“Sergeant Lockstock, reporting for duty, sah!” The burly pony in an impossibly-crisp green uniform saluted me so hard that it made his shako, well, shake. The equally imposing, equally dress-uniformed guardsponies behind him mirrored the salute as if they were all connected by strings. It was, in short, a perfect display of parade ground soldiery.
It made me queasy.
Still, standing there on the boarding plank of the C.M.S. Commander Hurricane, there was nothing for me to do but return Sergeant Lockstock’s salute (albeit mine had a lot less starch in it) and look like I knew what I was doing. This, I’ve been told, is called ‘leadership.’
“At ease, Sergeant.” I said, and Lockstock and his squad snapped their hooves downward.
“Permission to speak freely, sah?”
“Er, granted?” I said.
“Just wanted to say, sah, on behalf of the lads-- this is a plum honor of an assignment, it is. We all volunteered as soon as we heard the wot-wot’s.” Sergeant Lockstock had a strange, garbled sort of earth pony accent that I’d never heard before. Either he’d been born in some out of the way corner of Equestria, or had sustained multiple head injuries over the course of his military career. Possibly both. “Ain’t every day one gets to serve with the Major Sentry. I musta read that poem* ‘bout you and the Wonderbolts givin’ the Changelings what-for a hundred times by now.”
*Sgt. Lockstock is most likely referring to Tenneighson’s “Charge of the Flight Brigade,” which is based (quite loosely) on Sentry’s exploits detailed in Sentry at the Charge.
“Ah.” I faked a smile. “That. Let’s just hope this mission’s quiet enough that nobody’ll want to write a poem about it.”
“Right-oh, sah! Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s the way to do it!” Sergeant Lockstock nodded, then leaned in, conspirator-close, lowering his volume to a barely-audible murmur, easily lost amidst the bustle of Canterlot’s skyship docks. “Which is why me n’ the lads packed a few surprises in our luggage, in case things go south, ay?”
“Surprises?” I at least knew better than to ask about what kind of surprises. “That won’t be necessary--”
“’course it won’t, sah.” The words would have been a lot more encouraging if he hadn’t winked at me. Before I could object any further, he stepped back with a sharp rapping of all four hooves. “Now then, Major-- orders?” Behind the sergeant, the rest of his-- my –squad looked on expectantly.
“Er, right. Just, ah-- stow your gear, and stay out of the way of the, er, dignitaries.” I tried not to think about what implements of mayhem Lockstock and his lads brought with them. Then again, I supposed it likely wasn’t anything worse than what Special Agent Golden Harvest liked to stow in her luggage.
“Right-oh, sah!” Sergeant Lockstock snapped off another salute, and set to bellowing at the other guardsponies. “You heard the Major! No lollygaggin’ ‘round now!” And with that, the stalwart brutes shouldered their conspiciously-clanking duffel bags and tromped up the boarding ramp.
I took to the air to keep myself from getting enthusiastically trampled, and settled down on one of the Commander Hurricane’s higher decks. As Lockstock and his volunteers boarded the airship, I tried to make sense of it all. Over the years, I’d gotten used to the Equestrian Intelligence Office sending me off on terrifyingly dangerous missions alone, or with Special Agent Golden Harvest if I were lucky.
The presence of a whole squad of guardsponies complicated things. It was just an honor guard, sure, not nearly enough hooves on the ground to do much of anything but stand around and look impressive. But there were still enough of them to get into trouble, especially given the Sergeant’s … enthusiasm. Ostensibly, the E.I.O. wouldn’t have put anyone too unhinged on a delicate diplomatic mission. On the other hoof, the agency thought that Yours Truly was a model operative, which should tell you all you need to know about their judgment.
I tried to stay optimistic, without much success. I’d at least have a half dozen burly ponies to hide behind if (or, more honestly, when) things turned sour. In theory. Perhaps to prove the inadequacy of my erstwhile bodyguards, nopony even gave so much as a “look out, sir!” before an earth pony moving at nigh-hypersonic speed blindsided me and pinned me to the deck.
