Chapter Five
Realities of Power
The sun had gone down by seven o’clock, sunk down below the hills west of Nowheregorod. The cold had started to creep back, but Stoker just stamped his hooves and checked the station clock. Princess Celestia would be here soon enough. He gave the rest of the welcoming committee a reassuring smile.
Good lord, the Welcoming Committee. Or rather, the ‘Nowheregorod Royal Visit Acclimatisation And Administration Committee’ as Sandblast called it until everyone told him that the acronym looked like a bad deal in Scrabble. Such as it was, it represented what Stoker thought was a pretty reasonable cross-section of the movement. It consisted of himself, naturally, Anchorage, who had insisted on coming along, Beaufort, who had styled himself as the chief of etiquette (because they could hardly call him the officers' rep. under the circumstances), Hardcolt, whose exclusion would be unthinkable given his new position of head of security, Sandblast as a representative of the AETAFWU to show their new alliance, and the mayor.
The mayor hadn’t been best pleased to find that Princess Celestia had arranged a visit without telling her, but had rallied magnificently by firing orders off like fireworks on Hearth’s Warming Eve and demanding a place on the welcoming committee. She mightn’t have cared for anypony’s politics, but when it came to a royal visit, she was galvanised like nothing else.
All in all, they’d done quite a good job of sprucing the town up. Thrupenny and his teams had made some... banners, one of which fluttered cheerfully overhead. It was big and red (alright, so they were all red) and read ‘Well Come to Nowhereogrod, Princess Celestia. Curtsey of the Wellcoming Commiittee’. He may have been enthusiastic, but the fact remained Thrupenny’s approach to spelling was it from a distance, carrying a big stick.
The mayor was responsible for most of the preparations though, since it was she who’d suggested they dust off the Winter Wrap-Up boilers. Up north, they much favoured efficiency over tradition when it came to wrapping up winter, so they used big wheeled boilers to pump hot seawater through the streets, which made clearing the snow a lot easier.
Mind you, even with all that, though, they’d still needed all the crew of the Ponytemkin and the factory workers to actually clean the town up. The ponies of Nowheregorod spent all their days and nights inside during winter, so anywhere outside became a convenient place to put things no longer needed, since there was no point worrying if whatever you threw out was just going to get covered in snow. Stoker was slightly worried they hadn’t disposed of the rubbish in quite the right way, but Celestia probably wouldn’t want to look in the warehouses on the waterfront anyway. The mayor had assured them it had worked last time.
Besides, they needed the pegasi of the Ponytemkin and the factory workers who worked part-time on the weather team to clear the sky and send back any clouds that’d been sent their way. That was a nightmare in itself. The weather around here seemed to be going mad.
(This was because of a problem with the Northeast Weather Corps, who not only had the backlog from Stalliongrad to deal with, but every town that the royal train had passed though. It came to a head during the Murmanesk Monsoon in which a third of the town was washed away in the spring of the following year. Celestia visited the ruined town to oversee reconstruction, which caused another backlog on her way through. This.resulted in the Weather Corps instituting a less flexible weather policy. This sort of thing happens all the time. Far more than anypony would admit to, really).
The clock ticked to one minute past. The welcoming committee leaned forward as one and stared down the tracks. They vanished into the distance, off around the bend and remained resolutely train-less.
“She did say seven, right?” said the mayor, a trifle unsure.
“Well yes, but she has got half a country to go across first. It’d be hard to be precise,” said Stoker with a shrug.
“True, but she raises the sun across the entire country every morning at sunrise dead on. I mean, it’d be a pretty rum thing if she couldn’t even make the trains run on time.”
Sandblast and Beaufort murmured in a vague agreement.
“Look, it might be a while either side, okay? Anyway, it’s only a minute past. Anyone could make that mistake.”
“Two minutes,” said the mayor, pointedly.
“Well, alright, but still. To err is only equestrian, right?”
“Yeah, but the Princess isn’t us, is she?”
Stoker rolled his eyes. “Look, unless you’ve somewhere better to be...”
“Now you mention it, I should probably refile my cabinets after Sandblast-”
“...I’d advise you to stay.”
The atmosphere went stale after that. The mayor muttered something under her breath and glanced up at the clock. Still two minutes past. The time dragged by. In the street, the two rows of marines they’d arranged for a guard of honour were getting restless. Stoker started to shift from one hoof to the other. He was aware he hadn’t had time to change out of his boiler suit, and he’d barely had time to wash, let alone tidy himself up. He wondered if the royal train would be late enough to allow a last minute haircut. Mind you, did this town even have a hairdressers?
Three minutes past. Anchorage produced a pack of cards and started to shuffle.
Four minutes. Hardcolt suggested a game of Blackmail. Beaufort and the mayor declined and Stoker tacitly ignored it.
Five minutes. Stoker gave up and joined in.
Six minutes.
Seven.
Beaufort decided to get a hoof in.
Eight.
By the time the royal train rounded the bend with a triumphant blast of its foghorn, they were four rounds in and Beaufort was six bits fifty cents down. The players rushed to their feet and the mayor was shaken awake. They lined up at the platform’s edge, and stood not to attention necessarily, but at least to mild interest.
