Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, Other, Adventure, Gore, Princess Celestia, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 120569

Equestria is a powder keg. A harsh winter threatens to starve the north, while in the south rumblings of discontent break into thunderclaps — and farther south yet, the cunning eyes of dragons. How far must Celestia go to restore harmony?

Thirty years ago — before Luna's return, before the Mane Six, before everything — Equestria stands on the brink. A harsh winter threatens starvation, discontent threatens to bubble over to full-blown rebellion, and to the south lurk dragons, hungry for vengeance and waiting for a moment of Equestrian weakness.
But Celestia knows how the game is played, and if anyone can right the ship of state, it's her. No one can dance on the edge of a blade like she can; after all, she was there when it was forged. Slowly, delicately, she charts her course —
And then everything goes wrong.

Blackacre is somewhat different fare than the usual you might find here, telling a much darker story than the sort we usually see on Saturday mornings. It won't be for everyone, but then again what is? This is a story of the long con, of the world as it is — a story both of those who reason why, and those who do and die.

The Making Of

Blackacre has a relatively long history. The notion took root in August 2013; it gestated for a time and took its first real steps as part of NaNo in November 2013. It took a finalized shape around April 2014, whereupon the editing started. The text here was updated in July 2014 to reflect those edits — a comprehensive revision and polishing of the text, including several new chapters and several entirely rewritten ones.
The text you see here is the final version of Blackacre; at least, I don't intend on working it over again. That's not to say I don't welcome and encourage comments, questions, or suggestions, either on the text itself or the style; I certainly spent long enough working on it the first time around, and if you enjoyed it (or didn't!) I'd be happy to talk.
Besides, there will always be room for improvement — and there will be a next time.

Sequels & Such

Blackacre has no sequel proper. At least, not yet. It does, however, have companion stories, set at different times in the same universe:
Dr. Strangehorn; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Elements — a one-shot set in Twilight's future, well after her rise to power.
Twelve Angry Mares — an adaptation of the classic story of a murder trial, set after Blackacre but before the show.

Reviews & Commentary

Reviewed one year out — and accurately so, too — by Chris.
Analytically reviewed by Cosmic Cowboy.
Rated four moustaches out of five, and later referenced, by xTSGx.

Published 2013-08-08 04:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-19 02:37:47 UTC

Prologue

22 November, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

“Good evening; I’m Scott Ponney.”

At those five words, half of Equestria cocked an ear. Very few of them had seen Ponney in person, but his voice painted a picture as good as any: an Earth pony with conservative shading, perhaps a dignified slate blue, his whitening muzzle giving him just that extra dash of respectability. The rest of his face would be to match, of course; strong lines, slightly rounded at the corners, with a firm but gentle smile. This was a pony you could trust, a wise patriarch to half the nation.

“Tonight’s top story is the breakdown of trade relations with Blackacre.”

Ponney knew exactly how he sounded; if it weren’t for his carefully-controlled voice, he would have never become the lead anchorpony of the Evening Herald, Equestria’s finest radio broadcast. Anypony with a half-decent presenting voice could read off the newscasts for PNN, but it took a special something to work the Herald. He had earned that trust as a field correspondent during the badly misnamed Dragon Skirmishes, and earned his cutie mark in a chillingly memorable broadcast from the charred ruins of Appleloosa —

But that was fifteen years ago, and today’s world brought with it a new set of challenges. It was his job, along with his crack team of editors, reporters, and commentators, to bring the news to the average pony, to inform them, educate them, and maybe, just maybe, leave Canterlot a better place for it.

“With me tonight are Stony Brook and Tower Shield. Thank you for joining us.”

“Of course.”

“Our pleasure.”

“Over the past three weeks, the biennial Blackacre trade negotiations seem to have drawn to a complete stop,” he said, aware of the need to recapitulate for listeners who were perhaps not as attuned to the world as they should be. Radios were common enough, but the will to listen to them….

“With the previous agreements set to expire on the solstice, and no clear indication of what will happen after that, the question on everypony’s lips is what this means for Equestria. For first impressions, let’s turn to Stony Brook.”

“Thanks, and let me first say it’s an honor to be here tonight.” Brook paused, as if to gather his thoughts. They had in fact been gathered for hours — days, even — but it was still good form to wait a second or two before replying; it made it seem as if his perfectly-crafted response came as the result of only a few seconds’ consideration.

“A lot of ponies I’ve talked to say this looks like a no-win situation, and I think they’re absolutely right. Equestria depends on the southern region, a lot more than it seems. Fillydelphia might be our breadbasket, but Appleloosa apples are always in season. Going into the winter months, shipments from the south can make the difference for a lot of little towns like Ponyville, especially if the previous year’s harvest was cutting it close.”

“A valid point. Tower Shield?”

Tower Shield was an old veteran of the Royal Guard; Ponney and he first met as interviewer and interviewee, respectively, during the Dragon Skirmishes. Like Ponney, his voice provided an accurate picture of the pony; unlike him, Tower Shield’s voice was deep and full, that of a stallion still in his prime.

“Equestria does depend on the south, I will grant that,” he started, the ‘but’ as inevitable as clear skies after pegasi flights. “That said, Blackacre is by no means the only route through; the railroad through Blackacre down from Ponyville is simply the most convenient. There is another, though, running on the other side of Froggy Bottom Bogg, from the Baltimare Railroad to Dodge Junction, crossing the end of Rambling Rock Ridge. There is even a path from Appleloosa to Las Pegasus. It is one thing to be worried about Blackacre’s effect on trade; it is quite another to suggest it is the be-all and end-all of Equestria’s southern access.”

“A fair point,” interjected Brook. “And I don’t think anypony is saying that cutting off Blackacre — which is still the last-resort scenario! — would be a crippling blow to Equestria. Is it life or death? No, of course not; we saw that with the Bearlin Airlifts six years back.”

“Exactly,” rumbled Shield. “We can survive.” Any mention of the Airlifts brought a note of pride to his voice; when a weather mishap froze the small town, the Wonderbolts had kept it alive for more than three hundred days, the result of a daring plan he had personally crafted.

“But at what cost?” needled Brook, pressing on before Ponney could cut them off. “It’s not life or death, but what about the difference between four and three percent growth? Two percent? There may be no direct impact, but it will slow down the entire economy. The only question is by how much.”

“I think a lot of ponies think about it the same way,” said Ponney, ending the line of discourse to move beyond it. “If the negotiations aren’t successful, all of Equestria will feel the impact. The obvious question then is what can be done to ensure that doesn’t happen. Tower Shield?”

“This should not be a problem,” he said immediately, emotion getting the better of him. “Absolutely not. Blackacre has always been located exactly where it is, Equestria has always relied on food from the south as a winter gap-filling relief measure, and this has never been a problem before. Frankly, there is no reason why these issues should even be renegotiated yearly, much less be allowed to expire.”

“It’s not all about numbers,” said Brook, somewhat miffed. “There’s a political element in play. Blackacre is more than just a waypoint, and as its economy develops, it wants to make sure it can be a player.”

“You’re referring, of course, to the recent… election,” said Shield, uncertain at the word and generally sounding dismissive of the whole notion, “in which the legitimately appointed government was overthrown by a grass-roots movement to install a leader through a collective process.”

Ponney tensed slightly; they were broadcasting out of Canterlot, but a good portion of their listening audience came from smaller towns throughout the countryside, towns which might well have different feelings from city ponies on the concept of increased local leadership. The entire program was supposed to be neutral; though guests were able to say whatever they liked — just ask the dragon sympathizers they had on a month ago! — any assumptions should be made explicitly.

“That’s not quite what happened,” said Brook, restraining his annoyance. “The Blackacre Charter clearly states that the region reserves the right to select its own form of governance, just like half a dozen other Equestrian Charters do. It’s just that no one has ever exercised it before.”

“And why the Princess allows it, I will never understand,” said Shield sadly.

“It is their right.”

“A stupid right.”

“Perhaps, but theirs nevertheless.”

“Gentlecolts!” interjected Ponney. “Please. Back to the topic at hand.”

“Of course,” said Shield. “My apologies.” He went on after a calculated delay. “The best solution to this problem is literally right at hoof. Copy the last set of documents, sign them, and move on. Blackacre can levy its petty tariffs, and we can get back to bigger problems, problems like continued draconic aggression to the south. It is the work of five minutes.”

Brook scoffed. “I wouldn’t say —”

“Ten minutes?”

A slight pause; those listening in at home could well imagine Brook glaring at Shield for his flippancy. Shield pressed on.

“Renewing the old agreement would simply keep the status quo. Equestria gets its food, Blackacre gets its stability, and we move on to other concerns.”

“Would renewing the accords solve the problem?” Brook asked rhetorically, tasting the question. “In the short term, yes. But the fact that they’re even in question indicates, to me at least, that there are some bigger concerns already on the table.”

“This brings me to our last point for today,” said Ponney, the smooth transition an indication that the commentators had been motioned to silence in the studio. “The overarching concern is what these negotiations mean for Equestria, but Blackacre is part of Equestria. What do these trade quibbles mean for the mares and stallions of Blackacre itself?”

“It’s very simple,” started Brook without hesitation. “The Blackacrean economy is, relative to the Equestrian standard, poorly developed. The region is largely forested, without a broad agricultural base. There are few natural resources to support much by way of industry. It’s not even to the level of a cottage-industry economy, because the population density isn’t high enough to support that. There’s very little interaction with the rest of Equestria.”

“Aside from the vaunted trade routes to the south,” interjected Shield.

“Aside from those, yes.”

“And it has been so for hundreds of years,” Shield continued, pressing the offensive. “Blackacre’s domestic production is sufficient to satisfy domestic need; zero in, zero out. Frankly, the shipping tariffs in the current trade agreements we have right now are unnecessary.”

“Those tariffs help Blackacre pay for upkeep and maintenance of the roads and railway that those goods travel on!”

“And do any other regions levy such charges? Absolutely not! The fact that Blackacre is permitted to impose them in the first place is questionable at best.”

“The Blackacrean economy simply isn’t capable of supporting such upkeep without external help,” said Brook, an air of irritation in his voice. “The Law of Magical Conservation. Any task accomplished through magic will require at least as much effort as to accomplish it without magic. Why do unicorns walk when they could transport themselves? Why does Princess Celestia have a carriage? Because accomplishing tasks magically will, on average, require at least as much energy as doing it the hard way.”

“This is elementary,” sniffed Shield.

“So you should see where I’m going with it,” said Brook. “Without agriculture or industry, the entire Blackacrean economy is founded on magic. Anything they produce, anything at all, can be done cheaper elsewhere, must be doable cheaper elsewhere. Blackacre will never be able to compete with the Fillydelphia industries or Manehattan service sector.”

“They have carried on for hundreds of years without issue,” pointed out Shield. “Why change now?”

“Because they’ve been stagnant for hundreds of years,” pressed Brook. “They just want an opportunity for positive sum growth.”

“By extorting and regulating Equestrian trade.”

“By giving themselves a bootstrap injection of bits in order to create the industrial and service sectors which will become self-sustaining. It’s an investment.”

“Maybe to them, but I challenge you to find me a bank, any bank, with large-scale capital investment in the region! But that’s not the point — why not simply rely on what has been proven to work? Why risk change?”

“Because, to them, the risk is worth it,” said Brook firmly. “All of Equestria saw that when Blackacre exercised their Charter rights to elect their own leader.”

“Canterlot-appointed regional leadership is an institution,” said Shield with more than a touch of firmness in his voice. “An institution as old as Equestria itself; older, even! What could possibly convince them that they can do any better?”

“Right now, the status quo isn’t doing anything for them. These ‘timeless institutions,’ as you call them, aren’t working for Blackacre. They might have always worked for the other regions, but they’ve never worked in Blackacre — and if your vaunted institutions never did anything for you, wouldn’t you want to try something different for a change?”

Unspoken, unacknowledged, but still inexorably present was the single oldest institution in the realm, the one constant that had held Equestria together for nigh-on a thousand years, the one institution which was absolute and supreme, that which was unthinkably unimpeachable.

The institution of Princess Celestia.

The Council

28 November, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

From up here, you could see most of Canterlot. In the streets, ponies of all shapes and sizes went about their daily lives, buying and selling, singing and dancing. There were a surprisingly large number of tourists, just there to see what was happening. Most of them were sitting at sidewalk cafés, ponywatching; for each tourist there was a matching socialite, walking around those cafés just to be seen.

Though you couldn’t see down into the streets, not by a long shot, you could just make out Ponyville in the distance, with the foothills of the Unicorn Range to its north. Farther yet, you could almost see Cloudsdale, though generally you needed a perfectly sunny day for that; even with only very good weather you could still make out its cheery rainbow glows.

Off to the south, a little blue shimmer marked Saddle Lake, the traditional boundary between Ponyville and Blackacre. On a day like today, it seemed perfectly peaceful, a boundless forest, trees of all shapes and sizes forming a patchwork tableau in shades of green. Restful, inviting, not a care in the world, and so close to Canterlot to boot? It seemed perfect, the sort of place you might go for a day, a weekend, a long vacation.

Princess Celestia knew better.

Shifting slightly on her hindquarters she stared off at Blackacre. Nopony there could possibly see her, of course; at worst, some of the ponies in the streets below might glance up and catch a glimpse of their ruler. They would assume she was simply overseeing things, as one might do from a tower. That was perfectly normal, wasn’t it? What else was a princess to do?

Of those few who bothered to look up, none would realize that she wasn’t in her usual tower. The castle at Canterlot had three main towers, and though all three certainly towered, appropriately enough, over the rest of the city, they were built at different times for different purposes. Idly, Celestia wondered how many ponies knew even the names of Canterlot’s three most prominent features. Certainly they had gone out of the common knowledge hundreds of years ago — but she remembered. She was there.

Celestia’s own quarters were in the highest tower, of course; aside from that, there was the largely-abandoned Moon Tower, and then the Castle Tower, where she stood now. It wasn’t the tallest, but it was the farthest west; as a result, it did have the best view. Not that that made these council meetings any better, but it was some small consolation during the breaks.

The original architect of the place, Bran Stone, had wanted to place the council chambers in the main tower, behind the throne room. Though she was touched, she had struck down the notion at the time, requesting that the chambers be relocated to the Castle Tower. It wouldn’t do, she had explained so many years ago, for the council’s chambers to be in the same tower as the princess’. She would only need to walk downstairs, while the rest of the councilors would need to climb up, and that wasn’t going to work out: if they were going to have a relationship approximating that of peers, they all needed to be on the same level. The Castle Tower was more neutral, and thus a perfect ground.

A frown tugged at her face. Oh, the naïveté of youth. All moving the chambers did was ensure that, no matter which direction she went, she’d have to climb at least one flight of stairs. And over nine hundred plus years in power, that was a lot of stairs.

It was too late to change it, of course, far too late. Not only was Bran long dead — she doubted he would even be named in the history books — but he had a certain flair, a spark that came along only once in a very long while. She rather liked the nooks and crannies and special tricks he had built into Canterlot Castle, and any renovation would undoubtedly destroy them. For better or worse, the council chambers were in the Castle Tower to stay.

Not that the act of putting the chambers on neutral ground actually made a difference, of course. Oh no; any benefit that touching gesture had bought was lost to the ages, and now the council simply expected the chambers to be where they were. There was no goodwill to be bought by something the councillors and their predecessors had all accepted and expected for hundreds of years. Still, she trusted them.

Mostly.

“Princess,” came a voice from just inside the balcony archway. It wasn’t particularly deferential, nor insistent for that matter. It just stated a fact, just as it had a hundred times before at these meetings.

“The council is ready to reconvene?” asked Celestia, her eye still fixed on Blackacre off to the south.

“It is.”

“Thank you, Aspia.” She gave Blackacre one last glare, then turned back towards the chambers inside the tower. “Let us continue.”
Once inside, she took her customary place at the head of the table, ‘head’ being a relative term at a circular table. A half dozen ponies stood around it; though they usually didn’t stand much on formality, they waited until the princess was seated before taking their own places.

“Where were we?” she prompted, more for their benefit than for hers. The council generally took one or two recesses per session; though she certainly didn’t need them — one didn’t rule a kingdom as long as she did without a fine mastery of meetings — some of the older councilmembers appreciated the pause to collect their thoughts or evacuate their bowels as appropriate.

She always nominated young ponies for the council, ponies full of drive and ambition, but in a blink of an eye they were grey-maned and suggesting successors. How did that keep happening?

“Secrepony O’Commerce had just finished briefing us on the fourth quarter impacts of the Blackacre negotiations, along with a spread of first quarter projections,” said the same calm voice that had summoned her from the balcony.

Celestia glanced at the speaker, indicating that she should go on. Aspia McNamare was the closest thing to a right-hoof pony she had, and generally took on the task of keeping everyone else corralled on the same train of thought.

“Which brings us to Blackacre proper,” finished McNamare. “I believe Secrepony Hay had a few words on that matter.”

“I do,” said John Hay, his horn glowing briefly as the notes in front of him reshuffled. Though Blackacre wasn’t a foreign state proper, and thus didn’t technically fall under the Secrepony of State’s jurisdiction, Secrepony O’Commerce had been more than happy to step aside and let him deal with the mess.

“Let me be blunt: negotiations aren’t going anywhere.”

Celestia suppressed a sigh; that much was obvious. Had been for weeks, no thanks to the Herald’s exposé a few weeks ago. Brook and Shield were quite capable commentators, each respected in his own right, but not for the first time she just wished they would keep quiet. The more publicity Blackacre got, the stronger their bargaining position, and the last thing she needed was rational debate to drum up sympathy for the… well. For the Blackacreans. She still had to figure out what to call her.

“Blackacre has demanded that the previous agreements be scrapped entirely, rather than simply amended. We’ve put forward several proposals, and though they haven’t been rejected, their negotiators have simply taken no action.” Hay shook his head. “They haven’t even told us why they’re taking no action. Everything is simply ‘under consideration.’”

“Have they told us what they want?” asked Celestia, well aware that it was a slightly silly question; it was nevertheless one that needed asking. She realized a pencil had crept its way into her hoof and fought back the urge to twirl it around; this was no place for an idle display of boredom, no matter how reflexive — or how warranted.

“Not in so many terms, no,” said Hay. “As far as we can tell, they want to replace the graduated tariff scheme with a flat across-the-board rate on all ground shipment.”

The corners of her mouth twitched down. “That would imply a readjustment of the current scheme.”

“It does,” he said, and paused for a moment. “We also think they want the railroad.”

“Excuse me?” interjected Stream O’Commerce, her horn sparking slightly in shock.

“It’s unconfirmed, of course,” he corrected hastily, “but as best we can tell, that’s what they want. Given what our sources say about their target revenue from these negotiations, taxing the railway is the only way they can make their goal.”

“Impossible,” she declared abruptly, moving her hoof in a chopping motion. “Absolutely impossible. The O’Commerces have been in the Department of the Interior for hundreds of years, our forefathers the O’Connors for hundreds before, and I can tell you right now that at no point in Equestria’s history did Blackacre extend any farther west than Froggy Bottom Bogg!”

O’Commerce shook her head again. “The railroad is Ponyville’s up to Ghastly Gorge and Appleloosa’s after, with shared jurisdiction over the Gorge Bridge!”

“Calm down, Stream,” said McNamare gently. “If I’m understanding Secrepony Hay correctly, that’s just speculation. They haven’t released demands yet.”

“Correct,” said Hay, thankful that someone else was on his side. “All speculation. But for now, they’re spending a lot of time in long meetings to say nothing.”

“You can’t just drop something like that on me,” said O’Commerce, still shaken. “Can’t just idly propose that we literally redraw the regions and then back out of it!”

“I’m sure Secrepony Hay is doing all that he can to confirm or deny these suspicions,” said Celestia, her voice inflected so as to be the final word on the matter, and an eyebrow raised at O’Commerce just to make sure the point got through. “But for now, that’s all they are: suspicions. Until we know what Blackacre wants, we must not take any rash action.”

Hay nodded. “Just suspicions.”

A pause. Clearly, nopony was willing to risk setting O’Commerce off again.

“While you have the floor,” started Celestia, turning back to Hay, “what word from the dragons?”

Hay licked his lips; clearly, this wasn’t going to be a batch of good news either.

“So far, they’ve yet to release any official comment. The Blackacre negotiations are an internal matter, and it’s official draconic policy to not comment until a matter is either external or finalized.”

“Official policy,” pointed out McNamare with a slight downward twitch of her lip. There was no love lost between her and dragonkind, a sentiment particularly common among the senior staff of the Royal Guard — such as herself — who had served in the Dragon Skirmishes.

“Unofficially, they’ve said very little,” said Hay. “They’re watching and waiting to see how this develops. They have no stake in the matter, and it doesn’t make sense for them to back one side or the other at this point.

“But,” he continued, “if there’s enough internal turmoil that they find there might be an advantage, there is a chance they might press it.”

“What kind of turmoil are we talking about?” asked McNamare. “Two percent growth instead of four?”

O’Commerce snorted. “That’s a ridiculous number. I’ve looked over Brook’s data, and I can guarantee —”

“Any percent,” said McNamare quickly. “What’s their red line?”

Hay thought about it for a moment.

“I wouldn’t say there’s a red line when it comes to draconic relations,” he said slowly, “not per se. It’s more a question of the various thresholds of the internal clans and lair-groups….”

And with that he was off; Celestia quickly tuned him out. He started with a hedge; that alone should have been a sign. Maybe she was getting careless in her old age, maybe not. One thing was certain, though: overzealous secreponies were better than apathetic ones, and she would gladly sit through ten speeches to have someone competent in the job.

Maybe the next time around she would look for a strong silent type.

Here, though, it didn’t take any sort of intermediary to present the truth; the draconic position was clear enough to her. The Dragon Skirmishes had hurt Equestria, but they had hurt the dragons as well, and they weren’t going to intervene again unless they had a firm advantage. The loss of life in the Skirmishes was, of course, regrettable, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter much; the Equestrian birthrate had already made up the difference.

In the long run, she was going to have to work on population control schemes. If this Blackacre matter could be settled, she had a few ideas for a settlement policy sufficient to drown out local opposition with transplanted loyalists. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to resort to selective sterilization, like six hundred years back. Not that anyone had complained — only a few on the council at the time had even known about it, and over the course of the fifty years it took to implement no one had paid much attention to the birth rate — but that much magical energy took a lot out of her. There was something to be said about a good knock-down drag-out war to lop off a respectable chunk of the most fertile of the population.

Not that she would ever say such things to the common pony, or even most of her council; though they might understand, few would appreciate and respect the long view that she took. Even though it was the same long view that had held the kingdom together for centuries.

No, the most immediate and important outcome of the Skirmishes had been the revocation of the draconic claim to the Macintosh Hills, claims that had been in dispute despite hundreds of years of continuous settlement and habitation. The Dodge Accords theoretically ended that dispute once and for all. Ponies — especially those living in the rebuilt Appleloosa, where long-overdue rains had finally washed away the last of the scorch marks — might consider it a done deal, but she knew better. Blackacre was only a distraction, a clawhold for the real threat that none of them were capable of truly apprehending. Dragons took the long view, just like she did; if the Blackacre situation raised tensions high enough, red wings would fly, and the South would burn once again.

But enough of that; what was McNamare saying?

“…mobilize the Fourth Wing to the Hayseed Swamps, perhaps under the guise of training flights. Since they’re downwind, our spotters should be able to keep regular tabs on the columns of smoke in the Badlands, and therefore track dragon force movements.”

“Horseshoe Bay’s patrols are already well-suited to the task. Why not mobilize the Fourth to North Hayseed, near Dodge?”

“Impractical, according to General Batchall. The Dodge barracks are relics; it would take at least two months to fully restock them. Not to mention the construction costs, plus the overages for keeping the operation covert….”

Celestia tuned out again; paying attention had been a bad idea. Her mind drifted back to Blackacre. They had to force a settlement — any settlement — and fast, lest the menace to the far south take advantage of the situation. Even the appearance of progress was crucial. They had three weeks until the solstice, and every day between now and then needed a hint of progress, some positive spin; needed something.

“Gentlecolts, please!” she said, with the air of someone who had been paying perfect attention and had made a careful and rational decision that the conversation needed redirection.

O’Commerce and Hay, who had conveniently been arguing somewhat vociferously, both paused, clearly not expecting royal interruption.

“It seems to me that this conversation is one that would do better outside the council’s chambers,” she said gently, giving them both a friendly look. “Perhaps supported with documentation in addition to the speculation?”

“Of course, Princess,” said O’Commerce after a moment. “Our apologies.”

“None needed,” she said with an air of magnanimity. “The council’s purpose is to discuss such matters, but after a certain point we all need to get back to work.”

Nods around the table. Most of them had participated in the argument, but only a few were actually qualified to do so. What could the Secrepony of Education contribute to analysis of draconic troop movements?

“Unless there’s anything else that needs open discussion?” she prompted, looking around the room. All of the ponies present met her gaze; none of them had more to add. A willingness to speak one’s mind was a prerequisite for the job; if they had anything to say, then they would have said it.

“In that case, I think we should adjourn. Thank you all for coming.”

Around the table her councilors gave various appreciative remarks, interspersed with the sound of notes and material being packed up.

“If any of you wish to meet with me, my door is always open when the good of Equestria is at stake.”

With the council fully adjourned, the various ponies started trickling out. Usually, Celestia would stick around to meet with whomever required it; today, though, she had other business to attend to. The meeting had run late, and it would soon be time to switch out the sun for the moon.

Later tonight, she would send an exhortation to John Hay demanding that he release something, anything, to the news services. His PR team could spin their way out of a granite box; they had to find something, paint a picture of progress to hold off the dragons, at least until they could make some real headway. And, of course, he had to figure out what was going on with Blackacrean claims to the railway. Rumors were vicious things, and she wanted them confirmed or denied as appropriate, but in either case clamped down.

If the red dragons took wing, a railway would be the least of their concerns.

Moonlight and Madness

30 November, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

“Keep up the good work, Taylor,” said Beatrix, smiling. “We’ve got time; they don’t. Sooner or later they’ll break, and when they do, it’ll all be worth it.”

The green unicorn nodded and returned the smile. He didn’t need the encouragement; as Beatrix’s chief of staff, he had been instrumental in developing the plan in the first place. His was the most crucial role, at least for the time being; he interacted on a daily basis with Blackacre’s full negotiation team in Ponyville, and so had an active role indeed in guiding developments.

“I’m going in tomorrow to oversee things personally; if anything important comes up, I’ll send it along. Otherwise, I’ll see you both in a few days.” Taylor nodded at the other two ponies in the room and extended a hoof to encompass the table. “Thanks for dinner. Beatrix. Gaston.”

“Good luck!” said Gaston. “I’m training up a new flight of couriers; you’ll have to let me know how their field manners are, eh?”

“Absolutely. Good night!”

As Taylor left, Gaston turned to Beatrix. “I should turn in for the night too. Going to be a long day tomorrow; I’ll get to see what the timberwolves have been up to.”

“I think you know the answer to that,” said Beatrix with a mock chiding expression. “Either that, or I’ll need a new marshal!”

Gaston grinned; he had been the one to propose the timberwolf training regimen in the first place, after all. By themselves, the wolves were incredibly fast and agile, but without magic or fine motor control in their paws they weren’t particularly useful. Frustrated wolves were angry wolves, and that generally didn’t end well.

When paired with suitably trained pony riders, though, they were one of Blackacre’s finest assets. With their intimate knowledge of the forest, they could run circles around anypony, all while remaining under protective tree cover to shield them from prying pegasi eyes. Thanks to the timberwolves, they had been able to get messages to and from LeFleur and her negotiation team in Ponyville for weeks, sending the team daily updates on exactly what tactics they was to use.

By contrast, the Canterlot delegation got new orders via pegasus, and though the orders themselves weren’t visible, simply knowing that one side had received new instructions gave the other a leg up. The whole effect played well for the reporters, too: the Canterlot delegation kept on getting new orders and trying new tactics, because the old ones were clearly not working. Otherwise why would they keep getting new messages on a daily basis while the poor Blackacrean ponies just sat there with their simple requests?

It wasn’t much of an edge, but anything that endeared them to the public opinion was worth trying. It was the little things that counted, things that Gaston was good at picking up on — just one of many reasons why he was sitting at the Mayor’s table, sharing in the small victory of another day of negotiations, wearing down Canterlot without conceding an inch.

“Thanks for dinner,” said Gaston, indicating the remnants of a Spartan meal on the table. “Tomorrow I think Rock was planning on fixing something up. Sounds good, eh?”

“Sounds good,” agreed Beatrix with a nod. “Good night, Gaston.”

“You too.”

As the other unicorn left, Beatrix sat back in her chair, thoroughly exhausted. It was one thing to maintain a public appearance of eager and positive resolve, but quite another to keep it up in private. At least with her two top ponies gone she could clean this place up and try to get some more work done before it got too late.

Stacking the plates on the small wooden table, she ferried them to the kitchen. She was never terribly in favor of the communal dinner arrangements, but they were a convenient way of holding meetings. Somehow, ponies were more likely to get along and be productive with full bellies. Go figure.

Coming back to the table for a second load of dishes, she considered the merits of just cleaning them all with magic. She was certainly one of the most skilled unicorns in Blackacre, though as with many things her public image was a bit exaggerated.

The tip of her horn started to glow the faintest blue, but she decided against it. That talking head Brook was right about one thing: the Law of Magical Conservation. She wouldn’t like it, and it would take more time, but it would be easier to just do the dishes by hoof. Besides, she needed to keep her strength up, especially these days.

Satisfied that the common area was as clean as it was going to get, she turned back towards the kitchen. Once upon a time, this must have been a grand castle indeed, but hundreds of years had taken their toll, leaving it little more than a ruin. Over the past year she and her staff had managed to rebuild a good portion of it; certainly the halls weren’t as grand as they had been, and most of it was only at ground level, but the masons had done their job well. The stonework was solid; bound with mortar and magic, it was as secure as Canterlot itself.

Scrubbing dishes might be menial, but at least it was somewhat relaxing; certainly it was better than fixing all of Blackacre’s problems. Unfortunately, there weren’t that many dishes to distract her in the first place. Their dinner had been conservative but edible; most importantly, it had been grown domestically. Large-scale agriculture was impossible in Blackacre, but it was the little things. Had to start somewhere, right?

There were more problems, though, than just coaxing the hard earth to give up a half-dozen radishes. Taylor’s report earlier had been right; they were winning at the negotiating table, but sooner or later they would have to see some actual concessions. With three weeks to go, though, she doubted they would see much out of Canterlot. An eleventh hour deal wasn’t the ideal solution, but it was the most likely at this point.

With the dishes sitting out to dry, Beatrix gave the kitchen a last look. She really didn’t like this, but it had to be done. What sort of community could they build if their leader insisted on eating apart? She certainly couldn’t have servants tending her kitchens. Blackacreans hadn’t gone against hundreds of years of tradition and elected her for a chance at kitchen duty.

Beatrix took the steps up to her study one at a time. Unlike most of the rest of the stonework, they were original; worn down by countless hooves, they were also very shallow, but she didn’t feel like rushing anywhere, especially not back to work. She already knew the problems she had to deal with, and none of them had easy —

Two steps into her study, she felt it. Something wasn’t quite right… of course. She glanced out at the thin high window; the moon was well over the horizon. What was it, nine at night? Ten?

Though the oval room was dark, she knew her way to her desk well enough. Certainly she had spent enough time there. If she wanted to get any work done, she would have to turn some light on sooner or later, but she held off for now, simply walking along in the dark.

Once at her desk, she put a hoof on it, considered sitting down, but decided against it. She would take any advantage she could get, and though she wasn’t much taller standing than seated, and certainly not taller than her, every bit helped.

She took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it out slowly. All right.

“It’s about time you showed up,” she said evenly. When was the last time one of her groveling lackeys used that tone of voice with her? Hah. Let her stew on that.

The shadows in the back of the room shifted ever so slightly.

“I’ve been expecting this moment for a while now,” she pressed, turning her head ever so slightly. “A pity we couldn’t get this done through the proper channels.”

“If you want something done right…” said her visitor, stepping out of the shadow. The slightest trace of moonlight caught her mane, giving her a shimmering aura, pastel shades all turned to grey in the night.

“Celestia.”

“Beatrix,” said the princess, dropping the mayoral honorific. She angled her head ever so slightly. “Or is it Beatrix the Great? It’s so hard to keep up.”

“My people call me what they will,” said Beatrix with a shrug. She would never call herself anything of the sort to another pony, but getting the suffix engrained in the public discourse had been the first step in her political career. It was one thing to shape rhetoric, but quite another to shape the very words and names they used to talk about her. Even her enemies.

“Your people,” echoed Celestia. Surely the possessive irked her, but she gave no sign. “Normally, a leader looks after their people.”

“They look after all of their people,” countered Beatrix. “Making sure each of them has a chance to succeed, a chance on par with everypony else.”

“A leader also knows when the good of the many outweighs the needs of the few.”

“By that token, sometimes the needs of the few do outweigh the needs of the many.”

“Sometimes.”

Somehow, she had turned completely around, and was now facing Celestia in the middle of the room. In the sliver moonlight, both of them took on a bluish hue, though that wasn’t saying much for Beatrix, who started off a pale blue color herself.

You’re no perfect pale princess, thought Beatrix. You’re only a pony, like the rest of us. Well, pony princess, let’s see what you really want.

“Enough of this,” said Beatrix dismissively. “I have a people to serve, and you have a moon to raise.”

The moon being the only thing that shone light into the room, the statement was patently false, but the dismissive tone struck home nevertheless.

“I fully agree,” said Celestia, her voice carefully modulated. “You have yourself to serve, and I have the realm.”

“Who says the two are exclusive?”

“You do,” she said in that perfect controlled calm way of hers. “Every day your spokesponies reject compromise and levy demands is another day that all of Equestria watches and worries.”

“Demands?” asked Beatrix rhetorically. “I don’t remember levying any of those.”

“Funny thing is, neither do I,” said Celestia, her moon-grey muzzle curling in the slightest of smiles. “Please. Refresh my memory.”

Beatrix eyed her for a moment.

“Nationalization,” she said, the crisp word cutting through the air. “Total local control over all means of transport and regulation thereof, coupled with sufficient external regulatory assistance to ensure the development of the most basic of nonmagical economies.”
Celestia laughed, a light and airy sound in the cloistered room. Absently she wondered whether anypony else would be able to hear it at this hour; she immediately dismissed the thought. She would have only come if she were absolutely certain about the visit being entirely private. Besides, there was already a simple damping spell in place to guard against unwanted ears listening in.

“Next you’ll be demanding the throne of the Crystal Empire,” she said, the laugh still dancing on her lips. “Negotiations only work when the other side has what you want.”

Beatrix frowned. Who did she think she was, bringing that old pony’s tale up? Might as well threaten to unleash the Mare in the Moon while she was at it.

“You’re an absolute monarch, Princess,” said Beatrix. “You have everything that Blackacre needs. What’s holding you back?”

“Wrong question, little one,” said Celestia, her voice steelier. “Why should I give you anything? Blackacre is the only region of Equestia that levies internal tariffs. Your only articulated demand has been a repeal of the existing agreement, followed by a new one.”

“If you want to repeal the present terms, and don’t want to propose reasonable replacement terms….” Celestia smiled a dangerous smile. “I just might give you what you want.”

“You can’t do that,” said Beatrix. There was no petulance in her voice, nor shock or dismay; she was simply stating a fact, just like she might declare that the moon was above the horizon.

“Oh?” asked Celestia, arching an eyebrow. “I’m just giving you what you want. No one can deny that.”

“We want an opportunity to grow, an opportunity to become something better,” pressed Beatrix. “Something different, something new.”

Celestia gave a slow nod, turned to a side, and walked slowly to the window.

“A thousand years ago, this was a glorious castle,” she said, admiring the view. Not that there was much of one, with the study only a storey above ground, but it was something. Certainly it was better than the view from the bunker network below.

“And then, one day, one pony decided that she could do things better, that she knew better, that her way would make things better.” Celestia turned to face Beatrix, her mane filtering the moonlight into pale colors. “Her hubris drove her mad, and she paid dearly for her mistake.”

Unable to maintain a modicum of respect for this spiel, Bellatrix couldn’t help but snort. She had thought the princess was done spouting off about old nag’s tales, but if she was determined to press the issue, well, she would sink to that level.

“If I remember that legend correctly, the Elements were left in this very castle. The most powerful magical artifacts in the land, just sitting here for a few thousand years.” She spread her hooves wide. “So you’re saying I should start digging.”

“Just under a thousand years, and of course not,” said Celestia with a shrug. “They’re back in Canterlot. When the time is right, they’ll return, but until then, I’m no foal.”

Beatrix rolled her eyes.

“You would make a poor student,” said Celestia, walking once more towards the center of the room.

“Teach me.”

“Equestria draws its strength through its ponies, through our harmony. Our unity. The others may fall for your bluff, but I will not. You cannot stand on your own; no one can. This very ruin is proof.”

“I’m different,” said Beatrix. “We’ve learned from our mistakes. We’ve —”

Celestia laughed. “You don’t even know her name, and you claim to be better than her?”

“We know what we want,” insisted Beatrix, refusing to be sucked back in. “And now, you do too. You value harmony, Princess? Then start working for it. Make me an offer.”

“You want an offer?”

Princess Celestia, now at the exact center of the room, somehow seemed to grow larger, the shimmer of her mane breaking out into sparks as her eyes narrowed. Quite abruptly, Beatrix realized that, whatever magical skill she might have, it was rivaled ten times over, a thousand times, by the alicorn standing directly in front of her.

“This is my offer, Mayor Beatrix,” said Celestia, her voice calmed not by kindness but by a steely undertone, one that dared even the bravest of ponies to challenge it. “You will renew the trade agreements as they stand, you will demobilize your citizens, and you will think long and hard before ever again claiming the common good as justification for your actions.”

Unacceptable! Beatrix wanted to say. We just want a chance!

But somehow, the words caught in her throat, didn’t even make it to a whisper.

“Let me make one last thing perfectly clear,” said Celestia, her voice a honed blade. “I have ruled Equestria for a thousand years. You are not the first with this madness, nor will you be the last, yet I am still here.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“If you challenge me, you will fail.”

Later, when she thought about this moment, Beatrix would come up with a dozen, a hundred responses, all incisive, all perfectly balanced, every one of which would bring the mighty Princess to her knees in the same masterful display of logic that won her the hearts and minds of her people. At the time, though, she could think of nothing other than the aura of sheer power emanating from the alicorn standing before her, the one being in the entire world powerful enough to raise the very sun itself, and how very much she wanted to curl up in a ball and have it all go away, have it all be gone —

And then, quite suddenly, it was.

Beatrix opened her eyes — when had she closed them? — to an empty room, the sliver of moonlight on the floor her only company.

Slowly she walked towards the window, looking out at the forest. Canterlot wasn’t visible from this part of the forest; all the better. She glanced down to see the embers of a hundred fires, ponies and timberwolves and all sorts of forest creatures gathered around the old castle ruins to work together, to build something different, something new, something better.

Slowly, a new smile crept back to her face. Celestia was one pony, but Beatrix had a people. Let the princess’ diplomats come, let them propose what they will; at the end of the day, though, the ponies of Blackacre would be the ones with the resolve to see it through.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

The Hayseed Watch

6 December, Y.C. 969
Hayseed Swamps

“Checkin’ in!” called the pale blue pegasus down to the snow-frosted treetops below. “Nothin’ on the ground, far up as Dodge!”

One of the powdered canopies shimmered for a moment before revealing a smallish wooden platform, perched high above the swampy marshland below. Or at least what would be marsh in the summer: come winter, everything froze down to the water table, and with plenty of trees and ice-hard ground, the swamp started looking an awful lot like a forest. To one side of the platform a lean-to offered some amount of protection to a small pile of supplies; to the other, a unicorn was looking over a topographic chart.

“Got it,” nodded the unicorn. “Dragons?”

The pegasus shook his head, descending down to the tree tops, his shadow tracking over the forest in the evening light. “Nothin’ on the roads. See some off in the distance in the Badlands, but no closer’n usual.”

The unicorn made a few notes on a piece of paper. “Lair smoke?”

“Fifteen columns,” reported the pegasus. “Shuffled around a bit, though.”

“Still fifteen?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Counted twice.”

The unicorn shook his head. “They’re moving around on us. Can’t tell what’s a deployment and what’s just a regular camp….”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, horn starting to glow a greenish color. “Thanks for the check-in. I’ll pass it on.”

“Mind if I take a seat?” asked the pegasus, alighting gracefully on the rim of the platform and shifting to a seated position. “Wings’re killin’ me.”

The unicorn’s eyes were half-lidded with the effort of transmitting the report back to the command post back in Baltimare, but he was present enough of mind to crack a smile.

“Tired?” he said quietly. “The great Donner Quick? Now that’s something worth reporting.”

“Hey!” objected the pegasus. “I’ve been up there twelve hours and you know it. Can’t blame a pony for taking a load off.”

“Long patrol,” agreed the other, only half paying attention.

Donner snorted slightly but didn’t press the issue; the unicorn was deep in concentration by this point. Not that there was much to say; the patrols were long and grueling, no matter how you sliced it. Twelve hours a day of flying wasn’t, strictly speaking, hard. That’s what pegasi did, after all, and while some were not as strong as others, anypony who enlisted for duty in the Air Patrol could fly indefinitely, or at least for as long as they could stay awake.

The nature of the flying, though… low patrols were tricky, because you had to stay close enough to the tree tops to not break the horizon. This entailed a good amount of dodging outlier trees, flocks of birds, the occasional overgrown insect… you couldn’t hop on autopilot and just go for an hour, or two, or five. Constant maneuvering.

The worst part of it, though, was that you didn’t even know if you had to do it. Sure, you had to stay low and out of sight, but you never knew if you were being watched, so you had to keep your guard up. Five minutes’ break every hour, but you could only land in trees, the higher the better. Couldn’t risk leaving any scent on the ground; rumor had it Blackacre was sending out timberwolf patrols, and they’d pick up pony prints in the fresh snow quick as a rainboom.

Donner shivered slightly. Rumors, that was all. Just rumors. For now, they were just doing training flights. Lots of training flights, daily ones, that looked suspiciously like reconnaissance flights. He wasn’t stupid. There was only one reason to patrol the border like this: dragons.

Out of the corner of his eye, Donner caught the watch unicorn muttering something under his breath.

“What’s that?” he asked — to no avail, of course; the unicorn was still in a trance. After a few moments, though, he seemed to snap out of it, though he was still a bit woozy on his legs.

“New orders?” prodded Donner, taking a bite out of an apple, crisp with both freshness and frost. “What’s up? They movin’ you over to an oak tree?”

The unicorn glared at the apple for a moment, though Donner couldn’t understand why; it had just been sitting there, at the lip of one of the supply crates! Twelve hours of flying and nothing but hard biscuits; how could he resist one a fruit as juicy as that one looked? Wasn’t quite up to Appleloosa standards — but, then again, what was?

“New orders,” nodded the unicorn, “for you. You’re to report up to Baltimare. Some of the brass want a word, apparently.”

“With me?” blinked Donner. “Hoo boy. Guess they’ve finally heard of the legend, and want to see him for themselves!”

“Right,” shrugged the unicorn, making a few notes on the map. “You can show them for themselves, too.”

“Sure will,” agreed Donner, hopping to his feet. He glanced off into the distance, where he could just barely make out the last sliver of sun setting over the Macintosh Hills. “Better turn in quick, get a good night’s before flying out tomorrow.” He shivered slightly. “You got a blanket in there, or am I gonna have to strip off some leaves and make myself a nest?”

“Two blankets, actually,” said the unicorn, making a final pair of annotations and glancing up. “You don’t get to use them.”

“I — what!”

“Not today, at least,” he said with a slightly malicious grin. “They want you in Baltimare now.”

Donner blinked.

“As in…”

“As in, now now,” confirmed the unicorn.

“Oh, right,” said Donner, rolling his eyes. “What, you gonna teleport me over?”

“Can’t do anything bigger than an apple from over there to over here,” said the unicorn, gesturing at a tree a few dozen meters away. Or at least it looked like a tree; it was rapidly growing darker. “Good thing, too, since I can’t climb out of this tree.”

“Which brings me back to my first point,” said Donner. “Gotta sleep if I’m flyin’ out first thing tomorrow.”

“You’re not,” said the unicorn. “You’re flying out now.”

Donner gaped at him.

“They want you over there now,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “They were pretty clear about it. Sorry.”

“You’re —” started Donner, then laughed. “You’re kidding. Night flight? This close to the Badlands?”

“Dragons aren’t usually nocturnal,” said the unicorn, reflexively glancing off to the south, where they could make out the slightest of unnatural glows just beyond the horizon; fires of a thousand dragons.

“Usually.”

“Anyway, you’re going north. North-east, if anything. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” grumbled Donner. “Yeah, you say that, but I’m the poor foal stuck up there for the next… jeez, by the time I get there it’ll be morning!”

“So you won’t even get lost!” said the unicorn, feigning cheerfulness. “Look, I know this is pretty terrible —”

“Pretty terrible?” shouted Donner. “Are you kiddin’ me? I’ve been up there for twelve hours, and now you want me to do another one of those, except at night?”

“Look,” said the unicorn defensively. “They just want you up there, a.s.a.p. Sorry I can’t do anything about if. If I could, I would.”

“I know,” he said sadly. “This just sucks.”

“Have another apple,” the unicorn offered.

“That won’t help,” he sulked, but grabbed it nevertheless, stuffing it in the pocket of his flight jacket. “All right, they want me there now, do they? I’ll show ‘em. Here, hold this.”

With a few tugs at awkwardly-placed straps, the outer layer of Donner’s flight jacket peeled off, the blueish-white camouflage that almost perfectly matched his coat color falling to the floor with a sigh, revealing the darker leather underneath.

“Can you magic me down a few shades?” he asked. “If I’m doing night flight, I need to be grey.”

“You got it,” said the unicorn. His horn glowed green for a moment — the light uncomfortably bright in what was now distinctly night — and with a thwump, Donner’s vision cut out entirely.

“What the hay!” he hacked, coughing vigorously for a few moments. “I said color me dark, not make me see it!”

“Hold — hold still!” commanded the unicorn; after a moment, a pair of hooves wiped off his eyes and mouth. “There. That better?”

“Yeah, but what was that?”

“Dirt!” said the unicorn proudly. “You’re covered in it!”

Donner blinked, glanced down, and realized that he was coated almost entirely with a thin shell of, well, dirt. A small halo of the black powder ringed his hooves on the platform, the brownish dust intermingled with stray snowflakes.

“Most of it won’t stick over long distances, but enough’ll get into your coat to keep you dark until you wash it off.” He smiled proudly. “One of my latest tricks. Worked out pretty well; I can’t even see you!”

“As long as they can’t see me,” said Donner. “All right, they want me there now? I’m already late!”

“Fly safe,” nodded the unicorn, stepping back.

With a small cloud of dirt, Donner lifted off. After a few flaps to get his bearings, he started climbing for altitude at an angle; no sense keeping low to the trees when he was flying back over friendly territory.

That was strange. Since when was he thinking of it as friendly and hostile territory? No one was fighting anyone, and since the Dodge Accords, they were at peace with the dragons. Still… it felt right. Friendly territory.

The unicorn watched as the pegasus shot away, disappearing almost immediately into the cold night sky. He waited for a few more moments, then with a slight glow of his horn reconstituted the silvery masking field, covering the observation platform in what looked very much like the frozen canopy of a nondescript tree.

After a few minutes more he risked another horn-glow to pass another message. This connection didn’t have a paired receiving unicorn at the other end, so he would have to do it by sound, with a bit more power to the transmission.

“He’s on his way back,” he whispered.

He paused for a moment, waiting for a question.

“No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “They don’t suspect a thing.”

Smoke and Daggers

10 December, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

The night was about as cold as it looked — and with the view out the tower window half-blocked by icicles, that was saying something. Snowflakes swirled gently outside the Castle Tower, the night wind blowing them off the rooftops below; it was too cold for anything fresh to fall.

Aspia shivered slightly. The door was only opened a crack, but that was enough, as wind whipped around her. She took another sip from the mug of hot chocolate she clasped in icy hooves. At least she had that to keep her company; it was her third this night. A pity it was almost gone.

She briefly considered going back down to the kitchens and getting more, but dismissed the notion. That would take at least ten minutes, maybe fifteen depending on how well the kitchen staff had closed everything up. And those were fifteen minutes she couldn’t afford to lose. She had already been waiting here for hours, and with her luck the moment she left, he would show up.

Absently, she realized she had no more feeling in her right hoof. She stamped it a few times to get sensation back, recoiling slightly at the echo. At this hour of the night, the tower would be empty — that was the entire reason for being here, or at least a good part of it — but the noise was still uncomfortably loud.

All right; one more mug. At least going downstairs would keep her awake. And besides, he was already four and a half hours late. What were the chances….

A shadow slid across the door. She whirled, tensing up as it came in for a rough landing on the lip of the balcony outside — and caught herself as she recognized his brown-flecked mane. Putting the mug to a side with a sigh of relief, she pried open the door, dropping little bits of caked ice to the ground.

“General,” she called over the wind. “Glad you could make it.”

“Glad to see you,” said William Batchall, stripping off his flying helmet and feathering his wings with a little shake. “Damned glad to see you.”

Stepping inside the council chamber, he took a few sniffs of the air. “Is that chocolate I smell?”

“Was,” said Aspia apologetically. “Sorry, Billy.”

The moment he was inside the room, she slammed a shoulder into the door. Its hinges squealed, but it shut; almost immediately the room felt warmer. Not that that was saying much — with the big hearth unlit, the only heat came up through the floorboards below — but it was a fair sight better inside than out.

“Could really use some of that,” muttered Billy, shaking off the last of the ice from his wings. “Cold outside.”

“I can tell,” she said with a nod. “I had more, but that was four hours ago.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “Headwinds coming over Foal Mountain.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You took the long way.”

“Wasn’t about to go over Saddle Lake,” he laughed.

“Fair enough,” she conceded. After all, Saddle was uncomfortably close to Blackacre — and though Billy could take care of himself quite well, thank you very much, it wouldn’t do to have the head of Equestria’s Air Patrol flying by night so close to enemy territory.

Not enemy, she reminded herself. Just… not quite friendly.

“Believe me, if I could have put this off until tomorrow, I would have,” he said. “Like that,” he added, clapping a hoof.

“Let’s make this quick, then,” said Aspia, gesturing to the large council table, where a set of charts had been laid out for the better part of the night. “The last update Baltimare sent up said no change at the line.”

Billy snorted. “It’s not what’s at the line that I’m worried about.”

“Be my guest,” she said, waving a hoof at the map.

He tugged at the straps of his saddlebag; with a good yank it slid off, bounced once on the floor, and slid a few feet, its surface entirely coated with a thin layer of ice.

“Well.”

“Yeah,” he said, cracking the shell with a quick chop and opening the worn leather straps. “Fun trip. Remind me never to night fly again. I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

“You’re the one who said you needed to be here now.”

“I know,” he sighed, pulling out a set of charts. He smoothed them out on the table, laying them next to the bigger ones.

“Reports from the east side of the line are clear,” he said, waving a hoof up and down the mountain range that separated the Hayseed Swamps from the Badlands. “Ditto reports from Appleloosa, double ditto from the San Palomino Desert.”

“That covers the east and the west,” said Aspia, glancing at her own set of maps. “You’re missing a big chunk there.”

“I know,” he said. “We don’t have eyes on the Macintosh Hills between Appleloosa and Dodge.”

She frowned. “There’s personnel in the area.”

“Sure is,” he agreed, “just not enough of them. Barracks at Dodge are ancient. We’re doing the best we can to convert them, but they won’t be complete by year’s end. Another month, at the very least.”

“What are you working with, then?”

“Ground observers, mostly,” he shrugged. “Can’t risk pegasus flights during the day. We’re allowed to patrol our own border, but if we suddenly have a constant watch….”

“Of course,” she nodded. They couldn’t risk tipping off the dragons; things were touchy enough as it was. “Nighttime stealth flights?”

“Can’t do it without the proper equipment,” he said, shaking his head. “Need grooming facilities to keep feathers in trim and get the right masking. We’re downwind most of the time, but we’ve got to mask scent, and the only way to do that is with magic, so that means more ground support for unicorns. The supply train only gets bigger.”

“Right,” she said. The difficulties here were apparent, and she had no doubt that he and his staff were doing what they could. “So where does this leave us?”

“With spotty coverage of the most critical part of the line,” he snorted. “If the dragons are moving out to Blackacre, regardless of their intentions, they’ll cross between Appleloosa and Dodge Junction. We learned that the hard way the last time around.”

“And without proper coverage, they can do it without us knowing.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he cautioned. “But we wouldn’t get much by way of warning until it was too late.”

“Damn,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s a problem. But — go back a moment. Reports on the other parts of the line say things are continuing on the way they always were. No change.”

“Right,” he agreed. “That’s the key. Everything’s going fine. The dragons know Blackacre is a big, big thorn in our side right now. The way winter’s going, we’re going to have to get through to our stocks in Appleloosa somehow. All the dragons need is a quick surgical strike on the warehouses: take out the guards and sequester the goods, take out the railroad bridge over Ghastly Gorge and the road bridge north of Dodge, and you’d cut off access to those stocks, except through Blackacre.”
He shook his head. “We’d have to negotiate. They could extract concessions without breathing a single fireball. It wouldn’t take much to bring Equestria to its knees, and they know it.”

“And I know it,” said Aspia irritatedly. “Believe me, I know it. What’s your point?”

“Sixteen years ago, they fought for three years. For what? A standstill.” He spat. “And now, they can take what they wanted in three weeks. And we’d have to give it to them. And they know it. Don’t you think it’s just a little bit odd that they’re not moving troops into position?”

Her eyes flickered in the candlelight. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Someone’s going through a hell of a lot of trouble to make sure it looks like the dragons are playing nice, when by all rights they should be building up forces, poking around the edges, seeing how far they can push us.”

“Which means they’re building up for a covert strike.”

“Which will probably come at our weakest point.” Billy smacked a hoof on the map, roughly between Dodge and Appleloosa. “Right here.”

“Damn,” she said again. “Looks like we need more intelligence.”

“Damned right we do,” he agreed. “The moment I figured it out, I pulled in my top scouts. Spent the last day and a half going over everything with them: windage, range, lay of the land; hell, we even talked about what the local rivers are like, in case we need to break out some subs.”

Aspia rolled her eyes. Using submersible scout posts to spy on dragons — who, after all, breathed fire — had seemed like a good idea at the time, but she couldn’t recall a single instance when it had actually worked. Then again, during the Dragon Skirmishes, it seemed like nothing had broken their way.

“Conclusions?” she asked.

“We can increase patrol range easily enough,” he said. “Run more patrols out of the advance posts in southern and western Hayseed. If they go on a straight line in and out, instead of running a circle, they can get closer in to the mountains while staying covert.”

He pointed to a pair of lines on his own charts. One of them was a loop, representative of current patrols; another was mostly a straight line, out towards the mountains and back. Both were the same length, but the latter brought the patrol pegasus a lot closer to the mountains than the first.

“We also need more night flights,” he continued. “High altitude flyers with good binocs. If they are trying to mask movements, then they’ll have a normal presence out towards the border lairs, but the farther in we look, the fewer we’ll see, because they’ll all be moving up to the front.”

“How can they do that without being seen?”

“Our best guess is tunnels,” he said. “With the right kind of diet, dragons can keep their smoke down; if they tunnel up at night, we won’t spot their fires.”

“That’s a lot of digging.”

“Might be able to see tunnels, but that means high-altitude day flights.”

“Risky,” she said, considering it for a moment. “Might be worth it.”

“Might be. I would do those one at a time, though; they wouldn’t be regularly scheduled. I’ve got a few candidates lined up. Either way, we’re going to have to increase night flights and effectively double low-altitude day patrols.”

“Sounds like you need more personnel.”

Billy cocked a smile. “It does sound an awful lot like that, doesn’t it? Third Wing’s currently on alert status up near Neighagra; I activated them when we moved the Fourth down to Hayseed.”

“How convenient,” she smiled. That was Billy, always thinking ahead. “How soon can they be in position?”

“Four days,” he said with a nod. “I’ve got the orders drafted; just need the royal go-ahead. But this all isn’t the main problem.”

“Dragons building up forces in secret isn’t a problem,” she deadpanned. “That’s a good one.”

“If we have both the Third and the Fourth in Hayseed, then that leaves… well, not much. First is here, Second over in Las Pegasus, Fifth in Manehattan, and Sixth of course back at Cloudsdale. If we activate more of them, that leaves the borders undefended.”

“Were we expecting company?” she asked wryly.

“No,” he conceded, “but I don’t like it. I want to deploy a wing to Appleloosa — a full wing, not a recon division — but pulling Las Pegasus to do it means leaving the western half of the San Palomino Desert undefended.”

“Leaving a hole in our lines for the dragons to go through,” finished Aspia. She eyed the map for a moment, noting the positions of the little blue boxes with three cross marks under them, each marking a single Air Patrol wing.

“How about a chain deployment? Manehattan to Canterlot, Canterlot to Las Pegasus, Las Pegasus to Appleloosa?” She traced the route out. “Yes, that would work. Keeps us from moving troops over… Blackacre.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” nodded Billy. “Trouble is, at that point we’re mobilizing more than half of the entire Air Patrol. We can get away with one wing. We’re already calling the Fourth’s activity ‘exercises.’ We can probably get away with two wings. Call it a big exercise. But that means mobilizing the First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth.”

Aspia sighed. He was right, of course. They had seven wings, and mobilizing five of them would be difficult to justify. The Sixth Wing was far and away the largest; called the War Wing by some, it only deployed from Cloudsdale in true emergencies. The Seventh ‘Wonderbolt’ Wing was mostly an exhibition and honor guard, but they had a full set of personnel. She would have to do the math, but mobilizing the first five wings would indeed only be about half of total Air Patrol personnel.

She restrained a snort. Only.

“That’s going to be a problem,” she said, shaking her head. “The Princess will not be happy.”

“Nothing much we can do about that,” said Billy with a helpless shrug. “We’re in the very lucky position of being able to reposition our forces before we start shooting at each other.”

A moment of silence.

“This is a chance we need to take.”

Another pause, longer this time. Shadows danced on the map as the candles wavered in the ghost of a breeze.

“Will it come to that?” she said, almost in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” said Billy. “But with dragons….”

He shook his head.

“We can’t afford to take any chances.”

Great Expectations

11 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” agreed the mare at the other side of the table with a slight nod. After a moment, she started to gather her papers, not even bothering to use her magic for it. It was that kind of day, after all. The slight rustling caught the attention of the two observers on the second level; realizing what was happening, they immediately got up and were gone in a twinkle.

Dag sighed. He envied them. Not for the mind-numbing boredom — he experienced that just like they did, after all — but rather the fact that they could, and often did, fall asleep pretty much whenever they wanted to. All of Equestria’s major news agencies had sent out delegations at the beginning of the negotiations, and this little town’s library had been packed, the second floor full of official observers and curious townfolk alike.

He lazily started to collect his own papers and sighed again. Those were the days. All of, what, just a few weeks ago? Back when they had some amount of hope in this whole damn business. Now, neither of them bothered to so much as bring a staff. What was the point?

At the hint of a sound above him he blinked twice and looked up; his female counterpart was holding a sheaf of papers, a single lone strap doing its very best to hold them all together.

“Where will you be tonight?” said the mare with the air of somepony repeating herself.

“Oh,” he said. “Hadn’t thought about that. Probably stay in.” He attempted a smile. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” she agreed dully with a dip of her seafoam mane. “Same here. But it’s one of my staff’s birthday, so….”

She gave a helpless shrug.

“Go for it,” said Dag. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” she said with a half-smile.

He watched her leave, then slowly turned back to his own papers.

It was nice to have a decent counterpart on the other side of the table, he mused. LeFleur was actually quite a pleasant person to be around — away from the table. At it, though, was a different issue entirely. At one point he had noticed that the Blackacreans had a mule in their delegation; maybe that’s where she picked up her stubbornness.

Papers collected — for what they were worth; at this point he had been over them so many times he knew their contents by heart, and they were mostly just for show — he turned for the door. For a moment he considered going out somewhere, but decided against it: tonight was a good night for an early dinner, some reading, and then bed.

Besides, he didn’t want to risk running into LeFleur or her delegation out on the town. They had laid out that ground rule early on, when it became clear that she wasn’t about to make any concessions any time soon. Ponyville was neutral ground, at least for the purposes of the negotiations, but neither of them wanted to risk bringing their delegations out somewhere to eat and running into each other. For one, no eatery in the town was big enough for the both of them; for two, that just didn’t seem like a good idea.

Usually they traded off nights “out,” so to speak, but Dag had given her the past five days. He just didn’t feel like going anywhere, and he knew his people felt the same way.

On the short path from the library to the temporary accommodations in an unused wing of the town’s hospital, Dag nearly stumbled over a rock. He gave it a good kick; it shot over to a low brick wall, bounced off, and came back to hit his flank.

He cursed under his breath, rubbing the spot. Just his luck. With the hundredth sigh that day — that evening, by this point — he continued on.

Stonewalling, that’s what they were doing. He knew it, she knew it, everyone knew it. Even the newsponies had given up; only the Herald kept a reporter on the scene. Dag had gotten a good look at the Herald’s staffer; he was a young pony, the sheaf of papers on his flank crisp like only a new cutie mark could be.

All the other papers had gotten together, pooled their men, and left a single joint reporter at the scene. Every day, the poor stallion dutifully sent off the joint report to news agencies in every corner of Equestria. Most days it was a single line. What else was there to report?

“Evening, Chief Diplomat,” called a mare from the door to the hospital. “You’re back late. What was on the docket today?”

“Thrilling business, Miss Jacqueline,” he deadpanned. “Went all over the railroad again.”

Dag entered the hospital, the air inside only marginally warmer than outside. He groaned. “Heater broke again?”

“’Fraid so,” said the mare, offering a bundle of fabric; he realized she was wearing one herself, its reddish color blending into her copper coat. “Blanket?”

“Yes, please,” he said, trading the papers for the covering. “Thanks, Jackie.”

“Sure thing,” she said with a winsome smile. She turned to gesture in towards the main hall, which was lit with candles every dozen paces. It looked like the power was out, too. Not that he minded; it wasn’t as if he was going to be up late into the night.

“So,” prompted Jackie as they moved down towards the glow at the end of the hall, the common room where his staff would normally be working hard under the watchful eye of his chief, Otto. Not today, though. What was there to do?

“The railroad.”

“Ah, yes,” he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “We went down it, spike by spike.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yeah, but it felt like it,” he shrugged. “Went over every kilometer between Ponyville and Appleloosa. Ponyville Forest, Remaregen Bridge over the river, the bit next to Froggy Bottom Bogg, bridge over the gorge, and the stretch from there over the grasslands down to Appleloosa itself.”

She frowned slightly. “What…?”

“Did we talk about?” he laughed. “Pretty much everything. Where it came from, who supplied the materials, who supplied the labor.”

Jackie snorted, not breaking her stride.

“Pretty much,” agreed Dag, then affected an air of absurd eagerness. “Did you know that eighteen percent of the raw iron in the Remaregen support struts came from the abandoned mines in what is now Rambling Rock Ridge?”

“I did not,” she said, shaking her head at him. “And I don’t think I’ll remember it for much longer, either.”

“Makes two of us,” he spat. “Even if it did matter to the land ownership — which it doesn’t, by the way, I checked the civil code last night — that happened nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Jackie paused in mid-stride and turned towards him.

“You remember the thing you just said?” she asked, arching a dark red eyebrow.

“The iron content or the property law?” he teased.

“Either,” she said, brown eyes boring deep. “Because I’ve already forgotten about both of them.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” he said, pursing his lips. “They’re not particularly interesting facts, and in the scheme of things —”

“And you know what else?” she asked, bringing her head closer.

“I,” she said, so close he could feel her breath.

“Don’t,” and he could feel it warm now, the heat a touch of summer in mid-winter.

Jackie opened her lips for ‘care’ but he sealed them with his own, closing the distance before she got the word out. Both sheaf of paper and blanket dropped to the floor, where they rested for a solid minute or two.

Eventually, they detached themselves. Dag shivered for a moment in the cool air of the hall; Jackie threw her blanket over him, keeping his body close for warmth.

“Long day.”

“You wouldn’t believe,” he said sadly, leaning against her. “I can’t believe I’m still here.”

“You’re the best there is,” she said, nuzzling against him. “Sooner or later, the Princess will need her best stallion, right here.”

“The Princess’ best can’t do anything if he’s gone crazy,” he reminded her. “I can only take so much of this idiocy at a time, and my tolerance isn’t getting any higher.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, her head still pressing against his neck, gently angled to keep her horn away from the ticklish spot just behind his ears. He was an Earth pony, but had plenty of unicorn blood in his lineage; she was the opposite, a unicorn born of mostly earthy stock. They had often joked about what their foals might look like. Joked, because they both agreed that trying to raise foals while on the road as often as he was probably wasn’t a good idea.

Of course, given the way negotiations were going here, they might well start settling down to raise some youngsters. On winter nights like these, making them certainly wouldn’t be a problem, with the power out and their bodies the only thing to keep them warm….

The faint glow at the end of the hall suddenly became brighter as they heard the soft sound of the door to the common room opening.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” murmured Jackie.

“We can always change that.”

“Later,” she said, nipping his ear. “The night’s not going anywhere.”

A slight glow of her horn and suddenly they were wearing blankets again; on the floor, the spilled papers straightened themselves out and jumped up to her hoof. Dag smiled. Some ponies might be jealous, but he couldn’t figure why. She had gifts he didn’t, and he had gifts she didn’t; the only difference was hers were a bit more obvious. And, when it came to looking proper in a matter of seconds, hers were a bit more useful.

A greenish-red blur came around the corner, then stopped short as it caught sight of them.

“Mr. Hammer!”

“Agnes?” Dag blinked. Their host was generally glad to help out, but she usually stayed in the building, rather than dashing out of it; she had been running at a speed more suited for one of the young pegasus couriers on his staff. “What’re you doing in a rush?”

“You’re not going out tonight, are you?” asked Jackie, concerned. “It’s mighty cold….”

“Not anymore,” said the mare with a sigh of relief, pulling off the red blanket; her green coat almost lime-colored in the candlelight. “I was looking for you, actually; thought I would have to go to the library.”

“We called it a day,” said Dag vaguely. “What is it? What’s the rush?”

“A message,” she said breathlessly. “No time to wake one of your staff; I had to get it to you, and fast!”

“Well what is it?” he asked, stepping forward. “If it’s that —”

“I was standing in the kitchen, baking up a pie for you two tonight,” she started, glancing from one to the other, “because I’ve got a few apples leftover from this week’s shipment from down south, and if I don’t use them they’ll go bad, and here I was, ready to pull it out of the oven when suddenly there’s this flash, and… oh no!” Her eyes went wide. “It’s still in there! I’ve got to —”

“The flash,” prompted Jackie before she could turn away. “What —”

“A letter,” she said, frantic. “From the Princess. It just appeared out of thin air….”

“Give it here,” said Dag; she passed him a small scroll. Green and gold, royal seal; it was the Princess, all right. Teleporting a scroll this far without a paired receiver at the other end… this must have taken an enormous amount of effort.

He swallowed. This didn’t bode well.

“Well?” said Jackie, eyes wide. “What does she say?”

He snapped the seal off with a flick, scanning down the words. There were only a few lines of text, but as he reached the bottom he realized that there wasn’t much to say. He read it a second time, glanced away for a moment, and then a third time, just to be sure.

“She…” he started, then paused.

Both Agnes and Jackie leaned in slightly. They didn’t look related, but mannerisms were in the blood.

“The Princess expects results,” he said flatly.

Jackie blinked.

“How is that different from…?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She needs results, and she needs them now.”

“But why?” she asked. “They’ve been stalling for weeks!”

Dag glanced quickly at Agnes — oh, forget it. She might not have clearance, but she would find out soon enough.

“They’re mobilizing the Air Patrol,” he said quietly. “Five full Wings.”

For a full thirty seconds, the hall was quiet. Jackie was first to break the silence.

“The last time….”

“Dragon Skirmishes,” he finished with a nod. “I know.”

“And she expects results.”

“She does,” he said, already starting to sweat a bit, the perspiration clammy on his face.

“It’s a good thing she has the best stallion in the land on the job,” said Jackie, attempting cheerfulness. “If you can’t broker a deal, no one can.”

“That’s just it,” he said, staring into the dim candlelight of the hall. “Doesn’t matter if no one can do it… it needs to happen. We can’t risk anything less.”

The Brothers Skim

11 December, Y.C. 969
Baltimare

“Sir?”

Werni glanced up to see a young pony peeking through the door flap. A few flakes drifted off his muzzle; it must be snowing again.

“Sir. Those two ponies you wanted to see are here.”

“Send them in,” he said with a nod, clearing off the makeshift desk. It took a few seconds to figure out where to put the papers; the tent was a bit larger than standard issue, but not by much.

Werni might be Field Marshall of the Royal Army, but he wouldn’t be much of a commander if he didn’t stick with his troops through thick and thin. No one had been thrilled about their deployment to Baltimare — it was a good ten degrees colder out here near the ocean, and the humidity made the cold all the worse — but morale had plummeted when they discovered that the old barracks hadn’t been maintained properly. He had the corps of engineers working on it, of course, but until they could replace the termite-infested beams, more than half of his company was sleeping outside in a little tent city.

He had joined them, of course, and had even rejected assistance in setting the damned tent up. It had been ages since he had had to assemble his own equipment, but it came back to him soon enough. Like a bicycle, really.

A slight commotion outside the tent caused him to frown slightly. As much as he liked to do everything for himself, he had been forced to take on a secrepony for correspondence; he couldn’t well dedicate five hours a day just to reading and responding. The fact that the letter from these two… gentlecolts… had filtered through to him, then, meant that there was some merit to it.

Which didn’t explain the argument outside.

“…necessary for the presentation!”

“I’m sure you understand, naturally.”

“I do, but this wasn’t part of the arrangement.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Could have sworn we put it in!”

“No matter. We’ll just wing it.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Brother!”

