Hannah Hawes, Shop Assistantby Admiral BiscuitChaptersPrologueThe MissionThe Andravidan TempleBooby TrapsThe Penultimate ChamberThe EscapeThe Orrery of AntikytheraEpiloguePrologueHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Prologue Admiral Biscuit Jim Jam's General Store is packed to the brim with stuff. Stuff that you're intimately familiar with, since you're his sole employee. It's not a bad job, really. It's much like working retail back on Earth, except that customers are generally more polite. Unlike your experiences working human retail, ponies are rarely insufferable bastards who think that the world owes them something. Jim Jam has interesting ideas about business, little tidbits he picked up here and there back when he was a young calf making his way in the wide wide world of Equestria with just a cart full of trade goods that he towed from one town to the next. His first important lesson—trains were faster than a minotaur pulling a cart. There was no use in carrying anything that could be cheaply mail-ordered, a philosophy he’d carried forward in his general store. Since you'd spent your formative years on Earth and were well-versed in the wonders of Amazon, you had to agree with that point. He also thought that if ponies had to work for things, they'd want them more, which was why he liked to put the items he considered the most valuable and appealing on shelves that were far above a normal pony's reach. He thought that when you were called upon to get them down for ponies who wanted them, you could spend the time extolling the virtues of that particular item, which would practically guarantee a sale. There were two problems with that idea of his. First, two thirds of the ponies who came in could either use magic or simply fly up to get what they wanted. The other third sometimes didn't even notice things that were on shelves high above their heads; if they did, they usually asked some other pony to get it down, rather than a salesgirl. Your reach had gotten you the job. Not only were your hands useful for working the monstrous Tauran cash register, but you could easily reach most of the shelves. For those few shelves which were too tall, there was a stepstool. Like most things that had been built for minotaurs, it was incredibly heavy but also incredibly stable. You’d already put two boxes of snow globes up on the shelf, all neatly faced. They were clever little clockwork units that had a music box built into the base, and the mechanism also ran a tiny pump that shot the faux snowflakes into the air. You glance down the aisle to make sure that there weren't any customers looking, and then reached inside your shirt to adjust your bra strap. It was ponymade, because Earth imports were stupidly expensive, and it liked to slide off your shoulders. Other than that, it was pretty comfortable. “Hey, Hannah?” “Yeah?” You grab at the last box and by the time Jim Jam comes around the corner, you're carefully arranging the last of the snowglobes. “When you're done with those, put the boxes away in the back room and then tidy up some in there, okay? There's some candy I couldn't sell that we should probably get rid of before mice move in.” “Candy, got it.” You give the shelf a last look and decide that everything's in order. Sometimes you like to crouch down a little bit and get a pony-eye view, just to make sure that the display looks attractive from a pony perspective. This time you don't bother. You take the boxes to the back room and stack them with all the other boxes, then go back to the aisle for the stepstool. The stockroom smells of dust and very faintly of fish. It used to be part of the fish market until the dock area gentrified—that's apparently something that pony cities do, too. Jim Jam had bought the building at just the right time, when its value was as low as it would ever get. He lived upstairs, where he could always keep an eye on his store. Your first weeks in the stockroom were overwhelming. He'd ask you to get something and you'd have to ask him where it was. There was no rhyme or reason to the arrangements, and the few boxes that were labeled were in dozens of different languages, most of which you didn’t know. You're no better at Anadolu or Galician or Manipuri than you were when you got to Manehattan, but at least you know where to look for things now. It doesn't take you too long to find the candy. It's mostly weird Equestrian stuff that you've never heard of before, and oddly enough a few clones of human candy that apparently weren't well-received. There's a dozen bags of faux m&ms—they’ve got horseshoes printed on them instead of ms. They're all various shades of green, and claim to have alfalfa centers. You're not willing to bite into one to find out. You've taken a couple of trips to the garbage cans out back when you hit paydirt—there's a bag of Jolly Ranchers in there. Assorted flavors, and the packaging is intact. You're pretty sure that Jolly Ranchers never go bad, and it'll be a nice taste of home . . . assuming that there aren't any weird pony flavors in there. A quick look at the package indicates that they're the normal flavors that you know and love, so you set them off to the side—maybe he'll let you have them. The MissionHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Mission Admiral Biscuit “What're you doing this weekend?” “Nothing much,” you lie. “Probably just sit around my house or hang out with friends. Maybe go to the park if the weather's nice.” “You should come to the gym sometime,” he says. “Build up some muscle. Exercise is good.” “Yeah, yeah.” You lean the broom back up against the wall. “I'm not really into that. Doesn't seem to be much purpose to lifting weights and all that.” “You have no idea what you're missing.” “Pretty sure I do. I've told you about Earth fitness clubs.” You reach for the trash can and then remember the Jolly Ranchers. “Hey, there were some Jolly Ranchers back there with the candy that you told me to toss out. You mind if I have them?” “Go ahead.” You go back into the stockroom—you remember right where they were—and stick them in your bra. It’s understandable that ponies have trouble with the idea of pockets in pants. As you head for the back door again, you pick up the trash can. “I'll dump this on my way out.” “Thanks. See you Monday.” You set down the trash can long enough to strip off your work apron and hang it up on its peg. You dump out the trash and set the empty can just inside the back door. If he doesn't put it back where it belongs on his way out, you'll move it back on Monday. You've got plans, and they won't wait. ••• You always keep a bag packed—that's something that you learned years ago. You only stop by your apartment long enough to grab it, and then you hurry to the train station. Your ticket is for a semi-private first-class seat, which is nice. As soon as the conductor shows you to your compartment, you tip him a bit, lock the door, and pull the shades down. It's a little bit uncomfortable to change your clothes in a pony train car—the compartments really aren't sized for humans. You briefly consider how Jim Jam would find it, and decide that he'd really hate it. The first time he stood up, he’d stick his horns in the ceiling and have to pry himself loose. Of course you're just lacing up your boots when the train starts moving, knocking you off balance. Luckily, here the small compartment comes to your rescue, and you're able to brace against a wall before tumbling, undignified, across one of the couches. And then it's time to sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is boring, and you wish that you'd thought to pack a book in your ready bag. That's something to remember for next time. At Baltimare, an older mare enters your compartment. She's about the most bland pony you could imagine—she's got a grey mane and tail, a dun-colored coat, and a piece of paper as a cutie mark. Her blue eyes are sharp and clear, though, and you know she never misses a detail. “Evening, Pure Clear.” That's not her real name. “Hello, ‘Banana.’ Have a good day at work?” “Sure.” Your mouth turns up into a small smile at your codename. “If you're already thinking of Christmas—Hearth's Warming, we've got snowglobes in. They're really clever. Music boxes built into the base, the whole deal.” “Maybe next time I'm in Manehattan, I'll buy one.” She opens her saddlebags and pulls out a folder. “The Orrery of Antikythera—what do you know about it?” “Never heard of it until now,” you admit. “Well, rumor is that it's located in the Temple of Eleia. Lotta trouble if it gets in the wrong hooves.” You nod. This is not the first time that an ancient artifact has resurfaced and threatened all ponykind. “Predates even Princess Celestia's rule, if you'd believe. Back when the Andravidans were trying to control the sun. We don't know if it still works, but—“ “But I probably shouldn't push any buttons on it,” you say. “Got it. Any idea what it looks like?” “Nope.” She taps a hoof on the folder. “It's all in here, best guesses and all that. You know the routine.” “Yeah.” “I've got to get off at the next stop,” she says. “That's the bad news. So you ought to skim through the folder.” “What's the good news?” “I was just getting to that. You aren't going alone.” “Who is it this time?” Her face twists up into a rare smile. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?” ••• Pure Clear was right that it was a surprise. Your companion is none other than Daring Do. She's wearing her cloak as a disguise, but as soon as the train leaves the station, she takes it off, revealing her adventuring clothes underneath. “Hawes,” she says quietly. “I've heard about you. They say you're the cleverest monkey in the agency.” “And you're the best birdhorse,” you tell her, totally deadpan. Inside, you're having a minor fangasm—Daring Do is a legend; she's the Indiana Jones of ponykind. Well, except that she's real. And a bit stuck up, but that's to be expected, given her track record. “I guess I deserved that.” She plants her pith helmet firmly on her head and sticks out a hoof. “What do you like to go by? Banana is just silly.” “Usually just Hannah,” you tell her. “Doesn't really lend itself to nicknames. My little brother called me 'Hannie.'” “I'm not one to step on little brothers' tails. Hannah.” She glances over at the folder. “What do we know? I didn't get much of a briefing.” “Not a lot. It's an orrery, it's in a temple, it might still work, and if it does bad things will happen.” “Got it.” “So no pushing buttons on it.” “Right. How about the temple?” “Built by crazy cultists.” Aren't they all? “Andravidan, dates before Princess Celestia's ascension. Recently discovered: the first expedition from the Bitish Museum gave up after one trap too many. Dr. Caballeron is known to be interested; last report has him chartering an airship. I'm reading between the lines a bit here, but if the orrery works like it's supposed to, using it could wrest control of the sun from Princess Celestia.” “Good thing that Nightmare Moon's been vanquished—that sounds just like the thing she'd’ve wanted to get her hooves on.” “Did I mention that the Andravidans are a New Lunar Republic cult?” Daring rolls her eyes. “Of course they are. Anybody else interested?” “Not according to this.” You set the folder aside. “It's not really Ahuizotl's thing, and I can't see the Mane-iac going for it, either. Pharoah Fetlock's in prison, Tirek's in Tartarus, and—“ “Grogar?” “Maybe. He hasn't been seen for a while, so I wouldn't rule him out entirely.” “Never worked with a human before,” Daring says, studying you intently. “What have you got as assets?” “Opposable thumbs and a cutting wit.” “And I've got wings and a pith helmet. Sounds like we're all set.” “Yeah.” You slide the folder over to her. “There's a map of the temple in there—it's not complete, of course. But it's better than nothing.” “You've seen one cursed temple, you've seen them all,” she says, but she opens the folder anyway. The Andravidan TempleHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Andravidan Temple Admiral Biscuit One thing that can be said about Equestrian train service is that it can always get you close to where you want to go. The other thing that can be said for it is that you miss your Jeep Wrangler, which could have driven you right up to the doorstep. They say that close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. “Hey, Daring?” “Yeah?” “Do you wear shoes?” You hadn't really paid attention to her hooves. “Not normally. They're heck on my typewriter.” “Shame.” You glance back down at the map. It's not very helpful—being until recently an undiscovered temple, that's hardly surprising. “Probably about time for another recon flight.” “I was thinking the same thing.” She glances up and around, perhaps making sure that there aren't any curious sapients in the air within eyesight, and then takes off, kicking up a bunch of fallen leaves. You've got nothing to do while you wait, so you lean against a tree trunk and just listen to the sounds of the forest which surrounds you. Lots of birds are chirping which is a good sign, and you don't hear distant drums. Daring's up for maybe ten minutes before coming back in for a landing. “It's about three more miles, give or take.” She points a