Doctor Whooves: A Thief at the Gala Read online

Delicate hoof clicks reverberated across the TARDIS’ octagonal grating which served as the navigation chamber floor. Dimly a chestnut toned colt lifted his head, scanning the area and halting upon spying a blond maned grey coated filly crouched on forelegs before him. In her mouth was a baking tray full of delightfully odoriferous muffins.

  “Doctor, these turned out funny!”

  Muffins …? he blinked, mind roused by the pleasant presentation. “Wait, when did you finish those? Moreover, was I asleep just now? How odd. I don’t remember falling asleep …”

  The Doctor hopped up, alert and energetic enough to exhaust his companion, cantering around the TARDIS’ control panel, flicking and twisting its myriad levers and switches with reckless abandon.

  “Doctor!” Ditzy whined, the pupils of her eyes wandering in her distress. “My muffins look funny!”

  “They smell wonderful. Might I have some? I’m famished. Famished? Hadn’t anticipated that.”

  “You’re not making sense. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong with my muffins? Look at them, they’re green!” Momentarily the genetic condition that caused Ditzy’s eyes to meander ceased, and she glared at him fixedly. The Doctor giggled, charmed.

  “The oxer berries of Zenebria are very potent, my dear Derpy. I assure you they’re quite sweet. Why don’t we try them?”

  “Okay … if you say so. I don’t know how you survive without any food in here. There’s a refrigerator, but I didn’t see anything in it,” she grumbled, setting the tray on a bench nearby. Apparently without any trouble, hooves sufficed for the manipulation of muffins and the utensils necessary to butter them. What an amazing universe this was!

  “I have a refrigerator? Wonderful! Uhm … Don’t blueberries turn green when you bake them, Derpy?”

  “It’s Ditzy …” she muttered. “Oh, no, they don’t. Sometimes the blueberry juice dyes the muffin greenish … Oh my! They’re tasty!”

  “They’re quite nice, even without marmalade,” The Doctor muttered.

  “Marmalade on oxen … oxy … uh, oxymoron berries? No, you said ‘oxer’ berries. Oh what a foalish name for a berry, even if they are tasty. You are a strange, strange pony, Doctor!”

  Conversation took a back seat to enjoyment of the sumptuous muffins. The Doctor’s mind whirled, naturally, musing on the curiosities of how a pony might become such a wonderful baker. Of course, with all that he’d seen since entering this universe, anything was truly possible. Shortly, with a full stomach and empty tray of muffins, the Doctor could return to the present state of affairs.

  Being a pony requires markedly more food energy than I’d expected, he thought. “Derpy, I hear a bell ringing. What is that?”

  “Uhm,” she blinked, eyes unsettled again. “Oh … the oven timer!”

  The thought of this settled between them, eyes leading to the tray of muffins they’d just consumed.

  “Derpy, was that the timer for these muffins?”

  “Uh, I only made one batch. That’s kinda impossible, Doctor. I never set the timer wrong! Never!”

  “I’ll take your word for it, because the only timer I have in my kitchen is a five minute hourglass,” the Doctor prefaced. “It has to be set in equal intervals to be of any use to a baker-pony such as yourself.”

  “I thought it was very pretty. Whoever made it cared a lot about detail. So … what does that mean? I didn’t … this doesn’t make any sense! Do things always go wrong in the TARDIS, Doctor?”

  “Don’t presume what you cannot understand is wrong,” he chided, voice resolving into a soft mutter. “Perhaps I left the granular vortex motivator misaligned …”

  “Hey, I know what ‘misaligned’ means!” Ditzy cried as he cantered away. “You can’t use big words to confuse me!”

  “I’m very pleased you do,” he murmured between other indeterminable phrases which she did not understand. Thankfully he was then interrupted by the ring of a telephone. Hurriedly he rounded the tower control and snatched up the hoofset. “Yes?” A pause. “Yes, yes, this is the Doctor. Celestia? Princess! Oh! Derpy, it’s Princess Celestia! This is an honor. I am at your service.”

