We Sail For Celestia

"Your Highness," Minister Copperhead bowed respectfully as Celestia entered the war room. It was mid-afternoon in Canterlot, a much more amenable time for a meeting than the early morning hours of the last one. "We have the latest signals from Admiral Blueblood."

"Very good, minister," Celestia nodded, fresh from an afternoon tea on the terrace with her sister. "What does he report?"

"Home Fleet three hundred miles from Harmony Bay. Expected contact with Kirin force within the day," Copperhead read from the typed transcript in his hand. "Request updated Kirin order of battle from C-in-C Northern Fleet."

"Does Admiral Strongbow have that information to pass on?" Celestia asked.

"No, Your Highness. The Northern Fleet has been almost completely bottled up in Harmony Bay," Copperhead explained. "They have only sighting reports from the coastwatchers and the occasional merchant ship which ran the blockade. We also have several reports from our submarines that were trying to interdict the Kirin supply lines. As far as we can tell, the Kirin fleet has been reinforced by at least a couple of cruisers, but there may be more additional ships out there somewhere."

"And they know Admiral Blueblood is coming, no doubt," the Princess mused. "Yet we lack information on their capabilities almost completely."

"It is a tricky situation, but I am confident that the Kirin ships are, pound for pound, no stronger than ours," Copperhead replied. "If Admiral Blueblood can strike hard and fast, he will still be able to carry the day."

"Is that your belief, minister? Or your hope?" Celestia asked.

"A little of both, Your Highness, to be blunt," Copperhead replied. "We have never faced the Kirin in open battle before. Then again, they have never faced us, either."

Celestia nodded. "A very salient point. We shall all be finding out the truth of it together, it seems."

It was a long march, from the Yakfrost Pass to Harmony Bay. The great grey peaks gave way to forest and wide open tundra, narrowing at the neck of the peninsula where the city lay. The Kirin, secure in the knowledge that they had time, had built a line of defences facing westward. They knew the Equestrian Army was coming, and while they had so far failed to reduce the forts and take Harmony Bay, that outcome was still hanging in the balance. The ponies did not yet quite have the strength to wipe out the invaders, but they did, High Command had decided, have enough to launch a major counterattack and try to force a breakthrough in the Kirin lines, to establish a foothold in the enemy's rear. The Kirin, it had been determined, did not have the numbers to repel an attack and maintain the siege at the same time.

That was the situation on the planning tables in Canterlot, at least. On the ground in Northwick, it did not seem quite so straightforward. The 45th Regiment were part of the expected counterattack, and Greenshield, far more than he had been in the trench up on the Yakfrost, was scared. Defending was one thing, but this time, he and his fellow soldiers would be playing the part so ably played by the Kirin in the mountains; cannon fodder.

They had rested that night in a small copse of thin, skeletal trees. The silent shroud of stars overhead had provided an endless source of entrancement as Greenshield lay huddled in his bedroll. The trees, at least, provided some small protection from the wind. The snow had piled up around the edge of the copse, leaving an area of dry earth and dead leaves upon which his company rested. No campfire was permitted; they were within but a few miles of the Kirin line, and scouts, snipers or infiltrators could be operating anywhere. Other Equestrian units had bedded down nearby, all up and down the line. Artillery, rolled into position to their rear, could be heard setting up through the night, the clank of wheels and gun limbers, the muttered curses of the crews trying to shove their howitzers through the snow and mud.

Greenshield had been lucky enough not to be picked for unit sentry duty that night- or unlucky enough, as at least the sentries could move around to try and keep warm. Lying almost motionless in his bedroll and greatcoat, he had been too cold to sleep properly, too cold to think properly. Instead he gazed up through the branches at the stars, and his mind wandered to strange, ephermeral places. He went home, he went to the moon, he danced at the Grand Galloping Gala and he swam in the tropical waters of Mare-Isle. Then, suddenly, he was inside a great drum, its apocalyptic beat pounding in his brain, as the Equestrian artillery opened fire as one.

The brilliant flashes of the guns split the night, illuminating the emaciated woodlands where the 45th Regiment slept. But the guns heralded the dawn, though Celestia's sun was several hours away from cresting the horizon, and it was time for them to rise from their frost-encrusted bedrolls and prepare for war. Greenshield, half-deafened by the sudden roar, felt the hand of somepony shaking him awake, though he could hardly have slept through the opening volley. The guns, though mostly light mountain artillery and pack howitzers, would do the job of softening up the Kirin lines. The assault, as was traditional, would begin just before dawn.

