The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 16-18

# The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 16-18 ###### tags: `The Swirling Menagerie` Chapter 16 ========== ****** High. You feel… high. In spite of everything, in spite of what just occurred and what that occurrence implies, in spite of the resultant mayhem and questioning and Celestia knows what will come once you’ve arrived, you’re… thrilled. It’s euphoric, this feeling, better than any drug you’ve ever taken. You’ve heard before that impending death releases more adrenaline into the pony body than it can possibly handle, an effect of nature meant for impossibly quick acts of self-preservation. A fight-or-flight response, a natural endurance and strength and processing enhancer. And now, in the aftermath, dopamine is flooding your brain, injected directly into your thoughts and feelings. All that vulnerability and cowardly fear, the anticipation of your own demise, has been thoroughly counterbalanced by a sense of invincibility. You’re high as a kite, sailing in the clouds like a pegasus adrift, your heart pounding like a dog in heat. *It’s over, isn’t it?* You ask yourself over and over again, waiting for another fell creature with a blade and a vengeance to try and get the drop on you. If it happened right now, you’d be ready, oh yes, you actually *want* it to happen now, for surely this time you’d see it coming and sweep them by the legs, disarm them yourself, and if the public were watching you’d see in the papers that your approval ratings would skyrocket. Not, of course, that they won’t already, and *haven’t* already; the mere attempt is certain to garner support. You’ve been stirred, unflappable, unscathed, unencumbered by feelings of doubt or apprehension. There’s a feeling in your heart like you can do no wrong in this moment. You are Shetland Neighsay, Chancellor of the Senatori, the power of powers in this greatest of powers on earth. Canterium is your domain, your nation, your people, and above all, you want it to prosper. That’s the truth, and nothing but the truth, though your enemies would venture to suggest otherwise. They’d have it that you’re a profiteer, a scoundrel, a war-griffin. They want the public to believe that you’re pouring far too much of the state budget into this war, devoting too many resources and lives and time to a threat that is no threat at all. For a time, you even believed them. No longer. Your beating heart subsides, your narrowed eyes regain focus, your ears perk up to attention, and you’re once again aware of your surroundings. You’re whizzing upward on the sky-lift, faster and faster inbound to the gates of the summit platform high above the train station. Between the long, dark vertical beams shooting high like prison bars in this cell wide enough to fit three cars side-to-side, through the spotlessly transparent glass panes, the lower city reaches desperately into the heavens, buildings stacked upon buildings, roads upon roads, vying for the altitudes of the upper platforms it cannot hope to match. It reminds you of fingers sifting through strips of fabric, or knife-points jutting out above some massive grate complex, verticals and horizontals, level upon level, crumbling and reassembling. It’s a view that’s all too familiar to you, repainted over and over again in your sharp memory, going up and down and up again, down for the people, up for the politics. Each time, new thoughts and feelings are associated with the conglomerate of existing ones, associated with this sight, and so now when you look out it reminds you of all these trips at once, little bit of this one and that one. And now… well, you can add whatever emotion they’d call it that you’re feeling right now to that great compendium. These damned greycoats still flank you on either side as you ascend, insistent that they’re there for your protection. One places his hoof to his ear and nods down briefly, no doubt listening in on the endless mic chatter proceeding the attempt on your life, new safety measures and increased protection, blah blah blah. Behind you, your implacable bodyguard remains, your one true source of protection, almost invisible against the cold black face of the mountain rushing past on the anterior. In truth, though you hadn’t seen her capabilities until this afternoon, having thankfully never before required them, only having heard these things secondhand from the Magister who sold her services to you, you’d placed your trust in her to defend you and she’d satisfied remarkably. While your military escort was quite literally shaking in their combat boots, fumbling with the straps on their guns while their comrade was having his throat slit open and their Chancellor charged at by a knife-brandishing lunatic, she did for you exactly what you paid for. She protected. Heartrate’s down now to a reasonable pace, good, and a few short minutes later you’re at the peak of this great mountain, the center of the world in prestige and, incidentally, geography. The greycoats share a glance for a moment; one mumbles something into the other’s ear, and that other turns to face you as the collapsing doors on the lift fold to let you pass. “Mr. Chancellor, I’ve been notified that we should escort you to a safe site until we’re certain there are no more, uh, potential threats. We can escort you as far as Skylane Boulevard, and after that there’ll be another team that we can trade you off to and—” “That… won’t be necessary, private. I have some important business lined up for this afternoon, and I simply cannot afford to be late in arriving at Newcastle.” The earth stallion’s face contorts into a baffled expression. “Um, sir? With all due respect, we can’t let you go to the Senatori now. We’ve been instructed to not even let you go to your penthouse, or anyplace that a potential threat might be waiting for you. We need to go to the safehouse, now.” You smirk, placing a hoof on the young greenhorn’s wither. “I don’t doubt that you have my best interests at heart, private. I’m sure your superiors will give you quite the commendation for doing as told in this matter of, how should we say, *utmost* national emergency. But I know a lone wolf when I see one. There is no conspiracy on my life, no contingency plan B in case that first attempt, *failsafe* as it was, went awry. And between you and me…” You lean in close, a gesture which invariably causes ponies to let down their guards, in your experience. “A safehouse would be the first place a conspirator would think to drive me towards, you know, if this really were all some massive setup.” “I don’t… they don’t know where—“ “This one might. Oh yes, I’m certain they know my every move now, they’re forecasting my actions step by step. They know where that safehouse is because I know where it is through my own contacts, and I’m the very last pony who’s meant to know that location. No, surely it’s safer there than, say, a meeting room at Newcastle, immediately following a failed attempt on my life. Surely, private, it wouldn’t be better to simply allow me to go about my business? In the eyes of your superiors, that is. Who are, of course, my employees.” At that, the greycoat’s mauve face goes a deathly shade of white. Exactly the reaction you were hoping for. “I s-s-suppose we could escort you to N-Newcastle, sir. Along with y-your aide.” You right yourself, taking on a more politely friendly posture and expression. “My aide is all the escort I’ll be needing. Thank you for your service thus far, private…?” “L-Longshot, sir! Private Longshot.” “Longshot. And Metal Jacket, was it? Yes, I’m certain that the Minister of War will be delighted to know that you served me to the fullest extent of my desire, no more, no less. I expect to see your names in the commendatories soon, gentlecolts!” With that, you step out of the sky-lift, leaving the two stallions staring into nothing as the gates shut behind you, bar to glass to bar, and promptly shoots back down to earth. Here you are at last, after a full month away in that hellhole of a city. Unicronia had its charms, once, when it wasn’t a gutted shell of bare concrete frames massed out against the wind and the onslaught of the warfront. Nicer abodes prevailed to the east, a more inhabitable part of town, but that part was inaccessible outside of summits with the constant surveillance of war press, flocks of pegasi making certain you didn’t go back on your promise to “contribute” to the cause by slinking away into the politicians’ district. How on earth did they expect you to contribute? Moral support? A firm hoofshake to every good colt out there fighting the good fight against those rad-addled tech cultists calling themselves the heirs to Exsilia? But even if there were no War in the West, even if you’d visited Unicronia at peak opulence, you know you’d still have been disappointed. The unicorns there are proud in the same way that ants are proud of their anthill, singing songs of their old forgotten rebellions, futile kicks against Canterium’s generosity. You chuckle softly as you recall the way the assassin kicked and squirmed at you, feral to the end. That was the thanks you got for going out there for a glorified publicity stunt, risking your neck and your usefulness to this nation; as soon as you step out of the train car, somepony tries to murder you. So much for endearing yourself to the commoners. From the lift to Newcastle Kabardian is all of a fifteen-minute brisk walk, and in that time you find yourself admiring so many of the little aspects of the environment you always took for granted. Trails of hanging flowers, garlands colorful and plump from expensive hormone alterations, drape down along the purposefully antique sidings of the cottage mansions here and there. Lawns, tenderly managed and watered almost hourly at this altitude with elaborate sprinkler systems, stretch across modest but respectable plots, growing steadily smaller as you approach the central forum. The homes themselves, great stone buttressed replicas of architectural masterpieces of old, violet checkered nouveau towers suggesting Prench influence, the occasional blocky modernist innovation with waterfalls and other liberal design philosophies, belong chiefly to senators, dignitaries, ambassadors, the rare ascended businesspony here and there, and their consorts. It’s a city within a city, this summit platform, a layer above all other layers for the elite of Mons Canteria. At the tail end of this trip, you manage to sight in the not-so-far-off distance, the tip of your own abode, a glassy sheen reflecting the deep blue spring sky at the height of the tallest tower on this platform. That’s not your destination this time, however. You were telling the truth when you told that foal of a greycoat that you had far too much important business to conduct to go hiding like a scared little filly in a saferoom. No, your destination this fine afternoon stands tall across this wide forum, obscured slightly by a multitude of black marble pillars holding nothing but the air up high, lined in rows surrounding a deep red obelisk encircled in flame at its base. Red on black on pristine white behind it all, that assembly of pyramids atop an ivory circlet, appearing from this angle exactly like its nickname, the “White Crown of the Mons.” Newcastle Kabardian is its true name, home of