Twilight has arrived in a foreign land to secure peace between Equestria and the Khanate, however not everything is as it seems in the shifting mire of treachery and mistrust that is the Khanate.
"In the midst of Chaos, there is also opportunity"- Sun Tzu.
You know it is going to be a good trip when you get shot at on the first day. Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Equestria, has arrived in the Khanate. Her orders are as clear as they are impossible. She must plunge headfirst into a maelstrom of politics, betrayal and intrigue to make peace with a nation that teeters on the brink of open war.
However nothing is as it seems in the Khanate. Someone is gunning for Twilight. In a continent soaked in petrol, where one spark will ignite the whole thing into a raging firestorm of bloodshed and violence, someone is playing with a book of matches.
Editors: The Discernist. Guest Authors: Kalash93
With thanks to the guys in TWG for their support, pre-reading and general willingness to tolerate being badgered.
27th of January, 1882. United Federation. Chambers of Congress, Capitol Hill.
The deafening thunder of silence rings through the small conference room. It flutters around the closed curtains and drifts around the locked doors, before alighting on the tiny conference table at which a group of humans are sat. The small group of men represent the key players in the United Federation’s political scene. At the head of the committee is the United Federation’s president, President McKinley, a broad red-faced Blue who earned his majority as a captain of industry before he decided to enter the political scene, though the warm and winning smile he normally displays when meeting voters or fellow politicians is nowhere to be seen today. Organized around the table with him are key members of his cabinet, including the Secretary of War, Harold Johnson and the Foreign Secretary, Christolph Bergenstien. The cabinet has been assembled at extremely short notice at the request of the chief of the OSS for an emergency briefing on the Equestria-Khan situation.
In McKinley’s considered opinion, the Equestrian problem is one that can be best solved by keeping Federal involvement to an absolute minimum, a view that most of his colleagues in the cabinet share. After all, Equestria is a problem just waiting to happen, and as long as it happens to a president that isn’t him, then that’s just fine as far as McKinley’s concerned. There is also the more practical issue of putting Federal lives on the line, and the Joint Chiefs have all taken the position that Equestria does not represent a threat. Shows how much they know. McKinley thinks. However, the President does not have long to consider the issue, as the door opens and Director Tobias Caine walks in.
Tobias Caine’s short steel streaked fair hair glints in the oil-lamp light as he strides into the room, conveying every air of a man who owns the briefing room and everyone in it. His cheeks and eyes are sunken and the first wrinkles are sinking in around his eyes. “Good morning gentlemen!” He says, a bright smile upon his face despite the lateness of the hour.
McKinley glances at the clock, which most certainly does not read a morning time, before fixing his ebullient spymaster with a look. “Tobias, I trust this is important?” He asks, and the intelligence chief nods.
“Absolutely sir, my agents in Tarhen have just sent word about the Equestrian envoy, she was attacked by insurgents that we think were being bankrolled by the Khanate Interior Ministry, or their church,” Caine says, depositing a sheaf of manilla wallets upon the table. McKinley raises an eyebrow, noticing how cheerful Caine sounds about the whole thing. Like a kid at Hearth’s Warming, the president reflects. “Right, and this necessitates you calling all of us here at this time of day, just to tell us that someone that we know hates Equestria decided they wanted to sling a coupla arrows at their local representative?” He asks.
The spymaster shakes his head briskly. “Not especially. I know exactly who is gunning for the Equestrians, who organized the mob a month back. It’s not the church or the Ministry of Internal Order. There’s a cat named Aznan… He wants to provoke a war with Equestria. I don’t really know or care why, but I think we should be supporting him in this.” Caine says calmly.
The other members of the cabinet look at each other in shock, everyone is absolutely stunned into silence for a moment, and then Christolph Bergenstien purses his lips and narrows his eyes slightly. “So you’re saying, just to sum up, we should support a military officer’s personal campaign against one of the largest, most dangerous national opponents that we face?” The Foreign secretary looks distinctly dubious, as do other members of the cabinet.
“When you put it like that, it’s something of a non-starter I’ll admit,” Caine replies, “But we need to take the following things into account: One, the Khans are going to go to war with Equestria eventually. Tensions are just too high, even if the current situation is normalized, they will backslide. It’s just a matter of time.” He says confidently, and the dubious looks from the other humans in the room are starting to fade.
“Two, we need to take into account the outcome of that war. The Khans have quantitative superiority in most aspects, current estimates say they have a one point five to one superiority in raw hulls when it comes to escort class airships, that increases to two to one when we consider capital ships. They also have almost ten million men under arms to Equestria’s two million,” He explains, and the other men in the room are passing each other amused looks.
“But the problem is that those ten million men are spread out putting down dissent in various parts of the Khanate and they’re mainly trained to do just that. I think they’ll struggle when it comes to dealing with Equestrian soldiers. Certainly, Equestrian soldiers are easily better trained and Equestrian airships are of a better quality than their Khan rivals, and the outcome of a war between Equestria and the Khanate would not be a sure bet either way. Now, humour me for a second and we’ll say the Equestrians win their war and the Immortal Empresses decide to take the Khanate as part of their territory, which they will because that’s what tyrants do,” The spymaster has a faint smile upon his face as he sees the other men at the table casting wary glances at each other. They’re on his wavelength and all of them can read a map. They can all see where he’s going with this.
“Equestria will be on at our borders. Now, they’re going to be able to replace up to seventy five per-cent of any losses the Khans inflict on them inside of a year, maybe a little more for the airships, but the bottom line is that they’ll be at our borders, with a combined industrial and population base big enough to cause us, and more importantly, voters, some serious panic issues," Caine takes a sip of water, before continuing. "The voters want something done, and whatever the Joint Chiefs have been telling you, we won’t come out of an open war with an Equestria that's taken the Khanate without some serious scars, if we come out at all," The members of the cabinet are now looking nervously at each other, as though they can almost hear the drone of the heavily armed Imperial Navy airships overhead right now. "So what do we do?" The secretary of trade asks, and Caine smiles like a conjurer pulling a rabbit from a hat.
"We support Aznan, that's what we do. He’s chief of the army after all, if we can give him resources and supplies then maybe he can bog the Equestrians down in a slugfest that will either burn the Equestrians so bad that they won’t even think about foreign adventurism for a hundred years, or better yet, he’ll win and maybe he’ll push across the border and take care of that little problem for us. If nothing else, he'll serve as a convenient fall-guy that we can use for our own operations.” Caine finishes, looking at the studiously neutral faces of his audience. He can tell he’s got almost all of them hooked. Certainly the secretary of War looks ready to charge the Equestrian lines with nothing more than a short stick and harsh language.
The president shrugs slightly. “You make a convincing case Director.” He says after a second and in that moment, Director Tobias Caine, chief shareholder of TransWorld Minerals, knows that he has his prize.
The Princess of the Sun turns around as she hears the door to her dimly lit study creaking open, to see Princess Cadance sticking her head through the door, wrapped in a thick pale blue dressing gown, with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand. Princess Celestia smiles weakly, gesturing at the towering pile of paperwork upon her desk.
“You know how it is Cadance, you need to keep on top of these things,” Princess Celestia says, a wan little smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Cadance's sceptically raised eyebrow makes it plain that she doesn't believe Celestia for a moment, and the elder princess sighs, rising to her slippered feet and running a hand through her dull-rose coloured hair.
“There's no shame in admitting you're worried about her,” Cadance says softly as she walks into the room, igniting several of the oil lamps as she does so. Celestia nods, frowning slightly. Cadance has always been one of the sharpest people that she's known in her long life. Celestia turns her back on the table of paperwork, turning to the map table in the middle of the room, and beckoning Cadance over.
“Mmm,” Celestia agrees softly, her gaze dancing over the wooden blocks on the table. “You're right... I'm worried about her Cadance, more worried than I should be.”
“That makes two of us,” Cadance says as she joins Celestia at the table, her own nerves quite clear in her voice as she takes a sip of her coffee.
“I don't know why I'm worried, you know, she's always come through before,” Celestia says after a second, unfolding her wings and shaking them out from where she's had them locked into her back for so long. Celestia knows she's doing her student a disservice by worrying, that her student has dealt most adroitly with other crises, and that's even before Celestia gave her her crown. However the worries are much like weeds. Every time Celestia tries to stamp them out, they just grow back with a vengeance, choking Celestia's thought processes and keeping her up at night.
This would not normally pose a problem. The ageless Princess does not, strictly speaking, need sleep and she's managed to make massive progress upon her paperwork backlog. However it also makes her rather crotchety with her ministers, who do not appreciate being snapped at by an increasingly irritable Princess of the Sun.
“You care about her, it's natural that you'd be worried,” Cadance says gently. “They threw Luna out on her ear after all, and from what we saw earlier tonight, things haven't been smooth. Do you think things will calm down when they get into the Khanate proper?”
“Honestly, I'm not sure, Cadance,” Celestia says after a second. “Up until three weeks ago, I would have been able to give you a definite yes... but the only Equestrian presence there right now is the Empire Broadcasting Corporation... and the Legion Etrangere.”
“The EBC hmm? You have a radio, right Aunty?”
“Oh, that thing.” Celestia gestures at the radio set she'd been presented by the inventor, gathering dust as it stands upon the table, untouched since the day it was put into her study. “I've never figured out how to work it, it just squeals and screams at me when I tried, so I've given up on it,” Celestia says dismissively. She's never been a fan of radio, her more sensitive ears and skin picking up the squealing on frequencies that humans and even Equestrians cannot detect.
Celestia watches as Cadance turns and trots over to it and starts fiddling with the device. “You really should try setting it up Aunty, EBC have an excellent selection of records and they have some very informed commentary pieces, some of the speakers from your school even come on occasionally and have very lively discussions,” Cadance says as she starts twirling dials, and making the device shriek.
Celestia winces, putting a hand to her ears as she feels goosebumps ripple up her skin, however she watches in fascination as her niece works with the device. Celestia isn't that surprised that Cadance knows her way around a radio set, one of the Crystal Empire's primary exports is the crystals required to work the silly things.
“Here we go,” Cadance says as she finishes adjusting the dials, and the squealing gives way to coherent if grainy speech, much to Celestia's relief.
“Twilight should be landing in Tarhen about now,” Cadance says. “I thought we might listen in. Maybe that will ease your nerves?” she suggests, and Celestia nods, relief colouring her cheeks. Maybe Cadance is right, I probably should keep abreast of these new devices.
A voice blooms from the radio, a male voice speaking in clearly accentuated Equestrian.
“This is the Empire Broadcasting Corporation World Service news hour. Our focus tonight is, of course on events in the Khanate, where Her Royal Highness, Princess Twilight Sparkle is scheduled to arrive at Tarhen's main airport in ten minutes time for an emergency summit with senior representatives of the Khan government, though there has been no word from the Foreign Office about the topics to be discussed. However, an unnamed source within the Khanate Ministry of Foreign Affairs has suggested that...”
Celestia smiles slightly. “His accent is hypnotic, I could stand to listen to him for hours,” she says, and Cadance snorts sardonically.
“They take classes Aunty, they have to be taught to speak with pwoper diction. It's apparently all about sounding like they're your diwect offspwing,” Cadance says, putting a thick upper-class Canterlot accent upon her words that makes Celestia chuckle.
“I don't actually sound like that, do I?”
“No, they don't have female broadcasters in spite of my-”
“Hush, they're getting back to the story,” Celestia says as Cadance frowns, but her ears likewise prick up. For her own part, Celestia doesn't want to hear another one of Cadance's monologues about women's rights right now. Normally, she'd be quite receptive, but right now she has other things on her mind, her most faithful student among them.
“And now we are going live to Tarhen where our correspondent, Broadcaster Burrows is currently standing by for Her Highness' arrival.”
“Thank you, Clear Signal, and welcome to our listeners, we are currently coming to you live from Tarhen’s Skyport. Princess Twilight's airship, the HMS Equerry, is now landing. As you can hear around me, the local population is out in force to greet the Princess... There are Khans from the Foreign Ministry waiting to see Her Highness, Mahmoud Zaklem, Meytme Ad-Dwans and Amman Sotronar are among them, all senior Khan diplomats with years of experience. We hope that they will be able to come to an accommodation with Her Highness.”
“Inconsequential nobodies,” Celestia turns to see Princess Luna striding into the office, dressed in uniform as always. “I spoke to all three of them, and they were all too willing to say yes to anything I said, but they never actually did anything,” Luna's voice is dark as she joins Celestia and Cadance. “We are listening to Princess Twilight's arrival in Tarhen, yes?”
Celestia nods, frowning. She's trying to listen, and her sister can be incredibly vocal with her opinions at times, however Celestia's aware that Luna may have a point here.
“The airship has now touched down... a ramp is being wheeled up to the entry hatch, a red carpet behind it. The Khans are standing at a respectful distance from the entryway. There is a band playing the Khan national anthem,” the broadcaster continues, and Celestia notices Cadance likewise frowning. “The ramp has been wheeled up and is now in position. All eyes are now upon the entryway from which Princess Twilight will shortly emerge. She will take questions from the press before travelling into Tarhen proper. We have been informed that Princess Twilight will be staying at the- wait a moment... I see movement at the stern of the ship. There is a ramp being lowered.” Celestia takes a deep breath and reaches out for Cadance's hand. This is it, three weeks of waiting and nerves all come down to this moment.
“We're moving round to try and- excuse me sir- get a better view of the rear of the airship. The ramp is down now... there are soldiers coming down the ramp. They are carrying rifles with bayonets fitted... Wait, I'm seeing a carriage coming down the ramp now, there are soldiers on the carriage. I see a girl- The Princess! Her Royal Highness Princess Twilight has landed in Tarhen by carriage... she will bring the carriage around and meet the delegates... the carriage is continuing to move through the crowd. It does not appear to be slowing down or showing any signs of turning.”
Celestia blinks, startled. She'd hoped Twilight would stop and converse with the delegates, she'd hoped that Twilight would try and create the image of a personable, friendly, if slightly earnest young stateswoman, rather than the chilly distance that Luna kept between herself and her civilian subjects, or indeed the people of a foreign nation. However, a sideways glance reveals Luna nodding approvingly, and Cadance watching the radio in wide eyed awe.
“I am seeing a second airship coming in now, the airship is a military model, very clearly armed. A hatch is opening. A Khan dressed in red is standing at the edge. He appears to be wearing some kind of armour, he's standing at the edge of the hatch, one more step will carry him over the precipice- Oh my- He jumped... I've lost sight of him.”
Celestia feels her heart start to race, her left hand squeezing into a fist, her right hand gripping Cadance's tightly. She can feel the Princess of Love returning the grip with equal strength. Suddenly Celestia hears a strange popping sound through the radio, followed by a sudden deluge of shrill noise, and Celestia releases Cadance's hand with an irritable hiss.
“Your contraption is bro-” Her voice dies in her throat as words come through the radio, the broadcaster having to yell to make himself heard.
“Oh my goodness, there’s shooting! Rounds are passing right over my head in the direction of the carriage! Them bleedin’ guards of Her Highness' carriage are shooting back! Sig, if yer listenin' some cheeky cunt's tryin' ta nut the Princess, fook me that one was close, I'm gettin' out of here! Mahk my fookin’ words, I'm yer political correspondent, not a bleedin' war reporter, I want a raise an' all if yer goin' ter send me to this shit!” Celestia's mouth drops open and her heart stops as she hears more pops over the radio, along with the sound of screaming. The broadcaster's cultured accent has dropped away to be replaced with something thick and regional. It would almost be funny if it wasn't so terrifying. Celestia can hear Cadance gasping for breath next to her as the three princesses listen to the broadcaster's words.
“Holy- come on mate, we gotta get the fook outa here, this is a serious two way range right now. Them Legionnaires are giving it some on their rifles though... Shit, grab her mate! She's been hit! Get her to that-” There is a sharp crack and then the signal suddenly goes dead. After a moment, the announcer's voice comes on, crisp and clear but also clearly shaken.
“Apologies listeners, we ah, appear to be having some, ah, some difficulties connecting to Tarhen right now. We shall keep trying to get hold of Burrows. So, there are dramatic events in Tarhen unfolding as we speak. Our thoughts and prayers are with the people involved, and with Her Royal Highness. No doubt the Crown will have a statement for us-*click*”
Celestia rips the wires from the back of the radio, silencing the inane drivel as her hands shiver slightly. Her lip is bitten into a thin line and her eyes are narrowed as her heart churns. Fire courses through her veins and her hands clench into fists as the fury of the sun is held on a very tight but incredibly frayed leash. She has been in parliament for long enough to know when someone is talking because they have nothing to say and are just stalling for time, she wants information and all she has is gossip.
Celestia’s long hair billows as if caught in a violent breeze, and a radiant glow blooms from the Princess of the Sun as her heart roars in her ears. For a moment she can't quite believe what she's just heard. Celestia’s mind is filled with visions of her Faithful Student dancing about the room as she was accepted into her school, just ten years old and already possessed with a fearsome intellect. Memories of staying up late teaching the dangerously bright young girl as heads of state frothed and ministers fumed while they waited for answers to inane telegrams, the two of them growing closer as Twilight grew older, until Celestia could honestly consider Twilight a friend, or maybe even the daughter she'd never had. Princess Celestia had been there for her. To cheer her on from the sidelines, and later on welcome her to her side as an equal. Time and time again, Celestia has put Twilight in danger to safeguard the future of her Empire; in fact it would be fair to say that the Empire wouldn't be standing without the efforts of Princess Twilight.
Now Celestia has put her in danger once more, perhaps for the last time. Celestia's back straightens as the glow fades and she draws on the infinite coolness of space to temper her fury, and she walks stiffly over to her desk, ignoring Cadance's horrified sobs and Luna's attempts to comfort the stricken young Princess. Celestia is the Princess of Equestria. Top of the pile. To use a fun little Federal phrase, the buck stops here. Celestia takes a deep breath, knowing that once she's done this, there's no turning back. She sits down at her desk, in her big red leather chair. She sweeps the mundane paperwork aside, exposing a panel on her desk. The panel is not very distinctive. A protective sheet of glass covers a series of brass switches and a single red button that glows ominously. Celestia takes a deep breath, her eyes narrowing faintly.
She lifts the covers, hesitates for a moment and then flicks the first switch up and down twice, and then flicks the second, followed by the third, once. She then reaches for the big red button, hesitates once more, and then firmly presses down. She holds it depressed for a moment before releasing it. She can almost hear the distant alarms starting to wail in Shell-sea barracks and East-Father as the Castle guard force steps up onto an imminent war footing.
“Right,” Celestia says. “I assume, Luna, you have plans for invading the Khanate drawn up?”
“Yes Sister,” Luna says, turning from the weakly sniffling Princess of Love and snapping her fingers to summon a folder with a dark blue ribbon tied around it into her hand. “It awaits your approval.”
“Luna, you don't need my approval, you're the head of the military, they're your men.”
“But they're your children, and I know you care for them all deeply, just as I do. I would appreciate it if you would look at my plans and see if I've missed anything,” Luna says, and Celestia's heart lurches. She's been trying very hard not to think about that.
“I will take a look, but not right now,” Celestia says primly. “Right now, I am going to summon Raven-”
“Here, your Highness!” Celestia turns to see her ever-loyal bespectacled secretary opening the door to her chambers and bowing politely, before walking into her chambers dressed in her usual smart but neutral business attire. There is no sign at all that the young woman was woken five minutes ago by the bell installed in her chambers, that would ring whenever Celestia pressed one of the switches. A quill and pad are already clutched in her hands.
“Excellent,” Celestia says. “As I was saying, I am going to summon my Cabinet for an emergency meeting. From their number I shall pick my war-cabinet. I am also going to arrange a meeting with the Zebricans and the State to let them know of my plans. I shall then summon the Khanate's ambassador to my office and hand him an ultimatum. He has four hours, starting from five minutes ago, to bring me word of Princess Twilight's condition.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Raven start to scribble furiously as she takes notes.
“Luna, do you have means of communicating with the Legion Etrangere?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Good, then I want you to communicate with the Second Regiment, I want you to find out from them what Twilight's condition is. Use whatever means you need, use Scryers if you have to, or even hunt for Twilight's mind yourself if you must. If Twilight-” Celestia takes a deep breath, and then forces herself to give voice to the unthinkable. “If Twilight is dead then the Khanate is out of time. I have made Equestria's intentions abundantly clear in this matter, but one way or another, I will have peace on my eastern borders.”
“Shall I wait for a formal declaration of hostilities?” Luna asks, and Celestia nods shortly, doing the best that she can to keep her emotions firmly under control. As much as she wishes to be advancing upon Tarhen right now with fire in her heart and steel in her hand, there is a protocol to these things.
“Yes, I want you to start making preparations to move, but make your preparations quiet if you can. Do nothing that cannot be taken back until I send word.”
Luna nods, clicking her heels. The Night Princess' face is unreadable behind that mask and Celestia feels a faint chill ripple up and down her spine. Luna is an expert at masking her body language and Celestia' had been hoping to get some clues as to what her sister thinks about the whole affair. However Luna then surprises her:
“I will, but Sister... I will do all that I can to find Twilight, I know she means a lot to you. She means a lot to me too.” For a second, Celestia senses an immense vulnerability in the way that the Night Princess forlornly slumps her shoulders. However, the instant lasts for only a second, before Luna squares her shoulders and turns on her heel, walking out of the door. As the door shuts behind her, Celestia turns to Raven.
“I want you to draft a statement to deliver to the EBC that the Crown is not willing to comment on developments in the Khanate at this time, and information will be made available at the right time. Couch it in the usual diplomatic waffle.”
“Yes Ma'am,” Raven says firmly. “When do you want it on your desk by?”
“I don't,” Celestia says simply. “I'm anticipating governmental business throughout the day so you'll need to give it to the press spokesman to deliver.”
“Will do Ma'am,” Raven says. “Will that be all?”
“I think so, but keep yourself ready if I need you for anything else.” In Celestia's experience, 'anything else' could range from going down to the kitchens on Celestia's behalf to scrounge some delicious gateaux to drafting more memos to the occasional foot-rub. Raven is Celestia's right hand woman, and Celestia knows she can trust her with anything, including knowing when to give her a moment to herself.
Raven politely excuses herself, turning and heading for the door and walking out, leaving Celestia to deal with Cadance, whose tears have faded into weak sniffles, though her face is still streaked with tears. She's startlingly pale, and Celestia is suddenly reminded that despite Cadance's two hundred years of experience, she's never really been at the sharp end like Celestia and Luna have, and she's always cared deeply for her 'Lady-Bug'. Celestia walks over to the young princess and gently wraps her hands around Cadance's.
“Cadance, look at me,” Celestia says gently, and slowly, Cadances's bright lilac eyes lock onto Celestia's own rose coloured eyes. For a second, Celestia is shocked by the depths of the pain in those eyes. Her heart wrenches at the sight of the young woman in so much pain, and Celestia wants nothing more than to hug her.
“She'll be fine,” Celestia says gently, extending her wing and pulling Cadance close into a gentle embrace, and she's relieved when Cadance hugs her back.
“You know Twilight, she's tough as old leather,” Celestia says again, as much for her own peace of mind as that of the younger Princess. “Even if she doesn't look it. She'll be fine.” She hears Cadance mumble something into her dressing gown and tilts her head downward, stroking the Princess' hair in a manner that she knows Cadance finds soothing.
“Mmm, I know, Aunty but still...” Cadance trails off, and Celestia steps back from the embrace, folding her wing away once more.
“Cadance, I have a job for you.” Celestia takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She hates this part of the job, the part where she has to yank people out of whatever they're dealing with to come put out fires or else do something else for her. However Celestia is aware that she has other things to do, and whilst it would be tactful to let Cadance hang around moping, it would also waste time that isn't there to waste.
“Yes Aunty?” Cadance sniffles.
“Your trip to Valorossiya, I need you to get over there as quickly as possible, lean on Vasiliy in the Union's embassy. He should be amiable,” Celestia says kindly.
Cadance nods in response, a frown crossing her face for a moment, before she nods, her own spine straightening as she dashes the tears from her face.
“I will, I'm sorry, you must think I'm being dreadfully silly.”
“We are all allowed a moment of silliness from time to time,” Celestia says gently, patting Cadance affectionately on the shoulder. “But life gets in the way now and again, as you know.”
“Do I have time to say goodbye to Shining Armour?” Cadance asks. Celestia nods in reply.
“Yes, you may as well tell him about what's going on if he doesn't know already.”
“You know my husband Ma'am, I'm surprised he has not battered the door down yet. I'll go to him, then I'll speak to the Vals as soon as I can.”
Celestia watches as Cadance turns and walk out of the door, watching intently as the edge of the doorway slowly slides into the recess and snaps shut.
A single racking sob escapes from her throat, and as if that is the straw that finally breaks the camel’s back, she collapses in the middle of her office, sobbing into the thick crimson and gold carpets as the building agony that had been bubbling up and gripping at her throat for the last few moments finally erupt from her lips whilst trails of silver roll down her face. She shivers as the sobs continue to course through her body, a torrent of grief and agonizing worry.
Her long hair slowly bubbles and ripples, draped over her back like a shroud whilst her massive wings spread like those of a shot bird. Even Trolestia trundles over to offer her a nuzzle of sympathy in his feline way, pushing underneath her titanic white wings to push his face against her neck and mew plaintively. However that sympathy falls upon deaf ears. If Twilight is dead, then she will never forgive herself for putting her in harm's way again.
Princess Twilight Sparkle silently stands in her new room, staring at herself in the mirror that has been found for her. Her face is caked in dust and soot, her eyes are red and tiny tracks of silver mark where tears have traced their way down her face. Madam Locke would probably have a heart attack if she saw her right now.
Her dress is not in much better condition, Rarity's handiwork has been almost completely destroyed by the vicious gunfight that greeted her when she arrived in Tarhen. The hem is ripped, the light, airy violet fabric has almost been turned black by the dirt of Tarhen, and holes pepper it where the stock of her rifle had exploded in her hands. A strip has been torn out of it to use as a bandage, allowing an almost indecent amount of leg to show. The decorative stitching down the front has been completely wrecked, and the pearl-inlaid neckline has fallen apart. Twilight takes a deep breath, and then unbuttons the dress, letting it slide down to pool around her ankles, leaving the Princess almost naked save for her corset and knickers. Fortunately Twilight does not follow the current trend of allowing her undergarments to be constrictively tight, and thanks to her magic, she doesn't need the assistance of a dress-fitter or handmaiden.
The corset springs away from her to clatter to the floor and her knickers follow soon after, leaving Twilight standing naked in the room, absent of all the royal trappings and tokens that contrive to follow her everywhere she goes. Twilight stretches her wings silently to their full span, the long primaries stretching out as the wings extend to their full ten foot span. They are the only trappings of her station that she's pleased to have. All the authority, all the responsibility, Twilight wants nothing more than for it all to go away, to disappear, to fall upon the shoulders of someone who knows how to carry it.
Twilight's wings slowly furl back to her shoulders after a moment. Today has been dreadful, beyond dreadful. It has been nightmarish. The horrifying ride through Tarhen, desperate and afraid, expecting a bullet to find her at any moment. The feeling of being absolutely powerless as enemies chased her like a hunted animal. Now she's standing here, looking at herself in the mirror, at those cold hard lavender eyes that seem to belong to a stranger, at the strange scars that decorate her side and the gentle ache that pulses up and down her right arm serving as a vicious reminder of what happened, how close she came to death. Here, she's not an immensely powerful sorceress, a Princess or any of that rot. Here she can be a frightened twenty three year old woman, if only for a moment.
Outside her window, Twilight can hear the other Legionnaires unloading their supplies for the coming trip, the tramping of boots and the low hubbub of voices making her smile slightly. She can already hear Rainbow Dash's voice among them, calling for the twelve remaining members of the Ninth to fall in, and Twilight's heart swoops. She's not sure she can face Rainbow Dash right now. Dash has lost people today, thanks largely to Twilight’s own lack of judgement.
Twilight releases a bitter sigh. She knows she's going to have to talk to Dash about that at some point, that she's going to need to apologise, or at least do something to show that she hasn't forgotten, and she never will forget the sacrifice of the Legionnaires who fought for her today. Twilight kicks her dress away, forcing the bitter speculation to the back of her mind. She has things to do today, things that won't wait.
Twilight turns her back on the mirror and walks over to the trunk next to her bed in which she's packed her clothes. Twilight opens the trunk and the smells of Canterlot and of fine silks and cottons wash over her, however Twilight doesn't want to wear a dress right now. A dress speaks of weakness, of frailty, of girlhood. Likewise a dainty tiara speaks of a pretty little girl playing at princess, and that is not an image that Twilight wants to project right now. However all that's on offer are dresses of various sizes and shapes and styles in blues and violets and creams, and even a couple of lovely specimens in silver. Scarves by the dozen, and several dainty pairs of shoes. Each dress is laid out upon her bed, before being discarded as too girly or too showy or too frilly. Twilight had hoped to pack something a little more understated, her tutor's robes or something similar, yet evidently allowing Kibitz to pack her bags again was a mistake. Her Legion clothes, the webbing, boots and vest are likewise unsuitable, given the Khans would find such garb dangerously provocative, exposing her arms and shoulders as the singlet does.
Twilight's about to give up when she notices a series of wooden boxes among her belongings, the largest of which has a note attached: I hope you get use out of these things. Best wishes from Luna. Twilight turns the box over curiously, noticing that this box, and all the others are all coloured in the deep blue, black and silver colours of the Lunar Rifle Regiment, the battlefield arm of the Lunar Guard. Twilight pops the latches upon them, to reveal what appear to be a pair of trousers and a tunic, with the distinctive high collar edged with silver, though the coloration is simple slate grey rather than dark blue. Twilight sucks in a deep breath as she frees the last items, a grey cape, a purple sash and a pistol belt from the boxes, along with a pair of immaculate riding boots.
Twilight lifts the jacket to her eye-level, inspecting it for a moment. It looks businesslike, or rather more businesslike than all her other garments do. It also does an excellent job of covering her shoulders and arms where none of her other garments can without the addition of a shawl, although Twilight has a nasty feeling that she's going to end up sweating like a pig whilst wearing it. Twilight lowers the jacket and then reaches for the shirt and tie. This should look suitably professional, modest, and most critically, not weak.
Twilight quickly starts to dress, knowing that she'll need to go to the water butt in the hallway before she can do anything about her face, however she's just about managed to get the trousers on when the door to her chambers opens and she whirls to grab at a shirt, or something to cover up her torso. She grabs at her shirt, snatching it up with one hand.
“Hey, Twi, it's only me.” A familiar voice says, and Twilight looks up to see Rainbow Dash coming through the doorway, a slight lopsided smile on the Legionnaire's face. Dash is obviously halfway through her own preparations, judging by the way her hair clings limply to her scalp. Her face is scrubbed clean of the dirt, blood and soot, as are her hands. The Legionnaire is already dressed in the white dress trousers of her uniform, Klepi perched upon her head and rifle slung loosely over her shoulder. However she’s wearing her creamy coloured undershirt and suspenders over the top of it, along with a strange harness that Twilight can see is carrying several knives.
“Just thought I'd come in to check on ya.” Dash pauses for a moment, licking her lips and taking a deep breath before forging onwards. “Earlier today... that was one hell of a fight, you did good Twi,” Dash says, and Twilight notices the caporal's eye darting this way and that, her face somewhat flushed before she finally looks over at Twilight. Twilight turns and reaches for her blouse.
“I... I'm of two minds about that, Rainbow,” Twilight says as she makes to button her shirt up, but Rainbow closes the distance, placing her hand upon Twilight's as the Princess looks up into the lopsided face of the Legionnaire, that black leather eyepatch telling a dozen stories. “What was that, your second time in a gunfight, Twilight?” Dash asks, and Twilight nods shakily.
“Yeah.”
“Well then, we don't expect you to be awesome, that would just be stupid. You're not a soldier Twi,” Dash says, obviously groping for the words as she reaches for a hair-brush. “Now eyes front for me, and I'll see if I can do something about this hair... I'm not Madam Locke, but I think I can sort something out,” Dash says as she starts to tug at the knotted and snarled mess that Twilight's hair has become. Twilight holds still to allow the Legionnaire to work, wincing as Dash tugs on a particularly insistent knot.
“But I got your soldiers-”
“Twi, we're Legionnaires. Our job is to fight for the Crown, dying comes with the job,” Dash says, her voice matter of fact. “Trust me, it wasn't your fault.” Dash's voice has a note of finality to it that makes Twilight blink, but before she can press the matter, Dash changes the subject.
“So where are we going?” Dash asks.
“To the prison,” Twilight replies. “We absolutely have to recover Diplomatic Incident from these beastly people.”
“Yeah, about that...” Dash says as she pulls the hairbrush through Twilight's hair. “It's quite clear that we're dealing with some serious opposition...”
“I noticed,” Twilight responds, her tone far more venomous than she intends, she can practically feel Dash flinching.
“What I meant was that we don't want you taking unnecessary risks right now,” Dash replies and Twilight frowns, but she nods faintly. Two of Dash's soldiers have already lost their lives on her account, she would not do well to get more of Dash's men killed because she feels like her presence at this function or that event is a necessity.
“I understand, but we need to free Diplomatic Incident.”
“We can do that with a proclamation from you, you don't need to physically go yourself.” Dash’s tone becomes more insistent.
“But if I'm there, I'll be able to clear up any confusion, they'll be more likely to talk to me,” Twilight says, equally insistently.
“Yeah, but they're also more likely to try and shoot you,” Dash retorts as her brushing hastens and her grip around the brush tightens.
“You don't know that!” Twilight feels her voice gaining yet more colour.
“I'm not prepared to take the risk!” Dash says, the hairbrush tugging viciously at a particularly truculent knot, and Twilight winces at the firmness in Dash's tone.
“What about Zsaryna?”
“What about her?”
“I said I'd go myself to aid Diplomatic Incident. If I don't then follow through, then how do you think she'll view that?” Twilight objects.
“Very dimly indeed.” A voice comes from the doorway and the hair brush clatters to the floor as Dash spins, and Twilight likewise whirls in shock at the intrusion, to see Zsaryna walking into the room, unconcerned by the half-nakedness of the Princess.
“You are having second thoughts about releasing Diplomatic Incident?” Her words are a hair's-breadth from being a direct accusation, and Twilight can practically feel Dash bristling behind her.
“Not second thoughts per se-”
“You are planning on delegating such a matter to an underling?” Zsaryna's tone is no less frosty. “Should you not be doing all in your power to secure the release of your operative?”
“Begging your pardon, Lady Ambassador, but she will secure little if she gets shot in another ambush,” Dash says, her tone just this side of courteous, and Twilight sees Zsaryna's eyes narrow very slightly, her mouth curling downward in an unpleasant grimace.
“Diplomatic Incident is your man, it's -your- fault that he's in this mess,” Zsaryna says flatly, and Twilight nods shortly, the note of accusation in the Val’s voice ringing like a bell.
“I am well aware of that fact Lady Ambassador,” she says, turning to Dash.
“Caporal, could you fetch me some water for my face?” she asks. Dash's expression could curdle milk, but she turns on her heel and stalks out, slamming the door behind her. Zsaryna tilts her head slightly.
“You do not trust your escort?” she asks, and Twilight shakes her head.
“More than anything, I'm just conscious of the fact that I do need to get changed before someone else upends a bucket of trouble on my desk and I'm not in a fit state to meet it.”
“You're counting on the support of my government for what you have in mind, yes?” Zsaryna asks. Twilight nods, but before she can say anything, the ambassador forges on. “Diplomatic Incident is my precondition for that support. He has done many things for the Western Union, and for your government. It speaks volumes that you even consider not going yourself, putting your own personal safety above the lives of your subjects-”
“Stop,” Twilight says, fury coursing through her veins. “I have heard your position on this matter, Lady Ambassador, and I will give you my answer. Diplomatic Incident is a valued asset to me, your cooperation is likewise important to my plans. Therefore I shall be liberating Diplomatic Incident from prison, myself if I must.” Twilight’s tone is firm as she wonders if she's doing the right thing. As much as Diplomatic Incident is a friend to her, Twilight cannot risk the lives of the Legionnaires under her command, or her own life.
Zsaryna nods quickly, a subtle grey colour reaching her cheeks, her gaze flickering downwards as the realization that she’s stepped over the boundaries plasters itself over her face. A long silence hangs over the two women for a moment, before the door bangs open and Dash stalks in, a porcelain bowl of water in her hands.
“Boss, your water’s here. I got you a sponge as well,” she says, her expression making it clear that she’s not at all happy, and Twilight snaps her fingers.
“Lady Ambassador, as you can see I am still in the process of getting dressed, if you would give me a moment to finish getting ready, and meet me on the landing fields in fifteen minutes. Bolt, how’re your men doing?”
“They are ready to go Ma'am, they’re waiting for you on the landing field,” she says, as Zsaryna bows her head, taking the hint. Twilight waits until the Val has left the room and closed the door behind her before she lets out a shivering breath, reaching for the sponge and starting to dab it at her own face, before Dash shakes her head. “Let me, Boss, or you’ll miss bits,” Dash says tenderly, and Twilight nods, surrendering the sponge to Dash, who starts to tenderly dab at Twilight’s face.
“Well, that went well,” Twilight sighs as Dash cleans her face off.
“She was a bitch,” Dash says sharply, her eye narrowing and her lip curling downward into a snarl. “You’re a princess, she’s just an ambassador and she needs to fuckin’ remember that or I swear I’ll ram her testicles down her throat.”
“She’s a female, I’m not sure she has-”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, you never can tell with Vals. Anyway, I’ll leave you to finish getting ready Boss, we’re not exactly pressed for time but sooner is better than later,” Dash says as she finishes sponging Twilight’s face, quickly turning on her heel, the back of her neck and her ears bright red as she heads out the door and in the direction of the Ninth Compagnie billet.
Twilight takes a deep breath before straightening her spine and pulling her shirt on, resisting the urge to lift her hand to her cheek and touch the spot where Dash’s hand had brushed her face. She shakes her head to clear it before hurriedly dressing in shirt, sash and gun belt. There is just time for a quick inspection in the mirror before she heads for the door and out toward the landing pad. Outside, Twilight can see Rainbow Dash beginning to form up her troops, now wearing her dress uniform jacket and valise.
“How're we moving, Caporal?” Twilight asks, and the Caporal turns, all crisp military efficiency and sharp precision.
“We're going to be travelling by air Ma'am,” Dash replies. “It'll be the quickest way of getting where we need to go with a minimum of fuss... Admiral Neydin has already requested permission for our air transport to have freedom of movement over Tarhen, which has been granted, so we'll be departing, and heading straight for the jail whenever you're ready to go Ma'am. We'll be accompanied on this occasion by Zsaryna Adrelana; if that pleases you Ma'am?”
“I have no problem with that, Caporal, I am ready to depart whenever you are, so let us make haste... What of Prophet?”
“He informed me that he will be meeting us later Ma'am, he said something about meeting with members of his Order to discuss developments. I'd imagine he's also reporting to the Shah.”
“Good,” Twilight replies, with surprising force. She hopes that the Shah does indeed know that she's coming, and more importantly, know that her arrival has been all but smooth. Whilst she should really meet with the Shah first, she wants to get Diplomatic Incident out of Khan control as quickly as possible, lest someone take their frustration at their scheme failing out on him. “Let's get moving then, whenever you're ready Caporal?”
“Yes Ma'am,” Dash says smartly, before turning to her men and dismissing them. The soldiers immediately dash to the skiff, climbing quickly aboard and swiftly taking up covering positions, save Dash, who falls in next to Twilight as the Princess walks up to the skiff.
“You brush up well Twi,” Dash mutters as they walk up to the skiff, and Twilight blushes slightly. This is not at all what she'd expected Rainbow Dash to say, and Twilight takes a deep breath.
“I'm sorry about-”
“Later,” Dash says firmly. “We're gonna need to make some changes, but let's get today out of the way first, yeah?”
Twilight nods hesitantly as Dash steps forward, climbing up into the skiff, and then offering her hand to Twilight, who gratefully takes it, clambering up into the airship and awkwardly taking a seat in the belly of the ship. Zsaryna then climbs in, ducking her head slightly before taking a seat, looking a little uncomfortable and muttering something under her breath, something that Twilight doesn't quite catch, however her grip on the gunwale is quite a bit tighter than Twilight would expect.
Twilight glances at Rainbow Dash as the one-eyed Legionnaire takes her place at the very prow of the ship.
“Check weapons, we're potentially going into a hot situation the moment we leave this compound, keep your heads on a swivel and those fingers on triggers.” Twilight reaches for her own sidearm as she hears the Legionnaires opening their rifles. She can already feel her heart pounding as the helmsman applies power to the throttle, pressing a button and unfolding the fan shaped solar sail with a snap, the whispering of the cells as the solar sail takes power turning her mouth dry. The shrill whine of the skiff's engine building thrust makes Twilight shiver, and then Twilight feels the familiar tug of gravity on her stomach as the skiff jerks upward into a hover, hovering five feet above the ground, and then it starts to rumble forwards across the landing area, picking up speed as the thrust builds up. The wind pulls at Twilight's hair and she momentarily reflects on the wisdom of her choice of attire, and then she feels the sudden inexorable tug of gravity as the nose of the skiff suddenly points skyward.
Twilight bites her lip. Whilst she's travelled by skiff before, it is not her preferred method of travel by a long shot. She always feels like she's a hair's breadth from being thrown out of the thing as it accelerates through the air. The matter is not helped by the fact that the helmsman has obviously been reading Captain Flash, judging by the way he hurls the skiff through the air in a series of blinding turns, each one more savage than the last, missing rooftops by inches. At times he even drops below the roof-line of the buildings to scream through the streets, leaving Twilight hanging on for dear life. The roar of the wind and the howl of the engines means she has to shout to make herself heard. Twilight glances around the skiff, noticing that the other Legionnaires are infuriatingly calm as they scan the streets below, and even Dash looks almost relaxed from her position at the bow.
Twilight glances out of the skiff, past the gunwale, to see that they are travelling over what appears to be a slum district, where the buildings appear to be made of crumbling adobe, where they huddle together in compounds for safety, past narrow twisting alleys and labyrinthine streets. Washing-lines are strung across compounds, and plumes of smoke from communal cooking fires drift upward. Twilight catches glimpses of Khans here and there, however they're moving so quickly that Twilight gets little more than a glance. Now and again, she notices one of the Legionnaires raising his rifle to the shoulder, only to lower it again after a moment. This worries Twilight more than she cares to admit, that there may be hostiles seeking to perform a repeat of this morning's performance.
“Bojemoi!” Twilight turns to see Zsaryna gripping the gunwale for dear life, all four eyes screwed tightly shut and her lips are moving in words that Twilight cannot quite catch. The Val's face is even paler than usual, and her fangs are exposed as she clutches the gunwale. Twilight wonders about air travel in Valorossiya for a second, and what it must be like if it inspires such a response in the normally stoic Valorossiyans, however she's not left wondering for long.
Dash is gesturing, indicating something with her hands, and then the skiff starts to climb up, shedding speed, and the roaring of the wind fades away so that they're able to have a normal conversation. Zsaryna's eyes open and she exhales explosively, before looking around, her eyes locking onto Twilight's, and for a second, her cheeks colour, but then she turns away with a toss of her head, and Twilight is reminded rather forcibly of Opalescence, Rarity's old cat, being caught doing something undignified. Certainly the same sleek, haughty manner that even now causes the Val to turn her back on Twilight and harrumph gently. Twilight wonders for a second if anyone flicked her ears at school.
Twilight is given little time to reflect on the matter however, because the skiff is starting to slow down, and Twilight can see their destination drawing closer. The prison complex is built in the middle of the city, and in a city of drab concrete buildings interspersed with adobe and marble, the Anzadan prison looms over the two-storey houses that surround it, its drab featureless walls shouldering their way arrogantly out of the city around it. The walls are pockmarked with bullet-holes, and the architecture of the complex has more in common with a castle than a prison, complete with crenelations and revetments on the walls, and thin firing slits to allow riflemen to fire out yet prevent anyone from firing in.
Twilight wrings her hands as the skiff continues to climb, rising over the walls and drifting past the perimeter, past the armed guards that are patrolling the outer wall, and then the wall suddenly drops away to reveal an empty space which is likewise patrolled by armed guards holding strange bronze armoured lizard-like creatures on chains.
“Demi-drakes,” Zsaryna explains when Twilight points them out. “For obvious reasons, canines are not particularly popular in this part of the world and so they use lizards. Understandable choice really.”
Twilight frowns for a moment, but says nothing, particularly as she can see the inner walls of the prison drawing nearer, and these are even more forbidding than the outer set of walls. Stakes protrude from the walls at regular intervals, with long thin strands of wire stretched between each stake. At first they don't look too intimidating, but as they draw closer to the walls, Twilight can feel the spells crackling along each strand of conductive filament. Each one carries foul sorceries that Twilight would never dream of casting, rending spells, bleeding spells, pain spells. Each strand carries enough magical charge to kill a man ten times over, and Twilight can see about ten strands stretched from each stake.
There are windows set into the inner wall, each window built into a recess with bars across it. Twilight shivers slightly, a chill travelling down her spine as they drift into the shadow of the inner wall, and then start to climb upward. She can feel a palpable sense of evil emanating from these walls, and Twilight wonders how Diplomatic Incident is doing. Whilst his hardiness has surprised her so far on this trip, she's fairly sure that whatever's in these walls will have made short work of him. Twilight's not sure she can handle that, another dead body presented to her today of all days, however they're too close to back out now.
The skiff drifts upwards, over the inner wall and into the prison proper. Twilight cannot help but gasp in awe as she gazes down, past the inner wall and into an exercise yard where Khans are being relentlessly drilled by circling wardens carrying whips or batons, thrashing the heels of any Khan that moves too slowly as they run back and forth. Other Khans are running through press-ups or chin ups, or other exercises, all under the eyes of the wardens in their blue-grey uniforms. One of the Khans dares to look up and point at their skiff, only for one of the wardens to extend his lash with a vicious crack that Twilight can hear from the skiff.
“We're heading to the admin block,” Dash growls. “Prophet sent word that we were coming, they should be expecting us.” She points ahead, to a building that looks more like a bunker than anything else. It's set into the farthest wall of the exercise yard, and is built onto a raised plateau, which is surrounded by another wire fence. Three gatling positions have also been set up on the lip of that plateau to cover the exercise yard. Any prisoner stupid enough to attempt to reach the admin block will have to navigate past ten feet of curse-wire and those three gatlings, plus fire from the inner perimeter wall. Twilight doesn't even want to think about how many have died trying to attempt it, although judging by the number of holes in the exercise yard floor, quite a few.
Twilight licks her lips, taking a deep breath as she tries to force a calm and neutral diplomatic expression upon her face. She needs to look magnanimous but humble. Kingly, but approachable. An interesting combination, and one that Twilight wishes she had more practice at. As they draw closer to the plateau, Twilight can see there are guards waiting for them, along with a welcoming committee dressed in the ornately decorated robes that pass for Khan formal.
“That's our LZ I'm guessing,” Rainbow Dash says softly, gesturing to a Khan with red flags waving at them to get their attention, and Zsaryna nods.
“That is the landing pad for air transports. Well, that's the one they use for formal visitors anyway, I do not fly here so my carriage comes in through the gates,” the Valorossiyan says primly as the helmsman expertly manoeuvres the skiff in to touch down in front of the prison officer with the flags, the prow of the skiff inches from the Khan's nose. To his credit, the Khan stuffs the flags into his belt and offers up a salute as sharp as one that has been seen on any parade ground. Twilight rises to her feet, nodding politely to acknowledge the gesture. She then watches as the Legionnaires leap out of the skiff, forming up in an almost perfect double column formation, Rainbow Dash taking up her position by the side of the skiff. As much as Twilight would have liked Dash to be her escort, that dubious honour falls to Zsaryna as the highest ranking person other than Twilight herself.
Twilight walks gingerly over to the gunwale of the ship, clambering awkwardly out to stand in the middle of the double column of Legionnaires, managing to keep her balance as she does so. Zsaryna follows gracefully, though Twilight hears a faint sigh of relief now that the tall and powerfully built ambassador is back on terra firma.
“Ninth Compagnie, right turn!” Dash orders, and at once the Legionnaires on either side of Twilight and Zsaryna pivot on the balls of their feet with the sharp, perfectly disciplined crash of a dozen hobnailed boots. Twilight glances from side to side, and then she starts to walk towards the delegation of Khans, who are looking understandably nervous at the sight of the ring of steel around Twilight. However, as Twilight starts walking, the Legionnaires fall back so they're just behind Twilight, but close enough to get involved if one of those Khans decides to pull something from under those voluminous robes.
The head of the Khan delegation is a corpulent tabby coloured specimen with short pointed ears, no tail to speak of, and rheumy eyes. His fur is thinly streaked with iron and his eyes are set into a scowl. He is flanked by a dozen prison-officers, all carrying rifles or shotguns, all clearly identifiable because of their grey-blue tunics.
He draws himself up to his full height, a display that makes Twilight want to laugh, and he inflates his chest slightly.
“Good morning,” he says in Equestrian, offering his hand for Twilight to shake. “I was expecting the princess to show up, I suppose she's too busy dealing with some function and has sent her majordomo?”
“Presenting her Royal Highness, Princess Twilight Sparkle, and the honoured Ambassador, Zsaryna Adrelana!” Dash says sharply and Twilight tries to hide her grin as the Khan splutters, his whiskers twitching with embarrassment.
“Forgive me, your Highness,” he says quickly, bowing and scraping, his retinue doing the same. Twilight notes that his Equestrian has worsened under pressure, whilst trying to hold back her giggles. “I was under the ah... under thought that your... your costume. You dress like man. Thought you were secretary.”
“My secretary is in there,” Twilight says, forcing her sentences to be short and simple, lest she laugh in the Khan's face and complicate matters, however a glance out of the corner of her eye shows that neither Dash nor Zsaryna find the matter to be very funny. Dash's white-gloved hands are gripping that rifle a little tighter than they should and the Valorossiyan's nostrils are slightly flared. The Khan is oblivious to these things however, as he rises from his bow.
“I am Dekan Mohammad, the governor of this prison.” The Khan makes an expansive gesture with one paw. “Follow me, I shall take you to your prisoner. Ordinarily, there would be paperwork for us both to do before release, but I do not want him here for another moment, so I shall give you the paperwork to fill out at your leisure.”
“Has he been causing problems?” Twilight asks, sure that Diplomatic Incident has been doing nothing of the kind. This place is very clearly for the worst of the worst, for the career criminals and hardened scum. She's sure that Diplomatic Incident has done nothing that would merit his imprisonment in such a place, and she's even more thankful than ever for those two Valorossiyan sentries that Zsaryna said she’d posted.
“After a fashion,” the governor grumbles, gesturing for her to follow after him, and so Twilight does, Zsaryna at her side, heading towards the doorway leading into the prison. As they draw closer, Twilight feels a faint unease rippling up her spine. The temperature drops and Twilight straightens her spine as she walks up the short flight of stairs to the door itself. The other Khans move in behind the Legionnaires, a dozen of them blocking the exit, and Twilight feels Dash tense up next to her.
“Expecting trouble?” the governor asks, his voice seemingly mocking as Twilight's hand drops to her pistol, however Twilight is saved the necessity of answering by Zsaryna's sharp rebuttal.
“Just open the door and we will get who we came for,” the low growl in the Valorossiyan's voice makes the unspoken threat in her words abundantly plain, and the governor nods slowly as he turns back to the door, sliding his keys into the lock with a shrill jangling that sets Twilight's nerves on edge. He then eases the door open with a low grinding creak, and Twilight follows him into the prison itself.
The first thing that strikes Twilight as they cross the threshold and head into the prison proper is the smell. A fetid stench that makes Twilight's eyes water, the reek of unwashed sweaty bodies in close quarters, so thick that Twilight can practically taste it. She winces as the governor leads them down a wide corridor. The unpainted brick walls of the corridor are pitted and scarred, stained by blood, and the tiles below their feet are cracked and faded. Just down the corridor, Twilight can hear a low pitched rumbling sound, a deep muted growl that slowly increases in volume as they approach two large heavyset steel doors.
“So tell me about the problems that my aide has been causing,” Twilight says after a moment, and the governor's back straightens as they draw near to the doors.
“He is a known figure among the prisoners. He has been upsetting the balance of power and damaging faith in my own trustees. He's been inciting violence amongst the prisoners.” Twilight tilts her head slightly. That does not sound at all like her aide, however the two armoured doors in front of them are now easing open, and any further comment Twilight may have had on the matter is rather rapidly forced aside.
The sound is indescribable, the crushing thunder of thousands of throats talking or yelling at each other pounds against Twilight's ears and for a moment, she is rooted to the spot by the onslaught of noise. However, as she takes a step forward, through the gates and out onto rusty metal grating, her eyes widen in shock for a different reason altogether.
They have stepped out onto a rusty metal catwalk that runs around the circumference of a hall of sorts, a hall at least three storeys tall, or rather, three storeys deep, since the gantry upon which Twilight is now standing is in fact the upper level of the three gantries, though that is not what shocks Twilight. What shocks Twilight is the size of the cells, which are quite clearly communal in nature, each one holding thirty prisoners in conditions of almost absolute squalor. Naturally, the inhabitants of the jail take a very keen interest in the sight of the young princess trotting along the walkway, hot on the heels of the prison governor, and their baying calls make Twilight's skin ripple in goosebumps. The fact that she cannot even see the prisoners, the steel doors set into the walls at regular intervals preventing anyone from gawking at what is going on inside each cell, does not bode well. Twilight is surprised to note that it is not just Khans behind bars in this facility, but humans too, their bigger hairless frames clearly distinguishable from the smaller, more compact Khans.
The air in the massive hall is heavy with tension, and the heat of the dimly lit room is making the princess sweat. She doesn't want to think about how unpleasant it must be for the Legionnaires in their woollen dress uniforms, however it's not just the heat that is causing Twilight to sweat. The atmosphere in this prison is incredibly oppressive. The guards are walking around in pairs, hands gripping their truncheons tightly, and the groups of prisoners that are allowed out of their cells are standing in surly knots. Imminent violence crackles through the air like summer lightning, and Twilight's hand strays closer to the leather holster than it should.
“So how has Diplomatic Incident been inciting violence?” Twilight asks, and the governor shrugs the indolent 'can't be asked' shrug of a Khan who has other things on his mind than the well-being of his charges.
“He brokers deals between prisoners, and encourages gambling and licentious conduct,” the governor growls. Twilight hears Zsaryna muttering something, though she doesn't quite catch precisely what the ambassador is saying, however she turns her attention back to the governor.
“Are you sure? That seems... somewhat out of character for him,” Twilight says, though the thought then strikes her that she actually doesn't know all that much about Diplomatic Incident outside of his role as her teacher, occasional chaperone and some-time secretary. Certainly he's declined to comment on his past, and so Twilight realises that she doesn't actually know what Diplomatic Incident's character is. She's been sure there's always been more to him than met the eye, but she's never really asked, or pried into his background, considering that an abuse of her power, not to mention the height of bad manners.
“He is that sort, he moves well in the circles that inhabit this place,” the governor says dismissively. “He has no doubt managed to conceal his criminal background from you, your Highness, but it would not be the first time that the Equestrian government has been penetrated, or indeed run by thieves.”
Twilight frowns. She hadn't expected for someone in authority to outright insult her government, and by extension, the Crown, to her face. Twilight carries on walking, her eyes narrowing slightly. She'll let that one slide, but that's the last free shot that this Khan will be getting at Celestia. Next time he dares to speak out of turn, Twilight will quite happily remind him where the line is, and by how wide a margin he has crossed it.
Twilight is spared the requirement of replying however as the governor finally halts outside one particular cell, and Twilight can hear a familiar voice from within, although actually catching sight of the ageing aide is all but impossible. She cannot actually hear what Diplomatic Incident is saying, the thick walls and the general din of noise make catching individual voices impossible.
“This is his cell,” the governor growls, gesturing at the heavy metal door. Unlike most of the cells in the complex, this one has been walled off, rather than having bars between the gantry and the cell itself. The only way in or out is through the metal door that the governor is now standing beside, whilst one of the wardens starts fiddling with the keys.
“You kept him in general population?” Zsaryna asks, her voice angrily incredulous, and Twilight cannot help but agree with her. Diplomatic Incident is a political prisoner of the kind that would normally, and indeed should be kept in a specialised cell, however the governor nods calmly.
“Of course, he insisted,” he says, and Twilight raises an eyebrow, wondering for a moment if she's the victim of a mix-up of some kind, however the warden finishes unlocking the latch and draws his baton from his belt, before bellowing something into the cell. He then opens the door into the cell and strides in. Twilight moves to follow, but her path is blocked by Rainbow Dash.
“I'll go in first, Grandpa and Sov, on me,” Dash says, gesturing as she unslings her rifle from her shoulder, taking the fearsome weapon into her hands. With its bayonet fitted, Twilight has to admit the rifle would probably put the willies up any prisoners who decide to try any funny business. However, as Dash prepares to advance, the governor steps into her way.
“I cannot permit you to go into that cell with your rifles, if you are taken hostage then the weapons on your person will make your recovery very difficult indeed.” He hands out a paw for the rifles, but Dash shakes her head briskly as she unslings her rifle.
“Fair point,” she grunts, though Twilight wonders how she can be so calm about going into that cellblock unarmed. “Gramps, give your weapon to Smit, Sov, give your rifle to Tabby and we'll get going, pistols and pig-stickers only.”
Dash hands her weapon to one of her comrades and the other two Legionnaires follow her example, however Dash then draws her fighting knife with one hand, and then goes for her pistol with the other hand, only to come into contact with an empty holster. Dash flushes slightly, and Twilight almost thinks she sees a worried glance hurled her way, before Dash shrugs. “Fuck it, left my pistol back in my grot, now of all times eh?”
“Didn't want to get it dirty, eh Boss?”
“Didn't want to waste it on some furry arse-bandit more like.”
