On the observation of evil and the escapism of oneiromancy

As long as the dog barks, the caravan goes on.

Proverb

— Belkin, — Chrysalis is exhausted, as if they drive her from Irvind to Crawlers and back every day, — We have an ass. The squirrel dog reached up and sideways, trying to see the backside of the alicorn. He even took a step to the side. He nodded: — Exactly, your majesty! It's hooked on the back. And a tail on it! The shifter queen gritted her teeth. — You have an arse too, by the way! Belkin tried to examine his arse. He touched it. — And with a tail, too! — And, ignoring Chrysalis, who had already taken a breath, suddenly became serious. — Chris, what happened? Did Celestia go crazy and they put her in our nuthouse? Or is there a war? — The second one. I thought this whole epic with one-eyed goats could be finished in a week... — I vaguely remember hearing something unusual before I came here. Something at night. But I put it down to winter thunderstorms. You have some kind of weather anomaly in the south of the desert, — Squirrel Dog took a couple of steps and carefully lowered himself on the bed, trying not to disturb the burns and not to think about the consequences of failed blitzkriegs. — It's far away. But Hunters... In short, — Chrysalis sat down on the edge of Belkin's bed, ignoring his grimaces caused by recent bandaging and the withdrawal of strong drugs, — The Keepers have just recently dumped in Las Pegasus. On a pair of flying chariots. Perhaps they had planned a stop at a Stone Farm or in a Somnambulist. Her poimi etih... But here's what's interesting: a certain pegasus of a young age... Warm Breeze... — Wait! — The squirrel dog with the unusual name Valentine remembered something. — White with a purple tint, golden mane and tail, no Mark? — I don't know. I was told that some winged schoolgirl came and demanded to help her great aunt, who had come with two foals. Allegedly she doesn't remember anything about the journey, but she's twitchy and nervous, like she's being forced to fly somewhere. And she keeps forgetting the name Hunters. She'll be reminded, and she'll repeat it and then forget it again a couple of minutes later. Not a big deal, a lot of ponies have problems with their heads, but when it's a single mare with foals... — We should ask this little one if the Keepers have visited her relative... — If that's what they're doing, and it looks like it is, the Six know about you. — It's possible, but not certain. They didn't go scouring the local woodlands with the Guardians, but took off on flying sledges, did they? Chrysalis nodded. — Yes, Twilight and her crew might as well have screwed up the Elements, and now you've been forgotten about. As well as about the city Hunters. — Did they use the Elements? — Belkin waited for Chrysalis' nod and continued. — Not just sorcery, but something unbelievable? Against their own population? But then why the arsehole is ours and not the whole city's? — You can never guess with the Elements... There will probably be a re-check by the Guard and the Night Guard. With a debriefing of all those «forgetfuls». Canterlot's «gold waistcoat» units are already arriving in city. And the train has the same number as the regular train you were on. You took the train, didn't you? — So? On foot. The guards are going to check the madhouse? — No problem. If only out of Celestia's distrust of her apprentice's work. And another thing... — Yeah? — Refugees from Hunters. They're few, but they're there. Almost all of them had to be treated with magic. My magic, too. And I'm not the strongest alicorn. — What do they have? — Mental disorders and strange neoplasms. Squirrel dog looked at Chrysalis. From his blank stare he could sense something of the early signs of magical exhaustion. All the more reason for the queen to be exhausted. Belkin's emotions she tried not to pick up on. It was some untimely winter with grey poisonous snow and scorched twisted trees to the horizon, where the overhanging shroud of clouds met the jagged silhouettes of burnt cities. As luck would have it, it was snowing outside the window. The Pegasus Weather Service had cleared the sky for the flying carts, but nature had taken its course. Instead of light, dry snow from the magical clouds, heavy snow came from the natural clouds above. — They need to be taken out of the city, — The strange creature resembling an insect horse with human features shivered. — Otherwise, Celestia will do something to them. Or her will incite his ebanutuyu. And there will be questions about how these refugees fled to Irvine bypassing patrols... — Incite... Is this, — Belkin twirled his fingers and finally lay down, hissing and thrusting his legs behind Chrysalis, which caused her to remove her tail and glare indignantly at the squirrel dog, — A word from the days when unicorns practiced hunting with dogs? — It's still practised today when you need to track down a dangerous beast. In the old days, they used to catch fugitives from the earth ponies. One would be executed on the spot, another would be executed after their return, and the rest would be afraid. Then the fear would turn into hatred... But unicorns did not understand the latter. Chrysalis was silent. Shook her hind leg, lit her horn, turned and gestured for Belkin to extend his arms. A familiar icy wave of pain, it became easier. The changeling queen barely swayed and shook her head. The squirrel dog was scarier than a black crystal in its own height. There was no relaxing and no hustling. Everything would go nowhere because of the slightest carelessness. — Take them out. Please. They can't stay here. — So what's next? Shouldn't we put everyone on some kind of ship? — The squirrel dog's voice changed a little after the effects of magic. Or from the change from one pain to another. — The harbour's down. Everyone has already fled who could. I wouldn't be surprised if some honourable ponies are waking up in Casaflank among empty bottles and can't believe they got away. My observers saw a sailing frigate at sea. The kind with a propeller at the back and a chimney instead of one mast. — Not in white and gold colours? — Oh, how did you guess? — The chitinous pony quipped. Although, it's not chitinous. Very short and thick black coat, something like chitin only on the legs, the covers are dense, but with defects, as if this horse was casually drilled. Not like in a cartoon. Again, this effect of caricature and the original. And the eyes are strange. They resemble the eyes of a dragonfly, although they are mobile, not like insects. The dark center in the middle pretends to be a pupil. But no. — And go where? Walk into the desert? — That's an option. Not on foot, of course, but... I wouldn't want to publicise this vehicle. — What have you got there, a huge steam tractor? — Well, not exactly... Let's not talk about that, okay? — You don't believe I'm going to get anything out of this. And you won't do it yourself. What about your scouts and foragers? — Valentine, — Chrysalis looked at Belkin again, — Do you realise what they've been taught? — To fuck ponies and take away their excess emotions? — And that too... I mean, how to infiltrate a pony settlement. How to hide, how to set up a temporary shelter, how to keep watch. What to pretend to be, after all... Did you know that some of the salesmen and travelling entertainers are changelings? — And I thought you kidnap or kill the original, and then... She just lightly whipped Belkin's tail. If it wasn't for the burns, he wouldn't have even noticed. But he didn't even finish the sentence. — You say that again!.. — I'm sorry. You've never done that before? — The squirrel dog took a few deep breaths, oxygenating his blood for a slight second intoxication. — They did. Before me. — And then what? — A lot of things happened... And those who liked to do it all died. And almost none of them died of old age. But let's get back to the scouts. — I'm listening. — I'm glad. If only he had kept silent at some moments... So, the training is long and serious. Something is trained on the level of reflexes, somewhere they teach improvisation... But training, I repeat, is long. And it takes its toll. Do you know how I agonised trying to teach a scout to just go into a library, ask for a stack of newspapers, read, take notes and quietly leave without forgetting to say goodbye? «Can't even a little joy be taken away?» — Chrysalis fidgeted, simultaneously mimicking the unknowing scout. She made Valentine bend his legs so that she could lean back against the wall. The bed was placed against the wall, while the gurney stood in the middle of the room so that it could be approached from different directions. — He'll forget why he went there, and then he'll start giving information about the ponies... Then the average number of unicorns and pegasi in the city... In short, — The shifter queen sighed, — It's not a problem for them to fly away. The problem is getting the right ponies out. Discreetly. Quietly. So they don't know where to look. Mine can't do that. Helping is fine. But leading a group... — Chrysalis... What makes you think I can do any better? I was trained only to run away and not be caught alive. — You came to the Badlands, right? Judging by the shell casings and the bodies? — Yeah. — Nah, just those two. — I remember. Your share of their deaths went to the hospital staff. Unhappy? No? Okay, I'll continue. So, you somehow got to Irvind unnoticed... — Chrysalis... — What? — I wasn't hiding, well, mostly. Chrysalis looked at Belkin incredulously. And he started talking. He thought about keeping silent about Light Sand, but he ‘leaked’ her for all the bullshit. He told her how he was a dumb diamond dog, how he worked a couple of times as an electrician, how working as a driver's assistant brought him to Applusa... How he travelled by train to meet with the arimaspi. Didn't say anything specific about Bon Voyage. So, there was some kind of unicorn. — Awesome! — Chrysalis grinned, causing the squirrel dog to perk up his ears (literally). — On social media alone! I mean, at least I wrote out a diploma for being the best infiltrator among the changelings. And no one else said a single word about it! — Why? I was just saving the ponies some trouble. And even if the mistake is corrected, but the bosses know about it... That's trouble too, right? — We've got another emergency coming up. So you're taking it? — Where do we take the pony? — Klugetown. You might consider Las Pegasus, but... — Yeah, it's easier for ponies to get lost out there. But not for me. They will. Especially since there's this wandering bachelorette party planned with a reusable bomb of unknown effect... — Maybe. And there's another problem... Do you know about locus? — I've been told something, but I don't understand it. Unicorn nonsense? — Alicorn nonsense. An alicorn has an extended locus of power and attribute in one bottle, where an alicorn is actually an alicorn and not just a long-lived winged mage. Cadence's is the Crystal Heart and the palace. Celestia wanted to make the Sun and everything under its rays her locus, but it turned out differently... Not at all. Her locus is everything visible from the cliff where she has her castle now, though on a clear day it's very strong almost everywhere. So, the locus determines the width of the magical influence of and on the alicorn. Luna thought of night as her locus, but it turned out crookedly. She is now tied to the phases of the moon, the obligatory presence of the Everfree Forest, and can peek into ponies' dreams. That's what's worrying. I don't want to catch someone in Las Pegasus. Well, through uncharacteristic dreams or something. — Looking into dreams? Just the dreams of ponies? — Belkin grimaced in disgust. He thought of the need for an anti-tank gun with an expensive precision barrel and very strong optics the size of a traffic light. To fucking spill it! But he looked at the emotionally receptive alicorn nearby and chased the untimely thoughts away. — I don't know. Can't see the changelings, I guess. Kirins she sees, kelpies she sees... Griffins and minotaurs? Minotaurs are most likely seen without infiltration, the mere fact of being asleep. Griffins are territorially outside the locus... Hippogriffs? Dragons? — Chrysalis wrinkled her nose. — I think the title of Dreamlord is a bit premature for some. — That said, if I were griffins, I'd keep the entire embassy staff on some specific sleeping pills... By the way, do you have a locus? — Still, if I were a griffin, I'd keep the entire embassy staff on some kind of specific sleeping pill... By the way, do you have a locus? — I used to, — The dragonfly pony replied deafeningly. — Old Hive. — What happened? — Belkin picked up his feet and sat on the bed, wrinkling his nose. Moved towards the alicorn, but did not touch. — I happened there... A young queen who decided she would lead her people to the shining heights of tranquil power from the cunning swarming of leeches in a pond. They couldn't accept it... Belkin! — Chrysalis turned and grabbed the stranger. — I have started a war! A civil war! Yes, for a reason, I had my reasons, but I started a war! Do you know what it is?! How much blood is that?! — I can imagine. If you need to cry, I'll stay with you. It's just... You're very strong... There... it's not healed yet... — Oh, Heaven! — An alicorn jumping out of bed would have been funny, but a human coming down and running off on his hind legs a couple of steps or two away was simply frightening and terrifying. — I'll be right back! She conjured something for pain reduction again. And again it didn't work right. But it did something. — Chrysalis, do you have a key to the canteen? — While Belkin was saying that, he kept waiting for the cloudy veil in his eyes to go away. — No. But it's not locked. All the patients are in the wards, and it's empty. What do you want? — I'd like some tea. You too. They went out. They explained to the nurse on duty that it would be quiet and not for long. She sniffed, gave them a frown and nodded. Pegasus. The pattern of the fur is floating, but it doesn't leave a speck in the eye. — Is she one of yours? — The squirrel dog asked. The polished stone tiles of the floor were cold on his feet. He should get some slippers. — Not really. She's a half-breed. Can change her appearance a bit, probably just keeps the hoofs and eyes out of sight. Probably has darker fur than it looks. — Belkin? — Chrysalis stopped at the door to the dining room. — So you're taking it?