the Senatori assembly, about a hundred meters away now. Named for the richest and most infamous of the Six Unified Kings of Old Equestria, it sits on the same hallowed ground of the first Castle Kabardian, seat of power of the Kings, then the Council, then the Emperors, and finally the Senatori, until it was torn down after the Mons Quake in 808 rendered it sadly irreparable. This new palace, a monument to the achievements of the ponies of Canterium the world over, gleams like a jagged pearl on high, scraping the limits of the heavens with its tall triangular towers. But before you even have the chance to admire that beauty you’ve long taken for granted, between you and the castle yard comes running up a flock of worried faces, some framed in magnificent fashions, others in plain black suit and tie. The senators in their capes and gowns huddle around you, bleating out banal trivialities like: “Thank goodness you’re unharmed! That ruffian will be punished, no doubt?” “A sad day to see this fair city spit on the hoof that feeds it. A brave return, indeed, eh Chancellor?” “An Exsilist plot, there’s no doubt in my mind about that, harrumph! Thank the sun and stars you’re well, Chancellor. Should… you be out here at this early time, then? Surely…” And so on and so on. Sweet Celestia, how tedious it all is. The ones in black suits, agents from all manner of agencies, are swimming through the ranks of senators around you, trying in vain to whisk you off to some safe place or another. That will not happen, not now, not when you’re so close to achieving an end to the plan you devised there, in Unicronia, sleeping on a scratchy old board of a bed while bombs rained down in the yellow distance over black fuming mountains. No, to achieve that end, there’s only one pony in a black suit you want to see right now, and that pony is thankfully wading through the nervous throng to meet with you, flanked by two operatives of his own. You catch a glimpse of that dark grey earth pony face, hard and disciplined, with a storied slyness about it, that silver mane, black jacket and—oh, this is a surprise—a *red* tie, making him somewhat stand out in the crowd. Ordinarily, he likes being inconspicuous, as is his very nature, so instantly you’re working out the motivation behind this minor change in fashion. Before you can come to a decision on that front, he’s standing in front of you, his agents calling for all the rest to move away and go about their own business, for “safety reasons”, of course. “Good afternoon, Black Bar.” “Good afternoon, Chancellor. You’ve had a busy day, or so I’ve heard.” “Oh, is ‘busy’ what you specialists call having a knife shoved in your face?” “More or less. Won’t you walk with me, Chancellor?” “My pleasure. I came here for you, you know. We have much to discuss.” With the Minister of Intelligence by your side, you walk a few paces, freeing yourself from the huddle of senators encircling you. When that’s done, you set off down the yard at a leisurely pace, only traveling a few steps before Black Bar stops and turns around. You follow the direction of his intrigued eye towards… oh yes, you suppose he hasn’t seen her yet. You should have figured he’d be deeply interested in your newest and closest friend. “So, this is her, then. My, my. What a fascinating specimen. Does the lady have a name?” You lift your muzzle almost imperceptibly, beckoning your bodyguard closer to you and Black Bar. The slinking shadow, having followed you at a respectable distance all this way, obliges and steps up to be examined. “Black Bar, may I introduce Pink. I believe I mentioned her when I wrote to you from Unicronia.” “Yes, of course. A gift from the High Magister, you said.” “Your memory’s sharper than ever. Yes, though he’d only had her for a few days. Bought her services exclusively as a gift for me, directly from the Laughing Guild or Brotherhood or however it is they style themselves. You know, in the northeast.” “The Laughing Cult would be more apt. They make their creations in service of a Laughing God, or so my monitors on their activities out east would suggest. Even still… I’ve never seen a Mouthless Jester in person before, let alone up close.” “They’re a rare breed. I was uncertain, to say the least, on how exactly she’d be of service to me until about half an hour ago. I’m sure you already know that she was responsible for saving my life at the station.” “You presume too much about me, Chancellor. I’m not all-seeing.” “No, but you are all-knowing, at least as far as I can tell. I’ll ask you not to put up a disguise when speaking to me.” “What’s fair is fair. Does she speak?” “Despite what the name implies, yes, actually. A little bit. But only to me, and only when absolutely necessary. Not much of a conversationalist, this one, and not much of a laugher, either. But that’s alright. The kind Magister didn’t purchase her for me to be my companion in idle chit-chat.” “Of course not. Oh, but I can see quite the fine figure under all that black… leather, is it? Are you sure she’s not your companion in… other ways?” “Now you go too far, Blackie, old colt. Pink, stand down.” The pink patchwork-festooned silhouette, made faceless by her featureless mask, does as commanded, gliding along the cool cobblestone to a more comfortable radius. “Dare to make a suggestion like that again, Black Bar, and you’ll be facing her blade just like that imp on the station platform. I happen to know for a fact that it was your agents who conjured up those rumors about that Fleur de Lis and me. I don’t appreciate publicity like that, and I won’t have it happen again.” He gives you one of those broad, thin, toothy grins he’s so fond of. “At this point, no kind of publicity on earth could bring you down from your standing. This attempt on your life will bring the public to your side. Show them that there’s a tangible threat to our nation that needs to be quelled.” “You’re saying the assassin was an Exsilist?” “What she was doesn’t matter. What we make of her to the public is what’s important.” “If I didn’t know any better, Black Bar, I’d almost suspect that you had a hoof in this somewhere.” “Not me, I swear. Although the timing is awfully convenient, I’ll admit that much. Not minutes after word of mouth came up about an assassination at the train station, Chancellor’s status unknown, I was getting calls from ponies I never get calls from. Imperialists from the old families, you know, Blueblood’s ilk, petitioning to bring back the Empire all over again and bring an end to all this ‘senseless violence.’ I’d have liked to see Blueblood’s face when you turned up A-OK after all. Can’t quite go much paler than he already is.” “Hmph. As though the state would back them in any capacity, much less the army. Their power is in their money, and wealth is the lowest form of power.” “What, then, is the greatest?” “Whatever it is that I have.” You’ve reached the obelisk at the center of the grassy square, the two of you staring deeply into the low blue flame which circumscribes its polished granite base. So little power in those gas emitters, summoning a wall of fire fit only to ward off ants. You’ve had dreams, fantasies more like, of winning this war and seeing then the flames rocketing high, engulfing the entirety of the fifteen meter-high pillar in a ring of white-hot beauty, a celebration of everything you alone achieved against all adversity. Every counterbalance, every inch of red tape, you feel like you’re winning this war by yourself on the most important front of them all: the Senatori floor. You didn’t ask for this position; you were chosen for it in the eyes of all seventy-four senators of seventy-four provinces, and you think you’ve done a pretty damn good job at it thus far. This excursion hasn’t helped, of course. Every second you spent in Unicronia in front of cameras, prostituting yourself out to the media to boost your numbers, was another second gained by the tireless efforts of these power-hungry imperialists back home, gradually chiseling away at your own obelisk, one you built through perseverance and through trusting the right ponies at the right times. And who are those ponies now? Who *are* the ponies you trust? After what happened at the train station, you can’t be certain by any means. And as always, the very last pony you’d ever trust is the one standing right beside you, grinding his teeth in a show of habit, eyes shifting up and down the length of the obelisk, black paintbrush marking out what could be a word, but never was or will be, inscribed on his flank. He’s good at keeping secrets, your Minister of Intelligence, but unfortunately, that includes secrets from you. He’s your greatest ally and your most dangerous enemy, and that is precisely why you keep him so close. “You haven’t told me anything about Unicronia yet. Though it’s understandable if the shock has shaken your memory loose for the time being.” “Oh, please. Nothing could make me forget the sheer tedium of that place. It was like… living in that grey middle ground, between life and death. Not on the peak, no, that would at least be exhilarating, but *this*, oh Celestia. Miserable. I couldn’t sleep at night for the flak fire over the rocks, I couldn’t breathe for all the smoke, the food was dodgy, the natives were arrogant in the worst kind of way. Council summits, then battle embankments, then summits again, shifting between city and hellhole, back and forth, neither better or worse than the other.” “That’s a shame. I’ve heard good things about Unicronians in peacetime. Their yearly Fell Plains Victory Day celebration is supposed to be the biggest lightshow outside of the Northern Lights. Hundreds of thousands of unicorns, channeling their magic into the sky at once, making a rainbow daytime out of the night. Say, did you ever see that white unicorn councilmare, oh, what’s her name. Supposed to be the youngest member of the Unicronian Council ever and all that.” “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. I did see her. Didn’t find the time for a private encounter, though, you old goat. I know your next question before you do.” “You got me.” “You have an unhealthy obsession with my sex life, Black Bar.” “I have a very healthy obsession with information, Chancellor, it’s right there in my job description. I take in, I file away. But I also know how to separate business from pleasures, and this right here is what I would call a tenuously pleasurable experience.” “Only tenuously? How sad. What about you, then? How has your work been treating you in my absence?” “Not too bad, not too bad. Did inquiries on all of the CI sites we’ve been setting up, making sure everyone’s clearance levels match their accessibilities. Pored over a regular mountain of documents over the course of a week, all the specifications and standards of the installations, yadda yadda.” Wait a minute… Yes, yes! This is exactly where you wanted to steer this conversation! Cognitio Incognitus, “CI” for short, bearers of the forbidden fruit, that most secretive of recent developments in the world of the Ordo Intelligentia, Minister Black Bar’s domain of operations. CI is his new favorite pet, from what you understand, comprising a collection of black sites spanning the continent, taking over a multitude of archaeological digs, lost temples, abandoned research facilities, etc., all until now governed