//------------------------------// // Chapter Four - On a Crossed Wire // Story: The Battleship Ponytemkin // by James Washburn //------------------------------// Chapter Four On a Crossed Wire News travelled fast, of course, first by rail on the Solidarity Express to Stalliongrad. Blueblood had been thrown on at Nowheregorod station, bound and gagged among the other passengers from further down the coast. They wanted nothing to do with him of course; all tattered and bruised he looked quite disreputable. But then again, he also looked ever so interesting. After a while, curiosity got the better of them and they took out his gag. He told them all about the revolution, the vicious mutineers, of murders in the street, of how (and he was proud of this) he had fought his way out single-hoofed, only to be betrayed by his second-in-commands and captured. He spoke of effigies of the Princesses burnt in the street, of officials strung up from the lampposts and of the rampant littering all taking place back in that hell-hole that Nowheregorod had become. Now, the passengers were rational ponies, and understood that this couldn’t all be true. Most, if not all of it, had to be the fanciful imaginings of a pony down on his luck. So naturally, they repeated the story at every opportunity. The news spread at every stop and flew across the north as officers and other culpable parties fled from Nowheregorod. In Grimesby, Manechester and Badenoughstok the word of the mutiny of the battleship Ponytemkin was heard. In Pasturekhan it was said that the mutineers had allied with the Vulga Cossacks, vicious tribesponies who rode one another into battle. In Murmanesk, ponies whispered that it was led by the only free Trotpuddle Martyr, who had survived the debacle at Canterloo and was looking for revenge. News became story, story became rumour. And what rumour! It was too good not to pass on. In Stalliongrad, the air was alive with it. The rumour leapt on to letters to relatives and into the mouths of travellers bound for the south. By Dragonfire delivery and the pegasus couriers of the Royal Mail, it went south. It was late evening by the time it reached Canterlot and, eventually, Princess Celestia. * * * Celestia always prided herself on being hard to surprise. Ruling for a thousand years ought to provide you with a precedent for most things, so she tried not to look concerned as another letter was read out to her. “...heard there’s been a terrible mutiny in Nowheregorod,” read the pony who’d brought it in. He stood tall, and stood all the taller for wearing the trenchcoat and trilby of the Curzon Street Indefatigables, “which they say has, ah, claimed the lives of so many. But I’m sure that it is just hearsay, all this talk of burning effigies, reindeer mercenaries and lynchings. So don’t worry, I’ll be home soon. We’ve censored the name.” The Princess was silent, her face implacable. She had to be. The room was filled with the kind of pony who accumulates when a ruler calls an emergency session. Nobles, courtiers, ministers, and other assorted hangers-on all waited for reassurance. Even the guards inclined their heads to her. The Indefatigable with the letter glanced about nonchalantly, and the crowd averted their eyes. At last she spoke. “Pass it to me.” He trotted up and handed it over. Celestia made a show of reading it herself. “Thank you, Copper,” she said, with a smile. He bowed his head and took his place near the back, where he was given a large space all to himself. Everyone understood the need for the Curzon Street Indefatigables in general terms, but weren’t too sure about meeting them in the street, so to speak. She tossed the paper on to the mounting pile of letters, notes, telegraphs, anecdotes, reports, and stories from pony who knew a unicorn who knew a pegasus who said that had built up beside her. Something had happened, that much was clear. Full scale mutiny aboard the Ponytemkin at the least and open revolt in the north at worst. That was why she’d asked to be kept abreast of things, and she’d be doing her people a disservice is she didn’t check every source available. It wasn’t as if it was spying, anyway. She had the chaps from Curzon Street for that. If it was as bad as they said (and she had the names of who they were) then north would descend into anarchy within the week, if it hadn’t already. It wouldn’t be that bad, said her years of experience, but at the very least it would be bad. Maybe as bad as Trotpuddle, maybe as bad as the Swing Riots. She fervently hoped it would never be as bad as Canterloo. She still had nightmares about that. Celestia composed herself and took a few deep breaths. Don’t panic, don’t fret, and if you do, don’t let them see it. She smiled her smile. The one that could make a penniless, one-legged, one-eyed pony look on the bright side. The one on all the posters. “Does anypony see a solution?” From the back of the throne room, an olive drab earth pony in the red dress uniform of the Equestrian Army shouldered her way forward, and just behind, came a turquoise pegasus in the blue and white of the Equestian Royal Navy. Celestia recognised them with a certain dread as the Field Marshall and the Commodore. They bowed their heads to the Princess briefly, which she returned with a curt nod. “If we may, Ma’am?” said the Commodore. “Ah, so what do you make of the situation?” Celestia fixed him with her best smile, trying to winch up her sinking feeling. The Commodore was certainly of a nautical bent, in that he looked and sounded like something that had recently crawled out of the ocean, all watery eyes and rubbery lips. “Well, it seems to me to be a naval matter,” he said, in a voice like a wet flannel. “We’ll need to apprehend the ponies responsible for the mutiny. Make an example, you understand.” “But it is also a military matter,” said the Field Marshall, with the arrogance of forty generations of Field Marshalls. Celestia had met them all over the years, and always wished she hadn’t. “The mutineers will need pacifying. They are, may I note, in control of the better part of a town and possess a battleship.” “In all fairness, my little ponies,” said Celestia, her mind full of memories of Canterloo and the implications of ‘pacifying’ riots, “I don’t think a military solution is necessarily wise. I should like to speak to these mutineers before anypony gets hurt.” “Your majesty, these mutineers have shown their unwillingness to listen to their superiors,” said the Commodore. “A combined military effort is the best way, otherwise, where will the buck stop, if not with them?” “So I- we reckon, it’d be best if we arrange a force to be sent north with all due speed,” the Field Marshall said. “The 1st Lancers are available, as of now, and I believe there’s a detachment of Royal Engineers working on the rail bridge, and I believe that... we... should...be...” The Field Marshall mumbled to a stop. Celestia had fixed the commanders with a Look. It was a Look known only to absolute monarchs and the best teachers. It was not a Look that encouraged further discussion. “I will go and try talk to the mutineers,” she said, slowly and purposefully, as though nothing in the world would stop her. