ponies ran past, waving or stopping briefly for quick group photos by Dakota as he tried to keep up.

“Thanks for your hospitality! Pictures will be posted to the San Francisco Chronicle website,” he called out over his shoulder as the ponies bolted for the next turn and down the stairs. He got a brief glimpse of the Caribbean Princess gangplank as they ran, and the unruly herd of reporters staking out their obvious exit made him quite glad they were taking an alternate way to disembark. The utility corridors of the cruise ship were markedly less decorated but just as spotless, with only a few of the maintenance crew still carrying equipment out to their vehicles or packing trash into nearby dumpsters in the early morning sunlight when they emerged.

“Oorah! Marine!” called out an enormous fat black man, looking as if he were a driver for a nearby semi-truck. He had his hefty body positioned to cover his pointing finger from the mob of reporters a hundred yards behind him, and a USMC tattoo proudly displayed on the shoulder rotated in their direction. “Other side of the cab. You expecting a couple of Brits?”

“Thanks!” The pony pair made a sharp right turn, hurrying around the side of the vision-blocking semi trailer and almost ran right into an extended passenger van with some redheaded people waving out the open windows. The sliding side door opened, the four of them piled in, and Dakota got the sudden feeling he was surrounded by Weasey siblings.

“James, can’t I drive back?” called out one of them, a bulky young man who was crouched down between two seats.

“You almost wrecked us on the way over,” said another similar redhead. “They drive on the right side of the road here.”

“I better drive,” said Dakota, climbing into the driver’s seat as the current redhead moved out of his way gratefully. “I’m not going to be taking photos during the trip anyway. Which one of you is James?”

“Me.” The young man settled into the passenger front seat and waved a paper map. “We don’t have internet, so I bought a map.”

“I told you to talk to the phone people to get it to work in the US before we left,” said the bulky young man between the seats.

“You gave us less than an hour before we had to catch the plane, Rupert.”

“British phones use a different networking protocol, Widget,” called Dakota over his shoulder as he maneuvered the big van onto the road and started back in the direction of Highway 528. “Can we get introductions, please. I’m starting to think I’m in a family of Weasleys.”

That got a round of laughter all around the van, with James speaking up once he had a chance. “That’s because my big brother over there actually played Ron Weasley in the movies. Say hi, Rupert.”

“Hi Rupert.”

“He’s ducking down because he’s afraid somebody will recognize him, and we’ll get swarmed at Universal. Anyway, the rest of the batch are our sisters, Georgina, Samantha, and Charlotte.”

Dakota gave the rear-view mirror a quick glance since they had gotten into a stable section of traffic. “You missed one.”

“I’m Bonnie,” volunteered the other redheaded girl. “When I heard Rupert was headed to the states to meet an actual unicorn—”

“She twisted my arm,” said Rupert, who had emerged out from behind the seat now that they were on the highway and away from the press scrum. “Literally. Made me buy her ticket. I swear, she’s worse than a real sister.”

Bonnie blushed, which was impressive with her complexion. It probably did not help her embarrassment that she was scratching Widget behind the ears, and that Goose had laid her head in Samantha’s lap beside her for some batpony scritches of her own, with the two other girls impatiently waiting their turn with the brushes that Claire had brought.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:10 AM, June 30 2015
Location: Universal Studios, Orlando Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Paul had a good job that kept him on his toes. Normally, the worst thing that would happen in a day was a guest who harassed a cast member enough to be kicked out of the park, which could get sticky if they were wealthy or powerful. Thankfully, he did not have to deal with those consequences. Universal had lawyers. He had his lines to say, a badgecam, and at absolute worst, pepper spray and a taser. Most days the worst threat he had to face was the Florida sun, which made maximum sunscreen a necessity. The mixed group of uniformed and plainclothes security had already gathered together, swapped radio frequencies and sunscreen application in awkward places, and all that was left was the wait for the VIP guests.

He could say “The bathroom is over there” in seventeen languages, as well as “This way sir or madam” in a few more, but the best part of his job was telling his children who he met at work. As much as they were supposed to stay off the internet, or the ‘gaping sewer of depravity and malice’ that he preferred to think of it, the kids knew the names of every social media influencer who got snuck in by the VIP entrance, and treasured the occasional autograph.

You weren’t supposed to get autographs at work, but sometimes if you just happened to be holding a pad of paper and a sharpie while the VIP was standing by the exit, waiting for the car to be brought around…

And as if the thought had triggered it, a stretched van eased its way into the small circle drive at the bottom of the private VIP entrance. The head office had not said exactly who was visiting the park on a private and very much non-publicized trip, but from the number of redheaded young people who piled out of the van, it looked like the whole Weasely family.

And they brought their own Thestral.

To be honest, Paul had not really been keeping up with current events. He had dismissed the ponies, ponies, ponies everywhere ‘thing’ as some sort of media blitz for an upcoming cartoon or Harry Potter film. It had only been a few days since the first report, after all, and he had been fighting a fairly vicious invasion of Japanese beetles in his garden. His wife worked evening shift driving a Disney bus, so their limited time together in early morning and late night was mostly spent doing household stuff, and he had quit trying to keep up with his kids and their wild activities.

The arrival caught him by surprise in the middle of texting the head office to say the VIPs were late, so his cell phone was being held loosely in nerveless fingers as the wave of young humans and equines galloped up the sidewalk in front of him.

“Selfies!” squealed the pink and pale blue unicorn that Paul had overlooked until now. “Everybody get together and we’ll get a picture before we go in. Goose, scoot in there with the guards and here we go.”

He was just a moment too slow to catch his phone as it flew through the air, hovered in front of the mixed group of tourists and Universal security, and stayed there making clicking noises.

“Widget, let me get a picture too. Something a little more serious for the Chronicle. Everybody look up here.” A short-ish dark man with a professional camera scooted forward, taking his place right under the floating cell phone. “Everybody smile. And…um… Goose?”

“Oh, right.” A cool metal-clad hoof gently touched Paul on the bottom of his chin and lifted until his teeth finally made contact. “Don’t worry,” she whispered while smiling. “A lot of humans get caught like that. Widget is a bit enthusiastic. That’s why we were late. We— I mean she saw an antique store. And McDonalds for breakfast.”

The picture from the Chronicle website got posted in their house at poster-size, with Paul’s somewhat stunned-bunny expression right in the middle.

His kids loved it.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:30 AM, June 30 2015
Location: Port Canaveral, Royal Caribbean Cruise Terminal, Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“If Dakota kept the RV keys in his pocket, I’m going to kill him.” Agent Anacostia trudged through the parking lot with the Canaveral Cruise Line employees tagging along behind her, each of the young men with a luggage cart in that awkward situation where there’s really too many bags for one cart but not enough to make a second seem justified.

“I think I’ve got them,” said the more Dutch-looking porter, who checked his pockets. “They were sitting on the desk when we loaded up the bags, and they’re the only keys I saw. Are you going to be comfortable driving in your condition?”

“I’m sick, not pregnant,” snapped Karla. “I’ve got enough Motrin in me to survive an hour’s drive. Unless the FBI sent another agent to drive,” she added with a quick look around the parking lot and the crowd of incoming passengers maneuvering for a close spot.

“The captain said to do whatever I could to help, and he’d talk to the cruise line. I’ll happily drive if you need it,” said the man. “Anders Hansen. Stock analyst. I’d shake hands, but…”

“Stupid summer flu,” she muttered. “Clyde texted me while I was getting ready. The CDC paid a little visit to Lt. Comena’s parents last night. Said it’s the same strain that was in this year’s flu shot. Which I didn’t get.”

“I did.” Anders unlocked the RV with the key fob and opened the door for her and the baggage handler, who promptly began packing their luggage in a professional manner. “If you give me the address of where you’re going, you can sack out in one of the chairs until we get there.”

“Sounds good.” Karla yawned. “I’m going to need your contact information for the FBI report. Are you going to miss your boat by driving me to Fort Wilderness?”

Anders shrugged once he finished putting his knapsack behind the driver’s seat and settling down to drive. “I need to spend a few days in the condo catching up with phone calls anyway. Besides, the Carnival cruise people sounded very sincere about making sure you didn’t have any issues. Very much so. They’re practically sterilizing the suite you were in, and your trash was being double-bagged and treated like gold.”

Karla winced from the captain’s chair where she had fastened her seat belt and reclined the seat. It was a more stable platform to sleep than the bed, which would send her rolling around every time Anders took a turn. “I bet the CDC— Oh, hell.”

“What?” Anders caught her eyes in the rear-view mirror, but she waved him on.

“It’s not important. Here’s the address at Fort Wilderness where we’re supposed to park. Wake me when we get there, please. And thank you.”

Karla refused to consider what the CDC would think of one particular used item in the trash.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1350 Hours 30-Jun-2015
Location: Camp Rainbow, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Corporal Frey?” Lt. Comena had been looking forward to sacking out in the barracks tent as close to the humming air conditioner vent as possible, but the look on his driver’s face when he peeked into the tent banished any thought of sleep. “What’s up?”

“Fire extinguisher system on Four-One got discharged,” said Rick. “Thankfully, Stars and Stripes was just shooting still photos instead of video or we’d star on YouTube.”

“Details?” asked Rick with a bit of trepidation since Frey never went into third-person without a reason.

“Lt. Miranda will have a full report eventually,” admitted Corporal Frey.

“Which means you don’t want to say anything that might look different when everything’s filed,” said Nick. “Unofficially, what happened?”

“Lt. Miranda was giving a dog and pony show to the press,” said Rick quietly. “Sergeant Rodriguez was doing a good job of playing Vanna White for the demo. You know, pointing at things being described, working the action on the .50 — unloaded, of course — and holding pieces of equipment. Miranda pointed out the T-handle over the armor skirt, Rodriguez pulled it before anybody could say anything, and… Well, the tank was empty at the moment anyway, so nobody was hurt.”

It was not appropriate officer behavior to beat his head against the wall, and since he was in a tent, it would be more futile than anything. Still, he was the local commanding officer for the short platoon.

“When I get notified officially, I’ll have Sergeant Spasowski pull the FSRS supplemental guide on refilling the Halon system and check for any updates online. I want him to supervise the maintenance crew doing the recharge, and Miranda to observe.”

“Not sure how much good that’s going to do.” The slightly built corporal fidgeted, then quietly took a laptop out from under his arm. “Earlier, I emailed one of my buds back at Ft. Benning. E-4 Mafia and all that. Got curious on how a golden boy… well, girl out of ROTC could get moved over to the Reserves and dropped on us so fast. I’ll just… leave this here, sir. On account I probably shouldn’t be gossiping with the CO.”

Once his driver had excused himself, Nick reviewed the open email on Corporal Frey’s laptop, internally marveling at how fast the informal wheels of the E-4 and E-5 pay grade could produce information that a horde of CIA spooks would take a week to match.

Second Lieutenant Caroline Miranda had a history that roughly read “Some disaster happened, it was not her fault, she got transferred.” Getting a tank stuck during maneuvers was not an unusual event. Sinking one deep enough in the river to flood it was. There were no fatalities in any of the incidents, but the property damage was impressive, and Nick suspected there were a few unlisted incidents that would push the bill higher.

His nap would wait. Time to officer-up, despite how much he would have rather been in Orlando with his buddy Dakota and the hot FBI agent.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:30 PM, June 30 2015
Location: Wagon Wheel Drive, Fort Wilderness, Orlando Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Thank you again, Anders. Clyde says you can send your Uber bill to me so you can get driven home, or wherever you’re going.” Agent Anacostia checked her phone and pointed along an unbroken line of full-sized buses and fifth-wheels. It was a good example of Orlando in the middle of tourist season, and she had already been considering just exactly what to do if the mythical RV parking slot was between Sasquatch and the Loch Ness Monster. “About ten slots that way. At least we’re not driving one of those whales. This thing should back up into the slot without knocking down a tree.”

“The only empty place in the park,” said Anders Hansen as he turned the RV steering wheel. “Is that your friend?”

Karla looked at the hefty black man coming out of a converted bus as the RV swung wide and Anders put it into reverse gear. “The note I got said he’s a judge who reserves two spots for a full week every year, one for him and one for the Marshalls JSD if needed. Slow down backing up, please.”

“Sorry. I normally take a Uber. Haven’t driven in a few years.” The RV lurched going over a curb, and Karla grabbed onto the steering wheel quickly.

“I’m feeling better,” she started, “and the RV is a rental. Get out.”

It took a few minutes for Karla to get the RV backed into the oversized space, guided by the large black man and Anders standing beside him. The groggy feeling leftover from her nap really did not lift until she went into the back to wash her face, blow her nose, and change into comfortable shoes. She had seen the other man somewhere before, but could not immediately put a name to the face.

Until she stepped out of the RV door and came face-to-face with her childhood role model.

“Justice Thomas?” Karla clapped both hands over her face. “I’ve got the flu. Or a cold.”

“The CDC says it’s one of the variants in this year’s flu shot,” said Clarence Thomas, although he had obviously been ready to shake hands until she had jerked away. “The wife and I got vaccinated last year first thing, and from what I hear, the ponies you’re with don’t even need that.” He leaned slightly to one side in order to look past her. “They’re not in there, are they?”

“No, the girls are at Universal.” Karla took a step backward despite herself, still trying to keep one hand over her mouth while she fumbled her phone out and checked the messages. “They’re keeping the internet warm with group texts. And…um…” She turned the phone sideways. “They’re with the Weaselys over at the Harry Potter world place?”

Justice Thomas looked at the photo on her phone and chuckled. “Kids. Yeah, they’re lucky to be out of the line of media fire. The CDC and a number of very serious State Department bureaucrats have been keeping my phone buzzing. Half of them are terrified I’m going to come down with the extraterrestrial crud and die if I even glance at one of your little horse-friends, and the other half sound like they’re looking forward to it. Here. A gift from the government.”

Karla looked at the bag of orange trash bags and miscellaneous supplies Justice Thomas had given her, then looked up at him again.

“Courtesy of the Center for Disease Control and their expense account,” he explained. “Snacks, drugs, cough drops, tissues, extra toilet paper, and biological isolation bags. Tie a knot around one of them and drop it outside your RV door whenever it’s full. They said they’ll cruise by once an hour to pick up ‘biological samples’ and have them tested. Here’s the spare key to our RV if you need anything, and the phone number of the Disney concierge service. Lawn chairs are in the underbelly storage bin, and leave a note if you empty any bottles in the medicine cabinet. We’ll be back before Friday, but your friends will probably be on the road back to the portal by then and we won’t get to see them. Do you have any questions?”

It took a few moments for Karla to look over the immense bus-conversion RV from blunt nose to tail, then look back at Justice Thomas before blurting out, “I didn’t really understand the second part of Zivotofsky v. Kerry. The decision was horribly overcomplicated. Couldn’t you have just ruled that the President has the right to recognize foreign governments in one regard, and the Senate in a different regard, and if there are any conflicts between the two branches, the Executive decision shall be final? It would have been a lot easier.”

“Perhaps, young lady,” rumbled the judge, “but less in line with the Constitution’s text and—”

“Clarance!” A middle-aged white woman emerged from the huge RV, towing a pair of suitcases. “The taxi is going to be here in a few minutes, and the Swan says they can slip us into the pony reception for an hour if we hurry. Then we can still make it to Cape Crossings for Harlan’s cruise down the coast.”

“Beg pardon, young lady.” Judge Thomas moved as if he were going to shake hands again, but Karla recoiled away. “Sorry about that. At least it sounds like we’re going to meet at least one pony before they all go home next Monday. A policemare named Rose Petal, if the calls from the State Department have anything near the truth in them. I heard she was covering for your two ponies and their general fear of the limelight, and I put in a request. When this is all over, give me a ring when you’re in DC next so Antonin and I can talk some sense into your judicial education.”

“I’d be honored,” responded Karla reflexively, giving the approaching dark SUV a small portion of her remaining attention. It certainly looked like the generic US-made transport the Marshalls service used, with a generic US-made Marshalls officer playing cab driver. A few minutes later she was standing all alone in front of the two RVs in the hot Florida sunlight, wondering if the summer flu came with hallucinations.

“Do you suppose Mr. Thomas would mind if I used one of his lawn chairs in the shade here for an hour or so until the lunch rush traffic dies down?” asked Anders, who was standing right beside Karla as if it were her blind spot. “I’ve got my laptop, and Justice Thomas gave us each a signed copy of his book to read while waiting.”

“I…think he won’t mind,” managed Karla. She tapped a phone number out of reflex, and was not surprised a bit when it answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Clyde,” she started with a sniff. “I need to move today’s leave from annual to sick because— Oh, the CDC called already. Yes, that should work as a doctor’s note. Did they mention anything…else? Ah, good. Yes, I should have gotten my flu shot last year. Yes, I’ll get it this year. Anyway, do I need to enter anything into the Sentinel system for the girls today since… Oh, you’re tracking them by social media over at Universal. Good. Well, if you don’t need anything, I’m going back inside, cranking up the AC, and watching the rest of the Harry Potter movies. Thanks, Clyde. You’re an awesome boss.”

Karla put away the phone, plugged the RV into the electrical ‘mushroom’ at the back of the parking slot, and went back inside to prop her feet up. She had already read Justice Thomas’ book several times, but had not caught up on the Harry Potter series so she put the DVD in and relaxed in the captain’s chair while the opening credits rolled.

It was not as much fun as watching a pair of interdimensional aliens run around an amusement park, but it was about time for a break from the insanity.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:57 PM, June 30 2015
Location: 7th Ave and Park Street, Universal Studios, Orlando Florida

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Are you OK, Goose?” Claire patted the back of the batpony while the front end was inside the stall, making rather loud and quite human barfing noises.

“I didn’t scare her, did I?” asked Tiffany, a little girl with curls who had filled in the empty space in their car for Transformers the Ride. “So sorry I screamed.”

“I think the 3-D glasses aren’t made for Equestrians. Are there any more quiet rides?” asked Goose between retching. “I’m done with roller coasters for now.”

“The other pony went back into the ride. At least you got to the bathroom before throwing your cookies,” said Tiffany. “Is that really the Weasely family outside? I’ve seen all the movies. I thought they’d be over at the Harry Potter section.”

“Rupert said he always spends all day over in that section when he’s here for a publicity trip,” explained Claire. “We’re running around the park in places he’s never really had time to visit before. That way it’s new for all of us.”

“Except for Dragon Challenge,” managed Goose. “That was still worth it. I need to get back in there. Widget’s my protective designee, like Agent Anacostia says.”

“Dakota’s got her, and most of the park security. I think they’re worried she’ll take something apart.” Claire checked her pockets. “I have her Leatherman tool, at least.”

By the time they got out of the bathroom, the other group was long gone to more exciting rides. Claire considered it a reasonable trade-off, since she was feeling a little overwhelmed by the attention. There was considerable cognitive dissonance between seeing somebody in a half-dozen movies, and meeting them in a different role as a Real Human Without a Script.

