The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel...
William Gibson, Neuromancer
She lay on a stack of cushions in the dimness of her little veiled enclosure, eyes roving the tablet in front of her. Outside, the Seaddle rain lashed the windows, just barely managing to dull the orange of the Opera’s neon sign. Say what you would about Augmented Reality displays, but there really was something reassuring about the old, analog neon sign in a world that had lost its mind.
Her tablet hung on a flexible stand bolted to the floor, the screen filled with chat windows, DMs, and receipts. She flicked through them with a hard rubber stylus glued to the back edge of her hoof like a spur, working with an agility that her ancestors would have found mesmerizing. She tapped the screen once, and carefully scrutinized an invoice. Without a word, she signed on the dotted line, then flicked the virtual paper to one side. As it slid beyond the edge of the tablet, her Augmented Reality contact lenses projected a new image: the white paper soared off into space, folded itself into an envelope, and dissolved into a spray of pixels.
But she didn’t notice, She had already turned back to the next bill. She was halfway through reading it when a soft chime sounded in her ear.
She reached up and tapped the glowing icon in the corner of her tablet with her spur. Ahead of her, floating in the air, hung a semi-translucent AR window depicting one of her security staff.
“Ma’am?” he said. “You have a visitor.”
“Send them away,” she said, without looking up. “I don’t take visitors this time of night.”
The security grunt swallowed.
“This one, he…” his gaze flicked away for just a moment. “He has an invitation.”
She looked up, then let out an appreciative little sound. “An invitation, does he?” she said, grinning. “Well then--send him in, by all means.”
The grunt nodded and disappeared. She tapped her tablet twice, dimming the screen, then crossed her forehooves, cleared her throat, and straightened up into a pose of dignified disdain.
She watched through her dark, gauzy curtains as, a second later, the double-doors at the far end of her chamber flew open. In marched two of her security guards, identical in sharp black suits and deep-red ties. Between them, they dragged a gray stallion in a rumpled blue suit, in the midst of hurling abuse at his escorts.
“I’m an Equestrian citizen!” he roared. “I have rights! If the press gets word of what you’re doing to me, then there’ll be—”
“How convenient, then, Councilor,” she purred, “that we find ourselves in one of the few places the press cannot go.”
The smooth chill of her voice silenced the stallion. His two escorts threw him to the floor, made quick bows, then withdrew. Slowly, the stallion stood.
“Who are you?” he asked uncertainty. “What do you want?”
“You may call me Madam Butterfly, Councilor Winter,” she said. “And you are here to discuss a debt.”
For a second, he froze.
“A debt?” he repeated. “I-I don’t owe anything. I’m current on my tab—”
“This isn’t about a tab,” Butterfly snapped. “It’s much more of a… personal matter, if you take my meaning.”
He swallowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, almost managing to keep the shake out of his voice. “But if it’s money you want, then I’ll—”
“Please don’t play dumb with me,” Butterfly growled. “It’s not a good look on you.”
She stretched, stood, and parted her curtains. The Counselor shrank back as she stepped into the dim lights of her office, and a strangled cry escaped his throat.
Madam Butterfly towered over him. She had no coat, only a black, glossy carapace, speckled here and there with deep cavities. Her mane and tail were both a deep, red-rose color, matching the shell on her back. She stood in front of him, a full-grown changeling Queen in all her glory, staring down at him with a mix of open hatred and amusement.
“Do I need to explain further?” she asked. “Or are the issues at stake already clear?”
“I-I—” he stammered.
She sighed, then turned and walked back to her cushions and laid herself down again, leaving the curtains open this time. She permitted herself a little smile; this is how she preferred her victims. There was nothing like a little monologue to get them squirming in their horseshoes.
Butterfly tapped her tablet with her spur, then swiped left, clearing away all the windows. “As you know,” she said, “the Blackbriar Opera is the most successful avant-garde theater in Seaddle. We have a bit of a reputation to keep up, and would hate if anything were to jeopardize that status. For example,” she said, eyeing the Councilor, “if a bill currently making its way through the City Council were to outlaw creatures such as us.”
For just a moment, the old flames flared up in the Councilor’s eyes.
“Changelings are a menace!” he cried. “You spread diseases, and murder innocents, and—”
“Shut up,” Madam hissed. The Councilor stuttered to a stop.
Madam Butterfly took two or three deep breaths before she spoke again.
“Councilor Winter--” she began. “--or would you rather I called you Mute?”
Winter Mute swallowed nervously, but said nothing.
The Madam shrugged. “No chitin off my snout,” she said. “But I think we both know that you’re lying when you say Changelings spread diseases. After all,” she said, with a humorless grin, “you’ve had closer contact with our kind than most, and you’ve turned out just fine.”
The Councilor puffed up his chest indignantly. “What are you implying?” he asked. “I’ve never touched—”
Without a word, the Madam tapped a file on her tablet and swiped upwards. The file swooped up off her screen, folding itself into a manilla envelope, which hung in the air in front of the Councilor. He swallowed, then reached out to tap it with his hoof. But, before he could, the clasp undid itself, and a thick sheet of virtual photographs floated out of it. As he stared at the first one, the color drained from his face.