The royal train rolled into the station with a hiss of steam and a low chuffing, like some vast and terrifying creature with asthma. It was at least as high as any house in Nowheregorod, a long silver thing like a blunt eel, bedecked with royal insignia. Smoke and steam billowed out of the thing in huge waves. Stoker tried not to be impressed.
The carriage door opened and two lantern-jawed guards hopped out and kicked a set of steps down. They gave the welcoming committee a hard look, their eyes settling on Hardcolt, who glared back as good as he got. After a few moments, the guards’ eyes began to water. They took up position beside the doorway, trying to keep the look of uninterested alertness of guards everywhere. Princess Celestia descended the steps out of the carriage and on to the platform. She moved like she had never simply walked down anything in her life. Descending was her style.
The guards bowed their heads down as she passed. There was a minor ripple of uncertainty through the committee. The mayor bobbed as if to kneel, and Beaufort followed suit, but Stoker stood straight. Anchorage, Hardcolt and Sandblast stayed up too, both with similar expressions of resolve. Sandblast in particular had a look of hurt righteousness about him, his lip quivering nobly. They stood for a moment amidst the hissing, billowing steam, Stoker looking up into Celestia’s eyes.
“You’re late,” said Stoker.
“Fashionably late,” said Celestia, smiling.
Stoker smiled too, and the universe caught its breath.
“Welcome to Nowheregorod, on behalf of the welcoming committee,” he said, holding a hoof out to indicate the others.
“Charmed,” she said, nodding to the group.
Anchorage and Hardcolt nodded back, Sandblast stayed with his daring look. There was another pause.
“Shall we go on?”
“Of course, right, yes,” said Stoker, turning and leading the way. “We thought it best to hold talks at Town Hall. Big, plenty of space.”
Celestia gave a graceful nod.
The welcoming committee moved in front of Celestia, Stoker and Anchorage at the fore, followed by Hardcolt, Sandblast and the Mayor. They led the way between the lines of marines, who had abandoned their card games for the moment and were endeavouring to out-stoic the royal guards.
They rolled down National Stroll, a straight street to Town Hall hedged in by the usual grey, blocky Nowheregorod buildings and lit by a few industrial-strength sodium bug lamp posts. Town Hall dominated one end of the street, a large and rambling building with all sorts of additions; old columns of solid rock, later extensions in classical, neo-classical, pebble-dash, with minarets, turrets, gargoyles, ornate gutters, crenellations. It looked like someone had started designing it and forgotten to stop.
The only colour in the street was in the red banners and bunting strung across the street. Stoker passed under one that read ‘Ponies of the world untie, you have nothing to lose but your chins’. Sure, thought Stoker, that’s going to put the wind up the Princess isn’t it? He sighed. It had just seemed... seemed like the right thing to do. Banners, bunting, slogans. You needed all that, didn’t you?
The way was lined with was lined with Nowheregorod’s inhabitants who, despite the cold had ventured out nonetheless, dressed in their grey and brown and black winter clothes. None cheered. They had the air of ponies who could see the unstoppable force on its way to the immovable object, and despite being curious about the outcome, nonetheless worried about their proximity to it. Stoker spotted a few of Thrupenny’s protégés sporting red stars stitched on their jackets and overalls. One or two braver ones had painted them over their cutie marks.
He glanced back at Celestia, who seemed to be somewhere on the way to being angry, but was taking her time getting there. Her look suggested entomologist scrutinising a beetle armed with a handgun. Well, doubtless it’d all be better once they got to Town Hall and explained everything. She was a reasonable and fair monarch, wasn’t she? Known for it, she was. Anyway, she could hardly be expected to hold much against revolutionaries who couldn’t even spell. Stoker tried to force down the faint, warning voice in the back of his head.
Celestia, for her part, was trying to stay calm too. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, maybe a sudden ambush and imprisonment (ha! Let ‘em try), but it was, this certainly wasn’t it. Whatever this was. It certainly wasn’t Trotpuddle, which had just been a couple of malcontents with bad attitudes who didn’t know when to shut up. It didn’t look much like the Swing Riots either, this was too orderly and none of the buildings were looking burned and looted. And it sure as hell wasn’t anything like Canterloo. She’d make sure of that at least.
She felt like she was bracing herself for a storm that wasn’t coming. She sighed to herself. The land was making her on edge. Don’t let it get to you, she thought, not now.
* * *
Binoculars followed Stoker and his party down National Stroll from a hill a few miles away. It might’ve been a tad harder to get line of sight like this, but it’d be a cold day in hell before Crossfire Hurricane let the unicorns try scrying the target. She didn’t trust magic enough, even if it did mean spending a cold evening lying arse-deep in snow on some god-forsaken hilltop waiting on a train that was doing a damn good impression of one that was never going to arrive.
She could have waited a bit and gone with the command train, but that wasn’t going to be in position for a good while yet, and anyone knew how bad things could get in that time. Best to get in on the ground with the recon team just in case.
All said, it looked fairly normal down there. Well, normal for a royal visit at least. Okay, maybe the bunting was a different colour and no one was bowing, but, well, that was always just the icing, wasn’t it? No one was throwing anything at the procession, no one was mobbing the Princess, and there was no sign of anypony having been strung up from the lampposts. She began to wonder if the military caution was strictly necessary. It certainly didn’t look like a good show of trust on their part.
