//------------------------------// // Shock and Awe // Story: Armor's Game // by OTCPony //------------------------------// Stalks Silently had no intention of living up to his name. Terrified and ashamed, the Lynx sprinted as fast as he could across the plain, tears streaming from his eyes and blood pouring from his flank. The air was rank with the stink of battle: the raw iron and copper of spilled blood, the rich wetness of trampled grass, the acidic bitterness of vomit, the sour reek of voided and shattered bowels, and the choking dryness of smoke. The smoke from the burning lair that had once been his, burned after the battle he’d lost. They’d heard of the Changeling attack just after dawn, when twenty refugees from the lairs over the hill had staggered into Stalkfang lair. Moments later, a column of smoke had drifted up from behind the hill. Then more and more envoys had arrived: nine lairs along the border of Froud Valley were burning; their inhabitants sent fleeing or subjected to unthinkable torment in captivity. Blackrock, Longclaw, Whitetree, Redfur, Brighteye, Swiftail, Sharptooth, Fiercebite, Nightsnarl and Strongslash, all great and famous lairs with great and famous chieftains, lay in ruins. It had been Stalks Silently’s luck that his lair had been far enough from the border to give him time to mobilise. He had mustered all the warriors of the Stalkfang lair, and positioned his army, fifteen thousand strong, on the slopes of Mount Grappler above the Darkling Plain, five miles south of Stalkfang. To try to avoid it would be to expose their flanks, so sure enough, the Changelings had come. Taking to his war chariot, spear in paw and drawn by a dozen slaves taken in previous wars, he had led the charge on the Changeling line, the chariots of his sons, Night Darter and Steel Slash, at his side. The four hundred chariots of the Stalkfang lair had thundered across the Darkling Plain, their drivers’ the bravest and richest warriors in the lair, magnificent in their panoply, glorious in their battle rage, towards the three lines of Changelings seventeen thousand strong. They’d got so close. They’d been able to see the Changeling’s soulless eyes; the dull gleam of their black carapaces; the light through those gaping craters in their limbs; the jags of their gnarled horns; the collapsible shields they’d strapped to their forelegs. Yet before any one of them could hurl a spear or loose an arrow, over a thousand Changelings on each flank had taken to the air, and the air had been filled with such buzzing that it had drowned the snarls and yells of the charioteers. The slaves drawing the chariots had skidded to a halt in panic, and though the charioteers had whipped them furiously, at that point they had been lost. The flying Changelings had swept in on both flanks, huge lances in their claws, and they and the Changeling infantry had fired blasts of infernal green magic from their horns, tearing into warriors. Then the infantry had advanced, overturning the helpless, immobile chariots and slashing at warriors with their claws, goring them with their horns and tearing them with their fangs. The tears flowed even more quickly as he ran. There had been no honour to it! Those insects knew nothing of valorous single combat! Instead they had fought as if they were one of those mechanical devices the ponies sold to them, in an endlessly-repeated rhythm! He’d seen Hunts Boldly, the Greyback, an old but hale warrior and one of the greatest of the lair, leap from his chariot and slash, snarling at the enemy with all the bravery a warrior could, his claws spinning like saws. But he had been beset by Changelings from three sides, and he had fallen with a dozen wounds, and his body was swept under and crushed by that advancing wall of black. For his part, he had fought like the chieftain he was, first with his spear, then when that had snapped in his paws, with his claws and teeth. He had left a trail of dozens dead as he charged, withdrew, and charged again at that wall of black shields, his fur stained and his tongue bitter with the sickening green ichor the Changelings bled instead of blood. But for every Changeling that fell, another just moved up it its place, and as he fought on, becoming ever more exhausted, the front rank of Changelings just disappeared into that black mass and was replaced with another. Finally one of them had struck him, and a Changeling claw had raked a gaping wound in his left flank. Hobbling away, dimly thinking of making his way on to the mountain to rally his infantry, he had not noticed the cavalry closing in, and a Changeling lance had crashed against his head, sending him tumbling into darkness. When he came to, two Lynx queens were bending over him while hundreds of Lynxes spilled around them, all running. His mind fogged from the pain in his head and his flank, he'd managed to stammer out a question. "What happened?" “Two warriors pulled you from the field,” said one queen, her paws hurrying with a bone needle as she stitched up his flank. “They brought you up the mountain to us. They were beyond saving, but you may just survive.” My sons. He’d known without even having to ask. Now as he ran, tears flowed unbidden down his face, just as they’d done then. “The battle’s lost,” the other queen had snarled. “The chieftain was lost in that press of demons. Stalks Silently, Night