The Unbroken Chain

13:46 - 02/07/1007 - Ursagrad, Chiropterra

It was Sunday, or Moonnight, and Merzaal and Abdaz were sharing a table at ‘The Cow House’, a small pub on a big street. For most, it would be a little too early to start drinking, but they had to go in early for work the next day. Merzaal had already gotten to the bottom of a glass of ale by the time Abdaz arrived, as Abdaz had been preoccupied with another arrangement around midday.

“You still go to temple services?” Merzaal chucked, his laugh laden with hints of disbelief and curiosity. “Why?”

“Habit, I guess.” Abdaz shrugged and sipped his drink.

“Habit?” Another chuckle escaped Merzaal’s smiling lips, confused more than anything else. “You’ve made a habit of taking a couple hours out of your Moonnight, one of two nights off you get, and using them to listen to those fanatic’s propaganda?”

“The Moonspeakers at the one I go to are alright!” said Abdaz, defensively. “Most of the time, anyway. The sermons tonight were…” Abdaz took a long sip from his drink, brow set and eyes in the corner of the room. “Political, in a way? Not political in the sense that they were telling me who to vote for, but political in that it sounded a lot like what the local politicians have all been saying at speeches and in debates.”

“For what?” Merzaal scrunched his snout. “Oh, right,” he said, remembering that there were some elections scheduled in a few nights.

“I take it you haven’t been paying much attention,” Abdaz observed.

“Not much reason to, I’m not a citizen yet,” said Merzaal. “I’ve just heard what’s on the radio and, heh, whatever Spich keeps ranting about.”

“Oh yeah?” Abdaz took a swig of his drink. “What’d he say?”

“That you’re an idiot if you care about or support anyone running because they’re all…” Merzaal’s hoof hovered in front of his mouth, trying to remember the words Spichka used. “...Bourgeois chauvinists, opportunist settler colonial, imperialist social-fascists.” He laughed. “All I asked him was who was running! I can’t even vote!”

Abdaz shared the laugh. “It’s like he wants to make everyone around him as miserable as he is!”

“So.” Merzaal slipped around in his chair. “You know things. You can vote. What’s going on in the ‘wonderful’ world of politics? I’m surprised they’re even holding elections in the first place.”

“Ah!” Abdaz sat up. His composure and tone went from casual to professional, like a switch had flipped in his head. “Well, after victory over the Storm King, the Dominion was reformed into the Commonwealth and Viceroy Saturn Hawkrich ordered- Erm, you know who he is?”

Merzaal nodded. “Eh enough. Some big shot general who came here after something during the Crystal War.”

“Good.” Abdaz smiled. “He pushed through a bunch of democratic reforms on the Commonwealth, including stuff like an elected legislature, allowing loyal opposition organisations to exist, democratic accountability for the Premier and government, an independent judiciary, that kind of thing. Pretty much ensuring the civilian government was in charge, not a military one.”

“And the fanatics just… Accepted this?” Merzaal leaned forwards to put his front knees on the table.

“The Viceroy is Nightmare Moon’s personal representative in Chiropterra,” Abdaz explained. “Going against his word means going against Nightmare Moon. He’s pretty much the next best thing to the word of the goddess.”

“Huh.” Merzaal leaned back into his chair. “I see.”

“Anyway, a bunch of new parties and political groups all sprung up when the ban on opposition was lifted,” said Abdaz, gesturing broadly with his hooves. “Most of the old guard, the hardliners associated with the Legions, all got together and formed the United Commonwealth Party. While reform minded Chiropterrans mostly gathered into the National Democratic Party, led by Governor Carrot Stick.”

“Bet that doesn’t get confusing at all,” Merzaal sipped his drink. “Any others? Like, a native interests party?”

Abdaz shrugged, grimacing. “A few. There’s a former labourer running in my district for provincial assembly, but I’m worried she’s just gonna split the vote.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s multiple elections being held on the same night. One is for provincial assemblies, local government and what have you, and one is for the constitutional convention, as well as any other special cases, like local offices such as city Mayor in Ursagrad,” Abdaz explained. “Now imagine, for any of the races, if it’s between a conservative and a reformer and there are fifty-five reformers for every forty-five hardliners amongst the voters. You’d expect the reformer to win, right?”

“Right.”

“But, if the reformers have two candidates, and fifteen of the reformers vote for the second candidate, then the conservative gets the most votes and wins,” Abdaz explained. “The conservative stays in power, all because the reformers split their votes.” He picked up his glass and brought it to his mouth.

The argument landed like a feather against Merzaal. “That’s not the fault of the reformers at all. That’s how the system was set up.”

Abdaz paused before sipping from his drink. “Those are the rules of the game, unfortunately. They’re not completely fair, but they’re what we’ve got.”

