Captain Eliss Muran pushed the nose of his Lightning down just a touch, correcting the trajectory. The atmospheric interface burn had gone perfectly, and the city perched on the mountainside was looming in his heads-up display. Canterlot, they called it, the capital city of the pony empire...kingdom? Principality, he supposed, given that Princess Celestia was its ruler. Whatever they referred to their nation as, Muran had to admit, they had a beautiful capital. Tall spires, elegant marble and gold and silver, royal purple and burnished bronze, glass and ivory glistening in the bright sunlight.
It would be a peaceful view, if not for the detritus of war. There were ugly plumes and clouds of smoke, fires burning in a dozen places. The damage to the city was visible even from fifteen thousand feet, as he and his squadron plunged toward it. It was an undeniable shame to see such destruction wrought to such a beautiful place, but then that was the nature of Chaos. Even the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra had been sundered and scarred by the filth that followed that darkest doctrine.
Muran was glad to be back at the controls of his jet, and glad also to be back in atmosphere. That was where he belonged, and where he excelled as a pilot. In space, his Lightning was slow, sluggish, almost antiquated compared to the true void interceptors that were designed especially for combat in a vacuum. Fighting in an effort to defend the fleet had been more terrifying than anything. In atmosphere, you could eject, and grav-chute down to safety. In space, you could eject just the same, for certain; the rocket motors of the ejection seat would function perfectly. But then what? You would be left floating, kept alive by your environment suit, assuming you had actually been issued with one for your sortie. If enough aircraft and voidcraft were operating at once, there might not be enough suits to go around. If you were lucky enough to survive in your suit, then you could live for a few hours at most before the air ran out. If you hadn't been recovered by then, you would die a horrific death, fighting for every last breath as carbon dioxide filled your bloodstream and fogged your brain. It might not be painful, necessarily- a brain deprived of enough oxygen might not truly feel anything at all- but it would not be pretty or peaceful.
Muran had not known exactly what he was looking at when the Chaos fleet had been destroyed before his very eyes. It was confusion writ large; the sun apparently decided of its own volition to destroy the ships that dared to enter its system, but only those of the Archenemy. The beams of light meticulously avoided Imperial ships. The rumours had begun to fly immediately; the Emperor himself had reached out to aid them in their plight. No, perhaps it was one of the Necron star gods? Eldar trickery, some vastly advanced science or warp-assisted energy.
But the most believable suggestion, oddly, was the one that, until weeks or months ago, would have seen you laughed out of even the seediest Hydraphur dive bar. An extremely intelligent and powerful horse-alien psyker with apparent total control over the star that breathed life onto her planet had harnessed her abilities to direct pure stellar matter and energy as a weapon to strike Chaos vessels in order to save the ships and crews of the Crusade fleet, whom she and her nation of intelligent, Low Gothic-speaking ponies were in a mutually beneficial alliance with.
Even now, just thinking about it sounded profoundly absurd, and yet it was reality. That was exactly what had happened, according to everything Muran had been told. That was the official line from fleet command as to the source of the attack which had annihilated the enemy vessels, and apparently they had scientific proof of the fact, thanks to Auspex readings and the Mechanicus investigators aboard the Ferrus Terra. As ridiculous as it would sound to anyone back at Segmentum Command on Hydraphur, or anywhere else in the Imperium, they had been saved by a Xenos horse Princess turning a star into the universe's most powerful lance battery.
After the fighting was over, and the Emperor's Judgement deemed to be a threat to the fleet, Muran and his surviving squadronmates had no home to return to. Instead, they were recovered aboard the Indefatigable, into a spare hangar bay. That was where they had launched from to engage in this operation. The alert had been sounded; any available aircraft were to deploy to the planet's surface to assist in the defence of Canterlot. Friendly units were on site, both Imperial and pony, and they were under heavy attack from Chaos ground and air forces. What was more, the Daemon, that foul creature which had faced down his squadron and several others in Fillydelphia without so much as blinking, or indeed receiving a scratch, was there. He could see it even from a distance, floating above the city. He hated the sight of it, and he was sure the rest of the Imperial force did also.
The Daemon was not the only thing above the city. There were also three pony airships. Two of them were the same kind of size and length as the one that Muran and Rall had struck down when they first made planetfall. That seems like a lifetime ago, the captain mused. Things had changed a great deal since then. No longer were the airships considered hostile, no longer would they open fire upon his craft as he drew near. Now they were allies, and the airships were not targets, but assets to be protected and fought alongside. The third airship was considerably larger than the other two, a great skyscraper in the sky, suspended by a thousand-foot gasbag and blazing fire from several dozen guns down onto the enemy in the city below as it tried to repel the invaders.
