Intrepid tramp Quick Quill lands a cushy job with the Equestrian Weather Service, and has the salary to prove it. But, Quill's life isn't all cider and sunshine: a storm is brewing and at its core, a maelstrom.
The job was going well, too well not to be fouled up by something. At first I thought it would be me--it'd happened so many times before that I recognized failure as an old friend and success like a stranger in a dark alley. When she walked in with the manila folder and its precisely typed pages, I knew it would be trouble, but how far and wide, I couldn't have known.
The first time I met Deputy Director Maelstrom, I was clean shaven, sober, and dresses in my best suit: the navy blue with khaki pants and burgundy tie. My hat was crisp and clean, having been purchased for the occasion, and the stiff rim was a comfort as it rested in my lap. I’d travelled a long way for this job interview and my hopes were neither high nor low: apprehension was the word. I gripped the hat a little tighter.
The lobby was a large round room with the Equestrian Weather Service seal in brass on the floor. I couldn’t make it out from my seat, but I’m sure it was very fitting. I decided to take my attention off the impending meeting by watching the employees come and go: some in suits, others in leather flight jackets with patches all over. They paid me no mind and that was okay.
My name was called and I crossed the room promptly. I tried to get a better look at the seal as I crossed it, but the room was too busy putting one hoof in front of the other to look anywhere else.
She was standing in the doorway, her crisp, severe business suit a fitting partner for her expression: cold, bureaucratic indifference. It would be an expression I would come to know well; a countenance whose outward expression never could, never would betray something like, or not entirely unlike, emotion.
“Mr. Quick Quill, if you would please come with me,” she said with careful pronunciation. You could hear the typeface with each click of her tongue. I doffed my hat and followed her into the interview room.
An Interview Room is a unique euphemism for a kind of church where there is much judgement and even more praying. My experience with Maelstrom was no different, but as the interview lingered, my confidence waivered that I was anywhere near what she was looking for.
“What can you tell me about the weather, Mister Quill?”
“It’s made by Pegasus, such as yourself, ma’am.” It was a flimsy reply. I knew more. But, there was something unnerving in the way she looked at me; that cold, insufferable indifference. Those cool, emotionless eyes. There was an invasiveness to her stare; she could see past the thin venire of professionalism and know all my insecurities at once: the jobs, homes, friends, family I’d all lost at one time or another. You can blame it on bad luck or timing or stupidly, but it was me: I knew it, I knew I was the one pushing myself all over the country, without a real place to settle down.
In the end, I was certain this was one more in a string of failed interviews. Another job I’d taken a stab at and totally missed the mark. When she showed me out, I was sure that was the last time we’d see each other.
That evening I stood in the ticketing queue at the Baltimare Train Station with every intention of going back to Manehatten when a greasy kid in a velvet tuxedo bumped into me. “Sorry,” he chimed in the half-hearted, contemptuous way only an adolescent can.
I was about to turn my attention back to the queue when Greasy Velvet Tuxedo (I assumed that was his name, but you can’t be sure these days) tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find his mug right up next to mine. He stared with a kind of intensity which was uncomfortable (it was a day of uncomfortable stares); like meeting a kid in a warehouse at midnight who says “Hi” before disappearing in a puff of smoke and nightmares.
“Listen, pal, you wouldn’t happen to be a,” he looked at a notepad carefully, “a Mister Quick Mill would you? I gotta letter for him.”
“The name is Quick Quill.”
“No, pal, I’ve got it right here: M-I-L-L.”
“Then no, beat it.”
“Shoot, you know, I can’t find this guy worth nothin’? He’s not at the hotel, but they said I’d find him here going back to Manehatten. Hey, you kinda look like the guy: Grey Earth Pony, tan coat, brimmed hat. Too bad you ain’t him.”
The next part was kind of a blur, but the end result was me holding the envelope and him waddling off with a face full of bits. Carefully, I opened the letter and began to read:
Mister Quick Quill,
We are pleased to inform you that we have selected you for the position of Administrative Assistant to Deputy Director Maelstrom. If you accept, please reply by same courier promptly…
I had to read it again:
We are pleased to inform you...
You always hear phrases like “I love you” or “You complete me” or whatever sentimental garbage they regurgitate on chalky heart-shaped candies as being the end-all of sweetness. But, I assure you, to a tramp, “We are pleased to inform you” are the sweetest five words you could ever hear.
The intervening moons were what you might expect: a lot of rules and mistakes and her constant, neutral tone. Maelstrom, or Director as she preferred to be called (as much as she seemed to prefer anything), was the next-to-top-horse for the Equestrian Weather Service.
That might sound exciting: huge rooms with maps and charts with staff ponies racing to and fro. Typewriters blazing and lightning speed, all the while someone shouting vague quasi-scientific terms like, “vapor levels” and “ether meters.”
In truth, it was orderly like a library and just as quiet. The even, steady click-clack of typewriters and scribble of notes easily drowned out those few quiet conversations which managed to erupt. Sometimes a chuckle would find its way out of some poor sap’s throat—they’d be talking about it for weeks.
“You hear Sunnydale making that ruckus the other day?”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, guy can’t stop laughing about something he read in the paper.”
Small Talk is the most infectious and pervasive disease ever conceived. It bites everyone at some point or another. And when you work at the Weather Service, the taboo nature of open conversation means it’s a thousand times worse. I eyed my colleague with what I hoped was enough of a stink for him to get the message, but he kept flapping his hay-hole.
“Did you hear? There’s a new princess! Of friendship!”
“Could probably do with less of that around here,” I said, keeping my head focused on my desk.
“Whatever,” he replied in a hurt tone before moving off for more interesting prey.
There was a strange sound behind me, bordering on the familiar, but from a dangerous source. I wheeled around to find Maelstrom looming like a gargoyle over me. There was something wrong with her face, like a madman asking you to guess how he got those scars.
“Director!” I squeaked, eyes-wide and fully aware that I was unprepared.
“Eleven o’clock, let’s get to our meeting.” The moment was gone, the unseemly vestige of a smile faded.
We walked through the halls, our hooves beating against the marble floors. I’d grown comfortable with Maelstrom’s silence. When she deigned to speak, it was like a slow cloud moving across the sky: not completely unwanted, yet threatening like the promise of rain.
“You don’t care for meaningless conversation,” she asked—or maybe it was a statement. Sometimes I wish I had a script. Then I could see the punctuation. Some stage direction wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Nothing to say, ma’am,” would be the safe, even reply. But all this neutrality was getting to me. Occasionally, she’d raise an eyebrow to tell me something alive was behind those steel blue eyes. Otherwise, it was an exercise in aloofness. I was wondering if it was all a game or a ploy: intimidation through silence. So, against my better judgement, I recklessly replied: “Most ponies don’t have anything interesting to say.”
The manila folder contained a number of pages, each one typed with extreme precision and care. Amidst the typeface were carefully drawn charts with bold red lines along the axis. A few color photographs had been attached by paperclip and someone managed a coffee stain, for good effect. The word “SENSITIVE” was watermarked on the pages in a conspicuous way, which made the words sometimes difficult to read.
The Pegasus who had dropped the file on my desk was new to me: green with a bright yellow mane. Her messy hair and wrinkled flight jacket put her squarely in the “Weather Pony” camp; one of the ponies actually responsible pushing clouds around. The office ponies called them “grunts” because they did the physical labor. The grunts had a word for us office/managerial types, but it isn’t repeatable in polite company.
I poked through the file carefully, but the science was lost on me. I was assaulted by equations and symbols unseen since my college days. It was an unwelcome reunion.
“What is this?” I asked the Pegasus, with a little more annoyance than was probably merited.
“Moisture forecasts for the South West region,” she replied.
I was baffled. Grunts don’t do analysis. They’re, well, grunts. Generally, they excel at two things: flying and breaking things. This one was probably an up-and-comer; fresh out of school and looking to advance. Who was I to crush her dreams?
Quick Quill, Assistant to Deputy Director Maelstrom, that’s who. “Listen, kid,” I began, “the Deputy Director has enough to do without looking at some half-baked report about whatever. And who are you to classify something ‘sensitive’ anyways? Beat it.” I pushed the file into the waste bin.
Some might see that as callous, even cruel. No doubt this pony had spent a few hours on that report. Maybe all day. But, she was out of line: ignored the chain of command. She needed to go to her Group Leader, who’d bother the Regional Flight Leader, who’d forward it to the Weather Service Analysis and Review Group (WSARG) who, if they felt it warranted administrative review, would kick it to the Deputy Director.