“Indeed,” Madame Butterfly said, into the silence. “And, if that’s not enough, I have one hundred and eighty-seven others, many of them much more compromising than that one.” She smirked. “Some even have audio.”
The Councilor snarled, then swiped at the photos, which dissolved into a spray of sparks, then reformed. “S-so I’ve slept with a changeling,” he stammered. “What does that prove?”
The Madam shot him a withering look. “I’ve asked you not to play stupid once before,” she growled. “But if you really need me to spell it out for you…”
She rose, then slowly stalked towards the Councilor, who shrank back. “You’ve heard the legends,” she hissed. “Changelings need love to survive. Reality is, of course, much more complicated than that, but it’s close enough to the truth for our purposes. Either way, that’s why you, and those like you, have forced us into these ghettos in the first place--you’re afraid that we’re hurting you, somehow, when we get the nutrition we need.”
“You. Eat. Love,” Winter enunciated. “How can that not hurt—?”
“Yes, indeed,” Madame Butterfly said, interrupting him. “That’s the line of reasoning that you and your buddies love to parrot, isn’t it? But here we are…” she gestured to the floor. “On the top floor of the last remaining enclave of Changelings in Seaddle. An entire hive of Changelings, right under your noses. And, for twenty years, no one’s noticed a thing. Don’t you think that says something about your theory?”
Winter opened his mouth to respond, but something inside him kept him quiet. Madame Butterfly gave a curt nod, then began to pace around him.
“Be that as it may, that still leaves us with a problem. We still need a way to make a living, especially with all these mouths to feed. And what better way to do that then to milk all your bigots and prudes for everything they’re worth? To make them cheer and applaud for us every night, all while freely giving us the love they think we want to steal?” She smiled, a cold, dangerous smile. “I never imagined myself as an actress--but, even so, you can’t argue with the reviews.”
“But even that’s not enough love for us,” she continued. “Not with so many of us fighting for every scrap of love we can find. And, of course, we do have some… unique talents that could help. So…” her grin widened. “We established the biggest illicit brothel this city has ever known. We cater to every perversion that you could dream of--and several you can’t. And, to maximize our ability to provide for our own, the whole place is riddled with secret passages. Now, we can cram as many changelings we need as close as possible to each of our…” she sniffed. “...customers. Let them all have a little taste of all that... emotion.”
For a splinter of a second, Madame Butterfly looked sad, almost mournful.
“Lust is a poor substitute for love, of course--especially once you’ve tasted the real thing. But it’s close enough to keep us going. And there’s precious little of the genuine article around, these days… but, what else are we to do in a world gone mad…?”
Her gaze hardened. “Which brings us back to you, and your little Exclusion Ordinance. You have some nerve, trying to screw us both literally and metaphorically at the same time…”
Councilor Winter stood. “I am doing what I need to to protect the families of Seaddle!” he said, managing to suppress the quaver in his voice. “You and your kind aren’t—”
“But what about my family, Councilor?” Madam Butterfly snarled, har rage silencing him. “You talk a big game about keeping ponies safe--but who is there to stand up for us Changelings, when ponies like you want us gone? Nobody.” Her eyes narrowed. “That is why we protect ourselves, with whatever weapons we can. We have to hit our enemies where it hurts. And, dear me…” she shook her head sadly, then clicked her tongue. “...whatever will your voters say when they discover that the candidate they elected on a promise of family values is sneaking off to a brothel every chance he gets? And a changeling-run one, at that?”
Winter glanced reflexively at the photographs, still floating in midair. At the sight of them, he bristled.
“T-that’s blackmail,” he spat. “I’ll sue—”
“It’s not blackmail, it’s insurance,” Madame Butterfly spat back. “We keep our promises, Councilor--at least when others can be trusted to keep theirs. Ordinarily, the cameras only record to make sure nothing happens to my little ones when they’re meeting a customer’s… needs. But, in your case, I had security set the tapes aside.” She sniffed delicately. “I am loathe to destroy lives like this, of course, but you’re doing an excellent job of forcing my hoof...”
For a moment, the two of them were silent. Madame Butterfly stared down at the Councilor with a faint grin, while he stared back up at her, seething.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, finally.
“Leave,” she said. “Find some other place to get your jollies. And withdraw your Ordinance.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. My supporters will crucify me.”
“Perhaps,” Butterfly admitted. “But not as badly as they will if we release those photos.”
Butterfly shot one last disdainful look at the Councilor, then turned and walked back towards her cushions. “I trust you can show yourself out,” she said, over her shoulder. “After all, you know the place well enough. By the way, please don’t do anything to test my guards,” she added. “I’ve asked them not to hurt you, but they can get so forgetful when they’re angry…”
Councilor Winter lowered his head and glared at Madame Butterfly, and let out a short, sharp snort of frustration. Then, he turned and stomped out.
