Cold Snap wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t explain how he got into the captain’s bed; couldn’t fathom what everyone was doing here, and feared whatever they saw in him.

So, he huddled in the bed. Sheets clutched to his body served as a feeble shield against the unknown. Questions surged through his mind. Each clamored to be the first to be answered. Each in turn were crushed into submission by another, stronger question as his mind slowly roused from its unnatural fog.

No one wanted to be the first to speak. Lingering drowsiness still beckoned him to sleep. As tempting as it was, Snap couldn’t bear to leave his friends like that.

He licked his dry mouth. His voice came out as a ragged gasp. Barely a sound would come out.

Captain Gideon reached for a clear tumbler brimming with amber liquid. He placed it in Cold Snap’s grasp and stood expectantly.

For his part, Snap looked at the glass suspiciously. He could smell the rum easily enough and another tangy scent he could probably place in a more alert state of mind. Somehow, he suspected this whole situation started with rum last night.

He must have hesitated for quite some time, as the captain grunted irritably. “Drink. We have much to discuss. Rum and lemon have done many some good.”

Tentatively, Cold Snap lifted the glass to his lips. This rum was actually very diluted. He could recognize the lemon now. Safe to say there might have been more lemon and water than rum.

It was enough to sooth his throat, but not his mind. “Why am I here?”

No one immediately responded. Nebula looked horrible in his silence, like he was guilty of some heinous act. The surgeon seemed to be simply chagrined. Midshipmare Blue walked a fine line between aloof and concerned. Mr. Horn was the only one that seemed actually irritated at the whole thing.

Captain Gideon looked tired. “It is a long and complicated affair. It starts with your chronic insomnia.”

Snap’s mind couldn’t quite handle big words. Nebula saw it and mumbled. “You almost never slept. I kept hearing you every night. I’m sorry.”

That worried Cold Snap. “For what?”

“You were losing an unhealthy amount of sleep. It was detrimental to your mental capacities, and we are approaching a critical junction in this voyage,” Captain Gideon said as he sat at his desk.

His throat warmed from the hot toddy, Cold Snap faced the captain. “Respectfully sir, it doesn’t matter much.”

“Doesn’t matter much? I disagree. You’ve proven yourself more clever than many twice your age. You are inextricably linked in this matter. You matter because I say so.”

He reached into his drawer and withdrew a brown bottle. It was small thing that neatly fit in the captain’s claw. A white label covered in small script was illegible from this distance. Captain Gideon gave it a cursory shake and set it on the corner of his desk.

Obviously this bottle meant something, though Snap didn’t have the foggiest idea what. On a hunch, he pointed to the surgeon. “Is this why the surgeon is with us?”

Only the captain’s slightly raised eyebrow betrayed his approval of the guess. “Correct. So I must admit that I relied upon the expertise of Lancet here. This bottle contains a compound known to the zebra tribes as ‘poppy’s tears’. It goes by other names elsewhere. Medically, it is most useful for managing pain. However, it carries the side effect of severe drowsiness.

“Once I ordered you to cease your duties, I went straightway to Lancet to see that you were adequately dosed to provide a dreamless night. We agreed upon fifteen minims.”

“Twenty,” the surgeon interrupted.

“Pardon?” the captain focused on the medical pony.

The unicorn’s ashy gray coat couldn’t hide a tinge of embarrassment. “I reconsidered after you left. Being an earth pony and all, he would likely metabolize any smaller dose and we would be back where we started.”

Captain Gideon nodded his acceptance. “Twenty then.”

While this was interesting, Cold Snap couldn’t help but see that some pieces were missing. It didn’t explain why he was in the captain’s bed or why everyone was looking at him like the dead. “So that’s why we’re all here then?”

“I’m sorry!” Nebula nearly sobbed.

Snap had never seen his friend so grieved. Another piece clicked into place. “It was in the rum? The alcohol hid the taste.”

Captain Gideon nodded approvingly. “The compound is an alcohol-based tincture. You would never have tasted it. Though if that were only the end of this matter.”

The surgeon leaned forward, but the captain stayed him with a claw. “Before we continue, I must ask: do you recall any of last night after you slept?”

Snap wordlessly shook his head. The captain gestured to continue.

“You see,” the surgeon said, “the captain is partially correct. Poppy’s tears possess a strong sedative effect. That said, the drug has a second effect preceding this. It induces a state of euphoria, and in some individuals, would result in an altered state of mind. Mind you, the individual is still aware of their surroundings and may interact with them, but they may not remember anything in their sober mind.”

