//------------------------------// // Turning The Air Blue // Story: The Princess's Bit // by Mitch H //------------------------------// Lyra whooped like a wild buffalo bull as she clung to the leather straps straining across the grey and brown feathers of the royal beast, her ride rising and falling with each vast beat of the turul's vastly wider wings. The glittering illusion surrounding them both stuttered and flashed with each jolt, as Lyra's concentration broke and reformed, a cycle dampening as the mare gained control over her excitement and fear. They were gaining height, and the brown wattle and stone tiles of a tumble roofs of griffon and pony homes in their half-gridded labyrinthine tangle shrunk beneath Lady George's laboring wings. The mixed wattle and tile gave suddenly away to pony roofing tiles alone, and then sturdier timbered commercial expanses, and then, finally, the heavy stone battlements of the great fortress beside the harbor.  Lyra whooped again, and reached back to whap her fellow unicorn across the withers, reaching down where Minuette was cowering in her own saddle, grasping the straps tightly with both hooves. "Don't say this isn't fun, filly! Come on, look up, look down! We gotta be going seventy if we're doing five!" "If your roc-tamer doesn't want to be combing my puke out of her pet's tailfeathers, you'll leave me be until we're moving a bit slower and higher!" shrieked Lyra's old friend. Who, clearly, had a few qualms other than her previously shouted demurral, 'it's not my Celestia-damned regiment, understand, monkeygirl?' Well, who knew the blue unicorn was afraid of heights? "I'm sorry, Minnie, I didn't realize you'd be so skittish about this! You should have said you were afraid of flying!" "I did! Repeatedly, at great - urp - length! You just didn't want to hear!" "Well, hold it in until we're a bit higher, and George here can get some space, we can tip over and let you boot right into the harbor, starboard, sideways!" Lyra almost swore that the blue mare turned greener than Lyra herself at that suggestion. Waters rushed beneath them, and glittered through the distortion of Lyra's stabilizing illusion. The projection was supposed to be a great airship, a sort of approximation of a gondola extending far behind Lady George's long tail-feathers, and far beyond her long beak and laboring head. Above them, the dome of the illusion mimicked, as closely as Lyra could manage, the even larger envelope from which the illusour gondola apparently dangled, and the insubstantial sheets and supports joining the two together. At least in theory. In practice, Lyra's attempt to portray the still-awfully-named HRHS Daddy Longlegs was very much a work in progress, and if she was being honest, looked rather like a crystalline pony brain and spinal column, folded in on itself. She had no idea what the griffons looking on from far below thought of this demented aerial display, racing enormous and incogruous overhead - whether they were laughing their flanks off at them, or screaming in terrified horror. Lyra rather hoped it was the former. Better to be laughed at, than to terrorize. But she only had so many illusion-magics to work with, and it was easier to project her own mental state around the flying turul than to come up with something clever and showponylike. She tried her best to feel like an airship, but if there ever was a pony with a soul like a frigate, it wasn't Lyra. Let alone a light carrier, whatever the buck that was. Lyra had been given a glimpse of the new ship in the airdocks. If that was a light carrier, she shuddered to think how big and massive a heavy carrier might be. She briefly pictured the Canterhorn set loose from the jealousy of gravity's grip to float proudly beside the Daddy Longlegs, and laughed in joy at the improbable mental image. "I'm sorry that the lieutenant isn't enjoying herself," boomed Lady George, "But I'm glad you're having fun, Magus Heartstrings. Because here they come." The great and royal bird of prey twitched her enormous head in the direction of several nearby, low-hanging clouds. Both mares looked up at the cloud platforms, and then Lyra looked back at her fellow passenger. The distraction was getting Minuette's hooves back under her, looked like. "Better get those shield spells ready, Minnie. They're coming, not long now." Lyra looked away from her uniformed friend as Lieutenant Minuette started going through the exercises she used for her ballistic defensive arrays. The distant cloud was disgorging its complement of griffons and bat ponies, who were kicking off in arrowhead formations, swooping out and towards the three of them in converging courses.  