Werni slipped the canvas off its eyehook and the tent flap slid open, revealing a pair of ponies in mid-argument with a pony in uniform, backdropped by a cart draped in some sort of grey fabric. For a moment, all three were silent, trying to figure out what to do. Werni frowned slightly, and the two newcomers broke into broad smiles.

“General!”

“Sir!”

“So glad you got our letter.”

“So glad you could meet us!”

“You must be the Skim brothers,” said Werni neutrally. “I assume you have a good reason for not being inside my tent right now.” On cue, a ripple of goosebumps worked its way down his mane.

“It’s our sample, sir,” said one of the two — though which one, he couldn’t say; they both looked the same. For that matter, neither of them looked old enough to be out of school, much less have served during the Skirmishes as their letter had claimed.

“The good private here is refusing to let us show you our invention,” said the other.

“The whole reason for being here!” chimed the first.

“Corporal,” said Werni.

They blinked.

“Smith is a corporal,” he said again, and the uniformed pony straightened slightly, as much from having his rank corrected as his commanding officer remembering his name. “And, judging by your letter, you won’t need props to make your presentation. Your rhetoric was convincing enough to get you here.”

And to hoodwink my secrepony, he added to himself. No way these two were veterans, and that was usually the easiest of claims to verify.

They started to protest, but Werni simply turned back into his tent, leaving the flap open for them. After a few moments he heard a light crunching sound as the two newcomers crossed the few feet of snow to come into the tent, closing the flap up behind them.

As he settled down behind the desk, he realized that perhaps it was good that they didn’t have any props with them; there wouldn’t be much by way of room in here for them anyway.

“So,” he said after a moment. “You served in the Skirmishes.”

The ponies blinked at each other.

“Straight to the point, eh sir?”

“We like that, like that a lot.”

“Lets you know the kind of stallion you’re dealing with, yes sir it does.”

Werni waited patiently.

“We did,” said the first, after a moment.

“With distinction!” added the second.

Again he said nothing.

“We were, ah, colts at the time.”

“Fresh-foaled youngsters.”

“Not formally commissioned, as such.”

There it was.

“But,” cut in the second, before Werni had a chance to engage, “we did serve.”

“Served tables!” said the first proudly. “Third company, under Captain Delphino.”

“He was running short on ponies, so he offered a pair of short ponies the chance to run around for him.”

“Kitchen duty’s not combat duty, but we did our part.”

“Did all we could!”

Werni nodded. When he first saw them, he was expecting a lie, but that was plausible. Delphi had always had a soft spot for the young ones. Why foals were in a combat zone in the first place was a question worth asking, but if they were already there, Delphi would have put them to work.

“All right,” he said. “You have a proposal for me.”

“We do!” said one cheerily.

“We call it…” said the other, “the Skimmer.”

“Named after ourselves, right brother?”

“Of course, brother!”

“Fascinating,” said Werni, dismissing their enthusiasm. “What is it.”

“Well, in the kitchens, we saw how hard it was to get supplies to the front under fire.”

“Can’t send anything by pegasus when there are dragons around,” added the other with a knowing nod.

“And ground shipment is too slow — and exposes the supply train to attack. Carts go up in flame too easy.”

“I like roasted apples as much as the next pony, but that’s just too much.”

Werni nodded. He didn’t need a lecture on the difficulties of battlefield logistics. An army marched on its stomach, and while he favored risky strategies, there was a world of difference between a calculated risk and suicide, especially when it came to supply lines.

“Your proposal.”

“A supply… train!” beamed the first.

“This would be much more effective if we had props.”

“Oh, yes it would, brother, but we make do.”

“That we do.”

“Trains,” said Werni, cutting them off, “require tracks.”

The Equestrian train network had expanded by thirty percent since the Skirmishes — a fact that he didn’t quite feel like sharing at the moment — but the trains didn’t go everywhere. How could they? Trains worked best on flat and open terrain, exactly the kind of land that made for slow and brutal fighting, the kind he avoided at all costs. There would always be gaps between supply points and the front, especially if he had anything to say about it.

“Ours doesn’t.”

Despite himself, he raised an eyebrow. Many had tried off-rail logistics, of course, but the severe nature of most of Equestria’s countryside meant that it was just impractical; the contraptions he usually saw were half the size of a barn and required the better part of a platoon to operate. If these two had pulled it off….

“It’s a highly modified Forney-type locomotive. ”

“Pulled it straight out of a scrap heap outside Fillydelphia; can you imagine the things ponies throw out these days?”

“Back drive axle was shot, but it’s an oh-four-four configuration.”

“And we were going to take it out anyway!”

“Just expanded out the main wheels, took out the secondary drive shaft.”

“Had to do some real kajiggering to get the countermotion right, let me tell you!”

“Replaced the drive wheels with wooden ones; broader rim and they’re lighter too.”

“Gentlecolts,” said Werni, raising a hoof. Perhaps the term wasn’t exactly appropriate, but it shut them up. “What’s your point.”

“I knew we should have brought the props.”

“I know, brother, I know.”

“General,” said the first, in a tone that indicated that perhaps he was going to say something useful now, “with the drivetrain modifications and broader wheelbase, ol’ Skimmer can do cruising speed over at least thirty percent of Equestria.”

“Plus she can do walking speed or better over another thirty percent!”

“And,” added the other excitedly, “she has least five or six times the cargo capacity of your average pack pony.”

“Not to mention it’s fireproof.”

Werni raised an eyebrow.

“Well, most of it. Wood wheels aren’t.”

“But she’s fire-resistant, and she’ll pace dragons through forest.”

“With a big ol’ catcher on front to dig through whatever’s in the way!”

“It sounds,” said Werni, quieting them down, “like you’ve got quite the setup. I imagine the research and development teams would like to take a closer look at it.”

“I bet they would!” laughed one.

“They’ve turned us down often enough.”

“Oh?”

The first licked his lips quickly.

“Nothing serious.”

Werni leaned forward slightly. “Do go on.”

“It’s, ah.”

Almost in unison, they swallowed.

“Some nonsense about efficiency,” said one, snorting.

“We can fix that,” added the other quickly. “It’s just a matter of —”

“And what,” asked Werni, ignoring him entirely, “is the power source.”

“Steam,” nodded one of the brothers.

“Just steam.”

“And a magic primer,” said the other, tapping his horn.

“Not much; just to get it started.”

“I see.” Werni leaned back. He had a pretty good idea of where this was going. “And just what did R&D tell you the first time around?”

“They, uh.”

“Some sort of nonsense about magical efficiency,” cut in the second with a broad smile. “Nothing major.”

“I see,” he said again.

For a moment, he said nothing.

“And what do you want me to do with your project?”

“We just need a good word,” said the first pony quickly, almost with a trace of relief. “All we need is someone respectable —”

“— such as yourself, sir! —”

“— someone respectable to vouch for us. That’s all!”

“Honest!”

“I think I understand,” said Werni with a slow nod. “Tell me: why do you want this project to get the go-ahead? I imagine you’d have a number of potential civilian applications.”

“We do,” conceded one.

“To be honest, though, it’s because we’re true to our roots.” The other adopted a wistful expression. “We started off in the Royal Army, and we want you to make the best use of it.”

“There are too many problems out there,” said the first, shaking his head slowly. “The faster we can get supplies to our boys in white, the faster we can kill the monsters who want to kill us and go home!”

“And do you agree with that sentiment?” Werni asked the other, keeping his face carefully neutral.

“Of course I do,” he agreed without hesitation. “Any enemy of the Princess is an enemy of mine, and the faster we can deal with them all the better!”

“All right.”

A pause. The brothers Skim glanced at each other.

“Does that mean…?”

“It means,” said Werni, his tone as cold as the wind whipping by outside, “that you can take your plans, your projects, and your props, burn them, and go do something productive with your life.”

They gaped.

“You read the R&D report. You’re trying to hoodwink the Army into funding an infinite efficiency machine. That’s just not how magic works.”

“But —”

“Steam —”

“I’m no expert on trains,” he pressed, “but I know when someone’s trying to fleece me.”

“But —!”

“But,” he continued, ignoring the ponies entirely, “that’s not the worst of it. You talk to me of killing the enemies of the Princess, of monsters, of getting what they deserve?” He shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“Of course it is!”

“And if you think that, then you’re as young as you look.” He glared at them. “They’re ponies — or wolves, or dragons, or bears — just like us, and the only difference between them and us is that they happen to have been born on the wrong side of a line. The moment you start thinking them worthy of any less respect for it is the moment you stop deserving to ‘win,’ as you call it.”

He pushed back from the desk, rising smoothly. They were young, yes, but not perhaps too much shorter than he was — and yet somehow he managed to tower over them.

“Get out of my tent.”

The brothers glanced at each other, put on nervous grins, and dipped their heads in unison.

“Well, brother, it looks like our services aren’t required here.”

“Next time, we should work up a better presentation.”

“Maybe a song?”

“Or a dance!”

“All right, mister —”

“General.”

His voice was ice.

They swallowed again.

“All right,” said one nervously.

“General Pommel,” added the other.

Then, in unison: “Sir!”

They stood and skittered towards the door, gone in a flash with nothing but a few stray flakes creeping in through the loose tent flap.
Werni shook his head. By rights, he should have them arrested, but decided against it. They were in it for the long con, and not even a day in the stocks would knock that out of them. Someday, they’d manage to pull one over on an innocent citizen — but not today, and not on him.

Pulling out a chart, he got back to the much more important business of figuring out how, exactly, to deal with an invasion. One never planned for dragons… but only an idiot wouldn’t try.

Concessions

18 December, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

“Mares and gentlecolts,” said McNamare, her slightly raised voice cutting through the murmur in the council’s chamber. Obligingly, heads turned, and the buzz quieted somewhat.

“Thank you,” she said with a curt nod. “Mares and gentlecolts, Princess Celestia.”

And then, before the observers in the gallery could realize it, she was there, just off to the side, towering over everypony else with a silent calm, her mane flowing ever so slightly in the still air.

“Thank you, Secrepony McNamare,” said the Princess with a graceful nod, moving to displace the light blue pony at the head of the table. Her expression was neutral, with just the slightest touch of wistful; it was the face of a leader willing to do whatever she needed to for her people, no matter how distasteful. It was perfectly calculated and deployed, something McNamare recognized with the slightest of nods as she moved to the open seat just to the Princess’ right.

“I’m glad you could make it,” she announced, glancing pointedly around the table. All of the cabinet were here; most had brought their own Undersecreponies as well. Not that they would be saying much, of course, but at a meeting such as this, they couldn’t risk being unprepared. Each and every pony at that table needed to be on top of every aspect of their jurisdiction, and two heads were always better than one.

“As you’ve surely noticed, today we have some company,” the Princess continued, turning from side to side, sweeping the room with a level gaze. “To our guests, our welcomes and our thanks.”

A nod of appreciation rippled down the row of ponies standing at a respectful distance from the table. Most of them were representatives from the news organizations; a few were from major corporations, and the remaining two or three were some of the most influential stallions in Canterlot.

Most importantly, though, every pony there was savvy to the ways of political discourse. They would report the spirit of the discussion, not the words. If somepony at the council table misspoke, they could rest assured that the reporters wouldn’t excise and twist their words against them. Every representative there knew that, though the council was technically in an open session, to call it open was something of a misnomer.

They were present at the pleasure of the Princess, and to report anything deceptive, anything other than the truth… well, they would suddenly find themselves with no reason for employment. Trust with the Princess was hard to earn; once lost, employers found it easier to simply work up a different pony for royal interaction.

“I know there are a number of different issues to be dealt with at the moment,” said the Princess by way of introduction, “but unfortunately we can’t address all of them in open session. I would very much like to give to each the attention it deserves, but our time is limited.” She smiled slightly. “After all, I trust you all. That’s why you’re here — you take care of the thousand little things that keep Equestria running smoothly.”

Various nods. They all understood. The job of a Secrepony of Education was important in its own right, but no one in their right mind would prefer the council be discussing proposed revisions to the standard curriculum right this moment. For that matter, most of them would rather not discuss such revisions at all; they didn’t know the first thing about pedagogic theory.

“You are all here today, though,” she went on, “because I value your counsel — and some issues are too big for any one pony to handle.”

Celestia glanced at McNamare, who nodded solemnly. She wasn’t about to contest that; despite the vast influence she wielded, McNamare was the first to ask for help when necessary.

“Three days ago, the Blackacre negotiations reached a turning point. Thanks to the diligent efforts of both sides, we have reached a preliminary consensus.” The Princess glanced at the ponies observing the proceedings. “Many of you will already know this.”

The reporter present from the Tall Tale Times found reason to look away for a moment. Their organization had been the first to leak the terms of the proposed settlement, the result of a chance encounter between one of the Times’ correspondents and a slightly talkative courier pegasus. The reporter present at the council meeting was of course one of the Times’ most senior staffers; he had had nothing to do with it, but at least had the good graces to look ashamed for the stain on his organization’s reputation.

In the scheme of things, though, the leak had worked out well enough. The young reporter had naturally been blacklisted, and his career was effectively finished — but leaking the settlement details two hours after the Herald got a hold of the Air Patrols’ troop deployments provided for a better cover-up than even the best-enforced gag order. Besides, the Times got a good scoop out of it. They could well afford to sacrifice a reporter for news like that. Even two.

“Our chief diplomat has forwarded the latest set of terms, with only slight modifications from the original proposal. He informs me that, as far as the Blackacreans care, they are final; they’re happy with the settlement.” The tip of her elongated horn glowed ever so slightly, and a dozen sheets slid across the table. “You all have copies of the proposed terms; these are the latest revision, only twenty minutes old. Again, there are no significant changes from last night’s set; it seems that this is their best offer.”

Along the sides of the room, an attaché quietly padded from observer to observer, handing out extra copies.

“The proposed terms,” she reminded them, “are just that: proposed. You all have perspectives and information that my chief diplomat does not. I am prepared to accept these terms upon his recommendation, but I would much rather do it with yours as well.”

“Lastly, before we begin, I would like to make one last thing clear.” Her face tightened slightly. “I don’t like this. Not in the least. But given our current situation….”

She shook her head again. “We have very few options.”

Somber expressions around the room. They knew that the Princess would never capitulate to demands unless it was absolutely and critically necessary. The observers might not know the strategic situation, but they knew the Air Patrol had been deployed; it didn’t take excessive powers of observation to connect a few dots. Blackacre needed to be brought back into the fold, and fast, so they could focus on presenting a united front.

With a gesture, Celestria stepped back, giving McNamare the floor. She gently tapped the sheet in front of her and gave the table a once-over.

“There are a number of terms offered, and some work in our favor. We’ll start with the Blackacrean proposed set.” She ran a hoof down the page, ticking off items to herself. “Most fall into two categories. The first is a complete overhaul of the current tariff scheme.”

Murmurs of discontent, especially from the direction of those ponies more intimately involved with the business of taxation. Secrepony Geldner was displeased, but not too concerned. No one knew the tax code better than he did; if anyone could rewrite a chunk of it in a manner to maximize favorable appearance while minimizing actual effects, it was the Secrepony of the Treasury.

“That’s a discussion we need to have,” said McNamare, “but there are more pressing concerns.”

At the end of the table, Geldner gave a gracious nod. That was fine by him; all committee discussion would do was slow him down.

“The second main demand,” she continued with only a trace of hesitation, “is the railroad.”

Almost immediately the room exploded. Most of it was due to Secrepony O’Commerce, but she was joined by a fairly loud contingent of the other Secreponies.

“Unacceptable! Utterly unacceptable! Why —”

“— Ponyville’s to the Gorge; entirely out of jurisdiction —”

“— sort of precedent will this set? Canterlot doesn’t get to redistrict —”

“— impossible to execute with proper oversight —”

“Gentlecolts, please!” thundered Celestia, bringing a sort of quiet to the council chamber. “We wouldn’t be here unless we had to be here. Control over the railroad is their central demand, and without it we’re not getting anywhere.” She paused for a moment, trying to let the gravity of the situation sink in. “The only question — the reason we’re here — is just how much control we’re willing to concede.”

“The proposal we have so far,” said McNamare, neatly slipping into the pause, “is to divest Ponyville and Appleloosa roughly equally.” She tapped the sheet again. “Blackacre gets control from the Bogg side of the Ponyville river until the bridge over Ghastly Gorge. The bridges will be split; Ponyville maintains control over the Remaregen, and Blackacre gets the Gorge Bridge.”

“What about maintenance?” sputtered O’Commerce. “Gorge is an awfully big bridge, and nopony can keep it in order without some serious construction equipment. Last time we had to replace a section of truss, we had to ship in replacement machinery and a dedicated crew from Detrot!”

“Maybe that’s an answer, Stream,” mused Hay, gently resting a hoof on her foreleg to restrain her. “Grant control contingent on proper upkeep, defined as meeting Equestria-standard requirements.”

“And maybe that’s an opportunity,” interjected Geldner with a shrug. “I don’t know about their repair teams, but we can guarantee that our own maintenance crews will do the job. Unfortunately, since the infrastructure isn’t under direct Canterlot control, they’ll need to charge a service fee.”

Hay nodded. “How convenient.”

Celestia watched as her councilors shot ideas back and forth. Most of them had been discussed before, but there were a few new ones and permutations thereof. Which was good; that was, after all, the whole point. She didn’t like being in the position of having to think up these concessions, no more than O’Commerce, but there was little she could do about it. Working up the concessions wasn’t pleasant, but for all they knew, they were securing the best possible platform for relations moving forward.

The Princess gave the slightest of smiles as her councilponies went to work.

She knew better.

Author's Note

Somehow, this chapter got lost in the shuffle the first time around — it has been part of the story since the beginning. I'm not sure why it didn't post properly in November. In any case, it's here now.

Lucky Break

20 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

“What did you just say?”

Beatrix took a few steps towards the earth pony standing wearily in the center of the room. He was slight of build, all the better to ride a timberwolf; judging by the way the leather harnesses that bound rider to beast had left long red marks in the pony’s flank, he had ridden hard and long.

“You heard me,” he panted. “Everything. Pretty much… everything.”

“And you’re sure.”

“LeFleur… LeFleur herself,” he said, knees shaky. He offered a letter, sealed with the black and green symbol of Blackacre. Beatrix herself had adopted it for her campaign, and it had caught on; the former mark was supposed to be Castle Blackacre, but it hadn’t looked like that in hundreds of years. The green and black was new, it was different — it was a thorn in Equestria’s side, and that sat well with most of them.

With a single clean motion Beatrix snatched the letter out of his hoof and ripped it open.

She scanned down it, muttering a few words. For a long time she was silent, then re-read it. And a third time.

After it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything, at least not in the immediate future, Taylor took a few steps over and relieved her of the letter. He read it once, then twice; before he could gape a third time, Gaston reached over him and plucked it. Upon his reading, though, he frowned.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does,” said Beatrix absently.

Taylor blinked rapidly. “We got everything we wanted.”

“Not quite,” said Gaston. “Their maintenance terms on the railroad mean we’re losing bits off the top.”

“But we’re still making more bits than we lose,” said Beatrix, turning to face him. “We get the railroad. And tariffs. And….” She shook her head. “It’s better than I could have ever imagined.”

“It’s a gift,” said Gaston warily.

“Yeah,” agreed Taylor, rolling his eyes. “It’s a first date, and you’re checking her teeth!”

“Because every time I’m at the dentist’s, she’s there!” He stopped for a moment. “Bad analogy. Look, according to LeFleur, six days ago they suddenly caved. Started asking for terms, being real honest about everything. Which is weird, because their lead negotiator — Hammersold? Whatever his name was —”

“Hammer,” said Beatrix absently.

“Hammer, then,” he said with a nod. “I’ve heard of him; they say he’s a good pony, but I don’t trust him. He folded like a deck of cards, and all LeFleur needed to do was give her terms. And now, we get them.” Gaston shook the letter at her. “Something’s wrong here.”

“No,” said Beatrix slowly. “What’s wrong here is you don’t believe.” She turned up towards him. “All we wanted was the chance to do better for ourselves, the possibility of making a better Blackacre for our colts, for our fillies. We weren’t asking for much — just to be treated like everyone else.”

“And when they kept us down, didn’t even give us the dignity of being treated like everyone else….” She took another step towards him, her face wreathed in the twilight coming in through the hall’s high windows. “We dared to stand up against Canterlot, against the Princess. We refused to bend the knee, fall in line, because that means falling right back in the mud where they want to keep us.”

She balled a hoof into a fist. “They’re scared of us now, scared because we’re right. They’re scared not because of what we are but because of what we represent — freedom. Freedom to be treated the same as anypony else, freedom to rise or fall on our own merits. Freedom to live the way we want to — freedom from her.”

Beatrix smiled, radiant in the evening sun. “The only thing that changed is they finally realized it.”

For a moment, she glowed in the shimmering light of the sunset — and then the moment passed, and she was a regular pony. One very happy pony at that, but nothing more than anypony else… and no less than the Princess, or so it seemed.

The courier coughed slightly.

“Go rest up,” she said in a soft tone. “Cloudy Quartz is probably still closing up the kitchens; she’ll take care of you.”

The courier nodded weary thanks and left the hall. The moment he was gone, Gaston’s neutral expression shifted right back to a frown.

“Surely you —”

“Equestrian troop movements are common knowledge by now,” said Beatrix dismissively. “I would think you knew that.”

“I’m your marshal,” he shot back, flustered. “Of course I know —”

“Then you already know where they’re going,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Army divisions are on site in Baltimare and Las Pegasus, but neither is deploying. Air Patrol is setting up a containment zone around the Badlands.”

“Dragons,” said Taylor, eyes wide.

“Yes,” she said with a curt nod. “Canterlot’s worried about dragons. It can’t afford to present a divided front, and it certainly can’t afford to have the public distracted by a messy little domestic dispute. Everyone remembers the photos from Appleloosa the last time around, and you can bet the Princess will have those shots back in the papers and milk them to the last drop of public sympathy. We’re a distraction, but one she can’t afford.”

“The concessions are just to get rid of us, then.”

“Yes,” said Beatrix simply.

“Doesn’t that… bother you?”

“Not at all,” she smiled. “What’s minor for her means the world to us. I don’t care how we get our deal, as long as we get it.”

“And what do we do once we get what we want?” asked Taylor, nearly tripping over the words. “Roll over for another Canterlot draft?”

“Hah! No, we just go back to doing exactly what we were doing.” She smiled broadly. “Living our lives.”

“But… dragons.”

“Aren’t a threat to us,” she said. “Between the forest and the cave systems, I’d say we’re pretty well covered. Besides, they wouldn’t stop here; there’s nothing of value.”

“That’s true,” nodded Gaston. “We’re not much use to dragons except as overflight country to Ponyville and Canterlot itself.”

“Canterlot can stage out of here, for all I care,” said Beatrix with a shrug. “The castle and bunker tunnels are a good, defensible position, especially from the air, but we’re not on the way to anywhere. Nowhere in Blackacre is.”

She smiled, moving over to the cabinet under one of the windows. “Bringing Blackacre back into the fold doesn’t help Canterlot any. But leaving us to openly challenge the Princess… well, they can’t afford that.”

Extracting an amber bottle, she twisted the cap off with a flourish. They didn’t have the space for grain fields like up in Fillydelphia or in the Unicorn Range, but they could eke out a few acres for sugarcane in the warm summer months. There wasn’t much of it, but that suited them just fine; they didn’t have the refining capacity for too much more.

Besides, all that meant was that the few refined products that did come out of Blackacre were just that much stronger. Filling a tumbler, she took a deep sniff, swirled it around a bit, and took the tiniest of sips. Oh yes, this was worth savoring. Taylor joined her, but Gaston did not.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

He frowned, re-reading the letter.

“You’re supposed to be there in person to sign the settlement.”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “Tomorrow’s the winter solstice.” She shrugged. “Not quite the party that the summer solstice usually is, but holding the celebrations in Ponyville gives her a convenient cover to spin the settlement in her favor. Sure, they’re getting the short end of the stick, but the photos will be full of happy ponies. Happy at the solstice, not the deal, but nopony needs to know that little detail.”

“Right. But you’re there in person.”

“I am.” She put the tumbler down with the slightest clink of glass. “Is this a problem?”

“It’s risky,” he said with a shrug. “You and your staff, all in one place….” He drifted off meaningfully.

“No,” declared Beatrix with a shake of her head. “That’s not Celestia’s style. Too obvious. Besides, she let the Times scoop the settlement terms.”

“As a cover for her troop deployments.”

“Sure, but it brought attention to it, when she could have squashed it instead. She’s moved the winter solstice celebrations, for crying out loud. Starting right now, all of Equestria is paying attention to the negotiators, to Ponyville, to you and me. If something happens to us, it’s just too damned convenient. She’d never get us — well, whoever’s left — back under her hoof.”

“She can’t do it in public,” she said, lifting the tumbler slightly, “and she’s the one who brought all the publicity. No, we’re safe.”

Besides, she added to herself, if the Princess wanted to take us out, she could do it at night. Just like she always does.

“Fair enough,” said Gaston with a nod, putting the letter down. “Then it looks like we’ve got some celebrating to do.”

“Go for it,” said Beatrix, passing the bottle over with a glow of her horn. “Don’t celebrate too much, though — save that for tomorrow!”

In Morning

21 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

The hospital windows were big enough, but the predawn light still struggled to filter in, casting a feeble glow on the mauve sheets. They slipped slightly to one side, the twill weave running against itself with the faintest of sounds. From under them, the slightest whinny.

The sound came again, this time forming the barest semblance of words.

“Hey.”

No response.

“You awake?” it continued, quieter than a whisper.

“Yes,” came a slightly hoarse male voice from the other side of the bed.

“Oh.” Jackie pulled the sheet down slightly and glanced over, a ruby forelock flopping over her eyes. “Should’ve said something, then.”

“Didn’t want to wake you,” said Dag absently, sitting up against the headboard.

She nudged him gently. “How long…?”

“Most of the night,” he shrugged. “Got a few hours, but I’ve been watching Canterlot since it was a hole in the sky.”

Instinctively, she glanced out the window. Canterlot was visible in the distance, but just barely, the tall tip of the mountain a spot of light above the morning mists.

“You could still sleep for a bit longer,” she offered. “It’s early.”

“I know,” he said tonelessly. “Not going to, though. No sense in it.”

Jackie nodded. No sense arguing with that; it was only the most important day of his life so far. She didn’t understand the nuances involved in the game of diplomacy, but she certainly understood what it meant to be the pony behind this deal. Maybe when it next came time to send a delegate abroad, the Princess would tap him. Maybe… maybe even an apprenticeship under Kissinmare?

Well, some dreams were more optimistic than others. No matter how you sliced it, though, this was a major step forward. Not only being assigned to one of the most difficult internal relations tasks in years, but actually closing a deal? This was huge for him… and yet he didn’t look like a pony whose career outlook just got a whole lot better.

She might not know much, but she knew when he needed some comforting; with a slight shuffle of blankets she leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat through his violet coat, strong and steady. Like always.

“I wish I knew why,” he said in response to the unanswered question. “It’s not in our interest, not at all. But suddenly results matter more than anything else.”

“Today’s the solstice,” she offered, the sound of sleep hiding around the edges of her voice. “That’s something.”

“And? If she wanted good news as a cover, she could have waited until year’s end. Could have waited until… until there wasn’t anything to cover, because the deal was in our favor.” He shook his head. “I just get the feeling that I’m being set up.”

“’Course not,” she murmured, her voice still soft but definitely more awake. “Princess trusts you. Gave you the orders herself, didn’t she?”

“It was her seal,” he nodded. “But —”

“Only way you could be set up would be if they didn’t know she was the one giving the orders,” she cut in, voice still deceptively quiet. “Thanks to the leak, everypony knows she’s calling the shots for you here.”

“I hadn’t…” he started. “Hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“That’s why I’m here.” She reached a hoof around him, pulling herself slightly higher up on his side. “There you go. Problem solved.”

“No,” he corrected. “Something’s still wrong here. It’s just… just not me, I guess.”

“Meaning?” she prompted.

“Meaning… it’s not about me, is it.” He slumped back slightly. “It’s still my problem, though.”

“Not one you can do anything about.”

Dag looked back outside. It was still dark here in Ponyville, still dark in the mountains, but there was a distinct glow of predawn about. The haze didn’t seem to be going anywhere, at least for the moment; between the weather and the clouds he couldn’t see Canterlot any more.

“Still my responsibility.”

“And you’re doing the best you can,” she shot back, slightly irritated. “Which right now is nothing. The first representatives are coming to town in what, three hours? Four?

“Three,” he corrected, if he was interpreting the fuzzy splotches on the beside clock correctly.

“That’s sleep you can get,” she said. “That you need.”

“I should practice —”

“You’ve had that speech written for two days,” she said. “You know it cold. Two hours’ sleep will do you more good than two hours’ practice. That practice won’t mean anything if you’re bleary.”

She was right, of course. She always was. The very first arrivals wouldn’t even be critical personnel; most of them would be reporters and various other flunkies coming into town to set up for the afternoon. He didn’t need to be there for that; his staff had already sent out copies of the speeches and other documentation. The whole thing was of course going to be broadcast live, via the eyesore of a radio transmitter somepony had set up yesterday; the speech copies were so the talking heads could get a few hours’ head start on analysis.

No, he didn’t even need to leave the building until the… Mane event around noon. Strictly speaking he only had to be present at the speech, but it behooved him to be present and glad-hooving the audience by the time the dignitaries started arriving.

The room sprang into faint relief as Jackie’s horn glowed ever so slightly, drawing the curtains closed. She flickered out, and though the room wasn’t much darker than it had been a minute prior, he would be glad of the dark in an hour or so.

Slowly he settled back in the bed; the moment his head hit the pillow Jackie snuggled up against him, the warmth of her body a welcome change from the crisp night air. Maybe today they would fix the heat?

No matter. Dag forced his eyes closed. Not that he was going to fall asleep, but even if he did, he knew the alarm next to the bed was still set, one of the few things he had remembered to do last night, amidst a spate of last-minute end-tying.

There were probably still a few things he needed to do, but those could wait. Well, if they were important enough, his staff would have taken care of whatever it was. Either way, he could get another few hours of sleep.

Probably needed it, too. Wasn’t going to come naturally, though. Keeping his eyes closed was awfully comfortable, and the sound of Jackie’s rhythmic breathing next to him was even more so, but he wasn’t particularly….

Oh, to hell with it. Who was he kidding?

He only had three hours to rest — better get to it.

EAS Mane

21 December, Y.C. 969
Saddle Lake

“Captain on the bridge!”

At the sound of the call, the dozen-odd ponies in Air Patrol blue on the bridge sat up somewhat straighter. One of them detached from his station and moved to intercept, snapping a quick salute.

“Lieutenant Sammt,” said Captain Bee, acknowledging the officer. “Report.”

“On course and on schedule,” said Sammt, gesturing at the chart table off to one side. “Actually, two minutes ahead of schedule, but the wind picked up on this side of Canterlot; we’ll lose that by the time we get in.”

“As long as we arrive on time,” mused Bee, moving up to glance over the instrument panels. “We’re the grand entrance, after all. Wouldn’t do to be late.”

“No sir,” he said with a smile. The lieutenant hesitated for a moment. “Any word from our… passenger?”

“The Princess is still in her quarters,” nodded the captain. “Presumably, preparing for signing the agreement, and then for the winter solstice ceremony afterwards.”

“Right.”

“Speaking of which,” mused Bee, turning back to the charts, “what word from Ponyville?” He traced a hoof along their course, which seemed to wind over half of Equestria. “Their landing facilities aren’t rated for us. I know that we could put down in a field and batten down the old-fashioned way, but I’d rather tie up to a proper mast.”

Sammt nodded hearty approval. They had taken on personnel just west of Fillydelphia, and though they were supposed to have a proper mooring mast, it had apparently been struck by lightning and fused in place… against the wind. It had taken the better part of an army division to hold the ship down, even for just a thirty-minute personnel transfer. He didn’t even know if there were enough personnel in Ponyville to do it, much less if any of them had ever handled something as big as the Mane before.

“No word yet, sir,” he said, but again hesitated slightly, this time with a meaningful glance out the windows. “At least, we haven’t received any.”

“Hmm.”

Bee followed his gaze outside, where a half-dozen pegasi were flying in loose formation around them. All wore the formal blue and yellow uniforms of the Seventh “Wonderbolt” Air Wing, and none of them looked particularly happy to be there. Not that he blamed them — they had been flying at what was undoubtedly well below the pegasi’s top speed for the better part of two hours now, since picking up the honor guard along with the Princess at Canterlot — but there was something more to it.

“Captain Bauer!” called Bee, turning towards the back of the bridge.

A large pegasus stepped forward, yellow wings feathered lightly against the blue Wonderbolt uniform. Like the rest of his wing outside, he didn’t look particularly thrilled to be there.

“Captain Bee,” said the pegasus flatly.

“Have your couriers picked up any communications from Ponyville?”

“Several,” he said in a thoroughly disinterested tone. “Final copies of the diplomats’ speeches. Bunk assignments for my personnel.”

“Anything else?”

“Bunk assignments for your personnel,” he went on, dismissively. “Hospital, second floor. You have the wing to yourself.”

“Lovely,” said Bee, doing his very best to keep level. “And what about landing arrangements?”

“I assume my personnel will continue to fly until they are roughly at ground level,” said Bauer, looking him in the eye, “at which point they will stop moving their wings, bringing them to rest on the ground. This operation can be safely completed with a minimum of twelve square yards.”

Bee glared at him.

“Assuming my people meet minimum requirements, of course,” he said with the thinnest of smiles. “All of them can do zero-angle landings, in which case we only need two square yards per pony.”

“And what about my personnel?” he said icily.

“Landing preparations for the Mane are complete. I am told there is a rough but functional mooring mast located half a mile to the west of the town.”

Containing his anger was becoming more and more difficult now.

“And why was this not conveyed to me or my personnel?”

“The message was addressed to the Mane,” said Bauer calmly. “I am on the Mane. I received it.”

Bee shook his head, using the motion as cover for a string of curses under his breath.

“Thank you,” he shot at the pegasus, turning away before he said something he would regret.

He understood the reasons for the animosity; for a pony in his position, it was hard not to. The Air Patrol had been operating airships of some sort forever, or so it seemed; though all the flyers were pegasi, they still found the occasional need to have an aerial platform where clouds wouldn’t do the job. Even so, the vast majority of their airborne capability was on wing. Why use anything else?

When the Royal Army had introduced an airship program, it wasn’t hard to see why the Air Patrol took it the wrong way. There were perfectly good uses for airships in military operations — moving large quantities of troops or materiel, providing airborne command posts, and generally being useful where transport capability was a priority but speed was not.

The idea hadn’t been a bad one, per se. Pegasi couldn’t always be on site to take care of aerial observation, and even if they were available to get a picture from the air, they weren’t necessarily trained to spot the important bits. A pegasus might report two particularly good spots to use for cover, and neglect to mention the river between them.

It had worked out fairly well in trials, despite a series of high-profile failures which had never quite been traced back to Air Patrol involvement. A full line of airships had been put in production; by the time the Skirmishes broke out, there were nearly a dozen vessels ready for combat duty. Unfortunately, nopony had quite thought out the implications of deploying giant airborne gas bags against dragons. Fireproofing could only go so far, and they weren’t too good at fleeing combat with anything resembling speed. Within weeks, the deployed airships had been withdrawn to cargo duty, and the remaining airframes were scavenged for materials.

After the Skirmishes, the program was mothballed, and the few attempts to restart it met with abject failure; after an unsuccessful deployment attempt to relieve Bearlin, the Army quietly scrapped the remaining ships.

All, that was, except for the Mane. She had been the last-completed of the little fleet, and had seen no combat. Being in the best shape, she was kept operational, though it was more for the principle of the thing than anything else.

A full wing of pegasi was one thing to see, an army division another, but when it came time to impress the true might of Equestria to any onlookers, the EAS Mane stood above the rest. A shade under two hundred and fifty yards from nose to rudders, she was blue and white, eschewing camouflage for clean lines and the golden crest of Canterlot emblazoned on one side. With a crew of forty-nine, an additional hundred combat ponies, and thirty thousand pounds of lifting capacity, she was a mountain of a ship. Armed with a dozen forty-millimeter party cannon and howitzers for hardened targets, she could level a small city. It wouldn’t dent dragons, but then again what could?

For this mission, though, she was relying on her presence alone to do the job: the Mane was a floating fortress, a symbol of Canterlot’s unity and might. The Princess could travel to Ponyville in any one of a dozen chariots. She could teleport or even fly there herself if she wanted, but arriving on the Mane sent a message.

Captain Bee hadn’t read Celestia’s speech — nopony had; hers were never released to the public until after she gave them — but he could imagine what she would say. Canterlot might effectively have given Blackacre the concessions they wanted, but at the end of the day they were all part of Equestria. All part of something bigger, something more important… something that stood between them and the dragons.

Speaking of the Princess….

“Time to arrival?”

“Twelve minutes,” said Sammt crisply.

“Perfectly on schedule,” acknowledged Bee with a glance at the bridge clock. “Please notify the Princess of our immediate arrival. She’ll want to see the landing herself.”

“Aye sir,” said the lieutenant with only a hint of trepidation. He couldn’t blame him; talking to the Princess was always a bit nerve-wracking. This job was easy, though. Watching the Mane come in to land was always an impressive operation; watching it from within the bridge, underslung towards the front of the airship’s long body, was a remarkable experience. She would like it.

Outside the window, they could see the far shore of Saddle Lake, Ponyville visible just beyond it. He could almost make out the platform in the center of town, where, even now, various ponies with inflated senses of self-worth would be giving speeches, trying to cash in on the Princess’ appearance. The weather was even clearing up a bit; here and there stray sunbeams lit ripples on the lake. Yes, it would be a good day indeed — a good day for good work.

And if Bauer didn’t appreciate that? So be it. He was present on the Mane at his own request; the old codger didn’t believe in attaching his wing to an Army division without an Air Patrol officer on site, and so he had taken the job himself.

Well, sour grapes or not, there wasn’t too much more for him to obstruct. They were minutes away now, and soon he would be gone and out of their mane entirely.

“Ready the ship for landing,” he called to the bridge duty officers. “Gear down, eyes up. Somepony get a fix on the landing mast. I hear tell it’s a half mile west.”

“Got it, sir,” said one of the observers at the fore windows. “Bearing… three twenty-eight.”

“Three twenty-eight, acknowledged,” echoed the pony at the helm. “Captain?”

“Take us in,” nodded Bee. “Right over the stage; let’s give them a good show.”

“Three twenty-eight, confirm,” sang the helmspony. “Bringing us in.”

The view outside the windows shifted ever so slightly as the Mane started its long approach. They could hardly feel a thing inside, but that was to be expected with their top pilot at the helm. With royalty on board, a bumpy ride just wouldn’t do.

“Where is that pony?” wondered Bee to himself. Then, more loudly: “Airpony Lehaymann?”

“Sir?” said a reddish brown pony, springing to attention.

“I think Lieutenant Sammt may have gotten lost. Please find him for me.”

Lehaymann smiled. The Mane’s internal volume might be huge, but the VIP quarters were located in the main gondola, just like the bridge, and not even a dozen paces away.

“Sir.”

Bee turned back to the charts table, but a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him short.

“Captain!”

“Lieutenant?” he asked, somewhat bemused as the young pony rushed onto the bridge. “Glad to see you’re back, but aren’t you forgetting someone?”

“She’s not there, sir.”

Bee blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“The Princess isn’t in her quarters, sir,” he said, breathing heavily; he sounded like he had run half the ship!

“She’s twelve feet tall, alabaster white, and her mane glows in the dark.” Captain Bee raised an eyebrow. “And you lost her.”

“Not in her quarters, and none of the gondola guardsponies saw her leave.” Sammt shook his head again, clearly agitated. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir.”

Bee frowned. “That’s impossible.”

If he had been thinking straight, he would have realized that, regardless of his opinion on the issue, the fact that it happened was proof enough of the event’s possibility. Fortunately for Bee, that problem was only a few seconds away from not mattering any more.

Unfortunately for him, so was everything else.

Grand Entrance

21 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

“…distinct honor and privilege to present to you the pony responsible for this settlement: Dag Hammer!”

The crowd gave a smattering of polite applause as the little town’s mayor gestured at Dag, a smile beaming from his face. He was on the older side as far as mayors went, but the hoof he held out to beckon the diplomat onstage was rock steady. He might be contemplating a retirement soon, but here was a mayor who would ride this little wave of populism as far as it would take him.

“Thank you, Mayor Maher,” said Dag with a gracious nod at the blue pony. “Let me first say that it is an honor to be here today, as a representative on behalf of Equestria — of Ponyville itself.”

He was met by smiles. Most of the crowd consisted in various dignitaries, businessponies, and reporters, none of whom had any business being excited for Ponyville. They all, though, recognized the need to at least look interested. And besides, the smiles of the locals were fairly infectious. It wasn’t every day that your little town got to host the winter solstice celebrations, much less serve as the site of one of the biggest internal political developments in the better part of a decade.

“Before I get to my prepared remarks,” he said, with a glance at the reporter corps to make sure they weren’t overly ruffled by his deviation from the slated text, “I would like to offer a slight correction. This agreement is not the work of one pony; no agreement ever is.”

He gave a broad nod to his right, looking over his diplomatic staff, all of whom had turned out to see the speechifying in person — even though they were responsible for having written most of it.

“Today would not have happened were it not for the hard-working ponies behind the scenes, the mares and stallions responsible not only for keeping everything running,” and he looked over the entire staff, “but also for supporting us all throughout this process.”

His gaze lingered on Jackie for a second. She smiled, calm and radiant as the dawn. For supporting me, he had meant, and she knew it.

Dag glanced at the town clock. He still had a minute or so of dead air to fill until the airtime scheduled for his speech was supposed to begin. The radioponies would tape delay everything if necessary, but he knew they would much rather stream it direct. He knew just how to fill that time.

“Otto, would you stand up please?”

A thin grey pony in the front row blinked furiously at him.

“Yes, you. Stand up!”

After a moment, the pony caught on, nodded ever so slightly, and stood, facing the rest of the crowd.

“Much as I would love to thank my staff individually,” he said, coincidentally glancing at Jackie again, “I can’t. Otto, as my chief of staff, thanks to you will have to suffice.” He turned back towards the crowd, addressing them in his orating voice. “Otto von Ribbentrot, on behalf of the good ponies of Equestria, let me be the first to extend a hearty applause!”

The crowd dutifully broke into claps. Otto nodded somewhat awkwardly, then sat back down. He was a chief of staff for a reason; public presence wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

Towards the back of the crowd, Dag could see the radio techs looking at him expectantly. Fifteen seconds left — if they wanted to have a few seconds’ radio delay, he would have to start sooner, rather than later.

All right then. He cleared his throat and straightened the printed edges of the speech. Not that he needed it; he had the thing memorized, cold. All it took was the smallest of mental shifts… and then he was no longer addressing a crowd of sixty on a slightly chilly winter afternoon in a small town in the middle of nowhere, but rather speaking straight to something like two thirds of the nation, in real time. No one would be missing this speech, even if it was a just filler until the Princess showed up.

“To Princess Celestia! To the Royal Council; to the ponies of Equestria; to those mares and fillies, colts and stallions listening at home; to those of you with me today in Ponyville on this bright midwinter day.”

There wasn’t a verb in that sentence, but that much was acceptable. Certainly his tone was solid enough. Perhaps a bit scratchy, but it was dry out. Middle of winter; what could they expect?

“Before I come to describe this agreement which is to be signed in the coming hours, I would like to remind us all of two things which I think it essential not to forget when the following proposal is being considered.”

Not perhaps the most stirring start to a speech, but then again he wasn’t in it for the rhetoric. He was here to give the pundits something to talk about; this was as much a governmental policy statement as anything issued from Canterlot in the past week, and everypony knew it.

“The first is this: we have not negotiated today to determine the domestic status of the region of Blackacre. That has been decided already, in accordance with the Blackacre Charter.”

He paused for a moment. Yes, he would need to drink some water at some point during this speech. There was a glass on the podium; maybe he could find a longish pause and work it in quickly. It would look silly, but he wasn’t there to look good; all that mattered was how it sounded.

“The second point to remember is that time is one of the essential factors. All the elements are present on the spot for the outbreak of a conflict which might have precipitated a civil catastrophe.” Hyperbolic, perhaps, but no more so than any of the other rhetoric on the air the past week. “Tensions were high and tempers were inflamed. It was and remains essential that we should quickly reach a conclusion, so that this difficult transfer might be carried out at the earliest possible moment, in order that we might avoid the possibility of something that might have rendered all attempts at a civil solution pointless.”

He closed his eyes, orating the next bits by memory. They flowed quickly now, a recital of past grievances of both sides mixed with just a touch of historical whitewashing in a valiant attempt to paint both sides as in the right.

Every now and again he glanced at the Blackacrean delegation, off to his left. LeFleur stood out quite neatly, her white coat radiant in the midwinter sun… the rest of her delegation was in formalwear of green and black, but she settled for just green, a lighter shade which complemented her mane just so.

“…settlement of the Blackacre Question, which will now be achieved is, in my view, only the prelude to a larger development in which all of Equestria may find prosperity. This morning I had another talk with the Blackacrean Mayor, Beatrix; here is the paper which bears her name on it as well as mine.”

He held up a small sheet, the seals of both Canterlot and Blackacre at the bottom, with the Equestrian sigil centered — after all, this was technically an internal dispute, and Blackacre remained a region under the auspices of the Princess, just like any other.

“Some of you, perhaps, have already heard what it contains, but I would just like to read an excerpt to you: ‘We regard the agreement to be signed today as symbolic of the desire of the ponies of Equestria to never conflict with one another again.’”

He replaced the agreement on the podium. It might be signed, but it didn’t bind anyone to anything; only the full agreement would do that. Even so, the scrap confirmed that this was just a formality: both parties had already agreed to the conflict’s ultimate resolution.

As Dag went on, he caught Jackie’s eye; she kept glancing behind him, over the lake. That must be the Mane — an impression confirmed only a minute later as he heard the first low rumble of the airship’s engines. A quick look at the town clock showed that they were right on time, but he was running a minute or two late.

So be it: he jettisoned a paragraph or three and headed right for the finale.

“My friends, my Equestrians, my countryponies,” he started, his voice broad and warm. Towards the back of the audience the radioponies flipped through the script, realizing that it was coming to an end.

“Sixteen years ago, the Equestrian Ambassador returned from the Badlands, bearing an offer of long-awaited peace. Ambassador Kissinmare stopped here, in Ponyville, where he broadcast those long-awaited words.”

He paused for a moment, savoring the memory. Some of his audience would be too young to remember, but many of them would have been there, huddled around radios, straining to hear the Ambassador’s deep voice.

We have all suffered, he had said. We have all tried and been tried. Neither the long years nor the fierce attacks of the enemy have in any way weakened our unbending resolve. This is the victory of freedom. This is your victory!

And here he was, Dag Hammer, daring to match that? For a moment, he almost forgot to go on. When he did speak, his voice was slow and respectful of the sacrifices made in the Skirmishes. Yet it was still substantially louder than he would have liked; the humming of the Mane’s engines was distinctly stronger now. They must be on final approach.

“Today, and for the second time in recent history, a Canterlot diplomat has returned to Ponyville, bringing to you news of peace and honor,” he said, allowing himself a small smile. “I believe this is peace — peace for our time.”

Almost immediately, the crowd broke into cheers. Dag blinked, taken aback at the strength of the reaction; even some of the Blackacrean delegates seemed to genuinely approve of the sentiment.

The clapping started to die down after a few seconds, but for some reason the volume didn’t. Murmurs from the crowd had taken its place, despite the radioponies’ strict admonitions that there was to be no other noise… and yet they too were talking to each other, exchanging worried glances.

Dag started to say something, but was drowned out by the murmurs, which had developed into full-on words in the last few seconds, loud and low. Something was wrong here, and he couldn’t quite place it; his face contorted into a frown, utterly mystified. What —

A shrill scream snapped him out of it. Dag whipped around, realizing with horror that those weren’t words… they were engines.
Behind him, the Mane was still above the lake — but even at first glance something was horrible and unquestionably wrong. It was far too low, barely a ship-length above the surface and closing on their position fast; the ship’s underslung bridge was gone, a charred black hole burnt into the vessel’s envelope.

With a start he realized the damned thing was burning, flames whipping out of the few remaining windows on the gondola, a black pillar of smoke trailing behind it a mile high. The flames licked out the windows and curled up, curled forward, snaking around the airship’s skin like wraithlike vines — and they were green, a sickly color, green almost glowing against the thick black smoke, her engines flailing, whining well beyond their tolerances —

It was at that precise moment that Dag realized that the Mane was not, in fact, drawing closer, but instead falling closer, the burning hulk stripped of any semblance of control, four hundred thousand pounds of burning steel coming down right at them.

“Jackie!” he shouted, turning towards her, but he couldn’t see, the sky blotted out by green flames and his mind scrambled by the heat on the back of his neck, then the overpowering blast and a wave of green —

The Fighting Second

21 December, Y.C. 969
Hayseed Swamps

“Donner! Hey!”

The pegasus looked up from the various books on the table, each covered with planform drawings of dragons and tiny squiggles of text. He only got a few hours’ spare time, and to spend it studying for his spotters’ proficiency tests… well, any distraction was welcome.
“Gun!” he shouted, recognizing his wingpony’s voice. “What’s up?”

A tan pegasus shot into the tent; Donner’s expression fell the moment he saw the look on her face. Gun was short for Gun-Shy, itself a nickname bestowed in irony on the pony who, despite being an ace at the bombing range, was almost pathologically quiet in social situations. For Gun, being flustered was a state of being. Here, though, she wasn’t just flustered; there was anger and something more.

“Ponyville,” she said, wide-eyed. “The negotiations. The bombs!”

Donner was at her side in a flash. “What?”

“The Mane!” She shook her head. “You haven’t heard?”

“No,” he said with a snap of his head. “What the hay happened?”

“Came down in flames over Ponyville,” she said. “Crashed into the stage, took out the radio tower. Lost contact.”

“You’re kidding,” he said, more out of reflex than a belief that she could be anything but deadly serious. “Do we know…?”

“No,” she said slowly. “Lost contact. Last transmission that came through said she was coming down hard, on fire.”

“On fire?” Donner frowned. She was a helium ship; a fire would have to burn through half the ship to take her down, and that didn’t seem likely. Like all other pegasi, he had no love lost for the Army’s airships, but he knew the Army techs were good; equipment failure didn’t seem very likely.

“The flames,” started Gun. “They… they said they were green.”

“Green?” he echoed. Now that didn’t seem like equipment failure, not in the least. Green flames meant magic… or dragonfire. And if there was dragonfire —

“We need to gear up,” he realized. “Do we have orders?”

“Not yet…”

“…but we will.”

She smiled thinly. There was a reason they were wingmates. “Let’s go.”

The camp outside the tent was not unlike a beehive, with ponies and pegasi running back and forth, occasional shouts of confusion cutting through the air. As much as he wanted to go find a radio and demand to be filled in, he knew he couldn’t, at least not just yet. If Gun was right, someone — or some thing — had just attacked the Mane. Airship or not, it was as much a part of the Royal Army as he was a member of the Air Patrol.

No one had given any orders yet, but everypony was moving to deploy. Ground crews scuttled back and forth with pallets of supplies, crisscrossing the thin layer of fresh snow with dark brown tracks, while just above them pegasi skimmed towards the prep zones, warming up their wings and shaking out their hooves.

The camp was a semi-permanent one, little more than an assemblage of tents pitched around a central landing clearing. The landing’s elliptical shape was roughly marked off under the layer of snow by small piles of stones. Pegasi didn’t really need a formal field, but it was useful to have a designated path so that, if they needed to come down under fire, the point defense unicorns would know where not to aim.

The field was framed on either side by a pair of stables. Even calling them that was generous; they were little more than several dozen equipment sheds arranged in a pair of long curving rows around the ellipse, mated side to side so they would keep each other warm. Not that they were much warmer than the outside, but the leather harnesses would freeze under a certain temperature. Icing was a big enough problem in the air; no need to deal with in on the ground, too.

Barely heated or not, all of the stables had their doors open, big wooden panels flipped up to face the landing zone. The snow had started to pick up, and they provided some measure of protection to the pegasi scurrying about under them.

“Base coat,” said Donner, shrugging off the utility cloak most of them wore on the ground and turning to face the inside of the stable, away from the landing field.

“Base coat,” echoed Gun, helping him into his flight suit. Dark blue and thinly padded, it would keep most of him warm at altitude, while allowing him enough maneuverability to stay safe. He stepped into it, pulled it up and strapped it on, snugging it to his much paler blue flanks; she crosschecked it with a tug, and he wheezed audibly as she pulled the straps tight.

“Harness,” she said, handing him a spidery web of well-oiled leather. As he did up the surcingle he noticed Gun glancing over the equipment rack.

“Full kit?” he asked.

Donner caught her eye. You didn’t suit up a full kit for a patrol. Or even for short-ranged combat operations. No, the only possible reason for a full load-out was if they were planning on flying a long distance and possibly fighting once they got there. And of all the potential deployments they faced, only one sprang to mind: Blackacre.

“It’s far enough away,” said Gun, pulling down a second set of thick leather straps. That’s what he liked about her; they didn’t so much communicate as think the same thing in parallel. He struggled into the breeching and wrested his tail into the crupper dock, pulling the whole assembly forward to mate to the breastgirth, the sturdy band around his chest that kept it all together.

Full kit wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t very uncomfortable either, which was the key part. The series of straps would keep the bulk of his load from shifting around; though that wasn’t usually a problem, after a few hours in the air, he would undoubtedly get sloppy, and he would rather have the straps cut into his flank than suddenly have part of his cargo roll off one side and yank him into a tailspin. It only took one slip… flyers rarely made that mistake twice.

As he secured the slack on the straps, Gun ran her hooves over the taught leather, feeling out any imperfections and giving the straps one last tug for good measure.

“It’s snug,” he declared. “They feel good.”

“Looks good,” she said, hefting an oblong package, a standard-issue emergency supply pack. He knelt down to let her hook it to the flat of his back; it fit right between his wings, flanging a bit before and after them. Once the remainder of the equipment went on, the pack would be virtually indistinguishable from the rest of him, and quite difficult to get at. They were, after all, emergency supplies; they would save his bacon in a forced landing behind enemy lines and would give him a bit of insulation, but in flight it was dead weight.

Not dead weight — an insurance policy. And it was one he would be happy to pay the premium on today, given where they were probably going off to.

“Hey,” said Gun, snapping a hoof at him and flapping a large swath of rubberized greyish fabric. “Main coat.”

“Right,” he said, nodding by way of apology.

“I don’t suppose you caught a look at the weather while your head was out there on deployment already,” she muttered, wrangling the fabric over him. It was a waterproof top coat, thicker and heavier than the normal ones that just had insulation.

Judging by the greyish hue of most of the other flyers gearing up at the stables, most of the other pegasi seemed to have made the same call. A few had gone with normal coats, perhaps banking on it not being too snowy; a few had gone for the heavy coats, with both waterproofing and an extra layer of insulation.

For now, though, the waterproof coat was a safer bet, something both he and Gun silently agreed on. They didn’t know what they would find out there, and he would rather not take the chance. A normal and waterlogged coat would act like a wetsuit to keep him warm enough — but he would rather be warm and dry than warm and pruney.

Despite the flurry of activity, the stables were fairly quiet. Aside from the few words exchanged between flyers and their wingponies, the air was dominated by the snapping of buckles, the squeaking of well-oiled harnesses, the clanking of metal tanks. They didn’t need to say much, because what was there to say? If radio from Ponyville was out, there wasn’t anything new to be learned. Leave the speculation and hypothesizing to the strategists and talking heads; their job was to gear up and get ready for… well, whatever it was that had just attacked them.

“Main tanks.”

“Main tanks,” said Gun, passing him a quad of weighty panniers. Donner arranged them on his back with more than a little difficulty. A standard pack harness wouldn’t fit around wings; their main gear was stowed in four smaller saddlebags that rested alongside the fore and hindquarters, leaving the center flank free for complete wing mobility.

“They full?” he asked, more to satisfy the checklist than anything else. “They feel like it.”

“Should be,” she said with a nod. “Checked them this morning.”

“Huh,” frowned Donner. “Feel a bit… oh. Frozen.”

She rapped a hoof against one of the rear panniers; it rang hollowly. Oh well; his body heat would melt them soon enough.

“Good thing I didn’t top them off,” she shrugged. “Wings up?”

He obligingly raised his wings, giving her a chance to connect the quick releases from the fore pair to the rear pair. The tanks were designed to keep him going, with water and high-energy hay slurry for twenty hours of near-nonstop flying. Only about half of that energy would go towards increasing his range — the rest would go towards offsetting the weight of the panniers themselves — but without them he would be limited to relatively short-range hops between known stopping points. With tanks, long-distance travel was feasible. It would be grueling endurance work, but as long as he had food and water, he could do it.

In a way, the tanks almost made things easier; by constraining the motion of his hooves and giving him more mass, it would be harder to drift off course or be buffeted by winds. That killed his mobility, of course, but for long-distance flying, where you could generally signal your turns fifteen miles away, that didn’t matter.

Usually, they would only gear up for long-distance flying on, well, a long-distance run, where they didn’t expect trouble. If they ran into something, though, the quick-release was critical. On pull on the yellow tab and he’d drop tanks, shedding anywhere between a quarter and one full half of his fly weight, suddenly becoming a nimble and exquisitely deadly flyer. At the end of the engagement, the tanks could usually be recovered; if not, they were disposable anyway.

Gun rapped on the right rear tank as she checked it, filling the stable with a liquid warble.

“This one’s not frozen,” she said with what Donner knew was a smile. He didn’t care; by the time he started getting hungry, they would be long thawed. No, if one of his were still liquid, that meant there was a chance that hers were too — and she liked to take a few sips off the top early. Well, that was good; they could use a bit of luck right about now.

They finished up the preflight with the most important part: a full standard loadout, clipped around a collar band and stabilized with light ties to the surcingle. Between spare knives, darts, small explosives, and smoke grenades, to say nothing of the twin blades in cross-sheaths on his chest, he was equipped with enough new and interesting ways to cause pain to take out a half-dozen ground forces or go toe to toe with a handful of hostile flyers.

He was also well-prepared defensively: the lightweight combat helmet trailed a set of flexible segments down to the equipment on the back, secured to his neck with a dozen thin straps. His hind legs were covered by wide double-segmented vambraces and each had a pair of thick spats; they weren’t particularly flexible, but they turned a simple buck into a deadly force. The bracers on his forelegs were slightly thinner, and rather than spats he had a pair of gloves — at the moment, they were tucked into the collar; he needed hoof mobility to run the last few checks on his equipment.

“Looks like you’re good,” said Gun, looking his gear over one last time for good measure. “Set me up. Base coat.”

Donner pulled the second dark blue garment from the storage rack, gave it a quick once-over for tears, and, with no small difficulty in kneeling, laid it out.

“Base coat.”

As he helped Gun gear up, he could hardly help but to feel a quiet pride at the other pegasi doing the same outside. None of them had received orders, and yet here they were, loading out. It was partially disconcerting, in truth, but mostly it just felt right. Whatever had happened in Ponyville, it would affect them here. They needed to be ready, and by the looks of grim determination around the camp, they all knew it.

Hell, it would affect everypony, everywhere. Whether he liked it or not, the Mane was Equestria’s largest airship, and you didn’t just blow one of those up — especially not with the Princess on board.

Donner paused for a moment, halfway through rigging a pannier. Princess Celestia would have been on that airship. He had no doubt that most of the crew would have died; if it was in flames, they wouldn’t have made it to the parachutes. Pegasi could only bring so many ponies off at a time, and very few unicorns could teleport themselves, much less bring anypony else with them, much less get from a moving object to the ground….

He shook it off with the slightest rattle of his combat knife in its sheath. No, she would have escaped. Somehow. If the Princess were injured, surely they would know about it. They would have to.

He started at a sharp sound.

Gun clapped her hooves again.

“Equestria to Donner, Equestria to Donner, come in, Donner. You there?”

“I….”

“Hey!” she snapped, grabbing his breastgirth and shaking him. “Are you with me?”

He took a breath.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She smiled slightly; she could never stay angry for too long. Probably one of the only reasons she still tolerated being his wingpony. Gun’s wings fluttered up. “Drop releases?”

“Right,” he said, moving to secure the lines connecting her main tanks.

A few cross-checks and two bandoliers worth of armament later, she checked out complete. They gave each other a once-over, making sure the last few trailing bits were properly tucked away.

“You’re loaded up.”

“You too.”

Closing the stable door, they managed to maneuver outside: the gear might be good for distance flying, but between spats, panniers, and various other accoutrements strapped to their bodies, they were about as ungainly as a carb-loading walrus. They started waddling towards the center of the landing field, where perhaps a dozen other flyers were already suited up and waiting.

“Looks like we got here just in time,” said Gun softly, jerking a head towards the command tent just beyond the field, where a trim pegasus was walking towards them, his deep red and entirely outsized moustache quivering at each step.

“General on the field,” somepony called, and with a jangling of metal the field snapped to attention, or something resembling it.

Major-General Stanhey stepped to the lip of the ring and glanced his troops over.

“I’m glad to see you all here,” he announced. “I will be brief. Ponyville has come under attack.”

Heads twitched as quiet mutterings spread through the crowd. They knew the Mane had been damaged, but to flat-out call it an attack, without even the barest attempt at a hedge?

“We don’t have much information at the moment,” he said, holding up a hoof. “But we do know that innocent civilians have died, and I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit here.” He smiled tightly. “Judging by your gear, you feel the same way.

“Fortunately for all of us, General Batchall agrees. We will be deploying, effective immediately.”

More murmurs, but they were almost pro forma at this point. They expected this, sure as the sun would set in the evening and rise the next day — or, at least, as sure as it could be. With Celestia on the Mane….

“Sir,” offered a colonel in the front row, a shock of electric purple mane sticking out from between the segments of her drab helm armor, “what’s the policy? Containment?”

Various of her wingmates nodded in agreement. The Badlands might not look that big on a map, but there was a lot of contested border there, and all of it was mountainous. Mountains meant easy hiding places, meant ambushes, even from the air; none of them was looking forward to fighting dragons, especially not on their own turf.

“Yes,” nodded General Stanhey, “after a sort. You won’t be fighting dragons — at least, we don’t think you will be, not today.”

The colonel frowned. If not dragons, then…?

“You’ll be deploying to Dodge,” he said bluntly. “From there, you will regroup on base, drop tanks, and set a perimeter. The Second Wing is already on station in Appleloosa; you’ll be integrating into their command structure until we can move our own personnel down. You’ll be patrolling from the Ghastly Gorge to the railroad out to Baltimare; I suspect you’ll take the eastern half of the patrol route, though I wouldn’t rule out joint wing operations.” He gave a wave back towards the command tent. “Again, I would come myself, but we’ll need a day or two to prep for a move, and we can’t guarantee this weather will hold. Most importantly, right now we need flyers more than we need commanders.”

They nodded understanding of the orders, but the underlying why was as clear as day. After a few tense moments, the colonel spoke up again, a purple lock of mane fluttering slightly in the snowy breeze.

“Sir….”

“The Fourth Wing will remain on station in Hayseed,” said Stanhey smoothly, “and will take over the eastern Badland patrols.”

“Understood, sir,” she said with a crisp nod. “But the Badlands border doesn’t run up to the Baltimare railroad.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said flatly. “You’ll be running CAP over the Blackacre border.”

The crowd gave him blank stares. When he spoke next, it was with carefully-chosen words.

“Without further contact from Ponyville, it is impossible to formally attribute responsibility for the destruction of the EAS Mane and the murders of her crew.”

They understood, each tensing up as the full impact of his words hit home.

Murder.

“Reports say there’s a blizzard blowing in from Horseshoe Bay,” said General Stanhey, raising his voice to ensure everypony heard him. “It wouldn’t be much of a deployment without the first big blizzard of the year coming in to see you off. You’d better outfly the weather.”

“Sir,” asserted the purple-maned pony, “we’ll outfly Celestia herself.” She paused, meaningfully. “We’re the Fighting Second.”

“Damned straight you are,” said Stanhey with a firm nod.

He gave them one last look.

“Go.”

As one, the pegasi of the Second Air Wing crouched slightly; like a hundred coiled springs they shot into the air. A few flaps to rebalance themselves, a few more to bring their hooves up under them, and then they were off, streaking west like a thunderhead of grey. Their cloud rippled higher, gaining altitude at cruising speeds, each individual pegasus operating in perfect sync with the rest of their wingmates.

None of them had signed up to fight their own kind. None of them wanted to fight dragons, either, but they would do that if they had to; the notion of attacking part of Equestria itself was… distasteful.

More importantly, though, none of them were about to stand by while someone killed their own, killed civilians — or tried to kill the Princess. Whoever was responsible would pay, of that they were sure. Didn’t matter who they were. Didn’t matter where they were. They had attacked Equestria, and now Equestria would strike back.

With a bit of luck, the bomb had left survivors.

The Fighting Second would not.

Ground Zero

22 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

Smell was the first to come back.

It was charred, mostly. There were other nuances in there, though. An undercurrent of freshly cut loam, almost pleasant. Pinpoint wafts of something acrid, something magical. Hovering above everything, the tang of metal; metal not finished or refined but instead raw, twisted. And, every so often… the smell of burning meat.

Absently Jackie realized that she couldn’t move. It didn’t quite cross her mind that couldn’t hear or feel anything, but maybe she could do something about seeing. Maybe somepony turned off the sun, but she could still glow something up, couldn’t she? Maybe. But how? She had no lights, no candles…

Magic, part of her mind snapped at herself.

Yes, of course… why didn’t I think of that?

Because you’re not thinking straight.

’Course I am! Her lips twitched down. But… maybe not? C’mon. What would Grandma Snap say?

Oh, poor Grandma. I wish she was still —

Shut up! she yelled at herself. Shut up shut up shut up! You’re wrong, you’re…

Going crazy, that’s what.

She couldn’t feel, couldn’t hear above the deafening silence in her ears, but she needed to see before she could do anything.

Light. Light, I need light.

She was definitely out of it, but light was easy, and it wouldn’t take much concentration. Jackie did her best to draw her wits together, and for a moment, nothing happened —

A streak of pain shot through her spine, and clawing at her last shreds of consciousness she fell back at last to merciful darkness.

“Over here!”

The pony perched on top of the pile of rubble waved, his headlamp wobbling slightly in the dusk. After a moment, a pair of pegasi flew over, traces of snow flecking off their armor: there might be two dozen heavily-armed flyers running a combat air patrol directly overhead, but they weren’t about to get complacent. Besides, it was cold, and the extra bulk kept them warm when away from the roaring fires at the edge of the impact zone.

The pegasi deposited a unicorn wrapped in a dark blue bundle of blankets on one of the flatter slabs of metal, then flapped up, angling their own headlamps to flood the spotter pony in light. The unicorn took a hesitant step, making sure the platform was steady, then took a closer look at the spotter.

“What do you have?” asked Snowflake, nudging the very tip of her horn out of the thick cloak to add her own glow to the night. The horn itself was a lance of green in a white mane; the spotter doubted very much that the tinge of blue was intentional.

“Think I got one,” said Sean Digger, gesturing at a particularly charred section of wreckage. Judging by the tattered yellow fabric flapping pathetically to one side, it might have been part of the Mane’s siding, but who could tell?

“All right,” nodded the unicorn wearily. She looked to all the world like a walking blanket, little more than hooves and head poking out from under the wrap she kept close to her body. She would rather be somewhere, anywhere, but right here and right now, but she didn’t have much of a choice right now. None of them did.

Not that Sean could blame her. There were only so many search and rescue ponies around, and most of them were stationed far to the north, on avalanche patrol. Snowflake here had been working for something like twenty-nine hours, cursing her name every chance she got.

Workers like Sean could do their jobs in coats and gloves and boots and masks, but when it came to divining magic, the less clothing to interfere with magic the better. Snowflake’s work consisted almost entirely in exposing herself to the elements and casting difficult and intricate locator spells — and, for her trouble, she pulled up corpses more often than not.

“All right,” she said again, blinking a few times to clear her head. She stepped over to join Sean in front of the indicate wreckage, shedding her wrap. He could see every hair of her thin coat prick up in the icy air; with a few steps he moved upwind of her. She glanced at him and nodded thanks; breaking the December wind wasn’t much, but it was something.

“For your sake, I hope this one’s alive.”

“For his sake, too,” he agreed, as her horn’s glow threw the twisted metal into sharp relief, black shapes dancing in the greenish light as she searched down, down in the wreckage.

As his name suggested, Sean Digger was a miner; he earned his own mark, a small trio of pickaxes, years ago. Since then, he had learned just about everything there was to know about the trade. He had been just passing through Ponyville, on a prospecting assignment to see whether the low mountains to the east of Las Pegasus were worth anything, when he heard a… higher calling.

It was awfully hard to ignore a three hundred meter fireball slamming into a crowd of ponies.

He had never gotten much on-the-job experience with mine rescue scenarios; most of their training was theoretical. That was, after all, the idea; if all they got was training, then that meant there were no real emergencies.

In theory, those skills would be applicable here too. Somewhere under the wreckage there would be a crater, but for now it was a huge pile of rubble, metal beams and parts of buildings all mixed together and immolated for good measure. At the moment, teams of ponies were working to separate out the wreckage, to dismantle the rubble in something resembling a safe way, to get at whatever was under it.

Just like in a mine collapse, though, sometimes you just couldn’t wait until the main shaft was re-mined. He and a few other ponies were crawling around on top of the pile, doing their best to identify locations where there were survivors buried under the wreckage. Between listening closely and watching for any signs of movement, they could usually pick out living survivors up to a depth of eight or ten yards. As for bodies… the smell of charred flesh was difficult to miss.

Snowflake’s distinctly bluish lips twisted down. Sean knew that look: she had found something. The light from her horn narrowed down, seeming to pierce down the wreckage at a very specific point, looking closer, closer; trying to figure out who was down there.

“She’s alive,” she said slowly, her eyes closed but twitching back and forth with the effort. “Barely.”

