The Battleship Ponytemkin

by James Washburn

Rating: everyone
Tags: Adventure, Princess Celestia, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Prince Blueblood
Length: 34635

A crew of OCs hijack a battleship, warranting decisive action from Canterlot

Faced with an incompetent captain, orders that make no sense, and a winter of boredom and terrible coffee, the choice for Stoker was to either like it, or lump it. So he chose mutiny instead. Unfortunately, life is seldom as simple as all that, especially in the frozen north of Equestria. Before the day is out, he will have to face a royal visit, negotiations, a terrifying new weapon, and history that wants to be repeated.

With a complete chorus of soldiers, sailors, tractor axle makers, princesses, terrible bars, crossed wires and big mistakes, you could do a damn sight worse than read The Battleship Ponytemkin.

Published 2012-10-20 19:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-10-20 19:10:01 UTC

Chapter Two - The Devil Makes Work For Idle Hooves

Chapter Two

The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hooves

“Bugger this for a game of sailors,” proclaimed Stoker.

Keel gave him a rueful smile as he turned away from the blazing furnace mouth and wiped his brow. They and three other ponies had been told to keep boiler eight at full steam, and for the past four hours they had. They’d even been allowed half an hour break to catch their breath. The heat in the engine room seared their skin and sweat cut streams through the coal dust on their flanks, faces and hooves. Stoker had refused to take off his boilersuit, though, and regretted it. He felt pain in muscles he didn’t even know he had and coal dust filled his nose with every breath, scouring his sinuses. It was like breathing brillo pads.

“Bloody ship,” said Stoker, panting, “bloody captain and his bloody combat readiness...”

Keel remained silent, shovelling coal from heap to boiler. Stoker was finding it somewhat harder to be so stoic about the situation, though. He knew that he was expected to obey his superiors, and accept their judgement without question, but then again, he’d been told lots of things.

“Why are we doing this again, Keel?” said Stoker, taking a moment to lean on his shovel idly, sweat plastering his pastel blue mane to his forehead.

Keel grimaced “you took the oath, didn’t you?”

“Well, of course.”

“You swore obedience and fealty to Equestria and its ponies didn’t you?”

“’Course, Keel.”

“Then, by extension, you swore fealty to the officers of the navy, right?”

Stoker mulled this over. He mulled it a little more. He pored over the notion, but no matter how he thought about it, he reached the same conclusion.

“But this is bollocks,” he said “there’s no point to this except covering up the captain’s idiocy.”

Keel’s smile only widened. He gave a shrug.

“The way of the world, my little pony.”

True as this may have been, Stoker was unconvinced. He stared into the furnace and thought. He thought of his family, his friends (such as they had been). He thought of growing up in Grimesby, all the pointless things he'd been told, pointless tasks he’d undertaken, at home, at school, at the academy, and now here. He saw them all in his head, injustice after injustice piled upon each other, compressing, fossilizing, becoming coal...

And burning. Burning the whole damn thing away.

And like that, it came to him. It was rash, it was bloody stupid, but that didn’t matter. He was mad as hell, and wouldn’t take this anymore.

“You know what, I’m not going to stand for this," he said, simply. "I’m sitting this out.”

“Kid, you were complaining there wasn’t enough work the other day,” said Keel.

“That was different! I wanted action, not this!”

Keel gave Stoker a hard look. You could’ve beaten steel on it.

“That’s nigh on mutiny. We don’t do mutiny.”

Stoker should have stopped there, but the fire was in him. Fire which had burnt up his common sense.

“Maybe you should too, then,” he said, jaw stuck out pugnaciously, “because this isn’t what I signed up for! I signed up to make Equestria a safer place, I signed up for honour, for justice and all that. I did not sign up for this! This is ridiculous! This is pointless! This is makework!”

To make his point, he sat down heavily. Keel sighed heavily.

“Well, at least get some more water, so’s I can wash.”

Stoker shook his head.

“I shan’t do anything to support this work either.”

Keel sighed and sat down beside him. There was an awkward silence.

“I thought this was mutiny,” said Stoker.

“What you’re doing is mutiny,” said Keel. “I’m taking a break because, in the light of extenuating circumstances, further exertion would be folly.” and then, because Stoker’s jaw refused to come up for air “So there.”

They sat in silence. A unicorn, gender and colour indeterminate under the regulation boiler suit and layers of soot, turned about. He (or she) was quite shocked to find his (or her) compatriots suddenly doing nothing.

“I’m mutinying,” said Stoker, pre-emptively, “so you don’t have to work.”

The unicorn couldn’t have looked more puzzled if Stoker had proposed a chocolate fireguard.

“You’ll get it in the neck for that,” said the unicorn, matter of fact. Stoker recognised the voice as Shetland’s. She was a fairly reasonable mare, generally speaking.

“Exactly,” said Stoker, smiling “You can just blame me. Simple.”

The unicorn was about to point out that this plan, while simple, defied all sense, decency and logic. Then she realised she’d been shovelling coal for four hours without a break, and couldn’t expect one until the whims of fate decided she should. She relayed this point of view to the other two ponies at boiler eight.

Before long, all five ponies of were sat, caked in soot and resolutely not doing anything. After a while, a curious pony from boiler nine walked over.

“Hey, er, why aren’t you guys working?” he asked.

“Mutinied.”

“Because this work’s pointless and the captain's an idiot,” said Stoker, ever the social realist.

“Well huh,” said the pony, looking curiously at the group. Slowly, he caught on. A smile dawned on his face. “Might mutiny too, you know, for the sake of solidarity.”

“Oh if you must,” said Keel, whose grin had returned.

The pony sat himself by his boiler. The question of what the hay he thought he was doing came from his compatriots. There was a brief, hurried explanation. The ponies of boiler nine reached a conclusion and sat themselves down outside their boiler. Boiler ten came over for a query, and soon joined them. Boiler eleven quickly followed suit. Feeling left out, boiler seven came for a chat. Boiler six came too.

Before long, the whole row was either mutinying or couldn’t work because of the mutineers (depending on their personal feelings about the new captain). The next row went quiet soon after. The irregular clatter of ponies downing tools echoed throughout the ship.

Behind him, Stoker felt the last fires of boiler eight die down behind them, to be replaced with the soft, faint green of the glow worm lamps high in the ceiling and a low murmur of ponies talking. In the quiet that followed, Keel started humming.

* * *

In his quarters, Blueblood was relaxing. He felt he’d earned it, after such a hectic... hour or so, issuing orders, issuing some more orders and... that... other thing he’d done. Either way, he was tired, and needed his rest. The captain’s quarters weren’t the height of luxury, but he supposed only two pillows, a smaller en suite and a thinner quilt were just sacrifices he would have to make. He was, after all, in the navy, and in command of such a prestigious vessel. Or rather, a ship that would become a prestigious vessel under his leadership.

Say what you wanted about Blueblood (lord knows many did) but you couldn't fault him for not having faith in himself.

He was just lying back in bed, a book of Field Marshall Hayg’s most famous last-stands open beside him, when he noticed that it seemed terribly chilly all of a sudden. Irritated, he cast about for a servant’s bell to ring, and then remembered where he was.

He stood up, stuck his head out of the doorway and bawled for service. Soon enough, an earth pony char-wallah trotted past, balancing a tray of empty mugs on his head. Not many appreciated the work of the humble char-wallah, and Blueblood was certainly not among them. He put a hoof on the wallah’s shoulder and yanked him to one side.

Regulation mugs, teaspoons and used teabags went everywhere. The poor pony stood with an expression of utter despair, looking at Blueblood in shock and awe. Then, because you do such things when your only understanding of social mobility is to fetch tea for a better class of officer, he saluted.

“Sir...?” He asked, voice quavering.

“Go and see what’s wrong with the heating,” said Blueblood. “Just find out why it’s gone off all of a sudden, would you kindly?”

The char-wallah shook all over. Confusion battled fear across his face.

“Good good,” said Blueblood, taking the wallah’s pause to be awed reverence. "Off you pop, then.”

The char-wallah gathered his tray, hoiked it on to his back and trotted off down the corridor.

* * *

On deck, Anchorage was stripping and cleaning one of the big deck crossbows, though that rather oversimplifies the effort involved. The stock was held together with six large bolts, which required considerable jaw and neck strength to undo. Strength that Anchorage had found he did not possess.

After that, the bow needed releasing. This, Anchorage now knew, was a serious procedure, since one wrong move could send the bowstring lashing out at whatever unfortunate was working on it. After that there was the trigger assembly, which even the unicorns were having trouble with. It was like pulling hairs out of a cat. At any moment, he had found, removing the wrong bit would send something small and vital ricocheting off across the deck. The whole thing was very much a learning exercise.

Anchorage brushed frozen perspiration out of his mane and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He was just about to loosen the mainspring when a sudden movement startled him. He looked up suddenly and glimpsed a bay char-wallah disappear off down the gangway to the engine rooms. The mainspring made a daring escape and pinged off across the deck. Anchorage swore and looked up at the disappearing shape of the wallah.

“Hmph. Where d’you suppose he was going in a hurry?”

“Probably getting tea down below,” said another pegasus, wrestling with her bowstring. “That is what char-wallahs do, you know.”

“You’d think that,” said Anchorage, thoughtfully, “but his tray was full of empties.”

They had a contemplative moment before turning back to their work.

It was only a moment later when the char-wallah rushed back out on deck again, looking like he’d seen a ghost. He dashed back towards the bridge tower in a panic. Anchorage paid him little heed and went back to annoying himself with the trigger mechanism. He bit his lip, or would’ve if he hadn’t had a screwdriver in his mouth. He tightened his grip on it and started again with the mechanism. He fiddled the sear out of place, rolled the nut out and flipped the catch. He put down his screwdriver and picked up a pair of tweezers and a tiny piece of cotton wool to clean them with.

There was a flash of armour and sabres and a clatter of hooves on deck as a squad of marines crashed past, shouting at cross purposes. The pieces bounced away across the deck, and Anchorage swore violently.

The marines cantered down the passageway to the engine rooms. All were armed with the half-pikes used for fighting inside tight corridors, and two were carrying a heavy crossbow of the kind they used to repel boarders. It was the same basic design as the deck crossbows, but was loaded with grapeshot rather than a solid bolt. What it lacked in range it made up for in blanket ruination. It could fill the air with so much shot it’d make you wish you could breathe lead. Anchorage tried to remember to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help but gawk.

* * *

Down in the engine rooms, the pace of things had relaxed. Things didn’t seem too badly, all things considered, thought Stoker. A pack of cards had been produced and, from somewhere, a guitar was being played inexpertly. There was nothing down there to eat or drink, but a char-wallah had come down and Keel had had the presence of mind to give him a tall order for tea and biscuits.

“And one for yourself, brother,” Keel had said, half-jokingly as the char-wallah had bolted out of the engine room.

But until the tea got here, they had to sit tight and wait. The ponies of boiler eight were quite happily playing a few rounds of Blackmail (Trottingham rules, three cards, Duke goes last). Stoker felt, like all beginners among experts, that he was doing rather well, blissfully unaware of his position as a lamb among laser-sharks. He glanced at the others, careful to hide his cards. Keel was grinning like a lunatic, as per usual, but the others were utterly inscrutable. Poker-faces honed on the edge of colossal losses and catastrophic wins, they all seemed as stone-faced as each other. Only Jockmond seemed faintly pleased with himself. Stoker also noted nopony had sat near him.

He gave his cards a quick look and was about to call Keel’s stupid, grinning bluff when a tremendous thundering erupted from the stairwell. The stairs came down opposite boiler eight, so they saw the shadows before they saw the marines themselves. They watched as they burst out into the open, two of them quaking under the weight of a huge crossbow.

The marines swiftly formed a perimeter with admirable efficiency, the crossbow set up to block the door and the others gathered in a semi-circle around it. It was loaded with a sling full of shot, the pellets glinting like malign plums. Their leader, a purplish looking earth pony, stepped forward. Keel put his cards down and walked towards her. Stoker grimaced instinctively. Keel hadn’t wiped off his grin.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the marines’ leader, imperiously.

“Just taking a rest, ma’am,” said Keel. “We felt one was in order, y’know?”

Keel knew he was in luck. This marine had one of those ‘quick-draw’ neck sheaths preferred by the flashier kind of thug. Keel felt more at ease facing a pony who thought it was good tactical sense to keep a knife next to their throat. Stoker stepped up beside him loyally, head held high.

“You know the drill,” she sneered. “The orders were very clear. Any pony not performing his or her task is to be-“

“-imprisoned in the brig and will face proceedings, yes, yes, I know,” said Keel, rolling his eyes, “and we will perform our task, the moment we’ve had a breather.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it. You work or we make you.”

Keel felt ready to dare. The marine had her name engraved on her neck-sheath. He knew who he was dealing with. In all probability, that’s where it went wrong. Behind Keel, the ponies of boiler eight congregated to stare (except for Jockmond, who was checking everyone else’s abandoned cards).

“Look, Ms... Przewalski, is it? I respect your blustering threats of violence and hard-headed manner. I don’t doubt that’s what got you where you are today; leader of a glorified bunch of semi-literate brutes who can’t cross the road and whistle. But we’re tired. We want a break.”

The aforementioned Przewalski gritted her teeth. It might’ve passed for a smile, seen in the wrong light.

“It’s Prizewalker, actually,” she said, with a towering self-assurance measurable only in Trixies. “And you’ll get as long a break as you need from your hospital bed.”

She stepped aside. There was a horrible moment as Stoker saw the pony behind the crossbow hit the firing stud. Ponies leapt out of the way as the crossbow fired and sent a wall of shot forwards. Stoker lunged at Keel and yanked at his foreleg, taking most of Keel down with him. Stoker felt the shot whizz overhead. Something made a noise like a sledgehammer hitting a ball of dough. Then, all was silent. Stoker caught his breath, lying in the lee of Keel’s body.

Stoker got up slowly and looked around. It looked like the shot had mostly hit the boiler and had ricocheted off into the dark corners of the room, which was good news. The rest of the boiler team had hit the deck too, so no one looked hurt either. Stoker was feeling quite good with himself, until he looked down and saw Keel.

Keel was lying very still, his chest dented, a ball of shot the size of a golf ball lying beside him. It gleamed dull grey in the soft green light. All eyes followed Stokers, taking the full measure of the injury.

There was a moment’s pause. Then, as one, the ponies of boiler eight threw themselves at the hapless marines.

The fight was brief, and most of the injuries self-inflicted. That is to say, Stoker mused dreamily, trying to inflict injury on an enraged engine-room pony was as good as inflicting it on yourself. Especially when they’ve closed the distance and swinging your pike is as likely to take off your mate’s ear as the other guys.

He’d have admitted it had looked ropey for a moment, but then boiler nine had turned up, with their tools. There’d only been six or seven marines, not including the now-supine Prizewalker, and they were all either down or pretending to be to avoid the wrath of shovels, spanners and other assorted tools arrayed about their heads.

Stoker took no part in the curb-stomp. He hunkered down beside Keel, who was breathing(thank god, thank god), but was still in a bad way. Stoker was no doctor, but he was sure Keel’s ribs weren’t supposed to look like that, and the skin was taking on a rather interesting shade of purple. He was lying on his side, wound on display for all to see. Stoker cradled his head in his hooves. As tradition demanded, Stoker asked if he was okay. As tradition also demanded, Keel’s response was not cordial.

No, Stoker, I am not okay,” he said, his voice a whispering shadow of his usual booming tones. “My ribs have... gone, I think.”

“But you’re not dying, are you Keel?” said Stoker, which didn’t sound like Stoker wanted at all. It sounded like a worried foal asking if grandma was going to wake up, not a proud warrior’s assertion.

By way of answer, Keel coughed mightily.

“Might be...” he said, closing his eyes. “Damn shame...”

Stoker stood slowly. Around him, the ponies of boilers eight and nine congregated. A few of the marines who had only been playing possum lifted their heads. Stoker gave them all a careful, measured look. Every face bore concern and worry, even the marines. The ponies from boiler ten had wandered over too, jostling for a look-in.

History might choose the winners, but individuals get the first roll of the dice. Stoker’s eyes lit up with fury and filled with a very specific kind of vengeance. When he spoke, he spoke with the voice of experience and authority. To everypony watching, he seemed a foot taller, although that might just have been a trick of the light.

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” he said.

He pointed at two marines, “You two, get Keel to the medical bay now,” he turned to the ponies of boiler eight. “Irons, Shetland, you know how to get a stretcher together. Help them,”

The ponies leapt to it. Irons, Shetland and the two marines dashed off as if propelled by Celestia herself. Stoker hesitated, only for a moment. Ponies didn’t leap at his every word. Grizzled veterans never stood at his beck and call. All the same, he wasn’t about to question it now.

“Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think it’s time we did something about this. I’m going to have a chat to the captain about his conduct. Anypony else want to come with?”

He set off at a slow trot up the stairs. Behind him, drawn by some force unknown to pony, the boiler room crew,and even some of the marines, followed.

Chapter Three - Red Bucktober

Chapter Three

Red Bucktober

Anchorage groaned and tried again. This was going to be the death of him, he knew it. For the fifth time, he tried to shove the mainspring back into place, though he was beyond caring, to be frank. It was the second crossbow he’d had to reassemble today and it was easily the worst.

Just as he thought that, he blinked at just the wrong moment. A bead of perspiration froze on his eyelash, broke off and fell on to the spring. It poinked askew and bounced off across the deck, followed by a slew of curses only a sailor could know. He was about to go and fetch it, when he was distracted by a clattering of hooves.

A stream of terrified ponies, orderlies, flunkies and char-wallahs, burst out of the gangway to the engine rooms. Instinctively, Anchorage hit the deck and lay down while the stampede stampeded by. All Anchorage could see were hooves swinging at his head, so he shut is eyes and waited for it to pass.

After a spell, it did, thundering off into the bridge tower. Anchorage sat up slowly and patted himself down. A quick check revealed that, externally at least, he was fine. All the right parts still in the right places and whatnot. What was less fine, however, was this terrible throbbing in his head, like the stampede had somehow got inside his brain. He shook his head, and felt it spreading down his shoulders, through his hooves. What the hay was this? Soon enough, he was shaking all over. He’d have put it down to shock, but he was grizzled navy veteran, or at least liked to think so. Panicked flunkies should be a walk in the park.

His crossbow was shaking. Bits and pieces danced and leapt out of the stock and across the deck. He made to go after them, but they hopped and skipped away, like happy little jumping beans. Anchorage could have sworn they were laughing at him.

He stared at where they had been, eyes despondent, and then proceeded to go very slightly wild.

They’d ruined it. The hours spent, undoing EVERY screw, taking out EVERY piece, undoing that WRETCHED string. Anchorage’s stood slowly, teeth gritted. He turned to the doorway where the rumbling came from and stood his ground. Hooves apart, head down, wings spread wide, and he waited.

(Behind him, he heard marines, maybe a dozen or so, clatter into place, pikes lowered. He was past caring, though)

He didn’t have to wait long. Something huge, many legged and many throated burst out of the small doorway, roaring and stomping, and suddenly, there in the cold, harsh light of day was the engine room crew. Soot-stained, red-faced, huffing and panting after the run up, they looked in no mood to bandy words. Any thought of fighting left Anchorage in an instant like a late-night curry the morning after. The mob flowed around him, and charged right over to the thin, blue line.

The mob pulled up just in front of the marines, within spitting distance, and stayed there in silence. Or as close as you can get to silence with a hundred or so seething, armed engineers. It was a silence textured with the soft rattle of weapons and armour on ponies who suddenly didn’t much want to be holding them. The marines may have been armed, but there were a lot of engineers.

Anchorage peered over the heads of the assembled crush. He wasn’t too tall, but a quick flutter let him hover over the heads of the groundwalkers. What was that, up near the front? A single pony walked out into the gap between the engineers and the marines, and it took Anchorage a double-take to see it was Stoker. Ha! Little Stoker! No longer the whingeing, snot-nosed so and so Anchorage had spoken to the night before! Stoker held his head high now, and cleared his throat with a loud, authoritative sound. All eyes were on him.

“Fellow crewponies! Marines, able seaponies, char-wallahs! Put down your weapons, you have nothing to fear from us!” said Stoker. “We’re here to depose the captain! We want to discuss his present policy face to face!”

There was a roar of assent from the mob, and a few of the marines inched back. This did not dissuade the earth pony marine sergeant who stepped out to meet Stoker, though. His mane was shaved to a furze, and his front hooves shod in steels shoes. He didn’t look like the neck-sheath sort.

“Look, you lot!” He bawled. “I’ll not have this on my watch! This is a bloody BATTLESHIP! You are NOT seeing the captain! You will return to your posts this instant, or I'll clap you in irons!”

He looked like he would, too. Personally, if necessary. A few of the nearest rioters reeled under his verbal storm, but Stoker stood strong.

“Sergeant Hardcolt, isn’t it?” he said. “You know we’re all in this together! You know as well as anypony the new guard rotas! The hours in freezing temperatures!” He floundered mentally for a moment before he hit on a perfect lie. “I heard they’re bringing in a patriotism hour for goodness sake! We can end this rule of pointless orders!”

