//------------------------------//
// Mistakes 
// Story: Cold Light 
// by Scramblers and Shadows 
//------------------------------//

It's odd how such a demure little creature could be so arrogant, isn't it? And at the worst possible moment.






Chapter 12
Mistakes






Another tug on the loop, another metallic clink and whine in the rail above her. Darkness enveloped everything except the dials, which glowed a faint sickly green, and the eyesocket view into the desert ahead. Both seemed to float in nothingness, and shorn of context, it was impossible to tell which was near and which far. Her forelegs ached. The air seemed to press against her on all sides. It was chill and humid, with a hint of mildew smell, and left a faint dampness on her coat. 

She glanced at the dial again. Still over two hundred metres to go. It already felt like she'd been here forever. 

“Saffron?”

The reply came as a disembodied voice. “Yes?”

“Are you picking anything up yet?”

“A few things. Some colourbomb background noise, and what I think might be ansible transmissions. Enough to confirm I was right, but we won't see any details until we get in position.”

“Okay.” Sweetie Belle closed her eyes and pulled herself forward. At least going back would be downhill. And yet, part of her was thrilled to be here. “You know, when I started looking for Scootaloo, I was terrified. Now … I'm almost glad I ran into that repository.”

“I'm glad too.”

“Is that weird?”

“Being happy to get rescued? I don't think so.”

“I mean me, Saffron. Is it weird that I'm glad to have found the repository?”

Another two pulls on the loop before Saffron replied: “You're centre stage. That's what you made your career on, isn't it?”

“That's different.”

“Yes. Of course it is.”

Sweetie Belle had no reply, so she just pressed onwards.

Eventually the dial crawled round to tell her she had arrived: Halfway through the skull, above the red zone. She pushed the braking bolt in and pulled the second loop around the begin winching down. 

“Good,” said Saffron's voice. “I'm getting lots of information. We should be able to easily resolve it when we're in place.”

Sweetie Belle glanced at the timepiece. It had taken her nearly twenty minutes to get this far. Longer than she'd expected. If it took her as long to get back, that only gave them another twenty minutes for Saffron to work. Would that be enough.

There The height dial said she was in the right place. She stopped, and tied the descent loop in place.

“Are you getting anything?” she asked Saffron.

“Wait …”

“How long?”

“A few seconds … Okay, I've got some stuff. It'll take a while to resolve properly, but this is pretty good. Do you want to look at it with me?”

“Uh, sure.”

A pause, then – the black canvas in front of her filled with smears and blotches and streaks of colour.

“This is Amaranth,” said Saffron. “Or, rather, a map of Amaranth. Or rather, a few maps of Amaranth. I've folded together a hypervolume, so you can see here all magical activity within the past week. The smearing effect is due to various uncertainties, but it still works pretty well. Do you understand so far?”

“I … I think so. Most of it, anyway.”

“See all those tangled green lines? Those are ansible transmissions. Blue is enchantments. The purple and violet is unicorn magic. See how it clusters around the cities and spatters the airship routes? That blob there is Ilmarinen.”

“What about Omphalos?”

“I think it's there.” A more diffuse constellation lit up. “The distance is making is harder to focus, but that's centred on where the city should be. Now, look what happens when I take out all the magic your lot have been doing.”

The map immediately became more sparse reduced to a few dabs of cherry red.

“Qilin magic?”

“Yes, indeed. Remember where Ilmarinen was? Well, right by it, there is Red Oak.” A fuzzy region flashed.

“The elementals? And Blueberry's spell?”

“Exactly right.”

“Where did I escape the airship?”

“Here.” A smaller but more intense spot.

“Now,” continued Saffron, “look at this point here, far south of Ilmarinen. That's where my ship crashed – where you found me. It's a very distinct signature, caused by the repository burning out. So much so that we can look only at events of that type.” The entire map went blank apart from the spot she had indicated. “Now, remember I said I'm only showing what's happened in the past week? If I extend that …”

Another red point appeared, some distance away. “A month ago.” A third, a forth, then more. “Someone had been opening up repositories for nearly a year.”

