//------------------------------// // Eleven // Story: Maelstrom // by QQwrites //------------------------------// The DRP research operation had been running for a few weeks when there was a knock at the door. It was midday which meant Maelstrom was sleeping soundly on the writing desk. I was closest and muttered a “Yeah, yeah” as I opened the door. Two ugly looking stallions greeted me with all the friendliness of a dead opossum. “The boss wants to see ya,” said one of them, a mouth full of marbles. I looked back at Maelstrom, who was still sound asleep. “Funny that: she doesn’t look like she needs me.” I moved to close the door, but they muscled their way in, pushing me over the coffee table. My back struck the edge of the table, which made my whole side tingle and numb. It would hurt worse tomorrow, but at that moment I was hoping there’d be a tomorrow. “Listen wise guy,” the first opossum said, “You two can walk or be dragged. I don’t have a preference either way.” My gut and bruised spine told a different story: he had a preference and was exercising Olympian strength to keep from following his heart’s desire. He was certainly pleased, as if this particular activity didn’t come around often. Surely, if he had known, he would have moved it to the top of his day planner. The noise had woken Maelstrom. She offered me a hoof up, but I declined for the moment. The numb pain was pulsing and the floor was much more inviting. The second stallion decided now was a good time to contribute to the party: “High Roller wants to see you.” He paused for a moment to remember the next part: “Now,” he finished confidently. The bruisers were thoughtful enough to let us clean up and have a cup of coffee before heading out. Maelstrom was given the chance to send a few letters, as well. Before we left, she got close and slipped an envelope into my breast pocket and whispered, “When he concedes the water, have him sign this.” The other fellas guffawed and assumed it was a tender moment shared between colleagues. Nothing could be further from the truth. They walked behind us as we moved through the city streets. It was busy as ever, but the tourists made way for our leatherneck escort who happily pushed aside the evening gowns and flowery shirts, the tuxedos and sweat pants, the showmares and lounge singers alike. “What’s the plan, Director?” I asked quietly, tilting my hat to obscure my face. She turned slightly and gave a wink which, if it was intended to assure me, did just the opposite. Maelstrom was playing this plan close to heart: I only knew she had a plan. The details came when she needed things done: send a letter here, file a report there, bring another pot of coffee. We entered High Roller’s casino from an alley entrance near were the pavement ended and the cloud top began. I noted with interest that the Earth Pony stallions who had accompanied us gave the cloud floor a wide berth. You can get high on power, but still fall like a lead weight all the same. On entering the manager's office, the goons stopped just outside the door. High Roller greeted us like old friends who happened by for supper. “Hello, hello my darlin’—oh, excuse me, Mister Quill where are my manners? Hello, Director!” He smiled wide like a snake unhinging his jaw. He continued, oozing enough slime to keep the Equestrian Mycology Association in business for another thousand years: “Now, y'all have had your fun, but it’s time to get serious: the civil engineers tell me the city needs it’s next shipment of water or the clouds holding us up will start to break.” He paused, offering Maelstrom an opportunity to speak, but she remained silent. Outwardly, she showed only a passive interest in the conversation, instead electing to examine her forehooves diligently. Roller resumed, but with less bluster in his voice: “Director,” he condescended, “How do you think it’s going to look when Las Pegasus falls out of the sky, hrm?” A tremor shook the building. Roller looked frantically around the room as expensive knickknacks fell from the shelves. I spun toward Maelstrom and saw the faintest hint of a smile. She strode up to High Roller, her eyes were fire and her voice kerosene: “We’re about to find out.”