On the observation of evil and the escapism of oneiromancy

Models of cities,

A white swarm of snowflakes,

Frozen blood flow

Under burst bark.

Winter walks on ice

Frozen to death like a doe.

I will walk like that too...

Snow and lethargic desires!

Zerg, «The Second Day of Winter»

— Something's not right here, — Belkin, now dressed in civilian clothes rather than his «stalker's» uniform, sat in Petrovich's office and thought. He couldn't come up with anything. — What's bothering you? — Petrovich wasn't angry, but he didn't seem very pleased. — These cases of, excuse me, bullshit... — Well, share your thoughts. — They seem deliberately random. And I wouldn't be surprised if the distribution of density or the spectrum of cases correlates with the development of the area. — With the population of residential areas adjusted for the so-called involvement coefficient. A two-dimensional spectrum. But that's all. — That's not what I mean... Can I get anonymized raw data on the infected? Without specifics? — You can get Mashka for a thigh. In your case, you can get Marinka for the fly, — Petrovich doesn't smile when he says army obscenities, — But you'll get the data. The experts will decide exactly what kind. And not just the experts who process this data, understand? — O-o-okay, — Valentin said, somewhat disappointed. The thought took shape, but he should have asked him something else. — May I ask a couple more questions? — Belkin wasn't pushing it, but his personal interest was itching. — Well? — Is there a civilian version of my service weapon? And second, — The former «dream walker» grimaced, — What am I facing for that drug addict? — You're facing tacit gratitude from the Bureau and society, — Sergei Petrovich smiled maliciously. — Who questioned you? And how? — Your people. Under the influence of drugs, — Valentin wanted to add «even worse than that guy», but held back. — So, they sent the body to intensive care, and dealt with our valiant MIA without you. Got it? — Like, I had nothing to do with it? — Like, you were on duty, and they don't need to know who you are. By the way, it's all true. — I didn't kill him, did I? — You did, but not right away. And now it all depends on the doctors, the luck of the victim, and the bureaucracy higher up than us, — Petrovich smiled again. — It's not right, but I hope that «died, so she died». There you go! They haven't caught them yet! But it would have been better if you had taken out the supplier. As for your gun... There are similar ones. Only traumatic or gas, the shell is ejected so they can find it later, the magazine is small, no replaceable magazines. — I see. What now? — Rest. Don't worry about Marinka, we don't plan on putting her in a capsule yet. — Yet? — She'll go back there again later. And don't forget about the aliases. I mean, no mention of them except among us. — I don't even know what you called her. — That's great. And don't worry about the drugs, they're gentle, and they change them so she doesn't get used to them.

***

I received the data by regular email. Not much. The date, the degree of damage from psychosis and the emergence of parasitic pseudo-consciousness, the locations of detection and neutralization. It didn't add up, but something like that was there. And I decided to remember my diploma and build a tree. I had the program. Homemade. I had to struggle with converting the source data, but I got the result. A bad result. The binary tree was built in pieces and with missing nodes. Try a quad? Unused dummy nodes appeared. Ternary? There were fewer gaps. After removing the empty nodes, I got something strange from the computer: the effective dimension of the tree was the number «e» to the first three digits. Not exactly, but I have a finite tree, so to speak... Then all kinds of shit started happening again: I had to swap the nodes around, otherwise the sequence of infections from one «pot-i-ent» to another would be broken. It wouldn't rearrange itself. Should I introduce additional hidden coefficients? The easiest way to do this was to add imaginary parts to the data. The evening was ruined, and I ran the program overnight. It crashed a couple of times due to divergent solutions or getting stuck on some bullshit I couldn't remember the name of. Like loops in graphs. By morning, I had found the second option, since the first one had been saved at three in the morning. I didn't get enough sleep, my head hurt. Both results showed the same crap with gaps in the tree nodes and leaves, but in different ways. The amplitude of the complex coefficients gave a good match with the root nodes, but then everything fell apart. And there was no root. Not one, nor the next two or three, depending on the calculation option. The negative coefficients were also annoying, I couldn't interpret them. In general, I found some funny stuff in the incomplete data and am sitting here like an idiot, rejoicing. I called Petrovich, after reading a sudden text message about the funds received. The boss said that I was advised to take a break, which is almost an order. And to send them my heresy. I looked for an older, smaller storage device, downloaded the results, the program and its raw data, links to the «lunar» and «snake» languages, and other stuff... Let them be happy. They sent a courier by car, I glanced at his ID and handed over the storage device. To be honest, I didn't understand all this fuss. The office is secretive in the best Soviet tradition, in the style of «why do citizens need telephones, they might start talking on them», and then, on the contrary, it spits on all security and sends text files with numbers via email. Although no, everything is fine. Those numbers are impossible to understand, but the processed data can be attached somewhere or thought through somehow. Draw analogies, after all. That «dreamed» conversation from the failed dive kept popping into my head. Is there a strange squirrel dog alive, which is my projection? It's easy to find out: if I can project myself, then that's it — the puppy is done for, he's barked his last. I thought that I would have to avenge him as if he were a real person. I am me. I am self-valuable, just like other intelligent beings. I am no worse than any of them, although, to be honest, I am not much better either. And I don't give a damn that it's just a copy of me in a strange world that cannot exist without our world. I perceived this copy as a living, undoubtedly intelligent, and sometimes sentient creature, like a very close relative, like myself.