“Blueberry?”

“I think so.”

Sweetie Belle considered this. “So that's how she knows qilin magic? That's why she wants the stuff in my head?”

“That seems reasonable.”

“That's … not enough. What else is there?”

“What?”

“Other qilin magic. Every time it's used, something special is going on. We need to find out what the rest of it means.”

A pause. “You're right,” said Saffron. The map of red returned. “I saw a few more interesting things. See this line of events? Minor spells being used, like the thrall. It lines up with breaking repositories, so I presume it's Blueberry messing around. But there's a separate line of spells being used here. All of the same type, all powerful, coming at regular intervals and moving a lot more slowly.”

“What is it?”

“No clue.”

“Oh come on,” said Sweetie Belle. “You're the magic scientist here!”

“Engineer,” snapped Saffron. “And this is how science works. It usually takes a lot of effort to figure out what the data means – we were very lucky to get such a clean answer from the repository events.”

Sweetie Belle sighed. “Okay. Okay. Never mind. What else?”

“A couple of things. This blur? I took me a while to locate it. It's coming from here. Skulltown. A regular source, sending out a signal every few minutes. It arrived when we did, with our train, and it's still emitting now.”

“Scootaloo's wings?”

“I thought so too … but she hasn't used them since we got here. Why would they still be casting spells? And quite strong spells too.”

“They're qilin magic, aren't they? Shouldn't you know how they work?”

“I'm not an expert on every single bit of technology the qilin have ever produced. Wing grafts might do that, but I can't see why.”

“Maybe there's something Tom's not telling us.”

“Maybe,” said Saffron. “Anyway, the second thing, is this.”

“It's close.”

“It is. A few miles northwest. It's sending intermittent signals, just strong enough to pick up.”

“And you don't know what it is?”

“No.”

Sweetie Belle stared at the map. “Anything else?”

“That's it.”

“What about the ansibles?”

The tangle of green lines returned. “There you go. What about them?”

“Could we try and find out who Blueberry's been talking to?”

After a brief pause, Saffron said, “Maybe. We could look at ansible transmissions from where we think she's been, but it wouldn't be very accurate.”

“Well?”

Most of the green lines vanished. “Would you look at that,” said Saffron. “Back when the pirates found you, they had a little exchange with someone close to Ilmarinen who might just have been Blueberry.”

“So they are … were in contact?”

“Maybe. There are other messages from Red Oak to Ilmarinen … but I can't tell if they came from Blueberry, or where they went after that.”

“Why not? Come on, there must be something you can do.”

Saffron sighed. “If I had better resolution, perhaps, but …”

“Then how do you get better resolution?” 

“We can't. Not here.”

“Then where?”

“Sweetie Belle …”

“Where?”

“Down. Nearer the Red Zone.”

Sweetie Belle peered past the illusory map into the black void below. She took a deep breath, bit her lip, and said, “Okay.”

“I think we should head back.”

Sweetie Belle checked the clock. “We've got another five minutes.” She took hold of the loop to lower herself. “You'll be able to tell me when to stop, right?”

“What are you doing? Don't be stupid.”

“You will, though?” Sweetie Belle lowered herself a fraction of an inch.

“You are a fool, and you're putting yourself in danger for no good reason.”

Another fraction of an inch lower.

“Yes, I can tell you.”

“Good,” said Sweetie Belle. “And keep an eye on that resolution.” She couldn't help smiling as she slowly, very slowly, went down.

Nothing from Saffron.

Sweetie Belle lowered herself another inch, then another. “Anything yet?”

“I'm getting some clearer time information.”

“Can you tell who Blueberry's talking to?”

“Even if we did see where the messages were going, how would it help?” A pause, then: “I can't even tell if it is Blueberry.”

Sweetie Belle lowered herself further. A couple of inches this time. Saffron said something she couldn't make out. “What was that?”

“I didn't say anything.”