“And since I’m here and not in my bunk…” Cold Snap ventured.

“You would be correct.”

Snap rubbed his face. This had all the signs of being a day that he’d like to go back to bed and start over. Alas, that was not the Captain Gideon way.

“Suffice it to say that use of this drug may induce the individual to act unconsciously upon whatever urge strikes them most during this brief state of euphoria.”

“What did I do?” Snap groaned into his hooves.

Midshipmare Blue spoke for the first time. “I was on watch at that time. You came walking out of the crew berths. I knew the captain had ordered your rest. So I came to send you back. You seemed awake, but you looked at me and said it was urgent. You didn’t answer when I asked what and instead walked to the bow.

“Once there, you stopped. Without hesitating, you pointed to the north-east. I was still with you, and you told me: ‘Our path is before us.’”

Midshipmare Blue scuffed the floor uncertainly. “By this time, I had sent for the captain. I asked you what this path was. ‘The path the sea took at its birth. The path where the fountains of the deep once flowed.’

“I asked what would be there. You said: “A choice. Do we choose knowledge or life?’”

“I admit, I didn’t know what to make of that. So I debated sending you back to your bunk. But you didn’t look like you would listen. Besides, by that point, the captain was on his way. Before he got there, you turned to him and addressed him. ‘Are you ready? We sail to find Liliths’ garden, or what’s left of it. Life and death await us in the place where the fires of creation still blaze, where man’s first sacrifice stains the ground. Two sides, two choices meet in this Pyre. Man must redeem his past if we are to come through alive.’”

Midshipmare Blue paused in thought. “And then the captain said something. ‘Were Man still walking among us, what could he do to earn that redemption?’ And the you said. ‘Nothing. Because redemption can never be earned.’”

“At that point,” Captain Gideon cut in, “you looked out into the sea and wobbled. Your eyes grew glassy. It was obvious the poppy’s tears were entering their second stage. You laid on the deck and fell asleep. At that point, we decided to bring you to my cabin and hold you for observation.”

“So now that you’re awake, care to explain what that was all about?” Midshipmare Blue said as she waved her hooves in exasperation.

The surgeon interrupted her before Snap could defend himself. “He had no memory of last night at all. Badgering him won’t help.”

“I don’t see why we are humoring his delusions. I swear. This is a simple obsession courtesy of our fine captain. You and your crew are fine deviations from the sailor mold. Why can’t we dispose of this superstition and move on?” Mr. Horn grumbled from his corner of the room.

“Ugh. Do you have to bring this up AGAIN? This whole damn ship was based on superstition. You’re not exactly in a good place to cast blame here,” Midshipmare Blue shot back.

Captain Gideon stepped close to Mr. Horn. His eyes locked level with the hippogriff’s, and a hair separated their beaks. “Mr. Horn, you are an intelligent fellow. I cannot deny that. Tell me. What proportion of the world’s knowledge do you have at your disposal? Perhaps you know more than this superstitious sailor?”

The hippogriff scooted back. The captain had obviously fluffed his ego slightly. “I could say a fair bit.”

The postured humility didn’t trip the captain. “Impressive, because even with all I know, I know next to nothing. Either you are ignorant of what you don’t know or are a fool. So, you may kindly keep your opinions to yourself in the future.”

The temperature of the room dropped to a chill. Mr. Horn ground his claws into the fine carpet in his smoldering fury. Cold Snap thought the hippogriff would return the captain’s barbed words in full force. He did nothing of the sort.

Taking a step around the captain, Mr. Horn stalked his way to the door. His fury rolled off of him like a deadly cloud. As he reached for the knob, Captain Gideon stopped him. “Remember, Mr. Horn. Ignorance may be fixed, but a fool stays a fool until his dying day.”

Mr. Horn left without a word.

The collective atmosphere grew more temperate. Those remaining in the room kept an uneasy silence that was only broken by the surgeon. “I believe that I’ve explained my side of the incident. Unfortunately, I can only offer limited comments upon the medical side of this case. My magical skills and aptitude revolve around matters of the body, not of the head. I will take my leave.”

The unicorn stood and made ready. His bag was in his magic when he focused on Cold Snap. “You’re an excellent young colt. You’ve really grown well on this ship, and don’t mean just around your middle,” a twinkle filled the surgeon’s eye, but it faded. “I’m very sorry for my part in this. I hope you will understand I acted under orders.”

After he left, Nebula glared at the captain. “Orders?”

