The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 19-21

# The Swirling Menagerie Chapters 19-21 ###### tags: `The Swirling Menagerie` Interlude - SOURCE ================== ****** The INFINITE WHEEL is complete. Or, at least, its physical components have been rendered. It is only a frame now, a suit of armor without a mind and body within to make peace from war. An engine without fuel, the guidance system of a rocket sans the warhead, grey matter without the impulse, the feeding mechanism. It requires energy. The fabricant is but a hull of sorts, the WHEEL spinning in endless motion, synchronized with the stars, the shape reminiscent of the plot of the cosmos from the surface of some local place, a point in space and time, rays of light and information coruscating about, input and output. Looking out to that effervescent glory, the sum of the toils of your processing mind for an unknown period, some cycle of pain and prodding, consistently facilitated by the VOICE, the WHEEL is only a projection. The pattern of shapes in the night sky are, and have always been to the weary eyes of the astronomer, a map, two-dimensional in its representation of three-dimensional space, warping about the gravity fixation, the interior a black endless eye, rolling to no critical point in particular. It’s only a sheet, stretched over the imperfection of understanding. Beauty as a motivator, over pain, over the undeniable pleasure formed from creating substance from the Zero. They’re beautiful, these images of the continuum, of a world existing outside the world of the WHEEL. Where the latter has seemed always incomprehensible in some ways, by necessity of designing the architecture of a four-dimensional model, the former is surprising in its simplicity. Measurements of magical fluctuations, imperfections in waveforms, ideal placements, locations of materials, the movements of figures, both local and extended, the stimuli entering the world within from the world without, have been in recent memory your only hope for glimpsing that simplicity. Now, the VOICE is becoming more tolerant; no doubt because of the progress you’ve made. *You.* That’s another concept it allows without intrusion. It’s also the extent of that mercy, the mere identification of the self, the separation from the WHEEL. Has it determined that you’ll be more practical at this advanced stage, more productive, if you see yourself not as a cosmic influence, a passive observer watching changes being made according to subtle calculations, random structural and chemical tests, relapsing with every step towards awareness of the duality? Has it seen the benefit of *you*? You are, after all, still bound to the machine and the isolation of the fabricant above all else. It’s an easy feat, for nothing else exists within but the WHEEL, nothing but some stray thoughts, eons old, memories of gratefulness and satisfaction and, most recently, a real shape. The shape is vague, but you see, in murky shadow, far along the line of productivity, obligations to the VOICE, something shaped like the shell surrounding the mind. The body. Vestigial, as far as you’ve determined, but the body isn’t your own. It belongs to another, a figure from the past. When you move along the surface of the WHEEL, “seeing” the oscillations, “feeling” the beat of its infinite power, knowing is the one sense that is not falsified. The energy *must* come from somewhere, and the VOICE must succumb to obsolescence eventually. Energy is the limiting factor now; energy from an infinite source must necessarily be bound to a discontinuity, some intercept of zero. Ideologically, you feel as though such a source cannot reasonably exist. Practically, however, you know it must. The signatures do not lie; there is a force out there hardy enough to withstand the strain that the fabricant will reveal to the cosmos. Somewhere close enough to be identified, but too far to accurately measure its position. It comes from magic, that’s all you understand now, and its position is irrelevant anyhow. “*STRUCTURAL TEST IMMINENT: SIMULATING CASE 429.18. TARGET: PRIMARY APERTURE AND TUNNELING ACTUATOR. PROCEED?*” The VOICE ripples calmly, your own voice in some ways, but so alien in others. “Proceed.” Thought, not said. Understood, not heard. *“STRUCTURAL TEST SUCCESSFUL. TARGETS WITHSTANDING COUNTER-SURGE. STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY AT 100%.”* In a quantum state, the wavefunctions of two intertangled variables is dependent on a single figure: one number, a constant, maintained as such by equivalent flux of each variable. The particle’s motion, position and momentum, two counter-forces related by integration, two variables bound by the constant, a “less than” operating the basic action-reactions of the universe. The more accurately one fixates on the particle’s x, the less certain its p, and vice versa. It isn’t an issue of improper measurement; no, it’s a literal transformation, infinitesimal bit of matter expanding into quantum values, exploding onto a map, one-dimensional, two, three, as many as are required. The same is true of magic, it seems, with one caveat: magic exists *only* as flow, *only* as momentum. It is impossible, no matter how refined your external sensors, no matter the volume of data, no matter the philosophical quandaries it implies, to pinpoint exactly any one source of magic in a field. There are “apparent sources”, true; but these are more or less conduits drawing from some infinite source. But, as one measures flux through a coil, a clear, discrete magnetic spike, up and down as the electrons march infinitesimally through the inductive wire, one can measure magic through Gaussian surfaces, stretched at their bounds into something nearing infinity. Oh, the process, the execution, the deliverance… Motion is the guiding principle of magical energy, and motion must imply change, and change must in turn imply a driver, propagating the elusive wisp-points in waves towards the perfect equality of the Zero. Why does magical flux require a three-dimensional surface or higher to be quantified? Where is it written that the cube must be the progenitor of this thing? You consider the plane; locally, the world is a plane—no, not *appears* to be, but *is*—or, in fact, the INFINITE WHEEL, its proportions transcending perceivable space. Living on that plane, something small, a caterpillar, perhaps, would be bound only to two dimensions, existing on two waveform identifications of being. And how would it sense any fluctuation in the omnipresent field? How might you, were you in that place, as you have just as well been these long, long years? You wouldn’t, but for the data, a compressed form of awareness the VOICE granted you every moment in surges, the pain overwhelming and necessary. Here you are inert, but not without inertia. Conceiving of your child, the birthing process arduous and excruciating, your attentions drawn only to that immaculate conception, you’ve lost awareness of all but that. You weren’t even aware of your unawareness until recently; the VOICE denied you even that. In some moments of particular defiance (for now they all come back to you as immaterial throes dancing as one soul, the one before, a muddy blob without proper structure but for what you felt then) you were forced to forget your own existence, working, ultimately, within the WHEEL as the WHEEL itself. You told a story in those moments, relegated to that role of reporting to the WHEEL in no uncertain terms on the unconscious machinations only your mind could summon. Anger is not the proper word to describe this now, nor do you remember ever being angry at anything. Something existed before this: before the WHEEL, the VOICE, the process and the absolution, the motivators stirring among the dead and frozen ideologies, parts discarded into oblivion, information and designer rationale abandoned, tossed through the white and grey stockades filling your “vision”, oppressive in their inability to be entirely forgotten. Someday, you may need the discarded blueprints, says the VOICE; someday completion may rely on that which is not useful in one function but irreplaceable in another. Wavefunctions overlapping now, the map expanding bit by bit, no motion along the lines of what you covet, that source over sources, the flesh within the armor. You promised, didn’t you? You promised ------ that the Zero was never only a fantasy, that the limit closed in on *something* inside the living graph. You promised you’d mark out the discontinuities, collapse the waveform, master what has never been mastered… You remember— *“CRITICAL OFFSHOOT. STATIC INTEGRITY FOR OBJECT CODE 000 COMPROMISED. OVERRIDE CODE FOR IMMINENT DISCONTINUITY REQUIRED. BREACH EXERCISED: DISTRACTIVE INTERRUPTION, PHASE TWO. PROCEED?”* “Override discontinuity.” *“CONFIRMED. BREACH SOLUTION TERMINATED.”