Rescue Process (2) (Patreon)

Thomas looked up at the strange creature, his eyes going wide with horror.

What he'd taken for their guide at a distance was very clearly not even human. It loomed over him, well over twice his height, with a body of thick, muscular limbs. Worst by far was his mouth, where black lips curled back over sharp, canine teeth.

He barely needed the spear, with a build like that. Even so, he thrust the weapon close, right up against Thomas's neck. “Slow, pony. No magic.” He turned to one side; attention suddenly focused on Lincoln. “No fly. Or your friend die.”

The two shared a terrified look. If Lincoln's eyes were already huge before, her strange-colored irises were now almost lost in huge pupils. “I d-don't... even know... h-how...”

Thomas stepped sideways, putting himself between the strange creature and the frightened white horse. “We'll cooperate. Don't hurt us, we'll do what you say.”

To his surprise, the creature obeyed. He lifted the spear to his shoulder. “Good. Better to listen. No waste.” He grinned with oversized teeth, gesturing back the way he'd come. “Get her up. Then come.”

So much strange, bizarre, confusing...

Thomas moved. He still wasn't sure exactly what was happening, or why—but a spear up against his neck didn't leave much to the imagination. Live first, figure this out later. He dropped down beside Lincoln again, nudging under her shoulder. “Get up.”

She finally moved. Not with any particular skill—her legs wobbled, and nearly fell. But Thomas was there, moving sideways to catch her against his shoulder. As before, the mare barely weighed anything, more like a bird than a person.

Finally, she got her legs under her, whispering sharply into his ear. “What do we do?”

“What he said,” he whispered back. The huge canine's ears twitched as he spoke, pivoting towards them. He could hear every word they said. The best moment to try and escape probably wasn't that second, with an enormous alien looming over them with murderous intent.

“This way,” the creature said, taking a single step back. “Obey, no hurt.”

Thomas nodded along, and followed. “We're listening.” And they were, albeit not very quickly. It still felt incredibly strange to be walking on all fours, making Thomas stumble every few steps. His companion did little better, with the added complication of those feathery wings. They moved when she walked, seemingly at random. From the frustration on her face, Thomas guessed she wasn't trying to move them. Rather, she did everything she could do to hold still, and failed.

Their captor's lantern illuminated more of the huge cavern, but not enough to reach the ceiling. The space remained dark, as though obscured by clouds of liquid blackness.

Where we fell. That must be the way back.

But he didn't get time to study it now. Whenever one of them slowed, the huge canine spun, nudging them forcefully with the blunt end of the spear. “Forward, pony. This way.”

“I'm not… a pony...” Lincoln protested, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I'm human. Not... this.”

The dog didn't seem to care what they said, so long as they moved.

They reached a narrow opening, a tunnel connecting a mineshaft. This wasn't impossibly massive—instead, it was barely tall enough for the dog to pass. If he didn't walk with such a slouch, his helmet might bash into it. They passed along a crude minecart track, through tunnels marked with irregular strikes from hand tools, and the occasional wooden buttress holding it all up.

The further they walked, the easier it got to move. There was a rhythm to walking on four legs, one he could master with practice. So long as he didn't have to change speed, or weave his way through dangerous terrain. With every step, his confidence grew. The dog monster wanted them alive, for whatever inscrutable reason. Eventually, he dared to ask another question.

“Where are you taking us?”

The dog followed at their back; spear always ready to smack them. He looked thoughtful, turning to one side. “Pony home. With the others. Good place. Work hard, eat well.”

That could be good. Others might know what's going on, and how to get back.

“We don't belong here,” Lincoln said, a little louder than last time. “We're not what you think. We're... humans. We're supposed to be living on the surface.”

The huge canine laughed, its voice a dangerous rumble. “You and others. Work hard, be fine. No work, no eat.”

Lincoln looked like she might argue the point. Thomas nudged her with his shoulder, hard enough to startle her. She stumbled, then fell silent again, glowering at him.

The dog laughed again, then returned to their path, shoving them through the gloomy tunnel. At least there wasn't much further to go before they reached the camp.

Calling it that might have been a little generous—a “camp” was somewhere meant to be comfortable. There were no tents, just rough cloth hung from the ceiling. They didn't have anything like cots or personal space—just various piles of old blankets, or worse—straw.

Light came not from lanterns, but glowing crystals stuck on the wall, surrounded by little black marks. At least they wouldn't be in the dark, or choked by awful smoke.

A section to one side provided washing and sanitation with a steady flow of water trickling in from above—but that was all. No kitchen, no privacy, no hint of recreation or any other activity to speak of.

“We're slaves,” he whispered under his breath, mostly to himself. “That's what this is. A slave camp.” He suspected the canine monster had nothing but negative intentions—this was all the confirmation he needed.

“Yes,” the monster said. It stopped in the doorway, giving Lincoln one last shove with the spear for good measure. She stumbled to the ground, sliding along the smooth rock for a few feet before resting up against Thomas's side. “In here, pony. No leave, until work. When morning comes, you work. Bring back food. Otherwise, no food. You fight, you get hurt, work harder. No fight, no hurt.”

He took another step back, slamming a heavy metal grate shut behind him. The bars rattled closed against the rock with hollow finality. Seconds later, something clicked on the other side.