The blackness in front of her seemed to quiver. “Oh.” She looked up to the loop and put her hooves against it. She could go back now, she knew, and they'd have plenty of information. But if she did, if she turned back now and missed some vital clue … 

She lowered herself another inch.

This time the hallucinations were clear: Waves of prickles dancing across her skin; a twisted groaning in her ears. For a moment it seemed like everything had flipped upside-down and she was at the top of the rope, being clawed at by some irresistible force. “Saffron?” she asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

“I think I can … yes. It's from Blueberry, and I see where it's going. Now go up, get out of here!”

Sweetie Belle grabbed the loop and hauled herself up, past her original height.

The hallucinations followed her. “I ...” she said.

“What is it?”

“I can't …” The world swam around her, resolving into shapes like hundreds of needles and coral bloating into pulsing speleothems and masses of crawling barbed wire and – 

Nothing.











“It's not a question of how long,” said the engineer, a confident, youngish stallion from the station. “Setting aside the fire damage, the pistons have burst. I don't know how in Equestria you worked enough pressure to do that, but –”

“If you'd be so sweet as to indulge me, what's the short version?” Blueberry had a lilac silk handkerchief pressed to her muzzle. It was doing a poor job of blocking out the residual reek of smoke and fumes from the air.

As he began to respond, she turned away from the ruined engines, with their remains of pistons like blooming flowers of torn metal, and led him out of the engine room. The clank of her hooves against the metal walkway drowned out the background creaking and whining.

The engineer cantered for a moment to catch up before he replied. “The short version is that this engine doesn't need to be repaired; it needs to be replaced. Now, I know some ponies in Ilmarinen who do this sort of thing. You'll need a tug to get back there, and it'll cost … ”

“How long would that take?”

“Not more than a week or two.”

One week. “Okay. I have some things to attend to first. If I need your friends, I'll come down to the station and ask you, okay?” Once they were out of the engine room and back intot he corridor, she took the handkerchief from her face and offered him a big smile she didn't feel at all. “Thank you for all your help. I truly appreciate it. I honestly do.”

“Uh, there is one other thing. You're taking up a loading berth. We'll need to pull your ship out of it to make space …”

Her smiled thinned. “Of course. I understand. I think you can let yourself out?”

She remained in the corridor as he trotted away, then slumped against the wall and shuddered. Barely had the engineer gone when another set of hoofsteps sounded, coming up towards her. She stood straight.

It was Flay. For the first time in years, Blueberry felt how much taller than her he was. And the way he held his head, so he could use that height to look down his muzzle at her, now seemed less a pompous affectation and more part of the natural order.

“You failed,” he said. Deadpan. A statement of fact. But she knew there was, hiding under that tone, a current of schadenfreude.

She gave him an insouciant grin. “We all make mistakes.”

“After what this mare did to our griffon contact, you should have known she has access to qilin magic. This is not merely a mistake. We have lost her because of your arrogance and your negligence.”

This would be the stage for a comeback, a tease, or some other way of irritating him. 

Nothing came.

The smallest hint of a smile crossed Flay's lips. Or perhaps it was one of his more cheerful sneers. “You invited me to tell our liege about your shortcomings. I believe now is the time.” He stepped around her, and began to walk away.

“Brother Flay,” said Blueberry, without turning to look at him. “We both know you're smarter than that. The order Sombra gave us says I have a week to find her. If you go to him to report my failure before then, that would look just a little like contempt for his order and the trust he has placed in me, wouldn't it?”

Silence. Then the sound of Flay walking away.

But still, he would wait. 

And when the week was up, the airship would still be broken. Sombra would decide she had been influenced by the daemons and, at the very least, strip her of her leadership. Then she'd have missed her only shot.

Blueberry sighed, then headed back to her quarters.

We all make mistakes.

Everything is fallible.

Nothing is perfect.

She settled her chaise longue and, reaching across the room with her aura, put a record on – Sweetie Belle's record.

In the middle of the third song, she pulled the record from the player, incinerated it. That little bitch. 

