On Behalf of Soviet Equestria

When the war with the Crystal Empire began, there was not a single pony in the entire Party that implicated Mareinskiy and Palominov for its onset. The Party Congress condemned the imperialist “crystal dogs” for senseless aggression in a foolish quest to take what no longer belonged to them. The most radical members verbally tore Celestia and Luna to pieces before the convened congress, accusing them of heinous theatrics – that their impartiality was a fraud from the very beginning. Not once did any member of the Party singe out either of the diplomats for the degeneration and failure of the dialogues with Canterlot.

Regardless, it didn’t stop Mareinskiy from blaming himself.

On a grim morning in late winter, the citizens of the Equestria Soviet Socialist Republics began the day with an urgent broadcast over the radio. In the countryside and the great cities alike, the shaky voice of a nervous announcer relayed that the Crystal Empire had made their formal declaration of war. Upon hearing the news, Gennady Mareinskiy’s heart sank. Blaming himself for the dark days that were just over the horizon, he saw the war solely as the failure of his dialogue with the princesses. He had locked himself away in his apartment on that fateful morning and remained inside for three days, passing from states of apathy and lethargy to frenetic episodes of apprehension. It was only on the morning of the fourth day that Palominov and several of his colleagues from the Party Congress managed to coax him out. Palominov could tell instantly that he had completely fallen to pieces. Mareinskiy isolated himself for a mere three days, but after that short time he emerged as a pale, shaky, empty shell of a stallion that seemed to be twice his actual age.

Mobilization had begun in the weeks prior to the broadcast, but following the announcement it was forced into overdrive. A massive conscription campaign had already been in effect, but volunteers came forward to enlist in the three military districts of the Federative Equestrian Soviet Republic after the official declaration of war. Across the entirety of Soviet Equestria, the railway station platforms, barrack training yards and defensive blockhouses were filled with a heterogeneous crew of soldiers. In some cases, the new recruits were standing side by side with the seasoned soldiers that in earlier imperial days had taken vows to defend the Crystal Empire. Unlike the stallion-only legions in Canterlot and the Empire, the military districts of Soviet Equestria were made up of mares and stallions alike. There was even an exclusively-female Mares’ Death Battalion that was tasked with guarding the Hall of the Council of Ministers at the very center of Stalliongrad. The Death Battalion was something like the private defense force of the Party itself, protecting the first meetings of the Party Congress from fanatic anarchist groups shortly after the revolution. But it mattered not whether a soldier was a mare or a stallion, nor did it matter if they had served for ten years or ten days – together, they comprised the defenders of Soviet Equestria. And together, they would protect against the imperialist aggressors.

The Crystal Empire’s offensives began three days after the broadcast. The imperial armies made their advances on Maremansk and Folagograd, the two northern cities of the Federative Equestrian Soviet Republic. The three districts that comprised the Soviet Equestrian Red Army met and engaged. And as the Reds fought tooth and nail to prevent the Empire from entering the great cities, Canterlot remained silent.

It had been a week since the declaration. The fighting in the north had entered its fourth day as the cold steel of Soviet axes and sabers clashed with crystal spears. Brigades from Trotterstan were marching in from the east, but they had a long road ahead of them. The Belequusian SSR could only lend extremely limited support, as Belequusian soldiers had already engaged the Crystal Empire outside of Manesk. The Provisional Belequusian Soviet was fearful that Manesk would fall if an inordinate number of troops were routed to the Federative Equestrian Soviet Republic. Reports were coming in over the radio, but nopony really knew how true the broadcasts were. The notion of “information” itself had changed in the wake of the revolution. They heard what the Party saw fit for them to hear.

Gennady Mareinskiy could not bear to listen to the broadcasts. Every report made him feel unbearably nauseous. But regardless of where he was, he could not escape them, as they continued to play from every radio in every home, store, and bar, and of course within the Council of Ministers all the same.