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the north, and I shouldn’t like to drag you away from your duties.” The Commodore said nothing, but the Field Marshall knew a good idea when she had one. “Ma’am, with all due fairness, these ponies are a fundamentally bad example for the rest of the armed forces, nay, the rest of the country,” she said. “I mean, if the buck doesn’t stop with them, where will it stop? You’ve seen as well as anyone how they treated Captain Blueblood and the office.” “Yes, Captain Blueblood. I heard,” Said Celestia, smiling oddly. “I shall leave tonight. If you don’t mind, I have some arrangements to make.” The room was silent as she swept down from her pedestal and through the amassed ponies who fell to their knees, even the Commodore and the Field Marshall. From down at fetlock level, they exchanged a look, as from one master of war to another. A crackle of understanding passed and an idea took root. They knew exactly where the buck would stop if not with the mutineers, and they were damned if they were going to let it. The Princess went on her way down the corridor and up to her room. The light was just going outside, the sun dropping below the hills to the west and russet light was streaming in through the big windows. Folks always congratulated her on the sunsets, going on about the fiery reds and pinks and the beautiful autumn colours. She tried to tell them they had the weather teams to thank, but no one seemed quite ready to be poetic about particulate density and the peculiar qualities of stratus clouds. Sure, she could ask for some work on it, but you could tell their hearts weren’t in it when you made them do it. She found her sister’s room and let herself in. Luna was fixing her tiara in front of a big mirror. She turned around, still looking a little fuzzy at the edges. “I’m afraid I’m going away, sis,” said Celestia. “There’s been a... an incident.” Luna nodded, blinking the sleep out her eyes. “So long as you return by morning.” “That’s the thing,” said Celestia, glancing to one side nervously. “I’ll be going up north. It’ll be a good few days, in all likelihood.” Luna grimaced and bit her lip, but remained silent. “Don’t worry, that’s not that long,” Celestia said, trying to reassure her sister. “Nothing major to be done while I’m away, no big royal appearances expected. Just the usual, and I know you can deal with that.” Luna nodded again slowly, but uncertainty camped on her face. Celestia gave her a smile. Not the poster-perfect one, but a private smile, for her sister’s eyes only. It was... warmer, somehow. “I have absolute faith in you Luna, whatever they say. You can prove them wrong this time. Anyway, if I leave this to anyone else they’d only sodom canis the whole thing.” Luna smiled faintly. “Well, do be careful, sister. You know what the north can be like. The land remembers what happened.” “Don’t worry,” said Celestia, still smiling her sister’s smile. “I’ll be ready for it. I’m not like the Fisher Kings out east. The land and I have a very clear understanding of who owns who.” “If you’re sure,” said Luna, with a shrug and a smile. “I wish you luck, although I daresay you can make your own.” The laugh trickled down the halls like sunshine. * * * Outside, it was a cloudy night in Nowheregorod. The big warped bell in the crooked tower of Town Hall haphazardly tolled ten. Stoker, Anchorage and Keel were sat in the North Star, enjoying a drink. The apparent incongruity of actually enjoying any drink in the North Star might be remarkable, if it weren’t for what they were drinking. The proprietor, aging unicorn with delusions of coastal tranquillity, had seen the impending crisis of hosting a small mob which had just committed mutiny and was in a mood to dare, especially with the repairs from last night still pending. Being a practical sort, she’d cracked out a case of the finest Chateau de Pommier Doux apple wine to keep them quiet. ‘15 vintage too, with its distinct aftertaste of blossom, sunshine and happy thoughts. She’d had to serve it reduced price, but it was more than worth it in the extra repairs she reckoned wouldn’t have to make. At 17% vol it was a drink to lift the spirits and deaden the mind, but she hadn’t counted on was the natural resilience of sailor’s livers. These were ponies who had drunk sea water in a pinch. Most remained if not upright, then at least vocal, and the sounds of raucous good cheer drifted through the air. Luckily, it looked like it was just the sailors in tonight, for which she thanked Celestia from the depths of her heart. “They didn’t know what hit ‘em, eh?” said Anchorage, grinning inanely, as one does after a few millilitres of Chateau Pommier Doux. “We showed ‘em right enough.” “Sure enough,” said Stoker, who was looking off into the middle distance, one hoof on his untouched tumbler. They’d marched Blueblood through the streets at the head of a whooping mob of mutineers and crewmembers who knew which way the wind was blowing, right to the train station where, against all probability, the Solidarity Express to Stalliongrad waited. Blueblood may have been tightfisted, but he’d positively leapt at the opportunity to pay for his own ticket. After that they’d come back here for a spot of celebration. Stoker cast an eye over his comrades. Where another would have seen drunken troublemakers, he saw through his rose-tinted glasses a proud legion. Without them, none of this would’ve been possible. He’d done the shouting and the speaking, sure, but that was just froth. With ponies like this behind you, there was nothing you couldn’t do. Nothing, eh? The question posed itself most unexpectedly in Stoker’s head. What couldn’t they do indeed? They already had the Ponytemkin. Holy cow, they actually had the Ponytemkin! The most powerful ship in the Royal Navy! Well, that was something to think about. Stoker’s mind shaped itself around the word pirate briefly but he quashed it. All the same, they had some considerable weaponry now... “So, what’s the plan from here?” said Keel, propped up on his stretcher, his face unexpectedly stern. Keel had taken the bolt surprisingly well. His ribs were in plaster and his breathing was laboured, but he’d insisted on coming out with them, despite the advice of the ship’s doctor. Stoker expected at least a smile or a ‘good on you’, but Keel had been quiet all evening. “I, well, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” said Stoker, smiling and laughing nervously. Keel’s face barely flickered. “Then you’ll need to. You may have defeated the dragon, but you still need to shift all the loot down the hill.” ”Whuh?” “What Keel means,” said Anchorage, the hint of an inane grin around his mouth, “is that you need to consolidate your victory.” “Right now, all you’ve done is overthrow Blueblood,” said Keel, very pointedly ignoring Anchorage, “and you didn’t even do that right. Look around you. This was a just a mob by anypony’s standards. They’re gonna wake up tomorrow and are going to collectively go ‘oh pony feathers, what did we do yesterday?’ and all they’re going to remember is some foal with a bright idea they got swept up in. And you’re going to need to be the pony to say ‘yes, we did that yesterday, and look at what we can do tomorrow’.” “We could hide, couldn’t we?” said Stoker, with almost foal-like innocence. “That’s what they did after Mareva, wasn’t it?” Keel’s first instinct was to bang his head on the table until either it or his skull was reduced to splinters. He wasn’t choosy about which. “Mareva was different, son,” said Keel, hunching forward and trying to hide his frustration. “The trick of living off the land is to live off the ponies who live off the land, and they’re poor as church mice at the best of times. More to the point, we’d be fugitives, not a brave but defeated army.” Stoker pondered again. “We could escape by sea. There’s bound to be an ice breaker somewhere near we could flag down to cut our way out.” It was Anchorage’s turn to look disapproving. “No such luck. All shipping will be locked down for winter. Nothing’ll be coming within a hundred miles of here until spring.” “No shipping?” “Not now, and no time soon.” “So, in essence, we are stuck here until Spring, with the entire force of the Equestrian army breathing down our necks and baying for our blood.” Keel shrugged and took a draught from his tumbler. “It looks like it. If you ain’t careful, it’ll be Trotpuddle all over again. Could be Canterloo, even.” “So what can we do?” said Stoker. He felt panic tickle up his back and sidle into his head. He’d read about the Massacre in books, and that had been enough. Six hundred armed Yeomanry charging at two thousand unarmed demonstrators in Canterbury Field didn’t make for pleasant reading. “That’s rather your job, Kiddo,” said Keel, feeling the alcohol tickle down his throat and burn his head, “but it looks like we’ll have to hold out until spring comes, which means a long winter of either fighting, or the freezing cold since the ship’s stocks won’t last that long. That means you’ll have to persuade the town out of their grub. Most importantly, you need to give them an alternative, Stoker-me-colt. Something we can rally around. Something you can convince the world with.” Anchorage raised a hoof. “Point of order, Keel, we’re sailors, not PR ponies.” “Fair point, fair point. But we do have two things on our side. Firstly, that strike in town. They’ll be coming from a similar direction to us, won’t they? All peace, brotherhood and equality and whatnot. And secondly, we have our own agent provocateur,” He slapped Stoker on the back, “and plenty of time to let him get to work.” “But I- what? I can’t- I, I don’t even-“ started Stoker. “You’re gonna need to,” said Keel. His grin was made of iron. “When you dance with Discord, you wait for the music to stop.” * * * Stoker drifted into consciousness, through the haze of sleep and dream, to be confronted with the image of Anchorage above him, shaking him by the shoulders. “C’mon, Stoker, get up,” he was saying, in a stage whisper that would have got him booed out of the theatre. On balance, it was preferable to the usual marine/metal bar combo in terms of alarm calls, but he’d been interrupted in the middle of a perfectly good dream. The details, like all good dreams, had evaporated upon waking, but he was fairly there had been a pretty mare involved. And socks. He was quite certain about the socks. “What? No, what? What time is it?” said Stoker, bleary-eyed. He could still hear the snores of the other ponies rumbling the background. “Nearly six. But we need an early start. We need to make that speech to the crew." “Speech?” said Stoker. It’s always an unpleasant feeling to find that the world has been making plans about you behind your back. “Yeah, the speech you’re going to make this morning that’s gonna convince the doubters and unreliable elements, remember?” “Oh, yeah, sure, right.” Stoker rolled out of his bunk and clambered down, trying not to make a sound. With Anchorage in tow, he crept out of the room. They set off down a corridor Stoker recognised. “So, where are we making this speech, then?” “We’ll do it in the lower galley. That’s big enough. We’ll need to make sure everypony comes though. And no one’s going to do the waking up this morning...” Stoker groaned. “You’re not using the dinner gong, are you?” “No other choice,” said Anchorage, trying not to grin. The Ponytemkin was, as has been said, an impressive ship. If you wanted to walk every corridor, you’d be best to bring sandwiches and hiking boots. Given this, there were only two real ways of getting everypony to one place. The first was the usual marine-metal bar-shouting combo, and the other was the dinner gong. It was a big, brass dish, ten feet across and an inch thick, hung on the wall of the lower galley just beside the door. It had been given as a gift, supposedly, by the captain of a Qilin junk in recognition of the Ponytemkin's timely rescue of his ship. Usually you tapped it with a stick and tried not to bleed from the ears from the noise. Even when it hadn’t been touched it hummed gently, as if anticipating the moment when it could shine. Anchorage, who considered subtlety an interesting theory but of little practical use, gave it a buck. The vibrations travelled through the walls of the ship and shook tables across the hall. In the boiler room, coal stacks were dislodged and would have buried anypony working there, had they not all taken the morning off. Glass shook itself out of portholes. The sound itself was something else entirely, bringing to mind an entire percussion section taking a tumble down a cliff. Its immediate effect on the crew was to A) wake them up and B) make many of them consider the possibility of wearing their brown trousers today. Following the call, the crew streamed from their quarters in muzzied confusion, mild anger and (because it had been Pommier Doux the night before) painfully enforced sobriety. They staggered into the mess hall and slumped at their places, able seaponies, engineers, deckhooves. Something as