Slipstream

Cloudchaser sniffled, her ears lifeless and drooping as she followed Captain Spitfire through the lavish interior of the alien ship. Windrunnner was dead. Sure—he hadn’t been her special somepony, but he’d taken care of her last six estrus cycles like a true gentlecolt. It had been his job, of course. He was expected to take care of the soldiers like any other comfort stallion, but she’d sometimes daydreamed of having him all to herself. There wasn’t any chance of that happening now—and it was all down to one of the strange creatures that had arrived with this abnormally large ship.

They had been taken away somewhere—which was probably a good thing, considering Cloudchaser had been ready to rip the pilot’s throat out. It had been obvious he’d been flying drunk. Maybe if he’d been paying attention then Windrunner would still be alive.
At least somepony had smacked him in the back of the head. Even though they’d gotten one hell of a scolding from Spitfire for it, Cloudchaser herself probably would have done it if nopony else had.

She stifled another sob, turning her attention back to the ship. There were two floors, a concept unheard of in any conventional flying vessel. Its interior was full of technology she didn’t understand, oddly coupled with the type of luxury that she surmised would only be reserved for aristocracy. The decor consisted mainly of polished wood, metal and glass. A small bar sat below a staircase, its elaborately varnished wooden cabinets housing a large selection of wines and spirits. It had offices, bedrooms, bathrooms, and even a large conference room, dominated by an expensive-looking oval table.

“Skyland Corporation,” Spitfire muttered. Cloudchaser glanced at her superior, who was holding what appeared to be a coffee mug adorned with some sort of logo in her hoof. After a few moments, she set it down on the table. “This ship may have flew in from griffon territory, but I think the creatures that brought it here are innocent.”

“Innocent?” Cloudchaser scoffed. “What about Windrunner?”

Spitfire paused, her face falling. “Windrunner should have known better than to fly too close to something that is clearly a dangerous power source. It is a shame to lose a stallion, but I don't think it was the pilot’s fault.”

“He was drunk!” Cloudchaser cried, slightly abandoning the respect she should be showing.

Thankfully, Spitfire overlooked the insubordination. A soft, somewhat uncharacteristic expression briefly crossed her features. “I know you cared for Windrunner,” she said, pressing a forehoof to Cloudchaser’s shoulder. “But, he knew what he signed up for.”

Cloudchaser nodded. The Captain’s words were thoughtful, but they still couldn’t fill the hole left in her heart.

“This ship is unlike any other I have seen. It’s more technologically advanced than anything the griffons have—Tartarus, it’s even better than our own,” Spitfire observed, hoofsteps muffled on thick, luxurious carpet taking her further through the strange craft.

Cloudchaser followed, her agitation rising. “Is that all you care about? This ship? What about its murderous Captain?”

Spitfire stopped just short of a bland looking door, dubiously adjusting her shades. “He may have been blind drunk, but like I said—I don’t think he could have done much either way. Besides, this ship is a godsend. Do you know of anypony that would be able to fly it?” She pushed the door open with a foreleg.

Cloudchaser was about to argue—claiming that somepony would figure it out, but stopped dead in her tracks when she caught sight of what was beyond the door.

They’d reached a small room, at what was clearly the front of the large ship. Many dials, levers, switches—and weird blank cuboids that she didn’t even recognise—were all intricately arranged on a large gun-metal grey control panel. It spanned the full width of the windows combined, and ran all the way down between the two pilot seats. There was another on the ceiling, this one containing even more dials and switches.

Words abandoned the mare. There was literally nothing in this alien control room that she even remotely recognised as a conventional means to control a ship. On a standard pegasi craft, there was just a barrell cradle and a mouthpiece. That was it. On this considerably larger ship however, she wouldn’t know where to start.

“Want to know what’s so great about this ship?”

Cloudchaser tore her eyes away from the control room, glancing at her boss. “What?”

Spitfire smiled. “It doesn’t require magic.”

