//------------------------------//
// Take It Easy 
// Story: Strange Bedfellows 
// by BRBrony9 
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Twilight had watched from her bedroom as the fire's glow had faded away. She had remained, equal parts curious and fearful, at the window to see if she could determine exactly what was going on outside of the palace walls. She had seen ponies running and bells ringing in panic, and she had seen a medical team leaving the palace infirmary and galloping across the courtyard. She had watched as the fire department's water tower had gone up, rising above the palace walls, and she had watched as blinding spotlights had illuminated the scene of whatever was going on out there.

One of the guards protecting her had entered the room, reassuring her that everything was alright, there was nothing to worry about. There was a fire, he said, just a fire. And an explosion, obviously. But the fire had caused the explosion; it had not been an enemy attack, no strike from space or anything like that. She could rest, she could go back to sleep. There was nothing wrong.

But she couldn't sleep. She found herself glued to the window, watching the comings and goings of the guardsponies, watching the glow of the spotlights beyond the walls fade as the sun began to rise. Only then did she convince herself to go back to bed, still wondering what exactly had transpired. Eventually, she fell back to sleep, snoring gently, resting. She was still tired out from her ordeal, and standing at the window instead of resting had not helped matters. She was roused after only another couple of hours, with some breakfast, by one of handmaidens assigned by the princess to help her out.

She rose and fed once more, feeling better and stronger despite being woken in the middle of the night and having her sleep interrupted. The handmaiden didn't know any more than she did about what had caused the explosion, but Princess Luna visited her again later in the morning and explained. An armoury had caught fire and later exploded. There had been no civilian casualties but one firepony had died as a result of the blast. Sad news, but nothing to be concerned about, she assured Twilight. A full investigation was underway, but there was nothing yet to suggest anything untoward. Or at least, that was what Luna told her. There was always the possibility that she was withholding information, a wise precaution if indeed there were any suspicious circumstances.

Twilight accepted her words at face value, and was taken to see the doctor once again, who informed her that she was making good progress in her recovery. Her strength was returning, her minor wounds were healing nicely. She had been well fed and watered during her convalescence in the palace so far, and the doctor urged her to continue to eat and drink everything that was provided to her, as a fairly strict diet was being imposed on her to make sure she topped up on all the necessary nutrients and minerals to get her healthy once again.

Twilight was happy to oblige, as she liked following rules and sticking to a specific plan. She loved nothing more than making lists, and at least this way she could read through the list of exactly what nutrients she needed to take in, as prescribed by the doctor. She returned to her room and read through it, sparing a glance out of the window. Golden sunshine beamed in. She could see a few wisps of smoke still rising above the site of the explosion. A blast so close to the palace seemed an awful coincidence, but Twilight had no reason to think otherwise. She returned to reading through her diet plan, content to rest on her bed.




The Theatre Royale site had been cordoned off, with plenty of Royal Guard on site to control the perimeter. Only fireponies with the proper identification, and a crew from the Guard's forensics division, were being permitted entry through the tape. The fire department's arson investigators were poring over the site of the initial fire in the alley to the rear of the theatre. The pile of trash that had been stacked up there would not ignite of its own accord. None of the investigators were in any doubt. Somepony, or someone, had started that fire deliberately. It was too convenient. But who could have got into the alley without being spotted? There had been a constant guard patrol around the building, as well as more guards inside. Surveillance was good, with at least one guard passing through the alley every fifteen minutes. How could someone have gotten past them and managed to ignite the pile of rubbish?

The forensic teams and the arson investigators performed a thorough search, or at least as thorough as could be managed with depleted resources. Only two of the arson team were even still alive after the invasion, and the Royal Guard forensics team was made up, in part, of trainees who had not even finished the first six months of additional study needed to graduate from the special course. There were now no instructors left to teach it anyway, and only three ponies could be scrounged with any experience in the matter. Two were on active duty, but one had left several years ago and moved on to be part of the royal security detail. They did their best, and together with the fireponies, they found conclusive evidence of arson.