There were a few grumbles from the marines. One or two exchanged glances. Sergeant Hardcolt growled.

“Don’t you ‘we’ me, sonny Jim! That’s what they told us at Mareva. ‘We’re all in this together’, ‘just stick together’. Look where that got us! My entire section wiped out!”

“...while the commanders made their escape,” Stoker finished for him. “It doesn’t have to be like that! We have a chance to organise the ship for ourselves! We won’t have to put up with any asinine captains!”

Hardcolt snorted and stamped.

“So you’re pushing for this ship to be run by committee?”

“Yes!”

The sergeant could only stare. Stoker took advantage of it.

“Look, the captain is an idiot, right? So it stands to reason we should get rid of him before he does something really stupid! Besides, who feels like taking orders from him for the next six months?”

A grand total of nopony raised a hoof. Even Sergeant Hardcolt looked uneasy.

“Now I know you have a duty to protect Equestria and I know this looks like mutiny,” he went on, walking up to the wavering line of spear-points, “but think for yourselves; do you want to have to kill your comrades? Just ask yourselves. Now, are you with me?”

The marines looked on. A few cheered, many dropped their pikes.

“You’re all good ponies, all strong, all capable, but you’ll all be led into perdition by this asinine pillock in the bridge tower!”

“What, Beaufort?” said someone from the back. There was a ripple of chuckles on both sides.

“Alright, alright, you know the one I mean. The bastard in blonde and blue. Look, we’ve got to stop this, before it gets any worse! Think about what it means if he stays in charge!”

More clattering of weapons. Hardcolt growled again, but found himself surrounded by marines in quite different frames of mind to him. He gritted his teeth and shrugged.

“Well, I guess I can’t stop you. No point fighting and dying against you lot." He nodded behind at the bridge tower. ”Do what you gotta, I suppose."

Stoker nodded low to Hardcolt. Then, he took up position between the lines of marines and engine-room ponies.

“Alright, you lot! Are we going to buck the captain into next week?”

There was a rousing cry of ‘YES!’ Hardcolt shrugged, begrudgingly.

“Are we going to take this anymore?”

The air shook with ‘NO!’

“Then come on, comrades!” Stoker’s grin broke like the sun through clouds. “Let’s kick some righteous flank!”

* * *

The cheers and clattering hooves shook the glass of the bridge. Behind the glass, Loggerhead, Beaufort and the captain all stood together in a huddle. They were the only attendees to the emergency meeting Blueblood had convened. Only maybe a quarter of an ago, Blueblood had been faced with a shaking, quaking char-wallah squeaking something about revolt and mutiny. Swift action would be needed, he’d reasoned, but he hadn’t reckoned on just how swift. Things had escalated quickly. He had an armed mob on his hooves now. And more to the point, he had only two senior officers present. The chief navigator had locked himself in his map room and the chief engineer had already made a run for it.

Still, now was not the time to panic. And he wasn’t panicking. He was certain of that, even if his quivering knees and liquid bowels weren’t.

“Gentlecolts, we seem to have a full-scale mutiny on our hands,” he said, far shriller than he’d have liked. “Any ideas as to how we might combat it?”

Loggerhead and Beaufort looked at each other. The sound of the mob moved under them as it swarmed into the bridge tower. Decisive action was needed.

“I won’t lie, sir, it looks like the Swing Riots all over again, sir,” said Beaufort. “We haven’t a snowball’s chance, sir, if we stay here.”

“I believe, sir, as officers, we are allowed dispensation to leave the ship, sir,” said Loggerhead.

“No!” shouted Blueblood, with what he thought was a bold tone of command (although it verged on a squeal). “You’re the first and second mates! You can’t just up and leave because of one small problem!”

“Sir, I’d think that’s a perfect reason to leave,” said Beaufort. “We’ll be first against the wall. No offense, but I have a family in Mintsk I’d like to see again.”

“You can’t do this! I am your captain!”

“To be frank, that doesn’t seem to count for much right now,” said Beaufort, shrugging .

Crashes, bangs and muffled curses drummed up through the floor.

“Sounds like they’ve reached the officers’ mess already,” said Loggerhead, conversationally. “Plenty of strong drink down there...”

“Look, sir, why don’t we go out and try to talk them down?” said Beaufort.

Blueblood was shaken by the desperation in his voice. He bit his lip.

“We’ve got some fine espresso down there. That’d put the wind up ‘em...” Loggerhead muttered.

Blueblood cracked, and said “Will it work? Talking to them, I mean.”

“Probably not, but it might buy us some time,” said Beaufort, his eyes full of calm. “Why, would you rather go out?”

Blueblood fidgeted and cast about. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there wasn’t anything else to be done except go down fighting. The fighting, he suspected, would be awfully brief, and the going down painful and protracted. Rather them than him if they were willing, he supposed.

“Well, alright then. I wish you the best.”

The sound of the mob built up along the corridor outside. The situation seemed to demand some demonstration of solidarity, so Blueblood shook hooves and patted the mates on the shoulder in turn. They raised their heads nobly and opened the door. Up the stairwell, the sounds of the mob rose, but if the mates were afraid, they didn’t show it.

Beaufort and Loggerhead took one final glance back, and then shut the door behind them. Blueblood shoved a desk over it once they’d gone. He had faith in his subordinates, but he trusted a heavy bit of furniture more.

* * *

Stoker ran on at the head of the mob, wild-eyed and grinning. He could feel the swell and flow of the mob, sense it like some kind of creature. He was borne aloft on wings of audacity as they swept down the corridors of the bridge tower, hot on the heels of fleeing officers and flunkies.

They charged along the corridor to the bridge when two figures stepped out. Beaufort and Loggerhead stood at the other end, heads up, chins jutting out. They were unarmed, but the way they stood indicated that that wouldn’t matter to them, although it would matter a great deal to whoever got in their way.

Stoker pulled up just in front of them and the mob piled up behind him. The ponies closest roared in defiance and tried to surge forward, but Stoker held them back with a gesture.

“Stop right there, you!” said Beaufort, voice barely quavering.

“Yes, stand down and go back the way you came,” said Loggerhead.

“Look, you clowns,” said Stoker, “we’ve already had one tense stand-off today and we really don’t have the time for another. Anyway, you don’t honestly think you’ve got a chance, do you?”

Beaufort looked for the answer on the floor and ceiling, glancing around bashfully. The wind was blowing due Stoker, and he hadn’t stayed second mate by ignoring the prevailing current of opinion. Loggerhead, who didn’t possess his comrade’s weather eye, fixed Stoker with a look.

“Unlike you, I have some shred of honour. Unlike you, I would rather die than relinquish this ship, or its captain to the likes of you.”

Stoker lowered his head and pawed at the ground.

“Ho yes, how very like you!” said Loggerhead, chuckling. “You bloody revolutionaries are all the same. I saw the same thing at Trotpuddle, don’t you know. The Trotpuddle Martyrs they called them. Traitors to a pony. Consumed by their own bloody arrogance, they were! And the Swing Riots! You remember them? ‘Course not, you young foal.”

In place of any usual response, Stoker took a step forward. The mob followed behind him, weapons makeshift and actual gleaming and clashing. It made a more effective demonstration than any witty line.

“Well when you put it like that,” said Beaufort, tugging Loggerhead aside frantically, “I suppose we’re not quite so unimpressed.”

Beaufort hauled Loggerhead out of the way and into a side door. Stoker gave them a curt nod of thanks and charged the mob onwards.

* * *

Blueblood heard the exchange outside and fumed as only he could. The cowards! The traitors! He was shocked and appalled at their conduct. He’d have them court-martialled once this was all over! Or whatever the naval equivalent of a court-martial was. He’d probably been off sick when they’d taught that at Stalliongrad...

His train of thought was abruptly derailed by a tremendous thump against the door. The feet of the desk scraped against the floor. Blueblood stepped back, eyes fixed on the door. The desk jumped forward, the door shook and the hinges creaked and bowed. He backed up against the large, sweeping windows of the bridge. So this was it: the last stand of Captain Blueblood. All his training, experience and extensive reading came down to this moment. He cast his mind back to his time at the Stalliongrad academy (or the bits he hadn’t slept through or been hungover during). He called to mind all his heroes; Commander Hurricane, Naponyon, Field Marshall Hayg, and wondered how they would have handled the situation. The door buckled again and the desk jumped under another onslaught.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, it came to him. He levitated a heavy mug from the table and turned to the great windows. With great care, he threw it through a pane of glass. It was a naval service mug, much wider at the bottom so as not to fall over in heavy seas, so it made quite a hole in the window. He followed it, a bow-wave of magic forcing the hole wider as he jumped out, just as the barricade broke under the force of mob rule.

* * *

Stoker made it in ahead of everyone else, and still only saw the back-end of Blueblood disappearing through the window in a flash of magic and tinkle of glass. He cursed with words he didn’t even know he knew and ran up to the window, only to be greeted by the sight of Blueblood limping away across the deck. He cursed again. Anchorage, out of nowhere, trotted beside him, glass crackling underhoof, and kicked away at the edges of the hole Blueblood had made in the window.

“Where did you come from?” said Stoker. “What’re you doing?”

“I followed you up, and I’m making our way out. You want to catch him, right?”

“Yes...?”

"Then hold on. I’ll take us down there.”

Stoker put a hoof around Anchorage’s midsection. He pawed at the floor, and ran at the hole and leapt through. The glass grazed Stoker's side, but he was too preoccupied by the sudden acceleration to notice. Anchorage blizted out of the bridge window and glided down to the deck. Stoker just hung on for dear life or grim death, whichever came first.

Of course, Anchorage didn’t have the wingpower necessary to carry him and Stoker any significant distance, but they just needed to soften the landing. They both hit the deck, rolled, and dashed onwards without a pause. They weaved between the detritus on the deck, all dropped mugs, tools, abandoned crossbows and bits of crossbow.

Blueblood was already making good time, limping for all he was worth. He moved with desperate speed, making a beeline for the gap in the railings where the ramp down to the dock was. He abruptly stopped when he saw that the marines, in their natural efficiency, had removed the ramp, as per his instructions. After all, if there was no more shore leave, then there was no need for a way off the ship.

If he’d had any air left in his lungs, he would have sworn. Behind him Stoker and Anchorage pulled up a few feet away, blocking any retreat.

Blueblood gritted his teeth and in a flash, levitated a crossbow from the ground. With some considerable application of magic, he cocked it and pivoted it round. The stock dragged along the deck but he was just about keeping the muzzle up. His aim wavered between Stoker and Anchorage.

“Don’t come any closer!” said Blueblood, eyes flashing anger behind his ragged mane. “Not unless you want a brand new frontal lobe piercing!”

Stoker stopped abruptly, but Anchorage continued until he was about a foot away until he realised that the crossbow was actually loaded. He stopped short.

“Look, just put the crossbow down,” said Stoker, holding up a hoof. “You can let this go now. No one has to die.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Blueblood snorted, but his eyes darted nervously. “You’ll not take this ship from me! I was put here to give you orders, and that’s what I’ll damn well do! So, I order you to about face and take your sorry flank back down to the engine room and rot!”

He waved the point of the crossbow over to Stoker to emphasise his opinion. Stoker’s whole body went rigid. For the second time today he was facing immediate death by crossbow. He couldn’t be having with this.

“Look, just put it down, will you?” he said, deliberately. “Then we all get to go home in one piece.”

Sweat was beading on Blueblood’s forehead. That crossbow wouldn’t stay up for long. Anchorage decided to make a move, stepping towards him. Blueblood turned on a dime and whacked the firing stud.

Rather than the usual, reassuring THUNK, the crossbow went sproioioioing. Something small and delicate fell out of the bottom of the stock and the bolt fired backwards, embedding itself in the deck. Before anything else could happen, Anchorage headbutted Blueblood on the muzzle. The crossbow and Blueblood fell heavily.

The ponies watching from the bridge tower broke into applause. Cheers echoed around them. Stoker tilted his head up and grinned.

“Not bad for an afternoon’s work,” said Anchorage, nudging Blueblood tentatively with a hoof.

Chapter Four - On a Crossed Wire

Chapter Four

On a Crossed Wire

News travelled fast, of course, first by rail on the Solidarity Express to Stalliongrad. Blueblood had been thrown on at Nowheregorod station, bound and gagged among the other passengers from further down the coast. They wanted nothing to do with him of course; all tattered and bruised he looked quite disreputable. But then again, he also looked ever so interesting. After a while, curiosity got the better of them and they took out his gag.

He told them all about the revolution, the vicious mutineers, of murders in the street, of how (and he was proud of this) he had fought his way out single-hoofed, only to be betrayed by his second-in-commands and captured. He spoke of effigies of the Princesses burnt in the street, of officials strung up from the lampposts and of the rampant littering all taking place back in that hell-hole that Nowheregorod had become.

Now, the passengers were rational ponies, and understood that this couldn’t all be true. Most, if not all of it, had to be the fanciful imaginings of a pony down on his luck. So naturally, they repeated the story at every opportunity.

The news spread at every stop and flew across the north as officers and other culpable parties fled from Nowheregorod. In Grimesby, Manechester and Badenoughstok the word of the mutiny of the battleship Ponytemkin was heard. In Pasturekhan it was said that the mutineers had allied with the Vulga Cossacks, vicious tribesponies who rode one another into battle. In Murmanesk, ponies whispered that it was led by the only free Trotpuddle Martyr, who had survived the debacle at Canterloo and was looking for revenge. News became story, story became rumour.

And what rumour! It was too good not to pass on. In Stalliongrad, the air was alive with it. The rumour leapt on to letters to relatives and into the mouths of travellers bound for the south. By Dragonfire delivery and the pegasus couriers of the Royal Mail, it went south. It was late evening by the time it reached Canterlot and, eventually, Princess Celestia.

* * *

Celestia always prided herself on being hard to surprise. Ruling for a thousand years ought to provide you with a precedent for most things, so she tried not to look concerned as another letter was read out to her.

“...heard there’s been a terrible mutiny in Nowheregorod,” read the pony who’d brought it in. He stood tall, and stood all the taller for wearing the trenchcoat and trilby of the Curzon Street Indefatigables, “which they say has, ah, claimed the lives of so many. But I’m sure that it is just hearsay, all this talk of burning effigies, reindeer mercenaries and lynchings. So don’t worry, I’ll be home soon. We’ve censored the name.”

The Princess was silent, her face implacable. She had to be. The room was filled with the kind of pony who accumulates when a ruler calls an emergency session. Nobles, courtiers, ministers, and other assorted hangers-on all waited for reassurance. Even the guards inclined their heads to her. The Indefatigable with the letter glanced about nonchalantly, and the crowd averted their eyes. At last she spoke.

“Pass it to me.”

He trotted up and handed it over. Celestia made a show of reading it herself.

“Thank you, Copper,” she said, with a smile. He bowed his head and took his place near the back, where he was given a large space all to himself. Everyone understood the need for the Curzon Street Indefatigables in general terms, but weren’t too sure about meeting them in the street, so to speak.

She tossed the paper on to the mounting pile of letters, notes, telegraphs, anecdotes, reports, and stories from pony who knew a unicorn who knew a pegasus who said that had built up beside her.

Something had happened, that much was clear. Full scale mutiny aboard the Ponytemkin at the least and open revolt in the north at worst. That was why she’d asked to be kept abreast of things, and she’d be doing her people a disservice is she didn’t check every source available. It wasn’t as if it was spying, anyway. She had the chaps from Curzon Street for that.

If it was as bad as they said (and she had the names of who they were) then north would descend into anarchy within the week, if it hadn’t already. It wouldn’t be that bad, said her years of experience, but at the very least it would be bad. Maybe as bad as Trotpuddle, maybe as bad as the Swing Riots. She fervently hoped it would never be as bad as Canterloo. She still had nightmares about that.

Celestia composed herself and took a few deep breaths. Don’t panic, don’t fret, and if you do, don’t let them see it.

She smiled her smile. The one that could make a penniless, one-legged, one-eyed pony look on the bright side. The one on all the posters.

“Does anypony see a solution?”

From the back of the throne room, an olive drab earth pony in the red dress uniform of the Equestrian Army shouldered her way forward, and just behind, came a turquoise pegasus in the blue and white of the Equestian Royal Navy. Celestia recognised them with a certain dread as the Field Marshall and the Commodore. They bowed their heads to the Princess briefly, which she returned with a curt nod.

“If we may, Ma’am?” said the Commodore.

“Ah, so what do you make of the situation?” Celestia fixed him with her best smile, trying to winch up her sinking feeling. The Commodore was certainly of a nautical bent, in that he looked and sounded like something that had recently crawled out of the ocean, all watery eyes and rubbery lips.

“Well, it seems to me to be a naval matter,” he said, in a voice like a wet flannel. “We’ll need to apprehend the ponies responsible for the mutiny. Make an example, you understand.”

“But it is also a military matter,” said the Field Marshall, with the arrogance of forty generations of Field Marshalls. Celestia had met them all over the years, and always wished she hadn’t. “The mutineers will need pacifying. They are, may I note, in control of the better part of a town and possess a battleship.”

“In all fairness, my little ponies,” said Celestia, her mind full of memories of Canterloo and the implications of ‘pacifying’ riots, “I don’t think a military solution is necessarily wise. I should like to speak to these mutineers before anypony gets hurt.”

“Your majesty, these mutineers have shown their unwillingness to listen to their superiors,” said the Commodore. “A combined military effort is the best way, otherwise, where will the buck stop, if not with them?”

“So I- we reckon, it’d be best if we arrange a force to be sent north with all due speed,” the Field Marshall said. “The 1st Lancers are available, as of now, and I believe there’s a detachment of Royal Engineers working on the rail bridge, and I believe that... we... should...be...”

The Field Marshall mumbled to a stop. Celestia had fixed the commanders with a Look. It was a Look known only to absolute monarchs and the best teachers. It was not a Look that encouraged further discussion.

“I will go and try talk to the mutineers,” she said, slowly and purposefully, as though nothing in the world would stop her. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the north, and I shouldn’t like to drag you away from your duties.”

The Commodore said nothing, but the Field Marshall knew a good idea when she had one.

“Ma’am, with all due fairness, these ponies are a fundamentally bad example for the rest of the armed forces, nay, the rest of the country,” she said. “I mean, if the buck doesn’t stop with them, where will it stop? You’ve seen as well as anyone how they treated Captain Blueblood and the office.”

“Yes, Captain Blueblood. I heard,” Said Celestia, smiling oddly. “I shall leave tonight. If you don’t mind, I have some arrangements to make.”

The room was silent as she swept down from her pedestal and through the amassed ponies who fell to their knees, even the Commodore and the Field Marshall.

From down at fetlock level, they exchanged a look, as from one master of war to another. A crackle of understanding passed and an idea took root. They knew exactly where the buck would stop if not with the mutineers, and they were damned if they were going to let it.

The Princess went on her way down the corridor and up to her room. The light was just going outside, the sun dropping below the hills to the west and russet light was streaming in through the big windows. Folks always congratulated her on the sunsets, going on about the fiery reds and pinks and the beautiful autumn colours. She tried to tell them they had the weather teams to thank, but no one seemed quite ready to be poetic about particulate density and the peculiar qualities of stratus clouds. Sure, she could ask for some work on it, but you could tell their hearts weren’t in it when you made them do it.

She found her sister’s room and let herself in. Luna was fixing her tiara in front of a big mirror. She turned around, still looking a little fuzzy at the edges.

“I’m afraid I’m going away, sis,” said Celestia. “There’s been a... an incident.”

Luna nodded, blinking the sleep out her eyes. “So long as you return by morning.”

“That’s the thing,” said Celestia, glancing to one side nervously. “I’ll be going up north. It’ll be a good few days, in all likelihood.”

Luna grimaced and bit her lip, but remained silent.

“Don’t worry, that’s not that long,” Celestia said, trying to reassure her sister. “Nothing major to be done while I’m away, no big royal appearances expected. Just the usual, and I know you can deal with that.”

Luna nodded again slowly, but uncertainty camped on her face. Celestia gave her a smile. Not the poster-perfect one, but a private smile, for her sister’s eyes only. It was... warmer, somehow.

“I have absolute faith in you Luna, whatever they say. You can prove them wrong this time. Anyway, if I leave this to anyone else they’d only sodom canis the whole thing.”

Luna smiled faintly. “Well, do be careful, sister. You know what the north can be like. The land remembers what happened.”

“Don’t worry,” said Celestia, still smiling her sister’s smile. “I’ll be ready for it. I’m not like the Fisher Kings out east. The land and I have a very clear understanding of who owns who.”

“If you’re sure,” said Luna, with a shrug and a smile. “I wish you luck, although I daresay you can make your own.”

The laugh trickled down the halls like sunshine.

* * *

Outside, it was a cloudy night in Nowheregorod. The big warped bell in the crooked tower of Town Hall haphazardly tolled ten. Stoker, Anchorage and Keel were sat in the North Star, enjoying a drink. The apparent incongruity of actually enjoying any drink in the North Star might be remarkable, if it weren’t for what they were drinking.