No prizes for originality there, General.

Greenshield rose to unsteady, stiff legs. His hands were chilled quickly by the air, and he plunged them into his pockets, drawing his greatcoat tightly about him. No campfires meant no hot water, so no prospect of a cup of coffee to warm the body and soul before battle. All around, ponies were rising wearily, patting themselves and stretching to try and shake off the cold and the gnawing fatigue that it brought. Breakfast was dry crackers and an imitation cheese spread squeezed from a small foil tube, and water made by filling a canteen with snow and secreting it beneath one's clothing until it melted. It chilled the body, but simply swallowing snow would do a far more effective job of lowering a pony's core body temperature than letting it melt first.

The guns bleated out their now-familiar refrain, throwing shells toward the Kirin line. The very faintest traces of dawn were starting to caress the sky. It was a weak light, sickly and feeble, with the wind like the breath of a dying old stallion, though expected to pick up later in the day. The hope was that the Equestrians could punch through the Kirin lines and scatter them before dusk. The meteorological station at Yakyakistan had reported falling pressure, and predicted squalls of snow by noon, with rising winds through the early afternoon. The generals, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to press ahead with the attack, since the longer range forecast suggested they wouldn't get another spell of half-decent weather for at least a week. One morning was all they had. The soldiers would make it work.

Greenshield reached into his pocket and pulled out the slightly crumpled paper of his latest letter to his brother, unsent. He was waiting for the mailbag to come round so he could drop it in, but there was no sign of it. Somepony always drew that duty before an attack. Ponies wanted to send love letters, notes and postcards before an assault, because they might not get another chance.

One by one, the units advanced across the lightly wooded terrain, drawing up into their jump-off positions, ready for the attack. Ahead, across a seemingly endless expanse of open ground, lay the Kirin line, tangles of wire and snowy embankments of piled dirt vaguely visible as ephemeral shapes in the half-light. The snowy, rocky field was pock-marked with shell craters from where the Equestrian bombardment fell short before observers had adjusted the fire. The moon, formerly bright, was now shrouded ominously in wispy cloud, like a death-veil, Princess Luna symbolically averting her gaze from the field below. But why? Was she about to bear witness to a slaughter?

There was no retaliatory fire from the Kirin artillery. Were their guns busy trying to subdue Harmony Bay's forts, had they been knocked out, or were they just waiting? Greenshield rested with his back against the trunk of a tree. His section crouched nervously around him. They were not going in the first wave; they were part of the second. Not lucky enough to have drawn the safer duty of laying down suppressing fire from the woods, but at least spared by fate from having to be leading the charge. His machine gun section would be advancing with the second wave to relieve the first, who would have taken the enemy trench. Wouldn't they?

Wouldn't they...?

The bombardment ceased all of a sudden, as abruptly as it had begun. Greenshield checked his watch. It was exactly two minutes to eight in the morning, though still gloomy and dull, the moon settling low behind the clouds but no sun yet rising to take its place. It was like looking out at a black-and-white photograph of the landscape. All along the line, he could hear whistles blowing. This was it, then. The first wave was going in. He turned to look.

Ahead of him, at the edge of the wood, a row of ponies rose. Their officers, swords and pistols in hand, led the way steadfastly, out into the gloom. Soon enough, it would be his turn to stride out from the safety of the trees, out into the open, unbroken tundra. Soon, but not yet. First, it would be his turn to watch.

The dawn came late in the chilly northern waters, at the top end of the Great Eastern Sea. The horizon was the same deep grey as the hulls of the ships which cut steadily through the water. Keen eyes scanned the overcast, seeking the tell-tale columns of black smoke that would indicate the presence of the enemy.

The Home Fleet had come far. The longest single fleet voyage in Equestrian naval history, no less, and it had not been for show, not some patriotic flag-waving journey to demonstrate military might to the locals they encountered along the way. They had come all this way to fight.

Aboard the flagship, Admiral Blueblood had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of eggs, toast, marmalade and honey, with freshly caught kippers and tea. The rest of the crew endured lukewarm porridge and stale ships' biscuits, something the sailors of old aboard their magnificent galleons would have sympathised with. There were, at least, second helpings for those who could stomach them, because the fleet was expected to go into battle within hours and the crews needed to have the energy to fight. Canned fruit was added to their meal as well; the sugars they were preserved in would help.

