//------------------------------//
// A Simple Game Of Genius 
// Story: Strange Bedfellows 
// by BRBrony9 
//------------------------------//

Afternoon brought with it a heavy overcast, leaden clouds scudding in off the bay. Manehattan sat below like an unpolished jewel, lacking all of its former shine and lustre. There was little to attract tourism now, should Equestria ever be in a position to offer their citizens leisure time again. The museums and theatres were trashed, their treasures looted and their celebrated architecture broken, beat and scarred. The Statue of Friendship in the harbour had been detonated by explosives by the occupiers, for no reason other than entertainment or spite. Its broken chunks of metal and its spiked crown lay at the bottom of the murky waters. Many of the pleasure boats and paddle steamers had been at their moorings and had gone up like a forest fire when the conflagration reached the waterfront.

The Imperial forces had withdrawn from the city at the orders of Lord-General Galen, in anticipation of a cleansing of the dockside areas, leaving their dead behind. They could be buried later. Removing the stain of Chaos was the most important thing, the men had been told. The city was theirs, but nevertheless they had to retreat again. Morale among the ground forces was fluctuating- some were pleased with the progress, some were broken from the Daemonic encounters. Some were grumbling openly about their leaders, about retreat after retreat. While there was no talk of mutiny among the guardsmen, there were rumours spread around that their counterparts aboard the lower decks of the fleet were becoming similarly dissatisfied and were considering some kind of action. At least, that was the talk the last time a supply shipment came down, under a Midshipman Vinson, from the flagship. While none of the guardsmen had been persuaded to abandon their posts of their duties, the seed of doubt had been planted in the minds of some of the more susceptible men and women. After all, what were they doing on this alien planet, capturing an alien city, so that said city could be returned to its alien owners, and not claimed by the Imperium? Had some sickness affected their leadership, had the taint of Chaos infected their minds? Or was it this alien, this princess, and her psychic powers? Had she somehow coerced their leaders into doing what she wanted, rather than what they believed to be right and just?

The idea that the Lords and Generals in charge had been taken by madness was nothing new among the men of the line. For centuries, soldiers had been grumbling about such things, seeking excuses for being thrown into the meat grinder. There must be some problem, someone must be to blame. It can't just be because this is what the Imperium demands, what human survival demands, can it? The rumours always found willing ears. They were the source of many of the enemies the Guard now faced- disillusioned fellow guardsmen, fallen either deliberately or through trickery into supporting a Chaos-fuelled mutiny, uprising or mass desertion. Yet despite this fact, despite the relentless Imperial propaganda drummed into every recruit, despite the Ecclesiarchical brainwashing and the threat of the Commissar's bolt pistol, the rumours continued to spring up in almost every unit, on almost every ship. In the minds of many, there was but one simple mantra.

There's no smoke without fire.




Sergeant Argan and his squad had fallen back as ordered, to a small grassy ridge a couple of miles outside of the city's western fringe. There they had breakfasted on cold rations; a far cry from gourmet cuisine, but certainly better than nothing. Rehydrated oats, bread, electrolyte drink and soylens viridians- enough to sustain a man, but not to pique his culinary interests. The men ate quietly, sullenly- they were both relieved and irritated to be out of the city. On the one hand, they were away from the cloying interests of Chaos, meddling with their brains. On the other, they had once again failed in their mission to capture the metropolis, seemingly a regular occurrence. Though the Parvian Lancers and, Argan knew, most of the other Regiments involved had captured cities of a similar or greater size several times throughout the Crusade, this one was proving a stubborn nut to crack. The machinations of Chaos had seen to it that they should be repelled time and again.

While the rumours about the leadership had not found any willing ears among the men of Gamma Company, they had nonetheless made the rounds, and each man had his own thoughts about such things. Argan thought it unlikely, from what he knew of the Lord-General, that he would be swayed so easily. He did not know about the Lord-Admiral, but considering his successful leadership of the Crusade across the vast gulf of stars, it also seemed a small possibility. Men of lower rank, possibly. What Argan had seen of the princess made him acutely aware of why some men might believe the rumours; having seen her psychic powers in battle, it was easy to understand how she might also possess the powers of persuasion. Failing that, she would clearly pose a powerful threat to the guardsmen she had previously fought to defend, should she be turned against them. Perhaps their leaders were just looking out for the welfare of their men?