One of the smaller airships had lost its defensive shield, the bubble of energy that protected it from most incoming fire and which had proven troublesome to Muran and Rall when they were trying to bring down their first target. Only their lascannons had punched through, information which was quickly disseminated to the rest of the fleet and the ground forces, should it prove useful. As it turned out, there had been scarcely any combat between Imperial and pony forces, thanks to the arrival of the Archenemy. Something had clearly brought down this airship's shield, however, which rendered it vulnerable to the numerous Chaos aircraft that Muran could see, both with his eyes and illuminated on his Auspex screen. There were plenty of targets, that was for sure. His squadron would not go home empty handed with nothing to show for it. There would be more kill markings to chalk onto the outside of the cockpit if they survived to return to the Indefatigable.
Master arm on. Targeting cogitator, on. Weapons free. Missile lock. Fire one, fire two.
Missiles leaped free of their rails, their targets burned into their mechanical brains, tracking with the aid of the Lightning's Auspex array. More missiles raced away from the jets of the rest of the squadron, though they were still miles from the city and high above it. They were well within firing range, and the positive IDs on the enemy fighters meant there was no danger of collateral damage. They would not hit the airship by accident, but rather, hopefully, they would save it.
The missiles streaked in. Alerted by their threat warning receivers, the Chaos fighters tried to evade, but the city and mountainscape made it tricky. Maneouvering too hard would bring one face to face with a wall of either snow and stone, or concrete and glass, as one fighter found to its cost, slamming bodily into a cliff and exploding in a fireball. Others popped flares and chaff to distract the incoming missiles, but though some were deceived, most ploughed on regardless. Jets scattered, caught by surprise by the sudden attack from above. They had been too focused on the threats from the ground and the airships to stick with the cardinal rule of air combat; altitude means life, and height gives you the advantage, and nothing gave you more altitude than coming in from orbit.
Half a dozen Chaos jets went down in the first volley, spiraling away into the valley or slamming into the city below with mushrooming flames and cartwheeling debris. Hammer Squadron unleashed a second spray of missiles, and the Chaos aircraft began to break, not just the fighters but also the bombers and dropships. The Lightnings had a clear attack profile, and they were not alone. Three other squadrons of interceptors were screaming down from the Indefatigable, and with the loss of their flagship, they had vengeance on their minds. If they couldn't fight the Changelings, then the Chaos forces would do just fine as a target for their rage and hatred.
Enemy aircraft dove for cover in the valley below; others tried strings of twists and turns to outmaneuver the incoming projectiles. Some succeeded, others did not, but the thrust of the Chaos air assault was broken. It was no longer a coordinated effort, but rather a piecemeal attempt to survive against the sudden new threat. Vox messages to the city command ensured that ground-based air-defence units knew that the new arrivals were friendly, and Imperial helmets were raised with a cheer as the Lightnings roared overhead, a cacophonous display of air power to send a thrill through the heart of every Guardsman. Messages were flashed from the palace to the airships via signal lamp to ensure they knew the jets were friendly.
Chaos dropships tried to complete their landing runs before they drew the attention of the Imperial craft, for such lumbering vessels were defenceless against a fast interceptor. If they went down, their passengers would go down with them and contribute nothing to the attack on the city. Some enterprising or daring pilots settled their craft down in areas that were too small to land, instead positioning them so that the rear ramp descended upon some rooftop or large balcony of a building, while the maneouvering jets screamed to keep the ship hovering in position. Men thundered down the ramp, ready to fight. Others made daring runs for open areas that they could actually land in, swinging their dropships around at the last minute, taking fences and small trees with them in the jet wash as their landing legs made contact with the ground and the ramp dropped. Being on the ground for too long was to invite an attack. Other pilots, however, held the view that with Imperial air assets on station, getting out of the city and back to Fillydelphia was a likely impossibility. As a result, some crews shut down their engines, grabbed their personal weapons, and disembarked their dropships to join with the ground assault, rather than risk running the gauntlet.
Captain Muran watched the enemy aircraft scatter with some satisfaction. They had surprised them, that was for sure, and now it was a fight, not an ambush. Chaos fighters were turning to engage the threat, and he sighted in on one of them. The damaged pony airship was safe enough from air attack for now, giving them time to disengage or to get their shield back up. The enemy fighter was making a tight turn around below the city, sticking close to the valley side, and Muran picked him up, banking around to come in low and get behind him. The enemy pilot clearly had better situational awareness than the majority of Chaos aircrew had shown by not watching the skies and allowing the Lightnings to get the drop on them, for he quickly switched direction into a starboard roll away from the city and applied power, pulling up into a steep climb. Altitude is life.