***

That chitinous mare's been around here a while. She knows where everything is. She used magic to heat the kettle, asking me to stand aside. Brewed it right in the cups. By the way, these are staff cups, they don't give such cups to psychos, they have some kind of enchanted wooden ones or something, made of conditionally edible organics that don't break down into fibres. We sit around spitting tea on paper napkins. — Why this particular Klugetown of yours, which is not even on all maps? — I ask. — There are reasons. One of them is that it's outside the Sun-Ass locus, — The queen's facial expressions are hard to read. — And you also have a semi-legal base there... — And then there's the fact that someone's tongue is ahead of their brain. But there's a «lay» there. And another thing... I'm making it look like I'm listening. — Airships, — Chriska says with a meaningful expression on her face. — Why do I need them now? — Do you remember the map? — A little, — I sip from the cup. — This Klugetown of yours in the desert is like a pimple on ass. No roads, no nothing. — A former griffin colony. Klugestaadt. They thought to study magic there, — Chrysalis snorted into her cup. Horse insect. — How did they get there, those naive beaky-eyed wizard's apprentices? — The sea, the border of those terrible thickets where Southstock is now, along the vegetation inland... There the rain zone is not so deep into the forest, water can be extracted. And fuel. And materials for shelter. So we settled on the border between the magical forest and the desert. Then they tried to carry balloons on ropes. They wanted to build airships, too, but... — It didn't work? — The lifting power of natural gas is only enough to lift the ship a little, if you make it of a reasonable size, so that it doesn't break itself and can be controlled somehow. It is possible to use the water element, but it is extremely dangerous. And if there's also a crew, a stock of coal or other fuel... In general, we need levitating crystals. Big ones. And no one will sell them to the griffins. They'd cost themselves, and not just because of the wrath of the Sisters. — The griffins are gone? — Officially. Unofficially, they're there. And ponies, and minotaurs... Plenty of them. And airships. — Airships belong to ponies? — Not exclusively. But these crystals can only be purchased from ponies. It seems to me that Celestia doesn't just know where and how many flying stones are mined and sold, but trades them herself, keeping an edge on the quantity and quality of both the crystals and the airships. — I see. Why doesn't it shut down the competitors' shop altogether then? — They're not really competitors. Belkin, can you calculate an airship? — No, I don't know how to properly calculate its guts for strength. I can calculate a triangle structure, but the result will be an overweight set. Determine the lift force? I don't remember everything either, I'll have to look through the textbooks. Our textbooks, of course. — You'd be interviewed in Klugetown by now, by the way. He can't... Celestia's unicorns certainly can't. And they never will. The downside of magic. Perhaps the new princess, with her abilities at the expense of socialisation, would be able to, if taught... Hmm... Isn't this where Twi has a spare cove if this Friendship School nonsense doesn't work out? Yeah, it could be airships. You see, it's a mutually beneficial feud between the free city of Klugetown and Equestria. One knows how to build normal airships that can cross the sea, and the other knows how to enchant crystals, without which these airships are almost impossible to fly. Naturally, Celestia doesn't like this very much. They don't just co-operate as she says, they co-operate in many other ways! She has to negotiate instead of ordering, disguising it as a «request» as she likes... But back to business. — I'm listening. — You're taking the pony to New Haven. Presumably. I don't know yet. Then either you go into the desert. — Or? — Or they pick you up right where the rails end. You might want to consider the town of Walkers. It's a shithole, too, but it's got warehouses... Uh, let's not talk about those ponies. New Haven it is. You load up in a flying boat and make a hoof to any possible pursuers. No sane pegasus would go into the Bone Dry Desert, and chasing a flying steamer across the dunes... — I see. I'll have to think about it. I don't like the way out of Irvind. They've got it all over the place. And I gather the ponies aren't trained in infiltration tactics. And I have a distracting question. — Yes? — She looks me in the eye with interest, though it's obvious she's uncomfortable. — Is Stalliongrad across the sea? — Yes, we have airships too, if that's what you mean. — And the crystals? — Belkin, — Chrysalis looks away, — You can guess, but if I tell you... And then you'll be caught, and I can't even promise you a decent death. And someone with a sun on their ass... Maybe at the end you'll forget all the elaborate bullying and even be happy with the happiness of an idiot... But most likely you'll just die in a nasty way. Yes, Sisters will sigh later and regret that it somehow came out that way on its own... Later... And beforehand, too. Are you sure you want to know about the crystals? — Let me name the options, — I say and switch to Russian, which random ponies here can't exactly know. — But only ne po-ekvestriyski. Option one: buying or stealing crystals. Shakes her head negatively. He's smiling, too, like an arrow-horse. — We thought about it, but... We're buying. For disguise? Deception? — You have magicians. And your own school of magic. The crystals are made locally. — The school is present. Crystals are made small, — Chriska's Russian is funny. For her, though, it's a dialect of Stalliongrad. — Your airships have no crystals. Alicorn slowly removes any expression from his face. I, on the other hand, realising that I'm about to give myself a death sentence, still can't stop myself: — They're heavier than air under launch conditions. Not hung, unloaded. Do you have any engines powerful enough to propel the whole thing up or accelerate it to an acceptable lift. Most likely the apparatuses are as flat as pancakes. Or you've learnt how to make and use helium. — A solar cell? Only in small volumes,’ Chrysalis croaks and switches back to Equestrian. — Expensive and time-consuming. Valentine, can I ask you a bad thing? — What? — You see, one way or another, you're going to have to get out of here. Those ponies could be a distraction, if anything... — Unwelcome, — My voice changes subtly. Bitch, of course I'm going to sacrifice civilians again! — Thank you, — It's strange to hear such a thing from someone whose nature is to give orders not only by voice, but also, probably, by pheromones. — But if things get really bad. Can you do it? Like the other day? So they don't get it? I shouldn't say that. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. — You're gonna need a gun. And I'm not the only one. A couple of changelings amongst these wanderers won't scare anyone? — They could be in another form. — No. Trust is everything. And I'll have to brief them. How and what. In case I can't do it myself. Tea's cold. My mood's cold, too. You've had your life, you male dog-squirrel. That everything's going to go fucked up with this camping trip was out of the question. It will. Chrysalis finishes her tea so I don't see her lips quiver. — Are they sure they want to go to Stalliongrad? — I ask, to take my mind off the deafening anger. It's one thing to die knowing that you'll just wake up in a capsule, but another... — Oh, come on! — Chrysalis interrupted her thoughts. — The island of Shire-Lanka, a suburb of Colombac. Or Kirin Grave. Colombac, though, is preferable... And whoever wants to, welcome to Graymorne... Or further away. Stalliongrad's big enough, too. — Do I have a day or two? — A day, — Chrysalis sets her cup down and looks at me with her strange eyes. — You have a day, Valentine, to think. And a few days to prepare.

