Portmaster

The three of us were led to Mr. Night's office. The door dissolved into sparks like before, and we entered.

The interior changed. Not the style but the layout. Instead of the big desk there were lounging couches around a table near the bar. Mr. Night occupied one of them, his wavy mane forming a waterfall spilling on the floor.

He gestured us to join, and we did so.

A projected image of Fern Leaf appeared next to the couches. She seemed confused and scared.

"Miss Dusty," the stallion spoke. "Your performance has been outstanding but the relationship with the little replicant is unacceptable. I ordered her incinerated."

"No!" Blood flowed out of Dusty's face. "No, please, Mr. Night, I'll do anything but please spare her!"

"All right." He smiled.

Suddenly a section of the floor slid up forming a square box with one side missing. Fern Leaf was inside. She saw us, and rushed towards us. "Dusty!" she cheered.

And Dusty was running to her, hugging her, crying. "You're fine, Leafy, you're all right." She threw a scared glare to Mr. Night.

"Now, now..." he replied to her glare. "I never actually intended to have the girl incinerated. Who do you take me for, one of Hayburgs?"

"Please, Mr. Night. I thought my heart stopped there. Do not test me like that."

"Seeing this once is absolutely sufficient. I've been closely following your lessons. Passively participating, one could say. Trying to confirm a nagging suspicion that lived at the back of my mind since my colthood days."

"You had a replicant friend?" I dared a guess.

He turned to me, startled. "A sharp police mind, I see. Yes, and I'd give up my fortune to meet her again."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Now, I don't really want to discuss that."

"No, seriously. Have you ever asked the cops to locate her?"

"I don't really know how. All I have are some vague memories. Eating ice cream together while riding the ferris wheel in Pondon, sneaking to the basement to play Lasers & Wormholes together, gazing at the clouds. Then one day my parents intervened, returned her to wherever they rented her from, and the friendship was cut short. At least that's what I hope, that they didn't just get rid of her secretly."

Oh. That last piece of information surely narrowed it down. The Lasers & Wormholes query already had only seven viable candidates, which would leave finding the right one to simply asking. Clouds removed one. And now the lease records made for one firm match. I verified her history to avoid unpleasant surprises. No reflashing, no traumatic events, no psychotic owners, no good maintenance service either though. I opened the link, including 3D visual, a little costly considering the broadband superluminal link, but Portmaster was a wealthy person indeed, and I really believed it a worthy cause.

A slim, worn-looking lemon-colored mare appeared.

"Hello, Classified Ad," I said. "An old friend of yours would like to say 'hello'."

She gasped as she saw Mr. Night. "Nighty? Is that you? Or... should I say... Mister Night." she bowed low.

"Nighty is fine, Classy!" He clapped his hooves in glee. "Oh gosh I am so happy to see you! Look. I'd really love to meet you. We have so much to discuss! Do you think I could buy you off from your current owner and get you here, to my place? We'd be best pals again!"

"Oh... I guess... but..."

"Oh come on, you can tell me."

"I have a friend here, and she needs me."

"Who's that friend of yours?"

"Her name is Cherry Fritter, and she's an old, frail lady."

"Well, ask your friend if she'd like to take a luxurious vacation in Elysium with you, my treat, and then we'll take it from there."

"I will! I think she'd love it!"

"I'll see you later!"

"Oh gosh, it's been so great talking to you! Bye!"

The connection ended, and we looked at Mr. Night's face full of glee. It took him a full minute to regain composure.

"Thanks. To think it was so simple... So many years. Just to ask." He squeezed tears off his eyes. "Oh well, let's get back to business. There's some bad news," he said, not seeming too concerned about the 'bad news'. "This morning Empress Celestia established embargo on flavored hay cigar transports from Equestria to Elysium, and repeated her demand of extradition of the fugitives. I am under an uncanny impression that she is not doing her best to get you captured, considering I have at least two alternate channels of obtaining the embargoed wares. I believe her relationships with the Hayburg family were less than warm."

I recalled the Solar Guard who insistently failed to notice me in the transport hub.

"So it's time we finish our visit, right?" Portmaster said.

"We can still allow a small delay. A day or two, but probably no more. I might help you pick a destination, prepare for the trip. Give you some time to enjoy the stay, peruse the facilities so to say."

"Mister Night," Dusty asked, shyly, still holding Fern Leaf with her wing. "May I ask if we could import..."

"Yes?"

"Some hummingbirds?"

"I believe they would make a wonderful addition to the gardens, Miss Dusty."

* * *

We spent the remaining time in Elysium fucking like rabbits.

Just kidding.

We spent it helping the remainder of the replicants prepare their new quarters. I laughed, watching Portmaster with a sonic hammer, affixing partitions to the walls. I didn't regret it the least bit. Helping the replicants was his idea, too... that is, after I explained to him that he's still not getting any.