Darter, the Greyback. They’re all dead, and we’ll be too if we can’t get you fixed up soon.” She does not know me, he’d realised. He’d managed to turn his head, and spotting his reflection in a discarded helmet, he’d seen why: the silver fur that had camouflaged him so well in his night hunts was matted and darkened with blood, crusted brown. His blood, from the gash on the scalp where the lance had struck. His right eye had also been swollen shut. If he’d been wearing a helmet, he might have weathered the damage and fought on, but no chieftain of a lair would be so craven as to do that. “Why are they running?” he’d managed to splutter. “Those demon Changelings pushed right up the hill and into our ranks. We thought we might surround them, but that damned cavalry of theirs surrounded our warriors. Half the army’s gone. Best we can do now is run.” What had happened after that, he did not know. He remembered waking up though, lying on the hard wood of a cart, and the screams of queens and toms alike as the crunch-clank-crunch-clank of the Changeling army drew nearer and nearer. He could hear their hissing and buzzing and the yells of those they killed, and he had made his decision: he would not stay here lying on a cart as easy prey for these demons. Summoning all of his strength, he’d leapt from the tumbrel and ran. He’d felt fire along his flank as the stitches tore, but he didn’t care. He was alive. But as he ran, he’d spotted the columns of smoke rising, and he knew he was defeated. The tears had run down his face again. Stalkfang was burning, his Lynxes scattered. His sons were dead, and he would never see his mate Goldfur again. If she was not dead, she was lost, fleeing across the plains. To starve would be a merciful end compared to being taken by the Changelings. She could not even expect mercy from any Lynxes she met: to be taken alone on the plains was to be taken as a slave. He had done it himself a dozen times to travelling parties from those lairs he had a quarrel with. Stalks Silently was nothing now. For twenty years he had fought to make himself the greatest chieftain in the south of the Lynx territories. He had fought a hundred battles against a dozen lairs. Those that had surrendered were welcomed into his rule; their chieftains made his vassals and treated warmly. Those that had resisted to the bitter end were utterly destroyed, their toms slaughtered, their queens raped and their cubs taken as slaves. Their lairs had been utterly destroyed. The chieftains of the north spoke to him as their equal. Now it was all ash. He cursed and swept the tears from his face with a paw. Ash it may be, but the chieftain survived, and he would not be taken by the Changelings. Nor would he be taken by some hunting party from another lair, to be made their slave or chased as sport across the plains. No, he would die as a warrior, as his father before him and his father before him. Growling, he made to turn, but as his paw came down, he felt the ground give. He looked down and saw to his horror, green transparent ooze spreading up his leg. He didn’t know how they’d done it, but the Changelings had seeded the plains with their vile ichor, and he had stepped right into it. Like a living being the ooze swept up his leg, cocooning it. Cursing and snarling, he stamped his paw and slashed at it with his other. The ichor constricted and he howled as a devastating crack ran out: it had shattered the bones in his leg. The cocoon raced across his body, pinning his limbs. It constricted his chest and rose up his neck. The vile, cloying, rotting scent of the ichor filled his nostrils and mouth as it coated his face. He could barely breathe, but he knew his life would not be snuffed out so easily. He could see nothing but a green haze. After what felt like hours, the Changelings came for him. *** “Therefore,” concluded Sir Burnished Bronze. “It is this government’s intention to bring forward an Emergency Budget, to be debated within the week, so that we may swiftly and effectively respond to this unprovoked and dastardly attack upon our peaceful trading partners in the Lynx territories!” Cheers of “here here!” and “shame!” filled the gas-lit Commons Chamber, the government and opposition benches battling to outdo each other. The yells reached a furious crescendo, and in the centre of it all was Radical Road, standing silently at the despatch box, waiting to deliver the Parliamentarians’ response. “Order,” crooned the Speaker ineffectually. “Order.” The roars continued. Radical Road smiled. Such polarisation had its uses. “Order,” intoned Muffled Merkin again. “Order.” And again, the roars failed to subside. “I will clear this chamber if I do not have immediate silence!” snapped the Speaker with surprising force. The House of Commons lapsed into a stunned silence, staring in amazement at the usually-quiet Speaker. “Radical Road,” said Merkin. Radical composed himself. “Thank you, Mr. Speaker.” He set his eyes on Burnished Bronze. “My friends, when one is walking in the forest and comes across a Timberwolf feasting on its latest kill, does one attempt to drive the beast off by throwing sticks, because eating meat is against our values? Never! My friends, what this government proposes is just as irresponsible and foolish, if not more so!” Thunderous cheers of “here here!” resounded from the benches behind