***

A pencil and paper were found at the pony on duty. Belkin drew up a list, chewed on the tip of the pencil, crossed something out and wrote it in again. Thinking. Distracted. It was funny. First Chriska, who forgot something on the territory of the enemy state, leaves all her secret and indecent affairs and flies to look at the burning squirrel dog. Spends magic on him. And all this against the background of an internal military operation against one-eyed goats. Then dashingly tries to sign an under-treated alien to work as a guide for a «tourist group» of refugees. Hints that he'll have to evade prosecution. Does she care that much about these ponies she's about to scatter to different countries? Immediately changes her mind to the point of being willing to sacrifice those second ago important horses as soon as Belkin guesses airship. But doesn't want to call on additional resources in the form of her desert transport. Maybe he should ask her? Valentine set the paper aside. Sleep. There would be food for thought in the morning. He dreamed something vague. He woke up a couple of times and tossed and turned for a long time. The nurse came in, told him to stop moaning, and gave him a couple of pills. Took one. Sleep never came, he lay in a strange slumber and kept thinking: «I'm going to die soon. I will die for the sake of some creatures I don't know. Maybe I won't be able to save them. In any case, they will curse me for what I did wrong in their opinion. But they can't save themselves. And I'll die trying to do it». The morning brought a noise in the corridor, he was awakened, staggered to the dressing. They pumped some nasty stuff into his arse, which made half of his ass go numb and gave him sharp, painful goosebumps. But the exhausting lethargy began to pass. In the mess hall he stood in the general queue, but was led aside, pointed with a hoof to a separate tray. Vegetables, mostly green and long. Something that looked like the shoots of some plant, and some tender noodles in a sauce (well, try to undercook them for a change!) and squiggles of large prawns in another bowl. Some analogue to a morsel in a psycho-safe cup. Spoon. Bitch, give a fork! Not supposed to. She came over and sat silently across from Chrysalis. Well, who could be the big one? White and blue, like snow on a frosty day. Also wearing a jumpsuit with the trousers rolled up in a mannerly way. Probably to keep the patients out of sight. — What about the list? — Here, — Valentine held out a folded sheet of paper. He'd had to return the pencil on his way to the dining room. — Is it final? — No. But I have another day? — He took the uncertain shake of his head as a nod and continued. — Tell me, what exactly are you up to? — What do you mean? — Chrysalis stared at Belkin, but almost immediately averted her gaze, fearing for her disguise. — I still don't understand why you're bothering with me and then trying to put me on a failed mission. Leading a group of civilians... Then suddenly you decide that these civilians will be a perfect analogue of mice scattering from the cat, and I, so important and necessary, will quietly slip away to you. And at the same time, you're wondering how to convince me not to surrender alive. Can't you decide what I'm worth? To whom? I don't believe in trying to sell slaves in troubled times. Or are airships so important to you that «so don't get you for anyone», if anything? — You've got it all wrong. Everyone matters. And not just to me, — Chrysalis says curtly and without emotion. — But I think quantitatively when it comes to the lives of my people. And I try to solve one problem with the help of another, as a queen should. You could have guessed that. Chrysalis stood up and walked towards the exit. — Chris! She's not turning round. Is she offended or what? She took it.

***

— Why did you offend her majesty? — A pegasus pony approached Belkin in the recreation room. It's a little flat and a little mismatched with the expected position in space. Chriska is a better camouflage, honestly. — Is she? — She gets very sensitive when she thinks someone's been hurt because of her bad decisions. A lot of them did. Changelings, ponies... — It seemed to me that she was powerful enough to... — You thought she was, — Interrupted the insect pony beneath the textures. — She's bossy, but she demands a lot of herself. Sometimes too much. And we feel sorry for her. I'd even say we love her, though we can't really love her. — Love someone who can send you to your death? — The changeling sighed. — If she didn't do that sometimes, more people would die. Such is our world... And it's enough that she hates herself. She pretends that she's the most beautiful person in the world, that she can be her own wife, but the truth is... We should love her. — We should... It's some kind of ordered surrogate for love, isn't it? — As best we can, — The imitation pony sighed again. — Please speak to the queen! I would like you to apologise to her, but from what I gather from her words, it's not your fault either that... — What? — That you're like this. And you've been caught up in all this.

***

I was sitting at home. Tired. Training, judging by the generalised opinion of the very secretive guys, is not contraindicated for me. Again, by the way, that stupid «martial arts» thing with the guns. Isn't that funny to them? In addition to tumbling and dancing with strikeball guns, there was a shooting range. And a modified Makarov pistol. At first I was just shooting, then the weirdness started. They'd take me out to approaching targets. They'd start moving almost at the same time. And I had to shoot at each one, moving away from the trajectory of a green or grey silhouette. And today I was introduced to a strange thing. It was some sort of hybrid of a sporting pistol and that American large-calibre monster that was supposed to stop the rider along with the horse. Twenty metal tubes in a conveyor belt. Each tube is loaded with a traumatic or whatever cartridge. Of course, a magazine like that wouldn't fit in the grip. No grip. So the magazine was in front of the grip, like a revolutionary Mauser from the museum. Or like a pistol for high-speed sport shooting. The senseless monster was loaded with absolutely different things, from a rubber ring folded in the case or a plastic plumed bullet with a tip softening from the impact and up to a lead bolt with a shank. The calibre was really impressive. As it was explained to me, the «non-lethal» elements on which this sample was designed, practically did not go under the victim's skin, but the impact was such that a hit to the head would send him into a coma and to the maxillofacial surgery department. At the same time. By the way, a metal bullet even with a standard small charge from five metres broke through the bones of the skull. I also remember asking: — For what purpose is this invented? — The purpose is standard, — Answers the instructor, — A human being. And if you're talking about the purpose of the weapon... Shit, it was a traumatic weapon. Well, it was originally designed that way. Strange reloading with a movable choke, shifting tubes in the conveyor belt, and self-loading were justified by the variety of ammunition. The recoil? To be honest, it could have been softer. It was okay, especially considering the size of the monster. It was the size that ruined the idea. A traumatic pistol should be compact, not as big as a pneumatic hammer. I got up from my desk (from my laptop, to be precise), intending to switch on the kettle. It was that state when fatigue burns itself out. My gaze fell on the notebook in which I was making various notes. Hm. An old one, from the times of my studies, with descriptions of algorithms and elements of all sorts of semantics. There's also an attempt to write my own system of fixed-length commands for some conventional microcontroller. And sketches of schemes of ALD for it. Coursework! How are we worse than Knut? I remember how I was «kicked out» at the defence in front of the whole group for my naive and already implemented or forgotten by clever people ideas. But the grade made up for the humiliation. And now the remaining free space in the notebook goes to different pieces of thoughts. I caught myself on one of those very thoughts that now I know how I could finish a processor with internal page-by-page memory addressing and other stuff. You could even build it on logic chips. Especially when you are not limited by the logic basis. But there's no sense in this slow retro game. Lynx called, complaining about her aching head. She told me in confidence that sometimes she's afraid to close her eyes. There's something she sees. Something indescribable. It reminds me of something. Should I make a deal with Petrovich and get Bobcat to have his head checked? I don't know...

***

— What am I going to report to Celestia?! — The white unicorn was getting nervous and snapping at his subordinates, like this. — No bodies were found. Not like this, not with the changes. They hadn't yet found the drezzina laid down at the station. Those unfortunates had not arrived in Irvind. What does that mean? — The survivors from Hunters went the other way, sir? To Foaledo? — Suggested a second unicorn, not as sleek, but more robust in appearance. Instead of a gilded cuirass, he wore the sandy-leaved cloth of the Legion's plate armour. — How did they leave the train at the dead end before Irvind, where they pick up the extra wagons or something?! Or did they drive it from the other side of the continent and change the arrow for themselves, and then bring it back?! — But... Then they're hiding somewhere. — Where? — The Guard unicorn looked at the Legion unicorn with intentional sarcastic interest. — Got on a ship and sailed for Nightmare Cliffs? It's foggy there, it's hard to find anything. It's a chance to hide. — There's reefs! And combined with the fog, it's a chance they won't find you at all. Unless there's fish at the bottom, — The bosses snorted nervously. — No, they're around here somewhere. Any other way is along the railway or into the desert, but they won't go that way. — Sir? They couldn't have sailed across the sea? — They couldn't. Anybody but these hermits. And another thing. — Yes, sir? — Some of the ponies the Six visited have disappeared. You know what I mean. The ones from the train. — Send in the pegasi? Well, if it's an attempt to escape along the coast towards Stone Farm. — Send them. Won't hurt. And we need to send someone to Somnambulist. The local dreamers are going crazy. They might do something. And we should send an air patrol to Crawlers... Should we use festrals there? I don't know. — Sir, what do we need them for, these fugitives? Well, they've escaped from some strange scourge, and we're catching them for some reason. — You don't get it, do you? — The unicorn in the cuirass almost shrieked. — What if they're infected with it?! A pony like that will lie down in a rented room in Las Pegasus and come out a one-eyed nightmare! — I think if these ponies were infected... — You're supposed to think on orders from your superiors! — The guardsman didn't like the Legion's quiet liberties, but the Princesses ordered his co-operation. — And think, since you like this sort of thing so much, what happens if this whole story gets out in a major city! — That's up to the Night Guard and the Keepers, — Shrugged the second unicorn in the «armour». — They should be able to handle it, right? — You see, — The Guardian lowered his voice, — There are some nuances that I suspect you, who have never been out of the border forests, do not understand. The Elements, with all their otherworldly power, can be applied to a specific threatening situation. It's kind of a secret, but one of those secrets that, on the one hand, is so secret that even the fact of its secrecy is a secret, and on the other hand, this most secret of secrets has already been discussed in whispers and hints by all the powerful families of Canterlot and even — phew! — of Cloudsdale. So, Elements can remove direct and explicit magical threat, but with the elementals it is already bad, and with the threat of implicit almost nothing. What are you gonna do with that kind of magic in Las Pegasus? Or even in your own Foaledo? — Sir, wouldn't Luna use the ponies' dreams to identify possible infected? And then there's the Night's Watch. — Rumour has it that the Night's Watch is most likely to suddenly appear to those ponies unlucky enough to have a dream with the Luna's croup protruding obscenely. — But did... — Yeah, and you and your Legion are protecting the lives and peace of ponies, not kicking our geographical and political neighbours to the curb. — Sir, there's no such thing as a blanket statement! After all, it is also to protect the ponies! — After all, those willing to «try» Celestia's overly young looking regal sister should be restrained too. Not by the leash, but by the «balls». As long as it doesn't go to the little ones. But I think you're picking up on the trend. Go to work. Anything happens, you report back to me. I'll get my guys on it. — Yes, sir!