hoof off roughly north-northeast. “Here might be a good place to set up camp for the night. Or, if we don't mind walking a bit, the river's close enough to be convenient, and not so close that we're gonna be the target of anypony with a raft.” “I'll admit, I'd rather get a look at this temple sooner rather than later,” you tell her. “Bog standard. Not gonna see anything on the outside that's helpful.” She scuffs her hoof across the ground. “No obvious holes in the top, which is too bad. Aerial assaults are always the best, if you can.” “I wouldn't know,” you say dryly. That's not entirely true; you rappelled into Kêr-Is. “I suppose not. You think to pack a tent?” “What kind of adventurer doesn't?” You slip out of your backpack and lean it up against a tree. “I usually nap in branches,” she tells you. “Fewer predators that way.” “You're in luck,” you tell her. “We humans might not have wings, but we've got tensile tree tents. More comfy than a branch, and it keeps the bugs out.” You glance up at the canopy of branches overhead. “How high do you figure?” “As high as we can get, just in case of hydras. I'd hate to be right at mouth level.” “Yeah, might as well make them work for dinner.” You pause for a second, considering. “Hey, are hydras singular or plural?” “What do you mean?” “Well, there’s like one body but a bunch of heads . . . so is it one hydra or is one hydra a hydras?” “It’s just a hydra. The number of heads don’t factor into it. Sort of like Cerberus is one dog, not three.” “Got it.” You reach into your bag and pull out your tent. “Hope you don’t mind flying the ratchet straps up and hooking them off.” ••• The one problem with tensile tree tents—which are basically hammocks with hats—is that you'd better be really close friends with your tent-mate. Theoretically, if you really crank on the ratchet straps, you can have a flat bottom, but that assumes that the tent's low enough on the tree that there won't be any flex in the trunk. You're a good hundred feet up, and even the stoutest trees are quite bendy at that height. Had it been another human sharing the tent with you, it might have been intolerable. With a pony, though, you actually don't mind the intimacy. Daring's apparently okay with it, too. At first, she tried to be stand-offish. It was cute how hard she tried to stay curled up at arm's length before finally succumbing to gravity. That, and the comfort of your Thermarest. Getting back out of the tree for your morning ablutions is not exactly a fun task, but you do manage eventually and after a quick breakfast—granola bars for you, and leaves for her—you're ready to storm the temple. ••• It takes you about two more hours to get close enough to see the temple through the trees, and another hour after that to actually spot the main entrance. There's no sense in just rushing in without thinking; it's better to reconnoiter and get a good idea of the lay of the land. And whether or not there are guards. The temple itself is across a gaping chasm. There's a rotten rope bridge which you study nervously. “It doesn't look that bad,” Daring says. “Easy for you to say; you've got wings.” You pluck at the cables, trying to get a sense of how strong the fibers are. They do feel reasonably strong. You're pretty sure that there were rope bridges in the Andes that lasted for thousands of years before they finally broke. “Nothing for it, I guess.” You shrug off your backpack and let Daring ferry that across—there's no sense in carrying more weight than you have to. The bridge is actually pretty decent. You test each of the footboards carefully but none of them wind up splitting under your feet, and the ropes hardly fray. You're feeling pretty confident about the bridge when an airship-sized shadow blots out the sun. You glance up just in time to see a flaming arrow zip by. “It's Dr. Caballeron,” Daring shouts, rather unnecessarily. “He did get his hooves on an airship.” Now there's no time to test the boards, you take off in a dead run as more arrows thunk into the wood behind you. Good thing none of them know how to lead. An arrow thwhacks down in the board right in front of you, immediately putting a lie to your words. It feels like an eternity but it isn't any more than ten seconds before you're off the bridge and into the relative safety of the trees on the other side of the canyon. The best they can do now is annoy you; the foliage is too thick for any arrows to make it through with lethal force—and they can't see where you are, either. “Wish I'd packed my bow,” you mutter. “Poke a few holes in his airship and give him something to think about.” Daring ignores you—she’s got a vine in her mouth and is tugging across the path. It doesn't take you very long to figure out that she's setting a snare, so you help rig the trigger for her. Basic woodcraft, the kind you learned in Girl Scouts. “They'll be in a bit of rush until they hit this,” Daring explains once you've got it set and covered with leaves. “Might catch somepony, might not. But after they find it, they're gonna go slower. Give us a head start.” “We could probably crouch and ambush them.” “If I knew the lay of the land better, I'd say that that was a good idea, but I don't. No idea how long it's going to take to get the Orrery of Antikythera, or if there's another way out of the temple. Maybe when we're inside we'll find a good spot to hide out, or maybe we can just rush in and grab it and get back out before he even knows what happens.” “Or maybe we'll be trapped like rats in a cage,” you observe. “I don't like it.” “Neither do I.” Daring tilts her head towards the temple. “But a mare’s gotta do what a mare’s gotta do. You coming?” Booby TrapsHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Booby Traps Admiral Biscuit Despite what Hollywood thought, there weren't really cursed ruins on Earth. There were a lot of ways that ancient ruins could kill you if you weren't careful—and a few ways they could get you even if you were—but back on Earth there weren't spells etched on the doors that would doom anybody who passed or anything like that. This was not the case in Equestria. While death magic and necromancy was rare, it was not entirely unknown. Other simpler wards were practically foal stuff; a fireball spell that was set to trigger when a door was opened wasn't that difficult to cast for a unicorn. Making it last for thousands of years and making it big enough to kill someone was a bit more complex, but not overly so. That was one of the advantages of having Daring take the lead as you squeeze past the half-open main doors. She knew what to look out for; she was much better at recognizing bespelled objects than you were. But where she instinctively thought of a magical trap, you thought of more mundane workings, tripwires and pitfalls and gravity traps and things like that. Probably why they thought you'd make the perfect team. It was kind of disappointing that the doors didn't try to kill you, but then there had already been an archaeological expedition partway into the temple. If there had been a spell, they'd have set it off. Whoever had built this had had defense in mind. While there aren't any ponies defending it any more, you quickly take in the way that the corridor branches off immediately to the left and right, slowing down any potential invaders. There are murder holes in the ceiling above, and narrow arrow slits lining the inside walls along the hallway. “How long have ponies had steel cables?” you ask. “Maybe a hundred years. Why?” “I was just thinking that any tripwires would have rotted away long ago.” “Lajos' Knife,” Daring says. “It's a spell that makes things last.” “Dammit.” You squint down in the narrow corridor, looking for tripwires. “Main hallways's probably clean,” Daring says. “The archaeologists would have found tripwires if there were any.” “I hope you're right.” The two of you together push the doors back shut and wedge them with a few scraps of wood. They won't hold for long, but they'll slow Dr. Caballeron down, and most importantly, he and his team will make noise getting through. Inside, it's—well, it's as dark as a tomb. You get a crystal torch out of your backpack: while there are spells that trigger off other spellwork, sometimes in ancient ruins that's less of a danger than an oil lamp finding a methane pocket. “Right rule?” “Right rule.” You and Daring follow the right-hand corridor back. Odds are good that this temple's outer corridors are arranged in a sort of spiral. Corners are the best spot for traps, because people and ponies naturally slow down at them. Long hallways are also good spots; arrows fired down them tend to hit something. The outermost ring is completely devoid of traps; either the temple-builders were sloppy, or the first crew through found and disabled them all, one way or another. You've made it all the way into an antechamber before you hear banging off in the distance. No doubt it's Dr. Caballeron and his goons in hot pursuit. “I think that this is as far as the archaeology team got,” Daring says. “Eugh.” You agree. The air in the room smells somewhat fresh—not as musty as it would if the room hadn't been opened in a few centuries. There are hoofprints in the dust, hardly any cobwebs, and a few podiums and reading desks that are without any evidence of tomes on them. A modern-looking oil lamp is sitting on one table. More to the point, there's also the body of a recently-deceased pony with his hoof touching the giant iron doors that lead out of the antechamber. His face is pulled back into a rictus of terror, and there's no clear evidence of what he died of. “Good thing I've got a stick,” you say. “Probably best to stand off to the side, and not look directly down the hallway, just in case.” “Are you thinking basilisk?” “I'm not ruling it out just yet.” You point a thumb over at the poor unfortunate. “He doesn't look petrified, though. Not gonna poke the body to find out for sure.” The two of you crouch on either side of the door, where the wall will most likely protect you. That puts you in uncomfortable proximity to the corpse, but it could be worse. At least he still has his skin. You reach out with your poking stick and give the door a push. There's a flash of magic, which does nothing to the stick, and the door creaks open. You're not ready to rush in just yet. You let the door swing all the way open and then reach into your bag for a mirror. Daring stands ready, in case something comes through the opening. The problem with mirrors in ancient temples is that no matter how you position the light, there's always dark spots, so you can't get a perfect view of the corridor. However, what you can see is completely monster free. “After you,” you say dryly, stuffing the mirror back in your pack. ••• One rule about proceeding through an ancient temple that's probably cursed while being pursued by a rival gang of archaeologists is that you always close doors behind you. That way they can't be sure you went that way, and depending on the trap, there's the possibility that they might also trigger it, slowing them further. Such seems to be the case here. You've made it past three trip wires, a rolling boulder trap, and one pit before you hear an anguished scream that's cut off abruptly from about where you'd figure that the cursed doors were. “How many henchmen do you think Dr. Caballeron has?” “Henchmen?” “Henchponies.” “Lots.” “If he were smart,” you say, wedging your knife very carefully into a trigger stone, “he'd stay up there in his blimp. He'd have his ponies guarding every corner of this cursed temple, ready for us to come out with the Orrery, and then he'd shoot us full of lots of holes and take it.” “I won't suggest that to him if you don't.” Daring sets her hoof gingerly on the stone you've got wedged, then gives you a small nod—it's safe to proceed. She waits until you've reached the end of the corridor before pulling the knife back out and flying over the trap. ••• Just when you were starting to feel cocky, it finally happens. A good temple designer knows to vary trap mechanisms, and this one caught you completely by surprise. There was a tripwire—a little too obvious, in hindsight—but further on there was also a pressure plate. That was on a delay, just long enough for you to realize that you'd tripped it, and to jump back and duck . . . before the floor fell out from under you. Daring's got cat-like reflexes, and fortunately isn't particularly hindered when the floor's lacking. She gets the collar of your shirt and while that's hardly comfortable, it's infinitely more pleasant than winding up in the slavering jaws eagerly waiting below. “Oof, you’re a lot heavier than you look,” Daring observes after setting you safely on the ground. “That’s something you’re not ever supposed to tell a lady,” you say primly. “It’s all muscle, anyway. Wish those crocodiles had known that I’m tough and stringy.” “Alligators,” Daring says. “Those are alligators.” “What difference does it make?” “Alligators have broader snouts, more like a U-shape, while crocodiles have a V-shaped snout.” “Does that make any difference in how fast they can eat me?” “Not really.” Daring looks over the edge and sniffs the air. “Crocodiles prefer salt water and alligators prefer fresh, though. That's a useful thing