An accelerant of some kind, possibly oil or kerosene, had been spread. There were chemical remnants of the substance that could be detected, and the arson investigators could tell from the pattern of the burn marks on the building that the fire, initially, had actually been started in at least two separate spots within the trash pile, and accidental fires simply did not start at two different points within a large pile of junk with no electrical, chemical or natural gas hazards present. 

With the cause proven beyond reasonable doubt, the search now turned to finding a perpetrator. There seemed to be three obvious possibilities. Firstly, and perhaps most disturbingly, it had been started deliberately by a member of the guard force, or by some other pony, intent on committing acts of treason and sabotage against the war effort for reasons unknown. It was not unknown in Equestria's past for such things to occur, but, given the scale of the threat facing them, it seemed unlikely to be the case here. It was possible that somepony had been bought out or blackmailed by some rogue faction, criminal gang or terrorist sect, or had their minds warped by the magic, seductive words of the human enemy. But the more likely possibilities were twofold.

It could have been committed by a Changeling, in disguise or otherwise, as retaliation for the assault on the Hive and its enforced destruction through volcanic eruption. Or, it could have been a human carrying out the task, either one of the small garrison which was helping to occupy Canterlot and protect the walls, or one of their Archenemy sneaking into the city, or perhaps having been secreted away in some sewer or basement until the time was right. Why the Imperials would choose such a sneaky tactic if they were planning to turn on their pony allies, rather than just demolishing the city from orbit, was unknown, other than that it would invoke the wrath of Celestia and a small case of sabotage might not; but it would also make no material difference in the fight should the Imperium attack, so why bother with it?

The most likely candidates by far were the Changelings or the human Archenemy. Both had obvious reasons for carrying out such an attack, and both could potentially have had the opportunity to do so, as well. Whoever had carried out the deed had left behind no evidence, other than the accelerant which did not offer any insight as to who might have used it. 

Princess Celestia returned to the scene of the fire in the early afternoon. She was updated as to the progress of the investigation, but no real information had come to light other than the fact that it was, indeed, arson, as had been suspected. She ordered the investigators to continue their work, even if there was no real prospect of finding out exactly who was responsible. She had her own theory, no doubt shared by many of the guard and fireponies. It was the Changelings. It was Chrysalis sending a message. It had to be. It was the Queen, saying, I still have my assets inside your city. I still have my hooves in your plans, and you can't get rid of me that easily.




While the attentions of the pony leadership were turned inward by the sabotage of the armoury, that of the human leaders had turned south, to another city entirely. Baltimare was their next target, and that was where their focus lay. The pony raid on the Changeling Hive, while still a curiosity, had taken a back seat. Commissar Birbeck got no answers from the princess, and Lord-Admiral Marcos doubted he would, either, if he asked her directly. What mattered now was the capture of the next city on their list.

Baltimare lay to the south of Ponyville, down at the southern end of the valley where it spread out to join the plains. It was another manufacturing hub, albeit on a smaller scale compared to Manehattan, and had been the third largest city in Equestria before the invasion in terms of population. Evidence from orbital scans confirmed that the Archenemy had a sizeable presence there, and once again, Marcos refused to countenance a simple bombardment from the heavens due to his agreement with Princess Celestia. She may not have been fully transparent regarding their raid on the Changelings, but Marcos did not want to go against her requests, since they had been made reasonably, and she had kept up her side of the bargain so far, providing support to the Imperial operations, not least on a personal level, having rushed in to save Imperial lives on a number of occasions. 

The battle lines had been drawn down at the southern end of the valley. Imperial forces had tightened the noose around the city in anticipation of the fight, but had been held back until everything was ready. There was no need to rush things; that would only result in greater casualties. Far better to take their time and do things right. That was his philosophy, whenever it was appropriate, at least. Sometimes greater speed was called for, was demanded, but there was no great pressure of time facing them here. This was merely a cleanup operation, sweeping the Archenemy from the planet, as they had swept him from the space surrounding it. 

