//------------------------------// // Conversation Seven, Followed by an Aside // Story: A New Sun // by Ragnar //------------------------------// “This is a car,” said Mag. It was a blue Saturn from late 90's with sun-damaged paint and a missing hubcap. They loaded the groceries into the car while Celestia explained plastic, even though Luna hadn't asked. Celestia bent to look at the undercarriage. “Another amazingly complex device.” “But what does it do?” said Luna. “You can talk out loud whenever you like, you know,” said Mag. “I would rather not impinge on your agency.” “You're worried about abusing the poor little mortal, but I'm worried about you feeling trapped in there. Chill out and talk.” “Sometimes I shall, then, but I intend to request permission whenever I have anything long-winded to say,” said Luna. “That's fine,” said Mag. “By the way, the left hand is yours if I'm not using it.” Mag's brow furrowed without her say-so. Luna said, “For emergencies only.” “Whenever I'm not using it,” said Mag. “Something funny, Sunny?” “You look like a madwoman, arguing with yourself like that,” said Celestia. “Then my true colors are showing. But Luna knows all about that, right? She saw my dreams.” “I have seen far worse.” “Would you like to talk about it?” said Celestia. “No way,” said Mag, and popped the hood to distract them. “Oh, my,” said Celestia, walking a slow half-circle to admire the engine. “But what does all this do? Is it some manner of unnecessarily complicated conveyance?” “Luna keeps asking what it does,” said Mag. “It's a vehicle,” said Celestia, proud to know it. “How does it operate?” “'How dost it operateth?'” said Mag in officious pseudo-British. “I'm, like, so pointlessly obnoxious,” said Luna in bubblegum Californian. “What light through yonder window breaks? Why, 'tis the east, and Luna shutting up is the sun!” Silence followed. “That's a wonderfully well-turned piece of verse, other than the break in meter in the second line,” said Celestia. “Never mi—” Luna switched to Mag's voice. “Never mind our disagreement. Tell us where that line is from.” “Shakespeare,” said Mag, “poet and playwright. Kind of a big deal, according to high school English teachers. I'll hook you guys up as soon as I can figure out a way to do it without having to sit through one of his plays myself.” “You don't like his work?” said Celestia. “His stuff is long, dense, archaic, and, well, the problem with inventing all the cliches is that now his work is cliched.” “But do you recall the rest of the poem? What about the part you replaced?” said Luna. “'And Juliet is the sun.' It's a love story. I don't remember the rest of it. Celestia, could you lock up the store?” Mag heard every door lock simultaneously. “Showoff,” said Mag. Celestia smiled her Celestial smile. Mag stared at her longer than was polite. “One second,” said Mag, and stepped around the corner of the store, where Celestia hopefully wouldn't see or hear. “Okay, now that you're here, I have to ask,” Mag whispered to Luna. “How can she smile after what's happened? Is she faking it? I don't know what to say to her.” “Faking it? I've known her since the beginning of the world, and even I am not always certain how to weigh the sincerity all of her smiles. I decided long ago to believe them all. She has an honest personality, after all, and why would she smile if she did not wish us to believe she meant it?” “I don't know. Why does anybody hide their feelings?” “Perhaps she smiles because she wishes to smile.” Mag pondered. Should she ask? She might as well. “And you? How are you doing?” “... I beg your pardon?” “How are you doing? Everything that happened to her also happened to you, except you were stuck there. Don't answer if you don't feel like it.” “I am in the light again with my sister. I do well enough for now. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?” “Yeah, privacy,” said Mag. “Is that a thing anymore?” “I do have good news on that front. I have been experimenting, and am finding ways to block out each of your senses.” “Not sure how I feel about you putting yourself in a sensory deprivation chamber,” said Mag. “Worry not. As I experiment I glimpse certain possibilities. For each sense of yours I block, I find another sense of my own—ones you don't appear to have access to.” “You and Celestia keep bringing those missing senses up.” “She means the aether, but I refer to senses neither of the two of you have. I am a warden of the ways, the margrave of the dreamers of Equis, and princess of the night. I have certain unique advantages.” “All right, well, work on it.” Mag jogged back around the corner. Celestia had turned human again, worked out how to open the car door, and was now studying the steering wheel. Mag knocked on the roof of the car. “Wrong side.” “Are you sure? I learn very quickly, you know. How do you work a car?” “If you have any attachment at all to your vehicle then I would advise against this.” “Agreed,” said Mag. “Sorry, but nobody drives this without a license.” Celestia crawled awkwardly to the other seat. “Is it a matter of law, then? I certainly wouldn't like to break the law. I'll apply for a license and then we can discuss this again.” Mag got in, then got out again and scraped the ice off the windshield, then got back in and started