That thought brought a derisive smirk to Argan's face. While it was true that Lord-General Galen treated his men better than most, the idea that he held any specific attachment or desire to protect them was still laughable. After all, he was chosen to command the Imperial Guard contingent of the Crusade in part precisely because he was not from any of the planets represented in regimental form, to avoid just such nostalgic or patriotic distractions that might arise. The welfare of the men at the front had never ranked highly amongst the wheels of Imperial bureaucracy. Even the vehicles and their Machine Spirits received greater care. Such was the guardsman's lot in life, but the sad truth of the Imperium was that service was often still a considerable step up from whatever slum or ghetto-like conditions they had been living in before, among the sprawling chaos of a Hive or in the barren wastes of some desert planet. No doubt they would never learn the real truth, if the rumours were real or just the figments of an active imagination. The men at the front never really learned anything of the true strategic purpose or intent of their movements, merely living from one battlefield to the next, waiting to die. 

Such was the lot of an Imperial Guardsman. Argan took a sip from his water flask as he gazed out towards the city. Perhaps they'd get it next time, or perhaps it would be abandoned entirely. He looked away, only for a moment, when a cry drew his attention back to the city, or, more specifically, to the skies above it.

Clouds hung like a grey curtain across the landscape, but even from this distance, Argan could see a spot of light. Quite far off, above the city and below the clouds. It must have appeared from nowhere, because there had been nothing a moment ago. Argan grabbed his monocular and peered through. The image resolved itself. It was the princess.

'What the hell's she doing?' Argan muttered. 'Out there by herself?'

She answered his query a moment later as her horn began to glow, an expected effect of her psychic powers. What was no expected, however, was the sudden brilliant beam of light that came not from her horn, but from the heavens. Startled cries went up from the guardsmen, especially those who had not noticed the presence of the princess. A ray of incandescent gold shot down from the sky, burning through the overcast. The clouds evaporated around it as if clearing the way for its passage. It cut through the air like a lance beam, and struck the princess.    

Instead of vaporising her, it seemed to be channelled through her horn, the immense unknown energies travelling along its length before bursting forth once more, a blinding fan of golden illumination, like a rainbow of singular colour. It swept across the dockyard district gradually, working its way from one side to the other, then back again, though these specifics were unknown to the men on the ground. Imperial Valkyries, hovering at a safe distance, took vid-pict recordings, transmitting them up to Fleet Command. The intense sunlight, focused into a beam and amplified by Celestia's magic, scoured the smouldering remains clean, combining heat with a variation of, and rather a substantial increase in power over, the simple spells used to clean areas around the Everfree Forest when the magics within threatened to spill out and contaminate the surrounding terrain.

Though the men on the ground could not see what the princess's target was, they could certainly see her performance, a deliberate display of power. As well as hoping to perform a useful service, Celestia had intended exactly that; to show her power, a not so subtle reminder to the human leaders, and for many of the rank and file, a first demonstration. While her summoning of the sunbeam and its careful direction impressed those aboard the imperial fleet who witnessed it, the men below the clouds were clueless as to its original source. All they knew was that the princess had seemingly summoned something out of nothing, and then cast it across the landscape, and it had the desired effect on many of them, a curious mix of fear, respect and intrigue. Powers far beyond their understanding were being displayed to them, not to tempt them with the promise of obtaining such power themselves, as the Dark Gods might attempt, but simply to help, to aid the humans in their mission to take the city. Even, as the higher ranking officers aware of the purpose of Celestia's task knew, to spare the men's lives, to spare their souls.




The Canterlot had been in the air all morning, and now, in the early afternoon, it was approaching the edge of the potential 'dead zone' left behind after the ship impact. Nopony had any real information on what might lay beyond. Even though Equestrian astronomers and scientists had long predicted the potential effects of an asteroid impact, no naturally occurring asteroid would be laden with unknown chemicals, weapons and energy sources the way the human starships were. The precise composition of the starship was unknown; Celestia had not made enquiries, knowing that the humans, who had steadfastly refused to offer an explanation as to the function of even their basic small arms, would certainly not reveal the secrets of interstellar travel to her. 

While the mysteries of space travel were unknown to the crew of the Canterlot, they certainly knew about atmospheric flight, and the airship manoeuvred with precision and grace belying its size as it turned, coming up short of the danger zone and hanging in the sky. Observers scanned for any movement or any unusual hazards. Both Ironside and Spitfire looked through telescopes, eager to see what they were flying into.