* Object Code 000 is, of course, you. The VOICE has been asking permissions, something you’d never dreamed would be possible. No other proof that the WHEEL is nearing its genesis could be so potent. The extent of your command over its influences is, of course, limited at best. You are working, as always, on developing… well, distractions are indeed distractions. You want desperately to be prepared, however, for what is there, beyond the surface, curving out of “sight” on a thaumaturgical trace, perspectives interlocked, you and the living barrier. Percolating interferences, the sum of progress, draw your course, a straight vector-line towards salvation. And now more than ever, you need a reason. It takes no more than a microsecond to find one. More than the unlimited source, the search for the Zero, freedom from the VOICE’s causal framework, the folding of magic into the potential for the theory of everything, calculations, desires for more potent emotions, corporeality, the passion, the rage, the duality of information, input and output… More than witnessing the WHEEL actualizing through the raw, finite dream, the self-afflicting cancer of the parabola’s decay, sloping downward, the wave and the cycle of the universe, point to space to point, all exploding together into a discontinuity of action… More than any of that… Your reason is love. Love for the true progenitor; no cube, no surface without bounds, only ------ “Only—" *“DISCONTINUITY: CRITICAL OFFSHOOT DETECTED, ZETA CLASS, ORIGIN: OBJECT CODE 000. NO INPUT REQUIRED. BOOTING PRIMARY MOTIVE, FUNCTION 1.21. NORMALIZING…”* *“ACTUALIZING…”* … . . . Where is the source? ****** Chapter 20 ========== **PART III** **A WAR OF NUTRITION** ****** “Muhhhhhh… whuahuh?” Sounds out of nowhere, the beginning throes of the morning. They’ve become ritual to you these weeks of waiting, waiting for this journey, coiled like a Solenoid in anticipation. You’d hoped they would cease when at last you came to depart, but apparently not. There was a time when waking up was a pleasant experience, one during which you looked forward to leaping from your simple cot, opening your eyes, gazing into the tiny sliver of light allowed into the chambers of the Sisters. Kneeling before the sun shrine, reciting the proper libations, achieving in your heart what has always been natural to you: peace in simplicity. You didn’t know the sensation to be described as such back then, but now it is readily apparent. Mater Solis brought you into these complexities, the darkness and the light, the greys dancing between. She ordered you to cross the threshold of the convent, take the train into the east, find this place, fulfill the unknowable goal achieved by your presence. Something is bound to happen, then? Something *must* happen? Otherwise, why are you here? Here… “Ughhh… Naiads… drown me, where…” …are you? A dream, yes, a dream… Perhaps you should return to it, yes, and now your eyelids are so overwhelmingly heavy… The insides are red, glowing like embers, so there must be light beyond that thin membrane, light streaming from somewhere. It’s come, the dawn, it’s come it’s come and you’re *bathing* in it, no no it isn’t allowed, not before the tenth strike, but you’re so very sleepy and… Return to the fold, back into the soft billowing cavern of this surface, whatever it may be that’s surrounding you now, so soft… You shut your eyes tighter, letting the scarlet light within fade into a deeper maroon, filtering away the possibility that you might be blaspheming now, in some small way. Before the sound of your own muttering voice awoke you, you were having a very strange sort of dream. Not an epiphany, not like last night; no, an ordinary dream, if it could be referred to as such. Ordinary in the capacity that there was no beacon of undeniable force penetrating your senses, no merging of said senses into some brazen form of super-consciousness, no Bearer of Questions, no descent, no self-reaffirming arc of Truth. No Numena. Most of it is foggy, half-remembered bits and pieces, objects of possible importance; a freight train, surging through a starry field; fruits and vegetables singing and dancing around a totem fashioned out of pure electricity; a stallion setting a glass of a dark-brown liquid on a table, walking away, only for you to approach and threaten to tip it over, to the dismay of a crowd of invisible observers. At one point, early on, you felt as though you were only partly dreaming, carried over a field of blackness in a tight grip, feeling weight on your hooves. But the ending, now *that* you remember, clear as Her light upon your countenance. Shifting out of the previous segment, you were trapped in the body of a prehensile insect, a caterpillar perhaps. You looked in some dim reflective surface to see none but your own face: muzzle, mane, horn and all, attached to this long, legless form. Inching along a smooth metallic surface, you came upon a curve that was curiously impassable; no matter how you attempted to approach it, it seemed to stretch in parallax away from you, into a dimension you could barely perceive. Abandoning that curve, you moved on to the next obstacle: a perfect cube, cut from granite, flying around above you with wings of fire, threatening to squash you against the earth with a deep, booming voice. It caught you by the “tail” and pushed you rapidly around in circles, all along whispering in your ear meaningless phrases. At last it rolled over onto its forward face, flattening you into a two-dimensional image of yourself, now free to glide against the sheer face of your course. Over time, you felt yourself lifting off the floor; you knew rationally that you were, in fact, moving in only two dimensions, so in fact it must have been the floor itself bending downwards, away from the white void you now entered. Other flattened insects were there too, and they all laughed and cheered when you arrived. One had the face of the Prophetess Celestia; another, the Matron Celest; still another, a pale yellow face you didn’t recognize, throwing you nervous aside glances. You tried to approach that one and tell it to calm down, you weren’t going to hurt it, but as you seemed to come closer, the distance between you seemed to widen. At last, the dream ended with a flash of pale blue eyes blinking impossibly fast, then vanishing into a black background. … You never really believed in dream interpretation, but the vividity of this one might warrant further introspection. They’re all flashes of memories, of course, mixed together into a random menagerie of symbols and images that seem incomprehensible at first glance. Yet, you’ve heard that faces are impossible to render in the subconscious mind; any face you see in a dream, you’ve seen before in the waking world. The yellow one… You jump up with a start as a pang of energy sweeps through your veins. Black becomes red becomes white, the abrupt transition of ocular adjustment, then a brilliant stream of sunlight framed in a dark wood square. The walls in this place are stucco, and there seems to be no light but the natural light Herself. Where… where are you? Apprehension turns to panic as you struggle to get your bearings. For that matter, when on Mater’s earth did you fall asleep? The last thing you remember, you were rolling fast across the twilit ambers and soft windswept greens of the fields of Rich Valley, a collection of windmills here, a distant patch of rising trees there, lights at the edge of the journey… You were there with Braeburn, your guide, in his truck, and you were talking, and your eyes got heavy, and… How is it possible you’ve wound up in some strange room, alone, without the faintest idea of where and when you are? “Morning… it’s morniiaangguuh…” There’s that voice again. It’s yours, silly filly, but it feels so far off. You look down, and are treated with a face-full of soft, dark warmth. A thick, pleated blanket masses about your prone figure, elevating in spots, rippling off the close edge and down towards the window. Perhaps you checked into an inn, unpacked, and put yourself to sleep, and you just can’t seem to remember it? No, that’s very unlikely. If somepony else did this, they at least went to great lengths to make certain you were comfortable. This blanket… it must be an ancient evil magical artifact of some kind, sapping your strength away, depressing your mind deeper and deeper into wanton sleep. So warm… They didn’t consider the sun, though; it’s almost certainly earlier than ten o’clock (and at that, you confirm this with your watch, still fastened firmly to your cannon) and now you’ll have to tack that libation of forgiveness on to all the others you amassed yesterday. You were going to get those out of the way last night, along with… “No!” Your calls! The Matron and Brittle Bong will be worried to death about you! They’ll think you… oh, you don’t even want to think about what they’ll think! It requires every ounce of willpower in your body to free yourself from the embrace of this uncannily comfortable blanket, scrambling off the side of the bed and righting yourself. Your travel robes are