//------------------------------// // Southern Sun // Story: Strange Bedfellows // by BRBrony9 //------------------------------// Straddling the lower reaches of the Foal River, the city of Fillydelphia was the southernmost major settlement in Equestria. To proceed much farther south, one would need a boat; the wide river, which ran from west to east through the city, took a final turn to the south just downstream, and emptied into the narrow Southern Straits that separated the main continent from a series of mostly uninhabited islands that stretched as an archipelago down to the ice sheet that surrounded the south pole. As an inland port, FIllydelphia was home to plenty of merchant ships, some fast clippers and others side-wheel paddle steamers, which plied the lucrative route between their home port and Manehattan, up on the eastern coast. They lay idle now, anchored in mid-stream or tied up to the wharves and piers. The National Arsenal buildings sat idle and empty, not churning out the vital equipment and ammunition that the Equestrian military needed to function. Occupied by the enemy, most of them had been looted of anything of value. Several had been set ablaze for no reason other than to watch them burn. Destruction for its own sake, a hallmark of the forces of Chaos wherever they went in the galaxy. As dawn broke, the sun rising slowly above the horizon, bathing the land in a golden glow, the silence and stillness was shattered not by birdsong, but by a chorus of guns. Imperial artillery batteries stationed some miles away from the outskirts of FIllydelphia roared into life, pounding enemy positions around the edge of town. There was a strong outer ring of defences, in contrast to Baltimare, where there had been merely a crust of poorly built trenches and a couple of pillboxes. Here, there were several lines of trenches, all interconnected, heavily laced with razor wire and earthen bunkers every few hundred feet. Logs, sandbags and dirt had all been used to reinforce the trenches, front and back, lined with duckboards and proper firing steps. These were no decoy trenches, no half-hearted attempt at making a pretense at defending the city to lure the Imperials into a trap. There could still be a trap waiting to be sprung, of course, but these were real, strong defences. The Chaos troops wanted to defend this place. Earthshaker cannons and Basilisk siege mortars, moved into place overnight, hurled hundreds of rounds of high-explosive at the defence lines. There were trenches on both banks of the wide river. The city was split in two by the fast-moving water, the north district and south district, but the Imperial attack would come only from the north. Forces moving down from Baltimare and coming east from the main landing grounds had linked up several days earlier, and had been preparing to take Fillydelphia, the last major Chaos stronghold left in Equestria. They had been driven out of much of the country, their forces in several other cities wiped out completely. Once they were cleared out from Fillydelphia, it was entirely possible that the Lord-Admiral would deem the Imperial job here to be completed, with whatever else that decision might entail. The artillery pummeled the trenches for an hour, unleashing hell upon the defenders huddled down in their dugouts and pressing themselves against the trench walls in a desperate effort to stay alive. Artillery fire was always surprisingly ineffective against targets in well made defensive positions, and so it proved again here, inflicting some casualties, but sparing the majority of the enemy infantry from the barrage of explosives and shrapnel. Marauder bombers struck at key positions with impunity. There were no Chaos aircraft to deter them from their mission, nor much in the way of anti-aircraft fire coming from the ground. Another sudden barrage of artillery fire caught the enemy as they prepared to repel an assault, a deliberate ploy instigated by General Jahn. A sudden artillery bombardment at dawn surely signaled an imminent attack, drawing men to the firing steps, manning the bunkers and deploying into exposed positions once the barrage stopped. Hitting then again, after a short delay of a little over a minute, was sure to inflict more casualties than the first barrage had achieved, and so it proved, the shrapnel shells cutting down a good number of troopers who had rushed to their defensive positions. Only then did the assault begin. Troops were moving in, armour and mechanised infantry advancing across the grassland that surrounded the city, pushing down from the north. Their target was Fillydelphia, and they would not deviate, despite the thought at the backs of their minds that Baltimare had gone up in a sudden flash of light, killing many of their fellow Guardsmen. Clearly here, though, the Archenemy intended to fight for every inch of ground, not simply suck as many Imperial units as they could into a trap. Defensive fire lashed out at the advancing forces, las-rounds, missiles and a few scattered plasma bolts targeting the onrushing Leman Russ tanks. As part of the vanguard, the 2nd Stourmont Armoured Regiment swept onward, leading the way yet again. Captain Mayner's eyes were glued to his thermoscope. There would be no easy run this time, no simple passage to the target as there had been in Baltimare. Heavy fire was coming their way, despite the artillery preparation. Even as he watched, the image in the viewfinder turned into a blinding white mess of static as a Marauder dropped a stick of incendiary Promethium bombs across the first trench line, scattering burning fuel across a wide area, setting alight everything even remotely flammable, including wood, canvas, uniforms and flesh. Several men clambered from the river of fire that one of the trenches had become, floundering wildly before collapsing, burned to death. There were bunkers ahead, pillboxes, with anti-tank weaponry. They were firing at the advancing