“That thing's a work of art, you're just jealous,” Dash rejoinders, and Twilight steps forward.
“Caporal, take mine,” she offers, freeing her Webley from the holster. Dash nods, taking the weapon from Twilight and checking the cylinder before snapping the weapon shut.
“Thank you Ma'am.” Dash's tone is calm and neutral as she turns back to the entrance. “Anyway boys, let's get stuck in.” Dash's voice is filled with evident relish as she steps towards the portal and then calmly strides through, into the room. For a moment, the silence is deafening.
“Princess... you'd better come look at this,” she says brightly after an anguished second, and Twilight curiously steps through, past the governor and into the cell itself.
The first thing that strikes Twilight is how spacious and brightly lit the cell is. She had expected it to be a cramped and dripping hellhole, where the only light to see by would be torchlight, however the cell is brightly lit, revealing twenty five steel framed beds bolted to the floor, along with a small cabinet where each prisoner evidently keeps his personal effects. However, right now the prisoners are effectively ignoring the Legionnaires and the warden, clustered as they are into a tight knot of humans and Khans in the centre of the room. Twilight can feel tension in the air as she draws closer to the group of prisoners, however the silence is suddenly broken by a collective groan from quite a few of the Khans, and a relieved booming chuckle that Twilight knows all too well.
“Well played, Kingpin, Kamarov,” Diplomatic Incident's voice is warm and effusive. Twilight makes her way closer to the knot of people, reaching the edge of the crowd of prisoners.
“You are a master of cards, Ahmed.” A similarly deep grating voice that clearly belongs to a Khan with a love for cheap cigarettes rumbles through the room. “If I did not know better, I would say you are using your magic to cheat me.”
“Come now Kingpin, sour grapes do not befit a Khan of your standing.” Diplomatic Incident's tone is conciliatory.
“That is true, you beat me fair and square, though I would be most interested to see how you did it,” the Khan grumbles as Twilight clears her throat politely. At once the knot of prisoners stiffens as the realisation that there is company in the room with them strikes home, and suddenly Twilight's not sure that getting quite this close to them was a good idea. Several of the Khans are taller than her, and both the humans and the Khans are thick-set, of the kind of thickness that comes from muscle rather than flab.
“Wimmin!” one of the humans growls in Equestrian, “Civvie wimmin at ‘dat.”
“Get out of it!” Dash's warning is more than enough to give any Khan pause for thought, particularly coming from a woman carrying a revolver.
“Do I hear the dulcet tones of Equestrian Legionnaires?” Diplomatic Incident asks, and the crowd suddenly parts to reveal Diplomatic Incident sitting at a table in the centre of the room, dressed in the ill-fitting grey robes of a prisoner, and his half-moon glasses have a long thin crack in them. However his moustache is still bristly as ever, and Twilight can see a broad smile upon his face, though that might be down to the fairly large pile of cigarettes, bottles of spirits and bags of illicit substance in front of him, along with a couple of rather long wickedly sharp knives that are obviously not of human manufacture.
As Twilight draws closer to the table, she notices that Diplomatic Incident is not alone at the table. Two other males are sat at the table, their cards spread out in front of them. One is a short and stocky Khan, who unlike most of his race, has no fur. His skin is mottled with scars and tattoos of various kinds, and Twilight can see that this Khan likes to keep himself fit. A bowler hat is perched upon his head at what he presumably imagines is a jaunty angle, and he's wearing a pin-striped waistcoat, his robes having been fashioned into trousers. The other player at the table is a hulking Valorossiyan, dressed in the rusty tan combat uniform of one of the UVSR's soldiers, his submachine gun slung across his chest. His fellow bodyguard is standing in the crowd, occasionally taking a moment to shoot a dirty look at his comrade.
“I'm very glad to see you, Your Highness.” Diplomatic Incident rises to his feet quickly, a smile on his face. He bows gingerly, wincing slightly as he clutches his side. Twilight tilts her head.
“You're still hurt?” she asks, and Diplomatic Incident shakes his head.
“Just a paper cut Ma'am, the medical personnel here have worked wonders, but I... do not think I shall be getting around much,” Diplomatic Incident says grimly. “I'm still functional, but I've never been the most gymnastic of sorts as it is,” he chuckles grimly, triggering a laugh from the other Khan at the table.
“You make up for that with your ability to steal our money,” he growls, and Diplomatic Incident nods, offering the bald Khan a smile, which, after a second, is returned. Diplomatic Incident then rises from the table, though he leans on it for just a moment. “So, Your Highness, what brings you here?” he asks after a second. “Have you come just to make sure everything's all ticketey-boo with your old teacher? I have to say I didn't expect to see anyone from the old country to take any trouble over me, that's the trouble with expendable assets.”
“You're not an asset I consider expendable,” Twilight says, and Diplomatic Incident's mouth drops open in shock.
“Oh, well, that's definitely a change in policy, standard procedure-”
“Can go hang itself,” Twilight says firmly. “I have need of people with your unique talents.”
“Begging your pardon Ma'am, but I am not sure what talents you mean, unless you're talking about a particularly large cream slice that needs my attention...” Diplomatic Incident says, although Twilight's sure she sees a gleam of relief in those eyes.
“I don't know about cream slices, but there are certainly a few questionable eclairs that could do with your expertise,” Twilight replies, and Diplomatic Incident nods, his shoulders straightening slightly.
“Well, Your Highness, I would be honoured to return to your service once more. I'm sure I can whip up a decent soufflé if you need me to,” Diplomatic Incident says, however his eyes suddenly switch to a point over Twilight's shoulder, and Twilight is suddenly gently but firmly pushed aside, and Twilight's eyes switch to see Zsaryna step past her, her eyes aflame.
“Leonid,” she says warmly. “I told you we'd come for you.”
“I did not doubt it for a moment.” Diplomatic Incident's eyes are alight, and Twilight can almost see the tension quivering through Zsaryna's frame. Something is clearly going on here, though Twilight's not quite sure what.
“Evidently, anyway, I shall give you a moment to say your goodbyes and we shall depart,” Zsaryna says, then her gaze falls upon the bodyguard that was at the table and she barks a series of rather sharp unpleasant words at the luckless bodyguard, who rises quickly to his feet, his colleague snickering. Diplomatic Incident nods, and then quickly starts to talk with the bald Khan, speaking rapidly in Fars'ad.
As they walk out of the prison cell, Diplomatic Incident's poker winnings returned to Kingpin for 'appropriate distribution', Diplomatic Incident leaning on the Valorossiyan ambassador despite several Legionnaires offering to let him lean on their shoulders. Dash catches up with Twilight, rifle back in her hands.
“Well that went pretty good I think,” Dash reflects to Twilight, who nods.
“It certainly could have gone worse,” Twilight replies sadly, but Dash smiles.
“Come off it Ma'am, no one was shooting at us, right?” she says, punching Twilight's right arm in a gesture of bonhomie. White fire suddenly leaps across Twilight's vision. She shrieks as pain dances down her arm. Twilight blinks back tears, as Dash tilts her head.
“Overdoing it a bit, aren't you?” Dash asks as Twilight cradles her arm. Twilight doesn't reply for a few moments, the pain searing through her arm making conscious thought almost impossible for a second. Twilight shakes her head, biting her lip to avoid releasing another shout of pain.
“No, that really hurt, more than it should,” Twilight replies, and she's rewarded by the faint smirk dropping off of Dash's face.
“Right, okay, when we get back, I'll take you to a doc, I'm sure we've got a couple sawbones in the battle-group who should be able to take a look at ya,” Dash says. “You reckon it's something that happened in the fight, I mean, you did get knocked about a bit... but you put yourself together after that.”
Twilight nods, thinking hard about the magic that had put her back together without her having to think about it or do anything to stop it, and not for the first time she wonders if that's really such a good thing. However Twilight is given no time to reflect upon the matter, as she suddenly feels something moving around in the recesses of her mind, a strange cold and remote presence that is at once familiar, though also alien. Twilight squints and quickly clasps her mental grip around the presence, like prying fingers, which swiftly withdraw from her mind’s inquisitive gaze. The fingers slip away, sliding out of her grasp and out of her mind, leaving the faintest impression of infinite depths.
Twilight frowns, furrowing her brows as she contemplates the sensation. Whenever Luna normally sticks her fingers into Twilight's head, it is quick and firm; she takes what she needs and then leaves. The presence in her mind on this occasion was almost gentle, pulling back from her mind the moment that Twilight became aware of it. That being said, it still bore the hallmarks of the Night Princess' presence. Twilight frowns slightly as the pain in her arm slowly fades into a dull ache.
Twilight’s thoughts are interrupted however as a figure suddenly steps out directly into her path, and Twilight only catches the vaguest hint of a bald man with a beard and dungarees before Rainbow Dash steps forward, putting herself between Twilight and the strange man. At the same time, Twilight hears Diplomatic Incident sharply take a breath and she can hear a faint irritable hiss emanating from his Valorossiyan companion. Even the other Legionnaires around her are suddenly on edge, and a prosthetic fighting arm whirrs threateningly.
“Ah, Ernst!” Twilight looks around Rainbow Dash, and catches her first good look at the man who has put the Legionnaires on edge. At first glance, he's nothing special, though Twilight can see the scars of frontier life pounded into his leathery face and shovel-like hands. The man has taken a particular shine to Diplomatic Incident, though judging by the expression on Diplomatic Incident's face which could curdle milk at fifty paces, the favour isn't returned. “I see your friends have come to dig you out. You better watch this one Princess, he'll sell you out as soon as look at you.” His gaze turns upon Twilight, and a shiver dances up the young Princess' spine as she tries to place that accent. “Step back.” Dash's tone is loaded with venom.
“Is that a way to talk to a representative of the Khan government?” The man sounds genuinely hurt, and Twilight frowns slightly.
“No, but for talkin' to terrorists, it works just fine,” Dash replies, and the man raises his hands in a parody of shocked offence.
“Well, how many villages do you fookin' mutts burn down in a week? Answer me that, then tell me who the terrorists are,” the man replies, a smirk on his face, though the smirk doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Now, I'd like to see the princess, preferably without her dogs breathing on me.”
Twilight feels a warning hand upon her arm, but she steps past Dash anyway, so that she's standing face to face with this man, who grins as she steps forward.
“Well, this is a most unexpected pleasure Princess, I hear you've had a rather rough landing, ja?” He says with a smirk, and Twilight fights to keep her expression neutral. The man chuckles indolently and then he steps forward, so he's almost nose to nose with the princess. “Why don't you do your pretty little self a favour and get out of here, hmm?” he snaps. “Equestria's brand of meddling isn't appreciated here.”
“Equestria is committed to a peaceful resolution of current tensions.” Twilight's voice is firm, her eyes narrow.
“Much like you were committed to peaceful resolutions back in the Boer states I suppose, and look how that fookin’ turned out,” the man hisses, his leathery hand snaking out and swiftly grasping Twilight's wrist, and Twilight’s gaze flicks down uneasily as she pulls her wrist against his vicelike grip. Her eyes snap back up to look into the man’s cold eyes, and for a second she sees the ghost of a predatory leer upon his face. Out of the corner of her eye, Twilight notices Rainbow Dash bringing her revolver up but Twilight gestures with her other hand for Dash to stand down, in spite of her skin beginning to crawl at his touch. Suddenly however, the man pulls his hand away as a flash of purple sparks dances between his fingers. His eyes narrow faintly and his mouth curls into a vicious sneer.
“Looks like Celestia's dog has a bit of bite to her, we'll be seein' ya, Princess. Enjoy your flight back, ya fookin’ freak.” The man growls and Twilight bites her lip as she watches him turn and walk away, and Twilight's mind slowly eases as she watches his retreating back, though pain still ripples up and down her arm and makes her fingers twitch.
“Who’s that dickhead?” one of the Legionnaires growls, gesturing at the bald man. Diplomatic Incident sucks his teeth. “He's one of the most wanted men in Equestria. His name is Piet Vorstein, though these days he goes by the handle-” “Springbok,” Dash grunts. “We’ve had persistent rumours going around about his organisation setting down roots here, though I'm surprised to see him in prison at last. Didn't think the Khans had any beef with him.” “We don't,” the governor says as they round a corner and start walking toward the entrance. “Mr Vorstien is a valued employee of the Ministry of War,” he supplies.
Twilight's mouth flattens into a straight line as she considers the implications of Mr Vorstien’s presence. If known terrorists are being employed by the Khans then things are worse than Twilight had expected. Suddenly this trip out to the prison doesn't seem like quite such a good idea, even if they have learnt quite a bit. However, they're now approaching the armoured gateway back into the bright sunlight, out and away from this hellish nightmare of a prison, and Twilight can almost taste the fresh air.
As they reach the front door of the prison, Twilight feels a smile spread across her face. After a rather dubious start, things might now start going according to plan. A stab of pain arrows up her arm like fire. Her fingers twitch sharply and Twilight bites her lip, holding back a whimper. Twilight lightly shakes her head as if to twitch away a bothersome insect. Dash has other things to worry about right now than unspecified aches and pains. As if in response to her decision, the pain subsides and Twilight relaxes faintly, not noticing the concerned look Diplomatic Incident shoots her as Dash leads the small party back out onto the landing pad.
As Twilight steps out into the sunlight and the blazing heat, squinting faintly, she notices something out of the corner of her eye. A prison officer walks up to the governor and quickly taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” The governor turns away from the princess, walking away with the prison officer. Twilight just catches them whispering frantically to each other before they reach the edge of the landing pad and head down a set of steps and out of view.
At once, the atmosphere changes. A hand is placed upon Twilight’s back and suddenly she’s being pulled forward towards the waiting skimmers. Around her, the prison guards are starting to tense up. Batons are being drawn from holsters, and rifles are being moved from backs to paws. The narrow slits of the prison’s windows glare down at her and the guards’ implacable gaze hammers down upon her.
“I don’t like this, watch the top of the walls!” Dash calls, and Twilight cannot blame her one bit as they cross the open ground between the prison entrance and the skiff. Twilight can feel hostile eyes upon her as she picks up her own pace to try and get across. She looks upward, her gaze sweeping the Khans on the walls, all of whom are watching her. Khans scowl down at her, and her gaze is drawn towards one of the prison officers standing behind a crank-driven gun. The naked hatred in his eyes sets her heart racing. She has to tear her gaze away from the hate burning in those eyes. As she walks across the landing field, Twilight can feel the sights of a marksman between her shoulderblades with every step.
Reaching the tentative safety of the skiff, the Legionnaires are leaping aboard and taking positions in the hull, Dash turning and offering Twilight a hand. The ratcheting clack of a bolt being slammed forward from somewhere behind her punches into her soul. The hairs on the back of her neck leap up, her mind going blank. She can almost see her back in a sniper’s sight, and feel a distant finger closing triumphantly around a trigger.
Twilight reaches out for Dash’s hand, her heart racing and her head swimming as the hate-filled eyes of that Khan fill her mind. Her hand closes around Dash’s, and another vicious slice of pain spears up her arm. Twilight bites her lip and tries to ignore it as she clambers up into the skiff, scrabbling for purchase and managing to get up over the gunwale. She promptly overbalances and tumbles forward, however she feels hands on her, hauling her into the skiff. Dash’s voice fills the air almost drowning out the rasping sound of the pins being pulled from grenades ringing in the air.
“MOVE MOVE MOVE!”
Failure washes through Twilight and her lip quivers slightly, her hands shaking fearfully. After this morning, after Diplomatic Incident. She’d hoped things would be getting better, but obviously not.
“Stay down!” A voice spears through the air as the craft starts to lift. Twilight barely manages to hear the first syllable of the order before an icy chill spreads up her spine, the icy fingers invading her mind once more. Her eyes close and her head pitches forwards as the crack of a gunshot fills the air.
Princess Twilight Sparkle opens her eyes slowly, her body feeling numb. She coughs weakly as she wipes the sleep dust from her eyes, looking around groggily as she takes in her surroundings from the comfortable chaise lounge that she has awoken in.
Deep blue cushions edged with silver are arranged beneath her, presumably to try and make her comfortable as a cool breeze drifts across her skin from the open windows. Outside, Twilight can see a tapestry of stars already taking shape as the chill breath of the night kisses her cheek.
I must have been out for longer than I thought… did I bump my head? She looks around the room, her eyes adjusting to the pale light of the moon as it streams through the window. Twilight frowns faintly, trying to place the location. As her eyes adjust, she picks up more details, the bookcases built into the walls, the high pillared ceiling, the massive wooden desk with its big chair behind it. Twilight sits up, her feet sinking down into thick black carpet. She tilts her head, confusion imprinted upon her face.
Wait a minute, this is Princess Celestia’s study, Twilight thinks. At least, it appears to be Princess Celestia’s study. However, there are differences, some subtle, others less so. There is no fireplace for one thing, and where the radiant sun-in-glory banner is proudly displayed in Celestia’s office, a different standard hangs. Here, the banner hanging behind the chair is a bright silver crescent moon upon a lavender field. Instead of Celestia’s sceptre of office, a long ebon staff sits upon a shelf, the silvery orb built into the head of the rod casting a strange ethereal glow over the scene.
“Welcome back, Princess, you have been gone for quite a while.” A deep melodious voice drifts from the balcony and Twilight shudders as an icy hand closes around her heart. Twilight hasn’t heard that voice in a very long time, but the events of that long night had etched themselves indelibly into her memory. Twilight’s eyes snap toward a flicker of movement in the doorway out onto the balcony, and her breath catches in her throat as an impossibly tall figure crosses the threshold into the room. The floor creaks subtly beneath the figure’s weight as Nightmare Moon’s booted foot settles upon the carpeted floor.
The Princess of Darkness strides into the room, her elaborately decorated silver armour gleaming in the moonlight. A fog of absolute terror follows in her wake, a fog that grips Twilight’s senses. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears and the world around her fades as she stares in transfixed horror at the approaching Daemonic presence. Sigils and runes flicker along the edge of her armour and the temperature of the room drops like a stone. A jet black cloak flows behind her like smoke, and her right gauntlet confidently hefts a titanic war-hammer that Twilight recognizes from her arcane study books. The Umbra, the Hammer of the Daemon’s Promise.
Its handle is three feet of solid black steel, with black leather strips wrapped around the grip to give the wielder some purchase. The hammer’s warhead is a block of stone as black as night, and its reverse tapers into a long wicked looking spike. Scratches pit the hammer, and strange sigils have been carved into the stone. Twilight can feel raw magic crackling in the air like lightning.
For a heart-stopping moment, there is absolute silence. The ancient and terrible daemon and the demigoddess gaze at each other. The thoughts racing through that ancient and infinitely malevolent mind are unknowable. Nightmare Moon’s milky pale face gives no clue as to her emotions and those bright burning eyes are fixed and narrowed. The Princess of Darkness tilts her head slightly, the clicking of armour hanging in the silence of the study like a slap. For what feels like an eternity, there is stillness. Twilight does not even dare to breathe... After a moment or a millenium, Nightmare Moon’s gauntleted hand reaches languidly out through the ether. The grip on the hammer tightens with a rasp. Twilight’s face screws up against the coming blow. She can almost hear the sweep of displaced air as the hammer is drawn back...
Battered leather brushes gently across Twilight’s cheek.
The princess squeaks in surprise.
Her gauntlets are icy to the touch; the caress of the Daemon sends a chill down Twilight’s spine. The usurper’s hand slips away from her cheek. Twilight blinks in absolute surprise, followed by a surge of relief. A breath tremulously hisses out of Twilight’s lungs as she suddenly remembers to breathe, and the fog around her mind starts to lift slightly.
“Welcome to my little refuge,” the ageless spirit of the night intones warmly, pursing her lips after a moment and gazing coolly at Twilight whilst the young princess makes an admittedly feeble attempt to raise a shield as her faculties return. However as her hands remain locked to her sides, Twilight’s eyes widen and her mouth turns dry as she realizes she is rooted to the spot, unable to move. Nightmare Moon’s lips curl upward into a vicious smile, revealing those sharp unnaturally pointed teeth.
“Tut tut, that will never do.” Nightmare Moon’s mellifluous voice is gentle, as if this whole thing is some great joke. Her lips thin into a satisfied smile. “Now, Princess. I thought you would know the rules of my… alter ego’s dream conferences by now. You can’t do anything unless I let you, and you have to do what I make you.” Nightmare Moon slides her gauntleted hand down Twilight’s neck to her shoulder in a soft caress, and Twilight shivers at the touch, feeling aeons of sorcerous power rippling just beneath the mail and plate of the ancient Daemon. Nightmare Moon’s touch is as cold as the void between the stars, and many times more powerful. Twilight can feel those fingers even now prying her mind open.
“With that in mind,” Nightmare Moon says, her voice stiffening, “kneel.” The power of Nightmare Moon’s voice pulses through Twilight with a tremor, and she feels her knees bend. She feels herself drop forward. She tries to resist but her legs seem to move with a will of their own, and so her head sinks, looking down to the carpet. Nightmare Moon’s voice contains a note of command Twilight has never heard any sorcerer use, that particular incantation being many shades of unethical and illegal in Celestia’s Equestria.
“That’s better… I could get used to this,” Nightmare Moon’s tone brightens, and she turns her back on Twilight, her robe flapping faintly. “Now I want you to listen and listen well, for I shall only say this once.” Nightmare Moon’s magic suddenly twists and Twilight is yanked to her feet once more by the force of Nightmare Moon’s incantation. Blue vapour swirls around Twilight, and already she can feel the world flickering faintly. A scowl crosses the visage of the Daemon.
“It would be much easier without interruptions,” she growls. A flicker of concentration passes across her face and the environment becomes more solid, more real somehow. Twilight blinks as a startling realization strikes her.
“I’m dreaming,” she says, and Nightmare Moon’s frown deepens.
“You always were a clever little squirt. Yes you are dreaming, for now anyway.” Nightmare Moon almost sounds a little put out by this. “Anyway, I come now with a message to you, and it would be in your best interest to trust me.”
Twilight narrows her eyes into a faint scowl.
“Sure,” Twilight snorts sarcastically, “a creature that has attempted to subjugate my country by co-opting one of its rulers and forcing her to attempt to kill her sister, a creature that then tried to kill me and my closest friends. Why wouldn't I trust you?”
“Because I see more than your mortal mind could even begin to comprehend,” Nightmare Moon says coolly. “Locked away in my prison, which you put me into I might add, I see more than any mortal, even more than the lonely gods that stalk our plane… and I can tell you that you are both right and wrong at once. The conclusions that you’ve drawn about the Khan Problem are good, but some of the base assumptions that you’ve made are slightly off.”
“What?” Twilight’s brows knit in confusion whilst tremors pulse through the carpet. Her gaze shifts as her eyes are drawn to faint pink streaks starting to fleck the sky. Nightmare Moon scowls at the window as Twilight sees the ripples of light begin to blossom across the firmament.
“We do not have long, but I must tell you this. Events are now moving down a path which cannot be reset. The politics of the nineteenth century are over and done… the wolves have marked out their territory. All that’s left is to fight over what’s left. We are a lone wolf, and the packs are circling.”
“We? Who are ‘we’?” Twilight’s tone is skeptical and the ancient daemon nods coolly.
“Equestria of course, my sister’s favoured student. I’m no less a proud Imperial citizen than you are. I will rule Equestria eventually. I do not wish to rule a client state or a republic.” Nightmare Moon’s tone is poisonous, and the floorboards shudder under their feet, books beginning to spill from the bookshelves. Another powerful pulse of energy crackles through Nightmare Moon’s study. She frowns as the pink light in the sky brightens and a golden glow suffuses the sky in the east.
“Now. Listen closely because I doubt I can maintain this. The Khans are the problem, it is true, but the United Federation are the only other superpower besides us. It is clear to anyone with eyes that the Khans and the Equestrians are spoiling for a fight. It is also clear that the Khans represent a danger to everyone around them. Why then, are the United Federation giving them money and guns?”
Twilight tilts her head for a moment, but as another gut-wrenching pulse of magic punches through the room, cracks creeping across windows and drapes starting to tear, Nightmare Moon’s magical grip falters and she tumbles to the ground. “The United Federation…” Twilight frowns, before scowling and shaking her head. “This is ridiculous, I’m not going to listen to this!” Twilight scrabbles to her feet as the arch-daemon’s scowl becomes a snarl. Magical tendrils extend once more toward the younger princess but this time Twilight summons her own strength, the space between them pulses and the tendrils are smashed away, rending and carving through the carpet and into the floor beneath.
Nightmare Moon’s eyes flare, and the destruction around them is suddenly muffled to a dull roar as the Princess of Darkness exerts her power to still the gathering storm. Fragments of glass and chunks of stone are halted in their flight, locking into sudden stillness. Absolute silence hangs between the two for a moment. Twilight’s eyes narrow, her brow furrowing and fists clenched. Nightmare Moon sighs, as though faced with a particularly disappointing student. She starts to pace around Twilight like a wolf circling prey, the young sorceress turning with her like a boxer to keep her eyes on the Daemon.
“Tell me, Twilight, why the Khanate has not too long ago signed a nonaggression pact with the United Federation? Tell me why the Khans have been moving troops off their eastern borders to come face us? Tell me why the United Federation has offered a statement ‘condemning’ Equestrian heavy-handedness in sending a peace envoy?"
“I had hoped Princess Celestia’s protege would understand. Clearly I was mistaken.” Nightmare Moon extends Umbra toward Twilight, pointing it squarely at her face, Nightmare Moon’s angry eyes glaring over the warhead. “Very well.” The Daemon’s tone lowers dangerously. “On your own head be it.” A final gut-wrenching pulse of force rips through the room, books erupting into white clouds like shot birds, and bookcases splintering and splitting with a sound like cracking ribs. Walls shatter like plates, sending both sorceress and Daemon tumbling to their knees. Twilight claws her way to standing as shrapnel flies past her, deflected away by the strange logic of the dream, but then the floor writhes like the sea in a storm, tossing Twilight into the air, knifelike fragments of wood and glass flying past her.
Suddenly Twilight feels herself descending, falling through the floor and plummeting into an un-ending sea of light. The inexorable grip of gravity pulls her downwards, and her eyes drift closed.
Twilight's eyes snap open. She blinks, startled as she looks around, and a momentary stab of fear jolts through her as she notices that she is lying in Celestia's study once more, stretched out on one of the luxurious couches, with several cushions propped underneath her. However this time, Celestia's study is decorated as Twilight has normally seen it of an evening. The heavy velvet curtains are closed against the night and a roaring fire is blazing in the hearth, before which, Trolestia is curled up upon the hearth-rug whilst Philomena, Celestia's pet phoenix, bathes in the flames.
Twilight sighs, letting relief flow through her as she takes refuge in the familiar sight of the Princess of the Sun sitting at her desk, her long pastel coloured hair flowing languidly behind her, and for once Twilight can actually see the desktop, as opposed to the mountain of paperwork that normally occupies its surface.
I must still be dreaming, her desk is never that clear...
As Twilight looks closer, however, she can see that Celestia is looking a little older, more tired than usual and her cheeks are flushed as if she's been running. She looks drawn and she's biting upon her lip. Twilight has known her mentor long enough to know when she's focussing upon whatever she's writing or reading to keep her mind from dwelling on something. However, Twilight has little time to think on what Celestia might have been exerting herself upon, because the Princess of the Sun looks up at her, and releases one of her warmer, more tender smiles. Her eyes seem to light up and the worries that had rested in the creases around the eyes and mouth seem to tumble away.
“Twilight, oh thank goodness!” Celestia’s voice is laden with relief as she smiles warmly and rising from her chair to walk over to where Twilight is resting. Suddenly Twilight's vision is blocked by white feathers and long pastel-coloured hair as the Princess of the Sun enfolds her former student into a bone-crushing hug. Twilight reaches around to return it, basking in the warmth of the Princess of the Sun as student and teacher hold each other close for a moment.
“I was so worried...” Celestia sighs after a moment. “When I heard on the radio that your airship had been attacked...”
“Wait, on the radio?” Twilight asks, and Celestia nods.
“There were... journalists,” Celestia's tone darkens with distaste, “at the landing, they were broadcasting live from the scene. The end result of this was that I had to give the Khans an ultimatum. I wanted word that you were alive in two hours, or else we'd go to war.”
Twilight blinks in shock at the realization that Celestia would plunge the continent into war for her sake. “So does this count as ‘word?’” she asks after a stunned moment, and Celestia nods as she releases Twilight to go and sit down in one of the armchairs opposite Twilight. Twilight in turn sits up and stretches her wings out, folding her hands in her lap.
“It does. The moment Luna found you, she summoned you here. When you arrived asleep and stayed asleep for an hour, I was worried that you'd been injured in the real world, but here you are... talking to me. Now, what word do you bring from the Khanate?” Celestia asks, and Twilight sighs mournfully.
“I'm in the process of recovering Diplomatic Incident from jail. Once I've done that, I'm going to send word to the Shah that I want to see him.”
“Interesting, explain your reasoning for recovering Diplomatic Incident prior to seeing the Shah?” Celestia's tone becomes faintly critical and Twilight stiffens, but then she plows on.
“I want to recover him because he knows the local environment. He's fluent in the local dialect and has quite a few connections that I would like to exploit. He's also my friend,” Twilight says, ticking off points on her fingers as she goes. All the while, she's aware of Celestia's critical gaze upon her, until after a moment, the sovereign nods.
“I see, that is not the order I would have attended to business in, but your reasoning is sound. Do you have a proposal to present to the Khans?”
“I do. It's based on the toning down of our military presence on their border, and returning those two provinces that we took from them. In return, they'll cede to our trade tariffs and dial down their rhetoric. Alternatively, we can reduce the tariffs and keep the provinces, but they still have to dial down on their rhetoric,” Twilight says, and Princess Celestia tilts her head.
“That's a very soft bargaining posture, Twilight. We're giving them land, or we're cutting the prices, in exchange for them being a little less fervent from the pulpit. This is weak, too weak in fact. I had expected more of you, Twilight,” Celestia says as she taps one finger on the table.
“But it's not all that soft,” Twilight replies. “Those two provinces we took off them are marginal gains at best and financial estimates say that in the long run, they'll actually cost the Empire more to run than we'll get out of them. The income we generate off those tariffs is likewise fairly limited and I'm sure we can scrape up the money from elsewhere.”
“Mmmhm that's true, but we're being seen to climb down Twilight, the perception is that they're going to be getting something off that without giving us anything more than promises. It sets a dangerous precedent for other people who might decide to set off a disturbance to get something out of the Empire. We've had people killed already, perhaps some blood money is in order?” Celestia suggests.
“That won't work. The Khans will say that we cannot charge the government for the actions of a few lunatics, and if we find proof that it's a conspiracy by certain high ranking Khans, then we'll likely destabilize the Khan government when we present it-”
“Not our concern.”
“-and whatever replaces it will likely be even more anti Equestrian,” Twilight rejoinders. “The alternative theory, that this is a covert operation designed to weaken us, orchestrated with the Shah's knowledge and consent , dictates that the only viable endgame to us uncovering evidence to that effect... well, the only viable endgame would be war.”
“You think they wouldn't climb down?”
“Definitely not, from what I've read they're a proud people, and this'd be a humiliation. The Shah's government would never allow him to stand for it. They'd also never want to admit that they pulled a stunt like that, otherwise their friends in the Federation might get upset,” Twilight explains, and Celestia nods approvingly.
“Good... I suppose the Empire can tolerate a little bit of egg on its face in exchange for not having to wade through an ocean of blood. That being said...” Celestia purses her lips. “How about an edict for their militia to curtail their harassment of my expatriates? The final few diplomatic bags the Foreign Office received from our embassy suggested that had been an issue.”
“That could work,” Twilight replies. “Certainly the angry letters the Shah will receive will be enough to make him think twice about any funny business.”
“Then we have our proposals. Good work Twilight,” Celestia says warmly.
“Thanks,” Twilight replies quietly. “I've heard something worrying though... maybe it's just me being nervous, or the spell doing something strange but... well, something happened before I came here.”
Celestia's mouth twitches and her smile becomes rather fixed as she reaches for a delicate porcelain cup of tea. “Go on?” the ageless Empress asks, and Twilight draws a deep breath.
“Before I came here... I was in a dream, or else a vision perhaps... I don't know, but it was in this study, or a very similar study to this, but it was night and... and Luna was there... or, well, Luna as she was before, back when she was-”
“Nightmare Moon,” Celestia says, putting her cup down on the table. “You're saying that Nightmare Moon, or something that appeared to be her, appeared before you in a dream?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Did she speak to you?” Celestia asks, her eyes as hard as agates. Twilight quails beneath the baleful gaze, but then she nods faintly. “Hmm. What did she say?” Celestia asks, knitting her fingers together.
“She told me that the Khans were one problem, but that we also had the United Federation to worry about.”
“I see... so that's her angle,” Celestia says, almost to herself, and then she looks at Twilight calmly.
“Twilight, I want you to put all thoughts about Nightmare Moon and the United Federation from your head. You just worry about securing peace with the Khans.”
“Why?” Twilight asks. “Surely I should be alert for the possibility that-”
“No,” Celestia says. “Twilight, Nightmare Moon is a Daemon, who wants just one thing and one thing only. She wants to get back into the body she believes is hers. She will say, and do anything to serve that end. How her telling you this serves that end is unknown, but you should assume it does. Ultimately, you need to worry about the coming negotiations with the Shah. Nightmare Moon can wait.”
“So what's going to happen about the United Federation then?”
“I will look into it,” Celestia says. “Ultimately though, the Federation hasn't got the stomach to get into a war right now, particularly not a war with us. I'm sure you can understand if I wish to waste my worry on the people who are willing to get into a war with us.”
“Yes... I suppose so,” Twilight agrees, and Celestia gives her a gentle smile.
“You'll be fine. I know you can do it, if anyone can,” Celestia says, and Twilight nods.
“Now, to this attack at the airport... how bad was it?”
“Pretty bad... I lost two men and the carriage got blown up. If it wasn't for Da- Bolt.”
Twilight claps her hands to her mouth, but the damage is done. Ohshitohshitohshit. Twilight’s thoughts are racing as she tries to stuff the word back into her mouth, but she knows it is too late. Her heart pounds as Celestia looks up, thunder in her eyes.
“Dash, as in Rainbow Dash?” Celestia says, her voice as cold as ice.
“Yes.” The word is more of a croak as Twilight forces it out after a long moment, and Celestia releases a long drawn out sigh, the fury draining from her expression.
“I trust, Princess, that you can remember our discussion about your responsibilities to the Crown?”
“About how I needed to stay free so you could marry me off?” Twilight replies, leaping to her feet, the venom in her tone surprising even her, but Celestia doesn't even flinch.
“Exactly. You are a Princess of Equestria. Your first duty is to Equestria. If I need to cement an alliance with a marriage, you're a prime candidate.”
“What about love?” Twilight asks, her shoulders slumping, but Celestia shrugs.
“Love doesn't enter into this equation. The common man may marry for love, but we are unfortunately above such things. Love does not put an army onto a battlefield or feed a starving population, therefore on my list of priorities, whether you love someone or not does not feature highly.” Twilight recoils at the words, her hand going to her throat as she tries to hold the fragments of her world together, but then it tumbles listlessly back down to her waist.
A tremor ripples through Twilight’s lip and she clenches her hands into fists as she tries to keep the tears from flowing. A maelstrom of emotions grab at her skin, gripping at her throat. However, the foremost emotion is anger, red and surging and boiling.
How can she do this to me? After all I’m doing for her and her poxy Empire…
“I see,” Twilight says, relying on a monumental effort of will to keep her composure.
“Can I trust that you will defer such feelings as you still entertain?” Businesslike and formal, as cold as cut glass and it cuts twice as deep into Twilight’s skin.
“For how long?” Twilight’s voice catches slightly as she tries to salvage something from this wreck.
“Indefinitely.” Twilight’s heart jerks as the word strikes like a bullet.
Twilight takes a deep shuddering breath, scrabbling to summon all the catechisms about duty and responsibility, but none of them seem to matter next to the weight of the future that looms before her, cold and loveless. Anger bubbles in her breast, anger at the expressionless mask upon Celestia's face. A sense of betrayal adds its simmering brew to the fire. Here is the woman that Twilight loves like a mother, casting her down and turning her out...
“I'm not doing this to be spiteful, or to be cruel, Twilight,” Celestia says, still in that calm and patient tone. “I'm doing this because I have to. One day, when you have a kingdom and a crown of your own, you'll understand.”
Rage leaps through Twilight’s mind like a torrent and her spine straightens. Her chest puffs up and her wings snap out, even as quavers ripple along the leading edges. Does she know what she’s saying… does she even care?
“I don't want a crown, or a kingdom! I don't want to be bought or sold like a prize heifer in a market square... Here's Twilight Sparkle, she can be yours in exchange for favourable trade concessions," Twilight snaps, "Step right up, bidding starts at two million! You don’t even care do you? You just don’t give a flying fuck about anything or anyone that’s not in your perfect little-”
“Enough.” Celestia’s word carries the force of a slap, and Twilight staggers back as the sheer unchecked force of the Princess’ personality smashes into her like a tidal wave. “I respect you a great deal, Twilight Sparkle, but do not Ever tell me that I do not care about my people.” Her voice is emotionless but the wall of heat that rises up to strike Twilight in the face makes her message plain.
The colour fades from Twilight’s face as her choler quails beneath the unfathomable wrath of the Princess of the Sun. Though Celestia has not touched Twilight physically, the junior princess feels like she’s been struck by a hammer blow. Her anger drained from her, replaced with a cold core of fear as she shivers before the might of the Princess of the Sun.
“I'm sure you understand quite how fatal it would be to any hope of a peace process if you were caught engaging in any kind of unseemly behaviour whilst on Khanate soil? I trust you do not think your loins are more important than the thousands of men who will die in any war I am forced to fight with the Khanate?”
The question sends a brutal knife of ice through Twilight's heart.
“No,” comes Twilight’s choked grunt. “I shall endeavour to control myself.”
“I'm sure you'll do splendidly,” Celestia says gently, and Twilight releases a long, tremulous sigh as she looks at Princess Celestia. For the first time, the Princess of the Sun looks older and far more worn than Twilight has ever seen her, her eyes sunken and her cheeks drawn, and Twilight can see faint tears sparkling in those eyes for only a second, before the cool mask is pulled back over Celestia’s face.
“Can I be dismissed? I need to wake up and brief my men,” Twilight says, her tone unsteady and resigned, begging for an escape route, anything to get her away from those now battered, rose coloured eyes.
“Of course. Good luck, Twilight,” Celestia says softly, and Twilight feels a familiar pressure behind the back of her eyes as she feels her eyelids growing heavier. She starts to sag backward, collapsing into the chair behind her as she feels herself drifting back.
“One more thing,” she feels Celestia’s words following her up, her tone becoming strident once more. “When you return, we’re going to be discussing your security arrangements. Get this job done Twilight, before your lack of self restraint undoes any hope of a peace process."
Twilight’s eyes widen in horror for just a moment, before closing for the last time.
Twilight opens her eyes to a snarl of sound, and she blinks groggily as her ears focus upon the roar, identifying it as the howl of wind ripping through a solar sail. For a moment, Twilight isn’t able to place quite where she is, but then, as a posse of concerned faces swim into view above her as vibrations ripple up her spine, Twilight realizes she’s still safely in one of the Legion’s light skiffs.
As the faces swim into focus, Twilight picks out Whiskers and Smit, and then she spots the bright, multichromatic blur of Rainbow Dash’s hair, a relieved expression being hastily stowed away.
“Glad to see you’re still among the land of the living, Your Highness,” Dash says. Twilight offers the woman a weak smile, the force of the confrontation with her mentor a few moments ago having robbed her of speech. Rainbow Dash lets a small, relieved smile tug at her lips and pats Twilight’s good shoulder as the vibration of the skiff moving at speed pulses through Twilight’s bones. She can feel the skiff maneuvering through the air much more aggressively than it was previously, if that were possible.
“How’re you doing, Princess?” Dash’s voice is warm with just a hint of relief. Twilight slowly picks herself up, her body still shaking slightly from the after effects of her conversation with Celestia. However as Twilight sits up, she hears something jangling as she moves. Her gaze tilts downward and she notices the bottom of the boat is littered with expended brass.
“I’m… good,” she says, rubbing her eyes as she looks around to see the scenery of Tarhen roaring past and the other Legionnaires looking around hungrily as they hunt for targets. “What happened?” Twilight asks, and Dash frowns slightly before answering.
“A sniper took a potshot at you when we were leaving the prison, and we saw you pass out. We thought you’d been hit...” Dash hesitates and Twilight can feel something strange. She can feel images pressing in from the corner of her mind -- flickers of images as though she’s watching an out of focus projector…
The rainbow-haired Legionnaire is directing the evacuation of her troops, the familiar crackle of nerves burning at the back of her mind as she scans the wall around her. Her hands are tight upon her weapon and the air is thick with tension.
She licks dry lips with a dry tongue as she watches Princess Twilight mount up, followed by the Valorossiyan ambassador and her own guards. Dash forces back the thoughts crowding the edges of her mind. She needs to be on point now, of all times.
The feed jerks. Suddenly, Twilight is looking at an image of herself. The skiff is rising slowly and ponderously, the built-in reaction drive having failed to build up the necessary power for a swift boost. As they rise in gut-churning slow motion, Dash can feel her hands tighten still further upon the rifle and she silently pleads for the skiff to move faster.
Suddenly, the tension is broken as Princess Twilight sags, the shrill zip of a bullet filling the air, followed half a beat later by the crack of a rifle. An icy cold void opens up right where Dash’s stomach is, and her gaze twists around as she hunts for a firing position.
Her eyes lock upon a Khan standing behind a Gardner-type rotary barrel gatling gun, of the kind that uses a handle to rotate the barrel. His eyes are alight with hatred and she can tell he wants nothing more than to spin that barrel up...
“Then the prison officers opened up on us and so we had to evac under fire. Sov was hit, but it’s only a slight scrape on his prosthetic. I’ll get the mechanic to look at him later.” Dash says, and for a second, her expression turns a little sad.
Dash’s expression hardens as she raises her own weapon. “All-round defence, now!” She snaps, pushing back the rapidly building panic growing in her belly. ‘Please don’t let Twilight be dead!’ repeats over and over again in a brutal refrain in Dash’s mind. Then the Khan’s hand tightens on the handle and he starts to push it forwards…
BAM!
The rifle jerks in Dash’s hand as she pulls the trigger. The Khan’s head snaps backward as Dash takes the shot and he folds forward over the gun, the wall behind him suddenly covered with blood.
For a second, there is absolute stunned silence and then a roar of gunfire as the Khans retaliate, raising their weapons and opening fire in a sudden, frantic fusillade. Dash works the bolt on her rifle, picking out another target, a Khan with a shotgun who is frantically firing and pumping. Dash punches a round straight into his chest. The Khan tumbles down, the weapon clattering from his hands, but Dash has no time to contemplate that as she scans for another target.
A shrill burp of fire fills the air and Dash spots another Khan go down, rounds stitching their way up his chest as a Valorossiyan submachine gun cuts him down.
“GO GO GO GO!” Dash hears herself yelling, and she can hear the skiff’s pilot cursing as he hauls upon the skiff’s collective, managing to gain altitude at last, and then the nose tips upward slightly and the pilot shunts the throttle forward, the power of that acceleration slamming Dash and the others down into their seats.
“We’ve probably made things difficult for you, Twilight.” Dash admits and Twilight shakes her head.
“If they opened fire first, then you’re well within your rights to respond,” Twilight answers calmly, already contemplating how this is going to change the negotiating position, if it does at all. “Tell me how it happened, minute for minute.”
Dash nods and opens her mouth and Twilight listens closely, trying to pick out any differences between the vision and Dash's account. “We’re getting into the skiff with you, right. I’m behind you when I hear some fucknuts cocking a bolt action rifle on the ramparts. That let me know something was up, and so we bundled you into the skiff and then you passed out… good thing you did, though, or you would have been splatted. We’d already put out smoke by that point. but it hadn’t built up yet, and so we went up into the ready, you know, covering all the angles, and I clap my eyes on the cat with the cranked machine gun. He’s in the act of traversing it onto our position and he’s got a dirty, big smile on his face like he’s just won the lottery.
We’re just starting to lift by this point and we haven’t got enough power to vertically lift quickly -- it’ll take several seconds for us to get that kind of power, so we’re sitting ducks. He’s shifted his finger onto the handle, and I see him crank it back to push it forward. Now, given the nature of the situation, I shouted a warning at him in Fars’ad, but he just continued to crank it up. He just needed to push that handle forward and start it spinning and none of us would be breathing. so I put a round into his face. Of course, his mates return fire. and so we had to take out quite a few of them to get out of there.” Dash’s face looks grim and her eye is slightly downcast.
Twilight smiles wanly. “I trust you, caporal, if there was an issue and you needed to resolve it with violence then I’ll back you as far as needed.” She says, reaching out and placing a hand on Dash’s arm. The Legionnaire flinches for a second, and then relaxes as the skiff hurtles through the city in the direction of the compound.
As they come screaming in over massive factory complexes and chimneys belching sulphurous smoke , Twilight takes a moment to gaze in the direction of the compound. She can see a crowd gathering at the gates even from this distance, many of whom are carrying placards and banners. As they draw closer and more details come into focus, Twilight can see that very few of those placards and banners appear to be of a complementary nature, however. A line of legionnaires is keeping them in check, and Twilight can see other legionnaires hard at work on fortifying the perimeter. Mortar pits have been dug and one of the self-propelled guns has been marched up into plain view of the front gate to give the mob of demonstrators something big and nasty to think about.
“We’re set up for the long haul; I reckon we’d be able to hold off the entire Khanate army if we had enough ammunition.” Dash says, looking at the defences approvingly before glancing at Twilight apologetically. “Hopefully we won’t have to, though,” she adds as an afterthought and Twilight nods glumly as the skiff zips over the walls, coming in to land in the middle of the landing field.
“Get yourselves out of those dress uniforms,” Twilight says as they disembark. “If things continue in this manner, I want you to be ready to respond.”
“Ma’am,” Dash replies, chopping up a quick salute,“When do you want us ready to roll out again?” she asks and Twilight shakes her head firmly,
“I don’t. You and your men have gone through not one but two gunfights on my account today. I will not make it three,” Twilight says gently. For a moment, she can see a hint of dubiousness in the legionnaire’s expression before Dash turns on her jackbooted heel.
“You heard the lady, gents -- you’ve got one hour to get your gear sorted, requisition new uniforms and gear where needed, then I want you to get your asses over to that block there; we’re going to debrief and take some time to breathe.” Dash barks, and her troop of legionnaires start making their way back to the accommodation block to get out of their blue and white dress uniforms.
Twilight watches them go for a moment, her eyes lingering on the retreating form of caporal Dash before she turns to Diplomatic Incident.
“How quickly can you arrange a meeting with someone in power?” Twilight’s eyes are narrow and Diplomatic Incident tilts his head.
“I just have to make a couple of telegrams, ma’am. We should know their answer by tomorrow,” he says. Twilight folds her arms impassively, her mouth curling downward.
“Not good enough, I’ve been shot at twice since I came here -- my soldiers have had blood spilled in this nation; I want answers and if there are doors we cannot open by conventional means, I’ll blow them down if I must.” Twilight’s mouth is set into a thin line and a warm laugh booms from Zsaryna’s throat.
“Hah, you are more like a Valorossiyan than I thought!” The tall. predatory female has recovered some of her composure at having her boots back on solid ground, and she tosses a predatory grin at Twilight, all flashing teeth and sharp-edged smile. Diplomatic Incident looks troubled. however.
“Princess, Twilight, perhaps it would be best to wait until tomorrow… by all accounts, today has been somewhat stressful for you. You could do with approaching the conundrums of the coming day with a clear head.” Diplomatic Incident’s tone is conciliatory and concerned and Twilight wants no part of it. She wants answers, and she wants someone who can give them to her. She needs to keep pressing forward, because if she stops now, she’s going to start crying.
“We cannot wait,” Twilight growls softly. “Let the Khans see me as I am, here and now, let them know that if I am angry, it is because I have reason to be!”
“But, Princess, I must insist, this isn’t like you!” Diplomatic Incident replies, the concern dropping from his tone to be replaced with an edge of irritation “The Twilight Sparkle I know would not be talking about blowing doors down, or-”
“If I may,” A voice interrupts them, and Twilight turns to see Prophet walking towards them, his armour clanking softly, a strange lever-action rifle slung across his back, a weapon obviously designed for Khan hands, being shorter and less cumbersome than an Equestrian rifle. It is also ornately decorated, with inscriptions of scrolls bearing verses of scripture, and etched brass trim upon the rich, cedar wood furniture, flowing lines of autumnal brown rippling through the deep red.
“There will be no talk of blowing doors down, nor angry people, your Highness. I have been to speak to my order, and thence to the Shah. He is most perturbed by the greeting you have been given. He is so perturbed, that he wishes for you to meet him in his palace within the hour. I gather that judging by the condition of your craft,” he gestures at the bullet-pocked skiff, “I wager that things have not been smooth in my absence.”
27th January, 1882, Tarhen, 1125.
Caporal Rainbow Dash sits down in the common room that she’s picked as the Ninth Compagnie’s recreation room. One of the few nice things about being in the Princess’s bodyguard team is that her unit is allowed to stay in the administration block where Twilight is staying, which is rather more comfortable than the converted airship hangars where the other legionnaires are staying.
The carpet squishes gently as Dash crosses her legs. She can hear worn springs creaking as Sov shifts on the couch, trying to make himself comfortable whilst Smit is calmly unravelling the linen roll containing his travelling toolkit and arranging his working implements on the desk next to the sofa.
“You know, you should really get this checked out by a proper sawbones,” Dash hears her second in command complaining as he glances at the fittings before pulling out three wrenches. “We’ve got one here now and if you don’t like him, then I’m sure there’s a cat around here who knows a thing or two about prosthetics.”
“Or I can just go to you and know that if you fuck it up, I can kick your ass whenever I choose,” Sov grumbles in reply, his voice a cold, metallic monotone that reminds Dash of the drone of a buzzsaw.
Smit nods as if contemplating the reply, before he opens his mouth. “A very good point, but if you did that then you’d have to get the boss to look at it. I’d rather take me chances with the cats personally.” Smit tosses a slight grin Dash’s way to let her know he’s joking.
Dash scowls and gives him the finger before settling down and spreading out her own bedroll on the floor. She then reaches for her marksman’s rifle and lays it down on the rug to start disassembling her trusted weapon.
Weapon maintenance has always been a hobby of Dash’s, or at least it has since she joined the Legion. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of knowing her kit was up to scratch. Whilst she could always palm it off on the armourer, Dash prefers to keep the maintenance of her kit to herself, since otherwise it wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. However, that’s only one reason why she does her own kit.
Catharsis is the main reason, when one is stripping down a weapon and cleaning it, all the problems and niggling doubts fall away like the carbon dust that cakes the weapon’s internals. All the other problems that crowd and bubble around one’s mind fade into the ether.
Right now, Dash could sorely do with some catharsis; the niggling doubts have boiled over into major problems and whilst normally as a caporal, she’d have other junior noncoms to bitch to and senior noncoms to keep a steady stream of tasks coming down from on high that would allow her to bury her worries in work, Dash is now top of the tree, the acting commander after the massacre at the embassy decapitated the compagnie. Nobody higher ranked than her, but where a CO would have an Adjutant or an Adj’Chef to advise him, Dash has nobody to advise her.
Dash narrows her remaining eye, knowing that she cannot let herself think like that. It’s been almost a full month since the incident and if Zaranov thought she was incapable, then someone else would have been appointed to head the compagnie by now. Dash relaxes into the familiar rhythms of weapon stripping and maintenance, trying to put those thoughts out of her mind. This is easier said than done. Thoughts of the incident give way to thoughts about the others, who are filing into the rec room with their own gear to fix up, or with new gear to modify to unit standards.
Dash can’t shake the thoughts of the events of this morning -- of the ambushes on the road and the hot, pulsing surges of adrenaline and cold, sucking bouts of despair that had coursed through her in equal measure. Despair that she’d failed in her mission to keep Princess Twilight safe, adrenaline because a fight was still a fight and it’s been too long since she’d managed to get herself into a proper shooting match, mixed with triumph for coming out alive and anger because two of her men, men who had trusted her, had not come home. It’s alright to tell Twilight that ‘Dying is what the Legion is made for’ and all that crap, because it’s Twilight’s job to send people out to die. It’s Dash’s job to keep them alive. It’s her responsibility and she fucked it up already.
She wonders how her men feel about that, that their lives are in the hands of a caporal who hasn’t been trained for command beyond fireteam level. Dash reaches for the disassembled bolt, picking up her horsehair brush and dipping it in oil before sweeping it across the bolt. She then puts the bolt back down and picks up each other part of the rifle, scrubbing each component clean of the carbon and other accumulated muck and dirt from the day’s shooting, not to mention the dust that’s already started to gather where it shouldn’t.
“How’re we doing for ammunition?” Dash asks and Sov looks up from where Smit has disassembled his arm on the table.
“We’re good, boss, I signed for fifteen cases for our own personal needs before we start having to nick the other compagnies’ stuff, along with a couple of crates of leavings. Ten cases of .303 normal, four cases of pistol ammunition and two crates of local crap in case we have to go deep and dark, and, just for you, a case of red spot marksman ammunition, it should last ‘till we get a resupply flight in,” Sov replies, Dash humms thoughtfully.
“Good to know, so once we’re all done with kit repair, replenish your ammunition. The Princess may not want to go out for the rest of the day, but we need to be ready in case something spins up,” Dash says, the others nod without comment. Dash turns her attention back to the weapon. However, from there it wanders once more, but this time in a far less healthy direction -- Twilight.
Dash had been doing a good job of getting over Twilight. Five years of soldiering will do that to you. She’d still entertained the odd sweaty thought, but it hadn’t been much more than that, and Dash had long since considered herself over her royal ex. Then Twilight had come barging into her life once again, smashing the comfortable little wall that Dash had built between her old, civilian life and her new life. It hadn’t helped that Twilight had been willing and helpful, eager to learn as only that cute little egghead could have been, and she’d been more than willing to muck in with the shooting and bayoneting drill. Dash had expected her to balk at that, but she hadn’t. Dash had to accord the princess respect for that. And then there was the bathtub...
Dash feels her face flame up at the memory, at that silky smooth and soft skin on display, glistening from the bath. The hot smell of wet skin and soapy water, the smell of a bath, a luxury Dash has never permitted herself in the last five years. Dash can all too clearly remember the last time she and Twilight had shared a bath. Neither of them had really ended up being very clean, although a great deal of water had ended up on the bathroom floor.
Dash cannot help but smile at the memory, despite the concurrent flush of desire it sends pulsing through her, and she remembers what had accompanied the sight of the naked princess. A primitive surge that had begged her to take what was hers, to advance upon the girl and take what was on offer, to yank the girl out of the tub and pin her against the wall and make her forget her own name in a whirlwind of pleasure. Following hot on the heels of that thought had been shame, a hot and unpleasant surge of guilt that she could have thought of doing such a thing to her sovereign and her best friend, followed by another surge of desire at Twilight’s reaction. Now naked lust wars violently with the loyalty that has characterized her since birth.
Dash finishes putting her rifle back together, slapping a five round stripper clip into the slot and pushing five rounds into the magazine, followed by another five. With a smile of satisfaction, Dash works the bolt, chambering a round before putting the weapon onto safe. She’s about to turn to the next weapon in her arsenal, a short-barrelled pump shotgun she stows under her robes alongside her pistol whenever she has to mix it with the locals, when the door crashes open and Whiskers comes barrelling into the room, her pointed ears twitching and her golden eyes wide.
“Boss! The Princess, she’s leaving the compound now with Fourth Compagnie and that fat bloke we just busted from the chokey.” Whiskers snaps and Dash leaps to her feet, ignoring the fact she’s only dressed in her singlet, sandals, and combat pants, grabbing her webbing and slinging it on as she dashes for the door.
What the fuck is she thinking? Dash asks herself as she hurtles through the door, rifle in one hand. She asked Dash and her men to be here as a bodyguarding unit. Princess Twilight had asked for her unit personally. Now she’s leaving without them !
Dash runs down the corridors and stairwells of the admin block, taking the stairs three at a time and barreling past a couple of chittering adjutants who take a moment to shout something at her retreating back, but Dash ignores them as she sprints through the entrance hall, and then out to see Twilight walking over to an open-topped carriage much like the one she’d been riding in earlier today. However, unlike earlier today, the princess is travelling behind a ring of steel. A full compagnie is forming up into moving order around her, clambering up onto one of the armoured self-propelled guns or leaping up onto assault landing craft or making themselves comfortable on one of three other carriages that have been called up from somewhere.
Dash advances across the parade ground, her good eye fixed upon the princess, who still has her back to Dash. Dash begins to move quicker, knowing that the compagnie will start moving out any second now. As she crosses the parade ground, she notices the convoy commander looking up and down the lines and Dash tries to quicken her pace, hurling herself across the parade ground.
She notices Twilight look up from where she’s been deep in conversation with Prophet and Diplomatic incident, and before Dash can react, Twilight has turned around to look at her. The distance is still too great for Dash to make out any words as she turns to the driver and says something. A few moments later, at a gesture from Belial, the landing craft start to spool up as the legionnaires hurry aboard. Dash unfolds her wings with a crack, desperate to catch the air in a frantic jumpstart as the company commander turns to see Twilight’s horrified gaze as Dash beats her wings and accelerates, crossing the remainder of the landing field and drawing closer to Twilight.Dash wants answers and she wants them bad. Is that too much to ask?
Evidently so.
A telekinetic grip snatches her by the shoulders, holding her steady in the air for a moment. Twilight gazes at Dash for a moment, and Dash can almost see a flicker of regret upon the Princess’ face before Twilight turns her back with a swish of those deep blue locks as the convoy starts to roll towards the opening gates and then out past the throng of protesting Khans. As Twilight’s carriage rolls out of the gate, the telekinetic grip holding Dash releases her, easing the young woman down to the ground. Dash sighs, sinking to her knees. Twilight’s abject lack of trust in her capabilities could not be more clearly demonstrated. “Our charge just fucked off… fucked off with the fourth.” Dash says numbly.
