//------------------------------// // Chapter Two - The Devil Makes Work For Idle Hooves // Story: The Battleship Ponytemkin // by James Washburn //------------------------------// Chapter Two The Devil Makes Work for Idle Hooves “Bugger this for a game of sailors,” proclaimed Stoker. Keel gave him a rueful smile as he turned away from the blazing furnace mouth and wiped his brow. They and three other ponies had been told to keep boiler eight at full steam, and for the past four hours they had. They’d even been allowed half an hour break to catch their breath. The heat in the engine room seared their skin and sweat cut streams through the coal dust on their flanks, faces and hooves. Stoker had refused to take off his boilersuit, though, and regretted it. He felt pain in muscles he didn’t even know he had and coal dust filled his nose with every breath, scouring his sinuses. It was like breathing brillo pads. “Bloody ship,” said Stoker, panting, “bloody captain and his bloody combat readiness...” Keel remained silent, shovelling coal from heap to boiler. Stoker was finding it somewhat harder to be so stoic about the situation, though. He knew that he was expected to obey his superiors, and accept their judgement without question, but then again, he’d been told lots of things. “Why are we doing this again, Keel?” said Stoker, taking a moment to lean on his shovel idly, sweat plastering his pastel blue mane to his forehead. Keel grimaced “you took the oath, didn’t you?” “Well, of course.” “You swore obedience and fealty to Equestria and its ponies didn’t you?” “’Course, Keel.” “Then, by extension, you swore fealty to the officers of the navy, right?” Stoker mulled this over. He mulled it a little more. He pored over the notion, but no matter how he thought about it, he reached the same conclusion. “But this is bollocks,” he said “there’s no point to this except covering up the captain’s idiocy.” Keel’s smile only widened. He gave a shrug. “The way of the world, my little pony.” True as this may have been, Stoker was unconvinced. He stared into the furnace and thought. He thought of his family, his friends (such as they had been). He thought of growing up in Grimesby, all the pointless things he'd been told, pointless tasks he’d undertaken, at home, at school, at the academy, and now here. He saw them all in his head, injustice after injustice piled upon each other, compressing, fossilizing, becoming coal... And burning. Burning the whole damn thing away. And like that, it came to him. It was rash, it was bloody stupid, but that didn’t matter. He was mad as hell, and wouldn’t take this anymore. “You know what, I’m not going to stand for this," he said, simply. "I’m sitting this out.” “Kid, you were complaining there wasn’t enough work the other day,” said Keel. “That was different! I wanted action, not this!” Keel gave Stoker a hard look. You could’ve beaten steel on it. “That’s nigh on mutiny. We don’t do mutiny.” Stoker should have stopped there, but the fire was in him. Fire which had burnt up his common sense. “Maybe you should too, then,” he said, jaw stuck out pugnaciously, “because this isn’t what I signed up for! I signed up to make Equestria a safer place, I signed up for honour, for justice and all that. I did not sign up for this! This is ridiculous! This is pointless! This is makework!” To make his point, he sat down heavily. Keel sighed heavily. “Well, at least get some more water, so’s I can wash.” Stoker shook his head. “I shan’t do anything to support this work either.” Keel sighed and sat down beside him. There was an awkward silence. “I thought this was mutiny,” said Stoker. “What you’re doing is mutiny,” said Keel. “I’m taking a break because, in the light of extenuating circumstances, further exertion would be folly.” and then, because Stoker’s jaw refused to come up for air “So there.” They sat in silence. A unicorn, gender and colour indeterminate under the regulation boiler suit and layers of soot, turned about. He (or she) was quite shocked to find his (or her) compatriots suddenly doing nothing. “I’m mutinying,” said Stoker, pre-emptively, “so you don’t have to work.” The unicorn couldn’t have looked more puzzled if Stoker had proposed a chocolate fireguard. “You’ll get it in the neck for that,” said the unicorn, matter of fact. Stoker recognised the voice as Shetland’s. She was a fairly reasonable mare, generally speaking. “Exactly,” said Stoker, smiling “You can just blame me. Simple.” The unicorn was about to point out that this plan, while simple, defied all sense, decency and logic. Then she realised she’d been shovelling coal for four hours without a break, and couldn’t expect one until the whims of fate decided she should. She relayed