The manila folder contained a number of pages, each one typed with extreme precision and care. Amidst the typeface were carefully drawn charts with bold red lines along the axis. A few color photographs had been attached by paperclip and someone managed a coffee stain, for good effect. The word “SENSITIVE” was watermarked on the pages in a conspicuous way, which made the words sometimes difficult to read.
The Pegasus who had dropped the file on my desk was new to me: green with a bright yellow mane. Her messy hair and wrinkled flight jacket put her squarely in the “Weather Pony” camp; one of the ponies actually responsible pushing clouds around. The office ponies called them “grunts” because they did the physical labor. The grunts had a word for us office/managerial types, but it isn’t repeatable in polite company.
I poked through the file carefully, but the science was lost on me. I was assaulted by equations and symbols unseen since my college days. It was an unwelcome reunion.
“What is this?” I asked the Pegasus, with a little more annoyance than was probably merited.
“Moisture forecasts for the South West region,” she replied.
I was baffled. Grunts don’t do analysis. They’re, well, grunts. Generally, they excel at two things: flying and breaking things. This one was probably an up-and-comer; fresh out of school and looking to advance. Who was I to crush her dreams?
Quick Quill, Assistant to Deputy Director Maelstrom, that’s who. “Listen, kid,” I began, “the Deputy Director has enough to do without looking at some half-baked report about whatever. And who are you to classify something ‘sensitive’ anyways? Beat it.” I pushed the file into the waste bin.
Some might see that as callous, even cruel. No doubt this pony had spent a few hours on that report. Maybe all day. But, she was out of line: ignored the chain of command. She needed to go to her Group Leader, who’d bother the Regional Flight Leader, who’d forward it to the Weather Service Analysis and Review Group (WSARG) who, if they felt it warranted administrative review, would kick it to the Deputy Director.
There was a chain. You respected the chain or you got beaten by it. Maelstrom would have tied this filly and dumped her in the Celestia Sea for breaching protocol. She didn’t know it, but I was doing her a favor.
The grunt was digging through my trash, retrieving the folder. I could tell she was mad, but it wasn’t the uncontrolled rage of child; rather, the cold scorn of a mare who would gleefully stampede over me, if given the chance.
Having regained her folder and composure, she took the seat directly across my desk.
“Listen, uh—” I started, then realizing I hadn’t bothered with her name.
“Summer Raine.”
“Miss Raine, you need to take this to your Group Leader.”
“She didn’t agree with my findings.”
“And the Regional Flight Leader?”
“Respectfully incompetent.”
“And the WSARG?”
“Those hoof-draggers wouldn’t review it because didn’t come from the RFL.”
A long, uncomfortable pause followed. I shuffled some papers on my desk; tried to ignore the pony across from me. She watched Maelstrom’s door intently. I was about to try sending her away again when Maelstrom appeared.
My chair scraped loudly as I rushed to stand. Raine was faster, nearly knocking my desk over in the process. The papers which had originally been on my desk started drifting down from the ceiling in no particular hurry. I paid them little mind. My attention was focused squarely on Maelstrom’s reaction.
I was expecting silence. I was expecting explosions. I was expecting plagues of insects, torrential rain, and crashing lightning. At any moment, the seas would boil as the moon came crashing down, all for the sake of not witnessing the apocalypse.
Somehow, Raine had managed to shove her report into Maelstrom’s hoof and was in the process of walking the Deputy Director through it. As Raine spoke, Maelstrom read through the pages carefully. I wasn’t sure if she was listening or not. Her face remained that carefully constructed, impenetrable facade.
Finished, Maelstrom handed the folder back to Raine and ask, “Has the WSARG reviewed this?”
“No, ma’am,” I said quickly before Raine could give her opinion on the WSARG and where they could put their review.
“Are you certain about these numbers?”
“Yes ma’am. The South West region needs another one hundred thousand liters of water per moon to avoid a catastrophic drought.”
Still looking at Raine, Maelstrom started giving orders: I was to take Raine’s report promptly to the WSARG and instruct them to prioritize it. Raine was dismissed, leaving me in Maelstrom’s familiar, if not subdued, company. As I picked a week’s worth of work off the floor, Maelstrom reread Raine’s report.
“Did you look over this, Quill?” she asked, eyes still carefully parsing the paragraphs.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you understand it?”
“No, ma’am.” It was a tough thing to admit. Most bosses are like any other pony: they laugh, cry, love, hate, feel compassion (or apathy), and seemingly have and lack brains at the same time. But, where do you stand with someone who doesn’t show you their feelings? Will they laugh it off and say, “Neither did I!” Will they be disappointed? Understanding?
Deputy Director Maelstrom sighed and closed the report. She placed the folder on my desk and slipped back into her office. As the door closed, I had the feeling that this was just the beginning; that Raine’s appearance and her ominous report were going to cause a lot of headaches.