Ice Station Zebra

Ice and cold and stamping snow from hooves. Fire crackling low in grate. Life force. Soupspoon metal side of bowl. Sucking rations from my teeth. Asleep. Beneath the covers warm, so warm. Cold of morning come too soon. Sound of insufferable optimism from bathroom. Whistling. Acrid taste of magically rehydrated eggs. Sting of cracked throat shout, and distant reply amid raindrops. Fur tugging coat as parka pulled on. Stamping hooves in snow. Wind bite against face. Sensation of nosehairs freezing in nose. Crack of ice on sensors as panel popped. Wood sucked from pencil. Notes numbly taken. Repeat: panel, pencil, paper. Plodding endlessly through pristine waste (of time). White blinding eye as far as eye could see. Black stripes sore thumb against this landscape. Hiss of boiling water back at home. Wetting hooves by pot of stinking seal. And iron: Posey’s speargun bloody by the wall. The weight of a book resting solid in hooves. By light of burning blubber remembering Equestria. Between mouthfuls of soup reiterating the finer points of political exile, questioning the remoteness of our research. Golden crest of Posey’s royal prerogative glinting in the flame. Rasping that I could hunt tomorrow, if I had such serious doubts about our duty. Cold seeping into bones despite the warmth, the warmth. Idealism shrivelled in the frost. Sour eggs fought down indefinitely. The absence of insufferable optimism. Fine, then. First stab of snow on hoof. Clear air in lungs turned ragged with the trek. Eyes stinging. Speargun heavy overshoulder. Following well-trodden cliffside to the smell of salt. Watching waste through cold eye of scope. Seal spotted. Cha-thunk. Spearing nothing but dusting of snow. Bitter taste of failure. Distant whuff, seal darting away. Sucking in cold sigh, hooves sinking snow as I gave chase. Too late. Towered over by unfamiliar mountains. Scanning the horizon as sun fell. Night settling dread in stomach. Knowing in every creak and rustle of my backup tent I should have gone back earlier. Recalling the weight of my book. Shivering beneath my furs. The shadow of snow against canvas come morning. Tracks covered, landscape strange. Failure again the next day. Following the scent of fish, not finding sea. Resisting eating snow for sustenance. Hunted by the knowledge that Posey would come looking for me. Or maybe she was busy scribbling. Taking pointless measurements for her pony princess, out here beneath the endless sky. Third day defined by hunger. Seals nowhere to be seen, despite the overwhelming smell. Tasting copper in my throat. Speargun propped beside me as I slept. I was being chased, or toyed with. Had traced pawprints on the ice. Insides clawing at themselves. Earlier vomit nothing but thin wash of stomach acid. Failed to fight back home. Failed to fight out here. Failed the first, best act of resistance anywhere: to live, continue living. Sudden smell. Fish. A fish. Flapped dead outside my tent. Fresh kill, scarlet seeping into snow. I called out to Posey, but the landscape answered silence. Tent flecked with blood as I sliced it to thin strips, gulped down too many, froze the rest. Bellyful of hunger and suspicion. Moved quickly. Blood attracted predators. Blinking sleep from eyes at dead of night, a sound. Bolt upright gun at hoof. Yes. Hoofsteps in the snow. Canvas collapsing as I lunged. Made purchase against fur—too much fur. A cry, distinctly pony. The gleam of eyes in darkness. Morning light illuminated more significantly the contours of my catch. Not pony, after all. No zebra, either. His large hooves not the polar bear bristle I had feared. Brown fur tinged white, as thick as snow. Strong smell of fish. Familiar words but spoken in a language I did not understand. Gesturing toward my strips of meat. He had been the hunter on my tail. His the only other warmth in this forsaken place, and I had bruised him. Snarled in the remnants of my tent, he wanted what everyzebra did. Hot shame flushed nerves in face. Rope burned my legs as I struggled to release him. Canvas scraped. I sank into his fur. Spear from gun split all alike. I unwound him piece by piece. Fluff of neck. Broad shoulders beneath fur. Nicked flank accidentally with tip and tripped over my apology. Last scraps of rope fell off him as he stood. Flick of ear, and