There was a chain. You respected the chain or you got beaten by it. Maelstrom would have tied this filly and dumped her in the Celestia Sea for breaching protocol. She didn’t know it, but I was doing her a favor.
The grunt was digging through my trash, retrieving the folder. I could tell she was mad, but it wasn’t the uncontrolled rage of child; rather, the cold scorn of a mare who would gleefully stampede over me, if given the chance.
Having regained her folder and composure, she took the seat directly across my desk.
“Listen, uh—” I started, then realizing I hadn’t bothered with her name.
“Summer Raine.”
“Miss Raine, you need to take this to your Group Leader.”
“She didn’t agree with my findings.”
“And the Regional Flight Leader?”
“Respectfully incompetent.”
“And the WSARG?”
“Those hoof-draggers wouldn’t review it because didn’t come from the RFL.”
A long, uncomfortable pause followed. I shuffled some papers on my desk; tried to ignore the pony across from me. She watched Maelstrom’s door intently. I was about to try sending her away again when Maelstrom appeared.
My chair scraped loudly as I rushed to stand. Raine was faster, nearly knocking my desk over in the process. The papers which had originally been on my desk started drifting down from the ceiling in no particular hurry. I paid them little mind. My attention was focused squarely on Maelstrom’s reaction.
I was expecting silence. I was expecting explosions. I was expecting plagues of insects, torrential rain, and crashing lightning. At any moment, the seas would boil as the moon came crashing down, all for the sake of not witnessing the apocalypse.
Somehow, Raine had managed to shove her report into Maelstrom’s hoof and was in the process of walking the Deputy Director through it. As Raine spoke, Maelstrom read through the pages carefully. I wasn’t sure if she was listening or not. Her face remained that carefully constructed, impenetrable facade.
Finished, Maelstrom handed the folder back to Raine and ask, “Has the WSARG reviewed this?”
“No, ma’am,” I said quickly before Raine could give her opinion on the WSARG and where they could put their review.
“Are you certain about these numbers?”
“Yes ma’am. The South West region needs another one hundred thousand liters of water per moon to avoid a catastrophic drought.”
Still looking at Raine, Maelstrom started giving orders: I was to take Raine’s report promptly to the WSARG and instruct them to prioritize it. Raine was dismissed, leaving me in Maelstrom’s familiar, if not subdued, company. As I picked a week’s worth of work off the floor, Maelstrom reread Raine’s report.
“Did you look over this, Quill?” she asked, eyes still carefully parsing the paragraphs.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you understand it?”
“No, ma’am.” It was a tough thing to admit. Most bosses are like any other pony: they laugh, cry, love, hate, feel compassion (or apathy), and seemingly have and lack brains at the same time. But, where do you stand with someone who doesn’t show you their feelings? Will they laugh it off and say, “Neither did I!” Will they be disappointed? Understanding?
Deputy Director Maelstrom sighed and closed the report. She placed the folder on my desk and slipped back into her office. As the door closed, I had the feeling that this was just the beginning; that Raine’s appearance and her ominous report were going to cause a lot of headaches.
For headaches, there’s always cider. Apple is the most common kind around, but just about anything can be cider with enough patience. Pear’s good. Pineapple’s the sweetest. I’d recommend a nice Blackberry for particularly somber occasions, like funerals or visits from the in-laws.
Salutations! was a local purveyor of such beverages, boasting a more or less complete selection. I was seated in a quiet booth near the kitchen, pony-watching. When you’re trekking from town to town, searching for work, you don’t usually have time to make friends. After a while, you become detached. It’s not something you mean to do. It creeps up on you like tub scum or hoof rot.
I wonder if that’s what happened to Maelstrom.
Even here, a good kilometer away from the office, I’m thinking about her.
It isn’t like that.
More of a curiosity.
Why did she hire me? Speed? Accuracy? A handout that worked out? Those were the questions on my mind, even after all this time. I guess they’re the kinds of questions you can never ask. Nothing says, “Please assuage my insecurities,” like the mewling whine of someone who can’t identify their own self-worth.
Whoa. That’s too much.
I was about to set my drink to the side—clearly, it wasn’t helping my mood—when Raine walked in with a couple of grunts. They got a table near the piano and proceeded to drink and sing. Badly. In civilized society, there are only two possible responses to this behavior:
One, abandon your table and run for the hills.
Two, drink more.
I tolerated their rendition of On the Clouds We Ride. I suffered their belting of The Minstrel Colt. By Celestia’s Golden Fields, I had joined them with the rest of the restaurant.
As the crowd broke up, I slinked back into my booth with the intention of disappearing, when Raine, flanked by her friends, approached. For a moment, in the dim light, her messy hair and jacket reminded me of a time, not long ago, when I was traveling from town to town, looking for any job that’d take me. I was feeling something like sympathy for how I had acted earlier: pushing her report in the trash.
Then she opened her mouth.
“Drinking alone?” she smirked. “How sad!”
I let it ride.
“Who’s this, Summer?” asked the one who had been playing the piano.
“Just some desk-jock, Earth Pony nobody who tried to stonewall my report!” She said with the kind of bravery that comes in a bottle.
One of the other Pegasus made a disgusted noise.
“How long have you been at this?” I asked Raine, ignoring the others.
“Six moons since I graduated!”
“And you already know better than your Leaders and the WSARG—who, by the way, wrote the original estimates for the region?”
Quick to her defense, one of the grunts chimed in: “Summer was, like, valerian or whatever.”
I smiled, “Valedictorian, huh? Well, good for you.” I got out of the booth and threw some bits on the table. “Since I’m leaving tips, here’s one to chew on,” I paused for dramatic effect while gathering my coat and hat: “No-pony cares about your grades—or you—only what you bring to the agency.”
Pushing past them, I found the exit and went home.
It was with great pleasure that I was instructed to have Raine summoned to the Deputy Director’s office the following afternoon for a low-key, level-headed beat-down. Maelstrom, ever in her calm monotone, raked Raine over the coals for a good hour before turning her loose.
It wasn’t the report: by Maelstrom’s own admission, it was excellent work. Rather, it was Raine’s attitude:
“One comment here states you called the Chief Meteorologist of the WSARG a,” she cleared her throat, “‘contemptuous clod’. As I am sure you are aware, all members of this organization are vital to the successful stewardship of Equestrian weather. As it stands, our current CM has been a colleague of mine for nearly my whole career…” And so on and so on, until Maelstrom had beaten all the smugness from Raine’s expression.
To say I wasn’t a little pleased would be far from the truth. At the same time, watching her slink away, tail and ears low, I wondered how it would play out. Was this the moment she realized the world wasn’t her playground? Will this be that memory she always goes back to, when she was pushed back and knocked down? Would it even stop her?
If Small Talk is a disease, then Cynicism is a plague: relentless, self-gratifying, recursively-justifiable, and oh-so-appealing. You can wrap yourself warmly in cynicism while still feeling the cold sting of what the cynic calls “reality”. That’s the sweet lie that comes with rejecting hope or joy: a certainty that nothing is genuine, everything is a lie, and you alone possess this mystic wisdom.
The cynic sits high on a soap box, pontificating truths, while spreading a hopeless idea. Fail at a task? That's what you get for trying. Unhappy with your job? Nothing you do matters, anyways. Feeling lonely? You get what you deserve.
In every child’s smile, the cynic sees a future of tears. In every public figure’s words, a conspiracy. No grin lasts long on a cynic’s lips, unless it comes from the telling of some biting, sarcastic wit.
I know because I am that pony. Staring across my desk, watching Raine leave, feeling joy in her sorrow—watching someone I knew could fly circles around me fall—it felt good.
Director Fairweather, head of the Equestrian Weather Service, was, by all credible accounts, a curmudgeon. He was old, he was tired, and he was too important, busy, and handsome (a lie) to deal with you, your problems, or your ideas.
Shouting matches with Fairweather were legendary. It’s said that only one pony ever stood up to him: Maelstrom, always in her quiet, steady tone. The stories say he would rile at her for hours, yelling so loud the walls shook.
The more time I spent in the EWS office, the more stories I heard. Desks being overturned, typewriters thrown through windows—and ponies fired on the spot. When he was in his office—which was almost never—the staff would tip-toe past it, for fear of waking a dragon.
Despite the stories, “legendary” remained too literal an adjective. In the time since our first introductory meeting, I never heard him raise his voice.
Not once.
