Behold the Light—It Beckons

Light Shine stared out the window of his living room. Situated on the twentieth floor of the Baltimare Estate Tower, his stateroom afforded him a privileged view of the Celestial Sea and the city’s bustling port. Far below, another gathering of workers crowded around an emphatic figure standing upon a makeshift stand—undoubtedly another communist rally. Or strike.

He shook his head in disgust and removed himself from the grand window, and sat down in an armchair that commanded the living room. Hoofing the day’s newspaper that sat upon the end table, he scanned it for anything of note. The front page headline read “PRINCESS LUNA CALLS ON SUPPORTERS TO MARCH ON MANEHATTAN”. Raising an eyebrow at the declaration, he scanned the article, and scoffed. Luna wanted a show of support for her referendum this weekend and called on thestrals and thestral allies to gather in Manehattan for a grand speech—not storm the city as the title suggested. Still, with tensions as high as they were, a concentrated gathering of so many dedicated to a cause in one location could easily be stirred up to cause trouble.

“She wants me to come home, Light.”

Light let the paper droop as Coral’s words echoed in his mind. Was that why? To gather as many loyal thestrals as possible in one place? His muzzle scrunched and brow furrowed. But why Nightmare Moon? To come home… Coral was from Baltimare. He shook his head. Perhaps Stormy was right—without evidence, it did sound like fear mongering. Even still, he could not shake a feeling of dread in his stomach.

Forcing the thought aside, he resumed scanning the newspaper. An article on the third page caught his attention as it described new attempts by the mayor, Ash Moustache, to “bring stability to our streets” by initiating a new “Citizen Militia” composed, interestingly, mostly of thestrals. The article further pointed out the protestations of Golden Delicious, who called the act a “danger to the common pony”, and “a violation of basic rights”.

Light didn’t know whether to be surprised that a member of the influential and powerful Apple family was involved in politics—let alone be a communist—or to fully expect that such a pony would involve themselves in the plight of the common worker.

Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, all sides were only interested in escalation, not resolution. Be it thestrals, industrialists, or communists, everypony appeared firmly entrenched in their positions. Light shook his head in disappointment. They were all wrong, of course. One visit from Celestia, or Twilight Sparkle, or even any of the other Bearers of the Elements of Harmony, and it would all be solved. An agreement would be reached, compromises would be made, and everypony would be happy. Obviously.

He folded the paper and set it back on the end table. There was nothing really more for him to do—being set on probation unexpectedly left him wholly unprepared with no docket of activity to occupy his time, and the communist protests and rallies had shut down many of the city’s entertainment,whether due to employee strikes or unsafe conditions. He stared blankly at the opposite wall. What a boring—

A knock at the door shook him from his descent into melancholy. While he had left no instructions to not be disturbed, he also expected no company nor was anyone outside his crew aware he even was at home, let alone in the city. He stood up and walked toward the door. Perhaps it was Stormy? It would be strange for him to visit after their recent exchange, though not outside the realm of possibility. He glanced at the nearby clock hanging on the wall. It was too early for room service or lunch. He reached for the door, then paused to instead look through the peephole.

A courier, of some kind? He opened the door.

“Hello?” He asked.

The pony bowed slightly. “Sorry for the interruption, sir, but there is a gentlestallion at the front desk waiting for you.”

Light furrowed his brow. “Did this stallion offer a name or reason for the visit?”

“Says his name is Page Turner and is an independent journalist looking for a story.”

“Hmmm.” Not that Light did not appreciate a little attention once in a while, but the timing and unexpected notion of a self-professed independent journalist taking interest in anything Light had to offer meant that this “Page” was digging for an exceptionally particular story. Given his lack of notoriety, one would only come knocking at Light's door—metaphorically speaking—would be if somepony else directed Page to himself, or if he specialized in news about the Navy.

“Did he perchance volunteer any more information other than his name and profession?” Light queried further.

“No, sir,” the courier said, “just that he wanted an interview with you.”

Light pursed his lips and bobbed his head slowly. “Very well. Inform Mr. Turner that I shall meet him in the lobby after lunch at precisely 1400 hours.”

“Will do.” The courier nodded, and trotted off.

Light closed the door, and sighed. “Well, I at least have an activity to look forward to now. And some company.”

At the appointed hour, Light walked into the grand lobby of the Estates, eyes searching for any obvious journalists waiting in the corners. When none made themselves apparent, he approached the reception desk.