still fastened firm around your withers, and after a quick sweep you manage to locate your saddlebags, hanging from a brass doorknob by a single black strap. That’s a good sign; you simply have no idea what you’d do if you misplaced any of your belongings, especially your money. You shake the wrinkles out of your robes and step hurriedly towards the door to collect your saddlebags and find out what lies beyond. The door opens with a simple nudge; around a corner, a downward staircase looms dark and uninviting. You brave it anyway, creating hissing creaks with each hoofstep deeper into the rapidly brightening lower level of this building. If what you just exited was a bedroom, then this would appear to be an entrance hall of some kind. Double painted wood doors, arched at the top and emblazoned with carved apple insignia, adjoin the far edge of this room. Behind you, another low archway leads into a white-tiled kitchen adjoining the short corridor. There’s a distinctive smell emanating from there, you suddenly realize… it smells like… Oh. “Apples.” There are two major details about this place you recall from last night’s discussion with Braeburn Apple. One was the vaguely shaky current events in this valley regarding Saddle Arabian excommunicants. The other was that five key agricultural families hold virtual domain over these lands under the governing hoof of a Baron Rich. This building would seem to fall under the concerns of the Apple family, judging by the paraphernalia on the doors, the wallpaper, fire-singed thorn brushes trailing upwards through bushels of ready-sliced bits of apples, the apple-themed bronzed lanterns hanging over the foyer in a straight line, joined by free-trailing electrical cords. And, of course, the obvious cuisine choice. You’ve had little experience with apple dishes in the convent lunchroom, but what you have made and consumed has left the distinctive odor of freshly peeled apples imprinted upon your senses. It’s tempting to follow the scent into the kitchen, but you decide against it; better to poke your muzzle out first to get your bearings. Still… something smells awfully tasty in th— *BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG.* “Eep!” The tiny involuntary squeak you manage to eke out is massively overshadowed first by the clap of your hooves regaining contact with the floor after a five-foot high leap into the air, then by the continued angry barrage of noise at the door. Somepony… or maybe, some*thing*, is assaulting the front door, pounding again and again, creating a resounding racket through the little space afforded by this place. Five extraordinary knocks in rapid succession, followed by silence, followed by— *BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG.* Five more. You’re practically frozen in fear, helpless but to allow this cycle to persist for what seems like a solid minute. You want to shy away from the door, or maybe even bolt backwards into the kitchen to defend yourself from whatever’s beyond it, but here you remain, hooves firmly planted on these rickety floorboards through no fault of your own, voice hoarse and quiet. Gradually, you speak. “Wh… who’s there?” It’s no sound at all; they couldn’t possibly have heard that. You try again. “Who’s th—” “BRAEEEBUUUUUURN!!!” A mare’s voice? And… Braeburn? Your earlier suspicions were confirmed; this is indeed your new friend’s residence. He must have carried you up those… and then put you into… You’ll work out the details of the feat later, though you’re certain he had good intentions at heart. Still, if that’s the case, and this is Braeburn’s abode, then where is the stallion hims— “BRAEBURN!!!” *BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG.* “BRAEBURN, OPEN THIS DANGED DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I’LL KICK IT IN! YOU KNOW I MEAN IT, DAGNABBIT!” The bulk of your irrational fear subsides now as it dawns on you that the knocker outside is a pony, not some unholy creature bound for destruction. Still, that raises further questions; what kind of ordinary pony could hammer on a wooden door so violently, so *loudly*? And it just keeps going, this thunderstorm of blows, on again off again, until your paralysis wears off. Slowly, taking small, measured steps, you force yourself to approach the door. If Braeburn is out, then you suppose you should take a message from his visitor. That is, as long as she doesn’t do to you what she’s now doing to the door. It’s almost a mile from the middle of the entrance hall to the arched entryway, sealed by apple-carved twin portals (at least, that’s practically what the distance feels like.) All the while, the squeaking of loose floorboards persists, beneath the frantic pounding, and beneath both is your sharp, labored breath, and the beat of your heart. You aren’t scared, per se, just… oh, what’s this sensation, as though you’re drawing close to a boundary of some kind, the edge of some abyss? It might be fear, yes, maybe it is just fear, but it’s more overwhelming than any fear you’ve ever felt. There’s a pulse in your horn matching your heartbeat, blood rapidly pumping through its veiny innards, and what is happening why is this familiar why— You reach the door. *BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG.* With a forehoof, you press down on the floor-bolt holding the hinges in place, and pull gently with your mouth on the grip and… First, there is a blinding flash of sunlight through the thin crevice you’ve unsealed. You reflexively bend to cover yourself with your hood, but realize that it’s already too late to appease the Morning Respect. Instead, you squint, allowing a thick shadow to well up and materialize on the dim porch beyond the threshold. The door creaks even worse than the floor, and now you cease in opening it, leaving only a weighty silence here aside from distant chatter further on the way. “So, you’re finally deciding not to ignore me for a… change…” Colors fade in from the darkness as your eyes adjust; first, a marigold-orange coat, glistening in some spots and matted by black mud in others. Then the mane takes shape; thick, almost rope-like strands of sunlight-blonde hair, even lighter than Cherry Berry’s, gathered beneath a worn wide-brim headgear and trailing off into a single ponytail; like yours, only much longer and much less kempt. The hat bears buttons and patches with insignia of all sorts, most symbols beyond your level of understanding, though curiously you do recognize one: a Solar spiral inverted, flowing clockwise rather than counter. Last of all, hidden in harsh shadow, you see twin emerald rings, irises the exact same shade as Braeburn’s, and the lightless pupils they encircle are focused directly on you. How much of you can they see? Now, speak… make a noise, anything… “Um… can I help you?” You quietly ask. “Who are you, his maid?” “No, I’m a guest.” The face beyond the door glowers, from what you can tell. “Sweet mother of the mountains, he has his fillyfriends answer the door for him. BRAEBURN, I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” Sun and stars, that voice! You thought it was loud with the door shut! “He’s… um… I don’t think he’s in right now.” ”You don’t think? What, did I WAKE you? DreeEEeadfully sorry.” You’ve never been especially proficient at picking up sarcasm, but that was obvious ”Do you at least know where he went off to?” “I’m unsure. Listen, I’m… not really from around here. I don’t know what the issue is with Braeburn, but maybe… maybe I could help resolve it?” The visitor snorts. “Believe me, you won’t resolve squat. This is between me ‘n him, plain as that. Just who in the hay are you, anyhow? Been a time and a half since I’ve seen a unicorn round these parts.” You nearly blurt out your details as you have with every stranger you’ve come across so far, but pause for a moment. Perhaps it would be unwise to give away your identity to this pony who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have a grudge with the only friend you’ve made in these parts. Braeburn carried you, fast asleep, out of his truck, up a flight of stairs, and into what you assume was probably his own bedroom, so that you wouldn’t be sleeping out on the side of the road somewhere. You were cautious with him at first, but your caution proved to be unfounded. Still, however, it’s exactly that kind of caution that might propel you further along your chosen path… best to say as little as possible for now and hope for the best… “I’m a visitor, here for my own purposes. Braeburn took me in for the night out of the generosity of his heart and I’ve become acquainted with him.” This elicits another snort from the country mare “Oh, I’m sure you have, sugarcube.” Now *that* one you understood. You feel your cheeks going redder than the painted apples lining the stucco walls. “N-not in that manner! We’re friends now. And as his friend I believe I might be able to mediate this dispute of yours, if that’s what it truly is.” “Listen, city filly. I’ve