Captain Gideon closed the logbook he had been making notes in. “Your ears did not deceive you.”

When Nebula continued glaring, the griffon must have heard the muscles in his face creaking. He looked at Cold Snap’s friend with his trademark neutral, almost-condemning glare. “Yes. I ordered Lancet to drug Cold Snap. I had planned on finding a natural way to get him to take the dose, but you solved that issue handily.”

“Why?” Nebula growled.

“Simple. I have the authority. My word is law aboard this ship, and it is my appointed duty to hold this ship and her crew’s well-being tantamount.”

“By drugging my friend? What good did that do?” Nebula snapped.

“He slept. Did he not?”

Nebula faltered. Captain Gideon rose with his catlike grace. It was moments like this that reminded Cold Snap more than the claws and guns that their benevolent dictator of a captain was very, very dangerous.

“You may find this surprising, but Cold Snap is perhaps one of the most important members of the crew when it comes to this subject. Insuring his good health, even against his will, benefited not only himself, but the crew also.”

“Why?” Nebula asked through grit teeth.

Raising a hoof, Cold Snap forestalled further tongue-lashing. “Don’t worry about it.”

His friend whirled on him. “You can’t”-

“I mean it!”

The outburst made Nebula shrink. Snap huffed. “It’s done. It won’t happen again, but it’s done. We move forward, to whatever comes next.”

Claws padded on carpet, and Nebula turned and recoiled from a book nearly thrust in his face. “You’re spirited. You would have made a fine griffon. You’re nearly more apt to look for a fight than a griffon. Read this. One day, you will make a damn fine warmage.

“Now, if you will all excuse us, the midshipmare and I have business to attend in the wheelhouse. We are in sight of land and proceeding to the likely site of Grimlock’s map. Feel free to join us if you like. I think you might appreciate the sight of the Zebra Empire’s wilderness. Not even the Caesar has been able to tame nature.”

After that, the two officers left, leaving the two friends alone in the room. They thought each would be tripping over each other to get the story straight, give apologies, and grant forgiveness.

They did none of these.

Instead, they sat in awkward silence. Nebula couldn’t look at his friend for the shame in his eyes. He looked at Captain Gideon’s book as he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” came the expected answer.

“I’m the one who gave it to you! I asked the surgeon”-

“And the surgeon was already told to make me sleep however necessary.”

That paused Nebula’s glowering long enough for Snap to roll out of the bed and sit beside his friend. “It was just coincidence. Nothing more.”

Nebula finally looked at him, though a bit uncertainly. Snap continued. “Captain Gideon gets what he wants. It’s his way. He would have ordered me to drink it if it came to that.”

“Would you?”

Deep in thought, Cold Snap looked around the richly decorated cabin. He’d always associated the room with power. Though now that he considered it, it was Captain Gideon that made the aura of the room. With him absent, it seemed like a particularly comfortable room dedicated to someone of the empirical mind.

“Probably?” Snap ventured.

He didn’t have to see Nebula’s glare to feel it. “I wouldn’t like it. Not a bit. I’d know he was up to something. But I don’t think I could be mad at him.”

His friend snorted. “Yeah? And why?”

Snap kept studying the room as he pieced together his arguments. Nebula huffed in impatience and stalked off to the captain’s book case. He began rustling through the books and notes.

“What are you doing?” Cold Snap asked.

Nebula finally looked at him with the most unmistakable “are you kidding” glare. “Think. We planned and risked our tails to get a look inside here. Now we are just free to walk as we please.”

Snap shifted uncomfortably. His friend had a point, but that didn’t mean he liked it. “I wouldn’t describe it that way. He left us to come later, not peek through his stuff.”

“You getting cold hooves now?”

“No!” Snap bristled. “I just want us to be careful.”

Nebula abandoned the books and roved around the room poking and prodding on surfaces as if this were some act of espionage. To be fair, it kinda was.

“So why?” Nebula asked.

“Huh?”

“Why wouldn’t you be mad at him? He is responsible for a lot of our current issues.”

The answer came quickly. “I trust him. He may be demanding, harsh even, but I’ve never seen him cruel. He’s not intentionally trying to kill us.”

A snort was the only response.

Snap ignored his friend’s scoffing and kept looking around the now-familiar room. Its mystery had largely been revealed, and he either knew the purpose of the various projects scattered around the room or could make sound guesses based upon his education from the captain.