Madame Butterfly settled into her cushions again, then tapped her tablet with her spur and started sorting through her documents. For several seconds, all was silent. Then, a vase of flowers to her right shifted. And suddenly, there stood a security guard, taller and broader than the rest, where no pony had been standing moments before.
“Have him followed,” Madame Butterfly said, without looking up. “Never trust a rat.”
The guard nodded. “Of course.”
“And—” the spur paused. “Send a signal to the rest of the hive for me. Make it… oh… Magicicada.”
The guard’s eyes widened. “Are you sure, Ma’am?”
“No,” she admitted. “But better safe than sorry.”
“Of course, Ma’am.”
“That’s my boy,” she added. “Now, off you trot.”
* * *
Winter Mute pulled his suit coat over his head, to shield himself from the rain, then dashed across the street and into an alley. There, in the alley behind some Kirinese take-out place that smelled like rotting fish, sat a boxy white truck, its engine still idling. A cheerful pony painted on the back doors proclaimed that “Nothin’ Beats Howie’s Haycaf!” Without a second look, he pulled on the handle, then ducked inside and shut the door behind him.
“Mr. Johnson,” said a voice behind him. “Took you long enough.”
Winter shivered. The voice had just the right mix of disdain, boredom, and malice. The sort of voice that would tear you apart as soon as look at you.
Alicorns, Winter thought to himself. I hate dealing with Shadowtrotters.
He turned and eyed the group of them. In front stood a pink unicorn, wires running through her short-cropped mane and into the back of her skull, chewing on a wad of something that smelled sickly-sweet, like antifreeze. Behind her stood a hulking, canine brute, holding a gun that looked like he’d ripped it off a tank with his bare hands. Sitting on a cushion in the back was a buffalo, with greasepaint patterns plastered on her face and chest, and with feathers woven into her mane. And, up front, in the driver’s seat, Winter saw their wheelman, a razorback boar, turn to look at him with an eye made of neon and chrome.
“I got held up, okay?” he said.
The unicorn blew a bubble of gum, then popped it impatiently. “You got that recording we need?”
Winter unbuttoned his collar, then reached inside and pulled out a small, flat slab of plastic that had been taped to his chest. Soldered on to one side was a microphone and a camera. He passed it, without a word, to the unicorn, who took it and examined it dispassionately.
“You remember the mission, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the unicorn said, slotting the stick into a tablet she had strapped to her arm.
“Get in, find the footage, delete it all,” he continued.
“We know, Mr. Johnson,” she said, a faint note of irritation in her voice.
Winter snorted. Shadowtrotters and their codenames. Mr. Johnson was him--as far as he could tell, it was a generic name they used for all their employers.
“You can trust us to get the job done,” the unicorn said, still sounding bored. “As long as you have the nu-Bits.”
“I’ve got it right here,” he said, patting a pocket.
She eyed him. “All of it?” she asked.
“Half,” he said, a faint note of uncertainty in his voice.
The buffalo narrowed her eyes, then took a deep breath. When she exhaled, it came out as a cloud of electric blue steam, and patterns of leaves and animals danced across her skin in the same, electric blue.
“Full payment, up front,” she grunted.
“Chayenne’s right,” the unicorn said, still not looking up from her tablet. “We’ve done our homework, Mr. Johnson. It seems you’re something of a slippery stallion. We want our entire fee, up front.”
“Half,” he repeated, stronger. “That was the deal.”
“Lugnut,” the unicorn said, an edge in her voice.
Behind her, the diamond dog flipped a switch on his gun. The barrel began to spin, and a low whine began to build in pitch.
“Deal’s changed,” the dog growled.
“Okay, okay—” Winter said, fishing two cred-chips from one of his coat pocket. “Here.”
The unicorn’s horn glowed, and she levitated the two chips towards herself. She slotted them into her tablet, one at a time, and examined their contents on her screen. Then, she looked up.
“It’s go time,” she said.
The boar up front grinned, then turned and kicked the driver’s side door open. Lugnut, the dog, let out a low rasping chuckle, then lumbered out the back door into the rain, followed closely by Chayanne. The unicorn herself pulled the buffalo’s cushion towards her, then sat on it, her posture both relaxed and tense as she stared at her screen.
Councilor Winter watched her for a moment, his eyes reflexively following the curves of her body. Damn, what he wouldn’t give for a piece of that…
Almost as if she felt his gaze, she turned and looked at him.
“You can go now,” she said, pointedly.
It took Winter a second to realize what she had said. When he did, he snorted again, then turned and let himself out the back door of the truck.
“Damn Shadowtrotters,” he muttered to himself, as he walked through the alley back towards the street. “Always trying to—”
“Councilor Winter?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
Winter whipped his head around. “Yes?” he answered reflexively.
He didn’t even have time to scream before two sets of hooves grabbed him and dragged him into the shadows.