'How are we faring, General?' Marcos asked Jahn, who was now supreme commander of the ground forces with the death of Lord-General Galen.  

'We fare well, My Lord,' Jahn replied. 'We are almost ready to commence operations around the city of Baltimare. Our blocking forces report that they are in position, and our armoured units are ready to the north. We shall surround the city with ease, and squeeze the life out of them.'

'As we did in Manehattan?' Marcos questioned, with just a hint of doubt. Manehattan had not been a cakewalk. Instead, they had run up against a sudden armoured thrust before even reaching the city, and then, far from simply besieging the place, they had in turn been subject to a siege from great hordes of Daemons which had rushed their lines several times, only being turned back by the intervention, ironically, of the pony princess.

'All the augurs read clear, My Lord,' Jahn replied. 'There is no indication of Daemonic activity in the city. I am sure we shall be able to strike firmly and swiftly with no complications.'

'Perhaps. But what if the complications come after?' Marcos replied grimly. 'We do not know what surprises these traitors might have in store for us. I trust you have advised all units to use extreme caution?'

'Yes, My Lord,' Jahn nodded in reply. 'After what happened in Manehattan, we have commanded all units to proceed with caution when approaching and operating in the city.'

Marcos nodded, though he feared that could potentially not be enough. The ways of Chaos were perfidious indeed, and could manifest themselves in any number of ways designed to confuse and frustrate. Enough of that fact had been displayed at Manehattan to ingrain it in the minds of every man and woman who now faced the prospect of capturing Baltimare. They had faced the forces and the machinations of Chaos before, to be certain, but there was nevertheless something different about fighting here, on this planet. Many had expressed it, many had felt it. Perhaps it was the simple fact of being so far from home, at the edge of the galaxy. Perhaps it was the alien and yet strangely human nature of the place; these Xenos spoke the same language, used similar military ranks, had cities that were reminiscent of Imperial cities, and the geography of the planet reminded many members of the Crusade of their homes.

There had still been no evidence, no proof and no explanation as to the origins of these horse aliens and their odd similarities. It could not be a coincidence, surely, their relationship to the equines of ancient earth, which had spread all over the galaxy, following in the footsteps of their human owners as they conquered world after world, faithful steed and companion to countless millions of cavalrymen throughout the Imperium's history. But nowhere else, as far as the historical records showed, had they ever learned how to speak or, perhaps even more remarkably, developed psychic powers of any description, let alone of the same power as the princess had displayed. Indeed, only a few humans had ever shown such potential and psychic aptitude.It was both a curiosity and a concern. Not only were the princesses a potential threat but there was now also the Changeling menace to consider.

It was a strange planet indeed.




Another night passed, with the fleet hanging in orbit above the lower valley. Baltimare lay silent below as the encirclement was completed, thousands of Imperial vehicles moving into their jump-off positions, ready to begin the assault at dawn. The enemy must know the attack was coming; there was no way to really disguise such a buildup of heavy equipment from view, and Baltimare was the next logical target south of Ponyville. It was always possible that the Imperials might simply bypass and surround the city, but the most likely course of action was that they would besiege it and then attempt to occupy it, as they had done at Manehattan. The enemy would be expecting just such an attack, but there was little else that could be done, given the princesses' insistence on the limiting of collateral damage wherever possible. 

The city had to be taken; those were the Lord-Admiral's orders, and those of General Jahn, now in direct command of all ground forces. Commissar Birbeck, however, would retain command of the assault forces on the ground. He would direct each thrust and counter-thrust, every attack and diversion and feint. The men and women under his control had only one objective; the capture of the city of Baltimare.

Unlike the previous night, this one was overcast and gloomy. Though there was no rain forecast, there was expected to be cloud and potentially fog for the opening phases of the attack; not ideal for the use of air support, but it could potentially offer cover for advancing units, at least until the rising sun burned it off as the temperature rose. The men awaited the dawn, when many of them would die, no doubt.

