Talking Heads

by Dave Bryant

True stories

I let out an inconspicuous sigh. “Sunset, this is Permanent Undersecretary Pin Stripes.”

“Your boss,” Sunset guessed in a flat tone.

“Yes. My boss.” My lips twisted.

“Ms. Shimmer,” said boss put in, “Don’t blame Mister Cook for not telling you. Orders.”

“Your orders?” An undercurrent of accusation sharpened Sunset’s question.

“Yes.” Pin Stripes looked unmoved. “Thought you should know.”

After a moment Sunset’s face softened. “Okay, that’s fair. Sorry, Cook.”

I shrugged uncomfortably and glanced over at my superior, who had traveled across the country for this meeting.

Pin Stripes was a living legend in the Foreign Service. She’d started at the same pay grade I currently enjoyed and over the course of more years than I’d lived worked her way up to the position she held now—just three steps down from the top and as high as a career foreign service officer could go. Along the way she’d built up an awesome reputation for head-on, hard-nosed dealings with all the unpleasantness thrown her way, whether the usual intransigence of international relations or the added bonus of misogynistic dictators or systems.

I reported directly to her, not through any intermediaries, thanks to the sensitive nature of Sunset’s origins and accompanying magical shenanigans. I’d been read into the Eloptic Machine compartment the day I commissioned, and while I still felt the name was a bit too on the nose, I had to agree the whole affair merited classification as code-word material. How long it could hang on to “secret” status was an open question, however, given how spectacular some incidents had been or promised to be. Well, if the story broke it wouldn’t be the first time something was simultaneously a deep, dark secret and front-page headlines.

Now the undersecretary sat with perfect aplomb in a fine restaurant, her stout, rather blocky form sheathed in a conservative black gown with high neck and shirred shoulders—along with matching opera gloves, out of the ordinary for dinner, though I thought I knew why she wore them. No jewelry brightened it, not even the awards she was entitled to wear, at least in miniature.

Our hostess let the silence linger a beat before another liveried figure popped up at table-side. With elegantly efficient movements he caused a pair of bottles to manifest on the table, accompanied by a stemmed glass for each of us. One of the bottles was opened to commence the ritual so beloved of oenophiles, after which Pin Stripes approved the choice with a nod. Her glass and mine were half-filled with a white wine; from the label, it was at the high end of mid-range, plainly chosen for genuine quality over snob value by a sommelier who was not afraid to let the chips fall where they may.

The minion moved on to open the second bottle and fill Sunset’s glass with no less grave courtesy. The sparkling apple juice—sourced from Sweet Apple Acres, I was pleased to note—matched the wine’s color surprisingly well. It also was one of the family’s dryer offerings, which meant it also should match the flavor profile as well as any such beverage could, a necessary compromise since Sunset was not of legal drinking age. Last of all were deeper glasses filled from a silvered decanter with chilled but not iced water, each set closer to its diner than the other. Then, as before, we were left alone without even a puff of smoke.

Sunset eyed both bottle and glasses, dubious not about them, I suspected, but about the situation as a whole, and spoke up hesitantly. “Don’t we get . . . menus or something?”

“This is a table d’hôte restaurant,” I explained quietly. “The chef sets up a single menu for the meal, which is served to everyone. We should be starting it soon, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh. But—even at Canterlot Palace we got cards telling us what we were going to get,” she objected.

“It’s a surprise,” Pin Stripes answered. “Think you should like it, though.”

Sunset blinked at her, and I could sympathize. By now the girl had to be thoroughly confused. I decided it was time to stick my head in the lion’s mouth. “Ma’am, would this be a good time to start?”

The glance she shot me was straight-faced, but I suspected amusement lurked behind it. “Very well, let the grilling begin.” She turned back to Sunset. “Ms. Shimmer, why are you here?”

Much as I wanted to, there was no way in the world I could get away with rolling my eyes.

Sunset’s brow knotted. “I . . . don’t understand, Ma’am. Is that a philosophical question or, or what?”

“Why are you in this city, in this world?” The voice was patient but otherwise emotionless. “For six months, you had no choice. Now you do.”

“Oh!” The younger face cleared. “That’s, um, kinda complicated.”

“We have all evening,” Pin Stripes pointed out.

Sunset pondered, but before she could articulate her answer the soup arrived.

“This—this is early treasure!” Sunset regarded the gently steaming bowl in evident delight. “I haven’t had this in . . . years.” She ran down and raised her head again. “Not since I first came through the portal.”

“Thank Mister Cook,” Pin Stripes told her. “Reports aren’t just about gathering intelligence.”

I shrugged again. “There are lots of dishes in Equestria that would work just as well here.” Rather than continue the difficult conversation, I dipped my soup spoon into the rich tart broth bathing herbs and vegetables traditionally associated with late winter and early spring, just the sort of seasonal dish one would find in a land not yet able to preserve or ship mass quantities of foodstuffs.

At least Pin Stripes waited for us to start eating again before pressing on. “Complicated, you said.”