The proprietor, aging unicorn with delusions of coastal tranquillity, had seen the impending crisis of hosting a small mob which had just committed mutiny and was in a mood to dare, especially with the repairs from last night still pending. Being a practical sort, she’d cracked out a case of the finest Chateau de Pommier Doux apple wine to keep them quiet. ‘15 vintage too, with its distinct aftertaste of blossom, sunshine and happy thoughts.

She’d had to serve it reduced price, but it was more than worth it in the extra repairs she reckoned wouldn’t have to make. At 17% vol it was a drink to lift the spirits and deaden the mind, but she hadn’t counted on was the natural resilience of sailor’s livers. These were ponies who had drunk sea water in a pinch. Most remained if not upright, then at least vocal, and the sounds of raucous good cheer drifted through the air. Luckily, it looked like it was just the sailors in tonight, for which she thanked Celestia from the depths of her heart.

“They didn’t know what hit ‘em, eh?” said Anchorage, grinning inanely, as one does after a few millilitres of Chateau Pommier Doux. “We showed ‘em right enough.”

“Sure enough,” said Stoker, who was looking off into the middle distance, one hoof on his untouched tumbler.

They’d marched Blueblood through the streets at the head of a whooping mob of mutineers and crewmembers who knew which way the wind was blowing, right to the train station where, against all probability, the Solidarity Express to Stalliongrad waited. Blueblood may have been tightfisted, but he’d positively leapt at the opportunity to pay for his own ticket.

After that they’d come back here for a spot of celebration. Stoker cast an eye over his comrades. Where another would have seen drunken troublemakers, he saw through his rose-tinted glasses a proud legion. Without them, none of this would’ve been possible. He’d done the shouting and the speaking, sure, but that was just froth. With ponies like this behind you, there was nothing you couldn’t do.

Nothing, eh? The question posed itself most unexpectedly in Stoker’s head. What couldn’t they do indeed? They already had the Ponytemkin. Holy cow, they actually had the Ponytemkin! The most powerful ship in the Royal Navy! Well, that was something to think about. Stoker’s mind shaped itself around the word pirate briefly but he quashed it. All the same, they had some considerable weaponry now...

“So, what’s the plan from here?” said Keel, propped up on his stretcher, his face unexpectedly stern.

Keel had taken the bolt surprisingly well. His ribs were in plaster and his breathing was laboured, but he’d insisted on coming out with them, despite the advice of the ship’s doctor. Stoker expected at least a smile or a ‘good on you’, but Keel had been quiet all evening.

“I, well, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” said Stoker, smiling and laughing nervously.

Keel’s face barely flickered. “Then you’ll need to. You may have defeated the dragon, but you still need to shift all the loot down the hill.”

”Whuh?”

“What Keel means,” said Anchorage, the hint of an inane grin around his mouth, “is that you need to consolidate your victory.”

“Right now, all you’ve done is overthrow Blueblood,” said Keel, very pointedly ignoring Anchorage, “and you didn’t even do that right. Look around you. This was a just a mob by anypony’s standards. They’re gonna wake up tomorrow and are going to collectively go ‘oh pony feathers, what did we do yesterday?’ and all they’re going to remember is some foal with a bright idea they got swept up in. And you’re going to need to be the pony to say ‘yes, we did that yesterday, and look at what we can do tomorrow’.”

“We could hide, couldn’t we?” said Stoker, with almost foal-like innocence. “That’s what they did after Mareva, wasn’t it?”

Keel’s first instinct was to bang his head on the table until either it or his skull was reduced to splinters. He wasn’t choosy about which.

“Mareva was different, son,” said Keel, hunching forward and trying to hide his frustration. “The trick of living off the land is to live off the ponies who live off the land, and they’re poor as church mice at the best of times. More to the point, we’d be fugitives, not a brave but defeated army.”

Stoker pondered again. “We could escape by sea. There’s bound to be an ice breaker somewhere near we could flag down to cut our way out.”

It was Anchorage’s turn to look disapproving. “No such luck. All shipping will be locked down for winter. Nothing’ll be coming within a hundred miles of here until spring.”

“No shipping?”

“Not now, and no time soon.”

“So, in essence, we are stuck here until Spring, with the entire force of the Equestrian army breathing down our necks and baying for our blood.”

Keel shrugged and took a draught from his tumbler. “It looks like it. If you ain’t careful, it’ll be Trotpuddle all over again. Could be Canterloo, even.”

“So what can we do?” said Stoker. He felt panic tickle up his back and sidle into his head. He’d read about the Massacre in books, and that had been enough. Six hundred armed Yeomanry charging at two thousand unarmed demonstrators in Canterbury Field didn’t make for pleasant reading.

“That’s rather your job, Kiddo,” said Keel, feeling the alcohol tickle down his throat and burn his head, “but it looks like we’ll have to hold out until spring comes, which means a long winter of either fighting, or the freezing cold since the ship’s stocks won’t last that long. That means you’ll have to persuade the town out of their grub. Most importantly, you need to give them an alternative, Stoker-me-colt. Something we can rally around. Something you can convince the world with.”

Anchorage raised a hoof. “Point of order, Keel, we’re sailors, not PR ponies.”

“Fair point, fair point. But we do have two things on our side. Firstly, that strike in town. They’ll be coming from a similar direction to us, won’t they? All peace, brotherhood and equality and whatnot. And secondly, we have our own agent provocateur,” He slapped Stoker on the back, “and plenty of time to let him get to work.”

“But I- what? I can’t- I, I don’t even-“ started Stoker.

“You’re gonna need to,” said Keel. His grin was made of iron. “When you dance with Discord, you wait for the music to stop.”

* * *

Stoker drifted into consciousness, through the haze of sleep and dream, to be confronted with the image of Anchorage above him, shaking him by the shoulders.

“C’mon, Stoker, get up,” he was saying, in a stage whisper that would have got him booed out of the theatre.

On balance, it was preferable to the usual marine/metal bar combo in terms of alarm calls, but he’d been interrupted in the middle of a perfectly good dream. The details, like all good dreams, had evaporated upon waking, but he was fairly there had been a pretty mare involved. And socks. He was quite certain about the socks.

“What? No, what? What time is it?” said Stoker, bleary-eyed. He could still hear the snores of the other ponies rumbling the background.

“Nearly six. But we need an early start. We need to make that speech to the crew."

“Speech?” said Stoker. It’s always an unpleasant feeling to find that the world has been making plans about you behind your back.

“Yeah, the speech you’re going to make this morning that’s gonna convince the doubters and unreliable elements, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, right.”

Stoker rolled out of his bunk and clambered down, trying not to make a sound. With Anchorage in tow, he crept out of the room. They set off down a corridor Stoker recognised.

“So, where are we making this speech, then?”

“We’ll do it in the lower galley. That’s big enough. We’ll need to make sure everypony comes though. And no one’s going to do the waking up this morning...”

Stoker groaned. “You’re not using the dinner gong, are you?”

“No other choice,” said Anchorage, trying not to grin.

The Ponytemkin was, as has been said, an impressive ship. If you wanted to walk every corridor, you’d be best to bring sandwiches and hiking boots. Given this, there were only two real ways of getting everypony to one place. The first was the usual marine-metal bar-shouting combo, and the other was the dinner gong.

It was a big, brass dish, ten feet across and an inch thick, hung on the wall of the lower galley just beside the door. It had been given as a gift, supposedly, by the captain of a Qilin junk in recognition of the Ponytemkin's timely rescue of his ship. Usually you tapped it with a stick and tried not to bleed from the ears from the noise. Even when it hadn’t been touched it hummed gently, as if anticipating the moment when it could shine.

Anchorage, who considered subtlety an interesting theory but of little practical use, gave it a buck. The vibrations travelled through the walls of the ship and shook tables across the hall. In the boiler room, coal stacks were dislodged and would have buried anypony working there, had they not all taken the morning off. Glass shook itself out of portholes.

The sound itself was something else entirely, bringing to mind an entire percussion section taking a tumble down a cliff. Its immediate effect on the crew was to A) wake them up and B) make many of them consider the possibility of wearing their brown trousers today.

Following the call, the crew streamed from their quarters in muzzied confusion, mild anger and (because it had been Pommier Doux the night before) painfully enforced sobriety. They staggered into the mess hall and slumped at their places, able seaponies, engineers, deckhooves. Something as up, though. The room wasn't usually that full, what with the reductions and whatnot, but even by usual standards it seemed empty.

A handful of officers headed by Beaufort strolled in. They took their places around the others, not pushing their luck or trying to pull rank. Beaufort approached Stoker, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Hope you don’t mind us sticking around. The chaps had a little pow-wow last night and we decided to throw in with you lot. Not all of us, you understand, quite a few decided to make a run for it with Loggerhead,” Beaufort said, casting his eyes low. He tried to brighten up. “Nonetheless, we happy few are here.”

"And are y- are they trustworthy?” said Anchorage, his voice rife with suspicion. Beaufort gave a nervous laugh.

“Trustworthy? Of course we are! Why, Brass Monkey over there grew up in Lower Manehattan, as proletarian as they come.”

Anchorage gave Stoker a look and received a shrug in response.

“Sounds alright to me,” he said. He put a hoof out to stop Beaufort. “One more thing, though. How many have gone?”

Beaufort shrugged. “A dozen officers or so. More from the ratings, I think.”

Stoker nodded and let him go.

The galley was getting more and more cramped as ponies came in, grumpy, confused and tired. Conversation bubbled up in worried knots and worried eyes flitted towards Stoker.

The quartermaster, Pokery Orlov swaggered in and up to Stoker and Anchorage, looking formidable with her mauve mane tied up on a bun and flanked by her brothers, Grigory and Thrupenny. Arranged together the three unicorns made a perfect gradient, with Grigory looming on one side, Thrupenny looking wistful and waifish on the other and Pokery looking bloody furious in the middle.

“I take it you’re the new chaps in charge, yes?” she said, looking down her nose at him. “There’s a terrible mix-up about breakfast, you know.”

Anchorage looked at Stoker for direction, but Stoker looked as puzzled as he felt.

“What... kind of problem?” said Stoker, carefully.

“The kind of problem where there are no designated officer’s places, everypony’s been summoned to the crew’s mess hall and none of the galley crew know what we’re supposed to be doing. I’m only in charge of catering, you see, and it’d matter to me very much if you could tell me where everything is supposed to be.”

Stoker blanked. He was a simple pony from engineering, and only understood food as something to eat. He was, of course, peripherally aware of the organisation around it, but that had always been someone else’s problem. He hadn’t realised that mutinying would mean his personal involvement in it. He opened his mouth to say something, and from somewhere the words came to him.

“All meals should be taken by everypony here, in the crew’s mess hall,” he said. “There should be plenty enough space for crew and officers, I daresay. It seems we’re a little thin on the ground.”

Pokery nodded slowly, eyeing Stoker up and down.

“No separate seating?”

“And only one set of cutlery, too,” said Stoker, with the son of Keel’s war-crime smile on his lips.

“If you say so,” said Pokery, eyes still on Stoker.

The Orlovs sat on the front row of tables, evicting four ponies from their seats (Grigory needed two, and was best placed to acquire them, being muscled like a bull on steroids). Pokery whispered something to Grigory who nodded and lumbered off and was followed back in by ponies with knives, forks, spoons, and mighty tureens of porridge.

Orlov porridge was legendary among the crew of the Ponytemkin, and indeed among the entire navy. It was apparently an old family recipe they brought with them from Sibearia, and had a particular way of adhering to the insides. It kept you warm and full, if not particularly comfortable.

At last, Keel was brought in on a stretcher with the last few medical personnel, who all wore the expression of those who have, quite against their will, spent a night in the company of Keel. Stoker gave him a nod and a received a wry grin.

“Reckon that’s as close to everyone as we’ll get,” said Anchorage with a shrug. “The floor is yours, maestro.”

Stoker stepped out in front of the gong and cleared his throat. The conversations in the hall continued regardless. He coughed genteelly again, and was genteelly ignored. Finally he kicked the gong lightly, and silence rippled through the crowd. Everypony’s eyes turned to him now.

Silence sloshed against the far wall and rippled back. Everything became muted to Stoker, until he was only aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. He shifted from one hoof to another. He waited for the words to spring into his mouth. The silence rolled on. Somepony coughed. All leaned forward. A few at the back had clambered on to tables for a better view.

“Right everypony,” he began. “I understand that you all might be in some confusion right now, as to what’s going to happen. So I feel I should take this opportunity to say that there’s still work to be done.”

There was a murmur of discontent. Stoker felt sweat bead on his forehead.

“B-but, it will be purposeful. You will have purpose! You will not be stoking boilers to heat empty rooms, or have to disassemble crossbows to keep you occupied. We to work together, because as we speak, the army of Equestria is no doubt mobilising to put us down.”

“Wait, WHAT?” said a voice, originating from an able seapony near the back of the hall.

“Mobilising to put us down?” said another.

“Well of course,” said Stoker, far more nonchalantly than he felt. “We did just commit mutiny on the largest ship in the fleet,”

“What WE?” said an officer. There was a murmur of agreement around the hall and a few hushed arguments.

“US! You know!” said Stoker. “The ones who threw Blueblood out! You were there, with us right?”

Glances were exchanged. Mutterings were muttered.

“Not me,” said one pony.

“Me neither,” said another.

I’m doomed, thought Stoker, they’re going to tear me to shreds. What do I tell them?

Then, something piped up. A small voice, deep in his head.

Remember. Give them an alternative.

And like that, the words came.

“Look, like it or not, we’re in this together. You remember Blueblood? What use would he have been in command? What use WAS he? Think about it. If you’re against us, you agree that he was a good choice for captain, and you just think about what that means. That kind of aristocracy is best in command? That’s what we want to run our country?”

“The Princesses run the country,” said a navigator, sat on the second row of tables.

“But who follows their orders? Who rules where they don’t? Do they ensure the best ponies for the jobs get thejobs? I think Blueblood proves that wrong!”

The room absorbed his words. Stoker paused as his brain caught up with his mouth.

“Look, I am not advocating revolution. That’d be stupid. What we need is a better system. We need equality, we need liberty, and... that kind of thing. Otherwise we’ll just get another Blueblood. And they’ll turn up everywhere, incompetent git after incompetent git!”

The room was silent. Even the gong had stopped its usual hum. The shadows seemed to have congregated behind Stoker as if they were listening as intently as everyone else. He stood out against a dark background like a Prima Donna on stage.

“But if we’re gonna achieve that, we need to survive here. And that means spreading the word. Which leads me on to what we need from you. First of all, who here can sew?”

There was a moment of bafflement. Then a couple dozen hooves went up, mostly unicorns and surprisingly few officers. Thrupenny Orlov was waving enthusiastically at the front.

“Right! We need you to make banners, propaganda for our cause! Orlovs, do you have the material we need?”

You could have split rocks with Pokery’s poker face. She nodded curtly.

“It’ll have to be red,” she said, sharpening each word. “Thrupenny rather over-ordered on red material after the last royal parade.”

“Hey, I thought that if every uniform was red then we’d never have to worry about mixing them up with the white ones!”

“It doesn’t matter now, that’s fine,” said Stoker, before the Orlovs could escalate (and no one could escalate like old Sibearian families). “Everypony with their hooves up, would you kindly go with Thrupenny Orlov? He’ll lead you in your efforts. I’m sure you can think up some stirring slogans, Thrupenny?”

“Sure can! I bet we can get some kind of symbol for us, too. What about a star? Stars tessellate pretty well, right? Less wasted material.”

Stoker nodded. For him, the stress, strain, the fear of his own life was all made moot by the look of pure, unbridled joy on Thrupenny’s face. He was born for this kind of thing.

“Very good. Now! The rest of you have an equally challenging task. First of all, the marines have to work on making the town as tight as a gnat’s proverbial. Defensible as anything. Can you do that for me?”

A slightly sour-looking Sergeant Hardcolt nodded. “I’ll see what I can rustle up, if that’s how it’s going to be.”

Stoker nodded back.

“Thank you. The rest of you, we are in all likelihood about to be up to our necks in it and we’re going to need every pony armed and dangerous. Now, anypony can be armed, but the dangerous only comes with practice. Therefore, Sergeant, would you be so kind as to offer those of who need it, myself included, a crash course in fighting?”

Hardcolt snorted. Then he realised Stoker was serious. He cast about for any other marines, and despite some vigorous shaking of heads, he said okay.

The crew might have argued the toss with Stoker the coal shoveller, but here was Stoker the Agent Provocateur. He had gravitas now.

“Right then! Let’s hop to it!”

The galley descended into a kind of good-natured chaos. Everypony was milling around, but they were milling with a purpose, at least. The newly-minted propaganda department gathered around Thrupenny Orlov who was revelling in his new-found power, the marines dithered as Hardcolt tried to get them organised in the traditional military manner (i.e. shouting) and every other pony rushed over to him. Stoker certainly had something going for him, thought Anchorage as he tried not to die in the crush. To think he was asleep an hour or so ago, and now he’s got the whole ship at his beck and call. Someone, somewhere must have an eye out for him.

After a few minutes of desperate rushing, the room was organised. Hardcolt was surrounded by a new class of cadets and was desperately trying to delegate as much responsibility to the other sergeants as possible. Over in the corner, Thrupenny was explaining the workings of a sewing machine. His voice drifted over, saying ’...this is your sewing machine. There are many like it, but this one is yours...’

Stoker, Anchorage and Keel stood together in a knot near the door.

“Well, Stoker,” said Keel, voice wheezing slightly, “you’ve done it again. Where’d you learn to talk like that? Where did all that about the ‘more equal system’ come from?”

Stoker shrugged. “You said to provide them with an alternative, so I did.”

“Heh, I’ll say. Heavens knows what you’ve started.”

Stoker smiled, and tried not to make it look forced. He didn’t do a very good job.

* * *

The sky was blue as a sailor’s trousers over Stalliongrad as the royal train swept in on the northbound Solidarity Express line. The city had been scheduled to have light snow, but it had been postponed on account of the Princess’ visit, the mayor having been spurred into action by the universal force that propels all public officials on short notice. The town was alive with rumours about the mutiny, and the arrival of the Princess seemed to confirm that something had happened.

Luckily, despite having been on board a train for nine hours (and a train designed for ponies half her size at that), the Princess had been able to make the rounds to all the big meeting places; Golden Square, the Mareva Memorial, and of course, the Winter Palace, calling for calm and doing her damnest to downplay the supposed crisis.

They were, of course, flawless speeches of eloquence that’d make any earthly speechwriter go green with envy. They were speeches that could put backbone in a blancmange. And they were well-attended, too. Clerks, shopkeepers, even foals and teachers took the day off to come and see the Princess tell them about the importance of solidarity, of staying calm and not paying attention to silly rumours about burning effigies. This gave the Curzon Street Indefatigables all the space they needed to do the kind of thing such ponies do. And didn’t they just find the most interesting things...

That was why Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane was in a dark, thick-walled cell somewhere deep in the Lug-Tanka Civic Guard station, debriefing the officers from the Ponytemkin who’d turned up under the Indefatigables’ auspices. She’d been told to confer with the naval liaison officer, but she didn’t want him involved. You could get into real trouble, letting the other guys on your level find out about what you were doing. It wasn’t like there were prizes for not being a sneaky bastard.

The officers all claimed to have escaped under cover of dark on the midnight express from Nowheregorod, and had in fact been picked up by the Indefatigables for just that reason. The details were vague at best, but what they all knew for sure was that the Ponytemkin was in the hands of a demagogue, who was leading the crew now. Nothing about rampaging hordes of savage tribesponies, though, or mercenaries, or tax collectors strung from washing lines or anything else of that kind. It sounded like a Sunday night gone wrong to her.

“They may be sterling chaps in their own right, but this is too far,” said the last one to be debriefed, the first mate Loggerhead. “If they have a grievance why can’t they just voice it like any normal pony, instead of declaring open warfare?”

Crossfire nodded halfheartedly. She knew in her heart of hearts didn’t have time for this, but the Field Marshall had asked for information on the Ponytemkin and if there was a better way to get it, she didn’t want to know it. Anyway, this might be the feather in her cap she needed to get transferred to a Royal Guard regiment. All golden breastplates and parades from there on in.

“So what is the strength of the Ponytemkin and its crew?” she said, fixing Loggerhead with her best no-nonsense glare.

He did his best to seem nonplussed, which he did despicably well. Bloody navy.

“Well, the ship itself is a mean customer. Finest navigation suite in the fleet, sighting instruments good enough to land a bomb in a pickle barrel at two miles, and it’s just been fitted with new catapults. You know, the new Model Nines out of the Toola arsenal.”

Crossfire nodded impatiently. The Model Nines were powerful enough to send a railway spike across town and accurate enough to pin your tail to the floor with it.

“And the crew?”

“The crew? Well I know for a fact that much of the officer class has quit the vessel. The chief navigator and chief engineer fled with a couple dozen of us officers, and a few more marines. Sergeants Prizewalker, Steadfast and Brawlings-”

“Yes, I know, I’ve just interviewed them,” Crossfire said, irritably. “What about the crew.”