up, though. The room wasn't usually that full, what with the reductions and whatnot, but even by usual standards it seemed empty. A handful of officers headed by Beaufort strolled in. They took their places around the others, not pushing their luck or trying to pull rank. Beaufort approached Stoker, leaning in conspiratorially. “Hope you don’t mind us sticking around. The chaps had a little pow-wow last night and we decided to throw in with you lot. Not all of us, you understand, quite a few decided to make a run for it with Loggerhead,” Beaufort said, casting his eyes low. He tried to brighten up. “Nonetheless, we happy few are here.” "And are y- are they trustworthy?” said Anchorage, his voice rife with suspicion. Beaufort gave a nervous laugh. “Trustworthy? Of course we are! Why, Brass Monkey over there grew up in Lower Manehattan, as proletarian as they come.” Anchorage gave Stoker a look and received a shrug in response. “Sounds alright to me,” he said. He put a hoof out to stop Beaufort. “One more thing, though. How many have gone?” Beaufort shrugged. “A dozen officers or so. More from the ratings, I think.” Stoker nodded and let him go. The galley was getting more and more cramped as ponies came in, grumpy, confused and tired. Conversation bubbled up in worried knots and worried eyes flitted towards Stoker. The quartermaster, Pokery Orlov swaggered in and up to Stoker and Anchorage, looking formidable with her mauve mane tied up on a bun and flanked by her brothers, Grigory and Thrupenny. Arranged together the three unicorns made a perfect gradient, with Grigory looming on one side, Thrupenny looking wistful and waifish on the other and Pokery looking bloody furious in the middle. “I take it you’re the new chaps in charge, yes?” she said, looking down her nose at him. “There’s a terrible mix-up about breakfast, you know.” Anchorage looked at Stoker for direction, but Stoker looked as puzzled as he felt. “What... kind of problem?” said Stoker, carefully. “The kind of problem where there are no designated officer’s places, everypony’s been summoned to the crew’s mess hall and none of the galley crew know what we’re supposed to be doing. I’m only in charge of catering, you see, and it’d matter to me very much if you could tell me where everything is supposed to be.” Stoker blanked. He was a simple pony from engineering, and only understood food as something to eat. He was, of course, peripherally aware of the organisation around it, but that had always been someone else’s problem. He hadn’t realised that mutinying would mean his personal involvement in it. He opened his mouth to say something, and from somewhere the words came to him. “All meals should be taken by everypony here, in the crew’s mess hall,” he said. “There should be plenty enough space for crew and officers, I daresay. It seems we’re a little thin on the ground.” Pokery nodded slowly, eyeing Stoker up and down. “No separate seating?” “And only one set of cutlery, too,” said Stoker, with the son of Keel’s war-crime smile on his lips. “If you say so,” said Pokery, eyes still on Stoker. The Orlovs sat on the front row of tables, evicting four ponies from their seats (Grigory needed two, and was best placed to acquire them, being muscled like a bull on steroids). Pokery whispered something to Grigory who nodded and lumbered off and was followed back in by ponies with knives, forks, spoons, and mighty tureens of porridge. Orlov porridge was legendary among the crew of the Ponytemkin, and indeed among the entire navy. It was apparently an old family recipe they brought with them from Sibearia, and had a particular way of adhering to the insides. It kept you warm and full, if not particularly comfortable. At last, Keel was brought in on a stretcher with the last few medical personnel, who all wore the expression of those who have, quite against their will, spent a night in the company of Keel. Stoker gave him a nod and a received a wry grin. “Reckon that’s as close to everyone as we’ll get,” said Anchorage with a shrug. “The floor is yours, maestro.” Stoker stepped out in front of the gong and cleared his throat. The conversations in the hall continued regardless. He coughed genteelly again, and was genteelly ignored. Finally he kicked the gong lightly, and silence rippled through the crowd. Everypony’s eyes turned to him now. Silence sloshed against the far wall and rippled back. Everything became muted to Stoker, until he was only aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. He shifted from one hoof to another. He waited for the words to spring into his mouth. The silence rolled on. Somepony coughed. All leaned forward. A few at the back had clambered on to tables for a better view. “Right everypony,” he began. “I understand that you all might be in some confusion right now, as to what’s going to happen. So I feel I should take this opportunity to say that there’s still work to be done.” There was a murmur of discontent. Stoker felt sweat bead on his forehead. “B-but, it will be purposeful. You will have purpose! You will not be stoking boilers to heat empty rooms, or have to disassemble crossbows to keep you occupied. We to work together, because as we speak, the army of Equestria is no doubt mobilising to put us down.” “Wait, WHAT?” said a voice, originating from an able seapony near the back of the hall. “Mobilising to put us down?” said another. “Well of course,” said Stoker, far more nonchalantly than he felt. “We did just commit mutiny on the largest ship in the fleet,” “What WE?” said an officer. There was a murmur of agreement around the hall and a few hushed arguments. “US! You know!” said Stoker. “The ones who threw Blueblood out! You were there, with us right?” Glances were exchanged. Mutterings were muttered. “Not me,” said one pony. “Me neither,” said another. I’m doomed, thought Stoker, they’re going to tear me to shreds. What do I tell them? Then, something piped up. A small voice, deep in his head. Remember. Give them an alternative. And like that, the words came. “Look, like it or not, we’re in this together. You remember Blueblood? What use would he have been in command? What use WAS he? Think about it. If you’re against us, you agree that he was a good choice for captain, and you just think about what that means. That kind of aristocracy is best in command? That’s what we want to run our country?” “The Princesses run the country,” said a navigator, sat on the second row of tables. “But who follows their orders? Who rules where they don’t? Do they ensure the best ponies for the jobs get thejobs? I think Blueblood proves that wrong!” The room absorbed his words. Stoker paused as his brain caught up with his mouth. “Look, I am not advocating revolution. That’d be stupid. What we need