She lifted her head and turned to a lump of snow beside her. On further examination, it revealed itself to be the rest of the recon team, or Vickers, as he was otherwise known. He was a pretty rangy pony, and in his big camouflage jacket, he looked like another snowdrift. He was in charge of communications for this little jaunt, which meant he got to carry the fluorescent semaphore flags.
“Corporal?” she said, nudging him. “You awake?
“Just restin’ my eyes,” he muttered. He was part of the Stalliongrad Civic Guards regiment, but nonetheless had an affected accent from Lower Manehattan.
“Well, get up and smell the frying objects. The Princess is now in and proceeding to town hall. Send a message back.”
“Right, ma’am,” he said, creeping down into the lee of the hill. They probably wouldn’t see the flags from the town, but it was worth being safe and certain.
Crossfire hunkered back down to the binoculars and had another look. It wouldn’t pay to be caught unawares.
* * *
Anchorage and Hardcolt decided they’d stay outside (Anchorage whispered ‘knock ‘em dead, tiger’ to Stoker just loud enough for Celestia to hear) and the others ventured inside. The inside of Town Hall was little improvement on the outside. The corridor walls were all painted a sickly, lime green and all had the smell of floor-polish and boiled cabbage that pervades all big civic buildings after a time. Most of it was just a shell of newer additions around a far older building, at the heart of which was the meeting hall.
It was by far the oldest part of the building, all rough wood panelling and carvings in the old style, done long before anyone had thought to question the glorification of violence, or the application of violence as a diplomatic tool. They weren’t the kind of thing you’d want to look at after a heavy meal. The room was lit, albeit poorly, by high windows up near the roof, which should have made the carvings less threatening, but in the gloom the imagination just filled in the gaps.
The raised dais at the far end of the room was missing its throne of skulls, and the severed heads of enemies had been taken down in the name of diplomacy, but the room remembered. It was a place of power. It hit Celestia as she crossed the threshold, all that ancient authority and desiccated fury of those old ponies. She recognised it as something like the kind of emotional miasma she’d experienced only in the oldest dragon habitations. She tried to think calm thoughts, and not let it get to her. After those banners, those ponies in the street with their cutie marks painted over, the last thing she needed was to be stuck in a room this aggravating. She mustn’t let it get to her.
Stoker, Sandblast, the mayor all took places around the long rectangular oak table in the middle of the room as char-wallahs dashed around, doing what they did best. One, sensing a change in the air, made eye contact with Princess Celestia, giving what he imagined was a hard look and receiving a smile in return. She took a seat halfway down the table, across from Stoker. Sandblast and the mayor sat at either end of the table.
Rather than vanishing, as they usually did, the char-wallahs hung around, leaning insouciantly against the walls or sitting quietly, watching the ponies around the table. One had painted a red star over his cutie mark. Of course, she thought, they want me to see.
“Well,” she said, lifting her teacup .“I feel that some kind of formality may be in order?”
The mayor shrugged “Never really gone in for that kind of thing before.”
"I think Sandblast would like a word first, though,” said Stoker. “Before we go on any further.”
“Very well then.”
Sandblast stood, looking a mite nervous. Even at his full height he was still only at eye-level with Celestia.
“Well, your majesty, as you might know, we’ve sought an audience with you for some time,” he said. “But we have been unable to actually have one. You see, I represent the union of tractor axle factory workers here in Nowheregorod, and we have a long list of grievances against the present administration of said factory, chief among which are-“
Celestia raised a hoof as politely as possible “Why didn’t you just say?” she said, with a bemused frown. “The palace is open at all hours to petitioners.”
“That’s just it,” said Sandblast, recovering well from the interruption, “there’s no way any of us at the factory could afford the train to Canterlot. Not on the wages we get. Or rather, got.”
“Why didn’t you mail a petition, then?” said the Princess.
“We did. We were assured it would reach you.”
Celestia thought of Canterlot, and of her in-tray. She promised herself she would read every piece of correspondence and provide a response, but there were only so many hours in the day. Had there been something about industrial unrest in the north?
“I... apologise. I’ll look into your problem and see what can be done.“
“We have been on strike for six months,” said Sandblast, slowly. “I would like to be able to tell my people a little better than ‘she’s looking into it’.”
There was a sound from the char-wallahs, of air sucked between their teeth. They turned their heads to Celestia like spectators watching a tennis rally.
“Well then, what’s the name of the pony who owns the factory? I’ll pop down and talk to him after this meeting.”
Sandblast looked sheepish. “That’s just it. We don’t know who owns the factory.”
“Don’t know?” she said, the hint of enjoyment entering her voice. “But who pays your wages then?”
“The pony at the desk. We never questioned where the bits came from,” Sandblast had run through the many responses Princess Celestia might have had to his demands, but these questions hadn’t been one of them. Especially not questions he’d not thought to ask. His sheepishness intensified.
“Then who did you talk to about going on strike then?” she said, sweetly.
“We didn’t, we just... sort of... decided to. We figured he’d find out.”
Stoker and the mayor gave Sandblast a Look. It would have surprised no one if he’d grown wool and gone baa.
