Author's Note
This is the most frivolous, saccharine story I have ever written and I don't care I love it
Desperate Hours
Paul Zagranski waited in the distinguished visitors lounge on the top floor of the United Nations headquarters building in New York. The wide picture window looked out over New York Bay, the waters sterling blue today, topped with whitecaps that caught the bright sun like the sails of a fleet of half-sunken ships. He watched the waves play for a few minutes, ignoring the impatient tapping on the table behind him, then exhaled and turned back to his notes.
“Sorry,” he said. “Let’s continue.”
“It’s fine,” the Secretary General of the United Nations said. He was an older gentleman, from one of those African countries that only ever seemed to be in the news when some disaster or war or whatever calamity of the week was occuring. “Take your time. We’re all a little stressed right now.”
That they were. Despite the freezing air conditioning, Paul’s shirt was already soaked through with sweat. He could only hope the expensive Armani suit would prove impervious to the stains in his underarms. He wondered for a moment if he’d worn enough deodorant, then wondered if their guests might not find the scent of the deodorant more offensive than sweat.
There were no wars today. If these negotiations went well, there might not be wars ever again. All of humanity’s problems might be solved in the next few hours. Or they might all be doomed to return to the eternal loneliness of their little solar system, light-years and lifetimes away from the next nearest star. It all depended on the outcome of these talks. And he would either be the world’s most celebrated diplomat and negotiator, or the failure who let seven billion people down.
So, no stress. He tugged at his tie and considered asking if they could crank the AC up another notch or two.
There was a knock on the open door, and a man in a dark suit stuck his head through. “Five minutes, Mister Secretary. The portal is open and the room is ready.”
“Thank you, Abrams.” The Secretary General said. He turned back to Paul and the open binder between them. “I don’t think I need to underline the stakes involved here, Zag. We’ve prepared in every way we know how. All we can do now is drive for the best bargain we can.”
Paul nodded. His finger traced its way down the table on the first page of his notes. “Just to be clear, I’m empowered to make the following offers on the spot. A complete transfer of the technology necessary to manufacture microprocessors. The theory, design, construction and application of laser devices. A complete sequencing of the ponies’ DNA and assistance in determining the genetic causes behind any illnesses that may be requested. An exchange program for mathematicians and scientists for their universities. And complete, unrestricted access to our information grid.” He exhaled. “Do you think it will be enough?”
The Secretary General licked his lips. “We can only hope. If the ponies balk… well, I shouldn’t say this, but feel free to make additional promises. Spaceships. Engineering projects. Anything they want except nuclear weapons, I’m allowing you to offer it to the ponies. They have us by the balls, Zag. You offer anything you have to, you understand?”
He nodded. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple onto his starched collar, leaving a dark gray spot in the silk. He moved his finger to the next page, where a much shorter table contained all of humanity’s requests for the ponies.
“Alright,” he said. He didn’t need to read – he had long since memorized the list. “It’s a good offer. I think… I think when they hear it, they’ll agree. And if they don’t… well, humanity will remember that we tried. We did our best.”
“We did.” The Secretary General looked away, out the same picture window that had drawn Paul’s attention earlier. “May our children forgive us if we fail. Just, when you get in there, remember the priorities.”
“I will.” Paul closed his eyes and read the list from memory. “Ear scritches, mane brushing and braiding, and nose boops.”
The Secretary General was silent in reply. Finally, Abrams knocked again, and Paul stood to go negotiate for the future of his people.
* * *
There were three ponies across the table. They’d already taken seats on the French cushions and had their notes spread out before them. In the center was Common Ground, the unicorn stallion Paul had met many times before during the initial contact. How quaint those days seemed, when humans and ponies were more worried about invasions and alien plagues than trade deals. But now, after years of growing contact and friendship, they were ready for this. The biggest deal ever signed in human or pony history. An agreement that would bind their people forever.
Except for one problem. The ponies didn’t seem too impressed by all the technology they’d seen. They were puzzled by the internet. Computers amused them in the same way an Etch-a-Sketch amused Paul’s daughter. The wonders of modern medicine and genetics were like witchcraft to them. Magic literally did everything they needed. So the ponies held all the cards. They had what humans wanted – no, needed – and in exchange all that Earth could offer was silly trinkets and slightly better musical instruments.
Paul nodded to Common. On his left was Oak Heart, a unicorn mare Paul recognized from previous discussions. She had a sharp mind and fluffy tufts atop her ears that begged for him to touch. To the right was Cinnamon Swirl, a pegasus stallion with a luscious, flowing cornsilk mane who specialized in weather systems. The ponies had added him to the team after discovering the humans had no weather control of their own. He was something of a celebrity, and plushies of him frequently appeared as props when local news stations wanted to highlight a weekend of good weather.
He pulled out his chair and sat. Beside him, his fellow negotiators – Terri Fukumoto, representing the Asian nations, and Ebba Larsson, representing the European Union – took their seats. “Common Ground, thank you for coming. I hope today’s negotiations will be fruitful.”
“As do we,” Common said. And here Paul noticed something – Common Ground’s coat, normally an inoffensive khaki color, was darker than normal. It sparkled with sweat, despite the freezing air. There was a tremble in his voice, and his hoof shook as he opened the binder before him. “If you don’t mind, let’s skip the formalities and get started.”