***

There was no train station in Ponyville. Just a relatively small station building with two ticket counters inside. «Fucking shed», — Sandy thought, eyeing the structure with its solid wooden, thick columns-predictably cracked along their lengths at the four corners a window like a display case in a country shop, and a thatched roof. No, this definitely wasn't a station building; it was exactly what she'd thought. Better to look at something else. How the hell could any princess arrive here by train? It didn't make sense in her head. Or did they only feel like princesses because of the contrast between the arched windows and the clock tower with its massive timepiece at the Canterlot station and... this? Alright, Sandy, look at something else, or you'll start remembering that rare Stalliongrad word «shithole», the kind that's only mentioned by the will of the gods when utter insignificance is all that exists. Though, to be fair, Dodge City wasn't much better. Even the toilet was out on the street. Alrighty then, time to drop the shitter topic and see what's further along. And further on, beyond the residents' little houses, there were some other buildings visible, plus what looked like a cake propped up on supports — the town hall sticking out in the center of this typical one-and-a-half-story Equestrian town, where they first built single-story cottages and then piled on a mansard floor with a sharp gable of a two-pitched tiled roof. Like, they got rich and expanded. And the town hall, yeah. The architect seemed to have combined the openwork architecture of kirins or strange ponies from some Kauma on the edge of Equus with griffin watchtowers in the town hall. The result was a mannered tastelessness. There were a few more round buildings, from some tower stuck to an inexplicable structure to some nonsense in white-and-blue tones. At the heart of the nonsense was a round piece of crap from Dodge City, the same place where the electricians were sitting. The electrification of Ponyville, if Sandy wasn't biased, was going frankly badly. Bet they wound the town hall clock by hoisting a massive weight on a chain, three of them together. Sandy scanned the area with her gaze, looking for the possible ashes from the public library. The newspapers were still writing about it. Although... It's not that kind of town where ponies would flock to the library en masse. And for anyone to even go there at all, while Celestia's student was sitting there and her so-called friends this very student's were showing up. It's more trouble than it's worth to get involved with a nutjob. And there are six of them like that... The tree wasn't visible; it was off to the side. Sandy was afraid to look that way. Just straight-up to the point of cold sweat prickling under her fur. Winter near Equus's equator didn't mean shorter days — some places even the opposite — and snow reflected plenty of light anyway. Especially since it was morning; by the time the train pulled into Dodge City, it'd be noon outright. Wander around town? No, Sandy, enough adventuring for your flank. Half the residents here were probably out of their minds for sure. Want something to break something on you, and you're stuck in the hospital for a month with no bits? Then they'll drag you to the local sheriff or mayor. And that pony turns out to be off her rocker too, and you get another month in the clink because the mayor's got some hang-up about bad memories. Or community service with a barely healed fracture. Fuck, right in time for Winter Wrap-Up day, when everypony starts hearing music in their head that isn't there! And who knows what'll pop into the head of such a «servant of Harmony» along with the music, when you blurt out something about the end of the workday? Not even Harmony herself. You need that kind of adventure? — Hey, miss! Why don't you go see the city! The Keepers themselves live here, by the way! — Blya... Here we go! — What? — Oh, sorry, but you scared me, — Sandy said almost honestly to some pegasus on a scooter that was too small for her. By the way, it was a stupid scooter; Sandy had experience riding a similar one as a child. A rare piece of shit, just for the incompetent who can't master two wheels instead of four. Sandy knew how to ride it, if she hadn't forgotten by now. In Manehattan, something like that (with two wheels, naturally) might come in handy, but doubtful anything made them for adult ponies. «How does she drive on snow?» — Sandy thought, but then immediately realized that this chick, who for some reason preferred wheels to wings and had teenage pimples on her face, mainly drove on cleared areas, using her wings to help her on uncleared or loose areas. — I say, the Keepers live here! But you're not going to watch! Rainbow Dash herself is here... — Excuse me, are they in town? — Um... To be honest, I haven't seen them in a month, but they must be on an important mission for Princess Celestia! — So where should I go then? And why? — Well, to see Sugar Corners, the Carousel boutique... And the Castle of Friendship! — My train is leaving soon, — Sandy lied, mentally justifying herself that «soon» means different things to all. — Can't you ride a two-wheeler? — I've never tried, but I think I can do it, — Replied the pegasus with some tension in her voice. — Okay, I have to go, but if anything... — Okay. It's time for her. Pester other travelers? And she can't ride a two-wheeler, little cunt. High schooler already, judging by the pimples, gonna want to fuck soon, and still some little. And a cunt. Sandy was a little jealous of the cheeky pegasus. She had her whole life ahead of her, from graduation and her first potentially successful sexual encounter to the joy of finding a job or even her own business, whatever Discord that might be. The problems and disappointments would come later. For example, when some local pilgrimage site burned down, which provided the largest percentage of income from gullible fools. The Castle of Friendship, yeah. The earth pony Light Sand was intelligent. Educated. And she knew why castles were built. A strategic stronghold and home for the feudal lord, his family, and his band. A symbol of power, a military structure, a fortress. But by no means a symbol of friendship. Rather, a symbol and result of enmity, strife, tyranny, and outright robbery fueled by species intolerance. Everyone from unicorns and pegasi to griffins built castles. Except for earth ponies. They built fortresses. Strongholds. But they were of little help against the magic of alicorns. During her relatively short career as an archaeologist, Sandy found the foundations of fortresses that had been destroyed and razed to the ground. Some things sank into the soil, others protruded outward. Some things had been dismantled for farm buildings and fences. Equestria had diligently rid itself of the symbols of endless war and long-standing hatred. But while unicorn architecture was often simply rebuilt to give it a more «peaceful» appearance, the creations of the earth ponies were always destroyed. They were considered too military-like. The ponies would start to get upset when they saw such evidence of bloody hatred, and start thinking all sorts of things... But in the case of the earth ponies, it was justified hatred for the horned sorcerers and feathered robbers who had crossed all moral boundaries. «Last thing I need is pony intolerance», — Sandy thought. Was Doctor Chip Recipe bad, the one she’d gone to more than once? Or Strong Cloud, willing to take a risk and snag a revolver for an earth pony? He explained, told... And Rye Pound, knocking the price off bread... Probably earth ponies back then were «good» too. Cruelty, especially ritualistic, is typical of settled cultures, not just nomads. But for nomads, it often becomes everyday cruelty, the basis of existence, the foundation. Live by plunder. And of course, consider themselves above others. Some «above» in the literal sense, since they perch higher than everyone else in their ugly mountain builds; others «above» with the visibly manifested powers of the horn. Yeah, mask that old grudge however you want, and it'll seep through all the layers of lies or decades of silence. Through ancient songs, proverbs, superstitions... Manure loves to float up. Especially in the blood. To avoid running into another «tour guide» with eyes and brains all askew, Sandy ducked into the «station» building. Bags still there? Nah, safe. Not like Equestria was crawling with thieves, but those same little foals might «borrow» something's stuff for their latest desperately needed scheme, tossing or breaking things and galloping off with the stolen, already torn-to-shreds saddlebag toward their next flop in getting their cutie mark. And then they'd get found, but not punished, «they're just kids», and their parents couldn't compensate for the cost anyway. Of all the parents, some have only a single mother with a taste for stronger cider, while some have parental responsibilities thrown off by their fathers and mothers who rely on earnings for their older sister, who is also a razyebaiku, and some are completely adopted. It's easy in a city like this. «This archaeology gig'll have me guarding my saddlebag my whole life», — The pony thought. Maybe settle in Dodge City already, teach at the school, find a stallion... Changeling. «And we will take it away...» Sandy glanced around for a buffet and approached the one working counter out of two. — Excuse me, is there a pharmacy around here? — Straight ahead, then left, then where the undertaker lives... — Got it, thanks. No, go there yourself. To the undertaker. For measuring. Or are they running to the undertaker with ready-made measurements and even patterns for a «wooden coat» from somewhere in a boutique on the other side of the city? Or is the body generally burned in the Castle of Friendship or in that house with a roof in the form of a clown's cap? Are the residents erasing the memory of the deceased so that they don't grieve? Alright, Sandy, pull it together! One more bit like this, and you'll be greeting psychosis, if you aren't already. Just wait for the train. Those pills are still at home, the ones you quit on pretty solid grounds. Right call, but too soon. Now you'll start nibbling half at a time in cases like this. And you see Doc. Recipe. And everything. As for that «everything», Sandy was personally acquainted with a character who didn’t so much suffer from something like this as use the symptoms as a life philosophy. And quite successfully, if you ignored certain unpleasant moments for those around him.

***

She forced herself. She pulled out her notebook and pencil, stepped onto the platform. She sighed and headed toward the end of the platform, where the steps were. She flinched at the shadow of some pegasus mare darting diagonally through the air somewhere with a mailbag. — Excuse me, is there a spot a bit higher up to sketch the Castle of Friendship? The stopped light-salad-green solid-colored unicorn glanced at the notebook and smiled: — I could escort you to the Castle. — No, no, if just a tad closer, I'm afraid I'll miss the train. — Over there, a little higher up. Let's go. — Uh... There are roofs... — That oddly shaped building belongs to the town. You should have a good view from it, and no one will pop out yelling. Hold on, — The unicorn's horn lit up. — Not afraid of heights? — N-no, — Sandy kicked her legs in the air and found herself at the edge of the roof. — Oh, the pencil! — Are you holding on? Good, — The unicorn with some ancient string instrument as her cutie mark lifted the pencil with her hoof and tossed it up a bit clumsily, gently adjusting the trajectory with magic. Sandy grabbed the tool, nearly dropping it when the touch spoiled and sparked the green one's magic. The pencil needed sharpening, and Sandy rummaged under her clothes, pulling out an unpleasantly looking steel contraption hanging around her neck. With the edge of her hoof, hissing, she hooked and flipped out the blade. Seemed sharp enough. She blew the shavings wherever. They were already slipping. Well, now fold it up and tuck the alien tool under her sweater, sigh, and look. Don't think! Don't recall associations or those personal «translations» of hers. The top row of branch-towers. Count them, sketch roughly, sighting through the pencil sticking out of her hoof, draw circles, inscribe the symbols poking through the «building» lines. Yes, Sandy, no one built this crap, but let it be a building. Second row. Sketch, circles. Inscribe symbols. Hard to see? Write all the similar ones you know right next to it. You were just digging through the reference book recently; you shouldn't have forgotten yet. The transitions from level to level held something too. And a couple of symbols at the bottom. Should be a trio, if you gauge the size, but it's not visible. Nor the «root». — I'm done! — Slide to the edge! — The green one lit her horn again and «pushed» against Sandy with force magic. Softly, enveloping. — Are you really okay? — The unicorn looked at Sandy with concern through her golden eyes tinged with green. — Yes. It's just that magic has become, for me lately, both a symbol and the very possibility of disgusting violence, even murder with a sexual undertone, — Something in Sandy gave way, and she blurted it out sincerely, making the unexpected helper's face twist. — You know, like cooing soothingly to a pony who doesn't know spells while slowly strangling her with a spell or blocking her blood flow. Licking your lips at the agony. — And we're afraid of earth ponies, — The unicorn replied with a tight smile, barely flinching in disgust. — He'll grab you by the neck... Krak! And eternal darkness! Or spend your entire short life in a hospital bed, moving only your ears. — Are you serious? — Sandy was stunned. — How would anyone even think of that? — Well, something like that came to your mind about unicorns, — The green one replied with a note of sadness. — And such fears really do exist. Some are even afraid of tractors and locomotives. Of course! Such a scary thing in its power moves without the usual magic! And it’s controlled without magic too! — You're joking? — Not entirely. Shall I walk you to the station? The train's coming soon. — Oh! — Not so soon as to «oh». Ponyville's unhurried, until there's a reason to panic. By the way, mind showing the sketch? — Part of the work aren't shown. Especially when working in an unconventional technique. — You forgot to mention the idiots. — Sorry. Especially since you don't look like an idiot. Anyway, take a look. Not much like the original, right? — Mnemonic technique? To remember all the details later? Sorry, but it really doesn't look great, though the outline is good. I don't mean the skill, please don't take offense. Your technique is interesting, even breaks in the lines according to the lighting. I couldn't draw like that. It's just these squiggles are kinda creepy. — It's more like the apparent meaning of each tower. Old «squiggles» of the draconicuses, as you put it. Written on intuition. Then they will need to be deciphered, you can't just read them. It's a long story. — Still mnemonic technique, — The unicorn said with a smile-calm now, though a bit sly, as if jokingly catching Sandy at something. And it really wasn't readable. Here's a clear prefix name marker. Then «Iakkh» or «Yog», followed by some «Sotokh» or similar. Meanings — «gates», «key», and «space, requiring equal time», depending on context or surrounding symbols. — And here's the station, — The unicorn returned the notebook, which she'd held in front of her suspended by magic. She cast spells without showing off power or ability; all the «tricks» were routine, but the precision and speed amazed. Like smoothing the page without hoof help while holding the notebook steady. Unicorns usually compensate for flaws with raw force, but this one often barely showed understated mastery. Wonder if anyone even notices? — Thanks. I think I'll head off. — What are you afraid of? — The unicorn suddenly asked Sandy a question in her somewhat mechanical and electric voice at the same time. Sandy froze. Turned slowly. — Honestly? The green one shrugged, not slumping, but briefly lifting her front hooves off the ground. The deep purple gaiters leaning toward red on her legs contrasted with her coat color. — I'm afraid of their madness. And that this madness will be deliberately overlooked by those who are supposed to notice such things, — The earth pony made up her mind and said it, hoping that no one would start desperately calling for the Guard for expressing safe thoughts. Not harmless, but safe for now. — And I'm afraid too, The unicorn smiled sadly. — But so far, everything's been more or less okay. So far. I hope I manage to raise the alarm in time. Sandy looked at the green one. Strange behavior and manners. Like she's bisexual. Like, she might go for her girlfriend, but she'd prefer a stallion. Especially if at the same time as her girlfriend. Whatever, her choice and her problems. — Let's not introduce ourselves, okay? — You're being overly cautious. Lots of folks here think the Six are a bit off... And no one's been arrested yet. Especially since, — The green horned pony lowered her voice, — Specimens wander around here that I'm amazed they let out of the psych ward. But have it your way. Safe travels! — And all the best to you. Sorry if I said anything. The green pony laughed a velvet yet somewhat mechanical laugh and trotted off on her business.