“I see,” said Princess Celestia, the ghost of a smile glinting in the gloom. “Then I will have to look into the problem first. Rest assured the ponies from Curzon Street will be on it.”
Sandblast’s face blanched at the mention of the Boys In Beige. “Oh, no need. I daresay the situation will resolve itself in due time-“
“I insist,” said the Princess, smiling. Internally, she was screaming. What was she thinking? She knew ponies didn’t like to hear about the Indefatigables. She knew it’d put the wind up him, but she couldn’t stop herself. The room must be getting to her. The land must be getting to her.
“Well... if that’s how it is,” said Stoker, his smile a tad more forced. “Sandblast, is that alright?”
Sandblast nodded, trying not to look flustered. The wallahs muttered among themselves.
“I believe I’ll go and tell the union about this,” he said, leaving the words ‘and clean by skivvies while I’m at it’ tragically unsaid.
He levitated his tea and walked out with the thousand-yard stare of those who’ve just survived a near-death experience. Celestia turned to the mayor, smiling.
“Now, is there anything you’d like to say?” she said, pleasantly as she could.
The mayor’s ideas of budget requests, tenure and other such civic troubles vanished, replaced by thoughts of the chaps from Curzon Street and the more elaborate carvings around the hall. She shook her head, made her excuses and left. Celestia turned to Stoker, who shrugged and kept smiling. It looked to Celestia like a smile that had died and was now undergoing rigor mortis.
“Well then. What do I call you? Do you have a title yet?” she said to Stoker.
“No, I’m Stoker,” he said, his smile melting a little into something a little less dead. “I... I suppose I represent the crew.”
“Very well.”
They sipped their tea and stared at each other. The char-wallahs, who had poured themselves cups, stared at the both of them. Then the wallahs stared at each other, just for sake of verisimilitude. The air was thick with tension. If there had been an elephant in the room, it would have had to leave out of embarrassment. Finally, Celestia spoke.
“So, what possessed you to mutiny? You seem very reasonable for murderous revolutionaries.”
Stoker looked hurt. “Well, I- we- I thought that the captain was going too far with his orders. They were all so meaningless , so I decided not to follow them.”
Celestia nodded. Stoker went on.
“So I sat it out, only then Keel sat down too, which meant Shetland sat down which meant that the rest of the ponies at our boiler sat down, which meant every other boiler sat down. Then they sent in marines to get us back to work, only we didn’t, so they shot Keel, so we set upon them, so I told Shetland, Irons and a couple of marines to clear Keel out of there, then we marauded up on deck and... well...” Stoker paused for breath. “And so then we did what we did and took control.”
Celestia nodded again and was thoughtful for a moment. It had to be like this, didn’t it? Ths was the price you paid for being immortal. You could scold and declaim, decree and order and use your experience, but in the end, you couldn’t stop things like this from happening all the time.
“I see. But surely it was your duty to follow your orders.”
“Yes, but these were stupid orders. Would you expect any right thinking pony to follow stupid orders, even from you?”
“I thought adherence to orders was one of the great traditions of the Equestrian Navy.”
Stoker bit his lip and tried not to smile. The char-wallahs sneered audibly. One of them muttered something about the three ‘uggeries’ of naval tradition and someone sniggered.
“Nonetheless, the fact remains we acted, right or wrong, and we’re in charge of a warship now,” said Stoker.
“Of course,” said Celestia, glancing aside. The light seemed to have dimmed, and the shadows had drawn in. “What might convince you to give it back?”
Stoker looked thoughtful for a moment. He had a shape of what he’d accept, but nothing exact. He took a breath and started.
“I want... Well, we... no, I would like to see some changes. No more ponies given positions of power because of where they are in the grand order of things. No more preference for royalty or aristocracy, and definitely no more Bluebloods. Some kind of vetting, some kind of test. The best pony gets the job, right?”
Celestia stared long and hard at Stoker, sizing him up. The light was definitely going down in here. The shadows lengthened and the char-wallahs cast glances up at the carvings. Stoker bit his lip and continued.
“I know it seems selfish, but I know this is how it ought to be. You can’t run the country on the basis of first come first served.”
“But it isn't,” said Celestia, insistently. “Only a pony who’s graduated from the Stalliongrad Naval Academy and has the means to buy a commission could be captain of a ship, not just anypony off the street, which seems to be what you’re proposing.”
“And who goes to the Naval Academy?” said Stoker, leaning up on his hooves, anger seething between his teeth. “The rich and powerful! Tuition fees, train tickets, accommodation, these things all add up! And who pays the commissions? A thousand bits to be first mate, two thousand for the captaincy! At the top of all things lies the scum.”
Celestia frowned. “And who’s that quote from? Who said that first?”
Stoker glared. It wasn’t a very refined glare; not as sharp as, say, Pokery’s, and it certainly lacked the weight of ages of Celestia’s, but it had anger and it had a lot of courage behind it. It looked like a very promising glare that might improve with age and practice.
“I did, just now. And I mean it. This country is run by those who have no connection to it. Hell, poor Sandblast doesn’t even know who runs his life.”
Celestia tried to stay calm, but it was getting hard. She could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her. The history, the anger. She tried not to sweat.
