We Sail For Celestia

"Your Highness! Welcome, welcome, what a pleasure it is as always to see you, for you bless me with your presence."

Obsequious to a fault and as arrogant as ever, Prince Blueblood- or, to give him his current and more accurate title, Grand Admiral Prince Blueblood, bowed flamboyantly before kissing the hand of the Princess. Celestia regarded her distant relative with her usual mix of appreciation and mild disdain.

"Thank you, Admiral. I fear we cannot stay to chat for too long, however, for the theatre, and my sister, are both waiting."

"But of course, Your Highness," Blueblood nodded. He was due to attend the airing of a new play with Celestia, as well as Princess Luna and a number of other top officials and nobles. The Princess was clad in her regal, flowing, angelic white robes, fastened with gold, her ethereal mane flowing to the gentle pressures of some invisible breeze. Blueblood, by contrast, wore his dress uniform. Black shoes and trousers, a pristine white jacket resplendent with medals- most of which were unearned and entirely self-appointed- and a sash of gold and midnight blue, the colours of the Equestrian flag and of the Princesses he served. Great braided gold epaulettes decorated his shoulders, burnished brass buttons fastening his jacket and the flap of his leather holster. He wore his revolver on one hip and his sword in its scabbard on the other, looking every inch the great leader of ponies that he was most decidedly not.

Nevertheless, he was the commanding officer of the Home Fleet, so-called because it protected the approaches to the city of Manehattan, the largest in Equestria, and the capital, Canterlot, which lay some distance inland but near enough to the coast to be theoretically at risk from an amphibious invasion force. It was also known as the Western Fleet due to its geographical disposition. It was the oldest and traditionally the most prestigious of the four fleets- Home, Equatorial, Northern and Overseas- that the navy operated. Blueblood, like many nobles, had undergone officer training and served his time as a junior officer aboard various vessels, and had risen through the ranks quite legitimately- albeit at a rather accelerated rate compared to many of his contemporaries, on account of his heritage. Eventually Blueblood had been made an Admiral, not the first and probably not the last Prince, Duke or Viscount to be so appointed, commanding the Home Fleet from his flagship, the heavy battleship Chevaline.

"How did your meeting go with the Kirin ambassadors, Your Highness?" Blueblood asked his sovereign. Celestia had been meeting with the two diplomats earlier that day to address their claims of territorial hegemony.

"Unproductive, I am afraid," Celestia replied. "The ambassadors were courteous to a fault, but insisted that their Empress was quite unmovable on the topic. They repeatedly informed me that the Kirin Empire recognised only one true owner of Northwick and Yakyakistan."

"Ah...themselves, I take it?" Blueblood questioned.

"No, oddly enough," Celestia shook her head. "They insisted that those territories belong to the Yaks and should be governed by Yaks, not by ponies."

"With their guiding hand upon the tiller of power, no doubt," Blueblood scoffed. "A transparent and pointless power play, Your Highness. Those foreign devils have no claim to Equestrian sovereign territory."

"They say otherwise, Admiral," Celestia responded. "Ancestral claims to the land...ancient rites and settlers long since lost to history...all quite unprovable, of course."

"How do they claim to square that with the fact that they want the Yaks to rule themselves?" Blueblood asked, confused.

"They spin it as magnanimity," Celestia explained. "The benevolent Kirin will ride to the rescue of the oppressed peoples of the continent to free them from Equestrian aggression. The same spiel used many times throughout history, including by the Yaks themselves hundreds of years ago, interestingly. Though they claim the land for their own, they will be gracious enough to grant it in perpetuity to the Yaks, so long as the Yaks, presumably, rise up and help them take it from us."

"Just as the Mare-Islanders believed..." Blueblood mused. "An interesting tactic. Do you think the Kirin were behind that uprising?"

"It is possible. Unfortunately we know little enough about them to be certain," the Princess answered. "Our intelligence gathering capability is woefully underequipped. Outside of our embassy in Kirinton, we have little else to go on. I have suggested to our diplomatic staff that we bolster that capability to learn more about them, but I fear their sudden emergence from their own isolation has left us short-handed in such matters. After all, they only permitted us to build and staff and embassy in their capital two years ago."

"Alas, that is regrettable, but I am sure our intelligence services will come up trumps for their Princess," Blueblood replied.

"I hope so. While I am here, however, perhaps you will fill me in on the preparedness of the Home Fleet?" Celestia requested. Blueblood's office, as commander of the Home Fleet, was inside Canterlot Palace itself, though he divided his time between Manehattan and the capital. He had offices in both cities, and in both offices, he had a bottle of whiskey tucked away in his desk. Blueblood opened the drawer and produced it, along with two glasses.

"Of course, Your Highness. A drink, perhaps?" he smiled at her.