It’s curious how a person’s reputation can precede them. You may learn about someone who never existed, yet there they go walking down the hall. I often wonder who the worst kind of person is: one who is rotten or one who spoils others.
When Director Fairweather died (it was opined that a heartless pony could not die of a heart attack), it was with some confusion that I saw the same ponies who called him a tyrant cry tearfully at his funeral. I couldn’t say, looking at the various mourners from my position next to Maelstrom, whether or not their feelings were anything but real.
The casket was maple with gold rods. Draped in the blue and white of the EWS flag, Fairweather had been marched in a light shower (by his final request) to the freshly dug grave. The air smelled of rain and dirt; altogether pleasing, despite the somber occasion.
As Fairweather was eased into the ground, the bagpiper played, the priest prayed, a widow and her grown children cried. I stole a look at Maelstrom and, for a moment, could not be sure if the raindrops on her cheeks were tears.
Maelstrom and I stepped into Director Fairweather’s office. It was large, wood paneled, with tall windows looking out over the river. Down in the campus courtyard, employees were milling about, enjoying the sun after the earlier showers.
I had followed Acting Director Maelstrom (the government loves its titles, in particular, the intermediate ones) by her request. She was touring the room, looking at the various pictures, citations, and awards which decorated the walls. She moved in a slow, methodical way, like the curator of an ancient museum.
While the room had the typical office accoutrements, it was spacious enough to offer a conference table and a long, comfortable couch. The couch was old, in a style of careful, luxurious craftsmanship, with dark wood and cushions upholstered in a deep velvet blue.
I was thinking of leaving: Maelstrom hadn’t spoken in an hour. This wasn’t in of itself unusual, but there was an odd feeling in the air, as if this slow meandering of hers was a pilgrimage. Perhaps this was her personal holy land: a place she had long sought and in finding, found herself a queen.
“Do you enjoy working here, Quill?” she asked, sliding a forehoof across the desk. Her eyes tracked the path of her hoof and rose to meet me, leaning pensively in the door frame.
“Of course, ma’am.” It was true. Despite the long hours, it was quiet and steady. I never found Maelstrom unreasonable, though her aloofness sometimes irritated me. I wanted to break that bureaucratic exterior to find something else inside, but I didn’t know how to do it. Would I even like what I found?
“Director Fairweather’s passing means we’ll have a lot more work to do, even if we were already responsible for much of his duties.”
I nodded in agreement. Fairweather had the title, but Maelstrom had been calling the shots since I joined. It was the unspoken agreement of Fairweather’s “working retirement”.
There was a long pause, as if she was considering how to proceed. I was convinced that Maelstrom prepared conversations in advance and, as a result of an already crammed schedule, spoke little to avoid the tedium of scripting more than was necessary. “I would understand if you wanted to remain in your current (or lower) position,” she spoke at last.
This was unexpected. After all these moons, she was giving me an out; one that didn’t involve the long, bitter trek to another town, another office, another life. But, what would that life look like? I saw vestiges of smiling, happy ponies who asked how I was doing, who chatted about hoofball, and eagerly passed around birthday cards for signing. I quietly shuddered.
“Take the evening to consider,” she continued, breaking me from my imagination. She made for the door, I stepped to the side quickly. She stopped at the doorway and turned to face me again. She was close—closer than I was used to. She looked at me with that same, even expression.
At least, she tried to hold that familiar countenance.
This close, in her eyes, I could see the fear of change and the longing for familiarity. Or maybe I was seeing a reflection of what I was feeling: fear for what loosing Fairweather would mean, longing to stay with somepony I’d become familiar with.
Nobody likes change, no matter how earnestly they say it in the hallowed Interview Room. “I see change as an exciting opportunity to grow,” translates to, “I fear change will displace me, so I ravenously learn everything I can to remain relevant.” Even long sought-after promotion comes with a price: your time, your energy, your hopes, your fears, and (in some cases like today) their death.
“Do you want me to stay?” I managed in a tone quiet enough to make a church mouse ask me to speak up.
“I am required by policy, Mister Quill, to provide you with options, even when they would be contrary to my preference.”
There was a slight curl to her lips, a wrinkle in her eyes—it might have been a smile.
Some weeks later, I had arrived to work early one morning to find Maelstrom’s door closed, the lights off, and a note on my desk. It said only one word, but I recognized the Director’s script immediately: “Sick”. I couldn’t remember the last time Maelstrom had been away. I stood at my desk, uncertain how to proceed.
While the Director promoted autonomy among her employees, I had never been in a position to need it. She always had a task for me to accomplish. But, with Maelstrom out for the day, the newly appointed Deputy Director would be handling things.
I sat at my desk, shuffling papers; looking for anything which could be completed without my boss’s signature. After an hour, I gave up and decided to wander the EWS building. Maybe learn a thing or two about the agency at a lower, more detailed level.
The familiar feeling of a library remained into Maelstrom’s administration. You could hear a pin drop’s apology clear across the room. Through the glass wall of a workshop, I watched some of the employees at task. Some were charting with compasses and rulers while others worked with chalkboards and text books. One of them saw me, cocked his head as if asking what I was looking at, then began to furiously scribble in his notes.
By lunchtime, I was bored wandering the halls. I decided to leave the office for lunch—another first, since I usually ate at my desk or with Maelstrom in her office. I found a nearby café, sat outside, and had some coffee and sandwiches.
I recognized a number of other EWS employees come and go, but I doubted they recognized me without Maelstrom. I had the unsettling thought that I was nothing more than a sentient day planner and occasional saddlebag. Maybe that’s okay: those things have purpose. I have purpose.
A tray of food landed on the table across from me. I looked up to see its owner, one Summer Raine. She sat in a chair and took an unnecessarily strong pull through a drink straw. I would have found it comical, if she wasn’t looking at me like one looks at a hairball in their soup.
“Raine,” I said, acknowledging her presence. I noticed she wasn’t wearing a flight jacket, just the lanyard all employees were required to carry when working.
“Quill.”
I turned back to the remains of my lunch. Raine’s sudden appearance was putting me off my appetite, but to leave so quickly would be rude. Social conventions are an inconvenience.
“Do you want to tell me,” she began with barely contained hostility, “why I’ve been grounded?”
“News to me,” I said honestly. “The Directorship doesn’t get involved—”
“Like Tartarus they don’t!” She slammer her hoof on the table. “I’m cleaning the parade grounds for a moon because of whatever you’re up to! I saw that smug look on your face the other day after Maelstrom told me off!”
“I don’t have the authority to ground you and Maelstrom was pleased with your report—even if your attitude needs a good kick the teeth.” I was getting mad. Accusations are one thing, but Raine was drawing a lot of attention to my table. The rumor mill would be working overtime that Maelstrom’s assistant was throwing his weight around while she was out. “Who said you were grounded?” I asked in a quieter tone.
“My Group Leader, Dewdrops. She said it came from higher up!”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Raine: I’ll look into your flight status if you keep your nose clean and voice down.”
“My nose what?” she touched a hoof to her nose, uncertain.
I rolled my eyes. “Clean. It means ‘stay out of trouble.’ As in, the opposite of what you’ve been doing lately.”
She scowled and turned her attention to lunch, for which I was grateful.
Of course, I could have walked straight down to the local Flight Office and confront Raine’s GL, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. If I started popping up at places I normally avoided, rumors of a power-hungry assistant would just grow. I considered waiting for Maelstrom to come back on her own, but I was afraid Raine would say something stupid between now and then.
My only hope was to visit Maelstrom this afternoon and try to explain what was going on before someone else did. Like any job, government work is full of people who desire advancement, but lack the skills or credentials to make that happen though the quality of their work. Instead, they use subterfuge to put in the minds of their superiors that, out of all this rough, they are the diamond. “Cover Your Flank” was the name of the game: keep the mud off so you always shine.
Maelstrom lived in an apartment a few kilometers from the EWS office. I took a taxi to her building. The Earth Pony steward at the door gave me the once-over before letting me in, warning me not to cause any trouble. It was an odd interaction, given the up-scale neighborhood was probably one of the safest in Baltimare.
I took the elevator to the twelfth floor and found unit 1203. I hesitated at the door, worried that Maelstrom would not be pleased to see me. Few things are as miserable as a sick person. A sick workaholic, doubly so. I knocked at the door, bracing myself for whatever wrath may befall me, only to find it opened inward all on its own.
Maelstrom’s apartment was spacious, with carefully placed furniture. The foyer led to a hallway, with a door to the kitchen on the left, and bedrooms on the right. At the end of the hall was the living area and office, which sported wide windows, their curtains drawn closed.
