Doctor Whooves: A Thief at the Gala Page 7

Vallade said I’m pretty, Ditzy thought sullenly. Just like Dinky does. Why did he say that? Ditzy understood that love motivated her daughters’ sweet words. Associating Vallade with that notion filled her with dread. Of all the recent regrets, foremost was the nature of The Doctor’s request: “I need you to do this.”

  Hurt, betrayed and confused. Ditzy had wanted to pull away from The Doctor’s hooves on her shoulders. When had he mastered such a firm grip?

  “Why? Why?” It was all she could think to ask.

  “There is a very dangerous man out in that ballroom, Ditzy. I need somepony in there I can trust! You are that mare! Come on, you know what we’ve been though. You’ve helped me before. Won’t you help me again?”

  “But … my dress …”

  “I am sorry about the dress. I am sorry about everything, but Vallade will do worse than Nightmare Moon. More than darkness, he’ll consume the Moon and us with it. We are all going to die.”

  “I don’t care.” Sullen, hurt and a little foal, weeping, head buried in blanket.

  “What?”

  “I don’t, I don’t! Why should I? How can I help? Why should …” I care when I’m so miserable over you? Her heart echoed the strike of memory, but bitterly. Instantly this faded, replaced by a desire she knew well: Nurture. “Doctor, because you asked me. I’ll go.” You foal, it hurts me, but … “I’ll go. Stupid dress. Stupid gala!”

  “Thank you.” Ditzy Doo half-galloped out of the room, unable to understand The Doctor’s complex heart. He watched her, starlight reaches of sympathy trailing after. He murmured, “I truly am, sorry.”

  The Gala preparations had been proceeding as ordered by the Princess and organized by her guard, requiring minimal interaction and guidance. The royal staff was competent, most teeming the joy in service, others proud and regal. Of one fact Celestia could be certain: It would be a night to remember. In the furor of the threat, it was to her regret that she was whisked away to greet every attendee, unable to remain by her beloved sister in time of need.

  How it must hurt the Princess, Ditzy thought. I am sorry for her. I really am. A side exit presented the long line of Gala-goers, brushing their hooves on the pavement as far back as the palace bridge. Ditzy gaped, but as she did another thought entered her mind: Who would know? The Doctor said I should be where he needs me! And I will.

  She flitted back into the palace and through the halls, memory guiding her back to the garden where the TARDIS was parked. Nopony questioned her, and guards did not give her a second glance. She was the trusted companion of a Knight of the Realm, after all. In the beautifully maintained garden square sat proudly the mysterious blue box, magnificent in the moonlight. Excitedly she trotted up to it, and then stopped, inches from its locked door. Tears flowed easily, head bowed forward with a thud.

  “What was I thinking?” she muttered, voice wracked with despair. “He doesn’t love ponies. He’s a human-is-was-whatever. He’s a Time Lord! I’m so stupid. Just … stupid. How could I have thought he’d love me?”

  Her shoulders shook with the tension of her sobs. “Why do you always screw things up – ‘DERPY’?” she railed, lips curling back as she ground her teeth.

  Click.

  Her head dropped, no longer supported by the rigid door. Head lifted, yellow-gold eyes examined the gap, unbelieving. It was open! How? Was the TARDIS really alive? Shaking a little she wiped her eyes with her forehoof. “Maybe … you understand me, a bit?” Ditzy whispered. “He is a blockhead, but we’re stuck in love with him.”

  Ditzy trotted to her room where the dress lay, placed carefully on her bed, exactly where she left it. She took care not to rush, minding the necessity of a proper fit. Being alone made it awkward to get her wings in, but with caution she could avoid undue strain.

  Once done she took a moment to admire the fine outfit in the narrow, standing mirror. The Doctor’s words spurred her to leave the TARDIS, though they had been none-too clear. At the door of the TARDIS, Ditzy beheld The Doctor’s silent ward and protector. “I’ll protect him. I promise. Oh I will.”

  She turned and drew the door closed and headed back toward the ballroom at a gallop. Two, three hallways and not a soul to be seen. Why was there a bitter tasting mist in the air? Where had everypony gone? Uncertainty gripped her.

  Something’s wrong. Really, really wrong. I can’t hear anypony around! Where’s the ballroom? Where am I? Ditzy was not the detail oriented sort, and had not noticed the change of atmosphere. Hoof clicks echoed behind her.

  “All dressed up and nopony to dance with. Oh … what a vision you are,” intoned that voice.