“I believe the ratings are not in significant numbers,” Loggerhead said, with a dismissive toss of his head. “With the loss of many of the marines they’re hardly in fighting shape, and they lack any kind of leadership. Except, well, maybe one pony. But he’s hardly important. A foal playing at revolutionary.”

Crossfire nodded and smiled to herself. Most of the officers’ estimates had been around that, and if they were right (and Celestia help them if they weren’t) this was going to be easier than she’d dared hope. The force opposing them was sounding pitiful compared to what could be brought in.

“Alright then, that’ll be all,” she said, wandering over to the door. “Thank you for the information. I daresay the Indefatigables will want a word with you now, so it might be in your best interests to make yourself scarce.”

Loggerhead nodded and exited quickly. Crossfire sighed with relief. Well, with that over, she could get back to filing all that information and sending it back to the Field Marshall. First the report, then the transfer. She tied up her papers and carried them out in her mouth. She was just walking down the corridor when something rather spectacular happened.

First off, the door burst open on a cell right next to her. Well, less burst open, more blown off its hinges and reduced to splinters in a burst of light and noise. And, if the tinny taste to the air was any indicator, magic too. Crossfire pressed herself to the wall beside the door, and risked a peek inside. She saw, but didn’t believe. Princess Celestia was standing, tall and terrible, wings outstretched for maximum effect, over a unicorn. He was dressed in a Royal Navy uniform that looked like it’d been dragged backwards through a bush. He was holding his hooves over his head and his eyes were shut tight.

“YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF A SHIP FOR A SINGLE DAY AND YOU CAUSE A MUTINY,” roared Celestia, the walls shaking with the force of a full blast of the Canterlot Royal Voice.

The captain wasn’t unconscious, but he doubtless wished he was. The effect of the Canterlot Royal Voice in such close quarters was not dissimilar from the effect of a Claymore mine in a telephone box. Suffice to say it was very loud, very close and with a comparable effect on your mental wellbeing. The worst part was probably the immediate emotional empathy, which set Crossfire’s insides into a terrible stew of shame and self-loathing. Or maybe the worst part was that the voice wasn’t angry, it was disappointed, and that made it somehow so much worse.

“Look, it wasn’t like that,” said the captain, scuttling backward. “It wasn’t really my fault, you see I just gave a few orders and, and, and, and.”

“The fact remains that you have lost the most powerful warship in the fleet to a group of mutineers! I must say, I am extremely disappointed in you!”

The lone glow-worm bulb in the ceiling had blown out, sending crazy shadows across the walls as the flies blundered about. The Crossfire stayed hunkered down outside. She might have led the charge at Mareva, she might have rallied the troops at Thursk, but a pissed-off alicorn was more than anyone should have to deal with.

The Princess seemed to recover herself a little now, harrumphing and tossing her mane (although it moved quite happily by itself). She leaned her head out into the corridor, smiling pleasantly, although Crossfire still tried to back away.

“I do apologise, I was merely expressing my... disdain for my nephew’s conduct in here,” she cleared her throat with a dainty cough. What had she been thinking, using the Canterlot Royal Voice in an enclosed space? The land must be getting to her...

Crossfire mumbled reassurance that it was alright. She got up to go, but the Princess waved her into the cell.

“No, no, do stay,” she said, and Crossfire found herself unable not to. Celestia turned and stepped towards the captain. He scuttled back, hunched low. “First, dear nephew Blueblood, let’s establish how you were put in command of a battleship.”

“Mumblemumblewsn’tmyfltmumblemumble.”

“What was that?” said the Princess, crisply. “I thought you wanted to go to the Naval academy.”

“Well, as an experience,” said Blueblood, student of the university of life. “Not as a career. I didn’t realise they’d ship me out to some uncivilised hole like Nowheregorod.”

“Did you say that you didn’t want to go?”

“Well... no,” said Blueblood, shamefaced.

“So, you went to the academy of your own free will where you...?”

“Studied the art of naval warfare.”

“...Got drunk and defaced statues, according to your tutors,” Celestia said.

“That might have been part of it,” said Blueblood, grudgingly.

“Of course,” said Celestia, somehow managing to blink disapprovingly. “And from there, how did you become a captain?”

“Well, they said that a commission for captain had come up on a ship, and I thought that, well, maybe I could try that,” said Blueblood, emboldened by his own outrage. “In my capacity as a Prince, it was available free. I’d have been a fool not to!”

“Quite.”

“And it’s not as if I was to expect them to mutiny, to be so ungrateful for my frankly necessary reforms. I mean, as royalty, I’m supposed to take charge of such things, to be an example to others,” he sighed and looked mournfully into the middle distance. “I just can’t think what went wrong.”

“What indeed,” said Celestia, who glanced at Crossfire again. Celestia let out a sigh.

“Well, Leiutenant,” she said, turning to Crossfire, who was still unwilling to move, despite Celestia’s best smile. “I daresay you’d like to question this captain about his ship.”

Crossfire nodded slowly. Experience taught her that arguing with the big cheese was a bad move, and Celestia was about as big a cheese as you could get without being a hazard to air traffic.

“I should hope the information doesn’t become necessary,” said Celestia, her voice faintly warning.

“Can’t imagine why it would be,” said Crossfire, trying to smile sincerely.

Celestia returned it, though slightly warning. “Why indeed.”

“So, Captain Blueblood. Do enlighten us as to the precise nature of the mutiny...”

* * *

The sun was high in Nowheregorod and was, for a change fully visible. The air was cold but the sunlight warmed Stoker through his boiler suit as he stood on the slushy deck, his heart all aflutter. He glared across at Anchorage who stood with a sword clasped in his teeth, edging towards him with menace aforethought.

Stoker growled and stepped forward, keeping his own weapon (a finely-crafted Toola fighting shovel) balanced in his mouth. He made a feint right and was rewarded by a wild lunge from his opponent. He went for an uppercut with the shovel, but was deflected back as the pegasus recovered in record time.

He staggered and gritted his teeth around his shovel, digging into the grooves left by generations of fighters before him. Anchorage made to cut into his head with a straight lunge which Stoker swung to deflect with all his might. The shovel connected with the sword and Anchorage spun away with the impact. Stoker made to make an attack when Anchorage, still following the momentum, pirouetted on his front hoof, lifted himself slightly. Stoker’s shovel whirred past under his chin, smacking into the deck. Stoker made the mistake of looking up, where Anchorage’s sword descended, straight on to Stoker’s neck. A whistle blew.

“Well, alright,” said Sergeant Hardcolt, clipboard on the deck beside him. “Not bad, Anchorage. You might even try that in an actual fight, if you could convince the other pony to stay still and gawp like dear Stoker did.”

Stoker grumbled. It was Hardcolt’s heartfelt belief that the worst thing you do is praise someone about abilities they do not possess, and so he endeavoured to never praise anyone ever. Stoker suspected Hardcolt had nothing but a long list of pre-arranged putdowns on that clipboard.

“We’re doing our best,” said Anchorage, shrugging.

“Well quite,” said Hardcolt. “That seems to be the problem. No one can doubt your enthusiasm, only your results.”

They shared a glance across the deck, where the detritus had been cleared for space. Everywhere, ponies sparred in pairs, with marines keeping watch to make sure nopony had anything vital removed by an over-enthusiastic partner. The risk was low, of course since the handful of swords the marines could spare from the armoury were all blunt, rusted things that would’ve had trouble cutting butter. Largely, it looked like the biggest risk was tetanus.

Of course, there were so few swords to begin with, most were training with coal shovels which were awkward, heavy and were just as risky to the pony using them as your opponent. Keel sat on the sidelines, roaring with laughter every time somepony clocked themselves. The schadenfreude seemed to be doing him a world of good.

“We just need more time...” said Stoker, surveying his forces for any hint of success, but even through rose-tinted spectacles, you could tell they were still green as grass.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of a pony driven too far. At first Stoker though maybe some training had finally gotten out of hand, but a glance proved him wrong. A flying wedge of ponies was advancing across the deck, all dressed in the overalls of the tractor axle factory, headed by a lone unicorn, who was waving a sheet of paper wreathed in magic over his head. They were unarmed, but looked profoundly dangerous. The leader pulled up in front of Stoker, head held high with a look of distaste Pokery Orlov would have winced at.

“So, this is how it is, then?” he said, waving the paper in Stoker’s face. “We peacefully protest for months on end and the some freebooters steal our thunder, eh?”

Stoker tried to smile disarmingly, fully aware that disarming these ponies wasn’t the problem.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, dropping his fighting spade.

Anchorage and Hardcolt stood beside him, staring straight back at the unicorn, but he had eyes only for Stoker.

“This, is what I mean,” he said, throwing the piece of paper down in front of him, where it hovered of its own accord.

It was a single sheet of paper, covered in long, rolling script. It wasn’t writing so much as a single line that wove across the page, looping all about.

Princess Celestia (Ruler of Equestria, commander-in-chief of her armies, defender of the nation, Duchess of Cloudsdale, Baroness of Canterlot, Dogess of Neighples, Sol Invicta, The Eternal Light etc.) desires an audience with the mutineers of the battleship Ponytemkin in order to discuss the reasons for aforementioned mutiny and a possible settlement. Terms broadly negotiable, but don’t expect any favours. Arrival at 7:00 ish.

Stoker, Anchorage and Hardcolt stared at the notice. Other crewmembers, drawn by the sound of a good confrontation leaned over to have a look of their own. Mutters spread out as the new spread. The unicorn was smiling like the man who’s just sold you the spade you’re digging yourself a hole with.

“Well? Nothing to say for yourselves?”

“I’d certainly like to know how you got your hooves on it,” said Hardcolt, still reading.

“It just turned up in a puff of smoke at the post office. Addressed to ‘the rebels’, which I assumed would be us, but apparently not!”

“Well, so Princess wants a word with us,” said Stoker, shrugging. “That’s no crime, is it?”

“Ha! Your mutiny has detracted from the bold actions of the genuine social activists in this town! Those of the All-Equestrian Tractor Axle Factory Worker’s Union!” He paused “Or AETAFWU, for short.”

“Actions?” said Anchorage, eyes raised provocatively. “You’ve only been on strike. We stole a battleship.”

The unicorn’s eyes looked like he’d make a lunge for Anchorage, but the sight of his small knot of ponies being surrounded by the crew of the Ponytemkin made him think twice. He gritted his teeth instead.

“I’ll have you know it’s been a long and weary fight to improve the conditions of the ponies working in that factory,” he said, keeping his breathing steady. ”We’ve been doing all we can to get the attention of the Princesses but it’s been a bloody uphill struggle. We’ve sent petitions in, had them sent back, queried, lost, found, had them subjected to public inquiry, jumped through every bloody bureaucratic hoop they can think of and we’re still no closer.”

Stoker smiled. An idea lit up behind his eyes.

“Say, what’s your name?” he said slowly.

“Sandblast, regional leader of the AETAFWU,” he said with more than a touch of pride.

“Right, well, Sandblast, how’s about you and the... and your union come with us then and voice your grievances then eh? We’ve got a bunch of ponies below decks stitching banners, and I’m sure they could make one for you. We can make a show of solidarity.”

Sandblast looked a little taken aback. He’d expected a fight to the death, only to receive a bunch of flowers and a pat on the back. Mind you, the fact they were surrounded by swarthy seaponies did suggest a fight could still be on the cards. He turned to his accomplices, who all shrugged or nodded.

“I... suppose we could. The note said she’d be arriving this evening, didn’t it?”

“Right. We’ll meet her at the train station together,” Stoker gave Sandblast another smile.

“We’ll tell the mayor and all,” said Sandblast, smiling back, a little uneasily. “She’ll have a heart attack if the Princess turns up without her knowing. You just be sure to get some kind of promo’ material for us, eh?"

The ponies behind Sandblast all nodded, some less coerced than others. Sandblast gave Stoker the grin of a pony who’s not sure what’s just happened but is broadly pleased with what he thinks has happened.

“I’ll come with, if you don’t mind?” Said Stoker. “Just to make sure we’re represented in front of the mayor.”

“And me. You’re not to be trusted on your own,” said Anchorage, half-joking.

Stoker turned to Hardcolt “Would you mind coming with us?” he said.“We’ve got other work, by the look of things...”

* * *

The sun shone down on two ponies who weren’t there. They walked (or rather, didn’t walk) through the Stalliongrad train yards with the air of surreptitious importance. They passed between the various candy-coloured carriages, through to the cargo yards. Once they had, they hadn’t.

They hopped up inside a rather unassuming car and the door slid shut behind them. Inside, it was humid and full of the smell of the car’s last cargo which seemed to have consisted of incontinent sheep. It was lit only with a single glow worm bulb and the faint light shining through the slats, all serving to illuminate the... whatever it was in the middle of the car. It was a shape, long and low and covered in tarpaulin. The light, such as it was, also lit the shapes of a unicorn in a white coat, the naval liaison officer and Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane.

One of the newcomers cleared her throat. She was dressed in a khaki tunic and had the field-marshal’s insignia on her epaulets. Her eyes were puce and alive with barely-suppressed anger at the world in general.

“Right, I hope you all understand the gravity of the situation,” she said. Her voice was clipped, almost a bark, bred for command, “and thus why we’re all here. In deference to our Princess’ decision, we will not be resorting to immediate military action.”

“However, we thought it prudent to maintain a level of watchfulness over the situation,” said the other pony, bluey-green coat and dressed in a plain royal blue uniform with a bare minimum of white piping. His voice was a wet drawl, like he kept it in a fish tank.“Permanent surveillance as a precaution, a forward operations base, nothing out of the ordinary. Naturally, you are expected to undertake a show of force, should action be necessary.”

He didn’t say ‘And that would just be terrible’, but Crossfire heard it anyway.

"As such, we are putting all personnel on full preparedness. Elements of the 1st Lancers, Pasturekhan Rangers and the Jet Stream Guards are standing up on the Westbound line to Nowheregorod. As a precaution, you understand.”

Crossfire nodded, her face a picture of professionalism. Stupid arseholes, she thought. Top brass making trouble for a poor junior officer like her.

“Furthermore, we feel that the situation is serious enough to warrant the deployment of this.”

On cue, the unicorn twitched aside the tarpaulin. The light, such as it was, shone on six, long barrels, cogs, ratchets, springs, a veritable contrivance of mechanical bits. All of it had the dull look of well-polished iron and the sheen of oil. There was a moment of awkward silence. Those assembled were clearly supposed to be impressed, but they weren’t quite sure what by. Crossfire raised a hoof.

“If I may, what is it?”

Heads turned to the unicorn, who cleared her throat. She was pale and was shuffling from one hoof to the other like the ground was about to open up under her.

“Well, its official designation is the Model Four Rotary Cannon, but we find it easier to refer to it after the names of its inventors, Fifty Smith and Callisto Wesson.”

She coughed politely. “We call it the Fifty-Cal.”

“And what does it do?” said Crossfire.

“It’s designed to... it’s... well, to provide a... a high rate of fire over a, er, an, umm,” the unicorn faltered and halted. Words failed her. You could dress the thing up in technical language, she knew that much, but at a time like this, that hardly seemed appropriate. Not once you’d seen it tested. Not once you’d seen test dummies reduced to something you could sweep up and bury in a shot glass.

“It’s designed to kill as many of whatever you want it to kill in a short space of time,” she said at last. She gestured to a row of paper cylinders in the corner. “You load up the big tray with these things and pedal at the back, which turns the cog which rotates the barrels and strikes sparks off this bit here. It can get through a hundred shells in a couple of minutes. It’s sort of like a cannon that fires automatically.”

The Field Marshall and the Commodore exchanged nods, and Crossfire and the naval liaison officer nodded back. The unicorn, for her part, had gone slightly green.

"So there, you see,” said the Field Marshall, picking up the slack. “We do hope the use of this weapon is not necessary, but if the situation in Nowheregorod continues to escalate, then we expect you to take steps to prevent it by any means necessary.”

Two heads nodded. Despite the heat, the unicorn shivered. Then the liaison officer made a mistake.

“And of course, the Princess has given her full support for this action.”

He said it quite innocently, but the Field Marshall nonetheless fixed him with a stare that went straight past daggers and right into machetes.

“The Princess knows all she needs to know about this operation,” she said, icily.

Which was, strictly speaking, true.

Chapter Five - Realities of Power

Chapter Five

Realities of Power

The sun had gone down by seven o’clock, sunk down below the hills west of Nowheregorod. The cold had started to creep back, but Stoker just stamped his hooves and checked the station clock. Princess Celestia would be here soon enough. He gave the rest of the welcoming committee a reassuring smile.

Good lord, the Welcoming Committee. Or rather, the ‘Nowheregorod Royal Visit Acclimatisation And Administration Committee’ as Sandblast called it until everyone told him that the acronym looked like a bad deal in Scrabble. Such as it was, it represented what Stoker thought was a pretty reasonable cross-section of the movement. It consisted of himself, naturally, Anchorage, who had insisted on coming along, Beaufort, who had styled himself as the chief of etiquette (because they could hardly call him the officers' rep. under the circumstances), Hardcolt, whose exclusion would be unthinkable given his new position of head of security, Sandblast as a representative of the AETAFWU to show their new alliance, and the mayor.

The mayor hadn’t been best pleased to find that Princess Celestia had arranged a visit without telling her, but had rallied magnificently by firing orders off like fireworks on Hearth’s Warming Eve and demanding a place on the welcoming committee. She mightn’t have cared for anypony’s politics, but when it came to a royal visit, she was galvanised like nothing else.

All in all, they’d done quite a good job of sprucing the town up. Thrupenny and his teams had made some... banners, one of which fluttered cheerfully overhead. It was big and red (alright, so they were all red) and read ‘Well Come to Nowhereogrod, Princess Celestia. Curtsey of the Wellcoming Commiittee’. He may have been enthusiastic, but the fact remained Thrupenny’s approach to spelling was it from a distance, carrying a big stick.

The mayor was responsible for most of the preparations though, since it was she who’d suggested they dust off the Winter Wrap-Up boilers. Up north, they much favoured efficiency over tradition when it came to wrapping up winter, so they used big wheeled boilers to pump hot seawater through the streets, which made clearing the snow a lot easier.

Mind you, even with all that, though, they’d still needed all the crew of the Ponytemkin and the factory workers to actually clean the town up. The ponies of Nowheregorod spent all their days and nights inside during winter, so anywhere outside became a convenient place to put things no longer needed, since there was no point worrying if whatever you threw out was just going to get covered in snow. Stoker was slightly worried they hadn’t disposed of the rubbish in quite the right way, but Celestia probably wouldn’t want to look in the warehouses on the waterfront anyway. The mayor had assured them it had worked last time.

Besides, they needed the pegasi of the Ponytemkin and the factory workers who worked part-time on the weather team to clear the sky and send back any clouds that’d been sent their way. That was a nightmare in itself. The weather around here seemed to be going mad.

(This was because of a problem with the Northeast Weather Corps, who not only had the backlog from Stalliongrad to deal with, but every town that the royal train had passed though. It came to a head during the Murmanesk Monsoon in which a third of the town was washed away in the spring of the following year. Celestia visited the ruined town to oversee reconstruction, which caused another backlog on her way through. This.resulted in the Weather Corps instituting a less flexible weather policy. This sort of thing happens all the time. Far more than anypony would admit to, really).

The clock ticked to one minute past. The welcoming committee leaned forward as one and stared down the tracks. They vanished into the distance, off around the bend and remained resolutely train-less.

“She did say seven, right?” said the mayor, a trifle unsure.

“Well yes, but she has got half a country to go across first. It’d be hard to be precise,” said Stoker with a shrug.

“True, but she raises the sun across the entire country every morning at sunrise dead on. I mean, it’d be a pretty rum thing if she couldn’t even make the trains run on time.”

Sandblast and Beaufort murmured in a vague agreement.

“Look, it might be a while either side, okay? Anyway, it’s only a minute past. Anyone could make that mistake.”

“Two minutes,” said the mayor, pointedly.

“Well, alright, but still. To err is only equestrian, right?”

“Yeah, but the Princess isn’t us, is she?”

Stoker rolled his eyes. “Look, unless you’ve somewhere better to be...”

“Now you mention it, I should probably refile my cabinets after Sandblast-”

“...I’d advise you to stay.”

The atmosphere went stale after that. The mayor muttered something under her breath and glanced up at the clock. Still two minutes past. The time dragged by. In the street, the two rows of marines they’d arranged for a guard of honour were getting restless. Stoker started to shift from one hoof to the other. He was aware he hadn’t had time to change out of his boiler suit, and he’d barely had time to wash, let alone tidy himself up. He wondered if the royal train would be late enough to allow a last minute haircut. Mind you, did this town even have a hairdressers?

Three minutes past. Anchorage produced a pack of cards and started to shuffle.

Four minutes. Hardcolt suggested a game of Blackmail. Beaufort and the mayor declined and Stoker tacitly ignored it.

Five minutes. Stoker gave up and joined in.

Six minutes.

Seven.

Beaufort decided to get a hoof in.

Eight.

By the time the royal train rounded the bend with a triumphant blast of its foghorn, they were four rounds in and Beaufort was six bits fifty cents down. The players rushed to their feet and the mayor was shaken awake. They lined up at the platform’s edge, and stood not to attention necessarily, but at least to mild interest.