Muran matched him, pulling hard back on the stick to try and line up the Auspex sensors to acquire a missile lock. He still had four of them left, plus his lascannons and autocannon, if he needed them. Other aircraft whizzed by on both sides, friend and foe alike. Battle was joined, and like all air combat engagements, it was destined to descend into a confusing, muddled mess that would be almost impossible to properly coordinate. Each pilot would have to rely on his or her own reflexes and skills to get the job done and come out of the other side alive and in one piece.
The enemy fighter twisted around, corkscrewing down into the valley to try and escape. The pilot's head was evidently on a swivel, as any good pilot's head should be, because he was able to counter Muran's efforts to get into a firing position. Muran, in turn, kept a wary eye all around him, turning to glance over each shoulder every few seconds, looking up through the roof of the canopy, looking down at his Auspex display, checking the threat warning receiver light and listening for the tone it would give off if he was to find himself being painted by an enemy. For now, down in the valley, he was alright, but if he climbed back higher then enemy fighters may well spot him and attempt to pursue. All he could do was focus on his target, but maintain situational awareness, and not be caught napping like the Chaos fighters had been.
His foe continued to elude his efforts, staying awkwardly just ahead of the lock, and just ahead of his gunsight's reticle. The pilot was good, but so was Muran. The enemy fighter pulled up, back toward the city, its jets belching flame as the afterburners kicked in to power it faster and faster, even though it was climbing. Muran followed, sticking with the enemy jet. Now they were level with the city again, and its spires whipped by. The Chaos fighter flipped up onto its wingtip to cut through the gap between two towers. Muran performed the same move, and kept on the enemy's tail, much to the Chaos pilot's disgust, no doubt. Maneuvers like that were sometimes the only way to shake a pursuer, and sometimes they were the last desperate effort to avoid being shot down, especially by a novice pilot who could see no other options. This pilot, however, was clearly not a novice.
That was demonstrated a moment later just before Muran could get a missile lock, when the fighter's airbrakes popped out and its nose went up. Its speed bled off rapidly, and Muran watched through the top of his canopy as it flashed by overhead. It was a spirited attempt to turn the tables on its pursuer, catch him by surprise and get behind him and into a position to open fire. Muran reacted immediately, pulling his Lightning into a tight turn to port. The rooftops of Canterlot passed beneath him, and he could see combat below- men and ponies were running through the streets, gunfire flashing across the courtyards and plazas of the city.
Up ahead was the palace shield, a glimmering dome protecting the city headquarters and the seat of Equestrian power and government. It was just another obstacle to be avoided, and Muran pulled up and over it, checking over his shoulder. The enemy fighter was still there, but his rapid turn had left it lagging behind him. It was trying its best to catch up, but Muran had a few tricks of his own left to pull. Down into the valley he went once more, leading the chase this time, before jinking around a large rocky outcrop in his path. The Chaos jet was still following, and so Muran pulled back hard on the stick. The Lightning's nose climbed as he soared upward. Hanging in the air for too long would let the enemy pilot get a missile lock on him, but Muran did not intend to waste time. The Lightning, as well as being as fast as its name implied, was also maneuverable, and as the vertical speed began to bleed away, Muran deployed the slats and engaged the thrust vectoring of the jet's engines. The exhaust nozzles swiveled to direct the blast of hot gases away from the vertical, instead adding speed to the aircraft's rotation. It flipped in a surprisingly short distance, bringing its nose around to face toward the enemy. The Chaos fighter was still climbing, and Muran could hear the increasingly insistent beeping of the threat warning receiver that told him the enemy pilot was close to achieving a missile lock.
Muran was not waiting for his missiles to lock on anymore, however. As the nose of his fighter dropped, he squeezed the trigger and unleashed a storm of fire from the Lightning's guns, two lascannons and a ventral autocannon. The Chaos pilot had no time to maneuver, and his missiles did not have time to lock on before Muran's shots, sweeping through a vertical arc as the Lightning continued to flip, struck the enemy aircraft. Something was hit; an engine, a missile, the lascannon power pack, and the Chaos craft exploded, fragments of debris spraying out across the sky. The burning wreck tumbled away to port as Muran cut the thrust vectoring and opened the throttles, retracting the slats and regaining full control of his aircraft.
He regained some speed before pulling up and returning to Canterlot, where the battle was still raging. While he had won his own personal fight, there were still many more Chaos aircraft to be dealt with, and a city to protect. His afterburners glowed as they carried the Lightning back into the sky, and back into the maelstrom.