“Get a team!” shouted Sean to the pegasi. “Medic!”

The pegasi shot off, one towards the medical tent and another to the closest of the recovery crews, which was currently trying to lever a twelve foot long deck plate off of the pile. The moment they saw the pegasus come towards them, they dropped the plate; the chance to save a life was more important than moving anything.

“How bad?” he asked. “Can you tell?”

Normally, that would be a silly question; she was a professional, and this was her job. On a good day, she even might be able to telekinese some of the debris out of the way; on a bad day she could scry just about anything. This wasn’t a bad day, though; it was a terrible one, and at the moment it was actually well into the second consecutive day. Frankly it was impressive that she was upright at all.

“Bad,” she said, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Broken legs… breathing weak. Maybe lungs? Can’t tell. She was close enough to a fire to keep her from freezing, but no severe burns.” She paused for a moment, frowning. “There’s major trauma, but blood loss is pretty low. There’s no reason —”

And then, quite suddenly, she collapsed.

“Snowflake!” he shouted, a half-second too late to catch her. He was at her side in a step, cradling her head in his mittened forehooves.

“What is it?”

Snowflake’s eyelids fluttered weakly, but the look in her eyes was as awake as he had ever seen a pony.

“She…” Snowflake shook her head faintly. “I’ve never… never.”

“Are you —”

“I’m fine,” she said, struggling to sit up. “Compared to her, we’re all fine.” Sean helped her to a seated position and wrapped the blanked around her. She shivered gratefully.

“Get her a medic,” she said, eyes wide. “Right now.”

This time, sound was the first to come back. A series of vague buzzings around her ears; she couldn’t quite tell what they were, but she at least recognized them as voices. Abstractly, she realized that was an improvement. At least she was thinking straight. Or was she? If she wasn’t thinking right, would she still think she was thinking… oh, forget it.

After a few moments of concentration, she could make out one of the voices. It was definitely the loudest, though that was probably because it sounded close.

“Miss Snap?”

It sounded pretty calm, too, come to think of it. And awfully nice for a rescue pony. That’s who it would be, right? She was still on the ground, under —

Wait. No she wasn’t.

Experimentally, she tried to feel something with her hoof… only to discover that she felt nothing. There was something there, but she couldn’t get at it; everything was just a dull sensation. Dull, that was a good word for it. She wasn’t thinking straight, was she?

No, she couldn’t move her hoof, either. Was it pinned? Maybe… there was definitely something —

“Miss Snap,” the voice came again, smooth and female. Then, off to a side: “I though you said she was conscious.”

“She is,” came another voice. “At least she’s supposed to be; there’s enough stimulant in her to make a rock dance. I’m sorry —”

“What’s going on?” Jackie said, or at least thought she did. Her tongue hadn’t gotten the memo, and the blurred noises that came out of her bore no resemblance to words.

“So she is awake,” murmured the first voice. “How much…?”

“Nothing,” said the second quickly. “As best we can tell, she’s been out since her recovery.”

“Hm.”

A pause, and Jackie could vaguely feel the air grow darker, a shape over her.

A shape! That meant she was seeing things, and that felt good indeed. She attempted to blink; her lids twitched. She was out of it… but at least she recognized that there was something in front of her eyes, something gauzy. Was she in a hospital?

“No, she was awake at least once,” corrected the first voice quietly. “Under the wreckage. She was already in shock, and it didn’t take much effort to push her over the edge.”

“How can you tell?” asked the second. “If I may.”

“Look at the pattern. Part of it is directional, but the main fracture was radial, from the inside.”

“I see,” came the second voice, and the blurred darkness above her shifted slightly. “I’m… sorry; I’ve just never —”

“Few have,” said the first. “I was hoping to never see this again.”

“Again?” whispered the second voice reverentially. Then, abruptly: “She’s conscious.”

“And I bet she’s getting curious,” said the first voice. “Miss Snap, can you hear me?”

Again Jackie did her best to respond; again her tongue didn’t cooperate. A sound did come out, though, and that was enough.

“I’m glad to hear it,” replied the voice. “You’re in the Ponyville hospital and, for the time being, you’re safe.”

Why can’t I talk? she wanted to say, but all that came out was the “why.”

“You’re heavily sedated,” responded the voice. “We’ve also administered muscle relaxant and a magic block. Your body is still in shock, and sometimes your muscles had a mind of their own. You’ve been sedated for surgery.”

Surgery?

“Three broken legs and a collapsed lung,” said the second voice. “Which is why you’ve got half my pharmacy worth of painkillers in you right now.”

Slowly, carefully, she rolled her tongue around. She didn’t even bother with multiple syllables, or even multiple words. It wasn’t much, but it came out coherent.

“Now?”

“Not yet,” said the first voice. “And for that I must apologize. I’ve requested to see you before you go for surgery. You may not be conscious again for some time, and I need to return to my duties, such as they are.”

The voice paused. “Can we remove the bandage for a moment?” it asked, quietly.

“She shouldn’t be stimulated,” said the second voice with a resigned air. “But medically? Yes. For a moment.”

Jackie felt a pair of hooves at her face, and the blur slowly began to lift as one layer of gauze was pulled back, then another. A third and the blur resolved into color, a fourth and she realized it was moving slightly, almost waving back and forth —

“Mmfss!”
The doctor peeled the last layer back, revealing what was quite clearly none other than Princess Celestia.

“Miss Snap,” she said with a sad smile. “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

Jackie blinked. What else was she going to do? And how had she not recognized the voice?

“Doctor Turner, thank you.”

The tan and white pony to her left nodded deferentially. Jackie recognized him as one of the hospital’s trauma staff; his clessidral mark was a reference to his speedy response time.

“Miss Snap, I afraid I don’t have much time; I’m needed in Canterlot.” The Princess paused slightly. Instinctively Jackie tensed up; the hesitation on the part of none other than Celestia herself worried her more than anything she had ever seen.

“When the Mane came down, the stage was hardest hit,” she started. “We’ve found several… of the diplomatic staff.” The Princess’ tone left no doubt as to the condition of those poor staffponies. The Mane was huge; it didn’t take much imagination to connect the dots.

But what about —

“We haven’t found Dag yet,” she said, “but our teams are doing their best.”

“I…” started Jackie, then broke off. No use stating the obvious.

“Thanks,” she struggled to say; she attempted to punctuate the thought with a nod, but discovered that her entire head was not only immobile but immobilized. Whereas she could flop her hooves a bit, nothing above her neck was moving; it was as if they had strapped her down.

“Which brings me to my second point,” said the Princess, her face growing dire. “I’ve done my best, but not even my magic is powerful enough for this.”

This?

The Princess hesitated for a good long moment before turning to Dr. Turner.

“A mirror,” she commanded.

“I —” he started, but a sharp look from the alicorn and he nodded acquiescence. “Mirror,” he said, offering it to her.

“I am so sorry,” said Princess Celestia, extending the mirror towards Jackie. She strained to see the reflection; it tracked down the wall, to the headboard, then —

Involuntarily she let out a short scream. Her head was immobilized, all right: gauze and leather bands and all sorts of equipment surrounded her. There was red everywhere, and while most of it came from her mane, hair didn’t splotch like that. Besides, most of her mane looked to be burnt or sheared off… and yet she suddenly didn’t care.

At the center of the nest of stained gauze, right in the middle of her copper-hued forehead was a splintered and bloody stump.

“I’m so sorry,” repeated the Princess, mercifully pulling the mirror back. “This is beyond even my magic. Doctor Turner and his staff are the best in Equestria….”

She said more things, but Jackie wasn’t listening. Experimentally she tried to magic something, anything; nothing happened. She knew she was under a magic block, but… nothing. Just… nothing.

No, this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t —

“…our best,” the Princess was saying. “We will find Dag, and we will heal you. And….” The Princess’ eyes turned to fire. “And they will pay.”

Jackie tried to nod, muscles straining feebly against their restraints. After a few moments of preparation, she convinced her tongue to work again.

“Thank you,” she said, but deep down she didn’t mean it. She didn’t want anypony to pay, even if Celestia herself flew from the heavens to dispense justice. She just wanted Dag back. Dag, and her horn, and… and….

Most of all, she wanted this nightmare to go away. She saw the doctor standing near what looked like an IV drip; after a moment, she felt a cool sensation under her skin.

This time she embraced the darkness.

The Midnight Oil

22 December, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

“I said, hi mom.”

“Mmm. What?”

“I swear, mom,” said the tan pony, tossing a bag on one of the spare chairs in the office. “Sometimes it’s like you’re not even here.”

“Sorry, honey,” said Aspia, glancing up momentarily from the papers on her desk. “How was school?”

“Great,” said the pony, hopping onto another chair with an eye-roll worthy of the stage. “Just great. It’s been going a lot better since I graduated last year, you know.”

“Right.” Aspia paused for a moment. “Margaret, I’m sorry. It’s been —”

“A busy day, I know,” she said, absently twirling a lock of pink mane. “I bet.” She frowned. “Doesn’t the Secrepony of Defense have, you know, a staff for this stuff? It’s almost midnight.”

“Oh, we’re all working,” said Aspia, waving absently towards the door to the big hall that housed her staff. “None of us can get out of that.” She shuffled a few more papers around, compared a pair, and signed off on a third. “So what’d you do today?”

“Not much,” said Margaret, standing back up and starting to wander around the office. “All the local administrations are playing it safe with this whole Blackacre thing. Nopony wants to ruffle feathers here in Canterlot, so they’re all playing nice with each other.”

“That’s nice,” she murmured.

“No requests for mediation,” she started, ticking items off on a hoof. “No water rights disputes between White Tail Woods and Las Pegasus, the Vanhoover bay is frozen up so they’re shut down for the winter, a pair of yeti dropped by Neighagra Falls for some tea, Manehattan’s building a bridge to Saddle Arabia, you’re not listening to me are you.”

“Sounds like they’re keeping you busy,” said Aspia, her eyes never once leaving the desk. “All in a day’s work, right?”

Margaret gave her a good long glare, holding it for a few seconds before realizing she wasn’t about to notice it. Holding back a sharp response, she paced over to the desk and peered over the elder pony’s shoulder.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Ooh, draft ponies. You hauling something?”

Immediately Aspia jerked up towards her — and then, a half-second later, smiled.

“Honey, this is all classified.” She shooed Margaret away with a rolled up memo. “You know that.”

“I know,” she moped, poking at something on the wall. She had heard the spiel often enough. National security and all that. “What about just this once?”

“Nope,” she said, and for once the smile on her face was genuine. “Try again once you get your clearances.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” Margaret rolled her eyes. “You can’t even tell me where my father is. Didn’t think a daughter needed clearance for that.”

Aspia winced despite herself. That was a low blow and they both knew it. Still, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She and Henry hadn’t ended on the best of terms, and now he was off on the other side of the globe. She didn’t even know where… she didn’t want to.

Amazing how, even fifteen years later, just thinking about him gave her pause. It wasn’t particularly painful, at least not anymore, but he was still something… special. An old wound might scab and scar over, the muscles underneath might heal, but they would always be just a little bit twisted, gnarled. It didn’t necessarily hurt, but it was always there.

She gave no outward indication of her thoughts, but then again she didn’t need to. Margaret knew her well enough to know what she was thinking. She also knew well enough to be ashamed of the cheap shot, which saved both the time and effort of a proper chastising.

“Keep on doing good work and you might end up with clearance too,” she said instead, shuffling the sensitive documents off the top of the pile. “How’s your studying for the A-levels going?”

Margaret blew an exasperated whinny. At the moment, she was a bureaucratic functionary in the Home Office, dealing with routine correspondence between Canterlot and the local and regional governments.

She actually held a position several grades above where a filly of her years might normally be placed, but only part of it was due to her mother’s name and influence; Margaret herself had a surprising aptitude for dealing with local needs. Many Canterlot ponies had bureaucratic cutie marks, but her scroll-and-blue-ribbon had an elegance about it. With a bit of luck, her aptitude would translate to high marks on the A-levels; those would place her on an upper-level training track. In a few years, she could be a mayor, maybe a lieutenant governor. After that, with her youth and talent… well, she just might end up back in Canterlot.

“Fine, I guess,” she said, kicking idly at a crumpled paper. “It’s just a bunch of big problems. No interacting with individual ponies.”

“You can’t solve everypony’s problems by yourself,” said Aspia gently. “Someone like you? You can do a lot more good by fixing a few really big problems. Or even not so big problems. That’s the thing about working in Canterlot. One flap of the wing here, and it’s clear skies out in Baltimare.”

“Maybe,” said Margaret noncommittally. It was an invitation to debate, but Aspia knew her daughter well enough. Once that pink mane shrugged just so, there was no budging her. She was stubborn, just like her mother. Just like her father….

“Getting a lot of complaints about food stocks,” ventured Margaret in an uncharacteristic display of bureaucratic assertiveness. “Lots of little towns rely on bigger depots, and they’re not looking too well-stocked.” She paused for a moment. “They’re counting on the railroads to get through to Appleloosa.”

“I bet,” said Aspia. “I’m not really the pony to ask, though. I can’t disclose anything.”

A moment of silence.

“If you had to guess. In a strictly civilian and non-professional way.”

She smiled. Yes, this was her daughter.

“In my capacity as a civilian, and nothing more… I might be able to make some guesses. Guesses, mind.”

“Wouldn’t dream they would be anything else.”

“The rail line over Ghastly Gorge doesn’t seem to be the safest at the moment,” she mused. “If I were trying to get goods out of Appleloosa, I’d get them to Dodge, and across to the Baltimare railroad over Rambling Rock Ridge.”

“There’s no line over the Ridge,” pointed out Margaret. “I wonder if it would be more efficient to build one or bring everything over by hoof.”

“I do wonder about that,” she agreed. “If I were a pony who had to make that call, I’d have analysts on that right now.” She waved a hoof airily. “And if I were to continue wondering, I would wonder whether it would be more efficient to deploy the army to support and guard engineers, or simply move the goods themselves.”

She shrugged. “Either way, goods will get through.”

“That’s a lot more work.”

“Of course it is. But somepony has to do it.”

“They’ll be relieved to hear that,” said Margaret with a nod. “Lots of the little towns are worried Canterlot’s forgotten about them, or wants to cut them loose.”

“Relieved to hear what?” she asked sharply.

“My best guesses,” she said with a cheery smile. “They’re just guesses, but maybe if they hear somepony else talk it through with them… that might be something.”

“Just might.” Aspia smiled. “You sure you don’t like dealing with big problems?”

“Pretty sure,” she said, shaking her head. “Besides, this is a lot of individual mayors from different towns that all happen to have the same problem. I’ll need to talk to them all individually, and that’s the fun part.”

“Fun.” She shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“That’s what you always say, mom,” her daughter admonished her. “But — I’m just guessin’ here, but you don’t look too happy with your job right about now.”

Aspia blinked. The dispatches and reports on the desk in front of her flowed well beyond the capacity of the dozen or so pigeonholes to hold them; they all blended into a single sea of paper. It didn’t look particularly fun… and the fact that it was probably around midnight didn’t help either.

“Somepony’s got to do it,” she shrugged. “The work might not always be fun, but I need to do it.” She gestured helplessly at the freshest-looking stack of papers. “Now more than ever.”

“But…” she started, poking idly at the papers, careful to not upset their order. “Do you need to do it now?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” came a voice from the door. Margaret whirled, blinked twice, and fell to her knees.

“Princess,” said Aspia, jumping to her feet, “you’re alive!”

“Of course,” said the alicorn with the hint of a shrug. “The sun rose today, didn’t it?”

“Not to mention the official reports that keep crossing my desk about the things you’ve been doing,” said the pony with a brush at a stack of documents. “I’m glad to verify them for myself, though.”

“I understand completely,” said Princess Celestia. “Reports are one thing, but sometimes it’s nice to see things for yourself.” She turned towards the filly, still on the floor, who was probably praying that neither of them would remember her.

“Margaret,” she started in that pleasant tone she affected, “I’ve heard good things about your progress. I look forward to seeing more of your work in the coming weeks; we’ve got a lot of problems, and I think you’re just the pony to solve them.”

She blinked. Celestia smiled.

“Walk away tall, little one,” she said. “You do your mother proud.”

“Th— thank you,” she struggled.

A pause. Aspia raised a single eyebrow.

“Right,” said Margaret with an obsequious bow. “Thank you. Good night, Princess. Mother.”

In a flash she was out the door, the sound of hooves down the hall rapidly receding.

“You’ve kept tabs on her progress?” asked Aspia.

“With her pedigree?” The Princess laughed, a light sound. “Of course I receive reports. I haven’t read them in the past few weeks, though. There have been more… pressing concerns.”

At that moment, one of the side doors to Aspia’s office opened, followed closely by a slightly pudgy pony with a sheaf of photos.

“These just came in from the Herald,” he said without preface, staring closely at one. “Lots of good shots, but a fantastic one of some unicorn. If we want to start the Mulitzer betting pool early, my bits’re on….”

He trailed off, realizing the lighting in the room was tinged with the faintest touch of a few particularly recognizable pastel shades.

“Princess!” he exclaimed, bowing deeply. “I’m so sorry; I —”

“No need,” she said, waving off the apologies. “Even at midnight, you’re hard at work. Equestria relies on ponies like you; you and your staff are to be commended.”

“Thank you, Princess,” he said with a deep nod. “I’ll… I’ll leave these here.”

He was out the door by the time the photos hit the desk. Celestia glanced at the door, and it swung closed.

“May I assume that we will have some amount of privacy?” she asked idly.

“My staff picks up on things quickly enough,” said Aspia, picking up the photos. “Between coordinating logistics for the army and dealing with local fallout, they have plenty of work to keep them busy.”

“Good,” said Celestria, all trace of good humor vanishing from her face. “We have work to do.”

Entr'acte

24 December, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

“Good evening; I’m Scott Ponney. Tonight, we discuss where we might be tomorrow: our regularly-scheduled programming has been suspended to bring you this special edition of the Evening Herald.”

The regular newsponies had announced as much on the regularly scheduled evening newscasts, of course. Since the Mane, news had focused on little else; even so, a Herald special report was worth listening in to. Certainly no one had tuned in for the regular programming, a light-hearted and festive look at the habits of reindeer on the plains north of Neighagra Falls.

“With me in the studio tonight are Stony Brook and Tower Shield. Thank you for joining us.”

“Our pleasure,” said Brook.

“And our duty,” added Shield.

In the studio, Brook raised a thoughtful eyebrow. Duty. Shield was hitting his talking points early, it seemed. Which only made sense. If he knew his older companion at all, his theme would be a simple one, and the more he could repeat it, the better.

All right. Brook liked a challenge.

“Three days ago, the EAS Mane was destroyed above Ponyville,” said Ponney bluntly, by way of introduction. “At the time, she carried one hundred and seventy-five ponies, including Princess Celestia herself. Approximately one hundred and twenty ponies were in the audience of the signing ceremony, with an additional thirty support staff.”

He paused for a moment. Speculation as to the death toll had been nothing short of rampant the past few days; with no permanent communications installations in Ponyville, there were all sorts of figures coming out. Some particularly hawkish ones had suggested that there were more casualties than the town’s official population!

“To remind our viewers, the latest official figures report two hundred and thirty-one confirmed casualties. An additional thirty-five are missing, presumed dead; this number includes Canterlot’s Chief Diplomat, Dag Hammer, as well as most of the Blackacre delegation.

“The destruction of the Mane was and remains a national tragedy,” he said, well aware that not all ponies might appreciate where he was taking this, “and our thoughts and prayers are with the families and loved ones of those gone and those missing. Tonight, however, our topic is not what happened, but what it will mean for the rest of the nation. Both the Royal Army and Air Patrol have been fully mobilized, and there are unconfirmed reports of regular pegasus patrols around the Blackacre region borders.”

Background established, he paused for a moment, taking a breath before the plunge.

“Gentlecolts, your first impressions. Tower Shield?”

“With due respect, Mr. Ponney, it is categorically impossible to dismiss, or even to marginalize, the bombing of the Mane in this discussion,” he started. “Equestria’s armed forces have been mobilized. Tens of thousands of ponies have been called to service, armed, and are now waiting.”

He gave a slight laugh, not so much out of mirth as for the need to break up the sentence somehow. “Waiting for what, you ask? Waiting for the conclusions of the official investigation. The investigation’s results will determine exactly what happens next. As someone who served in the Royal Guard, I can guarantee you that there are already a half-dozen contingency plans. Every single one of them will depend entirely on what happened to the Mane.”

“I don’t presume to know what those plans are,” started Brook, placing the slightest emphasis on the word in order to make it seem as if Tower had been making presumptions. “Not that it’s too hard to get the general idea. What ponies want to know, though, is what will cause them to be enacted.

“As you say,” he went on, “the findings of the investigation will probably determine what happens. But what findings will trigger which results?”

“That would be the question, yes.” Shield gave the slightest of snorts. “I believe I said as much.”

“The questions are related, but not quite the same,” corrected Brook. “Mine is a priori to yours. You’re asking what happens after the investigation, and I’m asking why the investigation matters in the first place.”

“I should think that would be obvious,” he huffed.

“Yes,” shot Brook in an accusative deadpan, “I would think so too. I ask this: what difference does it make?”

He paused for just long enough for Shield to consider responding, but not quite long enough for him to do more than open his mouth. “What difference does it make?” he repeated. “The Army and Air Patrol have already deployed — to the Blackacre border. As we speak, the regional weather patrols have been replaced by pegasi in full combat kit. The railroads are as good as shut down, civilians aren’t getting anywhere, and Canterlot Central Command isn’t saying anything.”

“You make a strong case,” said Shield, careful to keep any trace of sarcasm out of his voice.

“It does sound that way, doesn’t it?” Brook agreed. “Little wonder the unofficial reports pin the blame squarely on Blackacre.”

“That… is a strong statement,” said Shield, suddenly wary of his opponent making his point for him.

“It’s not hard to understand why,” continued Brook. “Eyewitness reports show that there was something going on in the audience in the seconds before the Mane impacted. Nopony can say what, though, because they were all fixated on the green and black fireball in the sky. Fire is usually red; someone made it that color. Convenient?” Listeners at home could well imagine an eloquent shrug. “No more so than the fact that, of all the recovered casualties, only two have been from the Blackacre delegation. The rest? Conveniently unaccounted for.”

“Your point?” growled Shield. This line of speculation was dangerously close to the trash coming out of the tabloids. While it was entirely possible to tease apart the twin lines of argument, debunking the drivel while carefully buttressing his own stance, that particular action would requite more rhetorical surgery than he was willing to get into today. Besides, he was building up to something; let him talk.

“What will the investigative committee say?” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Indulge me,” said Brook, brushing the comment aside. “What does the committee say? Is this a mechanical accident? Poor maintenance? I think we can agree that that’s a very unlikely conclusion.”

Shield said nothing.

“It is going to be very hard, very hard indeed, for the investigative committee to draw any conclusions that don’t have the word Blackacre in them. This, then, is my question: what does it matter? There is no reason to believe the unofficial reports will be different from the official ones. The Army and Air Patrol are already deployed. Why does the committee matter?”

“You suggest that the armed forces will be given similar orders regardless of the motivation.”

“I do,” he said flatly. “The case looks dire. Why would the committee conclude anything else?”

“Because that is their job,” said Shield, glad at last to have the argument back on terrain he knew. “The point of the committee is to reach conclusions — real ones drawn from fact, unmarred by bias or opinion — and then to act.”

“So we hope,” said Brook. “And yet… the military has been called out.”

“Anticipation of a likely conclusion does not foreclose the possibility of reaching another one.”

“Which brings me right back to tonight’s theme,” said Brook, probably as the result of a hurry-it-up gesture from Ponney. “What is that conclusion? Ten thousand ponies on the border right now, with ten thousand more a day’s march away. What are they going to do?”

“If those responsible for the destruction of the Mane are in Blackacre, then clearly local law enforcement is incapable of dealing with them,” said Shield firmly. “Those responsible will be brought to justice. They will be hunted, and they will be found.”

“How?” pressed Brook. “Through the institution of martial law over and above the will of the local government?”

“An attack on the Princess and the Equestrian military is a national, not a local, issue,” said Shield. “The military was deployed under the auspices of a military police operation, not war operations.”

“A technicality; the military has no domestic jurisdiction unless it’s activated under the military police authority.”

“If, as you say, it is likely that those responsible are taking refuge in Blackacre, then the military will assist local law enforcement in bringing them to justice,” repeated Shield. “No more — but no less.”

“Let me ask you this,” said Brook, veering off. “Let’s say you were a criminal, somepony who had just tried to kill the Princess and succeeded in killing two hundred-odd bystanders.”

“For the sake of discussion, I am the scum of the Earth,” said Shield icily.

“Hypothetically,” reassured Brook. “Let’s say you get back to your hideout in Blackacre. The next day, you find out the entire Canterlot military is looking for you.”

“Then I surrender myself to the Princess’ justice.”

“Scum of the Earth, remember?” said Brook. “Do you stay in one place, sitting around, waiting, while they literally surround the region, cover every exit over land and sea and air? Or do you go to ground? Make a run for it?”

“If the Royal Army and Air Patrol were chasing me down,” said Shield slowly, “there would be no place in Equestria where I could hide. They would find me; it would only be a question of when. But yes, I would run.”

“Then,” said Brook sharply, “if I were the commander out to get you, I would want to move fast, strike everywhere at once, as soon as I could. No waiting. No giving you a chance to fade away, to slip by in the night or the snow. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Then — then, if I’m after you, I have a pretty good idea of where you are, and I can go after you…” Brook laughed. “Then why in the world would I wait? I take my ponies, I comb the region, I find you. And yet the Army is waiting at the border. The Air Patrol hasn’t dipped into regional airspace. The single most valuable asset they have is the element of surprise, and it’s slipping out of their grasp.”

“The investigative committee has yet to release its results.”

“Correct — but, if the case is so strong, then wouldn’t it be worth it to just go in now, catch those responsible, and sort it out later?”

“That would be beyond the scope of their power.”

“Not so fast, my friend,” said Brook, the smile audible. “I looked up the text of the military authority law.” Actually, it was one of his interns, but nopony needed to know that. “The current version dates back one hundred and twenty-six years.”

“If history serves,” said Shield, “the current version was passed in the wake of the Possum Riots, where woodland residents of Hollow Shades objected to the quality of their representation in the Fillydelphia regional government.”

“Absolutely correct,” said Brook. “Local police were incapable of maintaining order, and the military was forbidden from intervening in a sub-regional affair. The Possum Comitatus Act modified the law to allow for specific exceptions in the case of internal insurrections.”

“Which does not apply here.”

“As well as, among other things, instances where… let me get the quote right… instances where the Princess may employ the armed forces to restore public order and enforce the laws… where the constituted authorities of a region are presently incapable or otherwise incompetent to maintain public order… or otherwise execute the laws of Equestria in a manner consistent with the intent and course of justice thereof.”

There was a slight rustling of paper as he put the copy down. “There’s more, but you get the idea; on direct royal intervention, the military can step in where local forces can’t. The fact that the Mane was destroyed by, in the popular and probably official opinion, forces in all likelihood taking shelter in Blackacre is prima facie evidence that the local authorities cannot maintain order.”

Brooks’ voice grew hard, every word crisp and deadly.

“The military had every right to intervene, on the direct orders of the Princess. That would maintain the element of surprise, would end this bloody business before it even began.”

The slightest of pauses. “But they didn’t. Why?”

Shield held off for a moment.

“The committee has not —”

“If the Equestrian military genuinely believed they could catch the bad guys by going to Blackacre, they would have already done it. Instead they’re waiting, throwing away their most important advantage. I ask: why.”

“The risk of upsetting —”

“Half the nation already blames Blackacre!” exclaimed Brook. “Don’t beat around the bush. Going in early catches those responsible, ends this nightmare before it even begins. Why didn’t they?”

A pause.

“I… I cannot speak for the armed forces.”

“They didn’t go,” said Brooks softly, “because they don’t think they would be successful. What sense is there executing the operation if you know you’ll catch nothing?

“And why don’t they think they would be successful?” He laughed, a low sound. “Because those responsible aren’t in Blackacre.”

A pause. A long one. Then —

“Gentlecolts,” said Ponney quietly. “Thank you for your time. I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a night. There’s hot chocolate in the green room; I know I could use some with this weather. We also have some warm food in the staff kitchen; we’ll need it to keep us going through the drifts.”

“But —” started Brook.

“What do you mean?” demanded Shield. “It was three flakes when I got here.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ponney, shaking his head. “The blizzard outside took a sudden turn for the worse.”

The slightest of clanks as he put his headset down.

“We’ve been off the air for twenty minutes.”

Reverie

24 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

This time, waking up was not unlike coming to after a nap in a slightly lumpy chair: odd parts of her hurt, but for the most part she felt pretty refreshed. Jackie blinked a few times to clear her vision. Judging by the sickly color of the ceiling, she was definitely still in a hospital, a suspicion confirmed by the distinctly sterile smell of linens as her other senses returned. Sight and smell; a faintly metallic taste in her mouth; gentle and oddly comforting mechanical sounds from the machinery next to the bed —

And pain, which came back with more than enough force to make up for its several-second delay.

Involuntarily, Jackie moaned slightly. She had had headaches before, but this was something altogether new: it wasn’t sharp or grating, just an all-around failure of her skin to block nerve endings. Each twitch brought agony; even the gentle throbbing of her blood vessels — little pulsating ribbons of torment, nestled just under her coat — was enough to bring a tear to her eye.

There was another band of sensation rolling down her flank. She was vaguely aware that it would normally be painful, but somehow it seemed less relevant at the moment.

“Oh, good. You’re awake!”

Jackie built up the courage to roll her head to the right, where she saw Agnes sitting in a large chair by the window. She seemed entirely comfortable, despite the bulky white mass of plaster around her hips and left hindquarter.

“Your leg!” she exclaimed, voice raspy from disuse. “What…?”

“Don’t worry about me, dear,” she said, shifting slightly and reaching out to a bell on the bedside table. “I just broke my hip; you broke everything!”

She rang it twice; the door was open before the light metallic sound echoed away.

“You’re awake,” said the nurse who entered, her tan skin only a few shades darker than the white scrubs she wore. Almost immediately she was at Jackie’s left side, checking the various equipment with a faint symphony of beeps.

“You’ll be wanting something for the pain,” she said, in what would likely be the most thorough understatement of the day. “You’ve been on vasodilators since we brought you in, but they only go so far. We would have given you something earlier, but you were out like a light. No sense building up your body’s resistance when you’re not awake to benefit.

“You probably want it to be most effective now, instead of when you’re out.” She held up a small syringe, then brought it down to the IV drip and slowly injected the contents. “There you go. It should kick in fairly quickly.”

“Thank… Celestia,” said Jackie through gritted teeth. “How long…?”

“Three days,” said Agnes, prompting her to roll her head back over to the right. Was it her imagination, or did it hurt less? “It’s early afternoon… December 24.”

“Three…” she started. “Dag!”

She caught a faint flash behind Agnes’ eyes before her comforting expression returned. “They… they haven’t found him yet,” said the older mare. “They’re looking. Still looking.”

“Still looking,” she echoed faintly. “Three days. How long… can…?”

“They pulled somepony out this morning,” said Agnes with a firm nod. “Very much alive. Right, nurse?”

“Right,” said the nurse after a moment. “She was very much alive.”

There was something there that Jackie felt she should latch on to, but for some reason she couldn’t focus. Her mind kept slipping… except this time was different. A controlled slipping, like someone put an ice pond on her head. And it cooled the pain, and she already felt better, didn’t she? No — not thinking clearly. Had to fight through it.

“Dag,” she said again, faintly. “I need… need to be out there.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said the nurse, restraining her with embarrassingly little effort. “You’re heavily sedated; your flank is almost entirely bandaged, so I suggest not trying to walk anywhere, even if you could; and your head is largely immobilized.” She paused for a moment. “Ignoring the IV and the monitors that keep you on the path to recovery.”

“But —”

“And,” she went on, fiddling with something just out of Jackie’s reach, “if you truly did decide to come out and help search the rubble, you would tie up about eight ponies from this hospital’s staff. Eight ponies who could be helping other patients or even helping with the search themselves.”

Not to mention the possibility that, if she was involved with the search, she might be the unlucky pony who uncovered Dag’s body. Even if he had survived the initial impact, three days at the bottom of an impact site… the chances were slim, to say the least. Abstractly, Jackie knew this. The knowledge was academic, though, lodged away and entirely out of mind, along with other relevant facts such as the temperature of fire, the physics of a fuel-air explosion, and the mass of airship steel. Reminding her of those facts at the moment, though, was not perhaps a good idea.

“My…” she started, eyes wide. “My head. My horn.”

“You have been in surgery,” said the nurse, not meeting her gaze. “Several of them, in fact. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“What did you do to me?” she demanded, again struggling up, and again being gently held back. “What did you do to my horn?”

“We…” faltered the nurse.

“They saved your life, dear,” said Agnes. “That’s what they did.”

“Your horn was crushed in the impact,” said the nurse gently, before Jackie could get a word in. “We had to remove almost all of it. I’m sorry.”

For a good long while, she said nothing.

“Show me,” she said quietly, her voice almost as numb as most of her body felt.

“You won’t be able —”

“Show me,” she repeated. “I saw it before; I want to see what’s — what’s left.”

The nurse nodded, then rifled around in a dresser. After a moment, she gave her a hoof mirror, supporting its weight so that Jackie could hold it up in front of her.

Her face was visible, but almost nothing else: starting just below where her eyebrows probably were, everything was wrapped in what seemed like half a mummy’s worth of gauze. She couldn’t feel a thing; that painkiller was effective indeed. Though… she wouldn’t mind feeling at least a twinge. Something, anything to show that her head didn’t just stop under the bandages. For all she knew there were two horns under there, or three, or twelve.

Slowly she put the mirror back down.

“Will….”

“I don’t know,” said the nurse quietly, taking the mirror back and placing it out of reach. “The Princess couldn’t do anything, but she wasn’t here for long. And, frankly, nopony’s done research into this before. We just don’t know.”

She digested the information slowly.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” she said, staring off into the distance. For a good long while she stayed that way. Eventually, she blinked a few times, realizing that both of the other ponies were still there, waiting patiently for her. Was she that out of it?

“I should be out there,” she said.

“You should be in here,” said the nurse firmly. “Believe me. I’ll get Doctor Turner in here if hearing it from him will make you believe it any more.”

“I believe you,” she said. “That just doesn’t change that I’d rather be out there.”

The nurse nodded solemnly.

“I’m sorry.”

“They’re taking good care of you here,” said Agnes, speaking up. “Besides, you can’t exactly walk around in peace out there.”

The nurse shot her a reproachful look.

“Oh, come off it,” she said, waving the glare away. “She had to find out sooner or later.”

“Find out what?”

Agnes smiled sadly. “You’re famous, dearie.”

“I’m what?”

“Do you have a copy of today’s?” she asked the nurse. “Could you…?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the nurse nodded, making for the door. As she left, Agnes clucked softly.

“A few minutes before they found you, they found a camera in the wreckage,” she said. “When they pulled you out, somepony took a photo of it. Nopony remembers who did it, but that photo was gold.”

“Here,” said the nurse, re-entering the room with a sheaf. She handed it to Agnes, being very particular not to show it to Jackie. The pony accepted it, glanced at it, and flipped it around, presenting it to her.

Her vision wasn’t nearly as good as it should be — was that getting harder, too? Must be the sedative — but she could make out the front page headline well enough. All Eyes On Blackacre, it read, in big block letters. Below it, as wide as the page, was an image that looked uncomfortably familiar: a large black oval in the sky, wreathed in green and coming down hard.

“The Mane,” she breathed.

“They’ve used that one a lot,” agreed Agnes. “Especially with the officials pointing fingers at Blackacre. Reminds ponies about what happened.” She shivered slightly. “Too close for me. But you’ve been on the front page every day, reminding them that there were ponies here, too. Below the fold.”

Her eyes tracked down, where a quarter-image was placed, suspiciously close to the crashing airship. It wasn’t a complex photo, but the composition was almost perfect: on a pile of rubble, pegasi lifted ropes up and unicorns levered blocks out of the way. In the front, six Earth ponies carried a stretcher between them; the form laying on it was turned away from the camera, with a delicate tracing of crimson dripping down her head and flank, almost like a spiderweb.

Face or not, though, she recognized the copper coat and ruby mane; they were her own. Jackie swore under her breath.

“They’re calling you the Mane Mare,” scoffed the nurse. “As if nopony else was in that audience.”

“Lots of ponies are looking for you,” said Agnes.

“I don’t want them to look for me,” said Jackie angrily. “Look for Dag. Look for somepony, anypony else. I’m here. Go away.”

“We’ve denied all requests for information,” said the nurse quickly. “You’re not even here under your own name. Total patient confidentiality.”

“You’re part of the family,” said Agnes with a smile. “I loaned you the family name. It’s only right.”

“Jack?” said Jackie. “Jackie Jack.”

“Of course not,” she said with a laugh. “I gave you my own. We’re family, Jackie; somepony’s got to take care of you.”

“And now, you have to take care of you,” said the nurse smoothly. “Get some rest. Let your body take care of itself.”

“I will,” said Jackie, nodding. The action was slower now; maybe there was more than just painkiller in that drip. “Thank you.”

“Ring if you need anything,” said the nurse, more to Agnes than to her. “And take care of her.”

“She’ll be fine,” she said, waving a hoof at her charge. “I’ll keep her in bed.”

As the nurse left, Jackie mused that perhaps a pony in a lower body cast might not be the best choice to keep someone in bed. As she reached that conclusion, though, she also determined that perhaps it wouldn’t actually take much to keep her in bed. For one, she was having trouble summoning enough energy to keep her eyes open.

That was fine. She was safe, and Dag… he would also be safe. Of course he would. He was tough; always was. They just hadn’t found him yet. She would go to sleep, and when she would wake up, he would be here. Maybe he had gotten dinged up, but he would be fine.

Jackie settled back into the sheets. She wasn’t famous, wasn’t… no, that wasn’t her in the photo. That was some other pony. She was here in a hospital bed, sleeping, waiting for Dag to come back. A different name. Nopony would find her here, no one but Dag. She had always imagined she would end Jackie up Hammer, anyway; the thought of going under a different name for a bit didn’t bother her.
It rolled off the tongue well enough; Jackie… Smith. Yes, she could get used to that. At least for a while. At least until Dag was back.

The Bracing Wait

25 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

“Update from the rivers,” said the courier pony. He was breathing hard, his flanks flanks glistening from a thin layer of snow he hadn’t yet had the chance to brush off. The courier network was reliable and secure, but it ran almost entirely off the marked paths. Not that anyone in Blackacre ever used the paths, but knowing the woods like the back of their hooves didn’t do much when it came to actually running around them.

“Let’s hear it,” said Gaston, reaching for a bit of chalk to update the massive map that now dominated the main hall.

“Patrols on both sides of the Gorge, starting at the bridge.” Gaston’s hoof shifted slightly, tapping at a series of small marks on the map. They knew that already, but the confirmation never hurt.

“What about the other fork?” he asked, tapping another stream of blue.

“Patrons from the Ponyville crash site all the way down to the bridge,” he said with a nod. “For the whole length of the river, they’ve got eyes on the water.”

Gaston nodded, making a few more marks. It was mostly confirmation, but that was still worth something.

“They’re not just along the river, though,” said the courier. “Some of the flyers say there’s something strange in the water.”

He cursed, the sound loud enough to echo once. In a moment, Beatrix was at his side, papers fluttering about.

“What is it?”

“Frogponies,” he said, making a series of small marks alongside the Ponyville bank of the river. “Not that that changes anything.”

“It just doesn’t make any of it easier,” agreed Beatrix with a nod. “All right. So that means we’ve got to clear the river before a counterpush.”

“If it comes to that,” he said with a snort. “Patrols are still at strength. They’re not pulling back.”

“Of course they’re not,” she said. “I don’t suppose we’ve received a response to our statement?”

Gaston snorted.

“Didn’t think so. They judged us already, and all they think they need to do is come in, kick us around, and take what they want.” Beatrix paused. “Bastards.”

The moment the official report had come out — blaming, of course, internal radical dissidents taking refuge in Blackacre — Beatrix had released a statement of her own. Blackacre was perfectly capable of dealing with their own internal affairs, and their own internal investigations revealed nothing. No patterns of suspicious activity, no last-minute border crossings, nothing.

At least, nothing that implicated them in particular. From Ponyville, saboteurs could flee to White Tail, to the Unicorn Range, or just as easily take a train to Appleloosa, Las Pegasus, anything. There was no reason to believe they had gone to Blackacre. It didn’t even make sense; the negotiations had gone in Blackacre’s favor. What possible reason did they have to sink a favorable deal?

Not to mention that the sabotage took place in the air, not the ground. If someone had planted a bomb and jumped ship, they would never have even gotten to Ponyville. A sensible investigation would start at the last ports of call: Fillydelphia, where they had taken on personnel; the Unicorn Range, where the Mane was berthed; even Canterlot itself, where they had alighted to take on the royal delegation.

Of course, there was no sensible investigation. At least not yet. No, the masses had seen an explosion of green and black, as much a signature in the sky as a giant arrow would be. They didn’t remember the last-minute turnaround but instead the weeks and weeks of delay and waiting which, in all honesty, could be fairly pinned on Blackacre.

But not this. Not this at all.

They weren’t claiming anything, at least not yet. They didn’t need to; the committee findings as much as spelled it out. Under Possum Comitatus, the Princess could — and, here, did — call up the armed forces to aid in an internal investigation, when the regional forces were deemed to be unsuccessful. The Act was maddeningly vague on this point: Beatrix had argued that success was an objective measure requiring more than the Princess’ say-so, while almost everypony else in the country was simply seeing red, unable or unwilling to see the nuances in the jurisdictional argument.

Not that it mattered overmuch. Tens of thousands of ponies lined the regional borders; they would find a way to justify it. After all, who was complaining? Just the handful of ponies in Blackacre, and they would be pacified soon enough.

Beatrix cracked her neck slightly. Pacified. So they thought. Let them take their positions, their defensive formation. As if Blackacre had even a quarter of the ponies necessary to launch an attack. No, they would let the invader come in. Let them get deep into the forest, where the trees grew so tall the ground was dark even on a midsummer day. Let them sink themselves into the sand, the mud, the tar pits that lay just under a crust of leaves. Let them get nice and lost — and then strike.

Nopony knew the forest better than her troops. Nopony knew its secret passages, the right trees to climb, how to swing along on vines, how to burrow down in the tunnels. They had supply caches scattered all over the woods, from darkest caves to platforms concealed a hundred feet up in the treetops — the same treetops that would shield them from any attack from above. They might have a tenth the numbers, but the odds got a lot better once you took the Air Patrol out of the equation.

More importantly, that didn’t even take the non-pony assets into account. It was true that Canterlot had a few mules, some griffins, and maybe a handful of minotaurs. That was small potatoes compared to some of the more exotic members of the Blackacre rank and file. Beatrix wasn’t sure what the exchange rate was for twelve ursa minors and five majors, but it certainly worked in their favor.

And then there were the dragons. They might be over in the Badlands, but nopony took them lightly. How could they? Everyone remembered dragonfire. The scorched earth, the thousands dead… dragons were a factor nopony could discount. They hadn’t picked sides yet, but dragons didn’t so much fight with as not fight against; an alliance would be temporary at best. Still worth trying for, though — but that would have to wait for another day.

The first courier pony had long gone, but a fresh pegasus one came crashing through the hall’s doors to take his place.

“Urgent message for the m… for Beatrix,” said the courier, feathering his wings; he must have flown straight front the front.

“What is it?” she demanded, looking up from the map. Gaston paid him no heed; he was busy pushing around little figurines, playing out one of a hundred different what-ifs.

“The river,” he huffed. “The bridge. They sent a message over to our side of the bridgehead. They’re demanding to speak with… with a representative.”

“Who’s they?” she asked, eyes narrow.

“Major-General Eisenhorner,” he said, offering a tattered piece of paper. “That’s what Wheel says, based on his recon team’s notes.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, brushing it away. “So Pommel won’t come to see me myself, will he? So be it. Gaston!”

After a few moments of pushing around little figurines, the unicorn turned to her. “Yes?”

“It’s time,” she said. “Prepare your people and sound the alert. You there,” she added, sticking a hoof at the courier, “take a message back.”

The pegasus’ face fell for a moment; he was exhausted, and the thought of flying back wasn’t a pleasant one. Nevertheless, he steeled himself after a moment, flexing his aching wings for a top speed return.

“What should I tell them?” he asked.

With the slightest flash of blue, the papers in Beatrix’ hoof were gone, replaced by a sleek green helmet. As she hefted it, other bits of body armor floated across the room, assembling themselves around her.

“Tell them that, if they want to talk, I’m willing to talk. And if they want to dance?” She slipped into the helmet, nestling her horn into its padded cutout. “We dance.”

Bridge at Remaregen

25 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

Beatrix had never seen so many ponies before in her life.

There had been the ticker-tape parades after the Skirmishes, of course; the moment Kissinmare’s declaration of peace hit the airwaves, half of Equestria turned out for the celebrations in Canterlot. Victorious though they may have been, the returning forces were severely weakened. They had celebrated, understrength and injured, and everypony seemed to ignore just how few of them there were.

Perhaps a better analogy would have been to the parades at the beginning of the Skirmishes, when the legions marched the streets and clipped the skies, festooned with flowers, bravely moving out to protect innocent ponies from the evil dragons, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with the naïveté of inexperience. Even then, though, they had marched past in long formations, never more than a few battalions visible at a time. This… this was something entirely different.

All along the west bank of the river stood ponies in what might as well be an unbroken line. They stretched from the far side of the bridge off to the north; scouts said the banks were manned all the way to Saddle Lake, up past Ponyville. To the south the line continued, if slightly more ragged; the border might end at the bridge but the threat did not.

The soldiers were three, four deep at times, ponies and unicorns alike, each and every one of them wearing the brilliant blue and yellow of the Royal Army’s uniforms, sticking out on the white snow like a thousand flowers. All of them stood at something resembling attention. Decorum hadn’t displaced sensibility, though; every single one was no more than two or three paces from the nearest bit of cover, be it a tree, rock, or field fortification.

Shadows flitted by overhead as countless wings of pegasi wheeled past, lazily going up and down the river. Not a single one crossed the water’s centerline, but undoubtedly each wing was tensed, ready to scatter and dive at a moment’s notice. Like the ponies below, each of them was wearing the standard blue and yellow uniform of the Air Patrol. They weren’t subtle, but with their numbers, they hardly had to be.

On the other side of the bridge itself, the rows of ponies went from three and four to five, ten, twenty deep. The earth on either side of the railroad tracks themselves seemed almost ridged, various fortifications installed every dozen feet to give boundless cover to whomever was behind them. The railroad tracks were cleared, though there were of course no trains on it. Likewise, the bridge itself was clear, save for sheer rock emplacements rising from the wide piers on either side.

There was certainly plenty of room for it; the bridge was built wide and long, solid enough to stand for a hundred years without even the most cursory of maintenance. It had to be long because it was built almost at the river’s widest point; it had been cheaper and easier to build a bridge here, where the river was wide but relatively shallow, instead of farther up or downstream, where it was narrower but much deeper.

Shallow or not, though, it wasn’t completely iced over. The riverbanks, rising up at a steep angle from the white water below, were coated with snow and caked layers of ice, but the water itself was too agitated to freeze. Every so often small cakes of ice floated downstream, but for the most part the river was clear, waters burbling coldly to themselves, with only the occasional shadow below to mark the passage of an Army frogpony, checking the riverbed for trickery.

Even though she had been staring at a topographical map of this very scene for days now, it still took Beatrix a few moments to take it all in. She had been rushed to the front in near-total silence, a muffled sledge pulled by a team of timberwolves leaving nothing but long runner tracks in their wake. Burdened by snow as they were, the forest treetops provided total cover; no aerial patrols would have seen her.

Of course, the fact that they were asking for somepony to speak to meant that they already had a pretty good idea of where she was going to be. Honestly, who did they think she would send? As Gaston had warned her on the way over, if they were going to try anything funny, now was the time. Still, something in her gut told her they wouldn’t do it that way. Celestia might, but she would come in the dead of night. Here, there were too many witnesses — Royal Army or not, the story would get out. No, if they had asked her to negotiate, then there was still some hope of a peaceful resolution. A slim hope perhaps, but one nevertheless.

On their side of the bridge, a half-dozen ponies milled about behind the fortifications. Forty more lay in trenches, largely out of sight; it was always better to give the appearance of weakness, for even if you were weaker, you could still trigger overconfidence in the enemy.

The enemy. When had they started being the enemy? Never mind that — there were more important things ahoof. Beatrix stepped back to the treeline and called a pony over, still keeping an eye on the teeming mass on the other side of the river. She recognized him as the one in charge of local defense, a certain Charger Wheel.

“Give me the quick version,” she said.

“What you see is what you get,” said Wheel, dipping his helmet slightly. “For land and sea and air, Canterlot is there.”

She snorted; the old recruitment slogan was always a bit excessive. She had never thought it would be quite this applicable, though.

“We’ve been getting the reports; Gaston has been keeping me appraised. I know where they are and how many of them there are.”

“You do?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Please, tell me. I could use some hard numbers.”

“Ha,” she said pointedly. “Ha. There are a lot of them, and they’re everywhere. That about sums up the tactical situation, now doesn’t it?”

“Just about,” he growled. “I hear the strategic isn’t any better.”

“It’s not,” she said, rolling her eyes. Not that that was news, either. “I want the quick version, though. Your quick version. Ignore the numbers; what do you think?”

He gave a quick nod and thought for a moment. Ponies scurried around them, nearly all of them wearing some sort of body armor. The earthworks had been completed for days, and almost everything else was in position, but there were always a last few things to do. You could never put too much cross-bracing on the walls. The tunnels wouldn’t hurt for being a few inches deeper. There was always something more to do, even now, on the brink.

“They’re in uniform,” said Wheel gravely. Beatrix considered biting back a retort, but he wouldn’t have stated the obvious unless there was something more to it. After a few seconds, her patience was rewarded. “If they’re going to move in, that’s not the way to do it. They’re not dress uniforms, but it’s snowy out. No one’s in camo.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t move in.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it means they want to make it look good. Roll through the bridge, take out the local resistance… blue and yellow plays better in the photos than camo does. They might be moving in, but they’re not striking deep.”

“All that, just from the uniforms.”

“I’m sure of it,” he said with a curt nod. “Pommel is running this show. You know his style; hit hard, hit fast, and take any advantage you can. Even with overwhelming force, he would still pull it off by the book — his book. Everypony would be in camo. Half of them would be hidden. Their flyers would all have altitude advantage, ready to dive at a moment’s notice. There would be a breaching train on those tracks, coming straight in to distract us if nothing else.”

Beatrix nodded. Pommel had written the book, quite literally, on contemporary Equestrian tactics. His chapter on aerial combat was nothing short of revolutionary, and was credited with turning the tide during the Skirmishes. His style was just as distinctive; if he was in charge of this operation, he would grasp the sword with both hooves and ram it through to the hilt: hard, fast, and without mercy.

“Someone else is in charge, then?” she speculated.

Wheel shook his head, gesturing out at the bridge. “That’s his personal guard out there. He’s definitely on the ground. And if he’s on the ground…”

“…then anypony with half a brain would be listening to him,” she finished. “The courier mentioned Eisenhorner, though.”

“Unfortunately.” Wheel rolled his eyes. “Pommel may be around, but Eisenhorner is taking care of the deployment. Which means that somepony took Pommel off the job.”

“Or somepony tied his hooves,” offered Beatrix. “Pommel doesn’t work for the photos. He gets it done. If that’s not the goal, I can see him handing the planning off to someone else.”

“Agreed,” said Wheel. “Pommel would never do this.” He paused for a moment. “So what does that change?”

“For one, we’re dealing with Eisenhorner,” said Beatrix.

“Not quite,” said Wheel with a laugh. “You’re dealing with him. I’ll be standing here, waiting for talks to fall through.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” she deadpanned. He gave an apologetic shrug, but they both knew he was right. They wouldn’t have brought out the Royal Army unless they meant to use it. Officially, that would consist in “assisting local authorities.” That might go over… might. Unofficially, though, that meant shaking down every last mare, stallion, and foal until someone confessed. And that was simply not acceptable.

She shook her head to clear it.

“That’s that, then,” she declared, catching the eyes of some of the ponies milling about near the fore barricades. “Looks like our guests showed up to the party. It would be a shame to keep them waiting.”

“All right!” shouted Wheel, his bark fully drawing the attention of the others. “She’s going out to meet them! I want a standard reinforcement team, a standard pull-back team, and then I want two more reinforcement teams for them!”

Ponies sprang into action before he had even finished speaking; within twenty seconds he had two dozen unicorns lined up in front of him, ready for action.

“You know the drill. Keep her safe, keep each other safe.” Wheel looked them up and down for a moment before giving them a last nod. “Do it.”

Within a moment, twenty-four horns started to glow. One of the lead unicorns gestured at Beatrix.

“When you’re ready, ma’am.”

Beatrix took a few steps to the front of the fortifications. Her eyes fluttered shut and her own horn started to glow; almost immediately a pale blue field formed itself around her. It faded ever so slightly to become almost entirely transparent, little more than a thin blue splotch around her.

The field settled in a few seconds, and she gave a nod. It immediately lit up again, swirls of red, azure, gold; the colors quickly faded into the blue, turning the field a gauzy white. Behind her, six thin filaments of color connected the field to six unicorn horns; as long as she stayed within eyesight of them, they would be able to greatly amplify her shield.

After a few seconds more, she felt the slightest of tuggings. She waggled a hoof experimentally; it moved easily enough, but with the slightest hint of resistance, almost like being under water. She knew that that would be the second team behind her: her backup plan. The shield could keep her safe enough, but if she couldn’t retreat easily — if, for instance, artillery took out the bridge, a very real possibility given the forces arrayed against them — the pull team would physically telekinese her back to safety. With these many unicorns around, teleportation was unreliable; sometimes the easiest way was the best.

A few shuffling sounds came from behind her as her protective teams received their own layer of shielding. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wheel give the go-ahead.

“Be back soon,” she called.

“Stay safe.”

With a last look at the troops around her, Beatrix took a step over the earthworks, towards the bridge. A few more and she was past the front line, perhaps only a dozen feet from the start of the bridge itself.

On the other side of the river, she could see a slight commotion in the Canterlot lines. A spotter must have seen her. They probably had been watching her ever since she stepped out of the treeline, but now they knew she was coming out, and were scrambling to find their own representative, whoever he was.

In a few steps she was at the bridge. Experimentally she placed a forehoof on it; the sound echoed dully, the huge iron structure barely affected by a single pony, small as she was.

Well. If they were staging it all for the photos, let the photos show that they came to her, and not the other way around. She broke into a brisk walk, threading between railroad ties, on her way directly to the center of the bridge.

Her motion felt slightly restrained, but it was no more than a light touch. Her pull team didn’t have to actually do anything at the moment, of course; they were just keeping their magical connection at the ready. Just like with the shield, which glowed a faint ivory around her.

She was more than capable of generating her own shield, of course; her star-themed cutie mark was proof enough of that. She was, in point of fact, much more powerful than any single unicorn on her team; probably more powerful than a half dozen of them all together. The difference lay in specialization: whereas she could work any number of spells at a modest level, they were trained and drilled for a certain set of skills. She might be able to generate a raw shield field, but they would be able to maintain it both stronger and longer. All she needed to do was maintain a basic low-level field, and they could pump enough energy in to it to make her effectively invulnerable to anything up to and including pinpoint artillery strikes.

She shivered slightly. All lined up or not, there was more to the Army’s front lines than just pretty-looking troops. They undoubtedly had a number of artillery emplacements set up, probably paired party howitzers. They wouldn’t be perfectly zeroed in on the bridge, but at this point accuracy was secondary: they would be shooting for saturated fire.

The deep echoes on the bridge faded out as she drew to a stop at its middle. It was a low design, metallic truss frame mounted on broad stone piers; the top deck of the bridge was almost entirely level, with only a token retaining wall on either side, maybe two or three feet high. From here, she had a fantastic view of both sides of the river bank, not to mention both sets of ponies, all lined up and waiting to see what happened next.

There were a lot more ponies in blue and yellow than in green.

After perhaps a minute or so, the commotion on the other side of the bridge resolved itself into a figure. As it drew closer, she could make out the blue and yellow body armor of what was a well-built pony. The colors were clear and crisp; while the other ponies might be wearing clean uniforms, this one was going out in style. Well, if it was all for the photos….

Closer still, and she could make out the faint shield around him, too. His was a slightly gold color; the composition of the field was entirely due to the magic hues of the generating ponies, so she had no doubt they weren’t chosen at random: the color gave him an aura of power. Not quite the same as when Princess Celestia was backlit by the sun during the summer sun celebrations, but the thought was there.

And, for the photos, that’s all that mattered. She had no doubt that, among the ponies on the other side, more than a few would be photographers, eagerly taking in the scene and snapping shots with full abandon. If things went teats-up, this would be the best-documented battle Equestria had ever had.

The pony — an Earth pony, she noticed; the shield must be entirely extrinsic — drew to a stop at a respectful distance from her, planting his hooves firmly in the thin bed of gravel between the railroad tracks. No, she corrected, not respectful: strategic. It was just a hair too far away to be comfortable. Any normal pony in this situation would take a step or two closer in; if she did that, though, they would be able to get photos of her walking up to him. Didn’t matter that she was there first; the photos wouldn’t show that.

She remained exactly where she was. Let him make the first move.

After perhaps a minute or two, he did exactly that, taking a few steps closer. Somehow, though, he made it seem like a victory: he looked like he was circling her, observing her, judging for weaknesses. He was also drawing closer, but nopony would know that based on his body language alone. The photos wouldn’t show it, at least.

“You must be Mayor Beatrix,” he said, satisfied that they were close enough to not be overheard from the shore.

“And you must be the duly authorized representative of the Canterlot government,” she said in an unimpressed tone.

“Major-General Sheldon Eisenhorner,” he stated crisply.

“Beatrix,” she countered, dropping the title. Mayoralties were assigned by the Princess; no need to acknowledge that here. “I speak on behalf of my people.”

“And I on behalf of Equestria.”

A pause.

“Mayor Beatrix,” he started, adding the honorific back in and launching into what sounded suspiciously like a prepared remark, “Princess Celestia formally requests the assistance of you and yours in apprehending the criminals responsible for the destruction of the EAS Mane and subsequent deaths of two hundred and sixty-six ponies.”

“And you have it,” she said, eliciting the barest look of surprise before he caught himself. “Blackacre’s internal security forces have conducted a regional sweep, in accordance with Canterlot standards applicable to all regions. Whoever the perpetrators are, they aren’t here.”

“We have discharged our duty,” she said, with the slightest of smiles. She extended a hoof towards the west bank of the river. “I suggest that you call taps on this little parade of yours and deploy your troops towards actually catching those responsible. Right now, the only thing they’re catching is cold.”

“The execution of your internal sweep has been deemed ineffective,” he said impassively. “The Royal Army and Air Patrol are present to assist local forces.”

“We deem the sweep effective,” she shrugged. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“We serve at the Princess’ pleasure,” he said stiffly. “As do you. You will allow the Army admittance to assist your local investigation.”

“To assist it,” she said quickly, “even though it’s ineffective? Sounds to me like you’ll just need to conduct an entirely new one of your own.”

“That may be necessary.”

“Hm,” she said, entirely nonplussed. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”

Eisenhorner blinked.

“You see, we deem our sweep effective. It has been carried out to the full extent that all the other sweeps have been. There’s no reason to believe Blackacre’s was any less effectual, or that there would be any added benefit in conducting additional investigation here, as opposed to anywhere else.”

“The investigative committee report —”

“Oh, please,” she said, swatting the thought away. “Let’s just cut to the chase. You’re loaded for bear. Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

Eisenhorner blinked again. “Mayor Beatrix, we are here solely to assist the internal investigation.”

“I’ll bet you are. Just like I bet your own special brand of investigation will end up with you mysteriously pulling out me and mine for ‘questioning,’ only to disappear into a hole in Canterlot Castle somewhere, conveniently coming out just after the Princess appoints a new mayor.”

“We’re just here to investigate,” he reaffirmed. “Nothing more.”

“But if your investigation ended up with removing the current layer of Blackacre government….” She spread her forehooves. “How awfully convenient for you.”

“Madam Mayor,” he said, huffing slightly. “I can assure you that we have no such intent.”

“Oh,” she said. “Your assurances. Call your photoponies and hold the presses, this changes everything.”

“We have no intention of executing a regional coup.”

“Ah, but you never do, do you.”

“Mayor Beatrix!” he shouted, flustered.

“Major-General,” she countered, rolling her eyes. “Is there anypony else I can talk to? Because I’m starting to get the impression that you don’t actually know what’s going on around here.”

“I am in command here,” he said, eyes narrow. “I know exactly what is and will happen, because I am making it happen. You will comply with this investigation, or else we will conduct it without your assistance.”

“Without my assistance,” she echoed. “And what if I do not comply?”

“Then, compliance will be forced.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” she said, nodding absently. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s the only way of putting it,” he said. “Look, Mayor —”

“Beatrix.”

His jaw clenched slightly. “Look, Beatrix. All we want is to come in and make sure that a known enemy of the state isn’t hiding out in the woods somewhere.”

“We already did that,” she said, smiling sadly. “What makes you think you’ll be able to do it any better than we did?”

“The insufficiency of the process —”

“Has not been established.”

“Has been declared by the Princess,” he finished, irritated.

“And why would you be able to do it any better than we did?” she repeated.

He extended a hoof to the countless soldiers behind and above him.

“There are a lot more of us.”

Beatrix cracked the thinnest of smiles.

“And we know this forest a whole lot better.”

For a moment, neither said anything.

“Mayor,” started Eisenhorner softly. “We will conduct our investigation. It can go quickly and smoothly, or it can go slowly and painfully, at least for your forces.” A note of passion entered his voice. “You, and you alone, have the power to determine how this plays out. And for the sake of the ponies of Equestria, for the ponies of Blackacre, I hope you do the sensible thing.”

For a long moment, she said nothing.

It was so tempting. His offer sounded genuine; she had known mummers in the past, had even been one at a particularly low point in her life, and she knew when somepony was dissembling. He was genuine. For whatever foolhardy reason, he actually believed that this was an investigation, nothing more.

She suddenly understood why he was standing here, instead of, say, Pommel.

As earnest as Eisenhorner might be, though, she knew his words could not be trusted. However much he believed them, the simple fact of the matter was that he wasn’t the one who made those calls. The troops might enter Blackacre under the genuine belief that they were there to help, but at the end of the day, once they were in, they were in. From there, it only took one word. One word, and the army would be in control — Celestia would be in control. One word, and everything they had fought for would be over, forgotten under the crush of a kingdom desperate for a scapegoat.

“No,” she said under her breath.

This was it. No turning back.

“No,” she repeated, looking him in the eye. He was taller than her, but not by that much. Most importantly, she was right. She had fought long and hard to get here, faced many opponents and survived on wits and luck alone, but this was something different entirely. Here, she was right. The truth was on her side, and nothing could take that from her.

“No,” she said a third time, her voice ringing clear as a bell. “Blackacre is master of its own destiny. We have complied with your demands. None of us would act against the Princess, but if this madness continues, we will have no choice.”

Eisenhorner exhaled slowly; she could see his jaw clenching up, controlling himself. She hoped that one of the ponies back on shore had good enough ears to catch this; it was a pity to waste this rhetoric on an idealist.

“The ponies of Blackacre have exercised their Charter rights to self-determination, and they have elected me to speak for them,” she said, fire in her eyes. “They have seized their freedom; they master their own ships, guide their own destinies.” A slight smile came onto her face. “If for that we must lose our lives, so be it. Our lives, you can take. Our freedom —”

With a blinding flash her shield exploded into existence, shutting out the outside world with a deafening roar. An instant later she was yanked backwards as if by an invisible chain. She sensed her shield collapsing as a wave of heat washed over her and then, quite abruptly, she felt nothing at all.

From Above

25 December, Y.C. 969
Ponyville

Donner Quick trimmed his wingtips, banking slightly with the wind. All around him, his wingmates did the same; flying with the wind made it easier to maintain altitude, and the longer they stayed at height, the long it was until they’d have to start the slow spiral back up to the top of the formation and start gliding down all over again.

They had been running patrol for going on four hours now, along with a few thousand other pegasi, the better part of the Second, Third, and Fourth Wings. This was supposed to be a combat air patrol, but since there were so damned many of them, all they really did was fly around in circles and wait. It’s not like anything was going to sneak up on them; they had total control over a block of airspace running from Saddle Lake to well beyond the Remaregen Bridge, stretching up ten, fifteen thousand feet. It was a show of force, and everyone knew it.

Didn’t mean it had to be so boring.

He sighed slightly, banking with the breeze. Far below them, they had a pretty good view of the east bank of the river. Unlike the west bank, where an almost unbroken line of blue and yellow traced the tree line, the east side was crawling, little specks of green winding in and out of the scattered tree trunks. Within ten or fifteen feet of the riverbank, they couldn’t see anything at all, with the massive canopies of the deep forest trees covering almost everything, turning it into a sea of crystal-clear white.

A few hundred feet back from the river, there were gaps in the tree tops. They couldn’t see into them very well, even at this altitude; the clearings below would have to be small ones, near vertical.

It didn’t take a line of sight to know what those were, though. Though the forest on the Ponyville side of the river was both thinner and shorter, they had their own clearings, each one with a pair of party howitzers at the ready, zeroed in on the opposite bank. It might be just for looks, but show or not, there was plenty of force to go around.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement; one of his wingmates made a pair of hoof signals. At this airspeed, they could probably hear each other, but their orders were for silence. Look down, he was signing, look down. Crossing.

Donner turned an eye downwards towards the bridge. Two pair of long black lines ran down its length, the railroad tracks poking up though the thin layer of snow. Towards the middle, a small green speck marked somepony on the Blackacre side of the line; on the other bank, a speck in blue and yellow was moving closer.

There was movement to his right; Gun was signing something. Close, she signed — no, not close. About… and then time. Punctuated by a gesture which, while not in the official signbook, was easily recognizable as an, ah, intensifier.

He made the obligatory signal for silence, but chuckled nevertheless. He couldn’t agree more. The sooner those two, whoever they were, reached an agreement, the sooner they could get on with their lives and get to more important things. Like, at the moment, getting something to eat.

They crossed the path of another wing of pegasi, five of them in a loose flying vee. By the markings on the flanks of their uniforms, they were from the Second Wing; he gave them a friendly nod as they passed.

Food would be nice. Four hours of patrol… well, it wasn’t heavy flying, but it still took a lot more energy than standing around like the army ponies down below. At least they were flying light; they were in full combat armor with a general-purpose load, but they didn’t have any tanks or provisions with them. Why bother, when the main grub hall was literally a stone’s throw away?

Okay, maybe a stone’s throw meant a little more at six thousand feet than at ground level, but the fact remained: they weren’t wearing tanks. That alone was good enough; as a rule, they would carry tanks on even the most routine of patrols. Going light like this usually meant that either they were scrambled or on a short-range combat run. When your mission parameters involved flying around, looking important, and not much else… well, it was a welcome change of pace.

He glanced back down at the bridge. The two specks were closer to each other, and he could make out the faint glow of a pair of shields, backed by thin tendrils stretching back from the ponies to opposite sides of the bridge. Hey, at least they were talking.

Far below, he noted a particularly large tree, representing the edge of the patrol area assigned to them. He spun a hoof in a broad circle, banking a moment later. His four wingponies followed him into the turn; in a moment they were facing north again, drifting up the river, perhaps a hundred feet lower.

A splotch of motion to the north; one of the ground wings had just taken off. Donner watched with idle curiosity as they circled once, twice, and then took off at a hard climb, sprinting to gain altitude. Speaking of which… he checked the altimeter on his wrist and made a few quick calculations. They were keeping a good pace, all things considered; with a bit of luck, they would be able to make four or five more circuits before stopping for a few moments, stretching their legs, and doing it over again.

Maybe next time around he’d take an apple up with him. The ground crews didn’t like that — it only took a few mistakenly dropped apples before they stopped letting flyers take them up altogether — but he knew one of the chow hall staff. She’d let him sneak one out. Besides, what was the harm? They were overflying forest and river; if something fell, it would either hit water or be deflected by a tree.
Donner sighed, trimming his wings almost without conscious effort. At least the wind shifted in their favor, this time around. A few hours back, their patrols felt like flying upwind both ways….

Another trace of movement; he lazily glanced over to his right, but saw nothing. That was odd. Back on the ground, the two ponies were still talking. Up above, though… hm.

He gave a quick whistle to get Gun’s attention, then signed to look up. All four of his wingponies turned as one, all frowning a moment thereafter. He still couldn’t get a bead on it, whatever it was. A small speck, really; if it had wings, they were tucked in; he saw no magical glow. Not that he could tell much; it wasn’t even big enough to make out anything but the fact that it was moving.

He glanced to the side and realized, by the confused expressions on his wingponies’ faces, that they didn’t know either. He glanced back — and then down. Damn, but that thing was moving fast; he hadn’t even —

It was directly above the bridge, and closing fast.

“Break!” he shouted, peeling off into a dive. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good news. He was at five thousand feet now, punching through other patrol wings; he saw some of the wings below him start to take note of the moving object, but late, too late —

Four thousand feet and he thought he could get a better look at it; he was closer, but it was hard to make out details at that range through the goggles. It almost looked less like a pony and more like a solid object, more like a metallic cylinder than anything else.

Three thousand feet — artillery fire. He nearly smacked himself; of course! High muzzle velocity, high parabolic arc; they would never see it coming. He folded his wings entirely, keeping only the tips out to control his plummet.

Two thousand feet and the wind whipped past his face like red-hot irons but he didn’t care; the only thing that mattered was getting to the shell first —

A blossom of red in the center of the bridge. He popped his wings, wind screaming against them, and for a moment hung motionless as a plume of thick black smoke rose from far below.

A half-second later, he heard the high keening of the sirens; back on their side of the river, somepony had given the command. There was only one way to get the attention of a wing of pegasi ten thousand feet up, but here there was only one signal to give.