“But isn’t that how Equestria has always been ruled? Is that not why me and Luna are in charge?”
Stoker paused. He could feel thoughts, momentous thoughts, colliding and grinding against one another in his head like icebergs far out at sea. All were drawing to a conclusion that had been a long time coming, but had been always been the only conclusion. He could see now that it had been inevitable, ever since he’d put a hoof on the long stair up from the boiler room. This was his destination. The shadows around Stoker grew deeper and the char-wallahs huddled closer, their shit-fan proximity alarms blaring like mad.
“Then maybe,” he said, deliberately, “maybe you shouldn’t be.”
Celestia steepled her hooves, her face a very picture of calm. Beneath it, her mind roiled with terrible thoughts. It always came to this, didn’t it? Ponies like Stoker might start with the best of intentions, but before long it always came down to them knowing better. Them, with their few years and limited lives. Celestia hated herself to admit it, she had to take charge. Being immortal gave you experience, experience you could shape a nation with, but there was always one who was convinced he knew better. At Trotpuddle, at the Swing Riots, and at Canterloo, always someone. Well, she’d show him...
She saw something flicker in the shadows behind Stoker, derailing her train of thought. She peered at it, and saw that the shadows didn’t look like shadows. It was more like a hole in the world to somewhere else. Somewhere dark and old. She shook her head briskly. It was the room, the room was getting to her, the room and the land. She was no tyrant. She gave the ponies the right to their own lives. She was reasonable. She had to be. She was known for it. She would be now.
She looked across the table at Stoker, who honestly looked appalled at what he’d just said. Celestia opened her mouth to speak, and saw Stoker’s shadow flicker again. For a moment, all her anger crystallised. I can’t be having with this, she thought. Fiat lux, you bastards.
Light flooded from her horn, like someone had brought the sun down and switched all the dials to full. It filled the room, the shadows stripping away like cobwebs before a flamethrower until all was light. The air tasted of burning almonds and tin. The carvings were lit up in their full glory, every inch of them. Celestia felt the room react to the magic, trying to earth its history into her. She saw images of ancient leaders, of cities long gone, and of ponies long since dead (usually at the moment when they were only just dead, often in quite spectacular detail).
She shook her head clear of these visions and cast her eye about the room. In the golden-white light of her truth, she saw it as it was. She saw the char-wallahs as a fearful knot, but with their core of bravery that would keep them delivering tea even as the deck went vertical and the band played the last song. The carvings were faint traceries of bad intentions and the ghosts of pride and prejudice hung around like gauze streamers. She turned with some apprehension to Stoker, who sat at the other end of the table, his eyes glued open. She saw him as a bundle of fear wrapped around his good intentions, which held him standing him ramrod-straight, uncertainty wilting it slightly, and...
Behind him, the only shadow in the room stood. No, not a shadow, she could see that now. It was just something dark following him. She stared past Stoker at it, and he turned his head to look. She couldn’t see his expression, but she saw the spike of sudden terror run up his back. The... thing stood there, the silhouette of a pony in profile.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Celestia said, slowly, deliberately, fixing it with her best glare.
The shadow stayed silent, an unreadable black shape. Inside, Celestia cheered. There was always a rational explanation for these things. It was only natural that some eldritch horror Pony Was Not Meant To Know was behind all this. It was just a matter of damage control and clearing up now.
“I am Princess Celestia,” she said, her voice stern and commanding. “I hope you understand what that means.”
The thing, insofar as it could, looked pensive. Then the words arrived in the heads of those present, in a voice that sounded like it came from a throat made of velvet.
I know who you are, and I know exactly what that means.
“Then who are you, and what are you doing here?” Celestia repeated.
I think the best word for me is probably... Story.
Celestia narrowed her eyes and walked closer to the thing. It stretched from Stoker’s hooves like any common or garden shadow, but it stayed there against the far wall, as if pinned there.
“What have you done here? What have you done to this pony?” she demanded
Nothing. I’m quite incapable of doing anything.
This wasn’t normal, thought Celestia. Where was the gloating? Where was the ‘you’ve just walked straight into my trap’ spiel? This thing wasn’t even smiling for goodness sake.
“Why are you following me then?” said Stoker, keeping all but an edge of terror out of his voice.
Because your story had to run its due course. Your majesty had her part too, because there can’t be a revolution if the rulers don’t try to crush it. Otherwise it’s just a footnote in history. But this is going to live on.
“But what were you doing?” shouted Stoker, his anger returning.
Watching. Making sure what has to happen happens, according to the story.
“You were going to lead us into civil war,” said Stoker, fear running a merry dance up and down his spine, “because it makes a good story?”
No, no, no, you’ve got it all backwards, you see. That is the story, that you rise up and fight. The stories of this land cannot be denied, you see. They have to run their course. I just record the different iterations.
They were silent for a moment. Then, one of the char-wallahs, a chocolate brown fellow, spoke up.
“So you mean to say this whole thing was a set-up from the beginning, then?”
In a sense. You were playing out the story that ponies have acted out before. There are precedents, you understand. The Swing Rioters, the Trotpuddle Martyrs, the Canterloo massacre. All the same story, you see, just with different actors. And you know the story can only end one way. In blood.
