A New Sun

by Ragnar


Conversation Eight

Mag stood in the bathroom with the door open, going over her cigarettes individually with a hair dryer. Celestia stood in the hall and read Mag's resume.

“You did well in high school, considering your circumstances,” said Celestia.

“It was something to do,” said Mag.

“Work history sparse and mostly irrelevant, but I'm offering on-the-job training, so that's not a problem. Steady work, and not a lot of jumping between jobs. Here's some kind of long number labeled 'SSN,' and it's displayed prominently, so I can only assume you have an especially good one.”

“Definitely,” said Mag.

“Contact information.' More long numbers. How does this work?”

Mag tossed her broken cellphone out the bathroom door. Celestia caught it.

“Open it,” said Mag. “No, from the bottom. Yeah. Okay, see those number buttons? If my phone worked, which it doesn't, you could put one of those phone numbers in and talk to the person next to the name.”

“Let me see,” said Luna. Celestia floated it back to Mag. Mag opened it and held it up for Luna to look at.

“And how far away can the other party be before this ceases to work?” said Luna.

“It's less about distance and more about satellite coverage. If the satellite signal can get to this phone and also to the other phone, I can talk to that person anywhere on Earth. The people who run the satellites charge more depending on whether you're calling another country, though, and which country.”

“A powerful tool,” said Luna.

“May I try?” said Celestia.

“My phone is broken, so it doesn't even turn on, but go ahead and push some buttons” said Mag, tossing the phone to Celestia and picking her hair dryer back up.

“If I could contact your previous employers, what would they tell me about you?” said Celestia.

“Technically, they're legally only allowed to tell you the date I started working for them and the date I stopped, and anything other than that is potentially slander,” said Mag.

“And if they were legally allowed to comment on your performance?”

“They'd tell you I'm even-tempered, fastidious, and quiet. The 97Cents store would tell you they let me go because a customer complained when I didn't smile back, and, if Mrs. Wattleson still works at the Bigfoot Museum, she'll tell you I'm a whore.”

“I imagine there's a story behind the latter. Do I need to know it?”

Mag considered throwing the cigarettes away. Drying them was taking forever, and they smelled like the lake. “I don't know, do you?” No, she'd keep drying.

“I very much doubt it,” said Celestia.

“Is the story amusing?” said Luna.

“Wattleson caught me checking out her son.”

“Ha!” said Luna.

“I see,” said Celestia.

“Is that a normal 'I see,' or the 'I see' where I'm supposed to get self-conscious and rethink the last few things I said?”

“The normal kind,” said Celestia.

Luna laughed in Mag's head. “Your are about to pay for that, I wager.”

“And have you ever been 'let go' for reasons that were unequivocally your fault? Please be as honest as you possibly can.”

Mag started to answer and then paused. She had a ready answer to that. She had a ready answer for most interview questions, in fact; acing interviews was Mag's specialty. The trick was to BS shamelessly. Celestia was unlikely to fall for that, however, and now all of Mag's interview instincts were sending false signals.

A more honest answer had also occurred to her, and it led to something she'd been hoping not to mention. Mag could explain now or she could evade the question until Celestia dragged it out of her. She'd have to answer.

“Well... to be honest, I might get fired in a few minutes, and if I do then I'll deserve it.”

“Oh?”

Mag turned the blow dryer off and readjusted her ponytail nervously. “Yeah, uh, well, remember how I ditched a day and a half of work and got the store robbed including the keys? I'm about to drive down to a payphone and call my boss to tell him about it. He's never been that impressed with me in the first place, he's getting tired of me, and this is probably the last straw.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Celestia. “He's been dissatisfied with your performance?”

“I think he thinks I've got an attitude problem, and he might have a point,” said Mag.

“And you were supposed to be at work today?”

“Yeah,” said Mag, wishing she could just shut the door and not have to talk about this anymore.

“For my sake?” said Celestia. “You could have left me to my own devices for the day.”

“Yeah, I know. I just really didn't want to go. Even before you showed up, I wasn't going to, not today and not tomorrow. I'm getting as sick of that job as my boss is of me, at about the same rate, and I'm getting lax.”

“I'm disappointed to hear that,” said Celestia. Mag withered.

“Your employer will decide the appropriate consequences,” said Luna.

“And then we'll say no more about it,” said Celestia. “But I can only hope you'll attach more importance to the job I give you. Are you supposed to be at work right now?”