"Thank you, no," Celestia replied. "There will be drinks enough for us both at the theatre. I gather that you have been dealing with a few pirate attacks along the western coast?"

"Ah, yes, those buccaneering scum," Blueblood nodded. "Not merely in the west, Your Highness. The pirates have been quite active along our southern coast as well. One of our destroyers sank a commerce raider down there, I believe. As for my own fleet, we have intercepted several smuggling vessels just this past week..."

"Indeed. But the pirate corvette that sank two freighters...that got away, did it not?" Celestia pointed out, drawing a blustering response from the Admiral.

"Your Highness, alas, we were unable to track the vessel successfully due to a number of factors...the devils are tricksy and well-versed in evading our searches."

"Perhaps. But when the pirate vessel fled south, its course, speed and position was not transmitted by radio to the Equatorial Fleet for almost three hours," Celestia replied. "By the time they were able to assemble a search force, the pirate had vanished entirely and presumably made it back safely to its base in the archipelago. Why, pray tell, did it take so very long for your ships to send the alert?"

"Your Highness...as you know, our radios have a limited range," Blueblood replied, quite truthfully. "My vessels first had to radio fleet headquarters. Only then could the message be relayed by telegraph..."

"Then perhaps it was your headquarters staff who performed inadequately in this task?" Celestia raised an eyebrow.

"Ah...I...do not know the answer to that question, Your Highness. I apologise..I shall of course investigate thoroughly and...iron out any discrepancies in the performance of my headquarters staff and my crews if necessary," Blueblood informed the Princess.

"I hope so, Admiral. I do not want such laxity among the crews of my ships," Celestia retorted, leaving Blueblood huffing and frowning as she turned on her heel. "Come, our car is here."

"But of course..." Blueblood poured himself a stiff glass of whiskey and drank it down in one, burning shot before following the Princess from his office. The palace hallways were busy with staffers and servants as always, but out front in the palace courtyard, the calm and quiet of a pleasant late autumnal evening was broken only by the rumbling of an idling engine. Celestia's driver had brought a car around for them, and that was a novelty. Only royals and rich industrialists or stars of stage and screen could afford a private vehicle. A couple of years ago it had replaced the royal coach for most official engagements that the Princess had to attend.

The driver bowed and opened the door for the Princess. She climbed in elegantly, adjusting her robes as she took a seat in the rear. Blueblood climbed in beside her with a nod at the driver. It was relatively unusual for Celestia to travel with a passenger other than her own sister, but Luna was traveling to the theatre from elsewhere, and Blueblood, though a military pony by trade, was still a noble by birth.

The driver climbed in and set off, the gates of the palace yard being opened for them, the sleek, maroon four-wheeler with its long nose and thick leather roof heading out onto the streets of Canterlot, accompanied by a pair of Royal Guard motorcycles to the front and another pair to the rear. At each junction, police officers blew their whistles furiously and held up their white-gloved hands to stop the flow of horse-drawn carts and wagons and the ubiquitous pony-pulled taxis and rickshaws. With the Royal Guard escort there was no mistaking who was passing by, and pedestrians gawped and pointed, some waving and some removing their hats as a sign of respect for their Princess. Celestia and, to a lesser extent, her sister, were beloved by the populace, hailed as the true founders of Equestria, as well as its saviours on several occasions. Yet despite that, there were those who distrusted or even outright hated the royal sisters. Seperatists, rebels, those who believed Equestrian hegemony over lands not their own was an illegal occupation, the various racial champions who believed in Zebrican, Yak or Griffon dominance.

There was always an easy scapegoat to be found, a patsy upon whom a greater power could try to pin the blame.

As the car and its escorts rounded the corner onto the street where the Shire Theatre was located, a cheer rose from the small crowd assembled in front of the building. Princess Luna had already arrived with the Minister of the Interior to attend the show, and the citizens were eager to see the Sun Princess arrive as well.

The car approached and the driver slowed to come to a halt in front of the theatre, but as he did so, a pony stepped forward from the crowd. He was wearing a heavy coat, not unreasonable as it was a cool evening and the gathering clouds to the south, visible before the sun had set , brought the prospect of rain later. Yet it was not his attire that drew the attention, but the brown paper package he carried, producing it from his coat and holding it out in front of him, almost as though he were presenting a ritual offering to the Princess. Several flashes, splintering glass, then screams.

The crowd scattered in all directions, some into the road where they were struck by the outriders on their motorcycles. From among the rapidly dispersing ponies stepped another, a mare this time, with another package, produced from a large canvas bag. She hurled it in the direction of the car.

