This work is copyright 2001 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery. It could also prove highly disturbing if you think our current socio/political worldview is the only one that exists. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. Im not going to point out which practices are safe, and which arent. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Dont make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
The name Freehold has no relationship to any other use of the term by any other author. No connection should be assumed, either derivative or as a base for parody.
OK - now on to the story -------
How did I get here? I mused. Trust a computer to ask that kind of a question. It should be kind of obvious. Really. The stable lad put me into this stall, and here I am, munching on my ration and talking to a computer through this VR helmet. But then, I suppose the computer didnt mean anything quite that obvious.
Begin at the beginning, go on to the end, and then stop. Seemed like good advice when Alice heard it. Probably still good advice, although this isnt quite the wonderland that the logical reverend had in mind. But whats a good start? Four elephants standing on a turtle? No, too far back.
I suppose that a good point would be when my partner and I killed two people while we were robbing a bank. He got the bank guard; I got the cop. The cop had gone out of control, and there were citizens lying all over with holes in them. Not good. I expected that the cops would be after me like flies after a garbage truck, even though they got my partner on the way out. They really dont like it when one of them gets killed. Silly assess, if they didnt want to be shot, they shouldnt be cops. Its really obvious, isnt it?
Anyway, I figured I had better get as far away as possible. Preferably someplace they couldnt come after me. This seemed to be easier than it sounds. During the chaos at the beginning of the 21st century, some people had glommed onto an island and called it Freehold. About all I knew about it was that they werent very cooperative with the rest of the worlds cops, which suited me just fine right about then.
If Id been paying any attention to what they were really like, Id have stopped by a hardware store, bought some rope, and given it to the district attorney. Like, make it quick, please. However, I didnt, so Im here to tell this tale.
How to get away was a snap. Identity fraud is one of my other sidelines. I usually had a few spare credit cards and other ids cached away. Switch identities, buy a ticket to Freehold, and exit stage left, laughing. So, if I was so good at this, why was I robbing a bank in the first place? Well, you know boyfriends. You kind of fall into their hobbies. It cements the relationship. Besides, its got a lot more excitement than quietly living on someone elses credit card.
Anyway, airport, airplane, airport. Essentially the same anywhere in the world. The faked passport got me through customs. Trying to get back into the US with that passport would be real difficult, but this wasnt the US. Dont get back on the plane; just find the boat to Freehold. The island doesnt run to an airport. Either one of their peculiarities, or they just dont have enough traffic to justify it. Or maybe they dont want anybody overhead that could drop a bomb on them. Prudent. So far, the computer hasnt let me get to that kind of information. Anyway, you cant buy a ticket there directly.
The boat was kind of a trip. Id never been on a real ocean going boat before. Well, this wasnt the Queen Phillip, but it was certainly bigger than a ferry. Just watch the scenery. Dolphins and sharks. The dolphins in the water, the sharks were on board, plotting what they could get out of the local yokels when they got there. Im not certain which was more amusing. Everyone underestimates Freehold. It seems to be their national policy. I certainly did.
We arrive at the port. We get off, and troop into the building marked Customs. Simple, upfront. Theres a sign pointing to the right saying Visitors, and one to the left saying Immigrants. Well, I certainly wasnt planning on leaving any time soon, so pick up my baggage, and on into the Immigrants corridor.
The clerk at the front of the line was a very polite young man. Yummy, too. Polite like the door to a bank vault. May I see your identification, please? I hand it over, and he shoves it into his machine. Looks at the readout.
Well, I see you got here quickly. Theres already an arrest warrant and extradition request out on you. Not a problem, really. I expect you know we dont do extradition. Go into the room marked Orientation. Theyll show you a film when everyones assembled. There will be a quiz at the end. Heres your new id. Welcome to Freehold.
I staggered toward orientation in a deep daze. How had they made me so quickly? Or did he just say that to all the pretty girls? Whatever. Inside, and collapse into one of the chairs, deeply bewildered.
The film was borrrrring... All about how Freehold operated, stuff that it would embarrass a politician to spout in the middle of a campaign. I napped through it.
He wasnt kidding about the quiz at the end. When the film ended, they herded us into another room with testing computers in little cubicles. Feed my id into the slot, and discover that the test was, indeed, a TEST. They went into that film frontwards, backwards, inside out and outside in. Also sideways, top down and bottom up. Most of the questions baffled me. Totally.
The test ended. I was beginning to think that maybe I really needed a dictionary to discover how to spell clue. I didnt have one. Either the dictionary, or a clue.
This cute chick came in, flanked by a pair of walking mountains. They should have made the floor shake, but they glided in, light as a feather. Either one could have picked me up and twisted me into a pretzel to look busy and avoid fidgeting. Did I say that they were hunks? What would it be like to be their practice pretzel? Hummmmm...
She started calling names. People came up to her desk, and they were told what door to go out.
Pretty quickly she called my name. It was the name Id been using in the States, not the one on my documents. Since she was looking straight at me, I couldnt very well fudge. Especially since the clerk outside had clearly known about me as well.
Well, the lady or the tiger. But it wasnt my choice. Through the door, carrying my bags.
They jumped me. Thats all I can say. No excuses. They had it very well choreographed, but still, they caught me off guard. Not that it would have made any difference in the long run. Or the short run, either. Not that I had any chance at all. Neither a long nor a short run.
I walked through that door. It closed. Id be making things up if I said that it closed with a sound like a coffin lid, but that would be appropriate. As if I knew what kind of a sound a coffin lid made closing.
They grabbed my arms and twisted them behind me. Perforce, I dropped my bags. They missed. These guys had lots of practice. They applied some kind of cuff and chain affair that locked my arms behind me like they were welded. It felt like cuffs above the elbows, and cuffs below the elbows, and cuffs on the wrists. My arms werent moving.
Kick, bite and scream. All that got me was spilled onto the floor. Id always claimed I could beat any man alive with one arm tied behind my back. With both arms tied behind my back, however. I swear I could hear them chuckle as I fell on my ass.
Beefcake one grabbed me by the shirt collar and tried to pull me to my feet. The shirt came off instead. So he grabbed my bra and pulled. That was made of sturdier stuff, and I came up with it.
Beefcake two dealt with the noise very simply. Since I had my mouth open, he popped a ball gag into it, and buckled it behind me. Trying to twist my head around to keep him from tying it off did exactly nothing except give me a crick in the neck.
Beefcake one ripped the rest of my cloths off my poor, suffering body. Literally. He slid one hand into the front of my jeans and panties, and the other into the back, and pulled down. Beefcake two pulled me up. Exit one pair of designer slacks, with panties, pantyhose, shoes and other accessories. My reaction, of course, was to cover myself with my hands. Which rather forcefully reminded me that I didnt have hands any more. At least, not in any functional sense.
Then they wrapped a posture collar around my neck and put me on my feet. Beefcake one looked at me and said one word. Behave? His Indie impression left a lot to be desired. No hat. But the whip he was playing with made up for it. I behaved. There really wasnt much else to do. My choices seemed to be standing there glaring over my ball gag, falling on my ass trying to kick something, or running around the room giving him an opportunity to practice whip work on my delicate (or at least, my one and only) body.