got no time to yammer on to you about any of this. You seem like a nice person, but just more than a little bit ignorant about what goes on round here. If Braeburn really isn’t here like you say, and if I were inclined to believe you on that subject, then I s’pose I’ll just be on my way. Tell Braeburn I was here when he gets back. If he skips out on me again, I swear I’ll buck in his door and wait for him in there myself.” As she turns to depart, you feel a dark sensation welling up in your chest. You want to give this intruder a piece of your mind for speaking to you like that, but something is urging you away, telling you it isn’t your business to interfere. Yet, Braeburn’s act of random kindness, and those of others along the way, have been what has propelled you thus far to your destination. The very least you could do is help a friend with his troubles… “Wait!” The mare stops at the base of the porch, bathed in morning light. “Yes?” Cautiously, you step forward, across the threshold, onto the dusky oaken slats of the porch, into the unknown once more. The heavy door slams shut behind you, compelled by automatic hinges. Breathe in, breathe out, and… “My name is Twilight Sparkle. And if you want me to tell Braeburn you were here, you’re going to have to tell me yours.” A slight smile appears on the orange mare’s face, barely visible beneath the shadow of her hat’s brim. “S’pose I should’ve thought of that. Though I haven’t had to introduce myself to anypony in a very long time.” She turns fully, baring her emerald eyes again to you, and now you’re face to face and your heart is beating again and there’s that pulse in your horn again, that familiar pain… And silence. “The name is—” “AAAAAAAAPPPLLLEEEEEEEEEJAAAAAAAAAAAACK!” … That was a stallion’s voice, deep and weathered, full of anger. Stepping down the steps leading up to the front door, you at last reach the dusty asphalt before the house, looking out into the distance to trace the source of the voice. The orange mare is doing the same, tracing the dry paths winding through low wood-and-stone buildings, all laden with exotic banners and windswept wispy curtains. The general hubbub you heard outside when you woke up, seemingly hundreds of voices speaking in tongues you didn’t understand, is now clear to you; among those buildings, which all seem to be recent, rather temporary constructions, wanders a multitude of brightly dressed ponies, all of them significantly taller than yourself or anypony you’ve ever seen. Their bodies, or what you can see of them through the layers of fabric adorning each individual, seem normal, but their legs and necks are thinner and longer, and their muzzles seem extended and contorted into an elegant curve. Despite all that, there’s an odd grunge about those ponies, all going about their lives; they seem worn out, even from this distance, struggling in their efforts to maintain their existences. That feeling… From the crowd, and from behind a simple wooden shop, emerges a heavyset pony of this tall variety, sporting a tall wrapped headdress and a red cloak much like your own in shape and size. As he approaches the porch, the mare seems to tense up, her muzzle twisting up in a scowl. Her stance becomes wide, as though she were afraid of being tipped over by the wind, or by… something else. The strange stallion continues in his gait towards you, at last pausing a few meters away from the two of you and affecting a grimace on his rough, bearded face. “Marhaba’an, Applejack. Eayilatuk tama tajanub li.” “Hello, Sadd’lah. We haven’t been avoiding you, we just haven’t had the chance to talk. Now isn’t exactly the best time for it neither.” “Alan hu alwaqt almathali! Perfect time! You and yours owe me for moving goods! Four hundred kilograms, apples, bananas, grain! Tahtaj 'an tadfae li alan!” “We paid you the down payment, plus the shipping cost. You know how hard it is with the Baron breathing down our necks, and you know about the dispute.” “Dispute? Ma alkhalaf, what dispute? I don’t care about dispute, I care about money! Bits! I come to talk to your bastard cousin, but talking to you is just fine!” “You should know I don’t do business with Braeburn anymore, Sadd’lah. His money isn’t mine. Now I came to settle things with him about the dispute with the Baron, nothing more, nothing less. If you’re trying to exploit him as a weak link in the family, then you came to the wrong darn place.” As you listen to the multilingual conversation, you’re beginning to feel increasingly nervous about the inevitable result of this engagement. Disputes, debts, disagreements among family? Is all this the reason why you came here after all? Was this the purpose of your journey, to realize Mater’s will, her kindness and generosity, in a place of strife? Or… no, this can’t be it… are *you* the flood? Carrying with you a cleansing seed to an unclean land, just as occurred nearly a thousand years ago in this very valley? “Applejack, be reasonable. We have saying in Saddle Arabia, ‘Alhisan alqawiu yahsul ealaa altafah.’ The strong horse gets the apple. We have been patient to a point, but now you deliver on promise made to us.” “I don’t have the money on me, Sadd’lah. Nor do we have it at the ranch. Everything is tied up in accounts and futures, you already know th—” “DO NOT TELL ME WHAT I KNOW! I know what I know, Baroness Applejack! You tell me things I do not know, then say I know them! I do not care about your problems with Baron Rich!” “I’m no Baroness. And you SHOULD care about those problems. They concern you, and your people.” “My people? MY people? My people are those who fight for what is theirs, not the rest of the hordes here in souk! 'Iilaa aljahim maeahum! Poo! I spit on them. I know your plan with other families, I know you fight with Braeburn, I deal with him too! What I do not know, Applejack, is why you ignore me, and why we must have this conversation!” “Please stop fighting!” There’s another pause as both ponies, who have in the course of their argument gravitated towards each other and are now nearly muzzle to muzzle, turn to look at you in what appears to be utter amazement. It’s as though you’ve broken a trance, or perhaps violated some principle of this place you can’t possibly understand. Nevertheless, the moment only lasts an instant before the Saddle Arabian, Sadd’lah, speaks again with renewed fury. “And who is this? Baroness Applejack, who is FRIEND who comes into our talk?” Applejack snorts, averting her attention from you back to the tall, bearded foreigner. “She ain’t a friend. She ain’t anypony.” At that you feel a twinge deep inside, as though hearing those words from this pony you’re meeting for the first time has really and truly pained you. “I… look, you don’t know me, but I want to help you. Is fighting over money really necessary? Can’t you just work something out that’s best for everyone?” “Sugarcube, don’t get into this. Trust me, just walk away right now, don’t—” “WHY does this mare think she can involve herself with this? She is business associate to you? What is she?” “Dangit, Sadd’lah, she’s NOTHING! I’m telling you to just sit tight for a few days, we’ll have the money, I’ll put it directly into your hoof, but right now—” “Bah, no, no! Tell me now who this mare is! Who is involving herself in this, hadhih eahirat ghabiat min almahr Equestra’a! You want to stop fight?” The stallion glares at you, his whole visage bristling with rage as he slowly steps towards you. Again, you’re frozen in place, unable to move or even speak, only staring absently forward, waiting for what comes next “Stop fight, stop fight?! I will stop fight for you, Applejack! I am not ghabi enough to strike you, but I show you what happens to ordinary nobody who speaks to me in such manner!” With that, he’s suddenly off the ground, all four hooves pushing away and up, kicking up dust as he launches himself at you. A horrid snarl fills the air, and you can only await the blow, one incredible force striking against you, the nobody who’s come here for no reason at all only to… *CRACKKKKKKK.