//------------------------------// // Pinion Beach // Story: Cold Light // by Scramblers and Shadows //------------------------------// Chapter 9 Pinion Beach There was a romantic notion about salvage in Amaranth: the lone heroic salvor, heading out into a new world, the spectacular ruins of an ancient civilisation, braving the dangers of death or insanity, to find some unique artefact that would enrich the world in general and the salvor in particular. It didn't matter if you were of the dispossessed races, living in the twin shadows of Aquileona and Equestria. In Amaranth, your etiolated soul could bloom. You'd have no help from immortal alicorns or documents of universal suffrage, each in their own way prevented from passing through the Funnel. You had only yourself. Salvage was the great equaliser – and the great inequaliser, for those who might go out one day and come back with a trinket worth a billion or more bits. From whence did such a notion spring? The need to justify running from the safety of your homelands? At the very least, it lent a veneer of glory to what was ultimately picking at the carcass of a long-dead civilisation in a broken world for personal gain. Salvage was the economic driver behind Amaranth, at least. And in its application, romance was as always overturned by the dreary realities of necessity. For the base at Pinion Beach – comprised of the railways terminus, a port, and a large warehouse for sorting and engineering – the dreary side of salvage ruled. The minotaur and pony salvors, with the aid of an army of chevaloids, dredged a liquid metal lake for lengths of diamond cable, smart fulgin thread, hypercapacitors, inductive heaters, plastic screens, and titanium piping, and did so with steady disinterest. All of these products were reasonably common as salvage went. Nothing to make one a billionaire, but enough to sell and keep the base running. Sweetie Belle sat beside a wall near the entrance to the beach and watched as the claws of a crane opened to drop its contents into a great rusted container. A workforce of minotaurs had begun to sort it when Millie came trotting up. “Good news, lass,” she said. “T' managers says you can hop on t' next train. And I can patch up Dignity while I'm here.” “How long?” “A day or two, dependin' on whether I can find what I need among the crap they keep stacked up.” “I mean, until the next train leaves.” “Ah,” said Millie. She gave Sweetie Belle a look before continuing. “Tomorrow mornin', just before dawn. Where are Scoots and Tom?” Sweetie Belle tried to sound indifferent. “They went off to look around. Check out the station and the port and all that stuff.” Before Millie could respond, she pushed the conversation to a different track: “The workers don't seem to mind us wandering about here.” “No,” said Millie. “They're an easy-goin' lot. Y'know the interest what set all this up collapsed just after it shipped them all out here? They've been goin' at it alone, finishin' the warehouses and making their own contracts to survive.” “Why didn't they just go home?” “I couldn't say.” Millie glanced around. “Well, I'm gonna go find Scoots and Tom.” After Millie had left, Sweetie Belle returned to Dignity. She was, in truth, grateful for the extra night. Over the past 20 hours, she'd left Hinny's Revenge, escaped pirates and flying monsters, talked to the last remaining inhabitant of Amaranth, who was now living in her head, and found Scootaloo. That was enough to exhaust anypony. She passed Gregor without speaking to him and headed to the room in which she'd first woken up. No engines. Just a swaddling void that pushed upon her ears all the minor echoes and daemons whispers of the hovercraft. After a brief, lonely dinner of dry hay, she fell asleep on the sideboard. Half open lilac blinds. Later afternoon sun leaving a sequence of golden bars on the carpet. Yellow daffodils – what a flaccid attempt at good cheer. Tom sat on one of the foyer's chairs, except he was a pony. Sweetie Belle didn't want to look at him; she peered out the blinds. Desert below, at once too close and too far. You shouldn't be here. You're just a mote. When she looked back, it was Adrenaline Rush sitting on the chair, glaring at her. No. You're in control. You befriended baby aelewyrms. You convinced Millie not to kill Gregor. You're one of Equestria's hottest upcoming musicians, and Scootaloo should be glad to have you. Audience cheering. Aelewyrm hatchling purring and nuzzling on the stage. But Rush and Scootaloo were looking at Sweetie Belle again. Stop it, she tried to tell them. Stop it. Sweetie Belle rolled over and nearly fell off the sideboard she was on. She swore under her breath. A daemon was whispering in her ear, and for a moment she thought it said something like confidence. Then it became