***

— All right, fillies, — The sergeant smirked, but the troops consisting mostly of stallions didn't bite at the fossilized jab. — I've got new toys for you! Mild interest showed on their mugs, breaking through the regulation «stone-faced» expressions. Nothing more. Lieutenants worked with the sergeants, but now it was the privates' turn to gawk at these things. Well, time to start. Sergeant Burned Toast looked at the items again, counting them. — Duty officer! — Yes, sir! — Hand out the training aids! — Yes, sir! Will be don... — Get a move on! One for every pair of foreheads, — Toast watched to ensure every pony received a green tube with a squiggly attachment, then continued his sermon. — Before you lot, who can't tell your forelegs from your hind legs, are led out to the shooting range, you are going to learn to load and unload these things with your eyes closed and using your back hooves, if not your dicks! What are those smirks?! And you, Wild Flower, since you're a mare, you'll do it with your horn, with the exception of seating the cartridge and priming! Understood?! I can't hear you! — Yes, sir! Understood, sir! — Flower jumped up and froze at attention. — Sit. Now, those green doohickeys you're afraid to touch like a schoolmare touching a coltfriend's cock are hoof-bombs of a new design. Training versions. I'm clarifying for those from the deepest backwaters of Equestria: training bombs do not contain gunpowder or whatever else and cannot explode. The only thing that can happen to you is extra duty and additional drill training, with which I will haze you until you drop if you break even one of these things for me. And be glad that's the case. Oh, questions already? Well? — Private Steel Plow, sir! — A rust-colored earth pony with a mane and tail the color of old gray wood jumped up. — How do the new bombs differ from the old ones, aside from the design? — No real difference. The whole trick is to toss the thing at the enemy and not catch any shrapnel yourself. But! — The sergeant, having already seated the questioner with a gesture, looked over the ponies sitting on the pairs of pushed-together chairs with fold-out tables. — For once, the Sisters kicked the flanks of the industrialists and their ass-kissing hangers-on who dream up our toys, and these ponies made a bomb where you don't have to screw around with matches or a lighter, you don't have to stare in surprise at a torn or damp pull-string fuse; you just have to prime it and throw it. At the same time, the thing is fairly inert to magic, and its mechanism doesn't resemble an alarm clock with a hundred tiny parts. The gist is this: right into this... What hole? That's you're have a hole! And this is an aperture! So, into the aperture, you place a cartridge chambered for a pegasus rifle — a blank one, like a heartthrob stallion caught by desperate mares. In an extreme case, you can shove a live one in there, but the manufacturer guarantees nothing then; I'll tell you about that later. Most likely, the cartridge will already be inserted; in your training case, it's just a plugged casing filled with sand. So, you just take the bomb like that, holding the bracket with your hoof. Then you unbend the wire whiskers and pull the pin out by the ring. Without releasing the bracket, if you don't want to be buried in two pieces! That's it, now you just swing and throw this fool to the enemy. As soon as the bomb flies out of the hoof, the bracket will come off under the action of a spring. Here the sergeant paused. He took his copy with the prongs already bent back, pulled out the ring, and showed how the clip fell off the bomb with a clink and a click. He picked up the clip, hooked it back on, pulling back the striker pin, and again showed how the clip unclipped if loosened grip. — It's heavy, — Someone muttered barely audibly. — Knock it off! — Sergeant Toast placed his hoof bomb on the teacher's desk. — As for the weight, I'll say this: this thing is a convenient length, so you can throw it pretty far, and it's not bad for hitting someone over the head either. And remember that this pipe is loaded with pretty strong explosives. Not gunpowder, but not dynamite either. It's afraid of contact with iron... Or rather, you should be afraid of it. So, when you fire this piece of pipe from the huff, the cartridge will ignite the fuse, and you'll have four to five seconds to hide your stupid head or ass, whichever is more important, in cover! What's up? Got a question? — Private Dusty Curl! Sir, is the Legion switching to the new bombs? — Most likely. Field trials will decide everything. And don't flatter yourselves, because if Griffonstone, Heilberg, and whoever else don't have something like this yet, Stalliongrad surely has something similar already, even if it's worse. What? — Sir, but wasn't Stalliongrad defeated by the Princesses? Besides, they don't even have a state, like the newspapers wrote. — Private Curl! Believe the newspapers less. Consider that an order. And, since you're a pegasus, ask one of your own about the non-regulation weapons of the border guard. Instead of the regulation revolving carbine. I think there won't be any more questions like that, — Burned Toast turned to Flower. — What do you have? No introduction. — Sir, why are we at enmity with Stalliongrad at all? Territorially, Canterlot and Graymorn have nothing to divide! — It's a political matter, and therefore complicated... Who should rule all ponies? — The Princesses, sir! — All ponies jumped up and barked. — Those ponies founded their own state. And Her Highness Princess Celestia decided that this state might represent a threat to Equestria. Yes, Flower? — Sir, might or already does? — Ask the Princesses... And when you're done doing time in the stockade, come back and tell us. I will say that now the people of Stallongrad are very angry at Celestia. And you would all be angry if someone, introducing themselves as a friend, deceived you, destroyed your home, sold off the surviving property, and turned your relatives against you with vile gossip and slander. But Celestia had no choice. We cannot live the way they live in Stalliongrad, and those ponies cannot or will not live our way. — And what now, sir? — A scrawny fox-colored earth pony shouted out first, then jumped up and corrected himself. — Private Misty Fox, sir! The sergeant frowned but nodded, allowing the question. — So what now, sir? War? — If necessary, we go to war. We are the Legion; that's what they keep us for. But I suppose the Princesses have enough political skill and cunning to marinate this matter so that allponies forget this indecent story due to the statute of limitations. There's no need to bother the Ursa near her lair. Burned Toast was lying. He was also an earth pony and knew perfectly well that no one would forget anything for another thousand years. Just as earth ponies had not forgotten unicorns and pegasi. Just as they had not forgotten all the festrals. And in a thousand years, it would be as if they had never had to deal with anything insurmountable or incomprehensible. News from Stalliongrad came only in the unicorns' arrogant interpretation, but a certain hysteria in the presentation hinted at... What? That it was better not to go there?

