//------------------------------// // Chapter 40: Takeoff // Story: The Trinity of Moons: Mending Shards // by Cloud Ring //------------------------------// ☄☄☄ They were waiting for the aviette to a distant part of the city — almost to the point from where Metropolis once began Her growth. Solid Line hurriedly cast a disguise spell for Storm's suit. Storm refused to remove it, and it was dispersing magic patterns, thus forcing Solid first to create a support grid surrounding the suit without ever actually touching it, and then to weave the disguising pattern on a grid.  Cursory Streak and Gentle Touch were listening to the light of their Moons, although only White Moon was above the horizon. They were silent about what they saw and what they made out of it. Were making, maybe, each one by her own, Cursory thought. The flight to the extraction point was long, and the aviette was expecting three passengers rather than four even beside the cat. Cursory took the risk for everypony, and in flight tried to figure out what exactly Solid Line had in mind as a weapon against the Red. She elaborated, though that did not help much: some kind of message or knowledge, encrypted in Solid’s memory that destroys the connectivity of the damned one. Gentle stayed close to Cursory, and together they made an agreement with Storm that up there the "Guiding Starfall-TX" vial will be given to Gentle as needed. “Extraction is a drilled sequence,” Storm mentioned in passing, “Unless one of your unbounds had broken the shelter, I will know what to do.” On arrival, the yellow light of street lamps enveloped them like an old blanket. These lamps were considered obsolete time and again. They were disdained for their inefficiency, and still did their job. Houses on the side of the streets were made of bricks burned on a living fire — old but with clean pargeting, placed with care and washed with love. They saw food in the windows, and could get it as a gift, should they desire so as a team of the Trinity. They did, in fact, but not so much to rob ponies of their honest work, so Gentle Touch bought a few plates of cheese and vegetables; Storm refused but was clearly hungry, and they made an effort to give her enough time out of the team’s sight. This part of the city had seen lives of much more than a few generations, and yet more still. It was alien in itself, out of time, and Solid Line commented on that. They did figure out that Solid does not like it there, and inquired further. So Cursory Streak got a picture: when Solid Line was alive in her past, there was a custom that sometimes sectors really do discuss which one of them is objectively better for living, and were contesting for a prize. They had found a terminal then, and Cursory did check it with her tech access codes as it was out of public sight; this custom was, indeed, technically alive but put on indefinite hold — or to eternal sleep — shortly after Solid Line went to her long slumber. Solid Line took the news calmly, as usual, and noted that of course Metropolis has the right to be what She wants to be. Ponies loved Metropolis, and the obsolete form of the pronoun 'She', which remained now only in application to the city and to the Moons, also meant 'The one that provides.' She — Metropolis — breathed underhoof. A tall, mint green unicorn, definitely not dressed in a heavy suit, not eager to touch anything, scanned her surroundings, trying without much diligence to hide her disgust. Cursory trotted behind, passionately hoping for the motley ragtag team not to throw anything too much out of order. In her mind she was biting herself for naivety. And yet they attracted the attention of the locals. Very discreet one, it was still there. The team’s striking appearance, connection with the Moons too bright, and — as they hoped — touch of the Red too faint to point it out for sure, but unaccountably disturbing. They were a team of heroes, in a sense, Cursory Streak thought, and another part of her raised her relaxed attention to check things around. The ancient Six as a whole did not strive to be remembered, and two of them would even like to stay forgotten. But four others remained, either neutral or looking for attention, and as a sum there was a trace behind them — Cursory got this explanation in so many words from the harsh and rude voice of the one who could rival her in speed had she been among the living. The trace was an imprint in the air and in memory — expectations, impressions, hopes. The ponies were watching them — not even knowing why, not on purpose. At the same time they were not calling Heralds out, because they were in no need for the team’s help, really. Gentle Touch, quiet and decent, cast desperate glances at Cursory when she thought no pony was looking at her. She was diligently not looked at back. Solid Line sometimes raised her head, looked at Gentle, then at Cursory, and did not ask anything either. Storm moved back in their line-up over time to not challenge Cursory's leadership. They impersonated buckby fans. This prompted unwelcome invites to flirt or share drinks but removed all the questions save for one — why go to the old stadium, if there is no game and will not be until the