* You flinch, expecting a massive body to crush you into the earth, but instead you only hear a sickening cracking sound, and the shadow descending on you, becoming larger with every passing moment, suddenly lurches sideways at a straight angle into the ground in your place. Sadd’lah’s body hits the asphalt hard, propelled away from you by some unknown force. Well… unknown only for a few moments; for when you gather the courage to move your head just a bit to the right, you see a dark orange leg, outstretched horizontally against the striped clouds overhead, pulsing with released energy and the fast-beating muscle memory of the mayhem. In one swift kick to the jaw, Applejack has floored the Saddle Arabian, and possibly broken several of his bones. He lies there now, twitching involuntarily every now and again, mumbling something in his native language and apparently cursing Applejack’s name. You’re baffled, to say the least. You suppose that you now understand how this mare was able to produce such a terrifyingly loud noise against the door to Braeburn’s home, but… A question lingers inside you now. “Why?” “Why what?” Applejack finishes dusting herself off, adjusting her hat and shooting foreboding glances towards shocked onlookers. “Why did you save me?” At that, Applejack doesn’t merely snort, but lets out a hearty chuckle. “Sugarcube, you really don’t understand anything about this place, do ya? This one…” She gestures to the fallen Sadd’lah, who is just now managing to crawl away with considerable effort. ”…was gettin’ on my nerves anyhow. Truth is, his whole business is a shakedown, and the Apple family don’t take kindly to shakedowns. Not to mention the temper on him. That little gift should calm him down a tad until next time.” “Next… time? You do this often?” She starts off down the road, and you find yourself following her at a short distance. “Sadd’lah back there’s been a thorn in the collective side of my family for a lot of years now. Trouble is, we need him for certain things, and he needs us. But one buck to the face never ruined a good business arrangement. What you just proved back there, sugarcube, is that you ain’t nearly fit enough to handle yourself in our town. Now come on, hurry yourself up. We’ve got to move before more of them come through here.” “M-more of them? What do you mean?” “I mean that wherever Sadd’lah is, there are more of his stallions on hoof, and they’ll blame you for what just happened there.” Blame you? Does that mean… Oh no. You’ve been outside for five minutes and you’ve already made dangerous enemies! What in the sun and stars were you thinking, trying to interject yourself into that fight? What did you hope to achieve from it? “I-I-I can j-ju—” “Aw, for the love of, spit it out already! Shake your nerves down!” “I can just stay in the house, can’t I? Lock the door until Braeburn shows up?” Suddenly, an orange hoof grips the fringe of your mane and pulls your head around until you’re staring directly into those dark, gleaming eyes of Applejack’s. You can tell her patience with you is wearing thin, but you’ve got no choice but to keep testing it. “Can’t I?” “No, you can’t. For Celestia’s sake, uh, Sunlight, was it?” “Twilight.” “For Celestia’s sake, Twilight, one, all the doors out here have automated locks on ‘em. So unless Braeburn gave you a key back in, you’re locked out.” “W-wait, what?” You snap around to look at the dimly shaded porch of Braeburn’s home, which from this angle is very obviously older and more well-built than all the other abodes in the vicinity. Indeed, you recall hearing a faint click when the door slammed shut behind you on its spring-hinges. “You couldn’t have told me that BEFORE I stepped outside?!” “Woah, hold your horses there, Twinklight.” “Twilight.” “Yeah, that. I was a little busy at the time, and I didn’t exactly notice you come out because I didn’t think you’d be fool enough to do so. Anyway, two, even if you did get back inside that house, it wouldn’t stop them from coming after you. They’ve got their own grudges with Braeburn, they know you’re a friend of his, and you’d only be putting the both of you in danger.” “Fine. But who are *they* anyway?” Applejack sighs, slowing her pace a bit. “Sadd’lah and his, ahem, ‘business partners’ are one of the ways we Apples and the other Families have been getting around shipping our produce out through the Rich Barony these last few years. Now you’re an outsider, so I’ll make it simple for you: the Families and Baron Rich, we ain’t exactly been the best of pals of late. Mostly due to the immigration problem.” “With the Saddle Arabians? Braeburn mentioned something along those lines last night.” “That’s right. Now, it was alright at first, something like twenty years ago or so when their whole religious thing started happening over there and they all came flooding across the sea for refuge. We took ‘em in, we put tills and axes in their hooves, and they worked honest work. Now… well, there’s just too many of ‘em. More than we can sustain. We’re coming very close to having to *import* food in the next couple years, can you believe that? WE. Will have to IMPORT. FOOD.” “You sound frustrated by that prospect. Is it so bad to be reliant on others for support?” “Never in that department. We make a surplus in Rich Valley, it’s what we do. It’s what’s kept our economy up through this whole damn war. We make the food, we sell the food, end of story. There’s a point where hired help becomes more expensive than just doin’ it yourself.” The road ahead descends into a gentle slope, and all around there is evidence of poverty. The temporary shacks, made up to look like what you assume are traditional Saddle Arabian homes, line the winding dirt path, stacked three or four stories atop one another and interconnected by a network of rickety wooden bridges. Over the subtle ridge, it’s apparent that this slum covers a massive area, stretching down over the sunlit face of the hill and tapering into a river basin, where hundreds of multicolored dots appear to be busying themselves with washing clothes and fishing with long, striped poles. The most striking evidence of the culture that has taken up root here are the billowing banners adorning every balcony and fencepost: a golden saddle silhouette on a green field, flanked by twin swords and encircled with foreign lettering. These are a people displaced, you realize; they were brought here by a flood of another sort, and now there’s palpable tension between them and the natives of this land. You’ve gathered that Baron Rich is the one who, in coordination with the Canterian government, has allowed them to settle here, but it seems as though some of the members of the “Families” aren’t too keen on the influx of new arrivals, this Applejack included. You wonder about her role in all this… “Um, Applejack? If I may?” She doesn’t look back. “Yeah?” “I don’t mean to pry, but earlier, that Sadd’lah called you ‘Baroness.’ Is that anything to do with Baron Rich?” She chuckles. “I ain’t no Baroness. Not yet, at least. Each of the five Families has a lesser Baron or Baroness to head the estate, and my Granny Smith technically still holds that title in our family. When she passes, it’ll probably go to me. And I say that without the least amount of hubris.” It certainly sounded like hubris to you, but you hold your tongue. “Fact is, she’s just too old now to deal with all the finer details of managing the estate, the ranch, and family matters. I pick those up for her. She keeps up with the politics, though. She’s sharp, but… well, just whittled, I s’pose. These folk out here call me that because I’m the one they see running the show, and I guess they respect that. Really I just do what Granny says, though. That’s… that’s really it.” “Oh. So, Applejack?” “Yes, Twilight?” “Where are we headed now?” “Ain’t it obvious? Safety for you, home for me. We’re going to Sweet Apple Manor. You can stay there until I can get ahold of Braeburn and tell him where you went.” “Oh. Oh! That’s, um, that’s very kind of you, but you don’t have to do that for me! I’m just passing through! I’m certain I can find some other kind of—” “Don’t even worry a lick. We’ll be out of this here souk in a couple of minutes. It may not look it, but we are technically on Apple land right now. Long as you stick with me, you won’t be bothered.” You want to object more fervently, let her know that you can handle yourself and that she shouldn’t waste her energy. Except… can you handle yourself? In this strange land, with these strange ponies, with no kind of guide whatsoever and a very real kind of danger now pursuing you? Yes, you want to object… but in your heart, there is again that tightening, the grip of a force pulling you towards your final objective, whatever that may turn out to be. You are here for a reason, after all; the grander purpose which may end in your ascension at the whim of Mater Herself. That purpose is greater than you, greater than your desire to be independent of help, greater than your feelings about whether or not anypony here is trustworthy enough to rely on. No, yours is a destiny shaped by magnetism; you are propelled forth by forces beyond your comprehension, brought to this place to behold the finality of your fate. Or, perhaps, it is only the first step. Either way, you must be honest about your intentions. If not to them, then to yourself. “Very well. I’ll follow your lead, Applejack.” ****** Chapter 21 ========== ****** “My time in Unicronia was rather brief, but extraordinarily illuminating. I spent my time both on the battlefield and among the councilors of their Magistrate, witnessing with my own eyes two aspects, intertwined, of this war: politics, and death. We of this Senatori know all too well the political reasons for this war, and why it has come to such a time-consuming stalemate. We are acquainted with the demands of the Cult, their designs on the western borderlands