"The store is open from 7:00 to 3:00 on Saturdays, so it'd close in about an hour,” said Mag.

“Then isn't that where you should be?”

***

The one thing Mag hadn't wanted was time to think, and, with no customers and a pristine store, she had almost an hour to herself. Well, not completely to herself. She would never be alone again, after all.

There was no point in getting worked up about it. She'd made a big show of being perfectly okay with Luna in her head for the rest of her life. The rest of—hang on. What would happen to Luna when Mag died? In fact, what would happen if they really did manage to bring back Equestria? Luna had a job to do, and if Luna didn't get her body back then Mag had better get packing. She could ask right now, of course, but she didn't have the guts, and anyway, someone might come in.

Are you sure you can't hear me? Mag thought at Luna. There was no answer.

Mag wondered if Luna would show up on a CAT scan, or how antipsychotic medications would affect her.

“What are you right now?” said Mag.

“Me?” said Luna.

“Yeah.”

“A dream.”

“And that means what, exactly? Are you a pattern of electrical impulses in my brain that somehow forms a separate consciousness, or are you a self-aware hallucination, or what?”

“You can think of me as the latter, if you wish, though I am in no way the product of your mind.”

“I think today would make a lot more sense if I had gone crazy,” said Mag. “I suddenly have an unreasonably beautiful friend who looks human except when no one is looking, and I think I pretty much met God this morning. Then I traveled dimensions on the back of the magical queen of unicorns and now I have a voice in my head that tells me to do things.”

“When have I told you to do things?”

“On the way here.”

“Did I? I don't recall.”

“Remember when that guy pulled out in front of me and you told me to rear-end him?”

“It was a suggestion at most.”

“Maybe, but it was a very strongly worded one. 'Run him down, that bog-spavined blaggard of an upright baboon,' you said. Did you know you slip into Elizabethan English when you're annoyed?”

“What is Elizabethan English?”

“Oh, you know, 'thou' and 'thee' and 'bog-spavined blaggard of an upright baboon.'”

“We call it Middle Equestrian, but yes.”

Mag decided to have a cup of coffee. She'd started the coffee machine when she came in along with the hot dog roller, and no one was likely to come in, so she might as well. She drank it black. It was cheap and vile, and oddly comforting. There was something defiant and alive about bad coffee. It burnt her tongue and left an acrid, almost sulfurous aftertaste, and right now it felt like a middle finger directed at the void. She decided to bring a thermos of it next time they went to Equestria.

Mag drained the mug, coughed, turned around to make sure no one had come in when she'd had her back turned, and said, “I just thought of something. Elizabethan English is what it is because of European history. It's got French loan words, German influences, bits of Latin from Roman occupation, all sorts of things that make it, well, earthly. It's an Earth language, and it evolved naturally. So where did Equestria get it?”

“Simple. Technically I am not speaking English. I am speaking Equestrian, and my nature is such that you understand it in your own language. The same applies to Celestia.”

“She never mentioned that,” said Mag. She looked at the clock on the register. Only 15 minutes to go.

“I believe you said you spoke to your regent today,” said Luna.

“I did?”

“You said you spoke to your god, did you not?”

“Yeah, and don't remind me,” said Mag.

“Celestia asked permission to stay, I suppose, as is proper. Did she bargain for others to come with her?”

“I think so,” said Mag. “She mentioned refugees. Or the eldest did. I forget. Either way, he probably knew you were coming, so I think he would have let us know somehow if he had a problem.”

“He knew? How can you tell?”

“He knows everything. It's his thing, I guess, along with murder, and being rude as all hell.”

“Murder?”

“The first thing he did on Earth was kill his brother so that he'd be the only one in charge of this operation.”

Luna answered with shocked silence.

“Explains a lot, don't you think?” said Mag.

“What possessed him to do that?”

“Do you mean literally? Either way, I don't know. Maybe you're right and the devil made him do it. Celestia says he's crazy.”

“I meant it figuratively, but that's a thought.”

“That he was born possessed? Wait. I just remembered I don't want to talk about him or think about him or remember his existence, not unless I have to. Let's talk about something else.”

“Then pray do something for me.”

“I don't pray, but sure,” said Mag.

“This is not a prayer. Put your paws—I mean hands—together.”

It sounded like praying, but Mag put her hands together anyway.