  “Princess Celestia? Of the … wait, didn’t we rescue her from the CyberPonies?”

  He lowered the hoofset and said: “No, not yet we haven’t. Not to her. This is the past Celestia.”

  “Past Celestia? Oh right, we traveled three hundred years into the future! I get it! … I think.”

  “I’m sorry, princess. No, no. You have my fullest attention.”

  He never explains the things I want to know, Ditzy huffed and waited.

  “Oh? I’m deeply honored. Naturally I accept. May I make a request? Yes. No, no, I’d never … but of course. It’s Derpy, my assistant. And …” Another, somewhat extended, pause. “Why, thank you. Promptly, of course. And good day to you, princess.”

  Ditzy was annoyed enough by then to stomp a hoof. The Doctor, possessed of the lordly manner that occasionally consumed him, was not phased. “We’ve got a date at the Grand Galloping Gala.”

  “Th-the … gr-grand … ga-galloping …” stammered Ditzy, head spinning with joy. The Doctor smiled, but his reaction seemed muted. “Doctor, aren’t you excited?”

  “Why yes, it did sound very important, and I ought to be excited. Anyway, any invitation from royalty is not to be snubbed. The word ‘Gala’ suggests a party, am I correct? I don’t know about pony events, I’m afraid. However I’m getting the impression they’re none too different from most human events. Another curious correlation. I suppose we ought to be choosing outfits, now?”

  “Oh yes!” The thought of formal attire reignited the excitement within Ditzy, who forgot the Doctor’s annoying habit of either concealing information or sharing too much of it. “Oh Doctor, this is going to be the best night ever!”

  “You know, this makes me wonder if they have telephones in Canterlot. I suppose they must.”

  Ditzy was much too jubilant to acknowledge his statement. “C’mon Doctor! Hey, where is the closet in this thing, anyway?”

  “Closet? Derpy, you mean wardrobe! Didn’t you have your own?”

  “Yeah but I forgot!” she chimed brightly. “It’s okay. I remember now!”

  The TARDIS was not an especially noisy vessel, powered by the living energy of which only the Time Lords could grasp. Yet it seemed to The Doctor that it was radiating an unease, even an aura of urgency. The Doctor stopped as he passed a chromed power column and laid his right forehoof upon it.

  “What’re you trying to tell me, sexy? There’s trouble and you know it. Oh, there’s always trouble, I know it, but what kind? You’re ill at ease …” he observed wistfully, hearing an inarticulate female whisper in his heart. He closed his eyes and made every effort to focus on it.

  “Doctor!” The Doctor’s head jolted up in the direction of Ditzy’s voice. The excitement sent him galloping. Most of the interior of the TARDIS was metalwork of some variety, as if hand assembled, rather than built by precise machines. The last regeneration had not changed the layout too much, and it had been easy to re-learn.

  Eight corridors branched from the central control pylon spread out evenly, some dedicated in purpose, others undefined. Four of these had bedchambers with every necessity. Ditzy had claimed the area with the most simple layout, but The Doctor had noticed her room had a trot in closet.

  “ ‘Trot’ in,” he giggled, momentarily forgetting Ditzy’s piqued summons. “Oh! Derpy!”

  Just outside of the aforementioned closet she stood in a gorgeous white-silver lace full length gown, and she smiled, eyes evenly focused. Downward. The Doctor clicked his hooves in approval.

  “Oh you’re lovely. How did she know, I wonder?” The Doctor breathed. Recognizing his reference to another mare, Ditzy’s glowing sweetness faded into something intimidating.

  “How did who know?” she smiled, a veiled warning.

  The Doctor smiled back instantly, unaffected or unaware. “Oh, the TARDIS! Don’t you know? Heart of a w
oman, she. Generous and protective. She made that dress for you. Fits perfectly, doesn’t it? Oh you’ll steal some hearts, I’ve no doubt.”