“Hello?” I called, uneasily. “Director?”
The apartment was totally quiet. The wall scones, which I recognized as magical in nature, were lit. Their soft glow illuminated the hallway. I slowly crept along the hall, turning first to look in the kitchen, then to the bedrooms. I paused at Maelstrom’s room. There was a four-poster bed with the heaviest comforter I’d ever seen. There were bookshelves along the walls, practically overflowing with volumes, tomes, periodicals, almanacs, encyclopedias, and whatever else she could cram in them. No knickknacks, just books.
I stopped to inspect a number of picture frames in the main hallway. In one, a large family. It took me a moment to find Maelstrom among the crowd. She looked the oldest, next to who I assumed were her parents. They looked happy, if not a little tired (I counted six younger children, to a total family of nine—sheesh).
She was laying on a couch in the living room, wrapped in two or three blankets. A book had fallen on the floor and an empty glass sat on an end table. The record player was spinning, but the music had long ended; the arm automatically returned to its proper resting place. I could hear her breathing. It was raspy and uneven, punctuated by short bursts of coughing. I placed a hoof on her forehead and found it hot and noticed for the first time she was shivering as if cold.
I came into the uncomfortable realization that I was technically an uninvited guest. My instinct was to make myself scarce: Maelstrom may not be pleased to see me. What if someone else showed up who was supposed to be here? Then again, how could I leave her?
It’s hard to explain what kept me there. I felt something: a need to act. I can’t describe it.
Leaving my hat and coat on a nearby chair, I left for the kitchen, stopping only to close and lock the front door. It took a few moments to find a washcloth and bowls (there has yet been a scientific study on the proper placement for kitchen items, though if it exists, it may very well be in Maelstrom’s bedroom/library).
I set the wetted cloth on her forehead and put the record back on. I pulled a chair up to the couch where I could easily rinse the cloth and check on my patient. The record started: a slow melody carried by a cornet. I leaned back in the chair, my eyes closed—I swore for only a moment—and slept.
I awoke some time later to darkness and a protesting stomach. I drew open the curtains to let in the moonlight. I turned on one of the living room lamps as well, just to be safe. After changing her washcloth, I wandered into the kitchen to scare up something to eat. Unfortunately, Maelstrom and I seemed to have the same bad habit in common: empty pantry, lots of takeout boxes in the cold box.
As I gathered my coat and hat with the intention of raiding an all-night diner, I heard a rustling from behind me. I turned to see Maelstrom kicking off all but one of her blankets. She turned to lay on her side, but the sudden movement seemed to set off a coughing and sneezing fit.
She was awake now, hacking and struggling to find something other than a blanket to clean up with. I handed her one of the washcloths. She blew her nose as I helped her sit up. For a few moments, she didn’t really notice I was there: I was a tissue dispenser and that was what she needed.
Realization slowly crept into her cold-addled brain. Once she had gained enough composure, she spoke: “What are you doing here?”
Suddenly self-conscious, I found it difficult to speak. There was my original reason: to cover my flank against any weird rumors. It occurred to me that being found in my boss’s apartment in the middle of the night was probably more conspicuous than anything Raine or the rumor mill could come up with.
Then there was the other reason: because I didn’t feel like I could go.
I was still struggling to explain that feeling from earlier. I imagined being lost at sea, without an ore, or compass, or stars. I aimlessly drifted without purpose until Maelstrom gave me one by making me her assistant. I’d become her satellite and without her to orbit, I was cast aimlessly into the void.
“I came by for work. The door was opened. I found you here, with a fever.” I then stumbled through my conversation with Raine, though I was careful to leave out the bit about Raine’s attitude needing a kick in the teeth.
“Somepony must be upset she did an end-around with that report,” Maelstrom said in a raspy voice. I got her a glass of water and sat in the seat next to her.
“We could move her to ALERT,” I suggested. The Active Long-range extra-Equestrian Reconnaissance Team (or ALERT) was as a special air group who monitored the borders of Equestria for weather phenomenon entering the country. The EWS commonly assigned troublemakers there because they worked alone and far away from the home office.
“That would be a waste, Quill,” she continued after a good blow of her nose. “Raine is talented—and she knows it. But, she’s difficult to work with: willful and stubborn…” she continued on, but I got lost in my own memories:
Memories of losing jobs in the past. I wondered how many of my old bosses had this very conversation about me: “He’s good, but…” Now, I was on the other side: having the conversation which would decide an employee’s—a pony’s—fate; just like the ones that decided mine.
Those outcomes drove me to the bottle, out of my parent’s home, out of Manehatten, from town to town for years until I got the help I needed to pull it together, until finally Maelstrom. I can’t blame it all on those choices, but they were there: festering in the background, coming to the forefront of my mind now.
And here we were, deciding someone’s fate. It made a sour taste in my mouth. As much as she antagonized me, could I really help bring an axe down on Raine?
“…what do you think, Quill?” she finished. I hadn’t been listening.
“When I first started at the Weather Service, I was frustrated by the slowness of bureaucracy: everything I thought should be done quickly seemed to take ages. It felt like my colleagues, instead of helping me forward, were holding me back.”
The Director was sitting with Raine on the blue couch. While the cadence of her speech reminded me of a rehearsed script, it was not without some sincerity. Raine, for her part, sat nervously. Given the outcome of their last encounter, I couldn’t blame her. For my part, I stood out of the way: I was merely a bit player in this scene; background to the dramatic ambiance of their lives.
“I spent years riling against them because I knew I was right. But it didn’t matter how right or clever or fast I was. What mattered were the relationships I cultivated. Allies are your most important asset in life: those who will champion your cause and guide you when you’ve lost sight of your goals.”
A Champion is someone in authority who recognizes your potential and makes it known. A good Champion isn’t easy to come by. Then again, how many are truly worthy to be or to have them?
“You’ve spent most of your adult life being told how brilliant you are. This was a disservice of your friends and teachers. You ate their praise and got a—what did you call it, Quill?—a ‘fat head.’”
I smiled slightly at this. Maelstrom’s memory was exact. She didn’t need to mention me, but she did. She was including me—crediting me—and that was a good feeling, even if Raine may resent me for it. And there it was—a quick dart of the eyes, a thinning of the lips. Raine wouldn’t forget: they talked about me and Quill put me down.
“Now, your very promising career is on the line. You made enemies by making your superiors look bad. You’ve openly insulted ponies who empirically know more than you. You’re on the fast track to washing out.”
Tears started to fall from Raine’s eyes. They ran the length of her cheek and down onto the blue upholstery. She looked like she was on a knife’s edge; her whole body bracing for the axe to fall, the Ready! Aim! Fire! of her career. It wouldn’t matter if weather was all she could do—her special talent or destiny or whatever you want to call it would hang on the gallows beside her career.
“Don’t cry—here, have a tissue—today is not the end. I’m giving you a chance to start over and prove yourself worthy. In this regard, you will work harder than you ever have before: you’ll learn more about our work in a year than most do in a lifetime. You’ll be part of a team that risks everything to protect the pony population from the most pervasive phenomenon.”
Alliteration is a poor writer’s friend, or so I’m told.
“Of course, I’m referring to the Disaster Response Patrol. The DRP—yes, I’m being serious, Celestia knows why they picked that name—is highly trained and disciplined, their name notwithstanding. They fly into the worst storms, fight back forest fires, and research magical weather events. They combine the best practical skills and theoretical knowledge the EWS has to offer.”
Maelstrom and I had argued on this point. Raine was trouble: ALERT would have been the safe bet, but Maelstrom said: “She needs a challenge. How else can you explain her having the time to do research and reports?” I wasn’t convinced.
“The DRP is your best option to remain at the EWS. You’ll need to accept the transfer or,” she hesitated, “or you’ll need to look for opportunities outside the agency. Which will it be, Summer?”
Maelstrom finished, her expression tight and searching. She watched Raine intently, waiting for a reply. The air was thick with mix of anticipation and frustration. Through the tall office windows, I saw a sailboat on the river. It sailed quietly along smooth waters, casting little wake. Its peaceful transition was a welcome relief to the tension in the room.
The Director and I had spent a solid week looking for a place to fit Raine. While it didn’t take long to find who grounded her, Maelstrom felt it wouldn’t help to take punitive action: it would only foster more resentment towards Raine. Moving her, Maelstrom argued, was the best option for everypony involved.