next Conjunction? A cool concrete shadow engulfed them. While they were passing through the wide fan rostrum, Gentle Touch had disappeared. Cursory, quickly and in sequence, went through a bout of professionally hidden panic, an assessment of the consequences of the Red’s Herald being left unchecked in the area, the same but with an assumption of a full stadium here, choices to make when it will be found who exactly brought said Herald here. At this point she managed to derail herself from the line of thought; Gentle Touch will not deceive me! I will find her! A short search led her to a half-abandoned vending machine. Gentle Touch was trying to buy a modifier. The roughest, crudest one: alcohol. ‘Three-quarter kicking turn’. Cursory had heard about it many rounds ago, as a foal. Everypony had heard about it, actually. It was... not the right modifier for a filly, no matter how bad she felt. It was what adults drink, strong, heated by victory or defeat. Earth pony stallions; those who implicitly meant to message ‘I am ready to fight for my own and among my own, I understand and accept the traumatic consequences.’ The strength of this ‘drink’, as Cursory knew for sure, facilitated making incendiary bombs out of it. Some unbounds were actually doing that. Gentle has tried to acquire —  successfully — four triangular packages. The purchase was so inappropriate that the status was not enough, and she had to deposit money in addition. Four pyramids of processed sugar were stacked and bandaged on her back too. Without even trying to take any of these away, Cursory exhaled and saw that the trouble had just begun. It was not even about ethics, not about getting in without a prompt. It was the fact that Cursory knew the mood. Stubbornly clenched jaw, suddenly cold — just a beat ago so kind — eyes, firmly stepping pale orange legs. This earth pony needs no help. She will go to the end, do whatever is necessary, and fall dead. Then she would wake up and go on all over again. Or not, if the death would be for real... It doesn't matter. “Why do you need it?” Cursory asked then. Gentle raised an eyebrow in confusion. “In which way will being drunk help you along the way?” Cursory rephrased, hiding annoyance. Gentle laughed — and it wasn't Pink's crazy laugh; Cursory yearned for that voice and for that smile, and for more, “Ah! You thought that... No, it won't work on me the way you think. But I need calories. Lots and lots of fast calories. There was not enough sugar, not even close, so...” Cursory nodded and walked back. Gentle Touch was not lying, nor hiding much. A tiny bit of ‘something more left unsaid’ was in her face though. There was nopony else in the corridor except them. She did not hear words whispered from behind, “Once this is over, you will belong to— we will talk.” Dealing with an issue, sometimes you shouldn't let either it or yourself know about the hint you just received from the station. Otherwise, negotiations could just fall apart. This was exactly the case. “If we survive…” Cursory Streak whispered quietly hoping that nopony would hear her. Futile hope. Gentle Touch had read me through before, more than once... An inconspicuous corner ended with a door marked by an office building sign. Storm, squinting at the projection in a suit — a screen invisible to others beyond her disguise — slowly retreated five steps, darted and jumped through the wall.  Solid stepped forward and tried to check up the wall, but painted concrete replied to magic scanning that it was only that — a painted concrete and nothing else. One more step in, Solid disappeared too. The ponies exchanged glances and followed her. The connection with White Moon dimmed as it always does underground, and Cursory checked her inner fire; it still fluttered in her heart. Everything is fine... Under the stadium, despite the muted White Moon, it was unusual and interesting. Bright crystals on the walls of the mine were powerless to fill a huge space with their light; they seemed to be the stars of a small dark universe. The huge bowl of the stadium, when viewed from below, was just a ceiling resting on colossal beams and ramparts. With their help, individual sections could move, rise, drive off to the sides, giving way to others and thus changing the rules of the game. Almost the same as what their squad was going to do. It took a long time for the elevator to descend past the platforms of bulky old equipment, along huge pipes and cables. As they went deeper, the place began to come alive. Lights flashed, illuminating the unpainted, sturdy walls. The equipment was awakening, filling the space with the measured hum of coolers. Deep below the bottom a crystal reactor rumbled. What are they hiding here? It was already deprecated when my grandmothers weren’t yet born! “This,” Storm explained, shouting over the equipment’s loud hum, “is an automatic teleport. It will ferry us to the landing site, located…” she looked askance and went on, “where launches do not attract attention. From there we will go to my home.” The ponies looked around with quick, tenacious glances. The untold tangible impression was spread over the entire team, connecting them: in other ponies’ faces, Cursory saw the same as in herself, and so they were together. Ancient tech could often be more powerful than modern tech, at the cost of size and energy consumption. It could be stronger, more robust and secure, as some devices turned to the everside for energy, feeding shields and anchoring shapes and structures for immutability, until it was no longer recommended.  