By Way of An Apology
by Luna-tic Scientist
=== By Way of an Apology ===
"The end," I say, hitting the period key with a flourish. I've actually finished writing a novel, the first one ever. The final scenes were surprisingly hard to write, and I shed more than a few tears over the last paragraphs, but it's all over, and I feel better for it. I'd grown very attached to my characters over the last hundred thousand or so words, and to do to them what I did... well, let's just say that it wasn't fair and it wasn't nice, but it did fit.
I'm free now, finally free.
"Save it, and we're done." I've been writing science fiction, off and on, for the best part of twenty years, but I've written more in the last year than in the previous nineteen. You can download it for free, but I can never have it published. That always was the downside of fanfiction; you can't sell what you don't own. The funny thing is, no one ever asks 'fanfiction of what?'
It's a hard science fiction take on 'My Little Pony'.
I do see the funny side--it's hard not to--so you can laugh, I'll wait. You see, I'm not alone; there are thousands of aspiring writers, just like me, all consumed with the same thing. The reason is simple: the world building and characters in this 'cartoon for little girls' are incredibly rich and full of potential. Since I discovered pony fanfic a couple of years ago, I've not read a real book--and this is from a guy who used to devour several books a week.
I'm not one of those people who craves human company, which is why I live alone. The house isn't large, and I keep it with a 'lived in' look--alright, it's a mess, but that's one of the advantages of having your own space. The room I'm sitting in is mostly in darkness, my house lights run off a twelve volt car battery charged by a solar array in the window of my spare bedroom; because of this power is always in short supply--especially now, in the middle of January. A single four Watt LED provides all the light l need to see the keyboard.
It's not because I'm poor, but because I'm a bit of an environmentalist at heart, and it was an interesting project. Same could be said for the wood stove currently heating the lounge--I have central heating, but I've always been a frustrated pyromaniac, and there's something very satisfying about having a years supply of fuel in your garden, ready for when Uncle Ivan turns off the gas to the EU.
So that has set the scene--a dimly lit room, hot from the radiant heat of the old iron stove, lit by an ultra modern LED spotlight mounted high on the wall above my writing chair.
That is why it is the glow I notice first. Blues, greens and pinks filling the room with a shifting radiance. I glance at the stove; sometimes a log would break up, causing the dull red light to flicker yellow and green--especially if I was burning one of the reclaimed pallets with their copper based preservatives.
The smell came next, over-riding the faint, but pervasive smell of wood smoke.
Delicate, like the scent of a meadow filled with flowers. It smelled of sunlight and summer, like long, warm days. I hesitate, finger outstretched towards the button that will save the final chapter, as all the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I slowly lift my head, certain that something was standing behind me.
Impossibly, She is.
An alabaster white horse with a single, needle tipped horn of some material that flows with subtle colour as she cocks her head to study me. Her wide, swan wings fold neatly along her flanks, the tips of their primary feathers extending back beyond her tail. The only things about her that are not white are her mane and tail--the source of the light I'd seen--and her eyes.
Enormous, violet eyes. Larger even than on an earthly horse, and like beautiful pools of water, soft and limpid. Expressive, so expressive, the kind of eyes that a film star would kill for. You could fall into those eyes, drown in them.
"Celestia," I breathe, almost afraid to speak lest this wonderful hallucination should disappear. She inclines her head gracefully; a slight smile on her lips, that wonderfully mobile mane curling and flowing around her neck like it is a living thing in its own right. It is the Day Princess herself, one half of the immortal goddess pair that rule the My Little Pony universe, the being who raises the sun each morning. Celestia the wise, Celestia the kind, here, in my house. I have a sudden irrational urge to apologise for the mess--that, or offer her a sugar cube.
That smile is replaced by a delicate frown. "ls that how you are going to finish it?" she asks, and for a moment her words didn't register, such is the beauty of that voice.