Maelstrom dedicated more time than I expected to this problem. Raine was practically entry-level. Why waste the Director’s attention on someone so insignificant? As Maelstrom spoke, I realized why: she saw herself in Raine. She saw her younger, brasher self and, being the wiser of the two, choose to reach down with benevolence. That was my theory, anyways. That and a few bits can buy you a sip of cider at Salutations!
“Yes ma'am,” Raine said in a small voice, still rough from fighting back tears. She must have thought the axe was coming. No doubt that’s exactly what Maelstrom wanted her to think. “I’ll do it.”
That was my cue: I stepped around the desk and handed Raine a folder with instructions for her new assignment. She held the folder close to her breast in a comforting way, the way a child holds a doll. You could see the struggle on Raine’s face: the fear of failure, the apprehension for change, the certainty of rejection. Her yellow eyes were red and veiny, they puffed and dodged quickly as if to say, “Nothing to see here.”
“Excellent,” the Director said as she stood. Raine followed suit. I showed Raine out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “ALERT would take her without question.”
“If she survives the next moon, we’ll know. In the meantime, we have more pressing matters: we’re going to Las Pegasus.”
The train compartment was a cramped, stuffy sardine can advertised as luxury accommodations. Amenities included two beds with a foldable desk between them and washroom small enough to make a claustrophobic crawl into his suitcase to get some air. The walls were paneled in a light wood, with white trim and accents. The bed linen was also white and had a distinct medicinal quality.
These quarters would be Maelstrom and my home for the next several days as we traveled to Las Pegasus. Under normal circumstances, I would find that much time with somepony grueling. But this was Maelstrom: quiet, methodical, purposeful. It may even be a vacation (whatever that was).
I’d just finished stowing our baggage when the Director entered the room. She was carrying several files, which she handed to me before flopping on the bed. She rolled on her back, a wing drooped over the side. Maelstrom had eschewed clothing in the face of the summer heat and seemed to melt contently into the bed.
“Pull the desk out and take a look at the files,” she said, motioning for me to sit across from her. I did as she asked, and placed the files in front of her.
She pushed the files back and elected to resume her reclined position. “I’ve already read them,” she said looking at the ceiling. “Take a look.”
I opened the first file. It was the dossier of a Las Pegasus local, High Roller. Among the principle information (birthday, address, blood type) was a mug shot and a list of criminal charges—no convictions. The file also listed a number of accomplices believed to be involved in various unscrupulous activities.
Corruption happens, even in the hallowed land of Equestria. Pony society isn’t violent, but it can be deceptive: those with an inclination to swindle and cheat do well preying on our big hearts, deep pockets, and naiveté.
The other files where documents on terrestrial properties throughout the Las Pegasus area. As I read through them, I noticed a common trend: they were all waterfront and owned by the same pony: High Roller.
When I closed the last file, Maelstrom turned her head on the pillow to face me: “High Roller is a real estate mogul who managed to buy up most of the fresh water in the region. The analysts say if we’re going to act on Raine’s report, we’ll need to convince him to let us siphon water from his properties.”
“I thought you told Raine that report was unactionable?” I felt a hot sweat form on my neck. I dabbed it with my handkerchief.
“Yes, I misled Raine so she won’t get involved—don’t look so surprised. Would you trust her?” She turned to face the ceiling again. “Oh, you can lose the tie. We aren’t in the office. Open the window, if you want.”
Relived, I took off my jacket and tie, placing them neatly on hangers over the bed. I cracked the window and watched the farms roll by. The train was gliding down the tracks at a comfortable speed. Baltimare was already behind us, we were steaming through the wide country which dominated Equestria.
“How are we going to convince him?” I asked, but she was already fast asleep.
I dozed that afternoon—there’s not much to do when the sun beats on you like a stampede of buffalo: you can’t run, so lay down and hope they pass over without leaving a mark. I slept fitfully and my dreams were as elusive as a cool spot on the bed.
When I finally woke, it was night and the air was much cooler. The room was dark, the window open, the moon hung silently in the sky. I could hear the steady sound of the car as it rolled along the tracks. Its soothing rhythm reminded me of a baby in a cradle, gently rocked to sleep.
Maelstrom was leaning on the desk between us, chewing on a pencil while doing a crossword. Her face was one of tired concentration, as if she’d been at it for a while but too stubborn to stop. Not wanting to interrupt, I watched silently for a time. I may have drifted back to sleep, but couldn’t be certain. After a while, she spoke up: “Thirteen letters down, starts with a ‘p’, ends in ‘s’: having a ready insight into and understanding of things.”
“Yesterday’s Baltimare Bugle?” I asked. She moved the paper to the side to look at me directly. Reading her was hard in broad daylight, let alone in the dim from the soft overhead lamp. Her blue eyes stood out in the darkness and I found myself suddenly self-aware.
“Yes.”
“’Perspicacious,’” I replied.
“I didn’t know you did the crossword,” she added after writing my answer down. “It occurs to me we don’t know a lot about each other after—what has it been?”
“Little over a year.”
She scribbled another answer in the paper before continuing: “That’s a long time to know somepony and not know they like crosswords.”
“It’s news to me, too.” I paused, thinking it over. “Crosswords aside, we aren’t exactly strangers.”
She moved the paper to meet my gaze. I decided to borrow a trick of hers and turned to face the ceiling. “You’re orderly, like things quiet and controlled. You take your coffee black, but occasionally sneak a cube of sugar when no one’s looking. You have a modest apartment, hate to cook, collect books, and love your family even though you never mention them—despite it being common knowledge you have a brother in the EWS.”
I snuck a glance over. She was still looking at me. “Is that all?” Her voice sounded distant, like she was asking from behind a solid wall.
“No,” I said, getting a little mad—I was hoping for more of a reaction. “You’ve got a big heart that you don’t let on: you genuinely care about the work we do—even the petty politics of it—and it makes you take risks like helping Raine or hiring a tramp to be your secretary. You can play the stoic better than a brick wall, but the mortar was mixed with more than stone.”
We stared at each other for a long time. I started counting the click-clack of the car. One, two, three, twenty, twenty-one, thirty-four, sixty-five, ninety-two. Even in the evening cool, I was feeling uncomfortably warm, but I persisted—determined I wouldn’t be the one to back down.
After two hundred-ten click-clacks of the railcar, I was about to break when she said, “You’re very perspicacious, aren’t you?”
It was my turn to make her wait, but I didn’t have the nerve for it: “I wouldn’t go that far. I figure it’s better to watch and listen. You’ll learn more that way. Besides, most ponies—”
“—don’t have anything interesting to say. I remember.” She picked up her paper once more and the conversation was over.
The train pulled into the Applewood station just after dawn. Fabulous Las Pegasus glowed eerily in morning twilight, the outline of billboards just visible on the horizon. From the train station, it would be a short ride by balloon ferry to the famous cloud city. It would be a first for me: I’d made it a point to spend my life up until this moment with my hooves squarely on the ground.
Maelstrom had been quiet since our conversation. She was brooding and irritable. I couldn’t be certain if she was upset with me or preoccupied with our mission; she was laying the placid face on thick. I chose to ignore it, which was Standard Operating Procedure.
The balloon ride was smooth and I spent much of it playing the tourist; hanging half way out of the basket to watch Applewood wake up and begin the day. It was a strange experience, looking down from so high, I found myself in the unusual position of feeling relaxed and lost in the moment.
I noticed Maelstrom looking over the side as well, with intense purpose. She was here for a reason and determination would drive her.
By midday, we had stored our things in our room at the Cloudscape Hotel and Casino. As a cloud city, Las Pegasus' operational cost is measured in water. Millions of liters are used each year to keep the city from crashing to the ground. Even more is used for expansion and consumption. Maelstrom was giving me the rundown as we walked through the casino towards the manager’s office.
“Raine’s report identified Las Pegasus as the primary cause of the drought: the city is expanding far beyond expectations. Moister is scarce here because they built it practically in the San Palomino Desert, so the local ecological cost to maintain this city is much higher than, say, Cloudsdale which normally stays in lusher country.”
“How does High Roller fit into this?” I asked, pausing a moment to watch a waterfall of bits fall from a slot machine. The middle-aged mare who'd been working the crank was squealing loudly as friends, family, and distant relations came rushing out of the woodwork to congratulate her.
“Aside from owning the largest casino, he’s also the de facto mayor of Las Pegasus. My hope is he will willing release his privately-owned water sources to the EWS to the benefit of the region.” She stopped short a door marked “Manager”.
“How will we do that?”
