“Ten-million bottles of grog on the wall. Ten-million bottles of grog!”

Nebula halfheartedly sang the most hopeless and draining song that Cold Snap had ever been forced to listen to in his life.

“One o’ those bottles fell offatha wall. Cookie guards nine-million nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand nine-hundred ninety-nine bottles of grog on the wall.”

Snap had no idea where this song came from, nor why his friend decided to sing it so mournfully. They sat in their bunkroom. Some of the graveyard-shift had just returned from duty and were getting settled in to their bunks to catch up on a few hours lost sleep. By the looks of things, they weren’t too excited about the amateur opera starting up.

“We don’t even get a grog bottle,” he muttered sleepily.

The unicorn looked askance at him. His song halted for this single blessed moment. “Sure we do,” he responded in a tone of absolute boredom.

He scratched his chin. “Matter of fact, we got one yesterday morning, remember?”

Snap thought for a moment. A vague memory of something spicy and alcoholic crossed his few-functioning brain cells. “Mmmm...I guess?”

He’d taken long enough that Nebula seemed to have forgotten about him. “Nine million nine”-

He clamped his hoof around Nebula’s open mouth. Throughout their lives, they had been inseparable friends. There were limits though.

Eyes narrowing in annoyance, the unicorn’s nostrils flared as he shook Snap’s hoof off of him. “Sheesh. I can see that not everyone is enthralled by the classics.”

“If that’s a classic, I’ll jump overboard and eat the first fish I find. Sounds like a sucker bet to me,” Snap replied nonplussed.

Nebula rolled his eyes. Then he frowned in concern. “Buddy, you all right?”

“Yeah. Doing fine. Don’t need to ask,” Snap replied automatically.

The next thing he was aware of was a hoof around his own muzzle, this one dragging his focus from some random corner of the room to the mostly familiar form in front of him.

“You don’t look ‘fine’ to me. In fact, you look downright awful.”

Snap wrenched his head out of Nebula’s grasp. “I’ll be all right in a bit.”

Scowling, Nebula leaned aside long enough to look at the sky peeking through the door as the last of the late-watch shift entered. “Buddy, it’s been a while since dawn. Did you sleep last night, at all?”

“Yeah, I”-

“For more than twenty minutes? Don’t lie to me.”

Cold Snap bit off the lie forming in his mouth. He hated lying to his friend, but he didn’t want to see him hurt, but that would require lying, and he was tired of lying to everyone, and that might hurt him, but he was so tired.

“I...don’t know.”

Nebula’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like a yes/no type of question. What’s going on?”

“Exactly that. I don’t know,” Snap retorted.

Nebula blinked at the venom in his friend’s words. It vanished in a moment, but Snap saw it. His ears folded in shame. “I’m sorry. That was too far.”

He scraped the decking, not willing to look his friend in the eye. A hoof rested on his neck. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Exhaustion fuddled his thoughts. At first, he didn’t realize that Nebula said anything. Then, he shook his head. “No, I did. Just may as well not have. Slept horribly anyway.”

The hoof gave a sympathetic rub. “What happened?”

Finally, Cold Snap looked at his friend. “Dreams.”

Silence settled between the two as Nebula seemed unsure whether or not to say anything. He breathed a small sigh of relief as Snap kept going. “I dreamed of the trees again.”

The trees were not exactly a new topic between the two best friends. Snap had told Nebula about it at different points, but Nebula always remembered his friend being confused and slightly out of sorts, not looking like he’d been keelhauled under the Rose and sent through her screws.

“Did they burn?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Snap nodded. “Always.”

He shook off his friend’s comforting hoof. He vainly tried to groom himself while reaching for his saddlebags and making his already-made bed, and failed at all of them.

Nebula decided to press his luck a little bit. “So what did the trees do?”

That question jerked Snap out of his ineffective housekeeping. He focused his drowsy, short attention span back at the other. Nebula waited with bated breath to hear what upset his friend so much.