  Ditzy turned with a protective snarl. “Vallade.”

  “Blight. Shattering Blight,” he drawled, eyes half lidded. “Does the Doctor know you’re wearing that? You’re a rare one. Yes, but not really. Rare for this place, but not rare for one of his companions.”

  Ditzy unfurled her wings, half crouched. “W-what do you mean?”

  “Oh he hasn’t told you about his past companions. I wouldn’t. For such a noble beast, half-man, half-lord of ruins. He does omit so many facts. Facts I know. Facts I would share … with you.”

  “You can’t trick me, Vallade.” She knew almost nothing, except that he threatened The Doctor. Nothing threatened The Doctor. Nothing that was good. “You can’t hurt me.”

  “Blight!” he flared, but calmed almost instantly. “Now look young mare. It’s ‘mare’?”

  “It’s … uh, yes it is,” she replied, confused.

  “Hurt you? Nonsense. Now, ‘Blight’ is a sensible a name for anypony. Discord? Nightmare Moon? Stage names. ‘Shattering Blight’ is my stage name. It purses your lips in a pleasing way when you say it. Say it again.”

  He’s not just flirting. He’s in love with me! Ditzy thought, befuddled by this dilemma. No, no, that makes no sense. He wouldn’t fall for me.

  “By no means have I any desire to feed on you. You are the kind, the very kind kind. You want to help, the valiant aide, honorable heart and giving mother. You’ve tried so hard to help your friends, and not friends. Look at you, you have scars from the effort you’ve selflessly given to them, and they’ve not showed you any gratitude. Not. One. Bit.”

  She squinted at him, the tension in her body sapping gradually. It’s like Forelock. How does he know? “Why do you always talk to me like that?” Ditzy snorted, putting up a valiant effort to maintain her mistrust. It wasn’t succeeding very well.

  “Pray tell.”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Talk to you ‘like what’?”

  “Nicely.”

  He grinned something quite unsavoury. “I do, don’t I. I do it because you’re unique. Like me.”

  She shook her head. The handwriting didn’t match the signature. He was speaking like another pony that wasn’t … him. Did he mean that being a pony was some kind of performance to him? His logic made her brain ache. “No, no, no! I don’t eat planets! I don’t hurt ponies! I don’t threaten the people who help me!”

  “But you do. You threaten everypony around you. You step on their hooves, you break their buildings, you smash their belongings. You destroy their worlds. Ditzy Doo, you are the most beautiful pony I have ever met. I want you to be my wife.”

  Ditzy went blank, her pupils black dots floating in the white static of her eyes. “What?”

  Dr. John Trotson lowered his eyes, angling his head to the left shoulder, where the holster for his weapon lay concealed under the thick leather of his coat. Apparently he had not understood. Glaze was a delivery pony, not an accomplice, yet it was unclear the role he played. What had he meant by ‘Nopony carries away memories from th’ fightin’, John’?

  “I’ll forgive the intrusion, naturally. Yours was not company I had anticipated.”

  “That doesn’t sound right to me. Your friend invited me in,” John stated coolly. “I have better things to do, I could just leave.”

  “I can’t allow that. Your friend is very much my opponent
, and I need to constrain him. Oh, I promise I won’t harm you. I have no reason to.”

  “So who are … you, exactly?”

  “Doctor John Trotson, you came looking for me. Here I am, so won’t you tarry a while?” stated the concealed voice behind a wall of shadow. “You tease me.”

  “I do not. I don’t even know if you’re my type,” he laughed half-heartedly. “Honestly I can’t tell if you’re a stallion or a mare. Your voice keeps changing pitch,” John Trotson remarked, feigning wit. Holmes is much better in these situations.

  Immediately the colt’s expression darkened. “Glaze.” The green toned pony gestured mutely at himself. “YES.” You tottering imbecile!

  “Oh. Comin’,” answered the fellow briskly. Once at his side they both huddled away from Trotson’s view.

  “Why have you brought me this stallion? He’s of no use to me. Worse he’s a waste of my time,” he declared. Glaze looked offended.

  “Oi gov, you tol’ me the d’tective was trouble. Got you ‘is mate, din’t I? Job’s a job, ain’ it? I do ya wrong? Glaze don’ do no wrong.”

  The pony seemed to reflect on this explanation. “That’s not Forelock Holmes, you glue-stuffed imbecile. That’s Dr. John Trotson, his sharp shooting companion. You’ve not seen him use that Sig. If you’ve any sense in your head you’ll not tempt him to.”