Lyra tucked her head back against her shoulders and withers, and tried to think like a frigate. Float, float, zoom. Float, float, zoom. Float, float, zoom! Just as the nearest batpony lance was two hundred paces in front of them, lining up on Lyra's illusory airship 'envelope', Minuette finally manifested her anti-projectile shields, glittering like a blue soap-bubble in front of the turul's heavy head and, more importantly to Lyra herself, Lyra herself. Although honestly, if the javelins missed Lyra and Minuette, but still managed to wound the turul enough to spill her cargo, they were dying of the fall, anyways. The batponies and their sprays of blunted little javelins rocketed past, more than a dozen of the cloth-tipped training weapons tearing through the space that Lyra had been decorating with the phantasm of a glittery airship balloon. More importantly, none of the attacking guardbats intersected either the gondola, the stays supposedly holding the gondola under the envelope, or the envelope itself.  Lyra whooped in approval, waving at the departing unit's lance corporal. This made her miss the next lance in the stoop as another half-dozen projectiles shot overhead, and two loud 'plops!' as several off-target javelins embedded in Minuette's shields, which held them quivering in place like toothpicks in jelly.  Lyra looked up at the off-target shots, and laughed. "Not even close, you bunch! We can probably add them to the others, Minnie, they're spent. Oh, wait, no give it a second before you do that - here comes tailcheck Charlie!" The last lance in the attacking platoon screeched by, thrown a bit by the noise Lyra was making. Only three out of the dozen struck the balloon-shaped envelope target, and the last lance corporal screamed something annoyed at her that was lost in the wind and the closing velocities. Lyra managed to collect all the training javelins she'd been able to catch, which wasn't more than half of what had been flung their way. She wasn't really a powerhouse, and putting up this big a projection was taking most of her concentration. Lyra shoved the projectiles into the first of a series of empty bags strapped across Lady George's body, like panniers on a pony.  "OK, that group's done, Minnie, you can rest a bit. And you should get a breather, because we've got another platoon lining up on us in ten, nine, eight… Do you think I should start singing at them? The chatter seems to have thrown the last bunch a bit? Here they come!" And then the air over the outer harbor was full of blunted javelins and cursing griffons. After all of the aerial platoons had taken their passes against the 'envelope' of the racing target, they let the three of them return back down to their starting position, and the platoons to their own perches upon the high cloud-platforms. Time to reset! Sort of. The balloon of the illusion now partially masked the three members of the 'red team', and the rest of the illusion hung half out of sight below the turul's belly. Lady George flew the same course as before, and the aerial ponies and griffons made their passes against the 'deck' of the illusory gondola, which now was hanging below the great turul by dint of Lyra's limited and rather strained imagination. The troopers' javelins glided through the target spaces, and Lyra got to yell 'splat' at the several bat-ponies and many more griffons who 'impacted' the side of the great imaginary gondola instead of flying over or beneath it.  Mare, they didn't like being laughed at, but that's what they got for flying through the projection of Lyra's funny bone! Or spinal column, as it were. It didn't even tickle, which Lyra found a bit disappointing. In a gap between platoons, Lyra looked back at her sweaty friend. "Colt, howdy, this is a hoot and a half. You know, I hope to make the whole trip out and back like this. Never a dull moment on the… Jolly Rodgerer!"  Minuette spluttered. "The bucking what?" "Exactly! They're holding a contest, Twilight and her hen, to name the new ship. I'm trying out names. I figured they wouldn't go for the Flying Buggerer." "I would think not!" "Or the Cathouse. Despite all the griffons on board." "Are you looking to get gutted by angry griffons?" "I hear their mating rituals can be intense. How about the Merry Widow?" "That's one for the superstitious!" "Maybe say it was named after somegriff's mother, and call it the Gladys! Glad-Ass!" "Oh, look, they're ready to try and kill us again!" Minuette said spitefully, eager for any escape from Lyra's nonsense. Finally, the three of them turned a lazy spiral on a thermal as the trainees returned to their cloud base to rearm and regroup. Lady George spent some time grousing about how she wasn't a pony ship, fed by coal and magic, and was feeling peckish. "Oh, chin up, Lady George. We'll spot you a nice big tuna or harbor shark afterwards. Minnie will help! Right, Minnie?" "I don't know, Lyra…" "Aw, come on, Minnie! It'll be fun." "Maybe." "Also, you should totally come with us eastwards, out into the Turulország." "Lyra Heartstrings, I told you no, and I meant it!" "Aw, come