Being as dashingly handsome as I was (and still am, all these years later, albeit with a bit more silver in my mane), I was no stranger to ladies throwing themselves at me with wanton abandon. But there wasn’t a hint of salaciousness in Pinkie Pie’s expression. As I’d learn later, such Golden Harvest-worthy takedowns were Pinkie Pie’s equivalent to a hoofshake. I was just lucky she didn’t decide to mark the occasion by setting off fireworks.
“Hi there, Mister Major Sentry! It’s me, Pinkie Pie! We’re gonna have so much fun on this trip! Have you ever been to Yakyakistan before? Oh wait! That’s silly of me to ask, ‘cause Twilight told me you’d never been to Yakyakistan before, and she’s the smartest pony I know! But there’s stuff that even she doesn’t know! So maybe you actually did go to Yakyakistan once as a little colt, and never told anyone! I don’t know why you’d keep that sort of thing secret but maybe it wasn’t a good vacation and gave you some kind of weird trauma but you’re putting on a brave face and going anyway! Which is really admirable but you shouldn’t keep your feelings all bottled up like that so if you have anything to get off your chest just let me know!”
“The only thing I’d like to get off my chest is you.” I wheezed.
“Oh! Right! You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie hopped off of me, and I pulled myself up to my hooves.
“So I guess you really haven’t been to Yakyakistan before!” Pinkie Pie went on, as if she hadn’t nearly staved in my ribcage mere moments before. “But that’s okay! I know Yakyakistan looks cold and bleak and desolate, but that’s only because it is cold and bleak and desolate! Which means that Yaks have to be extra friendly to make up for it!”
“Extra friendly?” I used my wings to smooth out the wrinkles in my uniform.
“Oh sure! Except ‘friendliness’ to a Yak looks a little different, that’s all. Lots of shouting and headbutts.”
“How quaint,” I said. Suffice it to say, the pink pony did not pick up on my sarcasm.
“You’re so funny, Mister Major Sentry!” Pinkie Pie giggled. “We’re gonna have such a good time, you’re going to wish you brought a helmet! I can’t wait ‘til we get there and then the real party gets started, woo! But first I gotta make sure I packed all my presents and party favors and all the other goodies I packed for all my Yak friends!” As abruptly as she’d hit me, Pinkie Pie bounced off as if she had springs in her hooves.
I watched her caper across the deck, and rubbed at my face with a hoof. “And here I thought this was going to be easy.” I grumbled to myself.
“Stop complaining, Sentry.” Carrot Top said as she stepped up beside me at the airship’s outer railing. Per usual, she’d been lurking innocuously in the background without anypony (myself included) noticing; she was always the sort of pony you’d only notice when she wanted to be seen. It was a lucky thing for me that she did opt to reveal herself, as she made for quite a lovely sight with her frizzed hair wafting in the skydocks’ breeze, and her eyes a-gleam with playful humor. “You’ll get used to Pinkie Pie. Eventually.”
“Damnation, I hope I don’t.” I stretched out a wing and Carrot Top neatly nestled in against my side. “You may be used to that kind of Ponyville madness, but I’m certainly not.”
“True. You’re more used to Perchertanian madness. Or Kowloon madness. Or Appeloosa madness, or--”
“That’s different.” It was a good thing I didn’t let Carrot Top finish, as if I’d let her list all the places we’d been sent, it would have kept us occupied all the way to Yakyakistan.
“How?” Carrot Top, of course, knew to ask the hard questions.
“You and I, we’ve made careers out of chasing-- or being chased by-- trouble. Which is why we keep on getting sent to the arse-end of the map every couple of months. But in Ponyville, it’s more … localized. I swear, from what you’ve told me, something bizarre happens in that little town every damned week, and most of the time it’s the pink one’s fault.”