They still had tourists come up and greet them while traveling from ride to ride, including an elderly couple who seemed absolutely convinced Goose was some sort of actor when they met her next to the Hello Kitty character, who must have been sweltering in her costume.

Little Tiffany stuck to their group like glue, or at least that was the way Claire thought at first. Then she realized Goose Down was herding her slightly with the occasional wing-nudge or shoulder-push. Since there was no sign of the girl’s parents and none of the security along with them were displaying any signs of a lost child alert, it did not seem to be a problem and at least it kept the child out of trouble.

That left Claire to group text Widget whenever they got a few minutes to breathe.

Goose liked Minion Mayhem. You guys still good over there?

We’re hitting most of the motion simulators and avoiding coasters. Picked up a kid. She’s a peach but check back if Tiffany’s parents ask you about her.

Rode Forbidden Journey. Goose is fine, just a little spooked.

Sorry Hulk is closed for refurb. As long as you’re there, get me a shirt please.

Once you get dried out from Ripsaw Falls, we should meet up for lunch.

Ok, once your done with skull island.

since Rupert says the leaky caldron will be packed solid, where do you want to eat?

Simpsons it is. Meet you there.

Tiffany was still right next to Goose when they finished riding more of the kiddie rides in Springfield, meeting up with the rest of the redheaded bunch in a whirl of emotions. It seemed as if they had been separated for days instead of a few hours with as much chattering and laughter was involved.

The whole Weasley clan had swapped out long pants and heavy shirts for shorts and t-shirts somewhere, most probably one of the multitudinous souvenir shops, and Claire suspected one of Universal’s house-elf minions had spirited the replaced clothes back to the van. The staff had likewise cleared out a section of the Krusty Burger for their dining pleasure, although Widget and Goose still darted to the edge of the reserved zone whenever they saw a child in desperate need of a selfie or two. To Claire’s surprise, Tiffany ate an entire Krusty Burger combo for lunch, a task that seemed epic until Claire considered the way Widget and Goose went through three of the Mother Nature bean burger combos, each with shakes and extra orders of cheese fries. It was a rare moment to bond with the Harry Potter actors and their family before they headed out in one giant mob for Men in Black - Alien Attack.

It was not a roller-coaster, so Goose was good with the idea, and Widget was a bit stuffed after lunch, so violent outdoor motion was out for her too.

“When we’re done here, we should probably head back to the Harry Potter area,” said Rupert in the middle of their getting organized to board the MIB ride car. “Universal has a spot for us to sign autographs and get photos, and the fans are always ticked pink.”

“He’s a big softie,” said Bonnie. “Did you know he bought a ‘Mister Whippy’ Bedford ice cream truck back at home, just so he can go hand out lollies and cones for free?”

“I can’t sell them,” protested Rupert. “I don’t have a license. Besides, I seem to remember you lining up with the rest of the cast on the last day of filming when I brought it to the lot.”

“We can go over there, but just for an hour or so,” said Widget. “I get a little twitchy when we get swarmed. And I still want to try out my wand.” She floated a short stick out in her magic and gave it a wave. “Human magic is so different than unicorn magic.”

Tiffany did not seem to appreciate the display, either from the floating wand or the alien blasters on the ride, during which she scored no points at all. Goose escorted her to the bathroom afterward, and Claire was a little worried when the batpony returned alone.

“Where’s the kid?” asked Clarie, looking at the flow of tourists in and out of the ladies room.

“She went home.” Goose shrugged. “Some sort of teleportation device. Are we headed to the Harry Potter section now?”

“Wait a moment.” Claire put one hand on the warm batpony. “Teleportation device?”

“I knew she was an alien when we first met. That’s why I kept so close to her. Probably better to keep all the aliens in the same spot during our visit.” Goose gave Claire a puzzled look. “Didn’t you smell her?”

Scout T’nany emerged from the portation chamber, peeling out of her sweaty human disguise as her commander stood waiting for her report. “The invasion is off,” said T’nany. “I’m going to take a debrading. It’s hot as Msharana-9 down there.”

“What do you mean, Scout?” The commander stopped T’nany before she could slink away. “We have a million troops ready to go—”

“And they have allied with the Equestrians,” responded T’nany immediately. “One of them found me within minutes of my arrival. That alone would put an end to any invasion plans, but if that isn’t bad enough, the videos we intercepted are only the tip of the Schmorak-horn. They have games where their hatchlings are trained to shoot aliens with directed-energy weapons! Small hatchlings! They really do have technology so advanced they call it magic! There’s over a billion of the humans on their planet. Billion! An invasion isn’t practical. We’d be wiped out.”

The scout paused to think. “However, I should return to investigate this place called Disney next solar rotation. They are supposed to be building something called galaxy’s edge, and it sounds interesting.”

1. Oops

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Oops

"No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. ... Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us."

— H. G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 7:32 A.M. Central Standard Time, Friday June 19, 2015
Location: Earth. 39.417162, -96.754254 to be specific.

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Jon Bruener was having a perfectly ordinary morning on his Kansas farm, at least until the first pony fell out of the sky onto the cab of his hay swather. That’s not to say that a normal day on the farm was totally without excitement, but a certain routine was a good thing in farming. A break from routine meant broken parts, accidents, insurance claims, or dealing with a bunch of bureaucrats who thought they could do a better job administering his acreage from a desk in the county seat than he could on the seat of a tractor.

Did we mention a pony had just fallen on top of his swather? We will get back to that in a moment.

From the time the first morning ray of sun had touched the dense green pasture, Jon had been at work, leaving behind a long trail of damp hay in a thick windrow to dry in the blazing Kansas sun by afternoon and be in a big round bale by evening. This was the longest day of the year, and that meant more daylight to get things done over the weekend before the whole spiral of paperwork at his ‘real’ job started again on Monday morning. Some years he made less per hour as a small farmer than he would have working in a burger joint, but farming still produced the small amount of extra money it had taken to get Nathaniel through school and into the Judge Advocate General Corps, and the rather sizable lump it had taken for his rather skinny lump of a daughter Claire to get a useless degree in, of all things, Marketing.

Don’t forget the pony falling out of the sky.

Still, it was freedom of a sorts to be out on the bellowing hay swather, turning waves of green grass into a neat windrow while singing along to the music piped into an expensive set of sound-damping headphones from his iPhone. Nobody could stand his singing at home, not even in the shower with the water turned up high and the door locked. Admittedly his octaves only had six notes, and he always had a certain disdain for the difference between sharps and flats, but enthusiasm trumped skill, and volume ruled them all, at least out in the fields where nobody but him could hear.

Yes, we’re almost to the pony. Well, ponies.

Jon had just finished the last of the edging around the field, leaving a twisty path of mown grass outlining the entire huge meadow like surrealist art as it dipped into draws, curved around gullies, and bumped over small hills, when something in the sky… flickered. He frowned at the sound of a loud popping noise while peering up into the few fluffy cumulus clouds drifting along in the sky, but the disturbance did not seem to be an unexpected rainstorm. He had just begun throttling the swather back to a halt so he could double-check the weather on his phone again when something slammed into the top of the swather with a horrible scream. A calf of some sort tumbled over the front of the cab and dropped into the swinging windmill of the moving reel before Jon could slam his foot down on the clutch, and the resulting screech of pain when the chattering cutter bar came to an abrupt stop on the baby calf’s leg drew an icy jolt up his back.

Slamming the throttle closed to the stops and switching the key off, he managed to keep enough presence of mind to stomp down on the locking brake before tumbling out of the swather cab, his phone in hand and cable dangling behind. A smear of red blood dripped from the cutter bar, much like the time in his youth when Jon had accidently cut the leg off of the family dog with a sidebar mower when the stupid mutt had darted into the way. This time, the creature he had hit was much larger, and was screaming in pain with a shuddering quiver that traveled down its sides with every bellow. The creature looked like a young calf at first glance, but now that he was closer, he could not believe his eyes or his ears. It appeared like some sort of miniature horse that somebody had dunked in pink and blue dye, but the huge tearful eyes nailed Jon’s attention to the ground, combined with the short pink horn protruding out of its forehead and the blubbering cries for its mother that it was screaming in short and quite distinct words.

He stumbled to a halt before ripping off his shirt and dialing the phone with one hand. Whatever the creature was, it was losing blood far too quickly, and he tried to be as soothing as possible while wrapping the shirt around the spurting wound and applying pressure.

"Riley County Emergency, what is the nature of your—"

"Operator!" he shouted over the sounds of the sobbing unicorn. "This is Jon Bruener, and I need an ambulance out at Randolph around 400 Seacrest Road, just to the south of the intersection. I’m out in the hayfield and I hit a—"

He really didn’t want to say the U-word, but he was spared by a bright flicker and another sharp pop up in the sky that drew his attention, despite his frantic efforts to keep the blood-soaked crude bandage wrapped around the squirming creature’s injured leg. Another pony, this one a light grey with a blonde mane appeared nearly a hundred feet up in the air, only instead of plummeting to the ground, it spread wings and hovered while looking around in obvious panic.

Then there was another flicker and pop, and another pony without wings, who thankfully was caught by the first pegasus before hitting the ground.

"Operator," he said in just as clear and distinctive voice as he could to be heard over the whimpering unicorn, who was now holding onto his shoulder and sobbing in pain. "Send ambulances. And the sheriff. Send everybody on the emergency response team." He watched as the flickering in the sky grew and more ponies began to fall, not all of whom could possibly be caught by the winged ones.

"And hurry!"

Author Notes
(inline for E-readers)

Welcome to Manhattan, Kansas. In the center of the United States (plus or minus a few hundred miles), it will be the future home of several hundred ponies for an undetermined amount of time. Distinguished tourism locations nearby include Kansas State University and their famous School of Veterinary Medicine, as well as the home of the National Bio and Agro Defense Facility (NBAF) currently under construction for most of the last decade and planned for opening in 2021. (Yeah, at times it seems like they’re building it one brick at a time) Just down the road, we have Fort Riley, Home of the Big Red One. In the event that the earthlings are a little overwhelmed by a force of a few hundred little pony aliens, a full armored brigade of tanks and artillery supported by helicopters will be available at short notice. Since this is summer, K-State will not have the Wildcats football team to show off, or their basketball team (Yes, we have one. Shut up.) but the baseball team will be available, as well as intramural soccer.

That is, provided the small group of ponies is not immediately dragged off to some government laboratory somewhere. Keep watching. Author notes will be at the end of each chapter for the convenience of people who read their ponyfic using e-readers.

Author's Note

Editor notes
MaskedFerret: Man, if that was Dinky, Derpy would murder him XD
Me: Note the pink and blue color scheme. Hell, the readers would murder me in my sleep if I did that to Dinky.

7. Communication Issues

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Communication Issues

“With more than 50 years as a journalist, I have at least had the opportunity to blow more stories, make more mistakes than maybe anybody in television.”
— Dan Rather

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:35 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

By the time Jon made his way back to the house, it was buzzing with activity. Ponies were everywhere. It was understandable since he had pointed them in this direction to get a glass of water or use the bathroom, but with hundreds of the colorful quadrupeds around the farm, it was getting a little surreal. And less than a step into his house, it got surreal-er.

“Mister Bruener!” A tall man with a short-cut mop of curly hair sprang up from the kitchen table and advanced with his hand held out in front of him. “Governor Brown. We just got in a few minutes ago, and the mayor has been filling us in on the situation.”

Jon shook the proffered hand, of course, but could not see Randolph’s mayor anywhere in the room. There was a grey-haired older mare who was shuffling through some papers, and since only a politician could possibly get dropped naked on an alien planet and immediately find paper to shuffle, he turned and nodded with a polite, “Madam Mayor.”

“Mayor Mare,” she said with a terse nod in return. “Specialist Grace,” she continued, nodding at an emerald-green unicorn mare with a short-cropped mane beside her. “And Spike the dragon,” she finished, looking down at the end of the table where—

Jon blinked. Admittedly, he had been overexposed to a torrent of winged, horned, and bare ponies in a multitude of colors over the last two hours, but this was most certainly not a pony. For starters, it was bipedal and using a clawed hand to hold a ‘Bruener Seeds - For all your planting needs’ pen while scratching away on a piece of paper. The pale purple shade of his skin was not unusual, in recent context, but the pebbled texture to it indicated he was covered in scales, of all things, and the thin green frills on his head made him look adorable, quite unlike Smaug.

“Just about done… and there,” said the dragon, finishing off the line with a flourish and passing the paper over to the unicorn, who examined it briefly and passed it on to Jon. “A complete census of the Equestrians who we’ve been able to find so far. Complete, as far as we know, but we’ll have to send it back to Princess Twilight for validation against any ponies missing there to make sure we haven’t lost one.”

The paper looked like hash, with scribbled dashes and symbols that he could not make heads or tails out of, and neither could the governor when Jon passed it over.

“Translation spell,” said the unicorn, who had one of his seed company pens held in her magic and was scribing away on another sheet of blank paper. “Starswirl the Bearded incorporated a dimensional compensation section to all of his portal spells. It gives the portal traveler an image of the destination linguistic capacity and incorporates it into the subconscious language center of the brain. I’m making a translated list for you now,” Grace added. “Unless you want me to cast the translation spell on you, so you can read it before we send it on.”

“Um… I’ll pass. My brain has been battered enough today. Just a minute.” He stepped into the cramped room next door where his office lurked and ran a few quick copies on the printer. “Here you go, Governor Brown. Mayor. Spare copies for you. Um… Governor?”

“Oh!” The governor looked up from the page of incomprehensible scribblings. “Yes?”

Jon wanted to ask what he was doing there, but then again, if Jon was the governor and heard about a herd of extradimensional ponies visiting just an hour’s drive away, and had the Kansas Highway Patrol as a bodyguard…

“How was the trip down from Topeka?” he asked instead.

“Fast.” The governor grinned. “The Highway Patrol wanted to make this trip pedal to the metal and lights flashing, but we just nudged the speed limit a little so we could do some work on the way here. My aide is in the other room on the phone, trying to keep the state from falling apart while I’m out and about. There’s a few patrol officers up by Highway 24 directing traffic with the Ft. Riley MPs, and the last ambulance left about ten minutes before you showed up here. All we have left for emergency personnel are RCPD and some of the fire trucks. I’m supposed to liaison with the Army base commander when he arrives, but there’s been some problem with communication. He should be here shortly.”

The pony mayor had a pensive expression of worry while she tapped on several pieces of paper in front of her. “Governor Brown assures me that our citizens are being well cared for and they will be returned as soon as they’re ready to travel, which is good. Princess Twilight will have the return portal up soon, and I want to make sure everypony here gets through it as soon as possible, even if she has to make a second casting later to get everyponyelse home safely.”

“What about the…” Jon tried to think of how best to phrase what the ponies had been telling him about a ‘swarm of shadow creatures which had taken over Ponyville’ in a way that would not make him sound crazy.

The mayor shook her head. “There were four princesses in our town for the Raising of the Sun ceremony. Even if the shadow monsters were resistant to magic, they were certainly overmatched. Their taking us hostage was an act of desperation. By now they’ve been defeated, so we’ll be back home and dealing with repairing the damage shortly.”

“Since the original portals—” Governor Brown paused with a peculiar expression, as if the governor of a state was unused to saying ‘portals’ in his official capacity, but he picked up quickly “—showed up here, Specialist Grace speculated that any return portal will show up here too, since it would be easier to anchor in this location. If everything goes as expected, they’ll be gone by noon except for a few of the ponies who had been more severely injured. Those, we’ll have to watch over for a while, but they should be able to be picked up in a week or two without incident.”

Jon rubbed his stubbly chin. Getting out to the field early this morning had been more important than shaving or showering, and after having been splattered with blood, all he really wanted to do was take a shower. “If so, the human crazies won’t have enough time to get all worked up about an alien invasion, and the lookie-loos won’t get here until it’s all over. I’ll still have to charge for tours of the alien landing site and chase nuts out of my milo fields for a few years, I suppose. Still, you’re all welcome to stay here as long as you need to.”

“I’m more worried about finding enough bathrooms,” said the pony mayor. “Three in this house and one next door with over a hundred mares.”

“We should be good there for the short term,” said Jon. “I called Pastor May and he’s got a few friends from our RV club bringing their units over, in addition to however many porta-potties Riley County Emergency Management brings. How many ponies are we talking about for the next few hours?”

“Two hundred and forty three,” said Grace without looking up from her writing for a moment, although she backtracked somewhat immediately after. “That’s a grand total, of course, including the two griffons, the changeling, and discounting the duplicated report we had of Sweetie Belle.”

“And me,” said Spike.

“And Spike.” Grace looked up from her writing, used her magic to lift the census out of Jon’s hands, and passed it to the dragon.

Governor Brown spoke up while Spike was rolling the paper up and tying with a piece of red ribbon. “Between Randolph, Ft. Riley, and Manhattan Emergency Management, we should have plenty of restroom facilities and cots, in the worst case. The Randolph mayor is coordinating with the local churches, and most of the younger ponies are over at the Methodist vacation bible school.” The governor paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s going to drive the atheists crazy, but it was the closest spot with facilities for the thirty or forty little ones and parents.”

Jon nodded, then passed a look between the two ponies and the dragon. “So how often do you visit other dimensions?”

“Actually, if you don’t count fighting that Tantabus monster in the Dreamscape, it’s the first one for me,” said the pony mayor.

“Second,” said Grace, still writing. “Graduate school. Minor accident during finals.”

Spike the dragon was looking up at the ceiling, counting on his claws. “Do you count time-related paradox desolate worlds split off from the main timeline when a unicorn bent on vengeance goes back in time repeatedly to prevent a series of events which are the only way to save Equestria? If so, I think twenty-three, although at least I’m not a dog in this world.”

“He’s Princess Twilight Sparkle’s assistant,” said Grace before Jon could ask.

“Her number one assistant,” corrected Spike.

“I…” Jon paused, then shook his head and turned for the bedroom. “Let me get a shower and shaved.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 10:05 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

After he had grabbed some clean clothes and returned from the ‘mud-room’ shower in the basement (passing several ponies waiting in line), the oddity of the situation had not changed much. The Army had arrived, in the persona of General Hackmore with an additional SUV of MPs and a sense of military frustration that Jon had gotten quite used to during his four years in the service several ages ago.

After a brief introduction around the table, Jon excused himself to get a cold soda for each of the ponies and people gathered around his dining room table, and a beer for himself. He, at least, was not on-duty, and needed it.

“What took you so long?” quipped Jon once a hole opened up in the ongoing conversation, and he had taken a first swig of his beer. “In the movies, the Army has tanks at the scene of the alien landing in about five minutes, followed by men in dark suits and politicians.”