I stood there and glared. If looks could kill, mine would have had to be licensed as a deadly weapon.
Beefcake two produced a leash, and clipped it to a ring or something at the front of my posture collar. That was the first I knew that I now sported attachment points. But then, I really hadnt been studying the damn thing when they put it on me. He said Come, and walked toward the other door. I came.
He led me into the next room, and tied the end of the leash to a ring in the wall. The ring was very cleverly placed just high enough that I couldnt reach it with my teeth. If I had teeth that I could use. If I didnt have this ball gag in my mouth. If I had a half hour to gnaw through the leather without anybody noticing. If I had anywhere to go after I escaped from this crew of madmen.
There were two other women and one man in the room. Both of the women were bareassed naked, except for the restraints holding their arms behind their backs and the posture collars leashed to the wall. There the similarity ended. One was struggling with her arm restraints, and making furious sounds behind her ball gag. The other was standing relaxed, and was chatting with the guard.
This was so weird that it stopped me cold. I took a deep breath, and the fury left, leaving me flatfooted. I would have been standing there with my mouth open, but then, my mouth was being propped open by the ball gag. Well, you know what I mean.
He looked at me and said: Will you behave if I take the gag off? Well, my mother didnt raise a total fool. It was obvious that screaming, yelling and cursing werent going to get me anywhere. Not only that, but they had a very efficient method of not being bothered by it. Id rather be able to talk any day.
I nodded. The posture collar made it difficult, but he got the point. He took it off, and I worked my jaw to relieve the pain. The other girl was still struggling. Idiot.
We chatted for just long enough for me to learn that the first girl was actually excited being here, in a room with madmen, with her arms bound behind her back. She had this fantasy about becoming something called a ponygirl, and she would now have her chance. Before she could tell me much more, the door opened, and beefcake two brought in another girl and leashed her to a ring in the wall.
She was apparently the last girl to be processed in this batch. The guard took a tangle of leather straps from a hook on the wall, and walked over to the first girl. He put it over her head, and began buckling straps. Finally, he had them tightened to his satisfaction. It was a very efficient bridle.
There was a main strap that came from the top of her nose, between the eyes, all the way over her head and back down to the posture collar, where it was buckled. Another strap ran around her head just above the eyes. This attached to the first strap. The first strap branched around her nose, and came down to the sides of her mouth, where it was attached to a pair of rings, one on each side. The two rings were attached by a strap that ran under her chin, a second strap that ran around the back of her head, and a third strap that ran up to the brow strap.
What startled me was that on her, it looked good. Somehow, it fit. Like she was born to wear a bridle.
He took another set of straps off the wall, and came toward me. Going to give me any trouble, girl? I said No, sir. The sir just slipped out. It seemed somehow appropriate. He smiled.
A couple of minutes, and he had my head encased in a bridle. I had this urge to look in a mirror to see if I looked as good as the first girl.
Another bridle, and he walked up to the third woman, the one that was still struggling. Some people just dont get the point very easily. He said, Behave yourself. Mmmmph. She glared at him. Somehow, that didnt sound like a thank you.
THWAK!!! That belt sure sounded like the crack of doom as it hit her ass. She straightened up with a very surprised look on her face. Or at least as surprised a look as you can get with a big, red ball gag in the mouth. Then he started crooning to her, and caressed her a bit. She calmed down, and leaned into his hands.
He took the ball gag out of her mouth. A couple more minutes, and she was bridled. The fourth woman went quickly. She seemed to be fascinated by the red streak on the third womans ass, where she had been whipped.
Now that we were all bridled, he took some more leather from the wall, and came up to the first woman. He snapped blinders to the sides and top of her bridle. Then he took out a metal bit, and attached it to the rings in her bridle at the sides of her mouth. The bit had a little handle coming down on each side. He attached a set of reins to these handles, and then looped them to one of the ubiquitous rings on the wall. Finally, he removed the leash.
My turn next. When he came up with the bit, I obediently opened my mouth to receive it. It tasted like, well, metal. The blinders were very effective. I couldnt see any way except forward and down. My reins were tied to the back of the first girls collar.
He did the other two up the same way, not that I could tell by looking. It startled me when he attached a set of reins to the back of my collar, and I fidgeted.
Easy, girl, easy he said softly, and caressed my face with his hand. I calmed down.
Finally, he opened the door, took the lead girls reins, and walked out. There was a two-wheeled cart with a ponygirl standing harnessed between the shafts. I didnt have the time to get a good look at her, but I did notice the tail. I could hardly miss that, since she swished it at something just as we walked up. I wasnt all that certain about the haircut, either. Then he tied the lead girls reins to the back of the cart, and I lost sight of the cart pony.
I heard him say giddyap, and she started moving. Perforce, I had to follow. This was harder than it sounded. A lot harder. You wouldnt think that just following someone would be that difficult. The trouble was, I had to pay attention every moment. And to both the girl in front of me, and to the ground I was walking on. If I let my mind wander, I would stumble, or bump into her, or find my leash pulled as I fell behind. And, of course, my collar would be sometimes yanked as the girl behind me stumbled. Needless to say, we fell a few times.
Some part of my mind eventually decided that paying attention to the girl and the ground in front of me was good, and that letting my mind wander was bad, and that we just had to put up with the girl behind me stumbling, and adapt as best we could. Then it got easier.
We sped up, slowed down, and stopped several times. Each time we changed our pace threw the entire coffle into confusion. Eventually, as I let myself get into the flow of what the girl in front of me did, I found myself changing pace with her. The feel of the sun and the wind on my skin, and the movement of my body, came together into a feeling of total peace in movement. The world felt just right, as I was part of it, and it was part of me - if that makes any sense at all. The klutz behind me never got it, and kept spoiling the mood by bumping into me when the pace suddenly changed. Then wed move off again, and the feeling of peace would come back.
Eventually, we turned off the road and stopped. There seemed to be a lot of activity around, but it didnt seem very important. I just stood there, and let the noise wash over me, the same as the sun and the wind.
Someone walked up behind me, and I started. He said Easy girl, as he removed the next girls reins from my collar. I relaxed again. This was even better, having that klutz removed.
Some time passed. The sun moved a bit in the sky. Someone came up to me from the front and unhooked my reins from the girls collar in front of me. He gave a tug, and walked off. I followed. He led me to a long, low trough filled with running water, and looped my reins through a ring set in the trough. He said, You must be thirsty, drink up, girl. I stood there. He came back to me, and put his hands on my back and belly, and bent me over so that my face was in the trough. I started lapping the water. Then I pushed my face in and started slurping it. He laughed, but I didnt care. Damn, but that water tasted good. It felt good on my face, too.
He took my reins, and led me into a place with a smell of old, musty leather. He led me to a long leather covered bench. The bench had odd-looking cutouts on the side. I was pushed over onto the bench, face down. My breasts fit into the cutouts, just as if it had been planned that way. My face was in another hole in the bench. I felt him buckle a strap around my waist, and then another one around my shoulders. I just lay there. Suddenly, the bench rose in the air. My feet were no longer on the ground.
