Ashes and Sackcloth

Chapter Two:
Summer in The City

My escort to South Ferry kept stride with me as we passed over the Hudson. They made small comments about how very few soldiers had come up this way. The squadron commander, whose name I learned was the painfully ironic Blue Skies, had told me that the princesses were looking forward to my arrive. According to Cmdr. Skies, most of the influx of humans were refugees from states out west, where The Vultures crimes were more in evidence. The good commander regaled me with the woes of those escaping the sinkhole that was now San Francisco, or the those fleeing the flames of the perpetually burning San Fernando Valley region.

The Heartland hadn’t done much better. Reports were still coming on on how the Breadbasket was still burning, years after Vulture caustic weapons struck the fields. The Reavers have strongholds there; I’ve heard tale that crossing through the states of Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, parts of Ohio, Kansas, are hazardous for one’s health and southern Michigan is dead zone, no humans allowed. The Four Corners region, though, is still well populated. The Mormons in those states gathered everyone they could into the canyons of Utah, or similar shelters spread out along the Rockies. The Vultures never found them there. I’ve heard tell that they’re trying to rebuild out that way…

Not all that was told to me were sad tales. The commander managed, during her diatribe of the noble class of Equestrians, about a young couple, one human, the other pony, who just welcomed a foal into the world. The little girl (Or was it filly? Cmdr. Skies seemed to infer that the child was female.) was the striking double of her mother, save her eyes, which were more like her father's. I hadn’t seen or heard of children being born since my early battlefield days, so to hear of a successful mating between two species was both curious and heartwarming.

The flight to Manhattan would have gone on without a hitch had my airframe decided to misbehave. At a point between thermals and still some distance from land, the ion engine of my airfoil gave out. I was still at a pleasant altitude, in no immediate danger of plunging into the Hudson or shifting off course and falling briskly into New York Harbor. Eventually though, I started losing much in altitude. My escort noticed as well, but seemed as unconcerned as I was, not knowing that my airframe was now quite hobbled. I tried restarting the engine again but with no success.

I was losing altitude and fast. With the ion engine failing and the winds prevailing across the Hudson shifting from northeast to north, not only was I losing great amounts of height, but also falling away from our course. My escort must have noticed by now, for as I rapidly falling away from them. I had come to a desperate realization: I was doomed! If I couldn’t get the ion engine restarted before I hit the water, I would likewise drown in its depths. The airframe was heavy enough that by the time I got unfastened, I would be leagues submersed. An ignoble drowning when I was so close to my goal.

Certain as I am about my impending demise, it comes as a shock when two of my escort’s number fell out of formation and dropped below me. With outspread wings, they gently carry back towards the proper altitude. They keep me aloft long enough to reach another thermal, where the meteorological phenomenon keeps me airborne for a little while longer. This process repeats itself, save for the fliers doing the lifting, several more times as we make our way to the southern tip of Manhattan.

By the time we got in sight of land, the sun was just a sliver of bright orange in the west while the moon is waxing almost full in the east. There was just enough light left in the day for us to make out Battery Park and the remnants of Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. I can hardly see the ground below, but my escort plainly can. It must be routine to them to use this spot of Manhattan for landings, given what Dr. Harding said. Just before the last of the dying light faded from the day, a landing strip appeared in the direction of South Ferry.

Further south we went, my escort keeping at altitude for the last leg of the journey. The closer we approached the landing strip, the more detail I was able to make, in spite of the darkening sky. The lane was covered in tarmac, guidelines painted in reflective white and yellow, and stationed on the fringe of the lane itself where what I originally had mistaken for light bulbs. As we came within sight of the Battery Maritime Building (still intact, by the way), I could see the the “light bulbs” were actually luminescent crystal batteries, like none I had ever seen before, impregnated at the edges of the airstrip.

I was a significant change to what I had read in the maps I acquired in Virginia Beach. According to the atlass, the airstrip my escort was leading me to was once a major artery of New York called Whitehall Street. Given the way The Vultures abhorred all human artifice, I was surprised to see that the remains of a once thriving traffic artery had been repaired/replaced by tarmac and laid out not unlike an airplane runway. Also coming as a surprise were buildings that retained a great deal of the original function in the days prior to the Vulture invasion: an airport terminal, a radio tower, an airport tower, hangars, an emergency/first response station, and the skeleton of a fully operational airport.

I was so entranced by the return of anything resembling human architecture, that I had hardly noticed my companions descent. Indeed, we were beginning to slow down as well as come closer to the ground. Once I discerned what was happening, I felt a small kernel of panic. My thoughts now came to the wonder just how I was to land! I had never really landed in my airframe before, unless you count ungainly and cumbersome falls. Still, I had the support of the Pegasus Echelon, so I didn't think myself in danger of serious injury.

As we neared the airstrip, I witnessed pairs of Pegasi breaking formation and prepare for landing. The way these Pegasi did it was the most graceful thing I had ever seen in my twenty-one years of life. As the neared the tarmac, each aviator flared their wings; not only did this slow them down, but it caused them to reorient themselves so their hooves struck the ground. A hop, a couple of skips, then some light steps later, the Pegasi came to a dead stop. It was magnificent in a way that defies my meager manner of description. Very soon, all but Cmdr. Skies and her adjunct were on the ground. They too soon left my, still drifting on shoreline current, to make their landing. I guess it was assumed I’d be able to do the same.