“I will appeal to his sense of good will and community.”
To my horror, she was being sincere.
High Roller's laughter echoed loudly in his gilded office. His overweight, gesticulating frame quaked uncontrollably as he rocked in his luxurious high-backed chair. He began hyperventilating, at which point the laughter was replaced with frantic coughing until a servant appeared with a glass of water.
He was heavyset, with tall black hair, and a platinum silk suit. He wore gold chains and had the musk of a stallion whose bath was drawn with cologne. He had the kind of personality a mycologist would love to get under the microscope.
Maelstrom and I stood in the center of the room. We had dressed in our Weekday Best, but our dark suits were out of place in High Roller’s bright palace. I watched him from beneath the brim of my hat with distaste: I found him bombastic, emotional, and too rich for his own good. A part of me wanted to feed him my hat.
Maelstrom was professional enough to keep her expression neutral, but I could see confusion in her eyes. She had constructed a carefully crafted argument based on public welfare and scientific data. She couldn’t wrap her head around someone like High Roller whose life was built on the backs of crooked deals and selfish ambitions. This explanation didn’t sit completely well with me. It had long been my belief that anyone who had advanced to Maelstrom’s position must be least a little dirty, yet her confusion seemed to suggest an unfamiliarity with less noble motivations.
“Mister Roller,” Maelstrom began carefully, “I fail to understand your amusement.”
High Roller pulled himself together with surprising agility: I wondered if his earlier hysteria was an act. He began speaking with the thick drawl and mannerisms of a rustic entrepreneur: “Darlin’, you came all th' way up here to ask me fer water and you have nothin' to offer! Tell ya what, since I’m a nice guy,” I found that questionable, “I’ll sell it to you! Eight bits per litter!”
When a loud person becomes angry, they puff out, make threats, or throw things. But, when a quiet person gets angry, there is a darkness which radiates from them. Maelstrom was putting out enough energy to blot out the sun. The bright colors of the room dimmed as if the distant generators which lit the room were suddenly strained.
“You must be aware that is eight times the wholesale price,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Supply and demand, darlin’!” he cried happily. “I’ve got it, you need it!”
“Without the EWS, that water is useless.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that! No, darlin’, not at all! Why, it makes waterfront real estate possible!” He laughed heartily.
“Hey, Pal,” I heard myself say, “This is the Director of the EWS. Why don’t you stuff the attitude and get wise? We came here to save your city, not be gouged by a two-bit hustler.”
Roller turned on me with a snarl, but Maelstrom cut him off: “Mister Roller, I am extremely busy and do not have the time or patience to suffer your folksy fencing any longer. Either supply the EWS with the water we require or face the consequences.” Her expression was neutral but her tone was sharp. The moment she finished, she turned for the door. I followed closely, uncertain how this would play out. Roller started hollering and making demands as Maelstrom charged through the door without a backwards glance.
I made sure to slam the door in Roller’s face as he chased after us. There was a satisfying thud as his face met wood. It wasn’t my hat, but it would do.
We got back to our room a few minutes later. Maelstrom had walked at a gallop's pace and I was feeling a bit winded when she slammed our door, barely missing my tail.
With a tigress roar, she threw her hooves down on an innocent writing table and scattered the contents across the floor. “That impudent, obstreperous, conniving, selfish mule!” she swore loudly.
I was trying to make myself scarce. Seeing the Director outwardly angry (or emotional, to be honest) was new and I didn’t want to be in the fallout. Unfortunately, it was a small room and it only took a moment for her to zero in on me:
“You want to tell me what in Tartarus happened back there?!” She was panting heavily, her wings way out like a gargoyle who’d spotted her prey. It felt like an accusation and I wasn’t in the mood to take it for demanding a little courtesy:
“High Roller's a pig and he wasn’t going to be won over by a bunch of ‘for the good of Equestria’ rhetoric! We lost the second we walked in that ridiculous office!”
She threw her forehooves up in aggravation and slumped in a chair. “Alright, Quill,” she began, her voice a dagger. “What do you think we should do?” Her face was slowly rolling back into the usual calm exterior, but it didn’t fool me: she was furious and I was walking a tight rope over a pool of acid.
“Roller’s basically the mayor, so appealing to the local government is out. How about the papers? Tell them the region is in danger and he’s sitting on his hooves.”
Maelstrom considered this a moment. “My understanding is High Roller's friends own the papers. If there’s a negative story, it’ll be about the incompetence of the EWS.”
“Immanent Domain? Seize the water for the public?” I asked, uncertainty.
“It’d work, but he’ll fight it. The courts are slow, Quill. By the time we won, the damage will be done.” She sighed and turned to look out the window. It was midday and the streets were full of taxis and colorful pedestrians, heavy purses looking to be lightened.
“Water from another region?” I asked hopefully.
“We don’t have the logistics this late in the season.”
At length, Maelstrom scanned the city for inspiration. I flopped on to the couch and put my hat over my eyes. I was thinking of nodding off when Maelstrom came over and sat next to me:
“I apologize for yelling at you.” Her expression was calm and almost felt maternal. “However, you must recognize you were out of line.”
I nodded in agreement. I might have argued it, but I wanted things to go back it normal. You don’t realize how much you rely on another’s consistent stability until it’s gone.
“I have a plan to persuade High Roller; though, its ethics are questionable.”
“What did you have in mind?” I had to force the words out. She was looming over me and there was cold fire in her eyes:
The Disaster Response Patrol arrived in Applewood about a week later, ostensibly for a training exercise. Maelstrom had selected the staging area away from Las Pegasus to avoid drawing High Roller’s attention, though she had sent me in her stead. They were amazing fliers, having flown direct from Baltimare with enough stamina to handle whatever might be thrown at them. Raine was among them and approached me after the initial briefing:
“Good to see you again, Mister Quill!” she beamed. It hadn’t been a moon, but it was like night and day. “I just wanted to say, sir, I’m sorry for the restaurant...and the café…and any other time I caused you grief.” She held out a hopeful hoof.
I wasn’t about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. I remembered something my father used to say: “Magnanimous in victory, humble in defeat.” He spent most of his life humble. I shook her hoof.
“Don’t sweat it, Raine,” I said trying to show some sincerity. I didn’t have anything against her, even if Raine was responsible for my being in the South West and not, as I would prefer, literally anywhere cooler.
“So, what’s this training exercise about?” There was a conspiratorial undertone to her voice. “Does it have anything to do with the Director’s meeting High Roller the other day?” she added in a quiet voice.
I was nonplussed: “Just how in Celestia's name do you know about that?”
“I didn’t until now,” she grinned. I added her my mental list of potential hat eaters. “But, it makes sense why she’s out here when nothing is going on. I guess that means she decided to act on my report?”
I put on my best Maelstrom face: “I couldn’t answer that even if I wanted to.”
“That’s okay! Whenever the Director wants, she can count on me. Tell her that, please. I really like the DRP and I owe Maelstrom for putting me there.” And she really seemed happy. Maybe it was just a honeymoon phase: she liked the job now, but would hate it later. Then again, maybe we’re all puzzle pieces looking for a place to fit, contorting into uncomfortable positions just to make a life, only to pop out when the strain becomes too much.
I promised I would pass her message along and made a hasty retreat. Maelstrom would want to know Raine knew more about the exercise than the other DRP members. I was worried how she would take this news. Maelstrom had become unpredictable on this trip: I’d seen more emotion from her in a week than the last year.
It wasn’t always obvious, nor was it always negative. There were times when she seemed almost manic: she smiled at dinner and laughed while reading the paper. I overheard her humming in the shower: a pleasant little dirge which reminded me of a child chanting blood blood blood.
I started to question whether the Director was actually sane. Her plan to get High Roller’s water bordered on criminal. For that reason, it was vitally important nopony else knew what was really going on, especially if that somepony was going to document it. The EWS was a Public Trust agency: nothing was hidden, everything was available upon request. On the other hoof, if it wasn’t written, it didn’t happen.
She was sitting in her bed, surrounded by papers. There was a bottle of something expensive looking on her nightstand and a number of discarded envelopes littered the floor. Her hair was unusually messy and I could see bags under her eyes. I started calling this version of Maelstrom “Mal”, which was an old word for “Bad”.
She looked up with a smile as I closed the door. I set my hat on the coatrack and handed her the latest correspondence from Applewood: “The Regional Director is on board: he’s grounding all Las Pegasus operations until further notice and has redeployed all his WPs to distribute water for drought mitigation.”
“Did you have to tell him anything?” She started tearing through the envelopes savagely.