The fleet was in battle formation in anticipation, with a screening force of cruisers and destroyers out some fifteen miles ahead of the main force, more destroyers on the flanks scanning the depths with their hydrophones, and yet more bringing up the rear. At the centre of the formation were the battleships, and several miles ahead of them were the more agile battlecruisers. The auxiliaries, colliers and the hospital ship had been left fifty miles back under the protection of a single destroyer, all Blueblood was willing to spare.

As the ships sailed closer to Harmony Bay, Blueblood endeavoured to get into contact with the Northern Fleet. If they knew he was coming and was almost on station, then Admiral Strongbow could sail out with his force and take the enemy by surprise from the rear. Two fleets against one would turn a battle into more of a massacre, he hoped. Unfortunately, the radio seemed to be jammed by something. No messages were getting through, and there was only static and dead air in reply. Already rattled by the state of the fleet's morale and gunnery, Blueblood was disquieted by the lack of communications with the Northern Fleet. Had the city suddenly fallen since they departed Summertown four days earlier? Surely not. The last radio report from Canterlot had stated that the second line of forts protecting the city were still holding out.

Blueblood had to resort to contact by proxy; using the longer-range wireless telegraph set, he tried to contact Canterlot, both to relay his position and intentions and also to send a message to Strongbow to alert him to get his ships ready for action. This time the signals got through, to the Equestrian telegraphy station at Summertown, who relayed Blueblood's coded signal to the next station down the line, then the next and so on until it reached Canterlot. This took time as the successive operators had to re-send the signal by tapping it out letter by letter, and once it arrived in naval headquarters, it had to be decoded. While waiting for a reply, Blueblood found the situation changing quickly.

A signal lamp on board the battlecruiser Fearless, flagship of Rear-Admiral Green Haze who commanded the battlecruiser division, flashed a message to the Chevaline.

Destroyer Audacious reports enemy contact. Approx. 40 miles north-northeast of main battle group. Capital ships and escorts. Orders?

"Then we have them..." Blueblood muttered as the signal was read aloud by the officer of the watch. "We have them, by the Sun, or else they have us."

The Admiral's next signal was flashed around the fleet; Action Stations.

Signal flags ran up the halyards of the Chevaline, giving more general orders for lookouts on other vessels to relay to their captains. Blueblood wanted to continue to restrict radio communications as much as possible, because he feared that the Kirin might be able to pick up his messages, which through necessity were broadcast in the clear and with no encryption. The technology did not yet exist to secure such signals, and if the source of the radio problems with Harmony Bay was Kirin jamming, then it was highly likely their fleet would be listening in. After all, there were only so many frequencies that naval radio signals were customarily transmitted on. Even if the Kirin didn't know which one to listen to, it wouldn't take them too long to figure it out. By the same token, Blueblood ordered the Chevaline's radio room to listen out for Kirin signals, just in case they were foolish enough to fall into the same trap they were possibly trying to trick Blueblood into. The Admiral then had another signal sent, in code, to Canterlot via the telegraph.

Enemy sighted approx. forty miles east of last reported coordinates. Am proceeding to intercept. May the Sun & Moon be with us.

The Home Fleet formed up, its sailors and officers preparing for battle. Watertight hatches were closed and secured, the guns loaded, tertiary batteries readied and their gunports opened. The decks were cleared for action. Anything flammable was stowed away, and anything that might cause splinters or shrapnel, such as wooden furniture, were secured. Hammocks were bundled up and tied against the exterior bulkheads, a holdover from the old wooden sailing ships where it was hoped they might provide a modicum of extra protection to the crew. Damage control teams were stood up and fire hoses laid. The main decks were washed down with seawater to lessen the fire risk from shell strikes igniting the wooden covering that hid the armour plating. The gun crews donned their white flash-hoods and gloves, hopeful they would save their lives if a fire broke out inside the turret or magazine.

Blueblood ordered the screening force to obtain an accurate count on enemy warships. The signal was relayed by lamp to the battlecruisers, who were in visual range of the scouts, and thence on to Commodore Bright White, the mare who was in command of the cruiser forces. The reply was not something Blueblood wanted to hear, and a sinking feeling gripped his chest.