I would be lying if I said that I was able to duplicate their feat of athletic beauty. What I did do was make a complete ass of myself. I tried to mimic their landing action, bringing my feet forward while adjusting my airframes wing and airfoil backwards. It did slow me down greatly, but that’s where everything went south. Whereas the Pegasi performed their landing maneuver with practiced ease, my attempt at it was abysmally lame. Instead of landing on my feet and coming to a practiced stop, I got one foot down rather easily, then immediately tripped over my own feet. (I think I may have sprained my ankle on the landing; I do remember a sharp pain as my left foot came down.) I ended up going ass-over-teakettle, tearing apart the wings of my airframe, ripping off the airfoil and partially destroying the ion engine I had so carefully pieced together from scrap.

My tumble of a landing ended at the far end of the airstrip. I was winded, lying flat on my back, a dull ache all over my body and an agony inducing pain from my left ankle. I knew my back was tweaked a little (bruised some muscles back there, maybe pinched a nerve,) and I can say for sure I cracked my skull on the blacktop, even through my helmet. I do believe I blacked out for a while; if I didn’t have a concussion before, I most certainly had one now. When I was next conscious, my vision resolved to find all twelve members of the squadron looking down on me. The mares were looking at me with concern. The stallions, though, were desperately trying not to laugh their heads off. I think the first words I said coming off from that landing were, “Anybody catch the plates off that crosswind that hit me?” (Forgive the poor humor; I am a soldier, not a comedian.)

“Okay, everypony, enough gawking,” Cmdr. Skies said, “give the poor stallion some room. Rainbow Dash, Soarin’, help him to his feet. Spitfire, Lightning Dust, retrieve his gear.”

I was lifted bodily by a mare and a stallion from the squadron. The prismatic mane of the mare was unique amongst the squadron; this was the first time I had taken notice of another unique feature of the Equestrians: the distinctive marking (tattoos, brands?) found on their hips. The mare had a mark depicting a storm cloud issuing a tricolored lightning bolt; the stallion has one also, albeit his was of a lightning bolt splitting a cloud. Cmdr. Blue Skies had a sun on her flank and the others in the squadron had sky or weather related marks as well.

“It’s okay, Big Guy, we gotcha,” the mare said, “Sweet Celestia, what a tumble! Are you sure you aren’t a Diamond Dog or something?”

“Can’t say,” I mumble, “but, as the old adage goes, ‘any landing you can walk away from-’”

“Yeah, I bet that was coined by somepony who always crashed,” the stallion said, sending both ponies into sniggering at my misfortune.

Once I got myself properly upright, I checked to make sure there wasn't any further damage. Back hurt, skull hurt, left leg all the way down to my ankle hurt, but no fresher injuries reported themselves. The biggest hit I had taken in that fiasco was to my pride.

Apropos to nothing, I ask, “What’s a Diamond Dog?”

I get ignored while a pair of mares out looking for my gear return. In a their possession are the remains of my airframe, bundled in a tarp carried between the two of them. The one with the two tone orange mane (And tail, wow! I missing things left, right, and center!) was holding onto my most valued possession: my rucksack. I guess the old thing has seen better days. Maybe I could barter for a new one or find a body that could repair this one because I didn’t fancy carrying all my supplies and provisions in my arms.

“I think you dropped these,” the mare with the flaming wing brand said to me, “given the state of ‘em, it’s lucky you have anything.”

“I seem to have luck in abundance,” I replied, “while my airframe has seen its final days, that rucksack has served me through many toils and snares. I’d hate to think I lost it…”

“Are we sorted now?” Cmdr. Skies asks, “all five by five?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, “little worse for wear, I am, but not so bad that I’m hobbled.”

“Good,” the commander says, “because we got a long walk all the way to Hospitality. If I remember right, we got to take the- What’s it called again?”

“The RFD,” answers the one I assume is called Lightning Dust, “or some such like that. Human naming conventions are hard.”

“Are you sure?” Cmdr. Skies asks of her subordinate, “that doesn’t sound right.”

“Hold on,” I interject, “is the route we’re taking a wide, elevated road that runs the length of the western bank of the East River?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Rainbow Dash exclaims, “that leads to Hospitality and New Canterlot. Do you know what’s called?”

“I do; it’s called the FDR Expressway.” I answer, pulling out the atlas of New York City I procured in a marginally intact convenience station in Jersey City. I show the commander the road on the proffered map and I get a nod in return.

“FDR?” Cmdr. Skies queries, “what kind of name is that?”

“It was named after an American president,” I answer, which gets me some rather bizarre looks, “he was a very influential political leader.”

I hear the sound of understanding all around as they digest this information.

“Let’s get going then,” Cmdr. Skies orders, “I got a bed with my name on it and I shan’t be disappointing it.”