“Form up!” he shouted to his wingmates, just now joining him. No sloppiness in their flying now; every single one was on high alert, tensed to —

One of them disappeared as a blast of pinkish energy lanced past. “Sitting ducks!” he cursed, breaking off into a dive. Out here, exposed to the unicorns….

Off behind the Blackacre treeline, he saw one of the gaps in the treeline flash orange, then another, then the whole damned set of them as artillery fire rippled through the air. Their own artillery counterfired; on the west bank, ponies scrambled to mount party cannon on the emplacements. A section of riverbank exploded as the shells started to fall.

“Keep it close!” he shouted to the wingmates in his peripheral vision. They were at a thousand feet now, closing fast. They could hear the shouts from the ground below: Canterlot, Blackacre; it all blended together.

At seven hundred feet, he was aware of a half-dozen other wings coming in right next to him. A glance at the other wingleaders; with a quick gesture they divided up the line. There was no room for error now.

Four hundred feet. He instinctively grabbed a small globule attached to his chest harness. The magical bomb would explode on impact, giving him cover and momentarily distracting the enemy line.

A hundred feet and the smell hit him, the sulphur and static of magic and high explosive. Fifty feet and he reached back, aiming his grenade; the shouts were louder, screams piercing the winter air, all mixed in with a pervasive metallic smell of fresh blood. He threw the grenade; it detonated a half second before he plunged his wing into the fray below.

In The Trenches

27 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

Mal hadn’t signed up for this. Two year tour of duty, they said. Hard work, but you saw Equestria, did some good work, ended up with some bits in your pocket. And everypony loved hiring a veteran. Even if all you did was stand around and follow orders and yessir, right away sir to anypony with anything more than a yellow bar on their forehoof, you were a veteran, and apparently that meant something. Fine by him; as long as he got a job out of —

He felt the explosion first, the cold earth under his belly rumbling at him a split second before the shockwave rolled overhead, sending little rivers of dirty snow into the trench. A few came to rest against the shovel in the corner — how was it buried up to the hilt again?

Mal shook his head and hunkered back down into his greatcoat. He still had a quarter of an apple left, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to savor every last bite.

No, he hadn’t signed up for this. And the kicker was that he wasn’t even supposed to be here. This was supposed to be his last month, and was supposed to be on patrol over in White Tail Woods. It wasn’t warm out there, but at least it wasn’t cold. And there were no damned trenches, either.

At this point, he didn’t harbor any illusions about whether or not he’d be getting discharged in three weeks like he was supposed to. Didn’t look like anyone was getting discharged, at least not any of the usual ways. Discharged out of a cannon, maybe, but the good old papers and pat on the back as you walked out of camp in civvie scrubs for the first time in years, forget about it.

He took another bite of the apple. Tasted so good. Wasn’t fresh, not by a long shot, and there were odd little splotches of brown all around, little postmarks from shipping the things up from Las Pegasus. It was food, though. That kept him going.

Another slight rumble. No shockwave from this one, though; must be farther down the line. They didn’t come too often, now. He didn’t know how Blackacre got party howitzers — that information was way above his pay grade — but the Royal Army had a lot more. Ponies could move away from incoming fire, but it was a bit harder to protect artillery emplacements from saturation bombardment. The treetops had detonated most of their shells prematurely, but those that came down straight on top of the Blackacre emplacements detonated, taking the damned things out of commission.

It had taken too long, though. Far too long. At first, they had been glad that the river wasn’t frozen over, because the river was a wide and totally exposed crossing. After a few hours of having the west bank torn to shreds by incoming fire, a strip of black and broken earth as long as their entire line and a hundred yards deep… well, there was something to be said about risking it with a charge across a frozen bank.

As it stood, they could only cross with the bridge. Somehow it had managed to survive the attacks, and though at this point it was little more than a charred frame, they crossed nevertheless. The railroad tracks were a forgotten memory; the way across lay on boards and planks laid end to end over the exposed truss. Most of them made it across, but every once in a while a colorful lance would shoot out from one of the bushes on the east bank, unicorn snipers doing their best to harass. If the poor sod who got hit was lucky, he would fall onto the superstructure below, snapping his neck on contact. If not, though….

Everypony in the Army had to pass a water endurance test as part of boot. Treading water for a few minutes in a tank with all your buddies laughin’ it up next to you was one thing. In that river, though, everything changed. The outside of a greatcoat might be waterproof, but once the river touched the inside it might as well be lead. Freezing lead, so cold it knocked the breath straight out of you, and then you breathed in and it was water, and then suddenly you’d be under a patch of ice and not know which way was up….

The alternative to going over the bridge was an airlift. Mal had been in one of the lucky companies that got to cross over after the saturation bombardment took out most of their river fortifications. Pegasi were quick enough, but add in an Earth pony as cargo and you doubled their weight, if not more; they could only turn so fast.

Enough of that. He had made it; that was enough. He hadn’t slept in the better part of two days, the trench was cold and clammy against his coat, his mane was more brown than blue with all the dirt matted in it, but he was alive. Now all he had to do was stay that way.

Absently, he realized that he should be reacting more strongly to the situation. Here he was, munching on an apple, wondering about all the other ponies that didn’t make it across, while not even five feet away from him lay the corpse of the pony who, until last night, had been giving the orders. He regarded the sergeant carefully. His coat might normally be a tan, but it now had a distinctly bluish tinge. Most of his left foreleg was missing, along with a good chunk of the top of his head. It was all frozen in position where the artillery shrapnel had gotten him; he hadn’t been moved from where he had fallen, and the cold of the night did the rest. It didn’t even smell.

This was not the first time he had had the thought, and so he carefully packaged it away, filing it with all the other horrors he told himself he’d deal with later.

Mal finished off the last tiny bit of apple, savoring it far longer than felt reasonable. Now that they had the beach, they could probably bring over more supplies. That would be nice. The little crate that held what was left of their provisions was nearly bare; maybe he could pick up a new one when he was over there next. Normally the sarge would get one of them to do the run, but… he wasn’t about to tell anypony anything.

A part of his mind realized that he was alone, at least for the ten or fifteen yards of trench he could see down in either direction. That didn’t particularly bother him. Nopony else here meant nopony to give him orders, and that meant he could just sit here. If he heard a sound from the other side of the trench, he might throw a grenade in that direction. Certainly had enough of them; they were supplied for a six-pony team, and it was down to just him.

His eye came to rest on another one of his squadmates. He hadn’t known any of them for very long — had only been assigned to the team for the past three days, once he got to Ponyville — but she had seemed like a nice enough pony. He couldn’t even remember her name; knew her only as Half-Smile, because she always seemed to be smiling to herself. She even wore that expression when she slept, apparently, because her face had frozen that way last night, along with the rest of her.

Mal shivered. He wasn’t looking forward to tonight. The small white naphtha cubes would light anything on fire, even the frozen deadwood they had piled in a corner, but the fire only did so much. Maybe they would send more ponies down to this part of the trenches before night. It would be nice to have some company.

His hoof instinctively snuck inside his greatcoat, slipping into the breast pocket just to make sure the tattered piece of paper was still in there. He considered taking it out to read it, but that wouldn’t do anything. He knew it by heart, anyway.

Dearest Malachus, it started. She always wrote like that, with his full name, even though she never used it face to face. That’s why he loved her; she was full of little quirks like that. Her letters were always fun to read.

This one, the latest one, was dated a day before they deployed out to Ponyville. She didn’t know where she was going, and at the time he didn’t either. Who knew? Maybe they were on the same front right now. Maybe the same trench. Maybe she was dead —

I love you more than you can possibly imagine, ended the letter, the same way as all the other ones did. You are my sun, you are my moon. And no matter where we are, we look to the same stars.

It was as full of corn as the yellow field where they had first met a few years back, but it meant something to them, and that’s all that mattered. Whenever the sun set, wherever he was, he knew he could look out at the first night’s stars and know that she was looking at them too.

Instinctively, he glanced up. The treetops were no longer white but a brownish black, leaves burnt off as collateral damage from artillery fire and countless magic blasts. Far above them, the canopy layer was mostly intact, if charred, with only a few gaps where shells had detonated on branches instead of punching through. There was no sky up there; it was all a grey haze, even though it was probably well into the twilight hour.

He hunkered back down against the trench, his eye catching on the shovel. He should probably take a few minutes and clear the snow back out of the trench before nightfall. It wasn’t supposed to snow, at least not according to the two-day-old predictions, but you never knew. Shovel out the snow, light a fire, pray he survived the night. Okay. That was a plan.

Forcing himself up, Mal rubbed his hooves together for warmth. Even through the thick gloves the shovel felt like ice. It was in fact encrusted with the stuff; it took a few good pulls to clear it out of the edge of the trench. He would also have to figure out a way to get rid of the bodies. Maybe… maybe tomorrow, though.

Tomorrow. If he wasn’t one of them.

In The Tunnels

29 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

It was the silence that struck him first.

He didn’t know how long he had been awake. Maybe he had been floating in and out for a while; maybe he woke up all of a sudden, maybe, maybe. Who knew? He didn’t. All he knew were the rough cement walls of the room. They still had faint vertical impressions on them where the wooden molding had held them in place before pouring. They were about as rough as it got; certainly a coat of paint would do them well, but somehow he got the feeling that paint was a luxury this place could ill afford.

Certainly the lone dangling light bulb in the center of the ceiling didn’t do much to dispel that impression.

Off to his sides, he recognized various bits of what looked like medical equipment. None of it looked installed, though; it was more along the lines of a pile of tech than anything else. None of it was even on. To his other side were a half-dozen other beds, but they were silent as well, for they were empty.

This whole place seemed empty. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he got the feeling it was big. The door didn’t seem particularly thick, and every once in a while he heard what might be distant conversation, but it never lasted long. Twice he heard someone walk past outside, but the hoofsteps disappeared as quickly as they came.

He would have gotten up to see for himself, but his forehooves were strapped to the sides of the bed. The bindings weren’t confining, at least any more so than being tied up normally was, but they weren’t going anywhere. Neither was he.

It was unnervingly like a large and silent tomb. He idly wondered if he was dead. If so, this was a hell of a waiting room. Still, if he was dead, would he feel as miserable as he did now? He felt as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and all over his coat felt tingly, like there was a static buildup that just wouldn’t discharge. It didn’t hurt per se, but every once in a while patches of him would start to itch. Which, with the bound hooves, was a lot more irritating that it should have been.

Outside the door, he heard a third pair of footsteps. Well, third time was the charm. They drew closer, and though he tried to identify them he couldn’t; they echoed a bit, and without knowing what the hall was like outside — if it was even a hall — he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to pin down even the size of the pony based on the hoof sounds. Or what if it wasn’t even a pony? A goat? A minotaur? Something worse? The image of a satyr danced through his mind, taunting him with his own little personal afterlife in this depressing little cell —

And then, quite abruptly, the door opened.

Light didn’t pour in, there was no choir of angels, but he winced nevertheless; it was somewhat brighter out there, and with the lone bulb in the room still burning to itself, his pupils hadn’t exactly been exercising lately.

“Ambassador,” came a familiar voice. “Glad to see you’re awake.”

“Amb…” he echoed in a raspy tone. His voice hadn’t been getting much practice either — a thought dismissed as he recognized the white unicorn who had come in. “LeFleur!”

“Dag,” she said with a faint smile, coming up to the bed. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Glad I’m…” he repeated, then stopped short. “What happened?”

“You were giving a speech,” she said, moving to sit at the end of the bed. “Do you remember that?”

“Of course I do. We signed the agreement.”

“You were giving the speech,” she said, acknowledging him only with a slight nod, “and then the Mane blew up and destroyed the audience.”

Dag blinked furiously.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised you don’t remember that. It was only a few seconds between that and when we think you lost consciousness.”

“Lost… what happened to me?” he said, eyes narrow. “What did you do to me, who are you, and where am I?”

“In that order?”

“Whatever you’d like,” he said, her tone starting to grate on his nerves.

“I’m the pony who saved your life.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer anything, LeFleur.”

“Yes, it does,” she said with a little shrug. “You know my name. You know I am Blackacre’s chief diplomat to the Ponyville talks. Well, was. And now you know that I saved your life. That just about covers it.”

“We’re not in Ponyville.”

“Of course not. We’re in Blackacre.”

“We’re — how did we get here?”

“When the Mane came down, one of my bodyguards put up a shield over our delegation. It didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough for one of the others to teleport us all out. I yanked you off the stage myself,” she said, tapping her horn. “Got you under just in time, but the whiplash knocked you out.”

“And how did we get here?”

“We brought you,” she said bluntly.

“Why.”

“Because the eight of us from the delegation had just teleported out of what looked very much like a blast crater,” she said with an air of the obvious. “Someone tried to sabotage the talks, and I’d say they succeeded. The Mane came down in green and black. No way in hell were any of us going to risk going back there.”

“But you were in that crowd too!” he said. “Why would you stand under your own explosion?”

“Yeah, and we got out, because we hid bodyguards in the delegation,” she said. “You took two hundred and sixty-six casualties. We took none. Do you honestly think they’d let that slide? No, we made a judgment call and booked it over the river.”

“You should have stayed.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now. Besides, you’re here now, where we can take care of you.”

“About that,” he said, lips tight.

“When I pulled you off the stage, I may have put a little bit too much into it,” she said, with a sheepish rub of the neck. “Your body isn’t, uh, used to having that much magic in it; the charge took a while to dissipate.”

“I see.” He paused. “And this also explains why I’m tied down.”

“Right,” she said, deliberately ignoring the sarcasm. “Didn’t know how long you’d be out, and didn’t want to risk you falling out of bed or something. The last thing you need right now is a concussion.”

“Well, thanks,” he said, then wiggled his wrists. “So…?”

“So…” she said, glancing away from him.

Dag didn’t like the gesture, no more than he liked the few moments’ silence immediately after it.

“I’m being detained.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, glad that she didn’t have to out and say it. “I’m sorry. I told them not to, that there was no reason to, but Gaston wants you confined until he can assess you himself.”

“Assess,” repeated Dag. “Assess me for what? What have I done? What am I accused of? I pushed hard to get that deal passed, you and I both did, and you know it!” His voice had risen now, echoing unnaturally in the room. “If anyone’s chaining me up it should be Dodge or Appleloosa because I gave you the biggest concessions anypony’s ever gotten out of trade negotiations!”

“I know,” she said firmly. “Believe me, I know. But given the current situation….”

She trailed off, reconsidering her line of thought.

“After the bombing,” she started, but paused, distracted.

After a few seconds, Dag raised an eyebrow. “…yes?”

LeFleur shushed him, instead pointing to the ceiling.

A few more seconds of silence passed. Again, nothing.

“Look, I don’t know —”

“Do you hear that?” she asked quietly.

He blinked at her. The room was silent; it might as well be a grave. He couldn’t hear anything other than the blood rushing through his ears.

“The light,” she said, pointing to the lightbulb. “Watch.”

He watched, squinting his eyes; it was a bright bulb. He watched it intently for a few seconds… did it just flicker? He made to rub his eye, but the straps held his hoof back. Fine; he stared at it some more. Did it flicker again, or was he making it up?

“It’s not your imagination,” she said in that same quiet tone. “Listen.”

He did — and this time, he could almost make something out. Not so much a sound as a feeling, transmitted to his ears through the bedframe, through the floor.

Thump.

Something very, very far away….

“You hear it,” she said, recognizing the look on his face. “Good. It’s louder up closer to the surface, but I was worried that I’d be imagining it myself down here.”

“What is it?”

“Artillery fire.”

Dag’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His jaw worked a few times.

“Probably from the Appleloosa batteries, but who knows. They might have moved the ones in Dodge farther down to put pressure on this front.”

“What.”

“You heard me,” she said, her voice bitter. “The Mane destroyed any chance of reaching a settlement. The official investigation took a grand total of three days to point their hooves at us. How incredibly convenient that the entire Royal Army was already here, waiting.”

“But… but…” he stuttered. “The Army takes its orders from the Princess. She would never….”

“She did,” said LeFleur sharply. “Not that she could have done much to stop them. Half of Equestria wants your blood. They saw the photos, saw one side of the story, and that’s good enough for them.”

Dag slumped back in the bed, stunned. He knew that the settlement was important — what settlement wasn’t, to at least somepony? — but this was unthinkable. At least to him. He knew the Princess had been pressing for a peaceful resolution, but he had always thought that was just for the sake of a settlement, instead of heading off something… darker.

“I need to get back,” he said. “Need to get back. To tell them you didn’t do it, you nearly died getting out, and you saved me. They’ll have to listen. We can still stop this.”

“Stop this?” she said with the faintest of laughs. “Dag, I don’t think you understand what happened here. There. Everywhere.”

“Enlighten me.”

“You know the Ponyville river. Big, full of water. Not quite frozen yet. Trees on both sides.”

“I do,” he said frostily.

“It’s brown now,” she said, eyes narrow. “The only reason it’s not red is because the body armor drags most of the bodies down so they drown, and their guts freeze before spilling too much.”

He started to say something, taken aback by her language, but she pressed on.

“There aren’t trees there any more, Dag. Not on either side of the river, not for a hundred feet back from the river itself. There are craters. Craters and fields of black, and every once in a while a stump. And under the layer of charcoal and snow and dirt there are trenches, and those are full of bodies, because we don’t have enough ponies to both fight off Equestria and bury our dead.”

For a long moment, the room was silent, save for the faintest sound hovering just at the edge of perception.

Thump.

“Two hundred and sixty-six ponies died on and under the Mane,” she said quietly. “The last estimates I saw put two thousand dead in the three days since, and that’s just on our side.”

“Our side.”

“Yes, our side. Because, like it or not, you’re one of us now.” She gave a sad smile. “They burned you, Dag. No one’s talking about a settlement now, and when they do, they talk about it like it was hopeless. You’re missing, presumed dead. Even if you could get over the lines without being shot on sight, the official story is that you failed at your job. Some ponies are saying you scuttled the talks on purpose. Some are saying you pushed too hard and we snapped.”

“What!” he fumed. “I —”

“That’s not the official story,” she said, raising a hoof. “Officially, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unofficially, no one cares. You’re dead, and the time for talking is over.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“Then you’ll have to be disappointed,” she said with a shrug. “You’re here and you’re safe. That’s a far sight better than everyone else on your team. You shouldn’t even be alive.”

“So you keep telling me,” he said. He started to go on, but caught himself. LeFleur saw his hesitation, and in an instant her expression softened.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this,” she started, “but you deserve to know.”

A sharp intake of breath. He had known this was coming, deep in his mind, but had pushed it away, pushed it —

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice steady.

“Jackie.”

LeFleur turned her head away.

“I’m so sorry.”

Time passed.

He couldn’t say how much. It could have been seconds. Could have been hours. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more, now did it? He had one job, and he didn’t do it. Death, that’s all he had managed to produce. His team was dead, his friends, his colleagues, his Jackie.

Slowly, he became aware that there was a hoof on his. He raised his head and stared at it, bleary-eyed, the pale white coat a sharp contrast to his own violet skin. He clenched his hoof, and though hers lifted slightly, she didn’t take it away.

And, in that moment and of all things, he was grateful for the equine touch. All those words were words, but here was somepony real, someone who understood. The thought rattled around inside him, small thoughts in a great hollowness. This was real, but nothing else was; but Jackie was, and now she wasn’t. He didn’t know any more.

“I need to go,” said LeFleur, pressing his hoof gently. He realized it was no longer tied to anything. When did that happen? What did it matter anymore? “I’m so sorry.”

He watched her without seeing, watched with eyes wide shut as she went to the door, slipped out into the hall, and closed it behind her. A half-second later, the slightest of clicks. They might trust him with his hooves, but he was still a prisoner here.

He was trapped.

Jackie was dead.

Once again time stopped having meaning for him. This time, though, the tears flowed freely.

Entrenchment

30 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre

“Wait for it….”

A beam of light shot by overhead, singeing a layer of branches. Not that there were too many left at this point; it was mostly just trunks and stouter limbs. A shower of dislodged twigs fell into the trench, their ends steaming slightly.

“Wait for it….”

Off in the distance, more artillery. They weren’t hitting this section hard, at least not now. Blackacre held the high ground, so Canterlot would be fighting uphill. To make things worse, they held the line at roughly where the forest transitioned to grassland: in order to get artillery close enough to shell the lines, it would be dangerously exposed. That didn’t stop them from trying, lobbing shells on low parabolic arcs deep into the forest, but that was strategic, as opposed to tactical, shelling. Meant to take out rear positions in the forest, disrupt their lines.

“Go!”

Three brown-cloaked figures scrambled over a trench into another farther down, running down the breastworks to the next bunker fifty feet down the front. Another few beams flashed past, but the shots were coincidence, not aimed; they were about five hundred feet from the foremost of the Blackacre trenches.

The fact that they were misses didn’t make them any less deadly.

The figures slammed into the open door to the bunker, resting for a few moments against one of the internal walls. The last of the three huffed mightily, wiping a bit of sweat off his orange coat before it could freeze.

“Is it always like this out here?” asked Igneous Rock.

“You don’t know the half of it,” said the first pony of the three, rolling his eyes. He picked a clump of dirt out of his mane, smoothing his horn. “They’re just takin’ potshots now. When the first wave hit?” He shuddered a bit. “You popped your head up to take a look-see, it popped off.”

“How are the supply lines holding?” asked Cloudy Quartz from between them, wiping a splash of mud off her greyish coat. “What do you need up here?”

“We’ve got supplies for a while,” said the first pony, poking around the smallish interior of the bunker to make sure all was where it should be. “And we can move what we need in during the night.” He paused. “Scratch that. Could use more naphtha.”

“It’s not meant for cooking,” said Quartz, rolling her eyes slightly and scratching a note onto a piece of paper.

“Oh, we’re not using it for cooking,” he said with a devious little grin. “At night, they’re rangefinding based on where their horns hit and where our fires are. So we put them a hundred, two hundred feet back…”

“…and they miss their shots,” finished Rock with an approving nod.

“That’s a happy side effect,” he shrugged. “Two night ago we finally got them to charge during the night.” He laughed, a short barking sound. “They thought our trenches were empty. They thought wrong.”

“They won’t make that mistake again.”

“Can’t make a mistake if you’re dead,” countered the guide. “Anyway, they still haven’t recovered their strength. Reinforcements are slow in coming in.”

“That’s because they’re going to other places down the line,” said Rock, moving to change the subject. “How are you holding? In general.”

“Pretty good, for now,” he shrugged. He gestured at a local map on one side of the little bunker space; blue and green lines were drawn all over it, but none of them had been erased yet. “We’re supposed to hold, so we’re holding. That little charge of theirs didn’t work out too well, so I guarantee you they’re not keen on trying again.

“All that goes down the tubes the moment they decide to throw their back into it.” The unicorn swept a hoof over the charts on the wall. “We’re fighting tooth and claw to hold the line, and they aren’t really committing to it. The moment they decide to push… well, we can do our best, but there’s five of ‘em to one of us. High ground’s good, but not that good.”

“What about pegasi?” asked Quartz. “Bombardment risk.”

“Negligible, at least from them,” he said, shaking his head. “Between the trees and our party cannon, they can’t do much. It’s a forest, and unless they get under the tree tops, they’re not doing much.”

“Good. How about the trenches?” Rock unrolled a chart from his saddlebag, the images on it diagramming out a half-dozen different ways to dig a trench. To the untrained eye, they were variations on a hole, but to him they were night and day. Which was to be expected from the engineer responsible for designing most of the fortifications.

“This and this work fine,” said the frontline pony, pointing at two different variants. “The half-height stuff, forget it. Most important part of the trench here is they don’t know where you are. Only way the half-height holes are any good is if you crawl.”

“They’re a lot easier to build,” said Rock. “No cross-bracing, just a few sandbags. Throw ‘em up in half, a third of the time.”

“No dice,” said the pony firmly. “Gimme half the length of full trench to that mess any day. No questions asked. It’s not that the half-height stuff isn’t as good; it’s that it’s plain bad. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“All right,” said Rock, making a few notes of his own on the designs. That would require a not insubstantial reworking of their construction plans, but… well, if they were going to trench over the entire Blackacre Forest, it was going to be as a contingency plan anyway. Hopefully, the front lines would hold enough to complete the full works.

“Well, that takes care of that,” said Quartz. “You asked for me, though. What is it?”

“How many gardeners do we have?”

She blinked at him.

The bunker’s thin slit windows flashed as a lance of light passed uncomfortably close to them; a half-second later a muffled scream filtered in. That beam might have missed its mark on the lines, but it hit somepony.

“Gardeners.”

“Yeah,” he said with the crack of a smile. “C’mere. I’ve got something to show you.”

They obliged; he rapped a few times on the wall, fiddled around with a section, gave it a pull — and, to their surprise, it heaved outwards, revealing a trap door.

“What’ve you been doing to my bunkers?” demanded Rock, though his voice was more curious than anything else.

“You’ll have to crawl, but it’s good enough to fit,” he said by way of response, entering the cramped tunnel. After a few seconds, his horn glowed, illuminating the space. The earth was well and thoroughly frozen, but it still had a musty smell, somehow almost damp.

After perhaps a minute of crawling through the mud, Rock cleared his throat loudly. “Where, exactly are we going?” he asked, voice muffled by the dirt all around him.

“Almost here,” came their guide’s voice, filtering back.

True to his word, after another few seconds the glow at the front expanded a bit; they pushed forward and realized the tunnel expanded into a large chamber. Well, not large, relative to anything normal. The three of them could fit in it while standing up, though, and that was large enough compared to the tunnel.

“Look at this,” said the unicorn, drawing their attention to a ladder at one side of the room. They looked at it, following the rungs up the side of the chamber. Come to think of it, it wasn’t so much a small chamber as almost a conical room; the top tapered up, up… and was that a speck of light at the top?

“Where are we?” asked Quartz.

“Inside a tree,” said the unicorn proudly. “About thirty feet from the bunker. That ladder goes up to maybe forty or fifty feet above ground level. Gives you a fantastic view of pretty much everything, including down into their lines.”

“Tree?” demanded Rock. “You’re exposed! Totally —”

“Nope,” he said with a grin. “It took us three or four different tries, but we managed to enchant the tree. It wasn’t dead, but obviously we had to hollow it out. Still, we can keep it alive for a few months. Which is where your gardeners come in.”

“Gardeners…” echoed Quartz.

“Important part is the magic, though. It’s live, but that doesn’t do much by itself. We worked out a series of protections through the bark. Anything hits it, it grounds down through the roots. And even then it’s mostly glancing hits, because who aims for the trees?”

“You,” started Quartz, “you what.”

“You can’t do that,” said Rock, blinking in utter confusion.

“Why not? We’ve had it like this for days now, and it just keeps going. Enchantment resets itself each time it’s hit, so we don’t need to worry about recharging it. Set it up that way myself.”

“Uncontrolled enchantments?” spat Quartz. “Wild magic? That’s —”

“That’s a problem for Canterlot,” said the unicorn sharply. “And right now they’re trying to kill me, so I don’t exactly have a problem with breaking their rules.”

The two visitors were silent for a moment. Then, in a perfect moment of simultaneous comprehension, something went click. Immediately they each started muttering to themselves, working out the implications.

“Rampant… could work. Need to train out patrols. Basic herbological….”

“…replication; yes, yes; maybe a Von Neumare process…”

“…redirect the basic charge…”

“…basic network of tree caches; wouldn’t take much to enchant them….”

The unicorn let them stew for a few moments before clearing his throat gently.

“Anything strong enough to take out the tree also takes out the network connection,” he said. “It’s a perfect self-contained unit.”

“It is,” agreed Rock. “We’ll have to work out the details, but….” He smiled. “I think we can work with this.”

“I know we can,” said Quartz, eagerly. “Can… can I take a look?”

“Go for it,” said the unicorn, gesturing at the ladder. “Keep low, though.”

“Right,” she said, springing at the rungs. They creaked slightly but carried her up nevertheless. In a few moments she was in the trunk; a few more and she was peering out a knot towards the Canterlot lines. She could see into their first three trenches, see the artillery emplacements just over a frozen knoll, see the command tents off in the distance near Appleloosa.

“This is incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it?” offered the unicorn. “They’ve got to send up pegasi to get intel. We just have to use the trees.”

Rock shook his head, marveling that this frontline unicorn had managed to do something they couldn’t: figure out a way to tip the scales in their favor. Numerically they were outnumbered three to one; he was no tactician but that much was obvious. Breaking the rules, though, was a different thing entirely. Well, it seemed obvious now, but the rules seemed so sensible. Runaway enchantments were a unicorn’s worst nightmare, sometimes all too literally. If it was either that or death, though….

He smiled.

“This changes everything.”

Paradigm

31 December, Y.C. 969
Canterlot

“Will that be all, General?”

McNamare’s voice was kindly enough, but she was tired, and it showed. They had been at it for five hours now, starting at sundown. Mercifully, sundown was slated for something like four-thirty in the afternoon, so it wasn’t even particularly late, but five hours of constant concentration would wear anypony down.

“That’s everything,” said Batchall, nodding heavily. She almost imagined the bags under his eyes wobbled a bit — late or not, he hadn’t been getting any sleep for days.

“All right,” she said with an expression that had a trace of concern to it. “Get some sleep, Billy.”

“Will do,” he said, making as to pick up the charts, but stopped at a gesture from McNamare.

“Leave them,” she said. “They’re not going anywhere, and you won’t be using them tonight.”

“True enough.” He bobbed his head, and this time the bags definitely wiggled a bit. “Good night.”

“Good night,” said Aspia, then nodded at the handful of aides that surrounded him. “Gentlecolts.”

A flurry of murmured greetings as the hall drained. In two minutes it was empty, just a broad table, several dozen charts, and one very tired pony. McNamare took a deep drink of water, glanced at her notes, stretched a bit, and then sat back down, the shadows on the wall dancing faintly in the firelight.

“We’re alone.”

“Aren’t we all?”

A pastel glow lowered itself to the floor as Princess Celestia turned her mane back on, for lack of a better description. Most ponies in the meeting chamber noticed that it had high ceilings; few took notice of the platform built up in the rafters. Not that they would have seen anything if they did.

The Princess had been there for the start of the briefing, of course; that was the whole reason why they had started just after sunset. For two hours she heard the reports from General Batchall and the aides representing the Royal Army; for two hours they talked and discussed, setting out general elements of a broader strategy. This time around it was almost entirely military, but she regularly held these select sessions whenever there was any sort of crisis. Council meetings were good, but it was better to get the sharpest minds in a particular field on the same page at the same meeting.

All the while the Princess guided them with a gentle, if firm, hoof. She never dispensed blame or questioned past events; she always looked to the future. What was done was done; the question now was what they were going to do about it. For that purpose, no suggestion was too extreme, too silly; she in fact demanded that every pony present speak his or her mind. They were all in this together, and only by working together could they restore harmony.

After those two hours, though, she had excused herself, leaving McNamare and the others to “clean up the details.” Which usually entailed an hour of griping about the reasonability, or lack thereof, of the Princess’ demands, and then another two hours actually discussing the plans, without having to worry about speaking their minds in front of the Princess.

And after they were gone, once grievances were aired and she got a fairly good idea of what her generals were actually thinking, Celestia and Aspia could get down to the business of actually deciding what was going to happen.

“Eisenhorner is an idiot,” declared Celestia flatly. “From now on, Pommel runs the offenses.”

“You wanted him there,” said Aspia, making a note on a scrap of paper. “You thought he might be able to talk Beatrix down.”

“Damned idealist,” she said, stalking around the table to get a better look at the maps. Of course she could see them well enough from her perch, but there was something to be said about running a hoof over the parchment, feeling the battle lines. “Pommel was right. A quick attack, in force; take the castle by the end of the first day. None of this entrenchment business. And now it’s too late.”

“And now it’s too late,” echoed Aspia, a bite in her words. She was criticizing the actions of the Princess and she knew it. Anypony or anywhere else, and that would be the end of her career. Possibly worse. But right here and right now? Celestia expected her to speak her mind, to truly say what she meant. She demanded the truth, even if it wasn’t pleasant.

This just happened to be a situation where what was necessary, what was true, and what was pleasant, at least for Aspia, all coincided: she had recommended Pommel be in complete control from the very beginning. It wasn’t very often you got to tell a thousand-year-old and effectively immortal alicorn I-told-you-so, so she relished it.

But not too much, nor for long. There were still some lines that couldn’t be crossed.

“You heard the plans,” said Celestia, waving a hoof in the direction of the door. “Assess.”

Aspia was silent for a moment. She knew exactly what she was going to say, of course. The past five hours had been building towards this moment. Princess Celestia, the single most powerful being on the continent, was asking her for advice.

That wasn’t unusual. She asked a lot of ponies for advice; that was the point of the council. Fresh thoughts were also occasionally useful to reflect one’s own plans. And, most importantly of all, a policy of being open to others engendered trust in the political system, trust which had kept it afloat for a thousand years. No, the important part now wasn’t that Celestia was asking for advice.

The important part was that she would listen.

“They’re all wrong,” she said.

Celestia raised an eyebrow. This was surprising.

Surprising was good.

“They all are planning based on a set of assumptions,” she said, emboldened by the alicorn’s reaction. “Some of them are shared, and some of them aren’t. There’s a common set, though.”

“A lot of them are reasonable,” she went on, with a concessionary nod towards Blackacre, represented for the purposes of this discussion by the detailed topographical chart of the region that occupied the center of the wide table. “And a lot of them are speculative, but within reason on those counts.”

She waited for a second or two, to give gravity to her next words. Celestia waited patiently. There was no point in trying to outwit her with oratory, outfox her with logic. It was more a reflex, really; if she was going to make a point, she was going to make it elegantly.

“They all assume this is a conventional war.”

The corners of the alicorn’s mouth turned down.

“There are a lot of ways to define conventional,” she said, staring off into the distance. “There are some weapons even I will not use. Not against ponies… not yet.”

“By their definitions,” said Aspia, neatly sidestepping a discussion to which she was fairly sure she would never be privy, “they expect this to be a fairly straightforward contest. At a certain point, it will become apparent that Blackacre can’t win. They don’t have the numbers, they don’t have the supplies. By and large we outnumber them, and though they the defensive is an easier position to hold, our advance cannot be stopped.”

She shrugged. “Under that rhetoric, it’s simple. Sooner or later they will have to capitulate. The only question is how long it will take. Therefore, all of our plans boil down to debates over the best way to destroy Blackacre’s military assets. Slow advances to win the war of attrition. Strikes on their depots. Saturation bombardment of their trench lines.”

“They’re essentially asking themselves, if we were in Blackacre’s position, what would hurt us most? What would bring us to our knees first?” Aspia shook her head. “They all have different answers, but their questions are the same.”

“Their logic seems sound.”

“They assume that Beatrix and her… supporters will think like us.”

“They’re ponies.”

“Of course they are,” she said, and a sharp look told her that perhaps that tone was just a bit too far. “Yes, they are ponies,” she corrected. “To a large extent that frames their worldview, but that’s not what’s important. Look to the victory conditions.”
Aspia swept a hoof over the map, where hundreds of tiny little dots and the occasional question mark indicated the current disposition of forces.

“Our generals and tacticians are thinking of this just like with the Dragon Skirmishes. This is a war. War can be won by either dying for your country or making the other pony die for his. Obtain enough military superiority, either by improving your own capacity or destroying the enemy’s, and they will capitulate, because the alternative is destruction.”

“This thinking won the Skirmishes,” said Celestia, but this time with the slightest nod of approval. She understood where this was going. Aspia didn’t need to go on; surely the alicorn could figure it out. Still, somepony actually needed to say it, and it might as well be her.

“It did, but that was different. Pony versus dragon. Us, many and small; them, few but dangerous. At the end of the day? Good versus evil.”

Celestia smiled. That had been a terrific propaganda campaign, one that had originated in the keen young mind of a certain junior aide to then-major Pommel. He had brought the plan — and the pony — to Celestia’s attention, after which Aspia had shot up the ranks like a rocket sled on rails.

“This is different. Beatrix knows she can’t win. She never wanted to. All she needs to do is break us.”

“Break Canterlot.”

“Why not?” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Our generals expect a military victory, so they go after military targets. We continue to batter away at them. We lose forces. They lose forces. We seem to be winning — but then they simply don’t surrender.”

She wiped a hoof over the map, mimicking a total Canterlot advance.

“They’re not fighting to win. They’re fighting to not lose. All they need to do is wait for us to run out of steam. There might be three of them left alive, but as long as they’re still alive, they’ve won their moral victory.”

Celestia nodded slowly for a few moments.

“Your assessment of the situation is quite correct,” she said bluntly. It was as close to an acknowledgment of error Aspia had ever heard, or for that matter was likely to. “Your proposal.”

Aspia half-smiled. Celestia would know the answer, of course. Somepony had to say it.

“We cannot fight this war as we did against dragons, and it is a war. Make no mistake about that. It is a war of belief, a war of ideals. Starting right now this isn’t between Canterlot and Blackacre, it’s between us and them. It’s between loyalty and traitors, duty and cowards, honor and a stab in the back.

“Equestria knows you. How could they not? We use that. It’s between you and her. Stability and chaos. Harmony and dis —”

“Thus playing into her net,” said Celestia, cutting her off sharply.

“Yes,” she conceded. “At this point, their reactions are set. Nothing we can do will change that. But we can change how we approach this. If Equestria prepares for a military victory but they ring hollow, then we fail. If we prepare for a moral one, a crusade, then the military victories — or failures — don’t matter.”

For a long moment, Celestia stood in quiet contemplation of the map, her mane waving slowly in the cool air. The room wasn’t quite as grand as the council chamber, but it was high enough to have the wind whip around the towers. It wasn’t snowing, wasn’t supposed to for a day or two, but the night looked cold.

“I expect a full spectrum of choices by tomorrow morning,” she said calmly. “Publicity campaigns, military targets, talking points for the speech I suspect I’ll be giving tomorrow evening.”

“Understood.”

Celestia turned to leave the room, but instead held back, turning her head slowly to fix Aspia squarely in the eye.

“I also expect an outline for your second option.”

“Second option.”

“If any of them are left alive,” said Celestia flatly, echoing Aspia’s earlier words, “then even a surrender turns to a moral victory.” A look of grave determination flickered over the alicorn’s face. “And if we cannot inflict a moral defeat….”

Aspia paused for a moment.

“Preparations will be made.”

Lost and Found

14 January, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

Agnes didn’t particularly want to go outside. On a day like today, who would? The past few days had been almost warm — still parka weather, but warm enough to melt the topmost layer of snow. Which had immediately frozen over at night. Couple that with a fresh layer of powder and a blustery wind, and the weather was ideal for breaking a leg or two.

Not that that bothered her. She already had her injury for the year, and the bulky cast around her leg made her move slowly anyway. There wasn’t much risk of slipping when her top speed rivaled a snail’s.

Slow or not, though, she would have to get a move on. She only needed to check the barns and make sure that the windows were still sealed up tight and the animals had enough feed for the night. She had missed a window once a few years back; by the time she came by the next morning, half her livestock was frozen solid. A small farm like hers couldn’t afford that type of misstep. Though, now that it wasn’t a one-pony operation any more, things were looking up.

Agnes trundled to the door, picked up the lantern from its hook, braced herself against the cold wisps of air that even now slipped through the keyhole, opened the door, and nearly walked into a fairly startled pony.

“Can I help you?” she said, regaining her composure faster than the unexpected visitor.

“I, uh,” said the tan pony, rubbing her neck through a white jacket. Agnes didn’t recognize her, though that wasn’t saying much, given how many new folks had taken up residence in the town over the past month.

“Are you Agnes Smith?” she asked, recovering after a moment.

“That’s me,” she said. “You’re a little late for apple season, though. Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” said the pony. “I’m looking for someone, actually. Your niece.”

“My niece,” echoed Agnes, starting to get a bit uncomfortable with the situation, though maybe that was just the heat of the parka.

“Yes. Jackie. Jackie… Smith?”

“Ah.”

A pause.

“She’s not here right now,” said Agnes bluntly. “She’s out checking the barns.”

“I can wait. May I come in?”

“No,” she said quickly. “She’s, ah, checking the barns in the, ah, neighbor’s field.”

“Point me in the right direction, then, and I’ll be out of your mane.”

“I don’t know which neighbor.”

The visitor glanced down, took a deep breath, and looked back up.

“Can I speak with Jackie?”

“No,” said Agnes, pursing her lips.

“Look, I —”

“Go away.”

“It’s all right,” came a voice from within the farmhouse. Agnes turned to see Jackie looking at them from the kitchen, a fresh mug of hot chocolate in her hooves. She wore the pale blue bonnet she had been affecting recently, and under it, a resigned expression. “She already knows I’m here. No sense drawing this out.” Jackie shivered slightly. “And close the door, would you?”

Agnes reluctantly stepped aside, letting the stranger in, but instead of closing the door she went and stood in it.

“I’d better check on the barn before it gets dark,” she said. “But first, I’m going to have a few words with Doctor Turner.” She narrowed her eyes. “Patient privacy, my hoof!”

“Don’t do that,” said the pony quickly. “No one at the hospital said anything. Believe me, I tried to get them to talk.”

“I should have known,” said Jackie acidly. “The press always has ways.”

“And I’d like to know what’n’the hell those ways were,” added Agnes, “so they don’t happen again!”

“I’m not press,” said the pony, shrugging off her coat to reveal a shock of pink mane. “I’m Canterlot.” She extended a hoof. “Actually, I’m Margaret. From Canterlot, but just Margaret. I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean to disturb, I really didn’t, but I just want to talk, if that’s okay.”

Jackie considered her for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Come in, I guess. Sit down.” She considered offering Margaret from Canterlot some hot chocolate, but decided against it. “Agnes, you should probably go check the barns.”

The older pony nodded, but she didn’t look happy about it. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Jackie attempted a smile. “I can still take care of myself, you know.”

“All right, all right,” said Agnes. “I’ll start with the far barn, if that’s okay. But you holler if you need me.”

“If I need you,” said Jackie with a meaningful nod, the request for privacy clear enough. Not that she didn’t trust Agnes; she was, after all, the only pony — well, one of two ponies now — who even knew she was still alive. She had a feeling, though, that this Margaret wanted to talk to her and her alone, and she wouldn’t go away until she got what she wanted. Fine, then; she’d give her an uninterrupted audience. With a bit of luck, this Canterlot pony would be gone in minutes.

The door closed with a slam, triggering a little snow flurry just outside the sitting room window. Jackie took her mug of chocolate, sat down across the coffee table from the other pony, and crossed her arms expectantly.

Margaret, for her part, licked her lips and grabbed at the bundle of documentation she had brought. The familiar feel of the folder under her hoof made her more comfortable. She hadn’t been expecting this. She hadn’t known what to expect, frankly, but it wasn’t this.

“I’m here to check up on you,” she started. “You vanished into the hospital, and nopony’s seen you since.”

“That’s how I like it,” sniped Jackie. “How did you find me?”

“There’s always documentation,” she shrugged. “And when there’s paperwork, there’s a way. Digging through paperwork is half of my job.”

“Paperwork that should be marked restricted.”

“Restricted access doesn’t mean no access.” Margaret opened the folder and offered an official-looking document with a half-dozen seals on the bottom. “And a piece of paper with the Princess’ signature opens a lot of file cabinets, you know?”

That caught Jackie’s attention. “The Princess wants to know about me?”

“Among other ponies,” she said evasively. “Look, that photo of you ran on the front page of every paper for a week. Whenever they talk about the Mane, the first shot is it coming down, the second is you. Every single time. That shot is number one in most of the —”

“And I don’t care,” said Jackie quietly.

“What?”

“It’s a great photo. I get it. So what?” She shook her head. “Means nothing to me.”

“But it means everything,” said Margaret. “You were there, you were a bystander, you were injured, and you’re front and center in the most famous photograph since V-B Day in Haymarket Square.

“That photo of you matters,” said Margaret, leaning in closer, “because other ponies have somepony to care about. Two hundred and thirty-one casualties is a number. That photo is a pony. Living, breathing, beautiful. You can ignore numbers. You can’t ignore that.”

“The photo of me matters,” echoed Jackie. “Why?”

“Because —”

“No,” she said, uncrossing her arms to spread them wide in a broad gesture. “What would you have me do? Why do I matter to you?”

Margaret took a breath. This was it.

“Because you matter to them.”

Jackie frowned.

“Come back with me. It doesn’t have to be much, it doesn’t have to be for long. If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t have to say anything, even; you could come right back.” She waved a hoof towards the window. “All of Equestria knows who you are, and nothing can change that. The last thing they saw of you was that photo. They know a lot of ponies didn’t make it out of the audience that day. Show them you’re alive, that you’re okay. Give them hope.”

For a long moment, Jackie said nothing. Then, quite slowly, she put her mug down on the table.

“Hope.”

She stared Margaret down.

“You want me to give them hope.”

Jackie’s expression hardened.

“You just told me Equestria treats me like a set piece, only cares about me because I put a face to their death, and you want me to go out there and say wait, look at me, everything’s all right.

“You want me to go out and parade around and be this big symbol of how Equestria will survive, and we’re better than them, and we shall overcome? Hell, look at me. Do I look like the kind of pony who’s in any sort of condition to give hope to anyone?”

Margaret caught her gaze but her eyes slid away, unwilling to hold it. She had come in hoping to salvage something but it was falling apart, crumbling before her eyes. But the pieces weren’t falling at random; there was something there, something hiding in Jackie’s voice, something….

“I said, look at me. Do I care? The answer is no, because I don’t. I don’t care about their war, I don’t care about their causes. I just care about me, about Agnes, about waking up in the morning and going to bed at night, about not thinking too hard about yesterday or tomorrow, because I haven’t come from a good place and I’m not going to a good place either.” She stood now, planting a forehoof firmly on the table. “The pony in that picture is dead, for all I care. ”

With a single smooth motion she pulled off the bonnet, revealing a layer of gauze wrapped around the stump where a horn should be, the blood stains brown in places, fresh in others.

“Look at me, Margaret,” she commanded again, the bitterness in her voice cutting like a knife. “Do I inspire you?”

For a moment Margaret gawked; she had read the report but hadn’t expected to see it. Hadn’t expected….

And then, quite suddenly, it clicked.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You are absolutely right.”

Jackie jerked back, surprised.

“The pony in that picture lost everything that day,” said Margaret gently. “She lost her friends, she lost her love, she lost her privacy. Equestria might have adopted her, but the pony in that photo died that day.”

Jackie slowly lowered herself into her chair, doing her best to keep her face as still as possible. One false move and she would lose what little was left of her composure.

“I’ve come out here for nothing,” reaffirmed Margaret. “The pony in that picture is dead. And maybe she’s a symbol of something, but she’ll never know it, because what’s left of her belongs to Equestria now.”

She set down the folder with an air of finality.

“The records at the hospital are out of date. I’ll have to adjust them. And I’ll have to bring the bad news back to m— to McNamare, but that’s all right. Because, to that pony, none of it matters any more.”

Margaret stood up, reached for her coat, and gave a little bow.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Miss Smith.”

She slipped the coat on and walked to the door. As she reached for it, though, a small voice stopped her.

“Wait.”

Margaret paused, hoof on the handle. Jackie was still sitting, still in the exact same position, wasn’t even looking at her, but her voice had a different quality to it.

“It’s getting late, and there’s nothing interesting in town,” she said. Jackie’s expression was unchanged, but something in her voice was warmer, was genuine. “Stay for dinner?”

Margaret allowed herself a smile.

“I’d be honored.”

Iron Boot

12 February, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

A steady drum roll played on the radio, and within moments it flourished into a fanfare, only a few seconds long but instantly recognizable.

“Young ponies from all over the land are joining up to fight for our future,” the announcer said over the military march, his voice rich and personable.

“I’m doing my part,” came a female voice with the barest hint of a northeastern accent.

“I’m doing my part,” said an unassuming male, a midlands farmer perhaps.

“I’m doing my part,” added a third with just the hint of a southern lilt.

“They’re doing their part,” returned the main announcer with a note of fatherly approval. “Are you? Join the Royal Army and save Equestria. Remember, service —”

“— is the first day of the rest of your life,” roared the voice in front of them, in a tone decidedly more sinister than the ubiquitous recruitment advertisements. “Which is good, because you aren’t good enough the way you are! Hooves at your sides!”

Clove was in the third row, but a sharp sound told him that the offending pony had been smacked back into compliance. He couldn’t see the offender, but he did see a pair of grey horns moving slowly down the line.

“Chin up,” rumbled the voice, and with another smack one of the freshly-buzzed manes at the front jerked up. “Legs together!

“To think this had to happen to me.” The horns finished their slow motion and moved off towards the front of the ragged formation. “Bunch of foals.

“No!” he roared again. “Strike that! You don’t even rate that good! Never in my life have I seen —

“Do you think I’m funny?”

The horns rounded on a quivering mane.

“I asked you a question, twinkle-ass! Do you think I’m funny?”

Perhaps a murmured reply.

“Wrong!” he bellowed. “Again!”

“I don’t,” came a reedy voice. “I’m sorry —”

“Damn right you are but guess what, your lousy ass is still wrong! Try it again!”

“I —”

“Wrong!” roared the minotaur, drawing himself up to his full height, easily twice that of the front row of ponies, and addressing all thirty-odd of them. “The first and last words our of your filthy sewers will be sir. Do you maggots understand that?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Clove found himself saying with the others.

“Me-shit, I can’t hear you. Sound off like you’ve got a pair!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“If you fillies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of Celestia praying for war, but until that day you are shit. You are not even little damned ponies. You are nothing. You are the lowest form of life in Equestria. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit.”

He started pacing the line. Clove started to track the horns, but for some reason thought better of it, staring straight ahead.

“Because I am hard, you will not like me. But because I am hard you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. I don’t care of there’s a rainbow heart or a skull on your ass. I do not look down on pinkos, clops, hoofers or zappers. Here you are all equally worthless. Do you ridglings understand that?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Me-shit, I can’t hear you.”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“You! Scumbag!” he roared, whirling on a front row pony. “What’s your name?”

“Sir!” shouted the pony, his voice cracking. “Private Nutmeg, sir!”

“Nutmeg? Nutmeg? I don’t see any Bolts around; Nut without a Bolt, looks like you’re just screwed! Private Screw! Do you like that name?

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Well there’s one thing you won’t like, Private Screw! We don’t bake damned cakes on a daily basis in my mess hall!”

“Sir! No sir!”

The horns took two steps down the line and stopped.

“What’s your excuse?”

“Sir! Excuse for what, sir!”

“I’m askin’ the questions!” roared the minotaur. “Do you understand!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Well thank-you-very-much! Can I be in charge for a while!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Are you shook up! Are you nervous!”

“Sir! I am, sir!”

“Do I make you nervous!”

“Sir!”

The slightest of pauses, and Clove could almost imagine the horns curl.

“Sir what! You think you can get out of having to think by sayin’ sir-sir-sir!”

“Sir! No sir!”

“Looks to me like you’ve got nothin’ back there but an air hole and you don’t even need that ‘cause there’s nothin’ that needs breathin’! Private Airhole, do you get me!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

The horns whipped to the right.

“You! Shitstain! Are you about to call me an asshole!”

“Sir! No sir!”

“How tall are you, Private?”

“Sir! Four foot six, sir!”

“Four foot six, I didn’t know they stacked shit that high! You tryin’ to squeeze an inch in on me somewhere?”

“Sir! No sir!”

“I think you’ve been cheated! Looks to me the best part of you ended up a brown stain on the mattress! Where’n the hell are you from, Private?”

“Sir! Appleloosa, sir!”

“Holy dog shit, Appleloosa! Only queers and steers come from Appleloosa! You a queer, Private?”

“Sir! No sir!”

“Then that narrows it down a bit, doesn’t it, Private Holstein!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

His head jerked up, looking them over with a surprisingly level expression.

“Anytime you think I’m being too tough. Any time you think I’m being unfair. Anytime you miss your mommy? Quit!” His massive head turned from side to side, scanning the crowd. “Quit!” he bellowed. “You sign form twelve forty-eight, you grab your gear, you take a stroll down Washout Lane! Do you get me!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“All right then.” The minotaur’s glare passed them over. He gave a mighty snort and cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing out on the training field like splitting wood.

And then, much more terrifying than the abuse, a smile spread over his face.

“Now that we got that out of the way, I wonder if there’s a handful of guts in the whole bunch of you.” The smile curled in a most disconcerting way. “Who here thinks they’ve got what it takes to knock me down?”

A few seconds of silence.

“Sir!” announced a voice towards the back; instinctively Clove turned to see a slightly overweight pony raise a hoof. “I guess maybe I do. Sir!”

The minotaur said nothing, instead nodding slowly. He unclasped his utility belt and gave a slight wave beckoning the pony closer. He maneuvered through the forward three rows; when he passed through the front one he bellowed and broke into a run, straight for the minotaur —

— who caught a forehoof and spun him head over heels to the ground with a dull thud, half the minotaur’s body on top of him in a submission hold. A half-second later, the pony’s foreleg gave a wrenching snap.

The minotaur let go, brushed a speck of dust off his coat, and gave the pony a slightly disdainful look. For his part, he was bellowing incoherently, clutching his foreleg, which was bent backwards at an entirely unnatural angle.

“You all right, colt?”

“Sir! Yes sir!” said the pony through clenched teeth. “It’s just my leg, sir!”

“What’s your name?”

“Sir! Floyd, sir!”

“Private Floyd, eh?” said the minotaur, considering for a moment. “With a name like that, you get to keep it. Medic!”

A pair of white-clad ponies detached themselves from a nearby tent and dragged the unlucky private off. As they did, the minotaur paced the line again.

“Pain,” he declared, “is in your mind. Who’s next?”

“Sir!” called a voice from off to a side. The minotaur turned to see a red pony trotting towards them with a small saddlebag; she stuck out a sheaf of paper, jutted her chin up, and stood stock still. “Private Vera reporting for duty, sir!”

“Tardy to the party,” said the minotaur, snapping up the paper and scanning it down. His tone was neutral enough, but they knew better.

“Specifically requested transfer from Hollow Shades to this training unit.”

“Sir! I heard it was the best, sir!”

“It is the best,” said the minotaur quietly — and then, a fraction of a second later, his eyebrows narrowed and he drew in close.

“But what makes you think you’re good enough?” he roared at her.

To her credit, Vera didn’t cower, though she was driven back a few inches. Instead, she hit the release on her saddlebag, letting it and her travel coat slide to the frozen earth. She took a step back, pawed at the ground once, and assumed a crouch.

“Now that’s the kind of mare that makes squad leader,” murmured one of the ponies next to Clove.

“That’s my job you’re talking about,” shot back another, in a voice just a little too loud for comfort… but the minotaur didn’t call him out. He and Vera were circling each other slowly, eyeing each other —

Vera darted forward, launching a high kick. The minotaur blocked it easily, threw a punch at her — but hers had been a feint, and she landed a solid smack just below his horns.

The minotaur grunted, unfazed. Clove leaned over slightly; the fight was in front of him, but so were two other rows of ponies.

She tried for another kick but he was too quick this time, smacking it out of the air; he was on the ground with a roundhouse before she could recover. He swept her feet out from under her, and by the time she hit the ground his knee was on her throat.

Vera struggled, but there wasn’t anything to be done; pinned by the full weight of his massive slate-blue frame on her throat, all she could do was scrabble at his hands as gurgling noises came out of her throat. Her eyes rolled back….

And then the pressure was gone, the minotaur standing above her, eying her not as a piece of primordial sludge but rather as… nothing close to an equal, surely, but as something sentient, perhaps.

In a flash the moment was gone, the minotaur’s look back to one of pure disdain, one aimed squarely at —

“You!” he roared.

And in that instant, Clove knew pure terror.

“Sir!” said his mouth.

“You payin’ attention to this?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!”

“All right then! Private Gawker, get Private Vera to her feet and keep her upright until I figure out what to do with you!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Today!”

“Sir!” he shouted, dashing forward through the lines to Vera’s side. She had struggled to a seated position, but he pulled her up and dragged her off to the side of the formation. She stood easily enough, but was definitely breathing heavily, and leaned against his side for balance.

“Thanks,” she said under her breath as the minotaur was off berating a pony for the gall to have a flower-like cutie mark. “I owe you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, praying the minotaur wouldn’t hear them. “We’re all in this together.”

Lay of the Town

7 March, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“Jackie!” came a bright voice from a corner booth. “Over here!”

The copper pony started, as much from the recognition as the enthusiasm. She threaded her way through tables and chairs to cross the room; the bistro was mostly empty in the midafternoon, but come evening it would be packed with ponies from the army’s support staff out on a few hours’ leave.

“Margaret,” acknowledged Jackie after a moment, sitting opposite her.

“I’m glad you got my message,” said the tan pony, catching the server’s attention and waving a hoof at the hay smoothie in front of her. “I wasn’t sure it would get to you in time.”

“It did,” said Jackie, hesitating a bit. “I’m surprised to see you back in town, though.”

“Hey, can’t I drop in and say hi to my Ponyville friends every once in a while?”

Jackie was silent. The server came over and deposited a matching tall glass of smoothie in front of her. She absently nodded her thanks and turned an expressionless face back to Margaret, who held her slightly hopeful expression for a few seconds longer before sighing.

“Look, I just wanted to say hi.”

“You said as much in the letter,” said Jackie, taking a sip from the glass. The smoothies weren’t as good now as before rationing hit the town’s suppliers, but the one in front of her was still decent. “I’m sorry, but you have to understand this is a bit strange. The last time I saw you was two months ago, and it wasn’t exactly under the greatest of circumstances.”

“That’s true.” Margaret laughed sheepishly. “I guess I see you all the time, in a way. Know those recruitment posters outside? We’ve got a lot of those in Canterlot.”

“I bet,” said Jackie with a trace of bitterness.

Fight For Her!, the posters said, the image stylized but unmistakable: a reddish orange pony being carried out of wreckage. Copper ponies were common enough, though, so she could still walk the streets in peace. More importantly, the papers had reported that she was a unicorn, meaning that anyone looking for her would look for a horn, and that she was dead, meaning that no one was looking for her in the first place.

And that suited her just fine. Her mane had grown back out, red curls long enough to cover the scars; on a windy day, a hat sufficed. She worked on the farm, helping Agnes keep things running and preparing for the spring thaw and planting. Some days, she imagined herself staying in Ponyville, putting down roots. She treasured those moments of imagination for as long as they lasted, because reality always came back to hit her.

Jackie missed Dag.

“…use the photo for the campaign,” Margaret was saying. “I convinced her to tone it down a bit, but it worked well with the northeastern focus groups.”

“Convinced her…” Jackie repeated before stopping short. “You have pull with the Princess?”

“No no,” she said quickly. “With Aspia — with the Secrepony of Defense. It was her plan.”

Jackie blinked. Margaret was younger than her; she might know what she was doing, but she couldn’t be more than a few years out of university. She had rubbed elbows at enough of Dag’s professional meet-and-greets to know what somepony with influence looked like. For a start, they usually had a grey mane.

“You have pull with Aspia McNamare.”

“She’s,” started Margaret, rubbing her neck before squeezing the words out, “she’s my mother.”

“She’s your —”

Margaret hissed her to silence before anyone else in the bistro paid them enough attention to look over.

“Well,” said Jackie, leaning back, “that does explain a lot.”

“You think just anypony can walk into the hospital with a fancy-looking piece of paper and mess around in the records room?” Margaret grinned. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she said, with genuine warmth.

Margaret bowed her head slightly before taking a moment to glance around the room. “Which brings me to the actual reason I’m here,” she said in a quieter tone. “The mayor.”

Jackie nodded gravely. As Equestria’s front lines had pushed out from the ill-fated Remaregen bridge, Mayor Maher had lead a team of volunteers to pull injured ponies back from the riverbanks and into the tent city that had sprouted up around the hospital. They had only gone out when the military gave them an all-clear, but that was a relative term at best, given the minefield of unexploded ordnance and occasional fresh artillery strikes from a rogue Blackacrean battery. The mayor’s team had just reached the other side of the river when the shells fell….

Frankly, Maher had been lucky. He only left a leg in that crater, and a hindleg at that. Judging by the other ponies from that ill-fated expedition Jackie had seen from the recovery wards, others left behind forehooves, wings, swaths of skin; about half of them hadn’t made it out at all.

They had rushed the mayor through to the hospital, of course. Even a purely objective triage team bent the rules when the pony was a mayor; he had been under the knife to stabilize and sew up the limb in under twenty minutes. He had lost a lot of blood, but that wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle; his type was D, common enough, and the hospital had long lists of donors for all eight types.

None of this was publicly disclosed, of course; Jackie happened to be in the right ward at the right time, and years of living with a diplomat had trained her to keep an ear to the ground. Figuratively speaking — she was in a neck brace for two weeks after surgery. After the first few hours since the mayor and his expedition was brought back in, the nursing staff had clammed up; all she knew was that the mayor was in an intensive care unit. Officially, he was recovering fine. Unofficially, if someone from Canterlot was here….

“Is he…?”

“No,” said Margaret quickly. “He’s stable. And, well, that’s all I can say about that.”

“Ah.”

For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the faint clink of dishware filtering in from the kitchen.

“Mayor Maher is stepping down from an active role in the administration of the Ponyville region,” said Margaret, finding it uncomfortably easy to slip into her mother’s speech patterns. “The Princess intends to temporarily reassign the obligations of the Ponyville mayoralty.”

“And you’re here to scout the land,” said Jackie, smoothly connecting the dots, “to figure out who’s best for the job.”

“Something like that,” she shrugged. “Problem is, I’ve got work to take care of back in Canterlot, and I can’t stay here for too long.”

“I’d like to help you, but I’m not sure what I can do,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not from around here either, and I spend most of my time out at the farm. If you want the inside scoop on what’s going on in Ponyville, go find a secrepony in the town hall. Or go to the army’s command post.” She snorted. “They run everything else around here.”

“I plan on it,” agreed Margaret. “And I know you don’t know much more than I do. But — look, I need to learn this town, or at least get the two-bit tour, in four days or less. And I’d rather not do it alone.”

“A weekend on the town?” Jackie smiled broadly. It had been a long, long time. Diplomatic service entailed seeing a lot of new and interesting places in a short amount of time; she was already compiling a mental list of things to check out and ponies to talk to, even in just the few moments since the thought occurred to her. The last time she had done this was with Dag, and usually they —

Jackie clamped off the thought. That wasn’t her life anymore. She was a new pony, as much as she might not like it. And she owed it, in large part, to Margaret. This was the least she could do.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Great!” said Margaret, sounding very much relieved. “It’s good to have someone to count on out here.” She finished off her smoothie and rubbed her hooves together. “Where do we start?”

Blasted Earth

24 February, Y.C. 970
Castle Blackacre

“Thank you for convincing her to give me another chance,” said Dag, pressing himself against the wall momentarily to let a pair of ponies past. “After last time, she didn’t much seem in the mood to listen to reasonable talk.”

“You got her at a bad time,” said LeFleur with a little laugh.

“It’s all a bad time, though, isn’t it.”

“These days, it might as well be.”

These days. He shook his head slightly. These days were all the days he had, it seemed.

Days was, of course, a relative term at this point. Three months he had been here, three months and he hadn’t seen the sun once. Not that he was penned up in a corner, exactly. His room — a real one, once they took him out of the medical cell — was comfortable enough, and this place was huge. Best he could tell, it was a bunker of some sort, networks of tunnels running underground. Between storerooms, quarters, and three large cisterns, it was a little city. Sure, the ceilings were low and the lighting wasn’t all that great, but they survived.

Sheer survival wasn’t generally something to be particularly proud of, but given the uncomfortable familiarity he had acquired with the sounds of artillery, sometimes distant and sometimes not so much, it was well worth keeping at the front of one’s mind.

They reached a junction in the halls. Actually, it wasn’t so much a junction as a place where a half-dozen corridors happened to run into each other; they were all at slightly different levels, and none of them were aligned right with each other, but a step here or a ledge there and the engineers made it work. This place wasn’t built in a day, but Dag had the sneaking suspicion the builders didn’t have the luxury of tightening up the floor plans before starting construction.

“Today’s your lucky day,” said LeFleur, taking them to the third tunnel on the right, which went off into the distance at a slight upward angle. “I don’t think I’ve taken you this way before.”

“You haven’t,” he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Lucky me. I like exploring.”

“Plenty of that around here,” she said.

She would know; for the better part of three months she had been the one to lead him around. That was part of the deal, she explained to him. He wasn’t confined — no sense in doing that; he wasn’t a threat — but they couldn’t have him running around willy-nilly. So, he was on his own cognizance within his quarters, but to get around outside of those, he needed to be escorted by somepony. For routine trips, like to the mess hall or the shower block, that usually meant one of the guard ponies, whom he had gotten to know fairly well. Most of the time, though, that meant LeFleur.

At first, he had wondered what they were going to do to him. He realized, though, that the question was what they were going to do for him. She showed him a few corners of daily life down here: the mess halls, the cisterns, the few square meters of hardscrabble earth where they grew basic foodstuffs, at great magical expense.

And then she had shown him the workshops.

He wasn’t entirely sure what all of them did, and to be honest he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The ones LeFleur had shown him were eminently practical ones: a handful of ponies in a medium-sized room, all doing various assorted tasks. Some fixed hand tools, others had a basket of thread out and were repairing overcoats, others still peeled potatoes. It was an entirely random assortment of tasks, all the little things that kept a small city’s worth of ponies running.

They hadn’t asked him to come along, but they had offered. LeFleur was there twelve hours a day, and given the choice between sitting in his room and staring at a wall or tagging along and at least seeing different sections of cement walls, well, who was he to say no?

They hadn’t asked him to help, either; not in so many words. But if he was sitting there anyway, standing around while a half-dozen ponies around him did various tasks… again, who was he to just sit there? So he lent a hoof here and there. And, after a while, he found himself bending to his work, just like all the others.

Dag wasn’t skilled labor, not by a long shot, but it didn’t take skilled labor to, say, replace an axe-head. Well, it took a bit of doing to whittle down the new handle, but he figured that out soon enough. His father had been a tinsmith; maybe there was something of his old man’s attention to detail work in his hooves.

And though it wasn’t much of a specialty, he was actually not half bad at sewing things back up; though it took him a bit longer than the younger ponies to thread needles, he had something of a knack for wrangling burst seams back into place. More often than not, though, the overcoats were stained. He tried to not dwell on that particular fact.

The hallway doubled back on itself. A few moments later, it doubled back again, broke into a short staircase, then passed a set of auxiliary corridors, wound three times to the left, two to the right, down a bit, back up….

“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” he asked with a slightly bewildered expression.

“A pretty good one, I’d say,” said LeFleur with a smile. “I’m glad you don’t, though. You’re supposed to be blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded. Over those stairs?” He jerked a hoof back at the most recent set of stairs, little more than a set of uneven steps chiseled into bedrock. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all!” she said cheerfully. “Just pretend you were, okay?”

“Pretend that I have no idea where I am?” He snorted. “Done.”

“Good.” She stopped short in the hallway, and he realized that this was a real corridor, not just a shored-up tunnel. It might look dirty and generally in severe need of a cleaning, but the floor was actual stonework. The walls, too. And the ceiling was… well, ten times what he was used to, which meant it was probably only four or five times a normal ceiling height. Still!

“We’re here.”

She rapped on the wall, the sound echoing warmly on what was definitely not stone. A few moments later the wall popped outwards with a light shower of dust. A unicorn stuck his head out, glanced them over, then nodded at her.

“You’re expected. Come on in.”

“Thanks, Chester,” she said, waving him in. “C’mon, Dag. This is your moment.”

Dag took a few steps through the door and realized that, his moment or not, he wasn’t going to get it all to himself. There were perhaps a dozen ponies in what looked an awful lot like a hall. Most of them were clustered around a table towards the middle, but every so often one would scurry out a side door, or come back in with a message to hand off.

And, in the middle of it all, one unicorn with a light blue coat. She didn’t move much, but she didn’t have to. Everything surrounded her; she was involved in everypony’s discussions, if only tangentially. Every few seconds she would say something, triggering a flurry of reactions as the ponies around her took notes, discussed among themselves, and updated thousands of little marks on the huge table in the center of the room.

The guard who let them in — Chester — went over and said a few words to one of the ponies on the periphery. That pony moved a bit closer into the center and relayed the word to somepony else; after a few handings-up of the message, news of their arrival came to Beatrix’ ears. She glanced over at them with what seemed like acknowledgement and immediately turned back to her work.

“My moment, huh?” he said under his breath.

“It’s all a bad time,” quoted LeFleur. “Anyway, she’s usually busy like this. Just give her a moment.”

Fortunately for them, it wasn’t a particularly long moment. Words were exchanged, little marks were placed on the map, and with a firm nod from their leader, the table shed ponies like a wet dog, leaving only Beatrix and two others.

“That’s our cue,” said LeFleur, walking Dag over. As they approached, Beatrix gave him a curt nod. No need for introductions; she knew him, he knew her, and that was the end of it. He didn’t know the other ponies, but something told him that operational security would advise against it.

“Mr. Hammer,” she said curtly. “Thank you for joining me.”

“Thank you for listening,” he said, glad to avoid the conundrum of what, exactly, to call her. She might technically be a mayor, but he had a sneaking suspicion that things had changed since he was last briefed on the situation here. “If I may, I’d like to start —”

“You may not. My apologies for my curtness,” she said, cutting him off with what seemed like a genuinely apologetic gesture, “but I don’t have much time, and I already have a pretty good idea of what you’re going to tell me.”
Dag glanced at LeFleur; she shrugged. Fair enough; he had bounced ideas off of her, so it was only fair that she relay them back to her boss.

“Let me cut right to the chase, then,” he said. “None of this needs to be happening. It’s not too —”

“Mr. Hammer,” cut in Beatrix with a tight smile. “Please.”

Sometimes, you just had to fold. He motioned for her to go on.

“Gaston,” she said, and an orange pony next to her turned slightly. “What are the latest casualty figures?”

“Fourteen thousand, four hundred and twenty,” he recited from memory.

“Canterlot’s casualties?”

“Estimated twenty-five thousand.”

“Injured?”