Enemy strength: 8 battleships, 5 battlecruisers, approx. 10 cruisers in sight, approx. 20 destroyers in sight.

They were outnumbered. The Kirin had more capital ships than had been imagined. Blueblood had five battleships and three battlecruisers; it was not enough. Surely, it was not enough. The Kirin had been reinforced during his voyage; they must have made sure their fleet would have enough firepower to defeat him once he arrived. Then they could turn their attentions back to Harmony Bay. He ordered another urgent coded telegraph signal sent out with the enemy strength and a request for assistance as soon as possible. If Canterlot could not get through to the Northern Fleet, he would be on his own out here, outgunned by the Kirin.

But they were the Home Fleet, damn it! The pinnacle of the navy, the oldest and proudest of her fleets. They were not going to run away, even if they were outnumbered by their foe. They were going to charge forward with their Equestrian ensigns fluttering in the breeze, and they were going to take the fight to the enemy, out here on the open seas. That, after all, was why they had sailed so damned far in the first place.

Blueblood ordered the screening force to keep out of range of the enemy's big guns, but before he could relay that message, one was relayed to him coming the other direction. The light cruiser Swift was coming under fire, and that was that. Battle was joined. There would be no turning back now. Rallying himself, Blueblood stood proudly on the bridge of the Chevaline. He would be the victor of the battle of the Great Eastern Sea, and it would be his name in the history books. He would be the one getting the ticker-tape parade through the streets of Canterlot, to the palace where the Royal Sisters would fete him with a banquet held in his honour.

Or else he would die out here in the frigid waters, the city of Harmony Bay would fall, and his name would be immortalised as one of history's great naval failures. There was, it seemed, no third option.

The ships of the Home Fleet formed up into their battle formation. The battleships with their heavy guns and long range drew themselves up in line astern, while the battlecruisers, faster but with slightly less firepower, ranging out ahead. They could retreat to the safety of their battleship support if needed, and with the numbers of Kirin capital ships being reported, that seemed likely. The heavy cruisers were arranged on the flanks, with the light cruisers and destroyers forming a screen both from enemy submarines and also from the Kirin's own lighter ships, which might try a torpedo attack if they could get close enough.

At nine in the morning, the Chevaline came within visual range of the Kirin, who until that point had just been a series of smudges on the horizon where their smoke had been rising. Now the Pegasi observers circling overhead could see the Kirin vessels, and within ten minutes, so could the bridge crew, peering through their binoculars. Blueblood thought they looked to be handsome ships from what he could see, but deadly, too. He imagined the Kirin admiral having the same thought as he or she peered through their own viewfinders. The Home Fleet appeared, externally at least, to be a devastatingly powerful and resilient foe. It remained to be seen how well its sailors would live up to that appearance.

At nine-thirty, Blueblood ordered a course change, running the signal flags up the halyards. Echelon left. The battleships began a slight but steady turn, until each one was staggered out across the sea, bringing their bows about to follow the Chevaline's lead so that each battleship was able to get a clear sighting of the enemy, unobscured by the funnel smoke from the ship ahead of them, and bringing their stern turrets to bear on the Kirin. Rangefinders and binoculars were trained upon the Kirin ships, ranging tables consulted, powder charges prepared, ammunition loaded onto the feed-hoists in the magazines below decks.

Blueblood sent another signal; Target the corresponding ship in the enemy's line. The Chevaline would thus engage the leading Kirin vessel, the Luna following on behind would fire at the second Kirin ship, and so on. Nobody would be firing at the last three Kirin battleships, as there were only five of their Equestrian counterparts. Blueblood directed the trio of battlecruisers to try and focus on those ships, ignoring the Kirin's battlecruisers, which were on the far side of the enemy formation, for now and using their speed, it was hoped, to avoid being hit by the heavy Kirin guns. The Fearless drove ahead at twenty-eight knots, outrunning her own destroyer escort who, despite being designed for lightness and speed, simply could not keep up with the massive turbines that pushed the battlecruiser to such a pace.

The range drew nearer. Twenty thousand yards, then eighteen, then sixteen. At fifteen thousand yards, the maximum effective range of the big twelve-inch guns, Blueblood had another flag run up the halyards.

Engage enemy.