to know; if alligators are living in it, you can probably drink it.” “I'll keep that in mind in case my canteen runs out.” Once you close the doorway at the end of the hall, the alligator pit closes back up, ready to trap the next unwary victim. Somebody was thinking ahead when they built this temple. Hopefully one or more of Dr. Callebron's ponies falls victim to the trap. ••• You're getting close to the center of the temple now. That's obvious by the fact that the traps are getting progressively nastier. You wind up going sprawling when you're hit by a swingarm that's at just about the right height to fatally injure a pony, and Daring just escapes a crushing wall trap, leaving a few tail hairs trapped between the iron plates. The two of you have started to move more slowly and cautiously, and make every attempt to activate the trap remotely before stepping into the room. You're not as worried about Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies at this point; they're unlikely to be able to proceed any more quickly than you. The Penultimate ChamberHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Penultimate Chamber Admiral Biscuit There's another pit. This one's a punji pit, and all across the floor, for what the spikes don't kill— “Are those rabbits?” Daring peers over the edge. “They sure look like rabbits.” “How—” You mentally shuffle through your magical biology lessons. “Swamp rabbits?” “Too small, and not brown.” “Caerbannog bunnies?” “Those are usually pure white. And they could easily jump out of the pit and behead us.” “So just plain ordinary rabbits.” “Looks like it.” “I really want to pet one.” “Yeah, me too.” Daring glances down into the pit again. “Maybe that's the trap.” “We could try lassoing one and see what happens.” “Have you ever tried to lasso a bunny?” You shake your head. “It's not as simple as it sounds. They're fast. Like marsupials.” “Let's skirt the edge, then, and not look down.” “You could . . . wait, see right in the middle?” Daring points a hoof. “There's a secondary mechanism. I don't know what trips it, but it looks like the edge walls will tilt in.” “Got it. Toes and fingers.” You grab hold of the stone walls. “Good thing that they were sloppy cutting the stones.” In the movies, it's easy for the hero to inch along a wall with toes and fingers in cracks. What they don't show you in the movie is that it's either filmed in front of a green screen, or the actor's wearing a harness, and the wires are painted over in post-production. You don't have that luxury. You feel every single jagged bit of rock, you feel the pain from your tendons as you grasp the rock with just your fingertips, and you know that if you slip, there won't be another take. If Daring isn't quick enough, you'll be impaled on a spike, or should you miss those, down with the bunnies. You don't look down. You just concentrate on the stones and the tiny little gaps and the burning in your muscles as your work your way across. ••• Pony skeletons are kind of adorable. They're the most adorable undead you've ever been pursued by, which is an odd thing to be thinking: you're running for your life along a thin spit of rock above a rather improbable pool of lava that has some kind of weird red and green flaming fish leaping out of it at the least convenient times. Some of the skeletons throw their own ribs at you. One of them removes one rib too many and winds up collapsing on the bridge and you kind of want to pick it up and give it back to him, but now's really not the best time for that. Maybe later, on the way out, if he's still struggling, you can toss it back once you're well clear of the lava and the rest of his friends. ••• “There's got to be some kind of hidden entrance,” you observe as you very carefully step only on the tiles with carvings of fruit bats. “For whenever they got together to work the Orrery. There's no way that they'd want to go through all this every time.” “A teleportation chamber would be the easiest,” Daring says. “The other end of it could be set up practically anywhere, and you'd just step in and then you'd come out right in the main room.” “We should have looked for that.” “Practically anywhere,” she reminds you. “The farther you go the more difficult the spell is, 'cause you've got to account for sidereal motion and inertia and all that, but if it's set up proper it could be half a world away. Could be completely inaccessible. Could be that the last pony in here sealed himself in by dispelling it. Or it could be boobytrapped, too, and you wouldn't even have a moment's notice that it was. You'd just suddenly appear into a wall of spikes or a room full of spiders and scorpions or something like that.” “That almost sounds pleasant.” You duck to avoid a gob of spitting cobra venom coming your way. Most of it misses, but a few splatters hiss against your shirt. “Not if they also dispelled the inertia-cancelling bit. You could hit the wall of spikes like a speeding locomotive.” “At least it would be quick.” You finally reach safe ground again, and duck behind a stone altar. “Have you ever seen a trap like that before?” “No, but it might exist.” Daring studies the runes on the door frame thoughtfully. “Old Northern Ponish. 'Fosgail an doras agus bidh an rud ann.'” “What thing?” “I don't know, that's all it says.” She studies the doorway. “It looks like there was more to the inscription, but it got rubbed off.” “Probably spitting cobra venom. That can probably dissolve stone.” “Hopefully, ‘the thing’ is the Orrery of Antikythera.” “That would be convenient, wouldn't it?” “Too convenient.” But you open the door anyway. It’s not like you’ve got any other options. Inside is not the Orrery of Antikythera. Instead, it's an entire gang of tough-looking henchponies, all of them with weapons, and all of them clearly waiting for you. Dr. Caballeron found a shortcut. Running isn't much of an option, so you instead surrender. The EscapeHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Escape Admiral Biscuit Dr. Caballeron spends an indecent amount of time gloating, almost breaking into a full monologue once you've been searched, disarmed, and successfully tied up. Tempting though it is, you don't tune him out and plot your escape straightaway—after all, he might inadvertently give you some useful information for later. You get a good count of his henchponies, cataloging which ones look tough, which ones don't, and which ones are injured. There are fewer than you expected, which could mean that he left some behind guarding exits, or on his airship, or else his crew hasn't had as much luck as you and Daring when it came to avoiding traps. Not that that's particularly relevant at the moment. And to be honest, some of his gloating is well-deserved. He caught you, after all. For some reason you can't fathom, once he's done with his gloating and proverbial mustache-twisting, he starts to order his henchponies about, apparently forgetting that you're still in the room with him and overhearing everything he says. The most important tidbit of information you gather is that this room did not contain the Orrery of Antikythera, and Dr. Caballeron still doesn't know where it is. All hope is not yet lost. It takes about ten minutes before he and his henchponies finally disperse, and you keep an eye on the exit they passed through as well as you can, watching the ponies disappear down the hallway. Two of them stay behind long enough to close the door behind them, and you carefully note which stone they push to activate the door. That could be useful information for when you find yourself in the hallway later. You can't be completely certain, but it looks like he didn't leave any guards behind stationed just outside the door, which is a mistake; one that you'll be exploiting later. As soon as you escape. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time you've been tied to a chair. The henchponies were reasonably competent, and certainly used enough rope. More than enough, truth be told. But they forgot that the chairs weren't anchored to the floor. Given enough time, you could break a leg off of your chair, and that would likely loosen the ropes enough to let you escape. If she gets partially free first, Daring could buck a leg off yours . . . but all those plans rely on the key phrase 'given enough time,' and that's something you don't actually have. Before too long, he’ll have the Orrery, and while he'll most likely hold off on using it until he's safe in his airship and well clear of the temple, even if he and his henchponies exercise due caution, you'll still be struggling with your bonds while they make their escape. “Daring?” “Yeah?” Your voices are muffled—they also gagged both of you. “I'm going to scoot my chair more towards you, and see if you can scoot towards me. So we're facing each other.” “You've got a plan?” “Yeah.” It's not a great plan, but it's better than none. The next few minutes are spent painstakingly inching your chairs towards each other, until you're close enough to kiss. “Sit still,” you tell her. “Let me get your gag off.” “How are you going to—hey!” Being tied up in a ruined temple is a great team-building exercise. Really cuts down on personal boundaries. You lean your chin right up against her mouth and slowly work her gag down. Once she figures out what you're doing, she helps, pushing with her tongue and working her lips. It's a good thing that ponies haven't invented duct tape, or this plan never would have worked. Finally, you get her gag free, and as a bonus, all the working around has loosened yours considerably. Now that Daring has full command of her mouth, she pulls your gag down easily enough. “I don't mean to criticize, and I'm glad to have this off, but I don't see how it's going to help all that much. Unless you were thinking I was going to gnaw through the ropes.” “I had considered it,” you admit. “Your teeth are a lot better for it than mine are. Ropes are basically woven grass, after all.” “It’d be easier if I could get to any of the knots—“ That was something they had considered, and they'd knotted the ropes underneath the chairs. And then to add to the difficulty, they'd used earth pony spellcraft to tighten them. “I've got a knife,” you tell her. “They missed it when they were searching me.” “Where?” You tilt your head down. “You're kidding me.” “No self-respecting girl leaves home without her tactical bra. Besides the knife, I've got a firestarter and a garrote in there.” “Almost makes me wish I wore one,” Daring mutters. “But your hands are tied, and—“ You can see the gears in her head turning. “Dammit.” Being tied up in a ruined temple is a great team-building exercise. After a few false starts and stretching the collar of your shirt beyond repair, Daring finally manages to get the little zippered pouch open and pulls out the knife. It's thin and compact and has a little plastic cover over the blade because it's as sharp as a scalpel. “Alright.” Ponies can talk easily around things in their mouth. They get a lot of practice at it. “What do you want first?” “Can you get my right arm free?” “I think so, yeah.” “Be careful—there's some pretty important veins in there.” “Got it.” She dips her head down and a minute later your right arm is free. After that, things are fairly simple. You take the knife from her and slice the rest of your bonds first, then cut her free. You adjust your shirt the best you can and then crouch down next to Daring. “Alright. I'll go after Dr. Caballeron; you steal his airship and be ready to rescue me.” “Got it.” “And if we’ve got time, we can hack the rope bridge down on the way out. That'll slow him down some.” “Sounds good.” She reaches out her hoof and you make a fist and bump it, and then you go your separate ways. You've lost most of your equipment, but you've got rope and the element of surprise. Hopefully, that'll be enough. The Orrery of AntikytheraHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Orrery of Antikythera Admiral Biscuit Most temples have a pretty standard arrangement. If the Orrery of Antikythera wasn't in the room you’d been captured in, it would be higher up. Maybe it only works when it's outside, and would therefore be kept towards the top. Odds are that if it was at a lower level, you or Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies would have found it before you got captured. Daring, you trust, is racing through the access passageways. Pegasi are better at three-dimensional thinking than you are, so now that the back route has been identified, it shouldn't take her too long to reverse-navigate it. You've got to move both cautiously and quickly—it's an interesting paradox. But you're gaining on them; you can hear their voices through the twisting corridors. Mostly short, barked orders from Dr. Caballeron and occasional grumbling from his henchponies. You're not quite close enough to identify all that many actual words, but you can pick up the gist of the conversation. You've lost count of how many passageways you've gone through. If it comes down to it, your final option will be to follow them out and then somehow wrest the Orrery away from Dr. Caballeron’s henchponies and affect your escape. At the top of the umpteenth flight of stairs, you find your backpack. It's empty; apparently