* * *

I was in pain.

Not a lot of it, mind you, but still enough to have valid complaints regarding. I’d woken up in what I could only describe as a dormitory. Metal bunk beds arranged in almost a maze-like fashion, separated by large wooden divider boards—that offered only a small modicum of privacy—filled the room. It reminded me of summer camp a little, only, there was no-one here but me.

I was laid on a top bunk in the corner. A dull, throbbing headache plagued my hungover brain. I could feel something soft wrapped around my head. My body still felt heavier than usual, almost as if the gravity was stronger here. It made sense, considering what the plane had done upon first entering this realm.

The increased gravity would suggest a denser atmosphere. Thinking back, the malfunctioning altimeter now suddenly made sense—seeing as that particular instrument functioned by measuring air pressure. A dense atmosphere would also explain why the plane pitched up so much. The only thing that remained a mystery was how we ended up here in the first place.

The sound of a door opening pulled me from my thoughts. Someone started whistling a cheerful tune—which would have been nice—but my currently over-sensitive ears thoroughly disagreed. I grunted, weakly pulling myself up, and glancing around for the culprit. My eyes squinted through the bright sunlight streaming from a set of large bay windows.

What I saw, was a horse. It was the unsettling confirmation that I’d subconsciously hoped I’d never find—but here it was. It was bigger and more muscular than the other ponies I’d seen, with a cerulean blue coat, complemented by a clearly well-kept golden mane and tail. Its large, stereoscopic eyes appeared to shine, highlighting its amber irises. A picture of a heart nestled between a set of wings adorned it’s flanks.

“You’re awake!” it exclaimed with a smile.

The deep voice clearly indicated I’d just met a stallion. Upon further examination of its features, I noticed the more defined jawline and slightly thicker muzzle.

My brain—now unimpeded by the effects of alcohol—swiftly concluded that I must be going crazy. Horses weren’t supposed to talk. Or fly, for that matter.

I opened my mouth to say something, but I had nothing. The stallion leapt into the air, a set of blue wings springing from his sides to propel him upwards. He landed on the bottom of the bed, immediately holding out a hoof.

“The name’s Warmfront.”

Despite the bizarre reality of the situation, I held out a hand and awkwardly shook his offered hoof. “Jack.” He gave me a slightly confused look, but then gave another friendly smile.

“You’re a weird looking thing, aren’t ya?” he casually observed, a bemused expression on his face.

“Excuse me?” I was rather surprised that he had the audacity to claim that I was the weirder of the two of us.
“Well I’ve personally never come across anything like you before—and don't even get me started on your ship. That thing’s huge!” he said excitedly, reminding me of a kid in a toyshop as he he clopped his forehooves together in glee. “I hope Spitfire doesn’t have it torn up for parts.”

“Wait, they’re gonna—what?” I yelled, my eyes squinting in pain as a result. “I need it to get home!”

I didn’t really have any plans as to how to go about achieving such a fear, but still, if the plane was destroyed, then we would have no connection whatsoever to our own world, however small a comfort that connection would have been.

“Oh.” Warmfront murmured, gazing at me with sympathy in his eyes. His ears wilted slightly. “Even if Spitfire would let you leave, there’s no way you could go back.”

Fuck. That.

“Oh, I’ll find a way,” I defiantly replied, struggling to get up off the bed. “Where is my crew? If anything has happened to them, heads are gonna fucking roll.” I was still dressed in my First Officers uniform, which currently clung to my body with sweat. Ignoring this slightly gross revelation, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and slid over the metal frame.

As you can probably imagine—this was a pretty stupid idea.

Warmfront landed next to the crumpled heap of my body on the floor. He snickered somewhat, but he at least tried to hide it under the guise of clearing his throat. “Er… Are you alright?”

I pushed myself up to a sitting position, trying to ignore the pain in my legs. “Seriously. What is with the gravity here?” I muttered.

The pegasus merely shrugged, the corners of his mouth still twitching.