That voice was disappointed. Most children know that tone. It was the tone of a mother to a child who should have known better. More arresting than a shout, more painful than a slap. Part of me was transported three decades into the past, to when my mother had used a similar tone with me.
"W-What?"
"Your story."
Something in my head starts to scream. "It's a good ending, it works well with the rest of the narrative," I say hesitantly, then shake my head violently. "Why are we talking about that--look, how is it that you are you even here?"
She looks exasperated, as if this was something she'd been asked many times before. "Belief," she says shortly. "Enough belief and anything can become real. Not only that, but it can create a past as well, so it's true to say that I have always been here. Ponies have become popular on this world, so here I have always been." She says that last time bending phrase as if talking to a particularly slow child.
It wasn't a new idea; many authors had played with that before, that gods are a product of thinking minds, rather than the creators of them. Pratchett was the first one that sprang to mind; I'd always enjoyed his 'Small Gods,' but it was a recurrent theme in his work. The little part of me that was screaming suddenly fell silent, finally given something it could latch onto and work with. You see, I'm a scientist by trade, but science is a bit like art in that it's more of a way of life than a job. It's a way of viewing the world, and I can't just turn it off. My inner scientist started to run through the implications of Celestia's last statement.
"So... you're like the god of ponies?"
"A goddess, if you insist on calling me such. A 'weakly god-like entity' is a better description from your frame of reference. I know you've thought that of me in the past."
I wince; so she can read my mind as well. The phrase she's used is accurate, even if it does sound a little bit insulting. "...and you don't like my story and you want me to change it?"
"Yes, the ending has to go."
A small part of me--separate from the part working through the ramifications of this being's presence--wants to beg for forgiveness, to get to my knees and do anything to stop her from being so disappointed with me. The rest of me rebelled. This is my story, all mine, and I'm very proud of it. The idea of having to change it, to compromise those hundreds of hours of work--even at the request of Princess Celestia--was out of the question. Anyway, this was just a lucid dream, and where else would I have a chance to talk to a creature like this? Even if I was essentially just talking to myself.
"I won't. I like the end, it's not a very happy ending, I'll grant you--but it does fit very well. Anyway, there's a big tradition of 'downer' endings in British science fiction."
She sighs, searching my face with those big, liquid eyes. "That's... disappointing."
Her sadness hits me like a sledgehammer and nearly drops me to my knees. If I'd have had equine ears or a canine tail, both would have drooped at that point. "I'm sorry," I say, "this is my story, and I'll finish it how I want to. Why do you care about it?"
"You're not stupid. If I'm created by belief, then I can be changed by belief. What people think of me influences me. I like this me and I want to keep it."
That was the last datum that my inner scientist needed, and he started waving franticly for attention. There was that other kind of god, the one exemplified by Stross' post-human 'Eschaton'. That particular series had died at a cliff hanger after only two books--I'd never forgiven Charlie for that, he'd had some lame excuse about the logical end point being too apocalyptic--and the Eschaton was engaged in some kind of long range war against enemies in its own past, trying to stop its 'uncreation'.
"You are changing the stories, to change what people believe," I say, trying not to dissolve into hysterical giggles. Surely my subconscious could come up with a better reason than that. Perhaps it is time to go back to reading hard SF. "I should be flattered, but not that many people read my stuff."
"Don't think I don't know that. I have a list of the creative people who believe in me; I have been visiting all of them. The ones that depict me as a monster, or a pervert, or--" Here she stared hard at me. "--as weak."
That first comment stung. "I still don't buy it. I'm just dreaming you." I'm an atheist in the same vein as Dawkins; I don't believe in any god, let alone this one. That I'm having a conversation with something that calls itself such can only mean that I'm dreaming.
"Perhaps belief isn't the right word in your case," she says thoughtfully. "But you have been thinking about me everyday for almost the last two years. That level of--let's call it 'focus', shall we?--has the same effects." She smiles slightly, but it's obvious that the word she wants to use is 'obsession'. "I've also been told that you are in the habit of thanking my sister for her efforts in the sky, although she'd appreciate it if you could make it sound a little less like you are praising a dog."