***

— Stop, now! — The festral looked tiredly at the pegasus. — You changed ours by morning... — Four-thirty, sir! — A youthful white pegasus with turquoise wings, mane and tail stomped his hind leg. What the copper or gold antique pegasi helmet on his arse signified, the festral didn't care. — Mm-hmm... That's right. Changed where? — Edge of town, marshalling yard. They were just preparing empty wagons for fish and prawn cages. — Did you check the wagons? — The Festral preemptively grimaced at the possibility of a negative answer. — Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir! Everything was clean! — Don't report like that... Not at the inspection. And your patrol. — Followed the «railway» to the bridge! The bridge was inspected at 6:00 a.m. sharp! — And? — There were fishermen downstream on... on... Rafts of boats with counterweights? — Catamarans. How did you realise they were fishermen? — The festral thought they'd better be fishermen. — Well, they had cloth fishing hats and nets... They were drying them. I mean, nets. And on another... another cata... On another boat they were pulling the catch out of the net, sir! — How big a catch? — A dozen fish, sir! We didn't really look at it. There was that barrel they carry the prawns in! — Shrimp, as you pegasi should know, — The festral sighed again, — Are not found in rivers. I could still allow saltwater fish, but it's not spawning season to swim into fresh water. Besides, as much as I believe in the strength of salmon, jumping from the sea to the Nightmare Cliffs waterfalls... It was them. — The ones we're looking for? — No, fuck your princesses! The local fishermen have switched from the sea to the river! Who else?! — We should send a patrol! — The pegasus tried to start looking round, but he's back on the chain of command. — Don't fidget. They've already got where they want to go. We'll fly out tonight and be in Defenders by morning. Then we'll fly to Climers. You'll go to Randers and Crowlers in the morning. Talk to the locals. If there's no outsiders, you catch up with us. We'll go to New Haven together. We'll search there. And you blind cockatrices, you check me for more Walkers, understand? — The festral stared at the frozen pegasus with yellow eyes with vertical pupils. — And if we don't find it, you're coming with me to report it! Both of them at once! And also... — Yes, sir? — Any chance of pulling one of those overly winged ones of yours out here? — I'm not sure, sir. I'll try, but... — I see. You've had enough of the long-winged ones. Well, we'll have to find them ourselves. — Sir, what if we find those ponies? Should we arrest them? — What for? You'll kill them on the spot. What's the holdup? What are you looking at?! What are you going to arrest them for? Did they do something wrong? — But how, — Whispered the pegasus. — You can't do that! We're supposed to protect the ponies, not... — So protect them. Figure out how to stop them, what lies to tell, and how to get them to the Princesses. Let them sort it out. They'll probably just wipe their memory and let them go. Or did you think they'd actually have to be killed? — I was afraid, sir. What if we really have to... — Look, Lieutenant, things happen, of course. But the necessity of these decisions is a very troubling sign. — A sign that something unimaginably terrible is coming to Equestria, sir? — A sign that Equestria itself is turning into something unimaginably terrible. It's like watching arimaspi.

***

— We'll stop here and wait for the night. I recommend that everyone rest, — The stranger, in the hospital overalls usually worn by ponies that had lost their hair to illness or after burns, looked round at the huddled Equestrians. — But first, we pull the net. And that... change your appearance already. Two of the Discord's dozen ponies burst into a cold green flame. — What's new for you?! It was all agreed upon! And changelings, too! — A strange and scary dog with the stupid name of Belkin wagged his tail nervously. It wasn't a dog's tail, it was long and tasseled. Of course, the ponies shrieked and squealed, but did not run away screaming. That's the bread. — You're... Morning Rose, aren't you? — The squirrel dog turned to the pegasus. — Can you do some aerial reconnaissance? I'll explain what's important. — We'll keep an eye on the foals, — Said the changeling mare, Night Spirit, apparently. — If you let us, we can take away the panic and anxiety neatly. The poison-pink pegasus shook her head finely and negatively. — There's no need to take anything away! — Whatever you say, — Spirit nodded. — I can fly, — The second shifter offered. What's his name? Night Scope? — Go ahead. Can you disguise yourself as the colour of the sky? — I don't know, I'd have to try. It's not like I'm really changing colour. — You guys are weird. What do you look like in pictures? — Like changelings. The effect doesn't last. We were supposed to be caught, but luckily you can't print a photo fast enough. — Yeah, yeah... The net was stretched. In fact, all the way the grumbling and muttering ponies were stitching and tying various faded rags onto the net. Scraps, old sheets that could not be washed off, torn into ribbons, all sorts of tattered things... All this was also rolled in sand and mud and cleaned up. — Oops! — The dragonfly-eyed changeling came back. Valentine, feeling the chill of realisation flood his soul, fumbled for his pistols in the pockets of his overalls. The overalls had been altered a couple of times before Belkin had said they would do. It still dangled like the mop Orange Gash had in the storeroom. The ponies, including the kids, were dressed similarly. The ponies were similarly dressed, including the children. Meaning foals. The ponies themselves used both words depending on the context. The former white and now indeterminate sandy overalls with a lot of overlays, fabric reinforcements and pockets and pockets with flaps and shoe clasps made one chuckle and suspect that all the ponies were members of some rebel army. — What was it? A patrol? — Belkin was deciding if he could shoot pegasi guilty of nothing more than doing their duty. He could. And it was disgusting. — No, I was just scared. I didn't notice the netting right away. — It works, — Belkin relaxed a little. Night Spirit exhaled next to him. We're all ready, Death! — What's next? — The squirrel dog looked at Scope, who flew up again, and turned to the bugpony standing next to him. — Tonight we go to the Bastion. It's a little ways from Defenders. The strange hybrid nodded. — All right. While we're sitting. And open up a latrine. You won't need the catamarans completely, but you can use planks and sticks. Just don't burn too much. And cloth. Please, — The squirrel dog biped gave everyone a blank, uncool look, — Do as I say. It's important. — Why? — Spirit asked with interest. — Is it to keep them busy and not to think about nonsense? Or to get used to being obeyed? — So that they don't flash their colourful backs and asses on a monotonous landscape! And that they don't get their asses caught by the guards or those midnight watchmen of yours when the naive and shy ponies step behind the dunes! And lest someone accidentally discover a pile of shit and start snooping around looking for other tracks we're already leaving! — Belkin spoke softly, but Night Spirit felt like she was being shouted at. — Well, that sounded reasonable. The Queen had warned everyone not to scatter. We don't need to be looking for lost ones. — That's not what this is about. Those Guards or Guardians of yours could take hostages and threaten to torture or kill them if we don't surrender and try to escape. Changeling looked at the squirrel dog. What she had heard just didn't fit in her head. It was... The creepiness told back in lessons at school was coming up with the cold breath of the winter desert. The shifter mare, unable to object in any way, stepped aside. Like a sick animal. An animal sick with truth.