The royal train rolled into the station with a hiss of steam and a low chuffing, like some vast and terrifying creature with asthma. It was at least as high as any house in Nowheregorod, a long silver thing like a blunt eel, bedecked with royal insignia. Smoke and steam billowed out of the thing in huge waves. Stoker tried not to be impressed.

The carriage door opened and two lantern-jawed guards hopped out and kicked a set of steps down. They gave the welcoming committee a hard look, their eyes settling on Hardcolt, who glared back as good as he got. After a few moments, the guards’ eyes began to water. They took up position beside the doorway, trying to keep the look of uninterested alertness of guards everywhere. Princess Celestia descended the steps out of the carriage and on to the platform. She moved like she had never simply walked down anything in her life. Descending was her style.

The guards bowed their heads down as she passed. There was a minor ripple of uncertainty through the committee. The mayor bobbed as if to kneel, and Beaufort followed suit, but Stoker stood straight. Anchorage, Hardcolt and Sandblast stayed up too, both with similar expressions of resolve. Sandblast in particular had a look of hurt righteousness about him, his lip quivering nobly. They stood for a moment amidst the hissing, billowing steam, Stoker looking up into Celestia’s eyes.

“You’re late,” said Stoker.

“Fashionably late,” said Celestia, smiling.

Stoker smiled too, and the universe caught its breath.

“Welcome to Nowheregorod, on behalf of the welcoming committee,” he said, holding a hoof out to indicate the others.

“Charmed,” she said, nodding to the group.

Anchorage and Hardcolt nodded back, Sandblast stayed with his daring look. There was another pause.

“Shall we go on?”

“Of course, right, yes,” said Stoker, turning and leading the way. “We thought it best to hold talks at Town Hall. Big, plenty of space.”

Celestia gave a graceful nod.

The welcoming committee moved in front of Celestia, Stoker and Anchorage at the fore, followed by Hardcolt, Sandblast and the Mayor. They led the way between the lines of marines, who had abandoned their card games for the moment and were endeavouring to out-stoic the royal guards.

They rolled down National Stroll, a straight street to Town Hall hedged in by the usual grey, blocky Nowheregorod buildings and lit by a few industrial-strength sodium bug lamp posts. Town Hall dominated one end of the street, a large and rambling building with all sorts of additions; old columns of solid rock, later extensions in classical, neo-classical, pebble-dash, with minarets, turrets, gargoyles, ornate gutters, crenellations. It looked like someone had started designing it and forgotten to stop.

The only colour in the street was in the red banners and bunting strung across the street. Stoker passed under one that read ‘Ponies of the world untie, you have nothing to lose but your chins’. Sure, thought Stoker, that’s going to put the wind up the Princess isn’t it? He sighed. It had just seemed... seemed like the right thing to do. Banners, bunting, slogans. You needed all that, didn’t you?

The way was lined with was lined with Nowheregorod’s inhabitants who, despite the cold had ventured out nonetheless, dressed in their grey and brown and black winter clothes. None cheered. They had the air of ponies who could see the unstoppable force on its way to the immovable object, and despite being curious about the outcome, nonetheless worried about their proximity to it. Stoker spotted a few of Thrupenny’s protégés sporting red stars stitched on their jackets and overalls. One or two braver ones had painted them over their cutie marks.

He glanced back at Celestia, who seemed to be somewhere on the way to being angry, but was taking her time getting there. Her look suggested entomologist scrutinising a beetle armed with a handgun. Well, doubtless it’d all be better once they got to Town Hall and explained everything. She was a reasonable and fair monarch, wasn’t she? Known for it, she was. Anyway, she could hardly be expected to hold much against revolutionaries who couldn’t even spell. Stoker tried to force down the faint, warning voice in the back of his head.

Celestia, for her part, was trying to stay calm too. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, maybe a sudden ambush and imprisonment (ha! Let ‘em try), but it was, this certainly wasn’t it. Whatever this was. It certainly wasn’t Trotpuddle, which had just been a couple of malcontents with bad attitudes who didn’t know when to shut up. It didn’t look much like the Swing Riots either, this was too orderly and none of the buildings were looking burned and looted. And it sure as hell wasn’t anything like Canterloo. She’d make sure of that at least.

She felt like she was bracing herself for a storm that wasn’t coming. She sighed to herself. The land was making her on edge. Don’t let it get to you, she thought, not now.

* * *

Binoculars followed Stoker and his party down National Stroll from a hill a few miles away. It might’ve been a tad harder to get line of sight like this, but it’d be a cold day in hell before Crossfire Hurricane let the unicorns try scrying the target. She didn’t trust magic enough, even if it did mean spending a cold evening lying arse-deep in snow on some god-forsaken hilltop waiting on a train that was doing a damn good impression of one that was never going to arrive.

She could have waited a bit and gone with the command train, but that wasn’t going to be in position for a good while yet, and anyone knew how bad things could get in that time. Best to get in on the ground with the recon team just in case.

All said, it looked fairly normal down there. Well, normal for a royal visit at least. Okay, maybe the bunting was a different colour and no one was bowing, but, well, that was always just the icing, wasn’t it? No one was throwing anything at the procession, no one was mobbing the Princess, and there was no sign of anypony having been strung up from the lampposts. She began to wonder if the military caution was strictly necessary. It certainly didn’t look like a good show of trust on their part.

She lifted her head and turned to a lump of snow beside her. On further examination, it revealed itself to be the rest of the recon team, or Vickers, as he was otherwise known. He was a pretty rangy pony, and in his big camouflage jacket, he looked like another snowdrift. He was in charge of communications for this little jaunt, which meant he got to carry the fluorescent semaphore flags.

“Corporal?” she said, nudging him. “You awake?

“Just restin’ my eyes,” he muttered. He was part of the Stalliongrad Civic Guards regiment, but nonetheless had an affected accent from Lower Manehattan.

“Well, get up and smell the frying objects. The Princess is now in and proceeding to town hall. Send a message back.”

“Right, ma’am,” he said, creeping down into the lee of the hill. They probably wouldn’t see the flags from the town, but it was worth being safe and certain.

Crossfire hunkered back down to the binoculars and had another look. It wouldn’t pay to be caught unawares.

* * *

Anchorage and Hardcolt decided they’d stay outside (Anchorage whispered ‘knock ‘em dead, tiger’ to Stoker just loud enough for Celestia to hear) and the others ventured inside. The inside of Town Hall was little improvement on the outside. The corridor walls were all painted a sickly, lime green and all had the smell of floor-polish and boiled cabbage that pervades all big civic buildings after a time. Most of it was just a shell of newer additions around a far older building, at the heart of which was the meeting hall.

It was by far the oldest part of the building, all rough wood panelling and carvings in the old style, done long before anyone had thought to question the glorification of violence, or the application of violence as a diplomatic tool. They weren’t the kind of thing you’d want to look at after a heavy meal. The room was lit, albeit poorly, by high windows up near the roof, which should have made the carvings less threatening, but in the gloom the imagination just filled in the gaps.

The raised dais at the far end of the room was missing its throne of skulls, and the severed heads of enemies had been taken down in the name of diplomacy, but the room remembered. It was a place of power. It hit Celestia as she crossed the threshold, all that ancient authority and desiccated fury of those old ponies. She recognised it as something like the kind of emotional miasma she’d experienced only in the oldest dragon habitations. She tried to think calm thoughts, and not let it get to her. After those banners, those ponies in the street with their cutie marks painted over, the last thing she needed was to be stuck in a room this aggravating. She mustn’t let it get to her.

Stoker, Sandblast, the mayor all took places around the long rectangular oak table in the middle of the room as char-wallahs dashed around, doing what they did best. One, sensing a change in the air, made eye contact with Princess Celestia, giving what he imagined was a hard look and receiving a smile in return. She took a seat halfway down the table, across from Stoker. Sandblast and the mayor sat at either end of the table.

Rather than vanishing, as they usually did, the char-wallahs hung around, leaning insouciantly against the walls or sitting quietly, watching the ponies around the table. One had painted a red star over his cutie mark. Of course, she thought, they want me to see.

“Well,” she said, lifting her teacup .“I feel that some kind of formality may be in order?”

The mayor shrugged “Never really gone in for that kind of thing before.”

"I think Sandblast would like a word first, though,” said Stoker. “Before we go on any further.”

“Very well then.”

Sandblast stood, looking a mite nervous. Even at his full height he was still only at eye-level with Celestia.

“Well, your majesty, as you might know, we’ve sought an audience with you for some time,” he said. “But we have been unable to actually have one. You see, I represent the union of tractor axle factory workers here in Nowheregorod, and we have a long list of grievances against the present administration of said factory, chief among which are-“

Celestia raised a hoof as politely as possible “Why didn’t you just say?” she said, with a bemused frown. “The palace is open at all hours to petitioners.”

“That’s just it,” said Sandblast, recovering well from the interruption, “there’s no way any of us at the factory could afford the train to Canterlot. Not on the wages we get. Or rather, got.”

“Why didn’t you mail a petition, then?” said the Princess.

“We did. We were assured it would reach you.”

Celestia thought of Canterlot, and of her in-tray. She promised herself she would read every piece of correspondence and provide a response, but there were only so many hours in the day. Had there been something about industrial unrest in the north?

“I... apologise. I’ll look into your problem and see what can be done.“

“We have been on strike for six months,” said Sandblast, slowly. “I would like to be able to tell my people a little better than ‘she’s looking into it’.”

There was a sound from the char-wallahs, of air sucked between their teeth. They turned their heads to Celestia like spectators watching a tennis rally.

“Well then, what’s the name of the pony who owns the factory? I’ll pop down and talk to him after this meeting.”

Sandblast looked sheepish. “That’s just it. We don’t know who owns the factory.”

“Don’t know?” she said, the hint of enjoyment entering her voice. “But who pays your wages then?”

“The pony at the desk. We never questioned where the bits came from,” Sandblast had run through the many responses Princess Celestia might have had to his demands, but these questions hadn’t been one of them. Especially not questions he’d not thought to ask. His sheepishness intensified.

“Then who did you talk to about going on strike then?” she said, sweetly.

“We didn’t, we just... sort of... decided to. We figured he’d find out.”

Stoker and the mayor gave Sandblast a Look. It would have surprised no one if he’d grown wool and gone baa.

“I see,” said Princess Celestia, the ghost of a smile glinting in the gloom. “Then I will have to look into the problem first. Rest assured the ponies from Curzon Street will be on it.”

Sandblast’s face blanched at the mention of the Boys In Beige. “Oh, no need. I daresay the situation will resolve itself in due time-“

“I insist,” said the Princess, smiling. Internally, she was screaming. What was she thinking? She knew ponies didn’t like to hear about the Indefatigables. She knew it’d put the wind up him, but she couldn’t stop herself. The room must be getting to her. The land must be getting to her.

“Well... if that’s how it is,” said Stoker, his smile a tad more forced. “Sandblast, is that alright?”

Sandblast nodded, trying not to look flustered. The wallahs muttered among themselves.

“I believe I’ll go and tell the union about this,” he said, leaving the words ‘and clean by skivvies while I’m at it’ tragically unsaid.

He levitated his tea and walked out with the thousand-yard stare of those who’ve just survived a near-death experience. Celestia turned to the mayor, smiling.

“Now, is there anything you’d like to say?” she said, pleasantly as she could.

The mayor’s ideas of budget requests, tenure and other such civic troubles vanished, replaced by thoughts of the chaps from Curzon Street and the more elaborate carvings around the hall. She shook her head, made her excuses and left. Celestia turned to Stoker, who shrugged and kept smiling. It looked to Celestia like a smile that had died and was now undergoing rigor mortis.

“Well then. What do I call you? Do you have a title yet?” she said to Stoker.

“No, I’m Stoker,” he said, his smile melting a little into something a little less dead. “I... I suppose I represent the crew.”

“Very well.”

They sipped their tea and stared at each other. The char-wallahs, who had poured themselves cups, stared at the both of them. Then the wallahs stared at each other, just for sake of verisimilitude. The air was thick with tension. If there had been an elephant in the room, it would have had to leave out of embarrassment. Finally, Celestia spoke.

“So, what possessed you to mutiny? You seem very reasonable for murderous revolutionaries.”

Stoker looked hurt. “Well, I- we- I thought that the captain was going too far with his orders. They were all so meaningless , so I decided not to follow them.”

Celestia nodded. Stoker went on.

“So I sat it out, only then Keel sat down too, which meant Shetland sat down which meant that the rest of the ponies at our boiler sat down, which meant every other boiler sat down. Then they sent in marines to get us back to work, only we didn’t, so they shot Keel, so we set upon them, so I told Shetland, Irons and a couple of marines to clear Keel out of there, then we marauded up on deck and... well...” Stoker paused for breath. “And so then we did what we did and took control.”

Celestia nodded again and was thoughtful for a moment. It had to be like this, didn’t it? Ths was the price you paid for being immortal. You could scold and declaim, decree and order and use your experience, but in the end, you couldn’t stop things like this from happening all the time.

“I see. But surely it was your duty to follow your orders.”

“Yes, but these were stupid orders. Would you expect any right thinking pony to follow stupid orders, even from you?”

“I thought adherence to orders was one of the great traditions of the Equestrian Navy.”

Stoker bit his lip and tried not to smile. The char-wallahs sneered audibly. One of them muttered something about the three ‘uggeries’ of naval tradition and someone sniggered.

“Nonetheless, the fact remains we acted, right or wrong, and we’re in charge of a warship now,” said Stoker.

“Of course,” said Celestia, glancing aside. The light seemed to have dimmed, and the shadows had drawn in. “What might convince you to give it back?”

Stoker looked thoughtful for a moment. He had a shape of what he’d accept, but nothing exact. He took a breath and started.

“I want... Well, we... no, I would like to see some changes. No more ponies given positions of power because of where they are in the grand order of things. No more preference for royalty or aristocracy, and definitely no more Bluebloods. Some kind of vetting, some kind of test. The best pony gets the job, right?”

Celestia stared long and hard at Stoker, sizing him up. The light was definitely going down in here. The shadows lengthened and the char-wallahs cast glances up at the carvings. Stoker bit his lip and continued.

“I know it seems selfish, but I know this is how it ought to be. You can’t run the country on the basis of first come first served.”

“But it isn't,” said Celestia, insistently. “Only a pony who’s graduated from the Stalliongrad Naval Academy and has the means to buy a commission could be captain of a ship, not just anypony off the street, which seems to be what you’re proposing.”

“And who goes to the Naval Academy?” said Stoker, leaning up on his hooves, anger seething between his teeth. “The rich and powerful! Tuition fees, train tickets, accommodation, these things all add up! And who pays the commissions? A thousand bits to be first mate, two thousand for the captaincy! At the top of all things lies the scum.”

Celestia frowned. “And who’s that quote from? Who said that first?”

Stoker glared. It wasn’t a very refined glare; not as sharp as, say, Pokery’s, and it certainly lacked the weight of ages of Celestia’s, but it had anger and it had a lot of courage behind it. It looked like a very promising glare that might improve with age and practice.

“I did, just now. And I mean it. This country is run by those who have no connection to it. Hell, poor Sandblast doesn’t even know who runs his life.”

Celestia tried to stay calm, but it was getting hard. She could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her. The history, the anger. She tried not to sweat.

“But isn’t that how Equestria has always been ruled? Is that not why me and Luna are in charge?”

Stoker paused. He could feel thoughts, momentous thoughts, colliding and grinding against one another in his head like icebergs far out at sea. All were drawing to a conclusion that had been a long time coming, but had been always been the only conclusion. He could see now that it had been inevitable, ever since he’d put a hoof on the long stair up from the boiler room. This was his destination. The shadows around Stoker grew deeper and the char-wallahs huddled closer, their shit-fan proximity alarms blaring like mad.

“Then maybe,” he said, deliberately, “maybe you shouldn’t be.”

Celestia steepled her hooves, her face a very picture of calm. Beneath it, her mind roiled with terrible thoughts. It always came to this, didn’t it? Ponies like Stoker might start with the best of intentions, but before long it always came down to them knowing better. Them, with their few years and limited lives. Celestia hated herself to admit it, she had to take charge. Being immortal gave you experience, experience you could shape a nation with, but there was always one who was convinced he knew better. At Trotpuddle, at the Swing Riots, and at Canterloo, always someone. Well, she’d show him...

She saw something flicker in the shadows behind Stoker, derailing her train of thought. She peered at it, and saw that the shadows didn’t look like shadows. It was more like a hole in the world to somewhere else. Somewhere dark and old. She shook her head briskly. It was the room, the room was getting to her, the room and the land. She was no tyrant. She gave the ponies the right to their own lives. She was reasonable. She had to be. She was known for it. She would be now.

She looked across the table at Stoker, who honestly looked appalled at what he’d just said. Celestia opened her mouth to speak, and saw Stoker’s shadow flicker again. For a moment, all her anger crystallised. I can’t be having with this, she thought. Fiat lux, you bastards.

Light flooded from her horn, like someone had brought the sun down and switched all the dials to full. It filled the room, the shadows stripping away like cobwebs before a flamethrower until all was light. The air tasted of burning almonds and tin. The carvings were lit up in their full glory, every inch of them. Celestia felt the room react to the magic, trying to earth its history into her. She saw images of ancient leaders, of cities long gone, and of ponies long since dead (usually at the moment when they were only just dead, often in quite spectacular detail).

She shook her head clear of these visions and cast her eye about the room. In the golden-white light of her truth, she saw it as it was. She saw the char-wallahs as a fearful knot, but with their core of bravery that would keep them delivering tea even as the deck went vertical and the band played the last song. The carvings were faint traceries of bad intentions and the ghosts of pride and prejudice hung around like gauze streamers. She turned with some apprehension to Stoker, who sat at the other end of the table, his eyes glued open. She saw him as a bundle of fear wrapped around his good intentions, which held him standing him ramrod-straight, uncertainty wilting it slightly, and...

Behind him, the only shadow in the room stood. No, not a shadow, she could see that now. It was just something dark following him. She stared past Stoker at it, and he turned his head to look. She couldn’t see his expression, but she saw the spike of sudden terror run up his back. The... thing stood there, the silhouette of a pony in profile.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Celestia said, slowly, deliberately, fixing it with her best glare.

The shadow stayed silent, an unreadable black shape. Inside, Celestia cheered. There was always a rational explanation for these things. It was only natural that some eldritch horror Pony Was Not Meant To Know was behind all this. It was just a matter of damage control and clearing up now.

“I am Princess Celestia,” she said, her voice stern and commanding. “I hope you understand what that means.”

The thing, insofar as it could, looked pensive. Then the words arrived in the heads of those present, in a voice that sounded like it came from a throat made of velvet.

I know who you are, and I know exactly what that means.

“Then who are you, and what are you doing here?” Celestia repeated.

I think the best word for me is probably... Story.

Celestia narrowed her eyes and walked closer to the thing. It stretched from Stoker’s hooves like any common or garden shadow, but it stayed there against the far wall, as if pinned there.

“What have you done here? What have you done to this pony?” she demanded

Nothing. I’m quite incapable of doing anything.

This wasn’t normal, thought Celestia. Where was the gloating? Where was the ‘you’ve just walked straight into my trap’ spiel? This thing wasn’t even smiling for goodness sake.

“Why are you following me then?” said Stoker, keeping all but an edge of terror out of his voice.

Because your story had to run its due course. Your majesty had her part too, because there can’t be a revolution if the rulers don’t try to crush it. Otherwise it’s just a footnote in history. But this is going to live on.

“But what were you doing?” shouted Stoker, his anger returning.

Watching. Making sure what has to happen happens, according to the story.

“You were going to lead us into civil war,” said Stoker, fear running a merry dance up and down his spine, “because it makes a good story?”

No, no, no, you’ve got it all backwards, you see. That is the story, that you rise up and fight. The stories of this land cannot be denied, you see. They have to run their course. I just record the different iterations.

They were silent for a moment. Then, one of the char-wallahs, a chocolate brown fellow, spoke up.

“So you mean to say this whole thing was a set-up from the beginning, then?”

In a sense. You were playing out the story that ponies have acted out before. There are precedents, you understand. The Swing Rioters, the Trotpuddle Martyrs, the Canterloo massacre. All the same story, you see, just with different actors. And you know the story can only end one way. In blood.

Celestia didn’t even blink. The voice wasn’t angry, or sarcastic, just stating facts, and that just made it worse. It knew what she’d done, and now so did everypony else. She could feel the eyes of Stoker and the char-wallahs on her. She cleared her throat, although her voice was always clear as a bell.

“Canterloo was not my decision,” she said, her voice frosted. “The Captain of the Yeomanry acted without consulting me.”

The thing made no move to speak. It managed to project the idea of a shrug without actually shrugging.

“I wasn’t made aware of the Martyrs until it was too late.”

The thing remained silent. The wallahs glanced nervously to one another.

“I was doing my best with a bad situation!”

Silence went on. Calm, Celestia, calm. Not here, and certainly not now.

“What if we change your story, then?” She said, slipping into her anti-villain voice. “What if we end here, without blood this time.”