The answer was a moonscape, an absolute wasteland. Scarred and pitted, the coastal plain had been spared the complete cataclysm of an entire ship coming down upon it, and instead had suffered an enormous sandblasting of millions of pieces of flaming debris, some large, some small. Huge wildfires had erupted, burning away all the grass cover. Craters of all shapes and sizes, some smooth and circular, some jagged and random, dotted the landscape. Here and there, small clusters of blackened lumps showed where there had once been a village or small town. Now there was nothing.

The magnificent desolation of the plains rendered the searchers' maps far less effective than they would otherwise have been. Roads were gone, canals and rivers suddenly had new lakes along their length where debris had smashed a crater, quickly filled by the flow. While some towns were discernable from their burned remains, others had vanished entirely, obliterated by some huge slab of high-speed metal pounding into the dirt. Natural prominences still showed through; several ridges of thick rock that might form the perfect construction site for a Hive. There were coastal caves, too, along the beaches, where some secluded cove might hide the enemy.

Ironside ordered the airship to proceed. They commenced a grid search, moving steadily south. The largest of the rocky plateaus, marked on their maps in terms of its gradient, were there. It was a long process. A cry went up; movement! A herd of gazelle that fled in a convincingly natural manner as they approached. Nothing doing. The search continued. When darkness fell they had to stop, cutting the engines except for station keeping in the onshore breeze, and floating as the day watch rested. Lookouts scanned the inky blackness, unlit by any sodium glow from the towns that should be dotting the plains. They saw nothing.

At dawn, the search restarted, scouring the wastes for any sign of the Changelings. The airship roamed near and far, performing grid square searches, eliminating possible hiding places. Twice scouts were sent down to investigate suspicious-looking rock formations, reporting back both times that they were merely natural shallow caves with no evidence of further tunnelling. The airship carried on, checking the coast, the caves. One in particular drew attention. Closer investigation revealed it had been used by smugglers to transport illegal shipments of Zebrican spices and alcohol, bypassing Equestrian import duties, but no evidence of Changelings.  

Another night was passed in the desolate wastes, then a third. Dawn's light on the fourth day brought them to the largest and most prominent of the rocky plateaux they had searched so far, the most likely to hold a Hive. Jagged escarpments of rock jutted incongruously from the grassy plains, results of some unseen geological upthrust or seismic upheaval in the distant past. They searched and scanned from on high.

And this time, they found something. 

Though there was no movement, there was a partially concealed entrance, either to a cave or a tunnel. Very cautiously, scouts were sent in closer, then closer. Still no contact, but they reported the tunnel construction matched that of a Hive entrance. They pulled back for a discussion with Spitfire and Ironside. It was definitely a Changeling construct, they reported. They had seen nothing, not even wildlife that might have been Changelings in disguise. Ironside advocated caution, while Spitfire preferred a lightning raid. Catch them napping, she said. They had no guards posted. Perhaps they were busy with some arcane ritual, perhaps it was breeding season?

Together, they agreed on a plan. The Canterlot would remain orbiting the entrance at several thousand feet, while Spitfire led a team herself. Her Special Tasks Group squad would lead the way, accompanied by three platoons of Assault Infantry. The rest would remain in reserve aboard the airship unless needed. Spitfire and her squad geared up, and they went over the side, the tip of the spear, plunging deep into the Changeling's home.

The tunnels were bare, drab, lined with the same rock type they had recovered the sample of from the previous Hive. There were no enemy contacts. They pushed in farther, deeper underground. There were no contacts. Their helmet torches illuminated only the empty tunnels. An ambush? Was the tunnel booby trapped? No. Just deathly silence. They pressed on. Total darkness engulfed them, their lifeline to the surface getting longer and longer. The Canterlot and her crew waited feverishly for news. Eventually, the scouts returned. In their possession they had nothing save for humiliation; a chunk of incongruous rock, a lump of rock that would be at home only in the abandoned Hive in the northeast that they had already cleared. There was a Hive, but it was empty, a decoy, with a mocking hint in the shape of the rock sample just leading them back to where they came from. Chrysalis, showing her sassy side. You thought you could outsmart me that easily? Think again.




