//------------------------------// // Conversation Eighteen // Story: A New Sun // by Ragnar //------------------------------// Celestia's wanderings took them topside. Pale, thick-grained sand stretched out in every direction, punctuated by tufts of stunted little bushes. Seen from outside, the compound was an unassuming concrete bunker of a building next to a helicopter pad, surrounded by tall fences topped with coils of concertina wire. A graded driveway led down to a large, heavy door leading underground, currently closed, beyond which the semi-truck was probably still parked. “Where did B—the corporal go?” said Mag. Most of the guards were still present, as was a subdued Jeff, but Corporal Bittermann had been called away an hour ago. “I'm afraid she may be in trouble,” said Celestia. “Everyone in that room saw her open the door for me, and it's possible someone important has come to the wrong conclusion and decided to make her suffer for it. If that's true, though, then we won't be much help if we go and look for her.” Mag lit a second cigarette with the glowing end of her first. “You should light it with your finger, for practice,” said Luna. “What, just all the time? Too hard. I lit the first one that way.” “Practice. Practice every day. Practice every hour.” “I'm doing the breathing exercises, aren't I?” “That reminds me. You also haven't practiced meditation. Where is that drive of yours?” Mag shrugged. “It comes and goes. That's how it is for me.” “How strange. One doesn't often meet a feckless monomaniac. Luckily for you, now you have me to teach you how to be disciplined. Give me 25 flames, then another 25 at sundown, and I shall leave you alone on the subject until morning.” “I could do the light instead.” “I know you can do the light. You spent a subjective week doing the light. That is why you'll be doing flames.” Mag gave her 25 flames. It took a total of 40 tries, which wasn't bad. What made it tedious, in Mag's opinion, were the mental readjustments one had to make after every failure. Worse, there was only so much “black satisfaction” one could manufacture. The magical trigger was nice when one wanted to dramatically light a cigarette while feeling especially cynical, but at the moment she was mostly just worried about Bittermann. That was one of the problems with marking someone out of the crowd and paying attention to their comings and goings. When the person on your mind was present, it was tiring to know them, to pay attention to them. Then they left, and it was a relief to be away and not have to think about them, but it also meant she couldn't keep an eye on them. What was Bittermann doing? Arguing with her sergeant, genuflecting in front of Joe Gradely's desk, eating a banana? There would be no knowing until she came back, and Mag never would find out where she'd been if Bittermann chose not to share. “Good,” said Luna. “We'll continue at sundown.” Thick gray clouds hung over distant mountains capped with January snow. Celestia looked at them, lost in thought. The guards had watched Mag's magic out of the corners of their eyes while she cast her spell. They weren't asking questions, but Mag decided to answer them anyway. “No, it doesn't hurt. Yes, it's hard to do. No, I don't know whether you can do it too. Yes, Luna is real. No, it was just a phase.” “I’m sure everyone is delighted you clarified all of that,” said Luna. “Were you always this snarky?” said Mag. “Only when necessary.” “Necessary? I’m just filling some dead air. None of these people are talking,” said Mag. “Then let silence reign until someone has something to say, or else say something meaningful yourself,” said Luna. “No, seriously, it’s like you’re in a bad mood. I don’t know, whatever. I’m just glad to get some air, even though it’s surprisingly cold out. Where is this? Do any of you know?” “I believe I heard the word ‘Nevada,’” said Celestia. “Is there a desert named ‘Nevada?’” “Nevada is a state in the United States that’s mostly desert,” said Mag. Celestia closed her eyes and faced directly up. A breeze passed by, sending ripples through the grass, brushing through her mane and then wandering away. The sky was overcast but still too bright after the underground hallways of the compound. She threw her wings open and leapt into the air. Two of the soldiers cringed away before catching themselves and resuming their masks of indifference. Mag shaded her eyes with a hand to watch Celestia fly. She’d never seen it before; gone along, yes, but never seen it. Jeff squinted up as well, and stood beside Mag, and they watched Celestia together. She climbed toward the sun behind the clouds with slow, powerful strokes, loud at first, but progressively