“It’s not always Pinkie Pie’s fault. In fact, I’d say she’s responsible for shenanigans only about--” Carrot Top furrowed her brow in thought. “Sixteen point seven percent of the time. Roughly.”
“That is an alarmingly precise number.”
“I’ve been hanging out with Princess Twilight.”
“And that is an alarming piece of news.” The thought of two lovely ladies with nothing to do but gossip over Yours Truly was made a little less enticing by the thought of how dangerous each of them was-- albeit each in her own particular way. Though, of course, Carrot Top was the more intentionally dangerous of the two, which just made the purple princess all the more terrifying.*
*As a student of history (not to mention one who has had the pleasure and honor of collaborating with Princess Twilight Sparkle in the past, I must note that Sentry’s account of the Princess, much like many other parts of his memoir, should be taken with a grain of salt. While it is true that Princess Twilight possessed a particular talent for friendship (and therefore magic), rumors of Princess Twilight’s purported recklessness in her use of magic originated nearly universally in scandal-hungry newspapers eager to make more sales.* Similar rumor mongering has befallen every other Princess over the centuries, resulting in unfounded fabrications such as Princess Celestia’s gluttonous love of cake, Princess Flurry Heart’s wild teenage years, or the strangely enduring legend that Princess Luna once fronted a heavy metal band. In all likelihood, Sentry may have picked up some of these rumors via general osmosis, and unconsciously wrote this unfounded bias into his memoir. While some might say that such bias makes the Flash Sentry Papers an unreliable source of information, I choose to view instances such as this one as a learning opportunity, where one can compare Sentry’s account with the widely acknowledged historical record.
Carrot Top rolled her eyes. “Would it help if I told you Princess Twilight was hanging out with Carrot Top, and not Golden Harvest? Ever since she got her wings, she’s made it a point to socialize with everyone in Ponyville-- something about staying grounded, and how we shouldn’t think she’s any different even though she’s … ascended.”
“You’re still calling her Princess Twilight, though. With a capital P.”
Carrot Top winced. “… not to her face, at least?”
“Oh-ho? That’s a brave admission to make,” said I. “Why, a pony could almost use it for blackmail-- just think, what would Princess Twilight say if she knew you were going behind her back saying nice things about her and using her proper title?”
“You wouldn’t.” Carrot Top tried to glare at me, but her amused smirk betrayed her. “If the Princess found out, she’d only want to spend more time with me. Which would be hell on my schedule, you know.”
“Mmm, yes. I can see how having a Princess around would make it rather hard to do your job.”
“It’s not my job I’m worried about-- it’s my personal time.” She even winked at me, the saucy thing.
“Oh.” I used one of my wings Carrot Top’s sturdy-yet-shapely form closer to mine. “Suppose we can’t have any of that. So your secret’s safe with me, darling.”
“It better be.” Carrot Top kissed me on the cheek, and nestled in beneath my wing.
*That many of these scandal-hungry newspapers were owned by the same individual, one Wilhelm Randolph Horst, is no coincidence. Much has been written (and even filmed) about Horst’s unfounded enmity towards Princess Twilight Sparkle, so I will not bore the reader with further digression.*
We could have stayed there on the upper deck for the whole trip, cuddled up together to ward off chill winds and unpleasant company, but before we could even get underway, someone had to ruin the moment by shouting. Loudly.
“YONA LATE! YONA SORRY! PLEASE NO LEAVE YONA BEHIND!”
The verb ‘stampede’ typically has a plural subject, but that day it was a single creature thundering through the airship docks, barreling towards the Commander Hurricane. She (you could tell from the pink bows and braids) was a hulking brute, easily the size of Sergeant Lockstock, and three times as hairy. Speaking of the good sergeant, he and his squad once again proved themselves useless as they didn’t even so much as form up a skirmish line in the face of such obvious calamity. Whereas I, pony of action I was, had already taken to the air, hovering just behind Carrot Top just in case Yona wanted to start dispensing traditional Yakyakistan headbutts in greeting.
