//------------------------------//
// Chapter 2: A Great Responsibility 
// Story: Love Amongst Monsters 
// by Jordan179 
//------------------------------//

The catastrophic failure of the discorporator had occurred toward noon.  As soon as Clear and Twist had been safely sent to the infirmary and Gold Wire gone off for the cleaning supplies,  Ill Wind dashed off a memo to Windvane describing the accident and asking for some help with clean-up and repair.

It might seem strange that Ill Wind was sending such a routine request directly to the High Commander of the entire New Mandate, the self-proclaimed leader of the Pegasus nation.  This only emphasized just how much a new and vulnerable thing was that nation.  The vast majority of Pegasi had barely heard of Commander Windvane; and the Realm of Equestria, front as it was for the rule of an immortal alien tyranny from beyond all sane space and time, officially regarded him as an eccentric radical.

Windvane's New Mandate Flock comprised perhaps a few hundred thousands of peripheral and twenty or so thousand core members.  The peripheral members agreed with Windvane on some general points, such as the inherent superiority of Pegasi to the other two Kinds, let alone to sub-Ponies such as the Asses and Zebras.  They wanted to see special privileges for the Pegasi, and restrictions upon non-Ponies within Equestrian borders.  They were far too lukewarm to understand the importance of something such as the Device on which Ill Wind was working.  They paid dues and increased the Flock vote for seats in Parliament.

The core members were more committed.  They agreed that it might take a violent revolution, someday, to bring the Pegasi their rightful due.  They understood that something must be done about the way in which the soft ethics and lax morals of the ground-crawlers had infected Pegasi culture, that some sort of culling or expulsion would be needed to restore the Pegasi to their old martial virtues.  Of these, maybe a couple of thousand really grasped that many enemies of and traitors to their own Kind would need to be removed from society, perhaps in a permanent manner.

Less than two hundred of the most faithful of the Flock were stationed on the cloud island of Valhalla.

Valhalla appeared on no officially-designated sky charts.  It drifted high in the skies over the Northwest, so high that flyers carried oxygen tanks aloft and the main structures were kept pressurized, so high that no normal patrols ever passed there.  Sometimes a Courier or a South Wind would pass far below, gazing up idly at what appeared to be a high cirrus cloud, never dreaming what secrets that lonely little cloud concealed.

Loyal members of the Flock, who were risking their lives by keeping positions within the so-called Royal Guard which served the Chimerae, made sure to keep patrols routed away from an area whose contents they were never told, to avoid their revealing it to interrogators, should these moles be compromised.  They were not expected to survive once the Sun-Witch realized what Windvane ws doing; their brazen plaques had already been inscribed for placement upon a Wall of Honor, in anticipation of their demise.

There were obvious problems with this arrangement.  Supplies and messages could not be delivered directly to Valhalla along normal routes.  Instead, they were shipped to a warehouse owned by a front company in Cloudsdale, ostesnibly for reshipment to a variety of other domestic and foreign fronts.  Their filed cargo manifests were always rather boring, though a perusal of their real cargoes might have attracted the attention of the Night Watch, had those dark-coated Ponies ever been permitted to read them.

There air-freighters, working for a company owned by one of Windvane's disciples, and crewed by Flock loyalists, set out west, ostensibly for destinations across the Cruel Sea.  Their circuitous flight paths twisted to Valhalla, before they resumed their journeys westward.  Often they would run into storms and be forced to ditch surplus cargoes -- or so their official logs would state.  A variety of ruses ensured that the loss of the actual cargoes -- unloaded at Valhalla -- appeared to be spread out among factories and wharfs all over Equestria.

This meant, unavoidably, that it took a long time to get anything shipped to Valhalla.  The quartermaster, Long Manifest, got constant headaches submitting and timing orders to ensure that the base had a steady supply of consumables, such as fuel and food.  A single real storm -- and the Weather Patrol was far from perfect, especially in the sparsely-settled parts of Equestria over which Valhalla floated -- could spoil the supply schedules for a month or more.  