  “A what? ‘Woman’?” Ditzy growled. “That sounds like a human thing! Like you keep saying you are … uh, were.”

  “Yes, well, no. I’m a Time Lord. Half human. A woman is a human female. Now I suppose I’m half pony rather than half human.”

  “I thought so!” Steal some hearts … Not yours! She grimaced. Oh Doctor, what kind of friend am I to you? Her head drooped, and she turned back to the wardrobe. “I’ll change out of this now …”

  “I’ve got it easy, you know. I can wear this, if I want! It’s a miracle anything fits, now … being a pony is very inter-”

  Ditzy stomped her hoof fiercely. The sharp report shot to the walls and right back into their eardrums. The Doctor was instantly hushed. “Doctor, won’t you wear something nice? I’d never really dreamed of going to the Gala. Not really.” The dread of disappointment weighing upon her heart. Of course she had, but she was rather annoyed with him. You are impossible, Doctor! “We could take time to find something for you! You’re a Time Lord, aren’t you? You can do stuff like that?”

  The Doctor was humbled. He’d never imagined that he’d affected her, a pony, this way. What a fool you are, Doctor, he chided himself. Why would it be any different than any of the others? “Of course I-”

  “You’re a foal!” she flared with back still turned. “I’m a foal with feathers in my head! I want to be alone. Please.”

  “If you wish.”

  “Forelock, who is this fellow you’ve had Princess Celestia invite to the Gala?” asked Dr. John Trotson, trotting beside a dark, wavy haired, dramatic looking fellow, his companion, Forelock Holmes. “Not another one of your experts, is it? What’s so unusual about this case?”

  “Expert? No, John, not an expert,” he replied dismissively with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I explained.”

  Dr. Trotson halted, head inclined to one of the many tall stained glass windows through which multi-hued light streamed. “When has there been a time you couldn’t explain something to me?”

  “I could explain,” Forelock drawled teasingly, “but you would not comprehend.”

  “Oh,” he blinked, as if doing so on a smaller scale. There were times when trust was just the way to proceed. This was one of them. “Another thing. Why were you treating the Princesses with such-”

  “Respect?” Forelock finished. “Nonsense. Patriotic fealty has no shame, Dr. Trotson.”

  “Pardon me? When we were last in Canterlot, don’t you recall the thing you were wearing?”

  “Tush! I’ll not have you mention that again. You’ve been rather lonely of late. No new marefriend?”

  “No,” he grumbled. “Look, that’s not important. There’s too much to do! How do you suppose we narrow down our search?”

  “Reason, John. Logic. You’re no stranger to it. Look around. The Canterlot army is away, training. They’ve not been recalled. Celestia is no foal. She knows not to draw heat to the flame.”

  “But we’ve understood this colt has accomplices.”

  “Thugs do not an army make, not in Canterlot, anyway. Without a leader they pose only a wisp of threat. The Princesses must maintain peace and calm. This is the night of the Galloping Gala, and thus the most important night of the year. Try to imagine the economic consequences for an attack on the palace, or rioting due to a perceived threat. We are fortunate this is so orderly an affair. We have just two dozen palace guards and the servants to sort through. Let’s practice a little logic, shall we?”

  “All right,” Trotson acquiesced. “You’re always trotting on my head about that. Let’s hear what you’ve got on your mind.”

  “You put up with it. Do you remember Luna’s guards?”

  “I do? Well … oh, guards? Yes, yes I do. Azure Nocturne and Sable Thorn. Fearsome ponies, if you ask me.”