***

The pony had few possessions. Perhaps some family heirlooms, like the first photos of the founders of the family that still required obligatory retouching, «lucky» silver, not gold coins of a strange twelve-bit denomination, trinkets and gold... They had been given fishing hats (Chriska had done her best), even for the foals, overalls too. Some of them had with them camping iron and copper utensils. I insisted on taking a couple of woks. Naturally, cast iron. Not aluminium. But still, the ponies wouldn't carry it far on their backs. We didn't plan to sleep here, so we partially dismantled the catamarans to get settled for the day. I made the ponies cast nets on the water, hoping for a catch, until they had all the scraps. They caught something and put it in the barrel they use for shrimp. They're cleaning the fish now. The city folks are all bent out of shape, but these Hunters, they're just like that. By the way, the river flows out of the arimaspi forest. That was good for us. Me. Those mushy-tailed ones had a leg to stand on. Although, they also grimaced and grumbled that I forced them to store wood debris entangled in nets on the deck. Sticks, twigs, even waterlogged stakes... Now it's all drying out as much as possible. Let's try to build a fire. We don't have much in the way of unicorns, but shifters can do a few things. But my lighter's gone, so I had to get a local one. It's a little copper bottle with a small rectangular shape. The lid is held on by a bronze clamp, like our cans. That's to keep the fuel from evaporating. The wheel is crudely notched. But it works. I also have a hybrid of a match and a pencil, my «Mako» with the handle rewound once again, and pistols. Naturally, everyone took water, some of them had already run out of water as we went from Irvind to the river, so we'll have to boil river water. But the pistols... Oh, that's at least a certainty, albeit a false one. All the cartridges are bullet-proof for some reason. With smooth trunks... Well, I'll hit it with three steps. That Scope guy's got a radio, by the way. He's listening. I'm not interfering. Instructions or situation updates will come over the radio. Code phrases. The black bugpony's receiver is on enchanted crystals, and I'm not going anywhere near it. We know.

***

We had enough fuel. They just cooked fish soup, fried a vegetable casserole with eggs (that's not too lazy for someone to move and make sure they don't get beaten up!) and they brewed herbal tea. I can't drink it, the colors in my eyes change from horse «tea». I don't like it. The pony's fine. Which is odd, because I didn't notice anything like that during my stay at Light Sand. Wrong tea? I've just had some boiling water. Assigned duty and assigned myself. I'm with weapons. I have two pistols Chriska pulled out of nowhere, and thirty-six local cartridges, including those already seated in the chambers. What's that against the power of an alicorn? Almost nothing. Unless I pretend to be a boulder and manage to hit it at the worst possible moment. A howitzer can be as tough as you like, but if the crew's lying around with holes in their heads... That's how I calm myself down. Normal gunners try not to stick directly on the front line. Are princesses normal gunners? — Scope? — Yes, Mr. Belkin? - The changeling does not settle for Valentine or just Belkin. Following him, ponies began to do the same, though the first time they met it was «hey, what's your name» or «mr dog». — Is the point known? — Bastion. It's north of Defenders. Huge tower. It's not very tall, but it's thick. — Right on top of the tower? — There should be a platform there. — When? — Tomorrow. Around midnight. — We should check out the pad. What if the airship can't land? I'm not a member of the dock crew. I don't know the ins and outs... — They promised a «whale». — That doesn't mean anything to me. We'll have to take a look at the site. Or look for a flat spot near that tower of yours. Scope crumples, but agrees. — There's only one airship? — It'll suffice. — They won't want to put us in cages and ship us off to Aashtetos? — No. Her Majesty, I think, has paid enough not to want us. And beware. One of those flying troughs with a bubble went down once. — Magic? — That's the one. Or even paired with a buckshot gun. I chuckled. By the way, we should eat it. I noticed a familiar pony at the cauldron, although you can't tell them apart with the Mark closed by the overalls. — Fast Solis? Are you here alone? — I sent mine and my son ahead of time. They're both winged, they'll be fine, — The pony said, but she was shivering slightly. It was easy for a pegasus to fly a hundred kilometres in a day. True, it's a long way from Irvind to Clugetown, but who says it's a straight line? Runners, then Defenders. Northwest to Somnambulist and beyond, I didn't even consider. That's where the Sixes are. Close to the Elements, close to death. Or worse. — Did they go through Runners? — I ask, and I notice that the pony almost licked the bowl from under the «fish soup». In the fresh air. And in the hospital I was tucked in about muddy stinking slop... — No. Crowlers first. We have friends there. Runners will have to go around. There could be pegasi patrols, — Solis says it as if they were German field gendarmerie on flying motorbikes, not pegasi. Or SS units in general. Nur Einhörner und Pegasus zind di echte Ponis! They definitely had something going on here, Bon Voyage didn't lie. — Am I to understand that we are to meet them? — Yes. At the Bastion. I sighed. I cursed Chriska in my mind. — Solis, have you seen Night Scope listening to his radio? — The receiver? Yeah, why? — Nothing. Fuck, how can I explain to her that we don't know where we're going yet? Or am I the only one who doesn't know? This mare's common-law husband and her son have changeling genes, and that's what this is all about? Is it all pre-arranged with someone else, and the ponies and squirrel dogs are on a leftover basis? I don't know. Behind all the hassle, it was already starting to get evening. I, ignoring the laughs and jokes, urged everyone to visit the improvised toilet. After that we started to wrap up. The camouflage nets were rolled up to take with us. We made the decks of our homemade catamarans anew, not trying hard enough. And there was no time to pick at dusk. The ponies sandbagged the campfire and wiped out the latrine, putting the planks away too. I looked and made them move the former elements of the deck, and then the latrine, funny as it may seem, to the side. And sand it down, but make it stick out, yeah. It's like they were trying to hide something and didn't have time. If they track us, they'll find it. They'll decide to take a look. And on the way, they might suddenly visit a shit hole. Stakes would be there, but I've never been so badly hurt by these servicemen. We'll just get them in the mood, that's all. All right, it's time. We should cross a little further downstream and dock on the left bank. And avoid that little town of Defenders. Motherfucking protectors.

***

Forty kilometres across the sands at night? Unrealistic. The sand is loose in places, and you have to walk on the base of the barchans or on the crest. Changelings have to be sent out regularly for reconnaissance. Take off, look around and go down. Belkin always tried to keep one shifter ahead. If human and squirrel dog can't distinguish polarisation of light, and ponies sometimes see something like that (every time more and more differently), then changelings are on a horse here, so to speak. A couple of times it helped not to get acquainted with the local desert wildlife. Northwards, by the way, there were whole clusters of some burrows in the barchans, as this Night Scope said. Morning Rose overpowered herself, too, and flew back and forth a couple of times before darkness fell. By dawn the Bastion was visible. — Break, — Belkin looked at the dark silhouette against the rising sun, while he remembered whether there had been a wind during the night. There had been. And that was encouraging. Now we were walking quite slowly, we had to stop a couple of times so that everyone could «go behind the dune» and just rest. The preliminary check of the barchan to be scorned was on Belkin with shifters. — Finally, — Said Knight Spirit, throwing off her «harness» with her belongings. — You're rejoicing too soon. We must set a net. He helped with the grid himself. The ponies are exhausted. Moreover, the small ones had to be carried in turn, they fell asleep on the move. — Maybe we shouldn't use it. — Patrols, — Belkin pointed with his paw at the Bastion, so small so far. — And you'll have to fly up and see if you can see us clearly. It was hard to see, but he had to walk between the dunes, looking for the right shade of sand on the slope. Valentine trusted the changelings in these matters. They were good at camouflage. By the way, changeling nets were known, but they were made in a slightly different way, with frayed ropes and glued crystals, and the idea of tied shreds was not new, but little used. And there was no point in black vermin doing anything without magic at all. Moreover, almost everyone could conjure, and there was no magic left on the final product. Or almost none. — How long are we going to be here? — Rose came back and asked. — Shouldn't we make some food? — Save fuel. That's one thing. Smoke. That's two. You'd better take turns sleeping. You'd better take turns sleeping. We need to get to this tower by about midnight. — What's the point of saving firewood? We're here! — One of the Hunters got in. Yeah, well, firewood's not a problem in the woods. — We may need to go to another point, — The squirrel dog frowned and turned to Night Scope. — Was there anything new? — No, Mr. Belkin, — The shifter turned off his radio, saving his battery. — We should fly down and see what's out there sometime, — «Mr. Belkin» jerked his head to the east. — Are there no intruders, is it possible to get into the Bastion itself... Or will we be taken from the surface? — We agreed that we'd be taken from the tower itself! — What if it's collapsed inside? Are you gonna take turns dragging the ponies up there by yourself? — All right, I'll check it out. — Wait, — Valentine frowned again and looked round. — Hey, Morning Rose! — Yeah? — Do you fly fast? — No, I'll do it, — Scope cut in. — We're fast enough, even if we're not record-breakers, — Spirit tried to defuse the situation. — Let me see... Spirit, can you imitate a light blue coloured pegasus? — Like the sky? — No, a little lighter. And all in the same colour. Spirit looked at Morning Rose, covered her eyes, and became a green blur for a moment. In front of Belkin stood a flat photograph of the same Rose, changing contours according to her movements, but after the colour channels had been processed. Like a cardboard silhouette of Steven Jobs in front of a shop selling bitten apples. «Rose» flapped her wings and the stiff ringing wings of a changeling flashed behind her feathers. They disappeared again. Valentine thought distractedly that the wings of these dragonflies were not dragonfly wings. Narrow at the tips, with vessels under the thin skin and thin bones showing through. The structure is almost like that of a hand-winged dragonfly, but not flared. If the front edge is sensitive, the back edge is a web of dry folded almost transparent skin, stretched so that it becomes frightening. Swelling cartilaginous structures and vessels give elastic rigidity. But there seems to be no blood circulation at the tips. And the wings, by the way, are paired. The anterior pair is thin, formed by the «thumbs» and two-thirds the span of the posterior. A suit of overalls peeked through the false Rose. Night Spirit sighed and removed it. The practised calm movements of a girl undressing on the beach, without jerking her legs like a confused animal. She held the jumpsuit out to Valentine and reached into one of the larger pockets (yes, almost on her crotch) and pulled out her flight goggles. — Go higher. Spirit jerked her wings stealthily, causing her camouflage to «go» again. She ran outside the net and took off. Belkin came to the edge, put his paw with a visor to his forehead, muttered something and put on a fisherman's hat stuffed in his pocket, again without getting his ears in the slits. Night Spirit spiralled in a gentle spiral to a landing. — It needs to be lighter. And taller, — The alien looked at the changeling oddly. — Then you'd be completely lost. I can still see it, though, I just don't understand what it is. — We don't change colour for real, — Spirit explained patiently. — Didn't Knight Scope say that? The fake pony dawned, stepped away from Belkin and took off her disguise, cowering unhappily. It wasn't that she thought she knew the best way to recolour herself, or that there was something wrong with the magic... — Once you're rested, disguise yourself and fly. Here's the plan: you fly high, as high as you can see, and fly around the Bastion. You'd better get it on a planning flight, or you'll rattle like a rattle. — You're the... Belkin looked at the changeling. Changeling looked at Belkin. — All right, all right... It's not like anyone can hear from up there anyway, — Spirit decided not to make a big deal out of it. — Look. Can you feel magic? — What kind of magic? Defence spells? I don't think there's an enchanted crystal or a unicorn running around the Bastion. — Can you sit quietly on the planning pad over there? — I can. And then what? — You look around. And listen. Let's go over it again: cloak, fly high, look round the structure... — Cloaking, flying high, looking round. — Good. If there's nothing and nobody there, you plan to go to the pad. You listen. Don't go in, but you can take a cautious look. Pay particular attention to the dust layer and possible footprints. If there's anyone there, start planning. You got enough altitude? — It'll be fine. — Then get some rest, eat something sweet... — I'd like... — Spirit's hesitating. — I need emotion. The ponies backed away. Their ears perked up, their eyes darting in fright. — What, there are no donors? — Valentine looked around at all the ponies. — Won't mine do? Only my magic is bad, won't you kill me «by accident»? The changeling sighed. — The Queen said it would be very hard on you... I'm neat. Spirit chipped in something, causing something dissociative to start in the squirrel dog's head. — Hey! — Is something wrong? Are you feeling sick? — No. I can feel you. Is that normal? — Belkin shook his head and turned to the shifter, causing it to twitch in a similar fashion. — Um... I don't know. But I've already dialled, — Spirit grumbled and extinguished the horn. — I can't say it's exactly what I'd like, but thank you. How are you? — Emotions are muted. I suppose you can use that sometimes.