Blueberry rolled over and buried her face in the soft velvet.

Everything is fallible.

She remembered coming to that conclusion when she was a teenager, barely older than a filly. 











Since she was five, the age when her parents finally fell afoul of the regime, Blueberry had been brought up in the Order of Sombra, memorised catechism after catechism about the natural order of the world, her liege's power, and his right to rule. Everything was certain. Everything had its place. Hers was consistently at the top of her class in every subject.

With the position came privileges: Permission to see parts of the library that were off-limits to her peers. There she learned some of the spells her liege had discovered, the riches of some long-dead world. Fragments of what life had been like before he took his rightful place at the head of the crystal empire.

She found these scraps were not enough – there had to be more. Without thinking of the consequences, she disabled a locking spell on a door deep in the library.

There, among the immense smoky quartz shelves, hoofsteps tapping against the tiles, she learned – she learned so many things she could barely contain her joy.

And, after a week being sick with worry, she learned she was clever enough to get away with breaking supposedly unbreakable rules. She spent more time in the library. She spent hours poring over books. Spellbooks. Philosophical treatises. Even fiction: Stories where mares were more charming and vivacious than any pony she had ever known. She read out lines over and over, imagining herself to be one of them.

Perhaps a year later, somepony discovered that one of the lock spells had been tampered with. An investigation turned up several more. It was her own fault – she had gotten sloppy about covering her tracks.

She was questioned, of course. During which she let slip about how she had seen one of the library's other regulars, a young, bookish stallion with an interest in magic and an unhealthy tendency to ask awkward questions in public, loitering near the forbidden doors. After he was executed, she went back to being careful about how she rebuilt the spells.

It was only then that she settled upon the notion that, powerful though he was, Sombra was fallible. And, more importantly, that if she was smart she could run rings around his regime.

Not long after, as if she needed any more proof, came the final downfall of his empire.









The pressure of velvet against her cheek. Recalled pride. A knocking at the door.

Blueberry lifted her head, blinked once, twice, then rolled off her chaise longue. “Hold on,” she called, fixing up her mane in the mirror. When it reached the level of sexily untidy, she unlocked the door and asked the pony to enter.

It was the perpetually-flustered assistant who ferried her messages. “Miss Pancake, ma'am,” he said, brandishing an envelope. It was addressed, simply enough, to S. “We just got this from the ansible.”

“The griffons?”

He shook his head. “Our public ansible, ma'am. The one going through Ilmarinen.”

She took the envelope from him. Yes – it came with her ansible number printed in the corner. “Well.” She raised her eyes to meet his and gave him a tiny smile from the corner of her mouth. “Let's see what's in here, then.”

The typewritten letter inside was from the captain of the griffons they had hired. He and a smattering of his crew had escaped the creature that attacked them and managed, barely, to make it to Pinion Beach. From there he had summoned an old friend of his with a ship. And – as a courtesy, he emphasised – he had sent his message. He was going after the unicorn for revenge, regardless. But if the offer for her head was still open, he would happily accept it.

At the bottom of the letter, there was a new note of the ansible number where he could be reached.

Blueberry offered the letter for the messenger to read and tapped it. “Do you see? This is why we don't threaten people for failure. Now, have you told anypony else about this?”

He shook his head. “No, ma'am.”

“Wonderful.” She leaned in, put a hoof against his chest, and left a small kiss on the top of his muzzle. “I appreciate it. I really do. You may have just saved my rump.” While folding the letter and putting it back in the envelop, she continued: “I'll need you to keep an eye on things here for a while. Can you do that for me? Brilliant. I'm going to take the next train to Skulltown to meet up with out griffon friends. Flay can not hear about the letter – do you understand? He'll just think I'm being desperate and quixotic, so let him.

“What I want you to do is send a letter back to this number to let the griffons know where to meet me.” She smiled at the bewildered-looking stallion and winked. “Don't you worry. I'll be back soon.”











Awareness came back with a jolt, all at once, overwhelming: Something digging into her back – the springs of a hard bed, thin light from a gas lamp rippling on the ceiling, a musty smell. It made her gasp.