the car. Celestia jumped, but then cocked her head to listen. “But how does it work?” Luna burst out. Mag choked a bit; she'd been at the end of an exhale when Luna shouted. “My apologies.” “No worries,” said Mag. “Basically, the engine compresses gasoline vapor and then sets it on fire with a spark of electricity, the explosion pushes a piston, the piston turns the wheels, and then it does it again, and it all happens over and over again really fast. Then there's all this other junk, like fan belts and carburetors. I don't know what any of that does. You have to put gas in the car regularly, and this meter right here tells you how much gas you have left. The car also needs oil to keep all the metal from locking up, and you have to change that out every once in a while, and there are air filters for some reason. It needs coolant sometimes, and other fluids I can't remember right now. It shoots burnt gas vapors out of a tube in the back. Sometimes it breaks down and I don't know why. Then I pay some guys to fix it and hope they don't lie to me about what they did.” “Why not learn more so they can't lie to you?” said Celestia. “Because it shouldn't be my job to stop them from lying to me, because if I wandered around wondering how every single thing works then I'd never get anything done, and because I doubt I can learn enough about cars to call their bluff effectively anyway.” “Hmm,” said Celestia. “A disappointing answer, but it makes sense.” “I want to drop these baskets off at the store and then I want to go home,” said Mag. “Anyone want to stop anywhere first?” “Are the works of Shakespeare available on your Googling machine?” said Celestia. “I'm not going to get through today without a poetry reading, am I? Yeah, they're probably somewhere out there on the internet. Let's at least eat lunch first.” Mag put on her seat belt. “Okay, guys, here's the thing. Cars are dangerous. If I drive off the road, I could end up rolling halfway down the mountain. If I crash into another car going the opposite direction with both of us going 30 miles an hour, that'd be like hitting a solid wall at a million miles an hour, mathematically speaking. In conclusion, if either of you is plotting to kill me then now's your chance. Still buckled up? Good, it's the law. Off we go.” Celestia tensed up as Mag backed out, but relaxed when she saw that Mag had everything under control. She gave everything around her equal attention, from the window crank to the forest rushing by. “So unmindful in the Ways Between, and yet such cautious eyes when you pilot your vehicle,” said Luna. “If I screw up in Mirror Valley, I die. If I screw up on the road, I die and so do somebody's children, maybe. Watch "Red Asphalt" and then tell me I've got my priorities wrong.” “This is some kind of instructional movie?” said Celestia. “Yeah, how'd you know?” “We had a few short documentary reels we'd show for government purposes,” said Celestia. “Like what?” “'Where Clouds Come From,' 'Magic and You,' various others.” “I wish I could see them,” said Mag. “Wasn't that your home, that we just passed?” said Celestia. “Oh. Oops.” Mag pulled a U-turn and parked at the curb. “'Your Magic and You,'” recited Luna while Mag and Celestia got out of the car and went inside. Her elementary schoolteacher imitation was dead on. “'In this video, we'll discuss the basics of what you can expect as you grow into your unicorn magic.' You should have your cutie mark by now—” “Cutie mark,” muttered Mag, opening the door and putting her jacket in the closet next to the door. “Celestia, there's a thing next to my computer with a bunch of blank paper sticking out. Please please please show me what your ponies look like while I make lunch.” Celestia shut the door behind her and changed to her real form. “I did say I'd do that, didn't I? Yes, I think I will.” She walked off. “Sorry to interrupt,” said Mag. “Do you remember the rest of the video?” Mag unpacked the groceries. Good, Celestia had bought sandwich material. And what looked like every vegetable the grocery store sold. Luna went right back to it. “You should have your cutie mark by now, but even if you don't, you likely have some experiences with your own magic. Maybe in ways you couldn't control! Don't worry, because that's completely normal. This movie was made to help teach you all about your growing powers.” The movie got a bit technical after that. Then it started referencing onscreen diagrams and took for granted that Mag knew the meanings of phrases like “Clover vector,” and Mag decided Luna was messing with her. Celestia walked back in and placed a few sheets of paper on the counter, then left the room without speaking. The couch springs creaked. No other sound came from the living room and Luna went quiet as well. If it weren't for the silent music of Luna's aura, Mag could almost think the world hadn't gone mad. She finished tearing the lettuce, rinsed her hands, wiped them on a towel, and picked up the papers. Celestia had gone for quantity rather than detail in her drawings. Every couple of square inches had its own pony, most of them minimalistic and fluidly illustrated, almost cartoony in places. Every pony had its own little scene. In one, a pony wearing a headscarf watered a pot of daisies on a table using a little watering