“Eight thousand on our side. Estimates largely unavailable for them.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

The orange pony gave a nod and turned back to whatever it was he was doing. Beatrix said something else, but Dag wasn’t paying attention.

Three months.

Forty thousand dead.

“How…” he muttered.

“I see you’re starting to understand our position,” said Beatrix in an unnerving deadpan.

“How,” he repeated, quite unable to find the words for more.

“If you’re wondering how they’re able to sustain those losses,” she said, casting a hoof over a set of blue markings on the map, “it’s easy. They’re drafting. Not officially, but there are ‘recommended quotas’ and ‘encouragement programs’ in every major city. And the photos, too. They’re wonderful propaganda pieces.”

Dag’s mouth tightened. He remembered one of those quite vividly. How could he not? A day didn’t pass when the image didn’t pop into his head, unbidden. Wreckage, ponies all around it, and in the center, a stretcher with… with Jackie. Dead. Or dying. Did it matter, now?

“If you’re wondering about us,” Beatrix was saying, “it’s not quite that easy, but we’re doing our best. Most of our casualties came towards the beginning. Now that we’ve settled into… less conventional tactics, we have a better return on investment.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, mainly to the orange pony, who had started to pay attention again and was looking somewhat agitated. “It’s not like he’s going to walk this information back to Pommel. And even if he did, it’s not like any of this is news.”

Assuaged, the orange pony turned back to his work. Beatrix gave a little what-can-you-do shrug, dismissing him.

“Anyway.”

“I…” started Dag, but wasn’t entirely sure where to go with that sentence. “I didn’t know.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t. Not that that would have stopped you, but you would just have had to work all the harder to come up with something reasonable. You would, in the end, of course. That’s what you types do.”

He slipped a glance at LeFleur, whose expression was entirely unreadable.

“Not that you can come up with anything that will change our minds at this point,” finished Beatrix. “It’s far too late for far too many ponies.”

“I might not have known about the magnitude of the… conflict,” said Dag, somehow keeping his voice relatively level, “but that doesn’t mean the underlying principles are any different. I think you’ll find….”

“I think you’re still not understanding what I’m telling you,” said Beatrix quietly. “Walk with me.”

She turned away from the table and he followed, up a short set of broad stairs he hadn’t even realized were there in the first place. For that matter… if the room with the table was a hall, or a ceremonial atrium of some sort… but that made no sense. It had no windows; surely such a great hall would have —

He stopped short as he realized that, just up the few steps, the hall kept going, long and narrow and with a twin dais at the end. The kind of dais that held a throne, the kind that only royalty used. And there were two of them, a design that didn’t make sense, that hadn’t made sense for a thousand years.

“Castle Blackacre.”

“Correct,” said Beatrix, beckoning him over to part of the wall.

“The bunker… the whole underground complex.”

“Is directly under Castle Blackacre,” said Beatrix with a nod. “Then you know what this is supposed to look like.”

“This?”

“This,” she said, waving a hoof around the room. “Once upon a time, Celestia supposedly ruled from here. I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“I — that’s a good point.” He paused. “Who builds a hall like this without windows? Is this actually the castle?”

“Great Hall, in point of fact. As for the windows, we’ve closed them up,” she said, prying at the wall. “Except for here. Look.”

She pulled back what looked like a piece of iron sheeting. Dag stepped forward, rubbing an eye at the grey light outside….

And froze, utterly astounded.

If he hadn’t been told this was Castle Blackacre, dead in the middle of one of the most lush regions in Equestria, he would have guessed they were somewhere in the Frozen North. Maybe on the moon. Anywhere but Blackacre — anywhere but somewhere where there was life.

The outside world was a sheet of grey. The sky was grey, the ground was grey. It looked like snow, but a fine silt covered everything, a thin layer of char and ash. There were ruins outside, what looked like a courtyard, all dead and black, nothing but broken stone and frozen earth. Off in the distance, he saw something very much like a line of trees, but broken up by what looked like impact craters, huge blasts full of charred wreckage, all covered by snow and ice and ash.

“This… this is impossible.”

“It’s entirely possible, I assure you. Ponies have died, good ponies, thousands of them, to make this possible,” she said with a snort. “Behold, the Princess’ work.”

Dag leaned against a wall, unable to fully hold himself up. Death tolls were one thing: they were a number, easily digested and ignored. But this blasted earth? It was… it wasn’t real. And yet it was. And he knew it was like this well beyond just the castle: it was charred and broken from here to the border.

“I hope you realize,” she said quietly, “that nothing you propose will be acceptable. We’ve lost thousands of young ponies. Mares and stallions, foals and old ones. Your bombs aren’t very picky. And they’re everywhere,” she breathed. “This isn’t just the castle. This is Blackacre. Every tree, every pony.”

With a grunt, she closed the panel back up, shoving the iron into place.

“I hope you understand, Mr. Hammer. We’re not fighting you because we want to. We’re fighting because it’s all we have left.”

For a moment, silence.

“LeFleur, please take our guest back to his quarters. There’s work that needs doing.”

Dag let himself be led away. Visions of peace crumbled in his mind. This was blasted earth in every sense of the word. Deaths, countless deaths. Against that, what did he have? Words?

He shook his head as he left the room.

Words weren’t enough.

Fresh Ones

18 March, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

The line of ponies crossed the makeshift bridge slowly, cautiously. The construction was solid enough; huge supports driven deep into the shore on either side of the river held up a bridge bed sturdy enough for a half-dozen abreast, if need be. Under them, the river was already starting to swell at the thought of incoming spring rains, but the turbulent waters weren’t much of a problem. After all, the forty of them had already been through worse; between the basic training and endurance tests, each one of them could have crossed the river on a tightrope, at night to boot.

No, they were distracted by the mound of debris a hundred feet to the south, where the Remaregen Bridge used to be.

Off to either side of the river, the remnants of massive pylons each held a cradle of blackened steel. They had all heard about the bridge, of course. How could they not have? After losing thousands of ponies in a tooth and claw battle to hold the damned thing, not two weeks later an ursa major rampaged straight through their front lines and knocked the bridge down just by jumping on it.

That was the last thing the outsized bear would ever do, as they managed to finally kill it a few moments later, but the damage had been done. Even now, two months later, its frozen and bloated carcass still blocked much of the river. A good portion of it had sublimated away, purple and white flesh flecking off like ursine snowflakes, but enough of it remained to put a good dent in the river’s flow. Between the bridge wreckage, the frozen corpse, and the debris washed downriver from fighting further north, the frozen mound was still there, giving no indication of going anywhere soon.

The new ponies knew that things were bad down here and had been drilled to cope with almost anything, but actually seeing it all first-hoof was something else entirely. As they finished crossing over, still somewhat awestruck by the devastation in the river, let alone that in the forest, one of the brownish ponies on the other side of the river detached and came to meet them, the colonel’s epaulettes on her shoulders about the only clean thing on her.

“Ho there,” she said, waving down the pony at the head of the line.

“Sir!” said the pony at the head of the line, stopping short with a crisp salute. “Lieutenant Sand with the three fifty-first, reporting to Blackacre forward command, as ordered —”

“What are you doing?” demanded the colonel, waving him off. “Get down from there! You’re totally exposed!”

The young lieutenant blinked once, then quickly shouted at the rest of the ponies, ending any thought of lollygagging to take in the sights. For her part, the colonel rolled her eyes. Another crop of greenies; just what she needed.

“All right,” she said, once they were all safely on the other side. She briefly flirted with the idea of inspecting them, but decided against it. Knowing greenies, they had probably read the regs backwards and forwards before coming out here. Didn’t want to make a bad impression on the new brass, after all. Bits to bananas each and every one of them had the regulation three-meter-long strand of floss. Regs; how did they work?

Well, they’d break useless habits easily enough.

“Welcome to Blackacre forward command,” she said, glancing down the line. “I’m Colonel Marston, and I’ll be your brass for the next… oh, twenty minutes or so.

“I’m sure you got a bit of this information before leaving Foal Mountain, but it’s worth a refresher,” she said, perfectly well aware that they hadn’t gotten anything. For some reason, the desk brass who shuffled cadets thought sending them out into the world without at least a broad idea of how the chain of command was organized was a good idea.

She suppressed a snort. Of course they wouldn’t. To do otherwise would be a good idea, and when’s the last time command had one of those?

“General Pommel is commanding this operation personally,” she started, with a nod towards Ponyville. “Regional command is right next door. The theatre is split to five local commands: Saddle to the north, Ridge to the east, Dodge and Appleloosa to the south, and Ponyville right here. We’re attached to Ponyville local command, which for all intents and purposes means we’re directly under Regional.

“None of this matters to you, but you should probably know it.” She gave a slight smile. “We’re all on the same side, so if somepony gives an order, you’ll be following it anyway. Just know the authority derives from different sources.”

Crisp nods down the line. Bless their little hearts; they were paying attention.

“As you may have heard, right now the broad strategy is a slow and steady push. We’re halfway to Froggy Bottom Bogg, downhill all the way, and it’s not easy digging for fresh trenches. We’re in a holding pattern right now; with the equinox in a few days, there’s no sense starting any major operations. Once the thaw hits, we’ll reassess. Until then, you’ll get a few days to break in.”

A pair of ponies were walking up behind the platoon; she gave them a little wave.

“Look sharp, colts,” she announced. “Those are the two most important ponies we’ve got.”

Backs stiffened through the ranks; she could just about imagine their green little minds whirring, trying to find the rank insignas on the slightly bemused ponies in front of them.

“Platoon!” came Sand’s voice. “Ten-hut!”

To their credit, the two ponies kept straight faces. Marston solemnly raised her own hoof in salute, and she could see them straining. After a few moments she waved them off.

“At ease!” she barked. “Those two gentlecolts are from the logistics corps, and they’re directly responsible for keeping us stocked on non-magicked firewood and grub.”

Sand deflated slightly.

“Which means that saluting them is the exact right thing to do,” she added. “Celestia knows they’ll affect your life more than the brass will.” She shrugged. “Anyway. That’s all I have for you. You’ll be reporting to Captain Malachus for duty assignments in the second-line trenches.”

Marston waved a hoof over at one of the many entrances to the trench network, most of which had little stripe patterns on their sides. “Take the third entrance, go straight. Just follow color code red white red. He’ll be down there somewhere.”

She took a last look over the forty new faces. Most of them looked young. Too young. Well, they would age soon enough. Either that, or they would age all the way out, and much quicker too.

“Move out!”

“All right!” called Sand, glad to be able to do something to soothe his embarrassment. “Two by twos! Grab your battle buddy and let’s go make a good impression on the new CO!”

She couldn’t help but smile as they trudged past, through the dirty snow and into a tunnel leading deeping into the blasted forest. Even here, after seeing what they had seen, they still seemed to be… not in good spirits, per se, but almost eager, almost hopeful.

What were the latest survival figures? One in five?

Idly she wondered how many of them would make it through. She probably wouldn’t recognize any of them, even if they did make it. Oh well. It happened.

Marston turned back to the little tent pitched in the shadow of a crater. There’d be a new group here in an hour, and she needed to figure out who needed the bodies most.

Potatopleniye I Nakazaniye

18 March, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

“That worked out well.”

Clove laughed, tossed the potato into the pile, and grabbed a fresh one.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it.”

“Jealous.” Vera rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ll go with that.”

“Come on,” he needled, waggling the fresh potato. “That little shortcut got us to the objective in half the time. A third!”

“By cutting straight through the live fire range.”

“Nopony was using it at the time, and you know it,” shrugged Clove. “Besides, Sarge said to do whatever it took.”

“Within reason,” said Vera, slicing off a length of potato skin. It rolled up into itself, joining the others on the ground as a little spiral. “Which should have been obvious. And he even said so!”

“And it was!” he said. “Within reason. Within my reason, at least.”

“We’re here to follow orders, not think up new ones.”

“It wasn’t a new one.”

“Or new interpretations of them,” she sighed gustily. “Besides, we could have probably taken that hill.”

“Probably. Could have.”

“Could’ve.”

“And somehow you still signed off on this terrible idea,” he said with the slightest of grins. “You, listenin’ to the little guy. Big shot like you, squad leader.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she shot back.

For a moment, they peeled in silence.

She was right and they both knew it. He hadn’t given her much of a choice on that little stunt, having taken off at a run with three others in his fireteam, but she was still in command. She still shared in his punishment, though. Sarge had roared something about if you can’t control, start digging your hole. In this case, it seemed the hole referred to a literal one; they hadn’t made much of a dent in the pile of potatoes, but it wasn’t for want of trying.

“So I was thinking,” started Clove, in a casual tone that instantly flagged the thought as something more than just casual, “why are we doing this?”

Vera paused, took a deep breath, threw the potato at him, and calmly picked up a fresh one.

“I’m serious,” he said, picking up the projectile — no worse the wear for a few seconds on the mostly clean snow — and peeling off the last of the skin. “Why are we doing this, instead of a cook or something?”

“Because cooks don’t disobey orders and run across a range,” she said, angrily slicing another chunk off a potato. He was starting to get on her nerves, but what was she going to do about it? By the size of the pile, they’d be here for a few hours yet.

“No, I mean this in general,” he said, waving his slightly soggy knife in the air. “The cooking. The cleaning. This place doesn’t have much of a support staff.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said acridly. “This isn’t a Hoofton Hotel.”

“Didn’t expect it to be,” he said in an almost pleasant tone. “But think about it. We’re the ones doing the cleaning. Inside, outside, everything. And we do all the cooking, too. Not just peeling the taters, I mean everything, from unpacking the raws to cleaning up after.”

Vera snorted. “Yes, and I suppose next you’ll be telling me that peeling potatoes isn’t a fundamental part of boot.”

“Well sure it is,” he conceded. “It’s just that normally that’s all we do. Peel and clean, sure, but actually cook?”

“I’m not complaining. Screw’s good at what he does.”

“Sure he is,” shrugged Clove. Screw — Nutmeg, though no one remembered it by this point — had a sprinkling of his eponym on his flank. Though he was a baker by trade, he was no slouch in the kitchen. Their unit ate pretty well when Screw was in the kitchen, no doubt about that.

“But there aren’t any full time kitchen staff around here, though,” he pressed. “Cleaning staff neither. Except for the admin building, the whole place is like a ghost town.”

“You know how it is,” she said, grabbing another potato. “From each according to his ability.”

“Sure, and since none of us has anything to claim as our own, we share everything we have. One in hoof and heart, and all that. But doesn’t it seem just a little odd that they’ve got a handful of supervisors for a few hundred of us? Even the armory has recruit guards!”

“Under the supervision of a deputy from the Royal Guard!”

“A deputy. One.” Clove shook his head. “Look, building character is one thing, but this place is understaffed. You’ve got to see that.”

“Sure, there aren’t many ponies around,” she said, stripping half the potato away with a single flick of the knife. “Damn. Okay, fine; let’s assume there are supposed to be more ponies here. Official ones, with the yelling. What then?”

“What…?” He shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I just think it’s interesting that boot camp, of all places, is hurting for staff.”

“As opposed to?”

“If they’re having trouble finding personnel, don’t you think they’d pull them from other places first?” He waved around with the knife. “I dunno. Reserves? Administration? Logistics, and replace ‘em with civilians?”

“Sure,” she shrugged. “Makes sense.”

“Then, logically, if they’re pulling ponies from boot…?”

“Then… then what? They’re needed elsewhere,” she shrugged.

“Try the front lines.”

“Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “Right. Because putting teachers on a front makes sense. Instead of having them, you know, teach us or something.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

“You’ve seen the casualty figures,” he said quietly. “Got to be replacing them somehow.”

“Those aren’t official,” she said, shaking her head with a little smile. “There’s just a lot of trouble getting accurate figures on things. Ponies are gone for weeks at a time in trenches, doing their job. What, they’re going to stop for a headcount?”

“Putting an awful lot of hooves on the ground for no losses.”

“Not saying there are no casualties. Plenty of theirs, for one. Besides, look at it. Blackacre is huge. Need a lot of ponies there to watch over things, that’s all. That’s why I’m here.”

“What, you going to sit on a fence and throw sticks at them?”

“Somepony tried real hard to kill the Princess,” she said firmly. “Somepony’s out there trying to kill us, you get that? And for what? Because they want more money?” She shook her head gravely and gestured vaguely at her green cutie mark. “That rubs me the wrong way. I can’t sit around and make jewelry at a time like this. Why are you here?”

“No one’s buying it,” he shrugged. “Shopkeeper’s son. Look, I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I don’t think we’re getting the whole story here. Ponies are dying, lots of them, and they’re keeping us in the dark.”

“We’re recruits in boot, Gawker,” she laughed. “We peel potatoes, we follow orders.”

“Yeah, well. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, well, washout lane’s that way,” said Vera, jerking the knife over her shoulder without so much as a glance at him. “Twelve forty-eights in the admin office. Bet you’ll probably get a real live army officer to sign off on it too.”

For a moment, silence, broken only by the scuffling sound of potato skins being forcefully separated from their owners.

“That was uncalled for.”

“You’re uncalled for. You gonna go back to whatever cushy job your pops has lined up for you, or you actually going to do something about it?”

He bristled at that.

“I don’t really care what you think,” she said, finishing off yet another potato with supreme nonchalance. “All I know is that I’m here to follow orders. Not make them. Not yet.”

Another moment of silence.

“Makes two of us,” he said, and tossed her a fresh tuber. She caught it in midair, contemplated it for a moment, then grunted an assent and expertly pared off a long strip of skin. “Glad that’s settled.”

They peeled in silence, about two potatoes’ worth. They were getting pretty quick about the peeling process, but it was still chilly out. They couldn’t exactly wear booties on their hooves while also holding knives and potatoes; after long enough, anypony’s hooves would start to get numb.

“Well?” asked Vera, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well what?”

“We going to sit here awkwardly all day, or what?”

“I was considering it,” shrugged Clove. “What, you got a better idea?”

“I could throw another potato at you,” she offered, hefting one.

“Ha,” he said pointedly. “Ha. Hey, remember Sarge’s face when he realized what we did?”

“What you did,” she corrected with mock severity, but the eye roll took the bite out of it. “And don’t you forget that!”

“It was a good idea! And next time —”

“— great; there’s a next time —”

“— next time, all we need to do’s keep our heads down, you see….”

And with that, they were back to bantering. Senseless, pointless, but it filled the air. As long as they were following orders, they would be fine.

Greenies

18 March, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Lieutenant Sand with the three fifty-first, reporting for duty, sir!”

The blue unicorn took a few steps to the side, glancing down the line of fresh recruits. Each wore a standard issue overcoat, dark blue with a thin line of golden braid on the shoulder reminiscent of epaulettes. The pony absently glanced at his own coat. Once upon a time it had been blue, but between mud, grease, and a few darker stains any hint of coloration was a faded memory at best.

It kept him warm. That was enough.

“At ease,” he said, almost as an afterthought. In front of him, forty-odd ponies slumped slightly. He saw them glance around, and for a moment wondered what they would see.

To them, this was little more than a widening of the trench, triple wide at most. A pair of charred trunks in the middle of the area served as poles to keep a tent up; it didn’t do much good for heat, but it kept some of the snow off. They would wonder how many times in any given blizzard one would have to get up there and scrape the snow off before it collapsed.

In point of fact, about six or seven, a figure he reached through trial and cold wet error.

They would look at the equipment stacked and scattered around the corners, wonder what it was all for. Odd sized boxes, small stacks of wood. One corner, curiously clear, where until recently a number of large rectangular crates had laid, impressions still clear enough in the layer of ice on the ground in that corner.

For those few that would look up, they would see trees, of a sort. Certainly nothing green, nor even the plain brown of a tree that had just closed up shop for the winter. These were massive trunks, trees that had weathered a hundred seasons and might well go for a hundred more, save for the scorch marks down the side and the fine layer of silt and ash that covered them. None of them had anything resembling a canopy; if they did have a few stumpy limbs left, they were ripped and jagged.

The jury was still out as to whether any of them would sprout leaves this spring. There had been a betting pool, once; now it was little more than a tontine by default.

“Sir,” said Sand in a tone that indicated that perhaps he should have said something already, “what’s the local situation?”

Mal laughed. He couldn’t help it; here was a greenie asking him what the situation was. Situation normal, didn’t he know that? Situation normal, all fixed up, now that they were here. Praise be to new recruits. They could do anything.

If wishes were salt licks.

“Colonel Marston gave you an overview?” asked Mal.

Affirmative nods.

“Good. We’re second line, and we’re holding it until the equinox, when the brass figures out what to do with us.”

By which he meant, “at which point we’ll push forward, and most of you will die or be injured.” But of course they didn’t need to hear that. The dull ones didn’t need to know, and the bright ones would have had that figured out already.

Then again, the really bright ones wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“We’re holding red white red,” he said, waving a hoof at the markings on the wall. “We’ve got fifteen hundred feet of trench. Normally we’d have less, but this is second line.”

Nods again. They knew the figures; standard front line trench protocol had one pony every five feet. In reality it would be less than that — they had to sleep sometimes, after all — but the pony-to-trench ratio was a pretty good rule of hoof. Here, they would always have eyes on pretty much everything, but they wouldn’t necessarily be able to repel an attack without a few minutes’ warning. As a second-line trench, that was the point.

Of course, if they always got warnings… well, if they always got warnings, then they wouldn’t need replacement soldiers, would they.

“Quarters are wherever you make ‘em in the line; there’re some holes in the walls about right-sized.”

Holes carved out by their previous occupants, all of whom were now dead. Just another bit of information they didn’t need to know, if they hadn’t already caught on.

“We’re not connected to anything, except red white orange on the south side and red white green on the north, so you don’t need a cargo channel for gear and supplies. Take your meals here; that’s where the grub is. For the trench line, just keep enough space clear to walk through.”

A chorus of ayes, followed by looks of expectation.

“Well?” he demanded. “Go pick a hole, dump your gear.” He paused for a moment. “You find anything, it’s yours.”

Mal leaned back against the trench wall, grabbed at a piece of armor within forehoof’s reach and started polishing it. Not because it needed to look pretty, but because the damp would rust it otherwise. Half of what he did was getting snowmelt off things. You’d think it would be too cold for water, but nature had a funny way of giving you the worst of all possible worlds.

As he polished, the group dispersed into the trench on either side, save for Sand and a few of what looked like his lieutenants. Well, second lieutenants. Same idea. The young pony approached Mal and hesitated for a moment.

“Got something to say, Sand?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the bit of gear, a hoof-cranked emergency generator. “Say it. Can’t be hesitating down here.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“And knock that off. Sir’s for the ponies who care.”

“All right — all right.”

Another pause. Mal glanced down the trenches on either side. “You wait any longer, they’ll take all the dry holes.”

“Oh, we’ve got that covered, s— covered,” said Sand, waving at the four ponies behind him. “They’ll be bunking by squad, each spacing out and keeping a bunk clear for the squad leader. I figure I’ll bunk in the middle.”

“Been a long time since I looked at the handbook,” he commented with a nod. The arrangement was straight out of that handbook, of course; break up the squads to ensure equal coverage and someone with authority within earshot of everypony at all times. “I assume you’re bunkin’ in here with me.”

“Planning on it, sir,” said Sand with a nod. “On this side, backs towards the front line, to keep spotters from seeing us.”

“To keep them from seeing us,” echoed Mal with a smile. He put the gear down and jerked a hoof back over his head, towards the general direction of the Blackacre line. “Take a look, kid.”

“Sir?”

“Take a look,” he repeated, ignoring the honorific as it seemed mostly a reflex anyway. “There’s a Mark I standard-issue box over there. Go stand on it. Tell me what you see.”

He hesitated, but was on the box quick enough. He snuck a peek, making sure the area was clear, then stuck his head out, peering over the front line. After a few seconds he ducked back down.

“Looks like a front line to me, sir. First-line trenches about a hundred feet up. Big burned-out tree at two hundred fifty, foliage starts at maybe three hundred. Visibility —”

“Good,” said Mal, cutting him off. “By the book.”

“Thank you —”

“Which doesn’t cut it here,” he finished. “You stuck your head out of a trench. Why?”

Sand’s expression faltered.

“Because… you told me to, sir.”

“I did,” he said. “And?”

“And… I shouldn’t have?”

“Do you trust me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?” he asked incisively, glancing at the four second lieutenants, inviting them to chime in. Understandably, they did not. “In the past fifteen minutes, you’ve seen my every move. At no point did I turn around and look in the direction of the front line, much less actually verify that it was safe.”

“I… no, sir.”

“Let me ask again. Do you believe me?”

“I — did, but I shouldn’t?”

Mal nodded. “There you go.”

“But — sir, someone’s got to check.”

“Absolutely.” Mal waved at a bit of gear on the ground. “That’s a periscope. Know it. Love it. It’s a lot easier to replace one of those than your head.”

Grave nods, as it dawned on them that here, even the most routine task could be fatal.

“Turns out, though, you were right,” said Mal, hopping on the box. “I heard you tromping through like a herd — gonna have to work on that, by the way — and took a look before you moved in. C’mon up. Butterbars too.”

The five young ponies diligently joined him on a stack of various boxes. They stuck their heads up over the lip of the trench, though it took them a few seconds to get more than the barest hint of eyeball over the edge.

“That big tree there,” said Mal, nonchalantly waving a hoof off at the charred mass two hundred feet away. “Watch it close.”

He could almost feel the intensity of the stares coming off his new underlings.

C’mon, you bastard, he willed the tree. Work with me. You’ll be shooting soon enough.

Sure enough, after a good fifteen or twenty seconds — movement. Just a hint, just a flash, but there was definitely something there.

“Sir…” offered one of the second lieutenants.

“I saw it,” said Sand, turning to him. “Sir?”

“Specify,” he demanded. If they were going to keep this trench safe, they were damned well going to be precise about everything. They didn’t have anything else going for them.

“Uh… movement, in that big knot maybe forty, fifty feet up. Couldn’t catch it.”

“You won’t, either,” said Mal. “There’s a light masking field. You’ll only see him if he lets you.”

“See — sir?”

“Tree’s hollow,” he said with a sigh. “Runs deep into their tunnels. That’s how they keep tabs on us.”

Sand didn’t share his confidence; in fact, he was growing increasingly agitated. “But if they can see us —!”

“Then, we know exactly what they see,” said Mal with a sigh. “We know what intel they’re getting. We know they know about whatever they can see, so all we need to do to keep something quiet is keep it out of sight.”

“Sir…” offered one of the lieutenants. “Wouldn’t it be better to get rid of it entirely?”

Mal didn’t respond: he lowered his head, horn glowing slightly; a moment later a beam shot out towards the tree — where it rippled like a stream of water, leaving the charred tree entirely untouched. The trunk glowed for an instant, little rivulets of blue coursing down to the ground.

“It’s magicked,” said Sand. “Damn.”

“Mmhmm.”

They stared at the tree for a few more moments. It looked over the landscape at them, entirely silent, entirely watchful.

“Go to your holes,” said Mal. “Dump your gear, cozy in. Get a set of drills ready. By tonight, I want every one of you to know every square inch of this trench. You need to know it blind and backwards.”

“Aye sir,” said Sand crisply; in a moment he and his team had hopped down and were filtering out to the rest of the trench, checking in on their ponies. The sound of organized activity filtered up to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t a very familiar sound anyway; the troops usually quieted down after the first few midnight mortar strikes. Nothing like a few casualties to take the excitement out of a front.

Mal stared at the tree for a minute more. He had never seen the pony in there, didn’t even know their gender, didn’t even know if it was the same one. It didn’t matter, though; he and the… the tree knew each other. Long nights he had been here, staring at the tree, with it staring back. Neither of them could touch each other; the tree’s field deflected magic both ways.

Magic wasn’t the only way to communicate.

Hefting himself up on tip-hoof, he slowly rotated his forehooves so they were out in front of him. He was an open target now; a half-decent sniper could take him from the Blackacre line, but it didn’t matter.

With a sharp snapping motion, he brought one hoof up over the other in a rather unmistakable gesture.

One day, he thought to himself, one day he would personally burn that tree down, preferably with a half-dozen ponies inside of it. The least he could do for the others in his squad, in his original squad, most of whom were either underground or unconscious in hospital tents. He hopped down from the box, and noticed that none of the greenies appeared to notice his little display.

That was fine. Those that survived would understand it soon enough.

The Gamble

19 March, Y.C. 970
Castle Blackacre

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, that’s a problem,” shrugged Gaston. “Because that’s the best projection we can do, and there’ve been six of us locked up in that room for the better part of a day now. Think like them, be like them; that’s what they’d do. It’s the only thing that fits what’s actually happening on the ground, the only —”

“I believe you,” said Beatrix with a wave of her hoof.

A pause.

“Sorry. It’s late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” mumbled Taylor absently. They were all being a bit snippy at each other. Certainly the hour didn’t help, but there was a more oppressive feel to the room than usual.

They were holed up in the main study, a largish chamber off the throne room. Like the great hall, it had a map of the region; this one was vertical, hanging off a wall hook whose original purpose was long forgotten. Unlike the big one, though, it forewent markings of troop positions for a set of red rings, not dissimilar to topographic markings, centered on the five main Canterlot camps.

“It’s the only sensible thing for them to do,” huffed Gaston. “We’re dug in too far. They can try to press, but we’ll just collapse around them, re-form once they’ve bubbled out. They tried that on the west side last week. Pushed in, halfway from the Ridge.”

“Yeah? And how’d that work out.”

“Seemed to be going well until they ran into an ursa.” He grinned. “They ran pretty quick there.”

“As I recall, we lost that ursa.”

“And a half-dozen timberwolves in pursuit,” he added, slightly miffed. “They lost hundreds, and you can bet they won’t be pushing back any time soon.”

“Which is good,” said Beatrix, “but we can’t afford those losses in the first place. Don’t care how many they took with them. Especially the ursas. We’ve got, what, five left?”

“Four majors and a peck of minors,” chimed in Taylor.

“That’s not acceptable.”

Gaston snorted. “Tell that to the Princess.”

Her glare could cut through the reinforced steel they had over the windows in the room. “Maybe you’d like to tell her yourself, next time she drops in.”

The Princess. She snorted. Last time she was here… well, she wasn’t even here, was she? It must have been an illusion. Had to have been. That was the only way she could get in and out without anypony noticing. The alicorn was magically talented, there was no denying that, but why bother teleporting when a projection would do, and at no risk to her own precious little hooves?

Besides, that wasn’t going to happen any more. Not with the protection fields up. And even if she punched through, there would be a hundred different alarms before she could flap a royal wing. No, the only way the Princess was getting here would be along with her troops the old-fashioned way: straight through the lines, covered in mud, and over every last body of Blackacre’s defenders.

“Run it by me one more time,” she said after a moment, sitting back in the chair. The first time around, Gaston had made markings on the map. The second, he gestured at them. This time, though, he gave no sign of getting up from his own chair. Why would he? They already knew it all. It… it just needed one more round of coverage.

“It’s straight out of the good General’s book,” he started, skipping most of the introductory bits. “He wrote the book on guerrilla warfare. At least, the chapter. Chapter… what, eight?”

“Nine,” chorused Beatrix and Taylor.

“Whatever. Pacification, do it either through conversion or by wiping them out. We’re getting plenty of propaganda, but it’s all recruit this, join up that. Nothing aimed at us. So we can strike that.”

“I feel left out,” sniped Beatrix.

“So, only solution is to just get rid of us. Or at least enough of us so that it doesn’t matter any more.”

“So why not just shoot us all,” offered Taylor, in an entirely bored tone. They were running the paces, and he for one had had enough of it. “Keeps it simple.”

“Underground. Can’t shoot what you can’t see. So they’ll smoke us out.”

“By the book.”

“By the book,” he agreed. “That’s all Pommel’s good for.”

“And we can’t counter it,” interjected Beatrix. “Not enough party cannon or flyers.”

“No, but we can redirect.”

“By…” she started, then shook her head. “By dumping magic. That we could use to defend, or hide. And with who knows what consequences.”

“If we channel it right, we don’t need to do anything other than set up the redirect. If they use magic, this’ll just channel it back down to the soil.”

“And what will happen then?”

“No clue,” he said, shaking his head. “It’ll burn, but it’ll be a slow burn. It’ll draw the power straight into the land.”

“There’s a reason you don’t ground magic willy-nilly,” said Beatrix, doing her best to play devil’s advocate. “Trees are bad enough. Already some of them are doing… weird things. Growing buds in the middle of winter. Shaking. One of them started bleeding, washed the watchpony straight out. And you want to do that… to the ground.”

“Not as strong. We’re not redirecting to shield; we’re just redirecting.”

“So we’ll still burn.” She snorted. “Somehow I don’t have confidence in this plan of yours.”

“We’ll burn, but not as much, and not as long. They’ll need a lot more than they think they do.”

“And the more they use, the more magic you redirect.”

“Right.”

Beatrix rubbed her temple.

“Look, I’m not quite sure I understand what consequences this will have. But I don’t think anyone does. Nopony has ever tried this on such a large scale before. Certainly not outside of controlled conditions.”

“That’s right.”

“Speaking of which — have we even done a controlled test?”

Gaston shook his head. “We just don’t know enough about what they’ll use to do it. And we don’t have the magic to spare. Something like this, we go big or go home.”

“Go big or no home,” corrected Taylor, eyes closed.

“Right.”

A pause.

“I wouldn’t be suggesting this if it wasn’t the only choice we had left.”

“It’s not much of a choice.”

“No, it’s not, but it’s all we have.” He sighed. “They’re on a war footing now, and all we can hope is that they trip themselves up.”

“Trip themselves up,” she echoed.

For a long while, none of them said anything. Off in a corner, a handful of embers glowed a friendly warm color. In the distance, every so often, they could imagine they heard something. When they had realized that artillery wasn’t getting them anywhere, the front got a lot quieter — but it had also gotten closer.

At this rate, they wouldn’t make it to the summer solstice.

“If this works,” started Beatrix quietly, “and I stress that if; if this works, we’ll be putting more magic into the ground than the entire Dragon Skirmishes, combined. And we have no idea what will happen.”

“The ground won’t like it, but it’ll keep us alive.”

“Won’t like it?” She snorted. “We’ll be lucky if boulders don’t sprout legs and eat us alive.”

“I’d be fine with that,” shrugged Gaston. “As long as they remember who’s on their side.”

She stared at him for a moment, blinked twice — and then laughed.

It was reckless, dangerous, simply ridiculous beyond comprehension. Nopony had ever tried something like this before, and they were doing it for the first time. Not only were they banking everything on a long shot, but they were banking it on a long shot that would only even make sense if the Princess took a certain very specific set of actions. They had had some success in predicting Canterlot’s actions before, but something like this required assumptions, implied deploying weapons that had never been used against ponies before. Implied….

“Do it,” said Beatrix firmly. It was clear that more discussion wasn’t going to generate answers; the important ones wouldn’t — couldn’t — be answered until after all was said and done. Besides, they were tired, and they would soon have quite a bit of work to do. Getting everything ready by the equinox wasn’t going to happen, but with a bit of luck the snowmelt would delay things by enough. The more time the better, for madness of this variety.

“We’ve got nothing left to lose.”

Tradition

20 March, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“Welcome to Ponyville, Miss…?”

“Margaret,” said the tan pony, brushing off any inquiry into her surname with a friendly smile. “Just Margaret.”

“Miss Margaret, then” echoed the greyish pony with a smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. “Might be a bit early, but you could probably go with Mayor Margaret at this point.”

“It’s definitely too early for that,” she said, looking around the little hall. It wasn’t much of a town hall, but between the secrepony’s desk, a small office for her, a big room full of records, and the cavernous meeting hall across the street, it technically had everything they needed.

Everything save for an actual mayor.

“How’s Mayor Maher’s condition?”

“He’s…” started the pony, then shook his head. “Doctors give him a chance of pulling through, but whenever I press them on details, they close up quick. His injuries weren’t bad, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t recover… physically.”

She nodded. At the tail end of her little visit to Ponyville earlier in the month, she had paid the hospital another visit and had a few words with the chief of staff. Three months of recuperation from the shell blast had done him good, and he had physically recovered about as much as it was possible for a pony to recover after losing a limb. Patching up the old stallion was one thing, though; making him whole was another.

“So you’re the one who’s been running things around here,” said Margaret, wandering off towards the actual mayor’s office. A peek inside the door revealed a desk, a set of file cabinets, a lamp… certainly it didn’t seem lived in. “Is it always this…?”

“Mayor Maher never liked — likes — to spend time in here,” offered the secrepony with a shrug. “Office time was work time; the less of it he spent in there the better.”

“Fair enough.”

“As for me, I use my own desk,” he continued, waving a hoof at his own overburdened bit of furniture. “And yes, I’ve been taking care of business around here, at least as much as I can.”

She nodded. They may have lost a mayor, but fortunately for Ponyville, there wasn’t too much for a mayor to actually do. Sure, a pony in charge was useful as a figurehead, but with the majority of the Royal Army parked a few miles outside town, things tended to run themselves pretty neatly.

“Can you get me up to speed in five minutes or less?”

“I’ll do it in two,” he laughed. “Ponyville. Small town, most of the population rural. Solid agricultural base, some light commercial in town. Perfectly normal until the Army moved in next door, and then problems kind of stopped happening.”

“I bet,” she said with a nod. Life’s little problems suddenly mattered a whole lot less when you put them next to the sound of artillery off in the distance, not too close to be actively concerning, but not too far away to wholly ignore either.

“Anyway, things are going well enough.” He waved to a stack of files on one of the cabinets off to the side. “Most of this mess is me reorganizing things, now that I have time to do it. There’s a bit of new stuff that comes in every day — mostly births, divorces, that stuff — but it’s not too long.”

“Right,” she said. That wasn’t exactly the type of report she had in mind, but the informality made sense in this environment, something she had anticipated thanks to Jackie’s advice. Everything was wood, for the love of Celestia. Even the floors! Not a cut stone block in sight. Hopefully this place had decent heating.

“Wait a moment,” she said with a frown. “You’ve got all the records. Divorces, births… deaths?”

“Right,” he said. After a moment, his face lit up with recognition. “Right. Uh, they take care of all of that. Apparently the army has its own internal filings to do anyway. So I had a few words with one of their secreponies, gave them a stack of blank death certificates, and they fill out the civil certificates at the same time as their own stuff. If I had to do it, I’d just need to hike over there anyway to get causes of death and all. Anyway, they ship ‘em over here in boxes every week; I sort ‘em out by city, re-box them, and send ‘em off.”

“That’s why they all come from here,” she realized. “I just figured you were all pulling overtime.”

“Nope,” he said with a sad smile. “Just me. Actually, that reminds me; need to get them a new set of blanks sometime soon. At this rate.”

“At this rate,” she echoed.

The secrepony rubbed his neck uncomfortably for a few moments.

“So — you’re the one who gets everything I send off to Canterlot.”

“Yes,” she said with a nod, glad to steer away from that particular topic. “That’s me. It’s a bunch of us, actually, but we split it all up, so we can stick with towns and get to know the kinds of problems they have.”

“Kinds of problems we have,” he repeated with a laugh. “We’re all a bit different, you know.”

“Of course,” she backpedalled. “I just mean that you’re, uh, not going to get the types of harbor problems that Baltimare might. Ponyville’s a lot more like Hoofington than —”

Margaret stopped short at the look the secrepony was giving her. A moment later she smacked herself in the face.

“That’s, uh, not the kind of analogy you’ll want to use around here,” he said gently.

“Dammit. Sorry.”

“No worries; you’re new around here.” He looked at her curiously. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“You asked for me,” she said.

“I asked for someone to take over, sure thing. I’m not a mayor, never was any good at making the plans. But if you’re on the Canterlot staff.” He paused. “So… why are you out here?”

“Well, they needed to send somepony,” she offered. “I’ve been out to Ponyville a few times before, visiting some friends, and it seemed like a nice enough place. That’s the impression I always got from Mayor Maher’s reports.” She brushed the file cabinets with a hoof; they echoed with a friendly muffled tone. “None of the normal temp town managers were available, so I figured I’d come out and see for myself.”

The secrepony nodded, but there was something in his eye she couldn’t quite place.

Canterlot might be a lot of things, but friendly and inviting it was not. One didn’t rise very far in the central bureaucracy without learning to lie through one’s teeth, and do it well. Not out of malice, but rather out of convenience. Most of the time.

Plus, there was no way he could know she was lying. Why would he? He had submitted a request for a temporary manager for the run of the mayor’s incapacity, and had been promptly informed that one was incoming. Not only did he not have any reason to investigate, but there was no possible way he could learn information about temp availability. Heck, it had even taken her a few days to figure out how to maneuver the placement into her lap, and she knew had done the original administrative scouting!

No, his distrust wasn’t based on knowledge that she wasn’t being level with him. Nor did it seem to come from a dislike of city ponies; he had been friendly enough, and didn’t seem like the type to hold a grudge based on one’s origin. That left only one possible basis for his curious expression: he could read people.

If she was going to take over here, she would need bring in somepony else on whom she could rely. Maybe Jackie, if she was minded to get back behind a desk. If not, she would just have to fire him.

Of course, it was still a bit too early for that. She hadn’t even been here an hour, much less proved she was capable of handling the job. It couldn’t be too hard, though; this country pony had managed for three months alone, and she had him to show her the ropes. Speaking of which.

“Anyway,” she said, brushing aside the previous conversation with a fresh gesture at his desk, “what’s on the docket?”

“Tomorrow’s the twentieth,” he said, smoothly shifting gears and gesturing at a calendar on the wall. “Winter wrap-up.”

“Right.” She paused. “And?”

“And, we’re out of unicorns,” he said with a helpless shrug. “Almost all of them have enlisted, and those who haven’t aren’t strong enough to do much of anything.”

“All right. Pegasi?”

“Again, just old ones or juveniles, maybe a few dozen of each. Most of them can’t fly any more, or not for long.”

“I don’t suppose we can ask the Army for help.”

“I’ve tried,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “but they categorically refuse to give us any unicorns. They need every single one, they say.”

Margaret moved over to what looked like a map on the desk, and traced out the Ponyville contours, mumbling to herself. After a few moments, she glanced back up at him.

“We do it by hoof.”

He blinked.

“By hoof,” she repeated. “Our unicorns can’t melt snow, but they can shuffle some clouds around. We’ll have pegasi spotters for them. I’ll see if I can wrangle a wing or two from the Air Patrol; they aren’t doing much at the moment.”

Not yet, at least… hopefully, they wouldn’t. If the rumors were right, that was a plan that didn’t bear contemplation. If….

“Normal Earth ponies can take care of the ground,” she said, pushing thoughts of rumors out of her head. “We’ll have to jury rig the ploughs, but it can be done. Find somepony to figure out the lake ice, too; maybe we can chop it up.”

“Can we even do that in one day?” wondered the secrepony. “It could probably work, but….”

“At least it will work,” she said firmly. “It’ll probably take two or three days to do it all, but a lot of little towns are in the same boat, and nopony back at Canterlot will fault us for it.”

“Right,” he nodded, taking a few notes on a pad. “I’ll get the woodcutters together and figure out how many axes we can get. I won’t even try with the Air Patrol; they’ll probably turn me away at first sight.”

“I’ll take care of that,” she said. “What about the pegasi?”

“There’s a list of resident names and pony type in a chart on the desk. With those, you can figure out team assignments.”

“Thanks. Does that have wingpower ratings?”

“And hornpower, for the few unicorns we have left.”

“Perfect,” she said with a nod. “I’ll get some basic numbers, figure out how much more we could use from Air Patrol, then pay the forward base a visit.”

“Good luck,” said the secrepony, and then paused for a moment, shaking his head. “By hoof. This is crazy, I hope you realize. Ponyville has wrapped up with magic, always has. Just like everyplace else. It’s traditional!”

“Traditions have to end somewhere,” said Margaret, sitting behind the desk. Her desk — at least for the moment. “Besides, if we pull this off, after a year or two of doing it the hard way? You just watch; doing it by hoof will be traditional.”

“As long as we get it done,” said the secrepony.

“As long as it gets done,” she agreed. “All right. Let’s get to work.”

Black Destroyer

28 March, Y.C. 970
Blackacre Forest

“Keep close,” barked Sand, with more confidence than he felt.

He didn’t need to say it twice; none of them particularly felt like getting too far apart from the only other ponies in earshot who they knew weren’t trying to kill them. By the dark and gloom down here it might as well be midnight, even if sunset wasn’t for another fifteen minutes.

They had started the push at the beginning of the day, when it was mostly bright and sunny. Still wasn’t particularly warm, but it might as well be full-on summer as compared with a few weeks ago… though, judging by the snow on the ground, it might as well be mid-January.

It was the snow that got him, really. Ponyville had wrapped up a day behind schedule, but by now, they were entirely sunny-skied and snow-free. So was everywhere else north enough to warrant a wrap-up. Everywhere, that is, except for Blackacre.

Sure, the river was swollen enough with snowmelt from the Canterlot mountains. And all of the wintry traces along the trench line had been cleared off; no sense keeping snow around just for fun. But they had done that, done it with their own horns and hooves. Out here, in the depths of the Blackacre Forest….

Nopony had cleared this snow. Nopony had cleared the winter clouds, recalled birds, broken the ice. At first they had thought it was simply a matter of personal safety — who in their right mind would go out to clear snow off a battlefield, or waste magical energy to do so? — but now, ten hours into their advance, they had realized it was tactical. All the Canterlot ponies had prepped for early spring combat, and down here in the deep forest it was still frozen.

“Hudson! Newt! Hightail it to that tree, get me cross-light!”

“Sir!”

A pair of unicorns detached from the forward cluster and sprinted off to a nearby oak. The thing must have been two hundred years old; they both fit behind it with room to spare. On a three-count, they popped out on either side, scanning ahead for a few seconds. Satisfied that all was well, one of them tuned his horn as a searchlight, illuminating the underbrush for thirty yards in every direction, supplementing the main force’s lights.

Main force. There were thirty-three of them now. Marty and Quim and Darryl and Scott, and that was just in the first ten minutes, pushing over the first line of Blackacre trenches, and that was after the Canterlot front line had supposedly cleared it….

Sand pushed the names from his mind, moving forward at a steady pace, the sound of snow crunching under a hundred hooves the only thing keeping them company. That, and the growing sense of unease as they drew farther and farther from the other platoons. Theoretically, the front line had already combed through here and established a forward beachhead on the other side of this little chunk of forest, and all they were doing was combing the ground for booby traps, tunnels, perhaps some abandoned equipment.

In practice, though, they were moving through what had, until some point this afternoon, been enemy territory. Regardless of what the sun said, it was night down here under the branches, night and cold to boot.

Patting at his cross-harness to make sure the knives were still there — new habits died hard — he trotted up to the captain.

“What is it, Sand?” he asked, without so much as turning around.

“Uh,” he said, flummoxed.

“Unless it’s some other pony come to talk to the bitter vet?” he offered without a trace of humor.

“Right, sir,” he said.

They stepped over a log. A fairly large one, maybe a few seasons old; it had started to decompose, but any progress had been frozen by the winter. Given that no one had changed seasons around here, who knew how much longer it would be frozen?

“What’s our ETA?” he said after a moment. “You’ve studied the maps more than me.”

“You mean, are we there yet,” rephrased the captain.

“No, not at all, just —”

“No,” he said simply. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

Sand licked his lips. Right. Of course.

“Two more miles, by my numbers,” he said. “Assuming we don’t run into anything.”

“Assuming.”

“By the time we get there, the Eighty-Fifth should have cleared our accommodations. We’re heading for what used to be a farm, so there should be some buildings for shelter. I want triple guard. We can afford to lose some sleep tonight, because we won’t have a perimeter locked down yet.”

“Understood,” he said. “I’ve got teams ready.”

“No you don’t.”

Sand blinked. “Sir…?”

“Now that we’ve lost ponies, you’re going to need to rebalance the shifts.”

He deflated slightly. “Right, sir. Sorry. I… I forgot.”

“Try not to,” said the captain tightly. “And get some light on that ravine.”

“Hudson! Move up!” called Sand, gesturing towards another large tree on their right. “Burke! Hicks! Break left, cross-light!” He paused for a moment. “Keep moving and your eyes on the ball; go for the cuts.”

A pair of ponies to his left flashed smiles and slipped past a pair of bushes, off to the flanking position so they could shed some more light on the terrain ahead. As they move, the captain gave a low chuckle.

“Sir?”

“I used to play too, you know,” he said, with a hint of… was that warmth in the captain’s voice? “Before boot. Small forward. How’d your team do?”

“Second place,” said Sand, a bit surprised that the captain had ever done anything besides growl at fresh recruits. “Got upjumped by a team running a Pranceton offense.”

“Flash in the pan,” muttered the captain. “Doesn’t work unless you’ve got your fundamentals, and nopony’s got time to train during boot. Only works if you’ve got a solid team coming in.”

He frowned. “Thought your colts were going to light this place up.”

Sand blinked; the light coming from the position on the right was gone. They had enough of it, especially with a half-dozen ponies lighting the way from the middle, but the crosslight was good for the uneven ground.

“Vascolt, Drake, break right,” he ordered. “See if Hudson fell into a hole or something.”

“On it,” said a burly mare, reshuffling her pack and moving off, accompanied by a pale blond colt. After a few moments they disappeared behind a bush, then popped back out, their own bobbing light heading towards the flanking team’s position.

“Maybe they fell asleep,” offered another pony in the line.

“Newt slept like a foal last night,” chimed in another. “I’d know. Ass kept snoring.”

“Loves his sleep, so maybe he went back for more?”

“Hah! That’ll be —”

“Quiet!” snapped the captain, stopping short. “You hear that?”

A hush fell as they immediately turned out to scan the forest — and heard nothing.

“No, sir,” said Sand, shaking his head slightly. “What —”

Two things happened at that moment. Which of them came first, he wouldn’t be able to remember. He might have been able to remember at the time, had he the presence of mind to try and connect the dots in that manner. With a bit of jogging, he might have even remembered the order after a day or two. At the moment, though, he wasn’t exactly thinking about the future, because the light from Burke cut out entirely, and the forest was pierced by a blood-curdling scream.

“The hell was that?”

“Vascolt! Get over —”

“— to back! Back to —”

“— above, almost from the sky!”

“D’you see that! In the trees, like —”

“Shut up!” roared the captain. “Circle up! Outriders, pull in!”

“Vascolt!” shouted Sand. “You see —”

“No sir!” she called back, bounding over a shrubbery. “No sign of ‘em!”

Vascolt sidestepped a largish rock, stepped behind a tree… and didn’t step back out. A half-second later, a black blur shot past against the forest, too fast to see.

“Lights! Everypony!”

In a moment the thirty-three — scratch that; twenty-seven — of them were bathed in light like the sun, a score of horns burning colors into the dark. Sand strained at his own horn, but it didn’t do any good; the more they shone, the more the forest seemed to eat it up, absorbing all traces of light deep within.

For a few tense seconds, no one moved so much as a muscle, the silence complete and total.

Another black blur between the trees, maybe fifty feet out; as one they turned and planted to face it. Then another, behind them. A third; a fourth; was it the same one? Who knew. The forest was full of shapes, whirling through the dark, cloaking themselves in it.

The ponies of the three fifty-first might have no idea who or what they were, but each and every one of them was now terrified for their life.

“Sixteen miles to camp,” said the captain through gritted teeth, his quiet voice painfully loud in the still air. “Two to the rendezvous.”

A pool of inky blackness shot from one tree to another not twenty feet in front of them.

“If the eighty-fifth is still there,” muttered a pony.

“Stow it,” shot the captain. “Only one way to go, and that’s forward.”

They were back to back now, a ball of ponies bathed in what little light they could summon in the darkness. Every one of them had knives out, with the odd assortment of spears, javelins, and even a claymore or two. Whatever they felt most comfortable with. Nopony was going to cite regs about standard weapons at them now.

Another moment passed, marked only by a pool of black shifting from tree to tree in the distance.

“Let’s go,” prodded the captain.

“What — now?”

“The longer we wait,” he hissed, “the longer we’re waiting.”

“Understood,” said Sand, “but what about —”

“We’ll be back tomorrow at daybreak,” he snapped. “If they’re alive, they can hole up for twelve hours.”

And if they’re not, then it didn’t matter, did it.

The forest was deathly quiet, broke only by the heavy breathing of twenty-seven heavily armed ponies. It sure didn’t sound like any of the others were alive. But what if… no, no sense asking that. They couldn’t rescue anyone else until they rescued themselves. Priorities.

“All right,” said Sand, keeping his voice low. In vain; it rang out uncomfortably loud in the icy stillness. “Battle buddies, two by two. One looks forward, one everywhere else. Captain in the middle. Let’s go.”

Slowly, the ball of ponies reassembled into something resembling a formation; even more slowly, they started moving forward.

One step. Then two, three, five. After a minute, Sand found himself crunching through what seemed very much like fresh snow. They were making progress, slow and halting as it was, with every pair of eyes staring into the black outside, straining to catch the sight of something, anything.

He kept seeing motion. Just a flicker, out of the corner of his eye, but there was something out there… wasn’t there? Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe not — but either way, tricks hadn’t killed his six outriders. Or had they? Maybe they had tripped, were sitting in a ditch….

All six of them. Yeah, right. Sand stumbled over a rock, snapping back upright. He dared not take his eyes off the forest, not even for a moment.

He wished they could take off at a full gallop, burn hard for the encampment that had to be close ahead. The eighty-fifth wasn’t too much larger than they were, but there was something to be said about strength in numbers against a night dark and full of… something.

They couldn’t do that, though. Couldn’t even think about it. The moment they bolted, they’d be vulnerable. Not as a herd, no, but each individual member would be at risk. The slow ones, the ones at the side… some of them would survive, but they would guarantee losses. Even if they eased into it in total control, completely cognizant of each others’ positions, keeping flank to flank as they wheeled at full bore through the frozen underbrush, there would still have to be somepony at the back, somepony on the far side.

Somepony in a perfect position to be picked off. Given how the rest of this night had gone, that was something they couldn’t risk.

“Easy…” somepony was whispering next to him. He risked a glance; it was Gaitman. He had always been a flighty one, with more bravado than brains; looked like this time around he was reassuring himself. Normally Sand would clamp down on the chatter, but… well, they could all use some reassuring right about now.

“Got a little ridge coming up,” said the captain in a tense and level voice. “Fifteen feet. Take it slow and easy, we’ll get over it just fine.”

Not to mention that, for a moment, they’d hold the high ground. For what that was worth out here. Still, any advantage was worth taking, even just for a little while; maybe they could follow the ridge towards their destination.

Sand shifted slightly to get his eyes forward, looking towards the ridge. It wasn’t too high, and the slope leading up to it was refreshingly clear of debris, though there did seem to be some patches of ice under the drifts, which was to be expected. And, along the top, a lithe black form —

He shouted a warning, but it was gone, slipped away into the night without a sound. Instantly they circled up again; nopony was risking anything this time. For a few moments, the forest was silent, holding its breath just like the ponies, waiting to see who made the next move.

Then, ever so gently, a sound from the black.

It wasn’t a growl, not per se. It was farther back, throatier, with a dash of whistling wind and an undercurrent of snap to it. It didn’t sound like a timberwolf, but then again who knew what they would do to secure the kill. Under no circumstances could the sound be interpreted as anything resembling ‘friendly.’ And then, just when he thought every hair on his body couldn’t possibly rise any straighter —

A second noise.

Then a third.

Then — many of them, in synch, overlapping, circling them like hunters who have their prey surrounded, like a pleased cat toying with its latest catch before the final blow.

These weren’t mice, though; they were ponies. Heavily armed ones, at that; between knives and swords and spears and armored warhooves and the occasional grenade they had enough firepower to raze a small village. No, if these shadows in the night, these destroyers in black wanted to take them, they would have a hard —

As if on a signal, the noise stopped, the night falling again like a black velvet bag over their heads.

“Hold!” roared the captain. “We hold! To the last! And —”

Whatever inspiration was coming was abruptly interrupted by a blood-curdling scream behind him. Gritting his teeth, Sand kept his eyes bolted to the forest, tracking a pool of shadow as it slipped between trees, hiding then coming back out, faster than he could think. The shadow went back and forth and back and forth and suddenly he noticed a pair of eyes on it, slits reflecting the pale hornlight, and then he was raising his daggers and the eyes were coming towards him —

What little light filtered through the forest was swallowed whole as Sand’s field of vision turned into a mouth with dozens of pearly-white and athame-sharp teeth.

Voice of Reason

9 April, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

“Sheesh. Gawker, you okay?”

“Yeah.” He scratched a bit of caked mud off the long knife and went back to shining it. One hour downtime a day, and they spent it cleaning their gear. Hell of a way to be.

“Well, you don’t look it,” said Airhole, sitting down on the bunk across from him. “Mind if I join?” he asked, waving a harness.

“Go for it. Need oil?”

“Sure, thanks,” he said, accepting a little tin of the oily rub that kept the leather straps supple. In theory, they only needed it once or twice a week. In practice, though — specifically the full-contact practice that seemed to be the only type the sargeant cared to have them go through — their gear got a whole lot more beat up than it should.

“You done yours yet?” asked Airhole.

Clove nodded. “Feels like I did it yesterday, too.”

“Ha,” he said pointedly. “Ha. You complainin’?”

“No sir,” he laughed.

“Good.” Airhole worked a strap, rubbing the oil deep into the grain of the material. “Because you know what Sarge says.”

“Oh boy.”

“Doesn’t matter!” he barked, in a passing approximation of the minotaur. “Out there, in the real world, the ponies on the other side’ll be tryin’ to kill ya! Cleaning your gear isn’t just a good idea; it’ll keep you alive!”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. Clove finished off the knife, tossed it back on his bunk, and picked up a greave.

“’Course, it’s not the staying alive part I’m worried about.”

“You kiddin’?” Airhole snorted. “That’s the biggest part of it for me, say what.” He shook his head, an odd expression on his face. “I’d rather kill than be killed.”

“I’d rather neither.”

“Fair enough.”

They continued cleaning in silence, most of which consisted in getting caked mud and dirt off their gear. Spring was nice enough — especially the lack of snow; that was a winner in anypony’s book after six months of winter, and especially with a winter like that — but the thaws tended to muddy everything up for a month or so. April showers and all.

The barracks weren’t empty, but close to it; most of the ponies were cleaning their gear outside, taking advantage of the weather. It wasn’t fantastic, but even having the option to stay outside voluntarily was enough for most of them. The only other ponies in here were the ones tired (or lazy) enough to prefer leaving their gear where it was, rather than drag it out and drag it back in. They dragged enough things enough places during the day.

Eventually, though, they had to be done sometime. The handful of other ponies in the room had finished and stowed their gear, going outside to joint the others for a few last words before evening, a breath of fresh air, maybe a shot at seeing if they could raid the pantry. That never ended well, but at least they tried. After all, they were more than halfway through this damn process. Sooner or later somepony would have to start treating them like more than dirt.

Clove finished polishing his gear and tucked it away in the trunk at the foot of the bed.

“Turning in?” asked Airhole.

“Probably,” he said, stretching a bit. “Ropes course tomorrow, so I hear.”

“All right.”

A pause.

Airhole kept wiping down his harness, but Clove realized that by this point he was giving the damned thing a second coat. Not that that was a bad idea, per se, but it wouldn’t last five minutes in the muck on a full contact drill of the sort Sarge liked.

“What you said a while ago,” said Airhole in an altogether casual tone. “D’you mean it?”

“Said a lot of things,” said Clove, picking up a piece of segmented armor and making polishing-like motions on it. Something told him it was better to appear industrious, at least for the time being.

“You don’t want to kill people,” he said with an easy smile, the sort that didn’t tend to appear on its own in the wild. “And you’re here in boot.”

“Seemed like the right decision at the time,” he shrugged. “Family owns a shop in Neighagra, but there aren’t too many ponies visiting this time of year. It’s real pretty when frozen, but travel… not so much, this last year. Wonder why.”

“Still,” shrugged Airhole. “Lots of things you could have done, and you still signed up.”

“Family thought it would be a good idea. You know what it’s like out there, all the pressure to join up. M’sister’s apprenticed to a clothier, looks to be taking over in a few years. Older brother’s half-running the family shop already. That leaves me.”

“You had a choice.”

“Sure I did. I could choose to sit on my hooves and look down every time anypony mentioned another one of their family off to fight. Or I could nut up and sign up.” He shook his head. “Not like I was being much use at home anyway. And now, anytime anypony says anything, my old man can hold his head high.”

Airhole nodded slowly.

“Noble,” he said.

Clove shrugged. “Whatever ponies think it is.”

“Doesn’t sound like you much want to kill anyone.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Looks like you got in the wrong business for that, then,” said Airhole, wiping off a strap. Little flecks of oil hit the ground, seeping into the old oak to make patches of varnish. “The Royal Army operates primarily in the field of killing people.”

“If I’ve got a choice?” he volunteered, “I’d like to keep people from being killed.” He kicked at a small dust bunny. “That’s my preference.”

“What if I told you a lot of other ponies feel that way too?” offered Airhole with a raised eyebrow.

“About joining up just to make their family proud?”

“About not really wanting to have anyone die today. Or tomorrow.”

“Then I’d tell you I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a sad smile. “But — tell you what. There are a few of us who’d rather just this whole thing end and be over with. No reason to kill ponies who don’t want to kill you, and I don’t think anypony really wants to kill anypony else at the end of the day.” He laughed. “I know, it sounds crazy.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.”

“Well, that’s the idea. Whole bunch of reasonable ponies sitting down to figure things out with words instead of pointy things.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” said Clove, with a faint touch of emphasis.

“Hey, I’m just glad I’m not the only one,” said Airhole with a friendly laugh. “Tell you what. Next time we get an afternoon off, there’s a mare I think you’d really like. She’s got some good ideas too.” He laughed. “They’re so reasonable, it hurts.”

“I’ll always listen,” he offered.

“That’s all I’m askin’,” said Airhole with that friendly expression. “Maybe, just maybe, we can think our way out of this one.”
He gave his harness a final rub-down, nodded at it, and stuck out a hoof, its keratin shiny and smooth from the oil. “All right, Gawker. Shake on it?”

“Sure thing, Airhole.”

They shook, and Airhole paused for a moment.

“Y’know this feels kind of silly.”

He stuck his hoof back out again.

“I’m Herminn.”

Clove’s mouth twitched up.

“Clove. Nice to meet you.”

“And you,” offered the other, shaking it heartily. “All right, got to get my gear back in my trunk before Sarge pops in for a surprise inspection. See you ‘round!”

“’Round,” echoed Clove with a nod, as Airhole — Herminn — hopped back over the bunk towards his own on the other side of the room. Even with the other pony gone, though, the threads of conversation still dangled in the forefront of his mind.

Reasonable discussion. Now that’s something he liked the idea of.

After all, talk never hurt anypony.

The Beast Below

22 April, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

They were droning on again.

The other Secreponies tended to do that, but the tendency was perhaps most pronounced when dealing with something that they didn’t really want to deal with. And yet, all of them felt they needed to at least say something. Nopony cared what Kate Sebilly, Secrepony of Health and Equine Welfare, thought about the war. Ponies died in it; by definition, that was bad for their health. End of story.

Not that it mattered much anyway. McNamare was going to tune out anything they said at this point. She didn’t care if every single colt and filly in the country was deaf, dumb, and illiterate; that wasn’t her job and she frankly didn’t care. There were more important things to worry about.

Staring idly out a nearby window, she couldn’t help but notice the crowd gathered, as usual, in Haymarket Square below. There had been a time when the only ponies who were always there were the usual assortment of drunks; now, though, there seemed to be a proper twenty-four-hour vigil, interpunctuated by groups of chanting protesters in the morning and in the evening, just in time to clog the square when ponies were getting to and getting off work.

She paid them no heed. As long as they were just yapping about, they weren’t a threat; without access to national media, all they could do would be to stir up the few percentage points of nutjobs in Canterlot. And if they decided to do more than that, the Royal Guard was more than capable of handling any situation that might arise.

Still didn’t stop them from being damned annoying.

What were they complaining about, anyway? If it was the slow pace of progress in the war, and nopony could mistake that they were making progress, then their canvassing could only get in the way. If they were complaining about the fact that there was a war in the first place, then she would love to see just exactly what they proposed in order to fix the problem. First pony to come to her office with a time machine wins.

No, they were a bunch of idiots. That much was clear enough. Regardless of how they got here, the simple fact of the matter was that a portion of Equestria was now actively trying to kill and otherwise harm other ponies. Therefore, they needed to be stopped, by any means necessary. How was this so complex?

And why did the Secrepony of Education get a turn?

A few moments into what were undoubtedly introductory statements to prepared remarks, the Princess’ voice cut in, gently reminding all present that perhaps statements of position were best kept out of the council chambers.

The Secrepony had the good graces to look slightly red.

“All right then,” she said with that warm and disarming smile that usually made an appearance towards the end of tense council meetings. “Any last elements of business?”

“Yes,” said McNamare with the trace of a frown. “I have one last item to bring to the council’s attention.”

Around the table, eyebrows arched.

“Secrepony McNamare,” said Secrepony Hay smoothly, “I do believe we’ve covered the conflict in Blackacre in some detail.”

“Hear, hear,” muttered someone towards the end of the table.

“That’s not my current point of concern,” said McNamare, sliding a set of dossiers across the table. “These are the latest reconnaissance reports from the Second and Fourth Wings in Appleloosa and Hayseed, respectively.”

“Fascinating,” said Hay, “and I fail to see why —”

“Dragon activity is on the rise,” she said bluntly.

For a moment, the table was silent.

“Go on,” said Princess Celestia.

“Thank you,” McNamare nodded, recognizing the official endorsement. “Activity isn’t significantly higher, but it’s measurably up across the board.”

“What are we talking here,” butted in Hay. “Number, locations, assets?”

“Everything,” she said, “across the board. More dragons. More encampments. More suspected supply depots.”

“What quantities?”

“Again, nothing major, but enough to warrant separate warnings by both Air Wing commanders, independent of each other.” She gestured at the briefing. “I’ve included their tactical assessments of the situation.”

The Princess nodded. “A summary, if you would be so kind.”

“In a nutshell, it’s exactly what we feared. With both Royal Army and Air Patrol mobilized, they’re looking for opportunities to take back what they lost in the Skirmishes.”

“They didn’t lose anything,” pointed out Hay.

“You can’t find it on a map, but to them, pride is as good a reason to invade as any.” She shook her head. “That, plus the possibility of gaining ground. Our forces are fully deployed and taking losses. We’re replenishing at a sustainable rate, but our replacements are green. We’re losing Skirmish veterans, losing the experience that turned the tide for us.”

Sebilly rolled her eyes. The Secrepony of Health disliked any death, as might be expected, but she was particularly opposed to the vigorous conscription program that had been implemented. Some nonsense about taking ponies out of the educated stripe of the workforce. Apparently she didn’t fully appreciate that, without the efforts of those ponies, there might not be a workforce by this time next year.

“The point is,” she said, recovering the attention of the room, “the dragons know we’re in a vulnerable spot. We can’t afford a two-front conflict.”

“We can barely afford a one-front war,” grumbled Geldner.

“Which is why a two-front war would sink us,” she said with a nod at the Secrepony of the Treasury. “And they know it. Both major-generals concluded that we need to keep a modest force in reserve at all times to head off any potential threat. And, frankly, I’m inclined to believe them. The last thing we need is dragons.”

“That takes ponies off the front lines,” said Hay. “Puts a dent in the hammer-and-anvil strategy. Our push is already going slower than expected. If we can’t commit more troops, we’ll lose whatever momentum we have.”

“And if we give the dragons even the smallest clawhold, we’ll lose a lot more than that.” She gestured again at the reports. “I hate to say it, but this breaks down very simply. Between keeping our current troop levels, taking Blackacre, or holding off the dragons, we get to pick two and hope for one.”

A few moments of silence, broken again by Hay.

“Can we hold off the dragons with reduced forces?”

“It’s not a matter of holding them off. It’s a question of showing force. We can’t trick them; either we have forces on the border or we don’t.”

He frowned. “During peacetime operations, the borders are manned by a skeleton crew.”

“Sure, but that crew is backed by the full Air Patrol, which can mobilize on location inside of a week. Now, though, we don’t have any reserves — what they see is what we have. If we deploy a skeleton crew now, even a smallish one, they’ll know there won’t be reinforcements on the way. That’s the difference; we need a full complement of Air Patrol ponies on the lines.”

“Can we push on Blackacre and return to cover before the dragons get wind of it?”

“Tactically, yes; strategically, no.” She shook her head. “We can afford to deploy the entire Air Patrol for two days, three at most. But, our flyers need to be back in position on the border before long; we can’t have them away long enough to support a full ground offensive, or anything close to it.”

“When do new forces start hitting the ground?”

“June? Honestly they won’t make much of a difference, not at first. We’ve been making up losses out of reserves, and we’re almost out of those. By the time new recruits start hitting the ground in force, they’ll be picking up the slack from reserves. We’ll keep a roughly level number of deployed forces, even with recruitment up as high as it is.”

Hay shot a knowing look at Sebilly.

“What about… extraordinary measures?”

“That would help long-term, but again, without a few months for training, the numbers won’t matter.” McNamare winced. “Even if we… take action now, the new influx won’t come in until later. This is a now problem.”

“I fully agree,” said the Princess. “Our obligations first and foremost are to protect the ponies of Equestria from the draconic threat. Tell your generals to use any and all forces necessary to reasonably secure their lines. But no more.”

“Yes, Princess,” she said, taking a quick note. That was the status quo; there was nothing to change on that count.

“All other forces are directed to push on Blackacre as fast as possible,” said the Princess, fire in her eyes. “Harmony must be restored before the imbalance threatens the rest of Equestria.”

“Of course.”

A pause, contemplative on the part of the alicorn.

“Lastly… increase recruitment quotas. Fifteen percent across the board.”

“Princess!” exclaimed Sebilly.

“This is the least of the alternatives,” she said firmly, cutting off any notion of discussion. “And it will be open to reconsideration. I suggest we make do with fifteen percent.”

“Yes, Princess,” said McNamare with a quiet nod before Sebilly could dig herself a deeper hole.

“Thank you,” said Princess Celestia, rising. “Thank you all. I believe that is all for today; we all have much to think about.”

Somber nods across the room. Some of them had more to think about than others, but at the end of the day Equestria’s problems were their problems.