  “Ah, but you don’t. Sable Thorn was not among the guards when we arrived this afternoon. According to the schedule, Starry Luminescence is on-call during emergencies such as this. She’s a rare pony, you see. Azure Nocturne and she are both proficient magic practitioners. It is their duty to ward off any threat that might encourage Luna to change back into Nightmare Moon. I get the distinct impression that is what our opponent wishes to avoid most of all.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Time, John. To our villain time is more valuable than the crown, and he will require more than the schedule of a palace guard can provide. The longer he delays the greater the chance his quarry will slip from his back, unnoticed, like so many sacks of carrots. Even if our villain is here just to steal Princess Luna’s crown, many preparations are required. There are accomplices among the guards, but none of them is the mastermind of this plot!”

  “So we’ve just to weed out the sour apples, then,” John breathed, reassured. A thought nagged at him. “Now just a moment, how do you know the guards schedule?”

  “Oh? That? I was speaking to a filly, I believe her name was Feather Blush …” he stated softly. “She was very helpful indeed. They were careless to leave it where anypony might snatch it up. I tell you, John, they’re not too innocent.”

  “Yes, Forelock. They are. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Forelock’s head was lowered with a forehoof at his mouth. Curtly he looked up. “Yes, I’ve grown quite fond of Canterlot and these ponies. I do regret the time when we will leave.”

  “Already? Aren’t you enjoying this chase?”

  Forelock gazed at John with disbelief. “Barely, my friend. We need information!”

  Firmly, John nodded. Silence pervaded, and the expectant attitude of Forelock sank in. “I’m to do the interviewing, am I? Again?”

  “Of course,” he responded smoothly. “I’ve other matters to attend.”

  Dr. Trotson had long ago ceased to argue the arrangement: He did the legwork while Forelock put his peerless intellect to the task of unraveling of mystery at hoof. Trotson thus wasted no time, proceeding directly to the main entrance of the palace. Forelock had made the point clear; this ‘Feather Blush’ was a pony of value.

  Such large corridors, almost anypony could hide in them. If magic is as effective as Twilight … erh, Sparkle said it was. She also said her talent was rare, John recollected. The average unicorn knows only how to manipulate inanimate objects, it would seem.

  “It would be an unprecedented disaster if anypony could use magic as well as I can. Only a hoofful of ponies have any real talent. You see, each pony excels in magic in a way that reflects the desires of their hearts. I’m exceptional,” she had grinned, smugly, earlier this morning, much improved. “You don’t know much about unicorn magic, do you? Here, if you need to talk to me again, use this. I’ll be happy to answer your questions, especially for the Princess.”

  John’s mind reflected upon the curious clear stone she had gifted to him. Celestia’s student? Was the Princess’ sole ability to raise the sun? Oh, wait … a white pony with tri-colored mane. Chocolate, plum and pale pink. Forelock was right, she was adorable. Her bright, brown eyes lit up as Dr. Trotson approached her niche. She was expecting him?

  “Oh, hello. You’re Forelock’s assistant. Are you here to sign up for guard duty?”

  “It’s Dr. Jotswrong-uh,” he blinked and shook his head. “No, no. Doctor John Trotson. Are you Feather Blush?”

  “Yes. My friends call me Feather. You can call me Feather. Do you want to call me Feather?”

  “Well, why not. Tell me, Feather, can anypony sign up to be a guard?”

  “No, but you can. Forelock and you are special. A-ah, I mean, you have permission,” she stammered, face reflecting her namesake. “You being here makes the Gala safer.”

  Special? “You said ‘special’ just now. What’s that mean?”

  “Special guests. If Forelock wanted the guard schedule he could’ve just asked me for a copy. Can you tell him not to be such a stinker?
” she whinnied cheerfully.

  “I’ll be sure to mention that to him. So … I wonder if you might tell me a few things about the guests …”

  The annoyance of having to retrace his steps was rapidly supplanted by the curiosities of the scene. Hall 18, so labeled on the imperial map, was not covered in dust as he had first surmised. The substance was unfamiliar, but had the texture of fine powder.

  There is a fine coating of this material spread as though blown, over a distance of twelve meters. The entire hall is coated, but there are no passages through which air might travel. Additionally the cellar door has been sealed for decades, according to Azure Nocturne, Holmes recollected. Measured hoof clicks drew his attention away from the analysis. They stopped, and began to retreat. Forelock was quick to greet the strange mare.