  “But what gives y’ that idea?”

  “Shut it. He’s getting antsy and now is not the time to upset the cart,” he snarled at Glaze. “For now we keep the peace. My ship’s got no energy, and needs time. Time!”

  “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll just have to guess,” called Trotson, surprised by his own boredom. They turned to face him. “Judging by your mane and eye color, you resemble the pony described to me as Jesper Vallade.”

  “It. Is. Shattering. Blight!”

  Dr. Troton grinned. Right on the bit, but any foal could do that. “So it is. Shall I imagine you are the pony who threatened the Princess and the crown? Both? Neither? You were taken into custody, so I have to wonder how you are here.”

  “Oi gov, he’s gettin’ wise … How’d he b’ knowin’ that?”

  John tucked away a satisfied grin. “Well, I could admit that I was following you and saw you meet Mr. Blight when he told you to find my friend Forelock. I guess can be pretty clever.”

  “Shards,” Vallade cursed.

  John seemed somehow taller, less ordinary, shoulder straightening, eyes daring. “That door was a pretty impressive trick. I could believe you got out. You do seem to be very well connected.”

  “Not another word, Doctor,” Vallade gritted. “Glaze … I’ve had enough of our guest.”

  A broad, dangerous smile broke out across Glaze’s mouth. “You herd the gov, Doc. Time’s up.”

  Just then an alarm, or what John recognized as one, began bleeping and whining as reddish lights flashed. Vallade forgot John and angled his head at a screen to his left. “Core! What now!?” On the screen a white mote expanded on the horizon, clouds scampering away from the vibrant source of light. Vallade paled. “Who is that? Celestia?”

  “We, ‘re, boned!” Glaze cried. “Gimme outta here, I want out!”

  Gradually, but not gradually enough for Vallade’s liking, Celestia’s luminescent form neared his vessel, wings slashing the air in great threatening waves. Angrily he shoved Glaze away, galloping toward a control panel. He stopped before a shower of sparks and the deft report of a gunshot. Vallade rounded on John and growled, “What have you done?!”

  “Put a hole in your plans, I hope,” he replied calmly, voice and hooves steady. “Back away from the controls. Glaze, I’ll shoot you if you so much as twitch. Understand?”

  “I warned you …” Vallade hissed at Glaze.

  “How was I t’ know?”

  “Do you understand!” John repeated.

  Fearfully, Glaze nodded. “Yeah I got it!”

  “Now what …” Vallade groaned.

  Forelock was rooted. Firmly rooted. The muttering of voices, scuffing of hooves, dragging of air through pony lungs, wisp of air at the window, distant music, burr and hum of nascent chatter in the palace ballroom like a swarm of dragonwisps teasing his ears.

  “What’s he doing?”

  The Doctor lifted a hoof to silence the intrusion of audio. His respect for the deductive intellect of the formidable pony was demonstrated by his immediate recognition of the depth of concentration required for the delicacy of process.

  Letters easily disregarded, a foe captured with no effort, a monster tamed by exhaustion. Vallade protested quite loudly in his confines, to be heard of us all. A radio network for what purpose? John missing without a trace. Glaze is trustworthy. Erratic, even unbalanced, but not dangerous. Questions began to form. The right questions.

  “Doctor, what do you know about this Vallade character?” Forelock requested briskly.

  “He’s not a pony. No, not at all. Rare fella, I’m afraid. Quite. Nomadic alien called the Kinsora. Vallade is a tough one, and boy I’d say a lot for their lifespan. He’s probably half my age, if I figure right. For Kinsora that is old, very old. How has he lived this long? A good old fashioned mystery, unlike how he managed to land here, isn’t that right? That’s plain as the shoes on my hooves! I’d like to tell you what the Kinsora do that isn’t like ponies, but he’s modified himself. Risky business, that. Anyway, the Kinsora don’t eat planets, just him. Oh but that’s a trick and some, a scary tale for the fillies and faint of heart. He doesn’t even eat them. Breaks them down for resources, you know, such as fuel. Brilliant. A rare mind.”

  Everypony in the room had affixed an accusing eye on the Doctor for the tone of respect with which he spoke, apart from Holmes. “And what would you say about his condition?”

  “Oh, he lied. Not about the teleport, but it shifting dimensions. If he could shift dimensions, why would he stay here?”