The turrets of the Chevaline were already on target, the fire director station atop the big tripod mainmast controlling the aiming of all nine guns that composed the main batteries. Chevaline and Luna were the only battleships in the fleet that had this novel targeting system, where the main guns could be slaved to the commands of the fire-control officer who, from his perch in the armoured foretop, could clearly observe the enemy, being positioned above the funnels of the battleship and free from its smoke. The gunnery officers down below, peering through their prismatic rangefinders, had a much more limited view, more easily obscured by the sea conditions, clouds, smoke, fire or even bits of the ship's superstructure, depending on where exactly they were aiming. It was much easier to have one officer who could see clearly direct each gun onto the same target with the mechanical linkage system, correcting their elevation as necessary. Of course, even that did not guarantee hitting anything.

At nine forty-one that morning, the circling seabirds were startled into a flustered retreat as thunder broke across the sea. Each gun fired in turn, first the A turret nearest the bow, then the B turret behind her, and finally the C turret on the aft deck. Brown-grey smoke belched forth from each gun, the barrels nodding like the trunks of elephants as they recoiled, hurling their heavy shells into the air with a roar like a passing express train. The hull of the Chevaline groaned under stress from a full broadside of the main battery. The fire-control director watched through his rangefinder for tell-tale splashes around the lead Kirin battleship. After about forty-five seconds of travel time, he saw them, big plumes of water mushrooming up from the sea.

They were nearly two thousand yards short of the target. A mile or more. But that was alright. The fire director added elevation to the guns, ordering their crews to raise the barrels to a certain degree while his fire-control system kept them roughly on target as the Chevaline continued its long, sweeping turn to port. Behind them, the Luna blazed away, and then astern of her, the Sol Invictus opened up with her quartet of double-barrelled twelve-inch turrets. So the firing continued down the line, with the Royal Oak and Avenger engaging too. No hits were scored, but this was the limit of effective range, and the fleets were getting closer all the time.

The Chevaline's second salvo also fell short, though by slightly less. Now the Kirin were engaging too, big bright orange flashes from the foredeck of the lead ship. Her shots splashed into the water ahead and to starboard of the Chevaline, but only by a few hundred yards. Their second salvo also missed wide. Their third salvo threw up fountains of water beyond the Equestrian flagship, and now they had the Chevaline's range. Miss short, adjust, miss long, adjust again, and you knew pretty much exactly where to place your next barrage. In between the overshoot and the undershoot.

The Kirin ships began to fire, all eight battleships in turn, adopting a similar echelon formation to the ponies, their shells arcing down around the Equestrian vessels, getting closer with each salvo, while the outgoing gunfire scarcely seemed to get any nearer to the Kirin ships. Blueblood watched from the bridge, anxiously waiting for the first hit to be scored and hoping it was on one of the Kirin capital ships.

It was not. The Luna took the first blow when a twelve-inch Kirin shell screamed out of the heavens and slammed into the wooden deck, bursting with a tremendous roar against the armour plating beneath and scattering shrapnel and splinters all across the forecastle. Nopony was hurt, but the crew were rattled. This was definitely a real battle now, not the gunnery training sessions Blueblood had subjected them to. That knowledge did nothing to boost their morale. Nor did it improve their own accuracy. The next few salvos, even from the ships with fire directors peering out from their foretops, were pathetically off target, while the Kirin shells continued to fall nearer and nearer to the ships of the Home Fleet.

Green Haze's battlecruisers, however, were having a much better time of it. Sweeping out into a wide arcing turn, they speared forward for the Kirin's left flank. With most of the Kirin battleships focused on the line of their Equestrian equivalents, and the Kirin battlecruisers marooned on the opposite side of the fleet and out of range, the Fearless, Triumph and the Duke of Baltimare were able to drive into battle. They were, technically, not designed for slugging it out with enemy battleships. The original philosophy behind their design had been to outrun anything stronger than they were, and outgun anything smaller. But their armour was still thick and their ten and twelve-inch guns were powerful. Given Blueblood's shortage of battleships, the battlecruisers were the next best thing, even if he didn't have enough of them, either.