softer as she rose. Her tail streaming behind her, her neck stretching out at the extremity of each flap, she looked like a pastel phoenix, like a dragon, like a distant kite, then a star in fog as she slipped into the clouds. Then she was gone. Lovely to watch, horrible to ride, thought Mag. There was a lesson in there somewhere. Luna sighed. “As I thought. Under the ceilings and in your safe little rooms, she had nothing to think about but her strange new acquaintances. Now she sees the sun in the clouds and it pulls her out of all the bustle and nonsense of politics. It reminds her of why we’re here, of all that we lost. I know what she is doing now. She sits on the surface of the clouds and looks at the sun. She cannot bear the company of others right now, save perhaps her sister, who can no longer follow her.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” Mag wondered how much training it took to pilot a helicopter safely. “Is there something we should be doing?” said Jeff. “Which of us are you talking to?” said Mag. “I... hadn’t thought about it,” said Jeff. “Don’t go forgetting there are two of us in here. There’s the nasty sarcastic one who once got arrested for disorderly conduct on a carousel—” “—and the nasty sarcastic one who was once under citizen’s arrest for disorderly carousing on a school night,” finished Luna. “Jeff, Mag, other humans, if we are still here when she comes back then she’ll only feel guilty to see us waiting for her. We should return to the compound, leave the door open, and let her find us doing something meaningful and productive.” “Guilty?” said Mag. “We needn’t embarrass her by speaking of this out loud, but grief sometimes hurts my sister’s ability to see herself properly. In this case, she’ll conclude that she’s inconveniencing us if she finds us waiting for her on her return. Let us not give her such ammunition.” “Gotcha. What do we do next?” Luna thought about it a few seconds. “I don’t know. Celestia is the one with plans. I would as soon stay here until she comes down, but we must search for something to do.” Mag looked around. There was a certain amount of awkward shuffling. “Hey, Jeff, you’re a military man. Any tips on pretending to be busy?” “Convincing an officer that you’re busy is probably a little different from convincing a princess,” said Jeff. “It’s up to me? Cool. I want to find the corporal.” “And then what?” said Luna. “Dunno. We can ask her how she feels about an early lunch, and she can mime the answer.” *** They got lost. For her part, Mag blamed the identicality of the office hallways, as if a colony of perfectly square, mindless underground creatures had burrowed their way through the underside of the Nevada desert and disappeared, and then a crowd of equally mindless office denizens had moved in and painted everything in an especially soulless shade of off-white. “I thought you’d worked here before,” said Mag. Jeff sniffed. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve worked in every single military building in the world, and I’ve memorized the layout to all of them.” “Then why did you allow us to lose our way?” said Luna. “I was joking, your majesty.” “I know. I’m going to blame you anyway.” Mag decided to ask for directions. She pulled aside a bristle-haired little intern who happened to be passing by. “Hiya.” He blinked. “Who are you? Are you a civilian?” Someone who didn’t recognize her? “You are adorable. Have you seen a Corporal Bittermann around here in the past hour or so?” He kept glancing down at her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, what?” “I told you you’re adorable, and then I asked if you’d seen anyone named Corporal Bittermann. ‘Bittermann.’ Blonde girl with a skinny nose, taller than either of us?” “When did you learn her name?” said Luna. “Oh, the bathroom. What happened in there?” “Oh, man, it was crazy. As soon as you left she turned into a chatterbox. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.” Mag shook her head. The intern was backing away, shaking his head in denial or disbelief. “Two voices? I should—I should—” Mag poked Jeff in the bicep. “Do you have a badge you can show him? Maybe that would help.” Jeff pulled a plastic photo ID out of his back pocket and showed it the to intern, whose eyes lit up. “You’re—” “—helping Ms. Wilson find a friend,” said Jeff. “This is the civilian working with Princess Celestia. Can you point us in the right direction?” “Absolutely, sir,” said the intern. “Down that way,” he pointed the direction Mag and her party had come from, “is the rec room, which is connected to the staff cafeteria, and then if you turn left, there’s the women’s dorms. If she’s off