It was not just the purchasing and shipping.  It was all the work which needed to be done to hide the very existence of Valhalla from the Guards.  For, at this point, secrecy was Valhalla's only defense.  Valhalla was heavily-armed by the standards of a civilian facility -- among the things that had been diverted to the cloud island was a whole boxcar-full of the new automatic weapons the Moon-Witch had ordered for the Guards, and there were even some flak cannons -- but a single Equestrian warship could have reduced the whole base to ruins in an hour's engagement.  And everypony on the base, starting with Windvane and continuing all the way down to the lowliest Airpony, knew it.

One day the New Mandate would boast a fleet of warships of their own.  One day the wonder-weapons upon which Ill Wind and his fellow engineers were working would give them the power to blast whole cities of ground-grubbers into flaming ruins.  Then, the New Mandate might reveal itself, and the lesser Kinds would cower in terror before the power thus revealed! 

But that day had not yet come.  For the Mandate Flock, at this point in its existence, in secrecy lay survival, as Windvane did not tire of pointing out during his frequent speeches to his inner core of Flock loyalists.

Had one pointed out to Windvane that this was also the motto of one of the races which he most despised, he would not have been amused.


***


It was well into the afternoon when Ill Wind finally received a reply to his memo.

By then, he and Gold Wire had managed to clean the laboratory, which no longer looked like a Griffin abbatoir.  Ill Wind had personally hunted up a portable crane, trundled it around the back of the lab and working together he and the cute little electrician had gotten the wreckage of the discorporator arranged by type of equipment and degree of remaining functionality.  He really needed Clear Sight and Twist Wrench to help him on a final analysis -- in particular, he wanted Clear Sight to give the pieces a once-over with her talent to look for minute deformations and hidden cracks -- but the infirmary was still being cagey about their condition.

They were pretty sure Twist Wrench had a hairline fracture on his left foreleg and a slight wing sprain, also on that side -- the side on which he'd slid to protect Clear Sight.  That alone was a good reason to let Twist Wrench get some rest.  Pushing him too hard right now might mean invaliding him for days, or possibly even sending him back to Cloudsdale, either of which might set the project back severely.

Clear Sight they were less certain about.  She'd definitely received some sort of thaumic backlash, almost certainly from as yet unprocessed bio-energy from the monster.  They wanted to keep her under observation for the night.  Ill Wind really wanted her back, but had to concur with their caution -- shifting the heavy pieces of wreckage was a dicey job, and he didn't need her freezing or fainting again.

The damage was depressing enough.  While the main hammer of the discorporator had taken no real harm from being bounced off the lab floor -- as far as he could tell with his straightedge it hadn't even been bent a little, and there were no signs of stress fracturing -- the sleeve had been almost totally-wrecked by the malfunction; many of its components had been twisted into steel pretzels.  As for the gear trains -- some of them might have been very slightly bent, he couldn't be certain, and that means they'd need re-machining.  It would be crazy to ship them back to Spark Wheel Industries for that task -- the turn-around time would be a nightmare, and questions might be raised about exactly how they'd gotten damaged in the first place.

Between them, the team could do ordinary casting and machining work, and Valhalla had shops for those purposes.  But some of the gears were really precision instruments, and this wasn't just a matter of perfectionism:  the inertia involved in the Device under full operation was such that a tiny imbalance could cause the system to rip itself apart, maybe even more catastrophically than it had the first time.  Ill and Clear were simply not good enough machinists to do precision work like that given the limited facilities at the base.  The alternative -- trying to do the work in Cloudsdale, or worse, some ground-grubber city, sounded like a security breach waiting to happen.

Gold Wire had checked through the circuitry, both paramagnetic and electrical, and found out to her happy surprise that nothing irreplaceable had been blown.  She would have to spend a day or two rebuilding the system -- to the new and improved specs that Ill Wind would calculate -- but that was the least of their problems.  Both wiring and crystals were available in great abundance in existing base stores.

Between them, Ill Wind and Gold Wire had gotten a damage report and requisition list written up by three o'clock.

"Well done," Ill Wind smiled at the electrician.  "From an administrative point of view, we've got this well wrapped-up."

She smiled back.  "Thank you, Doctor."