by separate crews with separate interests. Consolidated under CI, these sites are now simultaneously easier for Ordo to handle and more difficult for your own agents to penetrate. Your predecessors, former Chancellors, received a constant influx of information from the types of peculiarities that these sites produced, but now most of those sources have fallen silent, and you’re left only with the word of Ordo, and consequently that of Black Bar. And his word is, naturally, worth less than the nonexistent redacted truth that adorns his flank. The information you desire, and the real reason you’re confiding with Black Bar now, is an explanation for a report you received during your trip to Unicronia, a mere paper slip. It came through to you on a particularly loud night, you beneath a fluttering grey canopy tent, outside the cacophony of troops hoofing it through mud and hay towards the flak to repel a surprise bombardment. Explosive lights raged above, magic-imbued M72 Hybrid artillery rounds clashing with the silent, supersonic missiles shot out of an Exsilist silo, somewhere over the blue crags to the west. Designs from the Unicronian Archives, stolen by the Exsilists after the Summer Raids a few years back and modified to exclude any semblance of magical influence on the missile’s launch or detonation. They hate magic, those Exsilists, even more so than the most devout of the Celestian Clerici; it offends their Maker gods, or so you’ve heard they tell themselves. But there, beneath that crackling sheen high overhead, your interest was piqued by that little paper slip delivered out of the darkness. It had been sent out of an CI site in the Badlands from one of your own agents, who was working undercover there as a low-level inquiry advisor, and who happened to find transport records of large quantities of supercomputer stacks into the site. At first, you thought nothing of the report, but eventually the significance of that particular site occurred to you. Before it was managed by Ordo, and Minister Black Bar here, that site was known as the Maker’s Fist, a vast archaeological venture conducted fifty years ago, and the site of the discovery of none other than… Drum roll please… The New Maker’s Handbook. That encyclopedia of encyclopedias, the foundation of ponykind’s current level of understanding in every modern field of scientific study. Why, then, were computers being transported *into* this defunct shell of an archaeological site? You have your theories, marebrained as they are. But you won’t be at ease until you find the truth of this matter, and the information you’re looking for. And to tickle that information out of Black Bar’s thick, crafty little head, you’ll need an approach that surpasses that craftiness. Still… this is too easy. You’re thinking of squeezing him for information about a CI black site, and suddenly he’s yapping away about his affairs with one of the most secretive organizations in the world? *Play it safe, Shetland old colt… strike from another angle…* “Your CI project has made tremendous strides these last few years, or so I’ve heard. Rounding up all those orphan operations, setting them under one banner, it’s good for the state. Good for us.” “Yes, I’d like to think so. Certainly makes paperwork easier when you only have to use one stamp for all the research documents from every black site in Canterium.” “Hah, I can imagine. But surely not *all* such documents come across your desk personally? A stallion like yourself must know how to delegate.” Black Bar laughs. “For most projects, I know it well. But you of all ponies should know how I pushed for CI in the first place. Is it not fair that I should keep a close watch on it, make sure imperialists and the like don’t get their grubby hooves all over my affairs?” And the angle, naturally, presents itself. “What could Senator Blueblood and his posse do with information like that? They haven’t got an original thought between them.” “Between you and me, and believe me, this is only a hypothetical, but between you and me the imperialists will do anything and everything to gain power for their cause in the Senatori. They’ve been talking tax breaks, propaganda campaigns, diplomacy with the PAS, anything and everything while you’ve been gone.” “Diplomacy? Pah. The Pegasus Armistice State and that bullheaded Hurricane cannot be reasoned with. They’re fascists.” Your leisurely walk has brought you to the foot of the steps, wide and shining, flanked by statues of distinguished leaders alternating with identical globe-maps. As you ascend, Black Bar consistently remains a step behind, the natural instinct of sneaks. You’ve no such instinct, nor any primal fear of an attack from behind, at least not while Pink shadows you as she does. “Precisely my point. If they’re talking arrangements with the PAS, known and active allies of the Exsilists, who’s to say they won’t stoop to making… say, off-the-books arrangements with the Cult of Exsilium itself?” You pause in your tracks, turning to face Black Bar outright. “Treason is a bold accusation, Minister. If you have reasonable claim of suspicion to suggest that the imperialists are using CI secrets as fodder for negotiations with the enemy, then this is not the forum in which to do so. And I dearly hope you have evidence to back it up.” “I don’t deal in evidence, Chancellor, I deal in secrets. There are CI documents in my possession that, if leaked to the enemy, could turn the tide of this war overnight.” “I don’t doubt it. But if you’re going to try and gain my confidence in this war you’re so clearly waging against the imperialist faction, all on your own I might add, then I believe I should be privy to the nature of these documents.” ”Chancellor, please. The imperialists are just as much a thorn in your side as they are in mine, if not more so.” “Final warning, Black Bar. You know, my predecessors didn’t have to ask for this sort of information, it would simply be given to them. I am Chancellor of the Senatori, clearance level Alpha, and I have a right to access documents that, if fallen into the wrong hooves, could endanger my people and my country. Especially when said documents are being used as leverage in your game of chess with the Senatori in my absence.” That same thin smile, those same sunken eyes, pale rings around deepest black apertures, stare back at you, aware of some ulterior advantage, an ace up the sleeve. That’s alright; you have several aces, and you’ve no qualms about getting hostile. “There are clearance levels beyond Alpha, Chancellor. You know that.” “Yes. I also know the ponies’ names who are gifted with such clearance levels. By the end of the week I could have them all deported, or worse. Knowledge only lifts a pony so high, only imbues so much power. But all that power is transitive, and moving, and impermanent. You’re in the know one day, you’re lost the next. I have *power*, Minister. Do you know what that means?” Hostile it is. Now you have to focus on not overplaying your hand. Black Bar lowers his head, nodding in false reverence. Or could it be sincere? You couldn’t possibly venture a guess with this pony. “Your wish is my command, Chancellor. The documents come first. But I need your word that if Blueblood, Jet Set, any of them push any further for this PAS deal, you’ll shut them down on it. Like it or not, you need the War in the West to survive. As do I.” Hook, line, and sinker. The prelude is complete; soon, very soon, you’ll have what you’re looking for. “Much appreciated, Minister. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? If only you could be so—” ”Wait.” Pardon? Did he just… raise a hoof to silence you? Your shock at the gesture is nearly eclipsed by your impressment by his boldness. Patiently, you watch from a step above as Black Bar presses his frog to his ear, listening through radiating channels, shifting frequencies, the invisible language of the envoys of secrets. At last, he nods, clicking off and returning his attentions to the real world, apparently unfazed by your less-than-amused expression. “The assassin’s been positively IDed. Goes by the name ‘Tree Hugger’. Affiliations unknown as of yet, but they plan on working her over hard to find out what she really knows. Who she’s really working for.” Tree Hugger. The name behind the face behind the silver streak that could have taken your life this fine afternoon. You care less than you anticipated you would. “Tree Hugger? Sounds like a pipe-puffer. My gut tells me she’s a lone wolf, but I trust your agents to find the truth.” Nearing the top of the steps, facing down the parabolic arched gate of the White Crown, a gullet which swallows down in its softly glowing red embrace, candlelit interior, all the sins of war and politics, and the sinners alike. And you, the undisputed king of sin, fit to wear that crown more than all the rest put together. “You know, Chancellor, you may not believe a word I say, but I’ve come to trust that gut of yours. I really have.” “I surely don’t believe that. Not even for a second.” “All the same. Perhaps there’s no grand conspiracy to it at all. Maybe she was only a disgruntled citizen.” “That would make me feel worse than if she were paid.” “Scratch it, then. Maybe she was just high.” ****** <img src="https://u.smutty.horse/mhzehkzsdhh.jpg"> Chapter 17 ========== ****** “Dreaming of me again, Twilight Sparkle? Here to glean some new Truth you’ve neglected? You were not satisfied with one epiphany, I take it.” “I have a question for you. Something that puzzled me the last time we spoke.” “You already know that I am the Bearer of Questions. I give no answers but for those you already have within you.” “Please. Only one answer, that’s all I ask of you. The Truth cannot be divulged solely by circulating my own assumptions. I need… proof. Proof that you’re real. That this isn’t all for nothing.” “… Very well. Inquire, and I shall respond. From the fold, I return what is Ours to you. Choose carefully, Twilight Sparkle.” “You called me the ‘whisperer in the dark’ when you introduced yourself to me in our last encounter. It stuck with me, somewhere in my subconscious where my waking mind couldn’t see it. I want to know why.” “Why? You are not satisfied with this title in the light of Mater Solis, that which She has bestowed upon you?” “It’s a title, then? Is that what I am now, a Whisperer?” “You whisper in your sleep. Your friends have warned you of this before. You whisper even before you lay to rest, in that darkness of untruth, where no trajectory may be foreseen. You compile lists, testimonies, the outcomes of the day, plans for the future. You are whispering right now, mouthing out my words to yourself.” “You can’t expect me to accept that, and that alone. There was something deeper to it, I heard it in your tone then.” “The whisper is a half-truth, Twilight Sparkle. A breath interlaced with a word, a secret to all but yourself, and the recipient. When there are no recipients, the ownership of that secret whittles down to you, and you alone. In darkest night, the whisper is a comfort, or perhaps a reminder of sanity. Comforts are also, too often, half-truths. In our world, the Mother’s Garden, there is only Truth. Nothing is half-formed. Nothing is darkened by ego.” “Is that what I am, then? Half-formed?” “Your epiphanies are strong. You hear my voice. You see my