“No, just what we agreed on: the DRP is conducting training exercises and can’t have WPs in the area fouling it up.” The best part of this story was that it was true: Maelstrom had ordered the DRP here under the guise of a research/training exercise. The issue was the planned length of the deployment: indefinite.
“Excellent!” she cried, tossing a letter at me. “The press dutifully picked up the story about High Roller’s generous support of the DRP study.”
“Did he actually say he supported it?” I asked while reading the article. “Never mind that: I see it says ‘a source at the EWS said, speaking on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to discuss the operation.’” I looked over the paper at Mal, who smiled.
“A leak in the EWS establishing a paper trail of support and cooperation with High Roller?” she asked, feigning innocence. “We’ll have to issue a memo about speaking to the press out of turn, Quill.”
“I’ll get right on it,” I said absently. This was becoming too much. I was starting to feel like a spy. Not the dashing, super-spy who always gets the girl. No, I felt like the back alley, treasonous kind who winds up in prison.
“You look ill, Quill. Are you feeling alright?” she paused and lowered her voice: “I’m going to need you to see this through.”
My throat was a vice, my tongue a desert, and my chest heavy as if a whole ocean was pushing against my ribs. “Of course, Mal,” I said in equally low tones. “I’m yours.”
Raine joined us in the hotel room that evening, at Maelstrom’s request. Without ceremony, she was put to task making calculations to determine how long Las Pegasus could remain operational, assuming current consumption, without renewing water from the Applewood reservoir.
While they worked, I kept busy organizing and preparing papers for the ongoing research operation. These ops are carefully planned and it was necessary to forge the bureaucracy, so that it appeared the research had been initiated moons ago. If Raine knew what I was up to, she didn’t say.
This kind of retroactive documentation is not completely uncommon in government work: sometimes, a project starts by mistake and someone must go through the arduous task of putting everything right. The only difference between innocent bureaucratic mix-ups and what I was doing was the date I was putting on the paper.
More to the point: I was becoming concerned that Raine was beginning to idolize Maelstrom. After all, it was the latter who rescued the former from career death: Raine was grateful bordering on genuflection. I would have approved of Maelstrom as a role model before, but now…now I worried Raine’s loyalty was blind.
And that made me question my own.
By the time Raine left, the sun was cresting the horizon. I wasn’t sure Las Pegasus ever slept, but in this way, it reminded me of my old my home in Manhattan.
Maelstrom was reading the new figures. She seemed pleased: “The good news is this won’t be a protracted siege.” She was like a general on a battlefield. “The city won’t last to the next moon without more water.”
“How far are we going to take this?” I was looking to be reassured. She didn’t answer. Maybe she was scared of how far she’d need to go or maybe she didn’t want me to know what she was willing to do to her own country in service of it.
The DRP research operation had been running for a few weeks when there was a knock at the door. It was midday which meant Maelstrom was sleeping soundly on the writing desk. I was closest and muttered a “Yeah, yeah” as I opened the door. Two ugly looking stallions greeted me with all the friendliness of a dead opossum.
“The boss wants to see ya,” said one of them, a mouth full of marbles.
I looked back at Maelstrom, who was still sound asleep. “Funny that: she doesn’t look like she needs me.” I moved to close the door, but they muscled their way in, pushing me over the coffee table. My back struck the edge of the table, which made my whole side tingle and numb. It would hurt worse tomorrow, but at that moment I was hoping there’d be a tomorrow.
“Listen wise guy,” the first opossum said, “You two can walk or be dragged. I don’t have a preference either way.”
My gut and bruised spine told a different story: he had a preference and was exercising Olympian strength to keep from following his heart’s desire. He was certainly pleased, as if this particular activity didn’t come around often. Surely, if he had known, he would have moved it to the top of his day planner.
The noise had woken Maelstrom. She offered me a hoof up, but I declined for the moment. The numb pain was pulsing and the floor was much more inviting. The second stallion decided now was a good time to contribute to the party:
“High Roller wants to see you.” He paused for a moment to remember the next part: “Now,” he finished confidently.
The bruisers were thoughtful enough to let us clean up and have a cup of coffee before heading out. Maelstrom was given the chance to send a few letters, as well. Before we left, she got close and slipped an envelope into my breast pocket and whispered, “When he concedes the water, have him sign this.” The other fellas guffawed and assumed it was a tender moment shared between colleagues. Nothing could be further from the truth.
They walked behind us as we moved through the city streets. It was busy as ever, but the tourists made way for our leatherneck escort who happily pushed aside the evening gowns and flowery shirts, the tuxedos and sweat pants, the showmares and lounge singers alike.
“What’s the plan, Director?” I asked quietly, tilting my hat to obscure my face.
She turned slightly and gave a wink which, if it was intended to assure me, did just the opposite. Maelstrom was playing this plan close to heart: I only knew she had a plan. The details came when she needed things done: send a letter here, file a report there, bring another pot of coffee.
We entered High Roller’s casino from an alley entrance near were the pavement ended and the cloud top began. I noted with interest that the Earth Pony stallions who had accompanied us gave the cloud floor a wide berth. You can get high on power, but still fall like a lead weight all the same.
On entering the manager's office, the goons stopped just outside the door. High Roller greeted us like old friends who happened by for supper. “Hello, hello my darlin’—oh, excuse me, Mister Quill where are my manners? Hello, Director!” He smiled wide like a snake unhinging his jaw.
He continued, oozing enough slime to keep the Equestrian Mycology Association in business for another thousand years: “Now, y'all have had your fun, but it’s time to get serious: the civil engineers tell me the city needs it’s next shipment of water or the clouds holding us up will start to break.” He paused, offering Maelstrom an opportunity to speak, but she remained silent. Outwardly, she showed only a passive interest in the conversation, instead electing to examine her forehooves diligently.
Roller resumed, but with less bluster in his voice: “Director,” he condescended, “How do you think it’s going to look when Las Pegasus falls out of the sky, hrm?”
A tremor shook the building. Roller looked frantically around the room as expensive knickknacks fell from the shelves. I spun toward Maelstrom and saw the faintest hint of a smile. She strode up to High Roller, her eyes were fire and her voice kerosene:
Roller called out for his muscle who quickly filed into the room. There were more than I remembered—five total and they looked none too happy with the situation. Another tremor rippled through the building, sending most of us to the ground.
Maelstrom remained planted on her hooves, using her wings to keep stable as the building lurched. If she had noticed the guards crash into the room, she didn’t care. She was putting the pressure on High Roller, who wasn’t ready to give in quite yet.
“What is this? What did you do?!” he cried in terror. His boys were getting back on their hooves. I put myself between Maelstrom and the mob, uncertain how I was going to keep them back.
“GIVE US THE WATER,” said an angry voice. I didn’t have to look to know it was Mal. The building shook again and two of the muscle scampered—that made it one against three.
I was about to start the fray when two things happened at the same time: High Roller screamed and the office window smashed open. I turned in time to see a green blur whip up enough wind to knock everypony down again.
When I looked up, Maelstrom and High Roller were gone and the muscle were high tailing it out the way they came. They were there to look tough, but intimidation isn’t strength. They clamored over one another as they squeezed through the door.
With nothing else to do, I jumped out the window.
It was loud like a hangover and cold like an ice box. I was plummeting at some scientific constant which would be empirical, but not overly comforting at the moment. As I fell, I was suddenly struck with the realization that this could be the wrong move.
How could it be right?
Because I was trusting that Maelstrom wasn’t actually insane. I remembered the letters she sent out before coming to High Roller’s office; the envelope she gave me. The timing of the cloud-quake was too convenient to be coincidence. Maybe the city was falling apart, but my guess was the DRP had something to do with it.
I passed the cloud layer and saw the ground racing towards me. The brown, craggy rocks were dotted prominently with sharp looking spires and bone breaking slabs. Oh, Celestia let me be right.
Down down down I fell, resting my hopes on what Maelstrom called a perspicacious interpretation of her. I was doing the mother of trust fall exercises, guided only by my belief that Mal had a plan and it included me jumping out a window. After all, she must have arranged everything else, including Raine literally crashing the meeting.
I was about to second guess myself for the third time when Raine swooped up and caught me. “Don’t struggle!” she called as she slowed our decent.
“What took you so long?” I gasped, trying to swallow my heart which was, in a treasonous move, attempting to escape the fate of its host via my windpipe.
We landed on a smooth rock just inside the shade of Las Pegasus. “I was getting this,” she handed me my hat.