“Pardon me, but is there a stallion by the name of ‘Page Turner’ waiting for me in the lobby?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Not that I know.”

“I see.” Light pulled out his pocket watch. It read one minute until Two. “Very well, would you please inform Mr. Turner, should he approach the desk, that I will be waiting—“ he pointed to a secluded corner. “—over there?”

“Of course. It’s Light Shine, correct?”

“Yes madam, it is.”

“Very well.”

With that, Light left the desk and retired to the appointed alcove. It was a little disappointing that his guest did not have the courtesy to arrive early for their meeting. Perhaps an unexpected rally delayed him. Or he lacked a reliable timepiece. Whatever the matter, Light used the afforded time to gather his thoughts one final time.

As if on cue, the main lobby doors burst open from the outside and a slightly disheveled unicorn stallion with a white coat and black mane stumbled in; he wore a pristine trilby hat and messenger bag to complete what Light assumed was the journalist look. The newcomer appeared youthful and energetic, rapidly scanning the lobby for someone or something. If his presumption was correct, then the object of his search undoubtedly was Light himself, though the assumed journalist did not find his quarry.

Light simply watched on in silence, observing the unicorn and his motions as the latter hesitantly trotted through the lobby toward the front desk. The faint sound of muttering could be heard; while Light could not make out anything the stallion mumbled, the movements of his head between his surroundings and the notepad levitated in his magic suggested a nervous and split concentration. That would leave the journalist vulnerable to manipulation so long as Light maintained a stoic composure. Of course, manipulating the poor pony—even if it failed—would be a terrible tragedy of moral conscience.

He shook the thought from his head. Now was not the time to be tempted by un-harmonic thoughts, and he thrust the errant musing aside. The pony now chatted with the receptionist, and, out of the corner of his eye, Light caught a hoof pointing in his direction.

No, he would do as he always tried to do with everypony. Be honest and understanding. His eye twitched as the thought of his interaction with Stormy Seas crossed his mind, but also cast it aside.

The sound of approaching hooves signalled that his guest now approached. Now was the time to establish initiative.

”Page Turner!” Light turned with practiced care and extended a hoof.

Page halted momentarily, then reached out a reciprocating hoof to shake. “Yes! I take it you’re Commodore Light Shine.”

The yellow-cream colored pony offered a warm, disarming smile. “Correct you are, sir. I assume you did a little metaphorical excavation to track my person down.” Now was the time to lay out the bait. “Seeing as I tend to avoid making waves in social circles, I find your desire for an interview to be extraordinary.”

”Make waves?” Page pulled out a pencil from his bag with his magic, slight grin on his face as he did so. “Funny coming from a navy guy. Are you okay with an interview?”

There was something about the way Page spoke that suggested he was not a local. Light motioned to the chair opposite of the one he had occupied, and moved to resuming sitting. “By all means. Where are you from, Page?”

”Manehattan, originally.” Page took his seat. “You’re not from around here either, right? Stableside?”

While his hometown was certainly no secret, it also was not public knowledge. For Page to know this meant he came prepared with enough information to guide his questions. Which also meant he could attempt to make speculative questions that Light would need to take care when answering. “Yes, I am originally from Stableside. Born and raised there.”

“What made you join the Royal Navy?”

Starting slow with inoffensive questions, perhaps to lull him into a false sense of security—a typical opening play for a journalist. “To see the world!” Light offered cheerily. “In all honesty, I joined because I love ships and grew up working for the family shipping business. I wanted a little more than the simple life of a merchant captain, and coupled with my desire to serve Equestria at large, I joined Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

The pencil in Page’s magic scribbled on his notepad. “How would you say the Navy life has treated you? Any fun adventures?”

“The Navy life has its own excitements that I imagine few others would experience, but Equestria has enjoyed a perpetual peace in terms of global politics that has left little reason to change how we have engaged in our activities for hundreds of years.” Light felt that was diplomatic enough of an answer to avoid most controversies.

Page nodded, seemingly in agreement with that statement.”Yeah, Equestria has been pretty safe from outside threats for a long time. Do you have a favorite color?”

Favorite color? The question held zero relevance to anything, but its straightforward presentation held enough serious tone to convince Light that the stallion was playing his own game to disarm the interviewee. Wear down his patience, then strike with the controversial question. He would not fall for it. “White, navy blue, and golden yellow.”