For a few seconds there was total silence, broken only by a hushed mutter from the other creatures. The slave camp was not empty. With the dog gone, other people appeared from behind corners, or peeked out from the shelter of their makeshift curtains.

Thomas wouldn't have even thought of them as “people” until an hour ago. But given his current state, he could guess where each of these had come from. At least a dozen different creatures in all—some built as solid as a Budweiser Clydesdale, others as willowy and thin as Lincoln. None matched his conception of what a “horse” ought to look like.

Most came in strange colors, vibrant pinks and greens and purples, seeming as natural on them as the deep blue he saw whenever he looked down. Their eyes were huge, and varied just as wildly. Strangest of all, many had other additions—several had wings like Lincoln's, or wings covered in a thin membrane of dark skin like a bat. Others had horns protruding from their foreheads, rather like the length of dark blue Thomas saw whenever he looked up.

Others had neither, though they still moved with a level of awareness he would never expect from a simple animal. There was comprehension on their faces, understanding. How?

The answer was obvious, of course. These must be victims of the same circumstance that brought him here. Not the rest of the tour group—these were beaten down, worn away by ages of suffering and service.

Some still had bits of cloth clinging to them—shirts worked into makeshift bandannas, or shorts expanded and patched from multiple pieces of human clothing. Most had to go without—with only token accessories to separate them from animals.

At least he wouldn't be the only one naked, whatever small comfort that provided.

“You came through from Graham Cave?” Thomas asked, raising his voice to carry through the camp. Hopefully not loud enough to echo back to their captors. “You were human too?”

Someone stepped forward—one of the strange-colored horses with a huge horn on his head. That meant they were unicorns. At least it didn't look particularly sharp, or caked with dried blood.

“It's always something. Cursed spring, Bermuda Triangle... or a mysterious cave. He hesitated, looking them both over. His eyes lingered on Lincoln, expression softening. “I'd welcome you, but you don't want to be here.”

English, with a familiar accent. East coast? Upstate maybe, Thomas couldn't be sure. He still took one step closer to the fallen Lincoln, offering a foreleg to help her stand. But he was too slow.

The stranger's horn glowed, a faint shimmer of silver light, then she was on her hooves again, her whole body glowing. “Best way to keep them off you is not to get close. They act tough, but behind their armor and weapons they're terrified.” He extended a hoof towards her, grinning weakly. “I'm Winston.”

“I'm...” The horse opened both wings, stretching them awkwardly to either side. She still didn't know how to control those. She took the offered hoof “And I'm Lin... Lin, yeah.” She glanced backward as she said it, expression desperate and confused. Even without words, her meaning was obvious. Don't tell them.

“Lin.” He turned, holding out a hoof to Thomas next.

He took the offered hoof. Not a handshake exactly—no fingers to hold on. But where their hooves met, he felt something soft. Just as sensitive, but without dexterity. “Thomas. Why are we horses?”

As the conversation continued, more creatures poked out from their hiding places. The bravest of these was a tall, lean horse, with even bigger wings. “On this planet we're called ponies, actually. In several varieties. Lin, you're a pegasus—and you're a unicorn, Thomas. Unfortunately, you're also both slaves. Along with... everyone else here.”

She gestured over her shoulder, at the other ponies. “I'm Shauna. Give this talk to everyone who stumbles through that gate. But we've got rules. No hurting each other, no stealing. If there's a problem, bring it to me. Try to remember we're on the same side.”

Thomas nodded. “I think we can handle that.”

“I guess... no point asking if you know the way out,” Lincoln said. “Or none of you would still be here.”

Shauna gestured for them to follow her, and they did. Some other ponies scattered all around them, returning to their lonely camps. But Winston remained, along with a few others.

She led them away from the door, past their makeshift wash area to a desk of flat rock. “We've tried a few different solutions in the last six months. None with much success, unfortunately. And a high cost of failure.” She lifted one wing, showing her side to them both. The coat there had several deep scars, where the fur didn't properly regrow. Whoever made those had no intention of killing her—they wanted it to hurt.

“We shouldn't try again,” someone else said. Thomas hadn't even seen her lurking in a shadowy corner, not with a coat so dark. Those even darker bat-wings didn't help much. “Princess Celestia will rescue us. Luna can see our dreams—she knows what happened to us. We just have to wait for her to follow them back.”

Her voice was so high it hurt to listen to—but whether that was her age, or something about her bat wings and huge ears, he couldn't guess.

“Zenith always says that,” Winston said. “The locals all talk like that. Rescue is coming, right along the corner. But what did waiting get us? More time in the mines, more whips, more moldy bread.”

Shauna sighed, slumping down onto her haunches in a distinctly animal sitting motion. “Their faith is encouraging, even if it's yet to produce anything of substance.”

“I don't like waiting either.” Lincoln stood up straight, puffing out her chest. “There has to be something we can do. A weakness we can use. I won't let them make me a slave.”

A horn blared through the cavern, so loud the bat covered her ears, and several ponies winced. Thomas recoiled—his new ears were good.

“Work shift!” came a voice, seconds later. Not one of the ponies—this came through the door, sharp and commanding. “Line up! All who want to eat, step forward!”

Shauna stood up again, shaking out her wings. “That means us, newcomers. They don't give us enough to share. You want a shift.”

He didn't—but Thomas followed anyway.