him. “My friends, we all know what this ‘Emergency Budget’ will entail: apple barrelling on a scale unseen in Equestria’s history to bribe the government’s backbenchers into supporting the foundation of an army for a foolish adventure in the south!” He shook his head sadly, an expression of deep sorrow on his face. “My friends, to feel that something must be done against injustice is no bad thing, but this government’s knee-jerk desire to intervene when we do not possess the full facts, when it is not even clear if the Lynxes even have a chance of victory, is recklessness of the highest order! Or perhaps, my friends, this government does not care about that, and merely wishes for a success abroad to distract the public from its failures at home!” There were roars of “shame!” from the opposition benches. The government had barely survived the vote on the new Heir to the Equestrian Throne last week. Helm von Withersbach’s elevation to the title had passed by only five votes. “Members of the House,” Radical Road concluded, his voice grave. “The Opposition cannot support the government’s budget. To do so is to support an unnecessary foreign war. We all remember the tragic events that took place in this very city last year, and it is the Opposition’s stance that it is best not to do anything to further antagonise the Changelings. To the government’s backbenchers I ask this: is sending our young mares and stallions off to die in some distant war worth the hooful of bits the government has promised your constituencies? If you believe so, then I am revolted to consider myself Equestrian.” *** Early morning two days later, Shining Armor entered the Troop Office of the Royal Guard. While the Royal Guard had always had a senior command staff, its three elements – the Captain-General, the Adjutant-General and the Quartermaster-General – rarely met together. If the Adjutant required something from the Quartermaster, he had to make his request through the Captain, and vice-versa. Furthermore, it also put a colossal amount of paperwork on the Captain-General’s desk, as he had to sift through reports from both and see if there were conflicts or clashes. No more. When the Privy Council had decided that it would put forward legislation to create an army, one of Shining Armor’s first decisions as the new Commander-in-Chief of the Forces had been to combine the three in the innocently-named Troop Office. The name had been picked to conceal its intentions from the public, since the Troop Office would act as the nucleus for the new Royal Army’s General Staff. Five other ponies were stood around the map table with him, merely a fraction of the staff, but the most senior figures. To his left was Adjutant-General of the Forces General Sir Blackfire, a black-bodied, red-maned Pegasus responsible for personnel matters, which ranged from pay and promotions to force reorganisation after battles. Next to him was Lieutenant General Sir Ration Bag, Quartermaster-General of the Forces, responsible for logistics and equipment support. Shining Armor had appointed him to the staff after deciding it was best to keep him as far away from Star siblings as possible. The other five were Colonels Clear Dunes, Crystal Thought, and Warning Order, an Earth Pony, Unicorn and Pegasus, and respectively responsible for the Mapping, Intelligence, and Planning Departments of the staff. The ten officers they each had under them had been working away furiously for the past two days to try to understand the situation in the south. “Mares, gentlestallions,” said Shining Armor to the assembled staff. “Good morning. Now, don’t have much time, so let’s begin. Colonel Thought, what is the current state of the war?” “We’ve been looking over every newspaper we can get our hooves on, Your Highness,” said Thought. “As well as every one of Lieutenant Telescope’s reports for the last six months. The Changelings have thirty-four thousand troops moving north from Froud Valley through the Lynx territories. Our analysis is still incomplete, but given the rate at which they overran the border, and the speed of their victory at the Battle of Mount Grapple, the Changelings will have near-total control over the Lynx territories by the end of September.” “Six months...” hissed Shining Armor. “Or in other words, the minimum training time required for a raw recruit to reach a standard worthy of the Guard,” completed General Blackfire grimly. “Keep in mind that’s a pessimistic analysis, sir,” said Thought. “Now that the rest of the tribes are alerted to the invasion, the Changelings’ operational tempo will probably slow, and my staff are still liaising with Colonel Dunes’.” “What sort of forces can the Lynxes muster?” “As of yesterday evening, there were six major lairs in the north mobilising their forces, said Crystal Thought. “As well as around two dozen smaller lairs. Between them they can put around eighty thousand warriors into the field. But we’re not confident of their ability to actually use that force: two of the major lairs, Blackfur and Strikefang, fought a war only last year and there’s no guarantee that some of the smaller lairs won’t try to make a separate peace with the Changelings.” “What about the Changelings’ forces?” “Well, like the Lynxes, they’re predominantly a melee army,” said Crystal Thought. “And the average Lynx warrior is probably stronger than a