We Sail For Celestia

What a lovely place this was. Golden fields of wheat, cherry blossoms floating on a gentle breeze like a ticker-tape parade, all for him and him alone, for nopony else was around. It was his, all his, the silence, the peace and tranquility. It was home, but it was not home; it was how home used to be, years ago, when he was a foal and his mother was still alive. He expected to see her, but he was alone in the field this time, and suddenly a shrill whistle was filling his ears and the world was melting away, falling, fading, and above everything, the piercing sound and the blood-red light...

"Action Stations, Action Stations! All hands to Action Stations! Up and for'ard on the starboard side, down and aft on the port side. Action Stations, Action Stations!"

The klaxon hammered through Greenwood's skull as he scrambled from his bed. Always when I'm off duty, he lamented, tugging on his trousers. Junior Lieutenant Tracer, his cabin-mate, was also up, grabbing his steel helmet from the rack beside the door of the claustrophobic compartment as Greenwood followed the Pegasus out into the companionway. The blood-red emergency lighting made the scene appear something straight from hell, as ponies pounded over the metal deck plating, looking like a stampede but actually a carefully coordinated ballet of sorts, each mare and stallion knowing exactly where they were going and what they were doing.

Greenwood climbed up the ladder to the next deck, where the scene was repeated, and then again twice more to reach the bridge, the command centre of the vessel midway up the superstructure. There, Captain Oakheart and the duty watch were presiding over the scene that lay beyond the viewports. The open, placid sea lay all around, and in the distance, there was smoke on the horizon.

"Observers report surface contact, bearing zero-one-zero, range one-four miles, speed ten knots. Profile matches commerce raider Punch-Drunk," the officer of the watch called, relaying messages from the Pegasi flyers above the ship who took it in turns to keep a watch over the distant horizon in good weather, able to see far farther than those on deck.

"Very good," Oakheart replied with a nod, the craggy-jawed, mustachioed unicorn standing firm with his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over the bow of the Defiant. The water foaming around the bow of the vessel was the same shade as Oakheart's body. The sea was within his blood. "Sound battle stations," he ordered. "All ahead full, prepare guns for engagement." He turned to Greenwood as other crewponies and officers relayed his commands. "Mister Greenwood, good morning. Port torpedo officer, if you please."

"Aye, Captain!" Greenwood replied. Oakheart was assigning him to command the port battery of torpedo tubes, evidently anticipating some utility for them in whatever engagement might follow with the commerce raider. The pirates of the southeastern islands were a menace to all civilian shipping, and though they were no match for an Equestrian or Zebrican fleet, they loved to prey on isolated steamers and freighters plying their trade, steal their cargoes, and ransom their crews. The only reason Equestria had not simply occupied the archipelago and wiped out the pirates was because of a territorial dispute, one of several, with Zebrica, the independent nation at the southern end of the main continent who also claimed sovereignty over the islands. Diplomatic talks had stalled several times over the status of the archipelago, and while they stagnated, the pirates grew stronger, a rag-tag mixture of ponies, Zebras, Yaks, Diamond Dogs and a dozen other races, all united under the mercenary flags of the quasi-independent region.

The Punch-Drunk was one of the pirates' larger vessels, the rough equivalent to a Navy corvette or coastal cutter, a former merchantpony retrofitted with armour and guns by the pirate engineers. It was not as fast as a destroyer, nor as well armed or protected, but when it ran up against a fat freighter, the poor civilian crew would have only two options- surrender, or die. If they surrendered, prisoners they would become, held for ransom, with suitable notes sent either to the merchant line or the national government which had chartered them. They preyed on Zebrican ships, Equestrian ships, even the odd Kirin tea-clipper with their narrow hulls and broad sails, though such vessels were rare on the high seas, for the Kirin had mostly been in a state of self-imposed isolation for the last century.

Greenwood, like most navy officers, hated the pirates, believing fervently that the brigands gave all mariners a bad name. Sailing was a noble creed, and always had been, even for those of common birth. It was pure, an expression of life against nature, not something to be bastardized for illicit profit. Conflict, if it came for the sailor, should be against the wind and the waves, or at least against an equally noble foe engaged in the conduct of war, not piracy. This philosophy was part of the mindset of the officer classes of the Royal Equestrian Navy for one simple reason- that was how it had always been. Since the days of sail, when black-powder cannons roared and swords led the charge both on land and sea, pirates had been frowned upon, as had the privateers, pirates in all but name but carrying a commission from the Princess or some other foreign leader to, most often, chase down and destroy other pirates. Those days were long gone- no private individual save a few industrialists could hope to afford their own cruiser or battleship the way the privateers of old could pay for a brig or schooner- but the mindset remained.