“Boss, you okay?” She hears a voice behind her and turns to see Whiskers standing there, panting. Whiskers is perhaps the only one among the company that can outpace Dash on foot, and the only one that even has a hope of keeping up with her when the young woman decides to go airborne.
“I’m fine,” Dash says, picking herself up and brushing her knees off as she refurls her wings. Dash bites the words off like they’re poisonous and Whiskers quails faintly beneath Dash’s acid gaze. “Everything’s just peachy.”
“Fancy talking about it, Boss?” Dash looks up to see Smit drawing closer to her, looking concerned, and Dash shrugs.
“What’s to talk about, the Princess doesn’t want our guarding service; she’s gone out with Fourth Compagnie rather than the glorious Ninth.” Dash replies, trying to keep her tone casual but from Smit’s expression, he’s not buying it.
“Fair enough Boss,” Whiskers says after a moment. “Now pardon me, but normally you’d take this as an opportunity to catch up on your sleep or else you’d do some more work on that toy of yours. I’ve never seen you tearing after the commander asking him to explain himself like that… What’s up?” Whiskers’ high pitched, melodious voice turns the intensely personal question into something warm and friendly rather than something hard and invasive. Dash releases an explosive sigh, shaking her head fiercely.
“Besides the fact that Zaranov would have murdered me if I’d dared to do something that stupid? Honestly, Whiskers, it’s fucking Fourth compagnie. They’re good enough, I’m sure, but they’re not recce like we are. I don’t want some shit happening to the princess because she’s surrounded by greenhorns. We need to make sure they’re up to snuff. We could also do with doing a bit of recce on the route to and from the palace, since that might turn into a regular destination. Smit, how’dya feel about comin’ for a bit of a low profile walk with us?” Dash asks, the germ of a scheme forming in her mind. It’s daft, brainless, and exactly the sort of thing that Dash is famous for -- the proverbial back of a fag packet plan that might just work.
“Sure,” Smit says. “I just need to get Sov buttoned up, then I’m all ears, ya?”
Dash feels a smile begin to twitch around the corner of her mouth as she turns and starts heading back towards the admin block.
“Meet me here in five, bring three volunteers and local garb; we’re going to be doing this as sneaky as possible.” Dash’s eye flashes with an almost feral glitter.
Twilight gazes out of the back of the carriage as it rolls onward through the crowded streets of Tarhen, her eyes upon the armoured gates of the compound and her mind far away from thoughts of the coming meeting with the Shah, no matter how hard she tries to stay focussed. Instead, thoughts of Dash keep intruding, of that hurt, betrayed expression etched upon her ex’s face. Twilight narrows her eyes slightly. She has other things to worry about right now and she cannot let her mind wander from her job, even for a second.
“Something troubles you?” Belial’s voice rumbles from the seat opposite her. Twilight shakes her head.
“No, Capitane, I was just thinking about Caporal Bolt,” Twilight mumbles. “I hope she doesn’t mind me bringing your compagnie out for escort rather than her unit.”
“If she does, then she is a poor commander of men,” Belial replies frankly. “It is not becoming to take a reassignment personally, and she should know better. Among other things, her activities appear to have caused the principle, that is to say you, quite a bit of discomfort,” Belial says firmly, and Twilight has to nod at that point as an unpleasant thought ripples through her mind. She doesn’t want to damage Dash’s career in the Legion, which causes another spike of regret to pulse through her, but then she sits up a little straighter in her seat. She has other things to worry about right now.
“You are right Capitane, we have bigger problems on our plate than one Caporal’s hurt feelings,” Twilight lies, hoping that it sounds convincing. She then turns her attention to Prophet, who shifts in his chair to reach his sword. “So, in respect to Shah Khalid, what can I expect of him?” she asks as the Khan draws the sword and rests it across his lap to start anointing it.
“You can expect a fair hearing,” Prophet replies calmly, polishing his sword with holy oil. “Shah Khalid is perturbed by what has happened today and he wishes to salve the wound between your nation and ours, lest it fester. However, he seeks a satisfactory resolution for his government. He will bargain hard, as will any representatives he will place before you,” the Justicar says, though Twilight notices a faint flicker of his right ear.
“That he will, but we have diplomats to handle that,” Diplomatic Incident says softly. “Right now, Your Highness, your focus needs to be on making an initial agreement; we can dot the T’s and cross the I’s at a later date, I don’t want you worrying about bringing home a whole treaty.”
Twilight frowns. “Don’t you think I can-”
“Never that, dear girl,” Diplomatic Incident replies, “I just want you to have a clear idea of the task at hand; we can’t have you overreaching yourself, after all. It would be a rather poor show if we gave the cat the keys to the coop… no offence meant,” he adds hastily, holding up a hand to Prophet.
“None taken,” Prophet grumbles in reply as his frown deepens, before shifting in his chair to look around at the escorting vehicles.
“Are you sure this is a wise strategy, Princess? Coming to his gates in this kind of force, I think the Shah may get the wrong impression,” Prophet cautions.
“I’ve been shot at twice today, Prophet. I have no desire for there to be a repeat incident,” Twilight replies calmly. Prophet tilts his head.
“You believe this to be strength, travelling surrounded by soldiers?” he asks.
Twilight shakes her head. “I’d prefer to ride with a small escort, but circumstances have shown that to be impractical. Since it seems I cannot rely on the Khans to protect me, I must look to my own for defence,” she says, glancing at the carnage that the walker is inflicting upon the already chaotic streets as carriages and beasts of burden are forced to scatter before the six-legged monstrosity. Twilight can see people staring up at the convoy of military vehicles as they roll onward. For a moment, she wonders exactly what they’re thinking about her. Even the religious police officers have stopped to stare in wonder at the convoy.
Prophet takes a deep breath. “Princess. I believe it is my duty to tell you that this approach will not work. You are humiliating the army and offending the police at a stroke. You are also creating a sizeable groundswell of ill-feeling among the populace,” he says. Twilight fixes the Justicar with an irritable look.
“I do believe that that’s the point,” Belial says flatly. “If we could trust the army and the police, we would be more than happy to mobilize a platoon rather than a company. The Princess is making a statement about the consequences of not being able to trust Khans.”
“All this whilst having Khans under arms,” Prophet says, gesturing at the carriage in front, where the squad leader is twitching his tail as his ears scan the surroundings. Belial shakes his head.
“She’s got Legionnaires under arms,” Belial says coolly, his own whiskers twitching faintly.
The corners of Prophet’s mouth curls downward into a faint frown but he says nothing further, for which Twilight is extremely grateful. As they roll onward, she takes in the scenery around her, the broad avenues and the whitewashed concrete buildings, many of which tower over the three storey constructions she had been fighting her way through this morning. Statues stand in the middle of the thoroughfare, the mute gaze of the martyrs standing watch over the bustling street.
The citizens here appear to be better dressed in silks and finer velvets, and Twilight is transfixed by the glorious riot of colours in their robes. There are even females, distinctive by their veils and the golden pins that many are sporting down the front of their robes. Well maintained walkers are striding through the crowds, their burnished copper boilers gleaming as they strut like chickens through the swirling morass of people and beasts of burden.
Twilight has never seen anything like it -- such a riotous mass of noise and colour, so unlike the calm, restrained bustle of Canterlot’s streets, and she can even hear music drifting through the streets over the clamour of people surrounding her, a soft and faintly wistful stringed piece accompanied by a slow, haunting melody on some kind of piped instrument that Twilight has no name for.
“We’re drawing close to the Shah’s Palace now, Princess,” Prophet says, “There is a slight… gathering outside. They’re protestors, most of whom are protesting against Equestria’s involvement here. Do not take the signs personally.”
“I didn’t know people were allowed to protest here,” Belial says, causing Prophet’s whiskers to twitch irritably.
“They shouldn’t be, but they’re not protesting directly against the Shah, and their presence serves anyone who might want her highness dead,” Prophet replies darkly. Twilight can hear the crowd now, a low, baying sound reminding her of of wild animals. It only seems to grow in strength as they travel onward and away from the band. Twilight can feel herself tensing up as the rumbling of the crowd intensifies and the smaller groups of people start to thin. Obviously, people do not want to be caught up in whatever’s going on, Twilight can tell that much. Then, as they round a corner and come out onto a long straight avenue, Twilight sees the Shah’s palace. Her eyes widen in awe as the street ends and they come onto an open plaza before the palace.
The palace, or at least what she can see of it, is enormous. All of Ponyville could easily fit into it. It towers over the equally gargantuan perimeter wall, a slab-sided edifice that seems more akin to a fortress than a residence. Titanic statues are set into alcoves. Motifs of embossed swords and elaborately carved scrolls decorate the walls, trying and failing miserably to take the edges off the sharp architecture. Twilight can already see that this would be almost impossible to take: it has commanding sightlines over the surrounding area, and she can see thinly disguised revetments built into the walls, and also narrow firing slots from whence marksmen can engage targets outside the citadel.
Even the perimeter wall is imposing, twenty looming feet of marble wall with great, looming towers evenly spaced along its length. Red and gold banners flap from the walls, flashing like flames in the afternoon sun. Twilight’s gaze is not on the architecture, however.
She is staring at a massive throng of people -- Khans, humans, and others are all standing in the square, waving banners and chanting songs. Many are waving banners.
“GO HOME, DAEMONS!” screams one.
“MURDERERS NOT WELCOME!” is scrawled upon another.
“AVENGE THE MARTYRS OF THE EMBASSY!” a third effort proclaims.
As Twilight watches in horror, a ripple effect passes through the crowd as they become aware of the Equestrian convoy before them and all eyes turn to face her. The roaring of the crowd fades into a faint susurration of disbelieving anger. For a spellbound moment, there is absolute silence as the crowd gaze at the target of their ire made manifest.
“This... could possibly get ugly,” Diplomatic Incident whispers to Twilight.
Belial narrows his eyes. “We shall see about that. Fourth Compagnie, fix bayonets and-”
“Are you mad, Capitane!?” Twilight gasps. “I will not have my arrival cause any further bloodshed!” She can see no surer way of provoking the crowd than to start sticking them with bayonets.
Belial fixes her with a look and he shakes his head, his eyes flashing. “Your Highness, I would not be doing my duty if I did not do my utmost to protect you, and if that means I have to cover this square in corpses, so be it.”
Twilight blinks, flabbergasted, but before she can reply, Diplomatic Incident wades in. “My good man, please consider the nature of those banners and the protests. If we visit bloodshed upon these people, then all we shall do is vindicate them, and we shall have to carve our way through a crowd every time we wish to make the Shah’s acquaintance. I shouldn’t have to tell you why that’s problematic. Also, if I may, there are enough people in this crowd to overwhelm a mere compagnie of Legionnaires, however good you think your men are.” Diplomatic Incident’s moustache bristles with righteous indignation, an indignation that sets Capitane Belial aback for a second, but only for a second.
“We cannot afford to be halted!” he snaps. “Every moment that we remain stuck here gives our enemy a chance to strike us!” Twilight can see something in his eyes, something she’d never expected to see in a Legionnaire: Fear, pure and simple. Fear of having his compagnie chopped apart by a ravening mob like the Ninth Compagnie, fear of being overwhelmed by people who once upon a time had been his countrymen, fear of-
Twilight stops herself suddenly, wondering whence that had come from. She hadn’t meant to reach into Belial’s mind like that, it had not been her intention at all. So I can heal myself and stick my fingers in people’s heads… what else haven’t you told me, Celestia? Twilight shakes herself free of her doubts as the convoy has reached the edge of the unruly crowd and rolled to a stop.
The crowd shifts, surging toward the convoy like a wave of fur and anger. However, Belial is faster. “Legionnaires, disembark!” he bellows. “Stocks and sticks only, gentlemen! Clear a path to the gates!” Immediately, all along the convoy, legionnaires leap down from their vehicles, drawing batons made from the handles of entrenching tools. At once, a ring of tan uniforms forms up around the convoy, the armoured walker using its flat top as an improvised rappelling pad for the two transports overhead, which swiftly disgorge their cargo of legionnaires. Twilight cannot help but be impressed by the swiftness of the operation, and some of her antipathy towards the Khan capitane dissipates.
The crowd charges forward like a surge of solid malevolence to crash into the wall of Legionnaires like a tidal wave against a breaker and the wall of legionnaires flexes under the pressure, but then with, a bellowed command, the legionnaires push back, laying into the crowds with their batons in a well orchestrated display of Equestrian military might. Screams ring out. Shouts of pain and curses blister the air as the crowd tries to fight its way past the legionnaires, who retaliate in kind, battering anyone within reach and forcing the crowd back. Twilight watches in awe, staring down at the sea of angry people around them, met as they are by the disciplined fury of the legionnaires.
As she watches the crowd, Twilight realizes that those in front are not actually moving of their own will; their own fervour has faded beneath the onslaught of the legionnaires, but those behind are pushing those in front, crushing them against the legionnaires and subjecting them to the full force of the legionnaires’ might. As Twilight watches in revolted horror, one of the blood-streaked Khans sags, only to be swallowed and dragged under by the churning mass of people.
After a moment of seemingly senseless violence, however, a shrill ululating horn rings out over the din, and Twilight turns to see the crowd at the head of the convoy suddenly falling back as grey-robed cavalry mounted on strange two legged saurians with short stubby arms and long distinctive ripping claws, each one twice the height of a man, advance in a column of red-plumed shakos and shock lances.
The crowd rapidly retreats from the advancing cavalry. Those too slow to move are swept aside by a stinging swat from a shock lance, though Twilight notes that the lances are not charged to full power.
“Mirikamaur Cossacks,” Diplomatic Incident says. “It’s a good thing that the Lady Ambassador’s not here.”
As the cavalry draws close, Twilight can see that the riders are in fact not Khans, they’re humans, dressed in loose fitting grey robes with blue sashes across the front of elaborate double breasted dress tunics. Waterfalls of braid glitter upon thier chests, as do dozens of brightly coloured, glittering medals. All are wearing black shakos with a bright tuft of red feathers blooming from the front, and most, if not all, are sporting elaborately curled moustaches and tiny, pointed goatees. Cavalry sabres flash at their sides and cavalry carbines bounce upon their backs. Twilight has never seen anything like it.
The cavalry column closes with the convoy, and the head of the column gestures for his riders to halt, before he turns and Twilight blinks in astonishment. The man at the head of the cavalry column is one of the most handsome men Twilight has ever seen. He is a tall man with rich chestnut hair and sideburns, high cheekbones, and a smile that could break a thousand hearts. He looks like the sort of man that the Canterlot gutter press writes about her sleeping with. Twilight can hear Diplomatic Incident muttering something about posturing young peacocks under his breath, along with something else about how he never had that kind of luck.
“Your Majesty!” he says in flawless Equestrian with a rich Canterlot drawl to it, the kind that could make a woman’s knees weak at fifty paces and make even the most esteemed Canterlot aristocrat unsure of their own nobility. He rises from his saddle and sweeps his shako off his head in a quick, florid bow. “Apologies for the delay, minor crowding problem, we shall ensure it does not happen again.” He tosses Twilight another winning smile.
Twilight rises to her feet calmly, a smile upon her face. Not for the first time, she’s glad that she bats for the other team, so to speak, not that it prevents a hot, scarlet blush from suffusing her cheeks.
“It is of no concern, we were admiring the population’s enthusiastic welcome,” she replies, detecting a brief flicker of surprise and amusement in the young man’s face before he nods.
“Ah, I see, well in that case, would you permit me to escort your highness’s procession to the citadel?”
Twilight nods to the cavalryman’s enquiry. “Of course you may…” Twilight trails off and the man bows his head again.
“Lieutenant of Cavalry, Sir Vitaliy Andarestov, Your Highness.”
“Princess Twilight Sparkle of Equestria, thank you, Lieutenant. I shall convey your timely intervention to the Shah. You have my thanks.”
The man chuckles. “It was my pleasure.” Twilight could almost swear that the young man winks at her before turning back towards his own troops. She sits back down, pursing her lips faintly as she feels the gaze of the other inhabitants of the carriage upon her.
“Well, that is most helpful, it is good to know we will not have to advance across a carpet of bodies, after all,” Twilight says after a moment. Belial’s whiskers have the grace to flick lightly as the soldiers advance across the disquietingly quiet square, the crowd muttering irritably, but obviously cowed by the advance of the cavalry. Almost unbidden, Twilight’s eyes flicker back to the Lieutenant of cavalry, as she spends a moment taking in his exquisitely tailored uniform, and the short stripes on his sleeve. For a moment she wonders what they mean. She then notices him looking straight back at her. Twilight suddenly snaps her gaze back forward, a flush upon her face.
A soft laugh ripples through the carriage, a deep and powerful laugh that emanates deep from within Prophet’s belly. “Ho, I see our Princess is quite smitten!” Twilight feels her cheeks colour a deeper shade of red.
“You forget your place, Justicar,” Twilight responds, though she cannot quite put any heat behind her words.
The Justicar merely laughs louder. “I appear to have struck a nerve, what a shame,” he remarks with a broad smile. Twilight’s eyes move around the carriage, daring any of the other occupants to even breathe a word. However, Diplomatic Incident and Belial are both keeping their expressions studiously neutral.
Twilight knows that she doesn’t entertain thoughts of that nature. They’ve only just met for one thing, and for another, Twilight knows that she isn’t that way inclined, no matter what Celestia might think. She knows the stirrings of her own heart, and it does not twitch in the way that it does when Twilight’s thoughts drift toward a certain one-eyed legionnaire, but everyone else seems to be making their own decisions about the matter.
Twilight merely resolves to banish all thought of romantic entanglement from her head. They are now drawing near to the vast, imposing gates into the citadel and she needs a clear head now more than ever as the vast wooden gates of the citadel creak ponderously open.
“What a knob,” Dash mutters from her position on a third floor roof. She’s dressed in loose fitting robes like most Khanate women, complete with the veil, which has now been tossed back over her head to give her unrestricted access to the marksman’s sight of her rifle. She and her small reconnaissance team have been following the convoy at a safe distance, mainly scouting ahead for any potential ambushes or spotters who might have been covertly observing the convoy. Already she’s built up quite a list of faces, all of which have gone into a notepad for future reference. Now she’s sitting up here to watch the princess cross the threshold, and keep an eye on that puffed up prick of a cavalryman.
Dash is no fool; she can see the way he looks at Twilight and it sets off something fiercely territorial in her belly, a monster of fire and ash. Certainly she noticed how he and his team took their sweet time massing the force to assist the Legionnaires.
That had been a worrying moment for Caporal Arc Bolt. She’d been worried sick when she’d watched the convoy get mobbed like that, and she cursed Belial with every fibre of her being for not doing any reconnaissance sweeps and allowing the situation to go nuts like that. Now Twilight’s inside, so Dash can relax a little. She sags away from the rifle, a faint sigh of exhaustion bubbling out of her chest.
“Right, the principal is home free,” Dash says. Sov nods next to her, grunting softly as he scans the crowd one more time with his enhanced eye, the lens clicking and whirring as he zooms in and out, adjusting focus.
“Nice one, boss.” Smit says, sat upon the rolled up rug he and Sov have been lugging through the streets as their cover, the rug that had their rifles wrapped up in it. “Now, care to tell me why we’re burning our R&R time when the Princess herself told us to fuckoffski?”
“The Fourth aren’t cutting the mustard -- you can see that,” Dash replies. Smit nods.
“I’m not questionin’ that, boss. I’m just askin’ when you grew a hankerin’ for royalty. Weren’t it one princess that put you in command of the whole fookin’ compagnie, all eleven of us? Why do you give a shit if this one gets whacked?”
“Because she finds it funny when you get angry, Smit. Ya need to cool it off,” Whiskers says from her own position watching the stairwell to the roof.
Smit shakes his head. “Fuck that, there’s something yer not fuckin’ tellin’ us, boss, and I wanna know what it is.”
“Shut up,” Dash grunts, “I’ll tell you when you need to know.”
“I wanna know why you’re putting our lives on the line like this is all. If this was that short one, Princess Luna, you wouldn’t give a shit.”
“Watch your tone! Field Marshal can take care of herself!” Dash barks, knowing it's a feeble excuse even before she gives it voice. Smit just plows right through it.
“Boss, there’s something not right here, and you need to tell us what’s going on,” Smit doggedly persists, worrying at the question like a dog with a bone.
Dash turns away from her rifle sight to fix her second in command with a look before she sighs. “Have you ever wanted something so bad you could kill for it?” she asks after a second. “Ever wanted something so much that you’d forsake everything, break every rule, risk everything?”
“Sure, that’s how I got in this shit job,” Smit replies, and Dash nods shortly.
“Right, well that’s the problem. Back before I was a legionnaire, I was a Wonderbolt… and that right there is my ex.” She points at the carriage disappearing through the gates.
A stunned silence lands on the Legionnaires.
“So you were boning Princess Twilight?” Sov says, wonder colouring his voice.
“Yep,” Dash says, allowing a little bit of pride to colour her voice.
Smit snorts. “Now I know you’re fucking with me, Boss.”
Dash snorts back. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m fucking with you, because when have you ever known me to breathe a word about where I came from and what I did before I joined the Legion?” Dash barks acidly. Smit shrugs.
“Right, so you banged her royal purpleness down there way back when, so what?” Smit says, and Dash tilts her head, wondering if Smit is just trying to draw this whole thing out into the group’s hearing.
“Because… because…”
“Is it because you still get your knickers in a twist over her? Scratch that, it’s written all over yer fookin’ face,” Smit says sharply. Dash rolls away from the rifle to sit up, anger colouring her features.
“I… just shut up, Smit. You’re talking bollocks as per fucking usual.” Dash snaps, turning back to the rifle, but not fast enough to miss the poisonous scowl Smit tosses her.
“So that’s how it is, boss? I’m your second in command and you’re just going to blow me off like that?”
“Yeah, that’s how it is, till you learn how to mind your own fucking business. Talk to me like that again and I’ll shove my boot so far up your arse, you’ll need fucking boot polish to clean your teeth!” Dash hisses back, her tone so venomous it surprises everyone, including herself.
“Fair enough. Just let me know when you’re ready to stop being a little bitch, yeah?” Smit’s tone is equally confrontational and Dash takes a deep breath, summoning the control required to avoid turning around and pummelling him. She tightens her grip on the rifle and gazes out across the crowd, gritting her teeth as she presses her eye to the scope to scanning for threats, trying not to let her rage get the better of her. There will need to be a reckoning, of that she is certain, preferably before Smit’s attitude infects the rest of the troops. She grips the rifle tighter, trying to quell the shaking of her hands.
Not the time or place… she tells herself, and she wonders if the excuse would sound as weak as it does in her head. ____________________________________________
Twilight struggles to repress a faint shudder of foreboding as they cross the threshold into the citadel, falling under the shadow of the mighty gateway into the Shah’s stronghold, escorted by his cossacks. Her gaze tracks over the nail studded wooden gates as the convoy rumbles through the gatehouse, beneath murder holes, from which curious eyes peer down at her and past golden armoured soldiers carrying ceremonial halberds. In a sudden dazzling blaze of afternoon sunlight, they’re through. The gates are being closed behind them as the convoy rumbles into the citadel’s courtyard.
The courtyard is a massive open expanse of incredibly well maintained garden that makes Twilight’s mind boggle at the expense and of keeping such a lawn so well maintained in such temperatures with so many notoriously thirsty plants from climes as far afield as Equestria and Zebrica. Then she notices something else. The ambient temperature in the garden is downright luxurious rather than the scorching heat of Tarhen in the afternoon. At once, Twilight releases a couple of questing tendrils of magic, but to her abject surprise, there is no trace of spellwork that she can detect. Twilight purses her lips as she gazes across the lawn at the broad, tree-lined avenues that lead to the citadel itself and at the various arrangements of hedges and statues that do little to disguise the vastness of the courtyard. Even, here, amidst the spectacular horticulture, there are reminders of the grim business of all fortresses. Twilight can see that anyone who attempts to force entry will be cut down by fire from the citadel and the walls, and even the outer defenses can direct their fire here. Crossfire from those hedges would probably be fairly nasty, too; there’s next to no cover.
Twilight fights back another shiver of apprehension. If the Shah wanted them dead, he would not have invited them into his sanctum, where it would be perfectly clear to all around which nation was behind it. That thought does not make her feel much better. Twilight’s gaze moves to the citadel, which looms up over her, shouldering its way up from the garden to tower over her like a slab-sided monolith. The thin firing slots glare down at her like eyes, and Twilight can feel the prickling of the skin between her shoulderblades as she looks up at the imposing marble edifice. The statues glitter like blades in the sun. The unexpected quiet in the unnatural chill of the courtyard makes Twilight a little nervous.
A blast of sound suddenly hammers its way into her eardrums, a shrill, brassy note that makes Twilight start in her chair. However, as more notes follow the first, resolving into in the steady, solemn notes of the Equestrian National Anthem.
“Hrmph, someone’s anxious to get into your good graces.” Diplomatic Incident’s caustic tone could strip the paint from the bulkhead, but Twilight relaxes very slightly as the armoured vehicle that leads her convoy turns to the left, followed by the troop transport carriage in front of hers. She can see a brass band organized beside a set of steps leading up into the citadel, along with an honour guard in full dress uniform and a red carpet. However, Twilight’s brief surge of ease fades rapidly as she notices the group of people gathered at the head of the red carpet.
Many of them are Khans, though there are quite a few humans among the group assembled at the head of the stairs. Thanks to her briefing, Twilight can pick out the Interior Minister, Hassan Zafwan, the commander of the army, General Tariq Aznan, and the head of the Foreign Ministry, Khalten Sobjeck along with numerous functionaries. However one Khan stands at the front of the pack, dressed in simple coal grey robes that contrast rather eloquently with the ornately decorated robes and glittering displays of opulent jewellery that the others are displaying.
Shah Khalid Al-Sayed is not a tall Khan, coming up to Twilight’s shoulder at most. However, he carries a presence about him Twilight can feel from forty yards away. He’s coloured bright silver and grey streaks and his long whiskers twitch and flick faintly in time with the music. Twilight is amazed, for she knows that the white tiger breed of Khan are among the rarest of all. As Twilight’s carriage rumbles to a halt, she steels herself, knowing that any opportunity to create a good environment for the meeting has long since passed. She rises to her feet and quickly looks around to check for journalists. Finding none, she rises to standing and disembarks from the carriage, her boots clicking upon the marble surface. She draws herself up a little straighter, hoping that the creases in her trousers remain sharp as ever as she strides down the red carpet. She can feel the eyes of the Shah’s delegation upon her and her masculine attire. She can almost feel their scandalized outrage. Good, let them work themselves into a froth about my trousers, let them ask about my dress, so I can tell them it was ruined when their maniacs decided to pick a fight.
As she draws closer, Twilight can feel the force of Shah Khalid’s personality washing over her like the outer edges of a whirlpool. As she raises her own magical sensors, she detects a faint magical aura emanating from the ruler, of the kind that would only really emanate from a beginner level sorcerer in Equestria, but would be extraordinary in the Khanate, particularly when such individuals are normally packed off into the Justicars.
Twilight takes a deep breath, lifting her own very subtle shields to ward herself against such effects. Up close, even without the slight glamour, the Shah is an intimidating Khan. His cold, silver eyes give nothing away, and his face is naturally cold and expressionless. Whilst other cats’ ears and tails are expressive enough to compensate, Khalid Al-Sayed has schooled his own limbs to only say exactly what he wants them to. Despite his lesser stature, Twilight can see that he’s not weak. His chest is well built, given how the robes lay smartly, unwrinkled across it, and the sleeves of his robes bulge subtly with muscle. Twilight knows that this is not a cat to tangle with.
She walks up to him, keeping her face neutral as she stands before him and prepares to curtwardssey as would be appropriate. However, before she can do so, the Shah steps forward and down one step so that his head is level with hers, and then he bows his head very subtly and slightly to her.
“Princess Twilight the First and Only of Equestria, allow me to extend my most sincere apologies for the nature of your welcome,” the Shah says, his head rising to look her dead in the eye. “Such behaviour shames us as a nation, me as a ruler, and my appointed ministers as masters of their charges. On behalf of my nation, I offer my apology to you,” the Shah says.
Surprise is the first thing that strikes Twilight. An abject moment of absolute shock that jolts her to her very core. She had not expected the ruler of the Khans, a proud king of a proud nation, to demean himself like this, to absolutely and completely apologize and take responsibility. She’d expected hedging and circumventions -- the lack of them throws her for a loop. Caught on the back foot, her mouth drops open in faint shock, but it snaps closed as Twilight masters herself once more.
“You are surprised?” the Shah rumbles, and though his deep rolling voice is perfectly affable, Twilight can hear an edge behind it.
“I am,” Twilight replies after a moment. “I am surprised, but I am grateful. I also would like to offer apology for coming to your gates in such strength, it-”
“Come now, Princess, do not be absurd. I would think you a fool if you did not move about in some strength, given the abject failure of my police force to protect you, though perhaps the walker and the flying units were a little much. You have come seeking to make an impression, one has certainly been made. Now, let us go inside and we can discuss the matters upon which you have come to speak in more salubrious conditions. You are a guest here. I will not have you waiting on the front door of my summer house.” His tone is ebullient and magnanimous, and a faint smile curls his lips.
At once, his retinue start turning to file inside and Twilight steps forward to join the Shah, hearing Diplomatic Incident and Prophet making their way forward to join her. Twilight can hear Diplomatic Incident start chattering in rapid Fars’ad to an equally aged Khan in pale blue robes. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him gesture to her escort to wait on one of the lawns, but then she falls into step next to the Shah and her attention is suddenly taken up by the head of state as they walk in.
They pass through the doorway into the palace proper, into an echoing atrium, their shoes padding softly upon a sumptuously thick turquoise rug. They are let into just one of the high-ceilinged,colonnaded hallways, broad rays of sunlight flashing off of the golden ornamentation inlaid into the walls. Twilight is fighting hard to keep her eyes from dancing between the elaborate portraits and glorious tapestries upon the walls as the sun shines down from artfully placed windows and falls from stained glass portals in the ceiling. In spite of this, the temperature in the room is pleasant. Twilight can hear running water tinkling softly in the background, but then the Shah starts asking questions.
“So, Princess, from what I understand, you are the ultimate authority on education and healthcare unless I am mistaken?” he asks, and Twilight shakes her head in reply.
“You’re pretty much correct, though I’m less an authority than an administrator. The system that was in place before I came to my current station works, I made a few improvements but I see no need to implement change for change’s sake,” Twilight says, feeling the keen intelligence behind the Khan’s gaze scrutinizing her.
“I see. I was a teacher myself, you know, before I became a revolutionary. Some days, I think I would have been better off with my books and blackboards but…” He sucks his teeth for a moment and then gestures at the expansive surroundings. “It has worked out fairly well for me thus far, don’t you think?”
“I can’t imagine you being a teacher. A firebrand certainly, but what did you teach?” Twilight asks, becoming more animated. This is not at all what she had expected; this might just be someone she can perhaps work with, rather than a dour scowling head of state who is full to the brim with his own arrogance.
“I taught history, Princess… and as I taught it, I saw it repeated over again through my lifetime. Our nation was plunged into violence over and over again with coup and counter-coup. I have done what I have needed to do to try and stabilize our nation. I will not have a senseless war destabilize my hard work, nor will I bow to unreasonable demands, or else someone will take it into his head to replace me and all shall be undone.”
Twilight nods in agreement. “Of course… Likewise, the Crown has no desire to be involved in a pointless war. We wish for a stable nation and trading partner on our eastern border, but at the same time we are the injured party in this dispute and we will take appropriate measures to protect ourselves.”
“Appropriate measures indeed,” a voice behind Twilight interrupts, and she turns her head to see General Tariq Aznan stepping forward so that he’s not quite level with the Shah, but very nearly. “I would question, Your Highness, your definition of appropriate measures, you have brought heavily armed and armoured troops into our city. You have parked three armies on our doorstep. These, in the opinion of a humble servant,” the cat bows slightly, jangling the golden ornaments in his beard, “can only be acts of war.”
Twilight purses her lips. “I bring soldiers, because protocol demanded I bring an honour guard,” Aznan gave her a dismissive look as if to call her a small child, but Twilight forges on. “Practicality demanded that honour guards be large, given the recent difficulties with fundamentalists. I had not expected them to be called upon to fight. I had hoped that protection would be provided by the Khanate in the manner that I was led to expect by their Ambassador. I had hoped they would not be necessary, but-” Twilight pauses for a second, feeling something dry and sticky upon her neck. She tilts her head and flicks the spot of dried blood to the gloriously embroidered carpet. “-I was unfortunately mistaken.”
“You mean you had hoped that our soldiers should bleed and die for Daemons, correct?”
“Aznan,” the Shah releases a warning rumble. “We are treating with a representative of a foreign nation and we shall do so with politeness and decorum, Daemon or not.”
“Your excellency I must protest-”
“You may protest, but you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you do it!” the Shah says sharply, and Aznan’s mouth snaps shut like a trap. He gives Twilight a poisonous look before he falls back to join Hassan Zafwan.
“He is a good soldier, but not everything can be solved with war,” the Shah mumbles. He wrings his finely gloved hands subconsciously. “If it were up to him, we would be charging across the border and taking back the provinces you stole from us and digging in to defy you to try to dislodge us, but these are not the eighteen thirties anymore. Come, you are hungry?”
Twilight nods as they walk into the palace’s dining hall.
_______________________
Two hours later, after a sumptuous lunch of spiced meats and dates, the small party retires to one of the citadel’s larger drawing rooms, a lavishly decorated room panelled in dark wood with thick, dark, purple carpets and an intricate chandelier that glitters and shimmers from the sunlight thrown in from the wide Prench windows leading out onto a balcony overlooking the garden and the city. Drinks are summoned for and prayers are said over the initial meeting. Those are the last civil words that anyone says for a while.
“I will not stand for the baseless accusations being thrown at my office!” Hassan Zafwan thunders. The greying, old chief of police possesses a surprisingly powerful voice and he is not afraid to make use of it to shout down the opposition.
“If you will not stand, then perhaps you should kneel for the headsman for such a blatant failure to discharge your duties!” the foreign minister bellows in reply. He is a young Khan and a fervent pro-Equestrian. Indeed, it had been almost a little embarrassing for Twilight when he was fawning over her at lunch and talking in what he had fondly imagined was a whisper about the ‘philistines’ in the Interior Ministry. “We had a head of state in our capital and your people provided no kind of protection! There was no escort, not even a Cub’s Brigade band, you cretinous oaf!”
“Your lies grow more outrageous with each passing hour, I refuse to accept this slander!” Zafwan blusters. Twilight frowns very slightly, then opens her mouth, but before she can do anything, Aznan speaks up.
“Both of you, this is unseemly. We have dignitaries, royalty even, among us,” Aznan says, his voice calm and delicate, and both the chief of police and the foreign minister look down guiltily, insofar as a Khan’s face is capable of any expression at all. Their tails lash irritably however, and their ears swivel like turrets seeking targets.
“Anyway, let us not discuss the ambush of this morning,” Aznan continues, “Princess Twilight, you have yet to share with us your proposals for peace. I am sure I speak for all of us when I say I am most inquisitive to hear what Celestia’s faithful student can bring to the table.”
Twilight draws a deep breath, rising from the comfortable arm chair from which she’d been observing the arguments and the discussions quietly, content to take stock of the various arguing parties and determine the viewpoints of those concerned before she weighed in with something ignorant.
“I have been given full powers to sign and approve a treaty in the name of the Crown. As far as I understand, your central points of contention are the armies deployed on the border, the two provinces that we took from you, and our trade tariffs,” Twilight ticks the points off on her fingers and the Khans in the room nod. “To address these points in order: the armies and fleets are a direct consequence of your closing the border, your citizens torching our embassy, killing our soldiers, and the increasingly hostile rhetoric coming from your Ministry of Truth. My aunt will be more than happy to remove them once I can demonstrate that tensions have lessened between our nations. To that end, I am prepared to offer to open negotiations to discuss the decreasing of the trade tariffs. In exchange you will open the border to Equestrian trade once more and have a polite word with the Ministry of Truth and the more hardline clerics about the value of Equestrian trade. Is this acceptable?”
“Absolutely not!” a voice booms from the doorway. Twilight turns to see a black-robed Khan with a long, bushy beard striding into the room. His bright green eyes burn with the unthinking zeal of a fanatic, and Twilight struggles to hold back a sigh. Cleric Torkan Khazem, the head of the church, and thus the second most powerful Khan in the country. A well known firebrand who had been a political prisoner of the previous ruler, he commands a massive following. He’s also a hardline zealot and thus Twilight was not surprised that he was not invited to these meetings.
“Khalid, you hold these meetings without a representative of the Faith being present! Do you not know how dangerous the Daemons of Equestria are! They whisper in your ear and plant poison in your mind!” Torkan hisses, casting venomous glares at Twilight every so often, and Twilight shakes her head slightly, her eyes tracking to Diplomatic Incident, who is rolling his eyes faintly behind his half-moon glasses. “They are an affront to our faith, our way of life… they stand in contradiction of the Divine Truth… All souls must die, and all must return to Her embrace, these monsters and their mutant progeny have spurned that teaching. All of them are accursed and vile creatures. One pretends to claim the crown of the Divine for her own, a second slaughters all that she meets, the third is a succubus who will lead all astray with her wiles, and the fourth is the most dangerous of all…” He levels a trembling finger at Twilight, his eyes wide with fury. “She puts on the airs and graces of a human girl, but look behind the veil and see her twisted tongue that will ensnare you if you give her but a portion of your thoughts.”
“This is a secular matter,” the Shah replies sharply, “a matter for the Shah and his ruling council to deal with. The church has made its feelings on the Equestrian problem known, thus I do not believe the Clerical Council has anything further to say on the matter unless there are newfound revelations.” He then snarls, “Need I remind you that she is my personal guest and you know what She says about hospitality, and that God is the surest in settling accounts… The Divine will bring them to book eventually, but until that time, she is my guest, Daemon or no.”
“In addition,” the Shah continues, “we have a representative from the church here to guide us to the Divine’s Truth.”
Prophet turns around and fixes the churchman with a look, and Khazem flinches in abject shock. “Forgive me, honoured Justicar, I had no idea you were advising the Shah on these matters.”
“I am not advising the Shah; I am advising the Princess,” Prophet says calmly, but the zealot’s eyes widen, flashing green.
“A member of the Justicars throwing his lot in with… do you not know what she represents?”
“Of course. The Prophet maintains that Equestria, and Equestrian magic users, are worth nothing more than extermination… however I have been to the borders and I have seen the armies there. If the situation deteriorates, they shall sweep through the land like a ravening plague of locusts and all our temples and our chapels shall be ripped down. It would be like the Age of Apostasy but on a far larger scale.” Prophet has the attention of the entire room, including Torkan. “As a loyal servant of the Church, I must do all I can to prevent that, and if that means throwing my lot in with Daemons, then so be it.”
“You walk ‘pon the edge of a knife, Honoured Justicar Prophet, with darkness on both sides.”
“The darkness will not come to the Justicar, the Justicar must go unto the darkness,” Prophet replies levelly.
The churchman sighs bitterly. “Very well, but I must insist on one thing to be added to these discussions… reparations for those massacred at the embassy.”
“An excellent idea,” Diplomatic Incident says. “What say you, Princess? Do you think we should ask them for fifty or seventy five million?”
“I meant-”
“I know exactly what you meant,” Twilight says, keeping her tone level with a great effort. “I will not do anything to suggest Equestria has any kind of culpability in what happened to our embassy.”
“Your pet butchers-”
“Oh do be silent, you irritating old fossil!” the foreign minister barks. “You turn my stomach with your mewling. Do you not have a sermon to write?”
“How dare you speak to me like that, you-” The meeting once more rapidly descends into a shouting match as the foreign minister and the cleric begin roaring at each other, supported by the chief treasurer and the interior minister. Twilight notices Aznan sitting back in his chair, calmly sipping his tea with dimples showing behind the edges of his cup, but then she feels a hand upon her shoulder and she turns to look at the Shah, who is standing behind her. He jerks his head over to the window and Twilight rises, glad to get away from the argument for a moment.
She follows Khalid over to the window, wondering what the Shah wishes to say. She is not kept wondering for long. “My cabinet is, as you can see, a rather fractious group. I prefer to let them have their shouting matches here rather than in the central parliament, it helps present a united facade to all sides, though it does not do much for my hearing. In truth, at times I feel less like a dictator than a ringmaster at a three-ring circus.” The Shah opens the window and leans out, patting the front of his robes for a moment, before retrieving a small, golden case. He opens the case with a well practiced flick and draws a thick cigar from the pack. He sticks the cigar between his lips and snaps his fingers. The cigar ignites in a brief flash that makes Twilight blink in surprise.
The Shah puffs slowly and thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes gazing out across the middle distance, out beyond the manicured lawns of his citadel, beyond the high walls to the city stretching out before them in a vast tapestry of colour and strange scents and sounds. After a long moment, he exhales.
“You did not come here to listen to me complain about my cabinet. Your offer is reasonable, certainly I am not willing to present you with a demand for reparations when you’ve given me some very good terms. You and I and the chancellor will need to sit down and go through your proposal, without all this.” He gestures over his shoulder at the shouting ministers. Twilight nods. “But the short of it is that I agree to your terms,” the Khan says, and Twilight’s mouth drops open in absolute shock. After all this time and trouble spent getting here, she’s managed to thrash an agreement out inside of twenty minutes! Twilight shakes herself free of her surprise to see the Shah grinning at her.
“Well,” Twilight says after a moment, “that was easy enough.”
“Indeed, so when can you sign?”
“Whenever it’s drawn up, we’d like this resolved as quickly as possible,” Twilight replies, and the Shah nods as a door slams in the room behind them.
“Very well. Let us give it two weeks of frequent visits to the palace before we make any official announcements, then we can sign it a week later on Liberation Day, and that way the populace have even more to celebrate. If we tell the populace we agreed on a settlement inside twenty minutes, they might start to think my job was easy enough that anyone could do it!” He offers Twilight a smile, which the young princess returns. For the first time in two weeks, Twilight allows herself to feel a little bit hopeful.
1630. 27th of January, 1882. Tarhen, Citadel of God's Strength.
Twilight's mind is whirling as she reviews her notes, occasionally glancing up at the clock. The forty-five minutes since she and the Shah agreed to a proposal have gone by in a blistering flurry of shock and awe. That the Shah would accept her first proposal, a proposal built more to test the waters, speaks volumes more than it should. This is good news, Twilight thinks, it tells me that first and foremost, the Shah is a reasonable being and can be dealt with in a reasonable fashion, something that is by no means to be taken for granted when dealing with a theocracy. Her quill scratches another line upon her notepad under her close supervision.
“That being said,” Twilight quietly muses, as much for the quill pen as for her own clarity of thought, “the question still remains, why is he bargaining so cheaply with me? We haven’t even talked about the two provinces on the Equestrian border… Is he setting me up for something? His own people are going to hate his guts.”
Twilight glances around, shocked out of her old habits by the sensitive nature of what she’s saying. What foreign heads of state do in their own countries is none of my business; I’m just glad that he’s agreed to terms that favour Equestria more than anything. If he wants to have a revolution then good for him, Twilight tells herself. After all, Equestria has been dealing with unrest in the Khanate for hundreds of years, and life in the Empire has continued unaffected. However that is neither here nor there right now. In a few moments, she is going to have to stand up before a press conference on the lawn outside the citadel and give her thoughts to the world's media. She can already hear the vultures circling as daguerreotypists set up their capture lenses and journalists jostling as they try and get their microphones in position to capture her remarks.
Diplomatic Incident has already sent a trooper back to the Equestrian enclave with a draft telegram for the attention of the foreign office, to let them know that the climate in the Khanate is 'conducive to a negotiated settlement,' and once that has been constructively leaked, that should cool down Fleet Street somewhat, but first Twilight has to get through this interview to do the groundwork. Hopefully this will make a pleasant surprise for the midday news broadcasts in Equestria. Twilight glances down at her notes, taking a deep breath. She's not that worried about the media, not really. The media will scream and froth and draw whatever conclusions best suit their bylines even if she gets up there and starts reciting Pilgrim’s Progress backwards, whilst doing a routine from one of Vaudeville’s sketches. She's more concerned about getting up there on a podium, in clear sight of a dozen positions that could be used by a sniper.
Twilight draws a deep breath, and then reaches for the shield spell as she hears footsteps coming down the corridor. She looks up to see the Cossack from earlier- Andarestov, she reminds herself- approaching. She quickly fastens an expression of alert interest onto her face as the young man draws in close.
“Your Highness,” he says softly, and Twilight sits up a little straighter.
“They're ready for us?” Twilight asks, and the Cossack commander nods.
“Yes, Your Highness, they're all assembled for review.” He offers her another smile, and Twilight feels the faint bundle of nerves ease slightly, before she rises to her feet, notes in hand.
“Very well, let's get it started,” Twilight replies, turning to start walking down the corridor towards the podium, every heavy step feeling as though she is walking to a waiting gallows. As she draws near to the doorway out onto the podium, she can hear the low rumble of noise of a crowd trying to be quiet, like the bass thunder of an onrushing stampede, a heavy expectant quiet that makes Twilight's heart beat a little faster.
She draws a deep breath, clenching her fists.
You sure you can do this?
Twilight’s knuckles turn white as her fists clench, the whispers hiss malevolently in her ears. Princess Twilight squares her shoulders, mastering her courage. She then starts walking toward the doorway. She's used to this; it's the familiar pre-press conference nerves, she's dealt with it a thousand times before and this time will be no different.
Canterlot Castle. Celestia's office.
“You wished to see me ma'am?” Shining Armour asks, his tone studiously neutral as he adjusts the front of his bright red foreign service tunic, resplendent in his white leather belt order, pith helmet perfectly stainless, its brass boss gleaming in the light spilling in from Celestia's study window.
“I did, Colonel,” Princess Celestia replies warmly, her rose coloured eyes locking on the steely blue eyes of the commanding officer of the royal guard, the Canterlot and Hoofshire Grenadiers, First Regiment. “I'm sorry for interrupting your preparations, I know you have a lot to do.”
“It is of no moment, Your Highness.” Shining Armour's tone is stilted and formal and there's a hint of something behind his eyes, irritation perhaps. Celestia offers the soldier another smile as she gestures him toward a seat. Whilst it would be within her capability to reach into his mind and pluck his thoughts out like pages from a book, Celestia would never do that. It would be unthinkably rude for one thing, and for another, it is unneeded.
“Nasty business in Tarhen this morning,” she says, and right on cue, Lieutenant Colonel Shining Armour's nostrils flare slightly and his ears turn a faint shade of red. His father had had exactly the same tells, yet where Night Light had been animated, less restrained with his opinions and much more frank with his sovereign, Shining Armour is a more reserved creature who has not quite grown into his rank yet. Quite understandable, given that the rank normally goes to men ten years older than him at least. Shining Armour is quiet and thoughtful where his father was headstrong and bullish.
Yet for all that, Shining Armour is an exemplary soldier and an inspirational tactician. The cross at his throat for valour where he'd stood against the undead lord Sombra was not won for sitting behind a desk, and unlike most officers, Shining Armour leads his men from the front, or as near as he can get.
“You disapprove?” Celestia asks, having expected nothing less. That is his sister out there after all.
“Yes ma'am.” Shining Armour's tone is flat, emotionless and without any hesitation whatsoever. Clearly the commander of her praetorian guard is more angry than Celestia had thought. He has every right to be angry, she reminds herself, knowing she cannot bring herself to rebuke him. Celestia looks closer, and she notices that his face is slightly more pale than mere anger can explain, and once again she castigates herself as she notices his hands are shaking slightly, and there's a faint glint to his eyes.
He doesn't know she's alive, he's expecting me to tell him…
“Tell me, Your Highness, when do you want us to roll across the border?”
“Ideally never,” Celestia replies, keeping her tone even. She is prepared to forgive her nephew-in-law for a considerable amount today. “Your sister is alive and well.” She is unable to keep a faint smile from her lips as she says this, and she's gratified to see an answering smile spread across Shining Armour's own visage.
“Thank fu-goodness for that,” Shining Armour quickly catches himself, but the air of relief pulsing through him is unmistakable. “Apologies, ma'am, I just-”
“No apology is needed Colonel,” Celestia replies warmly, turning back to the radio set and pursing her lips slightly. Her niece has not been available to explain how these silly things work yet, and in her fit of pique this morning, Celestia is worried that she's broken something. She walks up to the radio and painstakingly reconnects the wires that she'd removed earlier, and after a few seconds, the radio squeals to life in a shrill wail that makes Celestia's skin crawl even as the crystal based magic within sends equally unpleasant tremors through Celestia's own highly tuned senses. Being a creature of magic, she’s attuned to the natural rhythms of things, and these radio sets seem to interfere with that.
Shining Armour blinks as she steps back, and then he takes his cue and moves forward. “What am I adjusting this to, highness?” he asks, and Celestia's faintly pained grimace turns into a smile.
“Turn it to the EBC Foreign Service channel.” Celestia's smile grows slightly. The telegram from the foreign office had been short, sharp and to the point. It had also borne Diplomatic Incident's characteristic concise style:
For the immediate attention of: P-CEL/P-LUN
Top Secret stop Definite possibility Cat-King accept peace stop Cats open border when EQ troops are withdrawn stop Formal announcement soon to coincide local party stop EBC Broadcast at 1900 Canterlot YFS making statement stop
DI
Whilst it would have been within Celestia's power to tell the captain of the guard all this, or to present the telegram to him, Celestia has always enjoyed giving pleasant surprises to people she likes. Thus, as Prince Shining Armour, Commanding Officer of the First Regiment, Canterlot and Hoofshire Grenadier Guards, tunes the radio to the appropriate signal, he hears his sister's voice coming from the speakers, grainy but strong. In the background, the faint pop of flashbulbs and the chatter of lenses can be heard as daugerrotypists and photographers start capturing images of the Princess:
“Citizens of the Khanate, of the Equestrian Empire, Members of the Press.
“I come before you today in the face of determined opposition from certain parties who have tried to impede the progress of the Empire and the Khanate towards a peaceful resolution to the current tensions. It is my pleasure to announce to you all and to the world that they have failed.
“I have met today with the Shah and his Cabinet. I have broken bread with them and talked of many things, and I have come to a realization: Though we are not and never will be alike, we may not be so different. The Shah and his cabinet are reasonable people. I am a reasonable person. I come before you and I say this:
“The Empire is confident in a peaceful resolution to current conditions. To all the citizens of Equestria and the Khanate, I'd ask that you remain calm. Remember your pride and your dignity. Do not rise to the provocation of malcontents who wish to drown us all in blood. In short, my closing thought is this: Equestria will do business with the Khanate. Peace for our time is close at hand. That will be all, no questions please.”
With that, the broadcast switches back to a commentator and Celestia nods slowly, thinking. No jeering, but no applause either. Silence speaks louder than words. She turns to see Shining Armour grinning foolishly up at her, the Major looking for all the world like a schoolboy who has been let out early. Celestia certainly cannot begrudge him that.
“Wonderful,” Celestia says after a moment, injecting warmth into her tone.
“That is close to the word I would use,” Shining Armour agrees, unable to keep the happiness out of his own voice. “She's alive, they’re not booing her-”
“And doing better than I had expected when I conferred with her earlier today,” Celestia says warmly, keeping her grim thoughts about the subdued response to her student’s speech, to herself. Shining Armour is the head of her praetorian guard. She can’t have him worrying or nervous about his sister when he’s got important decisions to make. With that in mind, she’s not about to tell him that the silence of the Khan journalists is less than encouraging.
“So, in light of this, what are your orders?” Shining Armour asks, and Celestia releases an explosive sigh as her mind turns to the draw-down of tensions.
“You can take your soldiers off of their war footing, Colonel, but gradually. I'm sure Luna will likewise be taking her... auxiliaries off of their war footing, followed by a measured withdrawal of the forces on the border down to their pre-embassy strength. We don't wish to pull our forces out right away, we don't have a treaty after all, but we might as well make the first move...”
Celestia turns to the sand table, still thinking hard, still worrying slightly. Her worries have abated a little, but only a little.
_______
Tarhen. Citadel of God's Strength. 1905 hrs Local, 27th January 1882
A warm amiable quiet fills the dining garden, punctuated only by the whispering of the fountain and the gentle trickling of music and amiable smalltalk as the small group eats. The dining area is much smaller and less ornate than Twilight had expected for a Shah's private dining chambers. The six of them are lounging on intricately woven rugs resting on low wooden platforms with a plate of what could be called finger-food in the middle, though finger-food in the Khanate is very different from finger-food in Equestria. Thin strips of salted and spiced lamb are arranged on the plate, along with smaller morsels of dark green cured meat in small brass bowls. There are also dips and various sauces that have been laid out, along with a small bowl of salad that is obviously a concession to the Equestrian omnivorous palate.
Twilight glances up, through the arbour that winds its way up a trellis mounted to one of the marble walls, up at the iron grey sky of the gathering dusk and she feels a warm smile spread across her face as the Khan in the corner plucks at a lyre of some kind. This morning, she had not even dreamed of progress like this.
“This is a most excellent feast, honoured Shah,” she replies, looking across the table at the robed Shah.
“I am glad you approve, it is more pleasant than the more... formal dining rooms inside,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “It is less stilted, this is a place where we can speak our minds in comfort, away from prying eyes.” He glances at the other attendees of the get-together, at Diplomatic Incident, Andarestov, and Prophet, before his eyes turn to Twilight once more.
“I’d like to apologize, Princess… for the reception that you received this morning. It is deeply distressing, particularly when we consider quite how tense things are between our two nations. I do not even want to speculate on what you think of us.”
Twilight looks at the strip of meat in her fingers, considering her words carefully. “I think that we’ve run into that age-old problem of the loud and ignorant minority being loudly ignorant, shouting down the silent majority. I do not consider the actions of a few loudmouths to be representative of the opinion of the wider Khan population as a whole,” Twilight says after a moment. “I understand that we’re not popular, and that certain segments of the population will start frothing at the mouth if they happen to so much as clap eyes on us. It’s unavoidable and I’m not going to hold your government accountable for it,” Twilight says, but then her eyes harden.
“I will, however, hold your government accountable for the actions of the police and the army.” Twilight fixes the Shah with a hard look. “I’m prepared to overlook idiots with placards. I’m not quite so willing to overlook policemen running away from assisting us, and air traffic control agencies splitting up our party.”
The Shah blinks, and a flicker of anger passes across his face before he smooths it back into a warm smile. “I understand your frustration. You lost two soldiers today, and my law enforcement agencies have signally failed in their responsibilities to you as a foreign dignitary,” the Shah says grimly. “I’ll certainly be talking to Hassan Zafwan and Tariq Aznan about my expectations, and how they have abjectly failed in the meeting thereof.”
The Shah then looks up at Twilight, and he steeples his fingers. “Princess Twilight, I shall be absolutely frank with you,” The dictator takes a deep breath and then he presses onward, though Twilight notices his gaze flicking to the impassive face of the Justicar sat next to him. “I’ve spoken with my parliament about the importance of having Equestria for a trading partner, about how a war between our states would be destructive beyond all reason, and their position on the matter has remained intractable. They've refused to support my order for the police and the army to assist in protecting you. The Speaker's exact words were “We do not wish the souls of our soldiers to be compromised by dealing with the unholy and the damned.” The Shah looks as though the words dripping from his mouth are causing him physical pain.
“But surely you can over-rule them?” Twilight asks, and Shah Khalid shake his head with a low booming chuckle. “I should be so lucky. This is not Equestria, and I'm not Princess Celestia. I can't obliterate my enemies with a flick of my fingers. If I were to attempt to stand in the way of my parliament on a matter where the parliamentary position enjoys popular support, I'd be comitting suicide, both politically and personally.” Khalid sighs, rubbing his chin.
“It's a problem, because I like you, Princess Twilight, and that's something I never thought I'd say about an Equestrian royal. You've got a good heart, and you're willing to be reasonable, rather than looking down your nose at me from the percieved moral high ground.” Shah Khalid says thoughtfully. “That's why I'm giving you such easy terms, even if it's going to cost me some public support... I'd rather be an unpopular ruler for a few years than the Khan that decided he wanted to try Celestia's throne out for size.”
“You're very wise.” Twilight says, and the Shah shakes his head. “You flatter me, but no. I'm very desperate. I've got people like Aznan, the clergy and large segments of parliament twisting my tail about how our army is much larger than yours, how we can sustain a war because the Divinity is so unspeakably holy that she won't permit us to lose and so on.”
Prophet flicks the Shah a sharp look and the Shah raises his hand quickly. “Peace, Prophet, I meant no offence. What I mean to say is that the Divinity helps those who help themselves. She's certainly not going to reward us with victory if we go against her Plan.”
“Her plan is to vanquish Equestria.” Prophet objects, and the Shah nods. “True, the Scriptures do dwell upon that point to some length, but they never specify how we are to vanquish the Equestrians or when. I'd rather the war to vanquish Equestria happen when I'm long dead, and I think you'd feel the same way if you knew what I know.” The tiger-patterned Khan gazes at his empty wine glass for a long pensive moment, his eyes glinting in the reflected candle-light. He then looks up at Princess Twilight.
“I suppose what I'm saying, in a long and rambling way, is that this is my last big throw to avoid war. There's no wiggle room or room for haggling here, and we can do this one of two ways. We can either come back to the meetings tomorrow and we can treat the whole thing like a high stakes poker game, each of us trying to wring the other for some notional advantage until eventually one of us calls the other's bluff and suddenly half the eastern continent is in flames, or we can both do what our respective governments pay us to do and refine the broad outlines that we've already informally agreed upon into a workable framework...” The Shah says, his eyes locked upon Twilight's face.