Crap. Crap. It was already going off the rails. Negotiators only skipped the formalities if they wanted to drive a hard bargain. If they didn’t care about being polite. For the first time in twelve years, Paul wished he had a cigarette. But he managed to keep the quaver out of his voice as he spoke. “Of course, friend. I am empowered by the Secretary General of the United Nations to make what we believe is a generous offer—”
“Please, if we may,” Common interrupted, and Paul’s mouth snapped shut. Beside him, Terri and Ebba clutched their pens tight. He’d never known ponies to interrupt in formal settings. “I think we can save time. Our terms are simple: ear scritches, mane brushing and braiding, in exchange for ten-thousand ounces of gold per year—"
Paul nodded, furiously scribbling down the ponies' demands. That much gold would be expensive, but not unduly so. India would complain about the price of gold going up, but they would survive. With ponies' ears to scritch they could finally stop worrying about Pakistan.
Common continued. "—A complete exchange of all accumulated knowledge not associated with weapons—"
"Already planned for," Terri whispered in his ears.
"—A second exchange of professors in any feasible sector of education—"
Another exchange? That was good. The ponies weren't demanding a unilateral transfer of technology, at least. Magic might not be much use on Earth, but it was of intense interest to scientists. Perhaps the ponies' terms wouldn't be too onerous. But still Common was speaking.
"—And finally, one million pre-enchanted scrolls with spells to be determined at a later date.”
Paul's pen trailed to a halt. He frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How are we supposed to offer pre-enchanted scrolls? Only your world has those.”
“Yes,” Common Ground said. He blinked and tilted his head. “That is our offer. The scrolls, the gold, the knowledge, in exchange for ear scritches and mane brushing. And maybe braiding, if you feel up to it.”
“Of course.” He made a few more notes, then set his pen down and stared at his paper, attempting to parse what he'd just heard. “I apologize, my hearing isn’t what it used to be. If you would give me a moment to discuss this offer with my team?”
Common Ground swallowed. He looked between the humans, then nodded. “O-of course. Take your time.”
They stood from their chairs and walked to the far wall. Paul managed to keep his steps even. The other human negotiators weren’t so cool. Terri was vibrating in his shoes.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” he whispered. “It’s happening! Mister Zagranski, they want the scritches! They want them and they’re willing to pay—”
“Shut up shut up they can hear you,” Paul muttered. For a moment, the only sound was their labored breathing. “Okay. Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He pulled out his binder and pen, and in a few quick moments sketched out the future of humanity’s relationship with Equestria.
If they’ll bite. He closed the binder, turned, and walked back to the table. “Sorry about that. Just had to clarify some minor points.”
Common Ground nodded. “I realize we’re asking a lot, Mister Zagranski. I shouldn’t say this, it’s terrible for negotiations… but we need you to accept. We need ear scritches so badly. We have hooves! We can’t do it for ourselves, dammit! We have hooves!” He banged his hooves on the table to demonstrate, his voice rising to a shout at the end. His pony partners had to drag him back to his cushion, where he hunched over, his entire body shaking. They patted him on the back and whispered quiet, comforting things into his deliciously scritchable ears.
“Common Ground, we understand your plight, and I believe you will find humanity’s offer acceptable,” Paul said. “We will provide all the ear scritches, mane brushing and braiding that ponykind desires, for all of eternity. And in exchange, we ask only one thing.”
Common Ground looked up. His hooves fell away from his face, revealing tear-stained tracks along his cheeks. “Yes? Yes! Name it! The gold? The magic? Anything, Paul! Anything.”
“Nose boops.”
The room fell silent. The ponies stared across the table, frozen. They might all have been an artist’s still life. The hammer and thrum of blood in Paul’s ears drowned out even the roaring air conditioner.
Common Ground spoke first. “Mister Zag… Paul. I… You must understand, these things… our noses are very sensitive. Nose boops are humiliating! They make us scrunch up our muzzle!”
“And squeak!” Cinnamon interjected, blushing.
“Yes,” Common said. “Surely, surely there’s something else we can offer. Time travel spells? Anti-aging magics? I happen to know the Canterlot University is developing special magics allowing faster-than-light communication—”
Paul slammed his palm on the table. The sound was like a shotgun blast, and it silenced the ponies like they had broken legs. “Nose boops, or no deal.”
Silence again. But Paul already knew their answer. He could see it in their soft, soft ears, how they wilted. In their posture, how it sank. Finally, Common Ground nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Though I scarcely know how I will explain it to our princesses. But you shall have your nose boops.”
Yes. Yes. Paul let his eyes close for a moment, and let the warmth of victory wash over him. Beside him, Ebba and Terri let out the breaths they’d been holding. They’d done it. He’d done it. On behalf of all humanity, he’d done it. He stood and walked around the table, knelt, and held out his hand toward Common Ground.
Common Ground stared at it, then slowly lifted his hoof. He tapped it against Paul’s knuckles, and with that simple gesture, the deal was done.
Then, to show their was no hard feelings, Paul reached out further and scratched behind Common’s ear. The pony moaned, his eyes drifting shut, and he rubbed his head against Paul’s fingers. Behind him, Cinnamon Swirl and Oak Heart watched, their eyes filled with envy.
Enough of that. Paul pulled his hand away, and before Common could object, poked him in the snout with his finger. “Boop.”
Common scrunched his muzzle. He went cross-eyed, trying to stare at the tip of his nose. He looked like he wanted to bite. Then he sighed and shrugged.
“See, was that so bad?” Paul asked.
“Yes.” Common grumped. After a moment he pushed his head against Paul’s hand again, and the scritching continued. Behind him, Terri and Ebba closed in on the two remaining ponies, and began scritching their ears as well.
Some say the scritching never stopped.