Celestia seems to find this amusing, but I feel my cheeks flush. She's talking about Princess Luna, not the actual 'moon of earth, Luna', but the other half of this semi divine pair, the dusky blue winged unicorn who raises the moon and paints the sky each night in the My Little Pony world.
She is right, of course. That is something I started doing about a year ago. It felt a bit odd at first, but quickly became almost automatic, just like the quick, reflexive prayers I always imagined filled the lives of 'real' religious people. It just felt right. Perhaps I shouldn't be using the phrase 'good job, girl' when referring to a near goddess.
I recover from my embarrassment and look her straight in the eye. "I'm sorry, but soon I'll wake up and start writing a new story."
"Is that your last word on the matter?"
A flicker of uncertainty clouds my mind, and I remember something I heard on a podcast discussing the show. It's always stuck in my mind; the hosts were talking about the attitude of the 'normal' ponies to their Princess. 'She's good, but she's not safe'. That turn of phrase sounds odd, but it makes sense. You tread lightly around a being of such power, no matter how gentle they appear.
"Yes," I say, pushing the doubt aside and nodding firmly.
"In that case I'm sorry that you won't help." Again with that disappointed look. "Sister, he's all yours. Remember that he still needs to be able to write."
With that she turns her back on me, walking around the corner and into the tiny corridor leading to the front door. The last I see of Celestia is the tip of her luminescent tail, glowing and curling like a wisp of burning gas. There's no sound of the door, but her light disappears, leaving me alone in a room that is suddenly far darker than it should have been. I feel a terrible loneliness, like at the passing of a loved one.
Then the strangeness of her final words hit me. What does she mean, 'still able to write'?
Something else moves in the dark corner of the room, something large and equine stepping out of a shadow that should have been too small to contain it. There is the click-click of hooves on wood and another pony, this one a dark reflection of the first, walks towards me with the slow inevitability of an executioner. Where Celestia is white, this one is a black so complete that I can't easily see where she stops and the shadows began. There is a glimmer of violet from around her horn and light of the same colour blooms about my wrists, pulling my arms out from my sides with irresistible force.
It is like I've been embedded in concrete. "W-what happened to Luna?" I say, wanting to turn my head and direct the question to where the Day Princess has gone, but I'm unable to escape that terrible gaze. The black pony's pale blue-green, slit pupil eyes hold me like I'm a mouse being watched by a snake.
Princess Luna was who I'd been expecting--hoping for, really--Celestia's night side twin. Unlike the perfection of Celestia, her story is one of a fall into darkness, followed by redemption, making her one of the more interesting characters to write about. This is most definitely not Luna, this is the Nightmare, the end product of her fall. It is all of Luna's pain, all of her dreams of power and vengeance, made flesh.
The violet radiance spreads over my left hand, uncurling the fingers and flattening the palm so it faces the wood burning stove. Slowly, but surely, I am dragged towards the fire; nothing I do makes the slightest difference. The radiant heat alone is starting to make my flesh tingle; I grit my teeth and will myself to wake up, all while my inner scientist is helpfully telling me that the outside of the stove was at over two hundred and fifty Celsius. I turn my head away, but can't keep my eyes off the Nightmare's face--
Her mouth splits in a toothy smile, showing a jaw more suited to a leopard than a horse. "Different things work for different humans," she purrs in a voice that is rich and corrupt, like a mixture of blood and chocolate. "You get me." She studies me, watching for a reaction as the temperature rises still further.
--and I scream, the heat exploding up my arm to fill my whole body. My eyes snap open to a profound darkness, legs windmilling as I kick the covers off the bed. Gasping, drenched in sweat and feeling like I've got the worst fever ever, I roll over to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand reaching down to flick off the electric under blanket. At the temperature I keep the rest of the house, the thing is essential--but woe betide the sleeper who dozes off before turning the heat down... Heart thundering, I carefully feel my left hand, amazed that it's whole and not a scarred lump of cooked meat.