Twilight's mouth is very dry for a second, and she's very aware of every eye in the room upon her. “Well I've never even played poker, so I think that anything we can do between us to lessen the tension between our nations has got to be a good thing,” Twilight says after a moment “Certainly I think that we can come to an arrangement along the lines of what we agreed to earlier on today.”
“What will your own government say? Don't you need to get this cleared by your people at home?”
“I do, but that won't take too long,” Twilight says “Princess Celestia is likewise anxious to avoid war so I doubt she'll object too strenuously.” “Excellent... it looks like things might be moving in the right direction.” “I certainly hope so, Honoured Shah,” Twilight says, and then the dinner conversation turns to more pleasant subjects.
____
Twilight is deep in thought as the convoy rattles through the base gates. Night had fallen over the city by the time they'd taken their leave of the Shah, and as though a switch had been flipped, the streets had been practically deserted when they rolled out, the markets shut up. The only people out on the streets come nightfall had been the soldiers and Basijis patrolling to make sure everyone is in after curfew, along with street sweepers. The almost deserted streets had made Twilight feel intensely nervous, despite the compagnie of legionnaires, and she had been deeply grateful when they'd rounded a corner and she'd seen the well lit perimeter of the Legion base .
Now as the convoy rolls past the saluting sentries, Twilight has a lot on her mind. The Justicar has not gone with them back to the base, preferring to attend to his own business in his own enigmatic fashion. All he'd told her was that tomorrow would be a busy day and that he'd needed to get some paperwork together beforehand. Twilight couldn't quite see what kind of paperwork the Justicar would have been able to get together at eight o'clock at night, local time, but he'd been insistent. Twilight supposes that he'd probably rather stay among his own kind, but it still seems a little odd.
The moment the convoy rattles to a halt, Twilight climbs out and starts striding towards the old admin block, Diplomatic Incident and Belial at her heels. “What're your plans now, Your Highness?” Diplomatic Incident asks, and Twilight clicks her tongue softly. “He seems genuine,” Twilight says “he actually seems like he's interested in peace between our peoples and he's gone out onto a limb to give us terms.”
“And you've stepped out onto a limb to offer him counter-proposals that are extremely soft.” Diplomatic Incident says, and Twilight nods. “We're decreasing the trade tariffs and he's opening his borders to our trade. He's also going to start stamping on his clerics if they start being too virulent... I think that's an excellent starting point for further negotiations.” Twilight says, before turning to Belial. “What're your plans for transport and security tomorrow?”
“I think tomorrow, it would be best if you travelled with a couple of platoons rather than a full compagnie, your highness,” Belial says, “Though perhaps I might make a suggestion regarding Caporal Bolt and the Ninth?”
“Of course you might.” Twilight says, and the Khan twitches his tail
“Perhaps it would be good to use Caporal Bolt and the Ninth for something other than for your bodyguarding detachment ma’am… they’re insufficient for the task.”
“I beg your pardon, they fought valiantly this morning!” Twilight protests, and Belial raises his hand.
“I do not mean to impugn upon their honour or their fighting skill, Your Highness. Their valour this morning has put my concerns in that regard to bed. Quite simply, there aren’t enough of them. There are only thirteen of them, not enough to beat back a massed attack if a mob similar to the one that met us on the route to the palace today decides to go for us.”
“I see… and what would you have them do instead?” Twilight asks, and Belial shrugs.
“It is a new technique that we were experimenting with prior to the Ninth being deployed to the Embassy. The Ninth was a reconnaissance compagnie, so it would make sense to use them like that now, as a covert observation and investigation presence. They can overwatch our route, sweep it and provide plainclothes cover if needed.” Belial says, and Twilight nods. That suggestion sounds eminently reasonable, and it also solves her other problem; to keep Rainbow Dash at arm’s length whilst she sorts out the confusing tangle of feelings that occupies her heart.
“I see, and what about-” Twilight breaks off as she hears the shrill ringing of a bugle. The note is slightly off-key, but the notes are unmistakable. The short sharp blasts of the Last Post ring across the compound and Twilight's eyes widen as she sees a group of Legionnaires, Smit at their head, silently marching onto the parade square, clad in fresh khaki uniforms. Smit is carrying the black Ninth Compagnie banner, and behind him come the Legionnaires marching in two short columns. Two of them are carrying helmets one helmet each, and two more are carrying stakes.
As Twilight watches, the whole compound seems to go silent, the other Legionnaires who are doing various things around the landing square go silent and still. All turn in the direction of the silent procession as it makes its way to the edge of the parade ground and draws to a halt.
Belial purses his lips slightly. “How trite, this is not the time or-” Twilight holds up a hand for him to be silent and she slowly starts walking towards the small group of soldiers who are standing, heads bowed in a small semicircle. A bearded sapper is standing next to them, silently clutching a sledgehammer. As she draws close, she can hear Smit delivering a soft, halting eulogy in the creole of the Legion, and Twilight comes to a stop outside the circle, worried that she might be intruding into something that she shouldn’t be, but then a hand comes down on Twilight’s shoulder and a soft female voice speaks in Twilight’s ear..
“Come join us, Twilight. You were there, you deserve the right to pay your respects.” Dash says softly, and Twilight jumps, suddenly feeling like a child who has been caught with her hands in the biscuit tin as all eyes turn onto her. A blush spreads across Twilight’s face, and she glances at Rainbow Dash, who is standing just behind her dressed in the same khaki combat uniforms, however she’s carrying a couple of crates under one arm with names stencilled upon them.
“Very well.” Twilight says, stepping forward into the circle. Her heart is pounding in her chest as she gazes at the two stakes lying upon the ground as Smit finishes his eulogy, and then he turns to one of the bearded sappers who is standing next to the group.
“All yours, Thoma.” He says, and the bearded sapper grunts as he lifts his sledgehammer as one of the other legionnaires dresses forward to hold the stake in place. Twilight watches in silence as the sapper raises the sledge and brings it down, the sharp crack of the hammer falling ringing across the parade square as the sapper swings again and again, each blow ringing in Twilight’s ears like a gunshot.
It’s her fault these men are there. Nobody else can take the blame but her. The buck stops at the top, but then something else seems to flow through Twilight’s veins as she hears the thunder of the hammer falling. These men sold their lives to pay for hers. They gave their lives for their country. Twilight will not allow that sacrifice to be for nothing, she cannot, for to do so would be an insult to their memory.
As each blow falls, Twilight’s mouth tightens. She can feel a lump building in her throat, and she feels tears building behind her eyes. Twilight straightens her shoulders, stiffening her lower lip even as she feels the weight of the crown upon her head attempting to force her head down.
After an eternity, the hammer-blows cease, and Dash steps forward. Her own voice is husky, but strong. “Right, gents… Smit’s already spoken about the past, about our two comrades. We can’t forget them, but we can’t allow ourselves to dwell either. We’ve got a job to do here, we’ve still got a mission to complete and we’ve got a Princess to protect. Neither of them would have wanted us to slack off and so we’re not going to sack it in here or now. We are the last of the Ninth Compagnie, and I will not have us showing up at Valhalla’s gates without a few more stories to tell. Not least, we don’t want to embarrass Willo and Oswaldt. That is all, you are all dismissed.”
“Yes boss,” Smit says, turning to face the soldiers “Legionnaires, to your duties, fall out!” With that, the crowd of Legionnaires disperse, leaving Dash and Twilight alone gazing at the stakes.
Twilight hears a long low sigh from Dash, and then she feels Dash’s gaze on her. “I suppose this is the part where you’ve come to ask for my stripes?” Twilight hears Dash ask, and Twilight almost flinches at the tone, which is full of self-reproach and pain, so unlike the strident tone with which Dash addressed her men a few moments ago.
Twilight turns to Dash and tilts her head slightly. She can feel the ghosts of all the moments they shared earlier, and their more recent history, crowding around them. She takes a deep breath, and then shakes her head. “No. I don’t have any right, or desire to… it was an impossible situation that I put you into… I don’t hold you responsible for the loss of your men. You did a good job out there, Bolt.”
“Bullshit,” Dash says bitterly “With respect, your highness, that’s bullshit. You’re a princess, not a soldier. I… I lost men, and that’s on me.”
“Yes, it is,” Twilight says quietly “You’ve got to live with that, just as I do. You’re the one who executes the policy, but it’s my job to formulate it. I’m the one who failed today Da-Bolt! I should have… ugh… but you don’t have to carry this all by yourself!” Twilight says, her tone becoming more forceful, and Dash’s remaining eye widens, but then she purses her lips.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say, your highness, before this all happened.” She says after a long moment “I think… I think it would be best for all concerned if I turned over command of the compagnie to Smit.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eye for a second “I’m… not a good NCO, or a good compagnie commander. You deserve better.”
But I don’t want better, I want YOU!’ Rings in Twilight’s head, but she doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She knows how hard it must have been for the brash, self-confident young NCO to admit any kind of fault, much less abject failure. ‘If that’s what you want- Twilight prepares to say.
“No, Caporal,” Twilight hears herself say “I will not have you resigning your post. You’re the highest remaining rank. If you were incompetent as you say you are, Zaranov would not have kept you in command of the compagnie, do you agree?”
“I suppose so but it’s not just that… it’s… goddamnit, it’s you.” Twilight’s eyes widen, and for a moment she’s too startled to speak. Dash blushes furiously, before she continues. “You’re just… I don’t know what to do about us… I still-”
Twilight’s heart lurches.
“-Feel like I’m causing you problems here… I can’t stop myself from kissing you, or walking in on you and… you’ve got all this on your plate and I’m causing you problems, I just-”
“Stop.” Twilight says shortly. “I have something to say, and this isn’t going to make it any easier.” She’s relieved as Dash snaps her mouth shut. This is going to be hard enough as it is. It's clear as day that both her and Dash are suffering from the same conflicted feelings, and it would be best for all concerned if Dash and her spent some time apart. Quite apart from endangering the progress made with the Shah today, her feelings are a distraction, and distractions in Dash's line of work tend to be fairly terminal things.
“The Ninth Compagnie is being removed and replaced as my bodyguarding element.” Twilight says frankly.
Dash’s mouth drops open and she opens her mouth to speak, but Twilight speaks first. “This isn’t because of us, or at least, not entirely because of us. Belial has suggested, and I agree, that your compagnie would be better employed as a reconnaissance force, sweeping the route ahead of my column.” Twilight says, and Rainbow Dash takes a deep breath.
“So you're shuffling us to the point position at his recommendation?” Dash asks after a moment, leaning back and Twilight fixes the one eyed Legionnaire with a look.
“Dash… I think it’s best, for now, if we just keep our distance from each other.” Twilight says, the words tasting like poison upon her tongue as she says them, but she must say them. For all that Celestia’s words had stung, Twilight has to confess that the Princess of the Sun is right. She cannot put her own personal feelings ahead of her subjects, or do anything to jeapordize the progress that has been made today. “We made... we made real progress today and I don't want to... I can't...” Twilight feels her throat start to close up but she forces herself to carry on. “I'm not going to jeopardize that progress right now.” The words come out more forcefully than Twilight would like but Dash nods.
Dash nods “I see… fair enough, Twilight.” Her voice is husky, “Permission to fall out, your Highness?”
“Permission granted.” Twilight gasps the words through a closing throat, gripping her hands together so tightly that she feels like she’s going to snap her fingers. For a moment, she sees the ghost of a quivering lip upon the other woman’s face, but then Rainbow Dash salutes, snaps her boots up then down in the sharp snap snap snap of the about face, before marching away, arms straight, at one hundred and twenty paces per minute rather than eighty eight. Twilight watches her go through a haze of gathering tears, and then she dashes them away before turning and walking toward her admin block quarters, head back and back straight.
_______
Tariq Aznan stalks through the front door of his house, his tail lashing backward and forth. His whiskers furiously quiver, a growl bubbling from between his bared teeth as he tosses his greatcoat and peaked cap upon the hat-rack by the front door. His maid leaps for cover as he stomps past her, his expression thunderous.
Swearing is not something that comes easily to the infinitely self-possessed Khan. He has spent years working on his self-control, shaping his face into a face that says only what he wishes it to say. Despite all the weapons in his arsenal, all the soldiers under his command, it is a long-standing joke that the most deadly weapon in the Khanate is General Tariq Aznan's self control. Yet, he'd barely been able to keep his voice down in his carriage as he'd blistered the air with curses.
Still, as he paces down the hallway, Aznan forces himself to think about this calmly. So, the youngest princess isn't the figurehead I thought she was, he thinks. She's empowered to speak, rather than just to listen and carry words back to her Daemon mistress, and she's capable of side-stepping stonewalling types to get what she wants... how does this change things?
He pads into his parlour, heading for the small glass-fronted cabinet. He pulls out a crystal flask of something amber coloured and strong smelling. He tries to ignore the rattling of the crystal-flask against the cup as he pours himself a generous measure of the fine spirit.
Maybe you've finally met your match, a quiet little voice in the back of his mind mutters. You've decided to try and lead a god around by the beard, why should you be surprised when the god in question can pull much harder than you?
“Yo boss,” a voice comes sneering from the door into the servant's quarters. Aznan turns his head to see Springbok padding into the room, his eyes hard and flinty. “I see you had a little bit of a setback earlier today.”
“It's nothing that cannot be overcome. I was expecting the Princess to be more... submissive, more inclined toward flapping and panicking. She's a woman after all.” Aznan says, his lip twitching slightly as Springbok reaches for Aznan’s crystal flask.
“Aye, but she's an Equestrian Princess first and foremost and they've all got spines of high tension steel my friend,” Springbok says as he pours himself a generous measure of whiskey. “Don't let the pair of titties on the front fool you. Nice tits though they may be, Equestrian Princesses are just as hard as any man, and twice as vicious. I made the mistake of underestimating them once, and I'd never make it again.” Springbok's eyes narrow and his mouth curls into a sour grimace.
“So, you know Equestrian foreign policy better than I do... what would you recommend doing next?”
“Do somethin' to keep them off balance, the one in the city might be empowered to speak for the Princesses back in Canterlot, but that's got disadvantages as well as advantages. There can't be too much of a difference between what they're saying in Canterlot and what she's saying here, and the ones in Canterlot are under pressure that the one here isn't,” Springbok explains.
Aznan leans in close to listen. “Oh?”
“She's just got to deal with your paid hitmen, they've got to worry about the press, about the people and what they want. The Empire maintains this little fiction of being a democratic state, that means they've got to at least make a pretence at listening to what the people want,” Springbok says coolly, walking over to Aznan's map cabinet and pulling out a map of the long and winding frontier between Equestria and the Khanate. “If we can push them by means of a few little incidents, they’ll start applying pressure from the bottom, pressure that may be hard to ignore.”
“So you want to inflame the stupider elements of Equestrian society with a set of massacres committed by the members of your group still in Equestria?”
“Pretty much... but it has to be done by humans in Khan uniform and armed with Khan weaponry. We need everyone on the Equestrian side of the border to think it's Khan troops, rather than a group of Patriots. Then when accusations are levelled at the Khan government, we can raise our hands and play the innocent, since you'll have conveniently issued orders restricting all Khan troops to base for the time concerned.” Springbok's voice is almost hungry, and Aznan can feel a matching hunger rising in his own breast.
“This certainly sounds like a workable plan...” Aznan says, his smirk widening. “How long will it take you to put this whole thing together?”
“I reckon about three to five days... I'll need some weapons to be organized and sent down there, quick as possible. Fortunately the frontier where I wanna hit them is close enough to Tarhen and we're not havin' to cross that bleedin' desert... though there's one place that's a little harder to reach but I think it'll be worth the investment,” Springbok says, tapping a series of small frontier villages and one larger town, his smile widening as his finger taps a smaller village deep inside the Imperial heartland.
“Ambitious,” Aznan says with a grin. “I like it. I think it'll certainly catch dear Princess Twilight's immediate attention.”
“Well that's what you pay me for,” Springbok replies, taking a sip of his drink. “To Princess Twilight Sparkle...”
“May she have other things to concern herself with very shortly,” Aznan replies, lifting his glass in a respectful salute. “To whom are you planning on handing operational control?”
“I was thinking I'd take this one myself. My fighters hate Equestria, and they'd be more than happy to spoke their wheel, but I'd like to make sure I'm there to get the results that you desire.” Springbok grins wickedly at that, and Aznan nods knowingly.
Of course, and the fact that you'd never miss out on an opportunity to lead a raid yourself if you could help it has nothing to do with it, Aznan thinks to himself as the drink burns its way down his throat. Suddenly the situation doesn't look quite so tenuous anymore. Suddenly it looks like things might just be going his way.
We don’t want to fight, but by jingo if we do, we’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men and we’ve got the money too.
- Extract from a popular music hall song of the time
A volley of flashes erupts in front of Princess Celestia, the chatter of a hundred lenses opening and closing. Celestia’s back straightens and she braves the onslaught of flashes as she stands before the assembled ranks of photographers and journalists who lean forward like hungry hunting dogs, eager to shred her words and sell their papers. She draws a deep breath, fixing her eyes upon the rows of cameras and journalists, all staring up at her expectantly. She forces her lips not to curl upward into a sour grimace at the hounds arrayed before her. She can almost see their jaws slavering. Ranks of cameras are arrayed like a firing squad, and not for the first time, Princess Celestia feels like a rabbit before the headlights of a speeding automobile.
“Thank you for attending this press conference.” Celestia steps forward, both hands resting upon the lectern. “We shall endeavour to keep this as short as possible. We’ve gathered this conference to discuss Equestrian policy in regard to recent developments in the Khanate. We are pleased to see that there is fertile ground for negotiations to de-escalate the tensions that have arisen between our nation and the Khanate.”
“Do you have any comments regarding Princess Twilight’s eventful arrival yesterday?” one of the journalists asks, and Princess Celestia treats him to an indulgent smile, the magic beneath her skin lurching as her anger surges. Interrupt me again, please. Princess Celestia suppresses the urge to smite the journalist with the practiced ease of the consummate stateswoman.
“Well, I must say it was quite a shock when I heard… but I can state with confidence that the Khan authorities will apprehend those responsible for the attack on Princess Twilight.” Certainly, Princess Celestia can say it confidently; truthfully however, is another matter entirely. “We consider Princess Sparkle to be an invaluable stateswoman, and we are confident in the capability of her bodyguard to resist an attack. We will not allow isolated incidents by dissident elements within the Khanate to alter our negotiating posture with the Khanate’s government.”
“But two attacks in two months, does that not constitute slightly more than ‘isolated incidents’?” It does, and if Luna’s figures were more encouraging, you’d bet I’d be acting upon it right now. Celestia clicks her tongue softly before she voices her thoughts.
“Equestria is committed to peace and reconciliation. We are aware that, as a Princess, Twilight Sparkle is unlikely to be regarded favourably by a certain section of the Khanate’s population. We are regretful that that segment decided they wanted to allow their baser instincts to overcome their common sense. Currently, no evidence exists to state this is anything more than ignorant Khans thinking with their hearts rather than their heads.”
That’s strictly true of course. Ignorant Khans with power will act on all manner of idiotic impulses. It’s merely that these ones happen to be in high places.
“We come forward to say that Equestria will negotiate with the Khans, and we will work to defuse the current tension between our peoples to-”
_____________
“-foster a climate of peaceful co-existence.”
The tinny sounds of the wireless ring out through the bridge of the warship, almost lost in the hubbub of the crowd gathered upon the bridge of the experimental dreadnought. Blue uniformed Imperial Navy officers are sat at their stations, accompanied by scientists and engineers in coveralls and white coats. The chatter of teleprinters fills the air, along with the gentle rumble of voices and the tapping of morse-code machines. Luna glances up toward the wireless from her position in the captain’s chair, her hands closing around the onyx arms of the command throne.
Admirable sentiments Sister, but sometimes the hand of peaceful co-existence benefits from its sister gripping a sword. A smile spreads across her face underneath her mask. And what a sword this is!
Her hand closes around the left arm of her command throne a little tighter. The Umbra has been finished on schedule. Final testing has been completed, and now the hour of the Umbra’s launch draws near. Anticipation writhes below the Princess of the Night’s skin as she considers the thought. Sister… I wish you could understand this, our power. We wouldn’t have to debase ourselves to negotiating with these terroristic scum.
She gazes across the bridge, at Iron-Breast, who is standing in the middle of the chaos, directing sailors and engineers this way and that with all the authority of a born leader of men. Her voice carries effortlessly through the bridge of the super-dreadnought. Luna sits back in her throne, luxuriating in the feeling of power that flows through her veins. Her own power crackles through her veins, mingling with the power of the dreadnought. Finally she can unleash her carefully restrained, carefully metered power.
Luna is distracted from the heady brew of anticipation by Admiral Iron-Breast turning to the command chair and the hubbub of engineers and navy officers fading into an expectant hush. “We’re ready to begin when you are, Field Marshal,” Iron-Breast says, and Luna nods as though she’s been expecting the statement. She gazes forward, over the heads of the assorted staff, and out of the bridge’s forward windows, which give her an amazing view down the length of the entire battleship’s upper section, and beyond it, the towering walls of the dry dock which still hides the mighty dreadnought.
She can see the slanted upper armour plating, and the holes cut into it to accommodate the massive tri and twin barrelled long range guns that will rip apart the capital ships that make up the Umbra’s rightful prey. She can also see the fire-emplacements studded along the spine of the ship, where the smaller twenty and thirty millimetre cannon have been emplaced to shoot down the smaller and faster raiders that would traditionally prey upon ships like this. Traditionally, Equestrian ships of the line would not carry small guns beyond belt-fed Maxims in order to save on weight. Luna’s looking forward to running into the first Khan that decides to make the same assumption of the Umbra. She intends to leave very small pieces of him scattered across the desert.
“Do you have anything to say, Your Highness?” Iron-Breast asks, and Luna nods, rising to her feet.
“Ladies, Gentlemen, my sister speaks of peace and cooperation, of understanding and mutual friendship. I am not going to contradict her, peace and understanding are both desirable goals and we should all strive to make them our aim. However I subscribe to one particular understanding. Negotiations should be carried out from a position of strength and power. This, ladies and gentlemen, shall be our position of strength, an unassailable fortress from whence we shall entreat for Equestria’s future. This shall be our shield and our sword, to turn the blows of the aggressor and then open his throat in one stroke.”
Luna’s masked face slowly sweeps across the room, holding the assembled group of technicians and officers with her gaze. Beneath her mask, she smiles a wolf’s smile. “Now, in the name of Equestria, and by the grace of whatever name you call God, we shall begin testing. That is all, fall out to commence your duties.”
With that, Luna sits back down, squeezing the left arm of her command throne once more. As she squeezes tighter, she can feel the crackle of the conduits through the arm-rests of her throne, a faint tingling and prickling rippling up and down her arms. They draw upon the magic of a younger god, and only a princess is able to provide the massive amounts of magical power that can be trusted to reliably activate and charge the titanic propulsion drives that keep the huge ship airborne.
Luna pulls her white gloves off, stretching out her long, pale fingers and testing the strength of her connection to the ship’s core. She can feel the magical presence within the ship stirring faintly even now as various safeguards and interlocks are removed and the reaction drives are spooled up to begin testing. As she looks across the bridge, she sees red lights flashing into life, and deep beneath the deck, she can feel a deep thrumming as though the ship beneath her is taking a series of increasingly deep breaths.
Her mouth tightens into a thin line behind her mask as the power shoots like lightning beneath her skin. Beneath her feet, the gathering growl of the ship’s drives increase in pitch into a shrill whine. The thrumming of the ship’s charging magnetic bottles pulses through the ship as the conversion cells continue to convert the limitless magical energy of a princess into the power required to fuel the mighty dreadnought. Vast cooling fans whirr as huge magnetic induction coils start to spin, subtly twisting Princess Luna’s magic and constricting it, as though taking the power that forms planets and sucking it through a straw.
“All systems nominal, cooling circuit pressure within normal limits!” one of the officers snaps, and Luna nods, her eyes flicking to the gauges spread out before her own control throne. All are in the green.
Now or never.
“Cast off lines!” Luna orders. Sweat blossoms across her forehead as she forces more power into the ship’s systems. The whine rises to a scream as the induction coils inhale yet more power, twisting and shaping it as the first flickers of blue light start to flicker and flash from the ship’s great engine nacelles. Behind Luna’s throne, thick cables start to gleam with a blue glow, casting a sheen over the room. Exhaust vents along the underside spine of the ship belch into life, as the massive cogitators in the core of the ship grind ponderously into life.
Upon the Umbra’s belt decks, crews of airmen sweating and swearing in their shapeless black overalls start heaving in the massive hawsers, each as thick as a man’s arm, that keep the Umbra lashed down. Meanwhile, in the deep cavernous dry-dock that houses the Umbra’s lower section, a deep thrumming noise starts to boom rhythmically, and flickers of blue light glitter and flash from below as the massive engines progress inexorably through their ignition process.
“We’re at ninety per-cent charge, we can begin lift whenever you’re ready, Highness!” Iron-Breast has to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the power flowing through the room, the light from behind Luna growing stronger and stronger whilst the hoses and pipe work running into the back of the throne continue to take the strain. Luna can hear crackling and hissing, but the empress of the Moon pushes herself harder to force the energy into the Umbra’s massive engines.
“Launch!” she orders, and at once the vibrations increase in intensity as levers are thrown and switches are released. Energy flows from the massive crystal repeater batteries that hold Luna’s magic to the drive coils, and just for a moment Luna feels a strange swooping sensation in her belly, as though she’s falling as her power is suddenly fed directly into the mighty engines.
“Umbra is rising,” a report whipcracks across the bridge, through the din and over the hiss of steam moving through pressurised tubes. Luna can feel the ship starting to rise beneath her, slowly and ponderously, but rising all the same as the drives reach full power, the repulsor coils taking the full strain of the ship’s mass and contriving through some mix of arcane science and magic to provide enough lift to over a hundred thousand tonnes of steel.
Outside, crowds of soldiers and engineers have gathered to watch the spectacle. Sirens warble and flash, only to be drowned out by the deep, throaty snarl of the engines as the ship lifts from its cradle, slowly and ponderously. Blue lightning dances along the conduits feeding the supermassive reaction drives as the ship slowly lifts free of its moorings. The five massive engine nacelles contract like the pupils of huge eyes. Deep within the ship, the snarl becomes a roar as the drive nozzles suddenly dilate, cones of azure energy erupting from within.
Onlookers snatch their hands to their eyes in an attempt to shield themselves from the blinding brilliance of the drive’s ignition, and others turn their backs, hands clasped over piercing eardrums. Still others are unable to divert their eyes from the vast machine that now rises from the ground before them.
Luna shivers, feeling pain starting to course up her arms as she pumps as much power as she dares into the machine. A little more, just a little bit more and we’ll be mobile, she thinks.
Sudden sheets of bright, unearthly fire leap across her vision, snatching away the sight of the world around her. Fire leaps up her arms and Luna barely muffles a startled gasp of pain and surprise, though it is almost inaudible through the crackling and hissing filling her ears as the sudden pain sinks its talons into her shoulders. Her back arches and she bites back another agonized gasp of pain. Her knuckles whiten, and sweat glistens upon her neck as she holds firm. She will endure. She must endure.
Her head is suddenly snapped backward with a sharp crack. Power is being pulled out of her now, faster than she can control it. She’s being drawn down through the raging rapids of her own power, losing control by the moment, and Luna is fighting desperately to resist the flow of energy being dragged out of her. Pure momentum drives the outflow, forcing more power through her hands and into the conduits. Her ears scream as pain spreads across her face, only to fade in the blaze of adrenaline leaping through her veins. White lightning dances between her fingers.
She can dimly hear raised voices through the maelstrom, and she can feel winds whipping at her skin. Voices seem to be coming and then going, snatched away in moments. Luna feels a sharp pain, and a wet heat blossoming across the side of her face as the sheets of white light seem to grow stronger and stronger, the roaring of sounds resolving into a deep resonant voice speaking words in ancient Equish.
All ye, weak and powerless, the strong and the mighty, all are as chaff before Me. Fall before My majesty. Embrace My will and Submit to Darkness. A chill of horror arrows down Luna’s spine. Beneath her mask, her eyes widen in pure unadulterated terror as the voice’s words resonate through her like the tolling of a bell.
Luna squints, closing her eyes behind her mask as a face starts to resolve itself in the swirling maelstrom. A flash of eyes of the deepest azure gleam in the Night Princess’ vision before the sheets of white light fade into absolute darkness. The last thing she sees is those flaming eyes, bright with an unholy fire, burning in the gathering darkness like a warning and a promise.
Suddenly Luna is looking around a bridge veiled in smoke, and dozens of members of the bridge crew gazing up at her in awe. Around her, she can hear whimpers and coughing and spluttering.
She blinks, feeling something hot and wet trickling down the side of her face. “Report!” she snaps groggily, sitting up from where she has slumped in her chair, and Captain Bugler’s voice comes back, as though from a great distance.
“We’re receiving reports from engineering ma’am. All systems are performing as designed. We’re trying to isolate the cause of the smoke now!” Captain Bugler reports through a voice thick with smoke, whilst Iron Breast is barking orders for someone to open a shutter or do something to clear the wretched smoke. Luna nods, sitting forward on the chair, lifting her hand to her face, expecting it to reach her mask, but instead her fingers reach up and poke her in the eye… her actual eye.
Luna’s eyes widen as she presses her hand flat to the mask, and she feels the jagged edge where a chunk seems to have been ripped out of the mask. Her hand runs around the hole, against her skin, and then she pulls her fingers away, gleaming with her own silvery blood. Her hands start to shake as she gazes down at the tiny silvery effusion on her fingertips.
The mask is breached, the seals are breached. The mask is breached, the seals are breached.
Luna can feel her heart racing and her mind whirling, yet for some reason she’s able to approach the issue rationally and calmly. For some reason she can feel herself taking control and isolating the terrified parts of her mind, locking the rising panic into a box and sealing it down. She’s not sure how it’s happening but happening it is. Think about it later. Act now.
“A mirror,” Luna snaps, her voice slightly deeper as she rises to her feet, staggering slightly at the shifted centre of balance. “Bring your princess a mirror!”
At once, an impossibly young ensign clatters up the stairs, small makeup mirror in hand. She hands it to Princess Luna, bowing low as she does so. Luna takes the mirror without comment, flipping it open with one hand to inspect the damage.
One turquoise eye gazes back at her, the slitted pupil flickering faintly. For a moment a gleam of triumph burns in that turquoise eye, and it is as much to smother that fell glow as to stem the bleeding, that the Night Princess lifts her hand to her eye to apply pressure.
“Captain Bugler, you have command. You are hereby directed to begin truncated airworthiness testing with a view to completion as soon as practicable. We wish to be informed the moment these tests are complete. Doctor Freeman, we wish you to isolate whatever caused this reaction and report back to us as soon as practical. If there are any fluctuations or bleeds in the main drives, we wish to know at once. Admiral Iron-Breast, accompany me please,” the Princess intones imperiously, and Admiral Iron-Breast nods, falling in behind the field marshal apprehensively as the Princess of Darkness stalks toward the exit, her long black robe billowing like roiling thunderclouds behind her.
____
28th of January 1882, Ashad-Mar Base
“Turn that heretical twaddle off boy!” the armourer growls. His startled assistant whirls the tuning dial of the illegally acquired Equestrian-made radio, and the teenage Khan jumps backward from the hulking armourer as he stomps past, moving through the aisles of Ashad-Mar State Arsenal, one of Tarhen's larger military arsenals.
Nima watches the hairless armourer stomping up and down the rows of weapons, his rusty prosthetic left leg creaking and hissing under the strain of hauling his substantial bulk around. Whilst Chief Armourer Dadmehr Na-Arkaz used to be a fit Khan despite his baldness, years spent working in the State Armoury have added a spare tyre to the bull-shouldered Khan. This doesn't stop him from moving surprisingly quickly, chiefly whenever trainee Nima Awlawan is doing something that Na-Arkaz does not approve of.
“Boy! What have I told you about leaning on that fuckin’ desk! Now get over here and come help me!” Na-Arkaz snarls, and Nima puts down his quill, grabs his glasses and trots down the tiled aisleway, to where the large Khan is pulling rifles from the rack.
The young Khan slides his glasses onto his nose and looks up at the armourer. “What do you need, sir?”
“BOY! By Saint Alawaz' tits, how many times have I told you about calling me sir!? It's Chief Armourer, Boss, or Mister Arkaz!” the chief armourer thunders, turning around to poke Awlawan in the chest with a thick mechanical finger. “Anyway, give these guns a look over and make sure they're up to snuff,” Arkaz barks. “And look lively about it, we've got about a hundred to issue, plus stick-grenades, incendiaries and mortars!” Arkaz tosses the first rifle at Awlawan, who snatches it clumsily out of the air by its canvas sling.
Awlawan reaches for the toggle that pops open the closed cylinder, and smoothly flicks the rifle's six round revolving cylinder open. He quickly peers into the cylinder, flicking down the telescopic lenses on his glasses, which start whirring as they zoom in, taking in details as he examines the weapon, peering down the barrel and inspecting the rifling before checking the action, which clicks smoothly.
“What do we need these for?” Awlawan asks as he snaps the cylinder shut and puts the weapon on a waiting trolley.
“No one's fuckin’ told me,” Arkaz grunts. “I just got a telegram from Aznan's office telling me that a man identifying himself as Springbok will be coming by to pick up a bunch of weapons and ammunition.” Arkaz passes another weapon to Awlawan.
“I see,” Awlawan replies as he inspects the next weapon, noting the arsenal markings engraved just behind the rear sight. Yours not to reason why, he tells himself as he breaks open the next rifle, his glasses whirring once more. It’s slow, boring and repetitive work. KZ-62s are conscript rifles, designed to be maintained by idiots and so checking them for faults is likewise idiot simple.
Awlawan has just finished inspecting the ninetieth rifle, when he hears a sharp banging on the issuing hatch.
“Ugh... boy, go see who that is,” Arkaz growls, and Awlawan jumps off of his seat and goes scrambling down the aisles to the armoury's desk and issue hatch, the shutter of which is down.
“Hello?” Awlawan calls as he climbs up onto the issuing hatch chair, sitting up on his knees so that the teenager can sit properly at the desk.
“It's Springbok,” the harsh voice echoes within Awlawan’s tiny issuing desk-space, the tone prickling up the hackles on the back of Awlawan’s neck. “I'm here to pick up my guns!” The voice is speaking in Equestrian. Once again, Awlawan thanks his house-keeper mother for having taught him the language.
“Ah, we are just getting them ready for you, if you will give me a second I shall open up!” Awlawan says, trying to keep his voice cheery and professional as he reaches for the issue file. Arkaz will kill him (twice) if he doesn't make sure these weapons get accounted for. That's the big rule at Ashad-Mar, other State Armouries might be shoddy with their book-keeping but Arkaz is death on weapons that leave his arsenal without being signed and accounted for. Awlawan can practically recite his lecture by heart at this point.
“One day, boy,” Awlawan mutters to himself, “someone's going to do something fucking stupid with our guns, and on that day, if we haven't got the paperwork squared away saying the weapon was out of our custody...” He dips the quill pen in ink before sweeping a scattering of cartridges and a dead spider off the desktop with his forearm and pulling on the chain that lifts the issuing hatch. At once sunlight shines into the armoury, and Awlawan shields his eyes as they adjust to the light, his ears folding back, but then as his eyes focus he sees a human... tall with close cropped hair, a light beard, and battered features.
“Finally. Listen four-eyes, I haven't got all fookin' day here, so you just bring me the pieces and I'll be on my way,” the human snaps, glaring at Awlawan through the grating that separates the two of them, and Awlawan leans back, his heart beating fast. He's used to Khans, who can be just as rude as this foreigner, but they're rarely quite this loud. Still, Awlawan is anxious to make a good impression, and politeness is the mark of a child of the Divinity.
“Of course, we are just getting the equipment you requested ready. I just need you to give me your name and a signature, if you could?” The boy quickly writes out the consignment number and then spins it round for the human to look at it.
“What is this?” the human snarls as he takes the clipboard and gazes down at it incredulously.
“It is the consignment information,” Awlawan replies evenly. “You are signing the weapons out of the armoury, that is all.”
He blinks as the human tosses the clipboard back through the hatch, unsigned. “Let me tell you how this is gonna go, kid, you're gonna give me those guns, and I'm gonna leave. Nowhere in there does it say I'm going to sign for anything.”
“Well I am afraid I cannot do that,” Awlawan replies levelly. “I have to have a signature, otherwise I cannot give you these weapons.” The human's face turns an interesting shade of red. The human turns, obviously taking a firm grasp on his temper, and then turns back, his lips curled into a snarl that exposes his teeth.He jabs a finger through the bars at Awlawan. “Listen you little furry fuck, I'm here on business for General Aznan-”
“AND I DON'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU'RE THE SHAH'S OWN PERSONAL ARSE-WIPER, YOU'RE GOING TO SIGN FOR THESE WEAPONS OR YOU'RE NOT GETTING ‘EM.” The crash of Arkaz' voice is like a hammer blow, and Awlawan folds his ears back, shying as he smells the stench of cloying tobacco that hangs around Arkaz like a cloud. Awlawan turns to see Arkaz standing behind him, his tattooed, bald bulk looming like a mountain. The human scowls in reply.
“Would you like me to bring General Aznan down here? He needs these weapons, and I'm sure he'd be disappointed if I explained to him why he got brought down here.” Arkaz gently eases Awlawan out of the way, and sits down heavily on the chair.
“Hmmph... very well... one moment,” Arkaz says, and as the human leans forward, Arkaz jerks on the chain. The issuing hatch snaps shut with a crash and a howl of absolute fury from the other side, followed by a continuous string of multilingual curses. Arkaz frowns reprovingly, delicately placing his hands over Awlawan’s ears as the human rages outside.
“You can take General Aznan's name in vain all you want, you're not getting these weapons till you sign for them!” Arkaz bellows, before rising to his feet and releasing the boy’s ears after a moment.
“My sister’d never fucking forgive me if she found out that you’d been learning such words here, good job boy,” Arkaz says, and there's a smile on his face for the first time all day. “Let's give numbnuts twenty minutes or so to cool down.” Awlawan nods quickly, feeling a strange giddy light feeling as he heads back into the armoury while the angry human continues to blister the air outside.
Five minutes later, there is a sharp knock on the hatch, and Awlawan opens it to find that red-faced human standing there again.
“Give me the fuckin' board, I'll sign,” the human growls a little hoarsely, and Awlawan is almost able to conceal his grin of triumph and the self satisfied twitch of his whiskers, as he hands the quill and board over to the bearded human, who walks away with the clipboard and scrawls on it. Awlawan is about to ask him to return the clipboard when the human returns and pushes the clipboard through the slot.
“Weapons, or do you want me to sign somethin' else?” he snaps, but Awlawan is already getting down from the chair to get the trolley, stacked high with crates of weapons. He grabs the trolley and starts pulling, past the now closed door of Arkaz' office as the Khan behind it continues with his paperwork.
Awlawan reaches the issuing door and pushes the trolley inside before closing the shutter and walking back to his booth. He then opens the outer door, allowing Springbok to pick up his guns. “This is everything?” the human asks, and Awlawan nods.
“As asked,” Awlawan says, and the human nods, dragging the trolley out of the closet before coming back to the hatch.
“Hey listen, we got off on the wrong foot man,” the human says, and Awlawan tilts his head a little suspiciously. Springbok then looks off to the side, before turning back and extending his hand. “Listen, sorry for snappin’ at you, I know you’ve got a shitty job, cooped up in that sweat box.”
Awlawan, without thinking about it, extends his hand in turn, and the human clasps his hand as though to shake it.
Awlawan yelps as he jerks savagely across the desk. His forearm wrenches outside the hatch. Beneath him, the desk screeches as the boy’s full weight lands heavily upon it. Before the Khan can pull back or back away, the human snatches the shutter and pulls down hard.
The shutter crashes down; pain lashes up Awlawan’s forearm. It lifts and comes crashing down once again, an awful crack as the humerus snaps. The Khan's shrieks of pain ring out through the Arsenal.
Springbok slams the shutter again and again and again, each time accompanied by a sickening snap as bone splinters and breaks like a splitting tree limb. Fragments of bone slice through the boy’s flesh, ripping muscle and sinew amongst his wailing screams.
The boy flails in agony, vainly struggling but being held in place by Springbok’s vicelike grip. Awlawan’s legs kick out fruitlessly, knocking his stool backward, where it lands on the floor with a crash. His fluffy tail lashes this way and that and his big green eyes are bright with pain and fear.
Through the sea of pain, he can hear Springbok barking curses:
“Fokenwil!” Crash! “Come on you little wimp!” Crash! “I thought you were a swingin’ dick here!” Crash! “Fuckin’ pussy!” CRASH!
The desk, just a table pressed up against the wall, suddenly gives way, splitting almost clean down the middle, with one final snap as his arm folds in the centre of the break, sending Awlawan crashing to the floor, a horrified scream wrenched from his lips, before the room becomes an echo chamber of his shrieks and Springbok’s mocking laughter.
“This is what I get out of bed for in the morning,” Springbok mutters, before shoving the ruined arm through the hole in the wall and slamming the hatch shut. “Stupid fookin’ cat cunts.”
He whistles a jaunty tune as he walks away, pushing his trolley, laden with supplies. ____
General Aznan's Garden.
The wind whispers through the weeping willows at the far end of the garden as General Aznan gazes down at the bed of crocuses and irises blooming in mournful splendour. Aznan enjoys being out in the garden in the early evening, with the setting sun beating down upon the back of his neck and the scents of the winter flowers in bloom. Behind him, he can hear approaching feet and his mouth twitches faintly as he recognizes the soft tread of Hassan Zafwan, along with the heavier booted steps of Springbok.
“Good evening gentlemen,” Aznan says, rising to his feet and brushing the dirt off of the knees of his trousers. “I trust we have made progress on the small matter of the prison?” he asks, and Zafwan flicks a nervous glance at Springbok, before shaking his head.
“No sir. We know there was a shooter who fired a single round at the princess from within the prison perimeter but we have not been able to get the shooter's firing position, or whether he was a member of the prison guard,” Zafwan says grimly, his tail twitching in anticipation of Aznan's toungue lashing, however Aznan's smile broadens until he is positively beaming at this little bit of news.
“I see. Obviously Princess Twilight isn't quite as popular as we had thought... Continue looking into the matter, and we'll try and identify who our mysterious benefactors are. Zafwan, do you have any word from your contacts with the PVU?”
“They do not appear to be all that cooperative with our aims,” Zafwan says with a shrug. “Apparently the Tsar in Exile wants to focus his attention upon the Reds and the Blues rather than honouring his agreements with us. I did not believe it was worth trying to convince him otherwise.”
“He's a fool then. Very well, I trust your judgement,” Aznan says, rising to his feet and shaking loose fragments of grass out of the folds of his plain cream working shirt, before he hears a faint tap upon the front door. Aznan's smile turns slightly predatory at the sound, and his ears prick up whilst his whiskers twitch.
“Right on time, unusual for a Federal,” Aznan frowns, before turning to Springbok. “I believe now would be a good time to make yourself scarce, as we are about to have guests.”
“Aznan,” a voice calls from the doorway into the house a moment later, and Aznan turns to see the housekeeper approaching with a human that Aznan has met before. The human is short in human terms, with a thin hatchet-like face, watery blue eyes and round spectacles that give him the appearance of a particularly bothersome librarian. The lamplight glistens off his slicked back, oily black hair. Aznan doesn't know the spy's name, but he knows better than to ask.
“I hope I haven't arrived late, gentlemen,” the man says, his accent quite clearly Federal. Zafwan shakes his head.
“What news does Caine bring?” Aznan asks, and the spy shrugs.
“You'll be pleased to hear that the Federation is nervous about Equestrian expansionism. While an open conflict with the Empire would not be in the Federation's interest at this time, we'd be more than happy to assist you with creating a casus belli and provide you with more material support when the time comes... You won't need to worry about trying to bump off this Princess anymore, I can guarantee what my superiors have in mind will get you your war, General Aznan.”
Aznan nods slowly. Whilst he's quite fond of the strategy of getting the princess killed, he's also aware that there have been at least two attempts on her life so far, and attacking her in transit will be impossible with the ring of steel that now surrounds her, and if there's an easier target, then Aznan would be a fool not to explore it.
“Do tell?” Aznan asks, and the Federal Spy smiles.
“We've managed to get a link with your faction of the Valorossiyans. They're willing to supply you with weapons. You just need to supply civilian airships. You'll fly these airships to any major city you like; Hoofshire, Stalliongrad, Canterlot for all I care, and then you bomb that city. Airships with Khanate civvy markings bombing a city... it's a nice little excuse for Equestria to invade. Hey presto, you got yourselves a war. In order for that to happen though, you need to open up trade links with the freaks again.”
“Slight problem there,” Zafwan says. “What about international opinion?”
“International Opinion my ass, there are only three big players at this table; you, us and the freaks. International Opinion will be what we say it is.”
“I see... well that looks to be a practical solution, what say you, Aznan?”
Aznan looks the Federation man clear in the eye, his eyes gleaming as he fixes the human with a gimlet stare. Aznan is tempted, sorely tempted. It'd be just what the Equestrians deserve after all, and in terms of casus belli, it would be a very effective one. It'd definitely start a war, but it would start it on the Federation's terms, rather than his own. There's also another matter.
“Aerial bombardment of one of those cities would definitely start a war... however it would certainly also result in large scale civilian casualties,” Aznan says. “The fact that you're talking about using Valorossiyan bombs also suggests there is something special about these particular munitions... Are civilian casualties an objective you have in mind?”
“The messier the better,” the man confirms, and Aznan nods.
“I suspected as much. Very well, in that case I must respectfully decline,” Aznan says, and the spy blinks in stunned surprise.
“Hey, think about this guys, this could be your big chance!” he protests.
Aznan scowls and shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I will start a war my own way, if it is all the same to you. I wish to see the Royal House of Equestria brought low, but I do not have a quarrel with the average citizen of Equestria. I will spill their blood for a cause, for an objective beyond the slaughter, but I shall not make slaughter an objective in its own right.”
Zafwan glances up at Aznan, shock printed upon the elderly commissioner's face. “Aznan, you've been talking about the need to get even for years... this could be exactly what we need to do so.”
Aznan takes a deep breath, his mouth curling downward into a grim line. “Call me a traditionalist, but my quarrel is with the Princesses. My quarrel is not with the common people of Equestria and I have no desire to see them slaughtered wholesale just to trigger a war.”
“But you're happy to kill a Princess-”
“A princess, exactly. She decided to come here of her own volition and so anything that comes her way is on her head. Likewise, Equestria does not conscript its menfolk so any fighting men we kill chose to accept the risks when they put the uniform on. Killing civilians in job lots sits poorly with me.”
“Ugh, fine... well, if you change your mind then the bombs are there and you can go pick 'em up to use against whatever you feel like.” The spy reaches out and places a bit of paper on Aznan's garden table.
“Thank you for your consideration but I doubt we will,” Aznan replies. “Please, allow me to escort you out.”
As Aznan watches the spy walking up the garden path to the secret door out of his compound, he curls his lips into a grimace. It would be so simple and clean to do what the spy suggests, get the bombs, point them at the target and unleash them... but clean for whom?
“That wasn't wise, Aznan,” Hassan Zafwan says behind him. “Out of all the time I've known you, I've never known you to be a philanthropist, particularly where the Equestrian mutants are concerned.” He growls, and Aznan shrugs.
“I'm not... walk with me,” Aznan says darkly, turning and walking through the garden. The policeman follows in the general's wake, head tilted in confusion. As they step through the balmy Tarhen evening and the wind whispers through the fronds of the weeping willow at the rear of the garden, Aznan leads Zafwan out across the grass.
“Right... in simple terms, I'm not nearly as concerned about the wholesale butchery of Equestrians as I am about that butchery being rather neatly laid upon our hands. The United Federation would have a hold on us, a hold that is both incontrovertible and deadly, for it would not take much for that hold to become a crushing grip... Zafwan, I hate Equestria but I fear the Federation. I do not trust the Eternal Princesses for much, but I can at least trust them to negotiate in good faith. I cannot trust the Federation even that far,” Aznan explains, gazing thoughtfully at the tree, scratching his chin.
Zafwan shakes his head. “You're thinking about this too much, I still think you made the wrong decision but you're the leader. Aznan, can you think about this offer please, for me?”
“I suppose I can, for the sake of an old friend,” Aznan says after a second. “I will have plenty of time to think about it over the next week or so when I shake the dust of this miserable city off my sandals and go back home for a few days. I have to say the notion of Canterlot in flames appeals to me, perhaps more than it should.” A faint predatory smile spreads across Aznan’s lips.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to shrug off the Federation’s generosity… Zafwan, I’ll give you a concrete answer in a couple of days, I want to think this one through. It’d get us our war, but it’d also let the feddies set the tone, and I’m not sure I want that.”
Zafwan nods and shrugs, before reaching for his cigarette case. His eyes linger on Aznan as he sticks a cigarette between his teeth, and flicks open his lighter.
January 1882. 0450 Near Edwy-on-Meyer, the Equestria-Khanate border. Aboard the Imperial Mail ship Glory.
The wall-eyed mail girl scrubs the sleep from her golden eyes as she trudges through the dimly lit steel passageway toward the issuing office, her hand rising up to brush her golden hair flat. Her slate grey woollen tunic is slung over one shoulder, and her white high-collared shirt is well worn, the golden crown of the Imperial Mail emblazoned upon one breast pocket. Steam rises slowly from the cup of hot and strong tea in her hand as her booted feet clump along the passageway.
“Another day for the Crown,” she mumbles to herself, before shrugging her woollen tunic over her shoulders and flicking her wings through the slots. Sleepy fingers grope for the brass buttons, and then starting to button the tunic up, the woman still half asleep as she mounts the stairs to the issuing office. The mail-girl yawns again, stretching her arms out and just missing a pile of boxes being carried by someone moving to overtake her on the stairs.
“Watch it, Bubblehead!” his voice barks, and the girl skips to the side, dropping her arms quickly.
“Oh, sorry!” the girl, Daisy Doo, says quickly, backing away from the hulking figure.
“Oi!”
Daisy twists, barely missing another one of the grumbling mail sorting attendants as he hefts a bin full of letters up the stairs. Face flushed with embarrassment, Daisy makes her way up the stairs, the rumble of many voices growing louder, along with the clatter of impact and telegraph printers. She digs in her pocket and pulls out her battered grey pill-box cap, tugging it out into shape and running her fingers around the lip, before slipping it onto her head as she reaches the upper deck, running into the telegraph room. The air is filled with the chatter of hurriedly stabbed keys clattering like the heartbeat of a dozen clocks, and voices are raised above the hubbub as mailmen argue and harried looking administrative assistants running around carrying paper back and forth. Daisy pushes her way through the hubbub, hunting for the door to the issuing office. Swerving around a pair of angrily swearing clerks, Daisy steps into a narrow hallway off to one side. However, as she steps onto carpet, and a more lavishly appointed hallway, Daisy frowns, scrubbing one hand through her hair. She's been aboard the Glory for two weeks now, but even so being turned around was nothing new - once she’d somehow managed to find herself in one of the huge mail sorting rooms that occupy one of the airship’s massive cargo halls. Nodding to herself, she turns on her heel and starts moving.
Scooting past mail-attendants and heavily laden loading assistants, and the occasional clattering six legged MLC-'Mule', Daisy starts moving faster toward the ship's issuing office. A quick glance at the wall-mounted chronometer posted every few feet tells her she's got plenty of time before she has to be at the issuing office, but Daisy knows better than to be late.
“Hey, Daisy!” a sharp voice calls behind her. Daisy turns to see Joyous-Harvest standing behind her, already dressed in her own uniform, with a bandolier of ammunition slung across her chest and a tri-barrel slung across her back. The tall and lanky red-head walks over to Daisy.
“Should have known I'd find you here, come on, we're gonna be late,” Joy says, her tone one of long suffering affection, and Daisy smiles sheepishly as she spots the time.
“Sorry,” she says, and Joy shrugs, her freckled face cracking into a smile of her own.
“'s all fine, besides, the boss likes you since you work hard when we actually get started, so he's prepared to cut you some slack.” Joy’s smile widens into a broad grin as she turns and gestures for Daisy to follow.
“So… uh, what’re we doing today?” Daisy asks. Joy digs in her pocket and pulls out a piece of crumpled, tea stained paper.
“Fairly straightforward, we're dropping some deliveries for the local distributors to handle... We're going to Edwy-on-Meyer, Kayson and Entleigh, then we're doing some local distribution to Bosmouth and Remingford,” Joy explains, her finger running down the list of places on the manifest in one hand.
“I see,” Daisy says happily as she follows Joy through the long gunmetal grey corridor of the ship. “So are we going by the issuing office?”
“No, we're going straight out to the flight deck, the skiff is already loaded to roll and I've already checked it. Everyone else is already there, all you need to do is get in and fly,” Joy says, clapping Daisy on the shoulder. Daisy nods quickly, trying to stop the drumming of her heart as they climb up the stairs. She digs in the pocket of her tunic for her flying goggles, trying to bite back her nerves. The growl of engines and raised voices washes over her as more mail-cutters arrive and depart from the Glory.
“You alright?” Joy asks, and Daisy forces herself to nod. She's always been a little nervous before things get started. Once they're in the air she's alright, relying on training and procedure to see her through, but she can’t shake a funny feeling in her stomach that seems a little different to the normal pre-flight jitters.
However, now is not the time to concentrate on funny feelings because they're now stepping out onto the Glory's hangar deck, one of the most dangerous parts of the huge airship. Long catwalks barely wide enough for three to walk abreast stretch out across a yawning chasm the length of a football pitch, and hanging in their docking cradles are four short mail delivery pinnaces. Empty cradles hang around them like the forlorn branches of autumn trees. Around the edges of the chasm, warning lights flicker. As her eyes adjust, she can just about make out the rolling plains of southern Equestria far below beneath the morning haze, then suddenly her legs quiver underneath her. Daisy snaps her eyes shut, her hands gripping tightly at the safety rail as she feels the familiar lurching in her stomach. She should be used to this, but there is no real way to get used to it, other than by drinking a lot of whiskey before bed.
“We're on pinnace four,” Joy says, and Daisy slowly opens her eyes, swallowing and then lifting her head and stepping forward after Joy along the catwalk, gripping onto the safety railing as tight as she can, and trying not to look down at the expanse of icy pre-dawn darkness roaring beneath them. “Elmo and Slim should already have us pre-flighted, all you need to do is get your own pre-flights and we'll be golden.”
“Uh huh,” Daisy says, nodding and trying not to squeak as the catwalk squeals beneath each step. After a moment of walking, they reach pinnace four. Holy Charity, so named, the joke goes, because only praying and charitable donations keep it in the air. Daisy sucks her teeth as she looks over the slate grey outer plating, noting the pitting and scoring on Holy Charity's outer hull, and the corrosion on the engine external housing. With a grim shrug, she walks over to the clipboard and signs for the ship, before gripping onto the gunwale and climbing up into the small boat, her nerves bubbling away in the back of her mind. A flight in Holy Charity is enough to make anyone nervous, but Daisy has flown in other decidedly squiffy pinnaces before and she’s flown Holy Charity several times, each time without incident.
Daisy clambers aboard the ship, over the gunwale and towards the stern of the small boat, before turning to look forward into the belly of the small craft. Elmo and Slim are both waiting, sat on two long torpedo-like mail drop crates towards the bow of the ship, wrapped up tight in their thick leather jackets and gauntlets.
“About time,” Slim grunts, and Elmo clicks his tongue, but then Joy clears her throat and both men shut up.
“If either of you jokers want to fly, just say the word and I'll happily put you forward for flight-qual,” Joy says, and both men clamp their mouths shut. “Thought so. Daisy, you're on.” Joy turns and swings forward, climbing over the crates of mail to get to the prow of the ship, and Daisy finishes her pre-flights, resting her hand on the folded mast as a support, trying to ignore the way Hope and Charity rocks in its docking cradle.
She reaches the flight seat, nestled as it is next to the ship's engine and power core. She takes her seat, strapping herself in, and unfolding the tiller and collective levers, before running through the start-up sequence. The dials in front of her jump as the ship's reaction drive turns on with a sharp cough, drawing power from the batteries. After a momentary inspection, Daisy nods to herself and then reaches up for the docking clamp release handle.
“All crew, secure cargo and prepare for launch!” she forces herself to loudly recite over the growl of the engine. Three thumbs up greet her, and so Daisy conducts one final look-round check, making sure that all the navigation beacons are on and functional, engine is operational and all other launch systems are green for launch. Daisy reaches for the fragile looking radio headset and tugs it over her head.
“Glory flight control, this is Four-Charity, requesting permission to launch.”
“Four-Charity, you are cleared hot for drop, burners at one thousand. Drop on my mark.”
“Copy, burners at one thousand,” Daisy intones, her mouth pressing against the microphone in an attempt to be heard over the growl of the engine and the roar of the wind. With that, red warning lights start to flash at the four corners of Charity's launch cradle, and a siren starts to warble. Daisy looks up, and makes eye contact with a man with a red flag in one hand, and the number four on the other. He waves his red flag once, and Daisy kicks the foot pressel, flashing her ship's warning beacons, before he gives her a thumbs up. He then turns his head, and lifts the red flag above his head.
Daisy reaches up and grabs the release handle with one hand, the other hand cupping the mic to her mouth. Her tone is more natural now as she submerges herself in the routine. “Four-Charity is dropping on your mark. I have visual on the indicator panel, standing by on release.”
The man with the flag nods and then chops it downward. At once, Daisy squeezes the twin release handles together. There is a sharp clank, and then they are free-falling, plummeting away from the Glory. Daisy can't help but allow herself a whoop, as the adrenaline pulses through her from the free-fall, though the adrenaline fuelled surge of delight is snatched away by the roaring rush of air as they're dropped out into the cloud-bank.
Daisy's hands tighten on the ship's twin control levers as the altimeter whirls around, steadily ticking down. The altimeter’s finger brushes a number, and Daisy nods and squeezes the lever built into the collective. With a sharp thump and a jolt, the mast snaps into the upright position, the booms carrying the solar sails snapping downward and locking into place with a clank.