*That Princess Twilight Sparkle is responsible for several notable academic grant programs has nothing to do with this notation.
“Relax, Sentry.” Carrot Top reached up with both front hooves and pulled me back down onto the deck. “Yona’s harmless.”
At that, Yona bounded onto the Commander Hurricane’s deck and landed hard enough to rock the airship on its moorings. The airship’s crew immediately started shouting jargon-filled commands at each other, and hauled on whatever ropes they needed to in order to keep the ship aloft-- and even then it was a close thing.
“Usually.” Carrot Top added on. “She means well, at least. But you know how children are--”
“That’s a child?” I boggled. “She’s taller than you are!”
Meanwhile, on the deck below, Pinkie Pie bounded over to greet Yona, as well as a gawky teenaged colt following in the yak’s wake. Yona’s woolly bulk easily dwarfed the two of them, as if to prove my point.
Carrot Top shrugged. “She’s a yak.” She said, as if that explained everything.
“So you’re saying we’re about to sail into a kingdom full of creatures that are even bigger, stronger, and more ill-tempered than our … fellow passenger over there?”
“Don’t get so worked up about it, Sentry. You’ve been through worse.”
“I know.” I peered over the railing, and briefly considered throwing myself overboard and gliding down to the bottom of Canterlot mountain. Only briefly, however-- it wouldn’t do to suddenly bolt in front of a whole damned airship full of ponies who mistakenly thought I was a hero. My ill-gotten reputation would be ruined. Not to mention the fact that Carrot Top would have no trouble tracking me down and dragging my worthless carcass to Yakyakistan herself, if she thought it was for the good of Equestria. Of course, given my luck, even if I did escape, I’d likely just wind up throwing myself into an even worse situation, somehow.
And thus, I stayed put as the Commander Hurricane set off for Yakyakistan.
Despite my misgivings, the journey itself went fairly smoothly. There’s not much to do on an airship-- at least, not when you’re a passenger. True, Carrot Top and I had a private cabin, but it was too cramped for anything more than the lightest of canoodlings. It’s damned hard to get in the mood when you’ve just banged your head against the ceiling, let me tell you. Carrot Top noted that I’d had far worse concussions before, but the truth of the statement just made it worse.
So we spent most of the trip abovedecks, watching the scenery go by. Were I a more poetic soul, this is where I’d weigh in on the beauty of the Equestrian countryside, or how our lofty viewpoint put things into perspective, but honestly I’ve crossed the map so many times that one journey’s cartography just blurs into the next. As Carrot Top and I lounged around the observation deck, the other passengers came by to socialize. Pinkie Pie yammered on about how much fun we would have in Yakyakista, (which I doubted). Sergeant Lockstock gave me a needlessly thorough run down of his squad’s training and capabilities (which I promptly forgot). All standard stuff, honestly, but for one conversation that popped up the day before we landed in Yakyakistan proper. Carrot Top had ducked belowdecks for some last-minute preparations for the upcoming trip, leaving me alone on the observation deck-- at least until somepony found me.
“Mister Sentry?”
“Major Sentry, technically.” I turned away from the railing to face the pony addressing me. He was a gawky, awkward thing (which is to say, a teenager) with a tousled green mane that likely took several hours to make it look like it’d never been styled at all. Why a child like that was aboard the Commander Hurricane was a mystery to me; he must have been a cabin-colt or an airshipsmare’s apprentice or something along those lines.
“Oh, sorry!” The lad’s voice cracked. “Major Sentry, sir. My name’s Sandbar-- you probably don’t remember me, but I was there when you gave a speech at my school.* So, um-- I wanted to say hi. And, uh-- I guess I did. But, like, could you do me a huge favor?”
*See: Octavia’s Eleven.