Captain Ironside watched with some not-inconsiderable surprise as the newly arrived aircraft opened fire upon the enemy, rather than upon his airship. He had to admit to himself that he had never been so pleased to see a human- a friendly human, rather than the hated enemy that were all around them. Fortunately, the massed ranks of Imperial fighters managed to force away the Chaos aircraft, saving the Fillydelphia from almost assured destruction. The lull had given the crew time to get the shield back up and functioning, by pulling two unicorns away from the damage control teams, where they had been hard at work along with the rest of the lower deck crewponies to try and extinguish the flames that were burning on the gun deck. Thanks to their heroics, the fire was under control, though not yet extinguished fully, and it had been kept away from the main magazine. The wounded were being treated in the sick bay as best as could be achieved, and the remaining guns were manned and ready once more. The airship was saved, but it was not yet safe. There were still enemy aircraft around, albeit with most of them having at least one Imperial pursuer. Ironside had watched some dozen enemy aircraft of all shapes and sizes going down after suffering missile strikes or being struck by gunfire from the Imperial craft. Each one that exploded or slammed into the mountainside gave him a grim sense of satisfaction. Inflicted by the Imperials it may be, but such a punishment was the only reward fitting for those who would dare step on Canterlot's sacred streets in anger.
He was reminded of why it was so sacred. All he had to do was look up to see Princess Celestia and her sister fighting against the Daemon. Again he found that he could not look at it for more than a few seconds without feeling nauseous. He wondered how the Princesses could bear to stand against it, but they were made of sterner stuff even than he, a decorated, grizzled veteran of the Air Corps. His province was in fighting rebels, pirates, Griffons and Zebras, with the odd dragon thrown in. He had not been called in anger to fight against any of the more truly bizarre aberrations that terrorised Equestria on occasion, such as Ursa Majors, Bugbears or indeed Discord. Those kinds of creatures were best left to specialised units of the government's monster hunting programme, or in extreme cases, to the Elements of Harmony or the Princesses themselves. The airships were blunt tools, to be wielded against armies or in peacekeeping operations. They were not designed to combat magical creatures in quite the same way.
New orders had been flashed to the airships from the palace by signal lamp. The Fillydelphia was to move to the hospital, to reinforce friendly positions there. The enemy ground troops were making significant advances at several points across the city. Ironside could see that from high above. Some Chaos units had the helpful trait of carrying banners and flags, daubed with obscene symbols and messages, which allowed for easy identification, especially from the air, while others could be identified merely because their uniforms were not those of the Imperial units that were assigned to the city. Even that, however, could not always be relied upon, for Ironside had found that, far from the singular appearance of the Equestrian military, where every company, ship or squadron had the same uniform as the others, human units differed greatly in the colour, style and pattern of theirs. It was quite puzzling to him; surely such an apparently monolithic entity as the Imperium would have thought to unify its clothing and standardise its equipment for its military forces, for logistical purposes if nothing else?
It just went to show another difference between the humans and the ponies, yet there were many similarities, some of which were quite freakish. Their language, for example, the most obvious one, and while their uniforms may have been different, their rank structure was remarkably similar. The major difference that Ironside had learned was that the human aircraft were operated by their Navy, whereas pony airships were the preserve of the Air Corps. That made more sense, surely? Their starships were apparently controlled by the Navy, too, which puzzled Ironside still further. Perhaps they had just been the ones to launch the first vessel into orbit by some happenstance, and the name had simply stuck?
Ironside ordered his airship to swing out of line with the others and make the move over to the hospital complex. Friendly forces needed assistance, and the Fillydelphia would provide, even in its damaged state. Ironside had informed the palace using the signal lamp that they were still available for tasking and able to fight. He wasn't going to leave the battle when the fate of the city was at stake.
The hospital was across the other side of the city, a minute or so in flying time from their present location. Ironside looked ahead through his telescope. There was gunfire down there, flashes of bullets and plenty of the human red beams. He could see men in the street, and fire coming from multiple buildings that formed part of the hospital complex. Beyond that he could see more Chaos troops coming in from the park, spread out across the district. There were plenty of them, perhaps a thousand in total. If they all reached the defensive line, then the ring of steel around the palace might be broken.
Ironside ordered the starboard side of the Fillydelphia to be brought to bear on the enemy, as it had suffered no damage and all of its guns were in working order. Targets were selected and firing arcs calculated. High explosive rounds were loaded into each gun in preparation, and Ironside eyed the advancing enemy through his telescope. As he had noticed earlier, there was no uniformity among their ranks. There were as many different colours of clothing as there were colours of a pony's coat. There were different helmets, different masks, different weapons. Everything was different, and scanning across the massed infantry was like looking through a kaleidoscope. Perhaps that's why they are known as Chaos, Ironside mused, before putting his telescope aside and issuing a simple command.
'Starboard battery, fire!'