can. In another, a young pony clung to the shoulders of an adult pegasus in flight. In yet another, an inquisitive, snouted face stared up at the viewer with opened mouth as if asking a question. There was a row of solemn guards with brush helmets, a nubby-horned unicorn eating a sandwich, a couple sharing a milkshake. They all had big bushy tails, almost like squirrels, but deliberately styled, just like their manes. It was a calm, kind world. The last page was a little different. This was where all the detail had gone. In the top-left corner was a picture of what could only be Luna. Her eyes were stern but caring, and fathoms deep. Beneath the sketch were the words “Princess Luna.” The sketch to the right was a “Princess Twilight Sparkle and Spike the Baby Dragon.” There was something perennially young about the two, for lack of a better term. Twilight's stance, her expression, the little lizard guy on her back, the pile of books floating next to her, everything about her suggested someone who loved everything, wanted to know everything about everything, and never got tired of the world around her. Mag tried not to hate her. Next were “Princess Cadance and Shining Armor.” Mag almost laughed. Now there was a power couple if Mag had ever seen one. Lord have mercy, were those two ever in love. They appeared to be getting married, which, considering they looks they were giving each other, was almost redundant. “Pinkie Pie,” a cotton ball of joie de vivre. “Fluttershy,” wet kleenex with a rabbit. An arrogant “Rainbow Dash” that Mag immediately pegged as her favorite. “Applejack,” cowboy hat, lasso, named after an alcohol for some reason. And this “Rarity” obviously got up very early indeed every morning to get her hair like that. Mag walked to the couch to find Celestia pretending to sleep, and leaned against the back of the couch to look down at Celestia. “They seem fun,” said Mag. Celestia didn't respond. Luna had nothing to say either. “I like Rainbow Dash the best,” said Mag. Celestia didn't move. “Did you get your samples?” “There was almost nothing to sample,” said Celestia without opening her eyes. “Oh. What were you planning to get?” “A sliver of wood from a mirror frame on the inside, some sand from the walls, any ambient energy, and a wisp of aether.” She held up a little corked bottle. “Here is that wisp. Equestria has an aether field, but it's as hollow as everything else there, now. No one has touched it since I left and it hasn't moved on its own. Nothing out of the ordinary for a dead world. As for the rest, they simply aren't there. No ambient energy, no sand, and all the mirror frames were gone.” She smiled a nonsmile. “I'm glad you insisted on coming. After seeing all of that, I don't know if I would ever have bothered to leave.” “That's a hell of a thing to say,” said Mag, keeping her voice conversational. “'Hell.' Yes. A 'hell' of a thing to say.” She opened her eyes. “I've been wondering something. Should I really be so certain that a regent dies with her world? Books and my own experience tell me they do, but it's a hard thing to prove. Maybe we stay behind, like the mirrors. Maybe we count as mirrors ourselves. It makes a kind of metaphorical sense, wouldn't you say?” Mag really wished Luna would say something, but she hadn't spoken since Mag had picked up the drawings. “What will you do now?” said Mag. “I don't know,” said Celestia. “No, I do know. I'll rest until tomorrow. Then I'm going back to the lake, and then to the lake at the bottom of the valley. There are many books down there, and I'm sure there must be something useful there. It's dangerous, but what is danger to me now?” “I'm coming, obviously,” said Mag. “Oh.” “Really don't like what I'm hearing from you right now, by the way.” “No?” said Celestia. “It doesn't help anyway,” said Mag. She walked around the couch and sat down in the same place she'd fallen asleep last night. “Nothing you say or think is going to make you feel any different. That's how it works, when you stop caring. You could get up and eat lunch or you could stay right where you are. They'll both feel pointless, so why not get up?” “Eat lunch. I could do that. And then shall I move across the country to live in an empty house in the woods? Shall I hide my heart under the bed and reach out to no one for years on end, avoiding everything that matters to me and hoping to go numb?” “If it'd get you to eat a damn sandwich, sure,” said Mag. Celestia covered her eyes with a hoof. “I'm ashamed. That was cruel of me to say.” “Don't worry. You can't hurt me with that.” “You can let go of the bravado, Mag. I know you felt that, and I'm sorry.” “Whatever,” said Mag. “But don't knock the bravado. You've got your fake smiles, and I never stop fronting. It works. Any port in a storm, right?” Celestia sat up. “I disagree with what you said a minute ago. I'm a great believer in the power of words. I've talked down armies and assassins. It matters what I say and think. I can stay productive if I work at it; I'll just have to be more careful of where my thoughts wander in the future.” She leaned over and hugged Mag. “I'll keep myself busy, helping your world and looking for a way to bring back mine. Thank you, Mag.” Both of Celestia's wings were at her sides, and yet Mag felt a feather brush her