tanks, doing their best to stop the push, defend the city the Chaos forces had conquered. The Imperial forces were not going to let that stand. Battle cannons roared in defiance, kicking up dirt and smashing into the bunkers, caving in the dirt or ferrocrete walls where they struck dead on target, burying the Chaos gunners under their own defences. Such a swift death seemed unfair hen delivered to such brutal men, men who had swept through the city murdering and pillaging anything in their path. Or at least, it would if they had not been meting out such violence to aliens. Assuming the locals were indeed aliens in the truest sense of the word. They were horses, a species originally native to Holy Terra. Yes, they could talk, and yes, they seemed to have developed inexplicable psychic powers, but was there not a possibility, as others had suggested, that these creatures originated from the same place as humanity? Mayner had not heard any definitive statements on that fact from his leaders, either at Regimental or Crusade level. A fleet-wide proclamation could have been issued, for example, by the Lord-Admiral if the investigations had turned up anything conclusive one way or another. Nothing had been forthcoming, however. Was that because the Mechanicus science ship could not determine the truth, even with all of its equipment and the intellect of its crew? Or was it because they knew, but did not want the men and women of the Crusade to know? Mayner banished such things from his mind. This was neither the time nor the place to wonder about the true nature of the Xenos they were fighting alongside. The true nature of their enemy was as clear as it had ever been, and that was what mattered. Ridding this world of the taint of Chaos and the foul stench of ancient treachery. If they were ordered to wipe out the horse-aliens afterward, so be it. All around Big Beautiful Doll, the other tanks of the Regiment swept onward. There were two armoured regiments leading the charge, supported by three more regiments of mechanised infantry. Heavy air cover, as always, had been provided by the Navy, and fighters, bombers and gunships roamed freely overhead, untroubled by enemy interceptors. Only a few scattered strings of tracer fire attempted to reach out and touch them. The majority of the enemy defences were focused on repelling a ground assault, for the enemy commanders had surely known it must come. Their planning was now proving to be quite necessary, but also, in places, quite inadequate. The tanks were designed for exactly such a task as this, forcing a breach in a fortified enemy line to carry home an assault, to open up gaps for the infantry to move along behind and clear the trenches. Once the nut was cracked in enough places, the whole system of trenches could be rolled up by the Guard, and then attentions could turn to the real prize of the city itself which lay beyond. A tank ahead and to their left suddenly burst into flame and rolled to a halt, men scrambling to bail out of the burning wreck. A few moments later, another tank to their right front seemed to almost lift clear of the ground as something exploded beneath it. 'Minefield!' Mayner shouted a warning to his driver. He grabbed the vox. 'Cobalt Alpha One Actual to all Cobalt callsigns, be advised, minefield ahead, I say again, minefield ahead!' Dinnis, the driver, had slowed the tank at the warning cry, and the other vehicles of the regiment began to do the same after Mayner's vox call. The tank ahead which had struck the mine had bounced like a child's toy as a hefty explosive charge went off beneath it, set off by the weight of the vehicle, which was considerable, even when the pressure per square inch was reduced somewhat by the broad treads of the Leman Russ. Though its port track was shredded and had worked itself free of its bearing wheels, and the left sponson was bent out of shape, the tank itself was still operational. Its remaining guns spat defiance at the enemy, even as its fellows tried their best to navigate now that they knew there was unseen danger in their path. Minefields were highly effective area denial tactics. A weak defence like the one at Baltimare likely would not bother with them, either through lack of time or resources. But a well-planned defensive position with an astute commander would sew the approaches to their line with both anti-tank and anti-personnel mines. The Chaos forces had had ample time to do just that. The big danger with mines was that, if properly buried, they were undetectable except by specialist equipment, and while part of the preliminary bombardment had been targeted on the flat land in front of the enemy trench line to hopefully detonate any mines which had been placed there, the artillery had evidently not done a good enough job. The minefield presumably stretched all the way up to the enemy razor wire, almost a mile distant. How far to each flank it had been laid could only be guessed at, as could the density of the field and the total number of mines which had been laid. There was no way for the attacking troops to know. When the enemy had presumably been preparing their defences, the fleet with its Auspexes and cameras in orbit had been marooned on the far side of the Warp Storm, or else, more recently, their attentions had been diverted elsewhere in preparation for other attacks. An anti-tank mine, a powerful shaped-charge explosive designed to direct its energies upward and into the vulnerable underbelly of an enemy tank, was a tank crew's worst nightmare. They were strong enough to destroy a tank, ripping through its weaker underside armour and shredding the crew from below, or at best destroying a track or the engine and immobilising the vehicle right in the killzone of the defences the mines had been laid in front of. Worst of all, they were essentially invisible to tank crews, who had no realistic means of detecting their presence other than, as Mayner had, observing