“As always, if any of you wish to meet with me, my door is always open when the good of Equestria is at stake.”

As always, the group dismissed itself fairly quickly, ponies dissolving out the doors.

And, as always, McNamare remained behind.

“Do we need to draft?” asked Celestia bluntly.

McNamare sighed. That was something she had no desire to design or enforce, but if it was needed….

“It would wreak havoc for internal politics. Years of fallout.” She paused. “I don’t think we need to do it. Not yet. Raising quotas will help, but some areas are already starting to run dry of volunteers. We need to wrap this up soon. Another winter’s worth… I don’t want to imagine it.”

“Neither do I,” agreed the Princess. “But would it work?”

A pause, a long one.

“It would.”

The alicorn gave a slight nod.

“All right then.”

She glanced towards the window; though the sun was still up, it was obscured by clouds. How fitting.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare.”

“Of course, Princess,” said McNamare, grabbing her materials. “Until tomorrow.”

“If not sooner,” she said with a half-smile. Late night meetings were nothing new around the castle, and these days… well, if late nights were the worse of their problems, they would be well off indeed. “Good night.”

As McNamare exited the chamber, leaving Celestia alone, she glanced again out at the sun. She still had a good twenty, twenty-five minutes before making the obligatory appearance on the balcony to usher in the night.

Those were twenty minutes she could dedicate to the problem at hand. They couldn’t draft more ponies, and they couldn’t make any progress on Blackacre while the dragons remained a threat. The problem admitted of a number of partial resolutions and messy covers, but she had been toying with a particularly elegant solution over the past few days.

Bringing a powerful external force into the castle was dangerous enough as it was; though she could easily control it, the fact that it would all have to occur in secret made the proposition a delicate one at best. That said, given the circumstances, she didn’t have much of a choice.

She could do it, of course. She had before, she would again. She wouldn’t be much of a princess if she couldn’t smuggle foreign royalty into her own castle. And, tricky though it was, she could hide it from McNamare. She was remarkably bright for a secrepony, perhaps the brightest in a few hundred years, but there were always ways, even if they were difficult.

The only problem would be doing it twice.

Before I Sleep

29 April, Y.C. 970

— run, had to run; couldn’t, but had to. That, or fall to the death nipping at his heels. It was icy, but not cold; hot, yet somehow he shivered. Didn’t matter. They hadn’t cleared the snow, hadn’t bothered; it would take care of itself now. Just like everything else. Take care. So neat, so tidy. All white. White and red and black in night.

“Won’t get me yet, you bastard,” he mumbled. Slow, this tongue of his. Lethargic. Like everything else. His legs weren’t working too quick, but he willed them to motion, one in front of the other. One step at a time, four steps at a time. Close behind him now. Couldn’t hear them, but then again you never did. Not until it was too late.

He had promised her that he would be back, and dammit he was going to keep that promise. No matter what happened… but he couldn’t be sure about that. He would do his best, but that wasn’t enough. Couldn’t be enough. So he would run.

Was that a tree? He couldn’t tell; didn’t matter. Around it. Quick quick. Where was — didn’t matter now. Another one; over. A rock, under. Left, right, forward. Always forward. Couldn’t run back, not if he wanted to. There was safety there, closer than the direction he was going, but getting there… no, there was no going back now. Not if he wanted to live.

“…for his own protection, of course.”

“Of course.”

A pause.

“Is it all… you know.”

“What?”

“Necessary? I don’t mean to grouse, but it’s pretty clear that nopony’s going anywhere. Not with those restraints.”

“It’s not just a question of protection from, but protection for. Two weeks ago one of the survivors from the Eighty-Fifth bit half her tongue off.”

“I… see.”

The voices were easy enough to tune out. After all, who was going to be talking to him here? The forest held only trees, sticking out like charred bits of memory in the pitch-black night, reflecting off the snow.

There was a bit of ice underneath, but it didn’t matter; he was hauling through at top speed. Fresh snow, all of it; it must have fallen recently. When did they figure that trick out? Didn’t matter; it was there, and he could use it. Step on it carefully, press straight down, lift off; didn’t even matter that there was ice. It would trip them up, but not him. Not him.

Damn, but they were fast. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, couldn’t smell them, but they were coming. Somewhere in the dark, he knew. He knew. They could probably smell him, too; smell the scent dripping down his face. How was he sweating in this cold? Maybe he was moving too fast for it, leaving little icicles in his wake… pointing straight at him….

He risked a three-point step to raise a hoof and squeegee his face; nothing came off. Lookit that, he was dry already. In this cold? Never mind that; keep running. Had to. There was fresh snow, though. That made no sense; he had to be off track. He was just retracing his steps, right? Going back….

“…various types of neuroleptics, but none of them have been more than minimally effective.”

“Have you gotten anything out of them?”

“Some, yes. There were a few moments, even a few hours once. They wear off quick enough, though.”

“Wear off. Adaptation?”

“No sir. More like returning to a state of ineffectiveness.”

“Hm.”

“They’re simply not designed to treat something like this. There isn’t a chemical solution to this particular case.”

“What, you’re telling me it’s psychosomatic?”

“Not at all. It’s entirely real.”

The fresh snow continued unbroken, but he realized it was fresh, not crusted — there were hoofsteps all right, but they were just below the layer. Quickly scanning side to side, he thought he caught one, two… no, that couldn’t be enough. There were forty of them, more.

Well, not anymore. Maybe this was enough. What was the worst that could happen? He pivoted a few degrees, barreling through the trees on a different course. They all looked the same, though… trees and ice and snow and shrubs and darkness, and always behind him the… the….

A noise — in front of him this time.

Instantly he was on alert. Who…?

“Over here!”

He broke the run, trotting up to what looked an awful lot like a handful of ponies who had paused to take a breather. One of them wore two thirds of a uniform, a gold bar hanging off the shoulder.

“Where…?”

“I don’t know, sir,” he said raggedly. “We’re all that’s left.”

“We’ll be none that’s left if we don’t move our asses,” he growled. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Sir,” offered another, a female pony with a pair of silver bars, “I… I don’t think I can go on.”

“Maybe we should rest,” said the first.

Murmurs of agreement from the others. One even had the gall to sit down on a rock.

“Like hell we are,” he shot. “We’ve got to go, come on. Move!”

“I… don’t think we can do that,” responded the first, wavering slightly. Behind him, some of the other ponies had also sat down; they faced every which way, and further still behind them the forest roared a silent blackness at them.

“Get up! We have to go!”

“I… dunno. I think we could use some rest.”

Murmurs of agreement.

“If we don’t go, we’ll all —”

“All what?” asked the first pony. “Look, we’re in the woods, it’s night. I can’t see anything. Can you?”

A pause.

“Well then. C’mon, sir. Just for a bit. Tomorrow —”

“There won’t be a tomorrow like this,” he muttered. But… the pony had a point. They were tired, that was true. He had been running for so long. Just a bit, that’s all it would take. Just a bit.

“All right,” he said after a few moments. “Five minutes, though. Just five.”

“Just five,” agreed the pony, settling in next to a rock.

He patted the note in his pocket. The last letter he had gotten, it was still with him. There hadn’t been any new ones for a while, but with all the reshuffling that wasn’t surprising. He liked all of the letters, but this one was already one of his favorites; it quoted an old poem. He liked it. Well, he wasn’t going to reread it now. No sense; too dangerous. Just a few minutes of rest, after all.

Still wary at the prospect of staying still, much less sitting, he glanced over at the other ponies. One of them had — had lain down?

“Hey,” he called over to the pony. “Soldier. Up.”

No response.

He padded over, which was surprisingly not difficult to do on the fresh snow, still clean and unbroken despite a half dozen of them tromping around. Stepping around a sleeping form, he tapped the pony on the shoulder.

It slid off.

He started to turn, to shout something, but the first pony wasn’t listening. He was frozen, staring off into the forest. But it wasn’t dark now, not like before. It was lit up, a shining blackness punctuated by rows of white.

“Run!” he shouted, but it wasn’t working. The teeth wrapped around the young lieutenant’s head, and for a moment his expression was one of total surprise.

And then they clamped down —

“…heightened state now.”

“How can you tell? The equipment’s over there!”

“It’s happened enough.”

A moment of silence.

“What’s he saying?”

“It’s a reference to… well. Were you on call when they came in with him and the others?”

“What others?”

“Corpses. The other corpses.”

“Ah… no.”

“Then just take my word for it that it’s a reference, okay?”

“All right, all right.”

Another pause.

“Will he… you know?”

“Eventually.”

He turned away as the lieutenant’s neck snapped, already at full gallop by the time the blood started seeping into the snow. There was nothing to do for him. He was gone, the others were gone, and all he could do now was run.

Run.

Run, though his legs ached at just the thought. He would power through it. Always had, always would; he was tired, but there was nothing to be done. Why had they ever thought it a good idea to stop in the middle of the forest, without so much as a farmhouse near? Between the wood and the frozen earth, what were they to do?

He gave his combat harness a shake, feeling the friendly rub of the leather against his breast. Everything was still there, for what it was worth. What good was a knife against shadow? He dared a glance behind him; off in the distance he could make out a circle of red on the ground — and no ponies left.

No sign of the… the other, but there wouldn’t be. He was being tracked, being followed. Fresh snow, but he was blazing a trail through it a blind mouse could follow. The only other sounds out here were the easy whistling of wind and the barely perceptible sound of snowflakes touching down, but he couldn’t hear either of those. All he heard was the sound of his own heavy breathing and his heart slamming against his chest.

These woods might be dark and deep, but he had a promise to keep. He had told her he would be back, and he had to come back. Had to.

“Miles to go,” he muttered. He didn’t know how many of them, but there had to be a lot. No matter. He would run, and when he made it… if he made it. Then he would sleep. But not yet. Not yet. Had to run. Right behind him, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t… he knew it was there. When he got back.

If.

“How long?”

“Almost a month. Found him at the north end of Saddle Lake, tracking the river up.”

“How the hell did he get there?”

“No idea. That trip should have taken two days, maybe three. Judging by the composition of the corpses, he had been out for a day, little longer.”

“Heavy.”

“Yeah.”

A moment of silence.

“And he’s been… you know. Since then?”

“Running ever since.”

He could sense it behind him. Knew it was there, right behind him. He was so tired.

“Miles to go,” he murmured through gritted teeth and ragged breathing. “Miles to go.”

He ran. He had to run; what choice did he have? His legs screamed at him but there was nothing to be done; he needed to run, had to run; couldn’t but had to. That, or fall to the death nipping at his heels —

Haymarket

5 May, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

“Eleven dead,” said McNamare stiffly. “Four guardsponies and seven civilians. A hundred-odd injuried. We lost five fruit vendors and a silversmith’s shop.”

“And six months’ worth of goodwill,” growled Celestia.

They were alone, here at the top of the Sun Tower. The small balcony didn’t offer much room, but it gave a stupendous view of Canterlot itself — more importantly, a view far enough removed from any prying ears, if the light privacy enchantment wasn’t enough.

It was always somewhat unnerving, hearing the Princess speak frankly, but she supposed if this was as close to anger as she was going to see, then that was all right in her book. She didn’t want to be within a hundred miles of a truly angry alicorn.

“Damage control is already underway. We’re spinning it as a peacenik gone violent.”

“Peacenik?” echoed the Princess. “Peacenik. A full half-dozen sociolinguists on staff, and that’s the best we could come up with.”

“We’re three months into a redefinition project for the word. It seemed appropriate.”

“Fine,” she said, waving a dismissal. “Peacenik bomb. How’s the investigation going?”

“Eight suspects. One publishes an antiwar pamphlet paper, four are mid-level leaders in the group that’s been organizing the demonstrations. All have been detained pending charges.”

“And how soon will those come down?”

“Five of them were found with suspicious chemicals on them. All can be traced to a known safehouse.”

“How convenient.”

“Yes, very. We’re fast-tracking prosecution; they should be arraigned within the week.”

“I don’t suppose it’s too late to play it down.”

McNamare gave a little smile. The Princess was talking to herself at this point, and what she said didn’t really matter. After all, she knew exactly what was happening. She had to. She was the Princess; knowing things was her job.

“We’re playing it straight for now, giving the press a few more days to figure itself out. There are minor leads spread out for most of the major spins we could throw on it, and depending on what the long-term strategy is, we can pull and bolster appropriately.”

A murmur of acknowledgement from the alicorn; it was apparent that the conversation had shifted from talking to herself to not talking at all.

That was fine by McNamare. She didn’t get up here much — nopony did; it was the Princess’ private quarters, after all — and it offered the kind of view that only a pegasus got on a regular basis.

Down below them, half of Haymarket Square was still roped off, and specks of blue and gold milled about. Not that the Royal Guard had anything to do right now, nor that their spears and halberds would do much against another explosive, but at least they looked like they were doing something. That’s what counted.

And, for the moment, looks mattered. The eastern half of the square was still scorched at the blast site, and the façades facing the square still bore signs of damage. One of them had collapsed entirely, leaving only a pile of brick where one of the market stalls used to be.

Had it only been a day? Certainly it felt like more; she had been at her desk almost constantly since then, fielding calls and issuing orders. Ever since the first guard dashed through her door….

She hadn’t even felt the rumble from the blast, though to judge by the destruction it was big enough. And that stuck with her. The explosive was large, but it wasn’t all that effective. A handful of dead and a hundred injured? The square held five hundred, easily, not to mention anypony in the streets nearby or buildings next to it. Frankly, the explosive seemed designed to make a big boom, rather than kill anypony.

Not that that made much sense either. Who would attack protesters? Certainly they wouldn’t; the last thing Canterlot needed was to give the anti-war factions more press exposure. Their plan had been containment through obscurity, counterweighted by a steady stream of goods news out of Blackacre, carefully culled from the daily reports and casualty lists that just kept adding up. And of course they weren’t going to bomb themselves; where was the sense in that?

Anyway. Her job wasn’t to figure out the why — at least, not for now. She had to work with what they had and try to salvage some of this mess. They needed to deliver a victory, and had a month and a half to do it. Not that there was anything tactically special about the Summer Sun Celebration — it wasn’t an equinox, with all the attendant weather changes that wreaked havock with logistics and battlefield strategies — but rather because it was a symbol. And, right now, that’s what they needed.

With a low rumble, the Princess muttered something to herself. Time for her to make herself useful again, it seemed.

“Why didn’t they detect it?”

“Ma’am?”

“The explosive. The city gates have basic security enchantments, and the reports say there were unicorn teams on patrol when the rally started.”

“There were,” she agreed. “I don’t know why they didn’t pick anything up. Maybe too far away, maybe the concentration was too low. Judging by the chemical traces, it’s a standard compound, so we should have been able to detect something.”

“Masking spell?”

“Possible. Seems to be the only way at this point. Somepony went through a lot of trouble to attack a single peace rally.”

“Peacenik rally,” corrected the Princess with tight lips. “It’s your word. Use it.”

“Of course.”

A pause.

“Accelerate the Blackacre timetable,” she declared. “Ten percent across the board. We need to end this.”

“I — understood, Princess,” said McNamare. “I don’t know how much we’ll be able to do. Their timberwolf teams are ripping our supply lines to shreds. We’ve got a few beachheads, but not much more.”

“You’re going to find a way to fix that.”

“I’ll do my best, but at the end of the day we only have so many ponies in theatre,” she said. Using a firm tone with the Princess was never a good idea, but she knew that, in this situation, it was not only allowed but expected. Half of her job was telling it like it was.

“We simply don’t have the ponies to both put on a show for the dragons and continue the advance. We’re out of reserves; any reinforcements are coming straight out of boot.”

“Increase quotas.”

“We’re already at plus fifteen percent and facing some major pushback in some of the coastal areas,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s hard to feel invested in a war a thousand miles away.”

“Make them care,” she shot back. “Because if they don’t, they won’t have a choice.”

McNamare nodded slowly. This wasn’t a subject she particularly wanted to get into at the moment. No one liked drawing up those kinds of plans.

“Aspia,” said the Princess, “this needs to be taken care of.”

“I agree.”

“This, meaning Blackacre.” She paused for a moment, staring out at the city. Her city, the one she and she alone could protect. She had been doing it for a thousand years, and somehow things kept going wrong. Just once, when Equestria was saved, she wanted it to stay saved, even for a while.

“I want contingency plans,” she said quietly. “Every possible cause, every possible effect. I want a full spread of options, ready to go at any time. I want them to cover every major contingency and then some. I want them to create contingencies. I want every possible solution to the Blackacre problem.”

Celestia turned her head, staring straight at McNamare.

“I want preparations for any means necessary.”

She swallowed.

“Any,” repeated the alicorn.

“Un… understood.”

“Good,” she said, fire in her eyes. “We need to stop this before it gets out of control.”

“It might be too late for that.”

“Then turn back time,” said the Princess with a thin smile. “That’s your job; figure out a way to do it.”

“Actually… I’m talking about the dragons. We know they’re on the warpath, and we’re about fifteen years too late to stop them.”

“Then that’s a contingency,” said the Princess, slightly irritated. “Plan for it.”

“With due respect — you don’t plan for dragons.”

“I do,” she said flatly. “Speaking of which, I will also require a complete copy of our tactical information on the dragons. Locations, extrapolations, psych profiles. Skip the strategic analysis, but I want all the low-level field information we have.”

A pause.

“That will be all.”

McNamare bowed her head slightly, leaving the Princess to her silent vigil. She shivered slightly at the thought of her task, definted with those three little words that changed so much.

Any means necessary.

Graduation

11 June, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

From the halls of Ahuizotl / To the Gallopoli shore….

It had been six hours since the parade, but Clove still couldn’t get the song out of his head. They had marched and wheeled for the better part of forty minutes, lining up at attention and crossing smartly and doing all other sorts of sharp-looking moves to show that they had, in fact, accomplished something over the past four months.

Four months… it might as well be four years. He had changed; he knew that. Everypony had; that was the basic idea. Trouble was, the kinds of things that changed didn’t exactly show up on the outside. Sure, most of them had gotten leaner, and all of them were in better shape, but anypony could spend a few weeks hitting the gym and get much the same results.

And so they pranced around. If it weren’t for the fact that they were all in block formations, it might as well be dressage. Prancing about like showponies… but how else were they going to show off that they had accomplished anything? You had to put on a show for the press… and the families.

For some reason, the stands had been mostly full. Clove didn’t quite understand why so many ponies had come out here. Every one of them had already said their goodbyes; they paraded around, got a few minutes to say hi to their families, and then back to work, getting everything ready for their own departure and prepping their barracks for the next crop of recruits.

Maybe it was different for him. His father had shown up, surprisingly. The conversation was awkward and stilted enough to make him wish that he hadn’t, though. He had said a few gruff words of appreciation, and then that was that. What more was there to say?

Anyway, they hadn’t had time for an extended conversation; they had been recalled to clean quickly enough. Not that the barracks was dirty, given just how often they cleaned it. This time, though, when the sergeant had gone on about eating off the toilet seat, they suspected he meant it. After all, the place had to be spotless for the new recruits. Had to show them the kind of standards they would be held to.

To show them. Clove almost laughed. That’s right, he was a soldier now, wasn’t he. That was a terrifying thought.

We fight Equestria’s battles / On land and sea in war….

He didn’t know how the band did it. It was a fine song, and they all knew it; espirit de corps and all that. But listening to anything for forty minutes was unnerving enough; he couldn’t imagine actually playing it. Oof.

“Circle up!”

The sergeant’s voice cut through the room, snapping them to attention. He sounded particularly sharp today; maybe he was making the most of the last few hours with them.

For a moment, he said nothing, surveying the assembled company.

“Today, you’re no longer maggots,” he started. “Today, you’re ponies. You’re part of the Royal Army. From now on, every pony in the Royal Army is your brother, is your sister.”

Clove noticed the minotaur’s jaw was clenched. Did… did he actually care about them?

Now that gave him a funny feeling inside.

“Most of you will go to Blackacre. Some of you will not come back. But the Royal Army lives forever.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And that means you live forever.”

“Do you get me!"

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Mmhmm.” Sarge crossed his arms, proud of himself. “Damn right. Now listen up! Got a lot of names to go through, and if you miss your assignment I’m not going back!” He rattled a piece of paper at them with a vicious smile. “You can just sit here for four more months ‘till you get another shot at it!”

A pause. He snorted.

“Screw!” he bellowed.

“Sir, yes sir!” shouted the named private.

“Oh three hundred, infantry. Holstein!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Oh three hundred, infantry. Floyd!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Eight hundred, unicorn corps. Chester!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Oh three hundred, infantry. Poco!”

The minotaur ran through the list methodically, listing them off one by one, assigning their fates. He was right; most of them would be going south, to Blackacre.

In the snow of frozen Northern lands / From oceans East to West….

Funny thing was, the hymn didn’t say anything about the south. Technically, everything between the oceans was covered, but still. You’d think it would at least make some mention of the dragons.

“Gawker!” snapped the minotaur.

“Sir, yes sir!” he responded, almost on instinct.

“Oh three hundred, infantry. Gun Show!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Infantry… infantry.

Well, what was he expecting? He was no journalist, no engineer either. Didn’t have a horn, didn’t have wings. Not that he would be here if he had wings; he’d be in Cloudsdale, for Air Patrol training instead. How did that slogan go again? Patrol does the flyin’, Army does the dyin’?

Yeah, that sounded about right.

“…unicorn corps. Airhole!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Oh three hundred, infantry. Blixem!”

The pony flashed him the quickest smile. Airhole had wanted this, he knew. For some reason, he was actually happy about being deployed to the front lines.

So much for not wanting to kill anypony.

“Oh three hundred, infantry.” The minotaur glanced over the list one last time. One pony hadn’t been called. Yet.

“Vera!”

She stiffened. “Sir, yes sir!”

“You’ll be reporting at oh three hundred to the infantry. Where you’ll be taking command.”
Vera blinked at him; he merely snorted with what might have been mirth. “Congratulations, Private. You just got a brevet to Second Lieutenant. Your marching orders take you from here to Saddle Lake, cutting through Canterburg Forest. All six of the platoons that graduated today are deploying out there, so you’ll have a big ol’ conga line through the forest.

“And if you’re wondering why you, it’s because we’re out of butterbars, and I told ‘em what kind of a squad leader you were.” His eyes narrowed. “Prove me right!”

“Sir — sir!” she barked, puffing slightly. “Yes, sir!”

Clove couldn’t help but smile. She earned it. Four months, and nopony led from the front like she did. Front of every line, first over any obstacle. Drove them almost as hard as the minotaur himself, but damned if she didn’t do everything she asked of anyone under her command.

We will glory in our title / As Princess Celestia’s best!

“All right — soldiers!” bellowed the minotaur for the last time. “Most of you are going to be on the road before dawn! Get your sleep now, ‘cause out there you’ll be lucky to find a patch of dirt! Lights out in five!”

The assembly broke up with a burst of chatter about their new assignments, who would be rolling out with whom, and whether they’d ever see each other again. Most of the infantryponies gravitated to Vera, offering congratulations to their new commander, even if only for the limited purpose of marching off to their deployment, but after a minute or two of fielding comments she waved them off and came over to Clove.

“Congrats,” he offered with a smile. “…sir,” he added, hinting at a salute.

“I — I guess so,” she said with a shrug. “Look, if I’m taking us over… I can’t do it myself.”

“Sure you can.”

“Ha,” she said. “I’m playing this by the book. Can’t be just me.”

“We’re a relief column marching from boot camp to a forward position,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “From here to Saddle means we’re literally marching next to the Canterlot mountains.”

“On the wrong side of the mountains,” she corrected. “I want a full spread of scouts. Outriders. And that means you.”

Vera held up a hoof to cut off the protest on his lips. “Don’t give me that. You’re the best outrider I’ve got. I don’t know what authority they give me, but congratulations, as far as I’m concerned you’re now a brevet second lieutenant.”

“I —”

“You’re welcome,” she said flatly.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“Thought so,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep. We’ll all need it.”

“All means you too.” He frowned. “Where you off to?”

“Got my scout,” she said with a shrug. “Now, I’ve got to divvy up the rest of my squads.”

“Well, as long as you get some shuteye too. We’ve got a long march tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, cracking a smile. “We’ll get there.”

Of that, he had no doubt. The more important question was whether they would get back.

Canterburg Forest

13 June, Y.C. 970
Canterburg Forest

Taking command, the minotaur had said.

Vera had assumed, as was entirely reasonable to do at the time, that that meant she would be taking command of their platoon, the group that had trained together for months now. It made sense; during training exercises, they had rotated platoon command through the squad leaders, and she had consistently been the best. They were used to working with her, she already had a lineup of reliable ponies, and she generally knew what she was doing.

Taking command of a group of two hundred and fifty ponies, on the other hoof, was a different beast entirely. Not just because she hadn’t been expecting it — she hadn’t — but the other five platoons that had completed boot at the same time were… different. They had worked together, on occasion, and often had worked against each other in competition, but a grand unified command like this… well, none of them had expected it.

As the major who ran Foal Mountain had explained to her, early in the morning, there were supposed to be six all-recruit platoons under the control of a single veteran captain, who would take them over. The captain was there mainly to foalsit them; the route they needed to take was quite straightforward, and it was about as safe as it got.

Unfortunately, that captain was… indisposed. She had never gotten a full story on that, and certainly didn’t expect to anytime soon, but it certainly sounded as if he had simply never arrived at the camp due to a delay of some sort. As a result, the major had put her in charge.

Not that she wasn’t grateful for the command opportunity. This was the sort of thing that shot ponies up in the ranking. Graduation from boot, and a brevet straight to captain? That had to be some sort of record. All she needed to do was walk them two days’ march, deliver the troops, and live up to the reputation thrust upon her.

She cracked a smile. Not, all in all, the worst possible thing.

Much less cheery than her career opportunities, though, was this damned weather. By the time they had actually stepped off yesterday morning, it was pushing on four hundred, with banks of low rolling fog to meet them as they descended into the valley.

They had reached the river by noon, though judging by the lingering haze it was hard to judge the time with anything other than a pocketwatch. They had marched to the river once or twice before, during training, and it was supposed to be a five hour trip; at eight hours or so they were taking it slow.

She was fine with that, though; they had two whole days to make the trip, and they were traveling slow for good reason. Aside from their combat gear — medium duty body armor, standard issue spear and knife set, personal weapon of choice if desired, and a small flask of high-energy hay slurry — each carried a supply pack. Some ponies had shovels and engineering equipment, some had tents, a few had big bundles of normal rations. They were self-contained at the unit level, and between the two hundred and fifty of them, were fully equipped as an expeditionary unit for non-specialized medium-term combat and support operations.

All of which was a bit overkill for a two-day hike, of course. Their preparations weren’t for the transfer, though, but rather for their arrival at camp. None of them knew what to expect once they actually got to their deployment, though they all expected it would involve combat operations within Blackacre itself.

None of them were looking forward to that.

Vera tried to keep their minds off of it, but it wasn’t working out so well. Problem with a march like this was it didn’t involve much thinking. Sure, the terrain was hardscrabble at points — calling the route through the forest a road was generous — but after a while you just went on automatic, freeing up your mind to think of other things.

All except the outriders, of course. She glanced out to the sides of the winding column of ponies, into the mist that had followed them down the mountain, across the river, and into the forest, where faint lights danced around them: outrider ponies, feeling their way over the land, searching for ambushes or traps.

Not that they would find any. Canterburg Forest, as might be expected, hugged the base of the Canterlot mountains; there wasn’t much beyond scrub brush between it and the decidedly wilder Blackacre forest to the south. The land wasn’t fertile, wasn’t rich in minerals; more importantly, it lay within the shadow of Canterlot itself. This was about as safe as rural Equestria got.

Still, it was comforting to know that the outriders were there, screening the forest in front of them. The main column was spread out, staggered pretty much according to personal preference. On an unpaved path like this, there was no sense in trying to keep a formation; they would have to break ranks every three steps to hop over a small gully or hop on a log. Besides, loose ranks were happy ranks.

Not that morale was a problem for a two-day hike. It was almost pleasant.

“Ho! Vera!” came a familiar voice behind her.

“Gawker,” she said with a welcome smile. “What’s the news from up front?”

“More of the same,” he said, trotting up beside her. “Path dips down a bit for a few hundred feet. There’s a little stream at the bottom.”

“Fordable?” she asked, hesitant. The big river at the bottom of Foal Mountain had a bridge, but some of the larger streams since then had required a bit of legwork to figure out where two hundred and fifty ponies could cross safely.

“Oh, sure,” he said with a shrug. “Hop over it. I’m thinking fresh water, though.”

“Right,” she nodded. It had been two hours since their last rest. No one was complaining, but they were welcome pauses, even if only for a few minutes. It slowed them down a bit, but they were getting close to Saddle Lake anyway. Only a few more hours now. “How far ahead?”

“Twenty minutes or so. That’s what they’re telling me.”

“Twenty minutes for you, or for us?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gawker laughed, but there was something else to it.

“You tired?” she asked. The outriders wore light armor but not much else. They traveled the same route, but did it the hard way, off the path and ahead of the column; scouts couldn’t exactly carry a full travel pack.

“A — bit,” he said with a quick nod. “Going to be happy when this is all over, though.”

“Over,” she echoed. “When we get there, that’s when it starts.”

“That… is true,” he said with another nod. “It’ll all change, that’s for sure.”

“Absolutely.”

They walked on a few moments in silence.

“I should get back out there,” he said with a vague wave in front of them. “See if there are any other streams.”

“Sure,” she said, dismissing him with a wave. He dove ahead, picking up speed; in a few seconds he had rounded a curve and was out of sight.

That was a bit odd of him. Usually he stuck around for a few minutes after reporting, if only to talk. It got mighty quiet out there in the middle of the forest.

Certainly this haze didn’t help. It was late in the afternoon, but again that was a determination better made by a timepiece than by looking to the sun. At least they could see the sun, though; a faint disc of white through the trees, it wasn’t much, but at least they could see it. From what she remembered of Blackacre, the trees tended to grow quite a bit taller there.

Rounding a turn and continuing in the general direction of the rest of the column, Vera let herself go on automatic. Setting aside the fact that they were literally soldiers marching off to war, it was actually quite pleasant here.

There was a faint earthy smell to the air, and save for the jangle of harnesses on the column of ponies it was silent in the forest. The haze did a number on absorbing sound, but the ground did its part. Here the soil was slightly moist; it must have rained recently. Between the mist, the damp earth, and the trees, sound didn’t project far at all; it was muffled, as if the ground itself was taking a day off.

Above them, the mist filtered the light fairly well; it was diffuse, bathing everything in a faint greyish glow as twilight approached. It hadn’t been a pretty day in the normal sense of the term, but it was a quintessential rainy day in a forest, and that could be a pleasant thing indeed. A damp spring day, a day without a care in the world, the kind of day she could walk through for hours without realizing it, tuning out everything else and reveling in the essence of it. The hushed quiet, the slight touch of moisture in the air, the stillness of the forest around them —

Vera snapped back to the here and now, almost stumbling over a rock with the shock of seeing the forest around them entirely still, quiet, and devoid of any sort of light.

Where were her outriders?

“Dumn,” she called out. Ahead of her, at the next bend in the road, one of the platoon leader ponies stopped and turned, a quizzical expression on his face.

“What’s up?” he said, starting towards her at a light trot.

“Dumnorix,” she said, very slowly and evenly, as if to not startle the forest, “where are my outriders?”

“I —” he started, but stopped short.

“Form up!” he bellowed, but before the ponies around them could so much as grab their weapons a shriek of pure terror pierced the quiet of the forest.

Vera and Dumnorix glanced at each other and, as of one mind, immediately took off at a full gallop, a dozen ponies thundering at their heels. They tore down the path, taking logs and gullies at leaps and bounds, shedding packs and supplies and anything that wasn’t a weapon or armor.

Ahead they could see the path dip down into a turn; they rounded the corner and shot out into what looked very much like a clearing, with a little stream burbling to itself in front of them —

Along with perhaps two dozen bodies laid out on the earth in front of them.

Reflexively Vera gasped, recognizing the gear: these were Royal Army ponies. They… they were her ponies.

“What the hell happened here,” muttered Dumnorix.

Slowly they pushed forward, threading through the corpses that seemed to have fallen where they stood. Almost none of them had drawn their weapons, yet each was very much dead, surrounded by an expanding halo of reddish dirt.

As they moved closer, the brook got louder — until they realized that the burbling wasn’t a brook, but rather one of the bodies, its flank quivering ever so slightly with ragged breaths as blood pulsated on its neck.

Vera dashed forward, heedless of the fact that this was a textbook ambush if there ever was one, on a beeline for the one pony who was somehow still alive — but it was too late; the pony’s flanks shuddered once, then were silent.

Slowly she turned the pony’s neck in her hooves —

And nearly dropped it as she recognized the face.

“Gawker,” she whispered. “What… what did they do to you….”

“Wrong question,” said Dumnorix, coming up beside her with eyes wide. “What did he do to them.”

“The hell do you mean?” she demanded with a flare of anger.

“Look,” he said, running a hoof down Gawker’s neck. “Serrated cut.”

Her nostrils widened with revulsion from the freshly dead friend, but she knew he was right. She had seen those serrations before. They all had — that ragged pattern could only have been cut with a standard issue combat knife. They had all suffered a few of those by accident, when live-fire exercises got a little rough.

Except that this particular knife had torn through his jugular.

“There it is,” said Dumn, pushing Gawker’s head aside to reveal a glimmer of steel lying on the earth beneath, dyed a steaming crimson from tip to pommel.

“Why would one of our own attack our own outriders?” she wondered, musing with a part of her brain that perhaps this was what shock felt like. She was bending over the freshly slain corpse of the pony who had been one of her closest friends for the past four months. There should be an emotional reaction here, she knew, but for some reason she just couldn’t conjure one up.

Behind them, the thundering of hooves as a dozen ponies burst into the clearing, each one in full armor and clutching a weapon as if their life depended on it. Which, in all fairness, it probably did.

“What…?”

Slowly, Vera stood, her hooves dripping slightly on the earth beneath.

“What do we do?”

Slower still came the realization that their outriders were dead, their main column was utterly undefended and spread out over the better part of a mile, and they had no idea what was happening.

“Orders?”

On all sides, the forest was silent, its fog absorbing everything, even the metallic smell rising from the bodies in the clearing.

Above them, the sun had faded into a dull grey, somehow managing to cast shifting shadows through the haze.

And behind them, the muffled sound of a scream from the column.

And another.

And another.

Legiones Redde

16 June, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

“An entire company,” muttered Aspia to herself. “An entire damned company.”

She skimmed the briefing again, as if a fifth reading could squeeze some new facts into it.

It was entirely possible for them to have gotten lost. Sure, that was reasonable. Never mind that the road was decently well-marked, the path was almost a straight line, and the company’s commander — what was her name, Vera? — was by all reports competent.

Two hundred and fifty ponies didn’t just disappear for three days. No trace of them, either. Not that there would be: between the strong rains and the mudslides, everything short of the paving stones themselves would have been washed away.

Still, the scouts should have found something.

She skimmed through the resolutions attempted by the Saddle Lake command. Their aerial recon had been limited to high-altitude overflights — enough to determine that the company wasn’t anywhere between Saddle and Foal Mountain, but not enough to actually pick up any traces. The local commander had plead insufficiency of forces on that one; most of the pegasi in the region were stationed out of the Ponyville command, and so she hadn’t wanted to risk the few they they did have in a low-altitude flight.

The thought of flagging Canterburg Forest as hostile territory was more than a bit disconcerting. After all, it was just on the other side of the Canterlot mountains….

Never mind that. The company would turn up somewhere. They would have taken a left instead of a right, something stupid like that. Any minute now, a report would turn up from Hayseed asking why a company’s worth of dazed and confused ponies turned up at their doorstep.

And then she would personally demand that their commander — Vera Quilly, the report said; she didn’t recognize the name — give her back her company.

Depending on how badly the pony had screwed up, she might even make her answer to the Princess. Stringing somepony up was never a good policy as a matter of course, but a high-profile scapegoating every once in a while had its uses….

Anyway. She would have to find them first.

She jotted down a few notes on a piece of paper, stapled it to the report, and sent it down the tube to the secrepony offices far below. This kind of search operation required pegasi. If Saddle wasn’t going to risk them, then let Ponyville give it a shot. The company had originally been slated for Saddle, but at this point, whoever could actually find the reinforcements could keep them, for all she cared.

Aspia rose from her desk, loosing a minor symphony of pops and cracks as her back reminded her that she should have been in bed hours ago. Well, that would have been lovely, but sometimes things piled up. Emergencies tended to not care much for personal schedules.

Anyways, late or not, this was the kind of news that the Princess would want to be informed of. She resigned herself to having to hike to the top of the Sun Tower. If there were signs of life, she would brief the Princess personally. If not, she would leave a note and stumble back down, grumbling all the way.

She reached the bottom of the broad spiral staircase that led up to the Princess’ chambers. As usual, there were a pair of guards there; unlike normal, though, one of them made as if to flag her down.

“The Princess left word that she is not to be disturbed.”

“Understood,” she said.

A slight pause.

“Not to be disturbed,” repeated the other guard with a trace of hesitation, “at all.”

Aspia nodded. The guards had long since learned that she wasn’t usually included in the category of “everypony.” That was just another benefit of having the Princess’ ear: if the Secrepony of Defense thought there was something worth disturbing the Princess about, then nopony was really going to stop her.

On the other hoof, if the Princess had made it clear that she was absolutely not to be disturbed, then not even Aspia herself would interrupt. Every pony in Equestria, unicorn or not, had a healthy respect for magic, and when the single most powerful creature in the land said she was absolutely not to be disturbed, one didn’t go and interrupt. The Princess’ residual magic alone was stronger than half a dozen unicorns working at maximum output; startling her was… not a wise idea.

“That’s fine,” she said with a nod. “I’ll leave the Princess a note. She needs to be appraised of current developments.”

“Of course,” said the first guard, relaxing slightly, undoubtedly glad that he didn’t have to stop her. Technically he only had to make sure the Princess wasn’t disturbed, and if the Secrepony of Defense of all people said she wasn’t going to disturb the Princess, then who was he to argue?

With a friendly nod to the guards she passed through the arched door frame, the clacking sound of her hooves muffled by the appropriately royal carpet on the stairs. At the top of the third step her hip cracked.

She paused, sighed, and continued up. This had better be worth it.

Faust Encountered

16 June, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

“It’s a bit cold in here, don’t you think?”

Princess Celestia narrowed her eyes slightly, not in anger but rather with a trace of exasperation.

“You have all these trees and these lovely stone fireplaces,” continued the visitor, fluttering her wings as if for warmth. “Seems a shame to leave them cold as the rest of this place. Maybe you northerners are used to this chill at night, but a little warmth now and again is good for the soul.”

Without moving her gaze away from the visitor, Celestia’s horn glowed, sending a slight pulse through the room. It faded into a lingering warmth that felt not unlike daylight.

Light a fire. She suppressed a snort. Yes, because lighting a fire in the dead of night in the middle of a rather average June wasn’t conspicuous at all.

“I trust you’re comfortable,” she said flatly.

“More so,” shrugged the other, picking up a goblet and poking at it slightly. “What wonderful artefacts you have here. Do you actually drink with your minions?”

“They’re subjects, not minions,” she said. “And by choice, not by obligation.”

“Tell that to your friends in Blackacre,” said the other with a disquieting little laugh.

“I protect all in my domain,” repeated Celestia. “And those within can always leave at any time.” Her eye flashed. “If they reject my protections, then they will feel my power.”

“Yes, yes,” said the visitor, waving the goblet around. “Spare me the lecture on the ethics of self-determination.” She replaced it on the endtable and shrugged. “Besides, sometimes it’s useful to have replaceables.”

Celestia exhaled slightly.

“Long-distance transports are difficult enough, even with a paired receiver.”

“And when it goes wrong, you don’t settle for half measures! Shredded in transport, scattered over a few hundred square miles….” She shook her head. “A pity. I liked that one.”

“Again, please accept my most sincere —”

“Which just means I’ll have to impress another one to service,” said the guest, rolling her eyes. “This is why they’re useful.”

“If you say so.”

A pause.

“I trust you understand the terms of my offer,” said the Princess, extending a hoof towards the nondescript chest in the middle of the room.

“Oh, I understand well enough,” she said, standing to face Celestia. “But do you?”

Celestia raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Of course she understood her own offer. She had drafted the plan herself, start to finish. There were a handful of options of last resort, and she wouldn’t exercise any of them unless she absolutely had to. She would much rather solve Canterlot’s problems internally, using magic if necessary, but sometimes it took a pony on the outside.

Or, as things stood, a Queen.

“You offer me the opportunity of a lifetime,” said the visitor, pacing slowly around the circumference of the room. Save for the stairs poking through off to one side it was entirely circular; as she walked, Celestia kept pace, tracking exactly opposite her, never letting her guard down for a moment.

“The dragons might be angry brutes, and yet there’s something… delicious to them,” said the queen, almost to herself. “But they draw their strength from cunning and a deep-seated mistrust of others.” She smiled. “It is rare that they even trust each other. For someone in my position, this makes dragons a uniquely difficult proposition.”

“Not unless you have all of their information,” said Celestia levelly. “Numbers, disposition, camps.”

“How tactical of you. No names, though?” She made a disappointed sound. “Come now. What happened to the personal touch?”

“The last pony to get the personal touch from a dragon got personally crisped,” said the alicorn, glancing at the smallish unmarked crate off to one side of the room. “You can make do without names.”

“It would make my task simpler,” she said sweetly.

Celestia said nothing, continuing to pace her, step for step, on the opposite side of the room.

“As you wish,” she shrugged. “Though there are benefits to simplicity. As it stands, I’ll have to rely on trial and error.”

Another pause.

“And by error I mean untimely deaths of my minions.”

“If you see no reason to care for them, then I certainly won’t.” Celestia smiled thinly. “You’ll find a way.”

“Don’t I always?” affirmed the queen. “To be honest, I can propose a better solution than yours. Given your particular problem, it’s much more sensible simply to bring me into Blackacre.” She smiled broadly, revealing slightly pointed teeth. “I know you dislike complex resolutions, and I can assure you my solution would be… direct.”

“It certainly would.”

“And it would be absolutely confined,” she added disarmingly. “Simply tell me where the borders are, and I’ll stay on my side of them.”

She held the smile just a few seconds longer than comfortable.

“I’ll even give you my word.”

“I trust you approximately as far as I can throw you,” said Celestia, entirely unamused.

“Well then,” she said with an appreciative nod, “I can accept that. Between raising the sun and the height of this tower, that’s a distance I think I can accept.”

“Enough of this,” said Celestia wearily. “You understand my offer.”

“I do,” she said, idly buffing a charcoal-black hoof.

“You accept it.”

“Naturally.”

“Then we’re done here,” she said, raising her horn. A golden light spilled out from it, reaching out to the walls….

“Done so soon?” asked the queen, girding herself against the subtle pull of the teleportation spell. “Just like that? A few moments’ conversation before ejecting me yet again?”

The light dimmed slightly as Celestia eased back on the transport spell, focusing instead on the wards that kept her guest confined.

“That was the plan, yes.”

“How simple,” she said with an almost disapproving tone. “I’m sure you want me to get right to work, bending the dragons to my will.” She sniffed. “While I appreciate the efficiency, I’m surprised you’re giving me so much help. Aren’t you the least bit concerned my methods might be too effective?” She raised an eyebrow. “Certainly you’re doing a fine job pushing me down that path.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Or, perhaps, you’ve already made alternate arrangements,” said the queen, tapping the chest gently. “Or you might not be entirely level with me, O Spirit Of All Things Honest and True.”

“That container holds all of our relevant low-level intelligence and tactical extrapolations,” said Celestia evenly. “Exactly what I said it would. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

“Nothing soothes like the word of a Princess,” the queen deadpanned.

“I would not lie to you about this.”

“I suppose not,” she conceded. “Which indicates that the inevitable betrayal will come in the form of a spear through the front rather than a dagger in the back.” She chuckled. “Intrigue can be so tedious. Your forthrightness is much appreciated.”

“We have a common opponent, your success against whom is of direct benefit to me.” Celestia gave an elegant shrug. “As long as I stand to benefit, I will help you. If I gain nothing by it, then I will not.” Her mouth curled slightly. “And make no mistake about it — if you turn on me, or you threaten me and mine, I will not hesitate to strike you or yours where you stand.”

The queen contemplated this for a moment and conceded a nod.

“Not unreasonable, for the enemy of my enemy.” She paused for a moment, a dreamy look on her face. “But you suffer from a distinct lack of imagination. Simply think of the fun we could have together. Laughing through the ruins of your little forest, dashing through the ashy snows….”

“A pity that will never come to pass. I might even enjoy ending you.” Celestia gave a little laugh. “If you ever find yourself in Canterlot, know that your presence will be entirely at and subject to my pleasure.”

“So you assert,” she said, nonplussed. “Time will tell, as it so often does.”

“Yes. It will.” Celestia’s horn started radiating again, the thin filaments of the transport spell worming their way into the fabric of space, ready to send the guest back to her lands….

“Actually —” cut a voice through the amber field.

Celestia bit her tongue, held the spell for a long moment, then finally decided against it. She wouldn’t put it past her to stall for more time or try a trick, but there was no way she was breaking through the containment wards. Besides, she might even have something useful to say.

The field pulsed out, the alicorn’s eyes fading from solid amber and narrowing into a glare.

“Yes?” she shot.

“One final point of interest,” offered her visitor, eyes dancing. “I don’t suppose you have any plans for the creature who so nobly took it upon herself to bend an ear to us?”

Celestia’s expression, of course, was unchanged. She had learned how to control her every muscle twitch hundreds of years ago. During that time, she had been broadsided by everything up to and including an actual broadside from an artillery platform — a long story better told out of earshot of any Baltimareans who knew their local history and were touchy about it — and so this little revelation wasn’t about to break her concentration.

Not that she was happy about it.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Ah.” A pause. “I simply thought it was worth bringing to your attention.” The queen laughed. “For obvious reasons.”

“Yes, I do,” Celestia repeated. It would have been be easier to perform the wipe when all she had to do was clear overheard conversation. Now that the conversation was personal, though, the wipe became much more difficult. Best get the queen out of the way before she could do more damage

The princess took a deep breath, preparing to call up the transport spell for a third time. Before the tendrils could even extend beyond her horn, though, there was a rippling of green at the princess’ side.

“Come on out,” Celestia heard her own voice say. “It’s all right.”

From the archway to the staircase, she could see a light blue pony nose out — McNamare. Carrying a small stack of paper, too; by the looks of it, she was about to give a briefing. Well, the guards would have said something, so she was probably going to leave a note instead.

But, once she got up here, she would have heard the voices…. That carelessness was on her; she should have put up an acoustic dampening field too. Compared to the confinement wards, the energy expenditure would be miniscule.

Though McNamare might not be surprised to find the Princess engaged in a confidential late-night meeting with what was technically another head of state, she was surprised to find twin alicorns.

Celestia turned to her right to see an exact duplicate of her face staring back.

“Not this again,” they said in unison.

And then they both laughed.

“You’re good,” they said again together.

“Um,” stumbled McNamare, looking from her left to her right in utter confusion.

“She’s a changeling,” said the one on the left. “And is now trying to impersonate me.”

“Doing a decent job at it,” commented the one on the right.

“Of course you are,” said the one on the left. “It’s what you do.”

“All right,” said McNamare, holding up a hoof, “all right. Hold on a second.”

She very carefully placed the briefing materials next to the top of the stairs and then proceeded to look over each of them. They, in turn, stood, wearing similar expressions of slight bemusement.

“So — what do I do here?” she asked. “Is this one of those things where I have to pick out the real one?”

“Which is me,” said the one on the left. “That should be apparent enough.”

“Not to me,” said McNamare. “How can I tell?”

“You can’t,” said the one on the right. “Not without a good deal of magic. This is what she and her kind do, and they’re middling good at it.”

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” sniped the one on the left.

“Wait a moment,” said McNamare again. “So how can I tell you apart?”

“You can’t,” repeated the one on the right.

“And so what do I do?” she repeated.

“Equestria can only have one Princess,” said the one on the left. “It is up to you, and you alone, to test our truth and reveal the honest harmony within.”

McNamare blinked.

“What a lovely but absolutely ridiculous sentiment,” said the one on the right. She reared into the air, horn flashing, and then suddenly the world went dark.

“With that taken care of,” said Celestia, turning to face her double, “I think we’re done here.”

“Your sense of humor is in drastic need of overhaul,” protested the visitor, her body rippling back to her true form, charcoal and cobalt with a trace of iridescence along the wings. “We could have kept ourselves entertained for hours.”

“I don’t have hours,” said the true Princess as the transport spell coalesced around her now-unwanted guest. “Neither do you.”

The changeling smiled at her through the gauzy amber cage of the spell, making no move to resist it.

“I suppose we shall meet again soon enough.”

“Soon enough,” said Celestia, pouring in the last bit of power to execute the spell. “On my terms.”

With a snap-flash, the changeling was gone, leaving the room slightly warmer and with a distinctly crispy smell. As soon as she sensed the spell’s completion, Celestia slumped, releasing the wards on the room.

After a few minutes’ worth of catching her breath, the alicorn stepped over to the unconscious pony by the stairs.

Luna dammit, it had to be McNamare. Anypony else, anypony, she could perform a basic wipe and not worry about the long-term brain damage. Her? She would be here until dawn, excising the bare minimum, double-checking her work every step of the way. She couldn’t afford to replace this one. Not yet, at least.

With a mighty sigh, Celestia took a seat on the floor next to her unconscious lieutenant. Closing her eyes, she tilted her horn towards the blueish form and began the laborious process of keeping the true business of state away from the hooves of mere ponies, however important they might be.

They were called state secrets for a reason.

On Holiday

17 June, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“I don’t like it,” sniped Gun.

Donner rolled his eyes. “You never like it.”

“I do when we’re on a mission.”

“Technically —”

“A real mission,” she said, kicking a pebble. “One where we get to throw high explosives at ponies. Kill the assholes trying to kill us.”

“Don’t see how we’re going to do on a mission in Blackacre and not have somepony trying to kill us. Two to one you’ll get your shot.”

Before she could respond, Donner flagged down a unicorn trotting towards them in the trench.

“’Scuse me, we’re looking for…”

“That way,” said the pony, extending a muddied hoof back the way he had come. “Can’t miss her.”

“Thanks,” said Gun with a nod. “Anyway, look, it’s not going to be the same.”

“You figure?”

“Sure I do,” she shrugged. “Usually, we get sent out to kill ponies in general. Sometime we get sent out to kill specific ponies who are trying to kill our ponies. Either way, same idea. This time, though, we’re going out to do something specific.”

“I don’t think anyone would mind if we offed a few hostiles while we were at it.”

“Sure, but that’ll be secondary. Whatever we’re out there to do, there’s another point to it.”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, stepping over a little rivulet of mud. These trenches were just so messy. It would be much easier to fly above them… or at least it would be, if Ponyville airspace weren’t a danger zone. No sense risking flight this close to the front when they were on their way to a briefing.

“We could get lucky.”

Gun snorted. “And Princess Celestia could drop from the sky and give us all gumdrops and lollipops.”

Donner laughed. “Hey, it could happen.”

They stepped out of the trench into what looked like a staging area. It was roofed, using the loosest possible definition of the term, with concealment netting. Not that the netting was too necessary these days, with most of the Blackacre flyers either clipped or dead. Still, it provided some measure of protection from the elements.

It was only natural, then, for Gun to step right into a large pile of mud. It was netting, after all — not so much for stopping rain as slowing it down a bit. That was something.

“Dammit,” she said, shaking the muck off. “Don’t even see why we’re here anyway. Since when does Air Patrol hike into an Army forward operating base to take their orders?”

“Since you were assigned to my command,” said a light brown pony from off to a side.

“And why did that happen?” asked Gun, shortly before receiving an elbow in the ribs. “…sir?”

“I like you,” the pony smirked. “I’ll take those questions in reverse order.”

Gun raised an eyebrow. Questions, plural?

The pony put aside a sheaf of papers and ambled towards them. “First off, what are your orders?”

“On assignment,” said Donner before Gun could say something. “Report to Ponyville forward command for further instructions from a Colonel Marston.”

The brown pony smiled. “Which makes me a…?”

“Colonel?” offered Gun.

“I was going for ‘superior officer,’ but I’ll take it,” she said. “Therefore, the answer to ‘sir’ is yes, because that’s the word you use.”

“Oh.” Gun thought for a moment. “Sir.”

“But, I don’t really care for now,” she continued. “Lucky for you. I’ll be your brass for maybe twenty minutes, and if we’re both lucky, the next time I see you I’ll be giving you a medal.”

They blinked at that.

“I hear it’s customary to pass out flight plans in Air Patrol,” said Marson, handing them a pair of envelopes. “Here you go.”

Donner slid his open and extracted the first sheet inside. Lackadaisical attitude or not, this particular colonel knew what she was doing. The flight plans were standard forms, filled out to a tee; neat and crisp, they were better than most of the ones that Donner had seen come out of Air Patrol brass.

Neatly filled out or not, though, the flight plan had a slight problem. It routed them up to Saddle, had them take off with a discretionary load… and then simply ended.

“Ma’am…” he started.

“Here’s the deal,” said Marston bluntly. “Saddle was supposed to receive reinforcements, straight out of boot from Foal. Never got there.”

“Wait a minute,” said Donner. “Travel from Foal to Saddle…”

“That’s Canterburg,” said Gun. “That’s right under Canterlot. Safe as it gets.”

“Not anymore,” said Marston, shaking her head. “Saddle did some overflights, but they don’t want to risk any of their flyers on a full search.”

“We’re not your flyers either,” said Gun.

“You’re not,” she agreed, “but your CO owes me a favor. Therefore, I get two of his best for three days.” She paused. “You are the best he has, right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Donner.

“Damn straight,” said Gun.

“I’ll take it,” said Marston again.

“Wait just another minute,” said Gun. “Saddle won’t risk theirs, so you’re sending us in?” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t much like that.”

“Your assignment,” said the brown pony with a hint of emphasis, “is to obey my orders for three days. Now. Saddle needs eyes in the sky for day to day operations; they can’t afford to send out search parties, even if there was no danger.”

“But there still is some.”

“Is she always like this?” Marston asked Donner.

He licked his lips. “Not… usually?”

“Fine. I don’t need you to like me, but I do need you to understand.” She paused. “Canterlot’s given this command a shot at recovering the company. That’s two hundred fifty ponies out there, and you two are the only ones who can find them.” She shrugged. “Plus whoever finds the reinforcements keeps them, and my lines could use the relief.”

“Fair enough,” said Donner, cutting in before Gun got lippy. “What are our orders?”

“Your flight plan has you out to Saddle.”

“And it gets awfully hazy after that,” said Gun, waving a hoof at the packet. “Orders list as Restricted Access. Classified?”

“If you want,” she shrugged. “I don’t like it when brass muddles in my affairs, and I don’t imagine you like it either. Your orders are to get to Saddle and spend three days finding that company. How you do that is entirely up to you.

“While you’re in my territory,” she said, waving a hoof around, “take anything you need; drop my name and you’ll be fine. Outside of it, you’ll find a half-dozen requisitions in those packets.”

Instinctively they slid the orders aside to reveal a small sheaf of letterhead, formalities emblazoned down the sides but otherwise conspicuously blank in the middle.

“The only restriction, and this comes from your CO, is that you can’t take any extra pegasi, either from here, Ponyville, or Saddle. You’re welcome to Earth ponies, but I don’t think you’ll have much use for any.” She raised an eyebrow. “Those are blank requisitions. I trust you’ll use them wisely.”

“Of course,” said Donner quickly. Blank requisitions were not unlike blank checks… and these were drawn in a colonel’s name, with all the attendant gravitas and authority that carried.

“Set your own flight plans, search pattern, whatever you need. That packet has copies of local maps and the old road; I suggest you start with a low-level overflight on it, but it’s entirely up to you.”

Marston paused.

“Unless you have any questions?”

“No sir,” said Gun with a nod.

“Good,” she said. “In that case, I’ll see you in three days. You bring the company, I’ll bring the medals.”

“Deal.”

As they went back into the trenches, Donner couldn’t help but notice the look on his wingmate’s face.

“You, ah,” he started. “You okay there?”

“Just thinking through the requisitions we’ll have to make,” she said cheerily, fluttering over a rivulet of mud. “Oh we’re going to have fun.”

“Fun?” he asked incredulously. “I haven’t read through ‘em all yet, but I don’t think the orders say go take three days paid vacation in Capracabana.”

“Sure they do,” she said with a grin. “It’s a busmare’s holiday — but I love my job.”

Wrath of Flame

17 June, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” said Princess Celestia, steeling herself against the burst of sulphuric air that poured into the room. Usually she would just transport the… guest in question, but this time she was transporting two individuals, the representative and his aide. Though doing both at once required a lot more energy, she dared not bring them one at a time: that would involve teleporting one, then letting her guard down as she built up the spell to teleport another.

And letting your guard down was never a good idea when dragons were involved.

“You insisted,” said the dragon with a trace of sibilance, his eyes skimming around the room. He took a few steps out of the transport circle, stretching out to his full height. Fifteen feet wasn’t particularly large, insofar as dragons went, but it was enough for him to look down at Celestia.

For her part, she was entirely undisturbed. He might be the physically stronger of the two, but that mattered little here — this was her territory, and he was here by invitation. Even dragons knew when it was in their best interests to keep calm, because though they might get the drop on her, she would eventually overpower them with raw magical strength.

The confinement wards helped.

“Sss-Thss,” she said, settling a portion of herself into the room’s wards, “on behalf of the ponies of Equestria, welcome.”

“As First Claw and on behalf of the Heirarch, I accept,” he said with the idle wave of a claw. “Though somehow, I don’t think your ponies wish anything well to me and mine,” he said with a slightly amused tone.

“Speaking of which,” he added, looking around pointedly, “is it just us tonight? I did enjoy that other pony, the little one.”

“He died,” she said mildly. “Some time ago.”

A lie, of course, but the dragons didn’t need to know Kissinmare was on a long-term assignment overseas. Given average pony life expectancies, he wouldn’t see out the century.

“Pity,” said Sss-Thss. “I did enjoy his company, after a sort.”

“Time passes,” shrugged Celestia. “I see you’ve a new aide.”

They both turned to look at the other dragon in the room. It was awfully hard for an eight-foot lizard to look inconspicuous, but he was doing a fairly good job at it. The aide was technically a wyrm, not a full drake; he had arms and legs but no wings.

She had often wondered at how dragons interacted socially. Dragons came in three flavors of wyvern, drake, and wyrm, not unlike ponies, but somehow she doubted their society was quite as harmonious. They probably just clubbed each other until only one was left standing. Seemed about right. Anyway, nopony had spent enough time with dragons to do an in-depth study; such anthropological adventures generally ended with an impromptu lunch for the observed specimens.

“The last one had a bad encounter with something he ate,” shrugged the dragon. “Lava didn’t agree with him from the inside.”

“I can see how that might happen,” said the Princess.

“Maybe to ponies, but not to dragons,” he said, shaking his head. “He was weak; it was overdue.” Sss-Thss took a last look around the room before fixing an unblinking stare on the Princess. “Why am I here?”

Straight to the point, as always. That was one night thing about dragons: they might be the most stubborn creatures in the world, with a heavy paradoxical mix of underhandedness, loyalty, and cunning, but they were never ones to dance around a point. Refreshing, every once in a while.

“You’re in danger,” she said bluntly.

“From who? You?” He leaned slightly closer, grinning to reveal a mouthful of particularly sharp ivory daggers. “I’d like to see you try.”

“And I’m sure you wouldn’t mind that at all,” she said, unfazed.

“We’ll wait,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Again, you’re going to have to be more specific, or I’m minded to break out a window and fly home.”

“I’d like to see you try,” said Princess Celestia smoothly, earning a glare. “I’m assuming your aide would walk.”

“He’d have to,” said the drake with a glance at the wyrm, who was again doing his best to be small in a corner somewhere, the attempt again stymied by the fact that he was an eight-foot dragon in a circular room. “Anyway, they’re used to it.”

So maybe there was intra-species rivalry of some sort. She filed the information away for future reference.

“What is this so-called danger?” repeated the drake with a trace of irritation. “You test me, pony princess.”

“Over the past six months, changelings have systematically infiltrated critical positions within the Hierarchy.”

Sss-Thss blinked once or twice, then turned to his aide in an entirely casual way.

“Brownclaw, tonight you will be walking.”

The aide gave a curt nod and stepped to the side.

“I’m going to leave,” announced Sss-Thss. “I’ll try not to kill too many of your kind on the way out.”

As the drake squared his eyes against one of the large windows on the other side of the room, it flashed momentarily to reveal a solid-looking grid of light, the confinement ward laid bare. As it dimmed, the dragon turned slitted eyes to the Princess.

“You test me, pony,” he spat.

“And you me,” she replied. “You have been infiltrated, and by your reaction, I’m willing to bet you had no idea.” She paused. “You’re welcome.”

“Do you have any idea what this pony is going on about?” demanded Sss-Thss of his aide.

“No sir,” he hissed in reply.

“No,” agreed Celestia with a curious look, “you wouldn’t.”

“Listen,” spat Sss-Thss, “of course he doesn’t. There are so many problems with that assertion, I hardly know where to start.”

“I’ll wait while you figure it out.”

The drake boggled a bit at that. He wasn’t used to being contradicted, and especially not by creatures smaller than him. Certainly not by ponies, at that — if anything other than a dragon talked back, chances are he would simply eat it.

“Let’s start with the obvious three,” he said, clenching his jaw in a valiant attempt to control his temper. “What do you care about dragons, what do you know about the quvxa, and why in blazes should I trust you?”

“I don’t care about you,” said Celestia. “My interests here are my own; you know well enough I’m not doing this for all your hatchlings.”

“As usual, interested only in yourself.”

“This, coming from a dragon?” she shot back. “I’ve known about this for some time, and it serves my interests to let you know about it.”

“How noble,” he hissed. “Doesn’t explain what a pony knows about quvxa. The Burning Southlands are a ways away, even for us, and I haven’t seen any of your kind overhead lately.”

The Princess gave an elegant shrug. “I have yet to see a dragon in the Frozen North, yet six years back you made an offer I found difficult to refuse.”

“It was timely, wasn’t it?” grinned Sss-Thss, the multitude of teeth unnerving sight from any predator. A few days after Bearlin had frozen over, a courier appeared at the Appleloosa border carrying an offer. The dragons were willing to thaw the town — no small task, even for creatures whose main calling card was breathing flame — for the mere cost of allowing them to have the bodies of those ponies who might be ‘accidentally’ burned in the process. Not to mention, of course, the intelligence that allowing a herd of dragons to cruise through the heart of Equestria in broad daylight might gather.

Needless to say, Celestia didn’t have to think too hard before routing that particular offer away in the permanent file.

“My sources are my own,” she repeated. “As are my interests. I think you can understand why I wouldn’t explain how, exactly, I came to have this rather sensitive information about the Hierarchy that you seem… not to have.”

“Which brings me to the last of the important points,” said Sss-Thss with a trace of amusement, having stopped taking any of the conversation seriously. “Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t,” she said simply.

“Ah.”

A pause.

“I think I’ll be leaving then.”

“You won’t,” said Celestia, letting the walls of the room shimmer slightly, “but I don’t think you want to quite yet. You don’t believe me, and I don’t expect you to. I do expect you to believe another… dragon.”

“Brownclaw?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the entirely confused wyrm.

“Look to your aide,” she said. “Ask him yourself, if you want. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t have a head on his shoulders.”

“Unlike you, I see,” grumbled Sss-Thss, but he turned towards the smaller dragon anyway, looming over him twice as large with an expression flitting between anger and boredom, settling on exasperation. “Brownclaw. Why should I trust the pony princess?”

“You shouldn’t,” he said immediately, as if by rote.

“Great. We’re leaving now.”

Celestia rolled her eyes at the wyrm. “Work with me, please.”

To her great surprise, Brownclaw hesitated, the nodded.

“You should trust her on this… because…” he started, then faltered for a moment, eyes whirling in thought.

“Because she went through a lot of effort to bring you here, and she wouldn’t do it to play some sort of practical joke.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Sss-Thss. “Maybe she was bored.”

“Because,” tried the wyrm again, “she wouldn’t risk bringing a pair of dragons into Canterlot unless she needed to. And if she’s telling the truth, she wouldn’t risk going to the Hierarch herself.”

“Again, maybe she was bored,” offered the drake. “And maybe she wouldn’t risk going to the Hierarch at all, because she knows he’d just as soon tear her wing from wing as listen to her.”

Celestia allowed herself a little smile. She wouldn’t mind engaging in that particular test of skill, though maybe it would have to come at a time when they weren’t engaged in a military standoff. Maybe in a few hundred years, if the old lizard was still around.

“Because,” he tried for a third time, “because… because she means it?”

“That’s a nice thought,” said Sss-Thss. “Keep it to yourself.” He sized up the window again and flexed, sending a ripple down most of his upper body. The walls glowed in response, reminding him once again that he would have to get through the alicorn first.

“Let me rephrase,” said Princess Celestia, her voice steely. “Look to your aide.”

She reared up slightly, horn flashing, and again the confinement wards flickered, but not with power. Sss-Thss might not be a magic user, but he had a dragon’s unerring sense for advantage, and he knew weakness when he saw it. The urge to make a break for it might be strong, but his sense of curiosity was stronger — and it only grew as a ripple of green flashed through the room.

“What —” he started, but fell silent as Brownclaw floated upwards, suspended in a field of amber.

“What are you doing to me!” demanded the smaller wyrm, twisting about with a look of terror.

“I don’t care if you betray the dragons,” she said, gritting her teeth with concentration. “I don’t care of you lie to them. But you come into my castle, as my guest, and betray my trust?”

The wyrm arched back — then suddenly snapped straight up, his face twisting into an expression that wasn’t quite… right.

“Doesn’t matter now,” he said in an unnaturally hollow voice, eyes dull. “Dragons don’t know. Not expecting it.”

“They know now,” said Celestia, straining at his containment.

“Oh yes,” growled Sss-Thss, “quvxa.”

“No,” he said. “He knows. Even if the Hierarch knew, it would be too late. And once I go…” His lips pulled back in an eerie approximation of a smile. “Who will warn him?”

The amber sphere pulsed for a moment, then started glowing brighter as rivulets of light streamed from the wyrm’s body —

“Down!” shouted Celestia, and though of course Sss-Thss did no such thing it might have been a good idea, given the hot blast that shot through the room. When the dust settled, most of the chamber was in shambles, with beams protruding at structurally unsound angles and confinement wards a faded afterthought.

Opposite them was a perfectly clear ring on the floor. And in the middle of that ring was a creature not unlike a pony, but with charcoal black skin, iridescent eyes and wings, and a fang-like horn.

Princess Celestia breathed a sigh of relief.

Sss-Thss drew his next breaths slow and deep, a somewhat discomforting sound given the absolute stillness of the room.

After a minute or so of silence, he spoke.

“You will return me directly to the Hierarch,” he said quietly, his voice felt more than heard. “I have warned him of weakness and sloth, but for too long he has done nothing.”

Celestia held her peace, well aware that, until approximately two minutes ago, the Hierarch’s so-called sloth was the only thing keeping Equestria safe.

“I will take the corpse of this… thing,” he continued, voice rising, “and throw it to his feet. Let him do what he will, but if the result is anything less than instant action, I and mine will declare a Trial of Refusal and strike him down, tooth and claw, on the floor of the Great Lair itself!”

His voice had risen to a fever pitch, and Celestia was glad of the backup wards of silence on the tower. Not only for her own interests but for his as well: she knew Sss-Thss commanded no small modicum of respect among the Hierarchy, and his words now walked the fine line of treason.

“Let there be a purge of the unworthy the likes of which the land has never seen!” he thundered. “Strike the traitors! Strike the infidels! Strike the quvxa ghachox in their shells!”

His eyes where a whirling mist of red, glimmering off his crimson scales. “And when we are once again pure, when the shadows have been cleansed from within, let there be a flight the likes of which the lands have never seen! A crusade to regift the Burning Southlands their name, to cleanse the quvxa with dragonfire!”

His eyes were aflame now, literal tongues of fire rippling about his head.

“The southlands will burn, a beacon to all who dare betray dragons.”

With a flutter of wings he was at the circle in a flash, picking up the changeling corpse and doing his very best to not rip it to shreds.

“Bring me back,” he declared, muscles tense and eyes flashing. “Bring me to the Hierarch so that I may light the fire to cleanse the land of the quvxa filth.”

Celestia knew better than to argue, offer good wishes, drop a told-you-so, or in point of fact do anything other than exactly what the dragon demanded. No words needed to be said. Sss-Thss, ambassador of the Hierarch to Equestria, would remember.

She raised her horn and gathered her energies about her, linking the dragon to the floor of the Great Lair. She had always liked the idea of teleporting straight into the literal center of the Hierarchy, just to see the chaos it would cause; she was almost saddened that she would miss the aftermath.

A quick push, and the dragon was gone, leaving only a backblast of sulphuric air in his wake. Carefully feeling out to make sure he made it in one piece — simple as it was, this was one transport that could not go wrong — she gently slumped to the floor.

Celestia was exhausted. Not just physical and mental and magical, but an existential tiredness that drained her to the bone. What’s more, she was covered with rubble and the upper floor of her tower was a roaring mess. Slowly, carefully, she released the last few holds on the remnants of the confinement spells, finally letting go for the first time in hours. Sunrise was a while off; until then, she could just lay here, maybe sleep a bit, and recover her energy, without having to hold a ward, work a spell, or hold a poker face for anyone or anything.

And so, in the utter privacy of her own castle, secure in the knowledge that she had just quite literally ignited a firestorm half a world away, Princess Celestia smiled.

Landmark

18 June, Y.C. 970
Canterburg Forest

It was the second day of their patrol, though it felt like more. This was nothing less than their third overflight of the marked path, and Donner was starting to recognize it even without the use of the map. Which was just as well; there wasn’t much by way of wind, but at cruising speed unfolding one of those got mighty tricky.

