October 17, 1000 ANM
I spoke with the changeling again. In fact, such a statement is more true than ever, for Bumblebee managed to bring three companions into the waking world this time. I was uncertain as to how this was accomplished, for surely the use of so much magic to transport them would not go unnoticed.
When I voiced this seeming oversight, Bumblebee looked smug. “I told Chrysalis that it’d be smart to begin infiltrating the ponies on a very small scale. She believed me, of course. She even let me pick which ones I wanted to bring.” Gauzy wings fluttered in self-congratulation. “These guys are all up to speed, don’t worry.”
I considered “these guys.” They all looked exactly the same. Even Bumblebee would have been impossible to distinguish from them without that self-important air. It is good to know that after the unsettling realization that the queen cannot be trusted, her subject can recover soon enough to return to its usual habits.
We were secluded in my chambers, far from any prying eyes. Blueblood lounged nearby on a sofa, perusing supernatural romance again. I could not hide my disappointment at this, especially as he was engaging in such nonsense in my territory. Still, I would not reprimand him for this, for it was entirely my fault that he was forced to make camp in my room while the servants continued extracting the orange soda from his carpet. There were, of course, spare bedrooms he could have used, but when I suggested he share in the space of my quarters, he nearly jumped at the offer. I am uncertain as to why. He has done nothing but read so far. What difference is there between a spare bedroom and my own?
In any case, Bumblebee and its fellows were also staying there while we sorted out our plans. The six of us were fairly confident that Sister Dearest or Mi Amore Cadenza would fail to discover our plans, so we were slightly at ease in the midst of our scintillating schemes. In any case, we were rather more concerned with Chrysalis’ own devices.
“Things are really wrapping up,” Bumblebee was saying. “We still don’t have an exact date, but since every Dream is now a changeling, they can all concentrate their efforts on emerging into reality. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if they managed to come out by tomorrow … anxious, yeah, but not surprised.”
“Have we a plan?” I asked. “Not to be a disruptor of positive thought, but I am unsure as to what we can do against Chrysalis and her minions.”
One of the other changelings spoke up. “I don’t know how helpful this might be, but I figured out something pretty interesting while I was sneaking around in the kitchens—”
“Why would you be sneaking around in the kitchens?” interrupted the third. “Were you rummaging around in the pantry in search of a torrid romance for the ages? I’m oh so sure that the pasta’s fling with parmesan would have stuffed you like a turkey.”
The last blinked cutely. “What’s torrid?”
“It means don’t even try to change the subject, shorty.”
I considered remarking that there was no variation in their sizes, but I felt it would be a more productive use of my time to continue the relation of facts.
When I said this, the second changeling nodded in thanks. “Anyway, I was in the kitchens when I changed to impersonate one of the chefs. I was ready to try fooling everypony there, but as I started mentioning recipes off the top of my head, one of the cooks stopped me and asked if I was feeling well. It turns out that I couldn’t change my voice to match the chef’s at all, no matter how I modulated my larynx.”
“So what are you saying, exactly?” Bumblebee asked. “That you’re a far worse spy than any of us could’ve ever dreamed of?”
“Of course not. Almost the opposite, actually. It seems possible that every changeling has a tell—a detail about themselves that could give away their disguise. In my case, it’s my voice: it’s the same no matter what form I use. But it doesn’t seem likely that the voice thing applies to all changelings. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been disguised as two differently-voiced ponies since coming here, and that hasn’t given you any trouble.”
Bumblebee snorted. “Too right. I’m not about to let a couple of pitches and tones blow my cover.” It frowned thoughtfully. “That said, both of my disguises so far have been male and not pegasi … granted, that’s not setting much of an example, but I wonder.”
“If this is true, it appears to be a serious design flaw,” I pointed out. “Surely Chrysalis cannot have done such a thing by mistake. What is there for her to gain from actively hindering the abilities of her subjects? Perhaps she sought to keep them in check by means of being superior in terms of transformative powers?”
“I don’t think so,” the second changeling remarked. “From what I could see of the magic that turned us into changelings, it wasn’t any different from Evral’s transformation into Chrysalis. Admittedly I wasn’t that close when it happened, but it’s more something you feel than something you see … you were there, so you would know. I think she has a tell, same as the rest of us.”
“So you’re saying she deliberately weakened herself so that we’d become weaker too?” Bumblebee deadpanned.
“Pfft,” the third changeling said eloquently. “What an idiot.”
The second changeling shook its head. “Not necessarily. Her method of transformation was a lot more controlled than the factory-type setup going on for us. What if … what if she was able to choose her tell?”
Blueblood’s voice floated over from the sofa. “What if up was down and pegasi grew our food in the clouds? There’s no point in asking inane questions about what-ifs and could-bes. Can’t we just assume the whole thing is a fluke?”
“We can’t,” said the fourth changeling. “There aren’t any whales here.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Blueblood has a point,” I said. “This whole matter is becoming far too complex for the likes of Chrysalis. As your substitute ruler, I decree that we drop the matter until the unlikely event that it becomes relevant. File away the matter of tells for later. There are more important matters to deal with, such as giving each of you a name.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” the third changeling asked.
“A great deal,” said I. “I cannot continue to refer to you as the third changeling, nor can I refer to your compatriots as second and fourth.”
“Why am I third?” it said indignantly. “Third is lame.”
Bumblebee stared. “Girl, are you seriously complaining about something she’s actively trying to change?”
“You have genders?” I exclaimed, eyes wide. The third changeling, who had been about to retort, apparently changed its mind and ceased attempting to speak. “Why did I not think to ask about such a thing? Obviously you must, if Chrysalis can have such feminine wiles.”
“I was being … never mind.” Bumblebee shook its head. “I’m a guy. These guys are girls. I mean, these girls are girls … you know what I mean.”
“Thank you, Bumblebee. That makes things much clearer.” I pointed at the second changeling. “You are Aranea. Bear your name well, lest events transpire poorly.”
“Thank you, Princess Luna.” Aranea nodded deeply. “I will live up to your expectations.”
The third fell under my gaze. “You are named Skeeter, O sarcastic defier of deference.”
Skeeter shrugged. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I came to the fourth, where I paused. “You are … more difficult to pin down. I shall call you Bachuru, because that makes exactly the same amount of sense as you do.”
Bachuru tilted her head.
“And with that, this order of business has been dealt with!” I clapped my hooves together in victory. “What shall we discuss next?”
The changelings proceeded to inform me about the preparations their fellows have been making recently. It seems that Chrysalis is using the spare love magic she has stolen to begin twisting at the seams of the Dreamscape’s power, folding the space between spaces to a degree that an opening large enough to accommodate them will soon be formed. The idea is appalling, for how could I have not come up with it? Love is a very powerful magic, and was it not essential to use powerful magic in this endeavor? Were I less confident in my abilities, I would believe that this is a sign that I cannot hope to succeed.
But I know better than to entertain such a delusion. My glorious uprising was meant to be! How could it not, if these changelings now under my command can be so dissatisfied with their ruler’s poor example? Truly I shall be the greatest empress to set hoof in Equestria.
Our plan thus far is simple. We shall act as though nothing is ahoof while in Chrysalis’ presence, and continue to “support” her scheme. I will act as fellow executive at this juncture, of course, while my little conspirators subtly sabotage the nature of the spell. As there is no mechanical component to this, Blueblood’s task is to lounge about and look pretty. Thus we are all quite satisfied with our parts in the plan.
I am reasonably assured that absolutely nothing can go wrong. And is not such a statement crucial to the development of such an event’s existence?