Without Fear of Wind or Vertigo

by publiq

Without Fear, a mirage?

Last night a DJ saved my life
Last night a DJ saved my life
'Cuz I was sittin' there bored to death
And in just one breath she said
"You gotta get up, you gotta get up, you gotta ascend to flight level 101."

"What the hay?"

Spitfire opened her eyes. That was not the ending of the song. That was not supposed to be a nap.

She looked around and felt sunshine on her wing. Somehow, she had survived the night without any further action on her part.

The sun was in its mid-morning position. All around here were clear skies. The storm had vanished in the night. It must have been one of thosevmagically enhanced storms for it to have intensified and dissipated so fast.

Her stomach rumbled. She had eaten her food last night. Hopefully, the carbo-loading will pay off for her remaining flight home. The empty skies threatened to drown her from exhaustion if the shore was as far away as expected. Navigating by sun alone meant she had a slight chance of getting lost in the direction of closer land, a cold comfort. At least the clear and calm skies meant she could see any available funerary clouds to scavenge.

Ascend to flight level 101.

Was that the same voice that had interrupted her song and woke her?

Spitfire looked down. The cloud had descended to 303 feet (404 golden shoes, FL3). The storm's central downdraft must've pushed her down as she slept.

Wishing she were on land so she could roll and scratch her back, she looked at her possessions arranged around her: a watch, her magic rectangle and singing earplugs, the empty saddlebags, the regular earplugs, and binoculars. Binoculars. Whatever else she had no longer mattered for a moment.

She whinnied to call out to whoever was up at FL101. Eager hooves grasped the binoculars and raised them to Spitfire's face. If her savior was familiar with aerial sea rescue protocol, she could expect to find the airship at an azimuth of 45° opposite the sun.

Luck was on her side: she did not need to scan the sky with binoculars. A skinny and bulbous airship was flying in a wide circle at an azimuth around 52°. Her alert eyes peered through the binoculars at the ship. Matte grey coat, borderline tan if the sun were higher in the sky. An unfamiliar military aircraft of some kind. At best, it was a passing good Sammaretan. Spitfire did not imagine what "at worst" could be.

Examination continued: the airship had a giant ovipositor. Was the ship itself a predatory creature wanting an easy meal to deliver itself?

Ears flicked at the thought.

"If the ship intended on stinging her into an easy meal, it would have already done so while I slept," Spitfire reassured herself.

Pounding heartbeats did not distract her review of her possible rescue. The undersides of the wings had a faded white star inside a blue circle as its cutie mark flanked by a complex white stripe and her confusion only grew.

You are alive. Ascend to FL 101 once you have passed preflight tests to refuel.

This living airship is some kind of changeling. How else would it communicate inside her own thoughts? Why else would it leave its ovipositor dangling about? It was a queen. The structure was far too long to be a stinger.

Whatever it was, it had not made any hostile move while stalking her. Wings and forehooves worked in concert to pack her saddle bags. If it was hostile, she was going to go out fighting rather than drown from exhaustion fleeing over the open ocean.

"I need three minutes to preen," Spitfire yelled to set expectations for the patient changeling.

She sat and began to preen. Thoughts of this mysterious creature bothered her. Changelings of any species were not known to imitate mechanical forms. Were changelings signatories of the Universal Nautical Rescue Convention? The hives near Canterlot were decidedly not signatories to the treaty of aerial assistance over land. However, both pegasi and changelings strongly preferred to take each other prisoner over letting an enemy splat on the ground. Why would a changeling choose to disguise in the gray chitin of a military aircraft rather than the attractive bold stripes of a rescue ship?

Perhaps it was best not to think of those things. Spitfire focused her attention on her remaining remiges. Fewer dud feathers were littering the cloud than expected after such a storm. After the last remex was in place, it was time to climb.

More than survival, the pounding beats in her ears kept tempo in her sore wings as she ascended. As she flapped, she finally caught a break and found a thermal to soar from FL30 to FL92. The remaining distance was easy to cover with the optimism of being granted two breaks in a row.

Please dock your refueling port to the boom.

“You mean ovipositor?” Spitfire yelled at the mass of chitinous gray gunmetal.

Fly to the cockpit windows if you’re nervous.

She landing on the sentient vehicle’s nose and peered through the glass. Inside were two Przewalski’s ponies. She had never seen such beasts from the wastes beyond Prance before, but she instinctively recognized them by their erect manes, coloration like marshmallows kiang that were left to roast too long, and ratio of ears to face that was pony, not donkey.

Neat, huh? Our kind found it while mining. No clue whether it’s a preservation or a transportation anomaly.

“How can you interject between my thoughts?”

Changeling technology or something. My partner and I just fly this thing. Head to the refueling boom for refreshments. You need them.

Spitfire dropped below the aircraft into position to meet the refueling boom. Cautiously, she turned the valve and let a trickle visit her tongue. Its taste was most bizarre. The closest descriptions for her were jet fuel with magical additives to allow for mammalian digestion or sugar water with enough caffeine to act as a bitterant. Either way, she turned the valve to suckle greedily like a newborn foal as the steel beams of despair and exhaustion melted.

Stomach comfortably full, Spitfire closed the valve. The aircraft changed its bearing.

To return to Canterlot, go in the opposite direction from us. Drop two flight levels and flap ten times.

She descended quickly with steady, spread wings and heard an earsplitting rush as her wings flapped. When she looked, the craft was already a speck on the horizon, with a massive puffy contrail, hopefully pointing the way home.

Her flight up to the contrail was smooth. Whatever was in that life-giving elixir also quelled her aches. She began to fly slowly toward its end, then dropped to gain speed. Around FL13, she yanked her wings, kicked the air as if to leap from the ground, and easily soared back into the sky. Her next arc took a slight downward course as she flapped to gain speed. This time, she kept pushing through the wind peeling at her face. The sky lit with fiery hues of her rainboom and her contrail turned from smoke to flame.

Propelled, she began large circles around Canterlot to bleed momentum. As she slowed, her path narrowed until she stalled out and landed on the perch of her penthouse overlooking the surrounding plains.

Comments

[Draco Dei]

The sun was in its mid-morning position. All around here were clear skies. The storm had vanished in the night. It must have been one of thosevmagically enhanced storms for it to have intensified and dissipated so fast.

I believe you will want to replace the "v" with a space.