At the same moment, Daisy twists the collective and flips the end of the tiller upward into her hand, and at once their downward momentum is arrested as their mass reaction drive bursts into life and sends them shooting forward, washing the speed out of their descent with its counter-gravity fins.
“There we go...” Joy says encouragingly through the headset clipped to her hat, giving Daisy a thumbs up from her seat at the front of the ship. “We're golden, good work Daisy... now start us moving to the first delivery area and we can earn our pay.” Daisy nods, turning her attention to her map-books and starting to scan through it and trying to relax into the routine even as her heart continues to beat a tattoo against her ribcage.
Three hours later, with several sites down on their delivery route, Daisy's jitters are starting to abate. They managed to make the first few drops before schedule, thanks to a little creative flying and even more creative navigation. Daisy is beginning to think that her nerves might just be little more than creative paranoia.
However as they're turning to fly onward to their next drop site, Joy spots something. “Hey, Daisy, I've got something off the nose... think it's nothing important but you may want to keep an eye on it... I'm seeing a fairly sizeable amount of smoke coming from just over that rise... maybe a grass fire near Sheltend.”
Daisy nods. “I see it Miss Joy, looks to be a very large fire... do you want me to contact Shelt docking control to see if they want any help?” Daisy says, then reaches for the radio book. It's very rare to need to get in touch with the air-control stations of the little hamlets, since so little passes through their air-space or needs to land at their landing fields, that often the postal cutters just land there without talking to docking control.
“They're normally pretty good about getting us on the horn if there's a problem, yeah, get them on the blower and we'll see if there's an issue at Shelt field.” Daisy opens the binder containing the radio frequencies, and after a moment spent clearing dust and dead flies from the pages, she flicks to the pages for Sheltend. It takes her only a moment to find and dial in the correct radio code.
“Sheltend control, this is Postal-Two One, we're visual on a plume of smoke on your heading, requesting landing advisories,” Daisy says into the radio, and then waits for a response. All she receives is static.
Daisy looks down at the radio, checking the lights. All indicate green, and so Daisy tries again. “Sheltend control, this is Postal-Two One, do you copy?”
Thirty long seconds pass by, and Daisy glances at Joy.
“I'm getting nothing from Shelt control... this is really weird,” Daisy says after a moment, and Slim looks up from the penny-dreadful he's reading.
“Perhaps it's the Khans, we share a frontier with them and things aren't...”
“Doubtful,” Joy speculates. “If it was the Khans, or at least Khans in any significant numbers, the Imperial Navy would have quarantined this whole area and nobody would get in, least of all the mail.” Joy reaches for her tri-barrel and breaks it open. She slots two shotgun shells into the two upper barrels and a single fat rifle round into the lower barrel.
“We're getting close, I'll try them again on the radio,” Daisy says, as much to deny the inevitable as anything. She takes a deep breath and then puts out another call to Sheltend control, and the reply is once again nothing but static.
“We shouldn't be here,” Elmo says nervously, and Joy nods.
“I'm beginning to think that way myself, Daisy, divert to Shetlend and give us a single overflight and we'll assess the situation. We’re the only link to civilization some of these people have,” Joy says grimly, and Daisy sweeps the aircraft round, bringing it in closer on a long slow flight path toward the billowing plumes of smoke.
As they roar in closer, Daisy feels her hands grow clammy on the controls, and her heart starts to pound, but they continue their steady descent. Roiling plumes of thick grey smoke curl through the air around them, and Daisy lowers her goggles to stop her eyes from watering, but she can still practically taste something else. A strange, sickly sweet stench strong enough almost to taste, a greasy smell that clings to the nostrils and the taste buds.
Daisy's hands tighten on the tiller as they fly over the small hill that is obstructing the base of the smoke pillars from her view, and her heart suddenly lurches. The smoke is not coming from grass-fires near the village, but from the village itself. Flames dance among the small frontier shacks, and great holes have been torn through the walls, as though an angry giant has been unleashed upon the community. Tattered market awnings flutter like battle-flags, ripped apart by the rushing typhoon of battle.
Daisy shivers as she catches sight of the bundles scattered around the village, bundles of clothes with limbs sticking out of them at odd angles, mostly clad in rude frontier garb, but there are some in waistcoats and spats, traders from out of town. Daisy's heart jerks in her chest as she catches sight of the smaller bundles clustered around the school-house, and she tries not to think of her own daughter currently safely in school in Ponyville.
“Get the Navy on the horn,” Joy's voice seems very distant, muffled almost. “We need to pass this up the chain as quickly as we can...”
Joy's words fade into a faint buzzing white noise that seems indistinct next to the sights far below, the pockmarked, blood spattered walls and the smashed up, torched houses. As Daisy stares down into the village, new horrors greet her... Men spread eagled upon their carts, knives pushed through their wrists and ankles to hold them in place. Women slumped against the walls of buildings, their legs spread and the backs of their heads decorating the walls behind them.
“Daisy... hey, Daisy, listen to me...” Hands are clasping at the postal pilot's uniform tunic, and she shakes her head quickly to clear it. She looks up from the tableau of horror below to see Slim, his face pale and his eyes narrowed behind his goggles. “We need to get out of here Daisy, can you do that?” he asks, his voice soft and kindly. “Turn us around nice and easy... we'll get out of here and then we'll get in touch with someone...” His hand lingers on her shoulder. Daisy nods slowly, turning the pinnace around and starting it moving, opening up the tanks and sending it roaring away into the blue sky, frantically squealing on every frequency it can reach as it starts to fly away. It should only take an hour to get back home, and once they do…
The engines of the tiny pinnace open wide, howling as the pinnace accelerates madly away.
_____
Far below, in the ruins of Sheltend, a lightly bearded man watches the mail-pinnace leave through his field glasses, his eyes distant and a satisfied smile on his face. Right on time.
“I can take it now boss,” one of his men growls, peering through the sights of the anti-material rifle. “It's not too far away yet, I think a vanished skiff might-”
“If that thing disappears from their scryers, we’ll have the Imperial Navy all over us in twenty minutes or less, moron,” the bearded man replies coolly, lowering his field glasses and wiping away the blood dripping from a set of scratch marks on his face. “Right now we’ve got an hour at most, so let’s make use of it. Get some more red paint for the graffiti, finish up what you're doing and then we'd better make tracks. I reckon the Imperial Navy will be crawling over this place before long,” he grunts.
“Reckon we've got time for a little more close proximity with the locals?” Weynin, the one Khan among the group asks, and the man turns and casts a critical eye over the choking, sobbing crowd of women and girls.
“That's an excellent suggestion,” Springbok says, turning toward the crowd of prisoners, and undoing his trousers.
Princess Celestia's face is masklike as she looks down at the pictures from the frontier. Her mouth is a thin, furious line as the messenger lays out the pictures on her desk. Her rosy eyes are hard as she inspects each picture minutely.
“These are from the frontier?” she asks, and the messenger nods swiftly.
“They are, your highness. We've had five small villages hit in total, total number of casualties are roughly four hundred at this time,” the messenger says dispassionately. “We expect that number to go up.” Princess Celestia nods slowly, looking through the pictures. She then picks up a sheaf of documents and starts to read through them, her expression becoming progressively more sour with each line. Eventually she puts the documents down sharply.
“So we've got the Khans, or at least Khan friendly elements striking inside my borders,” she says levelly, and the messenger nods quickly.
“They're linked to the Khans ma'am, they've left Fars'ad graffiti on the walls, and the corpses are dressed in Khan uniforms and carrying Khan rifles. It looks like there was a battle between militia units and these Khans.”
“A battle?” Celestia asks, and the messenger nods quickly.
“Yes ma'am, they didn't take their dead with them, two of the larger villages were in Ameryth Province, that's Lord Night-Light's territory and he didn't take too kindly to their presence. His militia ambushed them on the approach to Meryn and chased them all the way back to the border, and he borrowed some Royal Marines from HMS Lion, who tore the raiders who attacked Talwar to dogmeat.”
Celestia's frown flickers into a faint smile, and she nods. “And I take it that Lord Night-Light led the charge himself.”
“Yes ma'am, he sends his regards by the way.” The messenger smiles slightly, but then Celestia's expression chills once more.
“Well, as silver linings go, that is as good as things are likely to get,” Celestia says as she steeples her fingers before her face. “I'll need to speak to my war cabinet, and I'll need to get a statement drawn up for release... it looks like the cats have decided to step this game up a few notches, and my patience with them is wearing thin.” She turns to her messenger. “I want you to get a message to the Ministry of Defence: I wish to speak to my sister forthwith, and I will wish to speak to the war cabinet and to my press secretaries. I also want you to get in touch with the Khanate's Embassy, I will want to speak to Ambassador Suhail without delay.” Celestia then reaches for a sheet of parchment and swiftly starts to draft a telegram.
_____
1882, January Citadel for God's Strength
Princess Twilight is sat down in one of the Shah's conference rooms, her eyes locked upon the chancellor of the Exchequer, who is sat opposite her, looking levelly back at her, his fingers steepled in front of his face.
“So it's come down to this...” His low growl rumbles softly through the room. His eyes scrutinize the proposal before him. He scratches his chin in a thoughtful gesture.
“It's a simple offer, Chancellor, it'll be better for all of us if you take me up on it. Then we can recess for dinner. ” Twilight’s eyes locked upon the Chancellor's face, and particularly on his whiskers. The Khan clicks his tongue thoughtfully.
“Indeed... we have been working on this one all day, with a break for lunch. I think we've come to a natural conclusion to this.” He turns to the Shah.
“Your excellency, whose countenance reflects the glory of the sun, would you possibly-”
“No, we've been working on this for two days now and I'm not going to drag this out with another round of negotiations for everyone. We settle this now, or we don't settle it at all,” the Shah says from his position on the edge of the table, glancing down behind the low screen to consult his notes for a moment.
“My Shah-”
“Come now, you know she's got the measure of you,” Diplomatic Incident says from his position on the other side of the round table. “All we're doing here is delaying the inevitable.”
The Chancellor sighs and then he sets his proposal down. “Very well Princess, I will offer you fifteen-”
“Twelve-” Twilight shoots back.
“Fourteen-”
“Thirteen point five-”
“Done.” With that, the Chancellor of the Exchequer rifles through the small pile of cards in front of him and hands two small white ones, each decorated with a pink stripe, across to Twilight, who reaches for the pile of money, and she hands that to the Shah, who counts it and hands it across to the Chancellor.
“Equestrians come up with the most amusing board games... who would have thought a people so dedicated to rushing around rather than finding their inner peace could have come up with a way to waste time in such a manner.” Shah Khalid grins faintly as he looks down at the large square board. “So what, you now move the top hat to this place, is that what happens?”
“Of course. I’m surprised you didn’t select the boot, noble Shah, given how fond you are of putting aforementioned boot in,” Diplomatic Incident says, and the two Khans look at each other.
“I often wonder how some Equestrians get their names… Twilight Sparkle for instance,” the chancellor mutters. “You, on the other hand, I do not wonder at all how you came upon your name.”
“You flatter me, oh noble Chancellor who is now in debt to my princess to the tune of twelve thousand… what are these, bits?”
“It was not intended to be a compliment, fat man.”
“Nevertheless, I chose to take it as such. I hardly find a predilection for a single malt and a few cream cakes to be worth censure.”
“A few perhaps, a few dozen however?” the Chancellor rejoinders, and Twilight sits back to watch, chagrin warring with amusement as a pained smile crosses her face, noticing the way the Shah is chuckling to himself. Diplomatic Incident looks up to Twilight, and his expression is surprised.
“You know, Princess, I think I’m rather enjoying my trip so far. Very congenial company, and only the one attempted incarceration.”
“Only the one? How troubling. I would have thought the guards would have been able to smell the alcohol from across the room. How many drinks have you had since you stepped into the palace?”
“Well…” Diplomatic Incident pauses for breath, sucking his teeth for a moment before he starts counting on his fingers. “One two, three, four, five, six… seven maybe… what are we, eight, yes, eight.”
Diplomatic pauses, digs into his pocket and pulls out a hip flask.
“One moment please, I find a little lubrication helps my counting somewhat...“ He holds up a finger and, in full view of the ruler of a country in which consumption of spirits is considered illegal, takes a swig. He looks up at the stony-faced silence which greets him and smiles faintly. “Sorry, where are my manners, I completely forgot to offer you some.”
He holds the flask and shakes it slightly, the heavy silence punctuated by the unctuous sloshing of the liquid in the flask, out to the Shah and the Chancellor, who both look at each other for a moment, before the Shah offers Diplomatic Incident a flat basilisk stare.
“Of course, if whiskey isn’t your thing then I could always summon up a little sherry, perhaps a gin and tonic? I’m sure I have a bottle for emergencies around here somewhere.”
“A whole bottle?” Twilight asks, and Diplomatic Incident shrugs.
“Forgive me, did I say a bottle, I meant several bottles… No, many, many bottles. Just a little private enterprise on the side, your Highness, nothing too dubious.”
“Of course,” the Shah agrees. “We wouldn’t want to be suspecting the Equestrian aide of smuggling, that would be rude.”
“Accusing him on the other hand…” the Chancellor muses.
Twilight’s conspicuous cough is heard from across the room, as she attempts to stifle a nervous laugh.
“I'm not sure funny is the word that my brother would use on a Sunday afternoon to describe this game,” Twilight says, groping for something to try and rein the conversation back onto a natural heading, and the Shah chuckles.
“His loss... though I daresay playing with people like you ruined the sport of it somewhat.”
“Not quite,” Twilight says, “my father was worse. He could make a game of monopoly last for whole weeks at a time if we let him.” The Shah flicks one ear in apparent agreement.
“I see... well it is good that you have introduced this board game to us. It is a good way to kill time.”
“You're sure that no one will take umbrage with the fact that the Equestrian delegation is spending their time playing monopoly in one of your state rooms rather than working on a treaty?” Twilight asks, knowing that at some point during the debrief, Celestia will want to know what she spent three weeks doing in the Khanate. Granted, tensions have decreased somewhat over the last week or so, as people grew accustomed to the status quo ante. Of course, the sight of Princess Twilight chatting merrily on her way to the Citadel did plenty to relax the population.
“I am reasonably confident that no one will get upset. We came up with the basic framework in twenty minutes last week, and we fleshed that out into workable proposals over the space of a couple of days. All we need to do now is wait until the Revolution Day festival and then we can present the document to our grateful populations, war averted.”
Twilight nods, clicking her tongue softly. “Well I'll do what I can on my end to shore that up... the indications I received last night when I spoke to my host government were more than favourable.”
The Shah blinks, confused. “You use military radios to communicate with your own government?” he asks, and Twilight shakes her head.
“It's one of those archdaemon things,” Twilight replies. “The most appropriate way I can explain it would be a dream conference...” she starts to explain, but Khalid and the Chancellor are already raising their hands.
“You don't have to explain anything more... As nice as you are, every time I speak to you I have to check my pockets to make sure my soul is still attached,” the Shah grumbles, though the smile on his face makes it plain that he's not being serious.
“Honestly, you're worse sometimes than the other three,” Shah Khalid rumbles after a moment of thought. “Princess Luna rubs me the wrong way, Princess Cadance is so polished that she gleams, and Princess Celestia... please do not take this the wrong way, but she's so superior, focussed in her rightness and so on. All three of them are more magic than mortal. There's a distance between them and us mortals, no matter how friendly and charming they try to be, but when I think I've got Princesses all wrapped up, you come along, and you're so earnest and disarming that it physically hurts.”
Twilight tilts her head, and then tilts it some more.
A flicker suddenly passes through the air.
She feels the world suddenly lurch beneath her feet, and she steps backwards as a bitter taste fills her mouth. Her step becomes a stagger, and she feels the cold presence once more. Weight presses down across her shoulders; icy fingers grip at her spinal cord. Twilight pushes back, trying to resist.
Now is not a good time, Luna! she thinks as loudly as she can.
Now is the only time, student of my sister. Princess Luna's voice is soft and apologetic. Please, do not fight me. It will hurt you more if you resist.
Twilight feels the world starting to go waxy around her, and she looks up to see Diplomatic Incident frozen in mid stride as he dashes toward her, frozen at a crazy angle as she feels herself start to fall into infinite darkness.
Twilight is unconscious before she hits the ground. ______
Twilight opens her eyes to find herself once more sat up at that familiar table with the green and white umbrella. Princesses Luna, Celestia and Cadance are all gathered, though Cadance looks reasonably put out, and something about her seems to be vague and indistinct.
“I hope there's a reason for this!” Cadance says shortly. “I was in conference with Vladmir Illych, it was reasonably important.”
“We would not have summoned both of you if it was not,” Celestia replies, and there's something about her that persuades Twilight not to question the ageless head of state.
“Today, we have received word that over the course of the night, several settlements on the Equestrian side of the Khan-Equestria border have been attacked by what appear to be Khan troops,” Celestia says coolly. “From our understanding of the situation, these appear to be Khan militia units rather than regular infantry, and it's happening over a relatively small portion of the frontier between our nations, but at least one person has witnessed the terrorist Springbok, who we are led to believe is an employee of General Aznan, taking a leading role. He gave orders, the human troops around him listened.” Celestia’s icy calm washes through the room like a chill breeze. Her rosy eyes are narrowed. Twilight’s face drains of colour as Celestia’s statement hits home. They can’t… they can’t… How can it...
Twilight blinks, coming back to the room as Celestia continues speaking. “... this juncture, opinions, both within the Royal Household, and within the war cabinet differ. Luna, please outline your position.”
“Of course sister,” Luna says softly, her fingers briefly brushing the right hand edge of her mask. “It is my belief, and the belief of the General Staff, that this is an orchestrated manoeuvre by the Khans, aimed at pulling ships from the Samarkand gap to reinforce the frontier, pulling us into strategic dispersal prior to an assault. It was also conducted by soldiers working for the Khans. It is our belief therefore that this constitutes an act of war. We wish for the right to respond as appropriate, with retaliatory cross border strikes as necessary to destroy Khan troop concentrations close to the border.” Twilight slowly shakes her head, unable to quite process this horrifying new development.
“That's absurd!” Twilight’s voice raises several octaves. “I've talked to the Shah myself, he wouldn't do anything like that.” Horror colours Twilight's voice.
“Your faith in the better nature of our fellow sentient beings is admirable, if misplaced.” Luna's mask is fixed upon Twilight, the blank steel giving no impression of Princess Luna’s expression. “These are Khans, give them an inch and they will carry away a mile if you let them.”
“Luna...” Celestia's voice sharpens noticeably in warning, and then she looks up at Twilight.
“It is your opinion of the situation that this is not the Shah's doing?” Princess Celestia asks, and Twilight shakes her head swiftly, gathering herself.
“No, he has nothing to gain and everything to lose by escalating the situation. His interest is in maintaining his own position and he does not believe that a war would serve that end,” Twilight says. “There are fairly serious differences of opinion within the Shah's parliament however... and there are rumours about a highly conservative group within the army, the police and a sect of the clergy, along with any number of anti-Equestria extremists who would love to prod the situation into boiling over,” Twilight elaborates, and Cadance nods supportively.
“So you're saying that this is a splinter group either within the Khan military or else, it's a bunch of radicals looking to capitalize on the situation?” Celestia asks, and Twilight nods.
“It doesn't make sense for much else. If the Shah was set on war, he wouldn't be doing something that surrenders the moral high-ground so completely to us like this,” Twilight says, and Celestia nods.
“You're forgetting something Twilight,” Celestia says. “I'm also being forced into a corner by these attacks. Quite large segments of my own population, including both the House of Commons and the House of Lords, will want to see action, a very clear and very sharp reprisal. The tabloids will scream and bellow as tabloids will, and the broadsheets will start being oh-so-polite in that infuriating way that they have. They may even use the F word.”
“I thought the papers couldn't say Fu-”
“Flaccid,” Celestia's face turns slightly bitter, “weak, ineffectual and so on... you get the idea. Then the republicans will start to hurf and blurf as republicans do, and say, oh so politely of course, that maybe after a thousand years on the throne, I haven't quite got the requisite steel in my spine, and being a woman, with a womb where my testicles should be and no manly pride to speak of, I haven't got the stomach for hard political decisions.”
Celestia looks disgusted at the notion, and she clicks her tongue.
“I have yet to see these voices last once the shooting starts in earnest and the newspapers start to fill with lists of names.” She sighs, and pushes back from the table, rising to her feet and clasping a clenched fist in her other hand, turning on her heel and starting to pace. “We owe it to the Equestrian population that any war we drag them into is a just war, insofar as one can exist... but we must also not allow other nations to think they can perpetrate acts of violence against my people. We owe it to them to keep them safe...” She trails off and then she nods decisively. “It looks like the path for war is all neatly laid, but it is a road I have no intention of walking down yet.” Celestia turns back toward the table, her eyes finding her masked sister. “Sister, call up the reservists and tighten the defences on the Khan border. I don't even want a flea to cross that border without your knowing of it.” Celestia unfolds her wings with a whisper of feathers and muscle. “We shall make statements of warning. This is the last time that the Equestrian eastern border will be violated. If there are any further attacks, I shall have no option but to reply with force. Luna, I want you to make a series of demonstrations that I mean what I say: visibly fortify the border, bring more troops up, that kind of thing.”
Celestia then steps away from the table. “Twilight. Your job is to find out who is responsible, and bring me his head on a silver platter. I also want Springbok to vanish. Ideally I'd like you to bring him back to Canterlot to stand trial, but I'd settle for his head being brought back on the same platter.”
“But he's a Khanate citizen, we can't-”
“I don't care,” Celestia says, a spark of irritation flickering across her face. “He's been a thorn in my side for too long, and I'm not possessed of a boundless font of patience where creatures like him are concerned.” Twilight glances around the table before locking eyes with the God-Empress.
“And you want me to secure a peace treaty whilst I'm doing this?” she asks, and Celestia nods.
“If you can,” Celestia says. “But if you get the sense that we're not being dealt with in good faith, then I want you to break off the negotiations and come home, is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Good, then we're done here. I'll be sending a wallet across to you, containing photographs and daguerreotypes of the evidence. If you need further physical evidence, you need only ask and it shall be dispatched to you forthwith.” Celestia offers Twilight an apologetic smile. “I know precisely what a can of worms I'm handing you Twilight, and I don't expect you to work miracles.”
Twilight looks her mentor in the face. “I'm going to do the best I can Princess.” She smiles weakly. “I won't let you down, I promise. I should probably go now before...”
“Okay,” Celestia says softly. “Be good Twilight, I know you’ll do fine.” She clicks her fingers and Twilight’s vision becomes hazy around the edges, before fading to black once more.
_______
“You need to tell her,” Cadance says, once the essence of Celestia's most faithful student disappears. “She deserves to know.”
“I will...” Celestia says as she casts a long look at the chair Twilight had been sitting in. “She's got enough on her plate to worry about right now, and she hasn't yet come into her full power.”
“And you need to tell her before she does.” Luna drums a gloved finger on the table, resting her chin on her other hand. “Since once she does, she's going to have a lot more options for resolving this crisis and someone will need to be on hand to keep her from doing something rash.”
“We don't know if she'll mature in the same way as the rest of us. We were all created, she was...” Celestia gropes for a term.
“Born, I believe is the word you're looking for,” Cadance says. “I would have thought you would be more aware of the vernacular involved, you being so closely-”
“That's enough,” Celestia says, her tone carrying a note of finality. “Twilight is still young, and she's still growing into her power... She's not ready to learn some things yet...”
“I think, Celestia, you might just be biased by who and what she is to you,” Luna replies frankly. “You wish to spare her the truth because it might hurt. In my estimation, your continued denial of what she is and what she will be is the most hurtful thing you could be doing to her. Your-”
“Luna,” Celestia cuts Luna off with a sharp snap of her wings, her tone edged as a dagger. “As you not so long ago pointed out, Twilight is up to her eyeballs in her very first major diplomatic crisis. I do not think that now is the correct time or place for her to be learning certain delicate home truths when we're not around to ride herd on her.”
“Well you'd better hurry up and get this crisis solved, or get the war underway,” Luna interjects sharply. “She's in the Khanate right now, and that means Our Friend will be taking an interest in the situation if She's not already.” Celestia nods.
“Mmmhm, I'd been concerned about that, given Twilight’s contact with the Justicar, Prophet. Mind you, She's been keeping her head down the last two hundred years or so, and the last thing anyone wants is a re-hash of the Heresy Wars, Her included.”
Luna leans forward, one hand laid flat upon the table. “All the more reason for you to hurry up and get this sorted so we can get our pre-pubescent princess back home before she starts going through the mood swings and tantrums.” Celestia nods her head, her wings folding away.
“Indeed, now we've all got things to do... do you have anything in mind to keep the Khans honest, like we discussed earlier?”
“It is the function of military reconnaissance to determine the lay of the land, state of enemy forces and potentially advantageous terrain features.”- Legion TM 1050- Reconnaissance.
Capitaine Adrelana narrows his upper set of eyes, scratching his chin as he looks at the sheaves of documents spread out in front of him. His lips are pursed as he taps one finger upon the table. His eyes then look upward and he leans back in the former conference room, drawing a hand through his shortened black hair before glancing at Capitaine Belial, sat at his right hand.
“Now to the tricky matter, brawling among the ranks, between soldiers of the Fifth and soldiers of the Fourth.”
The Val sweeps the table with a glare. A frisson of nervous energy ripples around the assembled officers as his St Petersburg accent adds a certain menace to the flowing Prench syllables.
“I am very well aware of the tense situation that we find ourselves in. Fourth Compagnie has assumed the burden of providing protection to the Princess, travelling to and from the palace every day, with the associated risks that come with it. Meanwhile, Fifth Compagnie has taken on the burden of providing compound security for a week now.”
His eyes snap upward, to the most junior soldier in the room, and Caporal Rainbow Dash locks her gaze with the four-eyed capitane. She can almost feel the contemptuous gaze of the assembled platoon commanders upon her, but she keeps her back straight. After a moment, Capitaine Adrelana's gaze leaves her face to sweep along the table like a lash.
“The Ninth, meanwhile, has been taking point position on all journeys to and from the palace. We all have shitty jobs, and whilst Capitane Belial and I accept that legionnaires are legionnaires and a certain amount of spirited discussion is only natural... this is the fifth brawl that has crossed my desk in as many days. If I was commanding a band of my clanspeople, that would be considered a slow week, but we are not howling barbarians. We are Equestrian Legionnaires, and a standard of discipline is expected, non, it is demanded.” His eyes suddenly focus on sous-lieutenant Adwaali, a hulking Zebrican who commands three-platoon, from whence one group of brawlers came.
“Sous-Lieutenant,” Adrelana's voice is almost a purr. “What have you done to resolve matters?”
“I have docked five days' pay from the legionnaires concerned, and informed them that any further misconduct will be dealt with by a spell at the post.” Adwaali looks uncomfortable, and Dash cannot blame him in the slightest. Adrelana had been furious at first parade when he'd delivered an absolutely ruthless bollocking to all the Legionnaires in attendance. He had dwelt at some length on the probable heritage of the guilty parties, and waxed eloquently upon the virtues of the Valorossiyan system, where such transgressions would be invariably punished by death in various gruesome ways. He had continued with a biting rebuke that maybe he should be transferring them to the Princess' housekeeping detail, since he could obviously not expect them to behave like soldiers, and that ironing the Princess' underwear would keep them out from underfoot. For the coup de-grace, he’d finished off by reflecting that he expected them to have no problems whatsoever with ironing lacy knickers already since they were quite clearly a bunch of fucking inverts.
It had been a work of pure poetry, even if it had relied heavily on Adrelana's noncom heritage, however it had underscored a problem apparent to all those in the room. Legionnaires will be legionnaires, and if you jam approximately two compagnies of fit young soldiers and their supporting elements into a small compound, which is then surrounded by a large occasionally hostile city, you're going to find tensions inevitably boiling over. This would ordinarily be dealt with by exercises and training routines, but there's limited training one can do when you're actually on an operational posting.
Dash can only congratulate herself that her unit hasn't been involved in the brawling. She and Smit have been too busy to do much by way of spirited discussion, having planned and led every single reconnaissance sortie to travel the route of the Princess' carriage beforehand, before travelling out ahead of the convoy, overwatching it, and then escorting it back. As a result, her thirteen troops have all been too tired to raise so much as their voices. Now, she watches as the short and blond lieutenant Zayvaadsen and tall, dark skinned sous-lieutenant Adwaali discuss the matter of punishment with Adrelana, and the punishment of the guilty parties is agreed upon (fines, with promises of flogging for repeat offences).
“So, what do we do about this, gentlemen?” Adrelana asks softly after a second. “We all know the problem: our soldiers are bored. Princess Twilight's decision to cut her escort to two platoons, whilst undoubtedly the right one, leaves three platoons effectively on their backsides doing nothing. Caporal Bolt, your thoughts?”
At once, outraged glances leap down the table to Dash, who blinks in shock. Adrelana's breach of propriety is surprising and none-too-welcome.
“My thoughts sir?”
“Come now, you spent almost six months in this pestilential city, I'm sure there are things your compagnie commander had you doing?”
“Yessir,” Dash says. “We'd be granted liberty to head out from the Embassy into the city in civvies and practice our people watching -- shadow known anti-Equestrian dissidents, generate an intelligence picture of the situation on the ground to shape the ambassador's reports home.” Dash frowns dubiously, not entirely sure how to frame what she'd actually spent the six months doing. There'd been plenty of people watching and covert patrolling, but she's pretty sure that the funny tendency most of those patrols had to wind up coming home roaring drunk does not need to be mentioned. Apart from anything else, it would be fairly detrimental to her career. Not to mention that guards who would have settled for a bribe six months ago would be rather more insistent on the local punishments. “I don't think we'd be able to repeat the gesture.”
“Watch your tone Caporal,” one of the officers growls, but Adrelana holds up a hand.
“Lieutenant, I asked for Caporal Dash's input. That includes recommendations, gut feelings, instincts and theories. She's been here for six months local time and I would be foolish not to take advantage of that.”
“Well I don't think anything outside the wire is really practical right now, given how tense the situation is, certainly we wouldn’t be able to get up to what we used to,” Dash says, feeling a little self conscious, like she's teaching her mother to suck eggs, but Belial nods.
“Indeed. You've hit on the major problem, that we can't send our men outside the wire to relax... do you have any suggestions to deal with this?”
“Yessir... perhaps we could encourage them to turn their competitive energies into more constructive fields? Unarmed combat competitions, marksmanship contests, we've got a lot of those empty airship repair halls, perhaps we could get some training done in the urban disciplines?” Dash suggests, and the officers look at each other uncomfortably.
“From the mouths of caporals,” Adrelana says after a moment. “I'm almost shocked that with the weight of braid in the room, none of the rest of you came up with that. It's simple enough, and it will be a useful way of keeping skills sharp whilst avoiding tying any Khan tails into knots.” The last part is almost questioning as he looks across to Belial, who nods.
“Of course, it sounds workable. We'll adjust a couple of halls and some of the offices... keep this discreet, and don't let the Princess hear about it,” Belial says. Dash tilts her head.
“Why don't we want the Princess to hear about it? I'm sure Twi- Princess Twilight Sparkle would be more than happy...” Dash asks, and Adrelana shakes his head.
“I'm not sure how much experience you have with civilian officialdom, Bolt, but in my experience, any time you let civvies know you've got bored soldiers on your hands, they'll invariably find something unsuitable for your soldiers to be doing.” Adrelana says, and there are nods rippling around the table at that, and more than a few mirthless chuckles.
Dash opens her mouth to object, “Well, Princess Twilight does have some training, she went through the-”
“That will be all, Caporal.” Belial says firmly, and Dash’s mouth snaps shut, with merely a flicker of the lips betraying her consternation.
“So, Lieutenant S,” Adrelana turns to the commander of the Sapeur detachment, “I want you to commandeer a couple of platoons from my compagnie, maybe a platoon from Belial, and do some work to build us some training facilities in one of the maintenance hangars. How long will it take?”
“A day for planning, two more for construction sir,” the unfortunately named S-E, or Sturdy Erector, says. “That's a conservative estimate though, there is quite a lot of scattered material, and I'm sure with some foraging, we can come up with something reasonably convincing.”
“Excellent, so that takes care of that... next order of business,” Adrelana says, and opens up a folder.
“Caporal Bolt, stand please. We need to do something about your rank.”
Dash shoves her chair back, rising to her feet and coming rigidly to attention. Adrelana looks down at the folder and then he nods slowly. A feeling of dread sinks into Dash's belly as every eye in the room turns upon her. This is it, this is where they take my stripes off me, she thinks, remembering her two dead comrades, collecting dust somewhere in Tarhen.
“Right, Caporal Bolt, as I'm sure you're aware, we can't really have a JNCO commanding a compagnie. Not only is it unseemly, it creates organizational problems.” His eyes are hard, and his mouth is a thin line, and Dash takes a deep breath as an icy feeling slowly settles in her chest. This is where he's going to take her compagnie away from her.
“How would you solve the problem in my position, Bolt?” Those four eyes are levelled at her, completely expressionless.
Dash summons her courage, all the while frantically dredging her brain for the half-remembered admin lectures that were part of the dreaded caporal's course, during most of which, she'd been half asleep.
“Well sir, uh, there'd be three options. Firstly, you could... dissolve the compagnie, and distribute the members amongst the ranks. Ninth Compagnie has no SNCOs so there wouldn't be many administrative headaches. There are always holes in compagnies that need filling. Uhh, you could also bring in an experienced NCO to take command of the unit. That would be more problematic in the case of the Ninth Compagnie. We're a specialist outfit rather than a line compagnie... any leader brought in at the NCO level would have to be reconnaissance trained. The issue's not so urgent if you were to bring in an officer, since most of our field work is done at the section level and a commanding officer of reconnaissance troops is primarily an administrative or planning role.” Dash's lips are dry, and her hands are sweating behind her back. “Alternatively, you could promote someone from the ranks.”
“I asked you how you'd solve the problem, not to recite the tables of organization to me. I presume you have recommendations?” Adrelana asks, his eyes narrowing very slightly, reaching down and slowly tapping a pencil upon his notepad. Dash's flush deepens as the knot of anxious fear in her chest tightens another notch.
“I do,” Dash says, trying not to think about the resemblance of Adrelana to his countryman, the regimental commander, Zaranov. All the while, her thoughts are whirling. Why are you asking me? I'm a JNCO, I'm not supposed to worry about this crap... what the fuck do they want?
“I'd recommend appointing an officer, or a reconnaissance trained NCO to head the compagnie. We're still an asset, and we're not dead yet,” Dash says, and Adrelana shakes his head.
“Not an option. We're short on officers as it is, and there's more that goes into planning and administration than you'd believe, particularly recon, and we don't have any reconnaissance qualified NCOs that I could spare to shift to command your unit. As you say, appointing an untrained NCO to command your unit would be worse than what we've got right now. You at least know how to employ your people and you know the people concerned, I couldn’t say the same for a new commander.” Adrelana taps his pencil again. “What would your second recommendation be?”
Dash takes a deep breath and swallows before she gets the words out. “Dissolution. We're under-strength and we don't have a command team. We could probably be used as a blank file somewhere,” Dash says.
Adrelana nods, making a note in his pad, as though considering the possibility. “Dissolution... that's interesting. As you've identified, it is an option.” He then clicks his tongue softly. “Belial, what do you think?”
“I'd like to give some more thought to the prospect of appointing a reconnaissance trained NCO to head the compagnie,” Belial says. “I've been perusing the table of organization and we do have an NCO whom we could appoint to command the unit. She's a little headstrong and aggressive but I think she's capable.” He turns to look at Adrelana who nods.
“Mmm, I'd forgotten about her. She's got leadership experience definitely... I think it's worth giving her a shot. I had to speak to Zaranov about it and he's all for it,” Adrelana says. Smiles start to ripple around the table, as though there's a hidden joke. Dash tilts her head, confused.
“So you're bringing someone in from The Pit? When will she get here?”
“She's already here, in fact she's been sitting at the end of the table for this entire meeting,” Adrelana says, and Dash's eye widens in shocked horror as guffaws of laughter start to bubble around the room.
“Congratulations, Sergent,” Adrelana says, his eyes flashing as a broad grin spreads across his face.
Dash blinks, shocked, unable to quite take it in, and Adrelana opens the wallet and pulls out two pairs of rank tabs.
“We're going to brevet you up to sergent. Formal promotion will have to wait until we're back in The Pit and you’ve gone through your Stage Sergents, but I have no doubt that Zaranov will be more than happy to officially confirm you in rank,” Adrelana continues speaking, but Dash doesn't quite hear him. A little happy voice in her head is chanting over and over: ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh. She'd never expected this, never even dreamed that she'd make it to Sergent, yet here she is.
“That is, unless you can think of anyone better?” Belial asks, grinning archly, and Dash releases a nervous laugh.
“I'm sure I probably could... this is... thank you sir.”
“Don't thank me. This is all you. Just be careful, they come off a hell of a lot easier than they can go on. If Belial or myself think that you've been overpromoted, we'll take them off you in a heartbeat,” Adrelana says, and his smile is tempered by an edge of steel that takes the edge off Dash's own happy glow, and she nods quickly.
“Yessir, I understand,” Dash says quickly, before Adrelana reaches out and tosses the diamonds of fabric to Dash. She snatches them out of the air, running her thumb over the two stripes, the bursting grenade topped by three more angled chevrons, to replace the twin hash marks of the caporal. Some part of her mind doesn't quite believe it yet, and she can't help but lick dry lips with a dry tongue.
“Right, if that's all taken care of, next order of business is fire watches...” Dash sits down, as Adrelana sets the folder to one side and turns to the next order on his agenda. ____________
Half an hour later, the meeting breaks up, and Dash rises from her chair with a bulging notebook and a sense of relief. She's never been fond of admin meetings, and the fact that this meeting was an officers-only meeting meant she still felt like an outsider, but she's learned rather more than she'd expected. But then, she supposes that might just be the point. This is the Legion, in an operational environment, and Belial and Adrelana don't have time to take her through the Stage Sergent exams, never mind the Aspirant course.
As the officers file past her, some with congratulatory words or back-slapping, Dash organizes her paperwork. She's got things to do, re-organizing her troops first and foremost, though the process of reorganization is not going to be too difficult. Smit is already at her old rank, and if she brevets Sov up to fill the role of the other caporal...
Dash's thoughts are suddenly yanked back by the sound of bootsteps clattering up behind her. “Sergent, congratulations.” Capitane Belial falls in next to her, and Dash clicks to a halt, but Belial shakes his head.
“Let's walk and talk sergent. We've got some things to discuss,” Belial says, gesturing for Dash to fall in beside him, which she does, looking down at the small Khan officer.
“I think your suggestion about extra training is a good one. We need to keep the men moving after all,” Belial says, opening the door and leading her out into the hallway.
“I think however, that we should find an alternative... a means of letting them blow off steam,” Belial says, and Dash tilts her head.
“You're talking about launching... recreational patrols into the city?” Dash asks, and Belial nods.
“I am. Training only goes so far, and these are soldiers... we can't keep them chained up in this compound forever,” Belial says, and Dash nods slowly. She can understand that train of thought, even if she doesn't agree with it. This is a hostile city, and under the circumstances, sending legionnaires out by the platoon to go and get wasted sounds like an excellent way to lose men. That being said, something in Dash cries out for a chance to go out on the town, a chance to go and kick over the traces.
“It's a good idea sir...” Dash says delicately, trying to think of the best way to tell her superior officer that his idea is not only a bad idea but a stupid one. “Just... given the situation right now, how tense things are...”
“Things are calming down,” Belial says airily. “It's my thought that the worst is behind us. If things were as bad as you're saying, then Princess Twilight wouldn't be taking the last two days off herself.”
Dash bites her tongue, wanting to argue that Twilight doesn't even know the meaning of the words 'Day Off'. But then, Sergent Arc Bolt wouldn't know anything about Princess Twilight Sparkle or her working habits, no siree.
“Well sir... I'm still not sure it's a good idea. When the soldiers concerned are incapacitated through drink...”
“Then we'll flog them as an object lesson to the others,” Belial says. “Aside from your initial foray, none of the units have come under any sort of attack save the occasional thrown stone or insult... even the protesters at the gates have calmed down somewhat.”
Dash nods slowly. This sounds like a recipe for trouble if she's ever heard one, even if Belial's argument does have the support of facts. However Belial is giving her an order...
“Very well sir... so when are we starting the recreational patrols?” she asks, and Belial smiles benevolently.
“I thought we could start with a recreational reconnaissance patrol tonight, by your people. You've spent time in the city most recently, I'm sure you can think of a few watering holes that might be suitable,” Belial says, and Dash nods slowly. She can indeed think of quite a few places... all of which are too far away to make them practical. There’s also the minor matter of the changed regulatory climate...
“I'm sure we can find some places sir,” she says dubiously, and Belial grins, a smile showing an array of carnivorous teeth.
“That's the spirit.” He claps Dash powerfully on the shoulder. “This is all incognito naturally, I don't want your men talking about this until we've actually found somewhere to send our troops. If it turns out there is nowhere suitable, then we can put the kibosh on the whole thing without risking rioting among the troops.”
Dash tilts her head, thinking hard, before she then nods. Belial's making sense. Out of all the units on base, her reconnaissance troops are least likely to be missed and their absence can be most easily explained away. They're also very good at keeping secrets and being sneaky—and, an uncharitable little voice whispers in the back of her head, we've earnt it. We've been under contact here, none of the other legionnaires have. We deserve to have a night off once in awhile.
“Yessir, I'll get with my troops and we'll sortie out tonight,” Dash says after a second. Belial's the senior officer here, he's given her orders and it's up to her to make those orders work. Even if they are the stupidest orders I've ever heard in my life.
“Excellent, enjoy your night out, Sergent. Oh!” He grabs Dash's arm as she makes to head out. “There's something I forgot to mention, we're getting your Normalization paperwork expedited. That should be with us in a few days.”
It's all that Dash can do not to let her hands start to tremble as he walks away.
The Legion has long standing traditions of anonymity. Due to the nature of service in the Legion, many people with various murky pasts have found a second lease on life within its ranks. However there comes a point, generally when one is crossing the boundary from JNCO into SNCO territory, when the Legion needs to know about your past and what you used to be, since you're now entrusted with the lives of other legionnaires. Normalization of Military Situation is how that happens. Your background is checked and your name changes back, at least in your official paperwork, and so Arc Bolt reverts to Rainbow Dash.
This would not ordinarily be a problem, since most make it to SNCO ranks after five to ten years of service, by which time whatever you did that propelled you into the Legion's ranks is ancient history. Two, maybe three years have passed since Dash and Twilight broke up... and given the current, extremely high profile nature of Twilight's current work and Dash's own assignment...
“Crap,” Dash mutters, casting a venomous glance at Belial's retreating back. This is going to bring the mother of all shit-storms crashing down directly upon her and Twilight's combined heads. It's going to be a major disaster. It's going to torpedo the conference, and turn her into a laughing stock among the legionnaires.
“Hey Boss,” a voice from behind her snaps Dash out of her reverie. She turns to see Smit walking up behind her, his klepi blanc tucked under one arm. “We wondered where you'd got to. I've got everyone else doing kit maintenance and general busywork... though by the sound of it, I should be getting them all filled up with ballast.”
Dash merely gives a noncommittal grunt and Smit falls in alongside her. “You alright Boss?” he asks, and Dash nods.
“I'm fine... and yeah, get them full of ballast before we head out tonight. Draw straws to put a couple on shark watch. Belial's lost his fuckin' mind.” Dash glowers and Smit raises an eyebrow.
“Yep,” Smit agrees. “Ordinarily, I'd disagree with you, but I can't see this being anything other than a major fucking headache. Wanna take it up with Capitane Adrelana?”
“No thanks. A piss-up is a piss-up, and we haven't had one of those in quite some time. I think we're due some I&I.” Dash says. Intoxication and Intercouse… sounds like an excellent idea right about now.
“We definitely are,” Smit looks relieved at the prospect of their piss-up not being cancelled, and Dash can't blame him. She could do with a drink or seven herself. It's been far too long since she and the rest of her unit had a good run ashore...
Rainbow Dash and Smit walk across the parade square, both of them too engrossed with planning the run ashore to notice the Khan Capitane gazing down from his own window. After a moment, he turns away to send a telegram. It’s a short message, to a local address that doesn't appear in any Legion directories.
Eight hours later, Dash has more than warmed to the notion of a compagnie piss-up. Her brave fighters are wandering down the Tarhen streets in something that can only be called 'parade motley'. They're dressed in an outrageous collection of civilian clothes from a variety of sources. Dash isn't sure which she finds more amusing, Smit's waistcoat, monocle, jodhpurs and collar ruffles or Sov's top hat and tails, the sleeve of his tailcoat having been removed to accommodate his fighting arm.
“You're sure it's this way?” Dash asks, glancing down at her pocketwatch. Smit nods blearily.
“I checked the map myself, bosh, it's definitely this way,” the bald legionnaire says, lifting a cane with a silver pommel and pointing it like a cavalry sabre. “Onward! Death or Glory!” he bellows, raising the bottle of brandy to his lips and taking a liberal swig as cheers erupt from the other legionnaires around him, and the soldiers punch the air, cheering as they walk down the street. Hostile glares from the locals crackle through the air around them, but the good cheer of the legionnaires is infectious, and Dash finds herself smiling in spite of her worries.
It's liberating to be out and about, walking the streets that they rattled down in their carriages a few hours ago, and Dash's problems with the Normalization and her new rank fade into a dull background hum against the warm fuzzy feeling that bubbles through her veins.
“Hey, pass me some of that,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the bottle from Smit. She takes a quick gulp of the spirit and hisses as it burns its way down her throat before passing it back to him. It tastes like ass, but that's not the point. The point is that she's here, in Tarhen, drinking in public, in civilian clothes, with her head uncovered.
As acts of defiance go, it's reasonably petty, but Dash can live with petty for now.
“Whiskers, how's it feel to be back here?” she calls, and the Khan giggles, a rich and musical sound slightly tainted by her drunkenness.
“It's great, boss, I'm having an excellent time,” Whiskers replies happily, her golden fur gleaming in the light of the setting sun as she skips forward, her red skirts blooming upward, and the golden bangles around her bare ankles jingle musically. Dash has never seen Whiskers dress like this before, and she has to admit the Khan female cuts a fairly striking presence in her red and orange silken skirts that would be considered salacious by Equestrian standards, never mind the more straitlaced Khans. Elaborate henna dyed patterns dance down her tortoiseshell furred arms, and more golden henna decorates her muzzle.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Sov asks. “I thought you Khans were supposed to go around in sack-cloth so that no one could see you had tits.”
“Fuck you,” Whiskers chirps, her back to the others as she skips forward, her tail flicking behind her like a flag, and Dash tries not to notice the way her skirts seem to be flashing rather more leg than would be considered appropriate.
“Promises, promises,” Sov taunts in reply. “So tell us, what on earth is that costume and where'd you find it?”
“Khalaji tribal dancing outfit. From the south, where I used to live,” Whiskers says as she falls back in among the group, deftly snatching the bottle from Smit's unresisting hand and taking a swig. “I used to be a dancer, back before everything went crazy... The old Emperor came from the south, you see, and he got lots of support from the Khalaji.... My family did well out of the Emperor, we got lands, money... you name it. Of course that all changed with the Revolution.” She takes another longer swig. “The Emperor didn't get on with the mountain barbarians, and they never got on with him... when the Shah came along, my family...” She takes another swig from the bottle and then she spits eloquently at the foot of one of the monuments lining the street. “Madar-jendeh,” she swears sourly, and then wraps a furry arm around Smit's shoulder and buries her face in his neck as she releases a low moan of pain.
The other legionnaires look at each other awkwardly, their mood suddenly soured, and Dash clears her throat as she looks down the street, spotting the small, out of the way “tea house,” though judging by the sounds coming from within, tea is probably not being served there—or at least if it is, it's taking a poor second to the beer.
“Let's keep going... Whiskers, you going to be alright?” she asks, thinking that maybe it'd be a good idea to take Whiskers home instead.
“I'll be fine... and my name's Shalah Zaafan... no more of this Whiskers crap. Sounds like something you feed your cat,” she says, and then extends her hand to Dash in a quick wrist clasp, which Dash returns.
“Welcome, legionnaire Zaafan,” Dash says, smiling at the Khan, who gives her a gentle smile back.
“So why are you wearing that?” Sov asks, and Zaafan looks up at him.
“Because... I'm walking through Tarhen, dressed like a Khalaji. I don't have to hide or pretend to be something I'm not. I'm me and no one can take that away. I can be proud of who I am,” Zaafan says softly, and Dash closes her eye for just a moment, and then she opens it, hoping that no one saw her lapse.
“Heck yeah you can be, and if anyone says otherwise, then we'll beat the crap out of them. Death or Glory!” Dash says, stepping forward and punching the air. On cue, the other legionnaires whoop in triumph, though out of the corner of her eye, Dash notices Smit's gaze lingering on her face for a moment. Then, they're at the front door, and two huge bald and tattooed Khans - vaguely reminiscent of that scum that Diplomatic Incident had been playing cards with - are letting her and her little group through the doors into the bar.
The first thing that Dash notices is the noise. Voices are raised in song, or else in argument, in a variety of tongues from Equestrian to Fars'ad to Traveller Speech to everything in between. It strikes her like a physical wall of sound, and as she glances back at her party, she can see Zaafan folding her ears back against the onslaught.
Dash pushes her way through the throng of richly dressed traders rubbing shoulders with drunks and dock-workers, her eye adjusting to the flickering light of the torches. It's still almost impossible to pick anything out through the fog of smoke drifting from a dozen snakelike hookah pipes being gently puffed by grey-furred old cats wrapped in faded robes.
As Dash's eye adjust, she picks out the bar, or what passes for a bar, sat in the corner with two more burly enforcer types flanking it. Overworked bar-girls, dressed in what is obviously meant to be a poor imitation of Zaafan's own garb, are moving this way and that, pouring illegally brewed moonshine into glasses. Stained farming implements and swords hang from the walls, along with faded flags of various colours and designs.
“Let's secure a table,” she says, gesturing for Smit to follow her. As they step into the bar area proper, however, Dash notices something pass through the crowd of patrons. A nervous tension crackles like fire, as eyes turn and conversation ceases. Dozens of eyes assess the group of military age newcomers.
“Who are you with?” a voice growls, and Dash clicks her tongue.
“Nay mushkil- No problem,we're not 'with' anyone. We're just here for a quiet drink is all,” Dash replies in fluent Fars'ad. There is a soft grunt from around the bar area, a grunt that Dash isn’t sure represents acceptance or derision, but then she steps forward.
“We've got coin to burn, but if you'd rather we went someplace else, then we can arrange that,” Dash says with a smirk, and then a heavyset Khan standing at the bar nods slowly. His grey tortoiseshell fur is streaked with grease, and his robes bulge due to his heavy paunch.
“We'd be honoured to welcome gallant defenders of the faith into our midst,” he says after a moment, and Dash smirks slightly, but she says nothing further as the crowd starts to turn back to their business. Instead, she leads her group to one of the tables in a corner.
“Right, we're here to celebrate, so enjoy yourselves, but don't go nuts,” Dash cautions them. She sits down and one of the junior troopers turns and heads toward the bar, Zaafan going with him.
Dash watches their progress for a moment before she sits back in her chair, content to let the merrymaking and banter flow around her. She has a lot on her mind right now, and she'd rather think about it whilst mildly lubricated as opposed to being staggering drunk.
The Normalization is a scary thing to contemplate. It has the potential to absolutely and completely fuck everything up, beyond any hope of retrieval. For Dash, it won't change that much. As a legionnaire, she's not going to be news and The Pit is even less accessible than Canterlot Castle for all but the most determined of reporters. No one inside the Second Regiment will give a shit either. Zaranov's stance on sex politics is as uncomplicated as it is uncompromising. (Do what you want in the privacy of your own bunk, as long as you're on the fire-step in the morning. Make an issue of what another legionnaire does with a consenting partner, and you’ll be lucky if you walk away with all your teeth.)
For Twilight however... for Twilight, it will be a big deal. It'll rake up personal history that the Princess really doesn't need to be dealing with right now. It'll certainly queer the deal with the Shah and his people, and it'll remind Equestrians about their newest princess' perceived foibles when they really need absolute confidence in her judgement.
So, I've got an outline of the problem, now what the fuck do I do about it? Dash asks herself, gazing into the frothing mug of moonshine that has been laid on the table before her.
“Hey, boss.” Dash looks up as she feels a hand upon her shoulder and turns her head to see Smit smiling genially at her, his eyes slightly glazed and his face flushed by drink.
“Whazzup? We're supposed to be celebrating and you look like your favourite dog has just gone 'n died.”
“Yep, but what else do you expect? This is the Legion, not the Horse Guards. Bullshit's part of our job description.”
“It's my Normalization,” Dash sighs. She shouldn't be saying this at all, let alone to Smit, but she needs to speak to someone, and her 2IC is probably a better option than anyone else. “S’going to be problematic.”
“Killed a few people, did ya?” Smit asks, and Dash tosses him an irritated look.
“If you're going to be a prick then I won't... ah fuck it... it's about that thing I mentioned earlier. It could be damaging for certain personages,” Dash mutters, and Smit nods slowly.
“I see... then why not hold back a bit... Suggest to that personage's fat handmaiden that it might be wise if your Normalization was delayed for a month or two, or else go directly to Adrelana and make a similar suggestion. As long as you're Normalized by the time you do your Stage Sergents, no one gives a fuck,” Smit gesticulates airily, and Dash's eye widens. She'd never even considered that to be an option. It's simple, incredibly stupid, and it just might work...
“Thanks a bunch Smit,” Dash says, the knot of worry that had been tugging insistently at her throughout the day unknotting. Her shoulders slump and a smile spreads across her face.
“No problem, I'm just sur-surprised you never thought of it yourself boss...”
“I probably should have, but I've been worrying about other shit too.”
“So I've noticed. Sergent, permit me to give you an order, if you please, as your... 2IC, who is only looking out for your best intereshts, I hereby order you to go upstairs and find a willing partner for half an hour. In my profesh... profesh... long medical experience, you are suffering from a case of what would, in males, be called blue balls... since you're a woman...” Smit pauses and takes another long draught of his moonshine, before turning back to Dash. “Since you're a woman... I don't fuckin' know, just go upstairs and speak to one of the trades...people, I'm sure they'd be more’n willing to help you out.” Smit finishes his rambling, punctuating the sentence with a loud burp.
Dash glances at Smit, thinking for a moment, before she pushes her chair back.
“You know, Smit, that's the best advice you've given me all year. Cheers.” With that, she turns and pushes her way across the bar, narrowly avoiding getting caught in the scrum around the bar as the patrons try and get served, before pushing her way up the stairs.
As she ascends the stairs, she feels a nervous twinge, a certain tightness in her belly. She needs to forget about Twilight, and if that means losing herself in the arms of another for a half hour then so be it. Dash can think of worse ways to spend half an hour, not to mention it gives her a convenient excuse to be sober.
However as she climbs the stairs, and starts moving down the corridor, trying to ignore the vocalizations coming from behind the rickety wooden doors to either side of her, Dash starts to wonder if this is really such a good idea... but she shucks that thought off with the ease of a professional. She needs to relax. She needs this. She hasn't gotten laid in two and a bit years and the memories of just how good it was are starting to crowd in her forebrain, assisted by a rather insistent pulse from her nethers reminding her of all the sensations she's done her best to forget.
Eventually she reaches a door which doesn't have a little red light glowing outside it, and she knocks experimentally, unsure quite how to go about this sort of thing. She hears footsteps approach the door, and she has just a moment to wonder if this was really such a good idea before the door opens to reveal a short-ish Khan, in a pale grey tortoiseshell pattern. She's sleek and slender, with a flowing fluid grace that is only accentuated by the long gauzy robes that she's wearing that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The Khan looks her up and down, her golden eyes gleaming and her ears flicking, and then she smiles faintly.
“Come in, soldier, make yourself comfortable,” the girl says, turning her back and heading back into her chamber. Dash follows, her eye on the swishing tail and the slowly swishing hips. The room is ostentatious and tawdry, with lots of gold leaf and even a dead animal of some description stretched out as a rug. Dash's gaze takes in the dresser, with its polished marble counter-top, before wandering back to the short Khan.
From behind, Dash cannot help but appreciate the Khan's beautiful colouring, the mottled splotches of brown and strips of ashen grey, against a deeper coal-grey background. There’s also the minor matter of the pert, well formed backside. The Khan turns around, smiling at Dash.
“My name's Adyna, and I'll be serving you today,” she says, turning on her heel to face Dash, a wicked smile curling at her lips and her whiskers twitching slightly. Her eyes flash with promise, and her practiced, swishing tread as she slinks over to the spellbound legionnaire reminds Dash of a predator stalking prey.
“A pleasure to meet you, Adyna,” Dash says, her eye sweeping up and down the Khan's graceful figure, before locking onto her eyes.
“The pleasure's all mine. You're not my regular sort of clientele,” Adyna says softly as she walks up to Dash and lifts a hand to gently run her fingers along Dash's face. “You're not human though you're dressed as one... fit, though I'd expect nothing else from a soldier...” The Khan smiles, her hand dropping down to cup the small of Dash's back.
“Does it really matter what I am at this point?” Dash asks, a smile spreading across her face and the whore's whiskers twitch faintly.
“I suppose it doesn't...” she says after a moment, grinning as she pulls Dash in close and Dash's wings unfold in a whoomph, quivering slightly as they stretch to their full span. The Khan smiles faintly, reaching out and running her fingers along the leading edge of Dash's wing and grinning at the sudden sucking breath that Dash draws in.
“Well that's a good start,” Adyna breathes, pulling Dash closer and steering her toward the bed. Dash inhales the scent of the Khan, the richness of her perfume and the soft, sleek texture of her fur as she reaches up to gently stroke the Khan's neck. The Khan releases a low rasping purr of pleasure.