Someone grabbed a foot, and I felt fingers pressing here and there, and long flat things being pressed into my flesh and then removed. In the middle of this, there was a tingling at the base of my spine, and then numbness spread. At the same time, someone else was working on my hair. I could feel them trimming the sides along my ears, removing side hair. The confusion only increased when someone else began working on my right hand.
I felt my left foot being placed in a boot, and the boot laced up. The boot seemed to have impossibly high heels. At least, my foot was being stretched out as if I was wearing six or seven inch heels. I wondered how I would ever walk in them. My right leg was put into a similar boot.
My hands were encased in some kind of weird glove. It fit like nothing I had ever felt before. I had no idea what it was supposed to do, except that I could no longer even wiggle my fingers. There were immovably frozen in place.
My tailbone was beginning to itch. And I needed to piss real bad. Suddenly, all of the activity stopped for a moment, and then the table dropped away from under me. I came down on my hands and feet - except that I didnt. Somehow, the boots on my feet, and the whatever on my hands, made contact with the ground and supported me. I got my first good look at what they had done to my hands. They were HOOFS! I had a set of front feet, rather than hands.
A hand grabbed my bridle, and urged me forward, crooning something like come on Auburn Flame, just relax and move out. I let my body flow into it, and found I could walk on all fours. As long as I didnt think about it, I just put a front hoof forward, moved my body, and the hind legs followed. This was a total shock. I didnt know that people could walk on all fours.
Then the next shock hit. He had called me Auburn Flame. That wasnt my name! It was a ponys name. But it was real pretty, and matched my mane of bright reddish brown hair. It also fit my rather impetuous personality. He led me out of the leather room up a bit of a path, crooning my new name to me so that I got used to it. We came to a gate. He opened the gate and led me inside. Then he took off the bridle, and gave me the first real instructions anybody had done here.
Auburn Flame, you are going to be turned loose in this meadow for a while. You can walk around, run, talk to the other ponies, lie down, sleep, whatever you like. Come when someone calls your name. Dont try to go up on your hind legs; you will be severely punished if you do. You will learn what you need to do when you need to know it. Dont try to leave the meadow unless someone has bridled you and is leading you out. Have fun. He gave me a little shove up the hill, left the meadow and closed the gate behind himself.
I craned my head up to look around. I was in an open field, with a fence around the part I could see. There was a little hill, and what sounded like a brook in the distance. I could see several other ponies standing or lying on the ground. They were all wearing hooves, and the ones standing were on all four legs. No one was standing up erect. So much for evolution.
I trotted over to the nearest group. One filly with a gorgeous mane of chestnut hair, and a matching chestnut tail, said, Hi, you look new here. Im Scarlet Dawn, what are you called?
Theyre calling me Auburn Flame. What is going on here? Im totally confused. Youre the first person Ive talked to thats made sense - and thats just Hello, hi there.
Just call me Dawn. You really are new. Tell me a bit about how you got here, and Ill see if I can fill in some details. Im going to call you Auburn, is that all right?
Sure. I just came in on the boat this morning from the States. I went through something called Immigration, and then I find myself packed off here. Before we talk, I really have to go real bad, where is there somewhere I can go.
Dawn laughed. Go anywhere you want. Just be considerate of the rest of us, and do it downwind. One of the advantages of being livestock - nobody expects us to have bladder control. Its fun to get back at some of the more obnoxious grooms by pissing on them, and then having a bland look on your face. Dont worry about your tail, its programmed to get out of the way.
Over this way is convenient. Dawn trotted toward one corner of the field, where the brook ran out under the fence. She turned around, flipped her tail over her back, and let loose. It was such a natural movement, that I left my mouth hanging open.
I turned around, and thought about it. Eventually, my bladder decided that it had had enough, and let go of its own accord. I felt something like a mop of hair on my back. That must be my tail, I thought. God, it felt good to relieve myself, even though I felt so embarrassed that I could just melt into the ground and ooze away. Dawn didnt help any by standing there giggling at me.
Then my bowels cooperated (or failed to cooperate) by letting loose. Embarrassment squared. At least I was now shipshape down below, or should I say behind? It was hardly below any more. Once everything seemed to be settled, I walked forward a couple of paces, and looked behind me. Yes, a pile of shit.
Dawn said: dont worry about it. They imported some kind of beetle that takes care of cleaning up the mess. Otherwise, wed be hip deep in our own shit. Not that we arent anyway, but metaphors are usually more comfortable than reality. Ignoring the metaphors is easier than ignoring the blowflies.
As we moved back up the hill, I asked But what is going on around here. This is just totally beyond weird.
Well, yes. Remember, the reason you came to Freehold was probably to get away from somewhere else. Freehold maintains its independence by being different. They arent just being perverse by having several hundred ponies in the human livestock program. When you are trained, youll probably be doing taxi duty. One thing you wont find on this oddball island is cars. Or trucks. Or vans. Were it for transportation.
The rule in immigration is that if you look like you can be self supporting with less than three weeks of orientation, you can go for it. Otherwise, you wind up as a field hand or a pony. One of the things that they dont advertise is that you cant bring money in and just live off of it. If you immigrate, you have to do things their way, which means either you support yourself, or you find yourself wearing hoofs and a tail.
One more thing. Freehold has a fixation on anybody being able to better themselves at any time. Job transfers are by examination, and everybody, regardless of station, is allowed to study for the examinations. Once you are settled into taxi duty, ask your trainer or groom about it. Until then, they wont answer, and they wont tell you themselves. Usually. Beyond that, I really cant tell you about anything else. Either I dont know, or your trainer would have my hide for interfering with her carefully thought out training schedule.
Just then, an earsplitting whistle screeched out. Scarlet Dawn, get that tail of yours down here, now.
Oops, got to go. Duty calls. Talk to you later. She turned, and trotted toward the gate. There was someone sitting on the fence with a knot of rope in his hand. Dawn trotted up to him, and nuzzled him. He patted her on the head, and held out something in his hand. She licked it up. He took the rope, and bridled her with it. Then he opened the gate, and they went out to wherever they were going.
This was the first time I had really had to study one of the people that ran this madhouse. This one was fairly normal for people, about 58 or so. What was strange about him was that he was wearing a dress. Well, call it an ambitious tunic. It came to mid thigh, and was gathered at the waist. He was also wearing pony hooves, which struck me as really odd. Why would someone who wasnt a pony be wearing hooves? He obviously had full use of his hands, though, and he was clearly in a position of authority, at least over us.
As I was ruminating over this, another one came up the path. This one was clearly female, even though she was dressed the same as the first one. She vaulted the fence, whistled, and called Auburn Flame, get your ass over here. Time to be working.
My call. I could make them chase me down, but I had a hunch this would be real stupid. Besides, Dawn hadnt seemed to be in any distress other than the out of bounds situation. I trotted over to the fence. She held out a little candy in her hand, and I greedily licked it up and swallowed. When she held the bridle out, I shoved my head into it like a good little girl, well, like a good little pony, anyway. Nobody had ever called me a good little girl and meant it.