Princess Celestia performed her highly visible ritual of cleansing for more than an hour. Men stood, mouths agape, watching the spectacle- all part of the plan. Once it was done, she disappeared as soon as she had come. Lord-General Galen ordered a cautious advance of scout units, into the contaminated area, to determine if she had done the job of an orbital bombardment successfully. They reported that she, seemingly, had- there were no malignant voices, no disquieting skin lesions, no mysterious apparitions. As far as they could determine, the princess had succeeded. She had cleansed the city of the abhorrent filth of Chaos.

The Guard moved back in, sweeping, clearing. This time, they finally succeeded. The city was theirs, thanks to their relentless bravery, but thanks also, in no small part, to the Xenos princess. Though she was, of course, fighting to retake her own city, such a contribution had not gone unnoticed, either by the rank and file or by the commanders on the ground and in orbit. It was clear that without her the dockyards would have had to be razed from orbit anyway, so what harm did it do to have her try out her own method of sanctification? After all, it was her ponies who would have to live with the blight of Chaos if she had failed.

It seemed, however, that she had succeeded, somehow. There had been nothing sanctified by the Ecclesiarchy used in her strange and captivating display. Heat, yes, somehow drawn from above, from the sun itself, as the officers knew. But what was pure? What had made the difference between mere high temperatures and actually purging the filth away? It could only be something from within the princess herself, perhaps some aspect of her psychic powers or something inherent in her very nature. Either way, it was something else to disconcert the top brass. If she proved this effective at fighting these forces she had never been exposed to before, then how successful would she be if she turned her attentions upon them?

Colonel Harding, as commander of the 40th Parvian Lancers who had entered the dockyards initially, come under the subsequent Daemonic attack, and been rescued by Celestia, was summoned to the Emperor's Judgement to brief the Lord-General and Lord-Admiral on what he and his men had observed, both about the city, the princess and the enemy. Leaving the newly promoted Major Halix in command of the remnants of the Regiment, Harding travelled to the shuttle pad in his shiny new Salamander command vehicle, assigned to him as regimental commander. The trappings of power. As commander, Harding had been informed of the broad strokes of the nature of Celestia's mission and the origins of the beam from the heavens. Intriguing, to be sure, but probably not of great concern in the grand scheme of things. He had memories of what he had seen of her before, at Griffonstone and Manehattan. She was impressive in combat, yes, but surely nothing compared to the one to whom he owed his loyalty. In the fighting in Manehattan, Harding had been saved by the princess, it could certainly be argued, like most of the regiment. A blast of warpfire had struck down many of his command squad, finding themselves outflanked by the sudden Daemonic uprising. Harding had stumbled through the back alleys of the city for a while before finding and rejoining other members of the Lancers, coordinating and driving the enemy back into the Empyrean.  

The shuttle pad had been set up just inside the outer ring of Imperial siege lines, which were now being steadily dismantled, their work accomplished. The city was in human hands. Sandbags were being removed from around the firing pieces. Artillery was being packed up, ready to move on to the next battlefield. Some of the men were already being lifted back into orbit via the great, bloated bulk landers, to await redeployment. The city was theirs, but the planet was not. There were Auspex reports of large enemy concentrations in at least one other major city, as well as raiding parties spotted in the mountains and hills of the north, to say nothing of the valley to the south of Canterlot. All these areas would have to be swept and taken, cleansed of any remnant of their former inhabitants, before the planet could be considered conquered. It was a tough job, but Harding knew that the more they fought, the easier it became. As each position was taken and the enemy numbers eroded, their strength would rise, while that of the enemy could only fall. 

The journey to the pad was long, but the journey to orbit would take mere minutes. The shuttle awaited, a sleek craft capable of exo-atmospheric flight and also a graceful, if noisy,  vertical landing planetside. Harding boarded, and the ramp closed behind him. The jets kicked in and the shuttle lifted cleanly away, turning and beginning its ascent. The sky changed rapidly from the grey overcast into a brilliant blaze of blue as they climbed above the clouds. The hue deepened, darkened, turning from blue to navy to purple, and finally to black as they rose free of the atmosphere, the acceleration pressing Harding back into his seat. The stars became visible, pinpoints of light on a blank canvas. The ships of the Crusade, too; the vast transports and tankers, the stubby escorts, the Emperor's Judgement, the jewel of the fleet. It was the first time Harding had seen it; most troop transports, he recalled, had no viewports in their holds. There was certainly something awe-inspiring about it. Such a grand design, venerable, given a new lease of life by the opportunities of the Crusade. Harding had no idea how old the ship was, but it probably pre-dated all civilised life on the planet below. It had led an expedition of conquest across the galaxy, and he had no doubt it would continue to do so.