“I’ll have you know one of my best tank commanders was at the landing,” said the general with a bit of a smug smile. “Fished one of the little ponies out of a pond and has been out with the sorting and recovery effort for two hours now. Had the little thing practically land in his arms.” A twinge of pain wiped out the general’s smile. “Captain Rietz tells me the pony hit by the swather is going to be fine. They’ll be medevaced to KU Med along with Missus Apple, for surgery, but it doesn’t sound life-threatening. You did a good job stabilizing her and calling for an ambulance.”

“Army training, sir. I was in 21st TSC, 1st Armored in Germany back in the late 70’s. We… um… had a lot of traffic accidents.”

“Good answer, too. Army’s changed a lot since then. We’ve got all these newfangled gizmos.” He held up what looked like a blackberry with a color screen, only with a cable and a fat external battery. “Didn’t take mine today since I was golfing and my second had things under control. Then I get news that your guests—” he nodded to the ponies at the table, who nodded back “—had landed. Half-hour later, I’m on the way here when I get a call on my unsecured phone requiring me to go back to Ft. Riley to get my SMEPED.” He rattled off the familiar acronym as Smeeped, which made Jon chuckle.

“Let me guess. The battery was flat.”

“As a stone. No place to charge it inside the vault. So I steal a charging cord from one of the tech weenies and a battery pack from their video games, and check my ultra-secure have-to-have-a-SCIF-before-reading message.”

“Let me guess again,” said Jon. “Something on the order of ‘Treat the situation carefully and avoid conflict’ I would presume. Oh, and ‘Take no action without authorization’ is a must.”

“Close, but too long.” General Hackmore cleared his throat. “Paraphrased, it was ‘Await further instructions.’”

Jon chuckled. The governor had a short coughing fit into his fist and turned a little pink. The jade-green unicorn writing on a sheet of paper merely looked up with an expression of bored indifference.

“So, had this been some sort of alien invasion, your world’s guards would be just as ineffective as ours, until whatever princess you have here fights back?”

“No princesses here,” said Hackmore, deflecting the question as expertly as Jon could have expected from a military commander with an armored division of several thousand men including artillery and helicopters just a few minutes away. “Excluding a few D.C. residents with delusions of nobility.”

“Then who raises your sun?” asked the unicorn.

The general started to reply, hesitated, then very carefully repeated, “Raises our sun?”

Grace nodded, although her expression tightened into something approaching caution. “In Equestria, Princess Celestia raises the sun every morning to bring on the day, and Princess Luna raises the moon at night. Seriously,” she added at Hackmore’s blank stare. “Are you telling me that your world’s sun raises itself?”

Ten minutes later after several short YouTube videos had been shown, the dense cluster of ponies around the table all had a look about them as if they had been dropped into a shark tank by accident. To make matters worse, the dragon took that moment to belch, complete with green flames, smoke, and a rolled-up scroll. While Jon took the battery out of the beeping smoke detector, Spike unrolled the missive and began to read.

“Spike. No ‘Dearest’ or anything.” He sighed and continued reading. “Unclassified dimensional beings… Huh, I thought they were shadow monsters. Oh, well, they were beaten. A paragraph on that. Here we go. Received your letter and checked against the attendance list. It appears we have all ponies and griffons accounted for. And your number one assistant,” Spike added. “Anyway, blah, blah, return portal may be delayed, differences in the long and complex blah something about time differences between here and there, and she doesn’t want to goof it up in front of Princess Celestia. She doesn’t really say that, but it’s pretty much a given. And… three days here in your world, it looks like, if she’s guessing the time factor correctly. Cool. Not much time to see the sights, but it’ll have to do.”

“No, by tomorrow, K-77 will be backed up to the Nebraska border,” said General Hackmore. “We’ll have to helicopter everything in and out.”

“Do you think having RCPD put up about ten miles of ‘No Parking’ signs would help?” said Captain Rietz, who had been remarkably quiet until now.

“And fifty tow trucks,” said the general. “Or one Hercules, if it could squash the cars and stack them like pancakes.” He shook his head. “I suppose not. Signs will have to do.”

Samantha Rietz typed with her thumbs on her phone while talking. “I’ll get the signs started going up today, and put a dozen tow trucks from the area on duty. That should take care of most of the rubberneckers.” She started to say something else, but after a quick look at the nervous ponies, held it back.

“Security,” said Grace in her stead. “If the townsponies don’t feel secure, things will get out of control, fast. The pegasi will scatter to the five winds, and what’s left will run around in circles and panic.”

“It’s not that bad,” objected Mayor Mare, only to pause and admit, “Well, yes.”

“It’s bad enough the Army’s moving in. I don’t want to turn your farm into an armed camp, Mister Bruener.” General Hackmore considered his quiet SMEPED, but Jon removed a framed map of the farm from the wall and put it down in the middle of the dining room table before he could say any more.

“You don’t have to bring down the whole division, sir. Just enough to show the flag and keep the civilians back for a few days. I’d take a platoon of M1s and put one here, here… Give me that bowl of candy, please. Okay, the M1s are Lifesavers, M3s are wedding mints, and MPs in Humvees are these red things that nobody likes. There’s only one highway entrance to this area, so park an M1 at the top of the hill on the utility road for intimidation factor, out of sight from the highway so people don’t rubberneck and rear end each other. One at the bottom of the hill by the farmhouse to handle anything that gets by. Duplicate that on the dirt road by the pasture where the RVs are parked, and spot sentry posts on these high points. Make sure to pick vehicles with new paint jobs, because the press is going to be all over, and the least we can do is give the Army some PR.”

Samantha craned her head over the map and got out some pennies. “We’ll probably have to put up a temporary traffic signal at the Randolph main street turnoff, since there are so many ponies in town now. We’ll put traffic control points at the three highway exits that we can swap between MPs and RCPD as needed, and restrict access to residents and invited guests. That should handle traffic in town. Now for your house, we’re going to have to shut off access to the Tuttle Creek off-road vehicle area.”

“No argument here,” said Jon. “Those guys pulling trailers go blasting by the house too fast as is. Do you think we can get that gravel road paved to cut down on the dust?”

“That’s not my area,” said the police officer, “and it would take the Second Coming of Christ to get the highway department’s asphalt machines out here on this short a notice. Anyway, the dirt back road between your farm and the town is going to be a security nightmare, so I’ll cut off vehicle traffic except for emergency vehicles and ponies. Thank God you don’t live on the highway. We can put a RCPD checkpoint at the highway entrance to your farm to chase off unauthorized vehicles and send them down the service road toward town. General, if you can put one of your MP units over here in this draw, you can catch the trespassers who get turned away at the checkpoint and decide to try sneaking in anyway. You bust ‘em, we’ll cuff ‘em.”

“You mentioned helicopters, General Hackmore.” Grace floated several buttons over the map. “Is there any way you can keep them from flying over the farm? Our pegasi may not be familiar with your kind of aerial craft, and may be injured.”

“As governor, I can designate an emergency no-fly zone for endangered species through KDWP,” said Governor Brown. “It may not stop people from flying over, but we can fine them until their ears bleed.”

There was a brief pause, and four people produced cell phones to take a quick picture of the colorful map, the general using both his personal phone and his SMEPED.

After they all spent some time clicking away in silence on their phones and considering the map, Governor Brown checked his phone and said, “Looks like WIBW will be here in less than an hour. Mayor Mare, did you want to restrict the press contact to a pool of just two or three vehicles? Otherwise, you could have a hundred of them out here. One at a time is about all anybody should have to deal with, and WIBW has the satellite equipment to use for any other news agencies. They’ll share if they have to. They’ll whine about it like little children, but they’ll share.”

“One vehicle should be enough, although if you need to bring in one of those satellites for the newspapers, we can park it somewhere, I suppose.” The pony mayor adjusted her white collar and tie, which had gotten a few grass stains and wrinkles on it, but still looked fairly good. “Our news reporters always get so many things wrong. I swear half the morning paper is made up of corrections and the other half made up.”

“Hm…” Governor Brown checked his phone again. “We really should call local radio first since KMAN has a call-in show running right now, but if you’re up to doing a bigger radio interview before WIBW gets here, I may have a way of getting your story out unfiltered before the national news media goes crazy.”

Author's Note

Editor comments
Mitch H: DC residents suffering from delusions of nobility?

Me: Oh, they don't suffer.

Tek: What they won't stampede in whatever directions?
Me: They do circles to stay on camera :)
Tek: hmm I wonder if they could create some crop circles that way.

Pony: what we were hungry, and that wheat was tasty, what you mean we made
some weird symbol

8. Mass Media

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Mass Media

“If we were to do the Second Coming of Christ in color for a full hour, there would be a considerable number of stations which would decline to carry it on the grounds that a Western or a quiz show would be more profitable.”
― Edward R. Murrow

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:03 A.M. Pacific Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Olympic Golf Club, California

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Three weeks until my KMA time.” Senior USSS Agent Conner O’Malley kept driving the cart down the smooth pathways of the golf course to their position downwind of the tee, where he stopped with a practiced look around the course and the other Secret Service agents in their assigned spots. “Been doing this since the Clintons, and this is as far up the career ladder as I’ve gotten. Why do you think that is?”

The newly assigned agent in the other seat looked blank for a moment, but kept his voice down as he replied, “I really couldn’t say, sir.”

“That is why you’re going up past me in record time. And don’t call me sir when it’s just the two of us. I’ll be retired from here and doing background checks for the government in D.C. in a few months. Look me up and I’ll buy you a beer, as long as you never call me sir in private again.”

The other agent sucked on his bottom lip for a moment before venturing, “I still don’t understand… Conner.”

“You have great scores, good empathy, by the book reflexes, and just enough flaws that the higher-ups will have no problem promoting you, if you make one change. Remember, tallest dandelion gets the lawnmower.” The two agents remained silent while one member of the presidential foursome took a brisk swing at the golf ball and hit it far down the fairway.

Conner flicked his eyes back and forth across the convivial group of golfing politicians, then spoke almost without moving his lips. “I figure we’ve got about ten minutes with the way they’re arguing, Anthony. Give me your phone. No, your personal phone,” added Agent O’Malley when the Secret Service officer reached for his waist.

“I keep it in my pocket while I’m on duty,” said Agent Washington, “and on vibrate for critical calls. We’ve got a newborn—”

“I know, Tony. Oh, two changes, now that I think of it. First, you need to set a lock for your personal iPhone,” said Conner as he opened the leatherette case. “And second—” He pointed to an application.

“Hey, don’t take away my Limbaugh, man,” said Anthony with a brief chuckle, low enough that there was no chance his voice would carry to the politicians at the distant teebox. “Sometimes he’s the only thing that keeps me sane in D.C.”

“I’m not criticizing your choice in political talk shows,” said Conner. “God only knows the service has agents from every corner of the political spectrum. Worked with one a few years ago who wouldn’t shut up about Bernie off-duty, and we got along just fine. My super when I started was a crusty old dinosaur Repub from the Reagan era who got hit by a lamp during the Clinton years, but never skimped on his job. We’re all professionals here.”

He closed the phone case and handed it back, then pulled out his own personal phone, unlocked it, and opened a sub-folder where an identical icon resided. “You don’t have to ditch 24/7. Just don’t put it on your front page, and always use earbuds when listening off-duty.” A single tap opened the application and the low beats of ‘My City Was Gone’ came out of the iPhone speakers, quickly lowered in volume in order not to disturb the distant golfers.

“You’re a dittohead too?” asked Anthony, giving his fellow USSS agent a gentle poke in the shoulder.

“That’s why my career came to a screeching halt seven years ago.” Conner shrugged. “I was listening off-duty, somebody threw a fit, a note got put in my record, and that was it. Most everyone at the agency is pretty flexible about what you believe and who you listen to, as long as you keep your mind on the job. Still, there are always assholes hiding in the bushes waiting for something, anything they can use against you.”

As both agents were scanning across the golf course for threats at the time, the irony was fairly low.

“I know, man,” said Anthony. “I can’t listen to Rush at the relatives or they go ballistic.”

“And the agency is just like family, only more… specific,” said Conner. “Outside, it’s more like a war zone. Cross the wrong political appointee, get caught expressing an opinion they don’t like, and they will move heaven and earth to get you gone, not just out of the service, but from any Federal job you might want after.”

“You’ve heard about my Catholic in-laws, I see,” said Anthony. “They’re— wait a second.” He looked down at the screen where a tiny image of the Kansas governor and a smaller horse looked back. “Turn that up a little.”

...as you know, it’s my policy on the EIB network not to do interviews or plug books except in extremely special circumstances. Well, since it’s open line Friday, and there seems to be a unique circumstance, I’m making an exception to my rule, but only for visitors from another planet. On the line with me and on the Dittocam by Facetime, I have Governor Brown from Kansas, and a very special visitor from Equestria, I believe you said?

Yes, I did, Rush. And I’d like to first thank you for letting us on your show. I know this sounds a little nuts, and I’ll admit I really didn’t believe our extraterrestrial pony visitors at first either, like Mayor Mare here.

Thank you, Governor. To be honest, I never thought I would meet a human either. They’re a great deal more friendly than I expected, Mister Rush. Governor Brown has provided a great deal of assistance, and so have all the other humans we’ve met since we arrived. For me, I’m just glad to be able to go on the radio again to explain our situation and help smooth any interactions before we go home in a few days.

I’m glad to hear that, Mayor Mare. Tell me, what brought you to Kansas instead of visiting somewhere a little closer to my home town of Cape Girardeau or even taking a tourist trip to Florida?

Well, we really didn’t have much of a choice. Princess Twilight Sparkle made a simple mistake with an evacuation portal spell for the town, which I’m assured will be reversed in a few days…

Both agents sat in silence while listening, their habitual scanning across the greens for invading ninjas or terrorists suppressed by the fantastic image of First Radio Contact. It lasted until the commercial break where Anthony let out a long, “Sheeeeit. If that’s a prank, it’s legendary. Little green men with hooves for realsies.”

“That explains the aide who came scurrying up at the last hole and got sent home with his tail between his legs,” murmured Conner once he had closed the 24/7 application. “Probably had a preliminary report and didn’t have the right paperwork to back it up.”

“So…” Anthony eyed the golf foursome, which was headed back to their carts for the trip down the fairway.

“So we head to our next station,” said Conner. “Where we sit while they golf until another aide shows up to talk with the president. Then we’ll probably head back to Home Plate.”

“Ah.” Anthony watched his partner put the golf cart into gear and begin to guide it down the path. “Wouldn’t do for the help to know what’s going on before the boss, I suppose.”

“Hush, newbie,” chided Conner before toggling his microphone. “Bowtie Five, heading to midpoint of Hole Seven. Status green.”

“Rodger, Bowtie Five. Out.”

“Wonder what Kansas is going to be like,” mused Anthony.

“Hot, dry, and full of wheat, I suppose.” Once they reached their next station, Senior Agent Connor O’Malley propped his trim black shoes up on the dash of the golf cart for a moment and stretched in the warm California sunshine. “Guess we’ll find out for sure. Wanted to see an alien on this job before I retired anyway. I just always thought they’d land on the White House lawn.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:30 A.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Bruener Farm, Randolph Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Whew.” Mayor Mare sagged into the tall-backed dining room chair and cast a longing look at Jon Bruener, who was holding the pitcher of iced tea. Following the unspoken cue, it only took him a few minutes to pass over a tall glass of tea for the tired mayor, as well as one for the governor and one for himself.

He stopped himself before pouring a glass for Spike, who had gone outside with the radio intern from the WIBW radio station, a pleasant young fellow with a smile for everyone. Dragon and human had each given a quick wave over the shoulder before hustling to the vehicle to upload the interview with the Equestrian to his office. The kid seemed more than happy that colorful little alien horses from another dimension were not a delusion or some kind of hoax, and had accepted talking horses and a dragon, which spoke quite well of his prospects in radio over the next few days.

In a few minutes, the intern and Spike would return with a camera from his van for a video interview, which would be shown on the local Kansas channels later. That left a few moments of relative privacy for the the human farmer and governor, who had been very quiet while watching the pony giving the radio interview.

“So, Mister Bruener,” started Mayor Mare. “Three radio interviews in under an hour. That’s pretty good for Equestria. How many radio stations do you have here anyway?”

“Oh…” Jon looked up from his cell phone, which had not quit buzzing yet and was showing triple digits in the unreturned calls alerts, as well as a scrolling list of text messages. “A few thousand in the US, I guess.”

The governor spoke up. “Most of them will just use clips out of your first few interviews anyway. And I’ll bet CNN will want one of their own exclusively for the international market.”

“Thousand?” The mayor blinked several times very slowly. “How many humans was I talking to on the radio just now, Governor Brown?”

“KMAN was just Manhattan, so a couple hundred thousand at most. WIBW covers north-east Kansas, so maybe a million listeners there. Three million in the state, once the interview get re-run on all of the stations.”

“Oh.” The mayor swallowed a sip of tea with great effort. “Million?”

“Yeah,” said Jon, who was still trying to clear off his missed call list and was swiping while talking. “Rush has got about twenty million listeners live, so you’re probably over the worst of it.”

“Twenty…” The mayor put her nose down in her iced tea and took several large gulps before coming up for air. “How many humans are on your world, anyway?”

Jon shrugged. “Seven billion or so. CNN will reach most of them. They’ll edit your interview so it looks good, and probably play it world-wide for the next month. It should go fine now that you’ve got the basics of interviewing for the radio down cold. Where are you from, how long do you expect to be here, what have you found the most interesting thing about our world so far, that kind of stuff. You just need to smile on camera. Shouldn’t be an issue. The first responders must have posted about a million videos on YouTube and Facebook by now, and they’re all sorts of adorable. I’m just glad the RCPD is up at the Methodist church watching over the kids or you’d have people trying to smuggle them away. Particularly that cute little unicorn. Mayor?”

Jon turned around to see the mayor over at the glassed-in bar at the side of the dining room, trying the latch. “Tell me you have brandy in this world,” she said in a bare whisper. “Please.”

He rationed her to only two shots, and one for himself. After all, he wanted to save space for lunch.

- Ω - -

Vera was used to loony nuts at the West Loop Pizza Hut in Manhattan, but mostly later in the evening when the bars were about to close. Thankfully, closing time in Aggieville was half a town and half a day away, and business was doing just fine without having to deal with drunk students today. She was a little short-handed because Claire had texted her about being in Kansas City with some sort of injured horse, which was at least better than most of the waitstaff and their numerous dead grandmothers for an excuse.

Then she spotted the nut.

A tall, lanky fellow came striding in the front door of the restaurant as if he owned the place, with some sort of livestock dressed in fake black armor trailing along behind him. She wiped her hands and came bolting out of the kitchen, her face set in the most discouraging expression she could manage as she barked out, “Hey! You there! Take that creature outside!”

Both human and armored horse-thing looked back at her, then the short green horse spoke.

“I assure you, he’s fully housebroken. Isn’t that right, Governor Brown?”

“Ruff.” The man grinned at the exact moment Vera recognized him from the political advertisements a few years ago. “Sorry to disrupt your operations, Ma’am, but Officer Grace here has been stranded here in Kansas with a few hundred of her fellow ponies, and we were wanting to order out for lunch. Officer?”