At that moment, the outside hatch banged open, rousing loud complaints out of the tired last watch crew. They all forgot their words as they recognized who stood there.

Midshipmare Blue’s eyes roved over the inside and stopped on the pair. She approached the two, but focused on Cold Snap. “You just got promoted. Swift Gust infuriated the mate and got booted to the galley. The mechanic needs a new assistant, and he figures that’s you.”

She softened her gaze slightly. “You look absolutely terrible. I hope you can make it through the day.”

“What about me?” Nebula asked foolishly.

“Don’t you know better than to ask that in front of an officer?” she scowled.

She gestured to the aft of the ship. “I hear a pin got knocked loose in the Number Two turret lift, and now it’s all in the bottom of the magazine. They need someone small and not afraid of small spaces.”

Midshipmare Blue leaned in close, her eyes absolutely predatory. “You look like just the one.”

She tugged Snap to follow her. “Be careful in there, and I recommend using your hooves. Pyroxil and magic don’t mix,” she grinned.

Cold Snap took half a step to follow her. Then he paused. “Wept.”

Midshipmare Blue stopped but said nothing. Snap focused on Nebula. “The trees. They wept.”

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Snap couldn’t remember which way the bolts were supposed to turn. Was it right to tighten or left? He stared at it in bewilderment, as if his unblinking gaze would tear the answer out of the metal.

Clank. Clank. His wrench tapped the massive square metal head. He wasn’t sure what the machine he was supposed to be working on even was. It had metal. It had round things, belt things, flappy things, and spinny things. What it did, he had no idea. Truly, a Captain Gideon special.

His was not to reason why. His not to question why. His but to do or try. All he had to do was get this thingy apart. Greater understanding was unimportant, probably. All that fell to the ship’s mechanic. The old earth pony was supposed to be one of the brains behind putting this ship together and knew how to do nearly everything to keep the ship floating.

The mechanic was elsewhere at the moment. His job apparently was to teach the “young squirt” how to do the job and then disappear to do something else, probably a very important nap.

Napping sounded very nice right now. Snap thought about how nice his bed might feel while he started unscrewing the case of the thingy. He could just imagine the sheet and blanket, the lumpy sack he made do as a pillow, and the-

Trees.

The wrench slipped as he shuddered, and the heavy tool struck his leg with enough force to bruise. He refused to cry out though. Bolts came off methodically, but he worked like an automaton.

He did not take note of how the machine worked, even as he disassembled it piece by piece. He worked around the pipes and large gauge on its side. They may as well have been dust for all the attention he gave them.

He didn’t want to think about the trees, but he couldn’t run from them. He thought about them. Captain Gideon talked about them. They followed him in his dreams.

Ever since that fateful moment in the captain’s cabin where he bound himself to that artifact, they had been a part of his nights. Never were they a pleasant fixture of his sleep; he’d be lying if he claimed he’d adapted to it.

He always slept poorly. Sometimes, he woke in a fearful sweat, the tongues of fire still burned into his vision. Other times, he woke as if drunk. He knew something tore him from sleep, but nothing made sense, and he struggled to get any real rest. The day passed as if in a daze as he scraped together energy to stay functional.

Now? Everything was a jumble. The worst of both worlds. He was dazed, as if his mind hobbled through the day on one hoof. Still, he remembered everything so clearly. Fire, trees, catacomb: he saw them as always, but the-

“You gonna tear that down ta the grain, no?”

The world suddenly returned to focus. The pump-like machine, or what was left of it, lay before him. All of its parts lay scattered in an orderly fashion around the work site. The machine itself was near unrecognizable in either form or function. Tools he never remembered grabbing lay next to him.

The old, gray earth pony cocked a bushy eyebrow and looked the scene over. “Weell. I guess you got tha job done. More than I plan for, sure, but I think it may have needed a wee bit more than I planned ta put in it.”