“Now draw them apart, but keep them flat.”

Mag did.

“A wooden chair.”

“What?”

“Do nothing but hold your hands in place. Simply listen, and picture each image as I give it. A leather bag of ice. A bowl of milk. The new moon. Message in a bottle. The color black.”

“Why are we doing this?” said Mag.

“It's a mental exercise. Dog hair on a sofa. Cold nose in fog. A kiss on the cheek. The color white. A dalmatian. A policeman. How do you feel?”

“Perplexed,” said Mag.

“And how do you feel now that I've asked how you feel?”

“Perplexed, intrigued, a little irritated.”

“The color red. The color black. The color white. White red black. Black white red. Black white red white. Black red white black.”

Mag sighed.

“Black red white black white red. Black red white black. Black red white red black. Black white red white black, and the aforementioned wooden chair. Black red white black. You may now put your hands down.”

“Are you messing with me again?”

“Yes.”

Mag put her hands down. “Literal plaything of the gods. Is this my life now?”

Luna's gave a whispering, feminine chuckle. “Is it really so shameful to amuse me? Ponies have traveled a thousand miles to exchange ten words with me in my court—to thank me, to forgive me, to spit at the floor before my throne. Fillies and colts have stood on their hind legs to whisper their little stories and questions in my ear. For one week last year I held the Court of Evening Flames; my servants built a great bonfire under the waxing moon and lined the streets of Canterlot with torches, and near ten-score bards came for no other purpose than to vie for my attention with their skills—tragedians, fools, dancers, jugglers, contortionists, snake-charmers, traveling storytellers sitting on rugs in the street, violinists and fiddlers, pianists and accordioneers... you have my attention, Mag, and they would have longed to be you, even to be a—what was your word?—'plaything.'”

“Are you actually this full of yourself, or are you still messing with me?”

“Messing with you? I would never mock your dour, unrelenting, almost religious allegiance to egalitarianism, always expressed with overfamiliar mien and affectionate rudeness.”

“Well you would say that, being part of a diarchy of infallible love and selflessness.” Mag blinked. “Comma, she said without sarcasm. You two are so weird. Have I mentioned that?”

“'Infallible love and selflessness?' One of us, perhaps, and I doubt even that, though she certainly expects much of herself.”

“Maybe she should. Your subjects all look like children, and she dotes on anything that'll hold still long enough.”

A customer walked in, some old man in a trucker's hat and half-inch-thick glasses who was obviously too nearsighted to see Mag glaring at him. He bought a 24-pack of O'Doul's, paid in exact change, and tore open the cardboard top on the way out of the building with a rattle of glass on glass. Mag didn't watch after that.

“They were indeed children, in most ways. Few mortals ever truly grow up. Those who do are often matters of legend.”

Mag checked the clock. Two minutes left. “Is that right?”

“It is. But of course I've seen exceptions. How about you? Would you like to become a matter of legend, Mag? An adult can change the world, even this world. I could aid you in this—if you will allow it.”

Mag emptied the register into the safe. This wasn't difficult, as the only things purchased in cash that day were a 24-pack of O'Doul's, a Slim Jim, a fun-size bag of Doritos, and a bottled soda. Mag remembered just in time that she needed to make change for her morning purchases; she triple-checked the arithmetic, as she wasn't sure she'd be allowed in the store after she called her boss and didn't want to make a mistake she couldn't fix. Luna waited patiently for Mag's response.

“I already signed on with Celestia,” said Mag at last. “Anyway, her offer was more concrete and less condescending.”

“She is a better salespony than I. Celestia can offer you a fulfilling and honorable life, and I imagine her pitch was a work of art. For my part, I offer only toil and understanding, and promise nothing else. I believe happiness is overrated. I do not sugarcoat. I'll never shield you from the consequences of your own decisions. But you want a concrete offer, don't you? All right. Magic.”

Mag flipped the “open” sign to “closed.” “Witchcraft lessons in exchange for my soul? You have my attention.”

“I don't know what you mean by that, so I shall just wait for you to clarify or give me a straight answer.”

Mag turned a few of the lights off, pulled her purse out from under the counter for possibly the last time, and walked out the back door. She stopped a few feet away and turned. “Here's the thing. You're the third person today to try acting like an authority figure, and of the three of you, you're the one inside my head. I sure as hell don't want an authority figure in my head. And on your end, if you're going to be stuck in a cage with someone until they die, would you rather be stuck with a student, or a, you know, a sort of, well...”