is a better system. We need equality, we need liberty, and... that kind of thing. Otherwise we’ll just get another Blueblood. And they’ll turn up everywhere, incompetent git after incompetent git!” The room was silent. Even the gong had stopped its usual hum. The shadows seemed to have congregated behind Stoker as if they were listening as intently as everyone else. He stood out against a dark background like a Prima Donna on stage. “But if we’re gonna achieve that, we need to survive here. And that means spreading the word. Which leads me on to what we need from you. First of all, who here can sew?” There was a moment of bafflement. Then a couple dozen hooves went up, mostly unicorns and surprisingly few officers. Thrupenny Orlov was waving enthusiastically at the front. “Right! We need you to make banners, propaganda for our cause! Orlovs, do you have the material we need?” You could have split rocks with Pokery’s poker face. She nodded curtly. “It’ll have to be red,” she said, sharpening each word. “Thrupenny rather over-ordered on red material after the last royal parade.” “Hey, I thought that if every uniform was red then we’d never have to worry about mixing them up with the white ones!” “It doesn’t matter now, that’s fine,” said Stoker, before the Orlovs could escalate (and no one could escalate like old Sibearian families). “Everypony with their hooves up, would you kindly go with Thrupenny Orlov? He’ll lead you in your efforts. I’m sure you can think up some stirring slogans, Thrupenny?” “Sure can! I bet we can get some kind of symbol for us, too. What about a star? Stars tessellate pretty well, right? Less wasted material.” Stoker nodded. For him, the stress, strain, the fear of his own life was all made moot by the look of pure, unbridled joy on Thrupenny’s face. He was born for this kind of thing. “Very good. Now! The rest of you have an equally challenging task. First of all, the marines have to work on making the town as tight as a gnat’s proverbial. Defensible as anything. Can you do that for me?” A slightly sour-looking Sergeant Hardcolt nodded. “I’ll see what I can rustle up, if that’s how it’s going to be.” Stoker nodded back. “Thank you. The rest of you, we are in all likelihood about to be up to our necks in it and we’re going to need every pony armed and dangerous. Now, anypony can be armed, but the dangerous only comes with practice. Therefore, Sergeant, would you be so kind as to offer those of who need it, myself included, a crash course in fighting?” Hardcolt snorted. Then he realised Stoker was serious. He cast about for any other marines, and despite some vigorous shaking of heads, he said okay. The crew might have argued the toss with Stoker the coal shoveller, but here was Stoker the Agent Provocateur. He had gravitas now. “Right then! Let’s hop to it!” The galley descended into a kind of good-natured chaos. Everypony was milling around, but they were milling with a purpose, at least. The newly-minted propaganda department gathered around Thrupenny Orlov who was revelling in his new-found power, the marines dithered as Hardcolt tried to get them organised in the traditional military manner (i.e. shouting) and every other pony rushed over to him. Stoker certainly had something going for him, thought Anchorage as he tried not to die in the crush. To think he was asleep an hour or so ago, and now he’s got the whole ship at his beck and call. Someone, somewhere must have an eye out for him. After a few minutes of desperate rushing, the room was organised. Hardcolt was surrounded by a new class of cadets and was desperately trying to delegate as much responsibility to the other sergeants as possible. Over in the corner, Thrupenny was explaining the workings of a sewing machine. His voice drifted over, saying ’...this is your sewing machine. There are many like it, but this one is yours...’ Stoker, Anchorage and Keel stood together in a knot near the door. “Well, Stoker,” said Keel, voice wheezing slightly, “you’ve done it again. Where’d you learn to talk like that? Where did all that about the ‘more equal system’ come from?” Stoker shrugged. “You said to provide them with an alternative, so I did.” “Heh, I’ll say. Heavens knows what you’ve started.” Stoker smiled, and tried not to make it look forced. He didn’t do a very good job. * * * The sky was blue as a sailor’s trousers over Stalliongrad as the royal train swept in on the northbound Solidarity Express line. The city had been scheduled to have light snow, but it had been postponed on account of the Princess’ visit, the mayor having been spurred into action by the universal force that propels all public officials on short notice. The town was alive with rumours about the mutiny, and the arrival of the Princess seemed to confirm that something had happened. Luckily, despite having been on board a train for nine hours (and a train designed for ponies half her size at that), the Princess had been able to make the rounds to all the big meeting places; Golden Square, the Mareva Memorial, and of course, the Winter Palace, calling for calm and doing her damnest to downplay the supposed crisis. They were, of course, flawless speeches of eloquence that’d make any earthly speechwriter go green with envy. They were speeches that could put backbone in a blancmange. And they were well-attended, too. Clerks, shopkeepers, even foals and teachers took the day off to come and see the Princess tell them about the importance of solidarity, of staying calm and not paying attention to silly rumours about burning effigies. This gave the Curzon Street Indefatigables all the space they needed to do the kind of thing such ponies do. And didn’t they just find the most interesting things... That was why Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane was in a dark, thick-walled cell somewhere deep in the Lug-Tanka Civic Guard station, debriefing the officers from the Ponytemkin who’d turned up under the Indefatigables’ auspices. She’d been told to confer with the naval liaison officer, but she didn’t want him involved. You could get into real trouble, letting the other guys on your level find out about what you were doing. It wasn’t like there were prizes for not being a sneaky bastard. The officers all claimed to have escaped under cover of dark on the midnight express from Nowheregorod, and had in fact been picked up by the Indefatigables for just that reason. The details were vague at best, but what they all knew for sure was that the Ponytemkin was in the hands of a demagogue, who was leading the crew now. Nothing about rampaging hordes of savage tribesponies, though, or mercenaries, or tax collectors strung from washing lines or anything else of that kind. It sounded like a Sunday night gone wrong to her. “They