We Sail For Celestia

Dear Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. It is easy to imagine it not reaching you at all, such is the remoteness of this place. IT is strange to think that we are still in Equestria, for it feels like another world. I fear the approach of winter will begin to make things seem even more desolate soon enough. It is to be admired that a species like the Yaks could make a good life out here for themselves before the coming of industry and modern comforts. Can you imagine? No central heating, no indoor plumbing, no motor transport of any kind, no economy to speak of, even. Just subsistence, and not even from farming, for the land is too barren. It may sound as though a nomad's life would suit somepony of military experience, forever being shuffled around from one place to another by bureaucrats or nobles admiring a battle map or force disposition chart. But this land is not for me.

The port here is a little more lively than the countryside around it, at least. The Yaks are very industrious. We have them doing most of the manual work here because they are physically stronger than most ponies. They don't complain so long as they are paid well and have plenty of vodka to drink. Northwick is probably of more interest to a geologist or ethno-botanist than to a sailor, but it is certainly unique, I will give it that.

We received news of the assassination attempt with horror. Even the Yaks seemed shocked when they were picking up the morning newspapers (odd since they do not seem to worship the Princess, or even fly our flags). Thank heavens Her Highness was unharmed. I hope they find the masterminds behind the dastardly plot and put them to death in a suitably painful manner, for there can be no other fate that is fit for a traitor.

My dear brother has not yet arrived as of this writing. The Yak railways seem to be even less efficient than ours, by all accounts. The station master said his train was not due for several days. I am sure he (and I) will write to you again once he arrives here in Harmony Bay. I look forward to seeing him and learning of his journey.

We had a surprise during our voyage. You may have read about it somewhere deep within the Baltimare Chronicle (do you still take it? I hope so, it is an excellent newspaper). I cannot go into too much detail until the official report is released, of course, but it blooded our crew quite well, I think. The Captain congratulated us on a job well done. I think he was quietly impressed with our efficiency. I hope we can keep it up.

I hope it will not be too long until we can meet again and speak of things in person. Until that day,

Your Son
Greenwood

"If you're not reading, you're writing, huh?"

Greenwood looked round from the tiny desk he shared with his cabin-mate, who had just walked in. Tracer, a fellow Junior Lieutenant and a dark orange Pegasus, slumped tiredly upon his bed without bothering to remove his shoes. It took extra energy, and he might need them if an alarm sounded during the night.

"Just a letter to my dad," Greenwood explained, folding the paper and tucking it into an envelope, ready to be posted once they returned to Harmony Bay. The Defiant had been out on patrol for twelve hours, slipping their moorings at a little after ten that morning. It was now dark, nothing being visible out of the porthole in their cabin. A single, unshielded bulb provided light for the two of them, illuminating their cramped cabin, little more than two bunks, two footlockers, and the small desk where Greenwood sat. It was their home whenever they were on board; not much, but a little oasis of calm, away from the rest of the crew, given at least a modicum of privacy thanks to their status as junior officers. They had their own Lieutenants' washroom, shared with the few others of the same rank on board, down the deck from their cabin, where they could make use of the toilets, or heads in nautical terminology, and showers, and access to the officers' wardroom where they would eat and drink with the rest of the commissioned ponies aboard, including the Captain, when he deigned to join his subordinates.

The Defiant had a crew of one hundred and fifty ponies, consisting of twelve officers and one hundred and thirty-eight seaponies. The compliment of officers included Captain Oakheart, two Lieutenants, four Junior Lieutenants, and five Midship-Ponies. Most of the rest of the crew worked below decks, in the engine room, infirmary, stores and equipment rooms, or in the magazines for the four turreted guns, preparing, stacking and loading shells onto the hoists that took them up to the crews in the turrets who actually fired the weapon.

Others worked as spotters, the Pegasi who flew above in good weather, or as deck hands. Some operated the torpedo tubes and depth charge racks, while the last few crewponies were to be found on the bridge, the pilot house, or the signal room, working as messengers, runners, radio operators and general assistants to the officers who actually controlled the ship from its bridge, atop the superstructure and in front of the funnels.

The Defiant was, in many ways, a typical vessel of the Royal Equestrian Navy, with a mostly pony crew but a few Zebras and even a couple of Yaks among them, coming from the annexed territories to fight under their new flag. In another way, however, the destroyer was quite atypical, for morale aboard was good. In many ships, indeed entire fleets, that was not exactly the case, thanks to a combination of harsh discipline, poor living standards, incompetent officership and a general undercurrent of radicalism and growing discontent that was common not just in the Navy, but all across Equestria. There had always been rumblings of rebellion and calls for a change at the top, but most treasonous outbreaks had been crushed ruthlessly over the years by the military. The Mare-Isle breakaway, however, seemed to have been different, sparking something more than just the usual low-level protests and illicit anti-royalist meetings. Such concerns, however, did not seem to have spread to the Defiant yet.

"I can't wait to get back to Harmony Bay," Tracer sighed.

"Why, for Celestia's sake? There's nothing there," Greenwood chuckled.