The horse’s horn glowed a pale green under her curly red hair and she looked as if she were concentrating, or perhaps counting under her breath. “Nothing seriously contrary to an Equestrian diet in the kitchen, sir, except a preponderance of meat products, and a little more grease than our digestive systems can handle. There is a bag of mushrooms in the cooler a week past its expiration date, and one of the soda canisters in the storage room has a slow leak that should be cleaned up, but other than that, this establishment appears to be suitable.”

“Good.” The governor passed over a sheet of paper that looked as if it had been scribbled on in the car, with a series of pizza orders on it. “If you can get those started, we were going to make a side-trip to Dillon’s for some vegetable shopping while you’re working. I’ve got a few volunteers to get everything shuttled up to Randolph as they’re done. We’ve got a number of first responders who need to be fed, and some hungry visitors I’d like to show real Kansas hospitality.” Still smiling, he took out his wallet and passed over a credit card. “On me.”

To be a manager at Pizza Hut, you had to be quick on your feet. No two days were exactly the same, and this was an exceptional circumstance that rose above all the rest. An alien, a real alien standing right there beside the governor of the state, which were two completely different creatures that she had never thought she would encounter, together. Her heart was beating almost as fast as it could, although her mind raced through chains of possibilities even faster.

“Oh, no,” said Vera in a move that would earn her a special commendation from the home office a week later. “This one is on the company, Governor Brown. Officer Grace. Um…” Her hand crept forward despite Vera’s best efforts and touched the unicorn on the top of her head, which after a quick rolling of the eyes, Grace reciprocated by rubbing her horn up against Vera’s hand.

“Ohgoodgosh,” she gushed. “You’re so fuzzy! And the horn is real!”

Grace gave a subdued grunt and allowed her ears to be scratched. “Just as long as you wash those hands before you make the pizzas,” she admitted grudgingly. “And scratch a little lower. Yes, right there.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 12:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015
KU Medical Center, Kansas City

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Vascular Microsurgery was not exactly a common occupation for a doctor. It took steady nerves, a delicate touch on the equipment, and the ability to tie a dry fly in under a minute. Well, the last was more of an option than a requirement, but Louis Schwartz believed it helped. There was supposed to be a football player undergoing arthroscopy in Surgery Two right now, but aliens from some other dimension ran right to the top of the priority list, and from the look of the little pony’s ankle, it might not matter. Thorough irrigation and antiseptic cleaning had removed the vast majority of foreign material, while forced clotting had stopped the pony from bleeding to death, and two precious pints of whole blood supposedly its type were in the operating room, but…

“Look at all those fine ligaments and capillaries,” mused Doctor Schwartz to his assisting physician. “It’s more like the palm of a human’s hand than a horse. I don’t know if we’ll be able to restore enough blood circulation to save the hoof. The sooner we start trying the better, I suppose. I don’t think we can afford to wait on that vet.”

“Coming, coming.” The thump and rattle of another person coming into the operating theatre clashed with the muffled clatter of hooves on the floor, and Louis felt a little shock go through his chest at the sight of another horse-like creature, dressed in trimmed booties and taped-down scrubs, stride confidently up to his side. “Doctor Schwartz, I presume?”

“Doctor Stable?” Louis would have shaken hands/hooves out of reflex, but that would have put him back into scrubbing up again. Instead, he looked between the mostly-underutilized machine and the undersized pony physician. “Uh, I don’t think we have a set of eyepieces your height.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I brought my own table.” Lighting up his horn with a pale blue light, a draped surgical table on wheels obediently rolled over next to the pony patient, and the doctor jumped up on top of it with one swift hop. “There we go. Be a good boy and push that headset over here, please.”

Glancing down at the patient showed a similar cranial horn that the human doctor had missed the first time he had examined the unicorn patient, since he had been so focused on the gaping wound on the creature’s foreleg. It took a little bit of adjusting for Doctor Stable—

It’s a unicorn. I’m sharing the operating room with a unicorn. What’s next, a elf?

—to get his eyes up to the lenses and focus them for his differently shaped head. Giving out a low whistle, the equine doctor moved the eyepieces back and forth slightly with a faint glow from his horn.

“I didn’t have a tool like this back in Ponyville, or over in Manehattan,” said Doctor Stable. “You can get right next to the wound and see what needs fixing, can’t you?”

“Y-yes, it has been quite useful in my field.” Doctor Schwartz put his eyes up to the headpiece on his side and began manipulating the first set of remote forceps, giving a short summary of the upcoming operation, along with the difficulty of getting all of the damage repaired. “Arterial anastomosis should be our first priority in order to prevent post-surgical degradation of tissue, while—”

“Just a moment.” The unicorn doctor’s horn glowed again, and Doctor Schwartz felt a momentary tingling across his balding head, as if he had suddenly been run over by a swarm of feathery ants. “” continued the pony in Hebrew. “Oh, wait,” added Doctor Stable, switching back into English. “Linguistic multiplex. I wasn’t getting a good translation of the medical terms. Continue.”

Rattled, but only for a moment, Doctor Schwartz returned to his professional description, and in a few minutes, had almost forgotten about the equine nature of his assisting surgeon. That is until he manipulated the remote forceps to bring the ends of a severed artery together, and a tiny dot of pale blue light joined them flawlessly before he could even get the microsuturing started.

“Marvelous machine,” murmured Doctor Stable. “Brings the operating field right up to my nose. At home, I never could have managed a bilateral anastomosisic fusion on a vessel that small. Just a moment while I run a thaumic charge to get blood circulation started in that connection, and we can go on to the next one.”

...and fifteen minutes later, in what would have normally taken two hours at absolute best on a good day, the last of the severed vessels were joined, allowing the surgeons to begin the delicate task of reconnecting nerves, tendons, and tracking down little splinters of bone while venturing into the odd conversations that doctors at work tended toward.

“So, how long are you going to be here, doctor? Clamp that.”

“Got it. Don’t know. Thought we’d be going back already, although one of the nurses said she heard a few days. Does that lateral nerve fragment tie up here?”

“No, it matches back in this knotted cluster. Let’s see if we can’t open them up a little. You know, we’re making so much progress, I may still be able to get Mister Berry in for his lateral rotator cuff surgery. He’s part of our local football team. I think he has a little tear in the anterior section of the tendon, but you never can be too careful with football players. You up for observing, Doctor Stable?”

“Depends on how Granny Smith is doing. Status on her, nurse?”

“They’re milling a new pin for her hip to match pony bone structure, and should be ready to have her in surgery in about three hours.”

“Good, good. I suppose I can at least assist with your human patient to get some practice with your human machines. Go ahead and release the clamp. That should hold pressure.”

“Got a little dribble here. No, it’s a capillary. Fix or seal?”

“Don’t see the other end— Wait, that’s it. Done.”

“Can’t believe the way you make them just twist together like that. Our Board of Directors would break a leg to have you at the hospital.”

“Just glad to help. Let’s do a final check so we can get Miss Widget closed, then we can take a look at your hoofball player.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1:13 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Are you sure that was necessary?” Goose Down complained, but the glistening batpony had taken on a new lustre after going through a vigorous shower, complete with two shampooings and conditioner donated by one of the nurses. “I mean, I’m supposed to be guarding Granny Smith—”

“Who is in pre-op, with about a dozen doctors and nurses around her, all of which are dressed in bunny suits to prevent post-op infection. She must have dropped in a mud wallow from as much as they’re scrubbing, and you smelled like a sweaty horse,” said Claire forcefully. “They scrubbed down the recovery room for her and Widget to the point where I’d eat off the floor, and if you’re going to guard either of your wards, it’s going to be from a clean perspective.”

“Coming through,” announced a voice in the other room, accompanied by what sounded like a parade full of people. “Who’s in the bathroom?”

“The Equestrian security guard and one of the handlers,” said a voice before either of the subjects in the bathroom could speak. “They’ll monitor Widget’s recovery out of anesthesia, since Doctor Stable said she’d spook if she woke up in a room full of strangers.”

“Security guard,” muttered Goose under her breath.

Ignoring the damp, cranky pony for the moment, Claire stuck her head out of the bathroom and nodded at the swarm of nurses around the terribly drawn-looking pink pony. Large patches of her pink coat had been shaved to allow tape to hold down wires and sensors, there was a oxygen tube up her nose, and somebody had made a futile attempt at cutting a hospital gown to fit her, giving the injured pony a distinctly alien appearance, or more accurately, an alien who had gone through a wood chipper. Even her powder-blue mane had been taped and brutally trimmed back, and somebody had attached a pair of wires to her horn like it was some sort of radio antenna used to get a better signal. The whole mess was topped off by a human-style hospital sock on each of her legs except the injured one, which was topped by half of a sock just to cover the hard portion of her hoof, while leaving the bare shaved leg exposed and a thin red line with dark stitches where the gaping hole had been.

Claire was not sure if it was an improvement, but at least she still had the leg.

“How’s Widget doing?” she called out in a quiet whisper that lowered the noise level of the room considerably as the nurses became aware of their previous actions.

“Pulse, BP and other vitals are very strong,” said the taller of the nurses, who had a magenta ribbon tying her hair back. “We’ll be monitoring them from the station for any change, so we don’t startle her. Surgery went well, and the doctor thinks she’ll make a full recovery in a few weeks. She’s just going to need some therapy and some time for all the shaved hair to grow back. How’s your… um…”

The nurse’s gaze shifted as if she were trying to see through the bathroom door, making Claire roll her eyes, then chortle a little when the batpony’s deep voice sounded.

“I can’t get these stupid blue booties to stay on my hooves,” growled Goose. “You humans have huge feet.”

“I’ll go grab a box of slipper socks from Pediatrics,” said the nurse with a suppressed smile. “By the way, some of the kids saw… what’s her name?”

“Goose Down,” said Claire. “And she’s a royal guard back in her home, so I don’t think she’s going to want to go play with the children,” added Claire in order to cut off the anticipated question.

“Do you have anything I can use to polish my armor while waiting?” asked Goose from behind Claire. “I don’t want any rust spots, and your towels are too nice.”

The nurse hesitated with her mouth fractionally open to respond, then thought for a moment. “Go ahead and use as many towels as your want,” she said. “I’m really not sure what the scrub protocols are for extra-terrestrial patients. I mean, Doctor Stable seemed confident that whatever microorganisms you have wouldn’t affect us and vice-versa, but…”

“They’re going to smell like wet horse forever,” said Claire with a little giggle, ending in the sharp snap of a towel and— “Yike!”

She put both hands over her abused rump while Goose spun the towel, holding one end in her mouth and swaying the other end for a second shot at the wise-ass she was sharing the bathroom with.

“Actually,” said the nurse, “if what we heard on the radio is correct and you… ponies are going home in a few days, they’ll probably collect the towels for sale. We’re talking major league Elvis-like memorabilia trading in the foreseeable future.”

“Thank yew, thank yew very much,” sounded Goose. “Elkvis has left the building.”

“Wait a minute, hold on.” Claire eyed the suddenly cautious pony. “You had an Elvis too?”

Goose nodded slowly. “Elkvis Przewalski, the greatest entertainer on stage. You?”

“Elvis Presley, the King of Rock and Roll music.” Claire shook her head. “Okay, alien horses from a different dimension I can fathom, but they have Elvis?”

“Why not?” The nurse winked and turned to walk away. “Elvis is everywhere. I’ll go get those socks.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:20 P.M. Central Standard Time, June 19, 2015

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Contrary to expectations, batponies did not hang upside-down in a closet to rest. Goose had instead made a ‘nest’ of sorts out of several blankets and cushions beside Widget’s bed and worked on polishing bits of her armor while chatting with Claire. To her surprise, the batpony was actually younger than Claire by a few years, although agoraphobic to an extent that was more than a little puzzling for a winged pony. Despite that impediment, Goose was dedicated to her military service, and just loved to talk about all of her relatives who guarded the Equestrian princesses, and the human military man she had briefly met at the Bruener farm.

There was an intensity burning in the young batpony that Claire had sought most of her life. She knew exactly what she wanted to do in life, where Claire had just wandered from place to place, looking for something she could not find. It was both irritating and refreshing to find a personality trait like that in someone… or somepony so different and so far from home.

“Thank you, Optio. Orders received and understood.” The batpony had to hold Claire’s iPhone flat with one hoof and turn her head awkwardly to keep the speakers near one fuzzy ear and still be heard, but she was adapting to the technology with no hesitation. “Tell her parents that Widget is recovering fine. The nurses are monitoring her condition and stop by every ten minutes, so there’s no reason for them to come up here. The doctors say Granny Smith is almost through with her surgery and should be here in an hour or so, depending on how she recovers, although the humans will be monitoring her much more closely, on account of her age. I would advise that the Apple family should not come up and visit either. Particularly Apple Bloom,” added the batpony with a glance at the complicated machinery around the bed. “Oh, and tell Claire Bruener’s mother that she sends her love.”

“Goose!” hissed Claire.

“Kissie, kissie,” added Goose with a giggle. “Over and out.” She pawed with one hoof at the phone, but was not able to get the red dot to go away before Clare snatched it away from her.

“Mom? Oh, Optio Pumpernickel. Um. Could you give mom her phone back. Without the kissie kissie?” Claire rolled her eyes while waiting. “Hey, mom! Yeah, I’m up at KU Med with the pony dad hit with the swather and somepony called Granny Smith, who will be coming out of surgery shortly. Yes, I am excited. Yes, mom. Yes, I know the house is full of ponies. We’ve got CNN on, and they’ve been promising exclusive footage for about an hour now. What’s going on with dad’s phone? Oh? Total meltdown, yeah. I’d guess there’s a lot of people calling him now. Okay, I’ll be fine here for a day or so. Yes, mother, they have clean clothes at the hospital, and I’ve got my debit card. Bye. Yes, kissie, kissie.”

Claire hung up her phone and promptly stuck her tongue out at the giggling batpony.

“At least Widget hasn’t made fun of me.” Claire got up on her feet and peeked at the snoozing unicorn, all wrapped up in sensors and tubes with one bare leg held in a suspension rig to keep it from shifting. Only a few small bandages around the injury and a bright red line marked where Earth’s first extraterrestrial visitor had her immediate experience with mechanized agriculture. It was only by taking a closer look that Claire could see the colorful bruises and bumps under her coat along one side where Widget had bounced off the swather cab, as well as the long raised lines under the skin on the other side where she must have gotten smacked by the swather reel during her collision.

Widget had moved a little in the past hour, and taken a few sips of water from the hospital glass. She was on a thick absorptive pad instead of a catheter because the hospital was worried about sticking anything more inside her than absolutely necessary, and pee at least would clean up easily. After a brief brushing back of Widget’s unruly mane and a soft touch along her smooth, unearthly horn, Claire whispered, “How are you doing in there, Widget? This is Claire. We met at the emergency room back in Manhattan.”

The unicorn moved her lips, and Goose was there in a moment with the water glass and straw. The two of them watched Widget take a drink, lick her lips with a strangely orange tongue, and then she rasped out one word.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Claire let her have another sip. “I’m sorry dad hit you with the swather, but from what Goose was saying, it was raining ponies for a while. You must have been the closest to Princess Midnight when she whomped you out of there.”

“Twi-light,” said Widget. “So cool.”

“Twilight Sparkle,” clarified Goose with a yawn.

“So.” Widget licked her lips several times and cracked one eye open just a bare slit. “Who is Nick?”

“Nopony!” Goose, who seemed wide-awake now, held the glass up to Widget’s lips again with such vigor that she slopped some water out. “Besides, you were sleeping when we were talking about him.”

After taking another sip, Widget gave out a raspy giggle. “Just had my eyes closed. Listening.”

“It didn’t sound like you were just listening to the guy, Goose,” prodded Claire. “Poor army guy, out at the frog pond and comes face to face with a pretty young mare from outer space.” She giggled. “It didn’t sound like you were that interested in his face, though.”

By now, Goose Down was blushing so much that the tips of her ears were nearly crimson. “It’s not my fault! He was soaking wet from rescuing Twist! And he—” Goose closed her mouth with a snap and abruptly sat down on the collection of pillows she had accumulated. “He was wearing shorts,” she protested.

“Whoa!” declared Claire. “Are we talking pup tent here or a full—”

Goose tunneled under her pillows and brought her enormous wings up over her head so that she looked more like a giant black pillow than a pony, leaving both Claire and Widget to giggle helplessly at the sight.

“I could text mom,” suggested Claire once she had gotten her breath back. “I’ll bet she could take a picture of Nick and send it to us.”

Goose tunneled a little deeper.

“All right,” said Claire a little grudgingly, although she added at Widget’s subtle wink, “Seriously, though. Was he cute? I mean from a horsey perspective.”

The Goose-lump seemed to nod briefly.

“Is everything okay in here?” The tall nurse from before looked into the room, taking in the bleary pony, the giggling young lady, and the odd lump in the middle of the pillows. “Oh, you’re awake. Do you think it would be okay if I check on you?”

Widget nodded and shifted uncomfortably. “Just for a minute. I’m tired.”

It took far longer than a minute for the nurse to check the bedding, the support brace, and the bandages, fidgeting over every piece of tape and electrical connection, as well as folding a blanket over a portion of Widget’s bare pink tummy. “There we go,” she said when done. “Feeling better?”

Widget gave a little snore.

“Well, how about you, young Goose. Did you like the hair conditioner we found?”

A similar snore emerged out of the pillow pile.

“She’s nocturnal,” whispered Claire. “Not to mention afraid of heights, dropped out of an interdimensional portal over my home, saved three ponies on the way down, and rode on a helicopter all the way to Kansas City.”

“Oh. Long day, I suppose.” The nurse turned to Claire. “How about you? Need anything like another pillow?”

Claire raised the plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi the previous nurse had gotten for her. “I’m good. I’m just so hyped over talking to actual aliens that I may not sleep for days. I keep expecting somebody from Men In Black to drag me away.”

The nurse gave a small smile. “Well, you should be safe there. The office got a call from the FBI and they’re sending an agent over, but no black helicopters or secret government agencies. Probably just pages of paperwork. There’s probably a government form for this, after all.”

“Yeah.” Claire pursed her lips and considered all the gadgets in the room. “So… who’s footing the bill for this?”

“For treating the first aliens ever on the planet?” The nurse shrugged. “The hospital will eat the cost ten times over for publicity. If we had to, I think we could break even just by charging reporters a thousand dollars a minute to peek into the room. Security has stopped several of them in the hallways, and it’s getting to be a pain separating out the regular ward visitors from the paparazzi.”

Claire nodded, but inside she worried about her actual status as a unicorn petter and reassure-er. Oh, and batpony teaser. And whatever Granny Smith was in an hour or so when she was out of recovery and put into the room too. Her thoughts must have been fairly obvious on her face, because the nurse patted her on the arm in a reassuring fashion, thus making her a reassure-er reassure-er.