She makes the whole thing so natural, so easy as she guides Dash back to the bed and pushes her down onto it. Dash falls back heavily, gazing at the Khan as she smiles saucily to the legionnaire, before she reaches to the shoulders of her gauzy gown, and peels it away, letting it flow down her skin, revealing pale grey belly fur, perfectly formed breasts with tiny pink nipples, and a small gap in her groin fur to reveal a glistening pink slit. Dash gazes up at the Khan, backlit as she is by the room’s chandelier and she reaches up, resting her hands on Adyna’s hips as the whore slowly reaches for the buttons to Dash’s blue velvety waistcoat. Yet as she does so, Dash feels a flicker of something at the corner of her mind, a momentary flicker of long midnight blue hair hanging down, and soft olive skin gleaming in the moonlight… whispering and giggling, and then…
Dash looks down at the Khan’s deftly moving hands, slowly peeling away the velvety waistcoat. Dash lifts her arms, folding her wings with some difficulty to allow the Khan to pull it away. The shirt comes away next, the Khan’s fingers working deftly to undo each button, her eyes appearing almost half-hooded, and her pupils dilated.
Dash slowly flicks a thumb across Adyna’s nipple, a soft twinge of guilt rippling through her even whilst the Khan releases another rumbling purr of contentment as she eases Dash’s shirt open. What have I got to be guilty about? She said she didn’t want to see me, that we should separate. She said it herself.
Yet even as Dash pulls the Khan down against her, pressing her own torso against the soft fur of the other female, she feels the nagging feeling of something not being quite right.
“You’re tense,” Adyna breathes, her breath hot against Dash’s ear, “I’m not going to bite you… unless you want me to that is.” She giggles, and Dash smiles weakly as she runs a hand up the crease of the Khan’s spine.
“Just… got a lot on my mind,” Dash says, and the Khan pushes back, rolling to rest on her side, propping her head up with one arm.
“Well then that’s what you’re paying me for… to take those things off your mind,” Adyna says gently. “It’s not just sex I can help you with, if you need someone to talk to, then I can do that. I can listen. You look like you need someone to listen to you for a change,” The Khan says, and Dash sighs, rolling back onto the bed.
“I’m fairly sure this isn’t how it’s normally supposed to go, but okay,” she says, and Adyna nods.
“You’re supposed to take your shoes off first.” The Khan smiles, and Dash flushes with embarrassment, but as she moves to unbuckle them, Adyna puts her hand on her shoulder.
“It’s quite alright… you’re here now, and your presence is supposed to be some filthy sin, so I’m sure my sheets can cope.” Adyna giggles faintly, licking her lips as she rolls onto her belly, and Dash’s eye briefly drifts over the contours of her back and bottom, before flashing back up to the female’s face.
“What in the name of the Prophet?” The Khan leans forward, tugging at Dash’s shirt to open it, revealing the tightly wrapped white cloth beneath. “I hope you’re not wounded… I don’t want you bleeding all over my bedsheets, that’ll cost extra.”
“Wha-Oh.” Dash glances down at the cloth and she shakes her head, smiling slightly. “Don’t they have these over here?” She asks, and Adyna shakes her head.
“So you’re not wounded?” Adyna asks, and Dash smiles faintly.
“Not here I’m not,” She replies, undoing the knot just below her breasts, and slowly unwrapping the fabric with a sigh of naked relief as the cloth loosens, exposing her upper torso to the Khan, who tilts her head.
“We get told that all you Daemonspawn are well built up here.” She indicates her own more generous breasts, before indicating the small handfuls of flesh on Dash’s torso, and Dash smiles mirthlessly.
“Of course. Can’t say I complain mind you, I don’t know how I’d cope if I had boobs like those and had to run or crawl anywhere,” Dash says, and the Khan nods slowly. She looks down at Dash’s bare skin, at her toned and muscled torso, and whistles.
“So those markings, they’re normal for Equestrians?” she asks, reaching out with one finger and touching the bursting grenade, her fingers tracing the letters. “Two E R-E-P, what does that mean?” she asks.
“Second Régiment étranger de parachutistes,” Dash replies. ”My regiment… though it’s been ages since we’ve used parachutes for anything,” she explains. Adyna nods slowly, tracing the other marks with a long finger. Several tattoos, all of which are small, subtle things that no one outside the Legion would understand, and scars. Another woman with those markings has lived a hard life. Dash has lived life hard.
“Well… soldier girl… what’re you thinking about?” Adyna asks after a moment. “You’re concerned about something.”
Dash frowns faintly. She’s beginning to wonder about her newfound friend’s insistence to know what Dash is worried about. She hasn’t received any kind of counterintelligence training beyond the obvious field level stuff, but even she knows about the dangers of unsolicited pillow talk. “It’s boring… not worth bringing up,” Dash says softly, and the Khan sighs.
“That’s a pity, I’m mildly curious.” Adyna says softly, reaching underneath her pillow with one hand. “Anyway, we’ve got time… let’s enjoy ourselves.” She then rolls over, pulling Dash with her so that Dash is on top of the Khan. “Now, you’re a little overdressed, perhaps you could do something about that,” she suggests, and Dash reaches downward to undo her trousers, her gaze locked on the Khan’s eyes.
A sharp crash splits the quiet of the room. She whirls toward the door, her eye clapping on a red-robed figure. The Khan beneath her suddenly shoves her backward off the bed sending the world spinning. A crack rings through her skull as she hits the floor. She hits heavily on her right side, and the thump thump thump of approaching boots tells her she’s out of time. Her eye tries to focus through the confusion, but one of the Khans immediately hooks a sharp kick into her ribcage. Air explodes from Dash’s lungs with a whuff. She doubles around another savage kick as pain spears through her, but then she’s slamming a fist upward into his crotch. The Khan yowls, staggering backward and Dash swarms up, stumbling to her feet. Burly, red-robed arms suddenly wrap around her in a crushing bear-hug. Dash grunts.
Bad idea.
Two sheets of solid Equestrian wing muscle unfurl with the snapping of a whip. The hulking Khan is thrown backward. Dash hears the thunderous crash of wood and glass splintering as the enemy cannonballs into the dresser, and as he slumps to the floor, perfume bottles cracking and fragmenting around him. Dash has no time to spare for him as she’s already whirling to confront the second assailant, catching a flicker of movement in the corner of her remaining eye.
Basijji, Dash thinks groggily, taking in those loose maroon robes. He’s already in close, his stick raised to swing. Dash ducks forward by reflex under the first hasty swing and comes up. The staff whooshes as it parts the air inches from her back, her assailant now inside her guard. Dash yelps beneath a sudden explosion of pain as something catches her in the small of the back. She twists around and slams a fist into his solar plexus, right below his sternum. A whoosh of air explodes out of the Khan’s lungs as he folds around her punch. Dash suddenly sees the staff blindly lashing backward. She twists to dodge, but the blow cracks into Dash’s ribs. Pain starbursts across her chest. Dash stumbles beneath the blow, but the world seems to be shifting beneath her feet and she only barely manages to deflect another swing with her forearm. She then snatches for the guy’s wrist to try and break it. Her hand closes on empty air and she sees a black boot scything up-
An eruption of pain bursts in her stomach and the air explodes out of her lungs. She doubles over, dropping to her knees as her straining core muscles fight for control. She feels hands grabbing at her, spinning her around. An arm like an iron bar tightens around her neck and Dash scrabbles frantically at it, even as she feels it tightening and the energy suddenly starting to fade from her limbs.
Then she leans forward, turning her head and nestling her chin into the crook of his arm, pulling the Basiji with her. Her wing snaps out, slamming one leg out from under him with an audible crack as muscle meets bone. He teeters off balance and he’s moving to regain control as Dash snatches for his belt. Grabbing it, she manages to throw her assailant to the ground, and she throws her weight into the powerful elbow-strike. A sharp crunch beneath her elbow, and she feels the wet cartilage of his larynx fragment beneath her, and the Khan expires, gasping wetly on the floor.
Dash looks up at the third, the shortest of the three, standing guard at the door. He turns as he hears his colleague’s choked gurgles. His hand drops down, snatching at his belt for something in a leather holster. Adrenaline and anger are surging through her veins as she advances on him. Tangled in his robes, he just manages to pull the revolver free and raise it, but Dash is already stepping inside of him and gripping his wrist, dragging his gun upward and following up with a sharp uppercut that slams into his chin, sending him staggering backward, the gun tumbling from his nerveless fingers.
Dash snatches his gun as it falls to the ground, swinging the revolver’s grip and arcing it upward with a sharp splintering crack against his temple, and the Khan sags to the ground. She reverses the gun in her grip, taking the short-barreled revolver and raising it into the aim.
Dash quickly moves to cover the door, hearing a commotion from the corridor. She hears a soft whimpering from behind her, but disregards it. The whore can look after herself, and right now Dash has bigger problems.
“Hey boss,” Smit’s business-like voice barks from down the corridor. “You alright?”
“Yeah, just had to briefly discuss payment options.”
“Righto, well when you’re decent, we could use a hand down here, no rush, just locals for now.” Smit’s tone is level and unhurried, as though discussing a preferred variety of towel.
“Right, I’ll be down soon, just need to take care of business here,” Dash says as she quickly finishes dressing herself, and then turns to survey the scene. The once ornate room is a mess, with one of the Basijis nestled in the wreckage of Adyna’s snapped dressing table, glittering shards of mirror scattered over his shoulders like shining dandruff. Two more Basijjis are bleeding into the thick carpet, and Adyna herself is crying into her bedsheets.
“All in all, I’ve had worse first dates.” Dash grins at nothing and twirls the revolver around one finger, before she glances up to see a dusty old leather hat on a hat-hook by the door. She pauses for a moment, frowning speculatively, before shaking her head and stepping out of the room.
Dash steps out onto the balcony above the steadily developing riot and whistles appreciatively as she gazes down at the whirling mayhem below. Her eye scans the three-way brawl currently ripping its way through the bar like a hurricane of swinging fists and flashing claws. Bottles are whistling this way and that, insults are flying and humans and Khans are going down on both sides.
Dash quickly picks out the black-robed Morality Police and their crimson-robed stooges, a tightly packed wedge of them fighting their way into the bar and enthusiastically laying into the crowd around them with their batons, but the other patrons of the bar are even less enamoured of the Morality Police than the legionnaires. This does not mean the legionnaires are getting off easily. They’re formed up in a tight little corner, pulping anyone that dares come near.
“Hey boss,” Smit barks from the foot of the stairs, and Dash turns to him. Sweat is glistening on his face and he’s grinning like a pig in shit.
“Having fun?” Dash asks as she descends the stairs, and the legionnaire’s grin widens as he swings the bannister-post in his hand like a club, sending a loud tattooed specimen stumbling backward, clutching his bloody nose.
“You have no idea,” Smit replies as the tattooed Khan comes scything back in, claws raised. Smit brings his club back on the back-swing, under the Khan’s guard to smash up into his chin, sending the Khan stumbling backward into the churning morass of the bar brawl.
“Fair enough, you want to try pushing across to the others?” Dash asks, grimacing slightly at her injuries, and Smit glances at the others, across the room, nodding.
“Sure, they could probably use our help… you reckon these idiots will cause any issues getting to them?” he asks, and Dash shakes her head dismissively, moving up so that Smit is covering her blind side as her fists ball up.
“Ready? Move,” she snaps, and as one the two legionnaires push down the staircase into the whirling confusion of the brawl. At once, they’re almost submerged in a sea of bodies, and Dash’s movements become the trained reflex of the professional killer she has become, though she’s careful to pull her punches just enough to avoid actually killing any of the people that she strikes.
A hand snatches at her wrist, and Dash’s other hand grabs the wrist and squeezes, her grip forcing the other hand to let go. She then pulls the hand- and the body following it- off balance, and her other hand comes up to grab the scruff of his neck, and the Khan is on the floor eating dirt before Dash can blink. Another pushes around to flank him, and Dash’s savage upper-cut sends him staggering backward, easy prey for Dash’s follow up slam into his belly, which hurls him careening into a table, smashing into it and upending the contents in a rain of moonshine and beer glasses… and the angry blows of the dock-workers whose pints those had been.
Behind her she can feel Smit moving in perfect unison, the two of them hammering their way across the dance floor and taking absolutely no prisoners, using fists, feet and whatever comes to hand to carve their way across the floor of the tavern, all the while trying to duck and weave out of the way of incoming blows.
A human comes in for the attack this time. Dash ducks under his first hasty swing, and then her own fist comes up in a hammerblow aimed at his ear. The dockie ducks, and Dash’s blow catches empty air, and then she’s stumbling backwards as his powerful punch slams into her midriff. The wind rushes out of Dash and she staggers backward, groaning from her progressively pulped core muscles. The dockie is backing up as Smit flows forward, his foot slamming into the dockie’s ankle. The human is slow to get out of the way and so the blow connects with full force, knocking the dock-worker’s foot out from under him, the hapless dockie going down like a sack of shit. Smit stamps viciously downward on the man’s testicles, tossing a couple of kicks into his side for good measure.
Dash recovers and moves right back into the fight without a word of thanks or apology. There will be time to offer thanks or apologies later, but for now there is only the fight, a confusing blur of fists and feet, hastily blocked claws and bursts of pain, but in spite of it all, Dash is forced to laugh out loud as her fists and feet move in a seamless blur. Just for once, it’s nice to be involved in a good honest bar fight and let the fight flow over her and through her. Everyone will get up with broken and bloody noses, no hard feelings.
Then they’re suddenly through, and Dash is having to duck a reflexive swing from Sov’s mighty combat arm. The arm whooshes over her, the hiss of its hydraulics as the limb extends sounding uncomfortably close as a body behind her crumples to the floor. Dash turns and looks behind her, noting the Khan’s broken nose, jaw, and blood pouring from his lip, and she whistles. Idiot’s lucky not to get ground into meatpaste.
Dash dodges another swing and then reflexively ducks into the circle, Smit following behind her. “How goes?” Dash asks, and Sov grunts, his combat arm wrenching a swinging stick from a Basijji’s hand and crunching it into splinters. The Basiji’s eyes widen and he raises his open palms as the big man steps forward, drawing back his metal fist to swing again.
“It goes. There’s a hundred of them to twelve of us. The situation, such as it is, is under control.” Sov swings again, his normal organic fist just as dangerous as the mechanical limb to any of the Khans who are too slow or too stupid to get out of the way. Dash turns into the fight and loses herself, lets the rhythm of the fight flow through her. Her fists fly, bottles crash and voices are raised in a thunderous tumult, and Dash is having more fun than she’s had in months. _____
“Well… that was fun,” Dash remarks, rubbing bloody knuckles with an unconscious Basiji’s handkerchief.
Smit grimaces, wiping the blood from a split lip. “Definitely not bad,” he agrees, his eyes taking in the carpet of moaning bodies. “Reckon we could bring the others to this place?”
Dash looks around the bar, at the smashed windows and broken bottles, at the slumped figures hunched over tables or lying on their backs, at the shattered bar and the cowering barmaids. She then slowly clambers over the wreckage, trying to step around the groaning bodies, past overturned tables until she reaches behind the bar. One hand occasionally massages her ribs, but a smile remains plastered across her face. Reaching behind the bar, she pulls out a jar of spirit, uncorks it with a pop, and takes a swig.
“Are you kidding, place like this? They’d be bored shitless.”
February, 1882. En route to the Samarkand gap. HMS Umbra. Princess Luna’s state-room.
The quill wanders across the page, moving slowly under its own volition as it scratches idly across the lined paper. The flowing script slowly takes shape into words, the Princess of the Night’s handwriting flawlessly etching upon the sheet of paper. The princess silently paces back and forth across the bare floor of her sparsely furnished stateroom. She clasps her gloved hands behind her back as she stops every so often to gaze up at the map affixed upon one wall.
Pins are stuck in the map, in an exact replica of the map in the command centre just down the corridor. Divisions and battalions, fleets and batteries, platoons and squadrons all lining up along the long and porous border, pins in red and blue facing each other to mark out known and suspected positions. Long ribbons of supply trains flow back and forth, marking lines of supply and reinforcement.
Luna huffs out a sharp breath, coming to a halt in front of her dressing table. She gazes into the mirror, her blank mask gazing back at her… and that one hateful blue eye, burning vivid and bright, shining like a star.
“I’ve done everything that I can,” Luna ruminates to the mirror. “There is nothing more that I can do now to fortify the border, short of crossing it to secure it permanently.”
The eye flashes, narrowing, and Luna’s mouth curls down beneath the mask. One hand balls into a fist. “I’ve been given my orders. My sister told me to fortify the border and I’ve done that. I cannot physically do more. Tomorrow, the last pieces will come into place, and the gesture will be complete… as my sister wants.”
Her mouth curls beneath her mask, and her visible eye narrows. Luna’s head sinks slightly, her chin lowering. “But maybe… it is patently ridiculous to think that this gesture will work. The Khans only respect force, the application thereof. We’ve moved past the point where gestures are supposed to do anything at all. They decided to push us… and my sister won’t push back.” Luna’s hand comes up to cup her lowered chin. Her wings flick fitfully.
“However, a war will be immensely destructive. It will leave thousands, hundreds of thousands of Equestrians dead or wounded. My sister’s aims are noble; she wants to prevent that war from starting.” She whirls on her heel and stalks over to the map. The words sound trite and hollow, even to her.
“But a quick, sharp thrust across the border right when this had all started would have run into minimal opposition. We’d be across the desert in five days, and into the mountains in ten… Now we’re facing prepared lines of resistance… prepared lines that my sister’s prevarication has allowed to form!” Luna’s voice comes out in a savage cloth-tearing snarl. Her finger jabs at the Samarkand Gap.
“Fifteen days! Eight divisions, with twenty five batteries in support!” Luna’s hair snaps and furls like a banner caught in a breeze, the stars spangled through her flowing hair blazing bright as her anger runs its course into exasperation. “This is just to deal with the forces we know about. Sister, you do not make my life easy!”
Luna sighs angrily, a short sharp hiss of sound as her gloved hands come up to run through her hair whilst she tries to think. These sessions are necessary; these moments to let out the angers and anguishes of the day. She needs to let them out here, now, in the privacy of her own quarters rather than in front of her staff officers. The idea, the very notion of a breach between her and her sister is not one for mooting anywhere.
War has changed in her… absence. Now there’s so much more talking and planning to do, so much more to consider and think about. Previously, it was just enough to make sure your men had enough food to eat along the way, or make sure their marching routes carried them along routes that could provide farmland, herds of cattle or plentiful hunting country. Make sure horses had enough shoes, that the quivers were well-stocked with arrows. Back when armies in the thousands faced each other. Simple things.
Now it’s a massive dance, a huge undertaking as forces in the hundreds of thousands, with the power to wipe out tens or hundreds of men at a time just by holding down the triggers of their maxim guns. Now the archers can put apples out of trees at eight hundred metres or more, and every man carries a bow. Hundreds of men are dedicated to nothing but the provision and movement of supplies! Administrators, clerks and REMFs, Rear Echelon Minor Functionaries, whose sole function is to keep the myriad supplies and equipment and men moving in the direction that they need to be.
The amount of supplies involved is positively mind-boggling. Each man needs to receive three thousand calories per day, whether or not he is fighting, and there are over ninety six thousand men just going forward. Once they do go forward, the fighting men will need to receive five thousand calories per day. That equates to over fifty six thousand tonnes of supplies of food and ammunition per day, not including fodder for horses, spare parts for machines... and once they hit the desert, they’re all going to need water and additional lubricants too.
Luna takes a deep breath as the numbers wash over her. Never let it be said that war is a simple undertaking... she thinks. But this would be so much simpler Celestia, if you let me handle this my way. War is devastating, it is destructive, it is something that the human condition cannot tolerate overlong… far better that it be short and swift. All this diplomatic parry and counterparry is just giving the enemy time to dig in and prepare. Each day they talk, accomplishing nothing, is costing me a foot of ground.
She looks along the frontier, her gaze scouring it for weak points. She has to give Tariq Aznan, the commander of the entire Khan army, his dues as a commander. Luna wanders over to another table, and she gazes down at the photos and drawings made of the front lines. Her finger traces the lines of forward trenches… rear trenches… communication trenches connecting them. Emplaced anti-aircraft guns every few hundred yards to ward off the Imperial Navy… About all that’s missing are the armament factories and the elephants.
Certainly, Aznan knows his business, and he knows that right now, the balance of movement favours him. Aware of the relative size and capability differences of their forces, just as she is, he’s moved into a defensive posture, where his largely untrained conscript army will have to do little more than shoot from prepared positions and absorb her first punches; blunt her first thrusts so that he can bring up his professional, well trained units once she’s past his first line and out into the open country beyond.
That’s what Luna would do in his place at any rate. It’s a strategy as old as the hills and it’s that old because it works. However… Luna’s gaze drifts back to the mirror.
We have new weapons now. Weapons that can render all this fussing about trenches obsolete.
Luna’s mind drifts to the afternoon she’d spent at Birch Ranges. Watching from the hardened bunker as the shells had landed downwind of the field of sheep. Black smoke bubbling from the shells and flowing inexorably toward the sheep.
Luna closes her eyes as she remembers the agonized shrieking animals, their shrieking fading into wet bubbling as their throats dissolved. At least two of her accompanying officers, both hardened men with combat experience, had been reduced to tearful wrecks, no doubt considering the efficacy of such agents on their own troops.
Still, war is an ugly business, and anything that shortens its length is all to the good as far as Luna sees it. Such a weapon is as caustic to morale as it is to flesh, if not more so. Moving with the wind, inexorable, silent and guaranteeing an ugly, agonized death. Enemy forces that surrender or flee are enemy forces that she does not have to waste men killing. Still… such a weapon is also caustic to public opinion, and any claim Equestria has to the moral high ground would vanish with the use of the Black Smoke.
But Luna is not paid to worry about concepts like Moral High Grounds. In her estimation, such matters are better left to qualified personnel, which she does not consider herself to be. She would much rather leave the business of prettying things up to her sister. Celestia’s good at political things, Luna thinks, and her note is somewhat forced.
Politics leave a sour taste in her mouth. Political things leave a sour taste in her mouth. The feeling of being restrained like this makes her feel positively nauseous. Trying to resist the urge to spit, she turns, holding her elbows, and finds her steps leading away. She looks up, and continues walking, heading toward a marble statue, half-hidden in darkness.
The statue is one of Luna’s favourites, from the Constantine period, it is one of the few surviving relics of the pre-banishment era. A beautiful pair of angels standing back to back. Both stark naked with spread wings, constructed in the Roaman style. Luna stands in front of the statue for a long moment, drinking in the alabaster smooth curves and flowing lines. Luna is fond of this style, the modern shallow imitations of which are precisely that. On a slightly more vainglorious note, Luna likes the way they captured her figure, maybe added a little to the breasts and hips but that’s an artist’s license, and not something Luna would be entirely opposed to.
One is holding a hammer raised in challenge, the other is holding a staff that could be a shepherd's crook or it could be a poleaxe, butt down in one hand, the other clasping a book. The hammer is raised to strike, and the stave is prepared to block. The statue is two parts of a whole; an artist’s tribute to the sisters’ compassionate yet strong rule of Equestria. Both trusting the other, implicitly. Luna sighs, a hint of lament colouring her voice as her eyes drift over the statue.
Two angels, back to back; absolute trust in one another. Strength in unity; power in compassion.
Luna’s hand reaches out, laying a long lingering caress upon the wrist of the angel with the poleaxe. Luna’s eyes close and her head bows as the relic suffuses her with its memory, a memory of a happier time. How things have changed now. Life was so much simpler back then. They drank and fought and caroused up and down the continent, dragon-slayers supreme… back when there were more dragons of course. Before everything changed. Now, there’s an undefinable edge between Luna and Celestia, a subtle wall. On one side, Celestia, Cadance and Twilight. Politician, mother, scholar.
On the other side, Luna. Luna the soldier, the protector…
Her gaze hardens slightly.
Luna’s eyes drift downward to the inscription at the base of the statue: Lex Dei Iustitia, Justice is the Law of God.
Princess Luna sighs, her eyes sweeping over the contoured features as her thoughts turn back to the matter of her sister.
God, Celestia, if only you could see what I’m seeing on this, our border… If only you could know what’s being done in your name. If only you could know the lives you’re squandering with this folly, this futile endeavour. You once understood this fact. You once understood compassion could only be carried so far. Once, the lives of your citizens mattered to you.
Luna gazes up at the statue for one last lingering moment, and then as the grip of her hands around her elbows tightens, she starts to walk toward her dresser, her mind clouded by doubts.
Once, we were together, you and I. We understood one another. We protected one another. Now your compassion is going to kill my soldiers.
Why have you changed sister? Why must you change still?
“But change…” Luna’s voice is slightly rusty as it returns to her. “Change is immutable, as is the law. We are Equestrians, and we are bound to the rule of the law. We are a civilized people, and what is civilization but the law? We may not like it but we are beholden to it. That is the Equestrian way. We have the law, and it protects our people.”
Luna’s jaw clenches slightly.
How can it protect our people when our leader is squandering their lives?
Once more she’s staring into the mirror, one gleaming eye burning bright.
The eye narrows into an angry slit of blue fire.
Luna wrings her gloved hands, her mind a maelstrom of confusion and doubt.
Should we extend to an opponent the courtesy that will not be extended to us?
Luna’s hands suddenly stop washing themselves, their uncontrolled motion stilling in a heartbeat.
The Khans… the Khans cannot be trusted. They are a supercilious race who do not respect the law. They will only respect strength, and withholding our strength will be seen as weakness. That is what we are doing Celestia, what you are doing, and what I am going to have to spend umpteen thousand lives to fix.
The eye gleaming in the mirror becomes suddenly triumphant as another crack spiderwebs across the surface of the mask.
“Well, Sergent. It seems that my congratulations yesterday might have been premature.”
Dash's back straightens and she keeps her eye focussed on a point over Capitaine Adrelana's right shoulder as the massive Valorossiyan sits at his desk, regarding her coolly.
“Not twenty four hours after I promoted you to sergent, I find myself having to discipline you for drunken and disorderly conduct, not to mention conduct unbecoming, bringing the Legion into disrepute, and a whole host of other regulations.” Adrelana narrows his eyes and his thin lip curls into a snarl. Dash’s throat closes but her posture remains ramrod straight, even with the dull ache from her belly and side shrilly protesting at such a movement.
“Under normal circumstances, I'd be understanding, even forgiving. You'd just been promoted and you're one of the youngest compagnie commanders in Legion history. You're one of the youngest holders of the Equestrian Valour Cross, and that's not including whatever you did before you came to the Legion. You thought you were on the fast track. Yes, I can understand the desire to cut loose.” Adrelana suddenly pushes his chair back and rises to his feet in one flowing motion and something small and furry at the back of Dash's mind wants to turn and run, but she holds her nerve.
“These are not normal circumstances however. I'd expect you of all people to understand how dangerous Tarhen is right now. We're under the gaze of the Crown, and we're very much in the media's cross-hairs right now. Not only that, but not eight hours before you left base, you'd been sitting at this very table discussing why it was a bad idea to send legionnaires out into the city!” Adrelana barks, stepping around his desk and thundering up to Dash. His hand grabs her chin and suddenly her eye is locked on his four thundercloud-grey eyes. Lightning flashes in those four eyes, and the rumble of his breathing crashes like thunder. Dash can feel the fury radiating through the Valorossiyan, only barely leashed. His hot, stinking breath washes over her face and his viciously pointed teeth are an inch from her nose.
“There are other considerations,” Belial growls from his position by Adrelana's desk, his arms folded. “Our soldiers are up in arms because you've effectively put the lie to our statement that Tarhen is too dangerous to send them out on recreational patrols.” A shimmering curtain of fury descends over Dash's vision as she turns her head slightly, locking her remaining eye with the scowling Khan, but she holds her tongue. Adrelana clears his throat with the deep grinding rumble of a mountain landslide tumbling inexorably towards someone as he releases her chin and steps away from her.
“Were you a compagnie commander of line infantry, or someone more replaceable, I'd have you sent back to The Pit in disgrace. As it is, you're looking down the throat of the following charges: Absence without leave, Drunken and Disorderly Conduct, Desertion, and bringing the Legion into disrepute.” Adrelana ticks off the points on his fingers, his eye still fixed upon hers.
“I want you to tell me what happened. How do we get from us having a meeting in here to-” There is a sudden urgent knocking on the door.
“Fuck off!” booms the voice of the Adjutant, silent in the corner until now.
The reply is dripping with Canterlot drawl, and Dash's heart sinks.
Crap, that's all I need, attention from the Princess.
“I come on behalf of Princess Twilight Sparkle, it is my understanding that there is a disciplinary proceeding taking place inside. I shall not ask again Sargeant Major.” Diplomatic Incident's voice is languid and unhurried, but there's an edge of steel beneath his tone, as though he'd quite happily kick the door down.
Adrelana's expression is incredulous and hostile, and then he covers his face with one hand, and he rests a lingering look of absolute disgust upon Dash. Dash has no eye for him, her eye is on Belial, and though his expression is perfectly military proper, she catches a glimpse of triumph in those cat-like eyes for only an instance, before his expression returns to the flat, military proper, expressionless mask.
“Enter!” Adrelana snaps, anger radiating off his face and neck, and then the Adjutant opens the door to reveal Diplomatic Incident, unruffled and calm as ever in shirt, suspenders and spats. His walrus moustache bristles as he walks into the room with the air of a monarch inspecting his subjects. He is not alone however. Smit walks in behind him, his expression set.
Dash's eye widens in shocked disbelief. Surely Smit knows how stupid he's being, getting involved in a spat between a sergent and not one, but two officers, and particularly bringing a civilian into the equation. The Legion handles its own justice, such is the way it should be.
“What can I do for you?” Adrelana asks, his tone languid and relaxed as he walks back to his desk and sits down. Dash tenses slightly as she hears that level tone, accustomed as she is to the idiosyncrasies of Valorossiyan officers.
Oh shit, he's really really pissed. The thought passes through both Dash and Smit's mind at the same time.
“Well, last night, I understand some of our gallant defenders went outside the wire,” Diplomatic Incident says levelly, and Adrelana sighs.
“Yes... that is indeed the case, but the situation is being handled adequately as it is now,” Adrelana replies. “It's a leadership failure, and we'll deal with it ourselves.” Diplomatic Incident nods slowly.
“I'd expect nothing less of such consummate professionals as yourselves, yet the point that this young warrior felt compelled to bring to my attention was that they were under orders to do so.”
There is absolute silence in the room for a long moment, and then Adrelana fixes Dash with a long hard look, before turning to Diplomatic Incident once more.
“Indeed they were,” Adrelana says. “From what we understand, the orders originated from this woman as acting Compagnie commander.”
“Really? That's not what I was told by corporal Smit here,” Diplomatic Incident says levelly, and Dash throws Smit an icy glare out of the corner of her eye.
You're such a fucking idiot, I swear to all the gods in heaven that if Adrelana doesn't throttle you right now, I'll do it myself.
“Caporal,” Belial corrects Diplomatic Incident, who looks at the Khan with disdain. “In any case, what guarantee do you have that he's being truthful?” Belial asks, and Diplomatic Incident shrugs.
“Right now, none at all, other than his conviction. He came up to my office, demanding to see me. He told me of his version of events, and then asked that I intervene. I told him that I could not do so on his behalf, and that I must mention his name. He told me that didn't matter, that he'd be happy to have his name mentioned. Being the curious individual that I am, I decided to press him for details and he passed on some rather interesting information. He said that Sergent Dash took her men out under orders from you, Captain.” Belial's eyes widen in outrage. He draws himself up to deliver a stinging retort, but then Capitane Adrelana raises a hand.
“I find this hard to believe. I am certainly not prepared to take the word of an NCO over the word of one of my compagnie commanders,” Adrelana says angrily, and Diplomatic Incident shrugs.
“I thought that would be the way of things, which is why I suggest that we summon Princess Twilight-”
“You don't need to do that,” Dash says, her voice level. “Caporal Smit, wait outside.” The last thing that Dash needs is Smit doing anything else stupid with his career right now. Smit shoots her a mutinous look.
“Now, Caporal.” Dash injects just an edge of bite into her voice.
He turns and walks out of the room, shutting the door with a snap behind him. Adrelana blinks in surprise, but then he turns to Dash.
“So then, sergent, perhaps you could fill all of us, including Diplomatic Incident, in on what happened?” Adrelana asks, and Dash takes a deep breath and casts another hating look at Belial, before she takes a deep breath and puts the story together.
“It's my responsibility. I wanted to go outside the wire. As you say, I'd just been promoted and our unit had been in two fairly intense firefights a few days back. I felt we'd earnt the privilege, and whilst they all committed the offence, they did so under my instruction,” Dash says, dipping her head and looking contrite. Through her eyelashes, she sees Adrelana's expression morph into one of brief confusion before he nods, and there's a hint of something else in his eyes.
“So about your caporal?” he asks, and Dash shrugs.
“Caporal Smit is a very loyal NCO, he wanted to defend me... I understand his impulse but I cannot condone it. He shouldn't have involved you, Diplomatic Incident. I'm going to dock him three days and subject him to Restriction of Privileges for a week, by your leave?” Dash asks, and Adrelana nods shortly.
“That's appropriate. Now that brings us round to what to do with you,” Adrelana says. “You're willing to take the punishment of the unit onto your own shoulders?”
“Yes sir. They did what they did under my orders. No blame should fall on them.”
“Very well,” Adrelana says, and then he nods slowly before he turns to the Adjutant.
“Adjutant. I want everyone assembled in company formation on the parade square in thirty minutes, everyone who isn't on the perimeter watch. I don't care what they're busy with, or how hungover they are. Also, get together the required kit for field punishment 21A.” The Adjutant in the corner snaps to attention, salutes smartly and walks out. The door snaps shut behind him, and Adrelana turns to look at Dash, who looks perplexed. A brief expression of sympathy flickers across his face before he nods.
“I'll be frank. I can't demote you, I can't remove you and I can't do anything else with you, because to put it bluntly, you're the only reconnaissance NCO we've got who I'd feel comfortable leading a team-” he holds a hand up as Belial opens his mouth to protest, “-I'm also aware of what my other NCOs will think, and how they might react if you are perceived to escape without sufficient punishment. With that in mind, you will be escorted down to the parade square. There, you will be whipped. You are to be subjected to no more than twenty five lashes, and may they provide sufficient reflection next time you feel like getting drunk on duty. Caporals Smit and Sov will be administering the whipping, and legionnaire Zaafan will be counting the strokes,” Adrelana declares, and Dash feels a surge of relief mingled with pure, unadulterated terror.
Dash has never been whipped before, but she's seen legionnaires who have, and almost all of them say it's worse than getting shot.
She takes a deep breath and then chops her hand up into a salute. “Yessir... I'll get my people ready, and I'll have a word with my errant caporal,” Dash says, and Adrelana waves his hand.
“Yes Sergent. You have twenty five minutes to prepare yourself. You're dismissed.” With that Dash turns on her heel and marches out, Diplomatic Incident following on her heels. Smit is waiting outside, looking mutinous.
“Sergent-”
“Shut it,” Dash snaps, naked fear combined with residual anger making her tone much sharper than required. Smit looks like he's going to protest, and Dash narrows her eye before she glances around and then steers Smit into an empty office, kicking the door shut in Diplomatic Incident's face. Smit stumbles as her steer becomes a shove, pushing him off balance, and then Dash steps forward.
“You had no right at all to get involved in that! You certainly don't have the right to get Diplomatic Incident, and by extension, Princess Twilight Sparkle involved in disciplining me!” she barks, and Smit blinks.
“But you say you've got personal history with the princess and-”
“Yeah, and the less people know about that personal history, the better for all concerned,” Dash snaps. “It's between me and Princess Twilight, and I'm certainly not going to use her influence to bail me out of shit.”
“But it's not fair, I was there, I heard him, you heard him-”
“Yeah, we both heard him give the order, and yes, it's not fair, but what the fuck did you expect? This is the fucking Legion and the duty rumour is that Adrelana and Belial are buttbuddies since forever. Your word and my word would never have had a hope in hell of standing against that, even if it was two on one.”
“But surely Diplomatic Incident could have got you off...” Smit persists, and Dash gives him a long hard look. Surely Smit should know better than that. Dash is aware that her mind is turning over and over to avoid thinking about what's about to come and she forces herself to reply with a clear and level tone.
“Yeah, and how would that look to everyone else on base? If I was using my influence with Princess Twilight to get out of trouble? Influence that I’m not supposed to have?” she asks, and Smit nods slowly. He's not stupid, he can join the dots as easily as the next person. The chain of command is everything. Harmony within the unit must be preserved, and if she is seen to use her alleged influence to get out of being punished then discipline within the other three compagnies will suffer. It will also lead to questions being asked, pertinent questions that Dash and Equestria can really do without right now such as precisely why an anonymous scrote of the Legion has influence over a princess of Equestria.
“So what happens now?” Smit asks, and Dash's stomach tightens. Her mouth becomes dry as she prepares to give the orders. Her throat swells up and her fists clench tightly, but then Dash manages to get the orders out, biting off the sounds as though they taste foul.
“Get the compagnie assembled. You, Sov and Zaafan will be front and centre. Belt order only, no web gear or weapons. Standard working dress, but don't wear your best set,” Dash says, unable to quite articulate what's awaiting her in twenty five minutes. Smit nods, and then he turns to leave, but then Dash reaches out a hand to clasp his shoulder.
“One more thing, Elias,” Dash says, and the Boer turns, shocked at the use of his given name, and she offers him a smile.
“Thank you.”
Smit nods, a brief smile pulling at his lips. “Any time, Sergent.”
That is the first thought that strikes sergent Dash as she waits in the corridor of the administration block, outside which the entire detachment is assembled. The seconds and minutes flow by like the movement of a glacier. Dash wipes the sweat gathering on her brow, glancing over her shoulder at Smit and Sov, standing at her back. Whiskers is standing behind them. Their faces are expressionless but the tightness of Smit’s eyes and the lashing of Whiskers’ tail gives the lie to their expressions. Adrelana is standing outside the door, and at his knock, the door will open and she'll be led forward into the square.
Outside, she can hear Belial lecturing the company on the importance of ongoing discipline and continued maintenance of high standards, that this is an operational environment rather than messing around back at the Pit, and they'd all do well to remember that.
“What a prick,” Smit growls, and Sov rumbles his agreement, placing one of his heavy meat hook hands upon Dash's shoulder in a gesture of support. Dash takes a deep breath, tugging on one white cotton sleeve.
“Yep,” is the only response that Dash permits herself. Her lips tighten and her fists curl, but then she forces her face back to stillness. Her face is set and her eye hard as she braces herself for what is about to come. If she gives in to any emotion at all, then the quivering terror at the core of her being will overwhelm her. Dash takes a deep breath and not for the first time, she wishes that she had let Smit get Twilight. It's so unfair!- her outraged sense of justice and propriety cries out.
Belial, you are so dead. One of these days, I swear to all the gods that I know, you will find yourself on the tip of my bayonet and you'd better hope I make it quick. White hot fury courses through her veins, and Dash lets it flow out, doing her best to keep it off her face. Smit opens his mouth to say something, but then suddenly there is the scrape of a boot on the gravel outside, and Dash's thoughts dissolve into a haze of terror.
“Good luck boss.” She's dimly aware of Smit’s comforting words. The sharp double knock upon the door makes Dash's knees go weak, and she has to struggle to stand for a moment before she nods slowly and then raps hard upon the door in reply. At once, the doors are opened and Dash squints as the searing rays of the sun catch her eye. Almost without conscious thought, she lifts her arms.
“Detail, by the center, at variable pace, quick march!” A volley of commands is snapped out, and at once, Dash and her soldiers snap their arms upward and set off, moving toward the open door. Dash sets the pace, calmly stepping into the eighty eight beat rhythm of Legion marching. The command ‘at variable pace’ is one of the few luxuries permitted to legionnaires about to face the post or the gallows. At Variable Pace allows them to use the standard marching pace that the regular Equestrian army uses rather than the eighty eight beat Legion marching pace- and Dash snaps her thoughts back into line. She's immersing herself in trivia to prevent herself from thinking about what awaits too hard. That being the case, Belial can go fuck himself if he thinks that I'm going to give him the satisfaction of hot-footing it to the post.
Dash starts to march out, arms up, head back and chest out. As she marches out onto the parade square, she can feel the sidelong glances, but she continues marching, past the silent and still ranks of legionnaires. Her eye narrows as she approaches one of the black iron docking stanchions at the far end of the docking field. Once used to support lines being run up to the airship, the seven foot tall stanchion, with a ring welded to the top, now serves another function.
As they draw near, Dash forces herself not to breathe heavily. Her heart is dancing a jig in her chest and her stomach is tied into knots. Her palms are sweaty and if her legs weren't moving, her knees would damn sure be knocking. Terror gnaws at her guts and fear grips her like a vice, but Dash narrows her eye. She is a soldier of the Legion. She will not break now.
One hundred paces. The drums are now audible through the pounding in her ears. A steady, rhythmic beat calculated to inspire maximum dread in the approaching victim. The sharp crack and snap of the snare drums as they beat time. In a few moments, they will be beating time of another sort.
Fifty paces.
Though the pounding in her ears has grown to a roar, the world seems somehow sharpened by adrenaline. She can see the post, the black iron stake standing up straight and sharp. Two more wooden poles have been driven into the ground next to it, one on each side. Belial is standing alongside, along with a pair of medical staffers and a drummer.
Dash comes to attention in front of him and snaps up a sharp, contemptuous salute. Fast and precise as a watch-spring uncoiling, and she holds it until Belial returns it with a wave of his hand and a nod to the post. He's unable to quite meet her eye, as though he can feel the raw hate radiating off her.
Three. Two. One.
Dash takes her place in front of the whipping post, facing it.
“Sergent, face the compagnie,” Belial growls, and Dash about faces, sharp and precise as the guards on parade in Canterlot Square, turning to face the legionnaires, and she suddenly blinks in surprise. She's aware of Belial talking, and of the legionnaires gazing at her, but she has no eye for them.
Her eye is on the admin block, specifically on the second floor of the admin block, and the balcony thereof. Outside, standing tall and proud as the figurehead on an airship, is Twilight Sparkle. Her blue hair hangs down, the bright purple streak gleaming like a lick of flame as she stands there, her hands upon the balustrade as she gazes down, her expression as hard and statuesque as marble. Dash suddenly feels a small and very unreasonable corner of her mind scream out an entreaty: Help me!
Anyone who didn't know Twilight Sparkle very well wouldn't see the sudden tightening of the skin around her eyes, or the sudden white knuckle grip upon the balustrade.
“See her?” Belial growls to Rainbow Dash. “That's who you failed last night. You could have put all of us, and especially her, in danger.”
“Save your moralizing sir. I'm late for a pressing appointment.”
“Very well. Remove your shirt.” Dash moves to turn around, but Belial shakes his head.
“Face them,” he growls, and the chorus of voices calling for Belial to die a thousand deaths increases another notch as Dash unbuttons her shirt, her eye remaining locked upon a point just above the heads of the legionnaires. She pulls her shirt off and stands there, feeling the gaze of the hundreds of legionnaires upon her torso and the scars and tattoos that spangle her chest. Only the chest wraps remain to protect her dignity.
“And the wrap,” Belial hisses, and Dash moves to turn around, but Belial's swagger stick strikes the tip of her boot.
“I will not tell you again sergent, you will turn when ordered to, and not before. Now, the wraps,” he rumbles, and Dash summons all the self control that she can bring to bear, before she reaches to the knot in the centre of her chest and tugs at it with shaking fingers.
The knot comes undone, and the wrap tumbles away.
“Comp’naays, about hace!” The order is sudden and unexpected, a quick bark from the super-numary ranks behind the fighting men. At once, three hundred pairs of boots lift and stamp through the sharp crunch crunch crunch of a perfect about face, and three hundred backs are presented to capitaine Belial.
Belial's fur stands on end and Dash hears a low subvocalized growl rumbling from his throat, but then he grunts “S'be't,” and a small corner of Dash's heart feels an unpleasant surge of hot glee at the capitaine’s embarrassment.
“You may assume the position, sergent,” Belial says, and Dash turns on her heel, walking to the stanchion and lifting her arms to the docking ring. Without a word, Smit and Sov silently lash her arms into place above her head, and then her wings to the two posts. Smit then silently slips the folded strip of leather and metal between Dash's teeth to keep her from biting her tongue. Dash closes her eye, pressing herself against the pole and wincing slightly as the black metal sears her skin, and she takes a deep breath as another order comes from the rear ranks.
“Legionnaires, about hace!” The barked command from behind the ranks brings the stamp of three hundred pairs of boots once more and Dash tries not to tremble as the sharp drum-roll starts again, the steady drumbeat counting down the seconds.
“Caporals, pick up the implements.”
The sharp snap of the whips being shaken out makes Dash's stomach tighten. She feels like she's about to throw up.
“Take the positions, by count, twenty five lashes to be administered...”
The drumbeat tumbles into a sudden steady rasp, and the next voice she hears is Zaafan.
“O-”
Barely has the first syllable left the legionnaire's lips than the world suddenly explodes into white fire. Starbursts of colour erupt behind her eyeballs and she moans in agony. No doubt Sov and Smit know that if they lighten it one iota more than they should, Adrelana will take over.
“T-”
Another lash, and Dash's muscles strain, her wings quivering and tugging vainly at the posts in an instinctive bid. Rational thought fades beneath the onslaught of the lash and Dash tries not to scream in pain as the lashes continue to fall. Each stroke strips flesh from her back, and by the fifth stroke, she's dimly aware that she's pissed herself. By the tenth stroke, or possibly the twelfth, or possibly the two hundredth, Dash is moaning from the all consuming pain.
When the next stroke doesn't fall, Dash turns her head to see Belial handing canteens of water to Sov and Smit, both of whom are sweating hard in the mid-morning heat and spattered with her blood. She can barely see them through the white hot shimmering haze of pain.
The two drink swiftly, in steady, disciplined sips, and then hand the canteens back to Belial. Naked hate shines in Smit's face, and Sov's lack of expression conveys his own feelings. Belial points back at her, and Dash can hear the whips being picked up and shaken out once more.
CRACK The whip comes down with a savage singing snap, and Dash sags against the stanchion, her booted feet unable to hold her weight, her entire bodyweight being supported by the stanchion and her arms being steadily pulled out of their shoulder-sockets. By stroke fifteen, Dash is practically delirious with pain, her head is swimming and her whole body feels like it's on fire. By stroke twenty, reality seems to be getting fuzzy around the edges and words seem to be coming to her mind, words from the Legion discipline and punishment lecture of all places, and she focusses on them, grabbing onto the words like a man clutching at a sinking life-raft.
This is Legion Punishment Implement 21A, also called a slasher, sjambok, or a man killer- CRACK
The pain is elemental, a force of nature. It is a bull-hide leather whip between twelve and sixteen inches in length- CRACK It turns her brain inside out, her word dissolving into a swirling mass of colour and distorted memory. Dash chokes, bloody spittle bubbling up in her mouth where she’s caught the edge of her toungue with her back teeth. It will turn your back into a bl… bloody mess in five strokes, it will open your back to the bone in ten.
CRACK The pain crushes her beneath its stormfront like a tsunami of lightning. It will ki... you, if you’re lu...cky, in fifteen str...es. CRACK
Thoughts become disjointed and hazy, even ideas and notions become distant. If you’re... unlu....cky, it’ll... kill you in thir...ty. CRACK
She can feel the blackness crawling at the end of her vision, and it's so tempting to give in, to surrender to the darkness. In the haze of pain that clouds her thoughts, she feels the gaze of Belial and the other legionnaires on her, and she lets out a low rumbling growl. No way will she give that fuck the satisfaction of screaming or passing out.
She braces for the next blow, but it does not come. Instead the order comes: “Cut her down... take her away from here and let her rest.” The order seems to come from a great distance, and it seems blurred and indistinct. At once, she feels hands gripping at her wrists, but then the voice speaks again, urgently.
“Not the wrists, yes the wings first!” The voice is deep and authoritative. “You two, grab her wings and hold them up, and if you get feathers in those wounds then I swear that you'll be picking them out! She’s taken twenty five strokes to the back...” The voice snarls angrily, and hands quickly move to support her wing. Dash moans out blearily, and the deep voice growls.
“Don't try and move sergent... we'll get you fixed up,” the deep voice says softly and Dash tries to turn her head, but the voice rumbles tenderly. “Barbarism... absolute barbarism,” she hears the voice muttering, almost under its breath. Hands undo her wrists and she sags into waiting arms, and her feet begin dragging on the parade square.
“wuzz... n- I can walk,” Dash mumbles, feeling her head lolling drunkenly on her shoulder.
“Don't try sergent... I don't want you falling on your face and breaking your nose as well,” the voice mutters, and Dash tries to turn her head again. This time she catches a glimpse of Lieutenant Mayotte, the senior doctor of the detachment, another Khan whose natural colouration gives him an equally natural scowl. He then turns to look around, and his eyes narrow as he looks over his shoulder and speaks hurriedly to someone that Dash can't see through the pain-haze. As the people carry her onward, she feels her head loll forward, and she's suddenly just looking at the gravel of the landing field.
“So she's not going into the normal surgery... have it your way, but I warn you, you fat oaf, if she dies, I will not be held accountable!” Mayotte snaps, and there's a softly worded reply, but now Dash can feel herself being rotated, carried upstairs and through a rapidly opened doorway, and she's suddenly being brought into a darkened, cool room.
She feels herself being lowered into soft sheets, hears a voice softly crooning as it spreads her wings wide upon her bed. The voice is soft and melodic, gentle and very female. It sounds familiar, the edges of it just nudging at Dash’s flickering, dancing consciousness.
“I wish I were on yonder hill. Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill… Till every tear would turn a mill.” The voice whispers in a soft melodic song “I’d sell my rod, I’d sell my reel, I’ll sell my only spinning wheel.. To buy my lover a sword of steel…” A very old Pegasopalian ballad that Dash’s mother had sung to her….
“Mum?” Dash hisses into the pillow, and the hands working on her back hesitate for just a moment, and then she feels a bowl of water being pushed towards her.
“Drink,” the voice says, a note of authority in its voice “You’ve been badly hurt, and you need water, and to rest…”
Dash tries to turn her head, but the bowl is to her lips now and she is almost forced to sup at the icy cool water. Inhumanly cool, almost impossibly cool for modern science to drop water to this temperature. Modern science… but modern magic…
“Twilight?” Dash breathes, but the hands continue to work briskly.
“Stop worrying and just relax,” the voice says forcefully, “You need to rest and relax. I can’t work if you keep moving around like this.” Those deft fingers continue their slow gentle movements against Dash’s back. She can’t feel a poultice or bandages being applied, but as those fingers spread across her back, she feels a numbness spreading from them, slowly washing the savage pain away.
“They really did a number on you… this is almost down to the bone, you’re lucky you didn’t sustain any nerve damage.” The voice mutters softly and Dash sees a trace of movement out of the corner of her eye, the flicker of a shape moving in the dim coolness of the room.
“Can you fix it?” Dash is startled by how weak and rasping her voice sounds, but the voice that answers remains as soft and gentle as always. Kindly and loving.
“I’ll do my best, it won’t be easy but I’ll… I’ll try,” there is a soft hiss of indrawn breath from between a pair of teeth and the shadows are set to dancing by a steady lavender glow that seems to make the room waver and shimmer in the half-light.
“Trying is enough for me…” Dash tries to make out features of the room, but everything seems so blurry and indistinct… her eyelids seem so heavy....
“Hey, stay with me!” The voice says, suddenly losing some of its ethereal quality. “Focus on me! Please… I’m here for you, it’s all… all fine.” The hands start to shake, and the lavender glow seems to shiver and flicker.
The door suddenly bangs open and the room is enveloped in a hurricane of sound. “I TOLD YOU TO STAY OUT! THE PRINCESS NEEDS TO CONCENTRATE!” Holy shit, I never thought that fat bastard could project quite like that… Dash thinks vaguely, trying to turn her head but then a sticky hand grabs her head and rather firmly pushes it back forward.
“And you can go fuck yourself if you think I’m staying out-” The replying voice suddenly cuts off as it takes in the scene. There’s an awed note when the owner speaks next. “Holy shit…”
“Caporal Smit,” The owner of the female voice, Twilight, it must be Twilight, sounds weary, “I understand that you might be worried about Sergeant Dash but… but please… I need to concentrate.”
“She will be alright though? Can you…?” Dash hears a slightly plaintive note in Smit’s voice.
“I’ll do my best. She’s lost quite a bit of blood though, and Pegasopalians have always been more sensitive about injuries to their backs than regular humans.” Twilight’s response is carefully measured as Dash hears her feet moving on the carpeted floor, and then the purple light seems to redouble in strength, flickering like a purple fire.
“You can stay… if you want…” Twilight’s voice becomes a little weaker around the edges, fluctuating slightly. “I may need you to hold her down… this next bit is… going to… hurt.”
More hands grip Dash, holding her on the bed and she tries to summon the energy to move but her body feels so heavy, and her limbs just don’t want to cooperate.
“On three… one, two, three!” Twilight hisses. Dash’s body suddenly goes rigid as fire leaps up her back and she tastes blood in her mouth as she bites down hard upon her tongue. She struggles, but the hands holding her down grip tightly, holding her in a grip of iron. The pain suddenly dissapears as quickly as it had come, and the purple light suddenly vanishes.
For a second, there is a heavy silence, and then a voice breathes in tones that could almost be awe. “Fuck me” The voice whispers.
“It… it worked.” Twilight says groggily and Dash just manages to turn her head to see the vague form of the Princess, her face shining with sweat. Blood spatters her cheeks and coats her hands and wrists. Her eyes are vague and distant.
Dash has only a moment to see this, before Princess Twilight stumbles forward and collapses onto the bed, her lavender eyes barely focussing.
“So I did it huh?” Twilight whispers softly, and Dash’s hand drifts back to her lower back, hesitates for just a moment and then she touches the flesh. Smooth… unblemished, unmarked skin, as though the whipping had never happened.
“You did.” Dash whispers.
“ ‘s good… I’m… going to pass out now for a bit. I’ll see you later, okay?” Twilight says and Dash nods slowly as those bright lavender eyes close and the tension drains from Twilight’s face. She’s about to move to get up when she feels a warm feathery weight resting across her back. The broad lavender wing is surprisingly strong, and it draws Dash in against Twilight’s warm body.
Dash hesitates for a moment, remembering the last time those long feathers had rested against her back like this, remembering the last time this warm body had lain next to her… but then she sighs. She’s got stuff to do, and as much as she’d like to stay here forever, she can’t.
Dash moves to get up, but then the wing presses against her and Dash blinks in surprise. Since when did you get that strong?
Dash takes another breath, inhaling the warm scent of the body next to her, scenting the coppery infusion of blood… and then she slides backwards, out from under the wing, rising to her feet.
“Sorry pretty lady, maybe next time.” she mutters, looking at the bloodsoaked bedsheets underneath the girl, before she turns and starts rifling through Twilight’s drawers.
“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Smit asks, and Dash shrugs.
“Unless one of you brought my shirt, I don’t have a choice. Besides, she’s a princess, she can afford a new one.” Dash pulls out a white shirt with some elaborate collar ruffle type arrangement and a neckline that would be considered only mildly scandalous in Equestria, looks at herself in the mirror and then tugs it on. “This’ll do, now let’s get going.”
Dash keeps herself formal and businesslike as she buttons up the shirt, waiting till Smit and the others are out of the room before she goes back to the sleeping princess and gently drapes a light blanket over her. “Sleep well Twi… and thanks.”
Rainbow Dash walks into the battle-group's operations room, her arms swinging and whistling a jaunty tune. The rattle of teleprinters greets her, along with the low thrum of voices. The battle-group has occupied one of the larger offices in the administration block, and converted it into a temporary operations planning room. A bank of radios has been set up in one corner, and thick cables have been run out of the doorway. A teleprinter is churning merrily away in one corner, and a map table has been set up in the middle of the room, with a street map of Tarhen spread out on the table. Soldiers are coming and going, whilst others are manning the radios, and Adrelana and Belial are standing over the map table and muttering. Eyes snap to her as she walks through the room and widen in astonishment. Conversations cease as the legionnaires in the ops room stare in awe.
Belial's eyes snap upward at the sudden silence, intending to berate whoever is whistling in his command centre, but then he claps eyes on sergent Dash and he blinks in shock. Dash can see the astonishment writ large upon his face. Twenty five strokes would be enough to kill a lesser man, certainly she shouldn't be on her feet for at least a day or three, and she tries to hide a smirk.
“Sergent Bolt. You should be resting.” Adrelana looks up at the sound of the whistling as well, but unlike Belial, his expression is one of pleasant surprise at the sight of Dash.
“I’ve already had my morning back rub and facial sir,” Dash replies. “I've been told to report here.”
“Who by?” Adrelana asks, tilting his head. “I certainly wasn't expecting you to be combat effective for at least a week.” He runs a hand through his black hair.
“That would be me.” Princess Twilight’s voice is soft and musical as she walks into the room, and Dash whirls as Twilight walks in. At once, everyone in the room is on their feet and snapping briskly to attention, their hands coming up into salutes, but Twilight waves them back down, her silk-gloved hand gesticulating swiftly. Diplomatic Incident is following at her heels, Adrelana and Belial both cast nervous looks at each other.
“Princess...” Belial says. “With the greatest of respect... this is a military command centre. Adrelana and I can attend to matters here.” So take your royal butt out of our business remains unsaid.
“I'm sure you can,” Twilight's voice is soft and genial, but then it hardens slightly. “But there's been a series of developments of which I think you should be aware.” As Dash watches, Twilight walks over to the map table and she snaps her fingers. At once, three things appear on the map table in a blinding flash of light: a manilla wallet stuffed with photographs, a Khan revolving-cylinder rifle, and a series of documents.