The bold charge by the trio of battlecruisers had taken the Kirin by surprise. Their own battlecruisers were out of position on the other side of the fleet, and it was the Equestrians who scored first blood in the battle. Two light cruisers, part of the capital ship's screen, found themselves directly in the path of Green Haze's squadron. At the much shorter range of eight thousand yards, the pony gunnery finally began to tell, and the main batteries of the Fearless blazed away with fury, her secondary six-inch guns joining in the cacophony too. The first Kirin cruiser was battered by heavy shells and set ablaze. The second was swept aside by the Triumph and theDuke of Baltimare, her port side torn open by a volley and her bridge crew pulverised by a direct hit from a ten-inch shell.

With a hole punched in the cruiser screen, Green Haze's ships were able to sweep past the leading Kirin battleships, whose turrets were focused on the Equestrian flagship and the rest of Blueblood's most powerful warships. Signal flags fluttered up the hoists of the leading Kirin ship, presumably the flagship of their Admiral, and the three rearmost battleships began to turn and break formation with the others. Their turrets began to swing back around, but Green Haze's battlecruisers were already on target, their aim having been calibrated by their engagement with the enemy cruisers. At twelve thousand yards from the port bows of the Kirin battleships, they opened fire.

The armour of the battleships was strong, thick steel plate, but now for the first time that armour was coming under heavy and sustained attack from Equestrian guns. Hits were being scored, even from the first volley; it was the most accurate the fleet's gunnery had been since leaving port. Shells smashed into the flanks and deck of the rearguard battleship, showering her in shrapnel. Her own big turrets were still turning. Green Haze, noticing the rest of the Kirin battleships continuing to pull away from his vessels and toward Blueblood, decided to press home the attack. He flashed signals to his destroyer escorts to pass between his battlecruisers and launch a torpedo attack on their three target ships, mindful all the time of a wave of Kirin destroyers steaming toward him from the northeast with the intent of doing the same thing to him. This was a chance, a big chance, to isolate and destroy a chunk of the Kirin's capital ships. Their Admiral, it seemed, had made a tactical error, exposing their battleships not just to his battlecruisers, but also to his destroyers which, though slower than his big ships, were now catching up as the battlecruisers had slowed to engage.

They managed one more surprisingly accurate salvo before the Kirin battleships were able to get their turrets aimed, and then big bright flashes began to light up their forecastles and fantails as their twelve-inch guns began to fire. Columns of water rose into the air near the Fearless, just a couple of hundred yards off target. Now there was an exchange of fire, both groups of ships shooting at long range with their heavy guns. Green Haze kept his ships at a distance; the battleships he was facing had masses of secondary guns, more than his battlecruisers possessed, and it was wise to keep out of range of them. Letting one of the Kirin ships unleash a full broadside with both its main battery and its secondary guns would not have been a sensible move.

In between the trio of battlecruisers came half a dozen scurrying destroyers, foam flying in their wake as their turbines drove them to their maximum speed of twenty-six knots. Their torpedo tubes were run out and ready. Unlike the battlecruisers, the destroyers had no choice but to get into range of the enemy's smaller guns, because their torpedoes had a maximum range that they were designed to run for. Once they hit that distance they would self-destruct, to avoid hitting friendly ships that might lie beyond a target vessel. With Green Haze's twelve-inch guns providing cover, the destroyers advanced among the towering splashes of water that showed how close the Kirin were getting to striking their own targets. The range closed rapidly as the destroyers pushed forward through the gently undulating waves.

Once the range was below ten thousand yards, the secondary batteries of the Kirin battleships began opening fire. Their targets were small compared to the ships that the big turrets were attacking, but they were much less well armoured. Plumes of spray began to rise all around the destroyers as they raced toward their targets. One of them was almost immediately struck in her superstructure, destroying her radio room and killing half a dozen ponies. Another shell struck the destroyer Juno in her port torpedo tubes, shaking the ship with a large explosion and blowing a hole in her deck big enough to drive a car through. The Kirin gunners were clearly enjoying their work. Another destroyer, the Comet, took a hit in the engine room from an armour-piercing shell that holed her just above the waterline. Scalding steam erupted from severed pipes, killing or maiming her entire engineering crew and forcing her to slump out of line, drifting listlessly, her screws slowing to a dead stop. More shells slammed into the ship, now broadside-on to the enemy and unmoving. Within a few minutes the Comet was a broken and burning wreck, slowly going down by the bow as her surviving crew tried to launch the lifeboats.