Captain Mayner stood beside his tank, Big Beautiful Doll, in the dull light. It was, at least, not raining, giving his crew a chance to sleep in the dry. Cheyne, Janssen, Welks, Farber, and Dinnis, the replacement driver, had done their best to find spots in which to unfurl their bedrolls and rest. They, along with the rest of the 2nd Stourmont Armoured Regiment, were camped behind a low ridge where the infantry kept watch. The tank crews would need their rest; they would have to have their wits about them in the morning, when they would be part of the drive on Baltimare.

They had already fought at Manehattan and at Ponyville. They were tired, but they were used to it. Fighting was their duty, as well as their specialty. The Stourmont Armoured had been part of the ground force on almost every planet the Crusade had visited out in the western fringe, and had won high honours in the process. The great traditions of their ancestors and their home planet had been well and truly upheld by the Regiment; nothing less could have been expected. No doubt Stourmont, that storm-wracked planet of water and wind, would offer up countless more sons and daughters to the altar of freedom and Imperial expansion, fighting either until the Imperium collapsed, or until there were no more worlds left to conquer. 

The Regiment's laager site was spread out, with several hundred vehicles parked up in defilade, out of sight and out of mind as far as the enemy's long range spotters were concerned. Though they may well have been spotted making their approach to the site, the tanks were now hidden from view behind the ridgeline, some dozen miles from the city. They were, theoretically, in range of enemy artillery, but reconnaissance hadn't seen any such weaponry among the streets and buildings of Baltimare. That was not an entirely reassuring thought, however, given their previous experiences at Manehattan. A huge enemy armoured force had come crawling out of the woodwork seemingly without warning, as indeed had several rounds of Daemonic assault upon them. 

It was, at least, a pleasant night, at least for someone from Stourmont. There was a slight chill to the air, and the skies were leaden and heavy, thick clouds hanging over them. Some would complain about the temperature and about the dullness of the overcast night, but anyone from Stourmont would be most pleased by the simple fact that it was not raining. The brief spells of dryness on their home planet were celebrated and welcomed with open arms, leading to festivities in each small village and town that would last from a couple of hours to a week or more, depending on how long the weather decided to grant them clemency. Thanks would be given, at least in the ancient times, to the weather gods and spirits for their munificence in deigning to grant a period of dry conditions. There would be feasts, if there was time, and dancing, and music. With normal conditions so poor, the folk of Stourmont took every chance they could get to celebrate when the going was good.

The tank crew, and most of their fellows, lay on the ground atop their bedrolls, a simple folded tunic or perhaps a rucksack used as a pillow. Their helmets were never used for such a purpose; for the men, they were used to protect far more important body parts in case of sudden enemy artillery or air attack during the night that might kick up shrapnel. A similar purpose was practised by crew of both genders when not under fire but in areas that, potentially, could have been mined. Some would sit atop their helmets, others atop their flak jackets, in the hope that, if a mine was struck by the tank, the blast that would come up through the floor of the vehicle would be sufficiently absorbed or deflected by the extra protection to not cause significant damage to their vital parts. It was a practise borne more of hope than expectation, but hope was a precious commodity when serving the Emperor on the frontline.

Mayner looked around his crew. Cheyne was busy whittling something with her sharp combat knife; a wooden trinket, a tradition of the Stourmont people. Depending on the shape and style, they could represent anything from fertility to courage to beauty. Cheyne was a master whittler, a prized talent back home. Indeed, before she had been drafted, she had been a carpenter's apprentice in her grandfather's shop. The old man had served his time, having taken the Emperor's blessing as a member of the mechanised infantry for nearly twenty five years, and he wanted a better life for his granddaughter. Sadly, the Imperium had other ideas. The interior of the tank had been, at times, lined with completed examples of her work. By morning, there would be another to add to the collection.