In a way, the mystery had faded and been replaced by a sense of awe for what the captain hoped to accomplish in his vision. Were he to have his way, life would be catapulted centuries forward. Sweat would be replaced with steam, the forge evolved into the foundry, and the enchantment augmented by the engine. The only things that the griffon seemed to have not taken efforts to supplant were weather manipulation and some fields of magic. No doubt he could-

“Intentionally, like that makes it sooo much better,” Nebula grumbled under his breath.

Cold Snap looked to his friend who had his head buried in the captain’s desk. He scowled. “I’m sorry. Am I the one who got us here?”

“Actually, yes. You booked passage on the Hound. She got bucked by an iron shell. Now we are here,” Nebula said without stopping his search.

“Not my fault. I couldn’t plan for that.”

“No, but you could have tried to get off this tub instead of sucking up to Captain Feathers.”

His ire stoked, Cold Snap hopped up and stomped his way to the desk. “Excuse me? I’m the one who got us somewhat liked on this ship, or would you rather us go back to bailing wet coal? Besides, where were we going to go? It’s taken us days to get anywhere and that’s steaming non-stop. I didn’t know you wanted to drown.”

Nebula didn’t respond. He simply stared into the drawer he’d been pawing through. Pages and a grimy black book hovered in his magic. His attention seemed riveted upon the simple book.

Waving it vaguely in Snap’s direction without taking his eyes off of it, he gestured his friend closer. “You recognize this book? You’ve been here more than I have.”

The captain’s script filled the sometimes smudged pages. Calculations, notes, and more sketches filled the page Nebula looked at. His journal, but not the journal he was familiar with. Nebula turned the page.

“Where did you get this?” Cold Snap asked.

Nebula’s response came slowly. “I, uh, was thumping on the desk, because, uh, it seemed like a good thing to do, and this drawer came open. I think the captain forgot to lock it.”

True enough, there was an open drawer that he had never seen open. He’d never seen the captain work with this particular book.

Snap read the first lines on the page.

“Koine. That is what it turned out to be. The trade language. It united empires. I suppose it should come as no surprise I would find it here. It was arranged in a rhyme as I expected, Though I must confess that I suspect my own skills with linguistics are not up to the task of getting a proper lyrical meter, and I took some liberty for the sake of rhyme, but I believe I was adequate in preserving its meaning.

“Within here lies treasure dear,

But must grow to something more.

From life of flesh sprouts life anew

Eden’s remnant must man restore.

Red to white, man’s blood to shed,

To open eternity’s door.

To face the place of man’s disgrace

And bloom life forevermore.”

More questions than answers breeding ever more questions. Before Snap could do so much as grumble, Nebula turned the page. Something fluttered to the carpet. Absently, Nebula picked it up with his magic as he kept skimming the captain’s writing.

“What’s that?” Snap asked, though he batted the thing out of Nebula’s magical grasp anyway.

It was flat like a page and about the same size as one in Captain Gideon’s journal, but notably thicker and stiffer. He would describe it as many pages pressed together. He flipped the off-white card over.

Snap nearly dropped it. Sepia, white, and gray blended on the card in a way Cold Snap had never seen before. The tones and shading mixed into a most realistic still image. Two figures dominated the wooded scene.

One stood on four legs with its left side facing him, though he hesitated to call it a pony despite the similarities. It was significantly larger than a pony, and the head was shaped distinctly differently. Its eyes focused upon him with a twinkle of what could only be mischief. Its...her?...lifted leg gave the impression that she was well aware of the image and posing. Her flank was covered by large panniers, hiding any cutie mark, but she held pale scars on her shoulder.

CS

C

That was nothing next to the figure sitting astride her back with reins held loosely in its grasp. Cold Snap colored at the innately lewd nature of the image, but neither of the subjects seemed to think one bit about it. The seated figure, dressed in a plain shirt and breeches and a wide-brimmed pressed hat rested a hand on a very large revolver affixed to the saddle. A slight smile and a luxurious mustache completed the image. He was at peace and would like to stay that way.

Captain Gideon’s journal thumped against the desk and jerked Snap out of his study. Nebula leaned in. “What-what is it?” he asked in stunned wonder.

“I think it’s what Man really looks like.”

Author's Note

"Potato. Potato. Potato. Potato."

The Publisher looked askance at the figure sharing his office. "Erm. Shouldn't it be 'Potato. Potatoe. Potater. Potoooooooo'?"

"That last one is just pot-8-o's."

"Wait. You can hear that?"

"What? You mean normal, British, redneck, and trolling? Of course I can."