Well, that’s not how it works. The blood’s part of the story, you see, and the story will not be denied.

“Well, I’m certainly not going in a hurry to spill anyone’s blood,” said Stoker. “So who’s going to do it?”

The story will have an antagonist somewhere.

* * *

Crossfire had been dozing in the snowdrift. It was surprisingly comfortable, all soft and downy, and through her winter camouflage she could hardly feel the cold, or the damp. She could have laid there all night, if the town hall hadn’t lit up suddenly. It glowed like a lantern, light burning in the windows. She muttered and swore and nudged Vickers awake.

“Get this back to the command train,” she said in a hushed tone. She hadn’t seen any patrols around, but that was never proof they weren’t there. They might be very good patrols. “Town Hall lit up. Magic involved, most likely. Please advise.”

Vickers’ muzzied head rose, and then the rest of him. He turned but made no move to lift his flags. He stood stock still, staring back at the hill behind them.

“Well, Vickers? Are you gonna send that or not?”

“See, I would,” said Vickers, in a faintly puzzled tone, “but the flags on the other hill are already sending to us.”

Crossfire swore again violently, a word that began with F and ended in CKS.

“In my family, you’d get no supper with language like that,” said Vickers, automatically.

“Damn your family, Vickers. What’s the message?”

Vickers strained his eyes to make out the flailing figure on the far hill. After all, he didn’t want to upset the pony who could make ‘Fiddlesticks’ sound like a declaration of war. He mouthed the words as they were spelled out.

“Says... the command train’s moving up to deploy in the town,” he said, slowly. “They’re bringing in all they’ve got.”

Another bad word poised itself on Crossfire’s tongue, but she held it back.

“How much of ‘all’ do you mean here?” said Crossfire, hunkering up next to Vickers. Vickers didn’t like to think it, but his superior sounded worried.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t say, just that they’re moving up and we’re to stay here.”

There was a pause. Vickers could hear Crossfire breathing heavily and steady. Maybe it was just a precaution, she thought, maybe they were just bringing the train up to be on the safe side. Maybe it was all just that harmless.

Crossfire almost had herself convinced, but she remembered the anger in the Field Marshall’s eyes, and the greedy glistening of the Commodore’s in the dark of that cargo wagon. She thought about exactly the kind of view they’d take to the ponies down there in Nowheregorod. And she remembered the Fifty-Cal. She remembered that distinctly. She came to a conclusion.

“Right, Vickers, ditch your uniform and head into town. Warn them that the army’s coming, and that they’ve got serious artillery, alright? I’ll see if I can’t catch the train before it reaches town and convince them to turn back. There’s gonna be seven types of manure if they use half of what they’ve got in that train.”

Vickers stood for a moment, processing the order. Crossfire was worried for a moment that maybe Vickers might start to think. He might ask how he was supposed to convince the ponies down there that he knew the army was coming, what Crossfire thought she was doing abandoning her post, or indeed why they were warning the enemy at all, but Celestia bless him, he did no such thing. She could have kissed him. She made do with nodding approvingly.

“Tell ‘em... tell ‘em they’ve got about fifteen minutes. Maybe twelve by the time you get down there.”

They set off in different directions, he speeding down the other side of the hill while trying to get out of his snow-jacket, and she dashing off down the other side into the railway in the valley. There was a thick layer of storm cloud above it, pushed by unseen pegasi. Standard procedure to soften up resistance, but they seemed to be taking particular care over this one. Lightning flickered in the roiling clouds. Say what you wanted about the top brass being arrogant, callous and malicious, but they had style.

* * *

The light from Celestia’s horn was dying. It was big magic, and even she couldn’t keep it going indefinitely.

“So where, will this... antagonist come from then?”

I don’t know. I don’t write the story, I just record it when it happens.

“Then what were you doing following me?” said Stoker, anguish in his voice as the light dimmed. “You can’t tell me you didn't do this! You were behind me every step of the way, guiding me! I know you were!”

I told you, I was following you to record. The story has its roles, and you were perfect for yours. Think about what that means.

Stoker growled and would have leapt at the shadow had Celestia’s light not chosen that point to flicker and fail. There was a moment of darkness before normal light slid in through the windows like Orlov porridge. Compared to Celestia’s mini-nova, it was grey and tasteless, but it did the job. The shadows on the walls seemed less substantial. They were actual shadows now.

“Bloody hell,” said Stoker. “What now?”

“Now? Now we resolve our differences and prove that thing wrong,” said Celestia. She was thinking clearer now. The influence of the room and the land itself felt... further away now. Now she knew what she was up against. Admittedly, that was the history and precedence of an entire region, but that was at least quantifiable.

Stoker nodded “Alright. I’ve made my demands.”

“Done,” said Celestia, abruptly. “Now we will find out about that villain...”

“If you ask me,” said one the char-wallahs, “it’s probably the owner of the tractor factory. He’s shadowy and mysterious, and you need that to a villain. An air of wossname about you.”

“Is it heck,” said another. “He’s had no screen time, let alone character development. I reckon it’ll be a sleeper agent. Someone in the town’ll assassinate the leaders of the revolutionary committee-“

“Welcoming committee!” Stoker said with a nervous glance at Celestia, but she was too busy trying not to laugh.

“-whatever, and then the Indefatigables’ll sweep in and round up any sympathisers. Some impressive third-act villain.”

“Unlikely, in my opinion. More like there’ll be a traitor in the ranks. A coup by Anchorage or more likely Hardcolt aiming to knock off Stoker and become some mad dictator.”

Then, because narrative demanded it, Hardcolt entered. His expression was so blank you could have stuck two dials on it and called it an etch-a-sketch, so naturally it was safe to assume he’d heard it all. Following Hardcolt were two marines in fine red caps rustled up by the propaganda department dragging a very sheepish looking pony. Sheepish in a literal sense. He had one hoof in a thick white woollen jacket and was himself the pure white of a Guardspony. He hung his head, hooves up on the shoulders of his captors.

“Found him out by the station picket,” said Hardcolt, gesturing with his head. “Disrobing himself.”

"Spying?” said Stoker, although his heart wasn’t in it.

Vickers grinned inanely in the manner of anyone who’s just found their immediate future in the hooves of ponies who may not necessarily care much for it. He gave a particularly pleading smile to Princess Celestia, who stayed silent.

“No, sir,” he said, ever quick on the uptake when he needed to be. “Was told to come here and warn you that the army is on its way with some, and I quote here sir, ‘serious artillery’ sir.”

Stoker felt a chill run up his spine, worse than he’d felt when he’d seen that... thing earlier. It was the sort of fear that sat in your stomach and twisted itself into new and interesting shapes. His mouth went dry. The thing had said there’d be an antagonist somewhere, and sure enough here one was. The sodding army.

The pony took Stoker’s silence and expression as indication to continue “my CO told to tell you you’ve got about twelve minutes ‘til they’re here.”

Twelve minutes. Heck, they must have been just a few miles behind the royal train, then. A thought crystallised in Stoker’s head. He turned to Princess Celestia, his face blank as he could make it.

“Would you know anything about this?”

“I gave no orders,” she said, frowning. “Somepony is playing Sodom fatuus. Who is leading the force?”

Vickers shrugged. “No one told me. All very hush-hush.”

Hardcolt, who was never one to let impending doom get in the way of milit’ry reality, strolled around Vickers like a buzzard circling.

“And what precisely does the army consist of?” he said, leaning in eye to eye with Vickers.

Vickers shrugged. “A lot, I reckon. I mean, I didn’t see no itinerary, but I saw ponies from all sorts loadin’ up. 1st Lancers, Pasturekhan Rangers, Jet Stream Guards. All sorts, you know?”

Stoker didn’t know what that meant, but he heard a sharp intake of breath from Princess Celestia and saw Hardcolt’s face fall. Even the two marines looked concerned.

“In twelve minutes,” said Stoker.

“More like eleven,” said Vickers, who immediately wished he hadn’t. He was on the wrong side of the lines now, and the ponies on that train weren’t the sort to ask questions.

Stoker bit his lip, in a silent world of worry. History was walking in his hoofsteps, and it had put up a very specific obstacle. Like with all things, there was a precedent. He hit upon it.

“Get barricades in the streets, Hardcolt. I assume you know which streets are best?”

Hardcolt nodded. If anyone would have planned for this eventuality, it was him.

“Right, well, I’m sure you can handle the defences, right?”

“Sure, maestro,” he said. He was grinning. The world was burning, and he was the one with the keys to the fire engine. “We can use here as a base. I’ll get the marines to rustle up some heavy ‘quipment, too.”

He turned about and trotted out, shouting orders to the two marines and dragging Vickers by one ear. The char-wallahs followed. Princess Celestia stayed put, though.

“Best I stay here,” she said. “I want a word with the gung-ho lunatics behind this little jaunt.”

Stoker opened his mouth to say something, but he saw Celestia’s expression. She wasn’t angry, because a Princess couldn’t be, but anger was there, somewhere beneath the terrible, terrible calm. He decided not to press the issue.

* * *

Crossfire Hurricane slid down the steep valley, through the shoulder-deep snow down to the edge of the railway cutting. Rain was already spotting the ground as the storm broke overhead, turning the snow into slush. She could see the low, armoured snout of the command train chuffing along just a little further up, the fire from the engine glowing through the window slats. It had been painted in jagged white dazzle patterns and in the dark, looked for all the world like a snowdrift that had decided to get up and go for a walk.

She pulled up just short of the vertical drop from the edge of the cutting to the track, and immediately started having second thoughts. She wasn’t built for physical exertion (at least, hadn’t been since being taken off front-line duties), and the fall on to the train’s roof looked much higher from down here. Well, that was something she should have thought about earlier. No time for doubt now.

The train passed beneath her, clacking and rushing past, the sounds echoing in the cutting. It looked much faster now. She bit her lip, pawed at the ground, and leapt.

There was a moment of weightlessness, before she hit the roof hard and the world rushed in around her head. The landing knocked the breath out of her and she scrabbled for purchase. Luckily, most of the armour on the train hadn’t been done up in a while, and there were plenty of welding seams, rivets and spalled panels to hold on to. She stayed low as the wind howled overhead. Steam from the engine billowed out a few cars ahead and brought tears to her eyes. Slowly, she crawled forward from one hoofhold to the next.

It was agonisingly slow, rivets catching her jacket and the wind threatening to tear her from her place and the rain coming down all over her. She shut her eyes and focused on going forward. The train rounded a corner, and the whole world tilted, but she held on. After years atop that train, she reached the command car, to find it locked down. The passages between the cars were covered and the trapdoor on the roof had been locked. Crossfire was flummoxed for a moment. There was no polite way in, so the only alternative was through the windows. She swung herself over the edge of the train, aimed her hooves ahead, prayed the shutters were up, and braced for impact.

She hit the glass beneath hard enough to crack it, but not break through. She hung on to the roof with her back legs and kicked the glass with her front. It took a good few strikes, but she won through in the end. She swung herself through the hole, the glass snagging and tearing at her much-abused jacket, and landed in a ring of spear points.

Eight hard-faced ponies of the 1st Lancers stood around her in a semi-circle, weapons pointed in. Their expressions were stern but faintly daring, as if to say ‘go on. Just you try’.

It was round about now that Crossfire realised she didn’t have so much as the inkling of a plan. Well, that hadn’t stopped them at Thursk. She drew herself up to her full height (which was just slightly shorter than the ponies surrounding her) and said, “Where is your commander?”

The ponies didn’t move. Not so much as a flicker of uncertainty. These were born soldiers, who knew when not to follow orders. They were the sort of soldiers who knew it was never just a rat, the sort who wouldn’t charge the hero one by one but would surround him and rush him all at once, the sort who knew to check the ventilation ducts. They weren’t going to be taken in by a loud commanding voice.

Well, maybe not Crossfire’s loud commanding voice. Another, louder, more commanding, and distinctly familiar voice barked and order over their heads.

“Stand down,” it sounded rough, the verbal equivalent of a slap.

The Field Marshall shouldered her way forward as the Lancers backed off. The Commodore hung behind her, his face sickly and his eyes runny. He looked even worse than he had in Stalliongrad. He looked like a walking cold.

“Lieutenant, you were ordered to stay put,” said the Field Marshall.

“Reporting in, ma’am,” said Crossfire, saluting with one hoof. “Wondering why the train is advancing. Forward recon saw no reason to do so.”

The Field Marshall glared, focusing her anger through her squinting eyes. Crossfire felt her mane singe.

“We are bringing this damn thing to an end,” she said, “and I expect any officer to follow orders.”

Crossfire should have been intimidated, but she’d just leapt on to a moving train. They hadn’t taught that at Sandhurst. Well okay, they had, but it had been a long time ago. The point was, she was in a mood to dare.

“I feel I should question these orders, ma’am, because they seem... unsound,” she watched the Field Marshall’s face go red, clashing unpleasantly with her green coat, but went on regardless. “It just seems to me that any military action would be a bit pre-emptive, all things considered.”

The Field Marshall looked like she’d snatch one of the Lancers’ spears and kill her right there and then. Her eyes were boggling and twitching like crazy. Crossfire went on.

“Look, there is no conceivable reason for sending in the troops, is all.”

The Field Marshall was beyond the usual drill-sergeant rage. She had gone past fury and collected 200 bits and was now well on her way to putting down several hotels on Incandescent Avenue. She veritably seethed.

“Perhaps you don’t understand the situation,” she said, spitting each word. “If we don’t end this now, where does the buck stop?”

“It stops with us,” said the Commodore, his voice slithering into place, “and we can’t be having with that.”

Crossfire looked on with awe and no small amount of apprehension.

“That’s insane though. The whole town’d be against you! It’ll be a bloodbath!”

The Field Marshall shrugged dismissively. “Then the buck will stop with them, too,” she leaned in to Crossfire, the heat of fury radiating off her. “We have no choice. The fate of the nation is in our hooves.”

“You’ll never get away with it,” said Crossfire, because some lines are too good to be true.

“We just have,” said the Commodore.

The train slowed down as it pulled up behind the royal train. Crossfire felt sick. The Field Marshall was smiling, a smug thing for a pony who knew she was right. The Commodore too had a grin smeared on his face, wet rubbery lips stretched over his teeth. They were gloating, actually gloating! Crossfire snarled and moved to lunge at them, but the Lancers stepped in.

“Keep the Lieutenant here,” barked the Field Marshall. “We have to organise things.”

They departed. Crossfire could have sworn she heard them laugh.

Epilogue - Casting Off

Epilogue

Casting Off

It didn’t end there, of course. The troops had to be called off, for one thing. Luckily, between the barricades and the blunt weapons of the defenders, no one was seriously injured, and neither side had much stomach for fighting anyway. By early morning, it was all over.

There was still the issue of the antagonists, the Field Marshall and the Commodore, both of whom were a little worse for wear. It was swiftly becoming clear that they’d have to be taken back to Canterlot sooner rather than later to face some kind of trial, although the question of what they’d be accused of was a knotty one. Celestia had said they needed to be taken somewhere public to be shown to the nation. It’d make a good demonstration, she'd said, of the new culture of culpability Stoker wanted.

And then of course, there were the promised changes to debate. Throughout the night, she sat with the welcoming committee and Keel (“Where would you be without me if another bunch of mad armed nutters turn up?” he’d said) in the North Star, wrangling over the details. Char-wallahs dashed in and out, crewmembers, factory workers and random townsfolk all turned out to gawk as they thundered on into the night. The proprietor watched them nervously from the bar, polishing the same glass over and over.

Arrangements were reached, in the end. No one left completely happy, because how could they, but no one left unsatisfied. A decree had been drafted in full, several pages filled with notions of equality, liberty, and every pony a brother (or sister). The draft would of course have to go back to Canterlot for review, public enquiry and a few other democratic gestures, but with the Princess' approval, it was all but law. That might not stop ponies from ignoring it, but at least it was there.

The tractor axle factory’s ownership remained a mystery, but the title deed arrived in the possession and bearing the signature of Sandblast. That put him, and by extension the rest of the union, in charge, which as far as anyone was concerned, seemed a fair outcome. The mayor kept giving him funny looks, but said nothing.

At the end of the talks, Princess Celestia offered to repay the ponies of Nowheregorod for the damage done to the town during the brief battle. The mayor agreed quite happily, but the ponies themselves solemnly shook their heads. ‘Mustn’t grumble’ was the cry.

And like that, the story found a new ending.

* * *

Celestia raised the sun personally that morning. There was no real need to, since Luna would be the one doing the actual raising today, but she felt that some ceremony was demanded. Keel and Anchorage watched from the deck of the Ponytemkin. Behind her, as she rose, the sun crept up the sky. Slightly out of sync, if anyone had cared to notice.

It was unseasonably warm that morning. The panic surrounding the Princess’ visit had upset the weather like nothing else, and the storm the army had brought with yesterday had cleared the air. Already, the snow and ice around the dock was sparkling in the morning sun as it melted. Of course, that was no bad thing. One of the stipulations of the agreement had been that the Ponytemkin would leave Nowheregorod and never return, so loose ice and a speedy exit were very much in order. The mayor had been quite adamant about that, and most of the townsponies had been in agreement. Social change and historic events were all well and good, they reasoned, but they’d prefer if it didn’t happen in their back yards.

One of the Wrap-Up boilers had been set up on the fo’castle to melt a path out to sea, and already a couple of deckhooves were stoking it up. Anchorage sighed and leaned up on the railings. Keel was still in his stretcher.

“All in all,” he said, “that could have been worse.”

“Much worse,” said Keel. “Hopefully that’ll be an end to it.”

Down on the docks, the mayor was making a short speech, but all eyes were on the Ponytemkin. Anchorage saw Sandblast, dressed in what was presumably his best suit, and gave him a wave. Sandblast grinned and waved back. He’d said that even if no one else wanted to see them, there’d always be room up at the factory and a warm mug of tea waiting for fellow comrades.

“You haven’t seen Stoker, have you?” Said Anchorage, idly.

“I think he was down below, helping get the boilers running,” said Keel. “Wanted to make sure everything was alright. I swear, that kid acts like the world relies on ‘im.”

Anchorage nodded. He didn’t know where Stoker got the energy. For his part, he hadn’t realised how tired he felt. What he needed right now, he pondered, was a lie down, maybe a cup of tea. The tea would be a long time coming, though. The wallahs were being bolshy.

He shut his eyes for a moment. The sounds of the ship being made ready began to echo around him. Ropes were cast off, the Wrap-Up boiler chuntered into life and two deckhooves aimed the hose down. Anchorage heard the hiss of steam as it melted a path through the ice. Any minute they’d be off.

There was a sound behind him, like a brick wrapped in quilt landing on deck. He turned, bleary-eyed and saw Princess Celestia standing there, alone and smiling warmly. It was, he reflected, the sort of smile you could believe in. He nodded his head and smiled back. Keel made a vague greeting noise.

“Ma’am,” he said. And then, more curiously. “Beg pardon, but aren’t you heading off to Canterlot?”

She laughed, clear as a bell.

“I thought I’d hitch a lift down the coast. If you’re going south, that is.”

Anchorage glanced deferentially at Keel, who gazed off into the distance.

“South...” he said, rolling it around in his mouth, tasting the word. “Yes, south, why not? I’ve never been further south than Grimesby. I should like to see it. I hear it’s sunny for at least four months a year down there.”

“Set sail south, then,” said the Princess, smiling. “I want to get away from here. The... the land doesn’t agree with me.”

Anchorage called up to the bridge tower, where the navigator nodded through the hole in the bridge window. He turned back to the Princess.

“They say there’s something in the air. Something to do with the factory.” said Anchorage, conversationally. He paused, looking pensive for a moment. Then, in a curious tone, said, “D’you reckon it’ll work? All those thing Stoker asked for?”

“It’s easier to change laws than opinions. I suppose all we can do is hope.”

“True enough,” said Keel, in what was presumably his idea of a sage tone. “What can any of us do but-”

A steam whistle high up interrupted him, and the ship barged on its way. Propellers engaged and churned the ice into slush. Smoke poured from the funnels and chunks were shoved roughly aside. Under a clear sky, the Ponytemkin went south for the winter.

* * *

Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane spent a short time at the Stalliongrad Barracks in an administrative capacity. After a month she applied for transfer to the Royal Guards regiment in Canterlot, which was rejected. As a result, she resigned from her post and moved out west. She currently works as a train driver, and claims that the noise, smoke and steam are ‘therapeutic’.

Sandblast is still the coordinator of a highly successful employee-owned tractor axle factory. Under his auspices, it has been through thick and thin, and despite his best efforts, remains the second-largest in Equestria. And yes, he’s still single, ladies.

During her sister’s leave of absence, Princess Luna saved the city of Canterlot from three major magical disasters, two eldritch abominations from before the dawn of time and an invasion of mane lice. She received widespread praise at the time for solving all six problems with a campaign to encourage personal hygiene. She has never mentioned it to her sister.