"It's too bad that paperwork won't collect thaums for the Flock," he said, winking to take the sting off his remark.

At that moment, Ring Binder, one of Windvane's office assistants, came into the lab.

"You're to meet with the High Commander at four," the officious little brown-coated, gray-maned pegasus told him, a look of prim disapproval on his small-muzzled face at what he clearly considered the messiness of the Device in its current condition.  It was clear that untidiness bothered the bureaucrat more than the fact that two Pegasi had nearly died in this accident.

"Very good," replied Ill Wind.  "You may inform my esteemed cousin that I'll be there with my reports on the situation. Shall I bring my assistant Gold Wire?" he asked, indicating the electrician.

"No," said Ring Binder, sniffing at the suggestion.  "Only the senior staff -- yourself and Clear Sight."

"Clear Sight is currently in the infirmary," Ill Wind pointed out, "and I really think she should be kept under observation.  Thaumic backlash."

Ring Binder wrinkled his thin lip, clearly annoyed at the inconvenience Clear Sight had put him to by getting injured and thus throwing off his detailed plans.  "I'm fairly certain that this meeting is only for top personnel," he said, looking at Gold Wire as if she were little more than an unsightly piece of lab equipment.

The young electrician bristled, and Ring Binder smiled thinly at her reaction.  

"You have no problem with attending alone, do you?" the aide asked.

"I can handle it by myself," Ill Wind said, "Though of course I will regret the absence of my highly qualified assistant, Gold Wire."

Ring Binder sniffed again.  "You will be expected," was the aide's only comment as he walked out of the room, nose held so high that Ill Wind was slightly surprised not to see him collide with the lab door.

"What a prick," commented Ill Wind, after Ring Binder was gone.

"Oh, I doubt it's exceptional," added Gold Wire "Probably barely visible."

Her statement was so dead pan that it took Ill Wind a moment to realize exactly what she'd said.  Then he snorted. "You're probably the wrong sex for him, anyway," and was rewarded by a giggle.

"So I guess I don't need to wonder what's stuck up his ass," Gold Wire retorted.

"Probably some strapping young airpony stallion of similar inclinations ... if he's luckier than he deserves," replied Ill Wind.

This was relatively safe banter.  Gold Wire was a friend, and the dangerous subject of his own sexual capabilities -- or lack thereof -- was unlikely to intrude itself into the conversation.  For a brief moment of warmth, Ill Wind felt almost normal.

"Seriously, Doctor," Gold asked, "what exactly does he have against me.  Is he the kind of colt-cuddler who hates all mares?  Or does he have something against blondes?"  She ran a hoof through her mane.

"No," Ill Wind explained.  "It has nothing to do with you.  It's me."

"What does he have against you?"  Gold's near-worshipful expression made it obvious that she considered such a prejudice incomprehensible.

Ill Wind sighed.  "Well, to begin with, I'm Windvane's first cousin.  That gives me an unfair advantage over Ring Binder, from Ring's ponit of view.  What's worse, I've never been all that conventional -- until two years ago, I was adventuring all over the place, assembling the plans for the Device.  Ring considers such outdoor activities rather disreputable."

Gold snickered.  "Why does he even bother to have wings, then?  Might as well be a ground-grubber."

"Ring Binder is one pegasus who lives happily in his own little coop," Ill Wind said, arranging the paperwork on his desk, "putting everything into his neat little categories and building his own little bureaucratic empire.  And I don't fit into his neat little categories.  So I should be on the outside, begging to get in.  But I'm on the inside, and he can't deal with that.  Especially because he can't duplicate either my kinship with the High Commander, or my engineering talents.

"So he resents me.  And he resents you, because you're my associate.  He probably resents Clear Sight too, for the same reasons, but she's my 'engineering assistant' on the formal organizational charts, so she has the rank to attend this meeting."  Ill Wind pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.  "Can you get me the plot of the energy levels on the thaumic battery?" he asked Gold.

"Of course, Doctor,"  She flitted over and in a moment was back with the papers in hand.