unintelligible again. She thought about what Saffron had told her – the gradual collapse of the qilin civilisation. Pictures of gradually eroding insanity en masse, of powerful magics used poorly flickered through her mind as she quietly slid off the sideboard, until she caught sight of Scootaloo and Tom sleeping next to one another on the floor. No, she told herself. That was ridiculous. They were lying close, but they weren't touching. When they got back, they couldn't have slept next to her, because she was on the sideboard. And yes, they were lying close, but maybe one or both had rolled over in their sleep. And yes, Tom had been the only one on his ship to wait for Scootaloo, but … With these thoughts worrying at her heart, Sweetie Belle could barely concentrate on the world around her as she left the hovercraft. Twice she tried to drag herself back, to concentrate on the clacker-crunch of beach gears under her hooves, the reek of corroded metal, the ragged, near-perfect reflection of the Scar in the lake's metal surface. She hadn't seen Tom show any affection for Scootaloo beyond friendship. She hadn't … “Seems like you need some company,” said Saffron beside her. Her appearance there felt entirely natural. “I don't know,” said Sweetie Belle. Saffron said nothing but remained. Truth be told, Sweetie Belle was glad of the distraction. “Did Amaranth really used to be your homeland?” she said eventually. “Yes.” Stupid question. “What was it like?” “Better than this.” “Oh.” The tips of Saffron's left hoof were embedded in a small, brass coloured gear. She shifted her balance; the edges of her lips curled up into what might have been a snarl or a smile. “There was a jungle maybe a thousand miles from where I lived. Eudithaumically generated climate. Full of life. There were parts full of humminglizards, electric blue and gold. Trees that went straight up, maybe half a mile. And above them, when you got to the top, you could see the balloon trees another half-mile above, dropping vines down to capture insects and skyplankton. Some friends of ours lived in one of the skytrees. I'd pop over there sometimes with a repository to do some work. And … it was down among the humminglizards where … where he asked me to be his mate.” In the background, the muted clatter and clang of all-night salvage work whispered like some long-dead language. The liquid metal lake clung to the gears ahead without lapping. Sweetie Belle struggled to imagine herself by the side of such a forest, then to imagine losing Equestria. Neither attempt was successful. What could bridge such a gulf in experience, in empathy? Only platitudes availed themselves to her. “I'm sorry,” she said, and wished she could think of something better. Saffron shrugged. “In time, all things crumble. When we lost power over the climate and ecology, the jungle died and began to rot. I only saw one colourbomb used – turned a city to sand – but from the look of things, there must have been more since.” She looked out over the lake, then turned to Sweetie Belle. “In time, all things crumble. And yet here I am, a million years after everything I knew fell.” “Why are you here?” asked Sweetie Belle. “Mn,” said Saffron. “To go back to Equestria with you, I suppose. Then I can get out of your mane, if you'll pardon the expression.” She smiled thinly at Sweetie Belle. “I'm sorry, I've not done a great job of cheering you up, have I? Don't worry, love. Just endure, and you'll be back home.” As they trudged back to Dignity, Saffron's cloven hooves occasionally landing inside or just above the gears without disturbing them, Sweetie Belle asked her, “What are you going to do when you get to Equestria?” “Become corporeal. Live.” “In a barbarian world?” “Hah! I'll get along. Life is a bitter tonic, but it improves the alternative.” “And you really think the princesses can make you corporeal again?” The reply came with an unshakeable assurance. “If they can't, there's someone who can.” “Uh …” “Discord.” “Really?” “Yes.” It was still dark, with the sky just hinting at red, when Millie woke them. Sweetie Belle had lain next to Scootaloo after returning to the hovercraft; if this surprised her she gave no sign of it. “T' train has two stops: Red Oak and Skulltown,” explained Millie. “Don't ask me where they get them names from. Anyway, you need to get off at Red Oak. From there, it's an hour to Ilmarinen. Freighters go all the time.” She gave Scootaloo a a bundle of cash. “That should be enough to get t' three of you there.” After a breakfast of milled oat porridge – “Sorry. Best thing I have for protein content,” Millie explained while Tom stared glumly at his bowl – she led them through the warehouse to the station. The railway, clearly a product of Amaranth, looked nothing like a railway. It was a shallow, squarish