I took it with a swipe and stared at it. It was grey with a faded purple band. The stiff rim was soft with moister from the fall and I noticed for the first time a yellow ring marked where my sweat had stained it. It was new when I bought it special for my interview with Maelstrom, but that felt like an eternity ago.
Maelstrom!
I looked around the rock and saw her at the far end. She had pinned High Roller to the slate and was doing her best gargoyle impression. For a moment she seemed less a Pegasus and more a nightmare you’d dream up in Tartarus.
“Stay here,” I told Raine. Something in my voice made her nod and keep back. I approached Maelstrom carefully, worried how she would react if startled.
“You finally made it,” she said without looking at me. Her eyes were only for High Roller who was sobbing quietly on the ground.
I tried to play it cool, but my recent brush with death was making my voice a little higher than usual: “Glad jumping was the right call.”
“I trusted you would figure it out.” She was too casual about it.
“What happens next, Mal?” I asked carefully.
“That depends on Mister Roller here.” She nudged him with a hoof. “You have the power, Roller: give up the water or watch the city crash to the ground. Either way, the drought will be avoided.”
He mumbled incoherently. I bent down to listen. I couldn’t make him out. I offered a hoof and he took it. Slowly, he pulled himself together, but when the pieces lined up, it was a weaker pony without bluster or pretention. He wasn’t mad, just scared: of Maelstrom, specifically. He shied away from her like a dog who’s just messed the rug.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he sobbed, “it was mine, I bought it, why should you take it? I have the receipts…” He was mewling to an unsympathetic god. Maelstrom had the control, she had the power, even if she dressed it up as a choice: High Roller was going to lose his. And it was his. We conspired to undermine that; to steal from him. Why?
For Equestria. Or was it for Maelstrom?
Was it still Equestria if nopony felt safe because we could take anything we thought we needed? What kind of people are we, if we’ll lie, cheat, and steal to gain an edge? Didn’t that bring us closer to High Roller’s kind?
I said as much to Mal. Her response was predicable: “We gave him a chance to cooperate. This is what happens when you put your selfishness ahead of the greater good.”
“Mal,” I started but she interrupted me:
“My youngest brother calls me that: ‘Mal’. As if I was the problem.” She rolled her eyes. The façade was cracking again. “He was never willing to apply himself. That’s why he’s in ALERT, you know. Such wasted potential.”
I didn’t know, but I saw an opening: “Is this what you do with your potential, Mal? No wonder he didn't want to be like you.”
That got her attention. She rounded on me—rushed me and knocked me to the ground before I could react. It was like getting hit by a train. Like Raine, she had started as a weather pony—they say you never really lose the strength. Trust me, it was there. She spat venom: “You don’t know a thing about my family!”
“I know you! Look at yourself, Mal!” I used the nickname on purpose. It seemed an effective chink in the armor. “Is this the kind of stuff you did to them? Push them into a corner where their only options are lose or lose? That’s not a leader—that's not a sister!”
She slapped me—I wasn’t expecting that. The pain wasn’t all physical, either. “He had a choice! He could have listened to reason!” It wasn't clear if she was talking about High Roller or not—it didn't matter, I didn't care. There were tears now, and they fell on my face like rain drops. Behind her, Las Pegasus began to list. I imagined I could hear the panic in the streets. They’d start the evacuation soon, if it wasn’t already in full swing.
Maelstrom didn’t seem to be paying attention to me anymore. She was lost in her world, her memories, her family. I knew that look—I’d seen it in the mirror too often to forget. It was her regret, her failure. Maybe the realization was coming that all this business with Las Pegasus was wrong—but I couldn’t say, I’m not in her head, despite the hours trying to figure her out. I’m nobody—just the guy she hired to do a job, only now I wasn’t sure what it was. I guess this all fell under “other duties as required.”
I gently nudged her off me and went to High Roller. He was transfixed by the calamity above us. “Mister Roller,” I said calmly. He nodded that he was listening, but his eyes were on Las Pegasus. “As the mayor, you need to declare an emergency. It allows the EWS to use your water.”
“But, but the Applewood Reservoir—” he attempted.
“It doesn’t have a drop to spare—the Director saw to that—and it isn’t enough to fix this.” I placed a hoof on his shoulder. “This is the only way.”
He nodded. I pulled the envelope out of my breast pocket and removed a sheet of paper. I offered him a pen and he signed using my shoulder as a brace. The document in question authorized the EWS to use his water, until which time it was no longer necessary. Prepared by Maelstrom, the document was also a confession that High Roller was responsible for the near catastrophe in Las Pegasus, which I doubt he noticed. She all but put a noose around his neck.
“Raine,” called a commanding voice. Summer rushed to Maelstrom’s side. “Alert the DRP we have permission to use the water.”
Raine gave a single nod and rocketed away. Maelstrom, High Roller, and I remained on the slate and watched as the DRP drew water up from the valley into Las Pegasus. It was quite a sight: like birds charming a water spout up to the clouds.
“It is my sincere pleasure to thank the brave members of the Equestrian Weather Service for their swift and expert action which saved our fabulous city from certain disaster!” There were cheers and applause throughout the crowd. The press were writing down every word High Roller said. Maelstrom stood beside him. I watched the pageant unfold on the temporary stage outside High Roller’s casino. I was wearing a placid face and new hat: tan with a wide brim, much in the style of the West Coast.
“Certainly, without their diligence and devotion, our city would be no more. It is my great privilege to present Director Maelstrom with the Key to Las Pegasus, along with my sincere and humble gratitude.” They shook hooves. He said something in her ear which made her laugh—or appear to laugh at any rate. He handed her a large golden key, attached to a dark plaque. The key was adorned with rhinestones and shined brightly in the noon day sun.
Maelstrom gave a brief speech where she thanked High Roller for his generous contribution, then recognized the DRP for their efforts. I was starting to tune it out when she said: “And finally I want to thank my assistant, Quick Quill, whose loyalty and commitment made this possible.” More applause. Somepony must have pointed me out because the press started taking pictures. I tried to look congenial, but later saw it came out constipated.
We took a train out the following day. Maelstrom made the arrangements: I had a cabin to myself. I stayed in there for most of the trip. I didn’t want to see anyone. One evening I was struggling with the Applewood Time’s crossword. I decided to head down to the lounge car for a drink to see if it’d help. My expectations were low but my thirst was high.
I spied a group of DRP members at a table. They waved at me as I sat at the bar. I waved back. We’re all friends here.
Raine broke away from the group and sat next to me. She looked young and happy. I wondered if I was ever that young. Maybe I was born an old stallion; I certainly felt it. Between my aching back and bruised cheekbone, I was feeling pretty feeble.
“How are you doing, Quill?” she asked me kindly. “Everything happened so fast with—” she lowered her voice, “—with Mal.” I guess the nickname was going to stick.
I ordered a blackberry cider: it was one of those occasions. “I’m pretty shook up; thinking about leaving the EWS when we get back.”
She nodded sagely. We drank in silence for a time. It was comfortable.
“This is all I know. It’s all I want to know,” she said after a time. She wasn’t talking about drinking.
“Then do it, but do it your way. Celestia help us, but if you become Director one day, you don’t have to run things like that.”
She smiled. “Maybe you should stay. Keep Mal in check.”
“I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I needed a job.”
“That’s it?”
I laughed, “Yeah.”
“You still have one. Why go?”
I took a drink. “I hate it when then bad guys win.”
She gave me a puzzled look: “I thought we won?”
With a derisive smile, I slid from the bar stool and said, “We sure did.”
It was late and I was feeling good. The cider had helped me relax and the company was good, too. I traipsed carefully down the sleeper car, intent on going to bed. To get there, I’d have to pass Mal’s cabin, whose lights were on and door was open.
I stopped at the edge of the light, listening carefully. There was little reason for the door to be open: Maelstrom didn’t welcome visitors. I figured she was fishing for company. It’s not your job, I told myself.
I walked past her door to my cabin.
I stopped at the door and looked back at Maelstrom’s.
It was lose-lose again. Leave with no job or stay with Mal. Which was right? Was there right? High Roller was a jerk who got more than he bargained for and maybe more than he deserved. Maelstrom was ruthless, but used that power for what she thought was good.
What was I? A day planner? A saddlebag? A tissue dispenser? A letter carrier? A secret-keeper? A colleague? A friend?
At the end of the day, I knew who I was:
Quick Quill, Assistant to Director Maelstrom, Equestrian Weather Service. That’s who.