this point of view to the other two ponies at boiler eight. Before long, all five ponies of were sat, caked in soot and resolutely not doing anything. After a while, a curious pony from boiler nine walked over. “Hey, er, why aren’t you guys working?” he asked. “Mutinied.” “Because this work’s pointless and the captain's an idiot,” said Stoker, ever the social realist. “Well huh,” said the pony, looking curiously at the group. Slowly, he caught on. A smile dawned on his face. “Might mutiny too, you know, for the sake of solidarity.” “Oh if you must,” said Keel, whose grin had returned. The pony sat himself by his boiler. The question of what the hay he thought he was doing came from his compatriots. There was a brief, hurried explanation. The ponies of boiler nine reached a conclusion and sat themselves down outside their boiler. Boiler ten came over for a query, and soon joined them. Boiler eleven quickly followed suit. Feeling left out, boiler seven came for a chat. Boiler six came too. Before long, the whole row was either mutinying or couldn’t work because of the mutineers (depending on their personal feelings about the new captain). The next row went quiet soon after. The irregular clatter of ponies downing tools echoed throughout the ship. Behind him, Stoker felt the last fires of boiler eight die down behind them, to be replaced with the soft, faint green of the glow worm lamps high in the ceiling and a low murmur of ponies talking. In the quiet that followed, Keel started humming. * * * In his quarters, Blueblood was relaxing. He felt he’d earned it, after such a hectic... hour or so, issuing orders, issuing some more orders and... that... other thing he’d done. Either way, he was tired, and needed his rest. The captain’s quarters weren’t the height of luxury, but he supposed only two pillows, a smaller en suite and a thinner quilt were just sacrifices he would have to make. He was, after all, in the navy, and in command of such a prestigious vessel. Or rather, a ship that would become a prestigious vessel under his leadership. Say what you wanted about Blueblood (lord knows many did) but you couldn't fault him for not having faith in himself. He was just lying back in bed, a book of Field Marshall Hayg’s most famous last-stands open beside him, when he noticed that it seemed terribly chilly all of a sudden. Irritated, he cast about for a servant’s bell to ring, and then remembered where he was. He stood up, stuck his head out of the doorway and bawled for service. Soon enough, an earth pony char-wallah trotted past, balancing a tray of empty mugs on his head. Not many appreciated the work of the humble char-wallah, and Blueblood was certainly not among them. He put a hoof on the wallah’s shoulder and yanked him to one side. Regulation mugs, teaspoons and used teabags went everywhere. The poor pony stood with an expression of utter despair, looking at Blueblood in shock and awe. Then, because you do such things when your only understanding of social mobility is to fetch tea for a better class of officer, he saluted. “Sir...?” He asked, voice quavering. “Go and see what’s wrong with the heating,” said Blueblood. “Just find out why it’s gone off all of a sudden, would you kindly?” The char-wallah shook all over. Confusion battled fear across his face. “Good good,” said Blueblood, taking the wallah’s pause to be awed reverence. "Off you pop, then.” The char-wallah gathered his tray, hoiked it on to his back and trotted off down the corridor. * * * On deck, Anchorage was stripping and cleaning one of the big deck crossbows, though that rather oversimplifies the effort involved. The stock was held together with six large bolts, which required considerable jaw and neck strength to undo. Strength that Anchorage had found he did not possess. After that, the bow needed releasing. This, Anchorage now knew, was a serious procedure, since one wrong move could send the bowstring lashing out at whatever unfortunate was working on it. After that there was the trigger assembly, which even the unicorns were having trouble with. It was like pulling hairs out of a cat. At any moment, he had found, removing the wrong bit would send something small and vital ricocheting off across the deck. The whole thing was very much a learning exercise. Anchorage brushed frozen perspiration out of his mane and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He was just about to loosen the mainspring when a sudden movement startled him. He looked up suddenly and glimpsed a bay char-wallah disappear off down the gangway to the engine rooms. The mainspring made a daring escape and pinged off across the deck. Anchorage swore and looked up at the disappearing shape of the wallah. “Hmph. Where