Scootaloo appeared by her side and swooped down to kiss her hard on the muzzle. Before she could enjoy it, Scootaloo had pulled back. Then she softly cuffed Sweetie Belle on the side of head. 

“What the hay is wrong with you?”

Sweetie Belle put her hoof up to the are where Scootaloo had hit her. “I …” she began, before something ocurred to her. “This is the third time I've been unconscious in the last week.” She looked around. The room was tiny. Between them, the bed, the desk with the lamp, and Scootaloo took up nearly all the available space. Through a small window with rippled glass, a distorted image of the Scar shimmered.

“Unconscious?” said Scootaloo. “You were fucking catatonic! When I got you out, you just stood there, staring into space. Oh, Luna. You were … You … Why did you do that? What happened down there?”

“I just got too close to the Red Zone,” said Sweetie Belle, rubbing her head. “But it's okay. I learned a lot about Blueberry.” She shifted so she could sit on the edge of the bed.

Scootaloo stared at her. “No, it's not okay,” she said quietly. “We missed the airship.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. We got you to a doctor's office, but he couldn't do anything. And by then it was too late. So I spent the last of Millie's money to get us a room for tonight. I figured if you were going to be … like that, you may as well be comfortable.” Scootaloo put a hoof to her forehead and let out a long, trembling breath. “I didn't know how long you were going to be like that. Or if you'd ever get out of it.”

Sweetie Belle felt a knot in her throat, tears welling up inside her. She stifled them. “I'm sorry. I just wanted to be useful.”

“What? You brought Millie to rescue us, and you saved us all with that cool magic in Red Oak. You are being useful!”

“I know, but … I …”

“Or isn't that enough? Does everything have to be about you?”

Sweetie Belle stared at her.

“Fuck it,” said Scootaloo. “Look, here's the plan: The next train arrives tomorrow morning. We're gonna check the station, see if we can find out if they know about any passengers onboard. If we have to, we'll stow-away on the airship. It's going in the wrong direction, again, but we don't have many options at this point. Are we clear?”

“Yeah.”

“And if you learned anything useful from your little vision quest, tell me then. Right now I'm not in the mood.” Scootaloo turned to the door. “I've got to go tell Tom you're awake.” She turned and trotted out the door.

“Bye,” called Sweetie Belle after her. 

No reply.

After a moment, she spoke into the air. “Saffron? Are you there?”

“I am,” said Saffron now sitting at the foot of the bed, making a show of inspecting her hooftips. “I just thought I'd keep my nose out until you'd finished.”

“Thank you. I –”

“And Scootaloo is entirely right. You have been very stupid, and besides putting yourself in danger, you've fucked up the best chance you had of escaping. And, just so you know, the only reason you're awake and able to understand that everyone is pissed at you is because I spent the last two hours fixing several important parts of your conscious mind. So, I believe I am owed a massive, grovelling apology.”

“I know, alright? I'm sorry. I really am.”

“I suppose that'll have to do.”

“But … we did learn a lot, didn't we? It's not like the trip was a total bust.”

“Going on a vision quest was a good idea,” said Saffron. “Well, I would say that, because it was my idea. Dropping yourself into the Red Zone, though, was stupid and taught us nothing except how stupid you can be.” She shook her head. “But we did learn some important stuff, yes. Remember that mystery signal a few miles northwest? I didn't realise until Scootaloo mentioned it, but that's where our ride is heading tomorrow morning.”

“Sweetie Belle: Investigator of qilin magic. I like that.”

“Yeah, just don't forget you're being chased by someone who wants to crack open you skull to finish her own investigation.”













Sweetie Belle left her room a little while later. The building was a tiny inn off the side of the main street, where Tom and Scootaloo were sitting and talking quietly. Orangeish light blanketed everything. The shadows on her friends's bodies, pointing in contradictory angles, made them look like something monstrous, something out of a dream. Tom greeted her; he was friendly enough, but she could feel he was angry with her, even if he wasn't showing it. Scootaloo, though, was open about it. When Sweetie Belle said she wanted to go for a walk to clear her head, she forbade it.