"It's better than being out here though, isn't it? Routine patrols...I hate them!" Tracer sat back up and looked over at Greenwood. "Routine means dull."

"But dull means you might actually live through it and see port again," Greenwood pointed out.

"I suppose. But still. Ah, I don't know. I guess I'm just rambling," Tracer sighed. "Mind you, the landscape is so fucking empty we might as well be at sea even when we're on land. What kind of a place...it's crazy."

"I hear the terrain livens up a little as you move farther up the peninsula," Greenwood answered, removing his jacket and trousers and climbing into his bunk.

"I'll believe that if I see it," Tracer snorted, lying back down again and roughly pulling the blankets over him. "We've been here what, a week? And I can't wait to see a tree again, a waterfall, anything."

"There were trees in Harmony Bay," Greenwood answered, turning out the light with the flick of a switch. "Not many, I'll grant you, but there's that little park, near the headquarters building?"

"That park is as empty as the rest of the town," Tracer replied. "Imagine your life being so empty that you actually want to sit in that park, that park with dead trees and scraggly grass and broken benches. It must be the last place ponies sit before they jump in front of the train."

"Now there's a morbid thought," Greenwood settled down under the thin blankets. They had not yet been issued their winter gear, which included thicker bedclothes, but the temperatures were dropping fast, out at sea especially. It would not be long before snow started falling and the chill really set in.

Greenwood drifted off into a dreamless sleep. No happy visit back to his home tonight, just the restful slumber of one tired out from a day's activities. The night after was the same.

The night after that, he had the midnight watch on the bridge, under Lieutenant Fennel, a tough no-nonsense mare who took pride in modelling herself on Captain Oakheart, though without the moustache. It was pitch black outside; no moon illuminated the tossing sea, a stiff breeze whipping up a fair amount of spray over the prow of the destroyer as it nosed through the gloom.

The bridge was well-lit, at least, the first watch, from eight in the evening til midnight, keeping an eye over things. They were due to rendezvous with the Destiny in a few hours, passing by each other like literal ships in the night as they swapped patrol sectors, and Fennel had ordered searchlights on the wings of the bridge to be switched on. They were scanning the eastern horizon, the direction from which the Destiny was due to come on its patrol path in case the other destroyer was ahead of schedule. The destroyers were looking for pirates in the main, but also any potential threat to the harbour at Harmony Bay. It was unlikely they would find any pirate ships this far north, however, as there was very little trade for them to intercept that wouldn't be easier to intercept farther south. This really was the back end of the world, even for the criminals of the sea.

Greenwood was stationed on the bridge as officer of the watch, a responsibility often handed to a junior officer when nothing much was happening or expected to happen, for the officer of the watch was in charge of navigation and controlling the vessel in the absence of the commanding officer or executive officer. Since a rendezvous was expected with the Destiny, however, Lieutenant Fennel had taken over from him, with orders to wake the Captain once the Destiny had made contact.

It was a lonely task, being in command, and it was an even lonelier task being in command at night, with only a helmspony and a couple of lookouts for company. Greenwood, however, had been enjoying the job. He was responsible for the ship, an important precursor to any promotion to a higher rank and the possibility for a command of his own in the future. All Captains and Admirals had to serve in such a role earlier in their careers, and even if it was just an empty stretch of the night with nothing to report, it was still his ship for a few hours.

"Ma'am!" A signalpony hurried into the bridge. "Radio contact with the Destiny! They are reporting unknown surface contacts and are requesting a message relay urgently."

"Unknown contacts?" Fennel grunted. "Very good...Mister Greenwood, sound action stations if you please."

"Yes ma'am." Greenwood moved to the internal alarming system and cranked the handle, picking up the handset and speaking into it as the alarm klaxon began to ring throughout the ship. "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."

"Ma'am, the Destiny should still be at least eighty miles to our east," the helmspony reported. "Should I change course?"

"Hold course for now," Fennel ordered. "We'll see what the Captain says." Oakheart was on deck within thirty seconds of the klaxon sounding, his cabin being just below the bridge.

"Report, Lieutenant," he demanded, his uniform appearing to be immaculate despite being roused from sleep and either having to pull it on in a hurry or having slept in it.

"Radio room reports contact with the Destiny, sir. They are reporting unknown contacts and have asked for a message relay. I deemed it prudent to bring the ship to action stations in case their contact report turns out to be accurate."

"Very good," Oakheart nodded, taking up his customary position. "Route the Destiny's broadacast to the bridge if you please, signalpony."

"Aye sir." The pony hurried away to the radio room to the rear to do as ordered, and a few moments later the bridge radio crackled.

"ENS Defiant, ENS Defiant, this is ENS Destiny. Day code Apple Castle One Six Niner, already confirmed with your radio room. Do you read, over?"

Oakheart picked up the radio handset near his captain's chair. "ENS Destiny, this is the ENS Defiant, Captain Oakheart speaking. Go ahead."