“Don’t worry, hun. Having you here is a godsend. You really seem to have bonded with them. If there’s anything you need at all, just buzz the station and it’s yours. Except for the pediatrics doctor with the curly hair.” The nurse winked. “He’s mine, but just doesn’t know it yet.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:48 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, June 19, 2015
Washington, D.C.

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Politics in the nation’s capital only seemed to be focused on the elected branches. In actuality, it flowed in an endless morass of competing agencies and departments, all of which were staffed with political appointees who considered their own private fiefdom to be the top of the mountain, and all other governmental entities to be vastly inferior. To make matters worse, the Equestrians just happened to drop into the country in both the worst time and worst place for rapid, organized response.

In movies, aliens were supposed to land their spacecraft on the White House lawn at around noon in the middle of the week, and emerge after an hour or two in order to give the government a chance to line up tanks and politicians, each eager to fire barrages at the newfound intelligences.

However…

Friday afternoon, during the run-up to the 4th of July weekend, was a light day in Washington, with only about half of the federal employees actually at work, and most of the rest only physically present. Since word of the alien invasion only really reached the federal bureaucracy during the lunch hour, Eastern time, even that half of the federal employee base was rapidly dispersing through flights out of Reagan International and the clogged arteries of the antique transportation system. During the Cold War, it had been joked that a nuclear weapon could be dropped on DC on a Friday afternoon and not affect the bureaucracy, although that was a slight overstatement. Every political position had a mandated alternate at work, from the Presidency all the way down to the Third Undersecretary for the Foreign Agriculture Service, so if Secretary Whatnot was out of the office, Deputy Secretary Somebody would be in charge.

Then 12:06 P.M. Eastern Standard Time rolled around. Just because the vast majority of bureaucrats do not listen to Limbaugh on the radio, does not mean they all don’t, and add in the ‘Cats away and the Mice can play’ attitude over lunch hour for many closet conservatives with earbuds…

Those who heard, grabbed onto nearby workers to listen, regardless of political affiliation or party. The complete political spectrum then proceeded to text as fast as they could. From there, unofficial emails were sent with YouTube links. Rumors flew. Some of them even had an element of truth in them. A great number of government lunches remained uneaten, traded for the opportunity to devour even more delicious gossip. The Verizon and Sprint internet nodes in the central Washington region went dark as ten thousands of government and civilian cell phones were produced and videos reviewed. Then the local agency internets failed under the increased load.

And in the wake of the great DC Network Meltdown, as fading echoes of Rush Limbaugh’s voice were heard for the first time ever inside several Washington D.C. office buildings, it was the second bananas who found themselves with the unexpected task of actual decision-making.

One thing about deputy directors and undersecretaries is they are only expected to make easy decisions. When the director comes back, the last thing he or she wants to do is to unwind a series of incorrect (in their opinion) decisions taken in their absence. This meant appearance of an actual race of intelligent alien beings triggered immediate denial in many government entities, of course. Doubly so for it having been broadcast on the Limbaugh show. The absence of a decision is never treated as a bad decision in the brief absence of a directing force, so for the large part, several thousand government entities promptly put their metaphorical fingers in their ears and began to whistle.

The rest of the Washington D.C. bureaucracies prepared plans to put these new creatures under the benevolent protection of their respective agencies.

The Center for Disease Control immediately put out an order to quarantine the aliens and every human who had contact with them, as well as any humans who had contact with them, and so on.

USDA Animal Plant Health Inspection Service ordered much the same, only demanding that the creatures to be quarantined at their facility at Plum Island in New York and overseen by the Foreign Animal Disease Diagnostic Laboratory.

US Citizenship and Immigration Services took another approach, considering that the entire population of displaced alien ponies would have fit into a 747-400 twice over. They made the determination that the alien visitors were guilty of only ‘inadvertent entry’ into the US, much as if the same aircraft had made an emergency landing, and that a brisk evening of emergency B-1 visa printing should cover the extraterrestrial guests for whatever commerce they might conduct before returning to their homes.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation… had a different reaction which will be covered later.

The end result of the most dramatic responses varied greatly.

Due to a series of awkward miscommunications, the CDC’s ‘rapid’ reaction force did not arrive until early next week, without most of their gear, and in the middle of preparations for the Country Stampede music festival at Tuttle Creek, so they were unable to find any hotel space in Manhattan. Thankfully, some nearby farmers felt pity on them and allowed the scientists to rent rooms at their homes, as well as provided transportation to the music festival so they would not feel too left out of current events. By happy coincidence, Doctor Stable’s schedule had gotten freed up by then, and being a country fan himself, organized the first Interdimensional Symposium on Cross-Species Virology and Immunology in a volunteer’s Winnebago between the major music sets of Stampede. And they all got cowboy hats signed by Blake Shelton.

Various intelligent people in APHIS considered the order they received, compared it to the fuzzy colorful aliens they could watch on YouTube, multiplied by the number of people who had indirect contact, and came up with an immense number of individuals who would be covered by the order, able to cover the surface of Plum Island a thousand miles away to several layers and growing every minute. The quarantine order was promptly sidetracked into an endless loop of approvals, mostly by people who happened to be out of the office, while a dozen trained veterinary virologists, pathologists, and internal medicine specialists slipped out the back door that afternoon with airline tickets for some direct observation. By coincidence, some of their families traveled with them, mostly those with young girls below their teenage years. They also wound up attending the Stampede Symposium. And got hats.

An innovative employee in US Customs and Immigration Services made almost immediate landline phone contact with the Kansas Governor’s office, which also had dipped into overtime funds and sent out both of the available ‘Kansas Non-Driver’s Identification Stations, Portable.’ The stations had been acquired to deal with Kansas voter id issuance, and now found a new use, as each of the devices were whisked to Randolph to turn out the two hundred plus identity cards needed by the new Kansas guests. ‘Needed’ was admittedly a bit of a push, but the ponies were thrilled by the ‘souvenir’ and it did help with local identification.

Photographs taken by the Kansas stations were uploaded by way of the Bruener’s overloaded fibre optic network connection to the USCIS Washington office, turned into B1 visas, and by late that evening, were packaged up and sent in a bundle by overnight courier to Kansas City International Airport and then to Randolph. It broke several policies internal to the agency, but all of the employees involved remained remarkably vague about just who approved the overtime, and who was actually in charge during the sudden burst of productivity. And who printed all the colorful posters that decorated their office for the next few weeks.

Which brings us to the FBI, and the actions of one Deputy Attorney General, Quillian Gates.

At first glance, one might wonder what authority ‘Quills’ had over dimensional travelers from Equestria. Technically, each of the ponies had illegally entered the United States without going through border security, although that was nominally the bailiwick of Customs or USCIS. Still, the FBI was a Federal agency under the Justice Department, and the illegal aliens (literally) in question had not so much crossed a national border as appeared inside of one.

The details that eventually came out were a little fuzzy. Gates had been on a flight with a connection in Kansas City, and received word of the alien invasion there while walking to her second flight. Phone calls happened, or at least were attempted, and since the Attorney General and the FBI Director were likewise airborne and out of reach, ‘Quills’ determined the best decision was to take immediate action, bringing the bulk of the aliens to Quantico and housing them at the Marine base while taking the injured to Walter Reed Medical.

How exactly the three FBI agents in the Manhattan vicinity were going to transport roughly one hundred ponies each to Maryland was a question which would come up later, but the Kansas City office was substantially larger, and the two injured ponies (that they knew of) there far easier to deal with. Several of Miss Gates’ phone calls involved chartering a special medical flight, arrangements for ambulances to transfer the aliens to the airport, and of course, a direct call to the Special Agent in Charge of the Kansas City FBI Field Office.

In short order, Agent Karla Anacostia was roused from an unsound sleep where she had been attempting to recover from a previous day’s date, which had involved terrible food, a horror movie, and most of a bottle of wine. Thankfully, she awoke alone in her own bed when the phone started giving out the chirping sound of a cricket, because her snarled response to the interruption could have peeled paint.

The wine was mostly to blame, because it had been finished off around midnight when dreams of poltergeists drove her to a socially acceptable sleep aid, and only left her with the unwelcome side-effects now. Unthankfully, her protestations of being on her extended weekend off had no effect on the boss’s boss when he called her and in no uncertain terms ordered her to report to KU Medical now or before.

She complained vehemently, of course, but only in the car on the way to the hospital, because she liked her job. Likewise, she only complained inside her head when meeting her boss in the parking garage of the hospital, and stayed quiet when she was abruptly assigned to be the agent in charge of establishing the location of the aliens the whole hustle and flurry of action seemed to be responsible for.

It was most probably because she looked like hell warmed over.

Thankfully, all she had to do was remain physically present in their room while the details were being worked out by other, more kempt and habile agents.

Despite the fog of fatigue poisons and toxic wine residue, the assignment irked Anacostia more than a little. After all, Deputy Attorney General Quillian Gates was coming to the hospital in a few hours to oversee the arrest and detainment of a couple of high-profile illegal aliens, which would have given Agent Anacostia enough time to clean up, be seen, maybe shake hands and be in the background (with sunglasses) for the inevitable press conference. With the current administration, agents were expected to be posted to the Headquarters office at least once before promotion, and this would have been the perfect opportunity to ‘press the flesh’ with the new DAG. Such small social interactions could grease her move to Washington D.C. and further promotions. Although the dating scene was crazier in the Asylum, as agents tended to call the main branch, there had to be at least one sane person in Washington to occupy her weekends. She suppressed a shudder as she got into the elevator and poked the floor button.

Make that one sane person who doesn’t like horror movies either.

It didn’t help that Karla disliked hospitals. Taking statements from shooting victims, trying to convince a cancer patient to testify, they were all roles that the older agents disliked too, and thus they fell on the young female rookie who spoke three languages and looked less intimidating than some of the big, white, former football player types who populated so many FBI slots. Flashing her badge to get past the hospital security guards was as routine as breathing by now, although there were a lot of security guards around, and more than a few reporters lurking in the background.

The sterile air of the place made Karla’s head throb even worse, but aspirin here were probably fifty bucks a tablet. She gave the nurses at the station a quick flash of her badge and strolled down the hall to the correct room, giving a perfunctory tap to the doorframe before striding inside.

And freezing in terror.

All of the images from the movie yesterday fairly slammed through her system with the thing on the hospital bed, tied down by wires and bandages like a human would be, but a shocking shade of bubblegum pink fur and stripes of shaved skin that no human being could possibly match. One hand darted into her blouse while she backhanded a Hispanic girl to one side, out of the line of fire. As terrified as she was, Agent Anacostia barely got a firm grip on the Glock, bringing her second hand up to support the pistol as the monster filled the sights, shifting in sleep and flickering a drowsy blink with those huge unearthly eyelids.

“Freeze!” hissed a voice in Karla’s ear as something cold and gun-shaped jammed into her back. “Drop the— Wait, that’s a Glock. Put the gun down on the table and step back.”

There was no safety on a Glock 22, only the little tab on the trigger and a few internal widgets to stop it from firing if dropped, but Karla could feel the plastic piece on the trigger move back into position as she lifted her finger. The slightest bit more pressure and a hollow-point .40 caliber round would have gone into her target, which looked much less dangerous but still weird as hell after a few slower breaths. She lifted the muzzle of her weapon up, took her finger out of the trigger guard, and held the service pistol loosely while trying to control her panicked breathing.

“Let’s not get—”

“Put the gun down,” hissed the voice again, far quieter than she expected.

“I’m an FBI agent,” said Karla. She was thinking of what else to say when the voice from behind her gave a little gasp and the pressure on her ribs abruptly eased.

“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry! Just— Can I see your badge?”

Moving slowly, Karla edged the folded leather badge holder out of her pocket and flipped it open.

“Ohgosh! Sorry, Agent Anacostia!” The Hispanic girl put away whatever she had been holding, although she was still speaking in a whisper, most probably to avoid waking up… whatever the thing in the hospital bed was. “I’m Claire Bruener, and that’s Widget. She’s an extraterrestrial pony, but I suppose you know that already.”

Once Karla could breathe again, she said, “Actually, no.”

Although she wanted to pin Miss Bruener against the wall and cuff her for pulling a gun, Karla put away her own pistol and just tried to breathe for a bit while splitting her attention between the fuzzy alien creature in the hospital bed and the girl. As much as her instincts screamed ‘office prank’ in one ear, her eyes took in the wounded pony in the hospital bed, the way its legs did not bend the same as real horses, and the sheer amount of medical equipment hooked up to the creature by way of tape and improvised wrapping.

This was nothing out of Star Trek, with a human wearing a funny nose, but an alien from outer space, an actual alien, something she had been afraid of ever since she was a little girl. Once the concept soaked in, there was a small section in the back of her brain that went off and gibbered somewhere, repeating ‘alien, alien, alien…’ over and over.

And yet when Karla had been small, several of her relatives in Louisiana had owned horses of various sizes, and the largest regret she had upon becoming an FBI agent was giving up her favorite equestrian hobby. This conflict in her brain was going to take some serious thought, which she really was not prepared for at this time, and some control over her mouth, which was only emphasised by her next words.

“My boss said there was an alien up here. I had no idea he was being goddam fucking literal!”

“It’s probably better than my dad’s reaction.” Claire Bruener giggled with the release of nervous tension. “He ran her over with his hay swather. That’s why she’s here.”

“An alien. A real, live alien.” Karla swallowed hard and took a glance over her shoulder at the thankfully closed door to the hospital room. “Sweet Jesus, and I almost fucking well shot her. This is going to kill my career.”

“I didn’t see anything, if you don’t say anything about what I did,” said Claire quickly. “How about you, Goose?”

A creature in the pile of pillows moved, and if Karla had not put away her service weapon, her instinctive reaction might have emptied the magazine into the thing that emerged with narrowed, golden eyes and tent-like bat wings. The nightmarish pony was no terrestrial goose, although it was smaller than the unicorn on the hospital bed, but considerably more dangerous due to exposed sharp teeth and the sense of a coiled, lethal spring, waiting for a trigger.

And the little section in the back of Karla’s head began gibbering ‘alien, alien, alien…’ all over again.

“Is she going to hurt Widget or you?” asked the creature in a disturbingly beautiful feminine voice that would have sent the choir director from Karla’s Baptist church into a frenzy of joyful recruitment. Liquid chocolate voice aside, the armored dragon/pony/thing held herself in cautious readiness, making Karla suddenly aware of how her own dark face was reflected in those golden unearthly eyes. If their positions were reversed, Karla could not imagine keeping this calm in the face of a world full of strange monsters. Particularly with how young Goose seemed to be.

“No, she’s an FBI agent. That’s a lot like our world’s royal guards. She’s here—” Claire stopped and turned to Karla. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Thankfully, the pause had given her enough time to collect her wits. In a few succinct sentences, Karla explained how the bureau was planning on relocating the alien visitors to Maryland, and how the Deputy Attorney General was organizing their forced transportation. The bat-pony did not take her eyes off the FBI agent and vice versa during the entire explanation, but both of them relaxed a little by the time Karla was done.

“Bad idea,” rumbled the dark bat-pony thing. “The return portal should be up in a few days time, and I really doubt they’ll be able to move the endpoint. How far away is Merry Land?”

“About a three hour flight.”

That last word triggered something in the dark creature, which made Karla resist a distinct urge for the comfort of a loaded automatic in her palm.

“No more flying,” spat Goose, with her lips drawn back over sharp teeth and her long, furry ears laid back against her skull. “This floor is as high off the ground as I’m getting until I go home.”

“All right, I think I can talk the deputy AG into driving you cross-country,” said Karla with a calming hands-out gesture like she was trying to calm down a rottweiler. “It’ll take a little longer… actually by car, you’ll probably get to Quantico about in time to turn around and come back if… Portal?”

This time, the information flow went the other way, with the fierce dark pony explaining how a small portion of her town had been evacuated by teleportation through individual portals to Claire Bruener’s farm… or more correctly above the farm, with ‘Granny Smith’ being the worst injured. The elderly pony was currently in surgery for a broken hip, and if she had been Karla’s own Jamaican grandmother, she certainly would not have wanted to transport her old bones all the way across the country to be poked and prodded by some Washington hospital team of bureaucrats. Worse, there were over two hundred ponies who were stranded in central Kansas, and having the FBI forcibly round up the peaceful alien visitors and drag them to the Washington D.C. metro area would be the biggest cluster f—

Agent Karla Anacostia took a quick peek outside the hospital room and turned back to Claire. “This may sound odd, but I’ve got an idea how to keep your furry friends in Kansas. After all, I’m going to get canned for pulling a gun on her anyway, so might as well make it good.”

“Actually, I’ve got an idea on that too,” said Claire, who was messing with her Android tablet. “Let me call the nurse and get the video app set up.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1:32 A.M. Moscow Standard Time, June 20, 2015
Central Council Chambers, Moscow

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Facebook is a wonderful thing in the modern world.

So is YouTube.

In minutes, a video can be uploaded and watched by anybody in the entire world.

Literally.

Admittedly, there are certain restrictions in some countries. Some content may be blocked. Some users filtered.

Of course, those restrictions do not restrict the restrictors, which is why the Federal Security Service for the Russian Federation had a flawless internet connection to Facebook which allowed the Central Council to watch a video in stunned silence, narrated by the voice of an interpreter with the highest of security clearances.

“Good afternoon.” A dusky young woman of indeterminate ancestry strode into the hospital room and nodded, first to the person doing the filming, then to the nurse at the side of a bed. The contents of the bed were blurred by motion, but several still images of the horse-creature had been captured beforehand and held in freeze-frames on secondary screens around the room. Under the bandages and sensors, it looked to be an odd pink horse with a horn on its head like some sort of American practical joke, but the humor of the situation was rapidly turning serious, which is the only reason the Central Council was still awake at this odd hour of the morning. Well, that and enough black coffee to dissolve a GAZ limousine.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to quit filming,” said the young woman, after which the cameraperson shook her head and the camera, making the scene wobble all over.

“No, ma’am. I’m fully within my rights to film here. It’s a public place.”

The watchers expected the young woman in the professional blazer to arrest the disobedient camera holder at that point, but all she did was look pensive for a moment, as if she were listening to an earpiece. Then she turned away from the camera and addressed the nurse who was checking the bandages on the alien horse-creature, in particular, the large bundle of elastic bandage around one foreleg. “Nurse, I’m Agent Anacostia of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How soon can this alien patient be prepared for travel?”

“She’s too injured to be moved,” said the nurse. “Miss Widget nearly lost a leg before surgery. She’s in a very delicate state since her surgery, and it could endanger her life. Now, you’re going to have to leave the room, Agent Anacostia. We’ve got a second pony even worse off who is being moved in, and she’s not going to be in any shape to be transported anywhere either.”

“I have my orders,” said the FBI agent. “The alien patients are to be transferred to Walter Reed Medical center where they’ll get the finest care on the planet.”