Celestia didn’t even blink. The voice wasn’t angry, or sarcastic, just stating facts, and that just made it worse. It knew what she’d done, and now so did everypony else. She could feel the eyes of Stoker and the char-wallahs on her. She cleared her throat, although her voice was always clear as a bell.
“Canterloo was not my decision,” she said, her voice frosted. “The Captain of the Yeomanry acted without consulting me.”
The thing made no move to speak. It managed to project the idea of a shrug without actually shrugging.
“I wasn’t made aware of the Martyrs until it was too late.”
The thing remained silent. The wallahs glanced nervously to one another.
“I was doing my best with a bad situation!”
Silence went on. Calm, Celestia, calm. Not here, and certainly not now.
“What if we change your story, then?” She said, slipping into her anti-villain voice. “What if we end here, without blood this time.”
Well, that’s not how it works. The blood’s part of the story, you see, and the story will not be denied.
“Well, I’m certainly not going in a hurry to spill anyone’s blood,” said Stoker. “So who’s going to do it?”
The story will have an antagonist somewhere.
* * *
Crossfire had been dozing in the snowdrift. It was surprisingly comfortable, all soft and downy, and through her winter camouflage she could hardly feel the cold, or the damp. She could have laid there all night, if the town hall hadn’t lit up suddenly. It glowed like a lantern, light burning in the windows. She muttered and swore and nudged Vickers awake.
“Get this back to the command train,” she said in a hushed tone. She hadn’t seen any patrols around, but that was never proof they weren’t there. They might be very good patrols. “Town Hall lit up. Magic involved, most likely. Please advise.”
Vickers’ muzzied head rose, and then the rest of him. He turned but made no move to lift his flags. He stood stock still, staring back at the hill behind them.
“Well, Vickers? Are you gonna send that or not?”
“See, I would,” said Vickers, in a faintly puzzled tone, “but the flags on the other hill are already sending to us.”
Crossfire swore again violently, a word that began with F and ended in CKS.
“In my family, you’d get no supper with language like that,” said Vickers, automatically.
“Damn your family, Vickers. What’s the message?”
Vickers strained his eyes to make out the flailing figure on the far hill. After all, he didn’t want to upset the pony who could make ‘Fiddlesticks’ sound like a declaration of war. He mouthed the words as they were spelled out.
“Says... the command train’s moving up to deploy in the town,” he said, slowly. “They’re bringing in all they’ve got.”
Another bad word poised itself on Crossfire’s tongue, but she held it back.
“How much of ‘all’ do you mean here?” said Crossfire, hunkering up next to Vickers. Vickers didn’t like to think it, but his superior sounded worried.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t say, just that they’re moving up and we’re to stay here.”
There was a pause. Vickers could hear Crossfire breathing heavily and steady. Maybe it was just a precaution, she thought, maybe they were just bringing the train up to be on the safe side. Maybe it was all just that harmless.
Crossfire almost had herself convinced, but she remembered the anger in the Field Marshall’s eyes, and the greedy glistening of the Commodore’s in the dark of that cargo wagon. She thought about exactly the kind of view they’d take to the ponies down there in Nowheregorod. And she remembered the Fifty-Cal. She remembered that distinctly. She came to a conclusion.
“Right, Vickers, ditch your uniform and head into town. Warn them that the army’s coming, and that they’ve got serious artillery, alright? I’ll see if I can’t catch the train before it reaches town and convince them to turn back. There’s gonna be seven types of manure if they use half of what they’ve got in that train.”
Vickers stood for a moment, processing the order. Crossfire was worried for a moment that maybe Vickers might start to think. He might ask how he was supposed to convince the ponies down there that he knew the army was coming, what Crossfire thought she was doing abandoning her post, or indeed why they were warning the enemy at all, but Celestia bless him, he did no such thing. She could have kissed him. She made do with nodding approvingly.
“Tell ‘em... tell ‘em they’ve got about fifteen minutes. Maybe twelve by the time you get down there.”
They set off in different directions, he speeding down the other side of the hill while trying to get out of his snow-jacket, and she dashing off down the other side into the railway in the valley. There was a thick layer of storm cloud above it, pushed by unseen pegasi. Standard procedure to soften up resistance, but they seemed to be taking particular care over this one. Lightning flickered in the roiling clouds. Say what you wanted about the top brass being arrogant, callous and malicious, but they had style.
* * *
The light from Celestia’s horn was dying. It was big magic, and even she couldn’t keep it going indefinitely.
“So where, will this... antagonist come from then?”
I don’t know. I don’t write the story, I just record it when it happens.
“Then what were you doing following me?” said Stoker, anguish in his voice as the light dimmed. “You can’t tell me you didn't do this! You were behind me every step of the way, guiding me! I know you were!”
I told you, I was following you to record. The story has its roles, and you were perfect for yours. Think about what that means.
Stoker growled and would have leapt at the shadow had Celestia’s light not chosen that point to flicker and fail. There was a moment of darkness before normal light slid in through the windows like Orlov porridge. Compared to Celestia’s mini-nova, it was grey and tasteless, but it did the job. The shadows on the walls seemed less substantial. They were actual shadows now.
“Bloody hell,” said Stoker. “What now?”