“There has been an attack on Equestria by insurgent forces that appear to be Khanate armed and equipped.” Twilight's words snap the room to absolute silence, and Dash feels her mouth drop open. She can almost hear the declaration of war hanging on the tip of Twilight’s tongue, but instead Twilight narrows her eyes.
“Shah Khalid's government has refused to investigate the matter, citing that all Khanate troops were in their bases at the time, and that the people doing the attacking were humans rather than Khans. Thus, in the view of the Khanate, these are Equestrian dissidents, nothing more.” Twilight narrows her eyes contemptuously.
“It is my belief, and the belief of the Crown, that this is not the case. My personal view is that this is a faction or group within the Khanate, either religious or political, that is trying to provoke a war, for reasons unknown. The issue we have is that I can't prove that's what's going on. This is where the Ninth Compagnie will be coming in handy.” Twilight takes a deep breath and then scoops up the gun. As she speaks, her words are starting to take on a harder, more frustrated edge. “This rifle was used in one of the attacks. As you see, it has markings from a Khanate state arsenal. Imperial Intelligence has identified the arsenal, Ashad-Mar State Arsenal. The issue stamp tells us the weapon has been issued in the past week or so.
“The Ninth Compagnie is going to be going to the arsenal and recovering the issue logs.”
Twilight’s words strike the room dumb with shock. Adrelana’s eyes widen and Belial’s mouth drops open. Other officers and even enlisted men who have abandoned any pretense at not listening in are wide eyed and shocked by Twilight’s sudden pronouncement.
Dash winces slightly, sucking her breath through her teeth. This is not the first time she’s run into a Twilight Plan and so she’s able to shuck off the stunned astonishment much quicker than anyone else. “A point.” She raises her fingers for attention. She manages to hide the tremor of fear in her voice as she feels the sudden, crushing weight of every eye in the room upon her. When Twilight nods her head, Dash swallows and leans over the map, tapping her finger on the large boxy complex, easily four times the size of their own compound. “That's one of the largest army bases in the capital. It's the site of their main officer training academy, similar to Sandhoofst or Raneigh.”
“A quick point,” Belial interjects, recovering from his own stupefaction. “We’re all assuming these records still exist.” Diplomatic Incident chuckles.
“Armourers, in my experience, are much like librarians,” he comments. “They keep records of absolutely everything, and cannot abide one bullet or screw going awry.” Twilight’s cheeks suddenly burn a gentle crimson and Dash has to fight to keep a straight face for a moment. “I have absolutely no doubt that records exist, somewhere or other. It'll be a simple matter of finding who signed for those guns and going from there.”
“Assuming he used his real name,” Adrelana adds, his own tone thoughtful rather than questioning. A flicker of light dances between Diplomatic Incident’s fingers as he lights his pipe, his expression thoughtful.
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Diplomatic Incident’s tone is grim. “I'd say with a weapon consignment large enough to arm a band this size, we're talking a consignee of staff rank at the very least. I'd have to assume they'd also have to be known to the armourer in question, or else they'd have to bring paperwork from a superior who would be known to the armourer.
“So, Bolt,” Diplomatic Incident puffs thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment before continuing, ignoring Belial’s filthy stare, “we're going to be using your team to make the recovery. You're going to be entering the military base, and uncovering the armoury logs. You're then to bring them back to the base with you. Any questions?” Diplomatic Incident asks, and Dash nods, but before she can ask her question, one of the staff officers gestures to Diplomatic Incident.
“If I may,” the officer turns to Twilight, who nods assent. He then turns to Diplomatic Incident.
“So you’re planning on sending an under-strength compagnie into the main officer training camp of a nation we’re on the brink of war with, without permission or authorization from the host government… I mean-” He looks up and down the table for support, and other legionnaires are nodding assent. “With all due respect to sergent Bolt, she commands an understrength compagnie. Admittedly, they’re a specialist compagnie with the right training for this sort of task, but they’re still only thirteen soldiers. They’re not right for the job, and if this fails, it will completely derail the diplomatic situation.”
Dash’s expression turns ugly for a moment, but she can’t refute his logic. Twilight’s expression is somewhat less forgiving however.
“I don’t actually think I heard a question in there, but I’ll humour you.” Twilight’s eyes are flinty as she fixes her gaze upon the unfortunate officer. “In short, I have absolute confidence in Bolt and her men. If I wanted to go in there all guns blazing, then I would be calling upon Belial or Adrelana to assault the place. If I wanted to assert my presence, I would be using my walkers and my own not insubstantial power to break the place open like an egg. However these options would most assuredly start the war we are trying to avoid. I admit that this option will be risky, but it represents an outcome with the highest chance to achieve our objective. It’s a clandestine operation aiming to achieve with stealth what cannot be achieved through naked force. A reconnaissance unit, whilst hardly being Eclipse operatives or a Night Guard Brandenburg unit, would be better fitted for the task than a company of the line,” Twilight explains, and Dash flicks a glance around the table. Many of the gathered officers look distinctly uneasy still, but Twilight has quelled quite a few of their objections. Twilight then sweeps the table with another quelling look.
“I’m very well aware that this has potential to destabilize the diplomatic situation… that this has the potential to start the war I’m trying to avoid but… we owe it to our citizens to get justice. If someone decides they want to start sending raiding parties across the border and we do not try and do what we can to protect our people, if we do not avenge them, what business do we have being paid by the taxpayers?” Twilight fixes each of the officers with a gaze and one by one, they lower their eyes. Nodding, Twilight turns to Dash.
“Questions?” Twilight asks, and Dash hesitates before answering. She can see several problems, both major and minor with this whole thing, but those problems pale in comparison to the issue that Dash can see with Twilight herself. There’s an edge to Twilight, something hard and cold lingering just beneath the surface. Dash would have never imagined Twilight would be capable of acting like this less than a month ago. On the one hand, it’s impressive to watch the cute, nervous little librarian of two years ago slapping down military officers as if she’s been born with a general’s stars on her shoulders. On the other, it’s tragic, seeing the cute, nervous little librarian of two years ago so candidly discuss breaking into bases and starting wars that will kill thousands of people.
“Do you have any questions, sergent?” Twilight’s voice snaps Dash back to the present and Dash blinks sharply, realizing she’s been silent for too long, and that the matters on her mind can’t really be discussed in public.
“Several. Firstly, what kind of timeline do I have for this?”
“Soon as possible is preferred, but if you can present a credible reason to wait, then that works for me. You're in charge of your own timings and ops plans. Adrelana, you're to provide Bolt with all that she needs to make it happen, but the priority is that this remain covert. Naturally, the crown will be most... displeased, if it emerges that Equestrian soldiers have been breaking into a Khan armoury.”
“You're sure you want to trust this to Bolt?” Belial growls. “She's not stea-”
The basilisk stare that Twilight turns upon him snaps the Khan's mouth shut mid sentence.
“That reminds me,” Twilight says suddenly. “No more floggings, not of compagnie commanders, not of anyone.”
“Princess-” Adrelana says quickly, holding up his hand, but Twilight's eyes are suddenly hard as stone.
“Capitaine Adrelana, how long do troops who have been flogged remain combat ineffective?” Twilight asks, and Adrelana tilts his head.
“Humans remain combat ineffective for approximately a week to two weeks recovering from the injuries sustained, but they're fit for li-”
“Not acceptable, Capitaine. I don't care what you come up with to replace it, but no maiming of my soldiers. A man who has been fined two weeks' pay can still hold a weapon, a man who has been flogged cannot. We have just over three hundred men here, in the middle of an occasionally hostile city of several million inhabitants. If the situation escalates and we need to stage an evacuation, we're going to need every single person on a weapon. Every man that we have to carry out of the sick-bay is a liability.”
Belial cuts in, “But, your highness, sergent Bolt was flogged.” Dash cuts a nervous glance to Diplomatic Incident, whose moustache is bristling at the interruption. “She's up and about. Maybe Equestrians-”
“Capitaine Belial,” Twilight's voice is harder still, if that were possible. “Sergent Bolt is up and about because, knowing that I needed her to be up and about, I went down and healed her injuries. I have more important things to be doing than putting NCOs that have incurred your displeasure back together.” Twilight looks from Belial to Adrelana, her arms folded and a faint frown upon her face. Dash tries her very best not to notice how Twilight folding her arms like that does pleasant things to her décolletage. She does notice how Twilight, in the week or so since she's seen her, seems to have grown slightly taller and her gaze has grown slightly sharper. Adrelana nods quickly, as if aware how thin the ice they’re treading on has suddenly become.
“Yes, Majesty,” he responds sharply, swiftly kicking Belial before the other male can respond. “Do you have any further directives for us?” he asks. Twilight shakes her head.
“I don't think I'll need to be taking a ride up to the citadel for the next few days. The following is for your planning information only and it's not for general dissemination to the ranks. The Shah and I have nothing further to say to one another. We've both agreed in principle to an agreement and he's in the process of getting his government to agree. I don't want my presence in the palace to queer the deal for him.”
The two officers glance at each other, the unspoken question, ‘that's nice, but what does that have to do with us?’ hanging in the air. Twilight drums her fingers upon the table.
“We're going to announce the agreement and formally sign it on Revolution Day. This is where you come in. As part of the Revolution Day festivities, there's a parade of soldiers. The suggestion has been made that the Legion take part...” Belial and Adrelana look at each other nervously and Twilight tilts her head. “If it's no go, then I'll tell the Shah and we'll knock it on the head.”
“It's doable,” Belial says after a moment. “Though the only unit that brought their formal full dress is the Ninth... if we're to be doing parades, then formal dress uniforms will need to be sent for the other troops, but that's easily accomplished.”
Twilight's smile broadens, but then she taps her fingers on the map. “Well gentlemen, that takes care of what I want from you, what can I do for you?” Twilight asks, and Adrelana clicks his tongue softly.
“Ma'am... forgive me if I seem impertinent but we have been dealing with protestors at the front gate since we arrived. They're mostly an annoyance, but I've got quite a few cases of walking wounded. I'm also concerned that it might be a good way to get a-”
A sudden low pitched whine splits the air and Dash is up and moving even as Belial and Adrelana are suddenly grabbing for their pith helmets whilst Diplomatic Incident is yelling “DOWN DOWN DOWN!”
Dash leaps across the table, maps and pens strewn in her wake, grabbing Twilight and shoving her bodily to the ground, protecting the Princess with her own body as the whine rises to a shriek. The howl of the incoming round seems to suck the air out of her lungs, those few heartbeats seeming to last for lifetimes.
It slams down into the compound with an earth-shaking thump and the building imperceptibly shivers as the blast wave smacks into it.Through the ringing in her ears and the shaking of the ground, Dash shivers as she hears the grinding crash of falling masonry and the soft musical clatter of falling glass.
“Get off me!” Twilight protests, struggling beneath Dash, but in spite of Twilight's greater height, Dash is still stronger and she uses that muscle mass to push Twilight to the ground as a second blast crashes outside, the thunderclap of the blast setting Dash's heart to pounding with fear, but also with relief. Thank God it didn't get me, a thought immediately followed by guilt and worry, wondering who it did get.
“Wait,” Dash hisses in her ear, trying to ignore the way her hand is on Twilight's shoulder and her other hand is on Twilight's hip. A third mortar comes shrieking in and thumps down outside the walls, which shiver once more beneath the hammerblow of the blast wave. Masonry rattles off the walls like sleet, and Twilight pushes again, wrestling against Dash.
“Get off me!” Twilight protests again.
“No!” Dash shouts, having to shout to make herself heard over the ringing in her ears. “If I let you get killed, I'll never hear the end of it!”
“But I can't-” Twilight's words are lost in another whine and crash as a fourth mortar comes wailing down to erupt outside the compound, if the dull crump is anything to go by.
“Damnit, Twi, listen to me!” Dash grunts as she wrestles the shaking princess, holding her down. “You're not going to do anything if you get killed! I'm not going to let you die here!”
Twilight sags beneath Rainbow Dash, panting hard and shaking, the fight going out of her. She gasps for breath beneath Dash, her breathing rapid and shaky, her shoulders heaving as she trembles, quivering with adrenaline and fear. Dash gazes down at the shaking Twilight, tanned skin suddenly pale, and then her hand reaches up to Twilight's neck in the soft, comforting gesture that she knows Twilight likes. The gesture is known to relieve tension among the magic-using population of Equestria. Twilight had once tried to explain it, but with limited success.
Twilight's breath hisses out of her in a shaky sigh, and the tension slowly flows out of her body as the mortar bombardment continues, each shrill wail followed by a deep crump making her jerk, but other than that, the Princess remains limp beneath Dash, for which the other woman is intensely grateful.
After no more shells come down for thirty long, tortuous seconds, Dash picks herself up from atop her liege-lady and gropes around for her helmet, which she'd been unable to put on in the general dive for Princess Twilight, shoving it onto her head and pulling the chin-strap down over her chin.
“Come on Twi, we need to get moving right now, onto the ground floor, or somewhere else.” Anywhere else but here, a small voice in the back of her brain shouts, but Twilight is already getting up onto her feet and dusting herself off. Dash is dimly aware of Belial and Adrelana giving orders, but they seem to fade into the background as she stares at Twilight.
The fourth most powerful sorceress in the entire world is brushing her knees off and shaking out her skirts, stretching out her wings and breathing heavily, her eyes sparkling and her face flushed with adrenaline. Her eyes are wide and her pupils are dilated.
“Holy crap... holy crap...” Twilight repeats over and over again, as if surprised that she's even survived that. Dash can't blame her in the slightest. Mortars are among the least pleasant weapons to be underneath. They're also so dreadfully impersonal, as if some god is just idly gesticulating off-hand with his finger: fuck everyone standing over there somewhere.
As if to underscore that, a sound reaches Dash's ears, a sound almost unlike any that she's ever heard before. A shrill, unearthly wailing sound of absolute agony. Voices shrieking out in pain, both human and Khan, ululating and unpleasant, the shrill sounds prick up the skin along Dash's arm. She looks up to Twilight to urge her to take safety, preferably in a basement somewhere, only to see the princess already turning her back and heading for the door, moving surprisingly swiftly for a woman in long skirts.
“Um, Twi?” Dash immediately steps in behind her, snatching her rifle from the rifle rack by the door, identifying it with barely a look. “Where are we going?” she asks, but the Princess doesn't answer, just clatters onward down the stairs, her pace quickening.
She steps out onto the parade square, Dash following her. The moment Dash steps out onto the landing field however, Dash almost stops in her tracks. The stanchion where she'd been getting flogged a few hours ago is gone, replaced by an ugly crater. Smoke drifts from one of the fabrication halls, and plumes of grey dust billow up from several impact craters scattered across the parade square. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see other Legionnaires sprinting, some carrying stretchers. One of Doctor Mayotte's orderlies is also sprinting across the landing square.
Dash's heart goes cold as she notices the thicker plume of smoke drifting from the gate, and a strange sickly sweet stench clings to her nostrils, along with the sharp acrid burn of smoke. However Twilight is moving now, breaking into a run across the gravelly, blasted landing field and Dash runs with her, intent on catching the girl, but Twilight moves surprisingly quickly.
“Twilight, Stop!” Dash snaps, but Twilight keeps moving.
No, stop, you don't need to see this. Dash implores the princess as she steps through the layers of smoke and dust billowing around the blast. As they draw closer, Dash can make out individual screams of pain through the general tumult, and then they're at the gate and pushing through.
Shapes become visible in the dissipating smoke. Two legionnaires dash past carrying a third bloodied figure between them, a stump where his right leg used to be. Other legionnaires are lying on the ground, moaning and clutching shrapnel wounds, or ruined limbs or burnt flesh or abbreviated limbs, obscenely white bones protruding from the stumps. The Khans caught in the blast are worse off. Protesters, mostly from out of town; they appear to be young and well dressed. Now their flowing skirts and gleaming robes are ripped into tatters, and fur has been seared from flesh as they roll on the ground, fragments of shrapnel protruding from their skin. Skin hangs limply from muscles, flayed away by the force of the blast.
Other bodies are just lying there, scattered here and there across the ruined street, some of which are barely even identifiable as having been sentient beings. Piles of organic matter, identifiable only by a scrap of uniform or a bead of jewellery here or there. One Khan looks untouched, until someone rolls him over onto his back and a seven inch long fragment of metal protrudes from between his ribs.
Dash's mouth is dry and her hands are starting to shake as she runs up to Twilight, who is standing there, staring in awestruck horror.
“You don't need to see this,” Dash whispers, placing her hands on Twilight's shoulders, intending to steer her back inside the outpost, but then Twilight steps forward, shaking Dash's hands off with barely a muttered word, and then she plunges forward into the carnage, walking right up to Doctor Mayotte's orderly and muttering something. Mayotte's orderly blinks.
“You're a qualified nurse?” His incredulous comment is loud enough for Dash to hear, but before she can drag Twilight away, a voice snatches at Dash's concentration.
“Sergent, what do we do?” The voice sounds young and Dash whirls to see a legionnaire taller than she is, but still impossibly young-looking for that, his shaven head doing little to disguise the softness of his cheeks. His skin is blast blackened and his eyebrows are missing.
Why the fuck are you asking me... shitshitshit, what do I do? A moment of blind panic surges through Dash as she fights down the urge to look for a senior rank, but then she narrows her eye and straightens her spine.
“Where's your caporal?” Dash snaps, and the legionnaire shrugs, his voice rising several octaves.
“He's been carried inside, he looked pretty bad, there was a bit of-” His voice is starting to rise in pure panic and Dash quickly looks him down, assessing him for injuries. Finding none, and seeing he's still holding his rifle, she narrows her eyes and then shakes his shoulder hard.
“Shithead, don't you remember your pre-deployment training? Pull security for the doctors to get everyone inside, then we'll go from there,” she barks, unslinging her own marskman's rifle and wishing that she had a cavalry carbine for shit like this.
“Sergent, what-” Another questioning voice, this time from a caporal who looks like he's got quite a bit of experience, and Dash clicks her tongue, looking around to see soldiers getting carried back inside, but no one appears to be watching the perimeter, or covering the approaching crowd of Khans. Dash nods quickly.
“Get your section set up around the area. I want you guys to set up a line across the street. No one crosses that line whilst we're working. Once we've got everyone inside, we'll collapse the bag inside the gates on my whistle.” The caporal nods quickly and starts barking orders to his section.
Dash winces as she watches the section lining up, facing the rapidly advancing crowd. Ten legionnaires are not going to be enough to block the street, and that's only from one side. As Dash turns, she can see another crowd coming from the other direction and she draws breath: “Runner!” she shouts, already cursing her inattentiveness as she turns to face the crowd, stepping forward.
A clatter of footsteps next to her. “You called, sergent?” A voice, sounding very young in her ear, but Dash has no eyes for the owner of the voice.
“Get me more guys. I want another two sections at the very least right now,” she shouts, stepping toward the onrushing crowd.
“Yes, sergent!” the runner snaps and then bolts away, leaving Dash to confront the approaching group of Khans. There are at least thirty of them, and though Dash can't see any weapons, she's not in any mood to take chances.
Dash unfurls her wings and lifts her hand to stop the crowd, knowing even as she does so, that it's futile. If the crowd really wants to push the point, there's going to be very little she can do other than shoot into the crowd. Come on... someone get someone else out here! she inwardly despairs, but then she's saved by the welcoming thunder of boots behind her, and the voice of someone giving orders.
“You heard Caporal Moony, get formed up!” the voice snaps. Dash takes her eye off the crowd for just a second to see another caporal, one she recognizes as Caporal Lavelle.
“Sergent!” Lavelle smiles a gap-toothed smile as he falls in next to Dash. “See you've managed to find yourself some trouble... want us along the road keeping these guys back yeah?” Dash nods quickly, keeping her eye upon the crowd to hide her unsurety.
“Yeah, get everyone lined up in position to block the road... I don't want them crossing my perimeter until the casualties are all inside our walls.” Dash turns to Lavelle. “Mind if I leave this in your capables?”
“Sure, sergent, there you go again, giving us the shit jobs.”
“Just some payback,” Dash says with a grin as she backs out of the line, turning to supervise the scene. As much as she'd like to be back with the men, keeping the Khans back and doing something simple, she can't do that right now. She's the ranking person on scene, and until someone with higher rank gets there, she's in command. She’s responsible, which means keeping her options open so that she can deal with anything else that may develop.
“Sergent!” A voice, and Dash turns to see a couple of legionnaires with bloody uniforms trotting up to her. For a moment, Dash considers ordering them back inside with the other wounded, then she notices that neither of them are injured.
“We've got all the wounded inside,” the taller of the two says as she begins to walk toward them, and Dash almost gives in to a surge of relief when she looks around, still seeing moaning Khans scattered here and there.
“Then why am I still seeing wounded cats scattered around my perimeter?” Dash snaps, and the legionnaires look at each other, before the shorter one clears his throat experimentally, as if preparing himself to say something he knows his boss will not want to hear.
“Well, they're locals... they're not our problem, boss,” he says after a moment.
“I wasn't aware it was up to you to decide what 'our problems' are,” Dash responds sharply. “The nearest hospital is miles away -- they'll only be good for the morgue by then.”
“Well-” One of the legionnaires looks like he wants to object further, but then he blinks as Princess Twilight comes walking back out of the compound. The princess is bloody to the elbows and her face is deathly pale, but she still kneels down, her wings spread wide as she rests her hands upon one of the Khans, frowning for a moment and then rolling him onto his back and folding his arms, she then moves to the next Khan and starts groping for a pulse.
“Well, go help her then, you fucking muppets!” Dash barks, propelling one of the legionnaires backward toward Twilight with a meaty shove.
She takes a breath, inhaling the sticky, sickly odour of burnt flesh, and she scowls slightly through her good eye, taking another look around to see if any officers have arrived on the scene yet. Seeing a lieutenant coming out, Dash intends to go report to him, but he makes his way over to her.
“Sergent, good work,” he says softly. “Keep the perimeter up and report in if there are any problems.”
Problems, sure, like a grotty bunch of terrorists or whatever the hell else has decided to open up a whole new can of worms. Dash's thoughts are poisonous as she turns back to the scene, intending to get the chaos managed as quickly as she can. Though I suppose this takes care of the protestor problem rather neatly... Interesting definition of neat though. She glances around the splashed bodies lying here and there, at the blood and entrails. How she would have reacted to this two years ago doesn’t even bear thinking about. How Twilight would have reacted two months ago. Now Dash can feel the mask on her face, the hard cold mask that she keeps for moments like this, and that’s just fine. She needs that mask, it’s almost a part of her now.
But to see it on Twilight’s face? To see that ice mask on the face of the cute little nerdlinger she’d teased, fancied, danced with and… well, all the other things. Yeah, it doesn’t sit right with Dash to see Twilight’s face turn to marble like that. It just feels wrong, like a missed step in a dance, or the first slow grinding rotations of the wheels of a train as it starts to plunge down a hill and off a precipice.
Dash sniffs softly for just a moment, reaching back to brush her pith helmet off her head and sweep a grubby, bloody hand through her greasy, dirty hair. She lowers her head, massaging her temples for a second with thumb and trigger finger before she lifts her head, pushes her helmet back into place and turns to look around for the next thing to do.
Two hours later, Twilight is scrubbing the blood out from between her fingers in her quarters when Diplomatic Incident comes into the room, his expression grim.
“Ma'am, we haven't been able to localize a launch site for those mortars, they could have been fired from just about anywhere in the city.” Diplomatic Incident is grinding the tobacco in his pipe with rather more vigour than normal. “As such, we don't have anything formal yet to accuse the Khan government of, beyond a failure to provide security...” Twilight nods grimly, her mouth curled into a thin, dispirited line.
“There's no point.” Twilight's voice is more weary than anything else. “Everyone knows what the position is... this is a provocation, I can't respond.” Her eyes are distant, the fire in them is a dim glow. Her hands are scrubbing at her arms now, trying to get the specks of blood off as her head hangs low.
“Why not?” Diplomatic Incident asks. “You cannot afford to show weakness Twilight. This will be the third time someone has touched Equestria without a reply... That is an intolerable state of affairs.”
Twilight narrows her eyes. “We have three hundred men, no air support, and no heavy weapons. Scratch that, we have two assault walkers, five light mortars, and ten Maxim guns. We also have four skiffs. I trust you're not going to tell me that the way we're going to win this is by lighting the fuse on the war I've been told to keep from happening at almost all costs.” She ticks off the points on her fingers and Diplomatic Incident shakes his head, but the sight of the light in her eyes burning brighter lights a fire in his heart as he watches His Princess engage with the problem. The sight of her starting to slough off the despondent torpor that has hung over her since she got thrown out of the infirmary and ordered to catch some rest by Doctor Mayotte makes his heart leap.
“No, your highness. I am suggesting that you pressure the Shah, though. He has absolutely failed to provide any kind of security for our little get together and that says some fairly damning things about his commitment to the peace process.” Diplomatic Incident's tone is firm, as though he's lecturing an errant student. “Tell him that your government has concerns, quite valid ones I think. Make it sound like you're a hair's breadth from being pulled out. I think everyone's aware we're tiptoeing on a knife's edge, so I'm not sure he's going to want to play brinksmanship.”
“He said as much himself,” Twilight agrees, her mouth curling into a thoughtful frown. “I agree with your opinion though, this isn't a state of affairs I like but...” She holds up her hands in a palms out gesture, but then her eyes narrow slightly and she reaches for her quill, and she holds out her hand. The textbook leaps to her palm almost without thinking. Perception magic, for the eyes of the mind. XVI Ed.
“Give me a few hours with this, Diplomatic Incident. I think I'll have a solution in hand, in the meantime... can we arrange a visit to the Shah? I want to ask him for a favour or three.”
Diplomatic Incident tilts his head, but then he nods, his confusion showing on his face. “I'm sure we can do that... what exactly do you have in mind?”
Diplomatic Incident considers himself an experienced statesman, yet the chill smile that curls the lips of his protege is enough to send a brief shiver up his spine. For just a second, he wonders precisely what is taking the place of that despondency.
____________________________________
Three hours after the bombing, Dash is still on the front gate, covering the crowd of Khans that have gathered outside. She tugs at the front of her shirt, her eye scanning the crowd critically. What she wouldn't give just now for an elevated position and a couple of Maxim guns... yet the crowd appears to be placid, or at least resentfully compliant. There's the occasional muttered slur and a dirty look once in awhile, but no one appears to have any desire to throw the first stone, yet.
Dash glances at the other legionnaires to her right and left. They're not her Ninth, but they know their business nonetheless. Rifles held across the chest, ready to raise their weapons, scarves pulled up to cover their faces, a faceless wall of khaki and pith helmets. Dash is about to enquire as to the possibility of changing the guard, when the crowd before her starts to ripple as though it's being disturbed by something. Whispers and mutters start to ripple from pillar to post as the crowd starts to shift in direction in response to something Dash can't see. The ranks in front start to move towards Dash in a slow wave...
At once, an icy memory sinks into the pit of Dash's stomach. The sight of that inexorable wave of people crashing upon the thin tan-clad line of soldiers at the embassy and breaking over them, swelling over the soldiers and overwhelming them, ripping them apart. Dash is not going to let the same thing happen again, and she desperately hopes that whoever these soldiers belong to, their sergent has kept them up to speed on drill.
“Platoon will prepare to fix bayonets!” She barks the order out, making sure that her words are projected in front as well as to the right and left. Hopefully that should quell the enthusiasm of the crowd to try anything funny. As one, her borrowed legionnaires reach backward for the bayonets, half-drawing them from their scabbards. “Fix!”
The sharp click of twenty sword bayonets being drawn and fixed rings down the street, but the ones in front are still coming, still being pushed from behind. Dash takes a deep breath.
“En Garde!” Dash barks. Twenty rifles are raised to waist height, bayonets pointed at the regulation twenty five degree upward angle, a glittering forest of spikes waiting to receive the advancing cats. The front khans are starting to back away now, starting to try and slow the forward push of the ones behind, but the ones behind are still pushing, and Dash can hear the fear in their voices now.
Dash suddenly hears the click-click-click of clawed feet on the cobbled streetsand she can't help but swear. If these were horses, it would be easy to tell their speed, but with the lizard-mounted cavalry popular with the Khans, it's more difficult to tell, and one of her instructors had imparted a lesson that Dash is now taking very much to heart: If you can't see cavalry but you can hear them, assume you're about to get charged.
Dash has never been involved in a cavalry charge, or had to receive one. 2REP always did its charging and assaulting from airborne skiffs, and on foot, in the mountains where horses and lizard cavalry were more of a hindrance than a help. However there is one lesson she has taken to heart when it did come to cavalry: Prepare to receive a charge before they start moving, because you won't have time once they start the charge.
“Form Ranks! Front rank, kneel!” Dash abandons the formal verbiage of drill commands, knowing that she needs to get her men in position now. Her soldiers, not her soldiers but still legionnaires, with the instinctive adherence to words of command, move to obey, ten soldiers stepping forward and kneeling expectantly, rifles braced on the cobbled street. “Rear Rank, Head-Parry!” Dash orders, and her men raise their rifles into the positions required, rifles raised to block the sabre swing of the cavalrymen, whilst the front rank keep their rifles raised upward to jab their bayonets into the throats and chests of the incoming khans.
Dash has a few seconds to see elaborately plumed shakos before the crowd parts to reveal grey-clad cossacks in double-breasted tunics carrying shock-lances raised high. Occasionally one of them lowers his shock-lance to swat a citizen too slow to get out of the way, but they rein in their shrieking mounts the moment they see the forest of raised bayonets. Dash can't help but feel her pulse quicken as the cavalrymen shift their lances in their hands.
One of the cavalrymen suddenly pushes forward. Medals and braids drip from his chest in a glittering cascade of gold and ribbon. Dash wishes she was on a rooftop somewhere, or crouched behind a ruined building. This idiot, obviously the leader judging by his immaculately manicured beard and moustache, and the profusion of medals, would be dead before he hit the ground.
“Make way!” he barks, but Dash narrows her eye and the soldiers around her hold fast. “Boy!” the old soldier thunders. “Don't you know how to follow an order! We carry the words of the Shah!”
“Runner!” Dash barks out, and one of the younger legionnaires jumps up from his position at the front rank. “Get Diplomatic Incident here on the double!” she barks, and the runner turns to dash back through the gates, which open just a hair to let him through. Dash looks up toward the cavalry, her mouth curling downward in distaste.
The cavalryman reins his mount forward, lowering his lance to point it at Dash. “So you’re in command? The thug’s legion let boys command now?” he sneers. Dash’s mouth curls beneath her scarf, but she doesn’t allow herself to comment. The cossack leans forward in his saddle, his lance coming forward until it’s inches from Dash’s throat.
Dash can hear the lance thrumming softly, the tip vibrating gently as it prickles the hair up and down Dash’s arms. She keeps her gaze level, her eyes locked upon the commander and his smirk widens.
“Your gaze offends me, gutter trash. I’d put your eye out but you only have one.” He smirks, his voice a low growl, and Dash’s hands burn with the desire to duck underneath his thrust and then ram her bayonet into his throat. “I’ll give you one more warning, muzhik. Get me your NCO, or someone I can speak to, or I will open your throat, and my soldiers will ride down your pathetic little…”
The gate behind them opens with a deep rumbling crunching sound, and the sharp ratcheting back and forth of machine gun charging handles being primed, and then a deep crunch as an armoured gun platform steps forward, the hot stink of burning fuel wafting through the air.
The huge bulk of the assault gun squats like a gigantic beetle, its tan-painted armour pitted and scarred, but its massive cannon extends forward, the huge hundred millimeter muzzle appearing to be big enough to blast the beasts out from beneath them. Two grinning legionnaires are sat in the armoured cupolas, both of them sat behind belt-fed Maxim guns, their fingers poised on the butterfly triggers of their weapons.
Dash can’t help but smile at the cossack as the assault gun slowly steps forward, its six legs beating a slow tattoo upon the ground. The cossack’s features go ashy grey, and Dash reaches up, grabbing the shaft of the spear and pulling it aside, away from her throat as she hears Diplomatic Incident’s voice coming from behind her. “Well, this is a most peculiar situation. Lord-Colonel of Cossacks, explain yourself!” Diplomatic Incident barks, and the cossack lifts his spear, his furious gaze shifting.
“This soldier was refusing to allow us entry into this area. We carry an envoy from the palace, and cannot be held back. This soldier was attempting to offer us force of violence, inside the Khanate.”
Diplomatic Incident tilts his head, and then he jerks his head at the crater just behind the colonel of cossacks. His eyes are calm but there’s a faint note of mocking to them that makes the Cossack’s ears turn a deep red.
“Now, you said you brought an envoy from the Khanate?” Diplomatic Incident says after a second, and the cossack nods.
“I do, but I’d like to bring our guests inside, into the perimeter… would this be acceptable?” the Cossack asks, his tone noticeably less abrasive. Diplomatic Incident pauses for a moment before he turns his head to glance over his shoulder.
“Would that be acceptable, Princess?” he asks, and Dash suddenly feels a tremor behind her, and she forces her head to remain level as a figure glides past the lines of soldiers, into her field of view.
Princess Twilight is a mess. Her hands are clean, mostly, but she’s still wearing a blood-spattered apron over her dress, and her dress is bloodstained. Flecks of blood freckle her face, and her eyes are agate hard, her wings half spread as she steps up.
“That would be acceptable,” she agrees after a second, and Dash isn’t quite sure what’s going on behind those rose-coloured eyes. All that is clear is that Princess Twilight is absolutely furious, as she watches the mounted cossacks come inside, followed by a covered carriage. The cossacks bring the carriage inside the perimeter, several of them dismounting, and handing their mounts to their fellows. They then move over to the carriage and form two lines on either side of the carriage’s only door.
What the fuck is this? Dash asks herself, but she’s not kept wondering for long, as the door to the carriage opens and a white Khan with black stripes comes climbing out of the carriage. Holy shit, it’s the Shah.
______________________________________________
Twilight looks at the delegation of Khans once they’ve been brought inside the perimeter. As they climb out of the carriage that has brought them to her compound, Twilight is suddenly struck by how small they appear, quite how dishevelled and unkempt they look, like this has caught them all on the hop. Hassan Zafwan is still dressed in a civilian suit and the Shah is dressed in a simple unremarkable set of grey and black robes. His whiskers are drooping and his lips are drawn back into a snarl as his eyes sweep the compound, taking in the rows of Khans and Equestrians lying side by side outside the workshop that has been converted into an aid station, the walking wounded bringing water to the ones who cannot move with an awning stretched over the rows to try and keep the setting sun off of them.
She knows she should be welcoming and warm, friendly and pleasant, but her whole body feels worn out and empty, drained of energy. She can’t quite find the energy to care about what she’s about to say, the energy having been drained from her as she’d applied pressure to another arterial bleed, the energy having been sucked out of her as she’d stepped out of the aid station to tell another distraught Khan mother that her child had just lost his battle with the fragment of steel that had shredded his belly and ribcage. The Khan had folded in on herself and then tilted her head back in another shrill ululating howl of grief and rage, then Twilight had turned around and walked back into the aid station to do it all again.
She watches the Shah’s eyes take in the two dozen crimson speckled white shrouds resting just in one corner. Adrelana and Belial had wanted them put in a building, or out of sight, but Diplomatic Incident had made the case for the subtle emotional blackmail that those shrouds would represent. The Equestrian bodies, or what is left of them are already boxed up and sat in one of the disused warehouses, so that they won’t go off in the sun, and more stakes and helmets will be joining the Ninth Compagnie stakes tonight. The Shah is exhaling hard as he walks up to Twilight, his hands shaking with something. Perhaps it’s fear, perhaps it’s anger. Anger at who though…
Hassan Zafwan grunts as the cossack standing behind him gives him a sharp shove to keep him moving with the Shah. Twilight blinks in shocked surprise, wondering what the hell that’s about, but she has a feeling she won’t be wondering for much longer.
“I would be lying if I said this meeting was under ideal circumstances,” the Shah says after a moment. “I know that anything I do or say is going to appear… trite, hollow.”
Zafwan narrows his eyes slightly, and he draws his breath. “In the Scriptures, we must confront the Archdaemon, and there will always be an amount of collateral-”
“Shut the fuck up.” Twilight’s thinly sheet of calm fragments as though he’s struck it with a sledgehammer. “You can talk to me about Archdaemons and all that rot until the cows come home. But you do not write your OWN people off as collateral damage!” Zafwan bristles, turning to the Shah for support.
“I cannot protect the enemies of the State; I cannot protect the enemies of the Divinity, milord, I just can’t!” Zafwan’s voice quavers with simulated terror, and he looks like he’s about to cry. His tone is just an inch from petulant whining.
The Shah grabs Zafwan’s suit jacket by the shoulders and whirls him around, propelling him forward with a hard shove toward the bodies. “Zafwan, you shit!” the Shah snaps. “Son of Malik-Hussein-Zafwan, bringer of shame upon his name. They are your people. You swore an oath, an oath before me and before the Divinity to protect them!” he roars, his voice almost shaking the compound as he gives full vent to his fury. His fur is standing on end, his tail lashing back and forth like a battle standard. His ears are laid back, and Twilight, in her exhausted torpor, is almost stunned by the power of a Khan giving full vent to his feelings as the Shah bounds forward to grab Zafwan, spinning him round until they’re almost nose to nose. Huge curving blades of flawless ivory are on display, dozens of sharp teeth inches from Zafwan’s nose. The chief of police quails before those great ivory scimitars, turning his head away from the hot stinking breath lashing his face.
“I am the Defender of the Faith. I would not accept bullshit like that from Ordained clerics - what makes you think I will tolerate it coming from you?!” the Shah thunders, and suddenly Twilight sees a flash of the revolutionary that had united a nation, the awe inspiring force of nature that is the Shah giving full voice to his rage. “These people are yours. Your failure to protect them speaks volumes, Hassan Zafwan! I’m not sure I want you as the head of my police force anymore.”
“But… I have been true to you, my lord, and to my conscience!” Hassan Zafwan yowls, his face screwed up against the onslaught.
“Your conscience?” The Shah draws back one meaty paw, and for a horrifying second, Twilight thinks that the Shah is about to slash his subordinate with his claws, but then the Shah shoves Zafwan backward again. “Your conscience did this. You, you are among the worst of people!”
Zafwan’s back hunches, his fur bristling as his ears fold back, and he bares his teeth. The Shah’s answering roar of challenge could almost shake the walls. Twilight can’t help but jump a little as the sudden hammerblow of sound pounds the air in front of her.
“Finally got your claws out have you, betrayer of brothers?” The Shah’s voice drops almost to a purr as his claws extend, wicked sickles of shining bone. “Come on then, I would positively welcome it. Come at me with your handful of kinjal. You have the courage to kill for your convictions, let’s see if you have the fortitude to die for them, too, if you can wash away the dishonour of your inaction with your blood. Let’s see if you can live up to your name, Zafwan, descendant of Samak-E-Ayyar!”
Zafwan stares at the Shah, his eyes widening as he stares at his ruler, suddenly seeing his death in the Shah’s hard eyes. His cheeks quiver for a second and his eyes close intently. His shoulders lift, and he inhales a deep breath, which he then exhales. Then his lips close and he lifts his head, exposing his neck in a gesture of submission. The Shah hisses, his claws retracting. He nods, as though an expectation is being confirmed.
Twilight, watching in stunned amazement, has never seen anything like it. The Shah lifts his head, turning to Twilight. A grimace of disgust curls his lips. “Welcome to my world, Princess,” he says grimly, brushing his hands together as though trying to cleanse some kind of dirt off of them. “Anyway…” He takes a deep breath, looking at Twilight. “Would it help if I…” He falls silent after a second, the anger of just a moment vanishing almost instantaneously. “No, no it wouldn’t. You’ve taken casualties now, and my security forces are doing almost nothing to help you. This is the second attack during your short time in my country…”
“Third, and that’s counting only in your capital city,” Twilight says, summoning her voice with an effort of will. “If we’re including all the times I’ve been shot at, attacked, or someone has attempted to kill me inside the borders of your country, that goes up to five. Two of them I’m prepared to excuse, one because the people involved were bandits, the other because they may not have been aiming at this compound. I’ve had my aide arrested by representatives of your government. Villages have been raided by people claiming to be representatives of your government. My people have been shot at, I’ve had people killed in the name of your regime. Five legionnaires are now dead… ten more are seriously injured, just referring to today’s events.” Twilight fixes the Shah with a steady look, her tone as level as a prosecutor. “These are just my legionnaires, to say nothing of your own people which are not, strictly speaking, my responsibility or my problem.” Twilight folds her arms under her breasts, her mouth fixed into a hard line, trying to act like a diplomat and not the livid woman underneath. “The bottom line, Shah Khalid, is that Celestia’s patience with your government has reached its finite limit. I am instructed to break off negotiations with your government forthwith and return home.” Twilight says, her tone flat and emotionless, pitching the delivery just right.
The Shah, to his credit, merely nods slowly, drawing his shoulders back and stiffening his spine. “I see,” he says, his voice wavering just slightly.
Twilight then fixes him with a look. “Those are my instructions from my government… however, I would like to know something from you, if I may?”
“You have only to ask...” the Shah says, a little nonplussed, as Hassan Zafwan’s gaze snaps to Twilight, shocked to hear the Shah’s conceding tone.
“How absolute is your control of your news media?” Twilight asks. “You see, the Equestrian Broadcasting Corporation mobile correspondent got shot a few days back and so the only journalists in the city are yours and the United Federation’s.”
“My control is absolute, Your Highness. The Synod of Censors and the Ministry of Truth are both firmly in my camp.” The Shah’s eyes are speculative. “You want to control the spread of information… why?” he asks, and Twilight clicks her tongue.
“I’m flouting the boundaries of a technicality here, Shah. Princess Celestia’s patience with you may have run out, and if not, just... but… I know how destructive a war here will be. Princess Luna may be the military face of the nation, but some of the components and compounds for her war machines and shells are fabricated in university laboratories which I run, and receive reports from.” Twilight looks up at the Shah, her eyes calm.
“I can’t prove that attack was directed at me. I can’t prove it wasn’t aimed from inside the city. I don’t have something I’d feel comfortable hanging my hat on if I want to start a war. Bottom line, you’re now paying reparations. I want additional security around this compound, provided by Admiral Neydin.”
Hassan Zafwan’s mouth drops open. Out tumbles, “We can’t commit troops to protect the unholy; we have a duty to the souls of our men.”
“Or I can click my fingers right now and be back in Canterlot in a fraction of a second.” Twilight raises her fingers, her tone steely as a lavendar spark dances between her fingers. The lie rolls convincingly off her tongue as thumb and middle finger come together. “Five minutes after I return, a telegram will be sent to the Khan embassy, notifying them that a state of war exists between Equestria and the Khanate. The telegrams have already been written, the orders have already been prepared. Five minutes after that, the guns will start firing. Events will take on their own momentum, and stuffing this particular djinn back into his bottle might prove more challenging than any of us can comprehend.” Twilight’s gaze then sweeps the yard, taking in the dead bodies and the shattered corpses. “At this point, I literally do not care any more.”
The Shah blinks in surprise and Zafwan’s mouth drops open in horror, and Twilight offers them both a flat hard stare, her fist clenching and unclenching. “Those are my terms, take them or leave them.”
“I… well, yes, those terms sound reasonable. I will get some marines posted here as soon as possible, and of course I shall offer a sum of reparations, five hundred thousand Equestrian bits, in reparations,” the Shah says hastily, and then he turns to Zafwan. “Consider yourself dismissed from my service. I shall be appointing a replacement in due course.” The Shah grates. “You’ve proven yourself singularly unfit. I was willing to excuse a little hostility from your men, but your abject failure to do your fucking job very nearly dropped the continent into a war today.”
“It still might,” Twilight says. “The Red Valorossiyan ambassador was over for tea and cakes with my attache. She’s asked me to convey her supreme irritation to you. Her words, not mine. She’s back in her embassy now.”
The Shah blinks in surprise, and then he nods slowly, his expression darkening. “Well… that’s a turn for the books,” he says. His whiskers flick, and then he shrugs quietly. “Still, on balance, I’d rather have her than you angry with me… Anyway, that’s none of your business, so I think we’ve discussed everything. Those marines will be here by tomorrow.”
Twilight nods slowly, a faint smile spreading across her face, a feeling of relief coiling through her chest. War has been averted once more, maybe for the last time. “One more thing, though,” Twilight adds. “You don’t need me to tell you that my patience, whilst slightly more elastic than Celestia’s, has its limits. If I get the sense that I’m being misled or dealt with dishonestly…” She trails off, her point clear.
The Shah nods in understanding, knowing it would perhaps be unpolitik to protest about the suggestion offered. “Ah. One final point,” Twilight adds. “One minor imposition if I may. That cossack, who menaced my soldier… I don’t want to see him anymore.”
“But he’s the head of my guard? He’s served me loyally for years.”
“He nearly started a war. If he’d stuck my trooper with that lance…”
“Good point. Oh, one thing Princess.” The Shah pauses for a second, weighing up his words. “What about the mortar site? We will put up a watch if you wish.”
“No need, I’ll take care of it,” Twilight replies. “I think, if they try again, they’ll get an idea of precisely why it’s a bad idea to start throwing stones at people's’ houses… I’d like to use magic though, if you don’t mind.”
“Given what you could have asked for today… I think we can accede to that,” the Shah agrees, as another sour look passes across Hassan Zafwan’s face.
______________
“And so there you have it,” Zafwan growls as he takes a slug of his whiskey, before handing out his glass to Aznan, who calmly refills it. “I’m sorry, old friend, I did what I could.”
“You performed your role too well, you have nothing to feel ashamed about.” General Aznan smiles faintly, sipping his own whiskey as he leans back in his favourite arm-chair in front of the fire, his gaze lingering on the flames.
“If anything, this works for us.” Aznan’s eyes glitter in the dancing firelight. “You’re a pious being, you have loyally served your Shah for years, and now you’re being ejected due to disagreeing with him on matters of faith. You care about the souls of your men.” The old general is thoughtful as he turns to face Zafwan.
“You’re being kicked out for refusing to toe the party line so to speak. For refusing to agree with the Shah and putting your faith before your position… if we view the situation through those terms… anyone the Shah replaces you with will still be feeling his way into the role for the foreseeable future, and you’re still reasonably popular, so your successor will have to work against that.” Aznan smiles faintly, his lips drawing back to reveal his teeth. He licks his lips faintly and puts his whiskey glass down. “No. We can use this.”
“We?” Zafwan tilts his head.
“Of course ‘we’, you thought I was going to get rid of you because you’re not useful to me now, did you? What do you think this is, a bad stage play?”
Zafwan chuckles briefly, reaching for one of the sandwiches on the plate. “So what’re you planning to do with your newfound free time?” Aznan asks, and Zafwan shrugs.
“I thought I’d visit the United Federation, maybe see the beaches before I meet with some of our friends. I’ll be sure to give Mr. Caine your regards.”
General Suhail El-Mofty opens his eyes sharply as he hears the sound of raised voices outside. At once he snatches for his Zulfiquar, the curved twin-pointed sword still hanging in its ornate sheath next to his bed, rolling out of his hammock and rising to his feet, sword already coming out of its sheathe. However as he looks around, his eyes getting used to the light of day flooding through his tent, he realizes that he can’t hear the pop-pop of gunfire. The ground isn’t shaking with the percussive detonation of artillery, and surely, if there was an attack, his orderly would have awoken him?
He growls, irritably sliding his sword back into his sheath as he listens to the sounds coming from outside his tent. Hundreds, no, thousands of Khan voices are raised in shrill ululating tones, rising in the cadences of a prayer chant. Suhail narrows his bright yellow eyes, his tail twitching as his fur fluffs out. These damn priests and their damn prayer meetings. Suhail knows his train of thought is potentially blasphemous, but he has no time for anything that interferes with the proper running of his frontage, and the fact that the priests insist on getting the troops up early to pray, thus depriving them of a good night’s rest, ranks high on Suhail’s list of problems. He considers calling for a chaplain to get them to knock it off, but then he shrugs and reaches for his uniform.
Ever since Suhail had arrived to take up his duties commanding this most troublesome of troublesome points, the priests have been a pain in the scruff. Getting underfoot, insisting on attending staff meetings to make suggestions that are impractical or impossible is the least of it. Suhail is looking forward to actually getting this war underway so that he can fuck them all off to the rear echelons where they should be, and let him and his men get on with the business of fighting the war.
With a nod, Suhail reaches for his uniform, pulling on the maroon tunic and the white jodhpurs. As he reaches for the tea-set by the door, he narrows his eyes slightly. Reaching out, he clamps the back of his hand against the elaborately engraved kettle. It’s still cold.
Now Suhail is irritated. His salt and pepper grey fur fluffs out still further and his whiskers twitch with irritation. Samir is late, again. “Not even the simplest things. Hot tea ready when I wake up is not much to ask, is there nothing that boy can do properly?” He snarls.
“Samir!” Suhail bellows, “Where in the Divinity’s name are you, boy?” He barks as he finishes buttoning up his tunic, making sure his rows of medals are straight as he does so. He draws his lips back and, grabbing his pistol belt, stumps out of his tent into the cool morning dawn.
Here, the sound of the Khan voices raised in a chant that Suhail has never bothered to learn are louder, and there’s something about them that sends a tremor travelling up Suhail’s spine. Other voices can be heard above the din, voices raised in… some kind of chant, what kind of chant, Suhail has no idea.
He looks around his headquarters encampment, now bright enough to see in the golden light of the rising sun, trying to find anyone who he can talk to, but the camp is a shambles of turned over chairs and stacks of paper. Boxes have been kicked over and meals have been left untouched. Suhail feels a tremor of fear starting to ripple up his spine… and then he hears a voice raised in prayer. High pitched, even above the yowling of the other Khans, Samir’s voice, young and effortlessly rising in the words of a prayer. The words of this one, Suhail does know. O Divinity, watch over us now, be our protector in this, our dark hour. Our need is sore, and our want is desperate. Our circumstances are dire, and though we go brave to our end, please forgive us our fear.
“What in the name of the Prophet?” Suhail mouths, almost to himself as he stalks around, intending to find whichever priest is leading this prayer and introducing him to the sharp end of his sword. Such prayers and sessions will discomfit the men.
However as Suhail comes out of the camp, he realizes that the men might have quite a bit to be discomfited about.
Suhail’s headquarters has been chosen for its commanding position. Occupying one of the rolling hills overlooking the Samarkand gap, it’s the ideal spot from which to direct the battle, in Suhail’s estimation. The Khan trenches are spread out like a picture-book before him. Sharp double rows, serrated like the blades of a saw to cut into the ranks of the Equestrian offensive, with anti-aircraft guns positioned to keep the curs’t imperial navy at arm’s length.
Beyond them stretch two miles of empty space, and the dividing line between the Holy land and the country of the damned, and Suhail can just make out the Equestrian positions with the naked eye, and the sight that he beholds there fills him with abject terror.
The sun is rising, bathing the Samarkand gap in gold. The long grass whispers back and forth in the morning breeze, which smells fresh and clean on this, most damnable of days, and the sky is a brilliant blue above the Khan lines, flecked with white clouds.
Across the valley, an incongruously massive black thundercloud is coming steadily closer, moving against the morning wind. Spread from horizon to horizon, forks of brilliant lightning flicker in its depths. The massive cloud rises in the centre into a titanic pillar of roiling inky blackness, and occasional deep peals of booming thunder roll across the valley.
Suhail stares at the huge cloud and his eyes narrow. He reaches for his sword. This is charlatanry, Equestrian daemonic trickery at work! His mouth curls as he looks around for his raptor. Seeing the animal still lashed to its mounting post, the general stalks over to it and yanks his lizard free. Scrambling up onto his lizard, he cracks the reins and the lizard screeches, opening its mouth wide before it breaks into a loping trot.
Suhail guides his mount with his knees through his camp, following the sound of Samir’s voice until he comes to a small knot of his staff officers, all improperly dressed in a combination of uniform and bedclothes. They have their heads tilted skywards and tears are streaking more than one face.. At the head of the group is Cleric Kamaz Udin. The sight of him offends Suhail. His paunch offends Suhail, the way he is always behind the lines and interrupting Suhail’s planning sessions to be asinine… and now his loud and obnoxious prayer session seems to have unsettled Suhail’s entire staff.
“What is this?” Suhail barks, reaching out with his sword and swatting Samir with the flat of his blade, cutting the boy off with a squeal. At once, Udin draws himself up and levels a quivering fat finger at Suhail.
“This is damnation General! Damnation of the worst kind! The enemy is at our door, and they come with sorcery in their van, they-”
Suhail draws his service revolver quite calmly, drawing the hammer back. “Cleric Udin, you stand accused of provoking panic and disorder among the ranks, how do you plead?” He snaps, levelling the pistol at the fat cleric, whose eyes widen in horror and his mouth drops open.
“I thought you would see it that way, Cleric.” Suhail slaps his pistol back into its holster. “Now we may be fighting the spawn of hell, gentlemen…” He says as all eyes turn to him, “But we are not such quivering lunatics as to desert our duty like this. It shames you, it shames me, and it shames my entire army group. Now, if you wish to redeem yourselves, I suggest you return to your posts and start doing your curs’t jobs! Communications, get a report back to the Military ministry at once! Planning, I want estimates of remaining force available in thirty minutes! ”
The group of Khans hesitate for just one moment, and then they scatter through Suhail’s headquarters as proper military discipline reasserts itself. Suhail nods to himself, narrowing his eyes. With that out of the way, hopefully he should be able to get the rest of his army back into fighting trim, but that means… Suhail draws his sword, pointing it at five of the slowest Khans who haven’t yet returned to their duties.
“You five, grab mounts and rifles, you’re coming with me.” He barks out orders, relaxing into the flow and knowing instinctively that this is the right thing to do. “We’re going to the trenches to try and reverse this fucking mess! Get the army back into some kind of order. I will not face the daemonic hordes with half an army… besides,” He gives them a grin “If that is the spawn of hell crossing the border down there, then you can bet I’m going to kill the first of them.” He reins his mount out, pointing it down toward the plain and spurring it onward.
By the time they reach the front lines, Suhail is glad that he’s come. On the journey, he’d passed scores of soldiers making their way to the rear on ‘errands’ or whatever else. He could have shot them, but if he did that, the trickle would become a flood… so with a kind word and a gesture, Suhail gathers them about him in a knot, and as the knot increases in size, so more and more soldiers see it and start returning to their own positions, and so by the time Suhail has reached the front lines, the trenches are filling with soldiers staring up at him.
“Soldiers!” Suhail barks as his mount steps over the lead trench to stand before the trench, in the field in plain view of the Equestrians. His words carry up and down the ranks, and though the singing continues, it seems to diminish in volume somewhat. This close, he can hear the Equestrians distantly chanting slogans of their own, a distant howling growl of discontent.
Suhail wheels his mount to face the Equestrian lines and he draws his sword, pointing it forward.
“There are the Equestrians! There are our enemies! Enemies of hope and propriety, of dignity and reason!”
“They are the enemies of our God and our people! "Our rulers are wise and merciful. Beings of peace and mercy who do not wish to entangle us in a war with the powers of darkness. The time is not right. The advantage is not ours… but we are here, gentlemen! We are here to stand against the darkness regardless, and stand we shall!”
“The enemies of our people shall not relent! They shall show no mercy, as they advance to crush our country beneath their booted heels! We must stand firm against the darkness, level our gaze upon them and dare them to do their worst!”
“You are here, fathers, sons and brothers, fishermen and farmers who have willingly volunteered to pay your debt to our fatherland! To serve your God, though you are not skilled in the ways of war!”
Rumbles ripple up and down the line, soldiers nodding approvingly and so Suhail continues, raising his sword high above his head and then sweeping it down at the Equestrian lines. “Over there are the powers of darkness arrayed against us. Men and women who have sold their souls to Daemons, who have been instructed and taught in the ways of murder!” His voice rises to a furious shriek, “They are professional soldiers, killers to the core, but they have not the strength that we do, the conviction that we do. We are soldiers of God. We need no training! We need no Navy! We need no-”
The hammer-blow throws him from his mount. It punches into his very soul and leaves his ears ringing, a sound that is more than a sound but a solid fist of thunder that rattles him to the bone and flattens the crops around him. Less a sound, than a raw, undistilled force of nature. Suhail pushes himself up onto his elbows as the clouds roil and writhe, boiling like a seething cauldron of malevolence.
Suddenly a shape bursts out of the thunderhead like a massive leviathan breaching the waves. The knife-like prow breaches the clouds first, the broad spearhead shaped… thing comes thundering out of the clouds drawn in its wake. Suhail has never seen anything quite so big taking to the air, the thunder of its engines seeming to make the earth tremble under his feet as the massive slate grey warship comes arrowing out of the cloud.
His first thought is that someone has taken one of the Equestrian towers of Canterlot and turned it upon its side. His mind is unable to accept, for a second, that the vast thing is actually a warship. However as his eyes take in the details, he has to accept the machine is in fact a warship. The huge ugly contraption is so different from the other Equestrian warships now bursting out of the cloud around it. Iron-grey, with the deep blue stripe of the Night Queen’s personal heraldic colour running from the upper deck, down the sloped armour to the ship’s belt.
Guns are studded along its sides, massive bombardment cannons set into boxy triple barrelled turrets and smaller casement guns and heaven knows what other ordinance protrudes from the impossibly massive creation, backlit by huge reaction drive engines, each one capable of fitting a house inside its nacelles. The machine is plainly a warship, graceless and titanic with no pretensions of grandeur or decoration in its construction. It is a machine whose singular purpose, to kill, has been distilled into a hard-edged, angular shape.
The hammerblow of sound roars again down the line, and Suhail gropes for his cap as all his courage of just moments previously flits out of his reach. He finds himself whispering prayers that he never thought he’d bothered to learn. Behind him, he can hear men whimpering as along the broad frontage of cloud, hundreds of other golden ships burst into view, thundering forward in their glittering golden splendour, banners flying and telegraph signals flashing back and forth.