***

— So, what are we doing here? — We're going to try and stock up on some fuel, — Chrysalis was looking toward the South Central Peak. The fog was in the way. A strange, clammy, spring-like fog, even though officially it was winter. Belkin thought that in the northern hemisphere of the planet, if added up the «winter» axial tilt and the position on the orbital ellipse, there should be heavy frosts right now. Just absolute arctic hell-freezes. Plus, the daylight hours were short. No amount of magic would be enough. Actually, the lack of major settlements in the north of the continent sort of hinted at this, if the map was to be believed. Everything hugged the sides, where the sea was. The Crystal Empire, admittedly, bucked the trend somehow, but that whole «empire» was the size of a metropolis. Belkin had a hard time imagining what kind of «Crystal Heart» brand climate control system they had there, but screw it... The heating issues of this rattle-trap were far more important. — Are we going to keep driving on wood? I thought that oily sludge was enough. — Valentin, we are driving off-road and using an engine that is only about three times better than a steam locomotive's. And I was told the difference should reach five-fold values, theoretically. — Theories work with ideal objects. They can't do it any other way, — The squirrel dog grinned. He was examining the sand-crawler. His assumption about the six wheels hadn't just been justified; it had been over-justified. Back in Klugetown. There were eight massive wheels. For normal steering, the second pair should turn along with the first, like on a BTR, but the unknown hoof constructors had decided otherwise, clearly being in the process of designing while under of «substances». — All the wheels drive? — Belkin asked. — No, — Chrysalis glanced around nervously from time to time. — Six out of eight. On a good road, only the rear axles are used at all. — Why is that? Do you guys not know about front-wheel drive? — We know. But it's complicated for now. Issues with metal strength. Therefore, the first pair is only for steering. The second pair is auxiliary, powered by an electric motor. The rear four wheels are driven by the engine, just like the generator. If you need details, ask the mechanics. Over there, Small Engine will tell you everything. The changeling in question was just preparing the hopper to receive fuel. — Alright. You know, I feel kind of awkward standing here while... — I told you! Not one step away from me! — Chrysalis immediately snapped. Belkin didn't understand what could scare an alicorn so much. Okay, a forest. Okay, somewhat sickly and gloomy one. Not even a forest, but a sparse woodland. Rare, thick trunks with whip-like branches stuck into the foggy background. Twisted leaves rustled. Some continued to fall, rustling down below. The firebox of the sand-crawler sputtered. Occasionally, something gurgled oilily between the axles of the rear wheels. The sand-crawler itself, shining its upper headlights straight ahead and its lower ones obliquely, resembled a grotesque tractor-trailer. So, a bogie with two axles, over which the vehicle body itself hung. It leaned over, so to speak. Designers drew something similar on the internet when the idea to depict an unmanned trailer came into their drug-damaged minds. Or as if the cab of such a truck had been sawed off and attached to the trailer itself. A dubious decision, but theoretically, it allowed one to steer sideways out of a bad spot. Behind the cab, the deck lowered, as if a bridge had once fallen onto the «trailer». And a steamboat funnel too, though not a tall one. — Wasn't three axles enough? — The engine wouldn't fit. Or the crew. And we didn't want to increase the distance between adjacent axles. Belkin, we have motors that are smaller in size and more powerful at the same time, but they either have a steam boiler rotating at decent RPMs or run exclusively on liquid fuel. You understand yourself, for a desert ship, that's not an option. And here, almost any fuel works... Plus, there's not too little space. A sleeping cell is somehow better than a mattress in the bed of a truck. — You have a cabin. — And so does the captain. Or do you suggest I prop my feet against the wall of a cell? Belkin didn't pursue the topic. Is an alicorn supposed to have some privileges from the ponies' point of view? Let her have them. Still, the sand-crawler was far from a sailing ship from the times of Captain Flint, where the whole stern was the captain's «mansion» while sailors slept in hammocks and shat overboard. But he noted to himself that the Stalliongrad ponies knew of other engines. Internal combustion? Most likely. Not many options. Carburetor, diesel... Pre-chamber diesel? Or a free-piston gas generator engine? That one is cool, but the size and necessary «accessories» point directly to the desired size of the machinery. A small-displacement ship or a locomotive. It would work for a sand-crawler too, but you need gasoline, even if low quality. Belkin didn't even consider steam engines. Maybe in vain. These crazy ponies were capable of shoving a rotating boiler into an airplane. — Chrysalis? — Yes? — You're not doing magic on the weather here? — Why? — Something with the magic. Or not? — Belkin shivered and shook his hands out. — Are you an expert in that too? — Chrysalis lit up her horn. — Holy shit! Like in Badlands or something? — Gather everyone and let's bail! We'll gather firewood later. Chris, faster! Please! — Belkin only knew rumors and conjectures about the magical quirks in the Badlands, even though he had taken a good walk there, but he had learned to trust his gut feeling. You learn to in this Ponyland... The Queen didn't start acting up. She screamed something high-pitched and drawn-out, with ultrasound vibrating in the squirrel dog's ears, and her horn shone and pulsed. By the time the dissatisfied changelings ran and flew up, Valentine saw something in the distance, where the fog from the diluted milk spilled at dusk turned into a gray smear. Something huge moved unnaturally with a few clumsy jumps. Silently. Through the trees, without disturbing the branches and almost without dropping leaves. It fluttered silently and almost invisibly with offshoots at a height not even of trees, but of low clouds, as Valentine thought in fear. Something like an unnaturally fast-moving and splitting column of warm air. Transparent whips and jointless, deforming pillars of legs or roots. Impossible to see clearly. — What the hell is that? Did you see? — Belkin wouldn't have remembered what language that was spoken in even under hypnosis. — I don't know and I don't want to know! On board, quickly! — Chrys jumped away from the squirrel dog a couple of pony-lengths and, with strong, rapid wingbeats, threw herself onto the deck. There was a hatch there in the form of a slanted door, as Valentine knew from nightly sit-ins with Chrys. Belkin let a changeling pass to the ladder, who was helping himself with dragonfly-like wing flaps, and looked around. He grabbed the handrails. — Valentine! — Chrys somehow realized that Belkin wasn't on board yet, even though it wasn't visible from the deck. By the position in space of the magic-absorbing spot? — Inside! — Shouted the squirrel dog already from the door on the side of the sand-crawler. With a clang, the shutters of the ports for receiving fuel and other cargo closed. Inside, a hybrid of a buzzer and a school bell rang briefly, and a curt, unintelligible command came from the speakers. The side door slammed its seal behind the last changeling, the locks ground shut. Someone stomped down the corridor. The unoccupied shape-shifters settled into sleeping cells, their insect eyes glittering warily in the dim light of the lamps. The lighting flickered and became barely sufficient to distinguish at least something around. The sand-crawler jerked slightly, the ground creaked under the wheels. The firebox roared, intolerably slowly accelerating the engine. Chrysalis intercepted Belkin in the corridor on the way to the bridge. — Valentine! — Chrys hissed angrily, rearing up on her hind legs and pinning the squirrel dog to the wall. — If I say get on board, you get on! Understood? Without gallant bowing and scraping and the rest! Changelings have wings and have trained to evacuate quickly! Especially since the machine has more than one door! — Okay. What about you? — I am the Queen. And the commander of the expedition. — The black horned-winged mare stopped leaning on Belkin, which was not difficult with her height, because she was a head and a half taller when standing on her hind legs, and just hugged him to her for a second. — Alright, let's go to the bridge. So much for gathering wood, fuck your princesses...