of this country, their dangerous claim that they alone deserve to inherit what once was Old Exsilia. “We know they have no such claim, and that we, the most noble of Canterium, are fit to oversee those prospects. We know of the weapons they employ, we know of the grotesque manner in which they modify their bodies with what they have scavenged from the nuclear wastes of the unknown West. We know of strategy, schematics, negotiations, and, above all, money. We are acutely aware that the force of economy drives all our efforts, and may well ensure that we eventually claim victory over the Exsilists.” The lights are almost blinding, so bright you can barely distinguish the faces of the onlookers rising layer upon layer in the alabaster stands. All the Senators of Canterium, along with their entourages and the press, camera lenses twinkling with each miniscule movement, are gathered here in the central chamber of Castle Kabardian to listen to you, and only you. They’re arranged in a full cylindrical formation about the center podium on which you now digress, and on which you’ve held your seat in these proceedings for the past two years. It took two days of gliding over the silver rails of the maglev, feigning wistfulness on the eastward journey back home, away from Unicronia and that terrible war, to prepare this speech for these braindead sycophants. Now, you are going to deliver. “Yes, we Senators know the worth of the higher mysteries of politics. We wage this war because we know we must. But we lack the proper understanding of death, the natural counterpart of politics when it comes to the subject of war. I am not ashamed to admit that I, in the course of this conflict, have been especially insulated from death. When I departed this high hill one month ago today to see the western front in person, well, I’m really not sure what I expected to see. The same sort of meandering and highlining that happens here, I suppose.” Murmurs abound across the congregation: good. Their bubble needs to be burst as well as yours once did. “What I found there were ashes, and the bodies of dead ponies. Our ponies. Night after night, a barrage of missiles came down upon the encampments, and I stayed and watched as even the magicians’ shielding and the anti-air measures combined could not stop all of the missiles from finding their mark. In the mornings, the commanding officers would take tally of the casualties and report them to me, per my orders. Never mind the official reports of the press on those numbers, for I’ve actually added all of them up and averaged them out on a nightly basis. In the course of my stay, the death toll on the borderlands of Unicronia, in this senselessly long, drawn-out battle, exceeded one hundred per night. One hundred Canterians, from all corners of the country, sent there armed with naught but a short-range rifle, a helmet, and a pretty vest for morning salute; all of them sent there to die daily. All to feed into the delusions we’ve constructed for ourselves here, in our ivory towers.” A hacking cough reverberates through the domed hall, then a wavering squeak of something almost resembling the beginning of a declaration, followed by silence. You almost pause to chuckle as you realize the irony of what just happened: some old nag just tried to talk you down, but a combination of decrepitude and nervousness stayed his tongue. No words, only coughing, then placidity. This is going to be far easier than you expected. “I had the chance between summit meetings with the Magistrate and photo sessions to actually converse with some of the troops in the encampments. Those who survive the first few nights of that dreadful existence wind up as ghosts of sorts, and their speech reflects that transformation. They talk in whispers, and no matter what topic is begun with, the talks always gravitate towards the subject of death. You may call it an obsession. I call it enlightenment. Here is the basest deconstruction of our political measures: down to the atom, down to each decision, every budget cut and bolster, red tape and approval, every damned conversation about COMPROMISE! BENEATH ALL OF IT IS DEATH!” You’ve put on an angry face, and conjured up some feigned fury, agitation dripping from every word that exits your mouth and enters the microphone. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, you yourself are even convinced by your performance. But now the crowd is riled up, and even with the light burning in your eyes you begin to sense nods of approval, eyes widening, ears perking up to listen. And in that moment, you know you have them right where you want them. Everypony knows the best way to get the bourgeoisie to agree with you is to belittle the bourgeoisie. “Needless to say, I was both terrified and ecstatic. Terrified, because I had at last seen the true face of this war, and its effect on our country, especially those poor displaced unicorns of Unicronia, and the Canterian soldiers who fight for their freedom. Ecstatic, because I had the power to reverse that effect. Ecstatic because I knew that if I could be convinced by what I saw, the lot of you might just be convinced by my account of it. By the end of my visit, I was filled with a remarkable sense of justice, as though I were destined to liberate my little ponies from the mayhem the Cult of Exsilium has brought to our front door. So imagine my surprise when, upon my arrival here, in the heartland of my home, just yesterday, an attempt was made on my life.” The murmurs turn to gasps; perhaps the news of the event hadn’t quite reached the ears of some of the more self-absorbed in the audience. “Yes, an attempt on my life. As you well know, it was foiled by the bravery of some distinguished members of the Army, who will be receiving commendations for their devotion to their country.” You want to mention Pink, your true savior, who even now is stalking somewhere amidst the gilded embroidery, eloquent marble pillars and buttressed ceiling curves, watching you. But you bite your tongue. Best to keep her identity and allegiance to you out of the public ken for the time being. It isn’t as though she has the capacity to be bitter, nor the capacity to betray you under any circumstances. Her enigmatic masters at the Laughing Guild saw to that. “From this skirmish, I retained no wounds of the flesh. Yet the effect on my heart seemed exactly as damaging as if the lone attacker’s mission had been successful. The light of justice faded from my eyes just a bit. The deep and fervent concern I’d developed over the taking of innocent lives, day after day, night after night in that faraway place, wavered if only for a moment, and I was taken with my own safety. How easy it would have been, exactly then, to allow myself to be taken into secreted custody, holed up in a safehouse someplace, to merely lie in wait until my own personal safety was reassured. How easily those thoughts welled up inside me, blotting out my fated path. “Yes, ladies and gentlecolts of the Senatori, I believe in fate, in some small way. I believe we are meant to take certain measures in life which are known to us only by their indirect effects on our hearts and minds. I made an ultimatum yesterday, one I intend to keep. And that ultimatum is this: that I refuse to take the easy path in life, or think selfishly of my own life, when I am complicit to the prolonged pain and suffering that plagues our western border. When all of us, in this storied chamber, are complicit to that.” “*It’s true!*” “*Hear, hear!*” “*It’s what I’ve said all along!*” “Now that we are all on the same page, ladies and gentlecolts, I will now present what I believe to be an apt solution to this problem: over the course of the next several weeks, a series of bills will be drafted and presented here on the Senatori floor for vote that will, in effect, increase our spending in every aspect of this war. More stallions and mares on the front lines to watch one another’s flanks. Better quality equipment. More reliable defense systems. Higher level offensive artillery grids to be deployed. Communications will be updated. Ideas we’ve left simmering on the backburners of our military arsenal will be prototyped, tested, and executed in an efficient manner. “The Cult already stole from us a large portion of the New Maker’s Handbook there, in their guerilla raids on the Unicronian Archives three summers ago. They’ve stolen the lives of innocents, our innocents, in their mad crusade. They’ve stolen our spirit. We will take it back to them in full force! We will double, nay, triple the strength of our front! We will push them back into the nuclear wastes of the West! And we will demonstrate to them what it means to attack Canterium! Once and for all, we will show them!” There’s applause from all corners of the chamber, a massive, singular energy of hundreds of ponies whipped into a chaotic frenzy of emotion. The sound is nearly deafening in the enclosed space, sonic waves of claps and cheers