Dazed Cold Snap couldn’t tell if he was being complimented or reprimanded. So, he took the middle road, looking like an idiot.

The old pony nudged him on. “Go on. Git.”

Snap figured that was his cue to move along. He left the mechanic staring over the pile of parts and pondering the enormity of the task he’d created.

All Snap cared about was getting a little sleep. He stumbled around the ship and looked for a convenient nook to sleep in. Eventually, he found himself at a familiar door in a metal hallway. He slipped inside the storage closet and pulled out some of the spare fabric and bedding and settled himself. Hopefully, he could get a few hours of sleep before someone came looking for him.

________________________________________________________________________________________

The scene was familiar. Stone walls and bone floors gave way to a massive cavern. Its scalloped walls gave testament to passage of water long ago. Now, they held a metamorphic gleam like a glazed pot. Fire swirled as it always did around two trees that were always there.

Snap felt as if he were straddling two different realities. On one hoof, he knew in the back of his mind that he had experienced this so often that it was a recurring dream or nightmare. Yet, it lacked that dreamlike quality. It was as if he had been lifted out of his body and carried far across the remaining sea.

Now, his spirit wandered these halls and saw a glimpse of the world they would soon discover, and if the captain’s fears were founded, then struggle over.

He stepped over the line where bones ended and stone began. The trees saw him. They recognized him, not as a friend, but as an old acquaintance perhaps. They did not burn him...yet.

“Why am I here?” he asked them.

They gave no answer. He waited. Then he asked again. “What do you want from me?”

Blood.

Life.

Death.

Dying.

The thoughts and images slammed into him with all the force of the Yellow Rose. They never took the form of words. Rather, he saw a stream of thoughts given near-tangible form. Not a word was truly spoken, but he felt as if he could have quoted the trees verbatim.

He tried to work his way through the discordant deluge of data. The way the trees spoke was beyond confusing. It was as if he’d been asked to read literature...written by a pony from a land across the world, using his tail, and totally insane.

Snap grasped one thought. “Dying? Man died?”

The trees paused as if convening. Then the images changed. He saw the beginning of another dream. He saw the garden whence these trees came. He saw the vibrant greenery of both trees. Then, the fire came.

When it passed, he stood in a burned hell. Nothing green remained. Nothing, save the trees. Still, one did not look the same as it did before. Its limbs were scorched. Years seemed to pass as the sickly one grew slowly worse. Its fruit dropped and rotted, uneaten by any beast or insect. Fire danced around their branches despite consuming nothing.

As he watched the fruits drop, he could not help but feel a sense of loss for something he had never experienced. The tree said none experienced it.

Drip.

Snap blinked at the raindrop on his nose. He looked up in time to see a black cloud roll across the sky, and the sunny day turned to a torrential downpour.

It never stopped. The rain came until the ground was soaked in it. It ran in rivulets around his hooves. The rivulets turned to streams. Drops steamed as they touched the trees’ fiery halo.

Then, he heard a roar, like ten thousand Yellow Roses bellowed all at once. He looked and saw wall of water racing his way, stones and trees and more carried along with it like dust. He gasped and instinctively clenched his eyes.

Suddenly, the noise vanished. He looked around. Here was nothing more than the familiar cavern. He looked to the trees. The fire still burned around them. One looked as vigorous as ever. The other looked even worse. Only a few clusters remained green. Stubborn fruits clung to these branches, but they too dropped as the eons passed. Its yellowed leaves slowly collected around its base and none came to tend it.

“You’re dying,” he whispered.

He shook his head to clear the exhausted fog that seemed to follow him into his dreams. “Then what do you want?”

Life.

“Can I save you?” Snap thought back to his extensive experience with trees and growing things.

No.

“Why call me if I can’t? Can Captain Gideon?” Cold Snap was beyond confused now.