The docking bay was cramped, stuffed with similar small shuttles as well as fighter craft. In full dress uniform, Harding was whisked away to the command deck to meet with the Lords, men of high stature indeed, deemed worthy of leading this great venture across space and commanding many millions of men. The upper decks of the Emperor's Judgement, which would never be visited by the overwhelming majority of her crew, were lavishly decorated, with soaring architecture, more akin to a cathedral or a palace than a starship. There were many similarities with the palace of the pony princess. 

The bridge deck itself was bustling, with staffers coming and going, armsmen on guard and junior officers operating consoles and display screens. The Lord-General was busy perusing a data-slate, while the Admiral was issuing replenishment orders with his usual bluster. Upon Harding's arrival, however, both men left their duties to go and speak with him. Marcos extended a powerful hand.

'Colonel Harding. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. Welcome aboard.' Harding shook his hand.

'Thank you, My Lord. A promotion due to the circumstances, but a promotion nonetheless. It is an honour to be considered for the position, and to be welcomed aboard your vessel.'

'Come, my man, come.' Marcos ushered him into the ready room, along with Galen and Flag Captain Bormann. 'Now then, I want your truthful and instinctive impressions, understand? Whatever you feel is relevant, state it here, however...unprofessional it may seem,' Marcos ordered, hoping to gauge the reaction of the men on the ground to the revelation of the true power of the princess. Had the men been in awe? Had they been afraid? Had they been asking questions about their leadership and about their purpose here?

Harding had heard all of those things since he had returned from Manehattan, and he spoke candidly. 'My Lord, the men have been affected in a number of ways by what they have seen. I have heard reports of men being afraid of her power, of course. That is understandable. But I have also received reports of men feeling calm and a sense of peace when in the presence of this princess. That I cannot grasp.'

'And you do not share these feelings?' Marcos asked. 'You feel no calm? You have been in her presence several times.'

'I do not, My Lord. I feel only the revulsion of speaking with such an...inferior species,' Harding replied disdainfully.

'A necessary evil,' Marcos replied. 'Due to the exigent circumstances. I understand the disquiet among the men about such things, but the situation we were in must be weighed up carefully. In the absence of further orders, units on the ground, including yourself and your men, did what they had to do to survive the onslaught of the Archenemy. There is no blame to be appointed for such actions.'

'That is gratifying to hear, My Lord,' Harding nodded. 'I am sure you understand the reluctance with which we made such decisions.'

'Indeed we do,' Lord-General Galen chimed in. 'It was no easy to make a choice like that. We had similar dilemmas when we chose to continue honouring the alliance with the princess and her kind, at least until this world is cleansed.'

'What will become of the alliance after that, My Lord?' Harding questioned. 'Will you destroy these creatures from orbit?'

'The outcome of this alliance has not yet been determined,' Marcos replied. 'If we can successfully defeat the Archenemy, then we can turn our attention to what comes next. The princess had repeatedly stressed to us that she has no ill will toward us. So far we have no reason to doubt her word. Now, to the Daemons...your regiment was attacked twice, correct? First in the outskirts and then again after retreating from the dockyard fires. Did you have any indication of where exactly they came from? Any evidence of a portal or a ritual for summoning?'

'No, My Lord. In neither case did I receive any reports of such activity being located,' Harding answered. 'We were attacked as if from nowhere.'

A knock came at the ready room's door. 'Enter!' Marcos bellowed. The door opened and a smartly-dressed Midshipman entered, coming to attention with a snappy salute.

'My Lord Admiral! I have a data-slate for you from the Chief Engineer,' he announced, the tablet device held in his outstretched hand. Marcos took it, sparing but a brief glance at the man- barely more than a boy, really. Vinson, his name tag read. Funny, not the usual messenger from the Chief. Marcos examined the data-slate, while the Midshipman took a step back and clicked his heels smartly once more. The data-slate contained reams of charts and statistics regarding the ship's weaponry- a duplicate of an earlier report already delibevered to Marcos, and nothing at all to do with the Chief Engineer's responsibilities. He looked up with a confused frown, ready to rebuke the Midshipman for bringing him the wrong slate, but before he could speak, his expression changed to one of horror.  

There was a shouted warning, and a single gunshot.