***

This Belkin is definitely paranoid. Who would be interested in an old horn tower? Bats? Insects and birds? Lizards to hide from the heat in the summer and the cold in the winter? Night Spirit flew quite high. The cold air was good for her body, but her huffs were freezing. And her face. The goggles were helping somehow, but her lips and cheeks were already starting to lose sensitivity. There was Bastion. And... And Belkin was right. The changeling rose even higher, caught the flow, and simply spread her wings the right way. Not fast, she wasn't going to set records or «bust her ass» in a competition, thanks, Belkin, for teaching her some vile expressions... On the upper platform of the Bastion, where there used to be a gable roof with huge stone «horns» sticking out from its ends, two pegasi were wandering around. One was dark grey, the other brown of some sort, with a straw-coloured mane and tail. A teenage foal? Spirit silted a turn, peering in. No, acting calm, but as if they were tired of waiting for something. Or someone. What was that Solis girl saying? The pegasi seemed healthy, not tied up, and the little one had even flown from horn to horn and had been told to be more careful, judging by the look of him. No sign of them squinting at the stairwell. No belongings with them. Or hidden. Sit down? Belkin forbade it. He's a fool himself. Night Spirit carefully levelled out and, gaining speed, soared upwards on a lucky stream. She had to flap her wings, clinging to the poor magical background. She wondered what Fast Solis would say when she found out that her husband and foal hadn't been warned that everything was all right. And who decided that? Belkin! The town of Defenders was viewed ahead and to the left. Houses and cottages with distinctive double-horned roofs. Even barns. Spirit couldn't remember why the place was built that way, though usually an arbitrary changeling knows the history of Equestria a little better than a random pony. The «horns» of some of the roofs weren't made of setting mortar, judging by the lack of thickness, but of wood. Yeah, in the desert. But they could also bring a crooked nonconditioning along the «piece of iron» for relatively little money. In general, Defenders was defending the unknown. Nothing worth having around. Then the town became a training base for the Legion. The town grew, but only in size. Sparse vegetable gardens, imported soil, recycling of sewage (sand is easy to dig up, plus those water-solidified mixtures) and a large proportion of imported food. «Wells» with sliding fabric roofs on a frame for berry bushes. Plants can be closed during a sandstorm. And the barracks. There is a parade ground constantly swept with sand, there are fences, but there are not very many of the latter. Desert. There is no one to defend against. The mare almost panicked when she realised she should be there by now, but she couldn't see anything. She was about to start a spiral, but remembered the characteristic pattern of the dunes. Found it. And there was the net, eerily similar to the sand. Night Spirit looked around to make sure she hadn't missed any particularly sharp-eyed and inconspicuous pegasi patrols. That was it, time to go down.

***

— It's them! There they are! They're waiting! — Fast Solis was thrashing about. — Why didn't you tell them we were close? What if they don't wait? — There were orders not to contact them, — Night Spirit glanced at Belkin and adjusted the overalls on her ass. The cleverness of one and the panic of the other had to be stopped. — Solis... Solis, listen to me, — Belkin knelt down and gently caught the pony's head with his palms, immediately releasing it. — There are thirteen of you ponies here, right? If there's an ambush, they'll catch them all. You can't help your own. — And if they don't? What if they think something's wrong? What if they think... — Yeah, we were joking! We lied about the Legion, set fire to Hunters for fun, and convinced your family to go to yebenia! I'm Pinkie Pie, Rainbow Dash and Discord all rolled into one! — But... — Morning Rose has something wrong with her memory: that's how she talked to the Keepers. Do you want to start thinking you never had a husband? After all, he's a half-changeling! By the way, — The dog's misunderstanding grinned, — The foal will also be taken away. They'll brainwash him, treat him with spells, and put him in a shelter... Fast Solis cried. From powerlessness. At the impossibility of changing anything. — Where are the blacks? — The squirrel dog looked round. — Scope, Spirit! There's a job for you. — Don't, I can handle it, — Fast Solis whispered. — I've handled you... Don't take it away... — You need to fly to Bastion once again for reconnaissance, — Belkin did not pay attention to the fact that Fast Solis tried to say something about feelings, which she really needed. — Be extremely careful. And we need to know what we should hear on the radio. — It's nothing anymore. If we don't come back, then we should move along the railroad to New Haven, — Night Scope took a radio receiver out of his backpack in the form of saddlebags with straps (something similar was Clementine Gash's). He wanted to give it to Valentine, but remembered about magic and shoved the device to Fast Solis, who seriously thought that the shifters had been called to her soul. — Is... — It's set. Just don't twist anything too much. Turn it up here. And here's the volume. The changelings undressed, tossed their jumpsuits onto their rucksacks. Synchronised. Practised. And stomped shyly in front of the squirrel dog. — Again? — You should have some sweet tea, — Spirit sighed, looking away. A pegasus came up. The same Morning Rose foal. Belkin looked questioningly at the small one. — Mr Dog... I've got candy. And Rose Dew gave me hers! — The pegasus looked back at his sister, who, by the whim of chance and local genetics, had been deprived of her wings. — Oh Heaven! — Knight Spirit sobbed. — Take it! Thank you, young mister!

***

He said he would remind them when to stop. They had already taken quite enough when the scary creature said: — Just a little more and that's it, or we'll get apathetic. — We've had enough, — Said Knight Scope, embarrassed, and then faltered, catching the squirrel dog's eye. — Get more. The leftovers are uncomfortable, — The dog squirrel's voice was colourless. — Distracting. I could be wrong. Spirit hurriedly removed the remnants of the dog squirrel's emotions and flashed her horn. To use any magic near this creature, you had to do everything carefully and precisely. And don't touch. In fact, don't go closer than a couple of steps. The strange dog stood up. — Repeat the instructions, — Belkin spoke without emotion. As if there were none. And the two changelings repeated as if before the very first task. But if they had been timid then, now it was something new. An ice horror. The poisonous etheric magic of the airless sky. Black crystal. The changelings launched simultaneously, glancing round. With a distinctive flutter of wings, they began to gain altitude. — Does everyone have any water left? — Belkin looked round at the ponies. — You and you — the net. The rest of you, line up with your things.

***

All the way to Bastion Fast Solis was embarrassing.