form. How long before you See as your Matron Sees, in waking movements, on the highline of the psychosphere?” “Then you mean—“ “However. You are not ascended, not formally. You insist upon sensing with your physical senses, rather than what is contained in your mind’s eye. That is where apotheosis lies.” “My horn aches again. Why is this happening to me? Why me, ohhh, why me?” “Do you truly see me for what I am? Or are you still compelled to divert your gaze?” “Oh, right. One question, one answer. I see… an outline. It’s blurry, but it’s there. It’s not classically angelic, it’s more like… a pony. Light, curving around a pony’s form. Dark in the middle. It’s all on the edge of my vision.” “That was truly the most pertinent question you had for me, Twilight Sparkle? There are not… more pressing matters on your mind?” “There are, in truth. But I didn’t… I mean, I couldn’t ask you. Not you. They had to come from within, and they still do. I cannot rely completely on your guidance in this.” “My guidance, nay, the reflection of Mater’s will, is what has brought you so far. When you awaken, there will be stars in the skies, and dreams half-dreamt, and there will be, in that place you quest for, the object of your eye. But you know not yet the identity of that object.” “No. I have no clue. The Matron told me to ‘see through’ the Truth. That’s what I’ve been trying to do all this time, but I don’t see anything beyond what I already know.” “Come closer. Whisper to me now. I would hear your fears. Your weaknesses.” “I’ve lost your form now. I don’t know where to go. It’s all dark. There’s no light in here.” “Ah, now the weakness prevails. The mind’s eye, Twilight. She compels you to look with your mind’s eye. That is Sight. Find the outline, moving on the edge of your vision. Move towards that edge. It becomes a precipice, yes?” “Yes.” “Walk along that edge, half on the floor of this place, half free-floating over the nothing beneath.” “Nothing? It’s the trench again. The yellow cracks, they’re growing, spreading. Everything’s already in place, same as before.” “You see that now?” “I see nothing else. I’m looking down. It’s dark, and the shapes are nearly invisible, but they are there. The edge… perfect balance… okay. I’m inching towards the edge. I can’t see you, but I can feel you.” “Seeing and feeling are the same sensation in the realm of Mater. Sight, sound, tactility, they are all the essence of her word. This was meant to be instilled in you the first time we met. You must focus your own senses if you desire to focus the boundaries of your search.” “I’ve found you. It’s like… a corner. I’m standing on a corner. The cracks are still there, below us. I hear them as I see them.” “What do you hear from them?” “Voices… screaming voices, from the other side. A city of… no, no, this can’t be right. This isn’t real.” “This is a vision. You already know this.” “Yes, but… to see *that*, no… and the waves of Truth, crashing down, as though it can and will be true, someday… no, I won’t believe it.” “Tell me what you see, Twilight Sparkle.” “As though you can’t see as well as I?! See the lights, hear the voices, feel the heat, that awful heat, inequine heat raging?! Oh Celestia, it’s horrible…” ”You’re whispering.” “It’s a habit, I suppose. That’s my fear, then? That future? How will that help me? How can that help anything? I need to know where I’m going, what I’m looking for, and I need to know it NOW!” ”DO NOT MAKE DEMANDS OF ME, MORTAL! VENTURE TO SPEAK TO ME AS AN EQUAL, AS A SERVANT AT YOUR COMMAND ONCE MORE, AND I SHALL FALL SILENT TO YOUR PLIGHT! YOU SHALL BE LOST IN THAT MIST FOREVER, AND I ASSURE YOU THAT THE FUTURE YOU SEE THERE SHALL BE REALIZED!” … “I’m sorry. I don’t understand this at all. I didn’t mean to speak to your Gloriousness as such. I know what you are. I know that you want to help me.” “I want you to help *us*, Twilight Sparkle. I speak to you only as a conduit of Truth. You must seek out that which is the epitome of Truth, the honesty of another. Find that purity, that perfection of the sixth part of Her will, the almighty Truth, and you will know your place in this earth. You are more important now than you could possibly imagine, and when the time comes that your works are complete, the Great Foundation shall be laid, and evil shall know no place in this world.” “Evil? What evil?” “Know this, Twilight Sparkle. The contrivance of the monster can never be so destructive as the monster itself. Its craft is an extension of itself, and it knows only the way to reach further, borrow more to its grasping purchase. Find Honesty, and you may learn this firsthoof. I must take my leave now.” “Wait! Aren’t I meant to fall at the end of these dreams? To be swallowed whole in the watery cracks of time? I’m here on the edge, now. I can fall. I don’t want to, but I can.” “Do it, then. Know horror.” “But… I don’t want to. I want to know your name. If you have such a thing as a name.” “A second question, when you were only granted one.” “It’s a formality. Nothing can come of it but a better manner of addressing you. No Truths to reveal.” “Ah, but only the greatest Truth there is. The name of an angel is… forbidden to the ken of mortals.” “Then what can I call you?” “… as the Numen of old whispered from the trees and rivers and skies to the primeval tribes, gifting them with thought, and the veracity of sensation, so have I whispered… you understand already. Your Truth is mine. You may call me Numena, as is only appropriate. Now fall, Twilight Sparkle. Relive the nightmare you need, and cull the dreams you desire.” Falling again. No water this time, just acceleration, levitation, freefall. Indistinguishable from floating, and the swirling serpents, the naiads, the screaming and the heat. Deeper, darker, brighter. Terminal velocity, and Splat. ****** Chapter 18 ========== ****** This time, you awake not in a fright, without remembered terror or phantom aching, but gradually, calmly, even tenderly. Your mind drifts across the duality, life from dreams, fading in tessellated gradients, without the foggiest sense of whether your eyes are open or shut. It’s a peaceful transition; there is no screaming involved, no thunderclaps or revelations of self-identity, not like last time. Peace prevails, peace and quiet… Perhaps, a little too quiet. This silence is almost eerie in its absolution, enveloping everything in a vacuum of constancy. All there is to be heard is the low hum of the air rushing past outside, past the windows and walls, through the suction space between the levitating magnetic claws and the track beneath your hooves, over the top of the car and beyond in wisps, broken then rejoined. This train cuts the air like a knife, a wedge-point making a fine incision through the long blanket of the cool late-evening atmosphere, and the air obliges, letting it pass on all sides, letting no point touch the earth. Yes, you’re floating; well, not you specifically, but the entire *train* is floating, using no propulsion to facilitate this task but the drive of the magnetic force, pushing upwards and onwards from levers embedded in the track When you boarded the train, you found in the compartment in front of your assigned seat a pamphlet describing how the technology of the train works, apparently necessary because the tech is relatively new. You must have read the whole thing through at least five times before putting it down and… well, you suppose you must have fallen asleep after a while. The train functions on the principle of electromagnetic suspension: the C-shaped “claws” on the bottom edges curve under the track, alternately repelling and attracting magnets embedded within the rail itself to create a sort of stabilization effect, with no force being strong enough to fully counteract the other. At the same time, the magnets in the track vary “up” or “down” to push the train in one direction or the other. In this fashion, the train moves effectively unbounded by gravity or friction, sliding along the air itself, touching nothing, shooting straight into the point at the middle of the horizon, ever growing and shifting. There’s a sort of comfort to that; a zone in which there are no forces but electromagnetism, nothing tethering you to the earth or slowing you down, just the sleek mechanical equations found in any elementary textbook on the subject. Monsieur Foudre d’Ardennes and his writings once made you admire magnetism above all other ethereal forces, this unseen, unfelt pull attracting and repelling various elements. Ferromagnets, metals with magnetic properties, drawing together like moths to the flame of a candle, invisibly reaching out to one another, and now in the age of the New Maker’s Handbook that power is within the grasp of ponykind in a manner never before seen by any species. Except, of course, for the Makers themselves. What you would give to have lived then, in the time of the antiquity, in the time of Celestia and the Makers. The old stories give you insight, and the perspective they offer is surely more than you could have ever known if you had truly experienced that history yourself, but… it’s different, this longing. It’s almost blasphemous to think this way, but… if you had lived in that time, nine hundred-ninety years ago, when the Makers first came and offered their knowledge to ponykind, piece by piece, a trickle that could not satisfy your people, least of all the Princess herself… And if you had bore witness to that war of hubris, pony against Maker… who might you have fought for? Celestia, the princess who would be prophetess, a protector of her ponies, yet blind to her own entitlement, thinking only of what would be in the best interest of her kingdom? Or the Makers, passive and plotting, plans within plans, generous yet withholding the fullest potential of their technology to ponykind? Now more than ever, you feel caught up in the oppositions, desperate to find a balance point between faith and technology. Perhaps the others were right when they told you, again and again, that there is only so much that can be done with the arts of the Makers before you begin to defy Mater’s will. On the other hoof, is it not futile, and frankly narrow-minded, to hold the Sisterhood back from the changing times simply because it was decided to be that way fifty years ago? Find balance… find symmetry… find the Truth of the matter… It’s frustrating, it’s all so frustrating. Celestia *wanted* what you want, did she not? She wanted ponies to reach the heights of the Makers! She wanted what has now come true for everypony but the clergy that follows her most devoutly. But, you must remind yourself, that was not the Prophetess; not the one enlightened on See Rock, not made privy to the secret Truth, however transient that might be. That was the Princess, the one before the awakening, and what her successor-self the Prophetess thought of the technology of the Makers, and of the Makers themselves, went entirely unrecorded in the Books of the Sun. Perhaps that part of her went unchanged when she passed to the other side of the fold; or perhaps the aspirations of a leader turned to the greed of a warlord was utterly inapplicable to that new mindset; the ultimate humbling, the casting out, could have provoked either response equally. Anyway, it doesn’t matter much now. This is your dilemma, not that of the Prophetess, and projecting your problems onto her, while not inherently disrespectful, certainly isn’t going to get you anywhere. Hurtling forward, pulled towards the unknown, floating, screaming in a silent way… … Now, this is odd. Having regained your wits, coming fully to the waking world, you’re now entirely positive your eyes are open. And yet all you see about you is darkness. Oh no, nonononono… You didn’t miss your stop, did you? 7:30! 