I let the matter drop, returning to more pressing question. “How won’t we be able to get back?”

He idly contemplated me for a moment. “Well, everypony I spoke to reckons your ship came from another failed attempt at a griffon warp drive.”

I gave him an incredulous look. His answer had just raised many more pressing questions. Ultimately, my bewildered mind settled on a rather simple one: “A what?”

Warmfront chuckled. “I should probably bring you up to speed on the war.”

* * *

I listened in awe, as Warmfront explained.

Equestria—the nation I’d inadvertently ended up in—was at war with the griffon tribes of Dysnomia. They were led by a dictator by the name of King Gragnok. Apparently, he had a particularly strong grudge against pegasi.

Both sides fought for reign over the skies. There once was a time when pegasi had tried for diplomacy, but the few discussions that had taken place hadn’t lasted long. The griffons were said to be barbaric, hateful creatures that were prepared to go to any lengths to win. Recent intelligence suggested that they’d been experimenting with magical warp drive technology—something that by unicorn calculations was still centuries away from perfection. Needless to say—the griffons kept messing it up, often creating temporary wormholes that sometimes spewed out unsuspecting visitors.

“So that’s why I’m here?” I asked, as we walked along a brightly lit corridor. I was tiring quickly due to the increased gravity, but Warmfront had suggested we go and get something to eat. The corridor was painted a pleasant sky blue, and the walls were lined with wooden message boards. I could even recognise several posters bearing anti-griffon propaganda.

“‘Fraid so,” the pegasus replied, “It doesn’t happen often. In fact, I think you and your crew are the only ones to ever come through alive.”

“There have been other humans?”

“That what you guys are called? Huh,” he chuckled. “I think there might have been one or two a few years back, but neither of ‘em survived.”

I couldn’t help but wonder at the many missing person reports back home. Maybe some of them had ended up here? “Speaking of my crew, you didn’t answer me before. Where are they?”

“Oh they’re fine, for the most part,” he said, stepping through a set of double doors into another corridor. This one had ponies in it. They didn’t even attempt to disguise their stares as we walked past. I ignored them, keeping my eyes on Warmfront.
“For the most part?”

Warmfront glanced at me with a smile. “Well two of ‘em calmed down after a while, but that one with the blond mane had to be sedated,” he chuckled, before seeming to remember something that wiped the smile clean off his face. “Oh, umm… apparently they found another one… dead, as well.”

I paused, my face falling. I had forgotten about Albert. “He was dead before we landed.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the stallion said, with all sincerity.

Despite our differences, Albert had been a good man. I could only imagine what he would have thought of these ponies had he lived to see them.

Warmfront stopped in front of another set of double doors, pushing one of them open with a forehoof. He waved me through into what appeared to be a cafeteria. Rows of tables, flanked by benches on either side took up much of the available space. A large number of pegasi occupied the benches, many of which glanced up at our arrival. All of them appeared to be female. The ones that weren’t wearing blue flight suits stood out, their vibrant colours seeming to light up the whole room.

A quick glance at all those big inquisitive eyes seeking me out was more than enough. “So, what do you do around here?” I asked Warmfront, pointedly keeping my eyes fixed on him.

“Comfort stallion,” was his casual reply.

I blinked. “What? That’s actually a thing here? I thought minigun-horse was joking!”

Warmfront sucked in a breath through his teeth, his eyes nervously giving the room a once over. “Yeah—I wouldn’t call her that to her face if I were you,” he muttered, quickly stepping in line behind a sky blue mare with a windswept ice-blue and white mane. With a whip of her matching tail, the mare span on her hooves to face us. Warmfront immediately froze in place at her gaze. “Oh… Hello, General F-Fleetfoot,” he stuttered, hastily saluting her with a forehoof.

She ignored him, instead turning her large fuschia eyes up to me. “Minigun-horse?”