Though I had to admit, my resolve was crumbling rapidly.

And later we helped getting Dusty moved in. She took over an old backup server room (the obsolete machines scrapped), which was less than a minute walk from where Fern Leaf lived. It was nowhere as nice as her apartment in the gardens, but it was spacious, with all necessities, and with the right touches it would be a very nice home.

And we had the right pony to give it the right touches. Ikebana was on fire!

Then, in the afternoon, we were requested to join a conference. Mr. Night had called in all his other managers of the station for the meeting. Dusty got an order to extend the 'alternate management strategy' (as she began to call it officially) onto all branches of operation of the station. In a couple cases it was hardly needed - for example, staff of the numerous hotels, casinos, and recreation facilities needed just a couple minor readjustments. In others it was met with indifferent acceptance, amused approval, curiosity, mild eagerness, a bit of disbelief that was quickly dispelled by displaying graphs of efficiency over time, and in one case, which I managed to notice only thanks to my cop experience - well hidden, but quite avid enthusiasm. Dusty fielded most of the questions, Portmaster only adding a little to a couple of them.

There was one case of resistance though. Mrs. Lamia was an elderly white unicorn mare of noble birth, responsible for the entirety of aesthetics of Elysium - architecture, gardens, interior decor, uniforms of the staff, programming of the projector tiles and so on. Of course not all in person - she had a small army of subordinates, although she'd review and approve all changes.

I noticed the first wince when she heard Dusty mention the guard uniforms issue. We raised the topic for comical relief, along with underlining the importance of communication and how serious problems sometimes have trivial causes - but I saw how Mrs. Lamia took it as a personal jab against her, and her armor design (even though it was never meant as such.)

Later, when Dusty mentioned a replicant designing and decorating their personal space, Mrs. Lamia just squirmed in discomfort, and then I noticed her eyes glazing over, wandering into virtual vision. I also noticed her dilated pupils, her breath speeding up, her slightly open mouth. My simple bet was: she saw Ikebana's work, and was impressed - and scared.

She sat silent through most of the conversation, but when time came to express commitments from the members, she refused.

"I took the liberty to review the effects of work of the replicants. Trash quality materials aside, they are uninspired, derivative, unoriginal, plainly a machine design. I'm finding the thought our customers might be exposed to that simply dreadful. I couldn't care less about others giving replicants personal rooms and leisure time. If you want to encrust sewer walls with diamonds or play music for enjoyment of the support pylons, be my guest. But I do not intend to create any room for 'creative contributions,'" she did the air-quotes with her hooves, "for any replicants in my employ. They are to follow my orders to the dot. I don't care if they spend time off in these new kennels, or scheming some way to blow Elysium up," she threw Portmaster a small glare, "but while at work I don't intend to allow them any 'creative liberties'."

Dusty nodded. "I kind of liked these designs, but I am a logistician, I don't have trained art sensitivities, art education or anything like that. I believe we may trust your opinion and allow an exception in this case."

Lamia sat back, smirking. But then Portmaster spoke.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I liked these designs too, and after spending a few years in the historical city of Hayburg I believe I may have picked some sensitivities. Still, just in case, I'd like to ask others gathered here."

He brought up a large screen, displaying Fern Leaf's room. He switched to a view of the recreation room, the relief-murals in the common corridor, a design simulation of the bar that was to be created, then he finished with interior of Dusty's new home.

Noise of many voices filled the air.

"Where's that bar? It's fantastic!" "I want that replicant to redo my house." "Impressive!" "Can we get some of these designs on sale?" "Come on, it's not all that good, sure the author is very talented but lacks experience..."

Mrs. Lamia's normally white coat was turning purple on her face. "You simpletons!" she exploded in anger. "You... Hipparions! You wouldn't know a knock-off if it was a copy of your own work! Of course it's appealing because it's all derivative of popular works! Copies! Knock-offs! Bootlegs!"

The murmur died down. The elder stallion responsible for sales of luxury goods raised his hoof, and Dusty gestured for him to speak.

"I would like to request your aid, Mrs. Lamia. I do my best not to be a hipparion in the world of art and design, but apparently sometimes I fail. Running the art gallery, the auction house, and a network of designer home decor warehouses, I have a good idea of the current market, and my Bachelor title in History of Art should give me a clue about the past designs. Yet I fail to recognize any simple knock-offs in the observed decor. Of course there are inspirations; the bar draws upon Ginger's dark-organic themes, the furniture of that last room is clearly postretroneosecession, and that mural draws heavily on Canterlot style, but I fail to recall any specific pieces these would be copies of. Could you please point me to any originals these are derived from? I would love to learn about authors of such excellent works, which I failed to encounter in my career."

The mare went from crimson to livid by now. She was gasping hard. Then she coughed out "Please excuse me, I am unwell", and she galloped out.