"I'd like to be able to report more than catastrophic failure here, and I recall -- Yes," he said with some satisfaction.  "We actually retained a considerable charge from that test run.  The battery wasn't damaged at all.  Mind you, I have to redesign this so that we don't have to rebuild half the Device after every subject processed, but this proves the basic idea to be sound!"  He arranged the papers on his desk, began writing," then looked up at Gold again.

"The truth is, Gold, you're a bit inexperienced, but you know your stuff," Ill Wind said.  "If we can get the Project expanded, I'm pretty sure there'll be higher-rank positions opening up for you as well.  You're learning on the job, just keep cracking the books too and I wouldn't be too surprised if in a year or so you were rated as master electrician -- another few years, you can maybe get a degree in electrical engineering -- a lot of our work is secret, but you'd be surprised how I could write a recommendation without specifying the details too much."

"Wow!" said Gold.  "That would be really super if you could do that!"

"Well," Ill Wind said, "first I have to convince my cousin to keep backing the Project."  He worked on the report, scribbling with his pen, a modern steel-gray fountain model.  "But yes, as long as we don't get shut down, it should be possible.  So be patient, and don't let fools like Ring bother you too much."  He handed her the parts requisition list.  "Here, double-check this for me while I finish this report, then I'll be all ready for the meeting."

She beamed at him, and he tried not to notice too much.  It was not as if he could do anything about it.


***


Ill Wind walked down the main corridor of Valhalla, his reports safely in the briefcase he carried in one side-bag.  His hooves clopped on the floorboards, the pressurized fabric of the corridor bellying around him.  The clouds themselves leaked so much air that all chambers and corridors needed to be lined with air-tight materials; rubberized fabrics being the best light substance for this purpose.  Hard-packed cloud could have kept the air in, but Valhalla was a hasty improvisation, not a real cloud-city like Cloudsdale or a fortress like ancient Derecho.

Such is the life of Rebels against an Evil Realm, Ill Wind thought to himself.  Humble beginnings, and all that.  Things will get better soon.

Around him hummed the life of the base.  Past him walked the other pegasi, and it thrilled Ill Wind's soul to know that those around him were the fellows of his own Kind, and not merely of his own Kind but of the subset of the Kind who had come to realize their own high destiny, after two and a half millennia of enslavement by inequine monsters.  First the Twister, then the Two Chimeric Witch Sisters.

Why were the Pegasi finally rising?  Many reasons, he suspected.  Technology was finally beginning to be able to duplicate the powers which had previously belonged to the Chimera Witches and the narwhals.  And the Chimera Witches were themselves somehow multiplying, perhaps following whatever were their alien urges in some unguessable fashion.  There had been one when he was born, then two, then three -- now there were four of the creatures, foul spawn of remote regions of spacetime, as the notes he'd found from Crimson Quartz and Lady Tourmaline so clearly indicated.

Those two Crystal-Imperial narwhals had trusted Princess Luna, considered her their friend, even (he strongly suspected from some of Crimson's private notes) in some horrible way loved her.  The Witches were rumored to be able to enthrall any who were in their presence -- so far, he'd carefully avoided encountering any of them, save for that one unfortunate meeting with Twilight Sparkle -- and he was certain he'd gotten away fast enough to avoid her evil enchantments.  

Here one evil had marred another -- the witch who had cursed him had rendered him somewhat immune to what he was certain would otherwise have been Twilight's overwhelming feminine charms.  He had been able to see no deeper into her nature than that of the socially-awkward noble mage, though her vile nature was obvious from the obscene multiplicity of characteristics of kind she bore -- he still shuddered as he remembered those impossible wings allowing her to intrude into the domain properly belonging to the High Kind, while her narwhal-horn shot bolts of radiant energy after him, undeterred by the traps he had laid, with the animal vitality of the groundgrubbers cousring through her alien veins.  

Once she realized his purpose, he had barely escaped with his life.  Flying at his fastest he could not outrace her, as she time and time teleported ahead of him.  He had lived only due to his quick wits and reflexes, both of them manifestations of his racial superiority.  Twilight Sparkle was a horror that should not exist in this or any other sane world.