***

— There's no one here at all. There's water, probably at the bottom of the tank, rusty, but the tower is empty, — A narrow-winged pegasus of dark colour led the strange dog through the floors. — Downstairs some storerooms are labyrinthine, but there's nothing there, just broken furniture. There are empty rooms on the second floor. On the third, bags of old grass. The fourth is locked up. And the fifth you've already seen, there's an attic and a water tank. Belkin was just approaching the bags. Twenty of them, no more. Yes, the variously chopped straw was climbing through the rough seam on the side of the sack. — What kind of grass is that? — I don't know. It smells like a poppy. Poppy seeds are highly appreciated by confectioners, but here the hay is solid, and it's not good for anything. — Yeah. Belkin patted the bag, raising a cloud of grass dust. — So this is... Shall we go upstairs? The airship will be here soon, won't it? — The pegasus hesitates. — Let's go to four. I'll check the storerooms. Pegasus left, and Valentine tried to tear the split seam. He picked up a thick, stiff thread with a knife. Fumbled around, pulled out something rounded. A piece of poppy head. The grains were unripe, small, still pale as far as could be seen in the light of the setting sun. Bastion's windows are narrow, not windows but loopholes. Since this pegasus had taken away his large and uncomfortable torch, he had to light a lighter. And something Belkin didn't like the old cupboard out of place. He pushed it aside and stared at the pony switch on the wall. Naturally, he switched it on. A dim crystal lamp glowed under the ceiling. The wind outside the window would whistle especially frantically, and the lamp would shine brighter. He examined the find. Actually, the poppy head had fallen apart by cuts. Once again: by the notches. Apparently, the milk was collected, and the unnecessary «haulm» was used for straw. Fucking confectioners! Gardeners! Fucking bakers! He switched off the lights and followed the pegasus. With the lantern I managed to find the switchboard. For some reason, it was on the locked fourth floor. Opened it up. A couple of switches just inside the switchboard among the tangled wires and neatly placed «plug» turned out of the socket. Screwed it in. One switch switched nothing on and off, and the other lit four light bulbs on the stairs. He didn't really want to go downstairs, so Belkin went to the ponies on the second floor. Silently he began to move a table, some cabinet, a hulk of a cupboard. Again a switch. Two lamps. But it was just too dim. Turned it off. — Are there any unicorns? There were no unicorns. He didn't have to ask. Hadn't you seen who he was leading before? It's all earth ponies and pegasi. They stomped on top. Yeah, they're both full of holes. — Mr. Belkin! — Night Spirit is breathing heavily. — Pegasi of some kind. — Where? — Belkin stepped out of the shadow, adjusting his gun in his pocket. — Flying towards New Haven. Probably saw our tracks. — Not Irvind? — No. — Expected... Can you fly round the Bastion and see if you can get to the fourth floor? See if the windows are wider? — There's bars. Inside. You can't see out, but you can't get through. We tried that. — Mm-hmm... How's your magic? — What do you mean? — Can you do anything, or just... — Just tell me what you need! — Night Scope is not happy. — We've got a door to break down. And there's nothing to do without an axe and a crowbar. Night Scope snorted.

***

He conjured for a long time. He ate the candy and asked for emotions. He was doing something magical again. And then he turned around and kicked the door. The cracked wood burst and released black curved nails from the door hinge. — Stop! — Belkin shook the door and caught the edge. He pulled hard. It almost worked. Then someone stomped down the stairs again. A pony. Forrest Glade, maybe. Green with small white stars. No marks under his overalls, of course. Came up and almost sniffed the door. — Well... He also turned round and kicked it twice. He stood up humanely and put his shoulder on the shrivelled structure. Pulled and rested on it again. The door crunched and swung inwards on the tongue of the hinge. With a jingle, the iron fell out of the split jamb. — Amateurs. Such a lock, and they didn't reinforce the jamb. Oh, I remember we once... Oops! — It's nothing. It happens, — The squirrel dog grinned. Someone had made a wind pipe inside. From one broken and barred over window to the other. A stupid wind turbine was spinning. Some kind of steam engine or, more likely, tractor generator with a familiar gear emblem was connected by a belt drive to the wind turbine. Not so much a strange as a frightful battery was pulling wires not to the generator, but somewhere along the wall. Probably to that switchboard where one switch «didn't work». — Um... Mr. Belkin? — Yes? — The said «Mr.» turned to the shifter. — Don't go near the turntable, eh? I think the belt's enchanted. I mean, like, for flexibility and resistance to wear and tear. He didn't want to be without light. Belkin sighed. He thought about it. He fixed the tin cover of the wind catcher. For a long time he looked at the crates and bags in the corner. He came over and resolutely pulled down the cloth, which was pressed by stones. Sand was under the cloth, and the ponies began to help.

***

The creature opened one of the drawers with a knife. It turned sideways, almost sideways, to the flaming sunset window. The tail wagged. Some kind of paper. The scroll. It seems to be Equestrian letter forms. Belkin read this quickly, checked some drawings a couple of times. He crumpled the scroll and put it in one of his pockets, where, because of the smallness, nothing really fit. Then the dog took something out of the box and unfolded a cloth smelling of mineral oil. He dug into the depths of the coffin and pulled out something else. This something fell out of the wrapping paper, with a solid and clean ding of cast metal. — Well? — The dog's paws leisurely but deftly inserted the picked rectangular thing from the side into the gun. — A Stalliongrad pegasus gun, — Night Scope said grudgingly. — There should be a branding on it. It's a strange box, though, the kind the Legion uses. And it's cloth instead of wax paper for some reason. — Are you sure? — The squirrel dog pulled out another gun, threw it to the changeling in the cloth. — I didn't see any branding. — It must have been... How could it be? And the wood? It's supposed to be resin veneer, not wood? — An unaccounted batch or a fake, — Belkin finally sorted out the weapon, having looked at the manual a couple of times, and clicked idly. — But «otl». The stranger removed the cartridge block, shoved in four cartridges and squeezed the iron back. He sat down on a nearby crate, resting the gun on his knees. — You see, we need to have a serious talk. And it's going to be an unpleasant conversation. So whoever wants to go can leave, but don't take offence afterwards. Three pairs of wary eyes. Ears perked up. The shifters are scared, and the earth pony is not happy. — And what are we going to talk about, Mr. Belkin? — The earth pony's cheekbones flicker in and out. — About how we stay alive. All of us. And I want to ask you, can I trust you?

***

What was found in the boxes was expected. Yeah, after the poppy straw. I, breaking my eyes, read the not too detailed instructions for the gun. In Equestrian, by the way. A pegasus rifle. For the pegasi? Against the pegasi? The moronically inserted «clip» on the side above the handle, like the MP-61 air rifle, was not so much a clip as a chamber block. A flat version of the drum. The gun fired by self-firing, pressing the «clip» to the barrel by means of either a roller, or else by pressing the trigger. The trigger lever was more like a healthy button for a pony. A large and thick bracket covered the handle (I'll call it that) and prevented the shot from colliding with anything. At the same time, it was a continuation of the forearm. The muzzle slightly muffled the sound when fired and, moving forward under the influence of powder gases, allowed the «clip» to move back one chamber when releasing the trigger. From prolonged shots? Most likely. The gun was quite applied, I would even say spring-applied. Yes, the slightly adjustable butt dampened the recoil by means of a damper on a banal spring. At first I thought that in this Stalliongrad it was quite enough to rivet such weapons freaks, but I did not jump to conclusions. Something was wrong here. And there is no stigma. There's one on the fucking refrigerator and even on the generator, but not on the weapon. A fake? An unaccounted-for copy? That's what I asked the pony while I was figuring it out. I loaded it, thinking that I should look for cartridges. But for now, I sat down on another box and told these four-legged ones: — You see, we need to have a serious talk. And it's going to be an unpleasant conversation. So whoever wants to go can leave, but don't take offence afterwards. Watching. Then this Glade asks: — And what are we going to talk about, Mr. Belkin? — About how we stay alive. — I answer, — All of us. And I want to ask you, can I trust you? They don't. I sigh. — The guns are nameless? They nod. — I mean, it's doubtful it's Legion property. — That's understandable. The Legion uses revolvers, — Scope condescends to show his knowledge of the matter. And he twirls the gun in his forelimbs, sitting down on the floor. — Unnamed copies of things manufactured outside of Equestria? Is that it? They nod. — Sounds like smuggling, — Glade said. — In Zebrabwa or Saddle Arabia, they will tear off the hooves. At least they'll pay with something. If you want — gold, if you want — some kind of «magic» powder or a sack of evil herbs. If you want, a young zebra. You can throw so much coffee and tea into the hold for a gun that you can open a shop. — Sack, sack... Doesn't Equestria make its own painkillers and sleeping pills? — It does, — Grins the earth pony. — But some unicorns in big cities do not have problems with sleep at all. — They have problems with their heads, — Adds Spirit. — You won't get rid of this stuff later, and you'll be tempted to get drunk or sniff again. And it would be nice to know that she was poisoned in Canterlot, because in Las Pegasus, and in Baltimore, and elsewhere... — What about the Guard and the Night's Watch? — I ask. — As usual, — Night Spirit doesn't even bother to explain. I see. Either they've fucked everything up, or they're in on it. — And? — Night Scope stares at me blankly. — They smoke it. They mix it with tobacco and smoke it, — Said Spirit, wrinkling his nose. — By the way, I've heard there's a big and beautiful poppy field near Walkers. The Wicked Woods brings moisture... But are ordinary poppies good for that? — Would it be difficult to bring some seeds of a «more different» poppy from Saddle Arabia? — I ask. Glade, who had been silent until then, even snorted. — You can have a sack! You'll be saddled! — Okay, Kameraden, — I snort too, — Then we conclude that this is an intermediate warehouse of such smugglers that fines for them will be an insignificant addition. It's a prison. — Addictive potions? — Scope snickers. — As if it weren't Tartarus. — There will be a fine. Massive. Not payable. And you'll be out of Hayside Swamps, — Forest Glade adds knowingly, — Until you get the money you need. And with their rates for the labour of criminals, they'll put an unpaid bill in your grave. — How much is it, by the way? — I wonder. — Enough to make our whole company disappear into the sands. The changelings flinch. — Why here? It's a long way from the railway. — New Haven is where they check ships. Both water and air, — The earth pony continued. — And in Walkers... You know yourself. A pair of pegasi, an air cart... At night, of course. If it's not too big and heavy, they'll fly to Bastion, or they'll put the carriage on the rails and go. One Discord, the «railway» away from Defenders, behind the former defensive rampart, is out of sight. And the station is always empty, there's no proper platform. The main thing is not to kiss a train. — What's there at the station? — A shed. There must be a pit inside. It's a desert. There used to be no toilet, so we used to go behind that shed. — Ugh! — Night Spirit looks angrily at Glade. — If it's a trolley, I reckon they're taking shifts to the marshalling yard at Irvind. It's a long way, they'd have to stop for the day, take that thing off and put it back on the rails. But it's a lot of money. I don't know how to bring back so much of it, — The pony nods at the crates. Your ponies on the railway? Airship? — An airship carrying contraband from here could go straight through Randers and Nightmare Cliffs, — Scope said. — And to Evenchain, for instance. — That's all very informative, — I interject, — But I'm more interested in when those foal boys are coming to pick up the cargo? Spirit shuddered, as if they'd already arrived. — And what should we do? — Instead of answering, the second shifter asks himself. — Do something? Well, Forest Glade will select a couple of stronger and smarter ponies, we'll give out guns... there should be bullets here, by the way. The two of you are on air patrol. And more... — Yeah? — Spirit's looking back. — You see anyone in the sky, you shoot. Understood? We don't want the hull of the airship damaged. Scope, that goes for you, too. The shifters nod. Despair in their eyes. I stand up and pull out another drawer, a smaller one. I take out a knife and pry open the lid. Without turning round, I say to this Glade: — We need to put the lyudey... ponies on the floor. The entrance to the Bastion, block it with anything. If we can do that, jam it shut. And then jam it anyway. Pay special attention to the windows. You take whoever's left and meet the ship. The changelings will help, they'll be hanging around. In the box, expect to find ammunition in packs. Bullets. I fill two magazines, stuff another handful in my pockets. Shit, really, I can't shove them up my ass anymore. I should do another briefing. Glade smashes the rib of another box with his hooves, and the lid comes off easily. I shrug. There's nowhere to go.