”Mmmhmm,” Page hummed. “Favorite food?”

“Sage country gravy, eggs sunny side up, flaky biscuits, with paprika.”

”Favorite book?”

“Aeronautical and Aerostatic Engineering Manual.”

Page stopped and raised an eyebrow. “A… technical manual? For airships? You don’t read anything, what, more casual?”

”Of course I do,” He steepled his forehooves. “But you inquired about my favorite book.”

”Does that explain the rumor that you never use contractions?”

Page bordered on wasting his time at this point. To lose his patience or end the interview would be to admit defeat, as it now made itself clear that it was a contest of will. He would not be bested. “Perhaps. My father believed that contractions demonstrated a lack of patience. He taught me to temper my language, and I have found it to be adequate for my desired method of verbal delivery.”

Another eyebrow raise from Page. Perhaps a sign of the battle of wits shifting in Light’s favor, reactions indicated a lack of restraint and temperament. Or perhaps it was a ruse. “Okay, interesting. Were you privately tutored by him? Maths, writing, politics… history?”

”Some, yes, but I was also blessed with a personal tutor as well.”

“I see, I see.” More scribbling. “You continued your education at the Baltimare Naval College, right? Officer’s track?”

“Yes.”

”How would you say your crew would rate your leadership skills?”

Now they finally were breaching into the meat of the interview. “No pony will ever go through life without making a few mistakes. No pony is perfect. With that said, I believe my crew views me as a considerate and competent commander.”

“What would you say your worst mistake was?”

The trap. Admittedly, Light has partially set himself up for it with his statement about “no pony being perfect.” To avoid the question would stand in contrast to that statement, and to acknowledge his choice to sedate would be to admit it was a mistake to do so. He could attempt to deflect to another incident, but undoubtedly Page would press on to the question of sedating thestrals. Still, it was worth the attempt. “Well, a few years ago, when I was captain of the destroyer Encounter, we were told to investigate rumors of a sea monster lurking about in the Fire Sea, but there was a major storm rolling in on the horizon. We were told to wait until the morning to depart, but I believed we could make good time, scout the area, and return before the worst of the storm arrived, if we taxed the engines for the entire journey.”

Light noticed that the Page’s pencil didn’t move. As suspected, this was not the story he wanted to hear. “So we pressed the engines, and definitely made excellent time reaching our destination—if I recall, we managed to hit 36 knots, an impressive speed, mind you—only to suffer engine failure. Thankfully, the reported sea monster either had vacated or was a false alarm, though we now faced the very real problem of the storm reaching us without our engines.”

He relaxed back into his chair. “Thankfully, we were able to weather the storm without much difficulty, but limping back into the harbor with a damaged engine? All for nothing? That by far was my worst mistake. To my eternal gratitude, the admiral at the time found the incident humorous, and commended my boldness.”

Page politely bobbed his head. “Yes… interesting story." There was a slight pause, before the stallion looked Light straight in the eye. "Could you tell me why you were recently put on probation?”

There it was. They were getting to the heart of the matter. Time to play games. “Probation? Who told you I was on probation?”

”I can’t divulge my sources, but I do know that you were placed on probation by at least…” Page flipped through the pages of his notebook. “…as of last week.”

“I presume if you know that I am on probation, then surely you also know why as well.”

“Do you believe that thestrals are equal with other ponies?”

“Of course.”

“Why would you sedate thestrals without their permission?”

“There was a concern of possible trouble.”

“A dream?”

Page had clearly spoken with either Coral Shelf or Holly Jasper before entertaining an interview with the commodore. “A nightmare. Of the Nightmare.”

“But nothing happened.”

“Because nothing ever does, is that what you are implying?”

“Reports of other thestrals experiencing the same or similar didn’t lead to any rioting or aggression. You are the only pony to take a drastic action.”

And there was the lie mixed in with the truth. Light leaned forward. “You mean to tell me that you possess definitive proof of every other pony’s actions relating to the dream incident with the thestrals? Every single pony and every related reaction?”

Page flipped through his notes as though to search for something he could not find. “There’s… there’s enough evidence… uh, ponies don’t—“

Page paused, then flipped through his notes, as if searching for something. Failing to find whatever he was looking for, he took a quick breath before responding.

"I, uh, don’t possess that evidence, no. But ponies don't—"

“Mr. Turner, I stand by what I did.”