The nurse looked as if she were going to give a sharp retort, but several nurses and doctors came into the room with a blanket-covered pony on another hospital bed, spending some time arranging it on the other side of the room before one of the doctors came over at the nurse’s signal.

“Doctor Jimenez, this is Agent Anacostia,” said the nurse. “She wants to move our patients to Walter Reed.”

“Not a chance in hell,” scoffed the curly-haired doctor. “They’ve just started treatment here, under the care of one of their own physicians. Granny Smith just underwent a two-hour operation to restore functionality to her broken hip, and Miss Widget here nearly had her leg amputated. Their recovery is going to be delicate enough without your interference, and we’re very busy here, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The FBI agent appeared ready to argue the point, then took a look at where the nurses were arranging the elderly green pony and making sure her oxygen was set up just right. The second pony was in a maze of sensors and tubes, an incredible expenditure for a patient as old as the pony appeared, making it probable that the alien was some sort of high government official. Broad sections of her flank had been shaved down, and a thin red line marked with stitches was still exposed to show the effects of the surgery. That frame had been blown up by specialists and posted on one of the wall monitors with little notations in Cyrillic showing the estimations of the depth and complexity of the hip replacement, another incredibly expensive surgical option, particularly since it had been done immediately without any waiting in a queue, thus only confirming the identity of the alien as some sort of high government official.

After a moment’s consideration, the FBI agent obviously came to the same conclusion and walked out of the hospital room while the camera panned back over to the nurses caring for their alien patent. Then the camera operator turned off the video, obviously to upload it.

There was absolute dead silence around the room with the last frame of the video still frozen on screen, then one of the council asked, “Has President Putin seen this yet?”

“Da,” said the council chairman. “Combined with the other videos and recordings out of the Kansas province, we believe the aliens are real, although their claims of having reached our planet by some sort of dimensional portal are dubious, at best. Our best intelligence analysts all say there must be a starfaring ship of some sort involved in their appearance. Deputy Prime Minister Dmitry Rogozin has tasked several satellites for greater coverage of the area so that we may be able to spot their landing craft, and radar surveillance records are being reviewed. The Americans cannot be permitted to gain access to alien spaceflight technology of this level.”

“I for one am not that certain of your theory.” One councilmember brought up a video in which several of the younger pony aliens were playing with the flashing lights of a fire truck, along with an adult white alien of the ‘unicorn’ type, who expressed a childish glee in pushing the button and watching the bright flashing and hooting that resulted. “Does this look like the actions of a superior spacefaring civilization?”

His point was only boosted by the way a fluttering grey ‘pegasus’ seemed to be entranced by the flashing lights and flew directly into the fire truck windshield with a solid thud and a spray of letters from her postal bag.

“Perhaps… they are just faking it,” said the first councilmember. He watched along with his Russian peers as the pegasus was straightened up and sent on her way, only to loop around and wind up head first into the windshield again, only this time leaving a noticeable crack across the glass.

“They are exceedingly good actors, then,” said the second councilmember.

Author's Note

You know, if somebody winds up on this page while looking for something about the Russian FSS, they’re going to be a little surprised. At least we still have Elvis.

15. Sunday Afternoon Baseball

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Sunday Afternoon Baseball

"If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother with her teeth out."
— George Brett

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1:30 P.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Kansas University Medical Center, Fourth Floor

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“So they have clubs—”

“Bats,” corrected Claire.

“—but they don’t use them to hit the other players,” said Widget with a sharp frown of concentration. “They throw balls to miss the human holding the bat, unless they throw at the batter, and if they hit him, he gets to go to base, but if they touch the runner with the ball, he has to go back with the bulls.”

“The bullpen,” said Claire Bruener. “Turn it up a little.”

The remote control had long ago been separated into a small collection of parts, but Widget’s horn glowed twice and the television’s volume rose slightly, followed by the puzzled unicorn working her way through an even more complicated problem than terrestrial electronics. “But they can’t throw it at the player running, or it’s a bad thing, unless they hit the runner by accident, which is acceptable.”

“Unless the player is standing on a base,” said Claire before standing up and jabbing a finger at the television. “Oh! That was a strike! The umpire is ripping the Royals off!”

The pile of cushions in the corner of the room gave off a low grumble, and Claire lowered her voice. “Sorry, Goose.”

“Looked like a strike to me,” said Granny Smith. “You humans is blind.”

“Just the umpires,” grumbled Claire. “I wish we could be at the game. It’s really a hoot, but it’s sold out.” She wanted to add that Kauffman stadium was just a virtual stone’s throw away in Missouri, but outside of the ponies’ restraining order, something that most likely should not be spoken about since her tablet was up in the corner of the room in order to livecast their baseball party.

Widget raised her plastic-wrapped foreleg and wriggled her hoof. “The brace feels better, and since we’re going home tomorrow, do you think we could at least go see the stadium? It’s huge, bigger than the one at the Crystal Empire, and we don’t have those big picture displays. I’m not going to get another chance.”

“I’ll check with the FBI agent who’s driving,” said Claire. “Hell of an alien invasion. Take us to your Jumbotron so we can play with the wiring.”

“Shh,” hissed Widget. “Something exciting’s going to happen.”

There was a brief pause, and an advertisement for pizza rolls began playing, gathering attention from both of the awake ponies and a perked-up ear from the cushion pile. Claire merely rolled her eyes and settled back into the uncomfortable chair with a quick glance at her tablet propped up in the corner. At least when the ponies went back home, she’d have a few dozen hours of video to remember them by, and a couple bucks in her account from the advertising if more than a dozen people watched her stream.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:15 P.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Moscow, Russia

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Score?” gasped Colonel Vaslov as he stumbled back into the room with the other dozen or so Russian intelligence specialists.

“The Bostonian Crimson Stockings have scored another point,” said one of the lower ranking men. “The Kansas City Imperialists are getting stomped. Did you bring the dill chips?”

“Yes, and a box of Aptek waffles for each of you. How are the girls getting along?” Colonel Vaslov dropped into his seat and tried to ignore the spokesman on the corner of the monitor nattering on about the joy of some sort of pizza in a bun while all three ponies were riveted to their television thousands of miles away.

“The early reports of them being hedonistic capitalists seem to be playing out, Colonel. Gadget is wanting to get a tour of their sports stadium, and their handler is going to arrange it with their Federal Security Service. The elderly Party official has been most disrespectful of their sports judging officials, leading us to believe their eyesight is far sharper than human standards.”

“The psychic alien intrigues me the most,” said a second specialist. “The way she can control matter with her mind in such a casual fashion indicates a vast training network on her home planet, far larger if she really is only a member of the proletariat masses.”

“Save it for the final report.” The colonel opened a bag of chips and settled down in his chair to watch the split screen between the Kansas native’s livestream and the baseball game. “Hopefully the Royals can do better in the fifth inning. I’ve got a bet with the Chinese MSS on them making the World Series.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:15 P.M. Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Kansas City, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Karla was not sleeping well. She blamed ponies. And Washington. Staying up most of the night and the morning had screwed her sleeping schedule into a granny knot, along with guilt over what she was going to be doing to the ponies tomorrow. Even a hot shower just degrees from scalding had not helped relax tense muscles, and some blithering idiot in the apartment complex had decided to play their stereo loud enough to rattle windows. True, breaking into their apartment and shooting the radio was an option that would get her out of pony escort duty tomorrow, but it would screw her career as thoroughly as her uneasy sleep.

She was just beginning to drop into slumber when her cell phone rang with Clyde’s ringtone. After three rings just to make sure it wasn’t a butt-dial, she scooped it off the recharger and managed a more-or-less polite, “Hello, sir. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see if you’re good for driving the ponies tomorrow, Karla.”

It almost relaxed her to hear Clyde sounding more human, except she remembered the expression on the DAG’s face when she had demanded Karla’s cell phone and personally checked it for unauthorized calls. The chance this call was not being recorded by the NSA for review by dozens of native Washingtonians ranked right up there with the Royals winning the World Series.

After blowing once across the iPhone’s microphone, Karla put on her most official, Frankie FBI Agent voice and responded, “Yes, sir. I will carry out whatever orders you have, sir.”

“Very good, Karla. Oh, and I wanted to pass along a heads-up on your assignment tomorrow. The higher-ups think it would be good public relations if you were to take our two young guests on a short tour of Kauffman Stadium. They’ll take care of all the details, if you make sure to brag about the Washington Nationals’ stadium while walking them. It should make them more willing to travel to our nation’s capital, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.” A momentary flash of inspiration made her add, “And I think it would be a good idea to show them the firing range at the FBI field office, too. We saw a television show with some gunfire in it last night, and I think Widget would be fascinated.”

We just won’t mention letting her disassemble my unloaded service weapon and poke around the firing mechanisms during one of Claire’s streaming breaks. If ponies weren’t such a law-abiding race, she’d probably steal it before she goes home. As well as half the hospital equipment.

“Since you’re the agent on the ground, I’ll defer to your judgement,” said Clyde. “I’m not sure about the higher-ups. This whole operation is being run from Washington, and I’m little more than an observer. I’ve made my suggestions already.”

There was a faint noise from the phone sounding a little like a train chugging along the tracks, much like Clyde liked to make under his breath whenever they were on a conference call that was being run, controlled, and dominated by idiots, chugging down the tracks to a predetermined outcome regardless of any reasonable suggestions. Being able to spot the inevitable upcoming train wreck was a matter of agency experience, and God forbid anybody make a serious attempt to stop it. That might smudge the reputation of Those Upon High, revealing feet of clay.

“I’m sure they have things well in hoof,” said Karla with a wince at the unintended ponyism. “Now, if I can get a couple hours of sleep before our evening strategy meeting, sir?”

She hung up the phone and put it back on the recharger, unable to even say what was bothering her out loud just in case some paranoid bastard had bugged her bedroom. Instead, she curled up around a pillow, tried not to cry, and let the dark wings of fatigue drag her into slumber.

When she woke to the sound of her alarm several hours later, she felt refreshed and renewed, like she had been sleeping on a cloud. Even dreams of those terrible movie monsters or betraying the innocent ponies had not bothered her, although there was a faint memory of a conversation with a woman even darker than her grandmother, with flowing hair filled with stars and the most compassionate turquoise eyes.

It was probably nothing important.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:10 PM Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Wamego, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Toto’s Tacos was supposed to be closed. The thing was that tourists had been flooding down K-99 all day to visit the ponies, and then streaming back when they were turned away at the Randolph intersection because only residents were being allowed in, just like the announcements had indicated every time the ponies had been mentioned on TV or radio. The failed tourists were tired, they were frustrated, and… hungry. So Craig had opened the restaurant with one assistant, and the traffic kept them both busy since early this morning. It was a bit of a strain working on one of his few days off, but it was doing what he loved so it was not all that bad, even if it was a little monotonous.

Until the dragon walked in the restaurant door.

It took several blinks before the identity of the customer bounced around and fell into the tiny and unlikely slot in his brain labeled ‘pony.’ Then it took another hop with ‘and fussy baby.’

The dark grey pony did not look like any of the colorful pictures in the Topeka Capital-Journal this morning, but the chance of something not-one-of-those showing up here ranked right up there with the Tin Man from the Oz Museum next door coming over to ask how to get home. Membranous wings, glowering yellow eyes, a subdued snarl that showed glittering white teeth, it really was understandable how he first saw it as a dragon. That and the gleaming armor.

“I need to find somewhere to nurse that doesn’t have a bunch of swooning humans groveling over me,” growled the odd pony in a beautiful contrello that really should have been singing instead of snapping. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“They’re for customers only,” said Craig before he could stop himself, since the logical section of his brain was occupied, although he did maintain enough presence of mind to point.

“Fine, fine.” The pony nipped into her mane and tossed a plastic card in his direction while walking forward. “That’s supposed to be a hundred of your dollars. Some human gave us each one of them. Just… make me something. Anything. And a Sprite. Without much ice.”

The pony vanished into the bathroom, leaving a general sense of stunned amazement among the few customers and the staff. From what Craig could remember out of the newspaper article, the ponies were herbivores, so he started whipping together a black bean salad, a Sprite, and considered a shot of whiskey to top it off. For himself, of course. Instead, he put on extra guacamole.

“Do you want cheese on that salad?” he called out.

“Buck yes, I want cheese on that. Lots of cheese.” The pony’s head popped out from the bathroom door while her hindquarters were going through the feeding process from the sounds filtering out. Her nose twitched, and she added, “Hot sauce?”

“Sure.” Craig finished a generous sprinkle of cheese and added, “How hot?”

“Human hot sauce is like water,” she grumbled with one odd facial twitch from the ongoing feeding taking place out of sight. “Give it a big glob.”

Craig hesitated with one hand over the hot sauce collection. The typical Kansas native had no appreciation for the variety and intensity of the sauces he had brought from California. “So what brings you to town? Our bathroom isn’t that famous.”

“Husband is escorting some Very Important Griffon over to the Friendship House, and they’re all gooey over Gustave. It’s enough to make me sick, if the morning sickness wasn’t doing that already. Hey, what’s keeping that salad with the weak-ass hot sauce?”

The customer is always right. And this one needs a lesson in courtesy.

“Coming up,” said Craig, giving the black bean salad a good, solid layer of Chichen Itza’s Habanero and bringing it over to his customer while hoping that the Friendship House across the street was at least was getting a more polite variety of pony.

* * *

The remaining staff in the Friendship House were entranced. Not one, but two of the Equestrian visitors were striding through their kitchen area, sniffing and sampling the remaining portions of the day’s cooking, or at least whatever remained after the tourist onslaught of the day. Every movement, every scrutinized flake of pastry, every bite or sniff was a memorable experience for the human staff.

And even more striking, the guests were not ponies.

Leonine hindquarters, bird-like heads, and wings. Really, Marge had a hard enough time comprehending alien ponies, but to have a pair of griffons in her restaurant for the last hour was mind-blowing.

Finally, the griffons stopped what they were doing and whispered between each other in short chirps and squawks, then the larger male turned to Marge and announced, “Gustave le Grand hereby pronounces this acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” she echoed.

“Your kolaches will have to be evaluated out of the oven, because they are far too cold now. The cherry pie was exceptional, the peach extraordinary, the apple not quite so much, although the bierocks make up for it and then some. I look forward to tasting them fresh. Also, you have no éclairs. How can you run a restaurant without éclairs?” The griffon made a clucking noise somewhere deep in his syrinx that caused his neck to wobble slightly. “We shall have to rectify that in the short period we have remaining before we return to our homes. What time will you be arriving here tomorrow morning?”

“A little after five,” she managed despite her confusion.

“Then we shall see you here when you arrive. Come, ma chérie,” announced Gustave with a turn to the door with the silent female griffon right behind. “They have much to do in preparation for our arrival tomorrow.”

“Wait!” called out Marge. Her eyes darted to the doorway where the dark batpony escort crouched, much like a disheveled old dishrag with narrow golden eyes and the occasional sharp-toothed yawn. The guard did not seem upset, so she turned back to the griffon with a cautious, “Mister le Grande, if I may be so forward. Um…” She looked back at the male griffon and the question she had been suppressing for the last hour burst out.

“How did you grow a mustache on your beak?”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 3:30 PM Sunday June 21, 2015
Location: Ft. Riley, Large Tactical Equipment Maintenance Facility, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

You see a lot of things on the way to becoming a US Army General in charge of an armored division. Some were catastrophic like the young woman who managed to get a massive M88A2 Tank Recovery Vehicle stuck in a river until nothing but the crane was sticking out of the mud. Some were obscene, and could not be described in mixed company. Some were classified, such as new weapon developments that could only work in specific environments, with specific people running them (but if the Army ever found an enemy who could invade a testing ground with a few months warning, they would be able to wax them in ways that made the mind boggle). Until an hour ago, listening to the Royals game in the Fender Shed with three unicorns and a half-dozen equipment maintenance specialists ranked top on the list.

Then the ponies had gotten their supplies arranged, including cutting torches and the steel feed stock, and the process of spear point production had begun.

3D printers still baffled Gregory Hackmore. The idea that some metal replacement widget could just be produced out of dust and lasers was science-fiction. It took him hours with his woodworking tools and multiple hardware store visits to make some of the parts he had used to remodel his house. Magic put technology to shame, in this respect at least. The unicorns had merely lit a dozen oxy-acetylene torches, used their glowing horns to hold them in a dance of plasma jets and red, glowing steel, and produced socketed spear points just as fast as a man could chop a piece of celery.

“We only need ten at most,” announced Specialist Grace, who looked even more alien in a set of welding goggles. “If twenty is enough for your purposes, General, we can start the enchanting process, then get them sharpened.”

Hackmore looked at the gleaming pile of steel blades accumulating at the end of the short workbench (lowered to pony height) and nodded his head. “We wouldn’t want to strain you.”

“It’s no problem, General.” The last two blades floated across the workbench to arrange themself into neat lines with a faint click, and the three unicorns played their torches over the last fragment of steel which seemed too small for a spear. “We’ll put together a knife for you out of the scraps. You can use it as a letter opener so you at least have something personal on your desk to remember us after we go home.”

“To be honest,” said Hackmore, giving the Army technical team recording the process a sideways glance, “every single thing you give us is probably going to wind up in Washington being examined by scientists for the next decade.”

The female unicorn did not seem to like that, and frowned at the glowing sliver of steel she was playing the torch’s flame across. Silver runes began to chase across the surface, and she exchanged whispers with the other larger unicorn, Specialist Epsilon. Even more glowing silver runes began to spiral around the glowing steel until they seemed packed as tight as a book of Army regulations.

“Titan, get ready,” she cautioned. “General Hackmore, if you would come over here and press one of your digits against the hilt. No, the other end of it. Right there.”

“It’s still glowing red-hot,” he said as the warm air ruffled the hairs on his knuckles.

“It won’t hurt,” she said in a flat, very non-reassuring tone.

It did.

“Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch!” he bellowed, holding his burned finger clenched into a fist and hopping around the concrete floor. “That’s fucking hot! I thought you said it wouldn't hurt!”

The unicorns did not respond at first, since Specialist Titan had contributed his magic to the glowing knife, but the glow and the silver runes flared, then both quickly faded until a simple if somewhat short knife floated above the workbench.

“Please finish it before we work on the spearheads,” said Grace, turning to the red-faced and irate general. “Allow me to see your injury, please,” she added.

“Are you going to chop it off so… Oh,” said Hackmore as a light green aura of magic formed around his finger and it abruptly stopped hurting. A small white bandage seemed to form out of thin air and wrapped around his index finger several times, ending in an ornate bow knot.