on, mare, have some fun for once in your life!" "Damnit, Lyra, I have fun! I just like to have it back home, in Ponyville, at the local bar, or dodging the local wildlife, or the locals. I've had enough military life for a lifetime. I told Bell, and I'm telling you, this isn't a mare's life!" "Aw, come on, don't leave me alone on an airship with that stick with a pony stuck on it, and Trixie Lulamoon. We're still a lieutenant short, everypony says!" "Lyra, first of all, you're two lieutenants short, not one - Bell's doing double duty as a troop commander and executive officer, and second of all - leave Trixie alone! Don't you be bullying the poor filly! She's had a bad time of it, and I personally think she should be going home on a psychiatric discharge, not shipping out with you lunatics. Last time I saw her, she was three sheets to the wind and screaming at ponies in a grog shop in the harbor district." "Yeah, well, you know what they say about falling off an air carriage. You just have to get back on the pegasus. Speaking of which, here comes the chariots." "The what? Aaaie!" Minuette's shields barely got back up in time, before they were swarmed by batponies and griffons hauling little two-pony contraptions bearing flightless members of the Sixth Guards flinging balloons full of - that better be water and paint, Lyra thought. Whatever it was, it was yellow enough to be something else. And she had the distinct impression that the trainees were aiming at her and Minuette, instead of the envelope that was the official target. The upper airs turned blue with Minuette's shields and Lyra's curses. The illusion of the airship turned a bit stormy and lightning-lashed with Lyra's wrath. Shame Lyra wasn't powerful enough for the lightning to be anything other than the visualization of her ire. After a while, the only thing Minuette would say was, "I want to go home! Get me off this crazy bird!" After all was said and done, when they finally reached the still, solid soil of mother earth, Minuette still wasn't biting on the recruitment pitch. And insisted on shooting down all of Lyra's terrible, awful, salacious suggestions for ship names. Lyra was going to have to report mission failure to Gilda, but she'd said at the start that she was a magus, not a salespony.  Oh, well, worse ways to spend a sunny day in June. Lyra treated her friends to dinner as thanks for the good work. As Lady George tore into a harbor shark, and Lyra laid out the gourmet crab-meat salad and fixings, she found that for some reason Minuette wasn't all that hungry. Hay, more for Lyra. Gilda stared at the stone pot in front of the batpony colt.  "Couldn't you have found something less symbolic, corporal?" Gilda asked, irate. "It wasn't my choice, master sergeant," Ping replied, looking down at the pot and the desk underneath it.  They both sat down, and Ping took the slit tin cover off of the pot, tipping it over.  A cascade of folded pieces of paper slid across the surface of the desk. "The major found it in one of the guest suites," Ping noted coolly. "Speaking of which, have you looked at the new lieutenant and ensign jackets sent over by personnel?" "That's a left turn. I've had nothing better to do than approve Purse Strings' endless requisition forms, and eyeball your new officers' files. Do you know why they suddenly decided to open the taps?" Gilda put one of her talons into the pile of folded papers and stirred them like a sloppy pile of playing cards. "I think they figured out that we're getting ready to move out, and thought they could dump their worst head cases and no-hopers on us." "Joke's on them, we only need a lieutenant." "We should have two more lieutenants." Ping picked out a paper, and opened it up. "New Hope." "Start a pile for 'dull but unobjectionable'. We can get away with the captain skippering one of the troops, for the time being. We only need one." Gilda opened one of her own. "'The Brass Whore'. OK, that's a good starter for 'no way in hell, burn before reading.'"  Gilda kicked a wire trash basket out from under the desk and deposited the offending note. She left the trash can where they both could drop suggestions as they worked. "You're not going to make friends with the officers if you insist on overworking them. 'Sweet Winds'," He put the suggestion on top of his first one. "'Albatross'. Is that a bad idea pile, or another roundfiler?" "Roundfiler. Nopony wants a curse for a ship name. Oh, hey, this one's interesting, 'Amphibious'." "Let's see? Hm. I think I recognize that talonwriting. Hawk Eye. It feels kind of - why is it making my feathers stick up?" "No, I think you're right, sergeant. It's a backhoofed reference to Amphitrite. Best be safe. Sorry, Captain Eye." Into the round file it went. “‘Orion’s Shoulder’.” "Well, I've certainly pissed off enough of the officers, sometimes I feel like I might as well make the full set." Gilda flicked through a half-dozen boring Crystal thises, Heart thats. All onto Ping's 'boring' pile. “‘Twilit Gemini’. Pretty, but the major will get even more shirty. Sorry, my poetic friend.” "The major will forgive us eventually for our little mis-step. 