may be sterling chaps in their own right, but this is too far,” said the last one to be debriefed, the first mate Loggerhead. “If they have a grievance why can’t they just voice it like any normal pony, instead of declaring open warfare?” Crossfire nodded halfheartedly. She knew in her heart of hearts didn’t have time for this, but the Field Marshall had asked for information on the Ponytemkin and if there was a better way to get it, she didn’t want to know it. Anyway, this might be the feather in her cap she needed to get transferred to a Royal Guard regiment. All golden breastplates and parades from there on in. “So what is the strength of the Ponytemkin and its crew?” she said, fixing Loggerhead with her best no-nonsense glare. He did his best to seem nonplussed, which he did despicably well. Bloody navy. “Well, the ship itself is a mean customer. Finest navigation suite in the fleet, sighting instruments good enough to land a bomb in a pickle barrel at two miles, and it’s just been fitted with new catapults. You know, the new Model Nines out of the Toola arsenal.” Crossfire nodded impatiently. The Model Nines were powerful enough to send a railway spike across town and accurate enough to pin your tail to the floor with it. “And the crew?” “The crew? Well I know for a fact that much of the officer class has quit the vessel. The chief navigator and chief engineer fled with a couple dozen of us officers, and a few more marines. Sergeants Prizewalker, Steadfast and Brawlings-” “Yes, I know, I’ve just interviewed them,” Crossfire said, irritably. “What about the crew.” “I believe the ratings are not in significant numbers,” Loggerhead said, with a dismissive toss of his head. “With the loss of many of the marines they’re hardly in fighting shape, and they lack any kind of leadership. Except, well, maybe one pony. But he’s hardly important. A foal playing at revolutionary.” Crossfire nodded and smiled to herself. Most of the officers’ estimates had been around that, and if they were right (and Celestia help them if they weren’t) this was going to be easier than she’d dared hope. The force opposing them was sounding pitiful compared to what could be brought in. “Alright then, that’ll be all,” she said, wandering over to the door. “Thank you for the information. I daresay the Indefatigables will want a word with you now, so it might be in your best interests to make yourself scarce.” Loggerhead nodded and exited quickly. Crossfire sighed with relief. Well, with that over, she could get back to filing all that information and sending it back to the Field Marshall. First the report, then the transfer. She tied up her papers and carried them out in her mouth. She was just walking down the corridor when something rather spectacular happened. First off, the door burst open on a cell right next to her. Well, less burst open, more blown off its hinges and reduced to splinters in a burst of light and noise. And, if the tinny taste to the air was any indicator, magic too. Crossfire pressed herself to the wall beside the door, and risked a peek inside. She saw, but didn’t believe. Princess Celestia was standing, tall and terrible, wings outstretched for maximum effect, over a unicorn. He was dressed in a Royal Navy uniform that looked like it’d been dragged backwards through a bush. He was holding his hooves over his head and his eyes were shut tight. “YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF A SHIP FOR A SINGLE DAY AND YOU CAUSE A MUTINY,” roared Celestia, the walls shaking with the force of a full blast of the Canterlot Royal Voice. The captain wasn’t unconscious, but he doubtless wished he was. The effect of the Canterlot Royal Voice in such close quarters was not dissimilar from the effect of a Claymore mine in a telephone box. Suffice to say it was very loud, very close and with a comparable effect on your mental wellbeing. The worst part was probably the immediate emotional empathy, which set Crossfire’s insides into a terrible stew of shame and self-loathing. Or maybe the worst part was that the voice wasn’t angry, it was disappointed, and that made it somehow so much worse. “Look, it wasn’t like that,” said the captain, scuttling backward. “It wasn’t really my fault, you see I just gave a few orders and, and, and, and.” “The fact remains that you have lost the most powerful warship in the fleet to a group of mutineers! I must say, I am extremely disappointed in you!” The lone glow-worm bulb in the ceiling had blown out, sending crazy shadows across the walls as the flies blundered about. The Crossfire stayed hunkered down outside. She might have led the charge at Mareva, she might have rallied the troops at Thursk, but a pissed-off alicorn was more than anyone should have to deal with. The Princess seemed to recover herself a little now, harrumphing and tossing her mane (although it moved quite happily by itself). She leaned her head out into the corridor, smiling pleasantly, although Crossfire still tried to back away. “I do apologise, I was merely expressing my... disdain for my nephew’s conduct in here,” she cleared her throat with a dainty cough. What had she been thinking, using the Canterlot Royal Voice in an enclosed space? The land must be getting to her... Crossfire mumbled reassurance that it was alright. She got up to go, but the Princess waved her into the cell. “No, no, do stay,” she said, and Crossfire found herself unable not to. Celestia turned and stepped towards the captain. He scuttled back, hunched low. “First, dear nephew Blueblood, let’s establish how you were put in command of a battleship.” “Mumblemumblewsn’tmyfltmumblemumble.” “What was that?” said the Princess, crisply. “I thought you wanted to go to the Naval academy.” “Well, as an experience,” said Blueblood, student of the university of life. “Not as a career. I didn’t realise they’d ship me out to some uncivilised hole like Nowheregorod.” “Did you say that you didn’t want to go?” “Well... no,” said Blueblood, shamefaced. “So, you went to the academy of your own free will where you...?” “Studied the art of naval warfare.” “...Got drunk and defaced statues, according to your tutors,” Celestia said. “That might have been part of it,” said Blueblood, grudgingly. “Of course,” said Celestia, somehow managing to blink disapprovingly. “And from there, how did you become a captain?” “Well, they said that a commission for captain had come up on a ship, and I thought that, well, maybe I could try that,” said Blueblood, emboldened by his own outrage. “In my capacity as a Prince, it was available free. I’d have been a fool not to!” “Quite.” “And it’s not as if I was to expect them to mutiny, to be so ungrateful for my frankly necessary reforms. I mean, as royalty, I’m supposed to take charge of