7:30! That was the projected time of arrival! You can’t see the face of your watch, you don’t know, but you can be certain that the sun doesn’t set before 7:30 this late in the spring! Darkness envelops you as utterly as the silence, and the shuffling of sleeping ponies in their seats now assails your hearing to counteract that. “Wait…” You whisper, careful not to disturb anypony, but intent on collecting your thoughts out loud. You sit up a bit, stretching out your hindlegs to peer out the adjacent dark-tinted window. What you see is no nighttime landscape, no starry sky or even the semblance of overcast, no distance, just a flat blackness pushed right up against the surface of the window. There is a hint of movement there, invisible movement backwards and away like the wind, but otherwise there is nothing to be seen at all. You’re moving, you have to be, but there’s nothing out there except… “A tunnel!” “Shhhhh!” Oops, you may have exclaimed that one a little too loudly. “Sorry!” You must be burrowing through the mountains now, nearing your destination. Only now do you remember the digital screen at the front of the car displaying progress markers of sorts, a way of knowing at a glance approximately how far on this voyage you’ve come. Glancing forward, you see that same searing white-and-blue glow, a moving map with an iconic representation of the train at its center, vectors radiating from either end, conjoined at round red points with the names of their respective locations above them In the top right-hoof corner, the time: 7:09. Twenty-one minutes out from the next red dot in the series: Valley Station. “These trains sure are punctual.” You’d expected more delay due to the… unfortunate incident at Mons Station, but it looks as though you actually woke up just in time to prepare to disembark. You’ll collect your saddlebags, get off at the platform, find a telephone, find a map, and figure out how and where exactly you’ll be spending your night. But, as for right now, the most pertinent thing on your mind is catching, in your conscious clarity, what remains of your latest epiphany. It’s too dark to write, or even to find your quill and the notepad you purchased at the station shop, so you’ll have to content yourself with remembering. Focus now… focus on the abstractions, the shape of the memory, the emotions… From there, a proper form might be divulged, and the Truth behind what she told you might be understood. She… Yes, the angel has a name now; no longer is she merely a messenger, or a bearer of questions. Numena, for the numen, the old spirits of the wisps, forgotten by religion and replaced with the proper ideals of Mater Solis, made redundant in pagan squalor. Numena has been your guide thus far, willing you to discover your destiny, no matter how vague that might be; therefore, you feel obligated to trust her word. Other than that name, what else is there to remember from that swirling void of self-reassurance? In the very end of the dream, you fell down into a trench, exactly like last time. But you did it of your own volition now; despite not wanting to do so, wanting only to remain on that half-ledge, you leapt and succumbed to the light below. Darkness in light, that’s what you remember… as you went deeper into the pit, free of water this time, vacuous in composition, the light itself was black and warm. And the whisperer in the dark… what on earth was that all about? Was that truly the most pertinent question you could have posed to this supremely knowledgeable spirit on high, the Solenoid, the ultimate reflection of Mater’s light? Numena still wasn’t solenoidal in form, but frankly you don’t remember what kind of form she did take. A halo of light cushioned the miasma of impenetrable black at her core; that’s really all you remember of her. You must have stumbled then, to have posed such a foolish question, for certainly you were not lucid. What *could* you have asked her instead, using your one question granted to you? Light and dark intermingling on opposing manifolds, reaching out and never touching one another. You really don’t know, to be completely honest. Her form: light surrounding dark; the pit; dark surrounding light; the passage of dreams to reality and back again. Equilibrium. Now there comes another equilibrium, diverting your attention away from the complexities of the dreamscape and back towards the window. Thin streams of red and yellow light are channeling in from somewhere, long and dim, illuminating the features of this tunnel. The blanket of black outside is replaced by dark grey metal beams yawning vertically over the top of the car, and within the cabin, faces, upturned legs, the backs of upholstered seats are flooded with reflected light. As the train carries you forward, speeding through the whistling cavity of this tunnel at four hundred kilometers per hour, the equilibrium further shifts, and darkness seems wholly conquered by this fiery aura. You almost want to find a way to slide away the glass window and peer out the side into the gap between the train and the metallic tunnel wall to identify the source of this great light, but as naïve as you’ve come to realize you are, even you know how foolish that would be. At any rate, you’re fairly certain you already know what that source is: the only Source, Her Radiance Herself. For, at last, the metal wall speeds away as though torn by some great hoof, and in its place comes into focus a landscape unlike any you’ve seen before. “It’s…” There’s no doubt about it: this is where you were meant to go. Beyond an alpine tree-line rushing by at the edge of the elevated track, the expanses of Rich Valley stretch into the horizon, locked in the southeast by a wall of dark crests. On this side, the northern mountains move slowly behind you, the tunnel’s darkness receding in space and from memory, rolling back into oblivion. The sun sets in the west, behind you; the aurora of its evening redness paints violet the stripes of farmland and the leaves of scattered thickets of forest. Above, you can almost trace a line between the crimson energy of Mater’s glory, tapering off from the sunset in waves of brightness, and the encroaching indigoes of the night, constellations gleaming through shifting craters in the belly of the cumulonimbus. Below the silhouetted crags so many miles away, halfway between the horizon and the thin steel windowsill, there are tendrils of yellow light, lit roads perhaps, snaking out of a central structure of sorts. Puffs of silver smoke weave into the sky, joining the clouds in their dance. In one direction, ordered trees, rows upon rows of oaks and birches and even tall strokes of cedars, extend across acres of land, marked out by high fences. In another, the plots of farmland zigzag like patchwork, segregated by shrubbery and roads, growing all manner of unidentifiable crops. You saw many plots of such land off the side of the tracks on the voyage here, but none so enormous, none so… ordered, like a city of plants. You trace with your hoof out in the direction of the far mountains, striking a path between dark forest, long reaches of crop, and at last to a vast complex of what could be civilization of some kind. Indeed, the track appears to curve off to that place at some point; from here, you can see the faintest gap in the low trees ahead which advances on there, perpendicular to your current path. Low, squatting structures, taller metal towers, curious coiling cylinders, fat on the edges of it all, towards the farmland, seem to comprise a city. It’s smaller than Mons Canteria, to be sure, but a city nonetheless, at least by your limited frame of perspective. Far away, the hills roll deeper, and the ground crops taper into thin strands riding the trenches between elevated mounds, until they disappear entirely, replaced by untamed country. After that, there are only trees, taller and wider there, great dunes of dirt dotted by iron spires, green lights flickering on and off like signals to the world, to space. The mountains, as on this end of the valley, curve off to some unknown place, descending in steps to a horizon without feature at the plains of the east. “…beautiful.” You’re whispering now, among the listless, the sleeping, the monotonous urges of ponies bound for places beyond that east, thinking nothing of this place, choosing to rest rather than witness it. Their banality is your revelation; what they ignore, you indulge. That whisper is a half-truth, and the equilibrium at last gives way to the victorious night. Mater Solis sets in the direction from whence you came, and the day is ended, replaced with the crescent moon which flickers like the stars in the hidden shadows of the cloud canopy. A mere sliver, shining like a sickle over those mountains, this valley, these ponies. Mater’s light bounces off of that white surface, granting the valley a soft lunar glow, the ultimate reflection. And were the moon full, as it was that night of the first dream, when the thunder ceased, and the storm clouds receded, and you went to bed beside your sisters to whisper the litanies, the urges and the uncertainties, you might make out the features of its quiet observer. The Mare in the Moon is hidden to you now, but she waxes from the fold, and in fifteen days she shall be revealed once more to watch over the starry night. The time is 7:15, and the equilibrium is shifting, dark to light, slowly but surely… … Fifteen minutes later, the silent train gradually becomes louder. Steel begins to grate against steel below your hooves, first faintly, only as a mere brush-up, hovering cyclically in long sinusoidal curves. Then those miniscule pings become roaring shrieks vibrating through the hull of the train car; an almost equine vocal pitch rises and falls in cascading hums, whirring, oscillating, up and down and up again. *WooooaaaaeeeeeEEEEEEEEEeeeeeaaaaoooooouuuuuuu.