“Now? Now we resolve our differences and prove that thing wrong,” said Celestia. She was thinking clearer now. The influence of the room and the land itself felt... further away now. Now she knew what she was up against. Admittedly, that was the history and precedence of an entire region, but that was at least quantifiable.
Stoker nodded “Alright. I’ve made my demands.”
“Done,” said Celestia, abruptly. “Now we will find out about that villain...”
“If you ask me,” said one the char-wallahs, “it’s probably the owner of the tractor factory. He’s shadowy and mysterious, and you need that to a villain. An air of wossname about you.”
“Is it heck,” said another. “He’s had no screen time, let alone character development. I reckon it’ll be a sleeper agent. Someone in the town’ll assassinate the leaders of the revolutionary committee-“
“Welcoming committee!” Stoker said with a nervous glance at Celestia, but she was too busy trying not to laugh.
“-whatever, and then the Indefatigables’ll sweep in and round up any sympathisers. Some impressive third-act villain.”
“Unlikely, in my opinion. More like there’ll be a traitor in the ranks. A coup by Anchorage or more likely Hardcolt aiming to knock off Stoker and become some mad dictator.”
Then, because narrative demanded it, Hardcolt entered. His expression was so blank you could have stuck two dials on it and called it an etch-a-sketch, so naturally it was safe to assume he’d heard it all. Following Hardcolt were two marines in fine red caps rustled up by the propaganda department dragging a very sheepish looking pony. Sheepish in a literal sense. He had one hoof in a thick white woollen jacket and was himself the pure white of a Guardspony. He hung his head, hooves up on the shoulders of his captors.
“Found him out by the station picket,” said Hardcolt, gesturing with his head. “Disrobing himself.”
"Spying?” said Stoker, although his heart wasn’t in it.
Vickers grinned inanely in the manner of anyone who’s just found their immediate future in the hooves of ponies who may not necessarily care much for it. He gave a particularly pleading smile to Princess Celestia, who stayed silent.
“No, sir,” he said, ever quick on the uptake when he needed to be. “Was told to come here and warn you that the army is on its way with some, and I quote here sir, ‘serious artillery’ sir.”
Stoker felt a chill run up his spine, worse than he’d felt when he’d seen that... thing earlier. It was the sort of fear that sat in your stomach and twisted itself into new and interesting shapes. His mouth went dry. The thing had said there’d be an antagonist somewhere, and sure enough here one was. The sodding army.
The pony took Stoker’s silence and expression as indication to continue “my CO told to tell you you’ve got about twelve minutes ‘til they’re here.”
Twelve minutes. Heck, they must have been just a few miles behind the royal train, then. A thought crystallised in Stoker’s head. He turned to Princess Celestia, his face blank as he could make it.
“Would you know anything about this?”
“I gave no orders,” she said, frowning. “Somepony is playing Sodom fatuus. Who is leading the force?”
Vickers shrugged. “No one told me. All very hush-hush.”
Hardcolt, who was never one to let impending doom get in the way of milit’ry reality, strolled around Vickers like a buzzard circling.
“And what precisely does the army consist of?” he said, leaning in eye to eye with Vickers.
Vickers shrugged. “A lot, I reckon. I mean, I didn’t see no itinerary, but I saw ponies from all sorts loadin’ up. 1st Lancers, Pasturekhan Rangers, Jet Stream Guards. All sorts, you know?”
Stoker didn’t know what that meant, but he heard a sharp intake of breath from Princess Celestia and saw Hardcolt’s face fall. Even the two marines looked concerned.
“In twelve minutes,” said Stoker.
“More like eleven,” said Vickers, who immediately wished he hadn’t. He was on the wrong side of the lines now, and the ponies on that train weren’t the sort to ask questions.
Stoker bit his lip, in a silent world of worry. History was walking in his hoofsteps, and it had put up a very specific obstacle. Like with all things, there was a precedent. He hit upon it.
“Get barricades in the streets, Hardcolt. I assume you know which streets are best?”
Hardcolt nodded. If anyone would have planned for this eventuality, it was him.
“Right, well, I’m sure you can handle the defences, right?”
“Sure, maestro,” he said. He was grinning. The world was burning, and he was the one with the keys to the fire engine. “We can use here as a base. I’ll get the marines to rustle up some heavy ‘quipment, too.”
He turned about and trotted out, shouting orders to the two marines and dragging Vickers by one ear. The char-wallahs followed. Princess Celestia stayed put, though.
“Best I stay here,” she said. “I want a word with the gung-ho lunatics behind this little jaunt.”
Stoker opened his mouth to say something, but he saw Celestia’s expression. She wasn’t angry, because a Princess couldn’t be, but anger was there, somewhere beneath the terrible, terrible calm. He decided not to press the issue.
* * *
Crossfire Hurricane slid down the steep valley, through the shoulder-deep snow down to the edge of the railway cutting. Rain was already spotting the ground as the storm broke overhead, turning the snow into slush. She could see the low, armoured snout of the command train chuffing along just a little further up, the fire from the engine glowing through the window slats. It had been painted in jagged white dazzle patterns and in the dark, looked for all the world like a snowdrift that had decided to get up and go for a walk.