such things, to be an example to others,” he sighed and looked mournfully into the middle distance. “I just can’t think what went wrong.” “What indeed,” said Celestia, who glanced at Crossfire again. Celestia let out a sigh. “Well, Leiutenant,” she said, turning to Crossfire, who was still unwilling to move, despite Celestia’s best smile. “I daresay you’d like to question this captain about his ship.” Crossfire nodded slowly. Experience taught her that arguing with the big cheese was a bad move, and Celestia was about as big a cheese as you could get without being a hazard to air traffic. “I should hope the information doesn’t become necessary,” said Celestia, her voice faintly warning. “Can’t imagine why it would be,” said Crossfire, trying to smile sincerely. Celestia returned it, though slightly warning. “Why indeed.” “So, Captain Blueblood. Do enlighten us as to the precise nature of the mutiny...” * * * The sun was high in Nowheregorod and was, for a change fully visible. The air was cold but the sunlight warmed Stoker through his boiler suit as he stood on the slushy deck, his heart all aflutter. He glared across at Anchorage who stood with a sword clasped in his teeth, edging towards him with menace aforethought. Stoker growled and stepped forward, keeping his own weapon (a finely-crafted Toola fighting shovel) balanced in his mouth. He made a feint right and was rewarded by a wild lunge from his opponent. He went for an uppercut with the shovel, but was deflected back as the pegasus recovered in record time. He staggered and gritted his teeth around his shovel, digging into the grooves left by generations of fighters before him. Anchorage made to cut into his head with a straight lunge which Stoker swung to deflect with all his might. The shovel connected with the sword and Anchorage spun away with the impact. Stoker made to make an attack when Anchorage, still following the momentum, pirouetted on his front hoof, lifted himself slightly. Stoker’s shovel whirred past under his chin, smacking into the deck. Stoker made the mistake of looking up, where Anchorage’s sword descended, straight on to Stoker’s neck. A whistle blew. “Well, alright,” said Sergeant Hardcolt, clipboard on the deck beside him. “Not bad, Anchorage. You might even try that in an actual fight, if you could convince the other pony to stay still and gawp like dear Stoker did.” Stoker grumbled. It was Hardcolt’s heartfelt belief that the worst thing you do is praise someone about abilities they do not possess, and so he endeavoured to never praise anyone ever. Stoker suspected Hardcolt had nothing but a long list of pre-arranged putdowns on that clipboard. “We’re doing our best,” said Anchorage, shrugging. “Well quite,” said Hardcolt. “That seems to be the problem. No one can doubt your enthusiasm, only your results.” They shared a glance across the deck, where the detritus had been cleared for space. Everywhere, ponies sparred in pairs, with marines keeping watch to make sure nopony had anything vital removed by an over-enthusiastic partner. The risk was low, of course since the handful of swords the marines could spare from the armoury were all blunt, rusted things that would’ve had trouble cutting butter. Largely, it looked like the biggest risk was tetanus. Of course, there were so few swords to begin with, most were training with coal shovels which were awkward, heavy and were just as risky to the pony using them as your opponent. Keel sat on the sidelines, roaring with laughter every time somepony clocked themselves. The schadenfreude seemed to be doing him a world of good. “We just need more time...” said Stoker, surveying his forces for any hint of success, but even through rose-tinted spectacles, you could tell they were still green as grass. His musings were interrupted by the sound of a pony driven too far. At first Stoker though maybe some training had finally gotten out of hand, but a glance proved him wrong. A flying wedge of ponies was advancing across the deck, all dressed in the overalls of the tractor axle factory, headed by a lone unicorn, who was waving a sheet of paper wreathed in magic over his head. They were unarmed, but looked profoundly dangerous. The leader pulled up in front of Stoker, head held high with a look of distaste Pokery Orlov would have winced at. “So, this is how it is, then?” he said, waving the paper in Stoker’s face. “We peacefully protest for months on end and the some freebooters steal our thunder, eh?” Stoker tried to smile disarmingly, fully aware that disarming these ponies wasn’t the problem. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, dropping his fighting spade. Anchorage and Hardcolt stood beside him, staring straight back at the unicorn, but he had eyes only for Stoker. “This, is what I mean,” he said, throwing the piece of paper down in front of him, where it hovered of its own accord. It was a single sheet of paper, covered in long, rolling script. It wasn’t writing so much as a single line that wove across the page, looping all about. Princess Celestia (Ruler of Equestria, commander-in-chief of her armies, defender of the nation, Duchess of Cloudsdale, Baroness of Canterlot, Dogess of Neighples, Sol Invicta, The Eternal Light etc.) desires an audience with the mutineers of the battleship Ponytemkin in order to discuss the reasons for aforementioned mutiny and a possible settlement. Terms broadly negotiable, but don’t expect any favours. Arrival at 7:00 ish. Stoker, Anchorage and Hardcolt stared at the notice. Other crewmembers, drawn by the sound of a good confrontation leaned over to have a look of their own. Mutters spread out as the new spread. The unicorn was smiling like the man who’s just sold you the spade you’re digging yourself a hole with. “Well? Nothing to say for yourselves?” “I’d certainly like to know how you got your hooves on it,” said Hardcolt, still reading. “It just turned up in a puff of smoke at the post office. Addressed to ‘the rebels’, which I assumed would be us, but apparently not!” “Well, so Princess wants a word with us,” said Stoker, shrugging. “That’s no crime, is it?” “Ha! Your mutiny has detracted from the bold actions of the genuine social activists in this town! Those of the All-Equestrian Tractor Axle Factory Worker’s Union!” He paused “Or AETAFWU, for short.” “Actions?” said Anchorage, eyes raised provocatively. “You’ve only been on strike. We stole a battleship.” The unicorn’s eyes looked like he’d make a lunge for Anchorage, but the sight of his small knot of ponies being surrounded by the crew of the Ponytemkin made him think twice. He gritted his teeth instead. “I’ll have you know it’s been a long and weary fight to improve the conditions of the ponies working in that factory,” he said, keeping