“Would you vote for a native interests party if you thought it had a chance?” Merzaal asked.

Abdaz took a long sip. “Probably,” he answered with a smack of his lips.

Merzaal paused. “Who told you she didn’t have a chance?”

Abdaz chuckled under his breath. “Maths. Former labourers and natives are only ten, fifteen percent of the district max. We’re nowhere near a majority,” Abdaz said, plainly. “So you know, you have to take what you can get.”

“Okay, but, if the margin to win is within that ten to fifteen percent, then, you can leverage that, right?” Merzaal suggested. “Like, tell them you won’t support them unless they do something for us?”

“And risk the old guard keeping power?” Abdaz scoffed as he brought his drink up to his mouth. “Hell no. That’s what they’re banking on, a divided opposition. I’m just hoping everyone else in our district sees it that way.”

“There’s a lot of natives and former labourers in your neighbourhood, though,” Merzaal noted.

“It’s not just my neighbourhood, it’s a lot of the city grouped into one district. They needed to divide the whole province into sixty evenly sized districts, and my district happens to include Pillarsky, Rulaport, Corona Hills-”

“Corona Hills?” Merzaal nearly spit out a mouthful of ale. “That’s halfway across the city. Why are you sharing a district with them? It’s where all the rich old slavers live!”

“I don’t know,” Abdaz admitted, “it’s just how they divided it up.”

“Is the whole province split up like that? Our neighbourhoods clumped in with all the conservative areas?” Merzaal chuckled in disbelief, but knew he shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. “Sounds like they’re trying to make our vote worthless in every race!”

“I wouldn’t say every race,” Abdaz shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know why it’s divided that way.”

“You said we’re only fifteen percent of the city’s population. If we’re fifteen percent in each district, then there will never be a zebra like us in the assembly!” Merzaal laughed a hollow, gasping laugh. “We’re always gonna be outnumbered!”

“Look, it’s still a significant proportion, enough to swing a race,” said Abdaz.

“So what? If you’re not going to leverage it, what does it matter?” Merzaal threw his front hooves up. When Abdaz didn’t answer immediately, Merzaal brought them back down.

Abdaz sighed, leaning on the table and pressing a hoof into his chin. “I want to at least give them a chance, they want to change the country for the better,” he said, his voice soft and focused. “There are a lot of actual good people running, guys on our side. Take the National Democrat running in my district for the provincial assembly. Around a decade ago he was sent to prison for assisting escaped labourers. He was only let out when the NAC was abolished.”

Merzaal’s expression softened, his ears sticking up. “Is that so?”

“Yeah!” Abdaz nodded, a smile growing on his lips. “And the National Democrat candidate for the Constitutional Convention in my district? He’d been a moonspeaker for thirty years, and he never once used slave labour in his temples and constantly used his platform to advocate for our emancipation. If he’s elected he’ll push for all former labourers to get citizenship as a constitutional guarantee.”

“Huh, okay.” Merzaal nodded along as Abdaz spoke. It sounded better than he expected. “What about the other one going on, the Mayoral election?”

“For that one, it’s really more a case of keeping the conservative out. I wonder if…” Abdaz poked his head up and scanned around the room like a periscope. He spotted an abandoned newspaper on a nearby table and grabbed it. “Ah, here.”

Abdaz dropped the newspaper onto the table and flipped through the first few pages, quickly coming onto a story about the Mayoral election with photos of the two leading candidates.

“So you have these two candidates.” He pointed to the picture on the left, a portrait of a middle-aged stallion with an ostentatious pinstripe overcoat and a well-groomed beard and mane. His chin was held high, like he was looking down at the viewer. “This here is the United Commonwealth candidate, Aspen Blaze. He’s the incumbent, and member of Clan Reed. So you know, real blue blooded asshole. Probably wishes he could put us back in chains.”

“Figured.” Merzaal nodded. Even for someone who didn’t follow politics, he knew Clan Reed was bad news for a former labourer.

Abdaz’s hoof moved to the picture on the right. “And then you have their main challenger, the National Democrats’ candidate, Onyx Shield.”

And on the utterance of that name, the world went deathly silent in Merzaal’s ears. Like the cord powering his hearing had been yanked out of its socket.

Abdaz’s mouth continued to move, but all Merzaal heard was a steady muffle drowned out by a deafening echo. Onyx Shield. Onyx Shield. Onyx Shield.

The picture in the newspaper was an earth pony stallion with sharp, clean features, wearing a Chiropterran military officers’ uniform. The photo was in black and white, but Merzaal knew his true colours. The coat a peachy shade of orange, the short-crop mane a rose red. His silver eyes were level with the camera, casting a confident smirk. A smirk that said, “Remember me? I’m still here.”