trough made of concrete, studded inside with rows of grey-black blisters. At the far end of the terminus, it retreated off into the distance. Nearby, the train sat – a chain of dull boxcars scabbed with rust and flatbed trucks stacked with scavenged technology. No locomotive – the front was just another boxcar with streamlining – but three pairs of propellers painted a rough, ugly yellow stuck out from either side down the train's length. “Huh,” said Saffron, appearing beside Sweetie Belle. “I remember this. Magnetic suspension to minimise friction. This is archaic!” Sweetie Belle glanced at Tom and Scootaloo beside her. “I thought you could only appear when I was alone,” she murmured under her breath. “Like I said. Getting better at mapping your brain,” said Saffron. “Look at those propellers, though. No propulsion coils. I guess your lot could only get the bearings to work.” “You seem more chipper this morning.” “Sorry?” said Tom. Both he and Scootaloo were looking at her. “Never mind,” said Sweetie Belle. Saffron had vanished again. Millie, accompanied by one of the station's workers, came trotting down the platform. “Hop on,” she said. “They've got you a place to sit. It's time to go.” Their place to sit was just in front of the middle propellers: An empty skip with low sides and a few sheets of worn, paint-stained sackcloth scattered on the base. Sweetie Belle scrabbled over the side with the help of Tom, who then climbed over himself. Scootaloo flew over and settled herself. “Right,” said Millie, looking up at them. “I guess this is the last we'll be seeing of each other for a while. It's been … well, I won't say a pleasure, but interesting, at least.” To Sweetie Belle, “I hope you get home safely.” And to Tom and Scootaloo, “I'm around Ilmarinen fairly often. If you see me, you owe me a pint.” The bade farewell, and Millie retreated along with the station workers. A klaxon sounded; the propellers began to spin leisurely. A second klaxon. A whistle. At last, something familiar, Sweetie Belle began to think – but she didn't got the chance to finish before the train shot forward with a great rumble, sending her off her hooves, into Scootaloo, and into the back of the skip. The station flew away behind them. Everything darkened, a combination of soft pre-dawn light and sharp false-orange from the Scar. Scootaloo grinned up at her. “Awesome! I wasn't expecting that.” For a moment Sweetie Belle wanted to kiss her, revel in the rush of speed and excitement. Instead, she grinned back, then stood to look over the sides. Rushing air tugged at her mane and tail. The propeller was now a blurred disc, humming away behind them, and the landscape of scattered and cracked gears rushed past beneath. Scootaloo, now standing, joined her and laughed into the wind. Her mane trailed behind her and danced in the slipstream. Her hair rippled. Her wings flexed. “That was some acceleration,” commented Saffron from behind. Her voice was clear through the air rushing past Sweetie Belle's ears. “More than these propellers could handle. Some sort of engine at the station, perhaps?” Sweetie Belle turned round and smiled at her, said nothing. After falling back, Scootaloo asked, “How long till we get to Ilmarinen?” “Five hours to the station,” said Tom. “Then we need to take an airship to Ilmarinen proper, which will take another two.” The sun crawled upwards past the horizon. Once she had seen off her passengers, Millie dropped by the worker's bar. She returned to Dignity with two pints in aluminium tankards on a tray around her neck. Gregor was awake. He had given up on glaring and studying the main cabin, and now just looked bored. Millie put one pint beside him and sat with her own a couple of yards away. “I'll warn you now,” she said. “It tastes like piss. Even by Amaranthian standards.” After looking from the pint to Millie and back again, Gregor attempted a shrug and shuffled forward. He was just about able to pick up the tankard and lift it to his beak. “It'll do.” “She's a spirited little article, is Sweetie Belle, don't you think? Looks like nothing, but she's been here for a few months and already half of Amaranth is running around either for her or after her.” “Soft,” said Gregor. “Entitled. Arrogant. Like all of you.” “All of us?” said Millie, half-smiling. “Ponies … Equestrians. It hardly makes a difference, does it?” “Maybe not.” Millie sipped at her beer. “D'you remember t' debates in parliament about what to do about Amaranth? Minister Flavian were in nearly all of them, weren't he?” She watched Gregor, waiting for the penny to drop. “Jorvik County?” “Aye, spot on. Born and raised in the dales. Everyone seems to assume just 'cause you're equine, you live in Equestria. They always forget about all them minor kingdoms Aquileona annexed when it was playing empire.” “Huh. My mistake,” said Gregor. He stared out the window and clicked his beak. “Did you see the debates then?” “A couple. When I could get into the stands.” “And what did you think of Flavian?” “Oily little bugger. Even when I agreed with him.” Gregor laughed. “Yeah. He was, yeah.” “But here we are, living in the world he helped make. 