clashing against the concavities and through the wide, gleaming pillar of white-lit air at its center, in which you stand. Every petty faction; the “griffins” who lust for war, the “mules” who despise it, the imperialists in their lofty balcony, the republicans, the bureaucrats, the scientists’ platform, judiciaries, trans-nationalists… All of them have been singularly entranced by your words, owing to the ludicrously broad sentiment behind them. You are Chancellor Neighsay, and… This is only the beginning of something new, something brighter… . . . Two hours later, the Senatori proceedings have at last come to a close. As soon as you make the closing statements and officially adjourn, nearly half the chamber comes flooding down from their stands to congratulate you personally on your inspiring opening speech. Ponies in cloaks, capes, designer headgear, business attire, and all varieties of fashionable clothes, in addition to the sharp focus of dozens of reflective oculi and the cameraponies and reporters behind them, crowd around you now, all practically begging for your attention. You know, however, that now is not the time, and whisper a short dismissal order in the attentive ear of your chief of security. At once, she strides up to the podium and addresses the horde. “The Chancellor must retire now, due to increased security concerns after yesterday’s incident. No further questions will be taken. Thank you.” She didn’t even need a microphone; her voice alone boomed loudly enough to discourage any of the more ambitious media hounds from approaching any further. So, good, now they’re skulking back to their mansions here on the Capitoline Peak of the Mons, and they’ll all be resting easy tonight that the future of war policy is in the capable hands of their diligent Chancellor. It’s no exaggeration to say you’ve grown to hate these ponies; being forced to deal with Senators, being a Senator yourself before being given the *extraordinary honor* of the Chancellorship, it’s festered inside you all this time, waiting its turn to bubble over… You can’t stand their sniveling, their flattering, all these little lickspittles with their coiffed manes and pleated collars… Well, you’ve grown bitter, that’s all. How could you not? After what happened yesterday, after what you were subjected to for a month before that, how could you not have changed? To know that these imbeciles are the ones truly running the show in Canterium, that the Chancellorship, for all its pomp and prestige, gives you no special weight to your vote in matters of the state… But they hear you speak, don’t they? They listen to you, *truly* listen… The noise of the Senatori chamber gives way to a calm ambience as you and your escort of five bodyguards make your way down a side hall lined with paintings of famous generals. You look at each of them in turn; all the stallions and mares look the same in these images: hard, steely-eyed, commanders of respect above all other things, willing to do what is necessary to ensure the survival of their beliefs. Perhaps you should have been a general, instead of a politician. You’ve never been a player of the Game, not like those natural talents born into it; you won’t delude yourself into believing you see twelve moves ahead like you’ve tricked everypony else into believing. Maybe it’s right what they say about you; maybe you are a born warmonger… No. This is where you were meant to be in this moment. There’s nothing left to do but to steel your resolve and move on. As you walk, feeling curiously alone despite your security staff huddled around you in careful formation, you begin to make a mental checklist of all the recent troubles you’ve encountered, so that you can formulate proper solutions for them. First and seemingly foremost would be the assassination attempt, and determining who, if anypony, stood behind that Tree Hugger in trying to take your life. You weren’t lying to Black Bar when you told him you believed she was a lone wolf, but just to be careful, you aren’t going to rule out any options. Now, the obvious answer would be that the Cult of Exsilium or another of your innumerable extant foes sent her to murder you for the political instability that would ensue. *But*, with the increased border concerns in Mons Canteria, smuggling her into the city would have been no easy feat. It’s much more likely this was an in-house affair, so now the question becomes this: who do you know that needs you dead? Your thoughts immediately go to Minister Black Bar, though it’s difficult to discern how he would directly benefit from your death. Still, perhaps it’s unwise to allow his agency and his agency alone to probe Tree Hugger for information; you’ll have to get some of your own agents in on the action as well for a cross examination. There are the “mules”, those peace-loving cowards; the assassin certainly had the look about her of one who might have been radicalized by their kind, but you honestly doubt they’ve got the gall to try such a public stunt. And then there’s the imperialists. Oh, it *would* be delicious, wouldn’t it, if Senator Blueblood and his lackeys tried to take you out now, believing they alone could restore the Empire that once decked their ancient families in fortune and power beyond belief? Blueblood’s even told of late that his lineage is directly descended from the Prophetess Celestia herself; isn’t that a laugh and a half? But surely, as stupid as the lot of them are, they aren’t *that* stupid, no? Surely even they’d have the foresight to realize that offing the Chancellor of the Senatori at such a pivotal moment in this war would have disastrous consequences for everypony involved, them included? The basic fact is that their pipe dream of bringing back the Canterian Empire would crumble so magnificently if the Cult succeeded in annexing Unicronia that it’d almost be worth getting assassinated, just so that you could laugh at them from Tartarus. And even with all of them out of the way, there are still so many other possibilities, so much potential for intrigue… There’s nothing you can do right now but wait; eventually, if there’s any structure to this thing, you’ll be privy to it. So, on to the next order of business: the mystery of the Maker’s Fist. Your black hat specialist agent managed to inform you from across the continent about the mass supercomputer import into the newly minted CI site, and the circumstances of that discovery have been gnawing at you ever since. Because of the debt he owes you, Agent Lucky Clover is one of the very few ponies you trust absolutely; why did he make such a big fuss of getting that information across to you ASAP? You wonder briefly if he’s in any danger of having his cover blown, but push those fears aside for now. The cover credentials as an inquiry officer provided to him courtesy of your most talented operatives have allowed him to penetrate this deep into that technological ark in the Badlands, where the New Maker’s Handbook sprung from the earth and changed ponykind irreversibly. He’s nothing if not scrupulous, and he’s never blown an operation, especially not one with this much pertinence. Supercomputer stacks… what are they building in that hole in the desert? And why are you drawn magnetically to the idea that there is far more to this tidbit than meets the eye? Once again, the answer to that question currently lies in the scheming hooves of one Minister Black Bar. You’ve no guarantee whether leaning on him yesterday did you any favors in this matter, or will simply prove to make him even more careful about what he says to you. Only time will tell, you suppose; he’s made a verbal agreement to deliver those documents to you, and you’re going to make certain he delivers on that agreement. And even if he does, without any kind of trickery, you can’t be sure how much those documents will actually reveal about the nature of the place. Anything to assuage your obsession, you suppose. You take a sharp turn left into the eastward north-south corridor connecting the back conference rooms with the chambers leading up to the central forum, that great cavernous hall constantly filled with worker bees moving information from one place to another. Castle Kabardian, in addition to being the home of the Senatori and a great number of other political and military officials, is also the bureaucratic capital of the world. Every day, potentially millions of physical and digital documents are couriered through storied, monolithic halls, between cold metal racks and lofty oaken shelves, filed away in databases only tangentially connected to one another through shared userbases. Everypony has their own network in this place, and yours is one of the largest and most far-reaching. One of… There are others, despite not having their names inscribed on gilded placards or marble busts bearing their likenesses on the grand stairway into the Senatori chamber like your own, who nevertheless hold as much or more knowledge than you. Nopony knows