they decided to sort through it and take anything that might be useful or valuable while leaving it behind. You can't blame them, the straps would be awkward at best for a pony. The last you’d seen it, a brown stallion was carrying it in his mouth and he probably got tired of it. Maybe Dr. Caballeron ordered him to drop it. Whatever; you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You pick it up and slip it back on. It feels a little better to have it with you, even if there isn't anything to put in it yet. ••• They trip the final trap. You know it's the final trap, because even from a reasonably safe distance behind, you can see the bright flash of magic down the corridor, bright enough that you squeeze your eyes shut as you duck into a little alcove in the wall. The whole temple shakes slightly, and from above you can hear anguished screams and Dr. Caballeron shouting in an attempt to calm everypony down. You're actually kind of happy they're the ones who found that ward and not you. There's a distant, metallic squealing, and you focus as well as you can, wishing that you had sensitive pony ears instead of your dumb human ears. Something that sounds like scraping and hoofsteps across stone, and then a moment of silence . . . then the unmistakable noise of an axe being used on a wooden chest. If the cultists were so paranoid about protecting their temple, I can only imagine what wards they might have put on that. You tense up and wait for the resulting explosion, but it doesn't come. The noise of the axe stops. Huh. Maybe they forgot. Or maybe some hapless cultist couldn’t remember the spellwords and got blasted, and after that they perminantly disarmed the box. Just then you realize that if they're coming back, it'll be this way, and you'd better find a hidey hole pretty quick. The alcove you crowded in when the spell went off is as good as anything. They'll be coming out, they'll be a little bit relaxed because they have their prize, and they know where all the traps are—they won't be looking around as much. Not enough to spot a girl jammed up at the top of the alcove, her back against the ceiling. That's the hope, anyway, and you wedge yourself into position. It's not terribly comfortable, but it'll do. And then something happens that changes everything. You hear the rusty squeal of protesting hinges, and a draft of fresh air washes down the hallway, causing the torches that they've left behind to flicker and gutter in the breeze. There is a roof hatch. The gears in your head are turning fast enough to smoke. You can clearly see the next few minutes playing out. They'll signal for the airship, Daring—if she managed to steal it—will swing down to pick them up and then try to get the Orrery from them by herself. She won't have any choice but to leave you behind, to leave you to your own devices. That's not the end of the world; you made it here and without having to worry about Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies you shouldn't have too much difficulty getting back to civilization eventually. On the other hand, he won't be expecting an assault from behind. Now’s your chance. You drop out of your alcove and jog up the hallway. You know that there aren't any more traps; they would have triggered them if there had been. The final chamber is open, and there's a cluster of ponies around the trapdoor. They're having some trouble boosting themselves up to the edge, which is too bad. Here's where your monkey hands come into play. They're not properly guarding the door, so you catch them off-guard as you charge through. You're halfway across the room before they realize you’re there, and only one of them has time to take a shot. You're zig-zagging, not making it easy on him at all, but he's actually pretty good with a bow and the arrow rakes across your bicep before bouncing off the stone walls. One disadvantage to being human is that you kind of tower over the ponies, and that should make you an easy target, but the henchponies are apparently worried about hitting their companions, because there aren't any further shots from them before you get to the hatchway. You vault off one of the henchponies who's trying to block you and get your hands around the edge of the coaming. Hooves from below grab at you and you kick one of them in the face, and then you're boosting yourself up. Dr. Caballeron somehow hasn't heard the commotion. He's got his eyes trained to the sky. There's a burlap sack which you are absolutely certain contains the Orrery of Antikythera. You can also see a mooring line dangling off the airship and as it closes the distance you sieze the opportunity. The time for finesse, if ever there was a time, is long gone. You bowl over two of his henchponies and grab the sack, punching the unfortunate stallion who's carrying it square in the muzzle. He drops to his haunches and puts his hooves up over his wounded nose and you actually feel kind of bad for the poor guy. It's tragically adorable. You're running full-tilt when you leave the roof, roughly angling towards the dangling mooring line. You shouldn’t have looked down. Being pyramid-shaped, the temple itself slopes away from you rather dramatically, and you have a brief moment to think about what would happen if you missed the rope: would you clear the temple completely, or land partway down the side and tumble all the way to the bottom? The rope’s right in front of you and you grab onto it. Your arm feels like it’s being torn out of its socket and when you hit the entire airship jerks a little bit. That bit of springiness in the rope and in the airship itself is what saves you. You hook the dangling end of the rope with your feet and get it pinched between your thighs, granting you a bit of extra security, and then you breathe a sigh of relief. You’re safe at last. You’d forgotten that some of them have bows, and the Orrery will probably survive if you drop it. Even worse, you're hanging on to a rope, completely vulnerable to archers. This occurs to them, too. Holding a priceless cursed magical artifact while climbing up a rope to an airship is something you've never done before, and in hindsight you wouldn't consider trying it again. Your swinging combined with Daring's jukes cause most of the arrows to miss, but you don't escape unscathed. One of them grazes your cheek and just when you were thinking how worryingly close that was, you feel a rather uncomfortable stinging in your leg. Some people would undoubtedly be concerned about having an arrow stuck in them but you ignore it in favor of hasting the rest of the way up the rope before any more join it. You finally get a chance to look around when you reach the envelope of the airship. Henchponies are spilling down the side of the temple, presumably with the idea of following the airship on the ground. It's not a bad plan; you can hear the hiss of escaping gas from various punctures, and the engines aren't going very fast. Probably Daring had to incapacitate the engine crews and so there's nopony to reply to commands from the helm. The rope you've climbed leads to the nose of the airship, and there's no way to get inside from your position, so now that you're reasonably safe from arrows, you pull up enough of the rope to tie a bowline on a bight. You hadn't anticipated this trip ending by becoming an airship hood ornament. EpilogueHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Epilogue Admiral Biscuit Daring doesn't bring the airship to ground until you're well clear of the ravine and any pursuers. Even then, she stops short of actually landing, but she is kind enough to throw out a rope ladder from the cockpit. By then, you've broken off the arrow just flush with your calf and wrapped it with the hem of your shirt—not great, as bandages go, but serviceable. The Orrery is safe in your backpack, still in its burlap sack. There probably isn't a curse on anyone who touches it directly, but it doesn't pay to take chances like that. You're faced with a short sprint across the ground and then you catch on to the rope ladder and climb your way up to the cockpit. ••• Daring is a decent airship pilot, and gets you out of the forest before dumping all the helium that's left in the undamaged bladders. Whether by luck or skill, she times the landing decently well, and while it's technically a crashlanding, the airship is probably repairable. Without having a proper docking facility or anypony to attend to the mooring lines, that's really the best that could be hoped for. “Any landing you can walk away from,” you tell her as you limp away from the crashed airship. The stunned crew is slowly making their way out of the wreckage—you'd untied them just before the final descent. It was too late for them to do anything to prevent you from carrying out your plan, and now that Dr. Caballeron wasn't there to order them around, they were plenty happy to just walk away. They had little interest in pursuing you. “I can't believe you jumped off the temple,” Daring says. “I knew you humans were crazy, but I didn't think you were that crazy.” “I saw it done in a movie,” you tell her. “And it worked out alright there. How long do you think we have until Dr. Caballeron gets out of the forest?” “I don't know.” She glances back at the trees. “I'd like to think a couple days, but I also think it would be stupid to underestimate him.” “I was thinking the same thing,” you say. “So probably finding the nicest hotel and getting a proper meal and spending a few hours at the spa are out.” “I'd say so, yeah.” “Instead, we're going to camp out by the railroad tracks and hop the next train out of town.” “That's the smartest plan.” She looks at you thoughtfully. “If it was just me, I'd take off my pith helmet and put on a cloak and then nopony would know who I was, but you kind of stand out.” “Like a sore thumb,” you say. “I know. Let's hope the first train by is a passenger train and that we can convince the conductor to let us on.” “Not much chance of that,” she says. “Well, then let's hope that the first train by has a nice, cozy box car carrying a load of feather pillows.” ••• Of course, it isn't. It's a boxcar, and it's carrying mostly nails, and it's leaky. And it starts to rain almost as soon as you climb aboard. You get as comfortable as you can, which, truth be told, isn’t actually all that comfortable. After making sure that the doors are both wedged shut and both of you are as safe as it’s possible to be in a moving train car, Daring finds the driest spot on the floor and stretches out. She yawns and tucks her head under her wing like a bird. You’re not so lucky when it comes to finding a comfortable position, but you’ve got a couple of tricks up your sleeve, as well. You find a crate of nails that at least hasn’t got splinters and lean up against that, then pull your pant leg up to reveal a small flask of brandy strapped to your leg. It’s your emergency supply, and luckily the henchponies didn’t find that, either, when they patted you down. A shower would be nice—a proper shower, and not the cold rain that’s sluicing through gaps in the roof. That was really an oversight by whoever loaded this particular box car; somebody’s going to wind up with a load of rusty nails. Your bed’s also beckoning you. Your bed which is soft and cushy and not a hard edge of wood that’s trying to work its way between two vertebrae. You glance down at Daring and consider asking her if she’d mind being used as a pillow, but decide that you probably shouldn’t, tempting though it is. ••• Monday morning comes all too soon. Between trains and debriefing, you wind up getting limited medical attention. Strangely, pony medicine is easily able to cure all sorts of weird curses and magical maladies, but is apparently nearly useless for mundane arrow wounds and bruises. For that, the best they seem to have to offer is bandages and antibacterial spells. You didn't even get any proper spa time, just a quick shower on the train back to Manehattan. By the time you finally get back to your apartment you’re so exhausted that you just collapse into bed. So you have to rush in the morning to get showered and make yourself as presentable as possible. It could be worse—your pants hide one arrow-wound, and your work shirt mostly covers the bandages on your arm. There's not much you can do about the scrape on your cheek, or the black eye that you somehow got. You don't actually remember how that happened. Jim Jam, of course, is bright and cheery, but his smile falters a little bit as he notices you. “I tripped over a rug,” you say. “In my apartment. This weekend.” “Oh.” He considers this for a minute. “You know, I've been thinking.” “Yeah?” “Maybe instead of coming to the gym for strength training, you should come for acrobatics practice. This is what, the fourth time this year you’ve tripped in your apartment?” “I dunno.” You tie on your shop apron and push back all the memories of the weekend. It’s easier to lie to ponies; they believe that your bipedal stance and lack of tail make you naturally clumsy. “I'm just not really into that kind of thing. I prefer relaxing on my days off.” “You don't know what you're missing,” he says, turning the sign on the door to Open. “It'd do you a lot of good.” Author's Note Click HERE for story notes!
PrologueHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Prologue Admiral Biscuit Jim Jam's General Store is packed to the brim with stuff. Stuff that you're intimately familiar with, since you're his sole employee. It's not a bad job, really. It's much like working retail back on Earth, except that customers are generally more polite. Unlike your experiences working human retail, ponies are rarely insufferable bastards who think that the world owes them something. Jim Jam has interesting ideas about business, little tidbits he picked up here and there back when he was a young calf making his way in the wide wide world of Equestria with just a cart full of trade goods that he towed from one town to the next. His first important lesson—trains were faster than a minotaur pulling a cart. There was no use in carrying anything that could be cheaply mail-ordered, a philosophy he’d carried forward in his general store. Since you'd spent your formative years on Earth and were well-versed in the wonders of Amazon, you had to agree with that point. He also thought that if ponies had to work for things, they'd want them more, which was why he liked to put the items he considered the most valuable and appealing on shelves that were far above a normal pony's reach. He thought that when you were called upon to get them down for ponies who wanted them, you could spend the time extolling the virtues of that particular item, which would practically guarantee a sale. There were two problems with that idea of his. First, two thirds of the ponies who came in could either use magic or simply fly up to get what they wanted. The other third sometimes didn't even notice things that were on shelves high above their heads; if they did, they usually asked some other pony to get it down, rather than a salesgirl. Your reach had gotten you the job. Not only were your hands useful for working the monstrous Tauran cash register, but you could easily reach most of the shelves. For those few shelves which were too tall, there was a stepstool. Like most things that had been built for minotaurs, it was incredibly heavy but also incredibly stable. You’d already put two boxes of snow globes up on the shelf, all neatly faced. They were clever little clockwork units that had a music box built into the base, and the mechanism also ran a tiny pump that shot the faux snowflakes into the air. You glance down the aisle to make sure that there weren't any customers looking, and then reached inside your shirt to adjust your bra strap. It was ponymade, because Earth imports were stupidly expensive, and it liked to slide off your shoulders. Other than that, it was pretty comfortable. “Hey, Hannah?” “Yeah?” You grab at the last box and by the time Jim Jam comes around the corner, you're carefully arranging the last of the snowglobes. “When you're done with those, put the boxes away in the back room and then tidy up some in there, okay? There's some candy I couldn't sell that we should probably get rid of before mice move in.” “Candy, got it.” You give the shelf a last look and decide that everything's in order. Sometimes you like to crouch down a little bit and get a pony-eye view, just to make sure that the display looks attractive from a pony perspective. This time you don't bother. You take the boxes to the back room and stack them with all the other boxes, then go back to the aisle for the stepstool. The stockroom smells of dust and very faintly of fish. It used to be part of the fish market until the dock area gentrified—that's apparently something that pony cities do, too. Jim Jam had bought the building at just the right time, when its value was as low as it would ever get. He lived upstairs, where he could always keep an eye on his store. Your first weeks in the stockroom were overwhelming. He'd ask you to get something and you'd have to ask him where it was. There was no rhyme or reason to the arrangements, and the few boxes that were labeled were in dozens of different languages, most of which you didn’t know. You're no better at Anadolu or Galician or Manipuri than you were when you got to Manehattan, but at least you know where to look for things now. It doesn't take you too long to find the candy. It's mostly weird Equestrian stuff that you've never heard of before, and oddly enough a few clones of human candy that apparently weren't well-received. There's a dozen bags of faux m&ms—they’ve got horseshoes printed on them instead of ms. They're all various shades of green, and claim to have alfalfa centers. You're not willing to bite into one to find out. You've taken a couple of trips to the garbage cans out back when you hit paydirt—there's a bag of Jolly Ranchers in there. Assorted flavors, and the packaging is intact. You're pretty sure that Jolly Ranchers never go bad, and it'll be a nice taste of home . . . assuming that there aren't any weird pony flavors in there. A quick look at the package indicates that they're the normal flavors that you know and love, so you set them off to the side—maybe he'll let you have them.
The MissionHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Mission Admiral Biscuit “What're you doing this weekend?” “Nothing much,” you lie. “Probably just sit around my house or hang out with friends. Maybe go to the park if the weather's nice.” “You should come to the gym sometime,” he says. “Build up some muscle. Exercise is good.” “Yeah, yeah.” You lean the broom back up against the wall. “I'm not really into that. Doesn't seem to be much purpose to lifting weights and all that.” “You have no idea what you're missing.” “Pretty sure I do. I've told you about Earth fitness clubs.” You reach for the trash can and then remember the Jolly Ranchers. “Hey, there were some Jolly Ranchers back there with the candy that you told me to toss out. You mind if I have them?” “Go ahead.” You go back into the stockroom—you remember right where they were—and stick them in your bra. It’s understandable that ponies have trouble with the idea of pockets in pants. As you head for the back door again, you pick up the trash can. “I'll dump this on my way out.” “Thanks. See you Monday.” You set down the trash can long enough to strip off your work apron and hang it up on its peg. You dump out the trash and set the empty can just inside the back door. If he doesn't put it back where it belongs on his way out, you'll move it back on Monday. You've got plans, and they won't wait. ••• You always keep a bag packed—that's something that you learned years ago. You only stop by your apartment long enough to grab it, and then you hurry to the train station. Your ticket is for a semi-private first-class seat, which is nice. As soon as the conductor shows you to your compartment, you tip him a bit, lock the door, and pull the shades down. It's a little bit uncomfortable to change your clothes in a pony train car—the compartments really aren't sized for humans. You briefly consider how Jim Jam would find it, and decide that he'd really hate it. The first time he stood up, he’d stick his horns in the ceiling and have to pry himself loose. Of course you're just lacing up your boots when the train starts moving, knocking you off balance. Luckily, here the small compartment comes to your rescue, and you're able to brace against a wall before tumbling, undignified, across one of the couches. And then it's time to sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is boring, and you wish that you'd thought to pack a book in your ready bag. That's something to remember for next time. At Baltimare, an older mare enters your compartment. She's about the most bland pony you could imagine—she's got a grey mane and tail, a dun-colored coat, and a piece of paper as a cutie mark. Her blue eyes are sharp and clear, though, and you know she never misses a detail. “Evening, Pure Clear.” That's not her real name. “Hello, ‘Banana.’ Have a good day at work?” “Sure.” Your mouth turns up into a small smile at your codename. “If you're already thinking of Christmas—Hearth's Warming, we've got snowglobes in. They're really clever. Music boxes built into the base, the whole deal.” “Maybe next time I'm in Manehattan, I'll buy one.” She opens her saddlebags and pulls out a folder. “The Orrery of Antikythera—what do you know about it?” “Never heard of it until now,” you admit. “Well, rumor is that it's located in the Temple of Eleia. Lotta trouble if it gets in the wrong hooves.” You nod. This is not the first time that an ancient artifact has resurfaced and threatened all ponykind. “Predates even Princess Celestia's rule, if you'd believe. Back when the Andravidans were trying to control the sun. We don't know if it still works, but—“ “But I probably shouldn't push any buttons on it,” you say. “Got it. Any idea what it looks like?” “Nope.” She taps a hoof on the folder. “It's all in here, best guesses and all that. You know the routine.” “Yeah.” “I've got to get off at the next stop,” she says. “That's the bad news. So you ought to skim through the folder.” “What's the good news?” “I was just getting to that. You aren't going alone.” “Who is it this time?” Her face twists up into a rare smile. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?” ••• Pure Clear was right that it was a surprise. Your companion is none other than Daring Do. She's wearing her cloak as a disguise, but as soon as the train leaves the station, she takes it off, revealing her adventuring clothes underneath. “Hawes,” she says quietly. “I've heard about you. They say you're the cleverest monkey in the agency.” “And you're the best birdhorse,” you tell her, totally deadpan. Inside, you're having a minor fangasm—Daring Do is a legend; she's the Indiana Jones of ponykind. Well, except that she's real. And a bit stuck up, but that's to be expected, given her track record. “I guess I deserved that.” She plants her pith helmet firmly on her head and sticks out a hoof. “What do you like to go by? Banana is just silly.” “Usually just Hannah,” you tell her. “Doesn't really lend itself to nicknames. My little brother called me 'Hannie.'” “I'm not one to step on little brothers' tails. Hannah.” She glances over at the folder. “What do we know? I didn't get much of a briefing.” “Not a lot. It's an orrery, it's in a temple, it might still work, and if it does bad things will happen.” “Got it.” “So no pushing buttons on it.” “Right. How about the temple?” “Built by crazy cultists.” Aren't they all? “Andravidan, dates before Princess Celestia's ascension. Recently discovered: the first expedition from the Bitish Museum gave up after one trap too many. Dr. Caballeron is known to be interested; last report has him chartering an airship. I'm reading between the lines a bit here, but if the orrery works like it's supposed to, using it could wrest control of the sun from Princess Celestia.” “Good thing that Nightmare Moon's been vanquished—that sounds just like the thing she'd’ve wanted to get her hooves on.” “Did I mention that the Andravidans are a New Lunar Republic cult?” Daring rolls her eyes. “Of course they are. Anybody else interested?” “Not according to this.” You set the folder aside. “It's not really Ahuizotl's thing, and I can't see the Mane-iac going for it, either. Pharoah Fetlock's in prison, Tirek's in Tartarus, and—“ “Grogar?” “Maybe. He hasn't been seen for a while, so I wouldn't rule him out entirely.” “Never worked with a human before,” Daring says, studying you intently. “What have you got as assets?” “Opposable thumbs and a cutting wit.” “And I've got wings and a pith helmet. Sounds like we're all set.” “Yeah.” You slide the folder over to her. “There's a map of the temple in there—it's not complete, of course. But it's better than nothing.” “You've seen one cursed temple, you've seen them all,” she says, but she opens the folder anyway.