his breathing steady. ”We’ve been doing all we can to get the attention of the Princesses but it’s been a bloody uphill struggle. We’ve sent petitions in, had them sent back, queried, lost, found, had them subjected to public inquiry, jumped through every bloody bureaucratic hoop they can think of and we’re still no closer.” Stoker smiled. An idea lit up behind his eyes. “Say, what’s your name?” he said slowly. “Sandblast, regional leader of the AETAFWU,” he said with more than a touch of pride. “Right, well, Sandblast, how’s about you and the... and your union come with us then and voice your grievances then eh? We’ve got a bunch of ponies below decks stitching banners, and I’m sure they could make one for you. We can make a show of solidarity.” Sandblast looked a little taken aback. He’d expected a fight to the death, only to receive a bunch of flowers and a pat on the back. Mind you, the fact they were surrounded by swarthy seaponies did suggest a fight could still be on the cards. He turned to his accomplices, who all shrugged or nodded. “I... suppose we could. The note said she’d be arriving this evening, didn’t it?” “Right. We’ll meet her at the train station together,” Stoker gave Sandblast another smile. “We’ll tell the mayor and all,” said Sandblast, smiling back, a little uneasily. “She’ll have a heart attack if the Princess turns up without her knowing. You just be sure to get some kind of promo’ material for us, eh?" The ponies behind Sandblast all nodded, some less coerced than others. Sandblast gave Stoker the grin of a pony who’s not sure what’s just happened but is broadly pleased with what he thinks has happened. “I’ll come with, if you don’t mind?” Said Stoker. “Just to make sure we’re represented in front of the mayor.” “And me. You’re not to be trusted on your own,” said Anchorage, half-joking. Stoker turned to Hardcolt “Would you mind coming with us?” he said.“We’ve got other work, by the look of things...” * * * The sun shone down on two ponies who weren’t there. They walked (or rather, didn’t walk) through the Stalliongrad train yards with the air of surreptitious importance. They passed between the various candy-coloured carriages, through to the cargo yards. Once they had, they hadn’t. They hopped up inside a rather unassuming car and the door slid shut behind them. Inside, it was humid and full of the smell of the car’s last cargo which seemed to have consisted of incontinent sheep. It was lit only with a single glow worm bulb and the faint light shining through the slats, all serving to illuminate the... whatever it was in the middle of the car. It was a shape, long and low and covered in tarpaulin. The light, such as it was, also lit the shapes of a unicorn in a white coat, the naval liaison officer and Lieutenant Crossfire Hurricane. One of the newcomers cleared her throat. She was dressed in a khaki tunic and had the field-marshal’s insignia on her epaulets. Her eyes were puce and alive with barely-suppressed anger at the world in general. “Right, I hope you all understand the gravity of the situation,” she said. Her voice was clipped, almost a bark, bred for command, “and thus why we’re all here. In deference to our Princess’ decision, we will not be resorting to immediate military action.” “However, we thought it prudent to maintain a level of watchfulness over the situation,” said the other pony, bluey-green coat and dressed in a plain royal blue uniform with a bare minimum of white piping. His voice was a wet drawl, like he kept it in a fish tank.“Permanent surveillance as a precaution, a forward operations base, nothing out of the ordinary. Naturally, you are expected to undertake a show of force, should action be necessary.” He didn’t say ‘And that would just be terrible’, but Crossfire heard it anyway. "As such, we are putting all personnel on full preparedness. Elements of the 1st Lancers, Pasturekhan Rangers and the Jet Stream Guards are standing up on the Westbound line to Nowheregorod. As a precaution, you understand.” Crossfire nodded, her face a picture of professionalism. Stupid arseholes, she thought. Top brass making trouble for a poor junior officer like her. “Furthermore, we feel that the situation is serious enough to warrant the deployment of this.” On cue, the unicorn twitched aside the tarpaulin. The light, such as it was, shone on six, long barrels, cogs, ratchets, springs, a veritable contrivance of mechanical bits. All of it had the dull look of well-polished iron and the sheen of oil. There was a moment of awkward silence. Those assembled were clearly supposed to be impressed, but they weren’t quite sure what by. Crossfire raised a hoof. “If I may, what is it?” Heads turned to the unicorn, who cleared her throat. She was pale and was shuffling from one hoof to the other like the ground was about to open up under her. “Well, its official designation is the Model Four Rotary Cannon, but we find it easier to refer to it after the names of its inventors, Fifty Smith and Callisto Wesson.” She coughed politely. “We call it the Fifty-Cal.” “And what does it do?” said Crossfire. “It’s designed to... it’s... well, to provide a... a high rate of fire over a, er, an, umm,” the unicorn faltered and halted. Words failed her. You could dress the thing up in technical language, she knew that much, but at a time like this, that hardly seemed appropriate. Not once you’d seen it tested. Not once you’d seen test dummies reduced to something you could sweep up and bury in a shot glass. “It’s designed to kill as many of whatever you want it to kill in a short space of time,” she said at last. She gestured to a row of paper cylinders in the corner. “You load up the big tray with these things and pedal at the back, which turns the cog which rotates the barrels and strikes sparks off this bit here. It can get through a hundred shells in a couple of minutes. It’s sort of like a cannon that fires automatically.” The Field Marshall and the Commodore exchanged nods, and Crossfire and the naval liaison officer nodded back. The unicorn, for her part, had gone slightly green. "So there, you see,” said the Field Marshall, picking up the slack. “We do hope the use of this weapon is not necessary, but if the situation in Nowheregorod continues to escalate, then we expect you to take steps to prevent it by any means necessary.” Two heads nodded. Despite the heat, the unicorn shivered. Then the liaison officer made a mistake. “And of course, the Princess has given her full support for this action.” He said it quite innocently, but the Field Marshall nonetheless fixed him with a stare that went straight past daggers and right into machetes. “The Princess knows all she needs to know about this operation,” she said, icily. Which was, strictly speaking, true.