Panic ensued. The Royal Guard riders gunned her down, blood splattering the cobbles as she staggered and fell. The stallion tried to climb up on the running boards of the car, but the driver accelerated away and two brave civilians tackled him, knocking the package, and the gun it concealed, from his hand. Police rushed toward the scene, whistles blowing. Then the bomb exploded.

The package the mare had thrown landed a mere foot or so away from the car, and it detonated with a brilliant flash. More screams filled the air as a cloud of dust billowed into existence. Shattered cobblestones and shards of metal from the car sliced through the flesh of a dozen ponies, including the stallion terrorist and his heroic captors who were pinning him down. The car toppled onto its side, one wheel wrenched loose and spinning crazily away, striking at least one pedestrian on its wild journey until it smashed through an already broken shopfront window and came to rest.

The Royal Guard outriders and police rushed to the overturned vehicle, fearing the worst. Yet their fears were misplaced. Tearing open the damaged door, they found a dazed but unharmed Prince and a stoically angry Princess. At the first sign of trouble, Celestia had flung a tough magic shield around the vehicle, protecting the occupants. Except for some jarring and minor bruising from the overturn, both the driver and his passengers were unhurt.

"Your Highness! Are you injured?" one police officer cried.

"It is not I that has been harmed, but the nation," Celestia replied with a grimace. "Tend to the wounded and the dead, and then find out who was responsible for this outrage."

The port of Harmony Bay, it seemed, was not exactly replete with delights. Lieutenant Greenwood had done some exploring since the Defiant arrived, and saw little worth writing home about. It was a drab, dreary city, perennially overcast, the sea winds driving heavy clouds and frequent showers of rain over the town as it huddled beneath the hills and the more distant mountains, as though it were trying to keep warm. It was damp almost everywhere, even farther inland in the more respectable civilian districts, where the gaily painted houses did their best to give a spot of light and colour. Everywhere else he had been, though, the greyness was unremitting.

There was, it seemed, but one brothel, where the officers and seaponies of the Northern Fleet intermingled, sharing the same bar, the same threadbare chairs, and the same threadbare whores. Not everything was bad news, however; the port, its bars and its brothel all had a copious supply of alcohol, especially beer and vodka, but also, curiously, champagne and oddly fine vintages of wine. Evidently some previous commandant was a great believer in keeping his ponies well watered while they awaited action, for there were great quantities of drink tucked away in some of the storehouses, according to a couple of local dockhands he had spoken with.

The current commander of the city garrison was General Wild Willow, a chubby, genial mare whose persistently reddened nose suggested she enjoyed more than her fair share of that great liquid bounty. Like many Generals, the black unicorn was from royal stock, though any similarities with either of the Princesses seemed to end there. She was far from elegant in manner, but seemed to keep morale among the garrison high- though whether that was merely through judicious use of the alcohol stockpile or because she was an able commander, Greenwood did not yet know. Truth be told he knew little of the General at all, for beyond a brief welcome speech to the crew of the Defiant, she and Admiral Strongbow had been absent, evidently working, or perhaps drinking, the days away in their offices in the main joint headquarters building.

Morale was higher among the naval contingent, for Admiral Strongbow was a proven leader, a capable tactician and an honest, fair and just officer, who, much like Captain Oakheart, demanded much from his ponies but made sure they knew exactly why; it made them into better sailors, and better sailors were more likely to live through a battle. Strongbow looked like a classic aristocrat, as indeed he was, with his handlebar moustache and sideburns and a hefty row of medals bedecking his chest, but unlike certain other Admirals, he had earned every one of them through fire and fury, in the Mare-Isle campaign as an Admiral and in several dozen other engagements at lower ranks over the years, fighting the Zebras, Griffons and the ubiquitous pirates.

The provincial governor of Northwick, Cranberry Cream, had her house and office in the city, and she seemed, from what Greenwood had been able to establish over a few drinks with some locals, to have achieved the paragon of politics- she was hated by everybody. The Yaks disliked her rigid enforcement of Equestrian law in preference to their own local codes, the pony civilians disliked her officiousness and bureaucratic bull that she managed to insert not just into business but also into daily life, and the officers of the army and navy hated the way she nosed her way into military matters on which she was little-qualified to comment, let alone have any actual input. As governor, however, she was technically in control of the defence of Northwick. A sensible governor would defer to their military commanders in such matters, but Cranberry Cream was evidently one of that all-too common brand of politician who thought they knew better than their advisers, even in areas that they knew nothing about. One thing she did know about was wine; the absolute best specimens of the various vintages available were reserved for the governor and her guests.

Not only was the alcohol in good supply, but also food. Fish was brought in every day by the local Yak trawlers, no longer for sale to passing clans but mostly for distribution to the Equestrian garrison. Good stockpiles of grain, wheat and other essentials were always maintained, both for provisioning the fleet before a sailing and to keep the garrison and the civilian population fed in case of war or natural disaster that might cut the supply lines to the city, either by sea or by the rail line that led, eventually, to impossibly distant Baltimare. A road ran parallel with the track for some distance before peeling away through the hills to the town of Yakden, the next closest settlement to the west.