duty, sir, she should be in one of those places.” “Thank you very much,” said Jeff. “You keep doing what you were doing, young man.” The intern smiled, said “sir” again, and walked away. “Well, well, well,” said Mag. “Yes?” Mag folded her arms. “That boy recognized you. Have you been holding out on us? Are you famous, Jeff?” “Among certain circles, in a minor way,” said Jeff. “Stop playing cool and lay it out for me. Secret agent? Spy? Sniper?” “I’ve played a role in some high profile cases. You could call me a spy.” Jeff smiled slightly, in a way he obviously thought made him look debonair. “Sneaking around in embassies, stealing important documents, cutting an important throat or two on the way out?” “No, that sounds too difficult. I can achieve the same results by serving canapés to the mighty and asking a few innocent questions. Shall we?” He facetiously offered her an arm. Mag ignored it. “Today I’m learning that government can make anything boring,” said Mag, and they doubled back down the hall. *** They found Bitterman in the rec room, an empty cube of a room with high ceilings and a slight echo. A single ping pong table sat in the center, with no balls or paddles in sight. Some ten or twenty folding chairs were stacked against one wall next to a television and VCR. From the looks of it, Bittermann had unfolded a chair, set it down at one end of the ping pong table in the center of the room, drunk half a bottle of cinnamon vodka, and fallen asleep with her cheek on the table. No, no, her eyes were still open. “There she is! Or... what’s left of her, the poor child. But if she’s drunk, I certainly hope she’s off duty.” Mag went to the pile of folded chairs, brought it to the ping pong table, opened it next to Bittermann, and had a seat. “I’d ask what happened, but you’re pretty much telling me the whole story with this little tableau.” “Fuck off,” said Bittermann without lifting her head. “It seems like everyone’s in a mood today,” said Mag. “Look at this,” said Bittermann, and tossed a wad of forms on the table. They had the look paper got when it had been held too tightly; what should have been straight edges were worried at by hands, and the stack had been folded into quarters. Mag opened it. “DD Form 214,” said Mag. Jeff winced. He proceeded to read over Mag’s shoulder. Mag read the first few lines. “It says you’re getting a medical discharge?” “I opened a door, so they’re getting rid of me,” slurred Bittermann. “Wow,” said Mag. Celestia might have underestimated how much she’d annoyed the people in charge. “What’s the medical issue? Oh. ‘Right index finger.’ Seriously?” “Trigger finger,” said Jeff with a pitying glance downward. Mag followed his eyes to Bittermann’s finger. It looked fine, except that, unlike the other fingers of her right hand, it didn’t curl around the bottle. Maybe it didn’t bend properly. “Have you talked to, uh,” Mag snapped her fingers a couple of times in an effort to remember, “whoever is supposed to be on your side? I know there’s some kind of officer lawyer guy.” “You’re thinking of JAGs,” said Jeff, “and that’s a good idea for securing your benefits, corporal, but if you want my advice, you won’t argue against the discharge itself. See about getting the corps to pay for finger surgery, get the GI bill if you qualify for it, walk out with your head up, and live your life.” “And no drinking before lunch,” said Mag. She stood up to take the vodka away. Bittermann snatched it off the table and glared at her. And then went rigid. She lifted her empty hand and stared at it in disbelief. Mag looked down and saw the bottle standing in front of her. “Oh, sweet.” She picked it up. “How did I do that?” “Interesting. How indeed?” Bittermann pulled herself up, grabbed the table, and shoved it aside on screeching wheels. “That’s mine.” Mag held the bottle behind her back. “No, it was yours. Now it’s mine.” “Give it to me.” “Nah, I’ll be keeping this.” Bittermann tried to shove Mag, and fell on her. Mag held the bottle at arm’s length, but Bittermann had a longer reach, and managed to get her hands on it. Mag twisted away before Bittermann could get a proper grip. “You’re not very good at unarmed combat, are you? She’s drunk and bipedal, so you might try tripping her.” “Jeff, could you help me out here?” said Mag, dodging Bittermann’s drunken attempts to catch hold of her. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jeff. He nodded his head toward the open door. “Would either of you like some coffee when you’re done with all that? I think I saw a vending machine around the corner.” Mag grabbed Bittermann by the shirt collar and shoved her against the wall. Bittermann bounced off, lowered herself into a sprinter’s start, and charged. Mag tried to sidestep, but Bittermann caught her leg and pulled her to the ground. The vodka bottle spilled all over the both of them and rolled away, and Bittermann crawled after it. She picked it up, found that all the remaining vodka had spilled into the carpet, and threw the bottle at Mag, who, now on her feet, managed to catch it. “Bitch!” shouted Bittermann. The bottle shattered in Mag’s hand. I won’t slap her, thought Mag. I will not slap her because suddenly I can break a bottle by squeezing it, and my hand is full of broken glass that somehow didn’t cut me, and for all I know I’d break her jaw. “I’m trying to help,” said Mag through her teeth. “Mag.” Celestia stood in the door. “Yes?” “Right now I see a drunk woman sitting on the floor, and you’re standing over her with a broken bottle in your hand wearing an expression I would call ‘murderous.’ No, I know you’re helping—I can see how you two got to this point. Nevertheless, Mag, we’ll need to discuss what it means to be the most dangerous person in the room.” The most dangerous? How? Mag looked around. Jeff was a secret agent, and there were all these active duty soldiers. And there Jeff was frozen by the door, grave, maybe a bit concerned. The gaggle of silent soldiers, worried. Bittermann, one hand raised as if to ward off a blow. Mag dropped into a chair. “Oh.” Celestia pointed her horn at the remains of the empty bottle. The shards and powdered glass flew back together. Mag set it down on the floor. “We can discuss that later. Right now we have a problem,” said Celestia. She teleported the lot of them back to the gym that had been turned into a lab. Bittermann goggled. One of the guards surreptitiously began to count her fingers and toes. “Your majesty!” Bradley ran up to Celestia. “We sealed off the room, including the vents, but—” “Aw, shit,” said Mag. She approached the glass and looked at the spot where the Paravasi Mageia used to be. “—but we were wondering if this was done with magic,” said Bradley. “Is there any way you can tell for sure?” Mag shook herself and resolved to feel guilty later. Bittermann, though visibly spooked from teleportation, was coming to the same conclusion. The shock of suddenly finding herself elsewhere had sobered her up nicely. Mag examined her own reflection in the glass section of the barrier, in her borrowed Semper Fidelis sweatshirt and borrowed black slacks. “If it’s magic, then that’d tell us how they got in here.” “How?” said Bradley. “Well done, Mag,” said Celestia. “Bradley, reflections are doors to other worlds. Personally I’d bet on the reflection in the floor.” “And that raises questions,” said Luna. “What is on the other side of that reflection? Why did the perpetrator want the book? Come to that, how did he, she, it or they know the book was there in the first place?” “That’d make it easy to grab the book without being seen, at least,” said Mag. “Is that why no one saw what happened?” said Bradley. Mag peered through the glass. “Can we get a closer look? What did you see?” “I’ve asked everyone, and no one saw much of anything,” said Bradley, wiping sweat off his palms with his sweater. “Most of my people say they happened to be looking at their notes or the door or the cots at the exact second it happened. Even the cameras shorted out.” “But can we go through the barrier?” said Mag. “We’re still looking for the key.” “No time,” said Celestia. She teleported to the other side of the barrier, taking Mag with her. “I’m going to check for strange auras, and then we’re leaving. “Luna?” “Oh! ထ҉̷̧͞ည̸့̢̧͢͞͝͏္͜͡သ̷͜͞҉̧ြ̵̸̵͞င̡͠͏္͜҉̕း̶͡န̷̵́͝ည္̛͘͞͏̵̀͜း̛͟,” said Luna. Feeling the syllables pass through her mouth was an interesting experience, since Mag clearly felt words form and yet her mind couldn’t process a single syllable. Bittermann, on the other side of the barrier with her fellow guards, had retreated into herself, standing a little apart from the rest of them. She looked so alone that Mag decided to give her something to occupy her mind. She knocked on the glass. “Corporal, there’s something we need you to do.” Bittermann stirred but refused to make eye contact. She jerked her head in what Mag interpreted as a nod. “Cool. Go pick up a phone, dial any number, and tell anyone who answers that you need to talk to the weird old man. This is probably all his fault, so we might as well see what he’s got to say.” Bittermann glanced up.“What do you mean, any number? What man?” “Literally any number. It doesn’t matter.” “Okay,” Celestia said to herself, and slipped into the floor hooves first. Mag grabbed her tail. Celestia, still going through, said, “No! Mag, you can’t—” They fell into the cold together.