In the end, feeling an outsider to her friends' conversation, Sweetie Bell just went to the other side of the street and sat staring up at the Scar.

The source of all magic. When she first came to Amaranth, she had thought of it as nothing but more damage to the world. Now, tracing all those ragged edges, as they split and curlicued and split again until the detail was too fine for the eye to make out, she found it oddly beautiful. Saffron's presence in her skull became palpable; she was admiring it too.

After maybe half an hour, Scootaloo and Tom got up. Scootaloo summoned her with a hoof, and they all went in together. They had to crowd into the tiny room, but by some unspoken agreement which Sweetie Belle had no part in, Tom took the floor, leaving the bed for her and Scootaloo. They cuddled up together for lack of space, and as she went to sleep, Sweetie Belle thought things were, perhaps, not so bad.











It was a hectic morning: Scootaloo, pushing her and Tom, and shouting, “Come on, wake up! We've got stuff to do!” Tom looked as groggy as Sweetie Belle felt, but Scootaloo harried them up and out of the building within minutes. They trailed Scootaloo as she handed the keys in in then trotted off towards the station. 

There she had a conversation bordering on an argument with the attendant. Yes, he had received a telegraph telling him what was on the train. No, he wouldn't let her read it. No, definitely not.

At last, through a combination of wheedling and outright lies about them meeting a friend, Scootaloo managed to get him to tell that there was indeed another pony coming. Another three ponies, in fact, all of whom had, unlike Scootaloo's lot, paid to travel. 

Scootaloo thanked him, which he didn't acknowledge, then led her friends away. “Right,” she said. “Time to stow away. I'm guessing neither of you know anything about how to do that?”

They didn't.

“Then follow my instructions very closely. I've done this a few times. Well, a couple of times. Well, once successfully. But I have done it.” 

Sweetie Belle glared at her.

“I'm kidding! I've done it plenty, believe me.”

She led them to the dock and had them watch the ship they were aiming for. Every so often workers would pass along the gangplank, some pulling creaking, dirty-yellow pallets laden with boxes behind them, some not. “That's our way in. We could almost get away with just walking straight onto the ship. The problem is …” She put a hoof on Tom's shoulder. “They're all ponies.”

“Oh, good,” said Tom.

“C'mon.” Scootaloo jumped up. “This way.” She slipped across the dock and trailed one of the workers who was pulling an empty pallet.

He led them back towards the station, but turned away at the last moment into an adjacent loading area, lined by a wire-frame fence but with an open and unguarded gate. There, dozens of pallets, like the ones they'd seen at the ship, were scattered about, alongside larger skips full of material, dented and grimy barrels, and assorted to goods waiting for the train.

“Wait here,” said Scootaloo. She entered the loading area, casually trotted up to one of the unsupervised pallets, and dragged it back out behind her. She paused to inspect a couple of boxes, then loaded them onboard and carried it out with her.

As she brought the pallet over to them, she flicked open the top of the back box with a wing. “Okay, you two, jump in.”

“Me too?” said Sweetie Belle.

Scootaloo stood on her hind legs and looked in the top of the box. “Yeah. You can both fit. Front box is mine.”

“But –”

“It'll be easier this way. In. Now.”

Sweetie Belle gave up trying to argue. Tom gave her a boost so she could get in, then climbed in after her. They did both fit – just about. 

The top closed above them, blocking out all but a thin blade of light. Then the pallet rumbled away.

Later, a stop. A brief moment where she heard Scootaloo talking to someone but couldn't make out the words. Then they were moving again, with the pallet's rattling wheels jostling her and Tom together. Their body heat and breath made the air warm and clammy. This is you, rescuing Scootaloo, she thought to herself.

In time, there were more noises, then at last motion. A short while after, Scootaloo flipped open the box and peered over the edge.

“And away we go,” she said.