The Andravidan TempleHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Andravidan Temple Admiral Biscuit One thing that can be said about Equestrian train service is that it can always get you close to where you want to go. The other thing that can be said for it is that you miss your Jeep Wrangler, which could have driven you right up to the doorstep. They say that close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. “Hey, Daring?” “Yeah?” “Do you wear shoes?” You hadn't really paid attention to her hooves. “Not normally. They're heck on my typewriter.” “Shame.” You glance back down at the map. It's not very helpful—being until recently an undiscovered temple, that's hardly surprising. “Probably about time for another recon flight.” “I was thinking the same thing.” She glances up and around, perhaps making sure that there aren't any curious sapients in the air within eyesight, and then takes off, kicking up a bunch of fallen leaves. You've got nothing to do while you wait, so you lean against a tree trunk and just listen to the sounds of the forest which surrounds you. Lots of birds are chirping which is a good sign, and you don't hear distant drums. Daring's up for maybe ten minutes before coming back in for a landing. “It's about three more miles, give or take.” She points a hoof off roughly north-northeast. “Here might be a good place to set up camp for the night. Or, if we don't mind walking a bit, the river's close enough to be convenient, and not so close that we're gonna be the target of anypony with a raft.” “I'll admit, I'd rather get a look at this temple sooner rather than later,” you tell her. “Bog standard. Not gonna see anything on the outside that's helpful.” She scuffs her hoof across the ground. “No obvious holes in the top, which is too bad. Aerial assaults are always the best, if you can.” “I wouldn't know,” you say dryly. That's not entirely true; you rappelled into Kêr-Is. “I suppose not. You think to pack a tent?” “What kind of adventurer doesn't?” You slip out of your backpack and lean it up against a tree. “I usually nap in branches,” she tells you. “Fewer predators that way.” “You're in luck,” you tell her. “We humans might not have wings, but we've got tensile tree tents. More comfy than a branch, and it keeps the bugs out.” You glance up at the canopy of branches overhead. “How high do you figure?” “As high as we can get, just in case of hydras. I'd hate to be right at mouth level.” “Yeah, might as well make them work for dinner.” You pause for a second, considering. “Hey, are hydras singular or plural?” “What do you mean?” “Well, there’s like one body but a bunch of heads . . . so is it one hydra or is one hydra a hydras?” “It’s just a hydra. The number of heads don’t factor into it. Sort of like Cerberus is one dog, not three.” “Got it.” You reach into your bag and pull out your tent. “Hope you don’t mind flying the ratchet straps up and hooking them off.” ••• The one problem with tensile tree tents—which are basically hammocks with hats—is that you'd better be really close friends with your tent-mate. Theoretically, if you really crank on the ratchet straps, you can have a flat bottom, but that assumes that the tent's low enough on the tree that there won't be any flex in the trunk. You're a good hundred feet up, and even the stoutest trees are quite bendy at that height. Had it been another human sharing the tent with you, it might have been intolerable. With a pony, though, you actually don't mind the intimacy. Daring's apparently okay with it, too. At first, she tried to be stand-offish. It was cute how hard she tried to stay curled up at arm's length before finally succumbing to gravity. That, and the comfort of your Thermarest. Getting back out of the tree for your morning ablutions is not exactly a fun task, but you do manage eventually and after a quick breakfast—granola bars for you, and leaves for her—you're ready to storm the temple. ••• It takes you about two more hours to get close enough to see the temple through the trees, and another hour after that to actually spot the main entrance. There's no sense in just rushing in without thinking; it's better to reconnoiter and get a good idea of the lay of the land. And whether or not there are guards. The temple itself is across a gaping chasm. There's a rotten rope bridge which you study nervously. “It doesn't look that bad,” Daring says. “Easy for you to say; you've got wings.” You pluck at the cables, trying to get a sense of how strong the fibers are. They do feel reasonably strong. You're pretty sure that there were rope bridges in the Andes that lasted for thousands of years before they finally broke. “Nothing for it, I guess.” You shrug off your backpack and let Daring ferry that across—there's no sense in carrying more weight than you have to. The bridge is actually pretty decent. You test each of the footboards carefully but none of them wind up splitting under your feet, and the ropes hardly fray. You're feeling pretty confident about the bridge when an airship-sized shadow blots out the sun. You glance up just in time to see a flaming arrow zip by. “It's Dr. Caballeron,” Daring shouts, rather unnecessarily. “He did get his hooves on an airship.” Now there's no time to test the boards, you take off in a dead run as more arrows thunk into the wood behind you. Good thing none of them know how to lead. An arrow thwhacks down in the board right in front of you, immediately putting a lie to your words. It feels like an eternity but it isn't any more than ten seconds before you're off the bridge and into the relative safety of the trees on the other side of the canyon. The best they can do now is annoy you; the foliage is too thick for any arrows to make it through with lethal force—and they can't see where you are, either. “Wish I'd packed my bow,” you mutter. “Poke a few holes in his airship and give him something to think about.” Daring ignores you—she’s got a vine in her mouth and is tugging across the path. It doesn't take you very long to figure out that she's setting a snare, so you help rig the trigger for her. Basic woodcraft, the kind you learned in Girl Scouts. “They'll be in a bit of rush until they hit this,” Daring explains once you've got it set and covered with leaves. “Might catch somepony, might not. But after they find it, they're gonna go slower. Give us a head start.” “We could probably crouch and ambush them.” “If I knew the lay of the land better, I'd say that that was a good idea, but I don't. No idea how long it's going to take to get the Orrery of Antikythera, or if there's another way out of the temple. Maybe when we're inside we'll find a good spot to hide out, or maybe we can just rush in and grab it and get back out before he even knows what happens.” “Or maybe we'll be trapped like rats in a cage,” you observe. “I don't like it.” “Neither do I.” Daring tilts her head towards the temple. “But a mare’s gotta do what a mare’s gotta do. You coming?”
Booby TrapsHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Booby Traps Admiral Biscuit Despite what Hollywood thought, there weren't really cursed ruins on Earth. There were a lot of ways that ancient ruins could kill you if you weren't careful—and a few ways they could get you even if you were—but back on Earth there weren't spells etched on the doors that would doom anybody who passed or anything like that. This was not the case in Equestria. While death magic and necromancy was rare, it was not entirely unknown. Other simpler wards were practically foal stuff; a fireball spell that was set to trigger when a door was opened wasn't that difficult to cast for a unicorn. Making it last for thousands of years and making it big enough to kill someone was a bit more complex, but not overly so. That was one of the advantages of having Daring take the lead as you squeeze past the half-open main doors. She knew what to look out for; she was much better at recognizing bespelled objects than you were. But where she instinctively thought of a magical trap, you thought of more mundane workings, tripwires and pitfalls and gravity traps and things like that. Probably why they thought you'd make the perfect team. It was kind of disappointing that the doors didn't try to kill you, but then there had already been an archaeological expedition partway into the temple. If there had been a spell, they'd have set it off. Whoever had built this had had defense in mind. While there aren't any ponies defending it any more, you quickly take in the way that the corridor branches off immediately to the left and right, slowing down any potential invaders. There are murder holes in the ceiling above, and narrow arrow slits lining the inside walls along the hallway. “How long have ponies had steel cables?” you ask. “Maybe a hundred years. Why?” “I was just thinking that any tripwires would have rotted away long ago.” “Lajos' Knife,” Daring says. “It's a spell that makes things last.” “Dammit.” You squint down in the narrow corridor, looking for tripwires. “Main hallways's probably clean,” Daring says. “The archaeologists would have found tripwires if there were any.” “I hope you're right.” The two of you together push the doors back shut and wedge them with a few scraps of wood. They won't hold for long, but they'll slow Dr. Caballeron down, and most importantly, he and his team will make noise getting through. Inside, it's—well, it's as dark as a tomb. You get a crystal torch out of your backpack: while there are spells that trigger off other spellwork, sometimes in ancient ruins that's less of a danger than an oil lamp finding a methane pocket. “Right rule?” “Right rule.” You and Daring follow the right-hand corridor back. Odds are good that this temple's outer corridors are arranged in a sort of spiral. Corners are the best spot for traps, because people and ponies naturally slow down at them. Long hallways are also good spots; arrows fired down them tend to hit something. The outermost ring is completely devoid of traps; either the temple-builders were sloppy, or the first crew through found and disabled them all, one way or another. You've made it all the way into an antechamber before you hear banging off in the distance. No doubt it's Dr. Caballeron and his goons in hot pursuit. “I think that this is as far as the archaeology team got,” Daring says. “Eugh.” You agree. The air in the room smells somewhat fresh—not as musty as it would if the room hadn't been opened in a few centuries. There are hoofprints in the dust, hardly any cobwebs, and a few podiums and reading desks that are without any evidence of tomes on them. A modern-looking oil lamp is sitting on one table. More to the point, there's also the body of a recently-deceased pony with his hoof touching the giant iron doors that lead out of the antechamber. His face is pulled back into a rictus of terror, and there's no clear evidence of what he died of. “Good thing I've got a stick,” you say. “Probably best to stand off to the side, and not look directly down the hallway, just in case.” “Are you thinking basilisk?” “I'm not ruling it out just yet.” You point a thumb over at the poor unfortunate. “He doesn't look petrified, though. Not gonna poke the body to find out for sure.” The two of you crouch on either side of the door, where the wall will most likely protect you. That puts you in uncomfortable proximity to the corpse, but it could be worse. At least he still has his skin. You reach out with your poking stick and give the door a push. There's a flash of magic, which does nothing to the stick, and the door creaks open. You're not ready to rush in just yet. You let the door swing all the way open and then reach into your bag for a mirror. Daring stands ready, in case something comes through the opening. The problem with mirrors in ancient temples is that no matter how you position the light, there's always dark spots, so you can't get a perfect view of the corridor. However, what you can see is completely monster free. “After you,” you say dryly, stuffing the mirror back in your pack. ••• One rule about proceeding through an ancient temple that's probably cursed while being pursued by a rival gang of archaeologists is that you always close doors behind you. That way they can't be sure you went that way, and depending on the trap, there's the possibility that they might also trigger it, slowing them further. Such seems to be the case here. You've made it past three trip wires, a rolling boulder trap, and one pit before you hear an anguished scream that's cut off abruptly from about where you'd figure that the cursed doors were. “How many henchmen do you think Dr. Caballeron has?” “Henchmen?” “Henchponies.” “Lots.” “If he were smart,” you say, wedging your knife very carefully into a trigger stone, “he'd stay up there in his blimp. He'd have his ponies guarding every corner of this cursed temple, ready for us to come out with the Orrery, and then he'd shoot us full of lots of holes and take it.” “I won't suggest that to him if you don't.” Daring sets her hoof gingerly on the stone you've got wedged, then gives you a small nod—it's safe to proceed. She waits until you've reached the end of the corridor before pulling the knife back out and flying over the trap. ••• Just when you were starting to feel cocky, it finally happens. A good temple designer knows to vary trap mechanisms, and this one caught you completely by surprise. There was a tripwire—a little too obvious, in hindsight—but further on there was also a pressure plate. That was on a delay, just long enough for you to realize that you'd tripped it, and to jump back and duck . . . before the floor fell out from under you. Daring's got cat-like reflexes, and fortunately isn't particularly hindered when the floor's lacking. She gets the collar of your shirt and while that's hardly comfortable, it's infinitely more pleasant than winding up in the slavering jaws eagerly waiting below. “Oof, you’re a lot heavier than you look,” Daring observes after setting you safely on the ground. “That’s something you’re not ever supposed to tell a lady,” you say primly. “It’s all muscle, anyway. Wish those crocodiles had known that I’m tough and stringy.” “Alligators,” Daring says. “Those are alligators.” “What difference does it make?” “Alligators have broader snouts, more like a U-shape, while crocodiles have a V-shaped snout.” “Does that make any difference in how fast they can eat me?” “Not really.” Daring looks over the edge and sniffs the air. “Crocodiles prefer salt water and alligators prefer fresh, though. That's a useful thing to know; if alligators are living in it, you can probably drink it.” “I'll keep that in mind in case my canteen runs out.” Once you close the doorway at the end of the hall, the alligator pit closes back up, ready to trap the next unwary victim. Somebody was thinking ahead when they built this temple. Hopefully one or more of Dr. Callebron's ponies falls victim to the trap. ••• You're getting close to the center of the temple now. That's obvious by the fact that the traps are getting progressively nastier. You wind up going sprawling when you're hit by a swingarm that's at just about the right height to fatally injure a pony, and Daring just escapes a crushing wall trap, leaving a few tail hairs trapped between the iron plates. The two of you have started to move more slowly and cautiously, and make every attempt to activate the trap remotely before stepping into the room. You're not as worried about Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies at this point; they're unlikely to be able to proceed any more quickly than you.