***

— Where did you put the rifles, anyway? — They're on their way to Canterlot. I'll turn them over to the Guard or your bloodsuckers, — Celestia had claimed a low, shapeless little sofa with purple stripes. The fireplace crackled. — Don't call them that, alright? — Luna looked at her sister reproachfully. — Well, we are alone, aren't we? — Celestia smiled thinly. — Imagine if I started calling the Guard your harem... Okay, don't try to come up with a witty retort from your point of view. By the way, do your little white ones confirm the destruction of the potion? — Yes, that poppy garbage was burned right there on the spot. I was told that someone sniffed it. — Tia, — The Night Princess wasn't in the mood to discuss stoned guards, — This is serious. Someone intends to poison ponies for their own money! — Tobacco and hard cider, — Celestia looked out the window at the lights of evening Canterlot, — Are poison, too. And the way earth ponies pray to you about it, I'm frankly horrified! You could fuel a lamp with that stuff! And sterilize an injection site! — Have you been vaccinated recently? From a seasonal cold? Or from nerves? The hairpin was wasted. Luna sighed and explained: — Tia, these aren't the kind of things where a destructive addiction is prevented by moderation. This isn't even the traditional amusement of zebras or rich stallions from Saddle Arabia rubbing something on their gums or bubbling smoke for a big holiday. This is dangerous. — I agree with you, — The Solar Princess assumed a meek appearance. Just for show. — That means... — Later. First, we investigate the deaths of those ponies. That is much more serious. — It may be too late. We'll waste time searching for obvious killers and even, forgive me, suddenly useful ones, while the merchants of slow death cover their tracks. — Luna! How could you... Luna looked wearily at her sister. Was she overacting? Was she seriously confused about priorities? An inner voice quietly told Luna not to dig her hooves in; Celestia couldn't be out-stubborned. Let her make a mistake and get a mouthful of manure. Besides, Selka herself faced nothing worse than shame. It would be the subjects who paid the price. As always. But such is the world. — Mistress! Your Highness! — Another festral, accompanied by the Night Guard, entered carrying a bundle. It was a long object wrapped in canvas, with a rope tied at both ends so that it could be hung around one's neck. — What is this? — Celestia nodded, either at the bundle or the newcomer's half-bow. — We surmise 'tis a specimen, delivered with haste from the Bastion! — Lunka was attacked by the high-flown ancient dialect again. — Remove the coverings and reveal unto Our gaze that which thou hast brought! The festral walked somewhat nervously to the small table, deftly untied the rope, and unwound the fabric. The Guard tensed. Luna lit her horn again, and the magical lamps, barely dispelling the twilight, burned brighter. — Is this the weapon, cunningly crafted in Stalliongrad? — No, Mistress... — Explain, — Celestia demanded with cold surprise. The batpony paused for a tiny moment, just long enough to meet Luna's eyes. — In the matter currently being resolved by Us, there are no secrets from Our sister! — This isn't that rifle, Your Highnesses. It's made to look similar, but it's a copy. In some ways, it's even better, but the improvements are insignificant and... not where they need to be. — We are listening, — The Solar Princess encouraged. The Princesses approached the table where the rifle lay on the spread-out burlap. — The chamfers in the chambers are smooth and indistinct, — The festral, nervous and twitching due to the near-zero distance to the Princesses, lifted the flat, heavy iron magazine with a hoof. — You can see they polished and smoothed it. Stalliongradns, however, drill them out in a block or a casting without finish machining; it's good enough for them. The teeth here were also finished by hoofs after cutting; they are even and somewhat rounded, whereas the Stalliongrad magazine has sharp edges and non-magical hardening. The rifle stock is wood, not laminated veneer impregnated with who-knows-what. There's no reinforcing rod, the pusher spring isn't conical, there's a wedge instead of a tension roller, the buttstock is simpler and non-adjustable... — Enough, — Luna stopped the festral. — We have understood. However, answer Us: why did We not receive a report addressed to Us stating that near the very lands of the griffins, the borders of Our domains along the iron road are subjected to evil attacks? — R-report? Attacks? Does the Mistress deign to ask about the griffin gangs? — On nervous grounds, the festral had «caught» the infection of Old Equestrian literary flourishes from Luna. — I'm talking about Stalliongrad! — Luna switched to modern speech. — Where did you get their rifles? Are they trophies? Or did their border guards come themselves and offer to trade for a flask of cider? — We buy them... — What? — Celestia couldn't believe it. — They're selling their own weapons and ammunition? Luna, you seemed to feel sorry for them? These ones... — This is a rifle for border residents, Your Highness. Not military. Or rather, not only military. The griffins were still causing trouble back in my service days... And the Bugbear lands are nearby... It is the pass between the Himalay-hay Mountains and the Northern Mountains, after all... — Where did you get the rifles? — Luna repeated. — A patrol can deviate from the route if necessary, — The festral swallowed nervously. — If we step just a tiny bit into Stalliongrad territory, they don't get particularly nervous. And we can make an arrangement for them to bring rifles next time. It's a bit pricey, but it's worth it. The festral kept silent about the fact that they only sold one rifle per pony. And that you had to give your name, which they wrote down in a notebook after checking to make sure it wasn't already there. You could give a fake name, but it was better not to try. — And your own weapons? — Celestia asked quietly. — Under lock and key with a guard, in the designated place, Your Highness! We're responsible for them! It's just... this is more convenient in the forest... And easier to reload... The accuracy is a bit worse than ours, true, but in the forest... — You are dismissed. Leave the rifle, — Luna said dryly. Celestia didn't know how to feel about all this. — Next thing you know they'll allow you to own a cannon, — Luna shook her head, — If you live on the border. The festral left, and the Night Guard patrol quietly withdrew behind him. Luna stared pointlessly at the closed door leaf for some time. — Shall we summarize? — Luna's voice was cold, more suited to Nightmare Moon. — Isn’t it a bit early? — Celestia returned to the sofa. — We will summarize the interim results... So, a letter is delivered to you by dirigible. Your dirigible, note. Allegedly from Twilight Sparkle. Did you not teach her the dragon mail spell? — She hasn't practiced enough yet. Be lenient with the young alicorn. — Fine. In the letter, written in handwriting that is certainly not Twilight's, unknown ponies explained methods for both the preparation and use of the poppy potion. With illustrations. Not that they possess artistic value, but they are very intelligible and almost talented. And they included a sample. Correct? — That is all correct. It... — That isn't all. The potion and rifles were found at the scene of the murder. In the Bastion. Correct? — Yes, correct! But no objects are more important than the lives of my ponies! And if someone... — Tia, calm down and listen to me. I don't know what those ponies, the zebra, and whoever else failed to share, but I clearly understand that this egregious incident didn't just happen in some desert. It happened at an illegal market! — You think the Bastion was used as a place for trade? A strange shop... — I mean the market in general. I mean, not in general, but a system of weapons and potion trading established by someone! Are you sure they aren't trading slaves there too? Your little ponies? — Luna noticed her sister shudder, but attributed it to fright. — I don't know who these currently unknown well-wishers are who send you such letters, but they are not only involved in criminal activity, they are also hinting at your incompetence as a Princess. — Then why send them, if they know they will be hunted? — To eliminate competitors with your hooves? To provoke? To shake the ponies' faith in the immutability and naturalness of alicorn rule? To sow doubt in your soul? Let's agree on this: since I do not encroach on your share of power and politics, as I already promised you, you do not get involved in this, — Luna tossed her head toward the table where an envelope lay next to the rifle, — More than necessary and without my advice. — It is hard for me to get used to, — Celestia whispered. — Get used to it. And one more thing. If you don't see something, it doesn't mean it isn't there at all. I will give orders to my own... And I'll think about how to expose the scoundrels through dreams. But I must tell you that criminal ponies have remarkably calm and healthy sleep, albeit very light. Contrary to popular belief, they don't dream of their victims' eyes. — Luna! — I know what I'm talking about. Go to sleep, it's late, — Luna, who had been moving chaotically around the small living room this whole time, walked up to Celestia and kissed her sister. The embers glowed in the fireplace, the last tongues of flame casting orange and blue reflections on the purple furnishings of the room. Because of the high ceilings, the multitude of magical lamps didn't create a cluttered effect. Plus, the minimalism in the amount of furniture. With magic and servants, there is no sense in placing everything within walking distance. And while this is convenient for an alicorn or a unicorn, pegasi and earth ponies who try to copy the interior design solution would manifest a certain irritation that they aren't exactly comfortable. The irritation would turn into a suspicion that they are inferior. They can't live like the masters. And they must know their place. Did Celestia know about this? She might have. But could she have thought about it? No. Not yet, or no longer. Luna, who had quite recently been rushing about the uniformly diverse surface of the moon as an almost disembodied spirit, was beginning to realize something of the sort. When there is vast space and loneliness. Space from which there is no exit. And emptiness scares you more than someone's possible presence. Emptiness itself becomes a presence. It is shameful to say, but neither Princess had been to the Far North, nor the Everfree Forest. They, who dared if not to call themselves goddesses, then not to object when others called them so, did not know their own world. What was there to say about other worlds? In a thousand years, Luna hadn't explored even a tenth of Equus's satellite. Although in her state, she didn't need to think about air, food, or water. She was the moon. But... The sudden thought of the abyss of wasted time almost frightened Luna. The Night Princess sat by the window. The window sills were low; just pull the pillow Tia likes to snuggle with over via telekinesis, sit on it, and put your forelegs on the sill. A tiny revenge against the stuck-up snob who believes herself infallible and all-knowing. Canterlot shimmered. The capital lacked the radiance and gaudy glitter of nocturnal Las Pegasus or Manehattan. It didn't have the steady glow of Fillydelphia and Baltimare. Nor the scattering of dim lights of Vanhoover surrounding a lit-up business center. The capital shimmered; Canterlot Palace shone, illuminated by magical (and only magical!) lamps. The capital beckoned with secrets of power, riddles of ancient unicorn lineages, and hinted at pleasures. Especially forbidden ones.