It was not the only thing that was firmly wedded in the past. The leadership of the Navy had stagnated, too. Most of the Admirals were from noble stock, not because of their ability but merely their titles and bloodline. To a lesser extent that was also the case within the Army, but the Navy seemed to almost embrace the old-fashioned concept of seniority through social class, rather than skill. The Princesses, oddly, had done little to dissuade that notion among the Navy, perhaps sharing with some of the Navy's own commanders a deeply pessimistic view of their worth in any conflict that might break out in the near future. That, too, had one simply explanation- Equestria occupied the majority of the largest continent, with their most common enemies occupying the rest. Zebras, Yaks, Griffons, all historical adversaries, all shared the same landmass with the ponies, meaning that the majority of Equestria's military expenditure had to be directed toward the Army. A land war was always an imminent possibility. A naval war, less so.

Greenwood emerged from the hatchway and out onto the port side of the ship. The sea raced past below as the ship's oil-fired boilers span its twin propshafts and drove the craft to thirty knots, foam spraying over the bow coaming as they hauled in the slower pirate craft. The torpedo tubes lay ahead, and the Junior Lieutenant made his way carefully to them. He was wearing a life preserver, filled with kapok and cork for buoyancy, but even so, with the ship committed to an attack, if he fell overboard he might well drift far enough from their current course to make any future search for him futile. Drowning was an ever-present danger, but certainly not the way anypony wanted to die.

The torpedo crew were ready, already at their battle stations, with the tubes loaded, manned and prepared, awaiting the word from the bridge via speaking tube or external broadcast circuit to swing out the tubes into the launch position. Eight burly seaponies, stripped to the waist despite the sea spray. It was a warm day- it usually was down in the tropics- and manually loading the torpedoes was tough work, even with unicorn mass-nullification spells to assist with the heavy lifting. The crew consisted of five stallions and three mares, who all wore the standard issue black bra, having removed their undershirts like the stallions had. Some mares took off the undergarment also and went into battle bare-breasted, especially those who worked in the engine or boiler rooms, the coal bunkers of the larger capital ships, and those in the nascent submarine service where excessive heat, especially in the tropics, could change from being uncomfortable to being downright dangerous. All of the torpedo crew wore the same kind of life preserver as Greenwood, plus steel helmets that would, hopefully, provide some modicum of protection from shell splinters and shrapnel.

"Tubes one, two and three ready to fire, sir!" Barleycorn, the crew leader for the torpedo team, informed Greenwood. The bare-chested earth pony was crouching over the angle-of-attack indicator, which would have to coincide with the angle given by the bridge as part of the firing solution, which even now was being worked on by junior officers. Fire control was relatively simple for the ships' guns, as their turrets could rotate through almost 270 degrees of traverse, but the torpedo tubes only had so much room to swivel before they would start to suffer interference from the superstructure of the destroyer. That meant the ship itself had to be pointing in the general direction of an enemy to conduct a torpedo run- not ideal when your primary target was enemy capital ships. One lucky strike from a main battery could knock a destroyer right out of commission in a heartbeat, the twelve or fourteen-inch guns, designed to smash through the thick steel plate of another capital ship, making mincemeat of the much thinner and lighter protection afforded to a destroyer.

The Punch Drunk, however, had no such grand batteries aboard. It hove into view on the horizon, grey steam puffing frantically from its twin funnels as it tried to outrun the destroyer. Preying on civilian shipping, the tables had now been turned on the commerce raider as it was faced with a far deadlier foe thanks to a coincidence of timing. The Defiant, en route to the Great Eastern Sea and a route up to Harmony Bay, had to pass through the southern straits that separated the pirate archipelago from the mainland. A dangerous place for freighters, it was usually bypassed if at all possible by steamship companies, who preferred not to send any freight around the southern tip of the continent without a military escort, which could not always be provided by the understrength Navy. As luck would have it, the Defiant had caught one of the pirate vessels trying to return to its base. Though it was not their mission, Captain Oakheart was not going to turn down the chance to add a silhouette to the Defiant's for'ard funnel to represent another successful victory. There were three such outlines of other ships upon the funnel already- two pirate junks and a Griffon frigate from the last war. The Griffon Navy was even more pathetically underequipped than their Equestrian foes, and the frigate, caught by surprise after emerging from a fog bank, had been cut to ribbons by the combined gunfire of the Defiant and its two sister ships, the Destiny and the Direct, both of which had already been moved to Harmony Bay to form part of the Northern Fleet.