disappeared into the snow. I did not expect him to return. Nose at night. Rustle of the canvas draped over entrance of my foxhole. Shivering too violently to notice. Sudden heat. Soft hooves around me, drawing the ice from my spine. Hot breath against my back. Quickening, a thrill of fear. Tremors subsiding toward sunrise. Dreamt or otherwise? Scent of fish come morning only evidence. A fish. Scales shimmering the snow outside. Bleak white as far as eye could see, no sign of any other creature. No sense of time amid this monochrome. Days slipped like ice beneath my hooves. Missing Equestrian soil. Cobblestones of Canterlot. Here this frozen wasteland growing nothing. Except. Mist of breath fogged scope, grey shape. Spotted seal. Creeping toward it carefully. Smelling fish and blubber and blood. Basin opening from top of hill: rush of noise, seals, gulls, squalling, waves. Tears freezing even as I wept them. Chewing frozen fish in makeshift shelter for the night. Stomach growling gratefully. Lean meat, but tough. One more night, perhaps another. Sleep interrupted by light dusting of snow. Standing fur fluffed, too wide for entranceway. Forced his way in. Growl of a voice from darkness. Hairs standing on end. Shag of fur as he lay down beside me. My greeting whispered over upright ears. Rustle overtaking this small space as he moved closer. Thud-thudding heart beneath thick coat. Smell of fish-oil and musk. Huff of meaty breath. Own voice echoed back to me: what or who? Vibration of his vocal cords, a thrill. Hooves sinking fur to muscles beneath. His own on my back. Electric touch. Instant tremble of my leg. Perspiring flush. A heat against my belly, growing hard. This language, I understood. One hoof on chest, other reaching down between our bodies. Snort of breath upon my ears. Stroking gently, arousal filling air. Edge of his hoof teasing toward my rear. Turning me over, opening me up. Hooves raking down. Hot tongue, saliva. Squeezing his shaft against mine and moving both together. Back arch involuntary. Warm, so warm. Coming too quick, spurting hot seed over my belly. His own still straining. Lips against lips, a little awkward, clash of teeth. Burying my face in his fur as I nipped from neck to belly. Hard cock bumping chin in darkness. Lick. Slightly sour taste. His hardness in my jaws. Flat head against flat teeth. Bathing his shaft with my tongue. Tail wound around hoof as he bucked into me, beginning to flare. Come filling my mouth, strong and sour. Starvation instinct demanding automatic swallow. Gulp. Heavy breathing in the silence. Belly gurgle. Ha, ha, ha! His laugh, shaking against me. I curled into it, chuckling too. My own joy rough, unused. Scents and sounds co-mingling in the cave. Survival. Burrowed in his fur and sleeping deep through dawn. Traipsing home the next day. The sound of his voice as he pointed. Nodding my agreement, following his lead, belly brushing snow in quiet stealth. Picking through seal-tracks invisibly. Aware of more wildlife in two hours than however many days. Foxes, white as snow. Twitching ears of rabbits buried in their holes. Seal-pups belly-up and basking. Quick, brown whip—a stoat. The distant, heavy trudge of bear. Talking over each other with familiar tongues. Lapsing into silence. The crunch of snow had stopped. He crouched; I did the same. Following tilt of head and turn of ear to valley below. Speargun scope against my eye: a pony. Posey. I beckoned him excitedly. He nodded, setting off downhill beside me. Wind stole my voice as I called out to her. Not till we were very close did she seem to hear. Turned. Relief on her face melting into something else. Wind carrying her scent toward us. Above the crisp ice I smelled fear. She yelled at me to run. Sun glinted off her speargun. Cha-thunk. Iron stung the air. Behind me, a low, broken sound. Whuff of breath escaping as he fell. Scarlet seeping into snow. A cry tore my ears, I did not know whose. My hoof holding his in seconds, clutching his wound, trying to hold the blood in. It poured out everywhere, thud-thudding sticky through his fur. Life force smoking, freezing over. Red ice. His eyes already glassy. Hoofsteps hesitated to my left. A voice, confused, defensive. I spun. Speargun scope against my eye: a pony. Cold, so cold. Cha-thunk. Iron stung the air.