The Penultimate ChamberHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Penultimate Chamber Admiral Biscuit There's another pit. This one's a punji pit, and all across the floor, for what the spikes don't kill— “Are those rabbits?” Daring peers over the edge. “They sure look like rabbits.” “How—” You mentally shuffle through your magical biology lessons. “Swamp rabbits?” “Too small, and not brown.” “Caerbannog bunnies?” “Those are usually pure white. And they could easily jump out of the pit and behead us.” “So just plain ordinary rabbits.” “Looks like it.” “I really want to pet one.” “Yeah, me too.” Daring glances down into the pit again. “Maybe that's the trap.” “We could try lassoing one and see what happens.” “Have you ever tried to lasso a bunny?” You shake your head. “It's not as simple as it sounds. They're fast. Like marsupials.” “Let's skirt the edge, then, and not look down.” “You could . . . wait, see right in the middle?” Daring points a hoof. “There's a secondary mechanism. I don't know what trips it, but it looks like the edge walls will tilt in.” “Got it. Toes and fingers.” You grab hold of the stone walls. “Good thing that they were sloppy cutting the stones.” In the movies, it's easy for the hero to inch along a wall with toes and fingers in cracks. What they don't show you in the movie is that it's either filmed in front of a green screen, or the actor's wearing a harness, and the wires are painted over in post-production. You don't have that luxury. You feel every single jagged bit of rock, you feel the pain from your tendons as you grasp the rock with just your fingertips, and you know that if you slip, there won't be another take. If Daring isn't quick enough, you'll be impaled on a spike, or should you miss those, down with the bunnies. You don't look down. You just concentrate on the stones and the tiny little gaps and the burning in your muscles as your work your way across. ••• Pony skeletons are kind of adorable. They're the most adorable undead you've ever been pursued by, which is an odd thing to be thinking: you're running for your life along a thin spit of rock above a rather improbable pool of lava that has some kind of weird red and green flaming fish leaping out of it at the least convenient times. Some of the skeletons throw their own ribs at you. One of them removes one rib too many and winds up collapsing on the bridge and you kind of want to pick it up and give it back to him, but now's really not the best time for that. Maybe later, on the way out, if he's still struggling, you can toss it back once you're well clear of the lava and the rest of his friends. ••• “There's got to be some kind of hidden entrance,” you observe as you very carefully step only on the tiles with carvings of fruit bats. “For whenever they got together to work the Orrery. There's no way that they'd want to go through all this every time.” “A teleportation chamber would be the easiest,” Daring says. “The other end of it could be set up practically anywhere, and you'd just step in and then you'd come out right in the main room.” “We should have looked for that.” “Practically anywhere,” she reminds you. “The farther you go the more difficult the spell is, 'cause you've got to account for sidereal motion and inertia and all that, but if it's set up proper it could be half a world away. Could be completely inaccessible. Could be that the last pony in here sealed himself in by dispelling it. Or it could be boobytrapped, too, and you wouldn't even have a moment's notice that it was. You'd just suddenly appear into a wall of spikes or a room full of spiders and scorpions or something like that.” “That almost sounds pleasant.” You duck to avoid a gob of spitting cobra venom coming your way. Most of it misses, but a few splatters hiss against your shirt. “Not if they also dispelled the inertia-cancelling bit. You could hit the wall of spikes like a speeding locomotive.” “At least it would be quick.” You finally reach safe ground again, and duck behind a stone altar. “Have you ever seen a trap like that before?” “No, but it might exist.” Daring studies the runes on the door frame thoughtfully. “Old Northern Ponish. 'Fosgail an doras agus bidh an rud ann.'” “What thing?” “I don't know, that's all it says.” She studies the doorway. “It looks like there was more to the inscription, but it got rubbed off.” “Probably spitting cobra venom. That can probably dissolve stone.” “Hopefully, ‘the thing’ is the Orrery of Antikythera.” “That would be convenient, wouldn't it?” “Too convenient.” But you open the door anyway. It’s not like you’ve got any other options. Inside is not the Orrery of Antikythera. Instead, it's an entire gang of tough-looking henchponies, all of them with weapons, and all of them clearly waiting for you. Dr. Caballeron found a shortcut. Running isn't much of an option, so you instead surrender.
The EscapeHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Escape Admiral Biscuit Dr. Caballeron spends an indecent amount of time gloating, almost breaking into a full monologue once you've been searched, disarmed, and successfully tied up. Tempting though it is, you don't tune him out and plot your escape straightaway—after all, he might inadvertently give you some useful information for later. You get a good count of his henchponies, cataloging which ones look tough, which ones don't, and which ones are injured. There are fewer than you expected, which could mean that he left some behind guarding exits, or on his airship, or else his crew hasn't had as much luck as you and Daring when it came to avoiding traps. Not that that's particularly relevant at the moment. And to be honest, some of his gloating is well-deserved. He caught you, after all. For some reason you can't fathom, once he's done with his gloating and proverbial mustache-twisting, he starts to order his henchponies about, apparently forgetting that you're still in the room with him and overhearing everything he says. The most important tidbit of information you gather is that this room did not contain the Orrery of Antikythera, and Dr. Caballeron still doesn't know where it is. All hope is not yet lost. It takes about ten minutes before he and his henchponies finally disperse, and you keep an eye on the exit they passed through as well as you can, watching the ponies disappear down the hallway. Two of them stay behind long enough to close the door behind them, and you carefully note which stone they push to activate the door. That could be useful information for when you find yourself in the hallway later. You can't be completely certain, but it looks like he didn't leave any guards behind stationed just outside the door, which is a mistake; one that you'll be exploiting later. As soon as you escape. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time you've been tied to a chair. The henchponies were reasonably competent, and certainly used enough rope. More than enough, truth be told. But they forgot that the chairs weren't anchored to the floor. Given enough time, you could break a leg off of your chair, and that would likely loosen the ropes enough to let you escape. If she gets partially free first, Daring could buck a leg off yours . . . but all those plans rely on the key phrase 'given enough time,' and that's something you don't actually have. Before too long, he’ll have the Orrery, and while he'll most likely hold off on using it until he's safe in his airship and well clear of the temple, even if he and his henchponies exercise due caution, you'll still be struggling with your bonds while they make their escape. “Daring?” “Yeah?” Your voices are muffled—they also gagged both of you. “I'm going to scoot my chair more towards you, and see if you can scoot towards me. So we're facing each other.” “You've got a plan?” “Yeah.” It's not a great plan, but it's better than none. The next few minutes are spent painstakingly inching your chairs towards each other, until you're close enough to kiss. “Sit still,” you tell her. “Let me get your gag off.” “How are you going to—hey!” Being tied up in a ruined temple is a great team-building exercise. Really cuts down on personal boundaries. You lean your chin right up against her mouth and slowly work her gag down. Once she figures out what you're doing, she helps, pushing with her tongue and working her lips. It's a good thing that ponies haven't invented duct tape, or this plan never would have worked. Finally, you get her gag free, and as a bonus, all the working around has loosened yours considerably. Now that Daring has full command of her mouth, she pulls your gag down easily enough. “I don't mean to criticize, and I'm glad to have this off, but I don't see how it's going to help all that much. Unless you were thinking I was going to gnaw through the ropes.” “I had considered it,” you admit. “Your teeth are a lot better for it than mine are. Ropes are basically woven grass, after all.” “It’d be easier if I could get to any of the knots—“ That was something they had considered, and they'd knotted the ropes underneath the chairs. And then to add to the difficulty, they'd used earth pony spellcraft to tighten them. “I've got a knife,” you tell her. “They missed it when they were searching me.” “Where?” You tilt your head down. “You're kidding me.” “No self-respecting girl leaves home without her tactical bra. Besides the knife, I've got a firestarter and a garrote in there.” “Almost makes me wish I wore one,” Daring mutters. “But your hands are tied, and—“ You can see the gears in her head turning. “Dammit.” Being tied up in a ruined temple is a great team-building exercise. After a few false starts and stretching the collar of your shirt beyond repair, Daring finally manages to get the little zippered pouch open and pulls out the knife. It's thin and compact and has a little plastic cover over the blade because it's as sharp as a scalpel. “Alright.” Ponies can talk easily around things in their mouth. They get a lot of practice at it. “What do you want first?” “Can you get my right arm free?” “I think so, yeah.” “Be careful—there's some pretty important veins in there.” “Got it.” She dips her head down and a minute later your right arm is free. After that, things are fairly simple. You take the knife from her and slice the rest of your bonds first, then cut her free. You adjust your shirt the best you can and then crouch down next to Daring. “Alright. I'll go after Dr. Caballeron; you steal his airship and be ready to rescue me.” “Got it.” “And if we’ve got time, we can hack the rope bridge down on the way out. That'll slow him down some.” “Sounds good.” She reaches out her hoof and you make a fist and bump it, and then you go your separate ways. You've lost most of your equipment, but you've got rope and the element of surprise. Hopefully, that'll be enough.