d’you suppose he was going in a hurry?” “Probably getting tea down below,” said another pegasus, wrestling with her bowstring. “That is what char-wallahs do, you know.” “You’d think that,” said Anchorage, thoughtfully, “but his tray was full of empties.” They had a contemplative moment before turning back to their work. It was only a moment later when the char-wallah rushed back out on deck again, looking like he’d seen a ghost. He dashed back towards the bridge tower in a panic. Anchorage paid him little heed and went back to annoying himself with the trigger mechanism. He bit his lip, or would’ve if he hadn’t had a screwdriver in his mouth. He tightened his grip on it and started again with the mechanism. He fiddled the sear out of place, rolled the nut out and flipped the catch. He put down his screwdriver and picked up a pair of tweezers and a tiny piece of cotton wool to clean them with. There was a flash of armour and sabres and a clatter of hooves on deck as a squad of marines crashed past, shouting at cross purposes. The pieces bounced away across the deck, and Anchorage swore violently. The marines cantered down the passageway to the engine rooms. All were armed with the half-pikes used for fighting inside tight corridors, and two were carrying a heavy crossbow of the kind they used to repel boarders. It was the same basic design as the deck crossbows, but was loaded with grapeshot rather than a solid bolt. What it lacked in range it made up for in blanket ruination. It could fill the air with so much shot it’d make you wish you could breathe lead. Anchorage tried to remember to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help but gawk. * * * Down in the engine rooms, the pace of things had relaxed. Things didn’t seem too badly, all things considered, thought Stoker. A pack of cards had been produced and, from somewhere, a guitar was being played inexpertly. There was nothing down there to eat or drink, but a char-wallah had come down and Keel had had the presence of mind to give him a tall order for tea and biscuits. “And one for yourself, brother,” Keel had said, half-jokingly as the char-wallah had bolted out of the engine room. But until the tea got here, they had to sit tight and wait. The ponies of boiler eight were quite happily playing a few rounds of Blackmail (Trottingham rules, three cards, Duke goes last). Stoker felt, like all beginners among experts, that he was doing rather well, blissfully unaware of his position as a lamb among laser-sharks. He glanced at the others, careful to hide his cards. Keel was grinning like a lunatic, as per usual, but the others were utterly inscrutable. Poker-faces honed on the edge of colossal losses and catastrophic wins, they all seemed as stone-faced as each other. Only Jockmond seemed faintly pleased with himself. Stoker also noted nopony had sat near him. He gave his cards a quick look and was about to call Keel’s stupid, grinning bluff when a tremendous thundering erupted from the stairwell. The stairs came down opposite boiler eight, so they saw the shadows before they saw the marines themselves. They watched as they burst out into the open, two of them quaking under the weight of a huge crossbow. The marines swiftly formed a perimeter with admirable efficiency, the crossbow set up to block the door and the others gathered in a semi-circle around it. It was loaded with a sling full of shot, the pellets glinting like malign plums. Their leader, a purplish looking earth pony, stepped forward. Keel put his cards down and walked towards her. Stoker grimaced instinctively. Keel hadn’t wiped off his grin. “What is the meaning of this?” asked the marines’ leader, imperiously. “Just taking a rest, ma’am,” said Keel. “We felt one was in order, y’know?” Keel knew he was in luck. This marine had one of those ‘quick-draw’ neck sheaths preferred by the flashier kind of thug. Keel felt more at ease facing a pony who thought it was good tactical sense to keep a knife next to their throat. Stoker stepped up beside him loyally, head held high. “You know the drill,” she sneered. “The orders were very clear. Any pony not performing his or her task is to be-“ “-imprisoned in the brig and will face proceedings, yes, yes, I know,” said Keel, rolling his eyes, “and we will perform our task, the moment we’ve had a breather.