She tied it on, lead me through the gate, and then up the path. I had this feeling that I was about to meet my destiny.
My destiny was about 510 in her pony hooves. She was dressed in a power dress. As opposed to cloth, it was black leather. She had a whip at her belt, and I was to learn that she was quite expert at using it on recalcitrant or slow ponies. Other than that, she was an enigma. She apparently made no effort to get to know me, and didnt reveal anything of herself, either. On the other hand, by the time we were a few days into the training regimen, she knew everything important there was to know about Auburn Flame.
She acted. I reacted. Somehow, my reactions were exactly what she wanted to train into me. She started that first evening by introducing me to the stables. She traced the paths in from the meadow, through the milking machines, into the stable proper, and into the stall that I was assigned. Then back out through the shower, then the milking machines, and out to the meadow. Back and forth, until the actions were second nature. No explanation, just calm shaping of behavior.
I should explain the milking machine. All of the female livestock was treated so that we were lactating full time. We were milked three times a day. Once on leaving the stables in the morning, once on returning at night, and once in the middle of the day. I still dont know why they do this. Ive asked the computer, and all it will tell me is that the information is in a class I havent gotten to, and may never get to (its got lots of prerequisites, many of which are satisfactory life experience). What I remember from my former life is that it keeps us from getting pregnant. In fact, I havent had a period since Ive been here. But Im certain that thats not all of it. The computer blandly agrees with both halves.
Anyway, the milking machine is adapted to four-footed livestock. You go into a kind of chute, or corridor, that is narrow enough that you cant move from side to side. Then you plant your hooves at the designated points on the floor. The attendant swings a pole with two vacuum suction cups over, and attaches them to your breasts with a strap that goes over your back and buckles there. Its the closest thing Ive seen to a bra since Ive been here. Then the vacuum is turned on, the sucking begins, and the milk flows out of you into the tubes.
Where it goes from there, I dont know, although I presume that its used in some way. Freehold doesnt seem to do anything wastefully. It would be quite a hoot if human mares milk was the standard drink on the island, although the quantities dont seem to work out, by a couple of orders of magnitude.
Training continued.
The standard training regimen was two sessions of a couple of hours a day. The rest of the day was spent in the meadow relaxing. Dawn told me that this wouldnt continue. Once I was trained up to a certain point, they would begin endurance training, which would take most of the day, every day.
Well, anyway, after being trained in stable routine, things changed. One morning, my trainer took me over to a tack room, and made me stand up on my hind legs. I almost fell over. After days on four feet, two felt strange. My front legs were pulled behind me, and buckled across my back, with my pony hooves sticking out the sides. Then they put a harness belt on me, and lead me out into a practice ring.
I spent the next period learning gaits. How many days it took, I have no idea. By the time she was done, I had four work gaits, walking, trotting, cantering and galloping. I also had a walking show gait, where my knees came up to my waist. Each gait was exact, precise, and beautifully executed. She allowed no slack, any time, anywhere. I didnt need to think about any of it. She ordered, my body responded.
After that, training split into two. One part was spent learning how to pull a pony cart. The other, and longer part was spent in building up endurance.
Endurance training was hell. On a treadmill. They had this treadmill rigged up with all kinds of monitoring stuff, and what I would swear was a whipping machine. I would get locked into it, and off we would go. The monitors insured that I was putting out at the optimum required to build my body into the perfect pulling machine. The machinery wouldnt let me go faster than that optimum. The whip insured that I didnt go any slower. Whoever designed it must have been a sadist of the first water.
In contrast, the pony cart was fun. In preparation, she would put me into a harness that locked my waist belt into a single construction with my chest and shoulders. The waist belt had buckles at the sides that the pony cart attached to.
I had a working bridle and bit. The bridle was attached to the harness at four points, so that I couldnt turn my head in any direction. If the driver signaled me to turn by pulling on one rein or the other, the only thing I could do to relieve the pressure was turn my entire body. I suppose that was the point. In any case, it worked. Needless to say, the bridle had blinders so that I couldnt see to the sides or above me.
The cart was an exquisite piece of machinery. Just standing there, with her in the seat, it weighed less than a bag of groceries. Starting, stopping and turning several hundred pounds wasnt simple. And it was hard work, especially on any kind of slope.
Between the endurance training and the pony cart, I collapsed in my stall at night. Lights out went by while I was deep in slumber.
We started doing pair, threesome and foursome training with various carts. Each variety handled a bit differently, and coordinating with other ponies was always something to look forward to.
Again, I suppose I should explain a bit about how pony teams worked. There wasnt any discussion involved, as there is in human teamwork. The trainer had total responsibility for how we worked together. Just like solo work, she acted, we reacted, and the patterns built up so that we worked as a single unit.
This occasioned the first time that I actually talked to my trainer. Something was going wrong on a particular hill on one of our practice courses, and it hadnt been corrected in several attempts. I didnt know exactly what, but something didnt feel right about the balance several paces before. The last thing I wanted to do was try to correct it myself. I had seen what had happened to a couple of ponies that had attempted to get their heads into their training. It wasnt pretty. Even though they learned their lesson, their trainer was never quite able to correct the damage and bring them up to snuff. They wound up doing heavy hauling.
That morning, while she was harnessing me, I spoke up.
Maam, begging your pardon for talking, but Ive noticed something about that hill you might be interested in
Oh? That syllable would have scared me shitless once. She was not pleased.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I seem to be slightly off balance about four paces before then.
Hummmph. She held up the bit and I took it in my mouth. She called another trainer over, and then finished harnessing me, and we were off.
Darned if we didnt head straight for that hill. Both sets of us. She switched places with the other trainer, stood on the side, and watched while I went over that part of the course several times.
We went back to the practice ring, and she had me working at the lunge for what seemed like hours, practicing certain motions over and over and over. Fast, slow, stop in the middle, even backwards. Eventually, she seemed satisfied. We went back over that part of the course, and darned if the problem wasnt there any more.
Afterwards, she unharnessed me, and then just stood there looking at me before taking my forelegs down and reverting me to being a quadruped again. Then she walked over, and said look me in the eye, girl. Good. Now, theres discipline, and theres stupidity. I would have said that there was nothing I would ever want to talk to a pony about, but you changed my mind on that. If you ever notice something like that which I seem to be missing, tell me. Otherwise she paused.
KEEP YOUR GODDAM MOUTH SHUT.
Understand?
Im afraid I cracked up. It was just too funny.
She looked at me real strange, and then she cracked up too. When we both had quit laughing, she said, Ok, Im going to finish harnessing you, and then Ill join you in the meadow for a few minutes. I think we really do need to talk.
I should mention that by now, the grooms flexibility exercises had gotten my shoulders so that I could put my elbows together behind my back, with my forelegs pointing up. This was the height of good form for a pony in two-legged mode. Anyway, she unfastened my forelegs, and got me steady on four feet.
Then she took me out to the meadow, and sat down with me. Now, talk. Do you think you know how to train yourself?