If the tree could have laughed, he felt as if it would have brought down the house. He got the distinct feeling that while the captain was important, he was not the answer the dying tree wanted.

He still had no idea what the tree wanted.

He clung to that thought as the world suddenly lightened and the trees faded away.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Nebula had woken him. A stream of nearly unintelligible words gushed from him like a fountain. All Cold Snap could catch was “mechanic”, “assignment”, and “urgent”.

He struggled to his hooves. The nap did nothing for his drained energy. If anything, he felt worse.

The Yellow Rose was a demanding mistress though. Snap forced himself into a gallop and banished his exhaustion as best he could.

He didn’t get off the mechanic’s duty until late that night. When that blessed “git on” sounded, he could have almost wept for joy. Instead, he stumbled into his bunk and passed out before he could fully get in the sheets.

The trees awaited him.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

“It’s getting worse.”

The hippogriff stopped his repair on the hatch seal. The fiber packing swayed partway in and out of its track. He seemed unsure of what to say, but Cold Snap didn’t care. He wanted someone to talk to. Responses were optional.

“These...dreams?” Mr. Horn asked uncertainly.

He couldn’t hide some measure of disbelief at the claim. He never said much beyond the mandatory initial doubting questions. Mr. Horn never held the same acceptance for the bizarre or “impossible” that Captain Gideon did. What he did have was a sense of tact and timing that the captain sometimes lacked. As such, he listened while keeping his doubts to himself.

Snap nodded. “Yeah. I’m losing so much sleep. Or maybe I’ve just found a way to work in my sleep. I get to sleep easily enough, but I wake in the middle of the night, or toss myself into a knot. It’s almost better to not sleep.”

“You’ve tried that?” Mr. Horn asked dismissively.

“Several times. Eventually, I go back to sleep and it all starts over.”

A rhythmic tap-tap-tap filled the air as the hippogriff returned to his labor. A minute of peaceful hammering passed, and then Mr. Horn paused again. “You know, when I encouraged you to take some independent investigations, I never meant for you to take them this far.”

On another day, Cold Snap might feel incensed. Now he simply felt tired. Nothing could offend him right now. He smiled. “You know, I think forces outside my control took things this far.”

Mr. Horn looked at him aghast. “You can’t mean that you’re taking all these nightmares to heart?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Everything about them is consistent. They”-

“They are building on your excessive time spent with the captain’s wild theories. Besides, you know what that sounds like to me? A curse. Whatever you did awoke it, and it’s not the first time that someone has had their sleep ruined by a curse. Or perhaps their life,” Mr. Horn said sharply.

Snap thought about it as Mr. Horn put the last few blows on the door seal. “So you mean that you don’t believe in why Captain Gideon is doing this?”

Mr. Horn put away his tools and sighed. “I think Captain Gideon is doing whatever Captain Gideon chooses to do. I, and you, just happen to be along for the ride. Unlike you, I’d like to do what it takes to make sure I live after the ride is over. I suggest you do the same.”

After that, the hatch door was shortly finished, and the now-surly hippogriff wandered off to complete his next job. Snap sat in the half-shade of the ship’s superstructure staring at the now closed door.

After some time, he became aware of something. A motion, a sound? He didn’t know. Someone was behind him. He turned, and saw Captain Gideon’s silent form standing in the sunlight behind him. He still wore his blue coat even in these subtropical environments. The heat did not seem to bother him.

He simply studied Snap. He studied with the dispassionate inquiry that he might give those primitive savages he sometimes mentioned. By the time Cold Snap grew visibly uncomfortable, the captain spoke. “There is a saying about not burning a candle at both ends. Judging by your looks, you melted your candle and set the puddle ablaze.”

Snap thought about the comparison. Then his dull mind connected all the dots and he found it funny and started giggling. The captain continued despite the unprofessional response. “We are just days out from our destination. I expect us to see land by morning. Like it or not, you are one of the most entangled in this mystery. You will do neither me nor you nor this ship any good stumbling about like a drunken ox.”