  “Good afternoon,” he began, heaping generous portions of appeal onto his unexpected company.

  “Yeah, hi. Don’t mean to interrupt. Took a wrong turn,” she demurred. “Later.”

  Ah, but that was all the time he needed to take stock of the uncommonly attractive mare. Auburn mane and luxurious braided tail like bales of woven copper, eyes of hammer struck gold, alight with spritely intellect and cunning of a warrior. Her cutie mark reflected her skill; gold heart and a smith’s hammer.

  “Oh do stay. Isn’t it rude not to introduce yourself in such circumstances?” Forelock suggested.

  Eyes half-lidded did not agree, but to be uncongenial was to be suspicious. “The Gala, you mean?”

  “I do.”

  She sighed, then perked up artificially. “I’m Prancing Luster. From Ponyville? You’ve heard of me, of course.”

  Forelock cocked his head and stepped forward. “Premier rare mineral appraiser, born in Canterlot to Pepper Darling and Uniform Style. Opposed to their modest living, your discovery of rare minerals in the outskirts of Ponyville and sensibility for their quality has made you one of the richest mares in all of Equestria. In your adult years you reconciled with your parents and they helped you to start Unpaid Aid for Creativity, a charitable organization for underfunded talent. Will that do?”

  “You’re a savvy colt,” she grinned grimly. “So very knowledgeable, Mr. Forelock Holmes. The Science of Deduction? I hear that’s your style, and that demonstration was the least of your skill.”

  Forelock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve just come from the parlour where you enjoyed a honey filled doughnut. You’re also not alone. He’s a good colt, and will likely marry if you like that sort of thing. You are also … expecting a business deal to provide significant dividends, but I would turn the mare down. She knows nothing of marketing and has no taste.”

  “Just how did you—” she gasped, reared slightly.

  “The crumbs in your mane tell me exactly what you’ve been eating. When I passed the parlour not five minutes ago they had just finished filling a fresh batch of those doughnuts. That necklace wearing is silver and which clashes quite distastefully your tiara and shoes, and judging by your fashionable clothing you’re fond of the stallion and are considering rather drastic life changes for your love. I hope it is for love, my dear, because no one likes a filly-fooler.”

  “I wouldn’t—” she began to protest, but he would not relent.

  “I postulate that you are here for business over pleasure because of your simple yet stylish dress, which is quite becoming, I add. You’re welcome. This is to be expected, as it was tailored from scratch by Ponyville’s premier designer, Rarity. It’s common knowledge that you have known her most of your life and she is prone to fits of generosity. I also noted by your reaction to my statement about the deal that you already suspect it will not be favorable. Trust your gut, my dear. You are beautiful and intelligent.”

  One, two, no … five complements. Her eyes fluttered, flattered and charmed at once. “Oh, my …”

  “You are also working for Princess Celestia as security agent.”

  Prancing Luster scrutinized him and shook her head. “No, I’m not giving any hints about that. Not even to you. How did you know?”

  “The head of security is a close personal friend. You’re not busy, are you? What can you tell me about this cellar?”

  The jarring strike was enough to unseat the sulking Ditzy Doo from her bench, and jostle The Doctor with forehooves upon the TARDIS’ navigation console. Such jostling was uncommon since the physics of the vessel defied all human and pony sciences, yet not impossible. Ditzy frantically looked around the room as if the quiet space could relate any information to her. The Doctor, meanwhile, consulted the navigation pillar, occasionally twisting knobs and flicking switches.

  “Did we hit something, Doctor?”

  “It would seem so, but … not as you might think. The TARDIS doesn’t move. Something hit us, and I’d like to know what it was,” he replied, tail twitching with excitement. “Perhaps this might explain the baking discontinuity. Now … ah, here we are! Look at that! Look … at that!”