The Party Congress had just been adjourned for the evening. Mareinskiy was the first to leave the Hall of the Council of Ministers – sometimes called the Sapphire Palace, as it was known during the imperial days – that evening. Palominov watched him from one of the upper-story windows as he sulked across the square before the palace and quickly disappeared from the center of Stalliongrad. Palominov had some business to settle with a few of his colleagues, and did not leave the Sapphire Palace for another half hour. Once in the square, he trotted down to the sidewalk along Stallions’ Prospekt and hailed the first troika he saw. The three ponies in the reins slowed their gait and came to a stop on the side of the road as Palominov approached them.

“Where to?” asked one of the drivers.

“The Druzhinik, on Coltirev Boulevard.” Palominov responded as he climbed into the back of the troika.

“Alright, then we’re off.”

There was only one place Mareinsky could have gone – the one place to which he always ran off when a firestorm was brewing in his mind. It was the Druzhinik Bar by the Foalgogradskaya Railway Station. It wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw from the square at the center of town, but it was certainly walkable. And Palominov would have taken the leisurely walk had he not feared that Mareinskiy was half-tempted to drink himself to death.

The three ponies galloped along, pulling the troika in tow down Stallions’ Prospekt, as the crowd and commotion in Victors’ Square were left behind. The streets were teeming with ponies that had left the factories and offices for the evening. But life on Stallions’ Prospekt was not as it once had been. The laidback air that characterized Stalliongrad’s late afternoon had become frighteningly tense in recent days. After all, nopony knew what to think. How much longer would the new Republic last? How many days were still left during which they could walk the streets without seeing the Empire’s soldiers on every corner? Was it simply a matter of time before Victor’s Square became Sapphire Square once again? Were the crimson flags that waved in the afternoon breeze soon to be replaced by the Crystal Flag of Many Hues? Nopony truly wanted to know. Members of the Party continued to assure that Soviet Equestria would emerge victoriously from the fog of war, but who knew how confident they actually were? More importantly, who knew whether young Soviet Equestria was truly prepared to defend against the continued onslaught?

Palominov pushed these questions from his mind as the troika rolled down the boulevards. He could think only of his last visit to Canterlot with his comrades. A firestorm all his own raged in his mind at the thought of Celestia’s cold stare from atop the steps to the throne. Again, she had done nothing to prevent a bloodthirsty Crystal Empire from raising the standards of war, and in doing so had turned Mareinskiy’s staunch optimism into a suffocating cloud of self-deprecation. If Palominov hadn’t written off the princesses in the past month, he most certainly had done so by the onset of the war.

The troika was heading down Coltirev Boulevard now, passing the massive, plain façade of Foalgogradskaya Railway Station on the left. A mass of brown-uniformed soldiers of the Kalmuk Military District were heading through the doors, no doubt to board a nonstop train to Foalgograd to reinforce the defensive.

“Well, here we are,” one of the drivers called back to Palominov as the three ponies that pulled the troika began to slow their pace. The troika stopped before a humble-looking bar that occupied the first floor of an old apartment block. A white sign hung above the wooden door. The paint was chipping, and the name Druzhinik was barely distinguishable. Palominov climbed out of the seat and pulled some of his stipend money out of the bag slung across his back.

“Much appreciated,” he said as one of the drivers waved her horn and took the money with her aura. “Good luck, comrades.”

With that, the drivers took off in search of their next fare. Palominov turned and made his way through the front door of the Druzhinik, uncertain of what he might find on the inside.

The bar had been in operation for as long as anypony could remember. It had opened many years ago, when Stalliongrad was still under the jurisdiction of the Crystal Empire. It was small and plain, but it was the first bar to open in the workers’ district, and naturally became a popular destination for the laborers of the city’s zavodi – the factories and workshops that produced everything from iron and steel to the wooden frames of the troikas. There were a good number of patrons inside, as was typical at the end of the workday. The clientele was diverse that afternoon. Two stallions in light-colored suits were seated at a table by the door. Two officers of militsiya were seated at another table toward the back, engaged in conversation with two mares in the soot-covered aprons that had undoubtedly come out of a plant just a short while prior. In the far corner was a couple talking quietly, the stallion blushing as the young mare across the table whispered to him with an inquisitive grin. An old musician in the far corner was perched on a tiny stool. A concertina rested in his lap as he sat with his back against the wall, watching the others around him. A half-filled beer mug was suspended in his aura, floating at his side. Seated at one end of the bar was a group of factory workers with brown-colored smocks, engrossed in a serious-sounding discussion as they took sips from their glasses. The bartender, a slender purple Pegasus with a flowing mane, was leaning against a wooden post as she followed the conversation.