"Wow," I said, "never had one like that before." I don't often remember my dreams; I'm normally a sound sleeper, so months can go by where it's like I don't exist during the night.
Using the wall for support I go down stairs for a drink, trying to stem the dehydration headache that's starting to make itself felt. A few gulps and I feel better, but decide to take some painkillers just in case.
I see Her when I close the bathroom cabinet; blue-green cat's eyes staring out at me from the shadowed lounge, the hint of a horn and a long, winged body. Turning fast enough that my drink spills, I whirl around to face the darkness. Nothing, just the back of a chair and the status lights of my modem. Shaking my head, I go back upstairs to bed.
The dream has faded by the time my alarm goes off. It's still dark when I leave the house; the sky is littered with the brighter stars and capped by a gibbous moon. Long, stringy clouds are moving rapidly under the influence of a fierce, cold wind. Despite this, there is enough to see by and I don't bother to turn my torch on as I walk to work.
There's a field of horses adjacent to part of my route. As I walk down one of the rare lit sections of pavement I glance out over the dark field, last night's dream coming back full force. At the same moment the moonlight seems to brighten, showing me the large shapes of the dozen or so horses. Most are asleep, but one has its head up and is looking at me.
The wind gusts, making something move on the animal's back, like a blanket flapping in the breeze. I squint, trying to see more in the uncertain light; for a moment it almost looks like a pair of great, black wings. A shiver runs down my spine and, as if hypnotised, I click on the torch and direct it across the field. The creature is too far away, but its eyes pick up the light and reflect it back. They are big, far bigger than I've ever seen on a real horse.
I hurry on, almost running the last few hundred metres to the security checkpoint outside my workplace. Half way there I lose my nerve and shine the torch back into the field; what I see makes my stomach clench. The horse has gone. Nervously I flick the beam across the looming trees on the other side of the path; it lights the closest trunks with a stark glare, but multiplies and deepens the shadows. My mind runs wild, populating those dark spaces with half seen horrors.
===
As the days pass it grows worse. I catch glimpses of Her everywhere now; the shadows under bridges as I drive past, the shapes of stonework in the dark of the night. Every distorted reflection has some element of Her. She is watching me now, I can feel it. I don't bother to turn, because there will be nothing there--but if she is there, I'll know She's still not happy with my story.
I must be mad, to be seeing things like this. I hope I am, for if I am not the implications are terrible. Belief is strong, but how much stronger is knowing? How many others has Celestia visited, and what is she getting them to do? I fear for the future of my species, for a goddess of ponies will not care much for humanity.
I cannot stop Celestia, for I am weak, and I cannot stand to meet her sister again. I have delayed too long on these thoughts; the feeling of being watched is getting stronger.
I must write now, it's the only thing that keeps Her away.
===
I have seen the goddess,
she is here for me.
I have seen her spread her wings,
basking in the pale glory
-- M Pallante, Worship the Dark Sister
Author's Note
These two paragraphs are only relevant if you came to Apology via the link at the bottom of chapter 19 of Wasp, everyone else should ignore them!
Chaos froze for an instant, confused. Its location didn’t match its last memories, in fact-- the Flaw folding in on itself, the briefest flash of fear at the onrushing maw of a Guardian --nothing seemed right. It watched the sudden activity of the substrate, the normally placid and ordered quantum foam abruptly boiling and shifting, the automata engaged in activities it had no precedent for. The memories started to fade, replaced by others that had occurred at the same time. It fumbled for them, filled with horror at the idea that something had manipulated it with the ease it manipulated the bipeds.
The conflicting memories vanished completely, taking with them the lingering sense of unreality, and Chaos realised that it had been stationary far too long and fell towards the world.
Now go to Chapter 20 of Days of Wasp and Spider