Janssen, the loader, sat propped up against the tank, preferring to sleep while in contact with the vehicle, rather than on the bare ground like the others. A superstition, perhaps, but he was still alive, having survived battles that killed his friends, and his fellow crewmembers. A labourer on Stourmont, heaving the hefty shells into the breech was child's play to his strong arms. He was snoozing, content to rest. Nothing much could stir a simple sort like him once they decided it was time to close their eyes.

Welks and Farber, the two sponson gunners, were sleeping soundly. The thought of battle on the morrow hardly fazed them. They had been through countless others before, and, Emperor willing, would see countless more before their days in His service were done. Welks, the younger of the two, had been a musician before joining up, and often regaled the company, sometimes the whole battalion, with tunes on his five-stringed mandolin. Old folk tunes from home would stir the men and women of the 2nd Armoured into song, great bawdy numbers to encourage loud replies during a drunken furlough, and somber, thoughtful ballads to move the heard and soul and bring a tear to the eye of even the most battle-hardened veteran. Farber, the elder, had no previous profession. He had been a soldier since he came of age, and would be a soldier until he died, most likely. Very few pensions were drawn from the ranks of the Imperial Guard, Cheyne's grandfather being one of the rare exceptions to the rule.

Dinnis, the driver, was sitting up on the tank, legs dangling over the frontal glacis plate, staring out to the south, towards Baltimare. Though he was new to the crew, he was no greenhorn recruit, and had faced the prospect of battle and death many times before. The fact that he wasn't even trying to sleep meant something must be bothering him. Captain Mayner climbed up onto the tank beside him, taking a seat.

'Everything alright, driver?' he asked. Dinnis glanced at his commander and nodded.

'Fine, sir. Just thinking.'

'Any interesting thoughts on your mind, son?' Mayner asked, feeling a bit wrong at addressing the younger man as such, given that he was, indeed, not some raw recruit. Nevertheless, Mayner, as one of the older tankers in the Regiment, frequently took advantage of the privilege. 

'Just thinking of home, sir,' Dinnis replied. 'If my calculations are correct...and they're probably wrong...my village would be celebrating its two thousandth anniversary today.'

'Well, congratulations to them,' Mayner replied, with a grunt and a nod. 'I bet you wish you were there with them?'

'Of course,' Dinnis replied. 'I can just picture them...my parents will be there, my sister, my kid brother, too. Grandpa will be playing his flute and they'll all be dancing to the music...' A nostalgic smile crossed his face.

'Well, you may not be there, but they're here with you, it seems,' Mayner pointed out. 'You know they'll be raising a glass to their absent sons and daughters. To you. And you know, and they know, that you're out here doing them proud. Doing exactly what needs to be done.'

'I guess you're right, sir,' Dinnis nodded. 'I hope I can do them proud, at least. That's what I want to do.'

'And you are,' Mayner assured him. 'Your record is spotless, you've fought long and hard and well. That's all any of us can do out here.'

'Do you think we'll survive tomorrow?' Dinnis asked bluntly.

'Of course,' Mayner replied assuredly. 'If you survived yesterday, you can survive tomorrow. That's my philosophy.' 

'I like it.' Dinnis chuckled a little and nodded. 'I like it...I just wish it was always that simple, sir.'

Mayner couldn't help but think of Barnes, his former driver. 'So do I, son. So do I.'

'I can't help but have a funny feeling about this planet, sir,' Dinnis continued. 'There's just something...off about it. Maybe it's the inhabitants, I don't know. It's just a feeling. Something kind of strange.'

'I know what you mean, son. Not often you run into talking horses, I suppose,' Mayner agreed, though he knew there was more than just that. 'But it's nothing to worry about. That's all it is.' He hoped he was right, but suspected he was wrong.

'Yeah...you're probably right, sir,' Dinnis nodded. 'That's probably all it is.'

'I hope so, son,' the Captain replied. 'I hope so.'