How could such monstrosities walk by broad daylight?  How were they permitted to command the most fundamental forces of Nature?  Every time he speculated thus, the thought threatened to send his sanity reeling, for it implied that the Pegasi lived in a very unfriendly Cosmos.

He was so proud to be living in the age when the Pegasi finally fought back against their ancient oppressors, to be such a vital part of the Project which would make their victory possible.  The Device he was building would let the Pegasi command magics as powerful as those of the Chimera Witches.  They would wield the lightning, the Dark Rainbow, even wrest control of the Sun and Moon away from the Witches.  It would give the Pegasi the mastery they deserved over all the lesser kinds, catapulting them to the rightful rule they had somehow failed to win three thousand years ago.

This time, justice would triumph.  And Ill Wind was ecstatic to be part of this glorious and holy cause.


***


The High Commander's office was the biggest single office in Valhalla, as befitted Windvane's high position.  A great picture window, which could be covered by an armored hatch, looked down from miles of altitude on the trackless forests of northwestern Equestria, the ancient homeland of the Pegasi before the Snow Griffons had ever been driven south by the expansion of the Northern Wastes and the pressure of even more monstrous creatures behind them.  The floor was carpeted in a thick bluish-gray pile, lined with wood paneling, each piece of which had to be brought up by air-freighter.   

Against one wall was the venerable banner of the Old Pegasus Mandate:  the stylized light-blue on blue head and wings of a Pegasus bearing the old Mandatial wreath, against a dark-blue field filled with light-blue stars.  Against another the banner of the New Pegasus Mandate, the same design on a more dramatic red field full of white stars, with the Pegasus head and wings in black and the old Mandatial wreath replaced by a new symbol representing their new magical might:  a reversed black hooked cross in a white field.

The room was large enough that the entire staff of Valhalla could have fit in there.  But at present it contained only three individuals aside from Ill Wind himself.

There was High Commander Windvane.  He was a tall and regal middle-aged Pegasus, pale blue coated and black-maned, with intense brown eyes.  Ill Wind had remembered his eyes being considerably less intense when both he and his cousin had been younger.  Indeed, Windvane had in every respect become more energetic and charismatic since Ill Wind had introduced him to his new Special Adviser, the second Pegasus in the room.

Windvane smiled and nodded to Ill Wind as the engineer entered the room.  His familiar face seemed to his cousin to be wise and careworn.  This was the Commander on whom the whole Flock, soon the whole nation, was counting.  Ill Wind almost saw him with a sort of double vision; the older cousin he had remembered from family visits and parties, overlain by the almost-holy national leader.  What was certain was that the bond between them, the ties of loyalty, were unbreakable.

Special Advisor Random Flag was a midnight-black pegasus with black mane and eyes that were like pools of even deeper shadow in them.  When he had first met Ill Wind, his cutie mark had been the flag of the Old Pegasus Mandate; now, strangely, it seemed to have shifted to that of the new one, making a dramatic splash of red and white color against his black coat.  Random Flag was that rarest of ponies, a Pegasus capable of performing overt magic, and his occult lore considerably exceeded that of Ill Wind himself.

Random's expressions were as always difficult to read in his black-on-black face.  Yet it seemed to Ill Wind that the mysterious mage gave him a friendly look, black teeth gleaming against black lips, a merry twinkle in his black eyes.  Once, Random Flag had assured him that he and his cousin Windvane were utterly-essential to Random's own work, so Ill Wind knew that Random was a true benefactor of the Pegasi.  It had been Random who had suggested the flag insignae of the New Mandatial Flock, calling it "traditional," though he evaded all questions regarding the exact origins of this tradition.

The third Pegasus in the room seemed almost washed-out against the other two personages.  High Home was the chief of the Special Services unit of the New Mandate Flock, a term which meant that he led the Flock's enforcer company, a unit outside the normal chain of command of the Mandatial military.  Its purpose was plain:  to deal with potential enemies within the Flock itself, a mission which terrified even the Inner Core of the Flock.