The Orrery of AntikytheraHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant The Orrery of Antikythera Admiral Biscuit Most temples have a pretty standard arrangement. If the Orrery of Antikythera wasn't in the room you’d been captured in, it would be higher up. Maybe it only works when it's outside, and would therefore be kept towards the top. Odds are that if it was at a lower level, you or Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies would have found it before you got captured. Daring, you trust, is racing through the access passageways. Pegasi are better at three-dimensional thinking than you are, so now that the back route has been identified, it shouldn't take her too long to reverse-navigate it. You've got to move both cautiously and quickly—it's an interesting paradox. But you're gaining on them; you can hear their voices through the twisting corridors. Mostly short, barked orders from Dr. Caballeron and occasional grumbling from his henchponies. You're not quite close enough to identify all that many actual words, but you can pick up the gist of the conversation. You've lost count of how many passageways you've gone through. If it comes down to it, your final option will be to follow them out and then somehow wrest the Orrery away from Dr. Caballeron’s henchponies and affect your escape. At the top of the umpteenth flight of stairs, you find your backpack. It's empty; apparently they decided to sort through it and take anything that might be useful or valuable while leaving it behind. You can't blame them, the straps would be awkward at best for a pony. The last you’d seen it, a brown stallion was carrying it in his mouth and he probably got tired of it. Maybe Dr. Caballeron ordered him to drop it. Whatever; you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You pick it up and slip it back on. It feels a little better to have it with you, even if there isn't anything to put in it yet. ••• They trip the final trap. You know it's the final trap, because even from a reasonably safe distance behind, you can see the bright flash of magic down the corridor, bright enough that you squeeze your eyes shut as you duck into a little alcove in the wall. The whole temple shakes slightly, and from above you can hear anguished screams and Dr. Caballeron shouting in an attempt to calm everypony down. You're actually kind of happy they're the ones who found that ward and not you. There's a distant, metallic squealing, and you focus as well as you can, wishing that you had sensitive pony ears instead of your dumb human ears. Something that sounds like scraping and hoofsteps across stone, and then a moment of silence . . . then the unmistakable noise of an axe being used on a wooden chest. If the cultists were so paranoid about protecting their temple, I can only imagine what wards they might have put on that. You tense up and wait for the resulting explosion, but it doesn't come. The noise of the axe stops. Huh. Maybe they forgot. Or maybe some hapless cultist couldn’t remember the spellwords and got blasted, and after that they perminantly disarmed the box. Just then you realize that if they're coming back, it'll be this way, and you'd better find a hidey hole pretty quick. The alcove you crowded in when the spell went off is as good as anything. They'll be coming out, they'll be a little bit relaxed because they have their prize, and they know where all the traps are—they won't be looking around as much. Not enough to spot a girl jammed up at the top of the alcove, her back against the ceiling. That's the hope, anyway, and you wedge yourself into position. It's not terribly comfortable, but it'll do. And then something happens that changes everything. You hear the rusty squeal of protesting hinges, and a draft of fresh air washes down the hallway, causing the torches that they've left behind to flicker and gutter in the breeze. There is a roof hatch. The gears in your head are turning fast enough to smoke. You can clearly see the next few minutes playing out. They'll signal for the airship, Daring—if she managed to steal it—will swing down to pick them up and then try to get the Orrery from them by herself. She won't have any choice but to leave you behind, to leave you to your own devices. That's not the end of the world; you made it here and without having to worry about Dr. Caballeron and his henchponies you shouldn't have too much difficulty getting back to civilization eventually. On the other hand, he won't be expecting an assault from behind. Now’s your chance. You drop out of your alcove and jog up the hallway. You know that there aren't any more traps; they would have triggered them if there had been. The final chamber is open, and there's a cluster of ponies around the trapdoor. They're having some trouble boosting themselves up to the edge, which is too bad. Here's where your monkey hands come into play. They're not properly guarding the door, so you catch them off-guard as you charge through. You're halfway across the room before they realize you’re there, and only one of them has time to take a shot. You're zig-zagging, not making it easy on him at all, but he's actually pretty good with a bow and the arrow rakes across your bicep before bouncing off the stone walls. One disadvantage to being human is that you kind of tower over the ponies, and that should make you an easy target, but the henchponies are apparently worried about hitting their companions, because there aren't any further shots from them before you get to the hatchway. You vault off one of the henchponies who's trying to block you and get your hands around the edge of the coaming. Hooves from below grab at you and you kick one of them in the face, and then you're boosting yourself up. Dr. Caballeron somehow hasn't heard the commotion. He's got his eyes trained to the sky. There's a burlap sack which you are absolutely certain contains the Orrery of Antikythera. You can also see a mooring line dangling off the airship and as it closes the distance you sieze the opportunity. The time for finesse, if ever there was a time, is long gone. You bowl over two of his henchponies and grab the sack, punching the unfortunate stallion who's carrying it square in the muzzle. He drops to his haunches and puts his hooves up over his wounded nose and you actually feel kind of bad for the poor guy. It's tragically adorable. You're running full-tilt when you leave the roof, roughly angling towards the dangling mooring line. You shouldn’t have looked down. Being pyramid-shaped, the temple itself slopes away from you rather dramatically, and you have a brief moment to think about what would happen if you missed the rope: would you clear the temple completely, or land partway down the side and tumble all the way to the bottom? The rope’s right in front of you and you grab onto it. Your arm feels like it’s being torn out of its socket and when you hit the entire airship jerks a little bit. That bit of springiness in the rope and in the airship itself is what saves you. You hook the dangling end of the rope with your feet and get it pinched between your thighs, granting you a bit of extra security, and then you breathe a sigh of relief. You’re safe at last. You’d forgotten that some of them have bows, and the Orrery will probably survive if you drop it. Even worse, you're hanging on to a rope, completely vulnerable to archers. This occurs to them, too. Holding a priceless cursed magical artifact while climbing up a rope to an airship is something you've never done before, and in hindsight you wouldn't consider trying it again. Your swinging combined with Daring's jukes cause most of the arrows to miss, but you don't escape unscathed. One of them grazes your cheek and just when you were thinking how worryingly close that was, you feel a rather uncomfortable stinging in your leg. Some people would undoubtedly be concerned about having an arrow stuck in them but you ignore it in favor of hasting the rest of the way up the rope before any more join it. You finally get a chance to look around when you reach the envelope of the airship. Henchponies are spilling down the side of the temple, presumably with the idea of following the airship on the ground. It's not a bad plan; you can hear the hiss of escaping gas from various punctures, and the engines aren't going very fast. Probably Daring had to incapacitate the engine crews and so there's nopony to reply to commands from the helm. The rope you've climbed leads to the nose of the airship, and there's no way to get inside from your position, so now that you're reasonably safe from arrows, you pull up enough of the rope to tie a bowline on a bight. You hadn't anticipated this trip ending by becoming an airship hood ornament.
EpilogueHannah Hawes, Shop Assistant Epilogue Admiral Biscuit Daring doesn't bring the airship to ground until you're well clear of the ravine and any pursuers. Even then, she stops short of actually landing, but she is kind enough to throw out a rope ladder from the cockpit. By then, you've broken off the arrow just flush with your calf and wrapped it with the hem of your shirt—not great, as bandages go, but serviceable. The Orrery is safe in your backpack, still in its burlap sack. There probably isn't a curse on anyone who touches it directly, but it doesn't pay to take chances like that. You're faced with a short sprint across the ground and then you catch on to the rope ladder and climb your way up to the cockpit. ••• Daring is a decent airship pilot, and gets you out of the forest before dumping all the helium that's left in the undamaged bladders. Whether by luck or skill, she times the landing decently well, and while it's technically a crashlanding, the airship is probably repairable. Without having a proper docking facility or anypony to attend to the mooring lines, that's really the best that could be hoped for. “Any landing you can walk away from,” you tell her as you limp away from the crashed airship. The stunned crew is slowly making their way out of the wreckage—you'd untied them just before the final descent. It was too late for them to do anything to prevent you from carrying out your plan, and now that Dr. Caballeron wasn't there to order them around, they were plenty happy to just walk away. They had little interest in pursuing you. “I can't believe you jumped off the temple,” Daring says. “I knew you humans were crazy, but I didn't think you were that crazy.” “I saw it done in a movie,” you tell her. “And it worked out alright there. How long do you think we have until Dr. Caballeron gets out of the forest?” “I don't know.” She glances back at the trees. “I'd like to think a couple days, but I also think it would be stupid to underestimate him.” “I was thinking the same thing,” you say. “So probably finding the nicest hotel and getting a proper meal and spending a few hours at the spa are out.” “I'd say so, yeah.” “Instead, we're going to camp out by the railroad tracks and hop the next train out of town.” “That's the smartest plan.” She looks at you thoughtfully. “If it was just me, I'd take off my pith helmet and put on a cloak and then nopony would know who I was, but you kind of stand out.” “Like a sore thumb,” you say. “I know. Let's hope the first train by is a passenger train and that we can convince the conductor to let us on.” “Not much chance of that,” she says. “Well, then let's hope that the first train by has a nice, cozy box car carrying a load of feather pillows.” ••• Of course, it isn't. It's a boxcar, and it's carrying mostly nails, and it's leaky. And it starts to rain almost as soon as you climb aboard. You get as comfortable as you can, which, truth be told, isn’t actually all that comfortable. After making sure that the doors are both wedged shut and both of you are as safe as it’s possible to be in a moving train car, Daring finds the driest spot on the floor and stretches out. She yawns and tucks her head under her wing like a bird. You’re not so lucky when it comes to finding a comfortable position, but you’ve got a couple of tricks up your sleeve, as well. You find a crate of nails that at least hasn’t got splinters and lean up against that, then pull your pant leg up to reveal a small flask of brandy strapped to your leg. It’s your emergency supply, and luckily the henchponies didn’t find that, either, when they patted you down. A shower would be nice—a proper shower, and not the cold rain that’s sluicing through gaps in the roof. That was really an oversight by whoever loaded this particular box car; somebody’s going to wind up with a load of rusty nails. Your bed’s also beckoning you. Your bed which is soft and cushy and not a hard edge of wood that’s trying to work its way between two vertebrae. You glance down at Daring and consider asking her if she’d mind being used as a pillow, but decide that you probably shouldn’t, tempting though it is. ••• Monday morning comes all too soon. Between trains and debriefing, you wind up getting limited medical attention. Strangely, pony medicine is easily able to cure all sorts of weird curses and magical maladies, but is apparently nearly useless for mundane arrow wounds and bruises. For that, the best they seem to have to offer is bandages and antibacterial spells. You didn't even get any proper spa time, just a quick shower on the train back to Manehattan. By the time you finally get back to your apartment you’re so exhausted that you just collapse into bed. So you have to rush in the morning to get showered and make yourself as presentable as possible. It could be worse—your pants hide one arrow-wound, and your work shirt mostly covers the bandages on your arm. There's not much you can do about the scrape on your cheek, or the black eye that you somehow got. You don't actually remember how that happened. Jim Jam, of course, is bright and cheery, but his smile falters a little bit as he notices you. “I tripped over a rug,” you say. “In my apartment. This weekend.” “Oh.” He considers this for a minute. “You know, I've been thinking.” “Yeah?” “Maybe instead of coming to the gym for strength training, you should come for acrobatics practice. This is what, the fourth time this year you’ve tripped in your apartment?” “I dunno.” You tie on your shop apron and push back all the memories of the weekend. It’s easier to lie to ponies; they believe that your bipedal stance and lack of tail make you naturally clumsy. “I'm just not really into that kind of thing. I prefer relaxing on my days off.” “You don't know what you're missing,” he says, turning the sign on the door to Open. “It'd do you a lot of good.” Author's Note Click HERE for story notes!