one of their own kind run over one. Sometimes if the minefield was not well guarded or had been placed deliberately behind the lines on a supply road or highway, infantry could probe ahead of the tank in search of the mines, either by hand or with special detector equipment. But that was a hazardous proposition, since an enemy aware of this tactic would likely intersperse anti-personnel mines among their larger counterparts, to catch unlucky engineers out. Of course, some less scrupulous commanders in Imperial history had ordered men from penal battalions to simply run through minefields, with or without telling them about it, in order to set off mines before the main assault force arrived. That was not an option here, however, even if there were any punitive battalions present on the planet. Lord-Admiral Marcos and General Jahn were not the sort of men to sanction such a wilful waste of human life, even if they were criminal scum. The tanks would just have to be careful, slow their advance and keep a sharp lookout for any signs of mines ahead of them; disturbed patches of earth, discoloured grass, small lumps or rises in the terrain which could equally be a mine or the residence of some local burrowing creature. That was fine if it was on some backwater road where mines had simply been laid by retreating forces. But this was a minefield under constant, heavy anti-tank fire. Moving slowly in such a place was inviting a fiery death by lascannon or shell. Little else could be done, however, other than simply soldiering on under support from the skies. Captain Eliss Muran brought his Lightning strike fighter around. A call had gone out for close air support from one of the armoured regiments, the 2nd Stourmont. That was a familiar name to him. It was a tank from that regiment which had picked Muran up after he bailed out during the approach to Manehattan. How long ago that all seemed now, though it was only a few weeks earlier. For those in the service of the Emperor, time could somehow contrive to both fly by and also stagnate, with the chronometer barely advancing, depending on what situation one was in. In combat, minutes could seemingly pass in a matter of a few seconds, while on guard duty, a long ship's watch or waiting for the squadron scramble signal, the hours stretched out ahead into eternity. Muran had expressed his gratitude to the crew for bothering to bring him aboard. Many Guardsmen might well have left him out there in the rain and the danger, given the rivalry between the Navy and the Imperial Guard, to say nothing of the danger it might expose the crew to. Muran had paid his respects with a quick prayer to the Emperor when he boarded to discover the tank's driver had been killed. A few inches either way and the shell which killed him might well have finished off the gunner, the loader or the commander instead, or perhaps all of them. If the crew of that tank were still down there, if they had survived the flood at Ponyville, the atomic blast at Baltimare, and wherever else they might have been deployed, then Muran wanted to repay his debt to them. He lined up on the first trench line, sunlight glinting distractingly from the canopy. Clear skies overhead; perfect flying weather. He pushed the stick forward, dipping the nose toward the earth. The enemy trenches were laid out not in a straight line, but as a series of interconnected V-shapes, meaning that any tank or infantry squad that got into a position to fire straight down the axis of the trench could only strike at one section, and not simply mow down the entire enemy force with one belt of heavy bolter ammunition. The layout also protected against bomb, shell and grenade blasts, diverting and cushioning any explosion and protecting those around the corner in the next section of trench. To something firing from above, however, it offered little help. Unlike his last close support run, there was little need for detailed instructions from a liaison officer on the ground this time. The enemy were in the trenches, and the friendlies were to the north of them. Simple. Muran picked a target, one particular stretch of trench much like any other. There were flickers of las-fire coming from it, and the muzzle flash of something heavier, a stubber perhaps. A streak of smoke marked the trail of a missile which had just left a small firing pit to the rear of the trench itself. Muran made that his focal point. He flipped up the cover on his stick and pressed the firing stud twice, letting loose a pair of Hellfury incendiary rockets. They raced across the distance and detonated above the trench and missile pit, scattering submunitions which detonated into a great cloud of fire, burning incendiary gel raining down on the hapless defenders. Ammunition in the missile pit began to cook off as the Lightning raced by overhead, and men drowned in the flames, their trench section consumed in an inferno. Muran climbed away as his wingman, Rall, swooped in to perform the same function on another section of the line, with similarly deadly results. Muran brought his jet around. He could see the tanks moving forward slowly, much more slowly than would be usual. A shock attack would be the usual tactic, smashing the enemy line before they could react, or at least before they could destroy enough of the tanks to make a difference. Something was slowing them down, and though the order relayed to Muran from fleet command had not specified what, it seemed that a minefield was the most likely candidate. From above, he could see the real scale of the enemy defences. They were not confined to the small section he had attacked, nor even to the frontage being assaulted by the Stourmont Armoured. The trenches and strongpoints extended across the entire front, like a great semicircle around the city. Three lines of defence, equally spaced, connected by communications trenches and studded with bunkers, strongpoints and even a few berms, in which were