High Home was an unimpressive-looking pony for such an important poltiical post.  He was a little weedy Pegasus, more fragile-looking even than Ring Binder, whose coat was black like Random's, but somehow on High Home it looked a scruffy grayish sort of black.  His mane was grayish-white.  His eyes were a weak watery sort of gray, and he had to wear glasses to correct his short-sightedness.  Outdoors he of course wore goggles, but indoor he preferred rather fragile-looking rimless ones, giving him the impression of a particularly-timid accountant.

It was said that he took daily medication for a weak stomach.  It was also said that he could order an execution without so much as blinking those weak watery eyes.  Those who knew of the degree to which he had the ear of the Commander, and the deeds to which he liked to urge Windvane, feared High Home.

Ill Wind was no exception.

High Home looked at Ill Wind with some irritation.  For a moment, the engineer wasn't exactly sure why, and then he remembered that he had neglected the formal mode of address which Random Flag had unearthed from one of his ancient tomes, and convinced Windvane was necessary for a sense of Flock unity.  It had quickly become a mere ritual, but High Home took these rituals seriously.

"Glory to the Flock!" said Ill Wind, not neglecting the slight flare of his wings as he did so.

"Glory to the Flock," repeated the other two at the table, Windvane with a look of boredom and Random Flag with yet another merry smile, as if he were but a colt playing a game.

"Be seated," welcomed Windvane, motioning to a chair at the table.

Ill Wind sat, opening his briefcase before him.

"What news do you bring me of progress on the Device, my trusted cousin?"  asked Commander Windvane.

"We conducted the first full test of the Device on one of the monsters today," reported Ill Wind.  "The results were mixed," he admitted, "but far from fatal to the Project as a whole.  The discorporator worked as planned, but there was a thaumic backlash in the power couplings which unfortunately damaged the discorporator and slightly injured two of my staff, including my top assistant Clear Sight.  They should be out of the infirmary by tomorrow.

"The test was successful in that we succeeded in harvesting 34 percent of the monster's life force and retaining it in the main battery.  The failure of the couplings indicate that we need to greatly-reinforce both the thaumic and electrical conductors, and the insulation of those elements.  The test also indicated the need for more extensive fluid containment systems around the discorporation baseplate, as there was a significant ... mess ... which may have contributed to other systems failure."

Ill Wind noticed that High Home winced at that statement, and the engineer felt a certain malicious mirth at the knowledge.  He was well aware that High Home was willing to order deaths, but not willing to directly observe the consequences.  He had heard that High had once been a chicken farmer, and wondered how he'd been able to deal with the need to take away the eggs -- had he employed someone else to do his dirty work then as well?

"I have here a complete report on the test results, the damage to the laboratory, and my requisitions for replacement parts and plans for design improvements to enable a more successful second test," he said, pushing a stack of papers toward his colleagues.  As he expected, Windvane scanned the first pages perfunctorily, Random Flag looked through the entire report very quickly, and High Home gave the report only a cursory examination.

"This is actually well done," said Windvane.  Then he gave his cousin a sterner look.  "Though next time you must be careful not to blow up the discorporator!"  He smiled to rob the criticism of its sting.

It had actually been the discorporator sleeve, but Ill Wind knew better than to correct the High Commander before his subordinates.  The engineer was proud of his present social skills -- the young stallion he had once been would not have known why it would have been a bad idea to do that.

Windvane looked inquiringly at Random Flag, soliciting his comments.

The dead-black pegasus mage inclined his head.  "The colt's doing good," Random said in his usual charming and folksy manner.  "Why, I think he'll have it up-and-running, full-scale, within one or two years, dependin' on how fast we can do Operation Reclamation."  Random turned to High Home.

The security chief nodded grudgingly.  "I can only fault Ill Wind on the safety of his laboratory," he said, "and this is of course cutting-edge research.  Accidents are unavoidable, save to the most meticulous of workers -- and alacrity is essential in this matter."

Couldn't avoid the digs, could you? Ill Wind thought, but did not say, to High Home.