  Forelock’s stern regard echoed The Doctor’s assured confidence. “My thought exactly. Modifying his own body to stay here? He traveled to Equestria to get what he wants. I surmise that Blackpool has much to do with his condition. Why don’t we go ask him?”

  “Yes, yes, why not …” The Doctor mused, retrieving his sonic and waving it in the air. It chirped and he grinned. “How peculiar. I appear …” he paused and gave the sonic a whack “… to have located the source of Jesper’s power.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Very.”

  “Then he has lost,” pronounced the calm, deep tones of the victor. Forelock Holmes raised his head and cried: “Let us go!”

  A White Heart

  Jesper Vallade was with the pony he most admired. It was a singular moment, slipping away like the rest of his orchestrations. Feign and wan, treasure of fawn, he thought. There is no adoration for me in those wondrously spaced pupils. I am ruined, but I will not be foiled. He sighed. With this breath and the ebbing ache of air, he felt unable to maintain the projection. “I am defeated. Ditzy, you would have enjoyed it. I would have given you everything.”

  “What? Why do you say that,” she asked, uncomprehending. “I don’t want anything from you.” She narrowed eyes skeptically, then lowered them. “What you said, your offer … was very flattering.”

  Vallade smiled. “That was my intent. I was smitten from the very moment first I saw you. Perhaps, then, I might be smitten again. Good bye, for now.”

  For now? “Hay, wait …!”

  The corridor, and Vallade, washed away as if captured by a receding flame. The empty hall was replaced by a chamber and the voices of two other ponies. Ditzy lifted her head and looked around at the storage room, stacked with bags of salt, empty wooden flasks and cheaply wrought metal plates hastily thrown on shelves of oak or tyon.

  Tyon is cheaper, she thought, then wondered. Where am I? A cellar? She shifted her limbs and felt the soft air of silk upon them. My dress …

  “Derpy Hooves?” rasped a nameless mare. Ditzy frowned automatically, then
sighed, looking toward the lilting voice.

  “Wilting Meadow?” she answered. Wilting’s mane was as unlikely as her eyes: Black without a trace of highlight or color, and her pupils to match. Her grey-green body shook as she tried to move. Derpy rose uneasily but found her strength returning quickly. “Oh Wilting, are you hurt?”

  “How’d you get here? Did you see the purple pony?” Wilting was so fatigued her eyes would not focus, producing an effect not dissimilar from what Vallade had called her ‘quaint artifice’.

  Ditzy suppressed a snigger and checked her over. “Hold still. Oh, I’m not really sure, but I don’t see any swelling or broken bones. How do you feel?”

  “I’d wager you’re right. That crony-pony-phony didn’t break nuttin’ but my purse,” rambled a baritone of practised vocal skill and natural rhythm. “M-hm, m-hm. Th’ pleasure is mane and yours is a gorgeous sight, Ms. Doo. Oh yeah.”

  Ditzy blushed a little. The stallion seemed to be able to right himself, but collapsed after making an attempt to stand. “That makes me sad.”

  “Um, thank you. I think you should stay still, um … Who are you?”

  His light grey coat contrasted his dark purple and emerald green mane, scattered carefully over clear, well meaning eyes. “Marefriend, I am from Mareshigan. Embarrassed and sad but oh-so grateful. Th’ name is Bdown.”

  “It’s Bubble Dawn,” Wilting countered with an amused half-smile.

  “That’s Butter Dawn,” he snapped gently, and Ditzy giggled. “Ain’ it a thing to have a name pretty as the sun? Ms. Doo-”

  “Ditzy, please. I need to get some help now,” she informed him, rather bemused by his warm attitude.

  “I s’ppose you do. Why dun’ you let them nice coltfish up there know that there are six of us rejected souls down here? We are mighty grateful to you,” he stated in a comfortable but fading voice. “Ah think now I’ll just rest a lil’ bit now, if’n you don’t mind?”

  “No, but don’t fall asleep. I think you …” she squinted, nose inches from his face, blinked twice, then squinted again “… might have a concussion. Your pupils are dilated.”

  “I think you might be right ‘bout that.”

  Butter aka Bdown seemed ready to let her carry on, but Wilting was more cautious. “Derpy, do you think it’s safe?”

  Ditzy reflected on Vallade’s words. “Yes. It’s safe. Blight let me go. He let us go, I mean.”

  “You did see him!”