“Depends on the favor,” said I. A sinking feeling began to form in my belly. Easy diplomatic assignment or no, I already had enough to worry about before some hero-worshipping young colt decided he wanted to be my sidekick.
“So, like-- I’ve heard you’re really popular with mares and stuff. And you’ve been hanging out with that pretty mare with the orange mane the whole trip, and, um-- like-- can you tell me how do you do it? How do you make girls like you?” The lad looked up at me with genuine admiration-- and for something other than killing changelings or harassing dragons or any number of other disasters I’d built my reputation on. It was something of a novel feeling, to have somepony interested in something I was genuinely good at.
“You know.” I rubbed at my chin. “I honestly haven’t given it much thought. I mean, I’ve always been quite dashingly handsome, you know. So it’s only natural that mares start a-swooning whenever I’m about. And, you know, singlehoofedly saving the whole of Equestria helps. But something tells me you’re not asking just to ask, hm? You’ve got a special somepony of your own you’ve set your eye on, haven’t you?”
“Y-yeah.” The lad blushed, even. “Something like that.”
“Well, good on you.” I nodded. “Of course, seeing as of how you’re not as famous or as good-looking as I, you may have to work a little harder. But don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing.”
“You do?” Sandbar said.
“Indeed I do.” I nodded, then beckoned him closer with one wing, then leaned in, conspiratorial. “Poetry.”
“Poetry?” Sandbar blinked at me, confused.
“The very thing.” I nodded. “Nothing like getting a mare into-- interested in you, than scribbling down some doggerel about the color of her eyes or somesuch.”
“But I don’t know how to write poetry.”
“Pssh, so?” I shrugged. “Neither do I, honestly. But that’s the beauty of it. It’s not about the quality of the poetry so much as the effort you put behind it. All you’ve got to do is tell the girl that you wrote something for her, and she’ll be so flattered that she’ll look past whatever creaky verses you actually came up with.”
“Does that actually work?”
“Would I be telling you if it didn’t, lad?” I nodded, and then made a shoo-ing motion with one hoof. “Now, go on. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some ink and paper. Go scribble out a couple of couplets, and your special somepony will be smitten in no time.”
“Got it! Poetry, right.” Sandbar nodded with the resolute earnestness of youth, and then trotted off, muttering to himself. “What rhymes with braids?”
No sooner had Sandbar disappeared belowdecks, I turned around to find myself face-to-face with Carrot Top. I’d known her long enough to not be completely startled by her sudden, stealthy reappearance-- nor by the familiar, bemused expression on her face.
“You never wrote me poetry,” said Carrot Top.
“You never asked?” I ventured. “Besides, you’re too canny for me. You’d see right through whatever strained cliches I tried to use to tell you how pretty you are. I’ve found it’s better to adopt a more … direct approach.” I winked, suggestively.
“Then why’d you tell Sandbar to write poetry?”
“To get him out of my hair, of course.” I shrugged. “Last thing I need is some impressionable youth following me around thinking he’s going to learn all my secrets. Or worse yet, what if that colt decides he really wants to imitate me, and goes off throwing himself into the jaws of some horrible monster, thinking it’ll impress the ladies?”
“Why Sentry, that’s remarkably responsible of you,” Carrot Top said.
“I must be mellowing in my old age.” I shrugged.
“Don’t get too mellow yet.” Carrot Top gave me a gentle, playful nudge. “The Yaks are expecting a proper Hero of Equestria, after all. They’d be gravely disappointed if you turned out to be boring.”
“I promise you, Carrot Top, I will be anything but.”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have said that. Tempting fate, and all that. But even if I hadn’t, the inevitable disaster was already in motion; I just wasn’t aware of it yet. And thus, I remained blissfully ignorant of the upcoming fiasco as I watched the mountains of Yakyakistan loom large on the horizon, looking like nothing so much as a bank of thunderclouds made solid. A better writer could probably squeeze a better metaphor from that, but at this point I don’t think I’ll bother.
I never was much of a poet anyway.