***

— Mistress... — Don't get up. We have met. And why do you call me that? Did you swear an oath to me? — Luna looked at the festral. The festral looked at Princess Luna with resignation and a barely perceptible note of disdain. It was strange. Just a sort of calm of the condemned. — No, Your Highness, I did not. But the night ponies have acknowledged you as their Mistress. I should not have gone against the grain. — But you are not in the Guard. And you never were, — Luna's eyes swept over the small room. The olive tones of the walls transitioned into the purple of the ceiling. Some unknown wise guy, already kicked far out of the palace, had tried to depict a «Quiet Evening» style, but it resulted in a nauseating daub. And the ornate grate on the window. A cell, as it is. It seems that before Luna's return, this kennel was used to stack up aristocrats who had gotten sloshed at some reception. With that wall color and a window on the eastern side, so the morning sun would peek in on the hungover — that was cruel. — I served in the Border Guard, Your Highness. And indirectly gave an oath to your sister. — Cut the «Highness». Better to call me Mistress. It is more accurate. — Yes, Mistress. Especially since you hold power over the festrals, and their death is in your hoof and by your word. — Life and death, you meant to say? Yes, there are such words in the oath. — I said exactly what I wanted to, Mistress. A ruler can execute subjects by court order or at the scene of a crime. A Mistress executes slaves and servants whenever she wants. But that is all. — But that is all? Aren't you speaking a bit too freely?! — Have many been revived, Mistress? Not killed, but the opposite? Returned from non-existence? And why do slaves need an oath? — Why such talk, leading to the Hayseed Swamps, if not to Tartarus? Or have you not been fed, and you awaited my visit hungry and therefore angry? But there are plates on the table... — What is Tartarus to one whom they have decided to expend? And the last supper was not bad, Mistress... You know, it is a little hurtful that someone lives for a very long time, for millennia, while someone else is not allowed to live out even their incomplete century. And who disallows it? Those who live long. And, of course, only due to national security and political questions. Nothing personal. Although, questions of power for alicorns are always personal. — Last... What? — Luna thought for a second and flew into a rage. — How dare you! Did you decide that the Night Guard detained you in Our chambers merely so that We might amuse Ourselves with the murder of an innocent?! And build the politics of Equestria upon this?! Upon the blood of those who remained loyal and waited all these centuries?! Fall to your knees, unworthy one, and beg forgiveness for your words and thoughts! The festral approached and bowed. — I ask you to forgive me... Mistress, are you crying? — The batpony did not know what to do. — Am I permitted to commit an impermissible act, one insulting to a princess's honor? Luna nodded. The festral sat down, carefully pulled Luna close to himself, and exhaled into her ethereal mane: — Cry, Mistress. No one will know. — They all... They are all just afraid. They fear and they hate. A thousand years! No one is left who was a witness to my fall! But the fairy tales, the legends... It is as if someone helped the ponies choose an image of age-old evil! — Tears poured in a stream, Luna sobbed, crumpling the ends of her words. — For what? Was there no Tirek, ready to kill everyone for crumbs of magic? Was there no possessed madman Sombra? Did ponies not slaughter one another for five hundred years? And the griffins? And the witrangs with their hatred of outsiders? But no! The mare from the moon! Nightmare Moon! And now you too! Festral! — Festral. But shouldn't one who wears a crown act with expediency? — I already once sacrificed everything I had to expediency... Even the very understanding of expediency. And do you know what the funniest part is? — Tell me, Mistress. And there is water in the pitcher. — The funny thing is that my sister also acted with expediency. Then. And for the whole thousand years. And even my return was expediently met by the Elements. To finish me off. Do they not work in the hooves of our expedient princess? We shall find executors! And such expediency is in everything, the narrow-minded expediency of a reason frozen in time. Nightmare left, and I stared in horror at everything around me, recognizing neither places nor faces, and then... Then I became terrified by the realization that in a thousand years, almost nothing has changed. Just a different version of that old Equestria, only there is less blood, and they wash it away faster. To defeat an enemy turned out to be more convenient economically, not by force of arms. And it is most convenient not to destroy, but to bleed dry, to deprive of strength, to profit from this and watch as the enemy, barely making ends meet, vainly tries to restore their former power but acquires only new debts. Instead of blood, necessary words now pour into Celestia's ears, wine and punch at receptions, and cash flows along invisible channels dug by certain ponies who recklessly believe they hold by the tail not only Our sister but fate itself. By the way, were you not served light wine? — I refused, Mistress. I wanted to meet death with a sober head. I suspected it was foolish... — Immensely. But why? What gave you that idea? And, by the way, introduce yourself. — Flying Hedgehog, Mistress. — What? A hedgehog? — Luna even pulled back a little, sniffing. — Exactly. Apparently, my parents were touched by how a newborn festral snuffles, puffs up, and flaps his little wings... Mistress, will you permit an unpleasant question? — We permit offensive speech. — How would you kill me if I had actually done something terrible? — First, there would be a conversation. A bad conversation. With forbidden magic. Then, based on the result. An innocent, I would have scolded so he'd think next time, and sent for treatment. A possessed murderer, I suppose, I would have burned with magic on the spot. A traitor, a crazy unicorn experimenter, or a dealer who robbed all of Equestria would have thundered into Tartarus for the rest of his life. A presumptuous military stallion would have received a revolver with one cartridge and guarantees that Our wrath would not touch his family. Your case, by the way. But did you do something that bad? — I shouldn't have mentioned that the Border Guard runs around the forest with the future enemy's guns. I don't know myself how it happened... — Flying, you were alone with two interested alicorns. One way or another, you would have been screwed. That is a given. A law of nature. And about the enemy guns... Well, run around for now, since we somehow ended up with similar ones at the Bastion on the other end of Equestria. Indeed... I will try to fix what my sister has wrought, provided it isn't too late. Trust in the skill of your Mistress, to whom you did not swear an oath. Luna stopped crying completely and, lifting the pitcher with magic, grasped it with the hooves of her forelegs and drank, squatting on her hind legs for balance. Then she went and sat on the bed where Flying Hedgehog had quite recently waited for his fate in vain. — Sit on the chair. And talk. — About what, Mistress? — I am interested in what the guards on the other side are armed with. — The griffins? Or the Stalliongradns? — Everyone. — With the griffins, it's complicated. Some warriors carry revolver rifles. Sometimes of Equestrian manufacture. But more often their own. Also revolvers. Gangs are armed with whatever comes to hand. — Long-range rifles? — trying not to change her expression, Luna clarified. — No, those are Crown troops. You are asking about the «Alicorn's Death», Mistress? — It scares me that Stalliongrad might acquire such things. — Those ones could. But I would be wary of something completely nasty and effective at the same time. So nasty that a normal pony wouldn't even dream it up, — Flying Hedgehog had clearly seen something of the sort. — You said that their self-cocking rifles are for sale. — Yes. Those who go to negotiations, or the vanguard when patrolling the border... Most often they have exactly that. Their own, and another one or two for sale. But those following them are armed differently. — And how? — They are usually far away, even a spyglass doesn't help much... The weapon is wrapped in cloth colored to match the forest or snow. The barrel is somewhat longer, there is no transverse clip... Underneath is some voluminous drum, which is strange. — Strange? — The Mistress knows that experiments were conducted in Equestria with weapons holding many cartridges. And the result was the grapeshot gun. — Which jams after a dozen or two shots, — Luna exaggerated, but the problem existed. — The cartridge for Legion rifles also has a paper sleeve, albeit conical, and reinforced with a bronze or brass tube. So it freezes when serving. It is necessary to switch to entirely metal casings, but, apparently, it is too expensive to rebuild production. — About this, noble industrialists shall yet answer before Us! Too expensive? Not more expensive than their fat croups, by which they shall be seized and thrown into quarries where a pickaxe and wheelbarrow await them, should We perceive evil intent! But let us return to the guns. — The Stalliongradns somehow solved the issue with feeding cartridges. And their cartridges are the same. They fit Legion rifles. The only difference is that they don't cut a tube, but wind a thin metal strip. I saw it and even held it in my hooves. — What could be inside that little drum? — A fabric belt? Our pegasi found casings, for instance, where they shot a rabid mole cricket. Not the kind that digs in garden beds... — We know this creature, most hideous in appearance! — The Night Princess rejected unnecessary explanations, causing the festral to misunderstand exactly which creature the Mistress was acquainted with. — So, Mistress, the cartridge, as I dare to assume, is extracted from a fabric belt, and the belt itself coils inside the drum. — Your words are reasonable! But I would not be surprised if their weapon is arranged more simply and stupidly! — Easily, Mistress! And they also use small guns chambered for our «.40», like the sample. But I can't tell you anything about them. It was far away. — I am interested in how nameless guns got into Equestria. Could it be contraband from Stalliongrad? Have you heard of such things? — All our contraband is tea and tobacco. Sometimes at stations, they arrest batches of small volatile crystals. Also, sometimes we manage to trade tea for that rubbish they call «voditchka». An alcohol solution in water, roughly half and half. You can't drink it, so we use it for medics or whatever. And after clashes with griffins, we let a young guard take a sip. Dilute it with water a tiny bit and go! Otherwise, it's not long before going mad. They know no pity, and their lords and counts then ruffle their feathers at negotiations and start broadcasting about vile insinuations! Like we made it all up. Forgive me, Mistress, but I have spoken too much again. Is it possible for the Border Guard to avoid punishment? — Your transgressions are small and do not harm the cause, therefore I shall not notice them. But beware of going too far! And remember that We shall not tolerate the drinking of solutions of wine spirits, except those obtained by double distillation or by freezing, at the appointed time and to Our glory without fail! — Yes, Mistress! — The festral jumped up from the chair and bowed. — And keep silent that I cried into your mane! That you touched the Princess herself, I permit you to tell. They won't believe it anyway, — Luna said the last part with a slight sadness, rising from the bed. — So, the guns aren't from Stalliongrad? — I don't know, Mistress. It could be from there. Or made here. We should compare the steel on our weapons and on these samples with magic. If we're lucky, the unicorns might say something... But large batches of contraband are easier to transport by sea. Or by railway, — Flying Hedgehog, who had just stood up and barely sat back down, hurriedly stood up again. — Indeed... Tia has let some matters slide. Don't blab about that either! That's all, rest. In the morning, you will receive a train ticket at the expense of the Diarchy, if needed. — I thank you, Mistress! At the door, the Princess, ready to leave, suddenly stopped. She flicked her tail, leaving a trail of magic sparks in the air. Without turning, she asked: — Do you have a little gun yourself? — Hidden at home, Mistress. Do you order me to surrender it? — No. Keep it. Luna left. She told the Night Guard to escort the «prisoner» if needed, but not to prevent him from leaving. And no outsiders, right down to the staff. She walked through the quiet corridors. She would need to look into the Dream Realm, to seek answers to the accumulated questions. And also this bad sensation of stretched magic. Magical flows permeate Equus imperceptibly to simple ponies anyway, few feel them, with the exception of alicorns, but now the sensation arises more and more often that somewhere there is a strange axis onto which magic is being wound. More and more, and stronger and stronger. At this rate, soon the very fabric of magic will begin to tear, unraveling by the threads... And if one casts some strong sorcery in the middle of stretched and tearing magic, then... One might manifest the un-manifestable? What did Starswirl say about that? An alicorn's memory is not infinite, and Luna had forgotten. She had forgotten much and, suspecting the reason, hid from depression and fear in a strange occupation. In the unceremonious examining and unraveling of others' dreams. Such is the escapism of oneiromancy.