Oh, lord. No, absolutely not. I saw what happened to those two fools. I named them. They thought they knew what they were doing, and messed up what their trainer was working on for a fair thee well. Thats why I felt I had to break discipline and tell you directly. There was a problem, you didnt seem to be seeing where it was, and I didnt dare interfere and try doing anything myself. Anyway, I never would have guessed that those exercises you had me doing would have had anything to do with it.
Hum. Youre certainly showing some wisdom that your background doesnt indicate. There may be hope for you yet. Tell me how you think your pony training is going.
Well, I could say that its not for me to evaluate. I really cant give you a lot of detail. But you seem to have me going over senior courses that most of the ponies that have been here for longer still cant manage. So I would have to say that Im proud of what you have gotten me to accomplish. How that fits into the greater scheme of things? I simply dont know. It doesnt seem like most of that is really needed on taxi service.
Well, thats true. Youve certainly accomplished more, in less time, than most. Dont get a swelled head. There have been better. But not a huge number.
Now, to the future. You have one more course before we put you on taxi service. Its a bit below your level of training, but there are reasons why you need that experience. After that, I might consider sending you for circus duty. Now, theres a question you should be asking me.
I thought about that for a bit. Circus duty sounded, well, interesting. Certainly exciting and different. But what question. Then the conversation with Dawn that first day came back to me.
Well, yes, there is. But first, by circus duty do you mean being part of a circus act? I think Id like that. As far as why I need to be on taxi duty for a while, Im not certain. It seems like it might help me fit into Freehold. So far, Ive just been training. Taxi duty is more earning my keep, like.
As to that question. How do I advance here? Right now, Im quite happy being a pony. I dont know how long that is going to last. I understand there is a procedure, but I know nothing about it.
Yes, that is the question you need to ask me. I am not allowed to start you on that until you ask. Ill pop in after you are in your stall tonight before lights out and show you how the training hookup works. Oh, yes, the circus duty is being the pony in a circus act.
With that, she got up and left.
The rest of the day passed, and eventually, I wound up in my stall for the night. My trainer came in.
Well, lets get you introduced to the computer. Its quite a trip.
It turned out there was a door in the front of the feeding tray. I should probably describe the feeding tray, since I seem to have missed it. Its just a box in the front of the stall. On top there is a basin for water, and a tray for pony feed. The attendants kept both full. I fed myself whenever I was in the stall, and hungry. This place was very relaxed about that. Dinner, supper or a midnight snack, it was all the same to them. Not at all like the training regime.
The box was squared off. I had simply assumed that the bottom was a cabinet that opened from the other side, and that the attendants used it for something. Nothing to be concerned about. Boy, was I wrong.
I could unlatch the door with a front hoof. Clever design. Inside was something that looked like a helmet out of some mad scientists laboratory. She had me stick my head into it, and pull it out. Then she had me put my head (and helmet) back in, and leave the helmet behind. Repeat. The same gentle and relentless training I was used to. By the time she was done, I could maneuver that helmet just as well as well. And all without hands.
Then she showed me how to turn it on. When I turned it on, a pair of screens came down over my eyes, and a pair of earphones came down over my ears. Then the screen lit up. It said, Welcome to Freehold, Auburn Flame. Shit, a computer with a macabre sense of humor.
Then the screen changed to say something more sensible.
The first task is to learn how to input. Since you dont have functional hands, you will have to learn an alternate method. This computer helmet reads your brain waves and eye movements. Lets begin.
I had two hours every night between the time I was put into my stall, and lights out. It took a week before that damn pointer went where I wanted it to go, each and every time. Then we got to the keyboard. That was worse.
I had to operate the keyboard by visualizing where I wanted to push. The computer was reading my brain waves, all right. It put a pattern on the screen that showed what it was making out of my visualizations. Eventually, I learned how to make that pattern look like what I wanted. But that took another week. Except that it wasnt like any keyboard I had ever seen. The computer called it a chord board. It was just a dozen spots in a straight line. I could visualize any combination I wanted to. I could press any four on the right, and any four on the left simultaneously.
The chord board was marvelous. Most of the combinations were whole words and phrases. I couldnt believe how fast it was compared to a standard keyboard. And the fact that it was running off of my brain waves instead of my hands made it that much faster.
I could type faster than I could talk. Gaaah.
I could talk to the computer. I havent a clue as to whether it was an artificial intelligence, whatever that means, and it refused to tell me. But when I asked it what I should do next, it said:
Repeat the orientation course you slept through in immigration.
Oops. Even the computer knew about that. Well, why not.
As it turned out, the teaching program was really good. It was almost impossible to fail. And it was impossible to avoid learning what it wanted to teach. I learned how Freehold was really set up. Boy, was I stupid to come here. Not stupid, just ignorant.
One interesting thing I learned was what the ponygirl program was all about. Or at least how it happened. Freehold had started as two different societies. One was the competence based one. The other was a group of perverts that wanted to be able to practice their master/slave and human livestock fantasies on real people who hadnt agreed to it. Eventually, the competence people won out, and what was left of the master/slave crew departed for friendlier climes. However, the winners kept the ponygirl taxi service as a really good way to provide a bottom layer to society. It cut down on gasoline imports and air pollution. And I suppose we looked cute.
Freehold is a massive experiment in competence. A person has to prove she is competent before she is allowed to do anything. I wondered what the test was for using the crapper. Then the question sort of turned around and looked back at me. I realized that I wasnt allowed to use one! Oh shit. Pardon the pun.
So I asked what the test was for sex.
Your life experience shows you will probably pass it when you are allowed to take it. I would advise reviewing the course first, however. A methodical study can fill in blanks and correct misconceptions.
I stared at that for a good five minutes. First in shock. Then I started getting this horrible suspicion that I wasnt short just a few bricks of a full load.
Finally, I asked a really relevant question.
Do you have a course in how to get around Freehold for a taxi pony?
Yes. Would you like to coordinate that with your trainer?
That seems wise.
Good. Your trainer has left notes as to what you should look at first.
After that, things picked up. I was shocked at how much I was missing in only learning about the city by being driven around it.
The computer was a font of knowledge. I could ask it just about anything, and I would tell me most things, or refer me to some course or other. I asked it about a couple of things that had been puzzling me.
How does my tail work?
Its now a part of you. It attaches to your spine at the tailbone. Your brain and nervous system grew extra parts to handle it. They adapted the genetics so that it shares your circulatory system without causing immune system reactions.
Oh, my. Will it have to be amputated when I leave?
The tail is detachable. The course contains all of the details. You can keep it if you want. Many former ponygirls keep theirs if they live out in farming or wilderness country. Thats not as popular in the cities.
I suppose my mane is more genetic adaptations?
Yes, it is. It marks you as a ponygirl, although thats not as important as it once was. Whats more important is that the grooms do not need to tend your hair. The change will be reversed when you graduate to Personal Slave, and your hair will start growing out normally again.
Well, the orientation course had said there was a very high level of biotechnology. There was one other thing that had begun bugging me.
How long will it be before I graduate to the next level?
Its impossible to tell. Let me expand on that. The usual time in taxi for those who graduate is eighteen months to two years. In your case there are several concealed evaluation items that you have to pass, or you will spend the rest of your life either in taxi or in the circus.
Concealed evaluation items?