Captain Blueblood was stripped of his rank by an inquiry into the mutiny (specifically into the cowardly, self-serving and generally incompetent nature of those who were supposed to stop it) and was ejected from the Equestrian Royal Navy with little ceremony. He slunk off to live the quiet life of landed aristocracy in Canterlot, until the infamous Guacamole Futures Debacle pulled him once more kicking and screaming (all too literally, as it happened) into the public eye. The less said about that, though, the better. It has already been covered in considerable detail in Black Shoal’s seminal work In the Green: How Avocado Bankrupted a Nation.

The mutiny aboard the Ponytemkin was dramatised in director Sergei Grazenstein's famous film. The exact events were embellished, and some parts were fabricated entirely (the most famous example being The Bit With the Stairs And The Pram). The residents of Nowheregorod will always say they prefer the film.

The Fifty-Cal was officially declared a war-crime by the international community, and was banned under the Enfield Agreement. The only working example was sent to be decommissioned at the Toola arsenal, but went missing en route. The very same week, a similar device went on sale in the classifieds of the Equestrian Inquirer as a pest control device. An investigation was launched by the Curzon Street Indefatigables, whereupon the weapon was discovered being used as an automatic whisk in a cake shop in Ponyville. Its current owner refused to say from whom she had acquired it, but did comment that it “made one mean meringue”. Further investigation is pending.

Prologue - Ponytemkin Blues

Prologue

Ponytemkin Blues

The North, wherever it may be the north of, is never a good place to be. The North is somewhere people are from, not somewhere people go, at least not out of choice. It can generally be relied upon to be Grim Up North. Nowhere is this more true than in Northern Equestria, the Ancestral Homeland (one of many, since ponies have had a long and nomadic history), lying far to the north beyond the Crystal mountains (known locally as the Chunderheads). It was here that all ponies lived in suspicion and mistrust until they fled south in search of warmer climes, and to escape a winter that wouldn’t end. It’s a land with a long and bloody history, and the land remembers. But of course, you’d know all about that.

You wouldn’t know about Nowheregorod, but frankly you can’t hardly be blamed for that. It lay sprawled on the coast at the mouth of the river Vulga, seventy miles or so west of Stalliongrad and a few miles south of absolute zero. In the long and distant past, it had been one of the greatest earth pony ports until it froze solid. It had been resettled after the thaw a hundred years ago when the windigoes retreated to the pole. Some academics would argue that this wasn’t really a thaw since the north was still cold as a bureaucrat’s heart, but these were arguments made by silly ponies. It most certainly was a thaw, because the town was no longer buried under thirty feet of glacial ice.

The town itself was a mix of squat, concrete prefab affairs the resettlers brought with them and old stone houses which weren't that much better before they were buried. They all clustered around town hall like a huge flock of nervous stone lambs around an old ewe, and for the most part could only be praised for being hard wearing, and only occasionally collapsing of their own accord. Only the vast tractor axle factory offered any change of scenery, spewing smoke into the sky and dumping interestingly coloured outflow into the icy sludge of the Vulga. Well, it would have been if the workers hadn’t been on strike. A small detail, but an important one.

The only other landmark in the town was the docks. In summer, they’d be abuzz with ships coming and going, shipping tractor axles and young foals who wanted out of this nowhere town all across the world. Now though, in the depths of winter, with the Vulga hidden beneath snow and ice, there was only one ship in dock. The battleship Ponytemkin.

It was a mighty ship to behold, certainly. A good five hundred feet long, twice the height of any building in Nowheregorod (except the tractor axle factory, which was the second-largest in Equestria), sixty metres wide at its widest, a hull a good metre thick at its thickest and armed with enough crossbows and catapults to prevent anypony who crossed it from crossing anything else ever again.

In its glory days, it had sailed across all the North Sea, hunting leviathans, crushing entire pirate fleets into splinters, duelling rogue dragons and generally maintaining the peace by destroying those who failed to respect it. Now though, it sat in Nowheregorod docks, a relic of times less settled, waiting patiently even as the snow and ice hedged it in.

Well, the ship itself waited patiently. The crew? Less so.

* * *

Like a bad joke, two earth ponies and a pegasus were sat in a bar. Stoker, Keel and Anchorage had gathered around a table in a darkened corner of the North Star, one of Nowheregorod’s premier coffee and donut establishments. Stoker hadn’t been to any other establishments, but if the North Star was considered one of the best, he really didn’t want to. The donuts were beyond stale, the tea was known to dissolve spoons and you couldn’t stir the coffee so much as plough it. But they were there regardless, even if it was only because Keel’s tastebuds had long since been burnt away by years of cheap coffee and naval food, and because Anchorage was keen to do the same for his. Stoker, whose tastes remained resolutely civilian, was complaining.

“Remind why we’re here, again,” he said. “This coffee tastes like the river looks.”

Stoker was a slight, grey-coated earth pony with a baby blue mane, which he'd had shorn short but not shaved in a desperate attempt to improve it. He had gangled at an early age, and hadn’t quite grown out of it. He also hadn’t grown out of the sullenness and awkwardness that went with it. He was dressed in his boiler suit which served as a uniform in the engine room of the Ponytemkin. It was a boiler suit with history, and had been passed down, passed up and passed around so much it was effectively shapeless, hanging off Stoker like a half-shed second skin. Right now, with the knees worn white and the black soot stains, it was passing through the off-grey spectrum on its way to the colour stain.

“You, my little pony, don’t know how good you’ve got it,” said Keel. His voice tried to be reassuring, but his expression said ‘too old for this manure’. “At your age, I would’ve killed to stay all winter in port, rather than freezing my flank off at Coltava like I did.”

Keel had lived his life in the navy, colt and stallion, and it showed. His manner was that of a well-natured thunderstorm, and he was built like a brick outhouse. He too wore the engine-room pony’s pride, his ratty old boiler suit.

“But it’s so damn dull! Nothing but snow and coffee,” he gave his mug a good look, “or whatever this stuff is.”

“Keel’s right, Stoker,” said Anchorage. “This is as good as it gets.”

Stoker huffed and turned back to his coffee. He might’ve drunk it too, but this was Nowheregorod coffee. He stared into it despondently instead. Silence reigned with a iron fist. The place was like a dose of tranquilisers. Mind you, thought Stoker, it was filled with sailors. Most of the lower deck crew seemed to be in tonight, and that was still a good fifty or so ponies, even with the recent reductions. They were all in the same boat as each other, and the Ponytemkin was not a pleasant boat to be in. Stoker sighed and slumped on the table, bored out of his head.

“Join the navy, they said,” he murmured. “It’s a stallion’s life, they said...”

“Don’t fret,” said Keel, smiling indulgently, “you wouldn’t be the first to join on false pretences. They told me it’d be pretty mares and sherbet fountains all the way to Timbucktoo and back, and look where that got me.”

Keel gave Stoker a cheery slap on the back. He wheezed and slumped on the table.

“Look, I just thought there’d be more, y’know?” he said, glum as could be. “I mean, like today. What did we do? We marched from one end of the ship to another and back again. Then we had drill, then we had that godawful speech the captain insists on.”

“That’s the Servicepony’s Pledge, you know,” said Anchorage, one eyebrow raised in what he must have thought was a wry look. “Reminds you why you joined.”

“Yeah? Well, I know why I joined,” said Stoker, suddenly animated. “I joined to fight the enemies of Equestria, to defend the sovereignty of the nation! Not to march from one end of the ship to the other and stare at coffee! I joined the navy to get away from pointlessness.”

“Well, you can’t blame Captain Ironsides for that,” said Keel, very pointedly not making eye contact. “After all, he is- was a military pony. I mean, they’re all about marching up and down for no apparent reason. It’s all ceremony, don’tchaknow.”

Stoker harrumphed.

“Look, I’m as keen as the next pony to get into the thick of a good fight and give Johnny reindeer or Johnny griffon what for,” said Keel, well aware that the next pony was Anchorage, who considered the lost art of war an art worth losing, “but it’s peacetime now, whether you like it or not. And, you can hardly begrudge things for being peaceful now, can you?”

“Anyway, maybe the new captain’ll be better, eh?” said Anchorage, picking up the slack. “Might bring a bit more of that old-fashioned naval tradition back.”

Keel grinned. “You mean thuggery, skulduggery and bu-?“

“The other naval traditions, Keel. There are foals present, you know.”

Stoker groaned and slumped back on to the table, muttering under his breath. He seemed to attract derision wherever he went, from Grimesby to the secondary school in Murmanesk. He assumed it was something wrong with the world at large.

They sat a while longer in silence. Anchorage wished he had a little hoof-ful of rain cloud, just so he could put it over Stoker’s head at a time like this. Keel’s natural exuberance, meanwhile, demanded release.

“You gits are all so miserable,” he said brightly.

He threw a hoof around in a gesture encompassing the whole room.

“It’s like a morgue in here!” he boomed, dust drifting down from the rafters.

A few others, silently nursing their drinks, looked around at Keel. He gave them his biggest, dumbest smile. Anchorage shushed him hurriedly.

“Well it’s true!” All eyes were on him. “Come on! This might be the only shore leave you get for MONTHS! Live it up a little!”

A pegasus at the bar, dressed in the bib overalls of the tractor axle factory, piped up.

“Excuse me, but some of us have work tomorrow,” she said, tossing her blonde mane, “so shut up!”

There was a general rumble conversation. It didn’t sound happy.

“Not all of us,” said a unicorn at a table, also dressed in the factory's uniform. “Some of us are showing some solidarity.”

There was a murmur of agreement. The word 'splitter' may have been heard.

“Hey, just because I’m the one doing my job.”

“Yeah? Your job involves demeaning the dignity of every workin' pony and the in’nernational proletariat as a whole, you winged bastard!”

Keel knew a bad situation when he saw one, and as always, endeavoured to make it worse. He stood straight and tall, inviting whatever he got. His smirk alone would have justified war.

“I always knew you pegasuses were boring bastards, but this is something else!”

Even Anchorage looked shocked. The pegasus stood and glowered. If looks could kill, it’d be wall-to-wall corpses.

“What was that?” she said sweetly, advancing on Keel, green eyes flashing.

As one, Anchorage and Stoker shook their heads and waved their hooves at Keel in the universal signal of ‘shutupshutupshutup’. Keel ignored them and ran a hoof over his mane to slick it back, still grinning his war-crime smirk.

“Well, alright, maybe not all pegasuses,” he said, “but you, and your ilk. Pegasuses who insist on being banal and boring like there’s some kind of prize in it.”

There was a moment of silence. A new kind of silence. It was filled with the sound of ponies leaning over or around to get a better view, the drip, drip of the tap at the bar and the low, grinding sound of a pegasus driven too far. It was a silence with an edge.

Keel had said a Word. A Word not used in polite company, in fact, not a word to be used in any company. It wasn’t even Their Word, because not even They could countenance using it. Keel, in other words, was in a world of cack.

The pegasus drained her coffee with a sound like a blocked drain and fixed Keel with a look that could have made toast out of bread.

“It’s pegasi, you cretin!”

The pegasus leapt and flew into Keel. The air rippled in her wake and he was shove back into the wall. The plaster cracked and shook. The pony manning the bar tonight was far too young and slight to have the force to say ‘oi, you!’ or ‘cut that out, you two!’ and so he dived down behind the bar with a yelp. With the evening suddenly looking lively, the rest of the patrons piled forward for a better view. Anchorage and Stoker tried to get back, away from the melee erupting in the corner, but were hedged in as everypony in the joint came to heckle the fight on.

Keel was pinned against the wall, deflecting blows as best he could from his grinning face. The pegasus was wild with anger, lashing out wildly and blindly at Keel with her hooves. Anchorage edged closer, looking to stop her, but was held at bay by flailing limbs. Keel lunged forward, trying to take her out, but took a hard hoof right to the temple. It knocked him cold but his unconscious body, still propelled by his momentum, continued onwards into the pegasus. They fell backwards into the crush of ponies watching, catching a good few with half-aimed blows.

Those nearest tried to back away from her, but were hedged in by those who wanted a good view. The net result was a great shove which, through a few poorly-aimed swings, misplaced hooves and no small amount of malice, mutated into a bar fight. There was a lot of pent-up anger in that room, between the striking factory workers, the non-strikers, the crew of the Ponytemkin and the couple of argumentative sods who had been waiting for something like this all evening.

It wasn’t a bar fight of staged leaps from table to table, or carefully timed chair-swings but rather a scrum of flailing limbs and half-screamed expletives, spreading out across the whole bar, like a bath full of loaded mousetraps. The mass of ponies churned onwards, hooves flying, glasses smashing, tables breaking.

Keel lay where he had fallen, forgotten as the fight rolled onwards. Anchorage shouted for Stoker over the din of battle.

“Let’s get him out of here, eh?” he shouted.

It was nigh impossible to be heard over the ruckus (or fracas, depending on where you were looking), but Anchorage seemed to get the gist. The two of them grabbed Keel, each taking a hoof in their teeth and hauled him towards the door. Just ahead of them, unnoticed in the carnage, the barpony slunk out from behind the bar. He burst out of the door and into the street, shouting plaintively for help.

Snow blew in from outside, which was followed briefly by a patrol of marines, swathed in winter greatcoats and snow goggles, bedecked with weapons. They waded into the fight, shouting for calm, but found themselves quite overwhelmed. The way was, for the moment, clear. Taking advantage of the confusion, Stoker and Anchorage dragged the supine Keel out of the door and out into the cold night.

Chapter One - Under New Management

Chapter One

Under New Management

The early morning sun bathed Nowheregorod out of a clear sky, shining off the snow that had fallen last night. The heavy clouds which had dropped it all had been cleared, and the sun shone down, making it clear that however bad Nowheregorod was, the weather wouldn’t endeavour make it any worse.

The sun didn't reach Stoker in his bunk, deep in the bowels of the ship, though, which was already as bad as it could be. The regular crew got the rawest deal when it came to accommodation, crammed into these rooms packed three bunks high. Mildew spread along the metal walls, the smell of unwashed ponies filled the nose at all hours and socks crawled, hunted, and bred in the laundry basket. Nonetheless, his bed was warm and comfortable (compared to, say, sheet steel) and he was enjoying a mild lie-in.

He felt he deserved it, after last night, dragging Keel through fetlock-deep snow at minus eight with only his regulation boilersuit to protect him. It was alright for Anchorage, of course. Pegasi didn’t have much trouble with the cold, the gits.

And it was just as he was mulling the superiority of his comrades when a unicorn marine came along the row of bunks, whacking the bunk frames with a steel bar bawling, “Come on! Show a leg there!”

Stoker groaned and rolled out of bed. He was still wearing his boilersuit, so at least he didn’t need to wriggle into the bloody thing. He looked around as various grumpy ponies shuffled and grumbled into the hallway. The others may have been about as cheery as their accommodation looked, but Stoker, underneath a veneer of irritation over last night, felt unusually chipper. After all, the new captain got in today.

The crew tramped along interminable lengths of corridors, up endless flights of stairs, through new and interesting sections and decks (although to be honest, most of the ship looked the same from the inside).

They were brought up on deck amidst a crowd of ponies, all dressed in their uniforms, gathered on the foredeck just below the bridge tower. Every crewpony seemed to be up here, all eyes toward the bridge tower. The snow that had fallen on the deck had melted under the hooves of the crew, leaving an unpleasant fetlock-high sea of slush to tramp through. There was a low murmur of conversation, and the breath of the hundred or so crewmembers frosted in the cold morning air.

The unicorn pushed them on, through the crush up to the front, where Stoker took his place. He looked to one side and saw a reassuring bulk beside him.

“Keel!”

Keel looked the worse for wear. The pegasus and the drag through the snow into the ship hadn’t much improved his general appearance, but he was there and that was what counted.

“You’re okay!” cried Stoker.

“Heh, it’ll take more than one pegasus to keep me down,” he said, grinning through a split lip. “I survived Coltava, I can survive that.”

Stoker smiled back. Anchorage sauntered up into the line alongside them, as stealthily as he could.

“Say, anypony know anything about this new captain?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“He’s academy trained, I hear,” Muttered a soot-stained unicorn to their left. “This new pony’s fresh in, came on the Stalliongrad Solidarity Line this morning.”

“Green as grass,” said a navigator nearby.

“Looks like we’ll know soon enough,” said Keel, nodding towards the platform.

The new captain had stepped up. He certainly looked the part of the noble seafarer, with his handsome, chiseled face, blonde mane, actinic white coat and pristine uniform, all gold trim and braid. On his head sat the captain’s hat, further back to accommodate his horn. Anchorage gasped.

“That’s Prince Blueblood!”

Keel and Stoker gave him a look.

“He was in the Canterlotian’s list of most eligible bachelors a while back.”

The look continued.

“What? It was a long watch. Reading material was scarce.”

Eyes were averted. So he was a Prince, thought Stoker. Well, that was promising. After all, weren’t royalty trained from birth to lead? That was the whole point of the aristocracy, wasn’t it? Captain Blueblood cleared his throat and murmuring in the crowd ceased.

“Stallions, mares, crewmembers in general of this fine vessel. I am your new captain, and I expect to be respected as such. I intend to have this ship fighting fit as soon as possible. I will expect much from you, and I will run this ship military! Er, naval! Discipline will be tough, and subversive elements will be dealt with harshly!”

Stoker bit his lip. Hot damn, he even sounded like a captain, his voice strong, yet soft, and with a very handsome accent.

“However, as you have yet to learn this, in practice, I will be magnanimous. All crimes will be forgiven. We will start from a clean slate, but what you do with this slate is up to you.”

Stoker sighed in relief and dropped his head, only to be shoved by a marine and told in hushed tones to stand up straight.

“Furthermore, I wish to make several announcements as to the running of this ship. Firstly, all coming and going between the ship and the town is to stop. The ship must be ready and fully crewed at all times if it is to remain a credible force in these waters, which cannot occur if half the crew is out drowning their sorrows in coffee!”

Keel snorted.

“You mean burying their sorrows alive,” he muttered. “He’s yet to try the coffee round here.”

Stoker stifled a giggle and received another shove.

“Secondly," (and Stoker experienced a little worm of doubt when he pronounced it 'secandlay'), "every pony is to remain at their station at all times. No.... 'bunking off' will be tolerated.”

“Oh! So what will we fill our time with?” Said Keel, perhaps a trifle too loud.

Prince Blueblood’s eyes flickered down for a moment, but his ego assured him he’d heard nothing.

“Full combat drills will be held weekly to ensure the combat readiness of this vessel. And lastly, I want you all to pay no heed to the malcontents at the factory here. They are untrustworthy and lazy ponies and do not deserve your time or consideration. That will be all. Remember, I expect much from you, my first command.”

He nodded to the crowd, gave a smug smile. There was a desultory clatter of hooves, which must have seemed to him like raucous applause, because he strode away with his chest swollen like he’d swallowed a balloon. In his wake, a wave of discontented mutterings arose from the crowd. Keel shook his head slowly.

“It’s a crime, you know, making somepony think they can just be captain,” he said, sagely. “At least old Ironsides had seniority.”

“So what now?” said Stoker.

“Now, you get to your posts, apparently,” said an officer, stepping down from the platform. “You heard the captain.”

* * *

Stoker followed Keel, who limped down the gangway with the other ponies down to the engine rooms. The main part was the boiler hall, in which the boilers were laid out in rows of five, six rows deep in the hull of the ship. Down here was a place of deep shadow, dim orange light from the furnace mouths and ash, where soot-faced engineers, stokers and shovellers toiled.

They filed into the hall. The chief engineer strolled up to the head of the column.

“All right, my little ponies,” he said in his deep Edinbuck accent. “We’re going to be going full steam ahead, right?”

Stoker’s heart sank. He raised a hoof.

“Why?” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The chief engineer shrugged “That’s orders. We’re to have the capacity to go anywhere at the slightest notice.”

Stoker groaned, as did much of the rest of the crew.

“Come on, my little ponies, don’t be like that,” said the chief engineer. “It’s not like we have a choice here.”

Stoker shuffled over with Keel to boiler eight with the other ponies who worked it. They got their shovels, and a hopper of coal was heaved over to them and they started shovelling. The boiler was already cooking, so it was a matter of putting more coal into it and pumping the bellows. Stoker sighed and started shovelling, heaving coal into the boiler. Already, he could feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck. In his mind, he thought dark thoughts about the captain and the chief engineer.

* * *

On the bridge, an officer’s address had been convened, with all the worthies on the ship and their various lackeys and hangers-on invited. They were clustered around a rather nice lacquered mahogany table, which had an unparalleled view of the decks. The view at present, though, was marred by the crew, undergoing fits of panic and dithering about. Captain Blueblood (he was getting used to the sound of that now) paced back and forth in front of the prow-facing windows, head held high.

“I was to understand this was the finest ship in the Equestian navy,” he said, “And while it is hardly worthy of that title now, I daresay I will make it so.”

The first mate, a pegasus of some years named Loggerhead, raised a hoof.

“Sir, in all fairness, they aren't prepared for this. The Ponytemkin hasn't been at anything like combat readiness for months. They can hardly be expected to just slip back into it.”

Blueblood made a dismissive gesture with a hoof.

“Well, they are expected to do it. Every day we spend unprepared is another day for the enemies of Equestria to gather their strength, and strike when we are least prepared. Anyway, I have absolute faith in the crew’s abilities, which is why all able seaponies and deckhooves will be put to the task of weapon maintenance. All the ship’s weapons are doubtless in pretty poor nick after such a long time without seeing use. The ship should be ready to deal with any threat at any time.”