***

Fancy Pants stayed behind to deal with Klugetown. In fact, almost everyone stayed behind, save for the crew of the «Will of the Diarchy» and six female passengers. Celestia had demanded them. Besides, getting them out of the city was a good idea anyway — just so the «grateful» locals didn't kill them. And so, the white, blue, and gold beauty rose above the layer where magical clouds formed, and even slightly above the layer of ordinary clouds — since there were few of them — and set a course for the north. — We drained almost all their gas; if anyone needs to top up their tanks, I don't even know what they'll do, — The navigator — a pegasus of an unusual silvery hue with pistachio-colored wings and tail looked up briefly from his map. He wanted to point out what the natural gas storage tanks and well equipment had turned into after the magic of the Elements hit them, but he couldn't find the words. It looked as if a drunk Discord had gone on a rampage there. — It's their own fault, — Said the Captain. He was a unicorn, and one who still held a nearly unspent reserve of Celestia's favor from his service, so he looked down on all other ponies. The bridge of the airship facilitated this attitude. — Cap, we still have to come back here for Mr. Pants... — We'll top off the gas bags at Canterlot. That'll be enough to fly back here three more times. The locals can fart into the ballonets for all I care. All they ever did was haul illegal goods from across the sea... — Yes, Cap. Dates from Aashtetos... And bananas, before they turn black and spoil, which happens if you ship them by sea. And prices for rare tea will go up. And coffee from Saddle Arabia... The variety was named something similar, right? Arabica? — Why should prices go up? Old Map, you don't understand economics at all. What difference does it make who carries the cargo — that rabble from Klugetown or ponies on Their Highnesses' naval ships? Or on the air fleet ships, for that matter. Especially since Equestria has the most airships. — Yes, Cap. No difference at all. Except almost all Equestrian airships were built in Klugetown. Even our frame. The Captain didn't deem it necessary to reply. Gas was extracted not far from Hollow Shades; there were caverns deep underground filled with natural gas. In fact, the town was situated in a convenient depression formed by subsiding soil after a big boom some two hundred years ago. There were crystals there, too. In short, Captain Snow Fruit did not share the navigator's regrets. Reserves of dirty «earth oil» also existed somewhere near Tall Tale, so liquid fuel for steam engines likewise didn't depend on the existence of a city in the middle of the Bone Dry Desert. And as for replicating the structural framework... The Captain saw no reason why they couldn't replicate it. However, the concept of «calculating load distribution» simply didn't exist in the Cap's head. Griffins, on the other hand, understood it. The elks could whip up something bizarre, not to mention the kirins, though that was hit-or-miss and mostly involved bridges. — Why won't they just settle down? — The Captain grimaced and leaned toward the bronze speaking tube, pressing the lever with telekinesis. — Engine room! Who's on inspection duty? Got it. Have him check on the passengers on his way, see what's going on there. — Why not Fire Mane, Cap? Isn't that his duty? — Let him sleep. He's got the night watch. Indeed, the crew was the bare minimum. Shuttling back and forth and maintaining the airship instead of resting was difficult. Exhausting. But you couldn't just replace the Captain, nor the navigator. The latter possessed a Special Talent. He could, for a brief moment, pierce through Alicorn magic and see the true position of celestial bodies. This was crucial for night flights. The aforementioned navigator was just preparing to correct their course using magnetic and magic compasses when the airship lurched slightly. It happens. Winter was coming to an end; high-altitude winds didn't always blow steadily — they often raged, especially near the weather control zone, hence the rocking. The wooden parts of the internal frame creaked. That was when Old Map remembered that this specific wood was harvested in the Wicked Woods. It could be found there, amidst the swollen, hollow trunks of the ugly flora typical of those Evil Forests. Wood... It was better to use that kind of wood for an airship; otherwise, the crystals would bankrupt you. Neither Hollow Shades nor the Rock Farm could guarantee gemstones of the necessary size for an airship with such a heavy frame. The Captain may have been a bit too hasty in writing off Klugetown.