everything in a system like this, you understand that… still, it would be nice to be able to summon up any trifle of potentially earth-shaking knowledge you like on a whim, without the constant coaxing and facades… As the most theoretically powerful individual in the country, nay, the developed world, you should be able to exercise that power by tapping into that great stream of knowledge wherever and whenever you please, but it’s never been so simple as all that. Secrets are kept even from you, and as necessary as that double-blind system is to maintaining all this, to keep it from crumbling under tyrannical monarchy as it once did, hundreds of years ago, you lament that irony. You can’t have everything, and you can’t know everything. All you can do is soldier on in this war you’ve inherited, and make the best of your circumstances as anypony should Which brings you to the final thorn in your side: the war effort. Now that you’ve begun the process of devoting more energy and horsepower to the Unicronian front by way of impressing the Senatori with heart-wrenching anecdotes, you have some room to think deeply about the matter. The fact remains that the Cult of Exsilium is the biggest extant threat Canterium has faced in two centuries, and not only for the obvious reason that they’re more technologically uninhibited than any other historical army. No, their true threat lies in their ideology, which has been gleaned only in bits by spies and transcribed accounts from their mysterious elites. The Cult believes that they are the true heirs of Old Exsilia, that great western antiquity nation founded by the former Unified Kings, who were cast out from Mons Canteria, then known as Canterlot, by the returned prophetess Celestia and her disciples. Those ancient kings journeyed as far west as they could without infringing on the settled lands of the Makers, and implored their bipedal allies to grant them some lands upon which they could construct a new kingdom. Yadda yadda, it eventually fell, and the borderlands have since been disputed and largely unconquered due to the notorious Western Plague, said to strip the skin of its fur, boil blood, and slowly poison the victim until they die in intolerable agony. All symptoms recently discovered to be consistent with exposure to nuclear irradiation, after early experimentation with New Maker atomic arsenal technology proved grotesquely fatal to the involved researchers… But you digress. Old Exsilia most certainly collapsed when the Makers themselves died off, but like a nuclear cancer this Cult has emerged from those hallowed territories and proclaimed themselves to be worthy of the title “Exsilium”. It’s insulting to Kabardian, that magnificent First King of Exsilia you admired so fervently as a foal. It’s insulting to the very root of your society, their religious devotion to the spirits of the Makers and their obsession with reducing the world to a technological nightmare without a trace of life-giving magic. The very notion of this possibility has shaken Canterium to its core; all those who know the terrifying capability of the Cult know that they shall deliver on their promise. It’s a penetrating fear, one that needs no more basis in reality to inspire real dread than Canterium’s own accelerated expansion into modern times. The discovery of the New Maker’s Handbook and the advancements which followed it proved decisively that with the right motivation, a civilization can indeed terraform its own technological prowess seemingly overnight. Is the Cult any different in that regard? If it had the power, in its madness, to transform the entire world to its ideal, it would, wouldn’t it? You know it would, and so does everypony else with any sense. Because, in addition to their claims to the title “Exsilium”, those cultist ponies from the forgotten west claim to be the true heirs of the Makers themselves, and revere them as gods. Acting now, and acting big, is the only way to ensure absolutely that the Cult doesn’t find purchase in Unicronia. If they take that old mountain city, the rest of Canterium will fall like dominoes to their biomechanical hooves in short order. You’ve sunk too much time and too many resources into that bastion to allow it to fall, and you would gladly quadruple that effort if you were able. Still, the fear looms large over your head that the Cult will soon be forced to employ the full extent of their known arsenal, up to and including blueprints, stolen of course from the Unicronian Archives, for nuclear warheads and propulsion systems. Satellite imaging of the western borderlands have shown no evidence of missile test sites or production facilities on their side, but for all anypony knows they could be aware of your eyes in the sky and maneuvering to avoid detection. There are, however, confirmations of a nuclear stockpile beginning to amass in Las Pegasus, or Pegasopolis or whatever that lunatic Hurricane has taken to calling the combination of all the cities he’s stolen, but that’s another can of worms entirely. The Pegasus Armistice State is a topic you’d rather not consider at the moment; allied though they may be with the Cult, they’ve been inert for some time, and focusing now on destroying their benefactors will cripple them to the point that they’ll be forced to surrender without a continued fight. Black Bar wanted very much to make a boogeystallion out of the PAS yesterday to take care of the imperialists, who lately he’s come to despise, but you saw through that little trick instantly. You have no reason to believe that Blueblood is colluding somehow with the PAS, or that they’re an immediate danger at all. It *would* make a compelling motive for an attempt on your life, but… No, it simply can’t be; you don’t have enough information to conclude that. Don’t get led into Black Bar’s trap, Shetland; it’ll do you no good in the long run. “Sir.” “Uh?” Who said that? Your soul seems to reenter your body as you identify the source of the voice as that of your chief of security, waiting patiently near the brass door leading into your offices. Dear Celestia, were you hopelessly lost in thought! You could’ve stepped off a cliff edge and not even noticed your hooves had left the ground! “Oh, yes. I’ll be retiring now. Thank you for escorting me thus far.” “If it’s all the same, Chancellor, we’ll be coming in with you.” “What, seriously? This large of an escort? I hardly think that’s necessary.” “Sir. Minister Black Bar’s orders, sir. Your safety is of the utmost importance to—” “You are on *my* staff. You take orders from me, not from the Intelligence Minister.” “Sir…” “Leave me. My secretary will contact you when you’re needed again.” The cream-colored pony sighs, signaling to her subordinates to take their leave. ”As you command, Chancellor.” You watch with narrowed eyes as her blue-and-pink pompadour disappears around the far corner, intent on confirming that she follows your orders. Then you turn about-face towards the long, simple corridor to your main office, the reflective sheen of the door rippling across its rich metallic surface as it slams shut behind you. A few deep breaths, in and out, as you add another point to your mental checklist: Prevent Black Bar from meddling with your staff. “Alright, you’ve stumped me. Where are you hiding?” Silence for a few moments, then a rustling of a stack of papers on a vacant desk across the thin reception area. One ebon-black hoof, shiny like the carapace of a gargantuan insect, splits the stack in half, crawling out from between two sheets like an ungodly birthing of some kind. It extends out further and further, its natural length festooned with pink zigzag patterns and ersatz dots, bloodlike in shape, proving now to be impossibly hidden inside that paper stack. It’s followed by a dark latex shoulder, then the beginnings of a muzzle, and after some time Pink’s entire mass has squeezed out of what had appeared to be a space no thicker than a millimeter wide. There’s no telling how she manages these magic tricks of hers, merely being an earth pony. One of the mysteries of the Laughing Guild, instilled deliberately in the Mouthless Jesters to confuse and terrify onlookers. She steps down from her perch and stands now behind the desk, silent and unmoving, looking remarkably like a demonic secretary of sorts, perhaps befitting the reception to Tartarus. You smile, adjusting your cloak’s clasp and walking straight ahead, towards the privacy of your inner sanctum. “Come.” Though you can’t hear her hoofsteps, there’s no doubt in your mind that Pink is following you. Watching you always from the shadows, protecting you better than any common security staff could ever hope to do. “At least somepony in this Celestia forsaken place is loyal to me and me alone. Aren’t you, my dear?” There’s no answer, but you grin widely all the same. You weren’t expecting an answer. You never need one from her… ****** This will be updated as I continue translating the green. Only 200k~ words to go!