I am not allowed to tell you what they are, or how the evaluation will be conducted. The current assumption is that you will fail them, which is why you are being tracked to the circus.
Oh, shit. Oh, well. What do I need to do for circus?
Theres time. If you work out, you can stay in taxi as long as you want. Once youre settled in taxi, you can apply to be trained for show routines. The trainers are quite happy to do that; it lets them stretch their abilities. This is, by the way, not limited to ponies tracked to the circus. Many ponies like to show off, and this lets them do it appropriately.
Well, I always did like gymnastics.
Taxi training was interestingly different. The first thing I learned was that as a taxi pony, I would be all over the city, in sort of a random motion. The basic thing taxi ponies do is stand at a rail at a taxi stand waiting for passengers. I know, that sounds backwards; a taxi pony should be spending her time taking people somewhere. But standing at that rail was what actually made the system work.
We werent hitched to the rail. Our reins were either grounded, or left hooked over the cart. Which really didnt matter, because both were signals for stand. My bridle had a small transceiver attached, just in front of the left ear. I used it to get orders from the dispatcher.
When a passenger wanted to go somewhere by pony cart, he simply walked up, got in the cart, picked up the reins, and we went. Actually, that is somewhat of an oversimplification. There were two types of passengers. One would give me an address and expect me to get him there; the other would drive me there using the reins and other signals. There was one other difference. If he wanted to drive, he would put my blinders on. If he wanted me to drive, then he would take my blinders off. Nice, efficient signaling system. Hey, it worked. It also told other people which one of us was driving, something that I found important to know.
If someone wanted a pony to pick him up, he called the dispatcher, and the dispatcher sent one over from the nearest pony stand. Thats what the transceiver was for.
The rest of taxi training was learning the street routes and how to handle some of the curves. The computer was real helpful there, once I figured out that it was available.
One interesting thing I learned was that nobody mistreated taxi ponies. Back in the states, I would have expected that a naked girl in a bondage harness would have been raped five times in an hour. Here, nobody touched me. Ever. You did that, you got bounced back down to livestock, and had to work your way up. And with sexual abuse on your record, you probably wouldnt without a lot of heavy-duty therapy. As I was to find out, anything you did to screw up, you had to pass a heavy-duty, specific evaluation before you got to supervised citizen. And sometimes earlier than that. I had several of those coming up that I didnt know about yet.
I spent a year on taxi duty. The daily routine never varied. The taxi stables were different from the training stables. There was activity around the clock. The taxi service didnt stop at nightfall. However, a pony got put on a schedule, and kept there. We were assigned a taxi stand at the start of our shift, and went to it under our own power. There were days I never saw my assigned stand. I would get flagged down before I got there, and then the entire day would go like that.
Other days I spent at the stand getting a tan and swatting flies with my tail. I got quite good at it. That tail was a lethal weapon all in itself. It took me a while to master it. Not surprisingly, there was actually a course in the computer: Using your tail. There was no exam, unlike going to the toilet.
When I got around to asking about the schedule, the computer said:
Your schedule is matched to your circadian rhythms. Highly irregular schedules cause sleep problems, and are bad for your health.
That was Freehold for you. I never saw a more relentlessly efficient place. I sometimes think that the reason we were treated well is that mistreatment would have been inefficient. Cut down on production.
For night duty, they had cute little goggles that made everything bright as day. The colors were off, but you got used to it.
We were off duty one day in seven, and we could spend it in the attached meadow if we wanted. Sometimes I did, but frankly, most of them werent my type of people. They were about half lifers, and half short-timers. The lifers were mostly losers who didnt have a chance of making supervised citizen, and either didnt find household slave appealing, or couldnt have made it there with an engraved invitation and a road map. The short-timers were either people like me whod screwed up badly, or young adults that hadnt been able to pass the test for supervised citizen when they reached their majority. I got the impression that they didnt consider it a big deal. The ones that would be going much beyond Citizen usually passed the test easily and the others had grown up with the system.
I spent more of my free time on display routines. Some of them were just cute little things that were good for a giggle. I got quite good at jumping and dressage. I never did like being ridden, although I got quite good at it. I think they did something to my back to make it possible; at least, I never had any back problems, which I would have expected. Racing was more fun, in both two and four-footed mode, however, I definitely didnt want to do it for a career. Racers were specialists, and I suspected that once I had the routine down, Id get bored real fast.
I found out that there was e-mail and chat available through the VR helmets. The first thing I asked about was if I could e-mail or chat with family or friends on the mainland. Guess what. There was a course on it. Complete with exam. The course had prerequisites like: permission of trainer. Personal responsibility evaluation. Board review. I thought I recognized NO when I saw it. Then I reconsidered. The computer was nothing if not consistent. If it gave me course details and prerequisites, then it thought I could satisfy them without ten years of further study and an improbable number of status advances.
Chatting with people on the island was easier. There was a set procedure: If I wanted to make friends or contacts, I could sign up under topics or jobs. The computer wouldnt let me sign up for anything I wasnt prepared for, so initially my options were limited to other ponygirls. Almost. There was also a streets and transportation discussion group listed as available to me.
That turned out to be interesting. It really was a discussion group. There were quite a few ponyboys and ponygirls on it, but anyone who used the streets and transportation was welcome to join. I found out quite early on that the street maintenance department and the ponygirl taxi service monitored it closely. Thered be a discussion about a problem, and then youd see a work item pop up on the streets maintenance schedule, with the original discussion as a reference.
There was even one time when I got to take a trainer out to a particularly obnoxious street corner. We spent several hours with the streets engineers going over that corner from every direction. They eventually decided that removing a newsstand, and changing the street level for a few yards would fix it. A couple of months later, there was a work crew out there, and it got fixed. I got a level two citation for that.
Level one citations were easy to come by. They were like tips. The customers passed them out all the time, and they meant nothing individually. The total did, however. It went into your efficiency rating, and determined if you had to be sent back for retraining. Level two citations werent that big a deal for the citizens, but they were quite hard to come by for ponygirls. Less discretion meant less opportunity to show my stuff. Most of the girls never saw a level two citation.
By the end of that first year, I knew that I didnt want to stay on taxi duty. It wasnt that I was bored with the job. Frankly, I loved it. Ive always been more of a tomboy, and moving around is what keeps my head on straight. The people who used me were unfailingly polite, but they treated me as part of the machinery, which I was. There wasnt much time for socializing on the job with the other ponies. Except for occasional chats on the midshift break, there was no time at all. We were either in our stalls, being harnessed, groomed and otherwise cared for, or out on duty.
The big break came when I got an assignment out in the country. It seems that a field ecologists personal pony had broken a leg, and would be limping around her home stables for a while. Meanwhile, the ecologist desperately needed a replacement. The powers that be asked for volunteers. Nobody volunteered. It had a reputation as a rough job.
I hadnt volunteered either, for one simple reason. Part of the requirements meant that they had to mess with your head. I mean that literally. The specifications mentioned vision, hearing and smell enhancements. I knew it had to be reasonably safe, but the grapevine said that adapting was a real mess.
Then they asked me personally.
Why me?