'O land of opportunity'” “Amaranth,” snarled Gregor. His beak clicked. “Fucking hate the place.” “Huh,” said Millie. “Maybe coming here to join a gang of pirates was perhaps not t' best career choice?” “Oh, piss off. It's a shithole. But some things you do because you believe in greater things than yourself.” “Like thieving and killing?” Millie scritched her mane. “Maybe it's just my stupid equine brain, but it feels like I'm missing part of t' story here.” Gregor retreated to his beer. “It doesn't matter. And what's your story, huh? Why do you love Amaranth so much? And a lone donkey, all the way out here …” The surface of Millie's beer slopped about inside the cup. “Now that would be telling,” she said, hoping her tone didn't betray her. “Of course.” Blueberry Pancake draped her robe about her shoulders and, looking in the mirror, fitted the ceremonial clasp. It creased in awkward places. Dust collected in the ruckles. Loathsome rag. Symbol of obeisance. Her makeup box and her blue and gold mane ribbons sat on her dresser unused, calling to her. She turned back to study her reflection, her glittering mane and hair, stifled by a dull grey cotton. “Yes, my liege,” she said into the mirror, letting the venom run through her voice. “Of course, my liege.” At least she had a plan. Last night, a trembling pony had told her how they'd lost contact with both of the griffon ships after her quarry. She'd done the best to ease his worries, maintain an air of confidence, made it seem like she'd find a way. And, somehow, she had. Less than an hour later, they'd got news from their telegraph wiretap on the railway. Notification of repairs for a hovercraft at Pinion Beach. All was not lost; her quarry had returned. But before she could attend to that matter, there was the meeting ahead of her. She sighed, and strode out of her room. Another airship had docked half an hour ago, just after she'd woken. It was Aquileonan in design, painted mostly black and ornamented with red. Blueberry thought it looked like shit – even more than her own. At the dock, she was met by another pony in a robe, who nodded briefly and without speaking led her through the dimly lit interior corridors. They passed other adherents, none of whom spoke. “Has Brother Flay been aboard yet?” “No, sister.” “Good.” A door with nothing special to mark it out. Her guide stood to one side and waited, his face like stone in the dull, reddish light. Some lone tendril of anxiety entangled itself around Blueberry's throat; she ignored it and slid open the door. When it closed behind her, things became even darker. Ahead of her, a second door beckoned. She knocked once, waited for the clank of an opening bolt, stepped through. The air stank faintly of rot and mould. It was large – longer than it was wide. A trickle of light picked out a carpet running to the far end of the room, stopping at the base of a sort of throne. Atop it, what looked like a bundle of fabric, barely visible. The bundle shifted. An ember of violet was briefly visible. Blueberry walked over it, to carpet muffling her hoofsteps. The smell became stronger until it filled the air like a soup. About two metres away from the throne, she stopped, bowed. “My liege.” “Sister Blueberry Pancake.” A voice from a decaying throat: suppurating tones twisted into words, supported by undertones too deep for any pony to have made. Again the bundle moved, this time to reveal the pony beneath. In the gloom, the openings in the flesh became little more than shadowy pits, a chiaroscuro of rot and ruin. Where a clear wound down to the bone was evident, the flesh wasn't gory – it looked pale, more like wax than meat. The host body always had to be exsanguinated before it was possessed. The jaw moved. “You do not know where to find Tanelorn.” “Not … not yet. But I only need one more transform to find it.” There was no sense in letting him worry about the small business with the white unicorn. “Then we will have everything. We can take the qilin weapons, sweep into Equestria –” “When?” “It should take a week at most.” That should be enough time to arrange everything. “Do not fail me.” “No, my liege.” “Soon. Soon I will rule all Equestria. And nothing will be able to stop me.” Blueberry was overcome with an urge to tell Sombra that she was glad his defeat in the Crystal Empire had done nothing to his personality. She stifled it, and instead listened to to his bluster until he told her to leave.