* Alongside that unsettling howl comes a physical counterpart, equal in magnitude and form. The train rises and falls subtly, shifting left and right also, grasping in seeming vain for balance to stabilize its twisting, erratic movements. You’d be panicking, half expecting a terrific crash, a burning column of wreckage making waste beneath the twilit night, smoke rising into the stars. At least, you would be if it hadn’t already happened about ten times already, at ten prior stops. Besides, you understand fully what you’re hearing and feeling now from your consultation of the onboard pamphlet. Knowledge prevails once again. There’s no crash imminent; it’s only the feedback from the maglev braking system doing what it was designed to do. As you rapidly approach Valley Station, the magnets embedded in the C-claws wrapped about the undersides of the tracks are gradually shifting their polarity, bit by bit counteracting the force of the magnets within the track itself rather than amplifying it. Stabilizing mechanisms are adjusting the flux of the magnets in extraordinarily minute amounts, amplified by the momentum of the train sitting atop them. This is the origin of the rumbling, the physical sensation, but that awful scraping noise, the violent crescendo and muted rolling tones beneath it are a different story. The train’s perfect lift and, consequently, its lack of friction impedance, is partially dependent on its velocity. The passage of the train through the field created by the magnets in the track induces currents in the train’s own electromagnets, causing a sort of feedback loop which grows exponentially as the train gathers speed. Four hundred kilometers per hour is not the absolute speed limit of this train, but rather its highest *safe* speed; if the whistling white serpent were allowed to go much faster, the stabilization mechanisms would lose their ability to make corrective adjustments in the proper sequence and ratios, and the whole thing might tear itself apart. At least, that’s what you assume would happen; the pamphlet doesn’t exactly delve into that morbid possibility. When the train slows, the feedback loop also degrades, and complex processes are enabled to ensure that the train doesn’t lose its balance as it lowers back onto the track. Light “landing gear” of sorts, a set of undriven wheels and insulated clamps, extend from the undercarriage, the former of which accounting for the rolling drawl and the latter explaining the screeching falsetto. Two voices in a turbulent duet, like the hymns performed at service, headed up by the Sisters of Song for that month, one pitted against the other, the brake against the facilitator of perpetual motion. And the duet itself is pitted against the train’s own apparent desire to move on, away and out of this place once marked as the grave of so many ponies, fertilizing the potent depths of the soil for nigh on a millennium along with the freshwater flood which soaked into their homes, their lands, their consciences. Celestia had been there, atop… well, which one of those distant mountains *is* Mount Fillai, exactly? She had felt a Truth pushing strong against her own intention to save what she could, directing her instead to follow a path that was and had always been meticulous in its ambitions. Now that same Truth is pulling you in, an intangible force matched to something equally as intangible, if far less potent in its mystic ambiguity. Magnetism, pulling you along a design of Mater Herself, carried by a messenger to the unknown recesses of the dream-mind; is there anything else in existence so significant as that parallel? Mount Fillai is not, nor has it ever been, your destination, but rather the valley itself. Where the Prophetess was above, you remain below, but in the same realm of dichotomy you have been driven further along than she. A turnback for her, and a confrontation with the hypocrisy which encumbered her from knowing Truth in its flawless form, has now been subverted, transformed into a tunnel, long and wide, stealthily averting any old stallions with words of discouragement on their tongues. You’re here for a different purpose, to be sure, one you still can’t fully understand, but perhaps that too is by design. Perhaps you’re being led into an event to come, bound to become a piece of some grander puzzle you won’t recognize until you’re there, standing in your proper place. All of it is in service of the faith anyhow, so it shouldn’t make a difference either way. Mater Solis wouldn’t allow you to fail… would She? … That line of thinking, and the litanies you know you’ll have to perform in response to it, are abruptly cut off by a tinny voice, identical in pitch and intonation to the odd-sounding broadcast voice at Mons Station, circulating here in the cabin and returning to life some of the more listless, sleepy ponies in the weary dark. “Attention all passengers: now arriving at Valley Station, Rich Valley, Foal Mountain Barony province. The train will be departing again in fifteen minutes. For those disembarking, please take care to collect all of your belongings, both beneath your seat and from the shelving compartments at the front of your car, and refrain from disturbing other passengers. Once offboard, please have your papers and luggage ready to be examined at the Arrivals booth. Thank you for riding with us today.” It can’t be the same announcer intoning all these messages, right? She’d have to take every train in and out of every station in Canterium. Unless… You shudder at the amount of sense your sudden revelation makes. Perhaps the reason the voice sounds so subtly inequine, so metallic and dripping with eccentric syntax could be that… the voice doesn’t belong to a pony at all. It could be a machine transmitting words in the same frequencies with which the equine vocal cords are naturally equipped. A false voice, an imposter, and you’ve been falling for it all this time! This was one technology you certainly weren’t expecting to be possible in the New Maker’s world, but you should hardly be surprised; it seems that this entire day has been a never-ending stream of impossibilities. Due to the restrictions imposed by the Last Matron Onus, your knowledge of the principles of this new breed of tech is highly limited. But you suspect the same is most likely true for the vast majority of ponies; you’ve indeed heard it mentioned before by more worldly Sisters that the government and the scientific community have a fairly tight stranglehold on that sort of information. Even still… how easy it is for the mind of a pony to be fooled by the false comfort of a voice that by all rights should belong to one of their own kind. As the blackened mattes of crops stretching long over shallow hills outside turn rather abruptly to well-lit red brick facades, separated from the track fence by a few meters of green space, you attempt to disperse these thoughts. Summon away vestigial fears of technology, Twilight Sparkle; those are the voices of the old Sisterhood, and you must help to usher in the new. The bricks are rising higher now, the wall reclining inward at a shallow angle until it meets with a taller embankment, edged with polished stone and capped with floodlights and deep yellow fences. Supermatron… that was what the Matron Celest dreamt of then, a Supermatron in the near future, a prophecy certainly more potent than your own given her capabilities… The scenery is changing at a logarithmically slower pace, the lines of mortar between red rectangles becoming more readable, no longer vectors but now made of a definite, touchable material. Thick iron bars replace the track fence at a certain point, and before long the night sky is totally eclipsed by a white panel ceiling overhead, thin intermittent shadows finding refuge between spaced-out light strips. It wasn’t determined to be you, necessarily, it was only an image that *somepony* might rise to that light… so there’s still some hope yet… Hope? Hope that you might *not* become the Supermatron of the Celestian faith? Where is this coming from? You should be honored, nay, euphoric even, to be considered a candidate in such an exalted ritual! But—and blasphemy it might be, but you cannot lie to yourself about your own feelings—the thought only makes you want to hide, someplace very dark, very deep, someplace where that obligation might never find you. Combat that all you like, the feeling won’t go away, and you know it all too well. Slower, slower, the iron bar line ends, replaced with a raised polished wooden floor coming nearly to your own ground level. Down your line of sight from the window, there are no more bricks, but rather plaster walls painted in multicolored stripes, weaving in and around one another. At some points, the lines are parallel, dark brown traveling alongside green and blue and maroon. At others, they zigzag up and down, one over the other, making diamonds and hexagons and star patterns. The patterns are familiar, but you can’t quite place the source of their influence… Above the lines, on a long dark wood stripe which meets the ceiling, five alternating symbols bejewel the border, a pattern repeated down the line to the end of the station From here, they appear to be in the shape of fruits; red apple, green pear, purple plum, blue grape, orange… well, orange. You remember Brit saying something about fruit and grains being the valley’s chief export… perhaps this has something to do with that? In only a few moments, the placid, evening landscape of far-reaching fields and distant urban monoliths has transformed into a furnished interior, the station platform. On the ground, only a few ponies wait outside, a far cry from the inexhaustible multitudes at the capital. The station itself also appears to have a completely different philosophy to its architecture and general atmosphere. Unlike those stark blacks and whites you found so dull back then, this station is resplendent in color, yet somehow less inviting, perhaps owing to the absence of a glass roof so as to let in natural light. Not that there is much natural light at this hour, but still, the glass might serve in making the place feel roomier. As it stands, the place is downright claustrophobic with its too-low ceilings, uncanny yellowed illumination, wood and plaster decking every surface, no benches to be seen, only the impatient standing few waiting for the doors to open. Just as you waited for the doors to open on the same train, just hours ago, just before witnessing… No, it isn’t wise to think of that now. It would only serve to distract you from fulfilling what needs to be done this night “Stand clear. Doors now opening.” There’s that voice again. Hopefully this will be the last you hear of it for some time. It’s odd, once you’ve noticed that the voice doesn’t belong to a real pony, once you’ve garnered just that first little inkling of suspicion, how it suddenly becomes so obviously fake. Every little metallic twinge and inconsistency of speech seems amplified to your ears. No matter; the train has stopped completely, its braking system having done its job to the letter, and now as promised the unmistakable sound of the sliding glass doors sheathing back within the wide slots down the hall of the car resonates. You’ve no baggage to collect from the overhead, only your twin saddlebags, stuffed beneath your seat at the outset of the voyage, which you promptly retrieve. Casting them over your flanks, you sidle out of the seat row, careful not to step on the outstretched hoof of a snoozing stallion on your way. Now it’s on towards the open portal, leftward oriented, down a cramped corridor filled with ponies in all manners of postures, attires, and stages of awareness. The lights suddenly flicker on in the cabin, making your short trek a little easier but causing a considerable amount of groaning and hushed complaints all around you. You agree with their sentiment; normally, you wouldn’t consider this to be a late hour, but for whatever reason you feel as though you might drop right here on the thick blue carpet for another nap. It must be the fatigue of travel; don’t let it get to you, Twilight, at the very least pull yourself off the train. At last you navigate the corridor properly, saying your “Sorry!”s and “Excuse me!”s and coming to the open door and stepping onto the platform and… And realizing you’re the only pony getting off here. You suppose it shouldn’t