Well, it seemed that they thought I might be able to handle it without too much additional training. Some of the show courses Id been doing werent too different from the field requirements. And my dossier from the states listed hiking and camping as activities. The level two citation and my general efficiency ratings helped.
Something I found out later is that theyd taken that final shootout into consideration. They never mentioned it, but theyd been quite impressed by my firing exactly one round, and having it go where I wanted. They were puzzled by the skill not showing up in my dossier. What I didnt know then was that, as long as it didnt cause a problem, they were perfectly content to let me bring it up rather than digging it out of me. Not that they were ignoring it; my social responsibility rating wouldnt get anywhere near supervised citizen until I told them all about it.
They also didnt mention that they expected me to make Professional, which is two steps above Citizen, if I put my mind to it. Field Ecologists ponygirl really was a serious job that involved a lot more than just transportation. Theyd rather have someone that could do it well, instead of someone that might barely make supervised citizen.
So I accepted. I had a sudden vision of the personal responsibility evaluation prerequisite in front of the ability to email and chat with friends in the states. Having more responsibility handed to me on a platter couldnt be bad in this place.
There was a lot of additional training. Part of it was a quick check to find out how my hands were doing. You might have gotten the idea that my hands never left the pony boots. True, they were there most of the time, but rendering a ponys hands permanently useless was anathema to these people. It would have crippled her chances to advance, and that was the primary bedrock of their society. That advancement clause was rigidly enforced. There was a big enough human livestock and slave class that there would have been problems otherwise.
So every few days, without fail, my hands would come out of the boots, and I would have to do a set of flexibility exercises. The first time, I screamed my head off. Returning circulation hurt. After a while, my arms and hands adapted, and circulation wasnt a problem.
There was also my own personal terminal, with a set of VR goggles and a physical chord board. The helmet stayed in the stables. I understand that the human livestock programs are the only place the brain wave input is used. Well, thats not quite true. They are also used for cases of long-term paralysis, nerve damage or lost limbs. And there are some ex-ponies that prefer them to the physical boards.
There was a special set of quick release front hooves. I also got drilled in putting on my own harness, and taking it off. They were real serious about that. The field ecologist I was working with wasnt a groom. I wouldnt get the services I was used to unless we were somewhere there was a ponygirl stable. And they were few and far between except in the major towns. Which is exactly where field ecologists werent.
The sensory enhancements were a trip. They added a second variety of rod, and a fourth variety of cone to my eyes. The new rods covered the infrared, and the cones filled in the gap between the two reds and the blue that were standard issue. They extended my hearing range in both directions, and did something so that I could see sounds. And they brought my sense of smell back up to what our ancestors had a few million years or so ago.
The grapevine had been absolutely correct. The couple of weeks while the enhancements stabilized were bad. Colors shifted all over the place and the auditory crossovers had objects popping in and out of my vision. After it was all over, I found that I had four different visual modes. My new normal mode was a more intense form of color vision than Id ever experienced, with absolute color discrimination and color memory. In total darkness, the infrared rods kicked in so I had night vision. In dim light, they combined with the normal rods to provide a rather bizarre version of color vision. And I could deliberately bring them in or leave them out when there was enough light for the cones to kick in.
If anything, the auditory enhancements were worse. The extended frequency response wasnt too bad, but the crossover into the visual field meant that not only did I have better depth perception than I ever thought possible, but also I could tell the difference between a real grapefruit and a plastic imitation simply by looking at it and snapping my fingers. The sound texture was totally different. And that field went completely around me in a full sphere. I could see behind me, although it wasnt quite a clear as what was in front of me. For one thing, the normal colors were missing.
Smell, thankfully, didnt integrate with the rest of the extensions. I just found that there were more smells than I ever imagined, that they were more distinct, and that I never confused or combined them. They told me Id never be able to use a masking scent again. I believed them � when they demonstrated, I found that it didnt mask, it only added its own scent to the mix.
I asked the computer if this experience would satisfy the personal responsibility evaluation part of the communication with the mainland course.
We wondered if you noticed that. Remember that personal responsibility is both personal and responsibility. Its your job to find out what you can do to assist the team mission, without being ordered to do it, and also without interfering with the team mission, or your assigned overseer. The level of personal responsibility to be demonstrated is the ability to avoid doing anything terminally stupid. You can do a lot more in this assignment than is strictly needed for the prerequisite you are seeking.
On top of everything else, I was studying maps of my ecologists assigned area. I wanted to know the towns and the major roads. Also larger farms and installations. I wanted to be at least minimally competent at my job when I got there. And my job was transport, which included knowing how to get from here to there without having to be told every step of the way.
As it turned out, my ecologist was in town. She dropped by a couple of times during the training sessions, and made some very specific comments about equipment.
One day, we were ready. I trotted out of the taxi stables for the last time, and trotted over to the ecologists lodgings. She was waiting with the field cart. I almost lost it right there. That cart was huge. It was easily twice as big as the taxi carts. It wasnt heavily loaded by any means, but I could see a fair amount of equipment and supplies. I would guess it probably weighed twice what I was used to.
Surprised you, didnt it? Its not quite as bad as it looks. Its only a little heavier than two adults and two kids, which I know you can handle.
If that was supposed to cheer me up, it did, slightly. Two adults and two kids was the legal limit on how many could cram into a taxi. They werent easy loads, but they were possible, and I was finding them easier all the time.
So we got started. She hitched me to the cart, got in, and I headed out to the main road at a trot. She was right. Once I got it started; it wasnt that much different from a normally heavy taxi load.
The thing to remember about Freehold roads is that they were designed with ponygirls in mind, not with huge trucks with 500 horsepower engines. Most road segments were dead flat. They tried to keep inclines as easy as possible. And the long distance carts had a real interesting winching arrangement for intermediate inclines. Traction cables handled really steep inclines.
The way this worked is that there was a cable down the center of the lane. The pony was unhitched, and the cart was hitched to the cable. Then the pony went to a carousel that connected to the cable with some pretty hefty reduction gearing. These carousels came with some pretty hefty ponyboys. All they did was handle the traction. Those stallions were huge. They were also dumb. Traction duty was the bottom of the line for stupid. It was for ponies that couldnt handle the big wagons.
For one cart, it wasnt really necessary for me to have a go at the carousel. But it was expected, and it would have caused problems with the muscle if I didnt do my share.
Once we got on the main road, we found more freight, and fewer people. Four, six or eight pony teams, with a lot more stallions than mares, pulled freight wagons. It was a step down from taxi duty, but was above the traction mill ponies. Ponies that couldnt handle taxi work went to the freight teams. Taxi work, for all that the basic moves were drilled into you so that they were rote instinct, demanded constant attention. You had to manage your course, and you had to provide a reasonably smooth ride. Training could only do so much.
Freight work was different. The driver was always in control. You went when he said go, you stopped when he said stop. There were strain meters built into the shafts of the wagons. If you slacked off, you felt the whip. It was almost impossible for a freight pony to pick up even a level one citation. There simply was no opportunity. Freight duty was for the stupid, the ones who didnt care, and for occasional punishment for a taxi pony that screwed up.