***

The airship arrived just before midnight. Looks like a whale or a sperm whale, the shifters didn't lie. The deck in the forward third, where the «head» is. The narrow jaw of the ramp. Long fins dipped slightly downward. At the edges, where whales have eyes, two propellers in ring shrouds. A flared tail. Well, a whale is a whale. The dorsal fin is smoky. — Run! — Belkin shouted as the ramp touched the debris at the top of the Bastion. — Glade, check the floors so no one is forgotten! Soft Shadow, build everyone up! A shadow flashed overhead with a dragonfly rustle. — Clear! — Don't relax! We're the last ones in! «Fucking hell, is he going to take them all?» — Valentine thought, watching the airship sag and rise under the footsteps of the captain. — I have the name of Witgoft Morgenstern! — Informs an important griffin in one cap, from under which narrow feathers stick out like those of a secretary bird. — Valentin Belkin, — Informs the squirrel dog to the bird-lion, who barely noticeably shuddered. — Everything is right! — Nods griffin. — Vi fil ponis... Kak mnogo imet`mesto poni pri vas? — Thir... Fifteen, — Valentine replies, remembering the two others who were waiting on the roof. — I'm sixteenth. — Peregruz yedva ne! — Witgoft croaks, which is surprising to Belkin. A beak, after all. The griffin fluttered its wings finely. — Ire Maestet Chrysalis said thirteen! Das Dutzend des Discord! — How bad is it? — Not bad, — The griffin switches to Equestrian. — But the crystals have been charging for a long time. It was then that Valentine realised what had been constantly bugging him. Stalliongrad airships wouldn't be able to stick to the roof. They're half aeroplanes, as he guessed. And the «bubbles» here aren't big and perfect enough to fly without magic. Did Chriska forget? Quite. For an alicorn, magic is natural enough that... that's it. — I will now approach the ship, — Said the scary dog quietly to Witgoft Morgenstern. — I will not go on board yet. If you notice that the ship is sinking, shout at once. — What? How? — While the griffin was thinking, Belkin took a few steps. The test crystals deteriorated if you took them in your hand. The deterioration of properties was observed when, in fact, the crystals themselves were observed. The stare was weakening the internal spell. — Stop! — The griffin jumped up, flapping its wings as the airship began to gently descend. — What kind of magic is there? — It's not magic. This is its cessation.

***

— Why did you stay? — Belkin's voice is colourless. Emotions flow out of the stranger. A note of contempt, hopelessness, determination, and sheer frustration. — The ponies have been sent to Clugetown. Her Majesty will meet them, — Night Spirit says to the other. — Captain Morgenstern is an honest griffin, and the Queen trusts him. «Uh-huh,» — Thought Valentin, — «He, this Morgenstern, probably did not understand for a long time why the promise to give pussy, if something is wrong, has nothing to do with sex». Chriska could. — Those pegasi you spotted... — Yeah. I think they'll be here by morning. — How many? — No more than a dozen. And only winged ones. But they could bring a flying carriage. Four more, — Night Scope said, and squinted at Belkin. — Wouldn't it be better to leave now? It's a big desert. — No. The wind's died down. Footprints. I can't fly. — So? We're gonna hold the fort? Until nightfall? — Spirit's nervous, I can hear it in his voice. — The situation. It would be handy if there are few of them and they really want to check out the «goods». — So? — Spirit repeated. — We'll hide in the Bastion, leaving only one entrance. When they enter or fly in, we'll block it. So they don't escape. And you're a good shot? — Well... — Didn't Chrysalis order you to do something about me? — Valentine, who has switched to another topic, sits relaxed, but speaks abruptly. Night Spirit noted the somewhat rapid heartbeat of the squirrel dog, and magic is not necessary for this. And something with an emotional background. Apathy and anger at the same time. — She... The squirrel dog stares. — She was talking, — Spirit squeezes out. — You must kill me if I am seriously injured and there is a risk that I will be captured. So? Why are you silent? Spirit remembered how the paws of the squirrel dogs handled the gun that he saw for the first time, and she was not afraid, but so uncomfortable, as next to bare wires or powerful unstable explosives. — Yes, she did. And the Queen also said that everything was discussed with you, Mr. Belkin! — Scope tries to «counterattack», but his voice shakes. — That's right. I asked her myself, — Belkin barely stretches, looking over the brightening horizon to the east. It's chilly on the upper platform of the Bastion. — Then... The squirrel dog grinned. Bitter. — Then you decided it would be easier to kill me now and escape? Like, there's no chance of fighting back anyway. Walking across the desert with me is not an option. And I can't fly. Night Spirit looked back at Scope in bewilderment. That hiccup was enough for Belkin. He was still sitting relaxedly on an old, dried-out plank thrown on a rock, but the paw resting on his lap clutched a fearsome one-hoof weapon. Greyly the metal gleamed in the light of moon and sky. Unkindly blackened were the holes of the six muzzles. Night Scope wanted to say something, to explain himself somehow, but Spirit, at the risk of being shot, asked quietly and angrily: — You're really stupid, aren't you? How did you get that into your head? — What was I supposed to think? — The crazy squirrel dog shrugged, allowing him to shift a little more comfortably in case he had to dodge and shoot. — You stay with me until the owners of the sacks and boxes appear on the horizon, shoot me or kill me with magic, of course, in the silliest way possible, then walk or fly away and, having made a detour, head for Defenders or Runners. And then it's a standard changeling's job. — Mm-hmm. Why don't you go straight to Clugetown? — Scope says with wicked sarcasm, fighting his own failing throat. — It's far away. The desert, — Belkin looks past the changelings, but they stand there, not daring to move. Wind. Night wind. By morning it's downright cold. Steam from nostrils and mouths. Here they are looking over the horizon. — Anybody got a grenade? — What? — A hoof bomb. — W-why? — Scope decides to back up, but stops, changing his mind. — You leave that thing to me,’ Belkin says calmly, but the shifters are clenching inside, — And you can go on your way. I don't think there are any alicorn-level unicorns among the suddenly returned owners of this lodge. I'll blow myself up or catch a bullet. But the way you wanted?.. No. — We didn't want this, — Spirit whispers. — You can't want something like this. The Queen said that you... you could ask for it, and then... — I've got a receiver! — Scope barely twitches. — What if the queen said something? She's got to help! — Six hours full throttle, if not more, — Belkin said, referring to the airship and the distance to Clugetown. — They're still halfway there. Or do airships have transmitters? — Not on these ones, — Spirit sighed. — Celestia should have them, Stalliongrad... But here? I doubt it. — And I don't have a hoof bomb either, — Scope adds. — What exactly did Chrysalis tell you? — Protect at all costs, obey, kill under special conditions, — Scope began to list. — Severely wounded and unable to be pulled out, under mental control, decided to surrender. — There's no reason to surrender, — Belkin's calmly speaking voice was suddenly so hateful that Spirit forgot about the cold. — Uninjured, armed, mental control and arimaspi failed... What else? Can't be taken out? — She'll come, — Spirit said with conviction. — The Queen will not abandon us. And, Mr Belkin, please don't set yourself up stupidly! Promise? — I'll do my best. — Good. Do your best. I haven't kicked you in the face yet for making stuff up.