'Brass Monkey'."  "What the hey is that? Put it in the 'no idea' pile. You don't know the major, she's going to be mad for at least a month. 'Constant Gardener'." They looked at each other, and shrugged in bafflement. Into the 'no idea' pile it went.  "Are any of the jackets at least palatable? 'Golden Dawn'." "One or two, I'll show you when we're done here. They're all ensigns, though. And something about that one makes my religion sense tingle. Roundfile it on general principles. 'Derecho'." "You have a religious tingle? I thought griffons didn't have religion. And speaking of religion, oh my pristine darkness, no on 'Derecho'." "Every tribe has some sort of religious tradition. Ours are mostly wind-related. What the buck is 'Derecho'?" "Old pegasus cult center. God of war business. Seat of some sort of goddess of victory." "Just the seat, not the goddess itself? Keep it." "Meeeh. If you say so. 'Fiddler's Green'. That's pretty, let's keep that one." "If you say so, it makes my beak itch." "Pfft. We don't need you to play chaplain. Which is another officer we should have on hoof. We had one in the 93/1st. 'Heart of Iron'." "I hate it, but it passes the smell test. And the 93/1st was a medical hospital. You needed chaplains for dying griffons and ponies. 'Elysium'. Too gloomy. Roundfile?" "Almost as bad as 'Tartarus', yeah, roundfile." Ping flicked his own hoof-full of suggestions into the roundfile. "You didn't want to hear any of that. Some of the bat ponies can get a bit edgy and dark." "You don't say," smirked Gilda. "'Blood Raven', 'Darkness's Kiss', 'Black Garrotte', that sort of thing?" Gilda tossed her talons-worth of slips into the trash. "As opposed to obscenities about pony and griffon rulers, I suppose? 'Gharne's Cunt', 'The Knot Of Guto', 'Drowned Grosvenor'." All into the trash it went. "Say what you will about griffons, they have a healthy disregard for the nobility and the royalty. We’ve yet to have any of our griffish recruits attack anygriff or pony over all the reasons for toms and hens have to get punchy. Unlike your blessed bats. Speaking of which, here are four more variants on 'Queen of the Night', a 'Mother of Dreams', and two of 'Nightmare's Moon', one so badly written it might as well be 'Niggit Mun'." All tossed. "Don't they know that we're going to have to sail this benighted ship before all of Equestria and ponykind? ‘The Sunny Booty’.” Ping rolled his eyes.  “Do they have Bob safely under lock and key downstairs? Also, 'The Crystal Heart'." "'I'm Not Overcompensating, You're Overcompensating', 'She's One Of Ours, Ma'am!'. Anonymity breeds mischief among the ranks. 'Billy-Bob Was Here'. And some can't even come up with a decent joke. You’re working hard to justify my decision to have you play jailor for your namesake, Billy-Bob." Gilda tossed the goat's autobiographical suggestion and the rest of the jokes into the trash. "'The Glass Hammer'. Well, that's certainly weird." "Hades, no. It's a bad omen. 'Heart of Diamonds'. Hey, I like this one." "Put it in the 'good' pile, then. 'Queen of Hearts'." "You spotting a trend? 'Heart of Stone'." "Ooh, edgy. I like it. And if our designer is going to put a heart design on our unit flash, you have to expect the troops will run with it. 'Trumped Heart'." Ping grimaced. "Yeah, you're right, too much of the card game. Toss it." "'Twilight's Sparkle'," Ping said, looking uncertain.  "I think we can assume that was Magus Heartstring's contribution. Don't just throw that away, put it in a 'burn before the major reads it' pile." Gilda looked over at the batpony colt. "What was your submission, if I can ask? And 'West Wind'." "I thought you said griffon theology was winds-centric? And only if you tell me yours. 'Golden Kite'. This suggestion, not my own." "Obviously, you aren't the golden anything type. And it doesn't get theological until you start naming them, or cite the four winds. And yeah, no 'Fourth Winds'. Although… I did suggest 'Second Wind'." "Ha! You hypocrite. If I find it, it's going into the trash. 'Wild Stallion'. What the buck?" "That's what the 'what the buck' pile is for. And I told you mine. What's yours? 'The Hierophant'." "Pfft, I think we know Fruits Basket's, that sounds exactly like her. That goes into the what the buck pile. And…" "Come on, spill, Ping." Ping looked up at Gilda over the mostly-cleared desktop. Then he looked down and whispered something. "What was that? I couldn't hear you. Speak up, colt!" "Daydream." Gilda laughed her tailfeathers off as the soppy little colt made watery eyes at her.  "Aw, come on, you can't say that ain't funny! You bats and your edgy nonsense…" "Damnit, Gilda!"