I shivered. She was just as intimidating as the yellow pony I was referring to, yet she had an air of what I could only describe as “coolness,” about her that I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t know whether to fear or admire her.

After a few moments, the corners of her mouth twitched, eventually forming a fully fledged smile. An odd little chuckle escaped her muzzle and she briefly closed her eyes, before turning away and disregarding the both of us.

Neither Warmfront nor myself felt the need to say anything as we were given a portion of vegetable soup by a disgruntled looking gray mare. She seemed to be one of the only ponies in the room that was distinctly uninterested in me, and I found myself rather thankful for it. Once we had sat down at one of the tables—out of earshot of Fleetfoot—Warmfront turned to me.

“Ponyfeathers, that was lucky. Normally Fleetfoot would tear the wings off somepony insulting Captain Spitfire like that!” he half gasped, half chuckled.

I merely shrugged. “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t have any, then,” I muttered, tucking in to my soup. It was surprisingly good, despite its bland, mushy appearance.

“Yes you do—or at least, your ship does. I’ve never seen a ship with wings before.” He frowned. “How does that thing even fly when they don't even flap?”

“Well it’s simple really,” I began, rather confused at how he didn’t already know. “The wings are shaped that so when the engines pull the plane forwards, the air pressure below the wing is greater than the air pressure above it. This creates what’s known as ‘lift,’” I explained, before realising Warmfront had been making a joke.

The stallion’s muzzle scrunched, eventually emitting a snort.

“Funny,” I deadpanned.

We sat in silence for a while. I couldn’t help but notice a few mares were still staring in my direction with disapproving looks, as though I shouldn’t be eating in the same room as them. Warmfront seemed to notice as well. Oddly, he looked even more worried about it than I was.

“So… your training starts tomorrow,” he nervously began.

I frowned. “What training?”

“Well, um… I’ve been ordered to oversee your heat tamer training. Some ponies wanted to put you on trial for ponyslaughter, but Spitfire overruled them. Since she’d face a potential uprising if she just let you off scot-free, she’s decided to… assign you Windrunner’s old job,” Warmfront explained, muttering the last sentence as quickly and quietly as possible.

It took a few seconds to process this information. When my brain finally caught up, I promptly dropped my spoon against the table with a loud clatter. “Nope.” Several ponies turned toward the noise as I got up and strode toward the exit. Surprisingly, none of them moved to stop me as I strolled through the double doors and back along the sky blue corridor.

Nope! Nope, nope. Nope. Nope. There was no way in hell I was going to put my dick in a horse. I rather have my balls surgically removed with a chainsaw. Picking up the pace, I broke out into a jog along the corridor in my haste to leave. Maybe if I could find the others, I could get us out of he-

SLAM.

Something collided with my back. I would have been sent sailing along the polished floor if four strong, sky blue legs hadn’t wrapped around me with vice-like intensity—two around my chest and two around my lower thighs. Holy shit! My feet lifted off the ground as I was accelerated through an open window at the end of the corridor.

I screamed. Fleetfoot merely laughed, climbing with the speed a Eurofighter Typhoon. We were now soaring high above the base. The only consolation of the terrifying ordeal was the fact that I spotted the jet—thankfully still intact.

After a few intricate barrel rolls—probably just to scare the shit out of me—we soared past a large cloud tower with a breathtaking rainbow fall streaming from its side. I probably would have questioned how the hell they’d managed to make buildings out of clouds if I weren't scared shitless of Fleetfoot potentially dropping me to my untimely doom. Eventually, and with great relief on my part, we soared through another open window into what appeared to be an office.

Fleetfoot set me down on the floor, giving the same odd little chuckle she had in the mess hall. I stumbled to my feet, pointedly glaring daggers at her. She grinned, before sauntering out of the room without a care in the world, leisurely swishing her pristine tail in the process.

Spitfire sat behind a desk. She levelled me with a peculiar look that suggested she was sizing me up. After a few moments, she spoke:

“We need to talk.”