***

— Ladies, could you keep it down? And actually, I advise you to get some sleep. The observation deck above the bridge (everything is different on airships, and the navigator often needs to look down rather than up) currently accommodated only six female passengers. Yet the noise level rivaled the Canterlot train station. If the flight to Klugetown had been relatively calm, here the Six seemed to have burst open. — What's the big deal? We, by the way, were sent by Princess Celestia hersel... — Dash! — Rarity, not yet fully recovered from the anti-magic powder, pulled her friend (was she really a friend?) back. She stood up and approached the strange pegasus of an indeterminate pale coat. Had it not been for the wings, the stallion would have resembled a sinewy earth pony. — Miss... — Miss Rarity Diamond. So, how are we disturbing anyone by being in an area permitted for passengers? — You see, Miss Diamond, — The earth-pony-like pegasus furrowed his brow, selecting polite and precise words (he could manage to find either one or the other), and barely noticeably twitched his wings, — Mechanics don't just watch the steam engines and other mechanisms work; they listen to them. And you are here... — And what did they tell you? — Pinkie interjected. — Mister, if you talk to scrap metal, that's weird, but if it starts talking to you... — They do talk. A change in tone, an excess whistle in the valves, or a foreign ringing... A different sound from the drive belts, finally. And if the boiler starts whistling thinly... there may be no time for witticisms, Miss... Pie? — Oh... You take everything way too seriously. — It is as it is. We simply try not to show that danger might be right nearby. — Oh, quit lying! — Applejack swiveled an ear. She held her hat next to her as if someone were hiding under the headgear. — I think it is the truth, — The mechanic said ambiguously, — After all, an airship contains many interesting things, even not counting the steam in the boiler and the lifting gas in the ballonets. Fluttershy whispered something. The pegasus swiveled his ear too, mimicking Applejack, and glanced sideways at the pegasus mare covered in bandages and plasters. — Umm... Are we in danger? — Twilight looked around anxiously. — Not yet. And to keep it that way, I advise you not to create unnecessary difficulties for the crew, Miss... Ugh! Your Highness, here! — You can just call me Miss Sparkle, — Twilight shied away. — In short, please do not make noise and, if possible, sleep. Immediately after Macintosh Hills, sleeping might not be possible. Turbulence is expected. — Ha! So just go higher... — We are already high enough, Miss Dash. But winter winds exist at this altitude too. The weather control zone begins here, after all. Rainbow didn't answer. The pegasus in the jumpsuit, with various tools in narrow pockets and a belt with rings and carabiners, without even thinking about it, had essentially slapped the flyer in the face with manure. And the entire Ponyville weather patrol, too. As if they didn't know the theory of weather control. Although, the «theory» there was such that... well, even more so! The mechanic left, and the six mares sat in mild bewilderment. — Could they really not have made a magic-powered airship? — Twilight muttered. — I am sure that... — Right, I'm drinking tea and going to bed, — Rarity tossed her tail. — I advise you to join me. Pinkie, do you have anything left for tea? Yeah, like stopping by a pharmacy to buy «something for tea»! The sudden vulgar thought didn't have time to stick in her head before Pinkie produced: — A cupcake! A big one! Oh, it's probably dried out... — Nonsense, we'll moisten it with a little water and heat it with magic! — Rarity lit a glowing point on her horn and traced something like a tiny family monogram in the air, trying not to think about how and why Pinkie had been dragging a baked good around with her. Or how long this had been going on. As for magic, they had been strictly forbidden to cast spells seriously on board. But Twilight, who was «sure that», might have put on a show. Started demonstrating that «this is perfectly safe with the proper skill of a unicorn, unlike your machines». And those would have been her last words. Rarity did not want to listen to explanations from a burnt-to-a-crisp egghead princess in the Happy Meadows later, for she knew about the flammability of natural gas. She had also read about steam boiler explosions in the newspaper. No, her friends' enthusiasm needed to be controlled. When everyone gathered around the small table, sitting on cushions taken from the sofas to make it cozier — as if a piece of foalhood with dolls and toy dishes had returned — Rarity spoke jokingly: — Your Highness, open our small but solemn tea party, dedicated to... And to what, exactly? — To the fact that we won again! — Dash flared up. — Well, I'm almost certain there were changelings there, just like at my brother's wedding, — Twilight muttered, glancing sideways at Fluttershy. Fluttershy wasn't certain. Not hissing bugponies stealing love (at folk festivals, as it later turned out, the shifters sometimes even gave love, which made nearly half of Canterlot feel either ashamed or envious), but calculating scoundrels. Black sand that stopped unicorns from casting and pegasi from flying. Gunpowder charges to stun and spray the black gunk. A provoking inscription. And laughter. There had been nothing and no one there, just crystals lying around... Fluttershy remembered how she had been beside herself with rage, how she had rushed forward since she was walking last and had taken the least damage, and... The yellow pegasus, plastered with patches like a traveler's suitcase with stickers, with bandages on her legs and a slightly different shade of fur along the long magical sutures, had been silent lately. Not her usual shyness, but a kind of apathy. Fluttershy didn't understand why it turned out this way. The unknown villains hadn't just used Friendship against the Keepers themselves; they seemed to be testing whether Kindness was truly Kindness. And not sudden Rabies. — The Elements... We didn't check how they worked, — Fluttershy whispered. — What if... — Yes! I hope the Elements finally banished those vile changelings from poor Klugetown, — Applejack didn't hear her friend. — And those who let them in! Honesty's truth was turning out to be somewhat smelly. But she guessed right about poor Klugetown. Now it was definitely poor, unless a miracle occurred. The boathouses had been transformed into a cross between prop castles and nomadic tents; the frame of an airship under construction had become an obstacle course for possessed foals; a pipe on a gas well had burst, and a stench of rot struck from it. Along with sprays, crumbs, and fish skeletons of unknown origin. One would have to ask Discord what had happened to the natural gas underground. The oil storage had turned into a black elastic cube as tall as a multi-story building, and the oil-pumping machines had turned into giant swings for, perhaps, an Ursa. Naturally, for such an unnatural thing as the Elements, houses suffered. The Keepers didn't see the heavy-breathing, mixed-species mob with guns, bags, and suitcases moving toward the surviving hangars. The guards were simply shoved aside. The festrals pretended they were patrolling the city from the air. Looking at this scene, the captain of the just-repaired airship with the homely name «Crow» barely twitched the corner of his mouth and an eyelid, and a female griffin with a scar across her entire face and missing one clawed finger on her forepaw softly darted inside the ship. A few moments later, something rustled, clanked, and gave the oily ring of a spiral spring being wound. The «Crow» had been under repair, so taking the generous order from that sleek scoundrel Pants had been impossible. But for the other captains, it turned out impossible to refuse. Money, after all! It seemed, if rumors were to be believed, something had to be picked up from Canterlot. Yeah, right... Who would return to their home port? Who among those returning wouldn’t bring the Legion with them? The mob with their belongings, which would require the entire airship fleet of Klugetown — twice over — might storm the hangars to beat out a spot on an airship. The griffin understood that she would simply be left without an airship and, consequently, without a job. The captain had understood even earlier and ordered the canister-shot gun readied. Just in case. The Keepers, of course, couldn't know about any of this. «Relatives in Southstock? You, you, and those two mares over there. With the foals. And that minotaur. That's it, we'll be overloaded. The rest of you, write letters right now, on whatever you have. Stamps and envelopes are on me. Addresses — princess grab you by the leg and smash you — better be legible, not those Kirin squiggles, or I won't even bother sorting them! We'll mail them in Southstock. You! Collect them from everyone». After a hasty takeoff (The griffin, Gerda Schweinmesser von Steinhozen, was glaring from behind the canister gun during this time, looking for festrals or pegasi who might want to rip open the airship’s envelope), one of those left behind blurted out: «Elements». The word, repeating, spread through the almost synchronously turning crowd. The guards tried to squeak something, but there were few of them. And the smartest one, exchanging glances with his bewildered commander, quietly slipped around the corner and bolted toward the hotel where the Heroic Heroines, who had wrought yet another bullshit, were indulging in rest. The guard knew what could happen. You're only just lighting up your horn, but the bullet has already arrived. But the Keepers didn't know. They didn't understand why there was absolutely no time to sign autographs for the residents making noise near the hotel doors, and why they had to run through the back exit and some courtyards to «The Will of Diarchy». Like, very urgent business, the Princesses themselves were summoning them. The airship took off even worse than the overloaded «Crow». And it went, initially almost grazing the dunes, away from what used to be Klugetown. By evening, the promised turbulence began. Above Appluza, through a break in the cloud cover, magic clouds were visible. The orchards demanded snow cover. Outside the town, there was no snow. Bison are not ponies. They'll cope. Somewhere to the south, the abandoned and twisted Klugetown seethed. Ponies, griffins, minotaurs, kirin, diamond dogs, and even a couple of zebras moved through the unrecognizable city in species-specific and inter-species clusters, glaring warily at others like themselves. No one knew what to do. It hadn't come to shooting and magic yet, but tension hung in the air. Some locked themselves in the surviving houses. The smart ones, who decided to move along the edge of the fog to the east coast, were never seen again. Fancy Pants regretted staying; he should have bolted on «The Will of Diarchy» with the Keepers too. He glanced around furtively and locked himself in his room.

***

— So, what's going on there? — Can you imagine, there's a riot in the city! — Celestia said this almost joyfully. — I haven't had anything like this happen in five hundred years and... — It is not your city, — Luna clarified calmly. — Excuse me? — Klugetown is not yours yet. — Not for long! Only until the airships reach the designated point on the map! — Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I am wondering, — Luna yawned, her eyes were sticking together, and even the fragmented sleep during which she surveyed her dreamwalking dominion (Belkin was right when he said they would take everything away, even dreams) meant nothing, — Why would they start causing a ruckus there? — The telegram from the airship didn't say. A riot, Elements applied. That's all. — Before or after? — After, of course! Or... — Look for the others, — The Night Princess yawned again, no longer covering her mouth with her wing. — That's it, I'm off to sleep. Who the others were, Celestia guessed later. The other Keepers. Events were spiraling out of control. Indeed, sometimes they defied classification altogether from the Princess's point of view — these, buck them, events. Where are all these various incomprehensible secret societies with a passion for excavations and ancient legends coming from? What are these oddities with the Music of Harmony in Baltimare? Why is the expedition from the Badlands delayed? Then again, the incarnate nightmare with the arimaspi and Irvind. Now Klugetown. What is a riot in a small free city specializing in flying ships and, consequently, in the rapid delivery of valuable and perishable goods? It is a «wonderful opportunity» not to replenish the air fleet with new airships, or even lose the existing ones, that is what it is. And some Casaflanca or Colombaque will acquire their own school of airship construction. And the long-term plans to allocate Twilight her own territory will be postponed for an even longer period. Long even for an alicorn. Because there, they will simply politely point the ambassadors in the direction of the port. And for some unknown reason, Cloudsdale decided to play the silent game. And secretly conduct negotiations with the Crystal Empire regarding territory in the mountains, but under the climatic «umbrella». It seems Cadance's acquired horn is pressing on her brain; she has forgotten who the mistress of the mainland is. Where is Shining looking? Exclusively at his wifey's croup? Or has he gone after crystal fillies while his wife loses her head? Especially since the request that her foal never die of old age before the eyes of her immortal mother was fulfilled in the best possible way. Oh, let's just hope no one finds out! The coming of Tirek would seem like another weeding of creeping thorns in Ponyville by comparison. Celestia suddenly remembered a dream. So strange that it would be worth telling Luna. And it wouldn't be worth doing so for other reasons. In the dream, Celestia, afraid of falling — which was strange for a winged creature — walked carefully along the branches of a huge tree. Sometimes she hopped over to another branch when she didn't like something or the branch became too thin. Below, like grass in the wind, the wormy fringe of the arimaspi stirred. Below, mist that burned away time itself moved in strips, rising from fetid pools of uniform shape. She had to reach the «clean ground» and jump down. But the branches didn't lead there, and going back was, for some reason, almost impossible. A couple of steps and that was it. And after every fork, the arboreal path became thinner and more difficult. And further on, she had to jump to the neighboring branch. Occasionally, somewhere in the branches, some squirrel-like creature with a lion's tail commented on the Princess's choice. She couldn't see it clearly. She could only hear emotionless little jokes about how one could go far that way. And get stuck deep in a mess. So deep that you'll have to tear yourself out with blood. Although, the blood isn't yours, is it, Celestia? They say that in Aashtetos, famous for its rainy, warm «winters», thick snow fell recently.