"I see that we are all in agreement on the need to push forward the Device Project," the High Commander said.  "And confident that my cousin Ill Wind is the best Pegasus to trust with this task."  He leaned forward to look intently into Ill Wind's eyes.  "My old friend, I must impress upon you what a great responsibility I entrust to your wings.  The Device is the key source of all the power we will need for all our wonder-weapons.  Without a reliable source of thaumic energy on a very large scale, everything else -- the Dark Rainbow, the Bells of Doom, the mighty engines we will need to drive our old home once we have reclaimed it -- all these will be useless.  Do you understand the importance of success?"

A great thrill ran through Ill Wind.

"My Commander," the engineer said, in a voice almost choked by emotion, "I am tremendously happy to have the chance to play such a pivotal role in helping our Kind achieve the inevitable victory over the lesser breeds.  I promise you that you shall not be disappointed in your choice of Project Leader.  Glory to the Flock!"  This time, the salute was delivered with unfeigned enthusiasm.

"Do you have any special requirements which would expedite your work?" asked Commander Windvane.

All thoughts of Windvane on the part of Ill Wind as his old companion at family get-togethers was utterly-eclipsed by his awareness of High Commander Windvane as the destined leader of the Pegasus nation.  And this great leader was asking him what needed to be done.  Windvane might have swooned with excitement, were it not important to answer the question.

"I can produce a detailed long-term requisition," Ill Wind said, "but at the present what I really need are the ponies and equipment to rebuild the Device to the new specifications I have devised.  My two injured staff will soon be out of the infirmary -- I could also use a few more workers to assist them in the grunt-work -- any loyal Flock with basic technical skills will do here.  And I very much need a skilled machinist, so that the Project can be rendered independent of any requirement on groundgrubber support for any small parts production, such as precision gearing."

"The additional workers will be made available to you at the start of tomorrow's shift," promised Windvane.  "As to a good machinist --" he frowned "-- those are always in short supply.  We Pegasi tend toward more glorious occupations."  He looked at his Special Advisor.  "Random," he asked, "weren't you saying something to me about a master machinist your staff had recently recruited?  That you would have already brought her to Valhalla, if there weren't certain -- questions -- about her?"

"Yes, my Commander," said Random.  "Aw, heck, Metal Shriek's a good Pegasus at heart, and she used to be a hell o' fun at parties."  He winked broadly at the Commander, who chuckled.  "She's just been a bit -- down -- in the year since her accident.  A bit -- heh -- damaged." He tapped his head, grinning jovially.  "She's a top master machinist, though, and perfect for what Ill Wind needs her.  Heck, she can always keep her mask on, if she's too much to look at these days!"

"Then it's settled," said the High Commander, turning to Wind Vane.  "We can get you your master machinist, I would think within a matter of days."  For small-scale personnel transport, the Flock maintained a number of private air-yachts, and there was no necessity of cumbersome cargo rerouting to elude the Night Watch.

"Thank you, my Commander," replied Ill Wind, with heartfelt gratitude.

"You are most welcome, Dr. Wind," assured Windvane.  "I shall dismiss you to prepare for the next shift," he continued.  "We want no delays now!"


***


As Ill Wind walked back to his laboratory, he was overflowing with happiness.  He had his Commander's confidence.  Nopony would blame him for the damage to the Device.  He was still in charge of the Project, which was about to get even larger!

He would even get the master-machinist he had so long wanted!

Metal Shriek, he thought to himself.  I've heard that name before.  She was a troubleshooter -- one of those Pegasi who get about all over the place.  Was then, anyway ... haven't heard anything about her in a long while ...

He thought he had seen her once.  He had a vague memory of long legs, a shapely barrel, a steel-gray coat and long blonde mane and tail.  He'd never seen her close-up, only from a distance at some engineering conference.  She'd been a notable beauty, as he recalled.

Apparently not anymore, based on what  Random Flag had said.  He wondered what sort of "accident" had occurred to change that, what sort of "damage" had been done to her.  He felt an odd disquiet at Random's manner.  Always, he had felt he could join in on the joke with Random, but this seemed ... cheap ... to so mock a tragedy.

Ah well, he thought.  I'll be meeting her soon enough, I suppose.  Time to give Gold the good news, then after the shift I can check in on Clear and Twist.

The future, he was now certain, would be a bright one.