surprise you, given that everypony else in your car has seemed content with napping all the way to Horseshoe Bay, but even still… Brittle Bong said this place was the biggest exporter of lumber in the entirety of Canterium, so you’d assumed there’d be more traffic at the station. Whatever the reason, you’re one passenger shooting off from the rest, those bound for the end of the line, and you’re already where you need to be. You cross the threshold, standing just on the edge. “Oh, Celestia.” You’re dizzy all of a sudden, struggling to regain balance. It was the vertigo of stepping down, but more importantly it was the shock of the critical point that just struck your thoughts. The edge… You were walking balanced on an edge in the vision, an edge between safety and the doom below, walking towards a metaphorical corner, an intersection of edges… You saw only with your feelings, persisted only by will alone… And you found Numena there, huddled against something white, a mirror of sorts. Through the mirror, you saw something incomprehensibly vile, a future so bleak you couldn’t venture to guess at its origin. You don’t remember any specifics, though—only the emotions which passed through your unconscious mind. Self-reassuring, a Truth above truths, a prophetic epiphany… The nausea has subsided, and you right yourself, staring out into the empty station. Those who were waiting have already boarded, taking your place on the eastbound express, leaving you here utterly alone. Seems now there’s no place to go save for a well-lit tunnel at the corner of the wide space, white arrow-marks on the walls beckoning you towards the opening. “Guess I’ll just follow the arrows.” That’s what you’ve been doing all along, right? Following instructions, no agency of your own? Now isn’t the time to get disillusioned, though. The golden standard must be quelled, so on you continue, down the hall, a left turn, then a right, through Arrivals, then left again, up some stairs and into a widening of the confines, a room with a glass back, an exit. *Finally.* Beyond the glass, the thick yellow light you saw from afar covering long stretches of roads now shines down on an expanse of grey asphalt, and on into the night in either direction. An impenetrable thicket of pine trees is the back edge of that scene, which you’re now entering by way of a glass sliding door, same as the train. There are a few ponies mulling about on the sidewalk before the lot, most dressed in the same blue and white suits; they’re likely employees of the station, and they’re wordlessly going about their business in their own ways. Some are stacking boxes into trucks, some are conversing with a heavyset pony in plaid and overalls, some are sitting behind a gated-off booth beneath a bright blue sign reading “TICKETS”, and none seem particularly interested in helping you. Not that you expect them to do so, but one would imagine that a Sister of the faith might be treated more… delicately. It’s entirely possible that the faith isn’t entirely common in this region anymore; the Matron Celest did tell you that there once was a convent out here, near the base of Mount Fillai, but it’s been derelict for quite some time. The realization that you have no idea how you’re going to make your way into the city proper is just now setting in. You have no notion of how far away the nearest inn might be, no prospects for transportation, no way of contacting your friends, nothing… Well, perhaps that last one might not be so true. Down the line, fixed to one of many square columns holding up the overhang above your head, a wedge thinning to a point before the barren lot, there looks to be a small maroon box labeled “PHONE”. You’ve heard of devices like these, allowing for public access telephone calls, but you haven’t yet seen one. It’s getting late… but not so late that the Matron wouldn’t be in her office rather than retired to her quarters. You start towards the phone box, one weight of many lifted from your withers. One task at a time, and eventually you’ll have completed them all. It may not be the safest option, but if it comes to it, you could spend the night on one of the benches you see marking out a dotted line around the perimeter of the roundabout lot. After that, who knows? One step at a time… The space between you and the box is closing, but a faintly chilling sensation is beginning to encroach on you from behind. You shiver from the draft, an action that warms you only for an instant inside your green wool cloak. The sensation isn’t coming from the cold, though; there’s something else coming, a shape, a sense of realization. Before you can even understand what that realization entails, something yellow and brown goes dashing forth from the edge of your vision, bumping into you slightly on its way, and coming clean into the center of the walkway. It’s the backside of a pony, and it’s getting smaller as it runs towards… The phone box! Determined, you chase after that backside with everything you can muster. The Prophetess will forgive you later when you supplicate yourself to her, but you were here first! The first phone call goes to you, and you’ll give this very rude pony a stern talking-to when you catch up to them! You gallop after the yellow blur in a near frenzy, careful not to trip over the flowing cape of your attire. After ten meters or so, however, it dawns on you that the distance between the two of you is only widening. You won’t catch up to this pony, not when you’re not especially… athletic, to say the least. Let’s just say you never joined in the running parties around the inner convent perimeter that the more active Sisters would occasionally assemble. “Stop… wait… I was already… stop…” You’re panting already; the fatigue of today’s events must have really affected you. But the words must carry far in this stone cavity, for as soon as they leave your lips the pony’s rushing hooves grind to a halt, skidding across the concrete. As they swivel, you first catch a glimpse of a stallion’s square muzzle in profile, then an emerald green eye, then tufts of streaked orange mane falling down past the ears and along the ridge of a broad, flat crest. The face, gaze now directed at you, has a nervous, somewhat guilty expression plastered across it, and its owner turns fully to start on a walk back towards you. “Uh, dreadful sorry about that. Isn’t my style to cut in front of others. Just didn’t see ya there, that’s all.” Here’s an accent you’ve never heard before. It’s light, at the very least, so you don’t have any trouble understanding him. “It’s alright. You just caught me a bit off guard is all. But yes, I was about to use that phone box there, if you don’t mind.” “Not at all, ma’am. Least so long as I get the second round.” You smile. “I shouldn’t be taking too long.” You walk up to the phone box together now, stallion lingering a few steps behind you patiently. “Calling home?” “Yes, actually. I might have to make a couple calls. I hope I’m not infringing.” “Nah, not at all. Be warned though, out-of-province calls cost a cannon and a hock. Y’aint from around these parts, I take it?” “I’m… from the city.” “Gathered that by your talk. Which city would that be, exactly?” “Mons Canteria.” “Ooowee, *the* city! See whatcha mean. Yeah, that’ll cost a pretty bit on a box like this. Y’might be better off going into town, finding yourself a proper trans-line, what won’t cost ya none. Say, those are some interesting threads you got there. Very fashionable.” Fashionable? “Well, uh, thank you. They’re simply the traditional garb of one of my position.” “Position? Now what would that be precisely?” “I’m a Sister Missionary of the Faith.” The stallion’s muzzle wrinkles slightly, confusion seemingly transforming into feigned understanding. ”Ahhh, okay. The… faith?” “Of the Prophetess Celestia.” “Oh, yeah, of course! Yeah, yeah, we’ve got… we’ve got something like that round these parts. My daddy sometimes mentioned it was big around when he was a colt, though it ain’t much anymore. One of the families, I think the Plums, still teach it to their foals, but the rest of us ain’t entirely too keen on religion. Not since, well, you know. No offense, of course.” “None taken.” Some taken. “Well, uh, the name’s Braeburn, by the way. Braeburn… Apple. As you could probably tell by the cutie mark.” Indeed, the mark adorning his flank seems to be one large, shining crimson apple. “My name is Twilight Sparkle. Sister Twilight Sparkle.” “Happy to make your acquaintance, Twilight. But, uh, are you gonna be making that call soon? If you don’t mind me asking.” “If what you’re telling me about long distance calls is true, I may hold off until I can find a, what was it, a ‘trans-line’?” “Yeah. These old things are really just suited for calling a few towns over, up to High Ridge or down south to Lumberton is about its range before it starts griffin’ you. There’s a center in town with trans-lines open 24/7, and they’re satellite-fed with the dish up top the roof, like those, uh, cellular devices all the richer folk are starting to get trickled down from whoever makes those. You probably see those things everywhere at the Mons, though.” “Cellphones? I’ve seen a couple. We aren’t allowed that sort of technology inside the convent though, and… we Sisters don’t exactly get out much.” “I’ll be. Well, that certainly makes you more familiar to me than any city folk ever passed through here before.” “I suppose I’ve never really thought of myself as ‘city folk’ before today, to be entirely honest.” “Might wanna get used to the thought around here. That accent’ll be tipping hats and begging for questions once you find yourself in town. Speaking of, are you… waiting for anypony here?” “Not exactly. Why do you ask?” Braeburn snorts, and that familiar feeling of embarrassment comes over you again. You asked another stupid question, didn’t you? “Well, Sister Twilight, quaint as things may seem in our little valley, things are spaced out quite a bit on through the lumber yards and the granaries, and it’s a few miles yet thatta way—” He gestures, foreleg raised in an eastward bearing, hoof haloed by bending moonlight, a bright totem against black. The inverse epiphany. “—until you start to hit the souks, and then Richton proper. That’s where you’ll find the trans-lines, and a place to bed up. And it ain’t a walk I’d generally condemn a mare of… how old are you?” “Seventeen.” ”Well, how’s that! You’re the same age as… never mind. Ain’t a walk I’d generally condemn a mare of seventeen to traverse by her lonesome. Course, if you wait for me to make this call, I’d be happy to drive you in.” You mull this prospect over for a brief moment. If you accept, it would be the second time within the very first day of an already uncertain quest that you’d be riding in a closed vehicle with a complete stranger. The first time went very well, but you’ve no guarantee on the second. Something’s changed in your decision-making routine; a kind of wariness, it seems, has been flipped on like an electric light, some rubberized switch in the recesses of your mind alerting you to probabilities of favorable outcomes. Chances now, roaming in invisible space, compounding upon one another, leaving emission trails in shades of grey over a once fully black-and-white canvas. There were right actions, and there were wrong actions, and now there