Changeling soldier, but their eusocial nature means they’ve got much better discipline and organisation than the Lynxes. The Lynx way of war is based around individual achievement in personal combat, while the Changelings subordinate all individual needs to those of the hive.” “Keep in mind, sir, that the Changelings are also effectively on starvation rations,” added Ration Bag. “If they lose this war, they run out of love and their entire race perishes. Based on that and their social structure, I think they’ll have a much greater tolerance for losses than us or even the Lynxes.” “Victory through attrition,” muttered Shining Armor bitterly. “And every casualty they take is just another Changeling that doesn’t have to be fed.” He frowned down at the map table. Sitting beyond the Appleloosan Mountains, the Lynx territories were a wedge of rolling, open grasslands striking north between the Forest of Leota and the Fetlock Forest. Green tokens representing Lynx lairs were scattered across it, while a band of red pushed up towards them from the haze of crimson that was the Changeling-held Froud Valley. “What sort of chances do the Lynxes have?” he asked. “We’ve identified seven potential points in Lynx territory where they could slow or stop the Changeling advance,” said Colonel Clear Dunes. “They’re chokepoints or heavily forested and broken terrain where the Lynxes can bring their individual advantages to bear, but even so, the Changelings’ military advantages are...considerable.” Shining Armor sighed. “Very well. If we can force the Changelings to commit to battle, then our advantage in individual weapons and artillery should score us some big victories quickly. The only question is, can we mobilise before the Lynxes’ resistance fails?” “Shall I start reviewing the training programme, sir?” asked Sir Blackfire. “Yes, but I won’t commit to anything until we get more concrete information from the south and until after the budget is passed.” “Will the budget be passed, sir?” asked Ration Bag. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “This one’s probably going to be the hardest-fought piece of legislation in Equestria’s history. Princess Celestia could depend on apple barrelling to get votes for the new Heir to the Throne, but now that there’s a real prospect of war, I think that might focus minds a bit more. All the papers are saying it’s going to be close.” The staff exchanged worried glances. There was no point repeating the arguments between them: they were all convinced of the need for an army, but the Opposition was so repulsed by the idea of war that it would take a Changeling army surging over the Macintosh Hills to convince them, and by then it would be too late. It’ll be passed, Shining Armor told himself. Politicians always want money for their voters, and they know our arguments are correct. In six months, probably less, he’d be leading Equestria’s new army south. But, he dimly reflected, staring at the map table and remembering the horror he’d felt when he’d read Cadance’s letter last week, if their enemy was in the south, why did he feel like he should be marching north? *** “How horrible, fantastic, incredible it is,” said Blueblood, gravely. “That we should be debating strategies and stockpiling spears here, because of a quarrel in a far-away country between people of whom we know nothing.” There were murmurs of assent from the small crowd that had gathered in the square in Canterlot to hear his first campaign speech. Not even a flicker of a smile touched his lips, but Blueblood felt a fierce joy. He was hungry for power, and these fools, desperate for a tiny bit of security, were giving him the keys to the larder! Snowy Grape’s tragic death had stunned everypony, but the government had come off the worse for it. Even though it had won the vote on the new Heir to the Throne, its majority had been slashed, and it hadn’t been able to do a thing about the conspiracy theories that began circulating in the wake of the former Minister for Agriculture’s death. Furthermore, they’d had no pony ready as their new candidate for Snowy Grape’s seat, and they’d been completely wrong-footed when Radical Road had appeared next to Blueblood and (through gritted teeth) announced him as the Opposition’s candidate in the Canterlot North by-election. “It seems still more impossible,” he continued. “That it has already been decided that this quarrel should be settled by war. The Changelings are an intelligent race, my friends. Can it really be that our Princesses are so besotted by war that they have not even considered negotiations?” The crowd’s mutter of agreement was louder this time. “My friends, yesterday morning, Their Highnesses’ Government released their plan for the Emergency Budget.” His horn glowed and a smartly-bound booklet hovered above his lectern. “We all know of the momentous scale of apple barrelling in this budget: bribery to swing MPs round to vote for war!” The murmur of assent became a louder buzz. “In here, they list the costs of their planned military adventure: one hundred and fifty million bits!” A shocked gasp rose from the crowd. “My friends, this is the largest single piece of expenditure in Equestria’s history! It is nearly half our budget surplus! It is a betrayal of the fiscal prudence demonstrated by previous Chancellors for the past seven hundred years!” Some of