“Hm?”

“... a friend?”

“Then friends we shall be.”

“Well then, as a friend, could you maybe lock this door somehow?”

“Let us find out. May I use your left hand?”

“I already said you could.”

Mag's hand lifted up and pressed against the door above the lock. Nothing happened.

“Apparently I cannot.”

Luna let Mag's hand drop, but Mag put it back. “Would I be able to lock it myself, if I knew how?”

“I couldn't say. How many humans have done magic? What fuels human magic? What fuels you? Answer these questions and I may try to guess.”

“I'm having trouble with the idea of human magic when I think we've proven that I can't see your 'aether' thing and, what's more, you can use my hands to touch a door but you can't use my alleged magic to lock it. Why do you think I can do magic, and how does that relate to that word prayer hand thing you made me do?” It was the warmest part of the day, but the door had been in the shade all morning and Mag could feel frost melting under her hand.

“I guided you through a modified version of the magic assessment test—you would remember it from the documentary if you had been listening to it earlier. At first I wished to distract you from the dolor that had gripped you, while also confirming for myself that you truly couldn't touch the aether, but your results, while mostly indecipherable to me, were not null.”

“And yet humans can't see it.”

“For heavens' sake, please take your hand off the door. I can feel that too.”

“Turn off your sense of touch so you don't have to worry about it. You've figured out how, right?”

“I won't, because I believe you're trying to tell me something.”

“I just want to throw you off and keep you interested. And I'm doing it because garbage coffee, unfunny jokes, arguments, and cold doors seem to make me feel the most like myself when there's another supernatural being trying to recruit me for something. Also out of some kind of randomized spite that I didn't bother to think about, because I like to think I've made this into your problem instead of mine. What'll you do?”

“Simple. I'll drop the issue out of confusion. Your hand is beginning to warm the metal anyway.”

“I noticed. It's sort of like I won, isn't it? I beat the cold.”

“Then, by my count and insofar as I've understood you, you've gotten everything you wanted and you can put your hand down.”

Mag touched her left hand to her face. Luna yelped. Mag quickly wiped the ice off; she'd braced for the cold, but it'd still been unpleasant.

“This is what friendship means to you, I suppose.”

“I'm still feeling it out, to be honest.”

“Isn't everyone?”

Mag walked away. The door would have to stay unlocked, but she could see her handprint in the frost and it made her feel better somehow.

Mag walked around the back corner into the sun and up to the payphone. Two more things. Two more things. Two phonecalls and then she could feel like she'd done her duty for the day. Yes, she'd skipped out on work and probably should be ashamed of herself, and yes, both calls were likely to be horrible, and yes, her house was no longer a refuge from civilization and was now full of people who'd get very stern about housemates who dealt with their problems by eating a whole jar of peanut butter with a spoon while hiding under six blankets with the bedroom lights off and the door blocked with a tilted chair, which was a shame because that was what Mag really wanted at the moment.

But if she made two phone calls after everything else that had happened then she could feel like she'd had a human day and had also done something Maggish, something Maggy.

First she called her boss. His name was Amitabh Bachchan (no relation), and he was alright. He didn't raise his voice, though sometimes his voice could get very urgent, something Mag had had a problem with before because his Indian accent was as pure, thick and rich as the day he'd first stepped off the plane. Mr. Bachchan was in his sixties but looked forty, and had a sheepish, scruffy smile that had probably gotten him out of a lot of trouble over the course of his life. He had no particularly terrible flaws and Mag had always felt a little bad for dreading the sound of his voice every day. This weekend's carelessness turned out to be, yes, the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back. Mag would never clean that store again. He thanked her. She thanked him back. He said goodbye. So did she. He hung up.

“Yep,” said Mag to herself.

“There, there,” said Luna in a kindly but unsure voice. In a moment of emotional vertigo Mag realized this must be what it was like to be on the receiving end of her own awkward attempts to comfort Celestia for a pain she couldn't even claim to understand. She didn't know how to feel about that, so she decided to deal with the next thing. One more thing, and then she could go home.

She dialed a random ten-digit number. Someone picked up.

“Hello?” said some guy. It wasn't him. Mag hung up and mashed out ten more numbers. There was no such number, and the next number she tried was also unowned. The fourth one worked.