Sunset looked up hastily. “Uh, yeah. Yes Ma’am.” She took another spoonful before continuing. “The simplest answer is, I like it here. I really do love my friends, more than almost anypony—anybody else I know. And it’s a really interesting place.” She began to alternate bites and speech; we ate as well, and listened.

“It’s not perfect, but back home isn’t perfect either. I know a lot of people here write about how nasty and horrible things can be, and I guess they need to if those things are gonna get better, but there’s a lot of good stuff out there too.” Her other hand flew out in an animated gesture as she warmed to her thesis.

“There’s no magic—well, there wasn’t magic—” Embarrassment tinged the amendment. “—but the technology is amazing.” She burbled on for a minute or so about the digital wonders that simply didn’t exist in a world where steam power and electrical telegraphy were state of the art. They’d become a central part of her new life, right down to her own video-game streaming channel. Some of it clearly, to me at least, flew over Pin Stripes’ head and even mine occasionally, but the older woman nodded attentively at appropriate moments.

“And on top of that, Canterlot High is a good school,” Sunset concluded firmly. “Even if I went back home for good, there’s a lot I’ve learned here that would be just as helpful there.” Her voice wavered a bit, but she went on gamely. “Math and physics and stuff like that work pretty much the same in both worlds, and even language and history are more useful than you might think—y’know, basic principles? I’ve even written a few papers on that kinda thing.” Her final hurried assurance addressed the slight frown on Pin Stripes’ face. “Some assignments are set up for students to ‘compare and contrast’, or write about where they’re from. Since the teachers and other students at CHS already know about me, we figured it would be fine as long as they locked up the papers and kept quiet about it outside of school. Right?” She searched her inquisitor’s face anxiously.

“Like to see some of those papers,” Pin Stripes commented. “Can you give copies to Mister Cook?”

“S-sure!” Sunset looked both gratified and daunted. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Pin Stripes sat back from her now-empty bowl. “So. Want to stay for the long term, then. Have friends here, honestly like this city and this world, and from Mister Cook’s reports, plans for university. That about sum it up?”

“Well—mostly. I mean, since it’s my fault magic’s gotten loose here, I need to stay and help clean it up, too.”

Pin Stripes’ expression turned stern. “As well you should, young lady.”

Sunset ducked her head again, eyes downcast toward her mostly empty bowl, and made a mumbled apology—for everything in the universe, as far as I could tell.

I couldn’t blame either of them; Sunset did have a lot to live down, after all. But still. I cleared my throat. “Ms. Shimmer has been doing a fine job of it, along with her friends. It’s plain the Tree of Harmony feels the same way, to judge from the pendants they’ve been given.” I nodded to the one at the center of Sunset’s bolo slide, familiar roiling-sun emblem glinting on the red crystalline face. Both women looked over at me, Sunset in mild dismay at possibly injudicious mention of the Tree, Pin Stripes in covert appraisal of her subordinate.

We were allowed to finish the dregs of our delicious soup in relative peace, after which the bowls and spoons were collected quickly and silently—from the right, of course, starting with Sunset—and carried off. I sipped at the wine with the old trick of letting the glass linger but allowing only a small amount into my mouth. I was dead sure I wasn’t the only one using it. Sunset, from her expression, would rather have the wine than the apple juice, trapped as she was with someone who had the power to determine her fate.

So it was we awaited the next course . . . and the next question.

Author's Note:

Only once in my life have I worn black tie—and that for a wedding, which etiquette experts decry, but it wasn’t my wedding, so it wasn’t my call. Never have I worn white tie, and I expect I never will. Moreover, only once have I eaten a multi-course meal within shouting distance of the level this establishment operates at. All of that means I’ve had to rely entirely on research and second-hand information, much of the latter provided by the estimable Baron Engel. He suggested the menu, based partly on meals in his Equestria dreamscape, including early treasure.
  The position filled by Pin Stripes is, in the US Department of State, Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs; in the United Kingdom the nearest equivalent, I believe, would be Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. I’ve elided the two with “permanent undersecretary”, leaving the full title unstated. In general, the modifier “permanent” seems to indicate a civil servant, rather than an elected or appointed official, fills the post.

Comments

[Booster Spice]

Ah, fancy food with smart dress. I have very faint memories that out of about 120 weddings I worked as the cameramans gopher, wearing my Grandads old 3 piece 2 button suit, Maybe half of them had receptions, and out of that, we actually got invited to eat at the tables at three of them. Once because of a cancel and the couple were nice enough to think of us.

Still, making up Sunsets papers as a transfer student or immigrant from a transitioned location is easier than trying to make up a whole bacground for her from scratch? Still a lot of paperwork, if only to cover the actual paperwork and origins?

[Dave Bryant]

9712869
By this point, thanks to Cook and the princesses, Sunset has all the paperwork she needs for both public consumption and behind the scenes. It’s not her past or even present at issue here, though—it’s her future, as Cook hints at the end of the chapter.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Then, as before, we were left alone without even a puff of smoke.

Ninjas look like a parade of Pinkie Pies next to a certain class of waiter.

In any case, the groundwork's laid out. Sunset's here because... well, given her options, why wouldn't she be? But Undersecretary Stripes has only just begun to dig into what's on her plate, and she has very good cutlery.