  “I’ve got to hurry,” she said, turning away before Wilting could interpose a thought or reason to the contrary. I’ve really got to hurry. Those other ponies weren’t breathing very well. The idea they were dead was a little much to bear.

  Ditzy climbed the short flight of steps without fatigue, mindful not to catch the flow of her tresses on ensnaring plank or nail. Right to the floor, the way I like, but this … isn’t a dance floor. Where … Ah. Okay. Judging by those crests, I’m still in the palace.

  Royal guard crests did indeed en-mark the location, but the without even a salttender, Ditzy could not be sure she was safe.

  “Miss?” The voice was deep and unknown to her. Attached was a stocky stallion of rose-red mane, spiked and short under golden feathered helmet and white skinned body. “Miss Hooves? Here, here she is! I’ve found her!”

  The large stallion trotted in a manner that was taught to comfort a concerned subject. Derpy’s strength left her limbs and she began to lose her balance. The stallion was swift to her side, steadying her and uttering words of comfort. Two guards poked their large heads into the doorway.

  “Miss Hooves, where were you?” asked the shortest of the triad, young voice low and focused. He studied her, gauging her ponyage and all of its indicators. “You smell like salt and cider. Did you come from the cellar?”

  Ditzy’s head spun, but she managed a nod. “Y-ugh … yes. Please help the ponies in there. There are six of them.”

  Ditzy noted that his hair was pale blue as snow under his commander’s helmet, drifting over his eyes in a romantic sway, contrasting the intense icy crystal of his eyes. He gestured with a nod toward the cellar door, which his subordinates seemed to take as a cue to action. “We’ll do everything we can, Miss Hooves. Come over here and sit.”

  “Brae, lend me a hoof here.”

  Ditzy couldn’t tell who had said that as a half dozen guards had entered the room to follow the guard commander to the cellar. “Pom will keep you safe. Wait here.”

  “Yes sir, Commander Aufeis,” acknowledged ‘Pom’ with a stern nod. Ditzy could only echo the motion, barely steady on her own legs, leaning against a bolted down table.

  Pom explained his full name was Iron Pommel and that he was an expert swordspony. Judging by the lightness of his armor and lack of scars, he was that, or an inexperienced greenhoof. His musculature and calmness seemed to suggest—Ditzy caught herself. Who’m I kidding? I’m no detective. I don’t know anything about ponies, except maybe what they like to read.

  Iron adopted a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

  She giggled. “No. I’m not, but you’re very kind to me, so I’m going to say thanks. Thanks.” What was that? He didn’t offend me.

  Iron seemed to understand. He smiled a comforting smile and left for a moment. When he returned he was levitating a blanket which he draped around her shoulders, wrapping so that it would not fall away. Then he sat and said nothing while Ditzy noticed that she was shivering quite a lot.

  “You are in shock, Miss Hooves. Look over there. They’re retrieving the victims now.”

  The ponies Vallade kidnapped … are they, are any of them …

  “Dead? I think not.”

  Ditzy turned sharply, falling away from the table. Iron’s rock-like build caught her once again. “Doctor!”

  “Will you keep your voice down, sir? She is in a state,” Iron advised him. The Doctor huffed impatiently, but did not object. They watched quietly as the ponies in poorest condition were brought out on stretchers first. Eventually Bdown and Wilting, too, each locking eyes in gratitude with Ditzy.

  “Ditzy is the mare! The! Mare! Hoo-yeh!” Bdown ejected, to which Ditzy responded with a blush.

  “You made quite an impression, I see.”

  Ditzy’s head was clearer, and when Iron resisted, she only insisted that she was feeling much better. He was convinced when she was able to push back. “Vallade’s gone, Doctor. Did we win? Is he gone?”

  The Doctor’s pulled-lip expression was difficult to read. “What did he say to you?”

  Should I … tell him? “He said I was like him. That we are both destructive, but then … he suddenly,” her heart skipped a beat and she felt a rush in head. She closed her eyes.

  “Take it easy, Miss Hooves,” Iron recited.

  “I’m okay. He wasn’t scary. He didn’t frighten me. Not at all.”

  The Doctor looked distracted, but she knew him, he was listening intently. A vast part of his being was among the stars, but the part that mattered was attentive to her heart. “Yes, my dear. I believe you. What did he say?”

  “He said he was defeated.”

  The Doctor pursed his lower lip and made a sound of confirmation. “He was. Celestia turned his ship into dust. Luna has recovered fully, now.”

  “Oh … wow,” she gasped. Then she remembered: “Where is Forelock?”