The white stallion’s ears flicked to attention.

“I would never claim infallibility in my actions,” Light continued, “but we were isolated out at sea. Twenty-two of my crew succumbed to an unknown malleus that affected a particular race and only that race. Several of the thestrals aboard the Cloudsdale had their minds scried, and in each one, Nightmare Moon was found.” Light shifted in his chair, and leaned back. “One cannot count how many dangers are averted each day because they are never realized.”

”But… would you jail a protestor before they get violent?” Page countered.

Light huffed. “Like those who attend the communist rallies?” Light extended his right hoof to his right side. “Inaction—“ He extended his left hoof to his left side. “—and overreaction are equally bad. Insist on avoiding action under the auspice of safe, inoffensiveness inevitably leads to a detractor taking advantage of that inaction to nefarious ends. React with panicked fear at the slightest notion of an errant misdemeanor and one will face explosive resistance eventually.” He brought his hooves together.

“The middle ground is difficult to find,” he pressed on, “and will always show signs of both inaction and overreaction—we cannot please all ponies all the time. The burden of command thus demands that every leader do their best to find that frustratingly evasive balance betwixt them. I would rather err on the side of action than inaction. To do something rather than nothing.”

“So… you would jail protestors?”

Light Shine sighed. “Mr. Turner, your query leaves much to the imagination and ample room for misinterpretation. I cannot answer the hypothetical as it is presented.”

The journalist jotted a few notes down, before frowning and erasing a portion of it. “Okay, yeah… where do you stand on the thestral issue?”

”Again, you are asking far too vague a question to properly answer.”

“Erm," He tapped his pencil against the side of his snout. “Do you believe that thestrals should be treated the same as anypony else?”

Light tapped his hooves together. Now that they were into the serious questions, the cracks in his interviewer’s confidence and resolve were showing. “Mr. Turner, is this your first interview?”

The notepad floated down to rest on his lap and Page extinguished his magic. “I, uh…” The unicorn’s ears lowered. “Yeah.”

Again, the temptation to take advantage of the situation flashed into Light’s mind—to maneuver the young pony toward an advantageous position for Light Shine’s own benefit, but again, he pushed the thought aside. To act on such a temptation would go against everything he believed. “I see. What do you want out of the interview? An exposé into some deep-seated conspiratorial hatred? To uncover the truth?”

Page nodded his head. “I just... I want to get the real story about what happened. I already interviewed... one of your crew, and it sounded like there was a big story here." He rubbed the back of his head. "But with all the tension involving the thestral rights movement, I… kinda came in sounding more biased, more emotional, than I should.” The white stallion levitated his notepad into his satchel.

A fresh journalist that had yet to be tainted by the poison of chasing sensationalism. Perhaps there was an opportunity here still to be taken. One to hopefully spare the poor lad from a future of lies and manipulation himself.

”What is your ultimate dream, Mr. Turner?”

The white stallion looked up, his ears perking up slightly again. "My ultimate dream? I want Equestria to be better. Everypony thinks it's a paradise, and in a lot of ways maybe it is. But it’s also not for everyone. I want it to be that way for everyone. Night, day, earth pony, unicorn, pegasus, thestral, whatever." Page sat a little taller, look of determination now on his face. "And then maybe I can help make the world better too. Or at least try."

Light smiled. The dreams and hopes of youth. “Save Equestria one story at a time?”

”Something like that, yeah.”

”Commendable.” Light nodded in satisfaction. “And your quest is to discover the truth, not the thrill of a popular story?”

”Yes! No. I mean, truth, yes, not a sensational story.” Page nervously chuckled. “Well, I mean, a front page story is nice, but the truth is what matters.”

That certainly was the dream of every pony—to both do right and be successful in the endeavor. “I am relieved to hear that, Mr. Turner. What about this, then: I treat you to dinner tonight, grant you my perspective on the story you wish to collect, and you promise a fair report on the event.”

Page perked up again. “I… you’d…”

”Yes. I know it is not much in the grand scheme of the universe, but if it helps an eager soul seek and tell the truth, then I wish to help.”

“I—thank you!” Page hopped up, seizing one of Light’s hooves, and shook it vigorously. “Yes! Yes, thank you!” He stopped, and let go. “And… call me Page, if you don’t mind.”

Light chuckled. “As you wish, Page.”