The Publisher scratched his head. The Author was a distinctly frustrating personality. He defied all sensible conventions. He actually took extreme joy in defying them. As such, he pranced about with a peculiar irreverence for the opinions of others.

It simultaneously made him interesting and infuriatin-

"I am not."

The Publisher lost his train of thought in a cataclysmic derailment. "Err...You aren't what?"

The Author snapped shut the book he was jotting in. The Publisher couldn't see much on the cover except for a vaguely alicorn caricature and guns.

Sweet heavens. That was a lot of guns.

The Author tapped the ragged notebook against his chin. "I mean that I don't possess a 'particular irreverence to the opinions of others.' Actually, I find other's opinions to be a very interesting thing."

Those words made the Publisher's heart bound with growing joy.

"Even if they are wrong."

That day, the Publisher's heart shrunk three sizes. It would have devolved into a medical emergency had the Author not continued. "Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. It sparks innovation in materials and ideas. As they say: 'cream rises.' If one's thought is worth the time to explain it, then it will go as far as its worth will carry it."

Slightly puzzled by the Author acting far too reasonable, the Publisher held his opinion to himself. The Author was sure to go onto one of his incomprehensible tangents any second now. He couldn't help but think of the obvious hole in the Author's logic: when facts proved opinions irrelevant.

"I disagree. Facts are not immune from being twisted. Using facts in that manner opens the door for dogma, dogma enforced by the modern inquisitor. These days, the inquisitor is more likely wearing a suit or lab coat than a robe."

By now, the Publisher was starting to feel very worried. Everything was wrong about the situation. They weren't having a rant about late submissions. The Author wasn't edumacating him about some random niche of history, technology, or conspiracy. There wasn't even another one of the Author's crazy projects taking up valuable space in his office, unless you counted the Guns und Pony wasteland thingy he was marking in.

Everything was far far too predictable.

He couldn't predict what might come next.

While keeping a very close watch on the Author, the Publisher started fishing around in his desk. Paper. Sticky notes, ah! There it was.

He pulled out a pen with a long, clear tube and began to chew on the end. The Author might be clever, but not clever enough! The Publisher smiled as he took a pull on his Goon Toob, relishing the intense bite of a whiskey with a shot of whiskey.

Looking back, he began to question that decision. The Author wasn't paying any attention to the Publisher or the much belated manuscript covered in grease, freon (R134a and R407C to be precise...wait how did he know that?). Instead, he was gesticulating wildly and talking of Pyres, zebras, and what comes after.

Unsure where this came from, the Publisher took another drink. And then another,

Slowly, the room started to swirl. The Author, now somehow floating in the room, continued his rambling. "And I say, down with them! No one likes the Italians anyway! Don't even get me started on the Sicilians!"

"Is death on the line?" The Publisher asked before furrowing his brow and trying to place where that came from.

Nevermind. Shots time! By now the Author's head had been replaced by rainbow swirls and the room looked like it was being sucked into a black hole. The hole grew and grew. The Author slipped through, and in a moment, the blackness swallowed him too.

The blackness faded. The Publisher blinked drowsily only to recoil at the Author inches away from his face.

"Ah, good. You're finally awake."

"I was asleep?" the Publisher asked in confusion.

"Asleep, out of it. Potato, potatoe. Tomato, tomatoe. Murder, accident."

The Author stepped back and trotted over to something out of the Publisher's field of view.

"What a peculiar dream I just had," the Publisher mumbled.

He looked around. Reloading bench shoved into the corner, a stack of rifles in a barrel, 10 buckets of rusted ammo, wine bubbling in carboys, and...how did he even get a knee mill and welder in here?

No doubt about it, this was the new norm for his office. He looked down at his desk and saw an unfamiliar notebook, a notebook covered with a bad rendition of an alicorn and a lot of pictures of guns.

Just at that moment, the Author slammed down a tumbler full of whiskey in front of the Publisher while he sat back to chew on a pen.

"Or...maybe I'm still having it?"

___++++____
Side note: A "minim" is the old measurement of laudanum. It's equivalent to 1/480 of a US ounce or .062 milliliters. I borrowed the dosage from The Moonstone where opium tincture played a role in one character stealing a diamond while under the influence of the drug.

And yup. I have a metal mill now with a rednecked 4th axis. I can finally start making gun parts that literally no one seems to have. Or reactivate those welded and pinned drill rifles I have. Or...do something useful?

Also, I promise I'm crap at poetry.