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. You work or we make you.” Keel felt ready to dare. The marine had her name engraved on her neck-sheath. He knew who he was dealing with. In all probability, that’s where it went wrong. Behind Keel, the ponies of boiler eight congregated to stare (except for Jockmond, who was checking everyone else’s abandoned cards). “Look, Ms... Przewalski, is it? I respect your blustering threats of violence and hard-headed manner. I don’t doubt that’s what got you where you are today; leader of a glorified bunch of semi-literate brutes who can’t cross the road and whistle. But we’re tired. We want a break.” The aforementioned Przewalski gritted her teeth. It might’ve passed for a smile, seen in the wrong light. “It’s Prizewalker, actually,” she said, with a towering self-assurance measurable only in Trixies. “And you’ll get as long a break as you need from your hospital bed.” She stepped aside. There was a horrible moment as Stoker saw the pony behind the crossbow hit the firing stud. Ponies leapt out of the way as the crossbow fired and sent a wall of shot forwards. Stoker lunged at Keel and yanked at his foreleg, taking most of Keel down with him. Stoker felt the shot whizz overhead. Something made a noise like a sledgehammer hitting a ball of dough. Then, all was silent. Stoker caught his breath, lying in the lee of Keel’s body. Stoker got up slowly and looked around. It looked like the shot had mostly hit the boiler and had ricocheted off into the dark corners of the room, which was good news. The rest of the boiler team had hit the deck too, so no one looked hurt either. Stoker was feeling quite good with himself, until he looked down and saw Keel. Keel was lying very still, his chest dented, a ball of shot the size of a golf ball lying beside him. It gleamed dull grey in the soft green light. All eyes followed Stokers, taking the full measure of the injury. There was a moment’s pause. Then, as one, the ponies of boiler eight threw themselves at the hapless marines. The fight was brief, and most of the injuries self-inflicted. That is to say, Stoker mused dreamily, trying to inflict injury on an enraged engine-room pony was as good as inflicting it on yourself. Especially when they’ve closed the distance and swinging your pike is as likely to take off your mate’s ear as the other guys. He’d have admitted it had looked ropey for a moment, but then boiler nine had turned up, with their tools. There’d only been six or seven marines, not including the now-supine Prizewalker, and they were all either down or pretending to be to avoid the wrath of shovels, spanners and other assorted tools arrayed about their heads. Stoker took no part in the curb-stomp. He hunkered down beside Keel, who was breathing(thank god, thank god), but was still in a bad way. Stoker was no doctor, but he was sure Keel’s ribs weren’t supposed to look like that, and the skin was taking on a rather interesting shade of purple. He was lying on his side, wound on display for all to see. Stoker cradled his head in his hooves. As tradition demanded, Stoker asked if he was okay. As tradition also demanded, Keel’s response was not cordial. No, Stoker, I am not okay,” he said, his voice a whispering shadow of his usual booming tones. “My ribs have... gone, I think.” “But you’re not dying, are you Keel?” said Stoker, which didn’t sound like Stoker wanted at all. It sounded like a worried foal asking if grandma was going to wake up, not a proud warrior’s assertion. By way of answer, Keel coughed mightily. “Might be...” he said, closing his eyes. “Damn shame...” Stoker stood slowly. Around him, the ponies of boilers eight and nine congregated. A few of the marines who had only been playing possum lifted their heads. Stoker gave them all a careful, measured look. Every face bore concern and worry, even the marines. The ponies from boiler ten had wandered over too, jostling for a look-in. History might choose the winners, but individuals get the first roll of the dice. Stoker’s eyes lit up with fury and filled with a very specific kind of vengeance. When he spoke, he spoke with the voice of experience and authority. To everypony watching, he seemed a foot taller, although that might just have been a trick of the light. “I’ve had quite enough of this,” he said. He pointed at two marines, “You two, get Keel to the medical bay now,” he turned to the ponies of boiler eight. “Irons, Shetland, you know how to get a stretcher together. Help them,” The ponies leapt to it. Irons, Shetland and the two marines dashed off as if propelled by Celestia herself. Stoker hesitated, only for a moment. Ponies didn’t leap at his every word. Grizzled veterans never stood at his beck and call. All the same, he wasn’t about to question it now. “Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I think it’s time we did something about this. I’m going to have a chat to the captain about his conduct. Anypony else want to come with?” He set off at a slow trot up the stairs. Behind him, drawn by some force unknown to pony, the boiler room crew,and even some of the marines, followed.