the murmurs became cheers. “Mares and gentlestallions,” said Blueblood, preparing to wrap up, his voice deeply grave again. “It is my deepest regret that the timing of this election means the winner will be unable to vote in the coming budget debate. If I am elected MP for your constituency, rest assured I will work ceaselessly to oppose any military expansion or action. If, Spirits forbid, Equestria does go to war, I will never allow the possibility of a negotiated settlement to be dismissed in Parliament. And I will never rest until this government is held accountable for its abuses and arbitrary exercises of power by the ponies’ true representatives: the democratically-elected Parliament.” Cheers and a storm of applause greeted him. He descended the podium and walked slowly through the crowd, smiling, shaking hooves and thanking his future constituents. His smile was entirely genuine, but it was not there for the reasons they thought. *** On Wednesday evening, Blueblood found himself sitting restlessly with two dozen other ponies in the galleries above the Commons Chamber. He didn’t like how this night might turn out. His election was in the bag: his speeches against the government and calling for reform and fiscal prudence had struck a chord with the ponies of Canterlot North. They were all astounded that this Unicorn, once considered an aristocratic, classist twit, could be so eloquent and principled. And of course, whatever his background, he was one of them, unlike that mediocre nopony the government had had to draft in from Horsetria as their candidate. Burnished Bronze had presented him to a tiny, unenthusiastic crowd this morning, but everypony’s attention had been focused on that day’s budget vote. And therein lay a potential problem: Parliament was as polarised as the public over the budget which, if passed, would inevitably lead to war. According to the Gallop Poll, fifty-six percent of ponies opposed any action that would lead to war, while forty percent were convinced that something had to be done against the Changelings. MPs were torn between supporting their chiefs, their constituents, or their consciences, decisions that were complicated by the official bribery the Emergency Budget promised with apple barrel spending. After seven hours of furious speeches, proposed amendments, florid insults, and three cases of unparliamentary language, the debate had concluded fifteen minutes ago. It had been ferocious. Bookies and pollsters alike were saying the vote was too close to call. Blueblood didn’t like that. The vote failing would force the government to resign and call a general election, and while that would no doubt be good for the Parliamentarians, it wouldn’t be good for him: he needed this war. He needed the public enraged by casualties before he could move. He needed a military force that could be co-opted. He needed the profits from his shares and forges to bribe officers in that force to support him. He’d already identified a few potential targets, among them a certain Major General Neigh. He looked down at the green leather benches to see Radical Road staring up at him angrily. When he’d told the Parliamentarian leader what he planned, he’d called him insane, a tin-foil hatter. But now he was forever bound to him. Blueblood had guessed correctly. Though he may hold high-minded principles, Radical Road was a politician: above all else he cared for his power and position. Four ponies in business suits, the government and opposition Chief and Deputy Whips, appeared at the end of the chamber. As they walked its length towards the Speaker’s Chair, the dull babble of conversation faded to absolute silence. The whole House seemed to be holding its breath. “Order, order,” crooned the Speaker unnecessarily. The four ponies approached the Table of the House, inclined their heads, took a step forward and bowed again. The government Chief Whip stared at the piece of parchment in his shaking hoof. His face was pale. “The Ayes to the right, 300; the Noes to the left, 299.” A shocked gasp resounded throughout the Chamber, followed by a storm of “shame!” from the opposition benches as the Serjeant at Arms took the parchment from the Chief Whip and passed it to the Speaker. “RESIGN!” roared somepony from the opposition benches, and a second later, a gale of the cries descended upon the government front bench. Opposition MPs leapt up and shook their hooves furiously. Burnished Bronze, Binding Treaty, Diamond Charm, Iron von Hayenzollern and the rest of the front bench just sat there, stock still, pale, and overcome. The Speaker took the parchment. “Order! The Ayes to the right, 300; the Noes to the left, 299. The Ayes have it, the Ayes have it.” Blueblood realised he’d been holding his breath. Amid the roars and jeers of the opposition MPs, several of whom were actually weeping, one stallion was silent. Radical Road was staring up at him, disbelieving. Perhaps a moment ago he had believed that he might win the vote and so ruin Blueblood’s plans, but now he could only stare up at the true leader of the Parliamentarian movement, uncomprehending. Blueblood gave Radical Road the faintest of smiles. The Emergency Budget had been passed by one vote. Celestia’s government had won, and Equestria would go to war, but the credibility of the Princesses had been shattered. And that was just what he needed.