The reason for the move was that the Admiralty wished to shift additional forces east, both to combat the pirates and also to counter what some strategic analysts saw as the next big potential threat- the Kirin, who had spent the past year making loud protests about the Equestrian occupation of Northwick, a coastal province that, they claimed, was rightfully theirs on account of some centuries-old, half-unprovable claim of early settlement, before the Yaks had even expanded that far east. Princess Celestia had discounted their claims at several diplomatic functions with the Kirin ambassadors, but her advisors were concerned that this claim of ownership, coming out of the blue after the Kirin's long isolation from international affairs, was merely a prelude to something more sinister.

A more immediate concern, both for the Navy as a whole and the Defiant in particular, remained the pirates, however, and Captain Oakheart ordered his crew with customary efficiency. He was one of the old guard, it was true, a believer in firm discipline and hard work, but he got results from the ponies under his command. Never quite good enough to rise to command of a capital ship, in truth Oakheart did not want to, for destroyers were his kind of ship, having served in them right the way from his commissioning as a Midship-Pony nearly thirty years earlier. At his direction, a string of signal pennants were run up the short mast above the bridge. Each flag had a simple meaning, common to all maritime vessels. It was the international language of the sea, capable of being understood by all ships and crews even if they did not share a common tongue. The Defiant's message was short and to the point.

Heave to, cut engines and surrender, or we open fire.

The Punch-Drunk gave a suitably piratical reply, with a single flash from her forecastle as the Defiant closed in. The shell fell a long way short of its target, but it gave Oakheart all the inspiration he needed to issue his next order.

"Port and starboard torpedo batteries, prepare to launch. Ready tubes one and six," came the Captain's voice through the speaking tubes, a pneumatic system linking the bridge to various positions around the vessel. It was intended in these modern times as a backup to the internal telephone system, but Oakheart, like many old hands, preferred to rely for the most part of the old dependable method.

"Tubes to launch positions!" Greenwood shouted. "Prepare tube one for firing!"

The crew, under the direction of Barleycorn, carried out his orders. The triple-tubed launcher was swung out into firing position. Though there was always the prospect of action when passing through the straits, Greenwood had to confess to himself that he had not been quite ready for it, despite Oakheart's daily drills. This was their tenth day out of Baltimare, and once they were through the straits it would take another week at least to reach Harmony Bay, up in the far north. The continent they were sailing around was vast, but they were, at least, a speedy vessel. A fleet with its lumbering, slow battleships would take even longer to arrive, partly from their lower top speed and partly because the mighty capital ships ran on coal, and needed more frequent refuelling to restock their bunkers.

Tube one was prepped, made ready to fire as per Oakheart's command. On the starboard side of the ship, the other battery crew were doing the same job, preparing tube number six, their outermost, to engage also. Torpedoes were expensive, and Oakheart, Greenwood knew, would hope to finish the job by gunfire alone, without having to launch. To prove the junior officer correct, the A and B turrets, out on the raised forecastle of the destroyer, opened up, loud thumps reverberating through Greenwood's chest. The four-inchers hurled their shells toward the pirate, now well inside gun range for the destroyer, though still outside of the effective range of her torpedoes.

Greenwood felt his heart quicken its pace as the guns fired again. From his position he could not yet see the enemy, but he knew that if the torpedoes were to be called into action, he would soon see the Punch-Drunk revealed to him in all its iniquitous glory. The pirate vessel was still trying to run, but it was slower than the destroyer, and the third salvo of shells found their mark. Flame and smoke burst into life on the port quarter of the converted merchantpony, whose own smaller guns were now coming into range. A plume of spray erupted several hundred yards from the port rail of the Defiant.

"With aim like that they could be gun crews for one of our battleships!" Barleycorn commented wryly.