“Cute,” the eldest said over the line. “What the hell do you want?” A TV played some sort of Spanish talk show in the background.

Mag swallowed her pride. “Save them.”

“No. We done?”

“Who wrote that? Your brother? You?”

A window opened on the other end of the line, accompanied by the sound of traffic. “How should I know? It didn't happen in my world, so it's not my problem, so I can't see it.”

“Save them,” said Mag. “Has anyone ever asked you? Come on. Save us. Has anyone ever said please?”

“Yes, so don't bother. When you're immortal, trust me, sooner or later everything has happened to you at least once. People have begged me to save mankind in, what, 211 and a half different languages? No, 212 and a half. You want my advice? Save us yourself.”

Mag elbowed the metal of the phone box. “Say please.”

The eldest spat, hopefully out the window. “Oh, please.”

“Whatever. I figured I'd try.”

“One second,” said the eldest.

“What.”

“Do me a favor and put your hand on the brick wall, will you? Just for a second.”

Mag didn't move. “What's this about?”

“Just for a second, please.”

Mag leaned past the phone to touch the wall with a finger. “There.”

“No, with your whole hand.”

Mag laid her hand flat.

“Good. Now, listen, please. Thank you. By the way, hello, princess.” Luna didn't answer.

“Nice to meet you too,” said the eldest. “You listening, Ms. Wilson?”

“For about the next three seconds, and then we're freaking done.”

“Six seconds, actually.” His voice changed to a perfect imitation of Mag's father. “The first friends you make in years are some foreign negress and a California queer? Is that how we raised you?”

“GO TO HELL,” shouted Mag.

The brick wall cracked under her hand and the phone receiver in her other hand shattered. Mag jumped back from the phone box. She thought she could hear the eldest say “Sweet dreams,” but couldn't be sure.

Mag touched the crack in the wall. It passed laterally through the vertical height of eight bricks. The phone was all over the ground in a spray of black plastic and colorful wires. She looked over her shoulder for witnesses, picked up her purse from where she'd set it, slung it over her shoulder, and walked to her car.

“I didn't do that,” said Mag.

“I agree.”

“If anyone asks me if I saw who did it, I can truthfully say I didn't, and that I can't explain how it happened.”

“Perfectly true.”

“Glad we agree. Do I need to worry about breaking my car with magic? I'm a little worried about touching things right now, because seriously, I don't understand how that worked.”

“You needn't worry about that, but I believe you would feel better if you better understood what just happened. Would you like to discuss my tutelage again?”

Mag got in, slammed the door, turned on the heater, and accidentally revved the engine after a couple of false starts. “Can we talk about this later? I just want to go home.”

“As you wish, friend.”

Mag felt something loosen in her chest at the word “friend.” She'd always been a sentimentalist. If she weren't, she'd never put up with all these talking horses.

“Thank you,” said Mag.

“And can we discuss what that second talk was about?”

Mag adjusted the rear view mirror so the sun wouldn't get in her eyes as she pulled out. “He's the regent. He's a prick. My world sucks and it's his fault. He sees everything, like the damned panopticon. This includes the future, and he decided that this is the future he wants, so it really is his fault. I called him because I thought maybe it'd help if someone said 'please.' I know it's stupid, but if I didn't do it then I'd wonder for the rest of my life whether it would have worked. Don't tell Celestia, will you?”

“As you wish.”

“Friend,” said Mag to herself, driving away from her old job and leaving one last mess for someone else to clean up.

***

“Mag, I'm glad you're—” Celestia did a double-take. “Mag, are you okay?”

“I've been better,” said Mag, kicking her boots into the closet. “I've been fired and now I'm going to eat a jar of peanut butter in the bedroom.”

“It's just that the aether around you has an odd texture,” said Celestia. Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean you're going to eat a jar of peanut butter? I'm about to make dinner. You'll ruin your appetite.”

“I knew you wouldn't like my coping skills. Hey, so I'm grateful you're making dinner, but I need to disappear into my room and pretend to myself that I'll never come out again, m'kay? Just knock when you need help.”

“Do whatever you need to, Mag, and talk with me whenever you're ready,” said Celestia. She glanced back at Mag. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Luna is laughing herself sick at your housewife impression, is all. See you soon.” Mag stalked into the bedroom, turned the lights off, and fell into bed.