And there, all alone at the other end of the bar, was Mareinskiy, hooves crossed over the counter, staring glumly at the glasses on the shelves behind the bar.

Palominov walked over and plopped down on the empty stool next to Mareinskiy, who turned, saw his friend, sighed, and returned his attention to the glasses. On the counter before him was a moderate-sized glass filled with ice and strong liquor.

“Looks like my little hunch was right,” Palominov mumbled.

“I guess I’m getting too predictable,” Mareinskiy answered.

“You’ve always been too predictable.”

The pegasus behind the bar put her discussion with the workers on hold and made her way to the other end of the counter.

“Zdravstvui,” she greeted. Palominov returned the salutation. “What’ll you have?”

“Nothing for me, devushka. I’ve just come in to babysit this one, over here,” he said as he gave Mareinskiy a light jab. The bartender smirked, but he cream-colored stallion didn’t move.

“Alright then, comrade. If you change your mind, let me know,” she said as she returned to her conversation with the workers.

“I don’t need to be babysat,” Mareinskiy grumbled, grabbing his glass in both hooves and taking a sip.

“No, but you do need to have your head examined,” Palominov retorted.

“I don’t need that, either.”

“Oh, believe me, you do. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.” Mareinskiy rested his head in his hooves. “We had to pry you out of that bed, comrade. And if we didn’t, three days would have turned into the whole week. You can’t – and won’t – hold a conversation with any of us, you mope around the council’s hall talking to yourself, and every time you hear the radio, you look like you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. And then at the end of the day, you run off to the Druzhinik and drink like a fish. Does that seem even remotely normal?”

Mareinskiy said nothing.

“No. Of course not,” Palominov continued, “You’re cracking up.”

“You act like I’m supposed to wake up with a smile and dance down the streets every morning,” Mareinskiy finally sighed, still staring at the glimmer of the clean glasses behind the bar. “How am I supposed to do that when I know that it’s my fault that there’s a war raging in the north?”

“You didn’t start any wars. The Crystal Empire started this war.”

“But I could have stopped it. You and I, both… we could have stopped the war before it even started. Now, the Union is in jeopardy.”

“What have I been telling you from the beginning?” Palominov grunted as he slouched in his seat. “What will it take to get through your thick skull? Nothing we did could’ve changed Celestia’s mind. We could take a train to Canterlot every month for the next year, and the princesses still wouldn’t budge. We stand there before that throne and you tell me to tone down the theatrics, but you can’t see that the most elaborate theatrics are being practiced by Canterlot itself. From the very beginning, war was destined to be. It was simply a matter of when. If anything, we delayed it.”

“That’s not true,” Mareinskiy said as he took another sip from the glass. He sounded more frustrated now.

“Oh, that’s right,” Palominov laughed, throwing up his hooves. “I completely forgot! This whole mess was completely avoidable because Celestia is different. She’s not like the imperial royal family. She’s not like Saphirov. She’s a princess, rest assured, but she doesn’t act like it. She doesn’t have the faintest idea what self-interest really is. She didn’t help us, but that’s somehow your fault.” He paused. “Do you realize how idiotic that sounds?”

“The situation is as delicate for her as it is for us. Nothing like this has ever before happened in Equestrian history. Somehow, I can just feel that… somewhere, deep inside, she’s sympathetic to the Soviet coalition. How can she possibly turn a blind eye to everything that the Empire has done?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Palominov huffed.

“There’s no way she’ll let this war continue. Next time we go to Canterlot…”

“There won’t be a 'next time.'”

Mareinskiy’s eyes went wide at the interjection as he turned to Palominov. Around him, the murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses continued, but Mareinskiy didn’t make a sound. His mouth hung agape as he questioned what he had just heard.

“What?” Palominov asked him, leaning on the counter again. “It’s not like you’re in any state to go back."