It could be more sophisticated, too. For those who chose a set of preferences similar to Cursory in resolving issues, stories about minds completely gone into their death-bed developments, enchantments or devices, usually ceased to be mere dreadfuls around their first square nine of solutions. Since not long ago Cursory did not celebrate her own square nines anymore. But for all that, ancient technology, however much one would like to, could not be called caring or considerate. In addition, everything was changing over a sufficiently long time — even the seemingly immutable color codes of warnings, the meaning of sound signals, the control interface. Cursory recalled an example from the training course — a high priority issue of the ‘multiplying’ type which began with the fact that an unfortunate pony had found an ‘on’ button on an ancient kitchen machine, but the ‘off’ one turned out to be much less obvious.  If something went wrong, they won't even have time to understand it. But Storm knew what she was doing, and trusted her hardware. “Stand in a circle,” Storm said. A circle of lamps lit up on the concrete floor. Having finished her magic with the remote control, Storm hastily joined them. It became crowded, and after a beat very bright and full of pain. The launch pad seemed to be built by some other ponies. Or not a pony, but maybe aliens after all. If one did not know this for sure, one might definitely suppose so. Darkness, rough concrete and strong iron reigned beneath the stadium. Here, at the spaceport sheltered in the mountains, there were openwork structures, aluminum and plastic coloured white, smooth lines and minimalism in everything. In the perfectly white room of the starting preparation, they were savages, Forest beasts taken to the laboratory for research, with a timid hope that they will be released later. Only Storm was at home here. Before takeoff, it was necessary to wash themselves — outside and inside; to dry off; to get a few injections; weight themselves; donate blood and dress in white. Towards the end, Cursory moved through the motions as if through ritual dances that would not end well. The elevator lifted them to the white capsule crowning the huge white column of the ship. Knowing for sure that something is coming to an end and that the deed is irreversible, they occupied four cradles. The fifth went to Signal. With a continuous crash and bright light from below, with a heavy load on their chests, the familiar world toppled down and stayed there. Pain visited Cursory’s body again, then subsided as they came into orbit and thus became weightless. A pegasus doesn't need to be told about freefall — but Cursory Streak felt something more. A calling, perhaps. The lightness in and around Cursory was as far from usual freefall as blue color was from the bitter taste, and as both of these were from the delight of the first unfinished fall. Instinctively trying to reach White Moon, she felt not emptiness but space unlimited. Her wings stretched wide, out into a shimmering six-color infinity. Here and now she was capable of anything she wanted. Any word she would say now could become the rule of the world. A twitch of her feather could bring a thunderstorm below. Cursory Streak opened her eyes; she looked into space — while remaining part of the space herself. Now she realized: her world — a fragile ball under a thin veil of the atmosphere — does not know even a tiny share of the true power of the Moons. She had been feeding on White's fire before. She was a dried twig in White's conflagration now, burning, struggling in vain to keep the mortal form. She was so tempted to just give in, dive in space, inhale the power, and be the Moon from here on out. Nopony would ever stay unguarded before her weariless sight. Nopony would feel any threat anymore. Nopony would suffer, ever again. It was her love, and the fact that the loved one was right here and was truly caring about her if not reciprocating the feeling, that helped Cursory Streak remain a mere pegasus — for a beat that made all the difference. She cut off the power of White from herself with all her will and soul, and a crushing void came in its place. She curled up, floating in the air, crying in deepest despair and brightest desires which were flashing through her mind, changing each other thrice per beat.  That was noted by ponies of her team moments later, and the team was there for her through this unending torture: worried, mindful, tender. In the dark about whatever was going on, they still were there. Shortly after, getting a hint of a picture, in curiosity, attention and care they were again and again saying — with more than just words — that Cursory Streak is a beautiful mare, that she is an interesting pony, and that the team effort will likely fall apart without her. That helped, after a long time.