are… well, uncertainties. What changed? What triggered this onset, what flipped the switch? Oh, of course. Blood splattering on pristine white floors, the stare of deepest shadow, some immortal hoof reaching inside and complicating matters. You brushed with certain danger and came out unscathed, but it impacted you. It made you cynical. But the chances are still uneven/ Would riding with Braeburn here be more or less hazardous than braving the trip into Richton on your own four hooves? “I wonder, Mr. Braeburn, if this could all just be an elaborate scheme to get me to cede the first call over to you.” “I certainly ain’t so clever as all that, Miss Twilight.” “Will you give me just a moment?” “I got plenty of moments.” Braeburn works a few coins out of his vest pocket, inserting them one by one into the slot of the phone box and punching the proper sequence into the pad. At the same time, you turn a few degrees, walking a few steps over to one of the train station workers, clad in dark blue denim jumpsuit and hauling a few sealed crates out of the back of an enormous metal box on wheels. “Excuse me, I don’t want to be any trouble to you, but… would you mind giving me directions into town?” The broad-shouldered earth pony, muzzle smeared with flecks of dirt, lets out a great guttural laugh. ”Ah can hear yer jabberin’ from over here, missy. It’s as ‘e say-s, four miles to the souks, an’ y’can’t relax around them desert dwellers, though this ‘un ‘ere won’t admit it. Y’got nuthins to worry ‘bout with that *bastard* there, though. He gives free rides, folks like yous all the time.” Braeburn looks over from his level-volumed call, and from here you can see a bit of frustration in his eyes. “Gimme a sec, Turnip.” Now glaring at the worker pony: “THOUGHT I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT NO MORE!” Another low laugh spills from the worker’s wide mouth. “Aw, ‘e’s sen-si-tive. Brae’s good fer a ride, though. Since I know you ain’t comin’ up on big frightful me without that question on yer mind, missy.” “Um… thanks. Thank you.” You turn back to approach Braeburn, who is finishing up business over the phone. You wanted a second opinion, and now you’ve got it. If the unloader stallion can vouch for Braeburn, then you suppose you should be able to trust him that much more with delivering you into town. “Satisfied?” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… well, you understand, right? It’s a more dangerous world—“ “Than it’s ever been?” “Than I ever expected. Friend of yours?” “Pfft, acquaintance at best. I always hear that Mons Canteria’s worse off in that regard.” “That isn’t the part of Mons Canteria I’m from.” Together, the two of you strike a perpendicular path, away from the long glass trapping of the station plaza and into the rapidly cooling night, pines rustling softly in the wind out there beyond the border of the shadow. Braeburn directs you towards a truck, a beat-up block of rusted metal, once painted a uniform green, clearly an older breed than Brit’s vehicle. Another truck, another long drive into the unknown. “Ain’t often I act chaperone for a clergyfolk of any kind. Mostly trade partners, the occasional tourist.” “Do you do this a lot, then? Pick up random ponies at the train station?” Gently, you pull open the passenger door with your mouth and climb into the truck, Braeburn quickly following suit on the other side. “It’s… a hobby of mine. Bit embarrassing, but I guess I just like showin’ folk around the place. I mean, I don’t generally lurk about the station like such, this was just a fluke. Had to call a partner of mine up at the acreage after a pretty dang long ride with some cargo from High Ridge, and the closest public phone to the loading platform down south of here was this one. But yeah, I like… hearing stories. Anypony comes through Rich Valley I ain’t never heard of, you can bet I’ll be showin’ them around town, listenin’ to them talk about how they wound up here.” “You almost say that like it’s a bad thing.” Braeburn turns the ignition, and the engine flares to life, rumbling within some invisible place, granting agency of movement to a stationary object. Combustion, and the hidden power of the earth; black tar, rising up in steady flow, processed and delivered here for the purpose of rapid, measured explosions. It’s in some ways the antithesis of magnetism on the sliding scale of Maker innovation: crude in its development rather than clean and inert, oscillatory by nature rather than a linear property, accruing energy from matter, rather than the other way around. Magnetism draws elements together, and combustion rips them apart. “Rich Valley exports. The Five Families all together contribute to feeding and housing a pretty huge portion of the country. Lumber, grains, fruits, vegetables, paper, hay, it’s all on our shoulders. We export, but we don’t import much. What I’m trying to say is, I guess, if you come here, it’s for a reason. It’s… conditional.” “I think I get what you mean. You want more ponies to come here and see what you have to offer.” You’re pulling across asphalt, over a bump, turning sharply into the skylit road, a chiseled trench through the wild. Is it wild? The woods must be controlled, managed, inspected, chopped… “Oh no, believe me, we have enough ponies comin’ in already. From, well, y’know. Heck, my daddy’d not want me talkin’ about it all that way. A-and hoowee, if my cousin could hear me now, she’d buck me over them mountains.” “I… don’t really know, actually. Rich Valley is very unfamiliar to me.” Braeburn glances at you quizzically. “Y’all came all this way from the big city, not knowin’ what you’d find here?” Oh no. He’s seen right through you, right down to the core; he knows your intentions, or lack thereof. It isn’t something to feel guilty over, and yet guilt is what you feel nevertheless, inexplicably. *Splat.* That noise… You turn your attention to the windshield, where more splats have resounded yet, and crystal prisms are scattering the yellow light in circle-form distortions. Rain on a windshield… you suppose it’s a sound you’ve never actually heard. It’s crisp and blunt, not like the muted crack of a downpour on hard cobblestone, nor the muffled pitter-patter against fields of grass. It’s comfortable, somehow. “I-I didn’t know, I mean… I didn’t *know* all the finer details of the society here. Could you elaborate on that? If you don’t mind, that is.” He’s suspicious. Suspicious of what, exactly? You have nothing to hide from the uninitiated. And yet… Her light, Her mission you carry unsullied… what might he think? What if he tried to stop you from reaching the Truth? “It’s the Saddle Arabians. See, my… well, Baron Rich, what who technically owns all this land in the valley, he’s made some policy changes round here to increase productivity. You familiar with the Saddle Arabian conflict?” Not at all. “Vaguely.” “Lots of refugees, well, I guess in theory they’re all excommunicants, come over across the sea after they’ve been banished from Saddle Arabia for one reason or another. Something to do with their king, I think, and fears over civil war, that sort of thing. Point is, these folks got no place else to go but the east coast, and once they get there they just keep walkin’ and walkin’ until they get to the Barony. See, Filthy Rich has set up a deal with the government, make sure they don’t come in any further while getting cheaper labor off of them Saddle Arabians. Makes everypony happy, I guess.” “They help farm the land?” “That, and… well, something else. I-I don’t know much about it, it’s construction of some kind. All the cylinder towers you see, y’might’ve seen ‘em when you were comin’ across the high rail. Lots of them are building those. Some ponies just think there’s too many of ‘em though, that’s the problem.” “What do you believe, Braeburn?” “Me? No, I… I can’t have an opinion really, one way or another. Don’t! Don’t, I should say. ‘Can’t’, dunno why I said that. Trouble is, my family’s got serious concerns over it. Along with the other four Families. I try to stay out of it best I can.” “What do you mean ‘the other four families?’ You mentioned five families earlier, too.” Braeburn sighs again, looking out over the freshly cleared horizon. The pines have tapered off, thinned to only two or three layers of trunks moving in an interference pattern across the bold, hazy line between sky and peak. The constellations are invisible beneath this harsh streetlight, replaced utterly by the climbing beacon rising in the distance. Richton, you presume. “The valley, and the Foal Mountains, and much of what’s beyond them, fall under the Rich Barony. But before the Riches held domain here, the Five Families were essentially the governing bodies as well as the majority of the population. Understand?” … “Not really.” “There’s the Apples, the Oranges, the Pears, the Plums, and the Berries. We each got our land, and we each hold to it. We’ve also each got our own baron or baroness, but they’re not equal to Baron Rich. I have—wait, did you just yawn?” It’s true, you did just yawn. Why are you getting so sleepy? You aren’t uninterested. “I… I suppose so. Sorry, Braeburn, it’s… been a long day.” “I understand. I enjoy any opportunity to talk about the valley, but you seem… less knowledgeable than most. No offense, of course. Just wonderin’… well, why’d you come here in the first place? If you don’t mind my askin’.” Silence now, a dark silence, thick in the night air. Here it is, the test of engagement, a test of Truth. Forward acceleration jolts your body, bound by a belt, as the truck lurches to a halt at a jagged crossing, allowing another vehicle to pass before it. It carries the wind behind it, that vehicle; you hear the rush even through the glass panes, through the raindrops. Amber puddles, tessellating in new arrangements with every passing moment, a reactive force to the falling droplets, reacts further still to the rolling car, splashing up high in spires of winking water. And the brakes themselves; not magnetism, not the loud inverse of prior motion, but the stoppage of metal against metal, the manual override of passage through time and space. There’s a falseness to it all; there’s a falseness inside you “I’m on a mission trip, of course. Here to… to spread the teachings of the Prophetess Celestia, and the Truth of Mater Solis.” That’s a lie: a counter-Truth, an inverse of proper motion. You kept the secret from your own sisters; why not from a denier of Truth, ignorant to the word of the Books, frozen in history and never bearing witness to what you wish to achieve? Eyelids drooping… thoughts muddling… fear without cause for fear and denial of denials and the imagination, the dreams, the epiphanies, the center of the motion. Always moving forward, but for when you are stopped. Imposter… false voice, false words. The rain, it sounds… metallic, synthesized. “I gathered that, based on what you said. But… why here? Why Rich Valley?” “Well…” For an unknowable end, a spectacle, an apotheosis. “…you see…” For the Matron Celest, for your sisters, for Mater Solis. “…for some time now…” For all you’ve ever known and hope to know, somehow, all of it weighed on a grand scale with its fulcrum in this place. “…I’ve just…” For equilibrium… “…I’ve *dreamed* of coming to this place.” ****** <a href="https://hackmd.io/@barney/SJjWcJI25">Chapters 19-21</a>