The captain went on, reading from his internal crib sheet “I know as well as anypony that reform must start at the top. I expect all of you to take an active role in the running of this ship. And that goes for all of you!”

Looks were exchanged. The atmosphere was that of an aeroplane whose pilot has just announced he's off chasing the electric dragon. The middies’ representative raised a hoof.

“With all due respect, sir, this ship has officially been mothballed. We won’t even need to be on combat readiness until the ice thaws, which will prevent us from steaming anywhere for the foreseeable future.”

Blueblood made a show of ignoring the comment.

“I want this ship to take its place as the pride of the fleet. I want every member of its crew to live up to the grand naval traditions of the Equestrian Royal Navy.”

“What, thuggery, skulduggery and bugg-“ said the middies’ representative, before someone put a hoof over his mouth. In any case, Blueblood didn’t hear it.

“If that’s all understood, are there any questions?”

“Well... Sir, I was just thinking that it, if I may...”

“No? Good, good,” Blueblood cleared his throat and took a step back to compose himself. “Hop to it, then.”

He stamped his hooves emphatically, turned briskly and walked smack-bang into the door. After some mental and physical legwork, he circumnavigated it and left. The sound of his hooves faded off down the hall. After a while, the first mate spoke.

“What do you think, Beaufort?”

“I think, Loggerhead,” replied the second mate, “that we’re the butt of some cruel cosmic joke.”

“Seconded,” said the chief navigator, solemnly. “That indefinite shore leave was all that was keeping my chaps sane.”

“True as that may be,” said Loggerhead, “but at present, there’s not much we can really do. He is captain.”

The others nodded. An unpleasant fact, but a fact nonetheless.

“Well, look chaps, here’s how I see it,” said Loggerhead. “Let’s just see what happens, eh? No harm in waiting to see if it all sorts itself out in the end...”

Chapter Six - The Battle of Nowheregorod

Chapter Six

The Battle of Nowheregorod

Stoker sat with Anchorage on the barricade they’d built in the middle of the National Stroll. He was quietly impressed by it, to be honest. It was a good seven or eight feet high and looked thick enough to take a charging bull, and all it took was some furniture and elbow grease.

It was about midway the street, so there was plenty of space for all the ponies defending it to dither. They mostly sat in small nervous clumps, chatting, drinking tea (the char-wallahs had gone into overdrive, it seemed, dashing about with tea, biscuits and even coffee) and generally being tense. Keel had managed to make an appearance though, having insisted on being brought out by the medical personnel Hardcolt had managed to rustle up. He was down there now, challenging all and sundry to a game of Blackmail. Stoker peered over the top.

“It’s quiet,” said Anchorage. “Too quiet.”

Stoker gave him a look.

“What? When else am I gonna be able to say that?”

There was a snort of laughter from the bottom of the barricade. Anything to relieve the tension. Presently, it started to rain. It moved in like a solid wall of water, drenching the street and churning the road up. The defenders grumbled and dashed off into the lee of buildings. A couple pulled down a banner and held it over their heads. Keel opened an umbrella he’d found somewhere. Stoker turned to Anchorage and rolled his eyes.

Over the sound of the rain, Stoker swore he heard a hissing of steam. He leaned his shovel up against the barricade and hollered to a navigator, who passed him a telescope. He wiped the lens off on his boilersuit (which in all likelihood just made it worse) and rested it on the barricade, peering down the street. He couldn’t see the train, but the plume of steam rising from the train station was clear for all to see. He hunkered down and kept watching. Anchorage gestured and whispered for the defenders to stack up, which they did by and large, even hauling Keel a little closer.

Something moved at the other end of the street. Through the sheets of rain, he could just about make out a cluster of ponies pushing a cart out of the station.

“The deuce...?”

He looked again. There was something on the cart, covered in tarpaulin. He saw the points of half a dozen deck crossbows jut from first storey windows along the street as Hardcolt and his marines took aim. Hardcolt himself was waving from a window at Stoker for confirmation to fire. Stoker bit his lip.

“What do you think, Anchorage?”

“I say perforate ‘em. Hay knows what they’ve got on that cart.”

Stoker turned to Hardcolt and gave a nod. Hardcolt nodded back and all fired at once. The bolts embedded themselves into the cart and the ground (and the mane of one unlucky soldier, who was pinned to the side of the cart). Those that could ducked down behind the cart and heaved off the tarpaulin. The marines were furiously reloading their crossbows as the thing on the back of the cart took shape.

Through the telescope, Stoker saw an assembly of cogs and pedals, a rack filled with some things that looked like oversized comedy cheroots and six long barrels. For the third time in half an hour, his blood ran cold. If this kept up, he might as well become a lizard. It might’ve looked a bit odd, but Stoker knew a cannon when he saw one.

“Get down!” He yelled, leaping from the barricade into the street. He and Anchorage landed in the mud face down, just as the cannon opened fire.

It started slow, sending rounds the size of hoof-balls through the barricade one at a time, but soon it sped up, the blasts mingling and blurring together until it was one sole roar. Ponies ran in all directions as the barricade was torn apart. Chunks of wood flew in all directions and splinters burst in clouds. There was a brief, multicoloured shower as a barrel of rainbow blew apart. Stoker put his hoof on Anchorage’s.

“We’ve got to get inside Town Hall!” shouted Stoker, over the long, rolling explosion.

“You think it’ll be any safer?”

“Safer than here!”

Stoker picked up an abandoned banner and tied it around his neck like a cape. He rushed over to Keel, Anchorage close behind. Together, they hefted the stretcher up on to their backs. They staggered down the street under Keel’s weight. The banner flew like a flag, and Stoker yelled for everyone to follow him. The cynic in Anchorage told him that the others had probably been running to Town Hall anyway, and only appeared to be following Stoker, but at least they ended up safe either way.

He cast an eye back as he kept pace with Stoker. The cannon had now turned its attention on the marines, tearing apart buildings with every sweep, pouring smoke and belching fire as the marines dashed for cover. Buildings collapsed and Anchorage saw crowds of ponies vanish in dust. He noticed that it was getting very hard to see. Idly he wondered how the hay you were supposed to aim that thing, but then again he supposed that wasn’t the idea.

They got inside with the last few stragglers and slammed the doors shut shut. They’d have pushed something heavy in front of it, but any movable bit of furniture had been in the barricade.

He took the time to pant. He scarcely had a moment’s rest before Stoker set off again, leading the mud-spattered survivors deeper into the building. He sighed and followed with.

“I’m too old for this manure,” muttered Keel from his stretcher, “and the rest of you are too young...”

* * *

In the command car, Crossfire seethed silently. She’d heard the Fifty-Cal firing and that had only made her seethe harder. She shuffled in place, but the Lancers gave her a sharp look and she sat still. Well, Lancer. The rest had left now the Fifty-Cal was silent. Going in to mop up resistance, she thought, glumly.

She sighed. This wasn’t the end she’d imagined for her military career. She was thinking maybe she’d work the desks a little longer, build up a good pension, then buy a farm and retire somewhere quiet. Now, though, her military career was promising to be very short indeed. Once the Field Marshall and the Commodore got their business sorted out, she was for it.

She glanced around for any escape, but the Lancer was watching her intently. He knew he was stopping her from getting out, rather than stopping anyone from getting in. This was a brilliant strategy, doubtless worthy of praise in all the best henchmen periodicals. So naturally, it all went wrong.

The door opened behind him and he turned, straight into a powerful headbutt from Vickers. There was a little ‘gwee’ noise before the unlucky guard slumped into unconsciousness.

“C’mon then, look lively,” said Vickers, setting about tying up the supine Lancer. “Good lord but you’ve screwed up royally, eh?”

Crossfire leapt to her feet “Well, I think given the circumstances I’ve done very well.”

“Hm, if y’say so. I guess I got captured too, so I suppose neither of us made much of a go of it, to be honest.”

“Hang on, if you got captured, how are you here?”

“Easy. That huge cannon starts up and everypony panics and loses track of any prisoners they might be holding. Then, you wait until the smoke dies down at the troops go in. After that, simplicity itself, under the circumstances to get into here,” he said, with a touch of pride. “After all, I figured if they were here, then you must either be under guard or in the ground, and I guess I’m an optimist at heart.”

Crossfire smiled. “Well, in that case thanks. I’d be screwed without you.”

“No trouble. Now, let’s get out there, shall we?”

* * *

Stoker, Keel and Anchorage and a good couple dozen ponies were in the main hall of Town Hall, wet and exhausted. Princess Celestia fumed silently, pacing up and down. A few char-wallahs nudged some bits of broken crockery about despondently. Sandblast had somehow survived too, and was sat among a few tattered factory workers. Stoker sighed and slumped down.

“And we were so bloody close, too...” he said, drawing circles on the floor idly with one hoof.

Anchorage lay beside him “Hey, fret ye not, Stoker. I’m sure we’ll get out of this okay.”

“We’re surrounded, out-classed, out-manoeuvred and definitely out-gunned. We’re hosed, Keel.”

Keel smiled faintly. “Well, if that’s the case, why are we cowering in here?”

“Because they have that bloody great thing out there,” said Stoker, despondently.

“Now, that’s true, but they can hardly get it in here, aye?”

Stoker was still frowning. “But we haven't any weapons.”

“Never stopped me,” said Keel, grinning ear to ear. “Just let ‘em try.”

Stoker smiled. It was insane, but it might just work. He felt he had at least one speech left in him. Above, a stray cannon round had smashed a hole in the roof, leaving a shaft of light shining down. Stoker stepped into it.

“Everypony! Gather round! C’mon, over here.”

They gathered, lacking anything better to do.

“Look... things look bad, right?” He began. There was a murmur of agreement. “It looks like we’re gonna get creamed, right?” Another, louder murmur. “Well, maybe we are.”

Keel and Anchorage put their heads in their hooves, and Celestia ceased her pacing. Even by the usual standards of last-stand speeches, this was looking unusually bad.

“But I want you all to know that I have faith in you. That this will be a creaming for the ages. Ponies in a thousand years will look back at us now and say ‘good lord but did those ponies get creamed. But at least we will get creamed fighting for what we believe in!”

Celestia had to bite her lip. If you left an infinite number of speech writers in a room with an infinite number of typewriters, she doubted you’d get something as mind-numbingly brilliant as ‘a creaming for the ages’.

“We’re in a tight spot, yes, but you know what? Animals fight best in tight corners. Panthers, leopards, all the cool animals. We’ll kick their flanks so hard they’ll need specially padded coffins! Because together, we can do anything.”

Stoker was grinning ear to ear, slightly out of breath, standing in a little patch of light. There was a lot of glance-exchanging, and no small amount of murmuring. Anchorage decided to break the spell and started applauding. Keel took it up too, and soon the whole room was in rapturous applause, although what about none were too sure.

Doubtless they would have found out too, had events not overtaken the situation. There was a clanking of armour and weapons and the door was suddenly filled with a line of soldiers, all wearing the shako caps of the Pasturekhan Rangers. They parted, and two ponies entered. An earth pony and a pegasus, one olive drab, eyes blazing, the other a funny greenish-blue tinge. The Field Marshall stood proud and tall and owned the space. The Commodore slunk behind like something left to soak too long.

There was a moment of silence. Then, the Field Marshall uttered a lie that was so great, the universe as they knew it winced. Even here, in a place born of stories and half-truths and deeds needlessly cruel, it stood out above all others.

“Don’t worry, Princess Celestia. Everything is perfectly fine.”

Stoker, Anchorage, Keel, Sandblast, the char-wallahs, Princess Celestia herself, the factory hooves, the officers and the crew, all stared at them in shock and awe.

"What,” said Princess Celestia, as though addressing a particularly stubborn dog-turd, “are you doing here?”

“Ensuring the safety of the nation,” said the Field Marshal. Her smile’s smugness and towering arrogance could have been measured in kilo-Trixies. “Just like we said we would in the Serviceponies’ Pledge.”

“Bollocks,” said Keel, quite plainly, “you’re trying to kill us.”

The Field Marshall fixed him with a stare, and he fixed her right back. She blinked first.

“That’s how it is,” said the Commodore, sliding out of his place. “Sometimes, some must die so others may live in peace.”

“I don’t call this any kind of peace,” said Stoker. “Not with that bloody cannon out there.”

“Well, of course it isn’t now,” said the Field Marshall, irritably, “but imagine what it’ll be like when you’re gone. No one will have to worry about where they are in the grand scheme of things. Everyone will know where they stand. Everypony will know their place.”

Stoker lowered his head and snorted, but the Pasturekhan Rangers readied their spears and he thought better of it.

“Surely there can be an agreement,” said Celestia. “Surely this doesn’t have to end in bloodshed.”

The Field Marshall tried to look regretful. It was like a sheep trying to look cunning
.

“You see it does, because if ponies are not shown what happens when they try to oppose the order of things, then what will happen?”

Celestia thought about that, and she knew. The land had got to these two. They were just... plot devices now.

“Nothing,” she said. “The order of things will change and the world will go on.”

The Field Marshall’s mouth opened and shut, like a fish gulping for air. The Commodore looked ready to see his lunch again.

“But... but it can’t change,” said the Field Marshall, her eyes lighting up in anger “It’s our tradition, our history! What are we without it? It makes us strong!”

“Maybe,” said Stoker. He thought about Story, and what it’d said. “But you can't hang on to it forever. Sooner or later, tradition ceases to apply, and when it does, you have to let go.”

A char-wallah, ever one of life’s natural audience members, whistled appreciatively, and another started clapping.

If the Field Marshall had been beyond rage before, she was beyond that now. She was in the anti-rage, the point at which it reached a singularity and collapsed in on itself. The Commodore recoiled like a slug in a frying pan. She turned to the Pasturekhan Rangers. Her expression was blank, burnt clear.

“Kill them. Kill them all.”

* * *

Vickers and Crossfire flattened themselves against the wall of a half-collapsed building on the National Stroll. Crossfire had been adamant they try and stop the Field Marshall and the Commodore, and Vickers had hardly been in a position to disagree. They hadn’t got terribly far when they realised that there was little hope of achieving anything, though. The Fifty-Cal had been wheeled into the middle of the street, and was surrounded by a small picket of Lancers, but no one was at the controls now.

That, at least, they had on their side. Of course, they were still facing a force of well-armed, well-trained and fresh troops. Surprise (one of the lesser known elements of disharmony) could only get you so far. They hunkered down behind a slab of masonry and pondered their next move.

“No way we’re getting in,” said Vickers. “They’ve got it locked down tighter than a cutesy similie.”

Crossfire’s face was set. “We’ve got to at least try. We owe it to the ponies in there.”

“You don’t even know them,” Vickers pointed out.

“Well, no, but shouldn’t we give them a chance?”

Vickers chuckled mirthlessly under his breath. “Was that your battle-cry at Thursk?”

Crossfire sighed and slumped down, only to have the rubble beneath her grumble and shift. She stepped back, and a pony emerged. He was dressed in the remains of a marine’s uniform, the sergeant’s stripes just visible on his sleeve beneath the grime. He shook himself down, then he noticed who he was with.

“Don’t panic!” said Crossfire, in a stage-whisper. “We’re on your side!”

"I’ll be the judge of that!” said the marine, hackles raised and glaring at Crossfire “Who are you anyway?”

Crossfire introduced herself, and gave a quick run-down of her immediate life story. The marine listened patiently.

“Hm. Well, we’re all in the same boat now, I suppose,” he bit his lip and cast a glance at the picket around the Fifty-Cal. “I suppose if you had that bit of hardware our job’d be a bit easier, eh?”

Crossfire nodded. “But for want of a nail, and whatnot”

The sergeant looked faintly puzzled for a moment “Or whatever that thing is. Well, look, I could buy you some time, eh? Then you could rush it while they’re distracted. Once you’ve got it, you’ll have them by the sweetmeats.”

“But, what’ll you do?” said Vickers, ever sceptical of a plan that put him in the line of sight of armed ponies. “More to the point, you’d do that?”

“Having that thing out there isn’t improving anyone’s day,” said the marine, with a look that knew Vickers through and through. “Alright, on the count of three, okay?”

The sergeant counted down and leapt across the ruins before the others had time to stop him. He dashed out into the middle of the street and stood for a moment, posing dramatically just long enough for the guards to get a good bead on him and rush forward as one. Not all of them, of course, because they weren’t all needed to take down one measly marine.

Those who didn’t rush forward, though, were caught unawares. Vickers homed into view and pounded their heads together like so many coconut halves. Crossfire leapt past a couple who lunged at her and scrambled on to the cart. She put her hooves on the pedals and immediately felt out of her depth. She hadn’t realised this thing had gears, for one thing. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She put it into first and pushed down on the pedals.

The barrels all pointed skywards and Crossfire fired a long burst, pumping out smoke like a dry ice machine in a humidor. All the soldiers stopped in their tracks. Crossfire finished firing and swung the barrel down over their heads. Vickers and the marine hit the dirt. Crossfire’s eyes had developed a worrying gleam to them.

There was a moment of silence. From nooks and crannies and piles of debris, ponies dressed in tattered naval uniforms (some with red, some without) slipped out behind the transfixed Lancers and surrounded them in short order. The Lancers might have been armed, but they knew when it wasn’t worth it. A few bowed down.

“Alright, you lot, I know what you’re all thinking,” she said, because some history comes pre-written. “‘Did she fire fifty shots or just forty nine’ and you know what? In all this confusion, I’m none too sure myself-“

Common sense stepped in.

“The magazine is just there, if you need to check,” said a helpful voice below her hooves. A soldier was pointing with one hoof, the other being held over his eyes. “That metal frame next to the feed assembly.”

Crossfire tried not to look flustered “Oh, thank you. Well, it looks like I just fired twenty. I take you understand what this means for all you punks down there?”

“Not a big fan of punk, myself,” said one soldier, with suicidal regard for his own individuality.

“No, I’m more of a new wave chap,” said another.

“Can’t knock a bit of jazz, I always feel.”

“I’ve got a soft spot for Electro, personally...”

Crossfire was having none of this.

"Everypony shut up about your taste in music,” voicing the concerns of many since the dawn of record collections, “or I’ll fill you full of so much lead they could melt you down and make you into,” she paused, ”... more bullets.”

She looked around and frowned. This wasn’t going quite as she planned, but then again, what had the plan been?

One idea suggested itself.

“Right, all you lot, help me get this thing into that hall,” she said, pointing at Town Hall.

There was some shuffling of hooves and some muttering, but eventually, everypony, Lancers, marines and crew put their weight behind it and shoved the cart down the street and into the entrance of Town Hall.

* * *

The atmosphere in the hall was so tense you could have cut it into strips and sold it as elastic. The Pasturekhan Rangers stepped forward as one, perfectly in step, as the cluster of revolutionaries and Princess Celestia retreated. The Commodore was rubbing his hooves together and Field Marshall was grinning broadly, her shoulders shaking and little ‘tsh, tsh, tsh’ noises escaping between her teeth. Any minute she was going to laugh, Celestia could just feel it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, lowering her horn and glaring at the Rangers. She felt the history of the room, all the strength and blind fury, there if she needed it. This could all be over in one very messy minute. She didn’t want to, but if she had to...

The Rangers’ step faltered slightly, but one look at the Field Marshall’s eyes reaffirmed their purpose. They’d rather face uncertain death at the hands of a monarch than the certain death promised by the Field Marshall’s glare.

Stoker hunched his shoulders forward and stood his ground. Anchorage saw and did likewise. Sandblast did so too, trying to control his shaking knees. Keel, who had no choice but to lie down and fight, gnashed his teeth at a height that made one or two Ranger stallions wince and put their back legs closer together.

The Rangers’ line advanced nonetheless. Stoker became aware he was shaking, and hoped it wasn’t fear. Then he noticed the floor was shaking, the boards were creaking. The char-wallah’s broken crockery shook and jumped. The high windows rattled. Oh no, thought Anchorage, not again.

Through the double doors behind the Rangers, a cart burst through. It had been pushed with quite some force, and was propelled by its own momentum some way into the hall, huge iron-bound wheels crunching across the wooden floors. One rolled on to the Commodore’s tail, making him squeal in a most satisfying way. Hardcolt rushed around the side with his ex-prisoner, a spear in his teeth to threaten all and sundry, but a more impressive threat was above him.

Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane stood, front hooves on the pedals of the Fifty-Cal, eyes wild, hair matted, and still dressed in her mangled snow camouflage coat. She didn’t look like the most stable of ponies.

“Don’t nopony move!” She shouted. “I’ve got this... thing, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

One look at her assured everyone of the truth in both of these statements. The Rangers stopped in their tracks, flummoxed by with this new tactical consideration. Each one of them weighed up their own personal allegiances and how likely they were to survive a cannon ball.

The world turned on a pinhead. Speeches were all very well and good, Stoker thought, but sometimes the right word in the right place was just as good. He turned to the Pasturekhan Rangers and pointed at the Field Marshall.

“Get her.”

The Rangers gave one look and, Celestia love ‘em, did just that.