parked enemy tanks. They did not have many vehicles forming part of the outer lines, but each tank could act as a powerful focal point for defence. The minefields that the Imperial tanks had run into could have covered the entire frontage of the assault. Or, it could have been designed to guide the attacking forces into particular areas, funnel them into the barrels of the strongest guns and the heaviest concentrations of defence. There was no way of telling from the air, just as there was no way of telling from the ground. Muran was glad that aircraft did not have to worry about invisible threats lurking potentially in their path at any given moment like the ground forces did. He brought the Lightning around, heading back toward the enemy trenches. He still had missiles left to fire, a handy contribution to be able to make to the course of the battle raging down below. He picked out another section of the trench to target. The Imperial tanks were gaining some ground and getting closer, but they were still at a safe distance. Two more presses of the firing stud, and two more missiles blasted from the rails. The enemy down below could do nothing about it. Desultory fire came his way, a few badly aimed las-rounds and some autogun or stubber fire, doing nothing to stop the Lightning's progress as it raced overhead, the conflagration caused by its missiles igniting another section of trench and killing a dozen or more men who thrashed about in a futile attempt to extinguish the blaze which engulfed them. Muran craned his neck to watch Rall sweep in with bursts of autocannon fire ripping up the dirt and grass around the enemy mortar pits placed between the trench lines. It was not a quick job, not like Baltimare had apparently been. Muran had not been there; he had been on a rest day, the rotating schedule of combat squadrons on and off duty designed to rest pilots before they became overtaxed. A tired pilot was not just a degraded pilot in terms of ability, but could even become a dangerous pilot, both to himself and to others. Air combat demanded split-second reflexes, and anything less was an invitation to get killed or get a fellow pilot killed. As a result, pilots and aircrew got rather more time off duty than the poor infantry or tank crews they were currently protecting. Looking away to the south for a moment, Muran could see the coastline, the end of the mainland and the beginning of the sea. As he pulled his Lightning into a climb to rejoin the rank of fighters and ground attack aircraft stacked to run the gauntlet, he could see out beyond the coast. There were distant islands, off on the hazy horizon. Idly he wondered what might lay out there. Had these ponies explored that way? Surely they had. It was not far, and they had those airships. As a pilot, Muran had to admit to some admiration at those craft, vast things that they were. The airships were elegantly designed and seemed ferociously effective against the ponies' normal enemies, from what he had been told. In combat against the forces of Chaos, it had to be said, they were surprisingly successful too, dealing heavy damage to both enemy infantry and aircraft during the battle of Griffonstone, and, he had been reliably informed, during the recapturing of Canterlot, the pony capital city, as well. All of this had been achieved with what the Imperium would regard as primitive technology. The principles, however, were just the same as any of the far more advanced aerostats which plied their varying trades on thousands of Imperial worlds. The islands to the south seemed to stretch away to infinity. There was a strange beauty to this world, he had to admit. It would make a fine addition to the Imperium, with its rolling plains perhaps used for farming, or the whole planet simply turned into some kind of resort for dignitaries and nobles from across the galaxy. That would surely be a waste; why not open it up to every man, woman and child who dwelled within the borders of the Imperium? Then again, Muran felt a strange sensation that it would be a shame to deprive the native inhabitants of this place. They lived here, and had done for a long time. Yes, they were Xenos, but there was something nagging at his mind that they deserved to be allowed to keep their planet. Keep their home. He tried not to think too much about that. After all, it wasn't even up to him. It was up to the Lord-Admiral. He was in command of the entire Crusade, and ultimately, unless he received orders from some higher authority, what he decided would be what happened. Muran knew from off-hours spent in the officers' mess on board ship that he was not alone in sharing such disquieting feelings. Everything he knew, everything he had been taught, would say that the ponies did not matter at all. They were aliens, just filthy Xenos despite their resemblance of a native Terran creature. But something, something would not go away. Something kept saying that things were not that simple at all. He did not know if the ponies were descended from Terran creatures, perhaps delivered here by some rogue trader in centuries past. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. But even if they were truly alien, something kept saying it, speaking to him, whenever he looked down upon this land from on high. The ponies should be spared. Had to be spared. He could not believe he felt that way about them, but there it was, laid out before him. When he first encountered these creatures, he would have said emphatically that they should be put out of their misery. But now? Now, things were different. He had seen them in action, he had spent time in their world. Now, he had a new opinion. Now, he thought, despite their nature, or perhaps because of it, that they should be allowed to live. He did not know why he thought that way, and he did not particularly like it. But it was a simple fact now, in his mind and in his soul. The ponies should be spared. The ponies should live.