Drawn up around the leviathan like pilot-fish around a shark, yet more ships in black and silver, flying no heraldry but the deep blue of the Night Guard. The Queen of Night has brought her praetorian guard with her to do her killing, for as sure as one day follows the next, Suhail knows that the Archdaemon herself is up there, consulting with her dark allies and fomenting her schemes.
It’s one thing to know the Equestrians have a huge navy. Suhail has heard that umpteen times and he’d accepted it as fact, but it was an academic fact, the sort of thing you listen to half disbelieving, but as the airships come out of the cloud, suspended beneath their gas-balloons and arrayed in tight formation, Suhail realizes that the blaring, whooping reality is something entirely different. The reality of hundreds of points of blue light in that deepest black cloud shining like tiny stars, hundreds of reaction drive engines burning and snarling.
Airships of every size fill the skies and stretching from horizon to horizon, cruisers, heavy cruisers, battleships and frigates all arranged into squadrons, formed up into tight formations, and visibly straining like bloodhounds at the leash. Presiding over them all is the vast unholy machine. Letters glittering along its side proclaim its name, HMS Umbra.
Suhails lips move in the words of a prayer he'd forgotten as tears streak his muzzle, his sword hanging limply in his hand. Our circumstances are dire, and though we go brave to our end, please forgive us our fear.
Dash grimaces as she looks down at the plans for the umpteenth time. It’s the day after the mortaring, after Princess Twilight had forever etched herself into the Legion’s collective memory, and Dash wants nothing more than to go down the hallway and up the stairs to the royal chambers, where Twilight is staying. She wants to speak to Twilight, to check on the other woman and make sure she’s okay, but every time she’s about to start moving down the hallway, something comes up, or she loses her bottle and heads back to the rec-room to lose herself in another hour of PT or darts. Either she goes there, or else she comes here, into the Ninth Compagnie’s private planning room.
Due to the nature of the Ninth Compagnie, how they and they alone are responsible for knowing and planning Twilight’s route to and from the palace, and certain other classified functions, the decision was made early on that the Ninth Compagnie needed an ops room and planning cell that was not part of the main battlegroup ops room. Now Dash is sat in the dimly illuminated room with a map of Ashad-Mar base spread out before her.
The map had been reasonably easy to procure. Diplomatic Incident had handed it to Dash an hour or so after the mortaring. Dash isn’t sure precisely where he got it from but she’s pretty sure Prophet, or else that Ad-Drelana woman had had a hand in it. Identifying the State Arsenal had likewise been fairly straightforward. Getting the map is one thing… getting ourselves in, that’s going to be a trick. Dash thinks as she scrubs her face wearily.
The problem is that it is a functional military base, and whilst that might not ordinarily pose much of a challenge, with things being what they are, everyone will naturally be on high alert. Procedures that would normally be neglected are being enforced, duty NCOs are being jumped on to keep their men alert and base security details are being kept on alert. Already, the reconnaissance shifts that have been posted around the base are noting an increase in patrols, randomization of routes and extra men on watch.
In short, it’s going to be very difficult to get into, or out of. The consequences for failure are immense. Dash narrows her eyes as she looks down at the map, tapping one finger… over the wall maybe… Her gaze shifts to the blank sketchpad and she groans with exasperation, drawing a hand down her face.
A sudden prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck, and she looks up from the map, her head snapping around, but there is no one there. Dash turns back to her map, reaching for her waterbottle… no waterbottle. Dash turns her head to see a still-steaming cup of coffee sitting next to her on a little white lace doily.
Dash frowns, picking up the cup as though it might explode in her hands. Lifting it to her nostrils she sniffs speculatively and then she blinks in sudden surprise. This isn’t the normal legion crap, nor is it the local brew, which Dash had become intimately familiar with during her previous stint here. No, this is Crownes’ of Canterlot, and only one person in the entire compound knows she likes Crowne’s of Canterlot, or at least, only one person with the capability to mysteriously teleport drinks into her room. So we’re still barely talking… But you’re making me drinks. Talk about mixed messages. Dash reflects for a moment. She eyes the coffee for just a moment, and then she takes a sip and closes her eyes as the sharp taste hits her.
Twi always did something with this… is it cinnamon or… who cares? She takes another sip, grinning faintly as she turns back to the planning board, a strange lightness suffusing her chest. Her smile widens slightly as she leans forward, and an idea slowly starts to take shape… Dash reaches for her pencil to start drawing up a plan on her sketchpad-
“It’s going to be great fun.” Dash thinks to herself as she looks across the map, tapping her finger at the fence. “So we get over the fence under cover of night… somehow make our way through the armoury, evading the patrols, and the late night wanderers, break into an armoury and then break out, evading the same patrols, and if we fuck it up… the mother of all parties will descend on us, and we’ll be invited to sample the delights of that prison again, RSVPs not required.” Dash blinks as a notion strikes her with all the force of a thunderbolt. She rocks backward on her chair, her mouth opening.
It’s unbelievably simple. It’s also unbelievably stupid. It’s the sort of notion that, if she presented it to her directing staff during Stage Reconnaisance, she’d be busted straight back to the beginning of the course. Still… it might just work.
Dash starts to sketch out details, a plan slowly taking shape in her mind...
Dash pushes back the chair, kicking it backward and rising to her feet, rolling the plans and the maps up into a tight roll. She’s going to need to speak to Princess Twilight, or Diplomatic Incident to get their approval for the whole thing. Grabbing her klepi blanc, she tugs it onto her head and pulls her tunic on, buttoning it up before she steps out into the corridor, clattering up the stairs leading to the third floor, which has been taken over by Princess Twilight and her entourage of one.
She hesitates for just a moment, before knocking gently on the door leading into Princess Twilight’s study. She hasn’t actually spoken to Princess Twilight in a while and whilst she’s sure that Twilight herself will be okay about it, she’s not at all sure that just barging in like this is the done thing, but she needs to talk to someone and Diplomatic Incident is apparently… busy, with the Valorossiyan ambassador.
Dash knocks again, but there’s no response. She blinks, and then she knocks harder. “Hello? Princess?” She calls, but silence is her only answer. Dash narrows her eye, and then her hand closes around the doorknob. I’m responsible for her safety after all... She pushes the door open with her shoulder, aware as she does so that her hands are currently occupied with plan and coffee mug, however as she looks up, into the lavishly appointed study, she relaxes somewhat. Princess Twilight is slumped back in the room’s single thickly-padded armchair, an open book sitting in her lap and her floating quill idly circling as it waits for Princess Twilight to continue the memorandum she’d been writing. Dash hesitates, but as she draws closer, she sees Twilight’s chest slowly rising and falling in the steady rhythms of sleep.
Her navy blue hair is spread out on the armchair’s head-rest behind her like a deep blue curtain, and her face is relaxed and content. Dash can’t quite remember the last time she’d seen Twilight like that in recent memory. Twilight falling asleep in the middle of the day is nothing new to Dash. When Twilight had been spending time with her in Ponyville, she’d been forever napping at strange times of day. Dash sighs softly, looking around the room and then taking a seat on the room’s couch, deciding to wait for the Princess to wake up.
“Hey Princess… it’s been a while huh?” She says softly, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk lately… mind you, this’ll do for me right now… Just bein’ here is enough.”
Dash looks up at the Princess as a vague frown crosses the sleeping woman’s face. “Well… maybe it’s not.” She says after a second “Maybe it’d be nice to hear you some… just so we can work this out… whatever this is.” Dash pauses, her mouth curling into a grimace. “Because whatever’s going on between us… it’s not going away anytime soon and I’d really like to get it resolved. We can avoid each other and play silly buggers, but that won’t fix things, and I think you know that…”
“... Yes… I do.” The voice is so soft that Dash almost doesn’t hear it, but then her eyes snap up to see Princess Twilight’s eyelashes fluttering open. She blinks, and then turns her head to look at Rainbow Dash, and suddenly Dash is cursing her loose toungue as Twilight runs a hand through her hair.
“What’re you doing in here, Rainbow?” First name only, no surname or rank… that’s a good sign, I think. Rainbow thinks, aware that she’s grasping at straws.
“Well I came in here to talk to you about some stuff, some plans that I had that… sort of relied on royal cooperation.” She says “Then I came in and you were asleep, or I thought you were and so I thought… well yeah, I ran my mouth a little and-”
“I wasn’t asleep.” Twilight interrupts suddenly, and she rises to her feet in one quick movement. As she does so, she unfurls her wings, snapping them out to their full span, Dash is about to ask more questions, when Twilight answers the unasked question. “Sorry, that’s not very precise. I was asleep and I wasn’t… it’s a situation conference of sorts, takes the form of a dream in which I’m talking to the other princesses. The good news is that I can remember these dreams, which is something at least…” Princess Twilight runs a hand through her hair, her eyes thoughtful. She then turns to face Rainbow Dash, and her mouth curls downward into a frown.
“Honestly… I’ve been trying not to think about… about us until this is all over.” Twilight says after a moment. “I want to talk about us but not right now… I need to be concentrating on what’s going on, does that make sense?” Twilight asks, and there’s something about her expression, something that Dash hasn’t seen in a very long time. Just for a second, the princess mask falls away, and Dash is seeing a twenty-three year old woman who is in over her head and sinking deeper by the day. She turns to face the window, gazing out over the city.
Dash takes a deep breath and then she nods. “So we’re done?” She asks, and Twilight’s breath hisses softly.
“We… I don’t know, alright?” Twilight says after a second and Dash blinks in surprise, her eye widening slightly. “Certainly it would not be in our interests to… Pick things up where we left off right now, but later…” She trails off and Dash nods in understanding.
“Right… So, later then.” Dash says, trying to keep her voice level, but a subtle lightness suffuses her chest.
Twilight nods, and then she exhales sharply. “Later, now… You came into my office for something, and I’m assuming it wasn’t… What we just got done talking about.”
“Oh crap, no it wasn’t.” Dash hurriedly pulls the plans out from under her arm. “I wanted to run a proposal past you for gaining entry to that base…”
Twilight tilts her head. “Why are you asking me, I would have thought Belial or Adrelana-”
“I’m not sure I trust Belial, Twilight.” Dash says, unrolling the map and spreading it across the table. “Anyway, this is more of a political thing and Diplomatic Incident is busy so I thought I’d run it past you. You’d need to make the decision anyway, so I thought I’d just cut out the middle man and brief you directly… besides, the fewer people that know about this, the better.” Dash says, and Twilight nods.
“Okay,” Twilight snaps her fingers and a notepad appears in front of her, along with a purple quill, “I’m listening, so throw it at me.”
Dash takes a deep breath and then she reaches out and taps the map. “Getting into Ashad-Mar is going to be incredibly tough. They’ve upped their patrol schedule, doubled the guard force and tightened their checks on that guard force, and that’s just what we can see. We’re not sure what’s going on inside and whilst I could find out, I don’t want to start probing the base’s defences in case we get compromised.”
Twilight nods slowly, tapping her thumbs together. “I take your point, so what are you suggesting instead?” She asks, and Dash clicks her tongue before speaking, her finger tapping on the board.
“I’m wondering about you paying a royal visit to the place. It’s the sort of place you’d visit on a trip like this, right? It’s their officer training school and there’s all sorts of historic stuff…” She trails off as Twilight purses her lips.
“That’s an interesting thought,” Twilight says softly “I mean, I’d imagine, with tension being what it is, they’d probably refuse. There’s a definite odour of hostility coming from the army after all but…” Twilight pauses for a moment “This might be a way to work around that, or at least work against it. I’d like to take the temperature of the army, or at least I’d like to gauge the attitudes of the staff officers and field officers to a war.”
Dash nods slowly. “And you think a state visit is the best way to do that? They’ll just tell you what they’ve been told to tell you, you know.” She says, smirking wryly at the memory of an Equestrian Admiral visiting the Pit during a visit to the Khanate, and Zaranov’s pre visit briefing.
“That’s true, but I’d like to at least make the attempt.” Twilight replies, her voice calm and confident. “I’d also like to see if I can get a read on General Aznan. He’s the commanding general of the Khanate’s army, that makes him reasonably powerful… I haven’t managed to get an idea of where he stands. I mean… I know Zafwan is hostile, but he’s only in command of the police units… Tariq Aznan’s been diffident but not hostile, and if I can bring him around…” Twilight speculates and Dash nods.
“You don’t think he’s behind the ones who are trying to kill us? I mean, Springbok said he worked for the army…”
“Yeah, but that assumes you’re prepared to take a confirmed terrorist at his word. Aznan… he’s got too much to lose by supplying Springbok, and he’s at the top of his respective career path. I can’t see him employing a man like Springbok somehow.” Twilight says softly, and Dash nods dubiously. She’s less prepared to extend Aznan the benefit of the doubt, but then she’s also aware that this is Twilight’s area of expertise.
“So who do you think is responsible?” Dash asks and Twilight sighs.
“I want to say Zafwan. He’s got access to military armouries, or at least he had it and he’s been extremely obstructive… but on the other hand, he’s a little bit too open in his hostility, ultimately my concern is to find out who is behind this.” Twilight looks up at Rainbow Dash, one hand coming up to massage her temple. “So that we can go pay them a visit right?” Dash asks and Twilight shakes her head.
“No.” Twilight says firmly “We’re going to hand their names over to the Justicars and let the Justicars deal with it.”
Dash’s face colours and her eye widens. This is definitely not what she’d expected to hear, and she draws her breath to object. “But Twi-”
“Listen to me.” Twilight says, lifting a hand to silence Rainbow Dash, and Dash’s mouth clamps shut, her eye still blazing with anger. “Firstly, we’re not legally authorized to go out and do that. Princess Celestia-”
“-Isn’t here. You can make the judgement call.”
“You’re right, I can, and I’ve judged it wouldn’t be a good idea.” Twilight says bluntly “My first duty is to come home with a peace treaty. My second duty is to protect the men under my command.”
“But you’re already icing Springbok. Surely you can round up the people-”
Twilight looks up at Rainbow Dash. “So what, you want me to send you all out in the middle of the night, with blackened faces and daggers between your teeth to go slit some throats?” She asks, and Rainbow Dash nods.
“Yeah, just do something! They’ve killed our people, we owe them that.” Dash says, and Twilight sighs heavily.
Dash’s notion is incredibly attractive. A primitive part of Twilight’s brain roars in agreement at the idea of killing everyone, of sending a message about the consequences of messing with her, of killing her people. She considers it for just a second… how easy it would be to wave her hand and point her finger. With a stroke of a pen and the wave of her hand, she could easily send Dash and her killing team out to make some very ugly and plainly worded statements.
Twilight looks up at Dash. “I think… Rainbow… that that’s a very tempting offer.”
“So we can-”
“No.” Twilight shakes her head sharply. Dash stares up her, flabbergasted. “I can get behind killing Springbok, he’s proven himself to be a threat to Equestrian interests and if I have to, I can defend that killing before public opinion. He’s a convicted terrorist with links to what’s been going on. I cannot get behind the killing of Khans who may or may not be involved in whatever’s going on. The margins for error are too tight for that.” Twilight looks up at Rainbow, and her eyes seem to gleam with an inner fire. “If we drop the ball, and kill the wrong people-”
“But we won’t, we-”
“Do not interrupt me.” Twilight does not raise her voice in the slightest, but there’s an edge to it, and Rainbow Dash suddenly remembers the difference in their relative stations, that she’s not talking to Twilight, cute librarian with a nice butt and a penchant for singing in the shower. She’s talking to Princess Twilight Sparkle, the First and Only, direct representative of the Crown. “I cannot justify sending soldiers out in the name of vengeance. I am not in the business of using violence to send a message. A threat is acceptable, if communicated in such language as to be completely unambiguous… violence and murder however… Can you absolutely guarantee that those people will not be propped up as martyrs? Or that there isn’t a second layer of backers behind them? If we are going to use assassinations as a tool of state policy, then we need to make sure we get all of them. We need to know who they are and their level of involvement. If we miss even one, then this whole thing explodes in our faces.” Twilight says, and Rainbow Dash nods slowly, her anger abating as she looks at Twilight.
There’s something different about her, Dash can see that. Something that wasn’t there at the start of the trip. A hard edge reflected in her eyes, a tension like the keen edge of a blade. “Understood,” Dash says quickly “So my first proposal, about the base…”
“Leave it with me, I’ll give you a verdict in an hour or so. I’d like to talk it over with Diplomatic Incident first.” Twilight says, but there’s something in her eyes, a faint smile dancing around the corners of her mouth that gives Dash a flicker of hope that Twilight will go for it.
“Yes Ma’am.” She snaps to attention and chops up a quick salute, before spinning on her heel and walking out of the door, a broad smile upon her face. As she heads down the corridoor to start sorting thing out, she doesn't notice the signaller come running down the hallway behind her, clutching a dispatch.
February, 1882. Nova-Zemblya, Valorossiyan State. Territory of the PVU.
“Halt, who goes there!” The voice barks through the swirling snow, and the Khan squints, narrowing his eyes and raising a hand to shield his eyes against the howling winds that snarl and whirl about his party.
“Friends of the Tsar!” The hulking Valorossiyan guide snaps back, his grip shifting on the Nagant rifle in his hands, his pale grey uniform spattered with snow, and the chin-strap of his peaked cap pulled down over his chin to stop the cap from being snatched off his head by the blustering winds.
There is a long pause, and then the voice from up front speaks up again. “Come forward then, friends of the Tsar!” The voice barks, and the guide turns to the small group following him. The Khan looks up levelly, tightening his greatcoat and wrapping his scarf tighter, before glancing back to look at the rest of his party, a mixture of tightly wrapped, shivering Khans, and grey-clad Valorossiyan Tsarist troops, who appear to be showing no signs of discomfort.
“Let's go.” Hassan Zafwan snaps after a moment's thought. He's anxious to get inside and out of the cold. If the Divinity meant for the Khan people to live in cold climates, she'd have made the long-haired breeds more numerous, and more civilised.
Hassan Zafwan is a short-hair of Mau extraction, and proud of it. His people grew up in the plains of the Southern Khanate, and it is from the Mau breeds that the first Shahs came. Short-haired breeds have always been judged as more civilised than their long-haired cousins. However, as a short-hair, he's also less well adapted to the cold. He starts moving forward, the snow crunching underfoot as he advances, his eyes locking onto an indistinct blur just up ahead, barely visible in its slate grey uniform. As he walks, he's dimly aware that he's ascending a slope, but it's almost impossible to tell due to the thick curtains of whirling snow that curl and dance around him.
As he draws closer, Zafwan begins to pick out details. The Valorossiyan that has come out to greet them is dressed in a long slate grey greatcoat, and Zafwan looks enviously at the Val's thick black furry hat. As he draws nearer, Zafwan could have sworn he sees a grin on that unnaturally white face.
“You are friends of the Tsar?” The sentry looks suspicious as he looks down at them, his four eyes narrowed slightly “I would have thought his Excellency would have better taste than to make friends with a bunch ofi-”
“His Excellency's taste is not your concern, private!” A sharp voice snaps from behind the great-coated Val, and the Val suddenly freezes, still as a statue as his eyes go wide with fear. Zafwan tilts his head, unable to conceal a faint smile, but his smile is tinged with worry. Anyone who can freeze a Val in place with fear is someone to be wary of.
His ears pick up the footsteps first, and then he sees a figure coming toward them out of the snow, the outline is blurred at first by the swirling snow, but as the figure draws closer, Zafwan feels a sudden chill ripple through him that has nothing to do with the cold.
The approaching Valorossiyan is female, with her long black hair worn down into a series of elaborate braids. Her simple grey smock and trousers bear no decoration, or inscription of rank. None are needed, for her smock terminates at the elbows to reveal flowing lines of ink that ripple down her arms like lightning. Words in ancient tribal dialects, accompanied by strange symbols that mean nothing to Zafwan, but he knows enough about Valorossiyan culture to know the significance of the braids and the tattoos.
“Honoured Shaman.” Zafwan says, bowing his head as the Shaman approaches the group.
“Don't you 'honoured Shaman' me, outsider.” The Shaman growls, her eyes flickering as she walks up to him. “I'm here because the Tsar, and the Council of Elders, agreed that this was the best option. If this was up to me, you wouldn't be here.” She looks Zafwan in the face and Zafwan returns the primitive priestess's glare with his own haughty expression.
“Well it's good to see that some of you are capable of thinking rationally.” Zafwan replies, trying to keep a sneer out of his voice and he's rewarded by a brief flush of anger upon the Shaman's face before she turns on her heel and stalks back through the snow. “Come with me outsiders, a demonstration has been prepared for your new toy.” She gesticulates sharply and Zafwan starts to walk behind her, having to trot to keep up with her long strides. The tall and slender Val makes no effort to shorten her pace for his benefit as she crests the rise, and then starts to descend a bank that is obviously rather steeper than the hill that they'd been climbing. .
As they descend, Zafwan starts to pick out details. A perimeter fence, barely chest high on the hulking inhabitants of the encampment, looms out of the snow, encrusted with wind-blasted icicles and bored looking sentries pace the perimeter, rifles in hand. They pass through the perimeter fence with barely a word, and head into the facility, though camp appears to be a more appropriate word.
Once inside the wire, if Zafwan squints a little, he can see dozens of the traditional Valorosiyan yurts arranged into circles around communal fire pits, and he feels his lip curl in disgust. These are the peoples that we have been quivering in terror from all this time, these savages? He asks himself, they're little more than beasts themselves...
He continues walking, all the while focussing on the job. The United Federation have made a weapon available to them, and as far as he's concerned, that weapon is better off in the hands of the Khanate than in the hands of savages like these. Aznan might disapprove but then Zafwan's always considered the general something of a soft touch. Burning villages is all well and good but it doesn't really solve the problem.
With the devices they're going to get today however, they're going to be able to burn far more than a few villages. Zafwan rubs his hands together, and not only due to the cold. The memory of the humiliation that the Shah had foisted upon him still burns in his blood.
They trot through the camp, past groups of juvenile Valorossiyans, stripped to the waist and wrestling, whilst instructors circle like sharks hunting for blood, their swagger sticks ready to strike any who dare pull their punches or give anything less than their best. Shouts and the sharp thwack of flesh on flesh ring out from the group as the unmarked males wrestle in the blizzard. Such savagery... don't they teach their spawn anything useful? Zafwan asks himself, before realizing the absurdity of the question. They're Vals, of course they won't devote their time to more civilized pursuits.
He continues walking onward, and the Shaman slows down, drawing next to him. “The demonstration area is just up ahead,” She says softly “I think you will like this weapon. It was one of our more effective ones.”
“Was?” Zafwan asks, and the Val shrugs.
“There used to be some towns that the enemy would use as resupply and regroup points. These missiles wiped those towns out in a single night.” The Valorossiyan's voice is grim, and Zafwan tilts his head.
“You don't sound too proud of that.” He says, and the Val shrugs.
“It was a stupid decision to make them, it was a stupid decision to use them ourselves and it's certainly a stupid decision to sell them to you.” She says flatly and Zafwan tilts his head.
“You have misgivings?”
“Of course. You will doubtless take these weapons home and take them apart. You will discover how they work, and you will mass produce them. You will then unleash them on Equestria, who will, in turn, unleash their own terror weapons on your people.”
“Hmph, I don't think they have the stones for that.” Zafwan replies confidently, and the Shaman shrugs.
“As I say, it's the Elders' decision to sell you this weapon, not mine. But I suggest you go to the Dasht-E-Margo sometime and stand in the red sand, and then ask yourself what the Equestrians wouldn't do.” The Shaman says softly, her mouth curled down into a thin frown. Zafwan tilts his head, looking confused for a second, but then he's saved by the sound of approaching footsteps crunching through the snow and he turns to see a group of indistinct figures approaching through the whirling snow.
Many of them are dressed in double-breasted greatcoats and peaked caps, though at the front of the group is a Valorossiyan dressed in a heavy smock and equally heavy duty trousers. Long raven-black locks streaked with silver hang down to his shoulders, and his four vivid blue eyes are hard as flints as tattoos curl around his eye sockets, and curl down to his thin-lipped mouth. His lip curls slightly and his eyes regard Zafwan with a cold hard lack of liking, which Zafwan does his best to reciprocate. A few moments later, Zafwan's eyes drift to the Val to the chief elder's right. He's dressed in a double-breasted tunic and jodhpurs with a white sash across his chest. He looks much younger than the tribal, and his crimson hair is slicked back. Medals are spangled across his chest, including a gleaming golden sun-burst at his throat.
This is their Tsar? He's little more than a child. Zafwan thinks to himself in disgust. It's the first time he's met Tsar Ivan III, though from what he's heard, the Tsar was capricious and headstrong, though the overwhelming impression that Zafwan is getting from the boy is nervousness.
“You are the delegation from the Khanate that the Federation told us would be sent?” The Tsar steps forward, with a little prompting from a female in a flowing pale grey dress, with similarly flinty grey eyes and bright white hair tied back into an ornate plait.
“We are,” Zafwan replies in flawless Valorossiyan. “I am Hassan Zafwan, the people with me are my staff.” He motions at the group of Khans behind him, and the Valorossiyan boy nods.
“I am Tsar Ivan Adrelana III,” The boy injects confidence into his voice, drawing himself up slightly, however given that he's only slightly taller than Zafwan, it doesn't accomplish much. “I believe you are here to discuss a weapons purchase with us...” He takes another step forward, and Zafwan steps forward, back straight. He will not bow to primitives like the Khans, though as he hears a soft rattle of discontent from the cluster of Vals in front of him, Zafwan realizes that might not be a wise move.
“You are unschooled in the courtesies?” The Val boy asks, and Zafwan locks eyes with him.
“I am cold, I am tired and I have been travelling here for quite some time, boy. I have been threatened by your lackeys, and appropriate courtesies have not been shown to me and my party in turn.” Zafwan snaps, and the hiss of irritation ripples through the group and Zafwan tries to hide a smile. It's always fun to keep primitives on their toes.
“A pity.” The Valorossiyan boy says softly. “Well the situation is as I see it. You're here offering gold for our weapon. This is an equitable trade.”
Zafwan notices a flicker of anger on the face of the tattooed male, and a smug smile on the face of the female, but then he allows his own expression to change into a serene smile. “Indeed that is the case. Five cases of gold for your miracle weapon, that your shaman has so highly recommended.”
The Tsar nods slowly. “Five cases is acceptable.” He says, and Zafwan's grin widens.
“Most excellent.” He flicks his fingers, and at once the Khans behind him step forward, laying the casks of gold down beside him. The Vals glance at each other, and then the Tsar smiles faintly.
“You will want to see the device, before it is packed into carrying crates I trust?” The boy asks, his four eyes bright as though this is all some great big joke. Zafwan nods, trying to still his suddenly quickening heart. The weapon might be nothing more than a backup as far as Aznan is concerned, but Zafwan has other ideas.
“Of course.” Zafwan replies, and the Tsar turns on his heel and starts to walk through the steadily clearing snowfall. As the snowfall decreases, more tents becomes visible in the distance, and a chill suddenly ripples through Zafwan as he tries to get a rough count. He'd always assumed the Vals kept themselves in small family groups, that their camps were small, crude affairs. Yet the dozens of tents and training circles set the lie to that.
Zafwan tugs his greatcoat tighter and then he stalks after the diminutive Valorossiyan, muttering to himself as they pass through the camp, tromping along well-worn paths, past Vals in quilted smocks and wrapped up against the savage chill of winter. He can feel their unnatural gaze upon him, and the soft hiss of vibrating spines speaks eloquently of their feelings on his presence, and he feels his ears unconsciously fold back beneath his thick cap. His nose twitches at the odour of something hot and greasy. Whatever it is smells almost like old boots being fried, and as he hears a sharp barking cough from one of his men behind him, Zafwan realizes he's not the only person to be so affected.
Eventually, they reach the other edge of the camp, where a long dark green cylinder is lying on its side, waiting for them. A pair of stubby wings are lying in the snow next to the rocket, and a smaller tube with a conical warhead is sitting next to the rocket. Zafwan notices that the Vals standing guard over the weapon are all giving the rocket a wide berth.
“This is it?” Zafwan asks, and the Tsar nods.
“This is your miracle weapon, that will lay the Equestrians low.” The Tsar says calmly “We haven’t had cause to use them in years, and so they’re just sitting in our arsenals doing nothing.”
“Why have they been sitting around in your arsenals?” Zafwan asks, and the Tsar shrugs.
“They’re most effective when deployed from airships, since we don’t have any of those, we have to settle for launching them from the ground… which in turn means specialised transport procedures and various other measures, by which time, the enemy have broken camp and moved out, so our munitions land on so much empty snow. These weapons are expensive to produce, technically complex, and they’re incredibly dangerous to transport, so we’re rather loathe to waste them, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“Indeed I can.” Zafwan replies sympathetically. “So, you’re including the rocket, plus all the supporting literature?”
“I am. I was considering selling you a job lot of rockets, but it would probably be easier, not to mention safer, just to tell you how to build them yourselves. A technologically advanced nation like yours should have no difficulty in replicating the weapon.” The Tsar replies, and Zafwan nods, noticing the unseen point- You were going to replicate the weapon anyway, and I’d rather you did so under circumstances that allow me to disclaim all knowledge.
Zafwan smiles faintly. “I’m assuming there’s no time for a demonstration?” He asks, and the Tsar shakes his head.
“Definitely not. They take a while to set up safely, and given one of my people’s largest settlements is only a hundred metres away… we could organize a product demonstration, but that would take hours, and due to the nature of your visit, we haven’t had time to set up anywhere for you to stay whilst you wait, if you’re prepared to wait out here then I’m sure we could-”
“No, that’s quite alright… if there are any malfunctions, we’ll know who to deal with.” Zafwan says and the Tsar chuckles. “I thought you’d see it that way,” He snaps his fingers and one of his officers comes forward, bearing a wooden case and a silver tray. He pops the latches on the wooden case, and produces a bottle of vodka and several shot glasses.
“So, here’s to setting the world on fire.” Tsar Ivan says, raising his glass
“May it cleanse the world of the Daemon taint.” Zafwan replies, his lie as heartfelt as he can manage.
“One question, if I may?” Ivan asks, and Zafwan tilts his head. “Your boss, Aznan, he is behind this?”
Methods of governance: The Khanate, 51st ed. Written, 1874.
First draft of an informational publication intended for the consumption of Foreign Office officials, Diplomats and interested parties. Comissioned by the Imperial Foreign Office.
Now that the Khanate Civil War has finally come to an end and the dust has apparently settled, we must once again take stock of the substantial changes that have been wrought in the Khanate’s governmental structure. It would behoove the reader, given the transient nature of successive governments of the Khanate, to take this document as more of a rough guide than anything more concrete as the governance of the Khanate is extraordinarily fluid and no doubt certain details will be out of date in a week or more.
The current Khan government is most peculiar, in that whilst it is modelled around a traditional theocratic outline, where the head of state is some form of religious figure, in this case there appears to be not one but two central pillars of authority. The first of these is the Theology Council, which appears to control all matters concerning the church and has been largely left unchanged since the current Shah took power. In this case power appears to be consolidated in the hands of the Shah as opposed to the head of the Theology Council.
The second pillar of authority is largely secular, and is organized around the Shah, a position that appears to be akin to a 'President for Life' or some such absurdity. This is where governmental organization differs fairly significantly from before. The prior model was intended to be an autocratic feudal state wherein the Emperor handed out power to his Sheiks, who ran their own fiefdoms as they saw fit. In this model, the Shah appears to have appointed a cabinet of sorts, and then below them, a representative council whose name has not yet been decided. The Shah consults with this representative council and picks his cabinet from their number, though the heads of certain ministries are automatically given a seat upon his cabinet.
Though the establishment of this body would suggest a proto-democracy being formed, the author is anxious to prevail upon the reader that this is not the case. The Khanate remains a dictatorship, where the freedoms that we citizens of the Empire enjoy are sadly lacking. The representative council is made up of the Shah's chums and yes men from the Civil War, and though actual policy decisions are made via ballot, the Shah's word on most subjects remains the final one and the proletariat's say in the matter remains, for all practical intent and purpose, nil.
In summary, Succinct Word, it looks like it won’t be long until we’ve got to write out the fifty second edition of this document. I don’t see this government sticking around for very long. The churchmen resent being put in the shadow and the Justicars have been left out of the picture altogether. The Army and the Police are both also champing at the bit about losing quite a bit of power to the Navy and the Ministry of Internal Order, I think the only thing that’s keeping this government afloat so far is popular support for the man in charge. Your thoughts?
Editor’s note: The person responsible for this document has been discharged of his responsibilities due to misconduct in a public office. The Imperial Foreign Office holds its staff to the highest standards of quality when producing documents such as this. Unfortunately the writer responsible for this tract was unable to meet those standards and has been relieved of his post.
Annexe C: What is to be done (Guest Writer: Kalash93)
Note: This document was originally written in Valorossiyan using some now-outdated characters and spelling. Some words and terms are given both in Equestrian and Valorossiyan at the discretion of the translator. Valorossiyan, which is placed in parentheses (…), is arranged in the period style, which Valorossiyan placed in brackets […] is arranged in the modern style.
Professor Anastasia Adrelana, lecturer of history at Volgorsk Academy. ___________________________________________________________
What is There to be Done? (Что Есть Дѣлать?)
By Vladimir Ulyanov [Владимир Улянов]
In the interest of outlining how to best further our noble goal of uniting Valorossiya [Валороссия] under the red banner, it must be first understood how we got here and what is to be done. I shall do that, my comrades and countrymen, by refuting the damnable propaganda of the Whites (Бѣліе) and Blues [Синие].
Lie: We Valorossiyans are not the same.
Truth: We Valorossiyans are not one, admittedly, but we share a language, history, and culture. While all citizens in our lands are called Valorossiyantsev [Валороссиянцев *Singular: Valorossiyanets [Валороссиянец]], a Valorossiyantsev can be a valor or a khan or a human or a zebra. Off those, only the ethnic Valorossiyans, the Valory [Валоры], can be called Valoruschyn [Валорущын], and of the Valoruschyn, only a Valor (Валор) from families from the old Valo (Вало) homeland can be labeled Val {Вал). This writing will address all Valorossiyans, whether Val, Valoruschyn, or Valorossiyanyev, although as things stand, we, including myself, are at least seventy-five percent Valoruschyn and a full half of our entire population, is doubtlessly Val. Believe not the Blue and Republican bleating for a republic, allegedly to protect those not of the valor, for they offer only old oppression under a new cloak. This is because a republic works by proportional representation, with one representative for so many people. Because the Val outnumber all others, this so-called free republic of the people by the people will in truth be a stealth tyranny where the old Val aristocracy will enslave us all. Only we Communists have a way to true equality -- abolition of all ethnic and class distinctions to ensure that the greater good always comes first.
Lie: The Valor are violent and impulsive.
Truth: Those of us who are valor are not elevated feral beasts. We are an ancient, proud people with great accomplishments stretching from the dawn of history. Fifteen hundred years ago, before the humans had not yet even arrived from their homeland, while the khans still lived in caves and ramshackle dens, while the Zebricans all wandered about tied to their herds, we had a culture and history already. We remember Vladimir Valorov [Владимир Валоров], the first prince of unified Valo, Yaval Mudri [Явал Мудри], who founded the great trade city of Mudrost (Мудрость), Alek Dushbanski [Алек Душбанский], the raiser of great temples and cathedrals, who also founded the spiritual capital, Zuslad [Зусьлад]. While the first stones for the first royal palace were still being quarried in Equestria, we already long had metropolises. And in an age when war tore all the lands, our princes all shared bonds of friendship and came to each other’s’ aid. And in fact, Mudrost even had the first ancestors to our modern Sovet [Совет] councils. We have a famous cadre of writers, poets, painters, and composers admired and emulated around the world, but never surpassed. Aye, we are good at war. We have passionate, strong hearts, and we suffer not injustice lightly. Believe not the lies of the Whites and their Tsarist sympathizers who tell you that the only way to protect yourself from abuse is to give yourself wholly to the restoration of a hereditary autocracy with no accountability or limits. Only we Reds offer true equality, not by selling the citizen to a tyrant or forcing him to pick which overlord he finds the least distasteful, but by returning to our forefathers’ wise traditions of councils, which, remember, were held back when pretty lords in Equestria settled disputes by paying their favored hired killers with plots farmland small enough to stroll through in mere minutes.
Lie: Valorossiya cannot be reunited.
Truth: The thousand years since the murder of the last Tsar by ambition nobles has been a trying time, but there is no cause for despair. Our cause is fated for success, for, after all, we are the Bolsheviks, The Majority. Old Val was made unified not by bickering politicians or by great kings, but by innumerable common folk with a righteous cause in their hearts and a worthy leader at the helm. The glories of old Val were made possible by sacrifice, the likes of which we must not shirk from, or else your children shall have to know what it means to pay the price of war like you do. We must not yield, either, or we condemn them to the yoke of the last thousand years.
Lie: The Tsars presided over an era of prosperity.
Truth: The Tsars presided over an era of decline where the common people found themselves endlessly more and more burdened while the nobles and bourgeois only grew fatter and fatter from their suffering. While Valorossiya did reach its territorial peak, it did not hold the new lands for long. Mismanagement and decadence, as well as the transformation of the military from a mighty force into a stepping stone for ambitious nobles to grow their own influence, enabled the catastrophic defeat in the last war against the first great Khanate, and the failure to find a fit successor for the Tsar led to these last thousand years of disgrace and bloodshed.
Lie: We are tribal
Truth: While tribes are a key step in the growth from primitivism to civilization, civilization is as inestimably more advanced than tribalism as Communism is more advanced than Capitalism. While many Valoruschyny today may seem oriented around tribal lines, that is nothing more than a dishonest oversimplification. We Valorossiyanye (Валороссияные) have always valued family and kinship with the end result being that historically associated groups often align politically with each other on almost everything. And when politics change, they change on the familial level, starting with the father, who traditionally impresses values upon his wife, who then teaches them to their children. We Communists, however, know that we are a people advanced beyond such rigid authoritarianism. This old patriarchy is the cornerstone upon which tsars justified their claims over kings, who thusly justified their claims over princes, who thusly justified their claims over lords, who thusly justified their claims over bourgeois, who thusly justified their claims over yeomen, who thusly justified their claims over peasants, who thusly justified their claims over serfs, and priests justified their claims of superiority over all to convince the low of the righteousness in servitude and to convince the high of their rightful place and right to abuse power. None of this describes a tribe. Therefore, we are not tribal, and there is no duty to any lord, God, or ancestor to champion any oppressive cause.
Lie: We need to return to the past.
Truth: Our past, although full of glories, offers us nothing but continued grief. The Tsarists and the Republicans have each been pressing for many years to return to a past which offers no solutions for our modern world and may have never existed to begin with. If insanity can be defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, than it can clearly be seen that attempting to return to the past to secure peace and prosperity is indeed psychotic madness. Therefore, the only way forward is into the future.
Lie: A Communist society has never risen, so it is impossible to achieve.
Truth: There has never been a Communist society, because there simply has never been one. Therefore, we shall be the first. We Valorossiyans were already a venerable empire before the Equestrian Diarchs were even born. If we were the first great civilization, then it demonstrates that it is not impossible to lead into the future. We have a storied heritage of great thinkers, inventers, and revolutionaries. Our people have changed the world, and shall do so.
Lie: Communism will arrive in chaos and plundering.
Truth: The transition to Communism shall be smoothly overseen by fairly elected leadership from the proletariat, and they shall guide the pioneers of future society, the vanguard party, who shall set the example for the rest. Communism shall not be established by the sacking of cities and widespread looting. Officials shall take stock of private property and redistribute it fairly so that all get their share. Lands shall be collectivized under the state into efficient plantations as opposed to the wasteful farms of today. Each shall receive according to his need and give according to his ability.
Lie: Communists hate freedom.
Truth: Nothing could be further from the truth! Think of your lives right now. Are you truly free right now? Are you free to pursue education to your heart’s content? No, says the White; you must go into the army! No, says the Blue; you must pay hefty sums! We say yes to education. Are you free from worry about your very security and safety? Not with the Tsarists, who punish dissent with death. Not with the Republicans, who only fight amongst themselves more than they fight external enemies. We guarantee stability and security against all enemies. Can you trust that your needs for housing, food, and medicine will be met? Not with the Royalists, who will demand you pay money just to be able to live. Not with the Unionists, who may not even have facilities available. Are you free from the abuses of your countrymen? Not with the Whites, who decide everything based on who your father was. Not with the Blues, whose councils are little more than warlords propped up by gangs. Neither the Tsarists nor the Republicans offer you true freedom, only concessions to make you not realize how you are abused, bullied, and oppressed every single day.
Lie: Communist rule will make no difference in the violence.
Truth: Our first order of business is to restore law and order, and hold criminals accountable for their actions during the war. As a show of good faith, upon finalization of ceasefire terms, both sides will mutually disarm so as to start over fresh, with only specially sanctioned parts of security forces being allowed the use of firearms.
Lie: Communists suppress information.
Truth: Some things, such as military and state secrets, must be classified. However, other than that, we Reds are transparent and accountable to every single comrade citizen. You should worry about how the Tsarists and Republicans fail to inform the public. White and Blue newspapers are all run by private companies, so naturally their funding and capabilities are limited. Every article must be revised and approved by an editor, who of course will be enforcing the biases of his bourgeois or aristocratic backers, if he himself is not one such person, or it must be both written and approved by a council, ensuring that anything of note or contention is cut from the final product so as not to hurt their stupid little subjects. And then they make you pay for every newspaper. They make you pay for vital information which is written firstly as propaganda and secondly as news. We Reds believe that our people are better and can handle the truth, which is why we are starting our own newspaper with the full backing of all out might, to provide you information which is not only important, but also certifiably true. And even better, this will all be provided to you for free, because being informed is not a privilege, but a right.
Lie: Communism will stifle growth.
Truth: Communism will bolster growth. Firstly, with the war over, we can devote all our resources to building up Valorossiya. Our great nation sadly lacks industrial capacity and consumer goods, most of which are provided by various companies abroad. Industry shall be nationalized to unify all our resources under one banner. Industry shall be freed to do what it does best, liberated from the burdens of competition and obligation to turn profits. The profit motive may have brought us much advancement in our great metropolises, but what about the towns and cities where the most of us live? Practically nothing? Why? Because money matters more to the bourgeois than building roads, railways, bridges, schools, hospitals, and infrastructure. We shall bring the modern age to all Valorossiyans, not just the urban rich. A great period of growth and expansion will be heralded, bring with it great prosperity to be shared by all, especially the ones who built it.
Lie: Communism will hurt labor.
Truth: Communism is all about labor. We Communists understand that the real backbone of a nation is not its fat cats, gentry, dukes, and executives. Every one of them has thousands of people in the proletariat to support them. They claim to protect you from exploitation and enslavement? Workers of Valorossiya, do you not work twelve hours a day six days a week in long shifts in grueling conditions for hardly any pay and zero benefits or gratitude from your boss? Do you mean to tell me that you honestly are content with slaving away for a minimum of seventy-two hours through heat and cold non stop for just enough money to barely feed your family on a few scraps of bread and vodka? And what happens to you if something makes you late? What happens if you get sick? What happens if you get hurt? What happens if you ask to be paid and treated decently? What happens if your boss just decides he doesn’t like you anymore? You get thrown out with nothing but still plenty of bills to pay and mouths to feed. How is that fair? How is that right? How is that any better than slavery? We Communists are different. We believe in paying a man a fair wage. We believe in taking care of people who get hurt or otherwise can’t work. We believe in making setting fair and humane working hours and conditions. We believe that workers should be able to meet with their bosses on even ground and have nothing to fear from the other. We believe in giving everyone opportunities to utilize their talents and skills to the fullest. Conditions under your current masters are already so bad, what could you have to fear from us?
So who are we? We are the Valorossiyans, a proud country with an illustrious history stretching back into antiquity. Today, we are fragmented and mere shells of what we once were. We shall turn war, destruction, and privation into peace, land, and bread.
So what is to be done? First, you, dear reader, if you and your associates are not Communists already, educate yourselves with the works of Egalitarian Theorist [Уравнительный Теорист]and Economic Change [Экономическое Изменение]. If you have not hope of converting your people to Communism, then come and join the nearest Red Revolutionary Army. You must spread the word far and wide, and bring as many to our just cause as you can. Then, with your courageous gallantry on the battlefield, we can reclaim our land, and mile by mile unify it. Only with your help can we rescue Valorossiya from the abusive Whites and the impotent Blues. The vanguard party shall provide the example to all for how society shall be remade. Peace shall be made and crimes committed during the war shall be dealt with. The needs of all Valorossiyans for food, shelter, security, welfare, education, employment, and information shall be met. Property and lands shall be redistributed fairly from those with too much to those with not enough. Workers shall be given the treatment they deserve and under nationalization, the quality of our domestic industry shall improve and prices shall go down and our capacity shall increase. The past is done. The way forward is in the future. Take up the Red cause and help us advance to the glorious Communist future!
Countess Raven slowly pads through the vaulted, marble corridors of Canterlot castle. The thick blue carpet scrunches softly under her feet as she slowly makes her way to her bed. The secretary yawns sleepily, shaking her arms out from the last aches of the midnight mail-run. Under normal circumstances, the midnight mail run would be nothing more than a formality, for ordinarily it would be very rare for Princess Celestia to have secure dispatches to be sent by Crown Courier or telegraph. These, however, are not normal times. Countess Raven wiggles long fingers that still ache from the weight of the full-to-bursting secure dispatch box.
Whilst, as Princess Celestia’s chief secretary, Raven has the clout to get any one of the hundreds of servants, courtiers, and government ministers that work in Canterlot Castle to help her carry a box of mail, Raven had always been taught by her mother that one should not order others to do a task that one will not do herself. Raven had listened faithfully, for Raven’s mother had been Princess Celestia’s secretary too, as had her mother’s mother, in an unbroken line for hundreds of years.
Raven nods politely to the sentries posted outside the door to the North Wing, returning their sharp precise salute as one of them opens the door to the inner sanctum of Canterlot Castle, the private living quarters of the Princesses and their permanent retinues. Raven steps through, into the far dimmer central corridor of the North Wing. Raven reaches into an alcove and pulls out the crystal lamp, flicking the switch and setting the crystal within the housing to glowing, suffusing the corridor around her with a brilliant lilac glow that flickers from time to time. The crystal lamp resembles a brass storm-lamp, though instead of the normal oil that would be burning within, a crystal silently rotates.
Raven nods in satisfaction and starts to walk down the corridor, trying not to think about the fact that the lamp in her hand costs more than she makes in three months. As Raven’s eyes dart over the walls however, over Handle Turner’s Fighting Majesty, and an equally priceless Rembrandt, as breathtaking now as they had been when she’d seen them on her first day on duty all those years ago, she can understand precisely why no expense has been spared with fireproofing this area of the palace. If the North Wing ever burnt down, the insurance claim alone would be enough to make the treasurer commit suicide. The scents of age and majesty hang upon the North Wing like a shroud.
Raven slowly makes her way through the corridors, past the thousands of relics and antiques, some of which are older than the Empire, past a marble statue of Celestia, presented by one of the Caesars on the signing of the formal peace treaty between the nation of Equestria and the Roaman Empire. The statue is vast and imposing, of Celestia in a scale armour shirt, a crested helmet upon her head, and the magnificent spear Corona in her hand. A rearing unicorn stands next to the war-goddess, and Raven represses a shudder as she stares up at the aquiline nose and the hard expression upon the marble face.
“It’s quite a statue.” A voice drifts from the shadows beyond the glare of Raven’s lamp, and the secretary jumps like a startled cat, whirling to see a tall pale figure walking into the lamplight, and Raven hisses out a sigh, as the tall figure resolves itself into Princess Celestia, mug of steaming black coffee in hand, wrapped in her thick fluffy pink dressing gown.
Raven clutches her chest, levelling an accusing finger at her head of state. “By Luna’s knickerbockers you gave me a start!” She scowls, and the Princess of the Sun smiles guiltily.
“Apologies Raven, I had no idea you’d still be up at this late hour.” Celestia says, her voice sounding a little more hoarse than usual.
“Not all of us can go to bed after you’ve tucked the sun in.” Raven replies, a faint smile on her face as she completes the other half of their traditional joke. However Celestia’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Raven takes a moment to look closer at her head of state. Celestia looks slightly gaunter than usual, and her eyes are red-rimmed. The spark that normally resides in those rose eyes has dimmed somewhat.
“Can you not sleep?” Raven asks, and the Princess of the Sun shakes her head mournfully. Raven purses her lips, thinking of her own bed for just a moment, before she nods.
“I see… are you worrying about Twilight again?” Raven asks, and she does a double take as Celestia flinches at the mention of her Faithful Student. Celestia never flinches. She frets and paces and goes without sleep as often as not, but she never flinches. Raven straightens her shoulders, arms folded as she waits for the fretting ruler to reply.
“Yes… I suppose I am.” Celestia says after a long moment, her mouth curled into a frown as she gazes back up at the statue, her eyes distant.
“But you made that speech earlier today…” Raven says, and Celestia nods.
“Mm, that… carefully prepared tapestry of falsehood, misdirection and untruth,” She says softly “I’m not worried about the Khanate right now, though I know I should be. I’m frightened for her, Raven.”
Raven stiffens slightly. This is not the first time Celestia has opened up to her about her faithful, if troublesome, pupil. “You shouldn’t worry ma’am, Twilight’s a Princess, she’s smart and it sounds like she’s doing everything right.”
“Mmm,” Celestia smiles wanly. “Tell me Raven, did your mother pressure you into taking this job?” Raven blinks at the apparent non-sequitur, and then she purses her lips as she remembers the arguments with her mother, Countess Fidelis. The crackling tension that hung in the sitting room, the long silences at dinner.
“There was some… lively debate on the issue, yes.” Raven concedes after a moment, remembering how desperately unhappy she’d been when she’d pitched up at her mother’s office for her first day of work.
Celestia nods, as though she’d been expecting the answer and Raven tilts her head. “Your mother loved you, I know she did, she told me how proud she was of you incessantly… I know she only wanted what was best for you and felt that continuing the tradition was that… but we’re getting side tracked.”
Celestia reaches out and places her hand upon the ancient statue, gazing up into the cold and hard eyes of the ancient war-goddess. “My people over all. That has been my creed since I took up my station as head of state. I do not say that lightly, or in jest. Over Luna, over Twilight, over my own desires.” Celestia says softly. “As this nation’s godlike, immortal head of state, I must do what I can to preserve its stability and strength… even if I would rather not.”
Raven tilts her head. “Forgive me, ma’am, I’m not quite understanding what you mean.”
“I mean that sometimes I must hurt the people I love in the interests of my nation.” Celestia says, her head bowing slightly.
“So how is this related to Princess Twilight?” Raven asks slowly, incomprehension still crackling at the corners of her mind and Celestia turns her rosy gaze upon the other woman.
“Princess Twilight is a lesbian. I knew it probably even before she did, and I have no doubt that you know it too.” Raven nods, trying very hard not to think about the illicit literature that she’d smuggled to the junior princess, or the times she’d told maids to steer clear of Princess Twilight’s chambers because she was ‘entertaining a certain rainbow haired guest’. “I… had some suspicions.” Raven says obliquely and Celestia releases a brief chuckle.
“Of course. The point I’m trying to make is that I know that Princess Twilight does not desire male companionship… and yet, for the good of my country, I’m going to, at some point in the future, marry her off to a man that she will not love. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to, but there will come a time when I must, for the good of my nation. She’s too strategically important for me not to.”
Raven shivers slightly, and not due to the cool night air rippling through the castle as she gazes up at her tall head of state, and the mighty statue that stands twice her height.
“I’m just… you remember her girlfriend, right?” Celestia inquires and Raven nods. She hadn’t much liked Rainbow Dash, the loud and brash woman had been altogether too messy and disorganized for Raven’s taste. She’d also been infecting Twilight with similar attitudes about tidiness and presentation… but Raven also remembers how good the woman had been for bringing the bookish, quiet princess out of her shell. She also remembers stroking Twilight’s hair as the young princess had sobbed into her pillow for days on end, all the while knowing how futile her soothing murmurs about seeing Rainbow Dash again someday had been.
“Well… I thought I’d had that little problem sewn up… I’d convinced Rainbow Dash that it was best for all parties concerned, if she voluntarily enlisted… but then that idiot Murphy is no friend of mine. Guess what branch Dash chose?”
“So Dash and Twilight have met up?” Raven asks and Celestia nods mournfully.
“Yes, and they both got on very well, and, if the situation isn’t what it is and how it is, I’d be content with that. I’d rearrange Dash’s posting so that she could come to Canterlot with Twilight, and beyond a firm lecture about the importance of discretion, I’d let them be. I’m not vindictive and I recognize when fate wants something to happen… but the situation is what it is.”
Celestia’s eyes snap back upward, and there’s a hard flinty cast to them. “Princess Twilight was about to go into a highly conservative theocracy, a nation in which females are second class citizens, a nation that is on the cusp of a war with us… all the while making eyes at one of her female soldiers. I cannot think of a way more guaranteed to set the Khans even further against us!” Celestia’s vehemence is no less profound for being softly voiced.
“So what did you do?” A chill sinks into Raven’s belly as she listens to her Princess.
Celestia closes her eyes and takes a very deep breath. “I did something awful.” She says after a moment. “I know how much my approval means to her, how much she wants me to be proud of her, and I am… I’m so very, very proud of what she’s done and what she’s become, what she’s going to be. But you wouldn’t have thought it when I spoke to her.”
Celestia looks down at her own hands, her expression revolted. “There is not much that is pure in this world… young love is about as pure as it gets, and I crushed it into ash in the name of political machinations.”
“You crushed it to prevent a war.” Raven says gently. This isn’t the first time she’s had to put a bandage on the raw edges of the Princess’ conscience, to heal the bleeding heart at the core of the Princess of the Sun. Each time the secretary aches to see her closest friend hurting like that, yet at the same time, each time is accompanied by a swooping surge of joy at the knowledge that the ageless goddess still knows how to feel, knows what is right and wrong. That she doesn’t crush, kill or destroy flippantly or without thought or sorrow.
“I know.” Celestia says softly “That only makes it worse. I’ve got the purest of motives for doing what I do… treating people as tools, using them to achieve my objectives, no matter what they might think or want.” Raven nods slowly. “You know, Celestia, it’s not my place to advise you on policy…”
“Nonsense, I listen to you most attentively.”
“Be that as it may. Equestria has a reputation for setting trends. Could you maybe not make same gender-”
“Absolutely not.” Celestia says, “I’m still dealing with those infernal suffragettes.”
“You must admit, they’ve got some pretty good points.”
“I’m sure they do, but they have some very problematic ways of expressing themselves. Throwing themselves under horses, vandalism, assaulting members of parliament among other things. I can’t condone that sort of behaviour,” Celestia folds her arms slightly. “Besides, I have no personal objection to giving the franchise to women, but my democratically elected government does, and if my government is to have any power at all, then I cannot run roughshod over it whenever it suits my taste. Otherwise we’re back to feudalism and absolute monarchies.”
Celestia takes steps backward “But suffragettes and homosexuals are not the same… I suppose we can start making steps toward making homosexuality less of a problem before it comes to the notice of my government. We’ll have to wait until Twilight gets back of course… I’m sorry, what was it you wanted to say?” Celestia asks, and Raven takes a breath.
“Perhaps, your highness… a solution for your woes with Twilight would be to let Rainbow Dash have her, on the quiet. Tell Twilight that if she manages to secure some kind of truce, or peace treaty, that you will give her your blessing to pursue Rainbow Dash, just to keep it quiet.”
“I see, and what if I needed to marry her off?” Celestia asks, her eyes distant, and Raven shrugs.
“Come up with something else. She’s a little young to be strategically married off like Cadance was.” Raven says, but she blinks at Celestia’s sharp bark of laughter.
“Ha, oh really?” Celestia asks, a smile upon her face, but her eyes are distant. “That’s what you think about Cadance and Shining Armour, that it was a strategic marriage?”
“Well, yes, you blessed their marriage after all-”
“Not out of choice.” Celestia says quietly, and there’s no laughter in her voice now. “Cadance leant on my sister and the two of them shouted down my objections. I think that’s one of the only times Luna and Cadance have ever banded together against me on a matter of importance. Certainly, her union with Shining Armour made good domestic copy, everyone loves a royal wedding after all, and I suppose that marriage ended up working well… but I was certainly not in favour of it.” Celestia strokes her chin as she reaches out with her other hand to touch the statue.
“It wasn’t a strategic marriage, House Twilight has always been part of the Crown Loyalist camp, they didn’t need bending or placating or bribing, and whilst their undying affection is nice, it doesn’t help me much if something serious comes along… We’re getting side tracked though. You make a good point about Twilight and Rainbow Dash. It would not be the first time that the unseemly habits of Princesses have been perpetuated on the quiet.”
“Speaking of unseemly royal habits, You want me to swing by the castle kitchens tonight?”
“If you could, I’d be grateful…”
“I know you can’t get fat but you should really cut down, all that processed sugar…”
“Of course, and it has nothing to do with your own inclination towards “sampling” the cakes you bring up to my chambers.” Celestia’s tone is coy and she’s rewarded with a deep blush, but then Celestia purses her lips, her expression becoming thoughtful.
“Your suggestion about Princess Twilight and Rainbow Dash has merit though. My objections to what Princess Twilight was doing are born of the situation they’re in. If they were both in Equestria and they were a little more… discreet than they were, I would be quite prepared to leave it with them… cavorting. Certainly, if I establish a precedent for strategically marrying Princesses off, that precedent might take me places I don’t quite want to go.” Celestia turns and starts pacing back down the corridor, Raven trotting at her heels until they reach another dimly lit marble statue.
“Princess Twilight deserves your trust, your highness.” Raven says after a moment “I’m sure, if she managed to secure peace, then she’s earnt the right…”
“I suppose… leave it with me, and I’ll think on it,” Celestia says softly, her tone a clear dismissal and Raven turns to leave, but before she does, Celestia speaks once more. “Oh and Raven… thank you.”