"Sir, we have a large number of unknown contacts to our east. Grid reference is One Three Six Niner Niner Zero. They are not answering our hails and we cannot identify them. We have attempted to contact Harmony Bay for orders, but something seems to be jamming our long-range radio signals. Can you provide a message relay, over?"

"Understood, Destiny. Will attempt message relay. Standby." Oakheart turned to Greenwood. "Mister Greenwood, inform the radio room to attempt to contact Harmony Bay directly." He scribbled down the pertinent information from the Destiny's call with a wax pencil onto a piece of paper and handed it to the Junior Lieutenant.

"Aye sir." Greenwood took the paper back to the radio room, leaving the bridge and passing astern along a short covered walkway. The radio room was a compact, cluttered, confusing mess, containing a trio of ponies slaving away over the communications equipment. There was a stench of overheated electrical wires in the air, an almost omnipresent smell in the small compartment. A stack of radios, the internal telephone switchboard, and the slightly older-fashioned telegraphy gear completed the setup for the two mares and one stallion to keep the ship in contact with the world- as long as they remained close enough to whatever they wished to contact. The telegraph and the radio both had short operational range, and could be so strongly affected by atmospheric conditions as to render them essentially useless.

Greenwood issued the order, and the radiomare tried her best to contact Harmony Bay. They were ninety nautical miles closer to the port than the Destiny, giving them a better chance of getting a message through, but she could not establish contact. Nothing but static, no reply. The airwaves were clear, and despite the overcast there was no meteorological reason why that should be the case- no electrical storms, no heavy weather in the vicinity. Yet there was no reply from Harmony Bay, which either meant that their message was not getting through, or that the port could not reply.

Greenwood returned to the bridge. "Captain, radio room reports unable to establish contact with Harmony Bay."

"Very well..." Oakheart grunted, now seated in his chair. He picked up the radio handset again. "Destiny, this is Defiant. Unable to establish contact with Harmony Bay, over."

"Understood, Defiant. Captain Wormwood advises we are going to close with the contacts to attempt a visual identification, over," came the reply.

"Defiant copies. We will standby for your report, over." Oakheart replaced the handset. "Helm, maintain present course, ahead one third, reduce speed."

"Maintain course, ahead one third, reduce speed, aye," the helmspony replied, moving the handle of the engine room telegraph beside his station, which in turn rang a bell down in the engine room and moved a corresponding device to indicate to the engine crews what speed was being requested by the bridge. One third ahead meant the Captain wanted one third of the ship's normal top speed, which equated to ten knots. He did not want the Defiant to be moving too fast in any given direction in case it was required to proceed either toward the Destiny or back toward Harmony Bay. The rendezvous with their fellow destroyer was clearly off the table at least temporarily while she investigated the unknown vessels.

The Defiant and her crew waited. They were at action stations, just in case, but there was silence over the airwaves for a few minutes. Oakheart lit his pipe and puffed away as he sat brooding in his captain's chair. Greenwood stood at his station at the side of the bridge. At the signal of action stations, the searchlights on the bridge wings had been switched off, just in case, as they could attract the attention of a foe as well as a friend. As a result, there was even less to see beyond the windows than there had been before.

"Defiant, this is Destiny!" came the suddenly panicked voice of the radio operator aboard the other vessel. "Hostile contact, I say again, hostile contact! We are under attack!"

"Destiny, this is Defiant. We copy. Can you identify the enemy, over?" Oakheart demanded. There was a burst of static and then the radio operator's voice again, this time backed by the urgent blaring of the fire alarm signal over the Destiny's internal circuit.

"It's the Kirin!"

"Destiny, say again. Did you say Kirin?" Oakheart questioned, exchanging a glance with Lieutenant Fennel.

"Affirmative, Defiant! We have visual confirmation, they are flying the Kirin battle flags and they match the vessel identification profiles we have. If you cannot establish radio contact, Captain Wormwood requests you return to Harmony Bay immediately and alert the fleet!"

"Understood, Destiny. Inform Captain Wormwood we will return to Harmony Bay. How many contacts do you have, over?" Oakheart asked.

"We have counted six battleships, possibly four battlecruisers, at least nine cruisers...it's an entire warfleet," replied the radiopony. "I don't know how many other ships..." A thud could be heard in the background, followed by a loud roar a few moments later. "Defiant, Defiant, are you still receiving me?!" he cried.

"Affirmative, Destiny. We hear you," Oakheart assured him, a little, calm voice in the sudden chaos that was his world now, trapped in his claustrophobic radio room with hell all around. The dull sounds of battle could be heard over the radio.

"Get out of here, Defiant. Run! You have to alert the fleet before it's too late. They're not out here for a fucking exercise, and there's only one possible target!" Another bang made the signal crackle. "Ah, hell...my leg..." the radiopony groaned. "Get back to the fleet...we're done for, I think. Came too close...in range of their heavy guns, but we had to...to identify them...they were ignoring our signals...yeah, we're done..." The broadcast suddenly cut out completely.

"Helm!" Oakheart called. "Steer heading three-one-zero. All ahead full. Get us back to Harmony Bay. Mister Greenwood? Sound battle stations."