shoulder. “I don't have it in me to hope to see Equestria again, and I hold little hope for a happy ending between the three of us. But I do hope we'll grow to understand one another, human Mag.” “For a species that needs all four legs to walk, you people are awfully huggy,” said Mag. *** “Tell me about the assassin,” said Mag through a bite of sandwich. “The what?” “You talked down an assassin. Tell me about that.” “In exchange for the sandwich, I think I will.” Celestia dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin. Mag didn't know where she'd gotten it, as the napkins on the table were paper, but there it was. “Some few decades ago I got an unusual bit of mail. A death threat, actually, written shakily in black chalk on rough, yellowish paper. It was sealed with the crest of Canterlot University in undyed beeswax. The content of the letter went on for some time, but the core of the matter was that the anonymous author intended to kill me because he wanted to know what would happen if I died. “The writer was clearly unwell. If nothing else, a saner stallion wouldn't have given me so many ways to identify him. It took me less than an hour and a half to find the perpetrator (one Professor Redwood, a stallion who taught history at Canterlot U) and to confirm that he was well known for his erratic behavior and morbid interests. Some days later he burst into my bedroom with a blunderbuss at least four times his age and demanded that I light a candle so he would know where to aim. I refused; he might have hurt himself if I let him fire the weapon, and anyway, whatever he had loaded into the weapon was sure to damage my furniture. He said 'please,' and I offered to answer his question in exchange for his gun. He told me it wasn't a gun; it was an authentic griffin blunderbuss from the third griffo-minotauran war. I said I knew what it was, since I specifically recalled outlawing them. He apologized for breaking the law and said he'd surrender the weapon to the guards as soon as he finished using it to kill me. “I asked him what in the starless hells he thought he would accomplish with all this. He asked if I'd gotten the letter. I told him I had, and that I spent the day pondering his question. I told him again that I would answer his question if he gave me the authentic griffin blunderbuss from the third griffo-minotauran war. 'The one you made illegal?' 'The very same,' I said. He set the gun down next to my bed and went over to the window to sit in the yellow wicker chair I typically take my tea in, hunkering down to listen. “I'd written down my thoughts on the matter over the past few days, then arranged the resulting collection by subject and chronology. Now I lit a candelabra and read him the highlights. First I went over the immediate concerns, such as the contents of my will and what the legal repercussions would likely be for Professor Redwood. The will didn't seem to interest him that much and he just cocked his head like a bluejay when I started to talk about criminal justice, so I skipped ahead to describe my theory that Equestria would industrialize and revert to being a full scarcity society, and to make a few remarks on how these economic circumstances would likely interact with Equestria's growing counterculture and inevitable militarization. He was enraptured, and I always enjoy an appreciative audience, so I ended up reading that entire part out loud. “After a few more pages I simply gave him the entire pile of papers and went back to sleep while he read them from the beginning. I never did get enough rest that night, though, because a maid came in a good hour before dawn and screamed for all she was worth. Honey-Do was always very tightly wound. My door guards came in and were understandably confused, until I pointed out the fireplace in the antechamber, and, more to the point, the sooty hoofprints leading from there to my door. “Honey-Do screamed a bit more, and the guards shouted and stomped, and eventually Redwood looked up from his reading and asked everyone to be quiet. They didn't. Honey-Do scolded him for getting soot everywhere, which I'll confess I found cathartic, and the guards demanded to know what he was doing. The professor explained, once he could get a word in, that he'd come to kill me because he wanted to know what would happen. He apologized for the mess. The rest of the week was thoroughly confusing for Professor Redwood, I'm afraid, but I arranged for a very comfortable and tastefully decorated padded room with plenty of reading material. We corresponded until his passing.” “And he never tried to break out or send another threat? No hard feelings on either side?” “Remember that we're discussing a stallion who could write endless reams of ingeniously insightful dissertations and academic papers within his field, but was incapable of buying groceries or having a lucid conversation. He was not a bad pony, just a confused one. I always enjoyed reading his letters. He understood my work in ways few others ever have, and I was one of the rare few who'd seen with her own eyes the ancient roads and battlefields that had always dominated his mind. We appreciated each other.” “Enough chattering. What kind of barbarian doesn't own a table?” “What do I need a table for when I've got a lap?” said Mag.