Despite the food, alcohol and availability of ponies of ill repute, there was not much else to do but find your own entertainment for the most part. Ponies played dice, poker and blackjack, organised bare-knuckle boxing tournaments- mostly Army vs. Navy for bragging rights, but sometimes between ships or regiments too- and even performed their own plays and variety shows, at least in good weather, on the town's showground stage near the entrance to the docks. Greenwood had been doing a lot of reading, as he always did. Never without a good book at his side, what little spare space he had in his cabin aboard ship was filled with tomes from the family library. It was, he thought, the best way to spend time by oneself that did not involve any amount of undressing first.

The port was abuzz with activity, even though nothing actually seemed to be happening. It was quite paradoxical; ponies and local Yaks employed as labourers were busy lugging crates and boxes, resupplying the newly arrived Defiant and its two sister ships, the Destiny and the Direct, which had both arrived several days after Captain Oakheart's ship. Two more destroyers from the Northern fleet had returned from a patrol with nothing to report, and tomorrow, after a week in the harbour, the Defiant would sail again on one of the routine missions that would at least break the monotony of Harmony Bay which was already beginning to set in. Greenwood was not looking forward to an entire tour of duty out here in the back end of Equestria, far from home and the parts of the nation that he actually knew.

Northwick was a strange place, a curious mix of pony and Yak, yet somehow managing to take the worst parts of both worlds and combining them into one. The land was as desolate as any you could find outside of the harsh, burning deserts of Mare-Isle and Saddle Arabia, but the locals were hardy and stoic in the extreme, a product of necessity given the primitive conditions they lived in. The interesting parts of Yak culture, however- their unique dwellings, the intricate beadwork and tapestries with which they decorated their tent-huts, their handsome traditional clothing- had all been perverted or removed entirely by the culture of Equestria, at least when it came to the inhabitants of Harmony Bay. The Yaks living and working there wore outfits that would not have looked out of place in any smaller town in Equestria- Vanhoover, Ponyville, Clopham Junction. They lived in clapbboard houses like all the other residents. The only thing they seemed to have retained of their traditional values was the peculiar Yak intonation and way of speaking. At the same time, the old Equestrian vices of gambling and especially drinking had sunk their tendrils into the local Yaks, who seemed happy to succumb to the same iniquities as the garrison.

All told it was not a particularly exciting, invigorating or welcoming place to be, and Greenwood's mind had not taken long to wander to the possibility of a transfer somewhere else. He did, at least, enjoy cooler weather, having no love for the heat after his tour in the desert as an infantry officer. That ruled out the Overseas Fleet, at least, for that was based beyond continental Equestria, with its home port in Mare-Isle, somewhere he had no desire to ever return to. The Equatorial Fleet had been the Defiant's previous appointment, but though Baltimare was relatively temperate and cooled by the sea breezes, the remit of the Equatorial Fleet covered the entirety of the tropics to the west and south of the main continent, as well as the pirate archipelago that stretched for hundreds of miles through the tepid southern waters before one reached the vast and empty expanse of the Southern Ocean.

That left the Home Fleet, then, but that was not exactly a dream posting either. Everypony knew morale there was poor at the best of times. The Home Fleet had always been the largest and most prestigious, but it had gone to seed over the recent, fallow years when there had been little call for it to see any action. The appointment of an inadequate Admiral did not help matters either. Everypony knew Blueblood was an aristocratic appointment and nothing more, though he had at least risen through the ranks in the appropriate way and knew how to handle his oars, so to speak. He was far from inspirational, however, not a figure to inspire ponies to greatness- mediocrity, perhaps, but certainly not greatness. He was known to be quick to anger and to dispense that anger upon any unfortunates who he might deem responsible for whatever calamity had befallen his ship or his fleet, and that in turn meant resentment among the ranks. No, the Home Fleet was no great proposition either. Harmony Bay it would have to be, then, at least for now, with hoped-for leave to return home at some point, though how much leave would be granted he did not know. It would take all of the usual home-leave allocation of two weeks away from one's ship to even get back to a part of Equestria he recognised.

Harmony Bay it would be, for who knew how long. Worst of all, there was no sign of his brother. The station-master had told him that the 45th Regiment's train had not arrived and was still not due for another three days. Lamenting the deplorable state of Yak rail infrastructure, Greenwood read several chapters of his current vintage book, The Requiem of Commander Hurricane, before turning in for the night. They would be out on patrol in the morning, and hopefully Greenshield would be in town by the time they returned to port.