Straightening his coat, the captain leveled a hard glare at his subordinate. “Therefore, you are immediately relieved of all duty. Sunset is in forty-five minutes. Eat well, clean out your bedding, take a bath, and above all, get some sleep.”

Something about that seemed funny to Snap. He didn’t laugh this time. “Easier said than done when you’ve got two trees living in your dreams, sir.”

The faint tic of the griffon’s eye was the only clue Snap had irked him. “As you command, captain.”

The next hour passed in a blur. The next thing Snap knew was that he was about to crawl into bed. As he was adjusting the covers to his liking, hooves tapped on the decking behind him. He turned to see Nebula and a hovering cup beside him.

Snap eyed the cup, and his friend seemed to remember he was carrying it. He floated it over to Snap. “It’s been a bit since you ate. Thought you might be thirsty.”

“Not that thirsty. Besides, why would I want to drink that now?”

Looking side to side as if about to spill some great secret, the unicorn leaned forward. “I traded in a favor with the ship surgeon. He called in a favor with the bosun. He gave me an extra rum ration. I figured it would help you sleep.”

Suddenly, that tin cup looked much more appealing. Giving his good, good friend a tired smile, he took the cup. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Nebula snorted. “I’d hate to imagine. I don’t think you could function without me.”

“Don’t push it,” Snap said, though his voice lacked any venom.

He tipped back the cup and swallowed the draught in one gulp. Fire raked his throat as he choked down the potent liqueur. For a moment, he was afraid that he’d start breathing fire, but the sensation passed, and Nebula took the cup and Snap crawled into his bunk.

Nebula started for the hatch to return to his first night-shift duties. “Hey,” Cold Snap said.

His friend stopped, curious why Snap stopped him.

“Thanks for being here,” Snap finished with a small smile.

“No getting rid of me. Just not happening,” Nebula said.

Then, he tipped the cup over and hung it on his horn before trotting out.

Leaden numbness slowly crept over Cold Snap’s exhausted body. Between rum and fatigue, he quickly fell into a black sleep. The last things he felt were his lumpy bed and the swaying of the ship underway.

Something clanked. Cold Snap stirred. Sunlight pierced the air and blinded him. He squinted and buried his head into the soft pillow. His mind moved like molasses.

Morning. He’d slept all night. Not a leaf of the trees disturbed him. He may as well have slept like the dead. For the first time in weeks, he felt rested.

His slowly rousing mind began piecing things together and started raising alarms. Something was off.

Sun? Wrong.

Smell? Wrong.

Sounds? Muted and wrong.

Pillow? Soft. Definitely wrong.

He pushed through his delightful lethargy and rolled over. His hoof vainly tried to cover the dawn.

In a moment, the sunlight vanished. Mr. Horn stood with a claw on the closed curtain. He was in Captain Gideon’s cabin, his own bed!

Nebula, Midshipmare Blue, the surgeon, and Captain Gideon sat or stood all around him.

And he saw dread in each of their eyes.

Author's Note

It was a perfectly ordinary day.

That is to say that the Publisher was sitting behind his desk, processing his endless punchlist, and preparing for HIS inevitable arrival.

He did not know what to expect. It could be surreal. It could be shock and awe. The day of his coming would be a mystery to be debated by the learned everywhere.

Oh, what the Publisher would give to have some of those learned by his side to handle the likes of the Author. No doubt their collective wisdom and intellect would stymie the Author's chaotic tendencies.

Alas, he had none. Not for a lack of trying mind you. He had tried to enlist the aid of sages everywhere. The results were always the same. Things would start out promising. Each would listen with interest. Platitudes flowed like water. Then they heard who they were to meet. The nods would turn friendly, the smiles knowing. In the end, each failed to make their stance against the Author.