Unlike the roads in the states, freight wagons went exactly at the same speed. They occupied one lane; we took the other. She tickled me with the whip, and I put some more effort into it. One of the things that I hadnt remembered about these long distance carts was that they had strain gages, just like the freight wagons. The taxi carts didnt have strain gages, and they didnt come with whips. The strain gages would be useless on taxis, and most of the city dwellers simply didnt have the experience, or the certification for that matter, to use a whip correctly.
Theres a real trick to using a whip with a ponygirl. I hadnt felt one since my original training, but the responses were still in place. There is a subtle difference between a stroke that meant, youre slacking off, and one that meant up the pace. And in both cases, it shouldnt leave a mark. A stroke that meant, you just screwed up, now pay attention and get it right this time would definitely leave a mark. My ecologist was an expert. I wondered briefly about the previous girl. Well, maybe she just liked whip work.
A good steady pace was about ten miles per hour. We went about two hours, and then took a break. By then, I was ready for one. Fifteen minutes later, I had recovered, and we were on the road again. We made 80 miles by the time we pulled into an inn near her assigned area. The stable boy got me up on a table, and did a real deep muscle massage. Boy, that felt good. In fact, I felt way to good to have just finished pulling a cart for 80 miles, with only three fifteen minute breaks. So, when I got to my stall, I used the computer headset in the headboard to check in.
There were some physical modifications made when you became a ponygirl. There are subtle differences now in your hands, wrists, feet and ankles. Your entire cardio/pulmonary system has been tuned up to very high efficiency. Likewise, there have been improvements made in the systems for getting nutrients to your muscles, and in removing and eliminating waste products. The result of all this is that you are stronger and have much more stamina than you had before.
If you ever left Freehold, which I understand is not advisable in your case, you would either have to get the modifications reversed, or you would be bared from all athletic competition. The athletic associations know about this set of changes.
I put the headset back and curled up on the straw that covered the floor of the stall. Time to sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and the beginning of a new chapter of my life. I smiled contentedly and drifted away.
The Ambassador checked his watch. It was just about time for the call from the South City police department to come through. He sighed. The biggest problem with being a diplomat was exercising so much diplomacy.
The phone rang.
Ambassador Reitif here. How may I help you, Lieutenant?
You can help me by getting that goddamned cop-killer back here so we can hang her.
Much as I understand your position, thats not going to happen. We dont have an extradition treaty with Freehold. We never have, and given the current political situation, we never will.
Well, what are you going to do?
Nothing. There is nothing I can do, and there is really nothing that needs to be done. The Freehold authorities have done what they think necessary. I can assure you that she is not sunning herself on a beach with a hunk to pop grapes in her mouth. Very much the opposite, in fact.
How are they punishing her?
Punishing her? Freehold does not do long term punishment. They regard it as a grossly inefficient use of resources. Freehold regards her crime as a demonstration of a pathological lack of social responsibility. So they have placed her in a position where she can perform a socially useful function, while being unable to perform any socially damaging acts, and being constantly faced with the fact that she is not trusted to exercise any personal responsibility.
Uh, ambassador, could you cut that down to something I can understand?
Shes spent the last year as a ponygirl in the municipal taxi service. What that means is that she is harnessed to a cart, and takes people from place to place on request.
Dead silence. Did I hear you say ponygirl? Like in pornography?
Yes, just like in pornography. Except that the abuse common in pornography is absent.
Youve got me totally baffled. I dont understand.
Lots of people dont understand Freehold. They like it that way. I can break it down a bit further. Freehold sees that killing a police officer in the course of armed robbery is a demonstration of very low social responsibility. So when she arrived, she was given a job consistent with that level of social responsibility, specifically, ponygirl.
She was taken right out of immigration. She was originally tracked to freight service, which is a lower level of personal responsibility than taxi service. However, there was an incident during training where she demonstrated enough personal responsibility that they put her in taxi service. They probably would have anyway; her training records are too good to start her in freight. In fact, they are actually too good for taxi, but she didnt have the personal responsibility status for anything higher.
Say what?
Lets see, I have it here. Subject Auburn Flame � they changed her name, ponygirls are always given pretty horse type names � identified a flaw in her performance that her trainer seemed unable to correct. She identified an earlier problem in the sequence, and brought it to her trainers attention. This enabled her trainer to correct the flaw, as well as several other flaws that had not been noticed.
In subsequent interview, subject stated that she made no attempt to deal with the flaw herself. She did not think that she had the level of training and experience to deal successfully with it.
In this incident, she took the correct action for the correct reasons.
Recommended one level increase in personal responsibility rating.
Recommendation approved by board.
For that?
How many people do you know who would have bitched, moaned, blamed the trainer, and screwed things up by attempting to deal with it themselves?
Gotcha. Now whats she doing?
Well, she got a level two citation for helping to improve a street corner with a dangerous level of inefficiency. Thats pretty rare for a ponygirl. They get level one citations all the time; the taxi service expects it. A level two is demonstrating social responsibility above and beyond expectations. Remember that that is relative. People at higher levels of demonstrated social responsibility collect these things like stamps.
That got her an interesting opportunity. Shes now the personal ponygirl of one of our field ecologists. Shell stay there for six to ten years, and go directly to supervised citizen when shes done, formally skipping the personal slave and household slave categories. That doesnt mean she wont do them, but a field ecologist is out in the wild most of the time, so its an unusual sequence.
Freehold certainly has some interesting job titles.
Doesnt it just. Oh, by the way, do you have her down for identity fraud?
No, I dont. We didnt find that out.
Ok, Ill have Sandra send you the dossier. Then you can clean up your records.
Thanks. But why are you bothering?
Social responsibility again. Freehold is relentless on that topic. Even though Im the ambassador of a foreign power, and have diplomatic immunity and extraterritoriality, if I dont demonstrate a level of social responsibility commensurate with my position, theyll ask that I be replaced. Since she isnt going back, not with a capital charge of killing a police officer, there are no interests to balance.
I see. Thank you, Ambassador. Its not going to satisfy the district attorney, but some of the relatives will probably be able to put it behind them. At least, she isnt getting off free.
Happy to be of service.
The ambassador hung up the phone. He turned to the young woman kneeling quietly by the side of his desk. Sandra, write up the request to have an extract of the Auburn Flame dossier sent to Lieutenant Dahl.
She got up and went to a standup desk that stood against the wall. She briefly stroked the chord board. He looked at his monitor.
Very good. You remembered to add the note about identity fraud.
She blushed. She walked back and resumed her place kneeling beside his desk. She was working out very well. She was the daughter of a senator, an old friend of his. She was currently serving five years for not stopping her sister Amy from abusing a ponygirl, and in fact, lying about it and attempting to cover it up. Her sister was serving seven years. She was currently a ponygirl in the municipal taxi. Sandra had come a long way from the spoiled brat who had either flunked out or been kicked out of the most exclusive prep schools in the country. Amy didnt seem to be getting the point, but there wasnt much he could do about it. Responsibility could be nurtured, but in the final analysis, it had to come from within.
He pushed the authorization button, smiled, and turned his attention to the next item on his agenda.