Trees skimmed by. Their first trip had been a high-altitude flight, Saddle to Foal, just to figure out the lay of the land and see if there was anything that Saddle’s own patrols had missed. After a quick pit stop at the boot camp and a pleasant conversation with a hulking minotaur about the ponies heading up the company in question, they had said their goodbyes and turned around.

The trip back had been a mid-level overflight, looking specifically at topography. Tracing the faint markers of a road, was there a chance they could have gotten lost? Followed the wrong path? The minotaur had assured them that their scouts were good, if green; they weren’t any more likely to stray than a seasoned officer. The route wasn’t in the greatest of shape, but judging from the air it looked plain enough.

So, after eight painstaking hours of mid-level overflight, they had arrived back in Saddle and called it a night. Today, the plan had been to take things low, somewhere around tree level. Sure it was riskier, but in fourteen hours of overflight they hadn’t seen so much as a leaf rustle. Plus, how else were they going to get eyes on the ground?

Speaking of which….

Donner gave a quick whistle to get Gun’s attention and gestured down towards a clearing coming up on their left. She nodded; they had spotted it on the second overflight. In a few minutes they touched down, taking the landing at a fast canter to stretch out legs that yearned for something, anything to do other than sit tucked up as the wings did all the work.

“Nice place,” he mused, eyeballing the clearing. A small brook wound along one side, a grassy knoll rose over another… it was pretty much exactly what it had looked like from the air.

“I’ll take it,” she said, trotting over to the brook. “Hey look! Fish!”

And so they spent the next ten minutes or so eating a late lunch and throwing crumbs at fish. They had a half tank of hay slurry each, but Gun had insisted they use one of the blank requisitions at the officer’s mess. The kitchen staff had looked at them funny, but it was perhaps the best decision they had made yet. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten real food. And alfalfa? Fresh alfalfa? Forget it; this was fantastic.

All good things had to come to an end, though, and so did the last remnants of the sandwich.

“Should probably get going,” he muttered, throwing the last of the crumbs in the brook.

“Yeah,” agreed Gun, stretching to her feet. “We’re what, halfway there?”

“Little less, I think,” said Donner. “Long way to go.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

For a moment, the two of them stood next to the water, idly watching as the little forest stream burbled to itself.

He wondered what she was thinking about. She had never acted like this before… but, then again, he had never seen her in a situation like this. So… peaceful, almost. So unlike her. He considered asking her about it, but something made him hold back.

Off in the distance, a bird whistled. A few moments later, another bird call, as if in response. Well, now or never. He opened his mouth —

“We should go.”

In a moment she was in the air, skimming lightly over the grass.

“You coming?”

He smiled at himself. Perfect timing, as usual.

“Sure thing.”

He joined her, and they gave the field a last overflight before turning back to the east to follow the road. They brushed the trees for a moment or two before settling into a flight pattern.

“You know,” said Donner, “that’s a nice field back there.”

“Sure is,” agreed Gun, angling slightly closer so they could carry on a decent conversation. “Could set up shop there. Little house in the corner.”

“Little house?” he laughed. “Pegged you for the kind of pony who lives in a tree or something.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. Besides, you see the flat part in the back? Perfect for a house. Not even a little one, either. Lots of room.”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded. “Big flat place up and over the hill a bit. Soil looked darker, too. Probably more solid.”

“Probably.”

A pause.

“You know, it’s a little strange,” she said, lost in thought. “Hills like that, that’s dirt. Not bedrock.”

“Right. And?”

“Well,” she mused, “Awfully weird that there’s a flat patch of bedrock just over the top of a dirt hill.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then, as one, they angled back to the west, each instinctively flying low over the leafy canopy, scanning the ground below for anything resembling a threat. Whereas a minute ago the silence had been comforting, now it was anything but.

In a minute they were back at the field, circling it slowly from perhaps a dozen feet up. They couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary… save for an oddly discolored portion of the field, just over the crest of the hill from the brook.

Gun brought them in to a combat landing; while before they had taken their time, now they were down in a moment, fully alert, wings at the ready for the slightest hint of motion.

“There it is,” he said, entirely unnecessarily.

She bent down and sniffed at the grass. It looked normal enough… no, it looked too normal. Too regular. And underneath it… not bedrock, not close. Just soil, like the rest of the hill. Just… darker.

Off in the distance, a bird whistled, but the silence closed back in the moment the warbling notes faded away.

“Look at this,” she said, fluffing away a patch of fresh-looking clover. Under the perfectly spherical white and magenta flowers was a glint of metal.

“A knife,” she declared, brushing away the clover’s tiny gnarled roots. “This… look, it’s overgrown.”

“But not tarnished,” he said, pulling it up. “It’s brand new.”

Another bird tweeted.

“Brand new and covered in growth.” Donner shook his head. “How…?”

“Magic,” said Gun, wedging the knife into her harness and looking around warily. “This knife is brand new… standard issue. It wasn’t there for long, and then somepony covered over the ground. This is all fresh growth, magicked growth.”

“Makes you wonder what else was on the ground.”

A third bird whistled, closer this time. Donner and Gun glanced at each other.

“I think we found the company.”

“I think we need to go.”

A fourth snipped of birdsong, closer still.

“Right now!”

The ground erupted into fire — but too late; they were already in air. Wings pumped, grasping for altitude; they bobbed and weaved, dodging tight beams that lanced through the air far too close for comfort.

Neither of them said a word to the other, but they moved in unison, the semi-random pattern of evasive maneuvers bringing them closer and closer to a western bearing. Saddle was a long ways away, but if they could break out of the immediate airspace and get altitude advantage, they should be fine.

The lances were fewer and scattered now; Donner risked a glance back. On the field below he could make out a half-dozen unicorns, still braced against the ground in a firing position, though they were mostly out of range at this point. Around the edges of the clearing, he thought he saw shadows moving. So that’s how they got close: timberwolves.

Or worse.

“Below!” shouted Gun, still evading. He looked down and nearly forgot to flap: the menacing black wedges below were griffons, a full wing of them!

“The hell did those come from!” he demanded, as much to himself as to Gun. He hadn’t seen this many griffons in the rest of the war, put together. They looked to be big ones, too, full-grown males. Between claws and a vicious hooked beak, they were frightening enough; add in light armor and assorted weapons, and they were one-beast fighting machines. A single griffon would be a problem for even a full wing of combat pegasi, never mind six of them against only two ponies.

On the other hoof, though, the griffons seemed to be skimming the treeline, giving no indication of a chase. Eagles tended to swoop down on prey and carry it off; like their kin, griffons were unbeatable in dive speeds or low-altitude combat, especially against ground forces. Take them to altitude or give them a high-speed aerial target and they didn’t fare well at all; to a pair of maneuverable scout ponies climbing fast, they didn’t pose too much of a threat.

That didn’t mean they weren’t terrifying.

“C’mon,” shouted Gun from a ways ahead. “Quit staring and move! We’re still in range!”

He poured on the speed as best he could. She was right; though the lances were few and far between, even at this range a stray hit could still pack a punch. After a few moments of frantic flapping, though, the rounds stopped, and they leveled out.

“We clear?” she asked.

“Looks like it,” he said, glancing down. “They’re pacing us, but don’t look to be climbing.”

“Right,” she nodded. “Let’s break high and get the hell —”

A hail of glowing hot light lanced through the air where Gun used to be. He shouted something incoherent but it was too late; she was a hundred feet down and falling fast.

Donner broke into a dive after her: she was in free fall, one wing trailing smoke and an unnerving smell of burnt meat. She might have been at terminal velocity, but he was powering down as fast as he could, faster, faster —

The field below him burst into light and his harness burst into flame. He broke off to one side, narrowly missing a second barrage; below him, Gun was getting farther and farther away, but he couldn’t do anything with the smoke in his face and searing his skin. Clawing frantically he finally managed to get to the master quick release tab. With a solid pull, the whole assembly broke loose, and he shook it off with a tight aileron turn.

Shielded for a few precious seconds by the smoke from the falling harness, he took a moment to gather his wits about him. Looking down, he realized that not only was Gun still falling, and had given no sign of regaining control, but the griffons had started pumping for altitude on an intercept course.

He didn’t have to think about the dive; it came naturally. Gun was in trouble, and he only had a few seconds to make up the difference. On the one hoof, without little things like supplies or equipment or armor, he was incredibly maneuverable; there was nothing but his pale blue coat between him and the sky. On the other hoof, though, he had lost precious seconds, and it didn’t look like he was fast enough.
Beams lanced past him, and a portion of his mind realized that even a glancing blow would be deadly: he had no protection whatsoever. Didn’t matter; he had to be faster. Almost there; he could see her staring back up at him —

A chestnut streak slammed into Gun, tackling her to a side just in time to reveal a trio of griffons way closer than they should be.

Donner jerked to a side, spinning in between two of the griffons, razor claws missing him by inches. He whipped his head to try and see Gun, but the griffon was already a mile away, pastel mass solidly wrapped up in the griffin’s arms and legs.

For a brief moment he considered speeding after her —

The rest of the griffon wing came about, hot on his tail like bloodhounds to a scent.

There was no rationalization here, no tactical retreat, no carefully calculated withdrawal. Five very large, very dangerous apex predators were a hair’s breadth away, and Donner did the only thing an aerial equine in that situation could do: he ran.

In an instant he was at top speed, wings pumping faster than the air could fill them back up again. Ponies might get off safe if they were at altitude, but here the griffons were hot on his tail; their wings might not be designed for fast climbing, but they made up the difference with rage.

Donner fought the urge to peel off in an Immelmare turn to dive past them. For anypony else, anything else behind him, it would work: unarmed pegasi were about as maneuverable as they got. With griffons, though… they were baiting him. Trying to slip him up, have him try to evade, have him try to dive for cover.

No, he thought, pumping his wings harder than he had ever thought possible, legs tucked up so close into his ribcage he could feel his hooves rattle at the wind. The only advantage he had was climbing speed, and if it took him two thousand feet to do it….

He risked a glance back. The griffons were still on his tail, if slightly farther now; the field was a barely-visible speck down below. He couldn’t even see the griffon who took Gun….

Almost as if at a sign, the griffons broke off. Donner shot forward a little more, slowing cautiously. One of them darted forward; he jerked backwards. He could see fangs flash as they laughed.

Sticking around did not seem like the brightest idea, so he took right back off, heading almost straight up, making sure they weren’t following. After a bit he leveled off; not only was he out of breath, but at this altitude breathing was hard in the first place. He set a course due west and settled into a cruise; without the compass or maps that had been in his gear, he had to eyeball it. Not that it mattered; Saddle Lake was big enough and hard to miss.

Far below, he couldn’t even make out the field, much less Gun… wherever she was.

If only he had been faster.

Dragon by the Tail

19 June, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

The shiver started at the tip of his tail. Scales shifted as it rippled its way up his back, running along his crest until it reached the base of his neck — and Brownclaw jolted back to full consciousness.

Cold. That was the first thing to register; the cold and the dark. Uncomfortably cold, though that wasn’t saying much for a dragon. Cold-blooded or not, though, he had no doubt that anyone or anything would find the chill in the air to be too much — anything from a pony to a well-insulated ursa to one of the flimsy-winged changelings.

Changelings… why did the quvxa spring to mind? The last thing he remembered was a summons from Sss-Thss, an urgent meeting in the dark of the night to the oldest spire still standing in the Great Lair. He had gone there, and then… and then, what?

Never mind the then; focus on the now.

He wiggled his claws experimentally; the knuckles were stiff, but they moved freely enough. No sign of injury. With a crackling symphony from his joints he hefted himself into an upright position on what felt very much like a smooth rock floor. The rest of him was as stiff as his knuckles but otherwise uninjured. That was a pleasant surprise, given that he had no idea where he was, who had brought him here, or what they wanted.

Brownclaw stood up slowly, lest there be a low ceiling; there was nothing. The last few complaining cracks from his joints echoed dully; he couldn’t tell the size of the space by sound alone. Nor could he see anything, despite the excellent night vision all dragons shared.

Well, that was fine. Dragons shared another, more practical, trait: breathing fire. He relaxed his jaw, felt the familiar phosphine tickle at the back of his throat… and then nothing. All right then; he didn’t need a great bout of flame; a trickle would do just as well. Again he strained, and again nothing.

An enchantment; it had to be. Especially something like this; taking away his flame? It was as if a leg had fallen asleep: he knew it was still there, it had to still be there, but shards if he could move it of his own free will.

Not that the rest of this place was helping much. Or, at least, as much of this place as he could figure out. There was a floor, and it seemed to be large enough, but that was it; there was no light. Not low light, not starlight, not even the faintest bit one might get from the night sky on an overcast new moon. Nothing, absolutely nothing; it was like being inside a mountain.

And then there was the cold.

It was humid, as if there should be water dripping somewhere. Nothing else justified this piercing dampness that chilled him to the core. But no, this place was as silent as it was dark, broken only by his own shallow breathing and the sound of ichor pounding through his temples.

He tried to shout, but his tongue was sluggish and his voice came out a raspy croak, not even enough to echo properly in this cave. If it was a cave; it felt like one, but who could tell in this dark? And dragons knew caves; they didn’t tend to be cold and slightly damp and have an odd warm patch off to one side —

The patch shifted. Instantly he was on full alert, crouching slightly and tensing up against an enemy that wasn’t there, straining to see the dark, to hear the silence. The patch moved again, and now he was sure that it was a torch. A torch, it had to be. Something aflame: if there was anything dragons knew better than caves it was fire.

But what was fire doing shielded by darkness? How was it moving? There was magic in this room already; could this be one more trick? No, it couldn’t be. The warmth had moved almost all the way around him now. This wasn’t magic; this was —

“Hello.”

— worse.

For a moment he froze. He hadn’t heard anything in this place besides his own faint breathing; if someone else was here he would have heard. Or smelled. Or seen. It had to be his imagination.

“No,” said the voice again, slightly amused. The warmth grew, and he realized that the speaker was reading his face like a book. In total darkness.

“Who…” he struggled. Shells, his tongue was dry. How long had he been here?

“Who are you?”

The heat flashed into light, and for a moment he was blinded. His inner eyelids snapped shut but the afterimage still burned in his eyes: a figure wreathed in flame. After a moment it faded, and he blinked a few times to clear his eyes against the sudden light of… an alicorn?

“You may call me Corona.”

Her mane was afire, tongues of flame that snapped and licked at the air. Burnished steel greaves offset her tawny coat, matched by a wicked-looking collarpiece. Ruby eyes sparkled under not a crown but a circlet; unadorned by gems or other settings, it was a very simple ornament, radiating a dangerously exquisite elegance. In fact, that much could be said about the rest of her, every part of which was slightly sharper, slightly harder, slightly deadlier than any pony had a right to be.

Dragons might not use magic, but they had other skills, and one of them was deception. Any dragon worth his hide knew how to spot a fake or fraud at a hundred paces, either to reinforce his own sense of honor or undermine someone else’s. Brownclaw had seen enough of Equestria to identify most of its species, and while the creature in front of him looked an awful lot like an alicorn, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was something far worse — and, at the moment, staring him down with a slightly haughty look.

“Corona,” he said, forcing himself to stand up straight. Something told him a defensive stance wouldn’t do him any good here. “I am Brownclaw, wyrm of the Badlands, attaché to Sss-Thss, First Claw of the Hierarch, Dragon of the Great Lair.”

She accepted this with a nod. “I know.”

On the one claw, it never hurt to at least attempt politeness. Especially not to the being who he was fairly certain was his captor. On the other, though… it didn’t look as if she was paying him much heed; her attention was focused on a table off to the side of the room.

The room! He stole a glance at the rest of it. He was right; between the smooth granite floors and rough-hewn walls it looked an awful lot like a cave. With one exception: there was no entrance. Just four walls lit by the dull glow of the alicorn as flickers of flame rolled off her mane.

“What do you want from me?”

Corona paused and turned towards him, and a shiver ran down his tail.

“No petty threats or demands for release?” she asked. “How efficient of you.”

“I won’t try what I know won’t work,” he ventured, doing his best to maintain a level composure.

She arched a coal-black eyebrow, held his gaze for a moment, and turned back towards the table, where he caught a glimpse of the barest glint of metal. She took a few steps alongside it, hooves echoing with the dull clink of armor, idly scanning the table and its contents.

“There are tales,” he started.

No response.

“Tales of Celestia’s fiery dungeons,” he continued, doing his best to keep his composure, “of places deep within the mountain. And other rumors still, of her… intendant.”

That earned him an upward twitch of her lip.

“Fiery dungeons,” she said, tasting the label. “I can see how that might happen.” Corona laughed, a rich sound. “I like it.”

Brownclaw was silent. Somehow, he got the distinct impression that he would be hard-pressed to share in that laughter.

“I do wonder how, though,” she said absently, hovering a hoof over the table and selecting an item.

He blinked.

“Rumors are rare enough beasts in Equestria, and those that do live often don’t have the legs to roam very far,” she said by way of explanation, turning back to him. “And so I wonder how they make it all the way down to the Badlands.”

He blinked again, caught off guard by what sounded eerily like genuine curiosity.

Another glint of metal and he realized she had selected a scalpel. It floated slightly as he gaped, delicately hovering an inch or two above her forehoof.

“I wonder,” she said again in a perfectly innocent voice, staring him down all the while.

“There… there are merchants,” he stuttered. “Merchants that come to the Badlands through the passes or over the Macintosh Hills from the deserts. Ponies can’t patrol all of the desert border, and things slip through the cracks.”

“But it’s not much,” he added quickly. “A rumor here or there. Gold, artefacts, other treasure to bargain with dragons who will hear them out. Nothing that compromises your security.”

The scalpel started a lazy rotation, cutting noiselessly through the air.

“But sometimes they tell us things, of course,” he said, licking his lips. “It’s not us doing it. We’re not asking for anything. But if a griffon flies over and offers a map, or a set of books, or papers, or something, dragons won’t refuse them!”

Corona plucked the scalpel out of the air, examined it, and gave the slightest of frowns.

“No, I don’t think so,” she murmured to herself.

“And, and it’s them that’re doing it,” he added quickly. “Not me. I don’t have a choice. I’m just a wyrm; we just do what the others, what Sss-Thss, tells us, tells me, to do.”

She set the scalpel down on the table and idly ran a hoof over the other implements on display. He craned his neck to get a better look at the neat rows of polished metal, the shiver down his rail returning with the realization that most of them were bladed and none of them looked friendly. He only recognized a few of the tools, but that was enough.

“That’s what it is, really,” he said, scrambling to find something to say. “You have to know your place. We — we have to know our place, is what I mean; not you, of course. Er. We have to know our place, know whose stomping grounds we’re on, know who they respect and who they don’t, know who to step aside for and who —”

“Your hand,” she said, picking up a robust-looking chunk of metal.

“My what?”

“Your hand,” she repeated icily, turning to face him.

Despite his better judgment, he raised his left arm, quivering slightly. He could feel the heat radiating off of her as she stepped closer, closer….

She didn’t touch his hand, but it froze as if she had. She examined it, then the device, then the hand again —

“Too big,” she declared absently, drawing back.

“Too… big?”

“I do not have much call for thumbscrews,” she said, gesturing at the device with a hoof before replacing it on the table.

“Not much call,” he echoed in a hollow tone.

“Juvenile hoofscrew should fit your claws, though,” she murmured to herself, continuing down the table.

“My claws,” he said again. “My claws… claws are sharp, sharp because they train us. Yes, they train us,” he affirmed, more confident in this line of discussion. “Each wing commander is responsible for training their own troops, personally. And if they don’t do a good job, then another commander could declare a Trial, defeat them in combat, take their troops.”

Corona said nothing.

“But it’s single combat with the commander, so a strong commander can do a bad job and still win the Trial,” he said, feeling his way through the sentence. “So… so the strongest field commanders sometimes have the weakest troops. And it always works out because we — because they’re strong, and no one stands against dragons for long.”

She picked up another object, with a stubby handle rigged to a large gear and a small cage-like outcropping at one end, and again glanced at him for a moment of contemplation.

“No… not this one.”

“They’ve got a bunch of lairs all along the Macintosh Hills, mostly, because they know you aren’t going to try sending anything across the Hayseed Swamps, even though that’s closer to the Great Lair.”

Again she picked something up from the table. A broad-headed clamp with a wicked-looking barb on one end and a razor along the other, it bore no resemblance to any of the other implements. He recognized it quickly enough, though, as he had seen one before: buried in the bottom of a chest in Sss-Thss’ private chambers.

Brownclaw had made the mistake of asking what purpose it served. At the time he wasn’t sure which was more unnerving, the fact that the elder dragon could give such a finely-tailored description of the excruciating process of scale extraction, or the fact that the description seemed to have come from personal experience. Either way, that was one tool he had hoped to never see again, much less have brandished at him by this… creature.

“Yes,” said Corona to herself, the slightest of nods sending the fiery flickers of her mane into the now-dry air. “This will do.”

It was all he could do to keep talking in the face of the alicorn’s advance, but he could only rattle off a dozen or so lairs before she was directly in front of him, her mane searing its way into his eyes. When she spoke, she addressed him directly, her voice taking on a silky steel tone.

“Step back.”

He wasn’t about to let her repeat herself. He stepped back — and smacked his heels into a cold slab, the sound ringing dully in the room.

“Wrist up,” she commanded.

He didn’t comply with that order, largely because he was using his hands to feel around what seemed very much like a solid slab of metal directly behind him. Where had it come from? Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter much at the moment.

Corona’s horn glowed a burnt gold, whipping his left arm up and back against his will. With a crisp click he felt a shackle snap home, the metal burning cold against his wrist.

“Wait!” he shouted, though he might as well be yelling at the sun for all the good it did; she stepped over to his other wrist entirely unperturbed.

“I can — I can show you! Give me a map and I’ll mark out all their positions! Sss-Thss gets a lot of reports and they all go through me; I can show them all to you!”

He could feel the warm tingle of power around his right wrist, but it held short for a moment as the alicorn considered his offer.

“Lots of reports,” he repeated with what he knew must be an air of desperation, but at that moment he cared more about his hand than his tone. “And I can mark them all down for you but I need a hand for that,” he added, wiggling his claws against the firm push of the magical field.

A moment dragged on for a year, and then the force around his arm faded.

“Mark,” she commanded, and there was a pencil in his hand. He started scrawling things down at once, trying to get as much information from those reports onto paper as possible. He must have read thousands of them — shards, he had written hundreds more — and this was how that information mattered?

Well, fine; he didn’t care. It was his life on the line, and with one wrist shackled by an alicorn out of his nightmares, he wasn’t about to complain.

He had just finished marking up the lair that Skath had built last year when he felt an uncomfortable warmth wrap around his legs. He looked back to Corona as she stood her ground, stately, regal, and utterly sane.

“You write with your hands,” said Corona with the slightest shrug. “Not your legs.”

A moment of silence, broken only by the lapping tongues of her burning mane. She glanced at the extractor, still gleaming in the air.

“No, that’s right,” she said to herself. “There’s no need for this.”

She walked the extractor back to the table, paused for a moment, and caught his eye with a hard gaze that cut neatly through the layers of indecision piling up in Brownclaw’s mind. At once he bent back to the map, marking lairs and hunting fields and roads and anything else that he could think of. Anything to take his mind off his current situation, take it away from the exquisitely deadly alicorn all too near him.

And, for a time, it worked; all he could think of were those damned reports, the facts and figures, places and names, the data that was keeping him alive. He was focused on the map, but not so much that he couldn’t hear Corona again murmuring to herself as she replaced the extractor and ran a hoof over some of the other implements.

“Not yet.”

Ground and Pound

20 June, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Are we sure we have to do this?” The burnt orange pony cracked a half-smile at the black one. “Don’t have any other, more cooperative prisoners down there, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” said his companion with a sigh. It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was all they had at this point. The bunker network had been build with a reasonable number of detention cells, and a few of the larger halls nearby had been designed to be easily convertible, in case they suddenly had to lock down a larger group.

At the moment, though, the cell blocks were almost entirely empty, save for three inmates: one who knew nothing, one who was certifiable, and one who was very, very angry.

“Remind me again why we can’t just get another one?” he asked, glancing through a hastily-assembled dossier. “We’ve shot down enough.”

“They don’t actually take too well to that,” offered the other. “Ground is hard stuff, and pegasi bones are hollow. Not really designed to take an impact.”

“’Course they are. How else do they learn how to fly?”

The black pony rolled his eyes. “Not a high speed impact, and not from altitude. And certainly not when they’re bleeding from shrapnel. Anyway, either they die on impact or one of their buddies drags ‘em off. Leave nopony behind.”

“Yeah, where was that team spirit a year ago?” The orange pony spat. “Left Blackacre behind easy enough.”

They were silent a moment at that. It was just inconceivable as to how Canterlot’s propaganda could possibly be effective on anypony. Canterlot caused the problem in the first place, and they had a solution on the table that would have worked. And what does the Princess do? Blames the dead ambassador, her own dead ambassador, for being a Blackacre sympathizer and sinking the Mane. Simply ridiculous.

“What are we looking for?” he said, eager to get off that particular conversational topic. Not that this one was much better, but they had their marching orders.

“The usual,” offered the other. “Troop dispositions, plans, tactics in general. It’d be nice to have an updated list of who’s running what.”

“Pommel’s in charge, everyone else asks how high.”

“Ha,” he said dryly. “Could have gotten that out of Mr. Know-Nothing in block A twenty-three. Or the nutjob in B twelve.”

“B thirteen now,” commented the orange pony. “He, uh. Did it again.”

The black pony swore under his breath. At least he hadn’t had to clean it this time.

“Look, let’s just do this,” he said, stopping short in front of the interrogation room.

“Don’t have much of a choice.”

“Never do.”

They each inserted a key into the locks on opposite side of the door and turned on a three-count. With a slightly rusty sound, it swung inwards with a groan. The moment it opened, they heard muffled shouts from the inside. Couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but these weren’t shouts of pain — no, this was anger.

The door snapped shut behind them, and the shouting stopped for a moment. With another pair of keys they opened the internal door. A seal popped at them, and a half second later the shouting resumed, much more comprehensible.

“…to me! First you send a dozen griffons to do your dirty work, body check me into a tree, and then you tie me up in this hole and leave me to rot with nothing but griffon stench to keep me company? This is cruel and unusual, and I demand that you release me at once before I round up a whole load of payback and let it loose on your asses!”

The two ponies let the door close behind them, airgap sealing shut. Not that there was much of anypony walking around this section of the tunnels to hear them, but it was about to get a lot louder in here, and there was no sense taking chances. Besides, protocols were pretty clear on the point.

Their captive, bound to a horizontal slab with a generous amount of chain — clearly, those who dragged her down here didn’t take kindly to her tongue — stretched around to try and see them, keeping up a steady stream of commentary. Ignoring her entirely, the black pony went over to the fireplace in one corner of the room, which promptly roared to life with a few logs and a pump or two on the bellows.

For his part, the burnt orange pony stepped up roughly in front of the captive, cranked the table up a few degrees, and waited for her to take a breath so he could get a word in edgewise.

“Are you done?”

The tan pegasus glared at him.

“Yeah, I’ll shut up. The hell do you want?”

“We want you to do this the easy way,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

“Do what?” she asked incisively. “Spill the beans on all the top secret stuff everypony just hands out to wingponies?” She snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

“We’re not asking for Pommel’s notes,” he said cautiously. “We just want to know —”

“Where you can shove it?” she asked brightly. “Because I can tell you that.” She barked a dismissive laugh. “We done here?”

“I suggest you give cooperation a bit more consideration,” he said gently. “Otherwise, this gets worse for me, and a lot worse for you.”

“Oh, bullshit,” she said. “You get your jollies off of this. I don’t know anything, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Do you even know who I am?”

“Pegasus, callsign Gun, Third Air Wing out of Hayseed, relocated to Appleloosa, on long term assignment to Ponyville, deployed on eyes-only mission near Saddle.” He cocked his head. “That sound about right?”

“You missed the part where I got the top secret intelligence,” she said dismissively.

“We’re not asking for anything you don’t have,” he said testily. “We just want to know what you know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting anything from me.” She cozied up against her restraints. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with so I can kick your asses and go home.”

The orange pony pursed his lips. At a nod, he and the black pony moved up to either side of the table. Without breaking eye contact, the orange pony reached down, grabbed a rope, and gave it a tug. Under the table a chain rattled through block and tackle; the pegasus’ wings were splayed tight.

“What,” she snorted, “you’re going to pull out my feathers one at a time and throw sparkles at me until I sneeze to death?”

“This is your last chance,” said the orange pony, his voice deadly. “Start cooperating now, or you might not live to regret it.”

The pegasus looked him square in the eye and spat.

“Fuck you.”

For a split second, the only sound in the room was the dull echoing crunch of the cleaver. The wing of a pegasus was thickest at the base, and for that moment the two ponies could see it in cross section, like something out of an anatomy textbook, all the various ligaments and muscles and arterial connections. The pegasus exploded in a primal scream of pure pain just as the blood started to flow.

Without skipping a beat, the black pony set aside the cleaver and withdrew a long loy spade from the fire, pressing its white hot head against the pegasus’ flank with a sizzling.

The room echoed with the pegasus’ bellows as it slowly filled with the smell of charred flesh.

After a few minutes, she had controlled herself to spiteful mutterings under her breath; her teeth were crimson where she had bitten her jaw in her spasms. Off to her right, the wing still twitched on the table slick with blood.

“Have you reconsidered?” asked the orange pony.

When no response was forthcoming, he pressed on. “You can’t regrow that wing, not even with magic. Even if you could, you could never use it. That scar tissue will be with you for the rest of your life, however long you decide you want that to be.”

The pegasus bore her teeth and emitted a low growl. The pony actually glanced at the restraints to make sure the chains were still intact; they were half inch steel, but he wasn’t taking any chances with the manic look in her eyes. He knew that look. She wasn’t gone, not by a long shot; she was still very much present, running on adrenaline and sheer rage.

“Take that brand,” she said through gritted teeth, spittle flecked with red, “and shove it straight up your ass.”

“That was to let you know the stakes here,” he said with a gesture at the wing. On cue, it twitched. “I will break you,” he said flatly. “Every fiber of your being. Every bone in your body, if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“They call you Gun-Shy,” the orange pony mused. “You don’t seem to live up to your name very much.”

“Give me a gun and I’ll show you.”

One of the charred patches on her flank split open; the black pony reapplied the brand, sending up a curl of black smoke. She shuddered but nothing more; there were no more nerves to feel anything now.

“Shy,” he echoed with the thinnest of smiles. “By the time we’re done here, your name will fit you like a glove.”

The black pony picked up a thick paring knife and handed it to the orange one. Testing its balance, he moved to the pegasus’ left wing, chained tight against the table. He ran the knife along the delicate inner tracings of the wing. The skin here was delicate, thin, and very sensitive.

“What’s left of you.”

Inside the Lair

20 June, Y.C. 970
The Great Lair

Sss-Thss growled his displeasure. He didn’t like being disturbed, especially not after a long night of reading through correspondence himself. He didn’t trust his new aide to do it, at least not yet.

Interrupting him was certainly not helping his case any.

“…near the road to the north,” the wyrm was saying. “She got past the pony patrols, but the border drakes smelled her out quickly enough.”

“And what,” asked Sss-Thss, slowly turning around to face his soon-to-be ex-aide, “is it doing here.”

The bright pink pony mumbled something through the gag, straining her arms against the restraints, attempting to use gestures to communicate with someone who was clearly having none of it.

“She demanded to speak with you, sir.”

Sss-Thss was entirely unimpressed. “Me.”

“By name. Says she’s here on behalf of Beatrix of Blackacre.”

“The pony rebels,” he acknowledged with the wave of a claw. “Very well. Remove her gag.”

The wyrm removed the black cloth, and the pony shook her blonde curls free.

“Thank you,” she said, slightly irritated. “I am Sharon Rock, and on behalf of Beatrix the Great, speaker for the free ponies of Blackacre, I come bearing an offer for Sss-Thss, First Claw of the Hierarch, Dragon of the —”

“Enough,” he said, cutting her off. “What is it you propose?”

“Mutual aid,” she said in a surprisingly confident tone.

“An alliance?” He snorted. “That’s rich.”

“Dragons and ponies have much to benefit from each other,” she said quickly. “At the moment, we share a common enemy; in the future —”

“Ponies have one use for dragons,” he conceded, but shook his head. “But what would you have me do?”

“By coordinating —”

“Attacks?” he finished, toying with her. “Do you have the detailed operational intelligence that would allow us to plan a coherent operation? Can you provide the logistical backing necessary for such a push? Could you rustle up the internal support for a sudden and all-out invasion of a country with which we are currently at peace?”

“I…” she stammered. “I can provide one of those.”

“And do you have any strategic or tactical intelligence on you at the moment?”

“I am just an envoy,” she said gracefully. “Blackacre is willing to provide what we have after a show of good faith by joining us in —”

“You know nothing.”

“I am authorized to treat,” she ventured. “I’m not privy to need-to-know intelligence.”

“So you’re worthless to me.” Sss-Thss turned to his aide with an expression of almost parental disappointment. “You are here to screen these wastes of my time.”

The wyrm bowed deep as the pony shook her head.

“This isn’t a waste of time,” she insisted. “Our peoples have much to offer —”

Sss-Thss’ claw flashed. The pony clawed at her neck, trying to hold herself together. Or in, as the case might be.

After a few seconds of futile gasping, she collapsed in an expanding puddle on the floor; a few seconds more and the quivering stopped.

“Do a better job next time,” said Sss-Thss, turning back to his work.

“Of course,” affirmed the wrym. He paused for a moment, making the vaguest sound of hesitation.

“Dispose of it,” said the dragon with an idle wave, not bothering to turn back. “I’ve already fed.”

With a nod, the wrym hefted the corpse, dragging it out of the elder dragon’s chamber. He would send a few of the hatchlings up later to clean the mess. It would be an annoying job, but fresh meat made for a fantastic bribe. This pony looked to be a bit stringy, but anything was better than the salted cardboard they usually got in the Great Lair.

Sss-Thss paid him no mind. He had no need for distraction when there was real work to do.

Summer Sun Altercation

21 June, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

Red in the morn, sheep should be shorn, or so the old saying went. Not that such sayings got much credence in the city. The little logical leap that a sheep should be shorn because rain was coming — and, subsequently, it would be harder and less pleasant to shave a soggy ruminant — might make sense in the country, but for Canterlot ponies the notion was quaint at best. They relied on the daily bulletins from Cloudsdale; much more sensible. Plus, the sayings didn’t exactly cover what a greyish morning meant.

In point of fact, this morning was indicative of a low pressure system, some short-term sun, and rain a few days out, but nopony here particularly cared.

The ponies assembled out in the main plaza would have been here rain or shine; if perchance there was a mid-June blizzard, they would grumble and complain at length, but none of them would miss this event. The Summer Sun Celebration came around once a year, and it was quite the event for the city ponies who attended yearly, to say nothing of the tourists who had come in for the day.

It, like the more intimate winter solstice celebration, usually moved around from city to city, spreading the magic of sunshine across Equestria, to say nothing of the revenues from hosting such an event. This year, Vanhoover was supposed to host. Nopony was surprised when it was quietly rescheduled for Canterlot. They all had a pretty good idea of what the Princess’ speech would cover, and nowhere would nationalist rhetoric seem right other than the steps of the capitol.

Canterlot had hosted hundreds of times before, so the city was well-equipped to handle the sudden influx of tourists, gawkers, and sight-seers. Vendors lined both sides of broad avenues, hawking their goods at anypony who would listen. The square was already standing room only; the naïve few ponies who had set up blankets on the grassy knolls just beyond the plaza were already packing up under the dirty looks of the latecomers.

The hands of the big clock tower slowly ticked forward, illuminated by the streetlights and the very slightest of glows from the eastern hills. The tower didn’t normally chime at a quarter past five, but today the bellpony made an exception to ring out a quick ten-minute marker. The bells only rang twice, but that was enough; the melodious sound filled every street in the city.

There would be a few ponies who complained about what was technically a noise violation. Every year they complained, and every year the Royal Guard turned them away with a shrug, saying that they hadn’t heard the early ring this time, but rest assured that if it happened again next year they would surely apprehend those miscreants responsible. The complainants would leave in a huff, and most everypony else would have a good laugh at their expense.

Not that there was much of a chance of the Royal Guard missing anything on a day like today. Guardsponies were stationed on every corner, keeping watchful eyes on the market stalls, making sure that bits that changed hooves got to the right hooves, rather than being swiped by the miscreants this sort of event naturally attracted.

Overhead, detachments from the Seventh “Wonderbolt” Air Wing flew a slow patrol. Far above them, the regularly-scheduled CAP cut by at high altitude, watching for unidentified flyers. A list that now, much to their displeasure, included griffons. Not that anything short of an invasion force could do any damage, given the sheer military presence in the area, but they would definitely put a dent in the city’s good cheer.

Near the grandstand, the Royal Band struck up a jaunty tune, starting the slow process of gathering everypony’s attention. Around the plaza and the greenery beyond, ponies started congregating, murmuring to themselves. And, perhaps most unpleasantly for the many, many vendors, they stopped buying things. After all, what sense was there in spending more bits on fripperies when the main event was about to start? A fresh pie was nice, but a good seat for the show was better.

It was definitely predawn; rays of pink poked through the light clouds to the east. At a cue, the band broke into a martial theme, a long form national march. Some of the younger ponies were confused, but most of the older ones remembered it; this was the score to the Summer Sun Celebration twenty-three years ago, then only a few days after the first scattered attack of the Skirmishes.

Just a minute to go, now. Cutting off on a coda, the band broke into a new tune, the crowd cheering as the Equestrian Anthem spilled out into Canterlot. The pinkish glow was shifting to orange, the orange was dangerously close to yellow; the moon was long gone and the last few stars were fading in the coming dawn. It was time!

The dais rotated slightly, opening a gap under the Sun Circle. All eyes were forward now, ponies eager with anticipation to see the rare event. The music swelled in a crescendo — and then there she was!

The crowd roared with thunderous applause. With three pumps of her majestic wings, the Princess was in the Sun Circle, hovering with wings out, horn aglow, spilling energy from every hair, every feather. Behind her, the sun crested the mountain, and for one beautiful moment Princess Celestia was backlit by the sparkling light of the Sun.

Nopony heard the soft thwock over the crowd, but everypony saw the thin black line slam into the Princess’ outstretched wing, spinning her to the ground.

For a moment, the city was silent.

In a flash, the Princess was on her hooves, fire in her eyes and a spear lodged halfway through her right wing. Injury or not, her wings pumped once and she was a hundred feet in the air. Her horn glowed slightly; the spear itself trembled and shattered into a thousand pieces, sending a spray of reddish wood to the ground below. She raised her horn, crystallizing a ball of energy; the light swept over the plaza before settling on one of the low green hills beyond.

Pegasi were generally pretty quick; it was a prerequisite for making Air Patrol. Pegasi who made the grade for the Seventh “Wonderbolt” Air Wing were themselves a cut above, natural talent honed by hundreds of hours of training. The moment the Princess had wavered from the Sun Circle, the CAP wings above had tucked into a steep dive. They were some of the fastest pegasi in the service, diving like peregrines with height, inertia, and every other advantage physics could conjure up in their favor.

From a standstill the Princess outpaced them all, a streak of gold like a lightning bolt cutting across the plaza to the knoll, where an ochre pony had been standing. Now the pony was on the ground, all four limbs pinned by twelve feet of enraged alicorn. Terror in her eyes, she started to say something; as the pegasi caught up to their Princess the pony’s words caught in her mouth as she writhed, scrambling to get free —

She stopped, a sneer on her lips and a curious look in her eye.

“We will be free,” she said in a low tone.

“Who are you?” demanded the Princess. “Who sent you?”

“Free,” repeated the ochre pony through clenched teeth, tongue working at something in her mouth.

“No!” roared Celestia, prying at the pony’s mouth, but it was too late, too late; foam flecked her muzzle as her eyes twitched.

“For…” she said through her own bloody form, “ever….”

The ochre pony shuddered and fell limp.

Slowly, Princess Celestia let the body to the ground, received by a half-dozen armored ponies of the Royal Guard. Behind them, other guardsponies were standing watch over confiscated equipment, wicked-looking tools camouflaged by greenish paint and bound strips of moss.

The plaza was silent, save for the quiet flapping of pegasus wings as hundreds of the ponies hung in the air, vigilant for any new threat.

The Princess rose, her head bowed, wings outstretched and tense. There was a crimson stain on her right one, but she paid it no heed. She simply stood there, eyes closed, incongruous with a body primed for action.

After a moment, she raised her head.

“My friends,” she started, voice quiet but perfectly audible to every last pony, “my faithful friends. Today, blood has been spilled.

“This is not the first time.” She turned to glance at the armored pegasi overhead, to the guardsponies all around her. “Many of our own brothers and sisters have given their hearts, their hooves, their lives in order to protect us all.

“Six months ago,” she declared, scanning the crowd, “six months ago today Canterlot was attacked. Two hundred and sixty-six ponies died on the EAS Mane, died simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, died because they stood with Equestria on what should have been a day of celebration.

“Since then, tens of thousands of ponies have died, died protecting themselves, protecting their brothers and sisters in arms, protecting Equestria from those who would rip it apart.”

The crowd gave silent nods. Everypony had been affected, some way or another. Some had been lucky enough to get off with an injury or two in the family. Some families just weren’t there any more.

“Strength through harmony,” she announced. “Harmony through faith. These are the principles that make Equestria great.

“Harmony. Each of us is different, each of us is special. Through our friendship and our magic, together we are strong. Whenever one pony stumbles, she knows that her sister will be there, right beside her, helping her up, helping her forward.

“We know this,” she said with a slow nod. “We have seen it, we have done it. But even when we have lost our way, we must have faith. Faith that together we can accomplish anything. We can bring this to an end. We can restore harmony to Equestria. This we believe because we have faith.

“This is not the first time blood has been spilled in Equestria,” she repeated, voice gaining strength. “We sacrifice everything to restore that harmony because we believe in it, and it is this belief itself which gives us the strength to carry on.

“It is not the first time,” she repeated again, voice booming out, “but it will be the last!”

The crowd broke its silence with a roar of approval.

“I will not stand idly by while those who would destroy our harmony strike at Canterlot itself!” she declared, taking a step forward on the knoll. “I will not do nothing while our brave mares and stallions give their lives to protect us!”

Another roar of approval, fading only slightly was the Princess raised a clenched hoof in a gesture of victory.

“Starting right now, I am ordering an immediate halt to all combat operations in and around Blackacre,” she said with a hint of a growl. “Those who have chosen to fight harmony have seven days to surrender themselves.

“Seven days!” she called again to quiet the crowd; by now she was hovering slightly above the ground and her radiant mane was trimmed with a distinct aura of gold. “Seven days of truce, seven days to look deep within themselves and ask whether this is the fate they want.

“Seven days — to surrender!” she roared over the crowd, eyes flashing with flame. “And on the eighth day, they will face the light of justice!”

The assembled ponies broke out in cheers; spirits buoyed by the glory of the Princess and the lightest magical block on untoward thoughts, there was no stopping them. The newsponies were beside themselves; they had expected something new out of the Summer Sun Speech, but nopony had thought it would herald a major policy change, and certainly not with such dramatic flair. Another attack on the Princess? This was too much.

All of Equestria backed her now. Seven days — and then everything would change. For the better.

Shock and Awe

28 June, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“How do you feel, boy?”

The younger pegasus shot back a grin, readjusting the heavy leather straps that dug into his emerald flank.

“Like a mean green fighting machine, sir!”

The brown pegasus gave a curt nod, looked around once, and leapt into the air. He circled the spot lazily, scanning the wings of pegasi splayed out to all sides, countless splotches of every color imaginable, each loaded to the brim. They wouldn’t be flying for too long, nor would they be going too far, but at this point the more time they spent on the ground the better. Each wingflap was calories, and his troops needed every single one.

He caught the eye of one of the few dozen pegasi who wasn’t carrying a weapons load. The signalpony raised a horn to her lips and let loose a blast; picked up by the others it echoed down the valley.

In unison, twenty thousand wings unfurled.

William Batchall raised a clenched hoof in the air, and the signalpony let out another blast. He pumped his hoof three times in the ancient signal to take to the skies.

With a powerful lunge the signalponies took to the air, screening units right behind them. The heavy battle pegasi were airborne the next second. Making height, Batchall led them to the east.

A few seconds later and they had reached what would be combat height for this operation, high enough to see the river snake through what was now the Remaregen ford below them but not high enough to see beyond to forest to the east.

The east. Always into the east.

Batchall had been first to lift off, but he wasn’t foolish enough to lead from the front. He drifted upwards, letting his wingleaders maneuver below him into fighting positions: commanders above and heavy pegasi in a sheet formation below, screening units darting about between the wings.

This was not a tactically optimal formation. He knew it, Pommel knew it, and everypony in the formation knew it. They would be largely exposed to incoming fire, and without much discretion to move their wings outside of their zones, commanders would not have much flexibility in reacting to specific threats. Tactical or not, however, this was strategically optimal.

Ten thousand pegasi stretched from here to White Tail, a sheet of them, the formation stretching from one horizon to the other. Ten thousand pegasi, who had spent the past seven days resting, recovering, and preparing themselves.

Ten thousand pegasi, each loaded down with as many K-bombs as they could carry.

Preparing that sheer number of bombs was an operation in and of itself. Though it took a good portion of the strategic reserves to meet the bill, they had enough of the raw petrochemicals on hoof to prepare everything. The forges pressed out casings twenty-four hours a day; the moment they were cool enough to handle, they were filled, fitted with detonator cap, and stockpiled.

The process didn’t end there, though. Once stockpiled, each unit was carefully gone over by an armorer unicorn, probing the internals for weaknesses and ensuring quality control. The last step was the most tiring for them: each one was infused, magically charged in a manner not unlike that of a battery. They couldn’t do this with conventional weapons, because compound explosives wouldn’t take a spell. Liquids, on the other hand, held a charge for weeks; at night, the K-bomb stockpile had started to glow.

Every pony in the Army had been pressed into service. Earth ponies made them, unicorns charged them, and now pegasi were going to deliver them. The production had literally gone faster than they could keep track of; best estimates put their seven-day production run in the hundred and twenty thousand range. Even a single K-bomb was sufficient to cause major damage if left unchecked; none of them really knew what effect the infusion would have in combat operations.

Then again — no one was really sure what a hundred and twenty thousand normal gelled kerosene fire bombs would do.

It was morning on what promised to be a bright and temperate summer day. They were flying into the rising sun, but that only made the sight more impressive, exposed steel glittering in the air among the countless splotches of color. They were lit up as bright as day but it didn’t matter; it wasn’t as if anypony was going to miss their formation. The sun wouldn’t interfere too much with visibility, either; they were all equipped with flash goggles, which worked well enough to block the sun’s glare while they were looking down.

Besides, it wasn’t going to be a clear day for much longer.

As the last of the wings rose into position, Batchall took a moment to revel in the power of the Air Patrol, ten thousand of Equestria’s finest, each heavily enough armed to destroy a small town. They weren’t just going to bomb Blackacre back to the stone age; they were going to grind it to ash.

Below him, one of the lead signalponies rose up to within earshot, flapping hard to gain altitude even despite his light armor.

“General!” called the signalpony. “Sir, all wings report in. Withdrawals in the dozens.”

Batchall nodded. Despite all the preflight checks, sometimes a pony just had to bow out of a mission — sudden-onset illness, an unnoticed split hoof, a tree branch that fell on somepony — at the last minute. These things were rare, but they still happened. Dozens of no-flys would normally be grounds for scrubbing the flight, but with a force this size, that still only meant fractions of a percent. Nothing was going to stop them.

“Sir,” called the pony again, “we’ve got it spotted. Duke calls approaching range.”

He licked his lips. Time to go. “Headings to zero niner zero, spread to attack formation.”

“Copy, zero niner zero and spread.” The signalpony turned downwards, relaying orders to the other runners. Not that they were needed, of course. Everyone knew their part. Actually giving the orders was a formality at this point.

“Coming in low into the rising sun,” murmured Batchall to himself, reciting the header on the mission brief. “Ho! Rider!”

The signalpony popped up. “Sir?”

“At about a mile out, go for psy ops.”

“Copy, prep, one mile, drop dazzle and put on the music.”

Batchall smiled to himself. His aides had been thoroughly confused at that set of orders, when it came time to type them up. When it came time to scare the hell out of the slopes, there were a lot of choices, but he was fond of Buckner’s eighth. Besides, the boys loved it.

Far below, the charred earth seemed to come to a head. Here was where the battle lines had been drawn, was where the forest had been burned away, a swath of land almost as barren in reality as it had been on the map, a thick line of no return. Spread into wide vees the main force was low and close, and the red line was coming up fast.

General Batchall backed off a bit, rising up so his voice would carry at least some distance. The steady thrumming of wings would be overpowering in the thick of it, but that was what the signalponies were for.

“All flyers all flyers,” he called, loud and clear so there was no mistake, “commit, commit, commit. Drop dazzle and put on psy op; make it loud.” He paused for the slightest of moments. “Let’s dance.”

The line of pegasi at the very front of the formation pulled their ripcords in unison, unfurling short bits of fabric that trailed from their wings. They weren’t long, maybe only a foot or two, but they ran the length of the ponies’ wingspan like textile trailing-edge flaps. On the top side, they displayed wing and unit stripings for identification, something that would come in useful with so many ponies in the air. The line behind them reached back and pulled their cords. Then the ones behind them and the ones after, a rapid sequence as the formation rippled.

And the scorched earth below rippled back — for the underside of the flaps was a metallic weave, reflecting the sunlight to the ground in thousands of columns of ivory and gold. Each individual pegasus might not contribute much, but with enough of them together… well, if they had to fly into the sun, they would turn it against the enemy.

And then — a sound.

It came from everywhere at once, an elegantly simple pattern building to a block fanfare, the richness of the sound pouring out over the formation to the ground below from a dozen linked pony-mounted transceivers.

For an instant, Batchall imagined what it would look like from below, looking up in confusion and terror from a spider hole. In a matter of seconds, the sky had gone from rosy blue to shining sparkling white, a thousand pinpricks taking their turn at blinding anypony below with constantly moving streams of sun.

And then that sound would hit. It would start as a faint tingling, a something just outside perception, snaking through the trenches and the trees. They would pop up to see what was happening — or not; it made no difference. It would grow louder, starting from a faintest murmur but drowning everything out in a matter of moments, accompanied by the steady downbeat of ten thousand wings.

And then the first of the bombs hit.

Discharged

28 June, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Did you know,” mused Chal with an absently raised eyebrow, “that the only named syndicate in the region is Poitot?”

“Oh,” said Flax with the most deadpan and utterly unimpressed tone she could muster, “I was not aware. Do regale me with your tales of hardship and adventure.”

“Oh c’mon.”

“It’s not like this would be the fifth time or anything,” she shot back with an impressive roll of her eyes. “I swear, did you do anything else before signing up?”

“Sure I did,” said Chal with an easy laugh, brushing the green and black crest hastily stitched to his chest. “But sometimes when an opportunity shows up… you just can’t say no.”

“Or you make that opportunity show up,” she corrected.

“Or that,” he conceded. “Same deal, right?”

“Pretty good one for you. Not that fighting Canterlot changes much. How many warrants did they have out for your arrest? Two?”

“Three, I like to think,” he said with a sort of pride. “The misdemeanor in White Tail won’t stick, but it’s still on the books. The books that count, that is. They know who I am.”

“Oh good,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “If there’s one thing I love more than sitting around waiting for Beatrix-knows-what, it’s sitting around next to a wanted colt.”

“Hush,” he snorted.

“No, seriously,” she continued. “Look, if they start shooting at us — however like that is, because we’re what, a mile from the line? Mile and a half? — if they start shooting at us, I’d rather not be next to a high-profile —”

“Quiet,” he said again.

She laughed. “What, because they’ll hear me instead of seeing you?”

“Because I’m trying to hear them,” he snapped. “Listen.”

She did — and heard nothing.

“What…?”

Again, nothing. Then….

“The hell is that?”

“That…” he started, scanning the sky through the tree line, “is the sound of us finding the pony in charge here. What’s-his-hoof. Kirkland”

“Something like that,” she breathed.

A pause. Off in the distance, the sky was starting to glow.

“We should go,” said Chal, not entirely sounding as if he understood what he was saying.

She blinked, and the faintest whiff of sulphur snapped her back to the reality of the fast-approaching firestorm.

“Now!”

The foxhole had been designed to weather a frontal assault; at five feet deep and with a half-trench to either side, it was a decent fortification for light infantry. It might even afford them some measure of protection against an aerial attack, but neither of them was even going to consider taking that chance: they shot out of the foxhole like a rocket sled on rails, charging towards the back lines without the slightest heed to their exposure.

Voices shouted at them from either side, but as they passed the shouts of confusion turned to terror as the other ponies in the trenches realized exactly what they were running from.

“Kurland here,” thundered a voice over the trenches as a stallion in full battle armor appeared over the rear crest. “Get back to the line!”

“Listen to me, Kirkland,” said Chal, stumbling to a stop in front of the officer. “We need to get out of here.”

“Kurland,” corrected the stallion icily. “We’re going to hold this line.”

“Whatever,” said the colt quickly. “Look. I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to hurt other ponies, and a big part of that involves knowing when to run.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how brave you are if you’re dead.”

“Are you telling me —”

“We can’t stop that,” he shot, stabbing a hoof back at the decidedly orange sky to the west. “And we’re no use to anypony if we’re dead.”

As if to emphasize the point, they heard the faintest of detonations as one of the farthest trees burst into an eerie pinkish flame.

Kurland’s lips thinned. He didn’t like where this was going, and certainly didn’t like the idea of running away on the advice of a sellhoof, but the whelp had a point.

“We’ll be talking later,” he promised before turning back to address the trenches, where a hundred ponies hung on his every word.

“Tactical retreat!” he boomed. “By fours! Keep it orderly and we meet up at forward command!”

He tried to say more but it didn’t matter any more; they were gone, a hundred ponies running for what was all too likely their lives.

“Come on,” said Chal, grabbing at Flax. “We’ve got to go.”

She started off in the general direction of the herd but Chal collared her, hustling her off in an entirely different direction

“Aren’t we supposed to be going that way?”

“Sure we are,” said the colt, breaking into a run. “They all are. I’m good at this staying alive business, and let me tell you that sticking with a hundred targets is not the way to do it.”

“But —” she started, darting over a log. “What about them?”

“Captain Pretentious seems to be doing fine,” he snorted. “Besides, I know we’ll be fine.”

They dodged another fallen trunk; this was decidedly not a path. At least, not one that had been cleared any time in the past ten years; they seemed to be heading straight into a thicker part of forest. They could no longer see the sky glowing off to one side, but they could certainly still hear… something. Growing closer.

“Where are we going?”

“Firestorm, right?” he asked, breathing heavily. “Solution, water.”

They rounded a boulder and drew up short as the earthy loam gave way to a soggy mess.

“You call this water?”

“Bog, swamp, whatever you want to call it,” said Chal, wading into the marsh, “it’s full of water.”

“And bugs,” said Flax, tail working furiously to swat at them.

“Yeah, well.” He glanced up at the sky, which was no longer a shade recognizable as blue. “Better than the alternative.”

“Isn’t it always,” she said, tearing off a strip of her uniform and binding it around her muzzle like a bandana. “Looks like smoke.”

It took them a minute or two to find the deepest part of the bog; by the time they did, the forest to the east was flickering. And not with the morning sun, either; that was long gone, replaced by a persistent haze that seemed to start just above the treetop line.
Chal and Flax glanced at each other, heads just above the water. The bog itself leaned a bit too much on the far side of cool for comfort. They could feel the silt seeping under their coats, and could well imagine that leeches would turn up quickly enough, but neither was even considering exiting — the air was already warm, and they could feel a thickness in it, even though the moistened fabric.

The sounds of the forest had muted alongside the sun; an unnatural glow lit up the trees from all angles, dangerous colors sparkling off the water. Off in the distance there were faint shouts and cries, but they couldn’t say from whom or where.

Abstractly they knew the morning had been a clear one, but by this point it almost felt like twilight. Neither of them dared say a word; they didn’t know who might be listening or watching, muffled though the observation would be. Certainly there was no sign of anypony from their company, and while a timberwolf rider wasn’t out of the question, they knew better than to expect a cinematic rescue.

All was silent, save for an increasingly disconcerting dull roar from the bank that she was fairly certain lay to the east and a faint whistling that she just now noticed —

The tree closest to the bog exploded in a burst of shrapnel. A burning sensation streaked over Flax’ cheek; she spun into the water, frantically pawing at her face. Her hoof came back with a slab of bark, one serrated edge tinged with red: not much, but definitely not part of the tree’s natural extrusions.

She risked a glance back at the tree only to see that it… was still exploding? Showers of green and pink sparks flew off, tiny discharges snapping from branch to branch. One smacked into the water, sending a filigree of energy snaking across the water towards her. It veered off into a patch of colttails, which promptly shuddered… and started rocking back and forth.

The tree was starting to slow down now, shedding more smoke than light. The exposed trunk was charred through, but it smoldered in an eerie blue glow, little specks swimming around in the ash, throwing off sparks all the while.

“The hell is that?” mumbled Chal through his bandana.

In response, the colttails… sped up. They waved back and forth quickly, now jerking from one side to another, swaying with the shower of sparks and ash and bark from what was left of the tree’s core. For one last moment, the tree shuddered, struggling to stay alive, before giving up and settling back into a burst of sickly green flame, fire marching up the trunk and out the branches.

The tree might have given up, but the branches were another thing entirely. As the tongues approached each branch, it almost looked as if they shuddered, writhing away from their inevitable fate.

Wait a moment; they were writhing. The branches themselves were actually moving, trying to spread their leaves as far from the flame as possible. The leaves for their part weren’t idle; they rustled, stretching away from the heat and warmth, stretching….

One of the leaves separated, fluttering down — and then up again, its little green surface flapping as fast as it could go. Another leaf left, then a third. Suddenly, the entire tree took flight, a cloud of greenery abandoning ship. Sensing the escpe, the tongues of flame licked higher, and though they caught a few and singed many, the bulk of the leaves made it out. With a satisfied snap, the tree’s heartwood splintered down the middle, throwing ash all around it; a few seconds more and its magical energy was entirely discharged into the air and ground.

All around them, the wildfire was chasing after trees, eager to wreak its own special brand of hell on the wooded targets. Most went up like tissue paper, but a few put up a fight. One tree generated itself an emerald shield, another started dripping water, a third ripped itself out of the ground and started shuffling away on loamy roots.

For their part, Chal and Flax got as low as they could in the water and stood as quiet as they could, thoroughly confused and entirely terrified.

Valiant though their struggle may have been, the trees didn’t get far. The shielded tree flickered, and though the sphere popped right back up, there was already fire on the inside. The dripping tree went up in a puff of steam; the running tree tripped on one of its charred comrades, likewise falling prey to the wildfire in a vicious purplish smoke.

Near the exposed soil where the running tree had uprooted itself, a large mass of fur popped up, sniffed the air, and took off in a northerly direction. Though it looked very much like an oversized mole, it definitely had six legs. Leaves flapped about, the colttails were waving to themselves; everything was chaos, and most of it was on fire.

“The hell,” whispered Chal, poking her in the shoulder, “is going on.”

Flax would have responded, but something caught in her throat; she erupted in a hacking cough instead. Damned ash —

Why had the colttails stopped? As one, the field of reeds in the bog sank down, descending under the water.

“Did… did they hear you?” muttered Chal.

“No clue,” said Flax, smacking her chest to try and clear out some of the ash that had snuck in. It burned her throat, but the alternative wasn’t looking too good right about now. She replaced her hoof under the water, but stepped on something pointy.

“Ow?” she asked.

Chal frowned, but after a moment a look of surprise crossed his face too.

“I thought this was a sandy bottom,” he said, lifting up a hoof and plucking a reed from it. “Didn’t see any rocks.”

“Weren’t any,” said Flax. “At least — hey!”

Now that was definitely something poking her; it felt not unlike a light tap in the flank. It certainly didn’t hurt her, but she wasn’t expecting anything to be swimming in the bog, much less anything that was interested in her. Maybe a leech? She swung an arm down at the offending spot, coming up with… a handful of colttail?

“What?” she asked absently, staring at the small bundle of reeds. It twitched a few times at her, then fell limp, slipping back into the water.

Something else poked at her other flank. Then another tug at her tail, a nudge on her forehoof — and a sharp pinch on her neck.

“Hey!” she shouted, stepping back onto another reed that bit back. “Chal, what….”

She trailed off as her eye caught the pony next to her — a colt slumped over, face-down in the water as a crimson thread trailed with the current. Ignoring her own pricks and jabs she was at his side in a flash, holding his head up, smacking his back to get the water out.

Chal choked, sputtering water; he said something, but she couldn’t quite make him out. She swatted away another reed, though it didn’t go anywhere.

“What?”

His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. She couldn’t hear much of anything at this point; the forest was suspiciously quiet. It was also floating up. Or was that her staggering down?

“The hell,” she whispered, smacking her flank as a colttail tore off a ragged patch of her coat, taking a bit of skin with it. But she didn’t feel it — didn’t feel any of it. There was too much blood already in the water, too much of it out there and not enough in her to process what was happening.

All along the shore, magic sparked off between trees and the firestorm, little bolts and discharges flying every which way. None of what Flax saw made any sense. None of it… but that wasn’t her problem any more.

A prick at her side but she ignored it, suddenly tired. The water didn’t seem so bad. A bit reddish, but probably comfortable. And it was right there, too. She would stand up again and get out after a second. Just a second… a few seconds more….

Dropping By

30 June, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“He still owes us a case of beer for that one.”

“That’s not happening,” said the senior pegasus, shaking her head dully. “Like hell I’m going back there.”

The first one held her tongue for a moment. “I was in the back formations,” she ventured, “so I didn’t see much of the ground through the smoke….”

No response to the prompt. She had been trying to get her companion to give her something, anything, but the past two days’ worth of inquiry had been met with stony silence.

“Guess that’s all the better for me,” she ventured with a reluctant shrug.

“Who’s that?” said the other abruptly, gesturing towards in the general direction of the landing fields. Pegasi were coming and going all the time, but the pony approaching had neither wings nor horn; she must have come by courier.

And, unfortunately, it looked like she was coming towards them. Certainly there were enough ponies around, but nopony made a beeline from the landing fields to the torn hall unless they needed to go there. It wasn’t as if they were on the way to the commissary.

“No idea,” she offered. “Doesn’t look like brass.”

Indeed, the pony had no uniform, just a well-worn saddlebag over light blue flanks. She kept straight at them, drawing up to the door in a minute.

“Good afternoon,” she said in tired voice. She didn’t sound particularly enthused to be there, but at least she wasn’t taking it out on them. Guard duty wasn’t any fun, particularly not when their entire shift was spent in the sun. Sure, Ponyville was pretty and all other sorts of picturesque, but pictures didn’t convey heat or the pounding sunshine. And they certainly didn’t do anything about the fumes that kept drifting over the town, despite prevailing winds in the other direction.

“Ma’am,” nodded the senior pegasus. This pony might not be an officer, but politeness at the outset didn’t hurt. Just in case. “Can we do something for you?”

The pony glanced at them with the slightest trace of… something, as if there was a joke they had missed.

“I can open the door for myself, but it’s a bit difficult to do with you two in front of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” responded the guard, hackles raising slightly. “Access to the town hall has been restricted. If you need information from the archives, the library….”

“I know,” said the pony, waving her off. “That’s why I’m here.”

A momentary pause.

“I’m expected.”

The younger pegasus frowned. “Respectfully — you’re not.”

“The mayor has no visitors today,” said the elder pony with an admonishing glare. “All of her appointments are off-site.”

“That’s impossible,” declared the light blue arrival flatly. “I sent word…”

She stopped short, shaking her head. “Damnit, Maggie.”

“Um… ma’am?”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to let me in without authentication,” she sighed. “Give me a moment.”

As the pony started rooting around in her saddlebag, the pegasus guards glanced at each other. Usually if somepony thought they were important, expected, or otherwise entitled to something, they would pull the do-you-know-who-I-am card, which would fail miserably. The ones who followed rules that didn’t even need explaining? Those were the ones who, as a rule, tended to actually be important. As a result, by the time the pony had her papers out, the door was already open.

“Thank you,” said the pegasus, accepting the offered papers and scanning them down. “Go right on through, miss… Mc….”

Her voice wandered off somewhere, as the light blue pony retrieved her papers from a slightly trembling hoof.

“…McNamare?” finished the pegasus lamely.

“Thank you,” said the Secrepony of Defense, stowing her papers neatly and stepping between the frozen guards.

The door closed with a muffled knock, snapping the pegasi out of it.

“That,” started the younger of the two after a moment.

“That,” agreed the other.

A pause.

“Why is she here to see the mayor?”

“No idea, but I’m willing to bet next week’s pay we didn’t see anything.”

He laughed at that.

“No appointments, huh.”

The elder pegasus snorted.

“Surprise.”

Unannounced

30 June, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“Surprise?” demanded the tan pony, slamming a hoof on the desk. “You thought that dropping in on me would be a nice surprise?”

“That’s not what I said,” said the light blue pony. “I said there were things we needed to talk about in person, that it would be nice to see you, and that I was sorry it had to be a surprise.”

“Of course you said that,” said Margaret, crossing her forelegs and sitting back in the chair. “You’re good at telling people what they heard.”

“I —” started Aspia, but broke off, unwilling to drag the conversation any further down.

“I’m here,” she said instead, with a slight air of concession. “And we need to talk.”

“About what?” said Margaret with a bitter laugh. “What could you possibly want from me? A status report? Special dispensation for something?”

She shook her head, cutting in with a wag of a hoof before the older pony had a chance to respond. “No, you’re not here for that. Status reports go through the Home Office; I would know. You would know. They’ve got everything you want; no need to come out here.

“And special dispensation?” She laughed hoarsely. “For what? Ponyville isn’t much of a town any more; anything worthwhile was requisitioned by the Army,” she said, disdain seeping though. “Try the generals. They can get you what you want.”

“How about advice?”

Margaret blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“Advice,” repeated Aspia, taking a step forward. “You’ve always had a mind for numbers, for working with ponies, for looking at things in a slightly different way. What if I just want —”

“Oh, I see,” said Margaret, her expression cold. “You want to use me. Fine. Talk.”

Aspia pursed her lips for a moment, keeping herself from taking the bait.

“The situation —”

“Oh,” shot Margaret mockingly, “wait. I forgot. You probably need to get me clearance for this, don’t you.”

She paused.

“I’ve secured special temporary dispensation as an internal consultant.”

“Ooh, big words,” she said, waving her hooves around. “Cut through it. Get to the point.”

“That —”

“You know what the point is?” she pushed on. “You’re here, I don’t know how, but you’re here, and you suddenly want my help. You think that there’s something, anything, something I can bring to the table to help you do whatever it is you want to do.”

“That’s —”

“Isn’t that right?”

Aspia was silent for a few seconds longer than was comfortable.

“Are you done?”

“Are you?” countered Margaret pettily.

“I want your help because I need your help,” said Aspia. “Because I have a problem, and I think you can do something nopony else at home can. I think you can solve it.”

“I think you can shove it.”

“Maggie!”

“Mommy!” she shot back in an acidic tone. “You really have no idea, do you.”

“I can’t read your mind,” she said testily. “Clearly there’s —”

“Doesn’t even look like you can read,” she snorted. “Have you looked at a paper lately? Seen a photograph? Hell, talked with any of the pegasi outside?”

Aspia said nothing.

“I came down here to see what was really going on. In Blackacre everypony’s fine with being a symbol of something or other, but here? For three months I’ve been here, on the front lines, watching ponies get chewed up and spat back out, what’s left of them, and I can see full well why they don’t give a damn.” She snorted again, her voice growing louder. “And then a week ago you launched your little crusade, get every pony on Equestria working on making your little bombs!”

“I didn’t —”

“And then two days ago you actually deployed them, actually used the damned things, and now Blackacre is a cratered hellhole!” she shouted, voice at a fever pitch. “And it’s still burning! I don’t know how, all the trees are gone, it’s just rock and ash, but somehow it’s still burning! It’s so bright that I can read! In my bedroom! At night!”

“That’s not,” started Aspia, but she might as well have been talking to a tornado; Margaret was standing now, hooves firmly planted on the desk, heaving breaths in her rage.

“Sit down,” commanded Aspia, “and listen.”

Much to her surprise — she didn’t.

“No!” roared Margaret. “No! For once in your life, mother, you listen to me! You scorched the earth and everypony on it, and now you have the gall to come here and talk to me about it?”

She shook her head and lowered her voice in a remarkable show of self-control. “Get out of my office.”

A moment’s silence.

“Are you quite done?”

“Get out.”

“No,” she said flatly. “Now you listen to me.”

Margaret said nothing. A good enough sign, at least for now. Aspia took another step towards the desk.

“The entire purpose of the Secrepony of Defense is to plan for the worst,” she said quietly. “That’s what I do; that’s what my staff does. We think up hopeless situations, dead-end maneuvers: we don’t just plan for the worst-case scenarios; we think up new ones every day.

“It’s exactly like playing devils’ advocate,” she continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “We spend our time thinking up new and interesting ways that other ponies might try and kill us. And then we try to figure out how to stop them.”

“Which includes killing them first.”

“If necessary,” she conceded with a shrug. “Does any of us actually want to enact any of our plans? No! Of course not! Nopony in their right mind wants to do the things we plan. But if somepony out there seriously wants to hurt us, then we have an obligation to do everything in our power to both plan those scenarios and counter them.”

Aspia was silent for a moment. At least Margaret respected that.

“They’re called worst-case scenarios for a reason,” she said sadly. “And we’re not the ones who make them happen.”

“No,” said Margaret, “you’re not.”

Though the words sounded an awful lot like a concession, her expression was anything but.

“You are the ones who drew them up.”

Aspia couldn’t quite place the look on her daughter’s face, but it did not bode well.

“Which means that you picked the weapons. You went through the stockpiles, calculated production, figured out logistics. You assigned quotas, determined who would meet them, and deployed the finished product.