  “With John Trotson. He was injured, but it was minor. Do you think you can walk? We could go see him?”

  Ditzy rose very slowly, and then smiled. “Uh-huh. I’d like that.”

  “Iron, why don’t you join us.”

  Celestia showed no sign of ever having attacked an alien space vessel. Not a smudge of dirt, wisp of smoke, stain of blood. Tiara unscathed upon her brow, hooves healed and body washed. Mane flowing endlessly, the pure light of her authority pouring from her being atop the throne.

  John, right forehoof in cast, raised his head from a deep bow. Forelock followed suit. Celestia’s aura shone over them both. “Your deeds shall
never be forgotten, John Trotson, Forelock Holmes. We are in your debt.”

  John seemed impressed by this, but Forelock was not so easily swayed. Eying his companion, John gave a little sigh. He was never going to change.

  “Gentlecolts and fairmares, come in.” The Doctor, Ditzy Do and Iron Pommel entered the chamber. At the base of the throne they stooped, bowed, and greeted the Princess. “We are glad to see you unharmed, Miss Hooves. We understand that you confronted the villain, Jesper Vallade.”

  Ditzy blanched, panicking at the thought that she was wearing her gown. Then a comforting logic settled in: It was only appropriate to be formally dressed when holding court. Then she thought: Speak you silly filly, speak! “Yes, Princess.”

  Silence pervaded, but any discomfort was drained away by her confident, trusting air. “Then you are a good friend to the Doctor. Thank you.”

  “Yes … Princess. Y-you’re welcome, and thank you.” How do they do it? They talk to her like she’s an ordinary pony!

  The Doctor lifted his head and with it his voice. “I regret that we have only trapped Jesper here, Princess. Without a ship, he is less a threat, but in a manner of speaking, he is no less a threat now.”

  “What are you saying, Doctor?” Celestia eyed him with particular curiosity.

  The Doctor glanced at Forelock, who inclined his head forward. “Princess, the pony we called Jesper Vallade had two bodies. He is far older than we previously understood. Using his skills in genetics manipulations, he has, over the centuries, maintained multiple bodies, constantly hedging his bets against fate. When he fought his own creation, Blackpool, he was wounded terribly.

  “He was faced with the loss of a body. He proposed to distract you during the busiest event of the year: The Grand Galloping Gala. It was during this time he kidnapped ponies in an attempt to restore the strength he expended fighting Blackpool. He failed, and we recovered those ponies thanks to Miss Ditzy Do.”

  Forelock gazed at Ditzy appreciatively, seeing that she better understood the importance of her actions. He continued:

  “It was a two stroke feint, for it was not the crown he desired, but the moon … or its core. With that he could restore his strength, refuel his ship and steal away with his treasure. He did not lie, no, he merely misdirected. The source of Princess Luna’s strength was nearly his. Why he revealed himself, we do not understand, but having done so, we were able to sweep down and destroy every tool he created.”

  “Revealed himself?” Ditzy blinked.

  “Why yes. When you returned to the TARDIS, no doubt to retreive your stunning gown …” Forelock paused. Ditzy groaned guiltily. I was hoping they didn’t know that. “When you did that, my dearest mare, he transported you to his territory, hoping to win you as an ally. I surmise he held you in high esteem because of your relationship with The Doctor.”

  It wasn’t that relationship he wanted … Ditzy thought sheepishly. Did Forelock not suspect in the slightest? How was that possible? He was a stallion, right?

  “You refused him, and at that very moment Princess Celestia burned his ship to the ground. He was utterly defeated.”

  “I don’t understand …” piped a voice. It was John. “How did the Princess know I was aboard his ship?”

  Princess Celestia eased forth her subtle, hinting smile. “Friends know these things, Doctor.”

  #The#End#

  About the Author

  Simon Woodington is probably a lot like you, life experienced and educated with moderate effectiveness. Without a formal career, he has had a series of jobs that have lead to more personal growth than professional satisfaction. He was taught the value of good works and standing up for what is right in the face of common odds. When he’s not writing he is working with family creating art and walking his dog.

  Other books by this author

  Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by Simon Woodington:

  The Threads of Canor Series

  Every One Fight

  Sector Bomb

  The Sliver of Light Series

  Cobalted (Coming Soon)

  Short Story Anthologies (featuring Aaran Coates)

  Bold Curves

  Fanfiction

  Doctor Whooves: A Thief at the Gala

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