  Nonplussed at the The Doctor’s elated rambling, Ditzy rounded the pillar and angled her head slightly to fix one eye on the small monitor. A grainy, fuzzy image contained within it a blue box of very familiar design. A bright light flashed at its top, and Ditsy snorted.

  “That’s us!”

  “Oh, it looks like us, doesn’t it?” The Doctor chimed warmly. “I’m afraid it’s not. Weeeeeell … It’s me. No doubt about that. This is interesting. How can I have forgotten? Ah, well, it was over two hundred years ago. Can’t be expected to remember everything, can I?”

  “Two hundred years ago?! How old are you?”

  “Now that isn’t important, is it? Centuries older than you. Seen the rise and fall of civilizations. Might see more. Who knows? Hm … Seems I’m rather sensitive about my age too. Fancy that,” he muttered. “Derpy, this complicates things. I need you to listen carefully.”

  “Oh-kay!” For some reason she felt compelled to sit, and with a resounding thump, she did. Her heart rate elevated with the notion of the impending event. The Galloping Gala! She felt so much closer to it now.

  “In that TARDIS is a past me. Look, he’s – I’m – getting out now.”

  A blond maned, blue coated pony wearing a smart looking red bow tie cantered out of the two part door with an aura of self importance.

  “He’s cute!”

  “Oh? I suppose I was. Harder to be blond you know, what with everypony looking down at you. That’s an unfortunate perspective, isn’t it? Humans can be so narrow minded and selfish. Just a handful of hair colors in their race, you could count them on one hand! Couldn’t count them on four hooves!” The Doctor laughed. “Oh, sorry. You don’t understand. Anyway, I’d suppose that it is harder to condescend with the variety of mane colors you—us—ponies have. Well now. Doesn’t he look the snob. Isn’t that strange! He’s a pony! Is that an alternate version me that was also … oh my, oh my! Fancy that!”

  “Fancy what? It’s a nice tie … he’s wearing. Why do you say that all the time?”

  “Fancy? Oh, I say it because I like to. Don’t tell me you’re not excited. This is exciting stuff! Don’t know what might happen next! That’s not true. I have a few ideas. Look - he was my fifth regeneration, you know. No, you don’t. Of course you don’t. Just as well, I suppose.”

  Ditzy was so confused by his verbal meandering that she had forgotten the comment about his blond mane. It was better that way, The Doctor reasoned. He turned to her, radiant with charm. He needed her to understand most fervently what he was about to say.

  “Let’s say he’s me, because he is me, but hasn’t met you. In fact, it’s important that he doesn’t know you are with me. Do you understand, Derpy? You can talk to him, but you must not tell him about us.”

  “Why not? He’s you and you like me. Right?”

  “Oh Derpy, you are fantastic. I love you. Ponies are wonderful.”

  “L-love … me? Why would you say that?” Oh Doctor … what are you doing to me? Am I falling in love with you?
r />   In spite of her nearly whispered question The Doctor carried on. “You must not tell him we are traveling together. For some reason I don’t know we’re here, and I must have had a good reason for not telling me. What use is there in not trusting yourself, isn’t that right?”

  “Y-yes, right …” she replied halfheartedly.

  The Doctor cantered toward a back door, and then paused, looking back at Ditzy. “Derpy, are you going to get dressed? The Gala will start soon.”

  “Oh! The Gala! I get to meet Princess Celestia!” she piped, cantering cheerfully toward the back passage doorway. Wholly distracted, she hummed delightedly an unfamiliar tune that leapt forward in her mind. The Doctor heaved a sigh of relief, until he noticed Ditzy’s lingering gaze upon him. She turned her head slowly, smiling before she dashed into the corridor that lead to her room.

  What is that filly thinking? Over hundreds of years, the wiles of the female kind had continued to mystify him.

  “Are you going to wear that lovely dress, Derpy?”

  Hoof and Claw