She pulled up just short of the vertical drop from the edge of the cutting to the track, and immediately started having second thoughts. She wasn’t built for physical exertion (at least, hadn’t been since being taken off front-line duties), and the fall on to the train’s roof looked much higher from down here. Well, that was something she should have thought about earlier. No time for doubt now.
The train passed beneath her, clacking and rushing past, the sounds echoing in the cutting. It looked much faster now. She bit her lip, pawed at the ground, and leapt.
There was a moment of weightlessness, before she hit the roof hard and the world rushed in around her head. The landing knocked the breath out of her and she scrabbled for purchase. Luckily, most of the armour on the train hadn’t been done up in a while, and there were plenty of welding seams, rivets and spalled panels to hold on to. She stayed low as the wind howled overhead. Steam from the engine billowed out a few cars ahead and brought tears to her eyes. Slowly, she crawled forward from one hoofhold to the next.
It was agonisingly slow, rivets catching her jacket and the wind threatening to tear her from her place and the rain coming down all over her. She shut her eyes and focused on going forward. The train rounded a corner, and the whole world tilted, but she held on. After years atop that train, she reached the command car, to find it locked down. The passages between the cars were covered and the trapdoor on the roof had been locked. Crossfire was flummoxed for a moment. There was no polite way in, so the only alternative was through the windows. She swung herself over the edge of the train, aimed her hooves ahead, prayed the shutters were up, and braced for impact.
She hit the glass beneath hard enough to crack it, but not break through. She hung on to the roof with her back legs and kicked the glass with her front. It took a good few strikes, but she won through in the end. She swung herself through the hole, the glass snagging and tearing at her much-abused jacket, and landed in a ring of spear points.
Eight hard-faced ponies of the 1st Lancers stood around her in a semi-circle, weapons pointed in. Their expressions were stern but faintly daring, as if to say ‘go on. Just you try’.
It was round about now that Crossfire realised she didn’t have so much as the inkling of a plan. Well, that hadn’t stopped them at Thursk. She drew herself up to her full height (which was just slightly shorter than the ponies surrounding her) and said, “Where is your commander?”
The ponies didn’t move. Not so much as a flicker of uncertainty. These were born soldiers, who knew when not to follow orders. They were the sort of soldiers who knew it was never just a rat, the sort who wouldn’t charge the hero one by one but would surround him and rush him all at once, the sort who knew to check the ventilation ducts. They weren’t going to be taken in by a loud commanding voice.
Well, maybe not Crossfire’s loud commanding voice. Another, louder, more commanding, and distinctly familiar voice barked and order over their heads.
“Stand down,” it sounded rough, the verbal equivalent of a slap.
The Field Marshall shouldered her way forward as the Lancers backed off. The Commodore hung behind her, his face sickly and his eyes runny. He looked even worse than he had in Stalliongrad. He looked like a walking cold.
“Lieutenant, you were ordered to stay put,” said the Field Marshall.
“Reporting in, ma’am,” said Crossfire, saluting with one hoof. “Wondering why the train is advancing. Forward recon saw no reason to do so.”
The Field Marshall glared, focusing her anger through her squinting eyes. Crossfire felt her mane singe.
“We are bringing this damn thing to an end,” she said, “and I expect any officer to follow orders.”
Crossfire should have been intimidated, but she’d just leapt on to a moving train. They hadn’t taught that at Sandhurst. Well okay, they had, but it had been a long time ago. The point was, she was in a mood to dare.
“I feel I should question these orders, ma’am, because they seem... unsound,” she watched the Field Marshall’s face go red, clashing unpleasantly with her green coat, but went on regardless. “It just seems to me that any military action would be a bit pre-emptive, all things considered.”
The Field Marshall looked like she’d snatch one of the Lancers’ spears and kill her right there and then. Her eyes were boggling and twitching like crazy. Crossfire went on.
“Look, there is no conceivable reason for sending in the troops, is all.”
The Field Marshall was beyond the usual drill-sergeant rage. She had gone past fury and collected 200 bits and was now well on her way to putting down several hotels on Incandescent Avenue. She veritably seethed.
“Perhaps you don’t understand the situation,” she said, spitting each word. “If we don’t end this now, where does the buck stop?”
“It stops with us,” said the Commodore, his voice slithering into place, “and we can’t be having with that.”
Crossfire looked on with awe and no small amount of apprehension.
“That’s insane though. The whole town’d be against you! It’ll be a bloodbath!”
The Field Marshall shrugged dismissively. “Then the buck will stop with them, too,” she leaned in to Crossfire, the heat of fury radiating off her. “We have no choice. The fate of the nation is in our hooves.”
“You’ll never get away with it,” said Crossfire, because some lines are too good to be true.
“We just have,” said the Commodore.
The train slowed down as it pulled up behind the royal train. Crossfire felt sick. The Field Marshall was smiling, a smug thing for a pony who knew she was right. The Commodore too had a grin smeared on his face, wet rubbery lips stretched over his teeth. They were gloating, actually gloating! Crossfire snarled and moved to lunge at them, but the Lancers stepped in.
“Keep the Lieutenant here,” barked the Field Marshall. “We have to organise things.”
They departed. Crossfire could have sworn she heard them laugh.