Merzaal did.

Eleven and a half years back. Wedged into a suffocating throng of bodies within the walls of a cold hangar. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to flank, there was barely space for him to breathe. What breathes he took were thick and stale, heavy with the tang of sweat and dread. Every face he saw was etched with fear, their expressions mirroring his own silent terror. Catwalks stretched above them, casting long shadows onto the huddled mass. Armed guards prowled along the catwalks, cold, practised gazes watching for any hints of unrest and loaded rifles ready to put them out.

Just hours earlier he’d been driving a lorry along the coast, like any other night. An obstruction on the road ahead made him slow his vehicle to a stop. Before he could even get a look at what it was, the door burst open. A sack went over his head. He was dragged out by unseen assailants. He was hogtied. He was thrown onto a boat. And when the sack came off, he was staring down the cold barrel of a Chiropterran gun, ensuring he didn’t move a muscle even as the ropes were loosened and shackles put in place.

A door swung open onto the catwalk above them. Two ponies exited onto it. Their boots stamped against the metal grating, stealing the attention of the gathered captives. The first was a thestral with a coat and mane black as coal, covered in battle scars and donning a weathered combat uniform. Following after, an earth pony in a neatly pressed officer’s uniform.

“And here’s our bounty, Captain Onyx Shield.” The thestral took flight, gesturing proudly to the warehouse full of captives.

Captain Onyx Shield’s eyes scanned the gathered captives coldly, like he would a field of crops ready for harvest. “Impressive, Lieutenant. Total number?”

“Three thirty, Captain,” the thestral answered with a grin.

“Three hundred and thirty?” Captain Onyx Shield’s eyebrows shot up, a smile raising his lips. “Good work, well above the miners quota. What’s the distribution by sex?”

“About sixty-forty, favouring males, though if it favoured them seventy-thirty, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’d say, uhh, a little around one-ninety males, and the rest females.” The thestral gently landed on the catwalk. “What do we do with the excess, Captain?”

“Hrm.” Captain Onyx Shield stroked his chin, a long drawn-out pause before his next words. “Send any capable males off to the mine, make up the difference with any tougher looking females. Keep the rest in custody for a while. I’ll reach out across the area, someone will find a use for them.”

The thestral sniggered, licking their lips as they eyed up the collection of the captive zebras. “Oh, we will, Captain! It’s been a long night, and my boys are itching for some relief!”

“Yeah, just nothing too rowdy, Lieutenant.” Onyx Shield gave the thestral a pat on the shoulder. “We’re bringing them here to do work, remember. I don’t need our haul damaged before we deliver it.” He stepped back and made for the exit, a broad, relieved smile never leaving his face.

“Alright, you heard the Captain!” The thestral announced. “Get the tough looking males and females onto the trains! The rest of the ladies are spending the night with us!”

The shutter doors groaned open with a metallic howl, filling the warehouse with noise and sickly industrial air. Above, the guards on the catwalks raised their rifles in a synchronised, methodical motion.

“And as for all you labourers?” The thestral’s eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he bared his fangs. “Last one outside gets shot!”

Fear exploded through the crowd, the mass of bodies surging towards the exit in a chaotic yet corralled stampede. Legs pushing and pulling. Zebras clashing against others. Panic overtaking reason. Merzaal had barely a moment to react before he was swept up in the crush of bodies. A low rumble filled the hangar, the thestral lieutenant releasing a sickening cackle. The world spun, dark and blurred, as he was jostled from all sides. Dread was suffocating and blinding, like a thick cloud of smoke in a burning house as the roof collapsed in.

“Merzaal?”

The sound of Abdaz’s voice tore Merzaal back to the present moment. He was still in the pub. His drink was where it was. Abdaz was still across from him, and that same picture was in the newspaper. He had only been staring at it for a few seconds, but it felt like he was in that hangar for hours. Felt like he had always been there.

“Merzaal, I’m here.” Abdaz put his hooves on Merzaal’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Merzaal sat up, his jaw shut tight like a bear trap. He turned slowly to face Abdaz, trying to keep his breathing under control. There was a slight furrow in Abdaz’s brow, eyes soft in quiet concern.

“That’s him.” Merzaal tapped on Captain Onyx Shield’s picture. “That’s the one who sent me to the mines. On the night I was kidnapped.”

The look on Abdaz’s face evaporated like drops of water on a hot stove, lips parting in a startled gasp, his eyes wide. “Oh Za’al.”

Merzaal turned to look at the picture. That smirk seemed to know him, mock him. He huffed steam out of his nostrils, lips quivering. “And you’re telling me that’s the reformer candidate.”