“I advise you to get that seen to by a physician in the next three days before the thaumic bindings fade back into their primal state,” she added while wrapping the finger in a second, nearly transparent bandage which had just as impossibly appeared out of thin air. “If we have a chance before our departure, Corporal Bug Light does a marvelous job of whittling, and can make you one of those wooden display stands for your desk, engraved with our names and the EUP logo. That, unfortunately, will not be bound by the True Ownership spell, and will not return to your presence if you pass more than a dozen Celests away from it. The same can be said when you pass it down to your offspring, and them to theirs. With luck, it will last your family two or three centuries before the enchantment fades.”

“That— True ownership?” General Hackmore was not completely without fiction reading experience, and had rather enjoyed several swords and sorcery types of books over the years. The end result of the unicorns’ work was not very Conan the Cimmerian worthy, more of a tiny sword made for rabbits, just barely long enough to rest the point on the end on his middle finger with the hilt on his wrist.

That same fiction reading experience still left him unprepared for being able to put his whole hand around the blade without even a papercut, while any of the other soldiers in the building who were wanting to try it out found it was not the kind of blade they wanted to test on your thumb unless they really enjoyed having nine fingers. It was, however, the kind of blade that glittered in the sun like it had been chrome-plated, and sharp enough to pare off spirals of steel from the edge of the workbench.

By contrast, the spear blades the unicorns enchanted over the next hour could not only carve chunks out of the workbench, but plunge all the way through the pitted steel surface like a lightsabre went through tinfoil. It made Gregory consider commemorating his eventual retirement by leaving the letter opener stuck in his desk top with a note tied around it.

Forsooth, whosoever draws forth this blade from this desk shall be the rightful General of the Big Red One.

Naa, somebody would wind up cutting off a finger and suing. Besides, his grandkids would have a fit.

“That should do it,” declared Grace, looking up at General Hackmore with her stoic expression unchanged. “One of your soldiers is off procuring shafts for the spears, something about buying out the farm and garden store, I believe. While we’re waiting, if you like I’ll show you how the enchantments on the blades work against armor.”

“Yes,” he managed. “Thank you. I had some body armor procured from supply. They should be here soon.”

“No need to trouble yourself, General.” Grace lit up her horn, and LTC DeJoya gave out an abrupt yelp. The MP commander was supervising the rest of the MPs and happened to have drifted closer to the interesting activity, which turned out to be a little more exciting than he anticipated. Like a pickpocket snagging four wallets at once, the SAPI plates in his armor parted company with him, floated up into the air surrounded by a pale green glow, and over to the unicorn. “Heavier than expected for non-metallic armor,” she mused, placing the SAPI plates on the workbench with dull clunks. “They work in conjunction with the rest of the soldier’s equipment, I suppose.”

In a display of relative brilliance and forethought, DeJoya promptly began to strip off the rest of his gear before the nearby curious unicorn similarly relieved him of it all the way down to the skin. Specialist Grace accepted each article of gear as it was passed over, giving them each a thoughtful frown before arranging them precisely on the table in a way that made it look a little at the end like she had vaporized one of the MPs without harming the outfit.

“You don’t mind if we damage the armor during testing,” said the unicorn almost over her shoulder, in what certainly was not phrased as a question.

“Provided we can get some samples in return,” said Hackmore. “Those plates are boron carbide, able to take a rifle round without penetration, so I don’t think—”

The unicorn was backlit by her green magic when she jammed the spearhead straight through the body armor and beyond, making her seem almost diabolic in the eerie glow reflected from the penetrated steel workbench. Particularly the way she smiled during the process.

“Unenchanted,” she murmured, removing the ruined armor plate out of the plate carrier and tossing it onto the workbench. “Might as well be out there naked. Give us a few minutes with the other plates and we’ll see what we can do.”

Even without orders, several of the surrounding MPs had begun to remove the SAPI plates from their body armor and make a stack at the other end of the workbench. It seemed that the fascination about getting magic armor was contagious.

“That’s… fine,” said Hackmore, who had picked up the hefty chunk of body armor and was looking at the hole drilled through it. The rest of the plate had not broken, but more or less had crumbled into a narrow roughly trapezoidal hole where the spearblade passed through. He picked up his letter opener off the table and gave the unbroken portion of the plate a precautionary poke, watching as one of the hardest substances known to man short of diamonds separated like warm cheese against the blade.

While the three unicorns gathered around the rest of the SAPI plates and began covering them with glowing silver runes, General Hackmore made a command decision to ignore the ‘advice’ of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Equestrians were sharing their technology in a way that any US Army unit would never have considered if they had been in the same situation. It was only fair to let them get an unbiased look at how US Army soldiers used the full resources of Ft. Riley.

It took a little fumbling in his pocket to get out the SMEPED and call Sergeant Hardhooves, who had stayed in Randolph to oversee security. Something like this really needed to be coordinated between the heads of the two militaries, after all.

As long as there was no personnel exchange once the portal was up. He was a little old to go jaunting off into other dimensions no matter how interesting the experience would be.

- Ω - -

“If I walk straight, it doesn’t hurt much.” Widget strode slowly down the carpeted hallway with Claire Bruener on one side and Doctor Stable supporting the other, although technically a number of nurses and orderlies were running interference along their projected route. Dr. Schwartz waited at the other end of the corridor and checked his patient with a thoughtful frown.

“You’re lucky to be walking at all, young lady,” he admonished. “If not for Doctor Stable, we would be looking to see what kind of prosthetic to fit onto your stump, and I don’t know what would have happened with Granny Smith.”

“Now, when you get back to Ponyville,” started Doctor Stable in what seemed to Claire to be a completely unfair doctoral ganging-up on the poor patient, “I expect you to be giving that leg regular exercise, walking a little more each day, and keep the brace on unless you’re sleeping. Then you need to have it wrapped and elevated. A moon or two should see you right as raindrops, about the time your coat grows back in.”

Claire unconsciously brushed Widget’s powder-blue mane over the bare patch on her neck where the IV had been inserted, leaving her dark skin exposed. There were a lot of bare patches scattered across the soft pink of her coat, making it look a little like the unicorn had been the target of some demented game of paintball. It made Claire wonder if perhaps little pink tufts of alien hair were being analyzed in laboratories all across the country, with suggestions to the nurses to shave her every chance they had until she looked like a naked mole rat.

“I wish I could go back with you, Wige. Since your side will be opening the portal for Granny Smith and the doc in a few weeks, I could take care of you until then. And, seeing Equestria would be ultimately cool,” she added.

The equine doctor chuckled and patted Claire on the thigh. “I don’t think Princess Celestia would approve.”

“And my mother is going to smother me anyway. She’s always so worried I’m going to go somewhere strange and get hurt,” said Widget. “And… then I went somewhere and got hurt, I suppose. Just don’t tell her I said that. Seriously, I don’t know how they managed to keep her from storming up here and taking over my hospital room unless they found something sparkly to keep her attention.”

* * *

“Try it now,” declared Silver Spanner, who had managed to wedge her entire body under the hood of Clarie’s Volvo except for her twitching tail. “Last time. Just give it one twist.”

Heavy Roller nodded and gave the key a quick turn, then returned it to center once the starter had made the short noise.

“Ah, HA! Found it! The fuel injector on number three cylinder isn’t making electrical contact, so it’s not injecting any fuel,” she declared, kicking and wriggling some more to get a better magical grip on it. “Let me get this out of here so Mr. Bruener can order a replacement, then we can go look at his combine reaper again and see why the transmission isn’t engaging third gear.” Silver Spanner gave out a little squeal of joy. “This place is just so fantastic!”

“You said it!” rumbled Heavy as he moved over to look down into the engine compartment. “Sweetie, you know all the words to my heart. Best second honeymoon ever.”

* * *

“I mean her and dad control every single part of my life,” complained Widget while both doctors peered at her bare ankle. “I’m an only foal. You’d think with as much as they like playing with wagon parts that they would have played with each other’s parts more.”

“Well, one of those parts needs what we call an MRI,” said Doctor Schwartz. “Since we’re going to send our favorite patient home, those legs are going to get more photographs than Betty Grable.”

“You better not take the MRI machine apart,” cautioned Claire as she gave the patient’s horn a gentle flick. “And I’m not sure how your built-in antenna is going to react to getting magnetically zapped once it starts up.”

“It’s not a lot of fun,” admitted Doctor Stable. “I went through it yesterday so they’d have a calibration target. Think of a sewer pipe that you have to lay in very quietly while somepony beats on the outside with sticks.”

Widget had been very quiet, so Claire cautiously touched her neck, then began to rub at the knots that were forming. “Don’t worry, Widge. They have an intercom in the room, and I’ll tell you about the time I got to tour a submarine, with all the valves and pipes to keep you calm. Would that be okay?”

“Well…” Widget brushed her neck up against Claire’s hip. “As long as you’re going to be there. Having an Emotional Support Human has been the best thing ever, even if you won’t let me buy you a collar or the vest.”

“You are never going to let me live down that commercial, are you?” asked Claire with a sigh.

- Ω - -

The trip to Ft. Riley’s firing range had been educational for both armed forces. The humans found out that the range of a unicorn’s magic blasts was by far shorter than the 5.56mm rounds of the Army standard M-4 rifle, while the unicorns were ecstatic about the way their enchantments on the SAPI plates shrugged off the same bullets. Both sides wound up amused by the way that the .50 caliber rounds made the plates fly through the air, although admittedly a little discouraged by the resulting damage to the enchantments.

Although the pegasi had the most fun firing the machine gun, once proper ear protection had been procured.

By mutual agreement, they determined that it was probably best that both armed forces remained friendly to each other. Still, it was impossible for two groups of dissimilar soldiers to remain in the same location without asking the question of just how such an engagement would look like. And there was no better place to play out the possibilities than the Fort Riley Combined Arms Collective Training Facility, colloquially called Victory Village.

Wired for sight and sound, the simulated town had all of the normal structures one would expect, from a church, a gas station, businesses, houses, and all the rest. After a few building and room clearance exercises observed by the unicorns and pegasi, in all the full-automatic fire glory of a demonstration for the foreign dignitaries (with blanks, of course, and all gunfire recorded for later playback), it was time for the shoe to go onto the other hoof.

“General, technically, we’re short a couple of earth ponies for a nine-pony platoon,” said Corporal Bug Light, a yellowish-tinted unicorn who had not said a word until this point. “We can still carry out the mission, of course. I’m just telling you ahead of time that we may not be at our best.”

“Understood, Corporal.” Hackmore pointed to the building across the street. “For the purposes of this exercise, there are at least three armed suspects in there along with an unknown number of noncombatants. We don’t have MILES units for your armor, so we’re going to count a shot as an injury and two shots as a kill. You can go whenever you’re ready, just try not to rough up our guys in there too much, please. They’re expensive.”

Bug Light grinned, then turned to the two other unicorns and the three pegasi, at which point his expression turned dead serious. “You heard the general. This will be a two-part Sixteen Delta. Titan has the bowling task, I’m the ball, Grace blocks, and Flash will be first in through the roof door. Questions? Then go.”

All three pegasi shot up into the air, and by the time Hackmore lowered his eyes again, the unicorns were crossing the street under a haze of magic shielding. One rifle barrel stuck out of a window to take them under fire, which turned out to be less than a good idea as the rest of the rifle briskly followed, dragged out by Grace’s green magic and tossed out into the street. Not even breaking stride, she made a leap that jammed her horn into the window opening for just a fraction of a second, and a brilliant green flash of light burst out of every crack in the building, bright enough that even Hackmore had to blink away the afterimages despite standing across the street.

Titan’s horn lit up also, but not to attack. Instead, he grabbed onto his NCO and hurtled him through the front door in a spray of splinters at almost the exact second that Flash Sentry went through the roof access point in a crash dive, followed by the twin pegasi so close together they could have been one horse with four wings. An extremely short series of flashes and loud thuds followed while Grace moved to the front door and kept an eye on the outside, seeming unconcerned by the brief sounds of combat behind her.

“Jesus,” murmured Hackmore. “Time?”

The training coordinator checked the radio, then looked at his stopwatch. “Seven seconds from breach to clear, with no shots fired, sir. Five tango’s neutralized, all the civvies separated, and they’re checking for injuries now. I’m just glad these are the fucking royal guard on their planet, because if they were ordinary soldiers—”

“We’re on camera,” cautioned Hackmore.

“Fuck the cameras, sir,” said the coordinator. “Ponies rock.”

Author's Note

Editor notes: Tek-well there's a point for the brain washing/ mind control conspiracy nuts break out the tinfoil hats :)

Me-Relax. Luna doesn't slip into anybody's dreams and modify their memory to make them love ponies. That's only a nasty rumor spread by people who have not yet been blessed by her touch.

"What are you doing in that bog, Mr. Becerra?"
"Uhh.. feeling around with my toes for your jeep, sir?"
Actually happened. Ow.

29. Travel Plans

Farmer Bruener Has Some Ponies
Travel Plans

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”
— Mark Twain

Herd behavior is a tricky thing. In birds, giant flocks whirl and spin in the air. Whales gather in pods to hunt. Elk travel shoulder-to-shoulder over vast distances. Lemmings… um, let’s not look at lemmings. It’s a myth anyway.

Reporters like to think of themselves as pack animals. No, not horses or mules. Wolves.

You know. Predators. Yes, really.

Of course, that means they need prey, and this week was supposed to be Open Season on ponies.

Once all of the reporters had gotten up and taken inventory, it turned out the sum total of observed ponies in Randolph and the surrounding vicinity was one, and there was only so much video that could be shot of a pony helping pump out porta-potties.

It had taken most of a weekend to get all of the press and their respective vehicles organized in the pasture to one side of the Bruener farm. It took three hours for them to go storming out in search of prey, and part of that was due to fender-benders.

The various VIPs had already been trickling out over the evening hours, since they had schedules to keep, and nowhere in the town to stay. Plus, they needed to schedule a return trip for the next portal opening.

By noon, all that was left in the pastures beside the Bruener farm were the borrowed RVs being used for pony housing and a large amount of trash.

Well, other than a number of armored vehicles and one SEAL squad concealed on a nearby hill.

All of the ponies were out having fun, leaving none behind.

That is, none that anybody knew about.

There were some exceptions.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 9:02 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Bruener Farm basement, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Time for Teletubbies! Time for Teletubbies!”

The opening chords of the British television program (or programme, to be accurate) echoed around the basement as Maria Bruener and Clover sat on the carpeted floor, surrounded by toys. Clover was having a wonderful time trying to put round plastic blocks into square openings until the sight of a purple creature on the big flatscreen made her mouth open wide with joy.

“Tink!” she declared. “Tink! Tink!”

“Tinky Winky,” clarified Maria. It was a far cry from playing with grandchildren, not worse, just different. The foal’s father was reclining in the nearby Lay-Z-Boy recliner, looking much like a shaggy green rug thrown over a pile of pillows. He was surrounded by several political books, Grandfather Bruener’s collection of Churchill’s history books, and some miscellaneous science fiction, giving him an intense expression indicating that he would be perfectly happy there for the next two weeks until the return portal opened, and might have to be pried out of the chair then.

The house was so quiet with all the ponies out and about playing tourist, which they really deserved. Maria knew if she had been tossed to another dimension with two weeks to burn, she would go everywhere. Claire had inherited her mother’s explorative ways, and the family had backed her up on trips to Portugal, an exchange student stint in Japan, several profitable summers spent on wheat harvest crews, and one summer riding the rails in Europe. There had to be some career the girl would settle on other than traveling.

Then again, remaining stationary for a while was not bad either, particularly with such a clever little pony like Clover. Ponies tended to behave like their names, or acquired names to match their characteristics, it seemed. In particular, she was reminded about a small unicorn filly of very pale wisteria hues aptly named Bookworm who had settled into Jon’s study upstairs, making a little ‘nest’ of sorts to conceal herself behind the paperwork. Rather than tour Kansas, she was working her way through Grandfather Bruener’s collection of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction magazines, along with the mismatched collection of Astounding, Ellery Queen, and books like the Radio Boys and the Mark Twain collection stashed there also.

It seemed to be a shame that she did not want to get out into the Kansas sunshine, but Bookworm had said she missed their morning departure with her sister, and they would all head out on their trip in a day or two, so it was no great loss, and she loved to read.

The little unicorn did remind Maria a lot of the quiet pony stallion, happy as a clam to be curled up on the recliner with an unstable stack of books on either side of him. Maybe they were related somehow.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:58 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: (c) Near the Bruener Farm, Randolph, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Checkin time, Cap.” Corporal Smith barely lifted his voice above a whisper, but in their close quarters under the ghillie cloth, a whisper was all that was needed.

“I know, Smith.” Captain Kevin Rogers shifted positions slightly, but not much. There was not much space anyway, and one extra was crowding things, even if she was small. “Key the satcom and hit the MDM. I still don’t know how we’re going to explain this to SecNav.”

“RHIP, Cap.” The communications specialist flipped a few switches, checked his equipment, then nodded when the encrypted symbol showed on the Multi-Display Module.

“Home Plate this is Hounddog Five actual,” said Rogers into his lavalier microphone once the signs and handshaking part of the conversation was over. “Status, established at one four Siera Pappa Juliet niner three three two three stroke six five seven eight zero. Subjects under observation, or more correct, subject since it looks like there’s only one pony outside, designation Honey Bucket with human volunteers, picking up trash. Oh, correction. We have eyes on subject Stargazer also,” he added as the warm batpony foal shifted position in his arms. She was so peaceful and quiet that it was easy to forget about her, the kind of alien newborn that humans wished theirs were. Except for the teething, which was under control.

“Ahh…” The voice on the other end of the encrypted satellite link sounded uncertain. “Hounddog, we have eyes on your location by airborne assets—” a long phrase for an unarmed Predator drone scheduled to be loitering somewhere above the Kansas terrain at this time “—which shows two nearby subjects, located at approximately two two zero degrees, range—”

“Negative, Home Plate,” said Rogers quickly. “Disregard subjects at that location, and do not observe. Ah… That’s where Mama Bat and Daddy Bat are…. um… making more Baby Bats. The last thing we need for international relations is for the Navy to be taking dirty movies of our visitors. It’s against military regulations, also. Subject Laminia greeted us on our arrival and read us the riot act about waking the baby.”

There was an exceedingly long period of silence from the radio, leaving Rogers to direct a questioning look at Smith, who merely pointed to the green icon on the MDM showing the connection was still active.

“Captain Rogers, where is that baby?”

Rogers looked down at the crook of his elbow where the tiny foal was sleeping quietly, chewing on a chunk of MOLLE webbing from one of the SEAL’s kits that had been sacrificed for her teething issue, along with an official SEAL Team Five patch at the far end of the chew-toy.

“Sleeping securely, sir.”