“You figured out what wings would go where, and even though I don’t think you wrote up any duty assignments I’m betting Pommel’s working off your notes.” Her mouth was harder now. “Ten thousand pegasi were exactly where they are because of you, because you knew it, expected it, planned it.

“And what’s the point?” she asked, waving a hoof in a sharp motion. “Because I’m willing to bet you know that to. Why? Because you wanted it to happen. You ran the damage estimates. Land, trees, property, casualties. You planned it all out, planned it exactly. Plus or minus a few hundred ponies, of course.” She snorted. “But what does that matter when you’re talking about razing an entire region, and everypony and everything in it, to the ground?”

“Maggie,” cut in Aspia, “that is the very definition of a worst-case —”

“I know what it is,” she snapped, not even commenting on the name. “Which means you have no excuse.”

“Excuse for what?” she wanted to ask, but didn’t have a chance to get the first word out.

“You knew exactly what would happen!” shouted Margaret. “You planned the damned thing! You sat down in front of Princess Celestia, handed her a stack of papers and said here! Look! If you want to kill them all, this is how you do it.”

Aspia’s expression hardened. It had been a stack of folders, the very last of which had been red, sealed with black wax. But explaining that it was one of a choice of options didn’t seem like a series of words that the pony in front of her would listen to.

“You sat down in front of the Princess,” her daughter accused her, “and said that, based on the situation, you recommended burning Blackacre to the ground. You recommended that,” she said, stabbing a hoof towards the window, where even now smoke was rising in the distance. “You recommended killing them all.”

“I did no such thing,” she snapped.

“Like hell you didn’t,” shot back her daughter. “Your whole job is writing up worst-case scenarios, remember?”

“We just write them.”

“Oh, you just write them,” she mocked. “And when you’re writing them you never take into account reality, right?”

She frowned.

“No, you don’t,” answered Margaret. “You look at how many troops there are, right? And where they are. And how much of this raw material you have, and that raw material. You look at logistics, weather patterns, medical supplies, experience. You look at every single aspect of what the situation is like right now, on the ground, when you’re making your plans.”

Aspia said nothing. That was right, of course, but she couldn’t say anything without egging her on.

“And the reason you look at it all?” Margaret laughed. “Because you know, every step of the way, that if you need to enact that plan, if you need to actually do it, you need to be able to do it.

“Because,” she repeated, voice hard, “because you always know that it’s a possibility. Not a ‘choice,’ not an ‘option,’ not a ‘potential,’ but a fact. Because there’s a very real chance that somepony might actually decide to use that plan. Might actually do it.”

“Yes,” said Aspia, trying to maintain her calm. “But we don’t decide —”

“Oh, you don’t?” sniped Margaret. “You have no input into the decision-making process at all. You just present the options and say nothing. You just wait until someone else makes the decision for you, is that it?

“You’re an adviser.” She smiled. “You have as much input into the process as anypony else. Hell, probably more, because you actually were there thinking the plans up. You do the analysis; that’s what you’re there for. If the Princess had the time to do it all herself, why would you even be there?”

“We don’t decide. That’s for her to do.”

“Sure it is,” she said soothingly. “You provided the options. You saw the casualty reports — you wrote them — and you still made the call that, at the end of the day, if you needed to do it, it was worth doing. The only way she could make that decision is if you had already decided it could be worth doing. If it could be justified.

“Tell me this,” she said, clenching a hoof. “If you had said it wasn’t worth it, that there were some things that could never be justified, some lines that just couldn’t be crossed — would she still have done it? If you had said no, would she still have said yes?”

Silence.

Margaret chopped a hoof down, her voice hard. “You made that decision. You made the plan, saw exactly what would happen, and you made that decision, just as if you had signed it yourself.”

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

“Get out of my office,” repeated Margaret. “And get out of my life. I’m not going back to Canterlot, and I damned well don’t want to be associated with you.”

“Maggie —”

“They haven’t figured it out yet,” she said offhoofedly. “But they will. And when they find out that you were the pony responsible for so much senseless death, they’ll spit at the name McNamare.”

Aspia again said nothing. She had no doubt that the threat of being cut off from her daughter wasn’t going to last; foals always said such things but never meant them. But to be this incensed… was there something they knew closer to the front line that never made it into the reports? Or….

“…know who I am here,” Margaret was saying. “Not even the guards outside. I’ve been here more than three months, and nopony knows. I came down here to see how ponies thought differently, and it turns out they’re right. Which is good, because I plan on staying here.”

She paused meaningfully. “I would go to my father, but I wouldn’t know where to start looking for him.”

“Maggie!” said Aspia, caught off guard and entirely unwilling to drag a whole other emotional bundle into what was already a tense situation.

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped.

“Maggie McNamare, you will listen —”

“I will not!” thundered the tan pony. “That’s not my name, not anymore. I’m a mayor, not a… McNamare,” she added, spitting the name.

“What?”

“I’m changing my name,” she said with an air of derision. “To the only thing you and my father had in common, besides me.”

“Margaret —”

“— Mare,” she finished in a harsh tone. “Because that’s the second-best thing I can do to get you and everything you did out of my life right now.”

A moment of stunned silence.

“The first thing is where you get out of my office.”

“Margaret,” said Aspia gently, with the tone one might adopt in talking with somepony in a looney bin, “Margaret, what are —”

“Get out of my office,” she repeated. “Or I will have you removed.”

“I am your mother.”

“And I don’t want to be your daughter. Get out.”

She stared at her for a moment. Margaret wasted little time.

“Guards!” she bellowed.

It took about twenty seconds of tense silence, but they showed up, clearly not expecting to have been summoned to this sort of meeting.

“Remove the Secrepony from my office,” she said icily, Margaret’s stare never leaving Aspia’s unforgiving eyes.

The guards exchanged looks.

“Remove her,” she repeated.

The elder of the two guards stepped forward, but hesitated to actually touch the light blue pony. She wasn’t technically in the military chain of command, but it didn’t take much common sense to realize that maybe the Secrepony of Defense might have more pull than, say, a baker.

A few more tense seconds —

“All right,” said McNamare, holding her daughter’s — the mayor’s — gaze. “I’ll go quietly.”

She turned and, without a word, started towards the door. The guards fell in behind her, relieved to not have to place hooves on somepony who, if not officially, could likely end their careers with the stroke of a pen.

For a long time after her — the Secrepony left the room, Margaret stared off at the door.

She hadn’t even looked back.

Shaking her head, she turned back to the desk. The war crimes outside weren’t her business. She had completed the writeup, but hadn’t finished sourcing it all yet; Jackie was trying to wring a last few names out of the pegasi. She didn’t know what she would do with Jackie and her knowledge of the local bureaucracy; even in disguise she could pull information that nopony else would even know to look for.

And the sources were key. The Herald wouldn’t even take a look at a submission like this without solid sourcing; even if she showed her work, it was still a fifty-fifty shot as to whether they would run it. The Times would run it if need be, but she would rather have it go out on the biggest name in news; she would rather offer the Herald right of first refusal.

This would run. And when it did, Canterlot’s propaganda would dry up like so much fog for the burning smoke it was.

Equestria had to know.

From The Ashes

5 July, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

From the outside, the castle had largely been spared destruction. It was covered with a two-inch-deep layer of ash from what had once been the forest around it; little paths led from one point on the ground to the other. The only tracks were pony tracks: there weren’t any woodland creatures left to make anything else. Under the layer of ash, though, the castle was largely undamaged. Sure, there were scorch marks where the walls had risen too close to the forest, and all of the wooden structures around the castle had burned down, but the castle itself was sound, as if shielded by some sort of intrinsic magic.

The rooms immediately within the castle, as well as the tunnels directly under it, were also in reasonably good shape. They were covered not in ash but in a fine layer of dislodged dirt and the occasional rock, but by and large they were also intact. Filled with hundreds of cowering ponies, but intact.

The vast majority of the countless miles of tunnels, on the other hoof, were damaged, destroyed, or worse. They had been designed to give easy access to any point on the surface, and the hundreds of access points had turned into jets of flame, bringing the raging inferno underground to burn out anypony that managed to get down from the surface. Some had burned to death, but most had either been crushed as tunnels collapsed, choked on the roiling clouds of smoke, or asphyxiated as the fire ate every last shred of oxygen in the air.

The lucky few who made it to the cistern rooms — those that hadn’t been destroyed — emerged to find themselves in rocky tombs deep below the surface, sealed in by tons and tons of rock and debris, with nothing but a slow and painful death from starvation to look forward to, if they even lasted that long. Perhaps their death would be made more interesting if they started digging: maybe they would puncture a cistern from the wrong end and be flooded out. Maybe they would dig into a coal storeroom still burning from the firestorm a week ago. Maybe something worse yet, one of the restricted rooms that he had never even been allowed near, much less in.

It wasn’t anything dangerous they were after this time, though, thank Celestia. No, it was something much more mundane: food. There had never been an abundance of it to go around, but now there was almost none. At least, none that wasn’t cut off by rockfalls or cave-ins.

“And that’s time!” called the shift leader from behind them. “All right, step down, hand off, take a few seconds to give your replacement the picture. You know the drill.”

Dag was only too happy to back away from the rock face, handing over the pickaxe to the grime-covered pony who stepped up to take his place.

“Anything?” asked the replacement.

“Straight shale, nothing special.” Dag shrugged. “Have fun.”

“Right,” said the other pony, hefting the pickaxe. “Fun.”

He joined the other equally grimy ponies in the short walk away from the face and back towards the three square yards designated as a cleaning area. There were only a half dozen of them working the rock face at any one time, but since none of them had much experience with excavation, they kept to three-hour shifts, which were grueling enough.

In theory, they were trying to dig out a lateral tunnel into one of the storerooms that had otherwise been blocked off by one of the collapses. In practice, they were accountants, sempsters, and other assorted craftsponies trying to do heavy labor. Progress, if it could be called that, was slow.

It was either that or starve to death starting in a little over two days, though, so nopony really complained.

Dag swatted the last of the larger clumps of dirt off his coat, stamped a few times for good measure, and was spun around by a hoof on his shoulder.

“There you are!”

Just behind him stood LeFleur, mane crackling slightly with energy, her expression tinged with mania, the face of a pony who had been skirting exhaustion for one too many hours. Most noticeably, though, she appeared… clean.

“C’mon,” she ordered, tugging him away. He didn’t need incentive to get away from the chaos of the rock face, though a part of him did wonder exactly where they would go away to. There weren’t many tunnels left, and he had the impression she didn’t exactly want a public conversation.

He stumbled over a pile of debris that nopony had bothered to clean up yet, either because there weren’t any free hooves or because it was too fresh. Unnerving, that, the thought that there were still bits falling from the ceiling.

“Why are you so, you know,” he asked, shaking off a hind hoof. “Clean.”

“They have me running scans,” she said, tapping her horn. “Believe me, I’d rather be boring a hole. I can dig too; only difference is my talents are a bit more obvious.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Dag. “That rock is pretty miserable.”

“At least it’s just rock,” she said darkly.

He frowned. “What —”

“In here,” she said, pulling him into what looked an awful lot like a prison cell.

As she closed the door with a slight sucking sound, he realized that it was.

“The hell?” he wondered absently.

“We can talk in here,” she said, holding up a hoof to forestall questions. “Sound-isolated.”

“Like only the best prisons are,” he deadpanned, taking a few steps to a boulder along the side of the small cell. Both the boulder and the floor, however, shared the same faint and unidentifiable splatter; it must be part of the original décor, rather than an addition caused by tremors.

What comfort.

“Funny the prisons should make it,” he commented absently.

“Most of them were directly under the castle,” shrugged LeFleur, collapsing into a seat. “The idea was to keep anyone from breaking out. Or in.”

“Or through. What about the prisoners?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

They were silent for a good few minutes, not because of any requiem for the former inhabitants of the cells but rather out of a shared and purely selfish interest: getting a few moments’ silence for the first time in a long while.

“What were you doing, anyway?”

The silence continued for a few seconds more. Dag glanced over at LeFleur, who was beating her forehead into a pulp. After a moment, he realized she was massaging it with an intensity usually reserved for some sort of drilling machine. Could’ve used one of those at the rock face….

“All right. Lay down,” he said, waving a hoof at the slab in the middle of the room. She did so without hesitation, though that was more likely due to lack of energy for objection than anything else. The slab itself was actually pretty clean, save for a sprinkling of dust. In fact, it looked as it it had been recently cleaned off, compared to the rest of the room… no matter. Clean enough was good enough, and neither of them was in any position to complain.

“—!”

LeFleur cut herself off with a pleasantly surprised sound as Dag’s hooves kneaded into her shoulders. A few more twists and she practically melted into the slab; the portion of her face still visible was about as placidly content as he had ever seen her.

The kneading continued for a solid five or six minutes. Horns might be the focal points for magical energy, but the stress it caused affected the whole body. Certainly it had with Jackie, thought she had never pushed herself quite this hard.

Jackie….

He only hesitated for a moment but it was enough; one of her ears twitched.

“Do you know what we saw today?” she asked, in a tone that expected no answer. “We were scrying into the near tunnels, trying to find ponies and supplies buried under the rubble.”

He had known that. He had also heard that it wasn’t a success. He suspected that there had been more to it at the time, but hadn’t exactly been in a position to go about satisfying idle curiosity.

“We have copies of the blueprints,” she continued quietly. “Have to know where we’re looking, what we’re looking for. But the ponies trapped out there… they don’t.”

A quiver of seafoam mane as she shook her head.

“And there are ponies out there, all right. Trapped in the rock. Lots of dead. Some alive. Most of those dying. And they’re all doing the same thing we’re doing, did you know that? They’re trying to dig their way out.”

Something that might have been a muffled laugh.

“There’s one pony, two hundred feet down. The very bottom shaft. Don’t know what he was doing down there. Can’t even tell if there were any others with him. But he’s down there, and from what we can tell he’s perfectly fine.”

“Lucky him,” Dag murmured.

“There’s two hundred feet of solid rock between us and him. There was just one shaft that went down, and it went. Completely filled in with rockfalls. Some of it’s shale, but most of it’s bedrock.”

She turned an eye up towards him.

“Even if we started now, right now, and put every pony on digging him out, it would take four or five days. Minimum. Round the clock work, double shifts for everypony.”

“Too much time,” he said with a slow nod.

“He doesn’t have enough air to last half that,” she said, turning her face back towards the slab. “He’s down there, and we can’t help him. Even if we wanted to. Even if we could spare the ponies from digging everypony else out, we couldn’t. And we can’t teleport, not even just a foot; there’s too much magical interference from something. He’s down there, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

She was silent for a moment.

“And then, we go on looking. Keep looking, they say. Scry the next tunnel over. Maybe there’s somepony we can save there. And all the while, we can feel him, feel him just at the edge, a little light in the darkness. His life, slowly slipping away, and we have to ignore him, to dig through all the other dead ponies to find a live one worth digging towards.”

Dag kept on rubbing her back. He felt a slight popping sound from one of her vertebrae; the muscle around it still needed work.

“That’s not the worst of it,” she said darkly. “Usually they’re either just dead, or they’re alive, if slowly suffocating. Once, though… once….”

She shuddered.

“One group was trying to dig its way out,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Fairly close by. They were digging, and they found a door. They were probably hoping for food storage, or a cistern.” Her voice was entirely devoid of emotion now. “They opened it. It was a coal storage room.”

Dag stopped.

“It was still burning. The moment they broke through, it came right back to life.”

After a few seconds, he remembered himself and continued kneading.

“We saw it — felt it — burn right through the door, burn down the shaft and through all of them. Felt them die, burning to death, trapped underground, with only a dozen feet of solid bedrock between them and one of the cisterns.”

She shuddered once, twice, and he realized she was laughing.

“If they had dug the other way, they’d have drowned to death instead.”

Again Dag said nothing. What could he do? He had had no idea… none of them had.

That was the point, he realized. Get the unicorns to scry out the tunnels, figure out which direction would save the most ponies and get them the supplies they needed to stay alive. All while avoiding those who were already dead, avoiding the coal fires just waiting for a whiff of oxygen to spark them to life.

Sorting between the living and the dead, figuring out who was worth saving and who wasn’t — the unicorns did the real dirty work. They just did the heavy lifting.

“We have to go,” said LeFleur.

“Mm. Go where?”

“Out.” She lifted herself up a bit, enough to get an eyebrow out and arch it at him. “I’m being serious. Maybe I don’t look like it, but I am.”

“What do you mean, ‘out’?” he asked, pressing her back down to continue his ministrations.

“I mean, out of this,” she said, waving a forehoof vaguely towards the main tunnels and up at the ceiling. “Out of here. Out of Blackacre itself.”

Dag licked his lips; she sensed his hesitation.

“There’s a reason we’re in here,” she said, thumping the slab. “Soundproof. Say what you want; I don’t care. I haven’t told them anything you’ve ever told me.”

“What, you’re not a plant? Not reporting everything I say?”

With remarkable agility she flipped to a side and caught his hoof mid-knead.

“Never,” she said, staring deep into his eyes.

After a moment she broke contact, released the hoof, and settled back on her stomach.

“Though Celestia knows they tried.” She laughed. “Look, we’re — we; hah — we’re even still using the Princess in our figures of speech.”

“I did notice that,” said Dag, glad to latch onto something he could comment on without much hesitation.

“Anyway — we have to go. To get out of here.”

“I…” he started. “I don’t know.”

“What else would we do?” she asked. “Blackacre’s burned out. I don’t know what’s happening on the surface, but I can’t possibly imagine it will be good for any of us in general.”

“And in particular?”

“In particular?” she said, the smile plain in her echo. “I, for one, am the lead negotiator of what’s looking an awful lot like the losing side in a war. They’re not going to need me for anything. If there are even any terms, which I wouldn’t bet on, they’d be negotiated straight with Beatrix the Great herself, probably in chains, probably in the council chamber of the Castle Tower.”

“And that’s the good scenario,” she said absently. “Worst case, then I’m a traitor, rogue, something of the sort. The rank and file will get off, but if they’re pushing the traitor angle, then there’ll need to be some sort of punishment on leadership. Probably not executions, probably, but I would not at all be surprised to be facing down double-digit terms in the Canterlot dungeons.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Dag, but it was halfhearted and they both knew it. He would have said that about firebombing Blackacre, two weeks ago. Now, though… who knew. It couldn’t be good.

“Not that you’re getting off any better, of course,” she added with a shrug. “Unless you forgot, papers pegged you as the turncoat who scuttled the talks and blew up the Mane.”

“How,” he said in a tone that begged the absurd, “did they connect me to the bombing of an airship.”

“No clue,” she said, “but they did it. Somehow. Anyway, you’re involved. Remember, most witnesses are dead, the only ones who are alive saw the Blackacre delegation save your life, and pretty much everypony short of Celestia herself pegged you as the turncoat.”

“They blame me —”

“No,” she said. “It was going to happen anyway. Everyone agreed on that with the wonderful green-tinted glasses of hindsight. You just happened to be the pony at the center of it all. A tool, maybe. But you still did it.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Of course it is.”

“You’ll back my story.” he said. “Everypony here will!”

“And what stock will they put in that?” she asked gently. “Great; the ponies in the dungeons say Dag Hammer is a-okay. That won’t get you anywhere.”

“But the others.”

“If you really were a super-deep-cover double agent, then maybe nopony knew about you except Beatrix herself. And her word won’t be worth the paper it’ll be printed on, if they bother to.”

She shook her head gently. “You’ve been thoroughly burned, Dag. Even if you managed to get out of here and rehabilitate yourself in the eyes of the government, what do you have to go back to?”

At that he stopped entirely. Sitting back up, LeFleur tugged on his forehoof; it yielded without resistance, pulling him to a seated position on the slab next to her.

“They all died in that explosion,” she said, softly and with infinite sorrow. “The same one they pin on you.” She gently rested a hoof on his cheek. “It doesn’t make sense, but they don’t care. The Equestrian public already tried and convicted you.”

Dag slumped, and for a minute he said nothing.

“Then that’s it,” he said, voice devoid of emotion not by attempt but by default. “That’s it,” he repeated.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she said.

Slowly, he turned to face her, blinking in confusion at the light in her eyes.

“We found a tunnel to the surface,” she said. “There are still fires up there, and there’s nopony alive, and the scout saw Air Patrol flyers, so they can’t use it for anything, but we can get up there. We’ll just say we’re up to scry for surface-level tunnels from a different point of view, triangulation.”

“And?” he asked. “Where does that get us? To the surface?” He barked a laugh.

“The moment we get out of here, we run,” she said with a quiet intensity. “I hear tonight’s a full moon, so there should be enough light; we can get bearings by the stars. We go east, always into the east.”

“That’s… the river.”

“And down the river, through the river, that’ll get us to Hayseed.”

“The Swamps —”

“Will give us cover,” she finished for him, eyes alight. “And we can follow the river to Horseshoe Bay. I still have some contacts in Baltimare; I can get us passage.”

“Passage?” he asked. “On what?”

“On a ship,” she said with a broad smile.

“To where?”

She spread her hooves wide. “Anywhere.”

“Anywhere… that’s not Equestria,” he realized.

“My contact does freight runs to Brandenbuck,” she said. “You know, with the gate?”

“With the gate,” he echoed.

“Right,” she said with a quick nod. “Favors will only get me so far, and we can probably pick up piecework to make ends meet. Stevedoring isn’t the easiest, but I’d rather that than scry, and you’ll like it better than mining.” She shrugged. “At least there’ll be fresh air. After we pick up a few bits, we can get train tickets farther inland.”

“Inland.”

“Towards Strasbuck,” she affirmed. “Honestly I don’t like the sea much, and I’d rather not hang around communities closer to where the news comes in. I don’t think either of us would be recognized, but I don’t want to chance it if I can avoid it. Besides, I have some family there. Not close, but family’s family, and they can probably spare a bite or two to eat, a warm shower.”

“Maybe put us up for a few days,” LeFleur nodded absently to herself. “At least until we can pick up a few more bits, take care of ourselves. Neither of us will be able to draw down on official accounts, so we’ll have to live hoof to mouth for a while, but we can do it.”

“Do… it.”

“There’s a lot going on in Strasbuck,” she shrugged. “Food, fashion, lots of craftsponies and the like. Big university, too. Teaching doesn’t pay much, but between you and me I think we could work up a decent curriculum for something. Maybe Equestrian literature. Get some adjunct courses, maybe angle for a tenure-track position in a few years —”

“LeFleur,” said Dag.

She blinked.

“You want us to run away to Strasbuck.”

She licked her lips.

“By breaking out of this compound,” he continued, “escaping Blackacre, making it through Canterlot’s lines to Baltimare, hopping a smuggler’s ship and praying nopony pulls us aside in Brandenbuck, and scrape together enough bits to make it to a little city on another continent where nopony knows us, where we then have to build a life from scratch.”

“When you put it that way,” she said with a thin smile. “Look, I’ve worked out the numbers. I’m pretty sure that we can make it out of here; I’ve got enough pull with the crews so that we shouldn’t be missed until we make it far enough out. I had a look at the local tactical maps,” she continued, gesturing as if to invisible notes, “and I figure we can ballpark it to the river, and from there work out to the swamps. With a full moon, if we’re covered in mud, I think we’ve got a good shot —”

Dag held up a hoof, and she stopped short.

“You’re forgetting one important thing,” he said slowly.

She frowned at that, and quickly too. “What —”

“I trust you.”

The retort died on her lips as she saw his mouth quirk upwards.

“I only need to know one thing,” said Dag. “Do you think we can do it?”

“I think we’ve got a good chance at —”

He cut her off with a raised hoof.

“Do you believe we can do it.”

She regarded him for a moment, eyes deep in thought. Then —

“Yes.”

And in eyes of pure seafoam he knew that they would.

Dag gave a single nod.

“Then let’s go.”

Paragon

8 July, Y.C. 970
Canterlot

“This so-called defensive action is nothing more than the wholesale slaughter of anypony who bothers to think for themselves.”

Aspia slowly lifted the mug to her lips. She took a single sip and replaced the coffee mug on the table, taking the utmost care not to show anything other than perhaps a mild distaste at the hours-cold beverage.

“There is no reason why we can’t settle our disputes the civilized way,” the diatribe continued, exchanging fiery anger for simmering disgust. “In fact, that had already happened; there was a deal on the table and everypony seemed happy enough. But for Canterlot’s kneejerk reaction, none of this would have happened.”

Outside, the faintest sound of voices. It was mid-morning on an otherwise unremarkable day, but there was more than just normal city bustle; they could make out the faint but unmistakable sound of chanting.

“All of this, on Canterlot’s orders. A deal they signed, a deal they scuttled; a war they fought, a war they lost. Is it any surprise, then, that Canterlot ordered this crime against nature itself, this genocidal cover-up?”

Aspia contemplated the mug. Mid-morning, not even early morning, but she still needed it. None of them had gotten any sleep last night. Not since the Times had pushed that special issue to press late yesterday. Had it only been seventeen hours?

“We could blame the Royal Army, blame the Air Patrol. We could blame those ponies who rain death — and worse — on the innocent, but we should not. They put their lives on the line, but they’re doing it for a lie, because they don’t know the truth. Why would they? Their job is just to do, and die. Somepony else has to reason why.”

Her stare bored into the mug, willing it to… to… to something. She didn’t know. It was a known quantity; better to stare at it than the wall. The way today had been going, the wall might burst into flame.

“But who? Who has the power to make up plans for invasion, plans for death and destruction, plans for genocide? Who drew them up? Who gave them the official stamp of approval? Who presented them, suggested them? Who could have stopped this at any time, but chose not to, chose to kill them all instead?”

The mug withered under her stare.

“None other than our Paragon of Death, our Secrepony of Defense,” finished Princess Celestia, barely masking her disdain for the titles, “Aspia McNamare.”

Silence.

The noise outside had resolved itself into a fairly complex chant, though it was too indistinct to make out words. Not that there was any shred of hope that it was pleasant. Such things never were; mobs never gathered in support.

“I think that’s an unfair shake,” said Aspia quietly. “Your skill at oratory makes the whole fire-and-brimstone speech a bit too convincing.”

“I hardly think that matters,” said Celestia, throwing the newspaper across the conference table, where it slid to a stop in front of Aspia with a dry rustle. “That’s how they’re going to read it, and that’s how they’re going to react to it.”

“Does it really say genocide?” she asked, reaching over to investigate the sheaf of paper more closely. “Charged word.”

“Along with war crimes, scorched earth, and mass murder, among other things, genocide is in good company,” said Celestia levelly, leaning back in her chair. “I quoted the choice bits, but in twenty-seven pages, the rhetoric does not let up.”

Aspia shook her head. “Couldn’t have imagined it would be this bad.”

“Especially not for you,” said Celestia neutrally. “My right-hoof pony. My paragon, apparently.”

Seventeen hours ago, the Times had released a two-page special issue, little more than a pamphlet, purporting to be an extract from a much longer, much more damning document. It leveled the now-familiar charges of genocide and war crimes, pinning them on the Princess’ paragon, the pony at the top of the chain whom everypony else looked up to as an example.

By their best guesses, the Times pushed the material out in the interests of drawing attention while they bought time to proof and typeset the whole document for publication, rather than risk someone else scooping them. They got their scoop, but the Herald beat them to the full publication this morning. There wasn’t even a regular paper; judging by the bundles pouring out of their printer’s, the Herald had the presses going round the clock on this document alone.

“What progress?” asked the Princess.

Obviously the Herald’s publication meant that they had gotten the text somehow, but the Times’ partial publication last night meant that they also likely had the full text. They wouldn’t risk going to press with a few pages if they didn’t have the whole thing, or if they knew the substance wouldn’t live up to the promise of the excerpt. Which meant that there were two potential leads to track down, two different points of contact.

Aspia shook her head slowly.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing,” she repeated. “It went straight to the editors-in-chief. Dead drops, yesterday at midafternoon.”

“And you did more investigation than that,” asserted Celestia, still holding neutral.

“There’s only so much we can do,” said Aspia with a helpless shrug. “Nopony saw the Herald drop, and though we have a witness on the Times drop, all they could tell us was grey unicorn with grey mane.”

“And you laid out a dragnet,” she said, with the slightest trace of irritation.

“Of course,” she bristled. “Between black, shades of blue, and anything that could pass for grey, we found one thousand seven hundred ponies matched that description who passed through the city gates over night.” She shook her head. “That’s assuming our target didn’t leave before we started looking.”

Celestia’s lips tightened.

“And that’s also assuming they weren’t disguised in any way,” she continued, waving a hoof in the air. “Magic screen, mane dye, body suit, rolling around in dirt… color and species isn’t much to go on.”

“Perhaps you didn’t understand my request,” said the Princess, in a louder tone suggesting neither that it was misunderstood nor that it was a request. “I want this pony found, I want them arrested, and I want them interrogated until I learn exactly how —”

“It’s too late for that,” said Aspia, drawing a sharp look with the interruption. “We can’t unring that bell.”

“You can’t unring it,” shot the Princess. “In the popular consciousness, you’ve just been christened my paragon, whether you like it or not.” She tilted her head slightly. “I’m surprised you don’t feel more strongly about this.”

A moment of silence; Aspia gave a resigned shake of her head.

“What can I do?” she asked. “This… this paragon paper soaked me and my office in kerosene and lit it with a blowtorch. I’m burned. You know it, I know it, everypony in Equestria knows it. Or will, soon enough.”

The alicorn said nothing.

“That crowd out there is expecting a resignation from me,” she said quietly, jerking a hoof at the window to the council chamber. “And if they don’t get it, things are going to go from bad to worse.” She sighed. “I don’t know how they got that information, but it all checks out. You know that. And if they got those documents, there’s no telling what else she might have stored away.”

Celestia turned slightly and fixed her with an unblinking stare.

“She.”

For a minute, Aspia said nothing. She met her ruler’s eye, held it, and after a long while gave the slightest shrug askance.

“A guess,” she said evenly. “I figure a stallion would just out and deck me, if they felt that strongly about it.”

A moment more — and when Celestia nodded, it was because she knew.

And in that moment, Aspia knew it was all over.

“I’ll accept it, of course,” said the Princess after a while. “I can’t afford not to. Burning you is the easy out, but I’m not keen on that.”

“It gives you an excuse, though, and given the latest reports, I don’t see any other way.”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “I’d like to keep you around for a while yet. There’ll be an interim, but I think we both know I can’t replace you overnight.”

“Of course,” conceded Aspia. “Won’t leave the building. I’ll have to requisition a clerk or two to settle my affairs.”

“As you wish.”

“It shouldn’t be hard,” she said with the slightest laugh. “I’ll want some light cargo, but the disposition is mostly ‘sell everything.’”

“You have plans already?” Celestia raised an eyebrow. “How prepared of you.”

“Not preparation,” she corrected. “Desperation.”

“Fair.”

Another long silence.

The chanting below had broken down into a three-syllable mumble, still incoherent from this far away, but distinctly angry.

“Where?”

Aspia smiled sadly. She felt uncountable conflicting emotions. It shouldn’t be this way; this was wrong; this was right; this was… was a thousand different things. She felt so many things that, at this moment, right here and right now, she felt nothing. Like being pulled in every direction at once, she was at a dead standstill.

She had felt this way once before, and though her decision then was the right one, it had always felt wrong. Well, this time she had a chance to make up for it.

“Stalliongrad.”

Celestia gave a drawn-out nod. She understood.

“I’ll arrange your transport,” she said. “You’ll have a hard enough time of it as is without worrying about making it unrecognized.”

“Thank you.”

The chanting continued, tuneless but loud.

“The editor-in-chief assures me there’s nothing more,” she said abruptly. “We should get this over with.”

“Are you ready?”

She thought for a moment.

“No.” The smile returned, a sad one. “But it’s not going to get any easier.”

Princess Celestia nodded, one last time.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too.”

A last pause.

“Can we —” asked Aspia, stumbling over the words. “I’d like to keep in touch.”

“Me too,” said Celestia, returning the smile. “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

Choice

11 July, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Gone,” said Beatrix. “You’re sure.”

“Honestly?” asked the miner, wiping sweat off his brow but succeeding only in smudging the dirt already there, “no, I’m not. But we can’t find them, so that means they’re either dead in a sudden rockfall or gone.”

“Tally them as dead, then,” she said with a rueful shake of the head. “What’s two more on the list. Thank you, Stan. Let me know if anything new turns up.”

“Sure thing,” he said with a harried nod. “Should break through to that storage room in three or four hours. Hopefully the goods are still intact.”

“Hopefully,” she agreed with an encouraging nod. The moment the miner left the chamber, though, all trace of it fell from her face. There wasn’t room for hope, at least not here.

Beatrix turned back towards the door that would lead down to her private chamber. It was little more than a broom closet, a thatched mat on a slab with barely enough room to turn around, but given the state of the rest of the tunnels, it was luxury itself. Most importantly, though, it was private; ponies burst in here every few minutes with updates or questions or concerns, but once she closed and barred the door, it would be just her in there. Her, alone with her thoughts, alone in the tiny hole in the ground with nothing but a glow-lamp for company, alone with the tingling sensations at the edge of her perceptions, faded echoes of the scry spells and the ponies buried deep below as the life slowly drained out of them one by one —

She paused, hoof halfway to the handle, and turned abruptly on her heel to the other door in the small conference room.

Unlike her little closet, the tunnel behind this door led upwards. She still closed and barred the door behind her; though the lock was shot, this whole area was theoretically off-limits, so she shouldn’t get any company anyway. Besides, judging by the unbroken layer of dust on the tunnel floor, nopony had been up here since… since.

By hornlight, she noticed that, dust and a persistent smell of sulphur aside, there wasn’t anything else in the tunnel. It had held together well, all things considered. In fact, she mused, the tunnel would be a good place to store supplies, if it weren’t for the breath of fresh air from the other end.

She dimmed her own light; by the end of the tunnel she was navigating solely by feel. Couldn’t risk a glimmer of artificial light getting out; it was night, and even a spark would stand out like a beacon. Besides, she knew this path well enough.

The door at the top of the stairs was in much worse condition than the rest of the tunnel. It was still identifiable as a door, but that was about it; about half the planks were missing, and those that remained were splintered and coated with a thin layer of ash. The stone door frame might have held, but there had clearly been a little too much pressure on the door itself, and it had buckled under the stress.

Surprisingly, it swung open easily enough — still plenty of grease on those hinges. Beatrix patted the frame as she passed, giving a silent blessing to whichever maintenance pony was responsible. He was probably dead now, but it was a nice thought.

Beatrix stepped into her office.

She couldn’t see much by the few strains of moonlight that made their way through splintered rafters, but she saw enough. The room was largely intact, though the desk had been punctured by a fairly large slab of stone, fallen from somewhere above. Nothing that a good carpenter couldn’t fix, she thought, running a hoof over the dusty mahogany, but she wasn’t about to get one of those any time soon. For that matter, it would take a team of craftsponies to turn this room into something resembling its former glory.

There was the lightest touch of wind.

And a team of blacksmiths, backed by a small army of gaffers, to replace the windows. The originals had been high peaked affairs liberally sprinkled with stained-glass motifs, but the devastation had destroyed even what was left of that; the night sky outside peeked in through the many holes in the hastily-erected shutters.

And on that wind, again the faint smell of sulphur. She glanced out; though the sky was dark, she imagined fires still burning in far reached of Blackacre, slowly dwindling as they ate every last thing on the ground.

The last few stragglers who had made it in brought with them stories of the forest coming alive, of… things out in the dark. The fire had destroyed everything else; with a bit of luck it would destroy them too.

If not, then they would be just one more obstacle for the Royal Army. If they wanted to come get them, they would have to cross the nightmare they themselves created.

Beatrix snorted. She couldn’t help it; laughter just came rolling out, echoing in the chamber. The world blackened and burned, and here she was, laughing so hard that she needed to lean against the ruins of her desk.

“It’s madness,” she whispered after collecting herself, wiping a tear from her eye. “Madness.”

Wiping the biggest of the debris off the desk, she eased herself up onto it and sat down, legs danging off the side. Fifty fifty her chair was smashed to bits; even if not, the extra two feet of height from the desk let her see out one of the larger holes in the window, out to the glowing horizon beyond.

“Look at what you’ve done,” she said to herself. “All the things you’ve burned, all the ponies you’ve killed. And for what? To squeeze us back under your hoof?”

“All we wanted was a little bit of breathing room, a chance to make our own way.” She shook her head. “I never wanted any of this to pass, but you forced my hoof.”

Again she snorted, this time in disdain, off towards the window, off towards the enemy. But Canterlot wasn’t there; it wasn’t even close. It lay miles beyond the glowing horizon. All that remained in Blackacre was death.

“I would rather die myself than have this happen to my people,” she declared to the darkness outside her window. She spread her hooves wide. “What more must I do to prove this?”

And the darkness responded:

“Die.”

Beatrix froze, modulating the expression on her face to one of neutral determination. At this hour of the night, in an upper chamber of a burned-out castle in no-pony’s-land in the middle of Blackacre, that could be only one person.

“So this is how it ends?” she asked, folding her forehooves so she wouldn’t see them shake.

The darkness moved slightly, rippled, and then the room was bathed in the faintest of pastel bas-relief.

“No,” said Princess Celestia, gliding across the floor to the center of the room. Just as she had done before, months ago. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Good,” said Beatrix with a disdainful shrug. “Doesn’t seem your style.”

“I’m here to accept your surrender.”

She blinked.

The Princess waited.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your surrender,” she prompted. “Cessation of hostilities, deescalation of conflict, equitable settlement. Call it what you will.”

“I have no intention of —”

“Of what?” asked Celestia, arching a coal-black eyebrow. “Of letting your people continue to fight a losing war? Of being buried alive by our bombs? Of starving to death as you huddle for warmth in caves deep underground?”

Beatrix bit back a reply. What could she say to that? She was right.

“You don’t want to die,” said the Princess. “Neither do your people.”

“And I’m betting you don’t want to kill us,” Beatrix shot back.

“I do what I must.”

“Maybe you do,” she said, gathering her wits about her, “but I’m betting not everypony feels that way.”

A thin smile flashed over Celestia’s face, a secret joke to which she wasn’t privy.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “As you’re so fond of pointing out, my rule is absolute. My thoughts,” she added with a trace of disdain, “are the only ones that matter.”

“And what is it that you think I should do?” asked Beatrix, tilting her head ever so slightly. “Roll over?”

“You will issue a stand-down order,” said Celestia, largely ignoring her. “Unconditional surrender and transfer of arms. You will deliver a complete set of strategic and tactical data, as well as locations of personnel. All facilities will be entered, cleared, and secured; many will likely be demolished as necessary. Your main tunnels and chambers will be staffed by a permanent Army detachment.”

She rolled her eyes. “While my people are sent into exile.”

“Local government will be restructured to the standard Charter system,” said Celestia, again ignoring her. “Martial law will continue until the reconstitution is complete. You will release all prisoners of war and other captives immediately, transporting them to Ponyville for recovery and treatment of our wounded.”

“And what about us.”

“You,” said Celestia, idly indicating the ground with a forehoof, “will largely be free to do what you wish. Dissidents will be excised, but those ponies smart enough to keep their heads down will be just fine.”

“You,” she continued, bringing the hoof up to point directly towards her, “are never going to lead anything more important than livestock for the rest of your life. For that matter, you can forget about magic; you will submit to a limiting enchantment.”

Celestia slowly brought her hoof back down. Beatrix noticed that it made no sound upon touching the floor. Of course; just an illusion. A very realistic and distinctly dangerous illusion of the most powerful being on the continent, but an illusion nevertheless. And that gave her strength.

“Would you also like my first-born?” she offered offhoofedly.

“Your foals can do what they wish,” said Celestia, not rising to the bait. “I will not hold your sins against them.”

“How noble.”

“Draw what conclusions you will,” said the alicorn, mane rippling softly in the moonlight. “Those are my terms.”

“Your terms,” echoed Beatrix, gazing out at the dark. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see clouds of black smoke against the stars; under the ash, the forest was still burning. And, under the ash, there were things moving.

“Now you listen to mine.”

Again Celestia’s eyebrow raised.

“We will stand down,” she said, holding the Princess’ gaze. “Our ponies will lay down their arms, and our everything else will do whatever they want. We are not responsible for the actions of the timberwolves, the ursas… the coeurl.”

“So they do exist.”

“There exist more things than many are willing to admit,” said Beatrix with a thin, dry smile. “As you know so well.”

Celestia gave an elegant shrug.

“We will stand down,” she repeated, “and we will provide you with whatever information you require to verify our actions.”

She stopped, letting the pause dangle in the air for a few moments longer than was comfortable.

“Local government will be selected and established by the ponies of Blackacre,” she said levelly. “You may observe, you may inspect, but you will not lift a single piece of paper during the process.”

“My only interest is the result,” said Celestia smoothly. “I do not care how you reach the goal, as long as it is understood that the Charter-standard provisions be reinstated, without question or subversion — and that you personally play no role in the process.”

“I accepted that long ago,” said Beatrix.

“Good. That will make the transition easier for you and yours.”

“I am glad we agree on my actions,” she bristled, before the Princess could continue. “I hope we can come to a similar agreement on yours.”

“My,” said the alicorn with a smooth and entirely dangerous tone, “actions.”

“We will step down, and the remaining ponies of Blackacre will reform their government to your Charter standards. You are welcome to conduct whatever inspections you see fit to ensure compliance with your demands. The moment substantial compliance is met, your troops will leave.” She cocked her head ever so slightly. “You may retain one inspector per facility to ensure continuing compliance.”

“You ask much of us,” said Celestia, pacing silently to the window and glancing back. “You fight a civil war, surrender, and propose that we simply turn our backs and leave you to your own devices?” She laughed, a high sound. “I always wondered if you were brazen enough to start the war or if one of your flunkies backed you into it. Now I know.”

“I propose that you leave,” said Beatrix, masking her anger with a pointed smile. “And by you I mean all of you,” she added with a wave that encompassed both the Princess and the window. “Every soldier, every administrator, every trace of Canterlot. I would suggest you disband the bulk of the Army and Air Patrol, but I suspect you’ll end up doing that anyway.”

“You need us here.”

“But we don’t want you here,” she countered smoothly. “Besides — what’s the harm to you? You won’t find administrators jumping at the chance to be deployed to a warzone.”

“You need us,” repeated Celestia in a patient tone of voice, “for the same reason you’ve always needed us. You can’t support yourselves. You have nothing.”

“We don’t ask for anything. Just our freedom. Just our chance.”

“What will you do?” she asked, raising a hoof. “Say I grant your request. You write yourselves a government, and we leave.” She let the hoof fall, a forlorn gesture. “How will you live? What will you eat?”

“We have plenty of cleared land,” Beatrix laughed. “Supplies enough to last until harvest, and the ground is fertilized with the ash of a hundred years of forest. We will find a way.”

“Find a way,” Celestia echoed, shaking her head, sending ripples of faded color down her mane. “You need us. You always have; you always will. The land won’t permit of anything else.”

“We need our freedom,” countered Beatrix. “We need our chance. We would rather die free than live by the grace of Canterlot,” she spat. “The past six months should convince you of that.”

Celestia fixed her with her gaze.

“Why?”

“Because —”

“Why should I allow this?”

Beatrix licked her lips.

“Because you have nothing to lose,” she said with a broad gesture. “These are my terms.” She raised one hoof. “You leave us to our own devices. If I am right, you spend nothing on us, and in return we demand nothing from you. Maybe, in time, things change, but for now, Equestria forgets us, and we are left alone, which is the best we can hope for.

“But, suppose you’re right,” she said, turning to the other hoof. “I’m wrong — but that doesn’t matter, because I have no say in that decision anymore. The free ponies of Blackacre take a vote and come back to you. You receive them with open arms, carte blanche to dictate terms, and a set of prize government reconstruction contracts to distribute to whom you will.”

Celestia allowed herself a smile. For her brazen attitude, this rebel knew how to splay out domestic policy. Inexpertly, of course, but the core was sound.

“Bold words,” she said, gesturing towards the window. “And do you speak for all of my ponies here in Blackacre?”

Beatrix glanced out at the dark. “If there’s anypony alive out there —”

“Which I would doubt.”

“— they feel as I do.”

“Hm.”

For a long moment the room was as silent as the dark outside, nothing but the faintest whisper of a breeze through the holes in the walls to disturb the Princess. There she stood, thought Beatrix — no, there her image stood. Twelve feet tall and cloaked in an iridescent mane glowing dully in the midnight air.

The nag.

This, this was everything they despised about Canterlot. The ruling, the classes, the superiority of it all. The arrogance. They had wanted a slice of the action, a chance to make it in the world, but now? Now all they wanted, all that was left to want, was to be let alone.

“You ask much of me,” said Celestia, turning to face Beatrix. “You ask for us to declare victory and act as if it were a defeat.”

“I only ask for what we are in a position to give.”

“And for reasons that are my own, I accept,” she said simply.

Beatrix blinked.

“I am —”

“But let me be perfectly clear,” said the alicorn, taking a step closer and somehow growing in height. “Do not think of this as a victory, for it is not. You have given to me nothing which I could not take at my whim.”

“Could?” asked Beatrix, peripherally aware that this might not be the best being to irritate. “Or would? Your army is on the other side of the hellscape they themselves created.”

“They are,” she said neutrally.

“And not only are we here,” she continued, idly grabbing a hoof-sized chunk of granite off the desk where it had fallen from the ceiling, “but we’re buried under countless tons of this. If you wanted to get us, you’d have to come find us first.”

“They would have to,” said the alicorn, and though her words might seem to be an agreement her tone was anything but, a carefully calculated razor-sharp neutral.

“In fact,” said Beatrix, hopping off the desk and shaking the chunk at the alicorn’s image, “even though I’m here, right in the middle of the castle, where anypony could get to me, you yourself are back in Canterlot!”

For some reason, her proclamation wasn’t nearly as resounding as she had hoped. Maybe it was the acoustics in the room… or maybe it was the unreadable look on Celstia’s face.

There was silence for an uncomfortably long moment.

“Perhaps,” said Celestia, reaching out a hoof. The chunk twitched once, glowed the faintest shade of yellow, and jumped neatly out of Beatrix’ hoof, floating over to hover directly over the Princess’ hoof. She contemplated the chunk for a second or two, watching as it quivered back and forth with anticipation. Celestia clenched her hoof in one clean gesture —

“Perhaps.”

And the chunk imploded with a neat whump, yellow glow pouring inwards over tiny chunks of granite, pressing against one another in a race to the center of what was now a little hole in the room, hovering just above a steel-armored hoof that was, just as the rest of her, unquestionably and undeniably real, real as the real as the earth, real as the sun, pulsing with waves of raw energy, at point blank range the might of a solar flare —

“But you mistake choice for weakness.”

And once again the room rippled and all appeared normal. Appeared, save for an afterimage that she couldn’t quite place, a wreath of fire….

Princess Celestia stood before Beatrix, the image of a ruler. She passed no judgment on her subjects; she simply declared and let the others sort it out. She was a neutral, a rock in the storm, and for the briefest of moments Beatrix could see why somepony would go to her willingly, sacrifice their freedom for the calm reassuring grasp of this alicorn at the helm.

“I accept your terms,” she said with a nod.

Beatrix blinked, and Celestia was gone. Outside, the night sky was at peace, broken only by billowing shadows of clouds on the horizon; inside, the room was still, save for a faint whistling breeze in the night air. All was exactly as it had been ten minutes before.

All, save for a sprinkling of dust on the floor and a single armored hoofprint.

Truth and Reconciliation

13 July, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

“Right this way, Mayor, Miss… Smith.”

There was nothing but deference and grace in Doctor Turner’s outstretched hoof, but Jackie knew that twinkle in his eye. He knew her. How could he not, with a case like hers?

Fortunately for her, she knew he would never act on that knowledge: her file was sealed, courtesy of a memo with the word Celestia at the bottom. More importantly, in seven months there had been countless ponies through the hospital. No one else would remember her. Especially not now that she was the mayor’s aide, which gave her a chance to reintroduce herself and her cobbled-together back story to every pony she met.

“…into a triage ward for the injured recovered from Blackacre,” the doctor was saying. “Most of the ponies were treated well, or at least as well as everyone else in the bunkers. They’re all malnourished and most have a few scrapes, even the Blackacre defectors that came over.”

“Our warehouses are open to you,” said Margaret with a nod at Jackie to take a note on the little pad of paper she had started carrying when tagging along with the mayor. “Take whatever you need. We can afford the supplies; this year looks to be a full harvest. I guess wrapping things up by hoof paid off.”

“I’m glad it worked,” said the doctor with a hint of discontent; half of his staff had been impressed into service for the wrap-up, over his rather vocal protests. “In any case,” he said, changing tack, “here we are.”

They drew to a stop in front of a wide set of double doors that partitioned off the last end of this hospital wing. Unlike most of the other hallway doors, though, the little windows on these were blocked off from the inside.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked the doctor, his hoof on the door. “Some of them have been through a lot.”

“Through hell and back,” said Margaret with a grave nod. “Yes, I do. As long as they’re in my town, they’re my responsibility. I owe it to the ponies in there to meet them myself.”

“As you wish,” he said, pushing a door open and waving them in.

The ward was normal enough on the inside. Between the beds, the curtains, and that unmistakable hospital look to everything, it could have been mistaken for any one of a dozen other such wards in the building. Even the ponies here had regular enough injuries: some limbs were broken, a few were missing entirely, and most of them had burns of some sort or other, either from magic or from the wildfire that still smoldered on in some parts of the land.

The difference was that while the other ponies had received their wounds in combat, most of these had received theirs while strapped to an interrogation slab.

Margaret and the doctor broke off, working the main beds in the room from one side to the other. Jackie knew the routine well enough; the mayor would stop by a bed, say a few inspiring words, and move on to the next. She had become remarkably adept at glad-hoofing, something she reasoned simply came with the territory of being a mayor.

For her own part, Jackie would just be a distraction to Margaret’s interactions. There were two important ponies in this room and she was neither of them; none of the ward’s residents paid her much heed, and she wouldn’t really know what to say anyway.

All this meant she hung back from Margaret’s interaction with the patients, and she could take a closer look around. Her eye came to rest on a pony in a bed towards the back of the room. Most of her body was covered with wide swaths of gauze, and Jackie recognized an immobilization brace. She felt a surge of pity; though the medical care here was top notch, being confined to a bed always felt like being cut off from the world. She slipped away to take a closer look at the poor soul in the bed.

Drawing nearer to the bed, she saw that not only was most of the pony covered in an assortment of bandages or casts, but the stack of medical records pinned to the wall next to the bed was easily two or three inches thick. Jackie wondered how this pony was still alive — and a moment later realized that someone had probably wondered the same thing about her.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

The pony glanced up at her but just as quickly looked away.

“I just thought you might appreciate a bit of company,” said Jackie, careful to keep her voice low so it didn’t carry across the thin curtains. Margaret might be here to make an impression on the room, but that wasn’t why Jackie was here.

The pony said nothing.

“I was here too,” she continued after a moment, running a hoof lightly over the bed’s railing. “In one of those braces, even.”

The pony glanced at the framework set up around her upper back, but still said nothing.

“And yes, they did eventually let me out.” She smiled absently to herself. “Doctor Turner’s crew is overworked, but they’re still some of the best. You’re in good hooves.”

The pony gave the slightest of nods, still not meeting her gaze. Fair enough. She would have killed for some company on those long days in the brace between the nurse’s rounds, but this poor pony probably just wanted some peace and quiet. Celestia knew they hadn’t had enough of that in this part of the country for a long time.

“All right,” she said gently. “I’ll leave you be. Good luck.”

As Jackie turned away, though, she heard the faintest of voices behind her.

“…stay.”

She looked back; the pony wasn’t looking at her, but her tan muzzle was quivering slightly.

“I can do that, too,” she said, trying to be light about it. Jackie cast around for a chair and pulled it up next to the bed, not facing it but rather parallel to it, so she wouldn’t be staring right at the pony.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The pony murmured something.

“Didn’t catch that,” said Jackie. “But that’s okay,” she added quickly, seeing the pony’s discomfort.

There was another silence, but the expression on the pony’s face softened somewhat. She still wasn’t meeting Jackie’s eyes, but something told her she wasn’t about to any time soon.

“I’m Jackie,” she introduced herself. She turned to get a better look at the medical records on the wall. “And it says here that your name is… Gun-Shy?”

The pony gave the slightest of nods.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m doing the talking for the both of us,” she said. “Gun-Shy… hm. That sounds like a call sign, and so you probably got a nickname. And I’m betting they didn’t go around calling you Shy,” she added, “because that’d be kind of silly. So… is it okay if I call you Gun?”

Another nod.

“Well, that’s good. I don’t know what I would have done if you said no. Probably not called you that, but names aren’t the kind of thing you generally get to pick in the first place!” She shrugged. “It’s okay, though. I’d give you a pass, let you pick your name just this once.”
Gun laughed, or at least made a sound with a passable similarity to laughter. That was a good sign.

“I’d say something about the weather, but the view’s not too good from here.” In fact, the closest window was a good forty feet away. “So I guess that means we’re on to another topic of conversation. I’m here with the Mayor,” she said, jerking a hoof over her shoulder at the figures on the other end of the room. “Actually, she’s here with me, but she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Gun laughed again. Jackie was happy to hear it; nothing like a bit of light conversation to brighten your day. Especially when most of it consisted of sitting in bed.

“What brings you in here today?” she asked, reaching for the records on the wall. “Can’t answer that one for you, so I guess I’ll just have to —”

She nearly dropped the papers.

This time, Gun was the one to meet her gaze, and Jackie was the one to break it.

“I’m so sorry,” she said after a moment, putting the records back up with a wavering hoof.

“I’m so sorry.”

For several minutes, neither of them said anything, the room filled with the soft murmur of nurses and doctors, of the mayor and patients.

Jackie had always wondered what it would be like to fly, to be up in the sky on your own power alone, totally in control of your destiny and free from everything on the ground so far below. She had never wondered what it would be like to know that freedom and then never have it again — but she could imagine it all too well.

“I know how you must feel,” she said, her voice quiet.

Gun glanced at her again.

“Thank you,” she said, but the pained expression in her eyes was unmistakable. Of course you don’t, they said. How could you?

“I spent four weeks in a bed like that,” said Jackie. “Four weeks of recovery from… an accident.” She brought a hoof to her face and pushed aside a red curl. “I know what it’s like.”

At once Gun’s expression changed, bitter to sorrowful in the blink of an eye. She raised a hoof and laid it on Jackie’s hand. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to; they were both Earth ponies now.

After a few minutes more, Jackie saw that Margaret had a visitor of her own, a young-looking pony in uniform, maybe an aide of some sort. She couldn’t hear what they were saying over there, but she knew their time here was coming to a close.

“I have to go,” she said. “But I’ll be back.”

“Thank you,” said Gun, sincerity in her eyes.

“If there’s anything I can do, just say the word,” said Jackie, clasping Gun’s hoof. “I have some pull with the Mayor —”

“I don’t want to go home,” said Gun, quiet but uncharacteristically urgent.

“I’m sorry?”

“When I’m discharged, they’ll send me home,” she said. “I — I don’t know if —”

“I understand,” said Jackie quickly. Her situation had been different, but what if it hadn’t? If she was checked out of the hospital and had to go back to the closest family she had left? She had some distant relatives out in the Unicorn Range, and though she hadn’t seen them for years she had no doubt they would be loving and supportive, but it just wouldn’t be the same. Would never be the same.

And if she had to go home to pegasi with missing wings?

“Tell you what,” she said, taking out her notepad and scribbling a reminder. “I know a place where you can rest and recover for a bit once you’re out of here, a family farm outside of town. It’s quiet, they won’t ask any questions, and the ponies are nice.” She smiled. “Though I might be a bit biased.”

Gun hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds lovely.”

“I’ll have to check, but you should be able to stay as long as you want.”

Off on the other end of the room, Margaret had left the ward and Doctor Turner was waving her down. Jackie acknowledged him with a slight nod and turned back to the bed.

“I’ll come back; we can talk more then.” She patted Gun’s hoof. “Or, not talk. Whatever you’d like.”

“I’d like that,” said Gun quietly. “Thank you.”

Jackie gave the hoof one last squeeze before dashing off to the door to the ward, passing through it and into a conversation between Margaret and a distinguished-looking stallion in the blue and yellow of an Army uniform. Margaret called her over.

“Here’s the pony you want,” she said. “General, this is Jackie Smith, my aide; Jackie, this is General Eisenhorner.”

“A pleasure,” she said, blinking twice and offering a hoof.

“The pleasure is mine,” said the general, shaking it firmly, “I assure you.”

Jackie couldn’t help but smile to herself; she had met him on at least four prior occasions. Of course, she had been wearing the trappings of the diplomatic corps at the time, and been with Dag.

Dag —

“…recovery operations here in Ponyville,” Eisenhorner was saying. “Your Mayor informs me that you’re the one to go to for civilian requisitions.”

“I am,” she said with a nod.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll have my staff contact you, but I like to meet ponies in person if I can. This is the first time I’ve been back to Ponyville since — since Mayor Margaret took office, and I reasoned a formal meeting was overdue.”

“As did I,” said Margaret smoothly. “I’m glad we can be of help to the Royal Army; your presence so close to the town has reassured many of my citizens.”

And unnerved others, Jackie added to herself. Others who happened to include both herself and the mayor — but he didn’t need to know that. He would figure the chilly relations out for himself soon enough.

“Don’t let us keep you, though,” added Margaret, waving a hoof in the general direction of the exit. “I’m sure you have important matters to attend to.”

“Several,” agreed Eisenhorner with a nod. “But one of them will keep me here; I’m afraid I’ll need more of Doctor Turner’s time. I have more patients to send his way, and I suspect he would appreciate forewarning to prepare adequate facilities.”

“He likely would,” agreed Margaret. “Though — I thought your forces already extracted all of the captives.”

“General Pommel’s team did a complete recovery,” he said, and Jackie noticed the barest clenching of teeth at the mention of his comrade’s name. “I have, however, received scattered reports of defectors who left Blackacre before they took their prisoners to the hand-off point.”

“Defectors?” asked Margaret.

“Perhaps escapees,” offered Eisenhorner. “In either case, I have teams preparing to search for them now. There are only a few paths out of Castle Blackacre; if anypony ran, we will find them and return them to Ponyville for treatment — which is where the good doctor comes in.”

Jackie and Margaret exchanged looks. Jackie had half a mind to speak up, but held her tongue; she was now only an aide, after all, and it wasn’t her place to question. Margaret, on the other hand, had no such limitations.

“Why would you try to capture them?” she asked in a disarming tone.

The general blinked.

“If they’re escapees,” she pressed on, “then they’ll probably be hiding from any patrols, at least while in Blackacre itself. And their end goal will be to reach the Royal Army anyway, so they’ll be looking for you.

“But if they’re defectors,” she reasoned, “then not only will they still be trying to hide, but the moment you capture them, they become prisoners of war. Which I imagine involves some considerable paperwork, paperwork which won’t even matter — they’ll all be released tomorrow at the signing anyway.”

Eisenhorner nodded warily. “This is true, but I still have my obligations.”

“Your obligations are towards Equestria,” said Margaret gently, “just like mine. The war is over, and Equestria won. It’s going to take years to make amends for what was done here.”

Again the general tensed, but he was still listening.

“The healing process has to start here and now,” she said. “If ponies want to leave Blackacre behind, to try and move back into their lives, then I wouldn’t want to stop them.”

“I have a duty to follow my orders,” he said, “and until tomorrow at noon, I have an obligation to secure Equestria’s border with Blackacre.”

The words were firm but his tone was not; clearly he was having some trouble.

“It’s already secure,” said Margaret with a smile. “Nopony’s fighting now. And starting tomorrow, your orders will be to help the thousands of ponies on both sides of the line try and make a better life for themselves.” She shook her head slightly. “If some of them want to start down that path early, we should be helping them, not holding them prisoner.”

“My duty,” he started lamely.

“Is to help Equestria recover,” finished Margaret firmly. “And the sooner that starts, the better.”

For a long moment, Eisenhorner said nothing.

“I could use those troops in preparing for tomorrow,” he mused. “And they might not even make it back here before the release order. It would just be a waste of time.” He nodded. “I’ll give the order.”

“Thank you, General,” said Margaret. “I’m glad that the Royal Army has commanders at the top who understand the importance of recovery.”

“And I’m pleased to work with a mayor who places such importance on all the ponies of Equestria, not just the select few in her region,” he countered. “If you’ll excuse me, I have orders to issue and preparations to make.”

“Of course. General.”

“Mayor.”

And with that the general was off, trotting through the hospital at a brisk clip, reciting orders at the handful of aides that gathered out of nowhere at his side.

“Thank you,” said Jackie, watching him go. “I’m glad you think like that.”

“I’m glad you showed me how,” said Margaret. “Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”

“It is,” she agreed. “If there are any ponies out there who made it out of Blackacre, then we should let them go. The sooner they can get back to their old lives — the sooner we can put all this behind us — the better.”

For her, life would never be the same. But maybe for somepony else, somewhere else, letting them go would be enough to give them a head start on rebuilding.

“Enough lives have been ruined,” said Margaret sagely. “It’s about time we start putting them back together again.”

“I like the sound of that.” Jackie smiled. “I liked the sound of what you told him, too.”

“I thought that might be what you would have wanted,” said Margaret with a laugh.

Jackie nodded. “Sometimes, you just need to forget.”

Blackacre

14 July, Y.C. 970
Ponyville

This, thought Beatrix, was it.

Technically it had already been ‘it.’ The official terms had been negotiated over the course of the past three days, and copies were already being distributed. The only important part of today was the signing ceremony, and even that had already happened; the newsponies had demanded that they do it in the early morning, and so they got their way. Besides, the history books wouldn’t record the order of events, or even the speeches. If all went well, this would end as just a footnote.

Tens of thousands dead, the region burned to ash and poisoned with unknown and deadly magic, and their best-case scenario was for everypony to forget about it.

What the history books and newspapers would record, though, were the photos. And so, frivolous though it might have been, the photos took priority. And, since all the photographers were from Canterlot, they all wanted the same angle: a wide angle of the simple wooden table on the dais, Celestia on the left and Beatrix on the right, with the hilly earth of the EAS Mane’s crater in the foreground and the charred devastation of Blackacre in the background.

She was not expected to appear happy by any means, and Beatrix was glad of it; it was easier to conceal anger behind a mask of determination and dignity than to fake pleasantries that rang hollow at the first stroke.

The ceremony itself had been simple enough. She silently thanked whichever local administrator had been saddled with the burden of setting it all up from scratch. They could have gone overboard on a victory theme, with bunting and flags and all that, but they didn’t. Not that there had been time to do much else; between the triage facilities and a hastily-erected tent city, there wasn’t much by way of spare space for anything else. Dais, table, Equestrian flag; they were there to sign, to speech, and not much more.

Not that the speechifying itself had been particularly interesting. One of the local administrators spoke, more by way of preface than anything else; she welcomed them all and offered what hospitality she could afford. Which was not particularly saying much, but the gesture was a nice one. Most of the assembled crowd consisted in locals and whatever military detachments happened to be in town, but there was a sizable contingent of ponies — refugees? Evacuees? Hostages? — from Blackacre present. It was nice to see that at least somepony had the decency to recognize that it wasn’t a celebration for all of them.

The next few speakers had proven the principle wrong, of course. The fact that they were all military didn’t help, and their barely-concealed bluster and pomp was sufficient to work the crowd not into a frenzy but instead into a pleasant hubbub.

Beatrix stood off to one side. Not because she had been sidelined — indeed, she was half of the main event! — but rather because nopony else on the little stage had felt particularly comfortable standing next to her. They had all started in a rough semicircle next to each other, but that hadn’t lasted long. That was fine by her; she had no illusions about standing alone.

Though they hid it well, the others were growing more and more tired of standing around, coupled with general boredom at the event. After all, they won; couldn’t they just go home? Not so for her, though. The moments that dragged on for everypony else flitted by for her. This was the last time she would ever stand as representative of her people. For better or for worse, she would never lead again.

Eventually, mercifully, Princess Celestia stepped forward. Beatrix could see the crowd’s ears perk up; ponies generally cared about what a mayor or a general thought, but put a despot on stage and suddenly they were second fiddle.

She didn’t listen to what the Princess had to say. What did it matter? This was the speech that would be front page of every newspaper in the country, the words that would be excerpted in the books. Nopony cared what the losing side thought about their predicament, at least not until a generation or two had passed and they could look back and call it nostalgia.

Besides, she had a pretty good idea of what the Princess was saying. Who didn’t? Peace, harmony, friendship. The usual tripe. Now that there was no war to shill, no spear to rattle, she could be afford to be cautious. No sense in ruffling any feathers now; things couldn’t get any better for her.

Idly, Beatrix wondered what would happen if she dashed forward and headbutted Celestia off the stage. Juvenile, perhaps, but it would still feel awfully good.

The Princess turned slightly, looked at her for a moment, and turned back to the crowd.

“…back into the fold,” she was saying. “It is my hope that, over the coming weeks and months, we will work together to restore peace and prosperity….”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. Well. That was one way of flushing her adrenaline before her last address.

And then, before she knew it, the Princess had stepped aside and a thousand eyes were on her. Muttering a silent prayer, she took the longest three steps of her life to the front of the stage.

“My friends,” she started. “Hello.”

A thousand hard eyes glared back. They weren’t her friends, and most took offense at that notion. She wondered how many of them would like to kill her where she stood. But none of that mattered. She wasn’t here for them; she was her for her own, for those ponies who had stood by her since the beginning, for those who had made it through hell and high water and now through the invasion and evacuation. Those who had been in it all, for better or for worse, just like her.

“After —” she started again, but faltered. She stared out over the crowd, this time not looking for the forest but for the trees. There were only a few faces she knew, but they were all that mattered.

She wasn’t giving a speech; she was saying good-bye.

“After eight months of service and dedication beyond the highest calling, Blackacre has been compelled to yield,” she said in that matter-of-fact tone that belied a fact, however regrettable. “We have yielded to overwhelming numbers and to overwhelming resources.”

But not, she knew they would all be adding silently, to overwhelming truth.

“I need not tell this to the survivors of so many hard-fought battles,” she said, barely wasting a glance at the Army soldiers that surrounded the Blackacre ponies. “You have remained steadfast to the last, and you bear no burden for the result we face today.”

Dirty looks from the soldiers, but nods of appreciation from her ponies, the only ones that mattered here and now.

“But valor and devotion can do nothing, if in the company of such loss as would necessarily derive from our course of action.” She shook her head. “We have forfeited much, and I must avoid the sacrifice to which a steady course would unavoidably lead.

“To all there is an end,” she said with a sad gaze, “but some are more desirable than others. You are too endeared to me to risk annihilation for a hopeless proposition.”

Celestia wouldn’t like her tone. But what could she do? What more could she do? There were murmurs of discontent out in the crowd but she ignored them. This was her moment, the only thing she had left. They had left.

“By the terms of our agreement,” she said, breaking off slightly, “we can return to our homes. I can give you no gift but the satisfaction from the consciousness of a duty faithfully performed, and the small consolation of truth that our tribulations and the sacrifice of our countryponies has not been for naught.”

For one blissful moment a smile came unbidden. She let it linger, savoring it while she could.

“We are free,” she said with a soft intensity. “For better or for ill, we are free. Blackacre stands alone, with all that necessarily entails. In exchange, we ask — and have been granted — simply to be let alone.

“To those ponies here,” she said, scanning the eyes of her comrades, “I extend to you my blessing, for what currency it is, and pray you find comfort and peace in the coming times.

“To those of my friends who cannot be here today,” she said, raising up as if to address ponies just on the edge of the crowd, “I give you my admiration to your duty, my praise for the constancy of your devotion. But now I come to say lay down your arms, for none will be taken against you. Be at peace, for no harm will come to you.

“And to our honored dead,” she said, with a slow deep bow, “would that I could take your place, and you take ours among the sun. I give you my grateful remembrance, and I bid you an affectionate farewell.”

There was a more definite sound from her audience now, and with a quiver down her spine she realized it was coming from the Blackacre ponies. They were dirty, injured, fatigued, starving, but every one of them there was with her. They understood. And that was all that mattered.

“And to all the ponies of Equestria,” she declared, lifting her head high, voice rising above the crowd, “I give you my word that you will see no change, but that Blackacre be free.”

Nods of approval gave way to muttered affirmations as the murmur grew louder.

“You want nothing to do with us, then so be it! Let us alone, for that is all we ask. You want nothing from us, and we want nothing from you, save for one thing. Remember!”

She could hear the sound of ponies shifting nervously behind her, and had no doubt that Celestia would be one of them. Whether they were reacting to her words or the growing sounds from the crowd she didn’t know; either way she approved.

“Remember! Remember one thing, and remember it well!” she exhorted, casting her voice over the crowd so none of them would dare forget.

“We stand apart!” she cried. “Blackacre is, and always shall be, forever free!”

“Forever free!” took up her ponies in the crowd, the chant spreading like electricity.

“Forever free!” they echoed, the simple promise echoing to the Sun itself.

“Forever free!”

“Ever free!”

“Everfree!”

Preface

History, they say, is written by the victors. What happens when those victors want to forget?

I started researching this book almost immediately after it ends, though of course I didn’t know it at the time. I just wanted to understand what had happened, and why. That entailed asking questions that didn’t have easy answers; more importantly, it required getting information from sources ranging from disapproving to outright hostile. In this respect I owe much to the ponies of the non-Equestrian news sources, many of whom have requested anonymity. For them, my conviction in the court of Equestrian public opinion never carried much weight.

By this book I do not seek absolution. Frankly, it doesn’t matter any more, because no one cares. There was a time when my name alone inspired something — usually hostility, occasionally gratitude — but those times are long gone, and with them the collective consciousness of a generation that saw and suffered too much to slip quietly into the night.

I would very much like to see Canterlot again, to climb the steps of the Sun Tower, to sit in that familiar chair at the Council’s table, to walk once more through the stone halls that were my home for so many years. It does not escape me, though, that I am old, and another ocean crossing would be my last. I therefore send this book in my place, and commend it to those who would seek not truth but understanding.

I dedicate this book to those who served, regardless of their side;

to those who fought to protect their brothers and sisters, without concern for their lives;

to those who did what was right, no matter the cost.

A. M.

January, Y.C. 1049

Stalliongrad