The other destroyers continued on, taking fire and taking casualties, but they managed to get their torpedoes away, immediately beginning sharp emergency turns to port or starboard to get away from the Kirin gunfire. The torpedoes streaked away ahead, but the Kirin battleships had been expecting it. There was no other reason for destroyers to race toward them except to launch torpedoes. Their bows were already coming about, which did at least block the field of fire of their forward turrets. The Kirin ships were turning away from the destroyers, for two reasons. Firstly, moving away from incoming torpedoes effectively reduced their relative speed and thus gave the battleships more time to maneouver, and secondly, steaming away from the torpedoes would mean there was a chance that the subsurface projectiles would exceed their maximum range before reaching their targets and thus explode harmlessly in the water. Turning away from a torpedo attack was standard procedure in the Equestrian Navy and, it seemed, in the Kirin Navy too.

Sensing this slight situational advantage, Green Haze pressed his luck longer than he had initially planned, and it paid off. The Fearless finally started scoring hits on her target, a ponderous and powerful-looking Kirin battleship which unusually only had a single aft turret. Most of her firepower was ahead of the superstructure, and in turning to avoid the torpedoes she had left herself undergunned. The Fearless could still fire with every one of her main guns, eight in total, as heavily armed as most of the Kirin battleships in that regard. Despite the target now presenting a much slimmer, stern-on profile, they had her range.

Green Haze watched through his binoculars with grim satisfaction as a shell tore through the superstructure of the Kirin battleship. He could only imagine the carnage it had caused. The Fearless rocked with another volley as her four turrets blazed away. He mentally timed the outgoing shells and watched for their impacts. This time they were almost accurate enough to win the fleet trophy for gunnery. A rippling string of bright flashes marked where the heavy armour-piercing shells had struck the steel plate of the Kirin ship. Green Haze clenched one fist in silent triumph, then had to suppress a most un-officerlike exclamation of joy as a great sheet of flame erupted from the Kirin's turret like a volcano. A direct hit, a penetration, and a strike on one of her magazines! It would be going up like the royal fireworks at the Summer Sun Celebration at any moment.

The flames licked across the stern of the battleship as it continued its stately turn, and, now blinded by the fire, her lookouts on the bridge wings could no longer see the torpedoes that were coming for them. As a result, the ship overcorrected and came right into the path of one of the torpedoes it had been trying to avoid. A plume of water rose higher than the ship's masts as the torpedo struck her on the stern, ripping a hole in her hull. Immediately she began to ride low in the water, down by the stern, like a deflated airship as the sea poured into her compartments. Oddly this actually saved the ship from immediate destruction, because the water flooded the aft magazine before it could explode, but she was still mortally wounded.

Green Haze turned his attentions to the next battleship in line, which was exchanging accurate fire with the Duke of Baltimare. This ship had two aft turrets with three guns apiece, and that was not doing the Equestrian battlecruiser any good at all. The Duke of Baltimare had taken several hits already, killing and wounding a number of her crew, but she had not taken any serious damage. Nor had either of the other ships under the Rear-Admiral's command. He issued a signal for the destroyers which had just launched their torpedo attack to proceed northeast and screen his battlecruisers from the incoming Kirin destroyer flotilla which was rushing up from their rearguard positions to support the rest of the fleet, and then he set about his duty once more.

The three battlecruisers, their guns flashing, exchanged fire with the two intact Kirin ships. The damaged battleship was going down heavily by the stern and her speed was dropping right off to almost nothing, her propellers smashed by the torpedo. Her crew could be seen milling about on deck waiting for the lifeboats to be launched. She would take no further part in this or any other battle. Meanwhile the front five battleships of the Kirin line were duking it out with Blueblood's main force, and the old Avenger, not as well armoured as the other, more modern battleships under his command, was having a rough time of it. Within minutes of battle being joined, she had lost one of her turrets to a direct hit which had peeled it open like a tin can and pulverised the gun crew inside. One of her boilers had been damaged, further cutting her already reduced speed. At the front of the line, Blueblood was unaware of her difficulties, as his attention was rigidly focused on two things. Observing the Kirin flagship through his binoculars, and trying to stop himself from dissolving into a fearful puddle of uselessness.

All through the long voyage, even after all their difficulties, as his confidence in victory had waned, Blueblood had still not been scared. He had been worried about returning home in defeat and being shunned in social circles for his ignominious failure, not about dying. But now battle was joined, and he was terrified.