It took much longer to finish describing the situation to the satisfaction of SecNav Carter, and it sounded a little like the Navy group that sent Team Five on this observation mission was upset⁽*⁾ that they were being upstaged by a bunch of civilians uploading video to YouTube from all over Kansas.
(*) So were a lot of reporters, and many, many politicians.
—

There was a silver lining to the Navy’s cloud for the day. When the two batponies got up from their nap in the sunshine at noon and proceeded up to the SEALs’ camouflaged positions, they wandered back and forth several times, calling out to each other in growing frustration while the SEALs remained silent and unobserved. It took the mare calling out to her foal for Stargazer to wake up, all alert, wide-eyed, and wriggling, before only one of their concealed hides was revealed. Reunion of nursing mother and hungry foal was abrupt, and the SEALs studiously observed rocks and trees rather than the resulting messy feeding. Then when the small family was done, they proceeded down to the Bruener house, taking with them a cell number for Captain Rogers’ SMEPED and a note of introduction for Sergeant Hardhooves requesting belated permission to conduct their Equestrian observation.

“Cap,” said Corporal Owensby as they watched the ponies vanish into the house. “I think I like this kind of mission. It’s not as exciting as being dropped behind the lines somewhere, but it’s good training, we’ve proved at least some ability to hide from their observation, and we may be compromised to heck and back, but that little kid was just adorable.”

“Yeah,” admitted Rogers reluctantly. “I never expected First Contact to be so fuzzy and pettable. The kids at least don’t seem very dangerous.”

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 11:30 A.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Topeka Museum of Natural History, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Did we get all the students out of the train boiler?” asked Cheerilee, the teacher from the ponies’ home world. “And did somepony get Scootaloo down from the biplane exhibit?”

Ethan Alexander really had not wanted to volunteer to escort the alien children on their exploration of Kansas educational facilities, but his wife had volunteered him, and his own children had cast their votes in favor of the trip too. Besides, there was always the possibility that one of them would have some sort of biological or chemical accident, and as the current APHIS representative on scene, he was the local expert⁽¹⁾ in alien biology.
(1) His wife Eve could disagree, due to her multiple degrees in chemistry and biology from a Chinese university, and a Masters in biochemistry and molecular biology from Georgetown, but preferred to remain silent during such discussions and merely nod.
—

The museum was really an interesting place to set loose a little more than a dozen pony children and about the same number of young humans. ‘Caution’ signs seemed to attract the ponies, and if they had been permitted to bring tools, Ethan was fairly sure several of the exhibits would be scattered across the floor while three particular young ponies proclaimed their innocence at the top of their tiny lungs. Despite having to get up so early this morning, his own children were having the time of their lives, poking and prodding and peeking at all of the historical widgets, learning about the pioneers who settled this area of Kansas, and probably exchanging an entire spectrum of extradimensional viruses and bacteria in the process.

It had terrified him at first, then merely concerned him when the ponies had dined with his children at the Hunting Hill farm, then had settled into a tense state of concern when the kids of both species began playing with the dog.

Seriously, if any terrestrial creature was about to drop dead from some extraterrestrial creature contact, it was Bruno, the face-licking, rear-sniffing, poop-eating pup.

The collection of natives was beginning to get restless, and so was Ethan. The pony children existed in a state of excited brownian motion, and keeping them confined while the last stragglers were being rounded up was not easy.

“Where are we going after this?” he called out to one of the Army volunteers who had been driving the bus.

“Taco Bell for lunch, then the zoo, I think,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Ah,” said Ethan, perking up. “I’ve read about the zoo here. They’ve got a small tropical rain forest, some hippopotami, giraffes—”

“And lions?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“And tigers?” asked Apple Bloom.

There was a long pause, then Scootaloo’s voice drifted back from the museum area. “I’ve got my tail stuck in one of the airplane wires, but I’ll be there in a minute.”

“And bears,” said his son Phillip.

“Oh, my,” said Paul, his other son.

It appeared that germs and viruses were not the only thing that spread between humans and ponies. There were more cross-cultural experiences in the week that followed.

Such as in Marysville where the ponies really enjoyed the Pony Express Museum.

Or in Rock City, where the Pie family rearranged the sandstone concretions into a more aesthetically pleasing configuration so they could properly ‘grow.’ (How they moved the 30-foot boulders around remained a mystery.)

Even in the setup for the Country Stampede music festival at the Tuttle Creek recreation area, where eager earth ponies volunteered to help construct the stage, pegasi arranged for the weather to be perfect, and unicorns mostly kept their comments about country music to themselves. (but they still got hats)

And although it was fun, behind the scenes there was still a lot of work going on to support the ongoing activities.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 1:22 P.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Summit’s Minerals, Lawrence, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Kota walked inside of the small shop, giving a quick glance around for other customers and trying not to look as if he were casing the joint for a robbery. The only thing he was armed with was a credit card, a camera, and if things got too troublesome, a rather dangerous fire-breathing dragon (size small, currently out of fuel).

“Sir,” he asked the proprietor, a white-bearded skinny gentleman with a growing bald spot, “I’ve got a couple of special customers outside, and I was wondering if—”

“I don’t deal drugs,” said the old geezer, making Dakota Henderson consider that it probably had not been a good idea to skip his shower this morning in favor of borrowing the Bruener’s SUV and getting an early start on their shopping. Or maybe he should go back to a much shorter haircut.

One short explanation later, Kota escorted Spike and Sparkler inside, with two ponies who had tagged along for their trip, assigned the task of keeping watch at the shop door. Lyra and Bon Bon had been perfect companions for the mineral retrieval mission, glued to the window of the SUV while they traveled and watching everything with wide eyes. Although Lyra turned out to be the chatty one who spoke to every human she met, Bon Bon provided color commentary and appropriate eye-rolling to the conversation when needed, so they really went together like peas and carrots.

It made Kota really wonder about Lucky’s observation about them being secret agents of some sort. Maybe he had just been pulling his leg. They didn’t seem very ‘Bondish’ at all.

“Wow.” Spike had his head down in the mineral display shelf, sniffing along with only a little bit of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, only to have Sparkler gently tap him on the top of the head with one hoof.

“Focus, greedy-guts, and wait until we’re introduced. You’re the one who ate the entire Ponyville Emergency Fund. Twilight’s going to have you on a diet for weeks when we get back.” The teenaged unicorn looked around the mineral and crystal shop with an evaluating stare and modified her statement with, “Admittedly, you’ve been pushing a lot of messages lately.”

“I’m a young and growing dragon,” said Spike proudly.

Once introductions were over and the mineral purchasing unicorn/dragon team returned to looking over the selection, the store proprietor slipped over to where Kota was filming.

“I read about the ponies in the newspaper,” he started, “but why do they need rocks?”

“Gemstones or specific minerals,” clarified Kota. “Dragons in Equestria eat gemstones, which is what they use to fuel their fire. And since he uses his fire to communicate with back home…”

“You need to fuel up your walkie-talkie,” said the old man. “Tell you what. I’ll give you bulk pricing on the geodes, the tourmaline, and anything on the ‘Wholesale Only’ shelf. Do you need anything specific for your lithotroph friend?”

“My… what?” Kota caught a glimpse of the faded USN bee tattoo on the old man’s arm and the grin that he gave in return.

“Construction Battalions, Korea, with a PhD in Environmental Geology when I got out. I caught your bio in the papers too. Dakota Henderson, a member of Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children before you became a photographer. Figured a Jarhead would at least study up on his newfound companions.” The old man plucked two books from a nearby shelf and put them on the counter. “A chemolithotroph derives energy from inorganic compounds, like giant tube worms. From the pictures I’ve seen, he eats about everything, so that’d put him more into the category of a true omnivore. Hey, hey! No sampling!” he called out over Kota’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” said Spike while chewing. “I can’t tell just exactly what some of these are without tasting them.”

“Yeah, right,” said Sparkler, floating up a golden yellow stone and examining it in the store’s lighting. “You’re just saying that because you’re hungry, and that’s because we followed your directions here. Turns out On The Rocks is an alcohol store, and the landscaping company only sells rocks, not gems.”

“Not to mention the rock candy store,” called out Bon Bon over her shoulder. “Not rocks.”

“Blame Siri,” said Spike, ignoring his critics. “This isn’t bad. Not much energy, but you’ve got quite a few of them. The amethyst and onyx are a little sharper than the ones back home, the topaz tastes a like soap, and the garnets are just like those little colorful chocolate candies with the ‘W’ on them. Are you sure there aren’t any diamonds or rubies here?”

“Positive.” The old man moved over to the gemstone display and pointed out prospective samples while Kota recorded video. It turned out to be a productive visit, and cost less of their budget than expected, although Spike was less than optimistic about how many letters transmitted from Equestria it represented. Still, it came with lunch as the old man took them around the corner to a local cafe, his treat, and should be enough to last until the ponies all went home. And if not, Spike said that his sister/master/princess would be more than happy to send another package of gems, with enough diamonds and rubies for even a greedy little dragon.

It was news that was not taken well by a certain business who watched the video a short time later.

Not well at all.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 8:45 P.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Newark Airport (NWR), New York

- - - ⧖ - - - -

Two passengers with Middle-Eastern complexions, black clothing, last minute reservations, only carry-on luggage, with one-way tickets. One would think airport security would be all over them. And in a way, they were.

The passengers were met by a member of the Transportation Security Administration at the gate, escorted to a private screening, and received the attention of two experienced agents who examined their baggage in the privacy afforded.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were sitting in the Polaris Lounge, with an attendant bringing them whatever they desired. It was a fair deal for the airline, because their passengers refused about everything but a small glass of ice water and some peanuts, while one of them never released his grip on a small black briefcase.

Then less than an hour later, they were gone on a nonstop flight to Kansas City, sitting quietly in business class next to a crying toddler and a fat woman with asthma.

The Equestrians had just revealed themselves as a significant threat.

And there was only one way their organization had to deal with it.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 2:15 P.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: Wichita, Kansas

- - - ⧖ - - - -

The Air Force had pulled out all the stops, like the visiting pegasi were US Senators holding a spending bill hostage. Claire had not even been aware that there was a band stationed at McConnell AFB, and she could hardly wait to tell Goose all about it, once she stirred from the embrace of Prince Valium. The airmen had arranged for a wheelchair for Widget, after the brief welcoming ceremony was over and a great number of young men and women had been greeted by the visitors. Thankfully, somebody had put a foot down firmly on any aircraft flyovers, or Claire thought there would certainly be a horrible accident because the pegasi were darting about everywhere, from one demonstration aircraft to another.

A second wheelchair had appeared seemingly by magic when Goose had proven too drug-sleepy to stand, and Claire found herself nominated as pegasus pusher. They might as well have just used one, since Widget was dragging the FBI agent from jet aircraft to static display of weaponry like a kid in a candy store. At least that meant Claire did not have to go flying with the rest of the ponies when the Air Force brought one of their passenger aircraft around, and Widget deferred on the grounds that her leg was beginning to hurt. The four girls, two humans and two ponies, wandered over to the maintenance building while Nick was making a phone call. Free from her burden of walking, Widget was leaning back in the wheelchair and babbling a mile a minute.

“...there’s even a ballet in town, and they said we can go meet the balleters and see how they dance, although none of them can fly but that’s not a requirement for a good ballet. Then we can visit the zoo until dark and the Hi-Yacht hotel offered us a whole floor and they’ve got a pool and the Air Force has volunteered some of their humans to drive us around the city tomorrow! And there’s almost none of your newspaper press shoving cameras in my face, which is great!”

“I thought you liked the photographers,” said Karla, who was looking a little rumpled but still not bad after her unscheduled kidnapping and flight. “Especially that cute Marine.”

It made Claire chuckle quietly to herself. The way the Equestrian unicorn and the FBI agent had bonded in just a few days was nothing short of amazing. It probably did not hurt that Karla had grown up around horses in Louisiana, and Widget once had a dream of becoming a police officer, only with the small amount of crime around Ponyville, she would have spent most of her career picking up trash.

Pink unicorn blushed pinker, and Widget looked around for Nick, most probably to pass along some of the embarrassment. Claire looked too, and was mildly surprised to see the heavyset black officer walking in their direction, holding his cell phone as if it were a venomous snake.

“Agent Anacostia,” he rasped. “The President wants to talk with you.”

“Yeah, right. I knew I should have gotten my own phone out of the GoDark bag.” Karla laughed as she took the phone from him. “It’s Clyde. He does an amazing Obama. Hi, boss. Sorry for not getting back with you sooner, but…”

Ever so slowly, Karla’s gleeful expression just slid off her face like it was greased, leaving behind a wide-eyed and considerably paler self who only repeated “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” at seemingly random intervals until she just hung up the call and stood there.

“Uh… I’m guessing that was the President?” asked Claire, who was having a few butterflies in her stomach too. After all, she had voted for the man, and would have loved to talk with him for a few minutes, but then again…

“Yes,” said Karla. “The FBI is sending a Gulfstream to pick me up and take me to Washington.”

She might as well have hit Widget right across the face.

“But… we were going to explore the city?” The unicorn’s bottom lip trembled and she just seemed to collapse on herself. “What did I do? Should I have gone with the men? Is Mister President mad at me? Is the FBI mad at you?”

“No,” said Karla quickly. “You’re just fine. It’s nothing you did.”

It was obvious that Widget did not believe that. She wheedled and begged, moping around as her friend made preparations to go. She even tried to steal Nick’s phone so she could call ‘Mr. President’ back and ask him to change his mind. There was the late lunch they needed to attend, the unseen zoo, no end of bars with karaoke machines left unsung, and increasingly strange tourist viewing that they were not going to see…

It took nearly two hours for the Gulfstream to reach the airport and taxi to the gate, and Widget spent every moment trying to convince her friend to stay. She talked and begged, standing almost in Karla’s shadow as they walked to the plane, up the stairs, and at the doorway. For a moment, Claire thought she was going to dart inside before the door closed, but the quiet FBI agent put a hand on her fuzzy shoulder and bent down to whisper into her ear. Then it was Widget’s turn to ever so carefully pick her way down the stairs, with Claire holding onto her so she would not trip and tumble to the distant pavement.

They had to go behind the white line before the Gulfstream started its engines, and Widget did not move from Claire’s side while it taxied.

Or when it took off.

Or even when it vanished from sight in the blue Kansas sky.

“I want to go home,” said Widget, slowly and clearly.

“The portal is supposed to be open in two weeks—”

“I want to go home now!” wailed Widget, bursting into tears and flinging her head against Claire’s hip. “It’s unfair! This place is so full of wonderful things, but you people can be so cruel and heartless! All I wanted was another friend like you!”

Claire barely managed blink away tears of her own while patting the distraught unicorn on the patchy shoulder where her coat had been shaved away by the doctors. It really was so unfair. She was just a young girl of sorts, far away from her home in the middle of a bunch of violent humans. And worse, the news media was hanging onto her every action like a bunch of ticks on a dog. There was even a news video crew nearby, filming the two of them standing there in tears.

It was the worst day of her life.

- - - ⧖ - - - -
Time: 5:15 P.M. Tuesday June 23, 2015
Location: General Counsel office, White House, Washington D.C.

- - - ⧖ - - - -

“Looking good, Bob. Things are looking up.”

One advantage of working this high in government was that Kathryn was on a first-name basis with everybody of similar rank, except for ‘President Obama’ or ‘The President’ for obvious reasons. Robert was her counterpart in the General Counsel’s office, technically her superior but sometimes it was difficult to figure out the exact pecking order with as little pecking that went on with twelve-hour days and no vacations. He was a partner with Perkin-Coie, who had put several lawyers on the ground at the scene of the alien invasion, which gave the White House an untapped back-channel to events on the ground. It was a precious bonus when half of survival in Washington was knowing which way to jump, and the other half involved when to jump.

The President depended on their legal advice in that regard, and so far it had been working out… about as well as any other alien invasion. To be honest, Kathryn could have been flipping a coin for decision making so far and done about as well. At least she had not dug the boss a hole in the way the Deputy AG had when she tried to use the FBI to bring the crippled alien unicorn back to Washington for brownie points. DAG Gates had become ‘unavailable for comment’ in Quantico, and the members of her bully-boy team were headed that way by jet. If they were good little FBI agents and kept their big mouths shut for a year, they might all be permitted to resign with non-disclosure agreements. If they decided otherwise…

Robert did not stop looking over the papers he had just been handed. “Sit down and double-check these, Kat. We need to make sure the honorary citizenships the legislature passed are bulletproof before the President signs them. The first four aliens admitted as US Citizens are a doctor, a soldier, a retired farmer, and a mechanic, that just happen to be all three of the major Equestrian races.” He gave a low chuckle. “Can’t have anybody complain the administration isn’t paying attention to diversity, can we?”

“It’s going to be a beautiful ceremony when the President awards these next Saturday,” said Kathryn, giving a good look at the vellum certificates. “Still seems weird to have somebody named ‘Widget’ on the paper. Do you think all four of them will be there?”

“Who knows.” Robert shrugged his shoulders and turned a page. “Granny Smith had her hip replaced after all, so she may still be in Kansas City for a few weeks. I bet the President’s speech writers are putting something in there about our healthcare system and the uninsured. Just glad we don’t have to worry about it.”

“Let politics be politics. Hey, I bet CNN has something about the citizenship bills and the President’s upcoming visit. Where’s your remote?” Kathryn turned on the office television, which was already on the right channel. “I just love it when they talked about ‘bipartisanship’ in the vote today. You can hear the teeth grinding on the other side of the aisle.”

Although he was sticking a post-it note into the thick sheaf of papers, Bob looked up abruptly at the announcer’s phrasing. “Tragedy? What, don’t tell me one of the aliens died.”

“Worse.” Kathryn watched the CNN news crew interview the distraught pink unicorn, who looked both tragically shaved with ill-intent and incredibly sympathetic, with the sleeping batpony curled up in a wheelchair beside her. The only thing missing was a tragic violin playing in the background.

“Who’s Karla, and why is she missing?” asked Bob after the short interview was over and the unicorn burst into tears again, leaving the on-air personality to resume blathering.

“The FBI agent who was staying in her hospital room,” said Kathry rapidly, trying to watch the closed captioning. “She was Widget’s gal-pal there for the weekend. They had a livestream going, and I had to watch. It was like an all-girl episode of Friends combined with Star Trek. One giant estrogen party for hours and hours. They were doing fingernail polish and braiding, and talking about boys too. That African-American guy in the Army t-shirt you can see in the background of the shot is supposedly the batpony’s boyfriend… Not that way!” she chided at Bob’s astonished expression. “Anyway, Karla probably got swept up with the FBI group being sent to Quantico for storage.”

“That’s going out on CNN,” started Robert, “at the same time the President is getting ready to make his announcement. The press will go stark raving bonkers. They’ll stake him right down at the podium and—”

No Wild West cowboy could have beaten either of the experienced lawyers to the draw. They both had their cell phones out in record time and were taking as fast as they could.

The President’s news conference started fifteen minutes behind schedule.

It was not an unusual circumstance.

The government Gulfstream’s rapid refueling at Dulles and subsequent return to Wichita immediately afterward was.

When a deeply rumpled and tired Karla Anacostia showed up at the Wichita Hyatt far, far later that evening…

Let us simply say hugs happened.