"That'll do..." Greenwood replied, hovering over the firing stud and checking the angle-of-attack indicator. The firing solution would be coming through at any moment, surely- if the pirate's guns were in range now, their torpedoes would be soon.

"Port torpedo battery, standby to fire, angle of attack one-four degrees," came the order he had been expecting. He adjusted the dial accordingly, which fine-tuned the precise aim of the tubes. Ten degrees off from the bow of the Defiant was the minimum angle the torpedoes could be fired at, with the maximum being ninety, if the tubes were cranked around to their full extent. The firing solution being calculated would set them up to lead the target, taking account of its speed and direction, as well as that of the Defiant.

"Standing by to fire," Greenwood replied through the speaking tube, his finger hovering in readiness. The crew stood by, either to prepare another tube or to reload the first, depending on what orders might follow. The bow of the Defiant came about steadily to starboard, and the Punch-Drunk appeared, smoke billowing from the direct hit upon its stern. Its two guns continued to flash uselessly, the pirate gunners obviously not used to a target that could fire back and was more nimble than they were.

"Maybe the old bastard will let us shoot this time!" one of the torpedo crew called, earning a quick rebuke from Greenwood.

"That's enough! Keep watch and maintain your station," he snapped, though the insolent seapony was right. It looked like Oakheart might actually give the order. The torpedo crews on board the Defiant had not fired in anger in the last year; only exercises, practice torpedoes with dummy warheads, plus a few live-fire training runs on derelict hulks and wooden rafts. Given that the primary purpose of the destroyer was to use its torpedoes against enemy ships, it would, Greenwood reflected, be nice to be allowed to fire them properly for a change.

"Port torpdedo battery, fire one. Starboard torpedo battery, standby to fire six."

"Fire!"

Greenwood pressed the firing stud, and the torpedo leapt from its tube, propelled pneumatically into the air before plunging nose-first into the water like a graceful, finless fish. The smooth, metallic cigar had no protuberances other than a few slender flukes at the very rear edge, just in front of the propeller, that helped to drive it through the water and keep it on track. The sub-surface wash and churn of the waters created by its passage would be visible to a sharp-eyed lookout, but the torpedo could move at a surprising speed, and the pirate craft was not exactly nimble.

Nor were they particularly adept at reading military naval tactics. As soon as Greenwood reported that his torpedo was away, the helmspony swung the wheel in the opposite direction, bringing the bow around to port and exposing the pirate to the starboard tubes. The Defiant cut a graceful arc through the ocean as tube six was fired, sending a second torpedo on the way toward the Punch-Drunk. A sweeping turn away from the enemy after a quick nudge of the helm in the other direction would tell an experienced enemy captain that the destroyer had most likely just fired torpedoes from both banks, port and starboard, for the usual practice was to turn away as fast as possible from an enemy after launching so as to avoid return fire and keep the vessel from getting too close to the target. The Punch-Drunk's captain lived up to his ship's name, seemingly paralysed into inaction by the damage they had already taken.

The pirate did not deviate from its course as the two torpedoes raced toward it. Nor did they speed up, slow down, or attempt any evasive manoeuvres. To the chagrin of Greenwood and the port-side crew, they could not see the impacts thanks to the leftward turn of the Defiant, but they heard the blast, a distant, dull thump, accompanied by the cheers of their counterparts on the other side of the superstructure. A second explosion could be heard thirty seconds later and another cry of triumph.

"Sounds like we got her..." Greenwood grinned, only now noticing how much sweat was building up all over his body. "Well done, everypony."

The Punch-Drunk, holed fore and aft by the torpedoes, did not take long to go down. She rolled swiftly to port, lower decks and cargo hold filling with water. The few survivors from her small crew tried leaping into the waters, but she went down so fast she took most of them with her, unable to swim away from the suction created by the ship as she sank into the depths. By the time the Defiant arrived, all that was left was an oil slick and a few pieces of shattered timber and twisted metal floating on the surface. Such was a pirate's lot in life- to drown, to burn, or to hang.

Later that night, after a celebratory tot of rum, Oakheart ordered the silhouette of a converted merchantpony to be painted upon the fore-funnel of the Defiant. Technically that was meant to wait until fleet command had received the report and, if possible, confirmed the sinking through other means, but the pirates were not in the habit of revealing the intimate details of their losses to Equestria. Besides, it would give the crew a fine story to tell when they reached Harmony Bay.