“What do you mean there won’t be a next time?”

“I’m not wasting hours of my life on train rides to Canterlot anymore. It’s not worth my time. It’s not worth anypony’s time.” Mareinskiy was in disbelief.

“But…”

“Look. I was talking with Orlov and some of his constituents after you left the congress today,” Palominov explained. “They said they didn’t see much of a point in our continued visits to Canterlot, and I wholeheartedly agreed. So we did some talking, and we’re getting local assignments that will do much more than additional time in Canterlot ever could.” He paused, sitting up straight as he adjusted the cuff of his suit with his teeth. “That’s why I came and found you. I had to tell you that Orlov requested that we meet with him and several of the other ministers. Tomorrow morning before the Party Congress is reconvened. He wants to discuss the new assignments.”

Mareinskiy seemed confused, as if he didn’t understand what he had been told. He stared into his drink, listening to the dull roar of the crowd in the bar.

“And I should mention,” Palominov remembered to add, “that not a single one of them blamed either of us for anything that happened over the last few days.” The brown stallion gave Mareinskiy another jab with his hoof. “You’re the only one that’s blaming yourself, and you have to snap the hell out of it.”

Palominov turned his attention to the other end of the bar, where the factory workers were still talking with the bartender.

“It’s only a rumor,” one of the workers said as he pushed his empty class toward the inside of the counter, “but there’s talk of something big going on in Saddlestopol’. Somepony said they were working on something special at one of the factories by the port… supposed to be a giant secret, and all that.”

“Special project like what?” asked the one unicorn in the group.

“Apparently, they’ve been tinkering with something down there for a few years now,” the first worker went on. “It was some private project contracted with imperial funding. The Red Guards showed it to some higher-ups a few months back, and then the state decided to continue development because it was already half-finished.”

“Yeah, but what is it?” asked the bartender, taking the empty glass and placing it on a rack beneath the bar.

“No idea,” the worker replied. “I sent a letter to my brother – he lives in Saddlestopol’, house by the coast – asking him if he’s heard anything about it. I figured maybe he’ll be able to tell me something.”

“They’ve been cloak-and-dagger in Saddlestopol’ for years,” another worker remarked. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Palominov thought for a few moments, and then returned his attention to the sulky, cream-colored stallion at his left.

“Listen, if you want some time alone, I’ll leave you be,” Palominov said. “I’ve got a few things to do myself before night falls. But you have to promise me that you’re not going to drink so much that you start walking into walls later. We’ve got an appointment bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Mareinskiy closed his eyes and put a hoof to his head.

“I’ll be fine,” the cream-colored stallion said after a few seconds. “And I’ll show up tomorrow. But I won’t like it.”

“I guess I’ll have to settle for that,” Palominov answered as he pushed his stool back from the counter and returned to all fours. “Just do me a favor, comrade… Think about what I said, and start paying it some mind before you tear yourself apart.”

He got a weak nod from Mareinskiy and turned to leave. But rather than head directly for the door, he took a short detour and stopped by the elderly stallion with the concertina on the far side of the bar. He tapped him on the shoulder.

“Play something to lighten the mood,” Palominov told him as he slipped him a small amount of stipend money. He pointed to Mareinskiy, still seated at the bar. “You see my friend over there? He needs it.”

With that, Palominov proceeded to the door and left the Druzhinik. The old stallion with the concertina watched him until he could no longer be seen through the front window. Glancing at the gloomy pony sitting alone at the end of the counter, he thought for a moment, and picked a song. He waved his horn, lowering his mug to the floor as the concertina was wrapped in his aura. It took a little while, but after a minute some of the workers at the bar recognized the tune that the old stallion was playing - "Springtime in Stalliongrad." They turned to face the musician and began to sing the lyrics, and after a while, even Mareinskiy gave the old stallion his attention and hummed along to the timeless tune:

So we all turn our eyes to the skyline,

as young wings bring the clouds of the springtime -

Looking up to the sky

where the pegasi fly

as they dance with the clouds and the sunshine!

They flew on by, and gave me a nod,

as they brought gentle breeze and the rains of the spring to dear Stalliongrad.