The one exception was the drunk guy who held a philosophical degree. That is to say a degree that was philosophical, much like a theoretical degree. He had taken practically no convincing. Rather, he sounded like he had nothing better to do. To be fair, there wasn't much to do under that bridge anyway. Aside from look at art.

But that art was so tacky. The Publisher shook his head. That wasn't a very inclusive way of thinking. No doubt someone put their heart and soul into that art just hoping to leave their mark on the world. Whole cultures were embodied in that art.

When he thought about it that way, he felt a little better about it. Knowing that someone out there would be fascinated by the subliminal messages in bold, avante gard statements like "deez nutz" and "AltxHPh" in all different fonts, radical angles, and iconoclastic colors.

He was just too much of a rube to appreciate it.

The doorknob rattled.

Zero hour.

The Publisher gripped his pen until it started crackling under the strain. He just had to make it through another session with the Author. After that, a few sessions of therapy would undo most of the damage.

The door opened. Inside stepped...not the Author.

But it was the Author.

The butterflies in the Publisher's stomach fluttered away. Confusion replaced consternation. "And you are..."

The not-Author straightened his glasses. "Simple. I am the Editor."

On another day, the Publisher would feel as if the cosmos were playing a grand joke on him. Today, he simply felt confused and tired. Another day, another way the Author was screwing with his head.

In a way, he had to give the Author credit. This way of throwing off his groove was so simple, so lazy, that he couldn't help to be impressed.

The Editor and the Author were one and the same, sans Groucho Marx glasses.

"I am glad you're here. I suppose you are wondering why I've asked you to be here," the Editor began.

There it was, that peculiar feeling that his world was going topsy-turvy. "Ummm...I work here?" the Publisher said, but his tone suggested that he wasn't too sure anymore.

"Ah. Excellent. I'm here to discuss the ramifications of this letter sent by your HR department," the Editor held up a sheet of paper.

"Umm, I'm not sure that I am the the one to speak to, but I am sure I can"-

"Nonsense! You're just the one to answer these questions."

The Editor/Author cleared his throat. "Question the First: What is a Bechdel test, and why did we fail it?"

Taken slightly aback, the Publisher discreetly checked his literary cheat sheet index, and then turned...discreetly...to the directed page. "Quite simple really. It's the test that requires at least two individuals of the female persuasion to talk to each other about something other than someone of the male persuasion."

The Editor pushed up his mustache. "Why not call those individuals 'men' and 'women'? It's much more efficient."

The Publisher shrugged. "We're not sure what a woman is. HR told us it was important to forget it. Besides, the only female character of note is the midshipmare."

"I see. And I must say that your test and letter is irrelevant in that regard. See, this is a tale written in the classic vein of Black Arrow, Treasure Island, and in some regards, Sea Wolf. It is quintessentially a boy's coming of age story. I assume this has to do with Point the Second: diversity?"

"Erm...yes."

"What lunacy! This is diverse! We have ships on sea. We have ships on fire. We are ships in distress. We are ships in straits. We are in an ocean of diversity!"

"I'm afraid that's not what HR is referring to. They were referring to the demographics within your submission," the Publisher rubbed his mane nervously.

It didn't look like the Authitor was buying it. He narrowed his eyes. "We have a fictional world of mythological creatures. WE are a world of mythological creatures created as a post-script entertainment experiment. As far as I am concerned, HR is a peculiar urban myth."

"I do not make these decisions," the Publisher asked with restrained patience.

He huffed. "Take off that silly nose art. I preferred dealing with your other lunacy."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because the Author is off-duty today."

"YOU ARE THE AUTHOR! You just split your personality to exploit the system!"

"And pay twice as much in taxes?! You're crazy! And that's saying something."

The Publisher sighed heavily and dropped his head into his hooves. "Just...where is the Author today?"

"He's at home now, thinking about Freedom Day while drinking prickly pear wine and yaupon tea."

The Publisher began groping for one of his emergency bottles. This was going to be a long meeting.