25 December, Y.C. 969
Blackacre
“Update from the rivers,” said the courier pony. He was breathing hard, his flanks flanks glistening from a thin layer of snow he hadn’t yet had the chance to brush off. The courier network was reliable and secure, but it ran almost entirely off the marked paths. Not that anyone in Blackacre ever used the paths, but knowing the woods like the back of their hooves didn’t do much when it came to actually running around them.
“Let’s hear it,” said Gaston, reaching for a bit of chalk to update the massive map that now dominated the main hall.
“Patrols on both sides of the Gorge, starting at the bridge.” Gaston’s hoof shifted slightly, tapping at a series of small marks on the map. They knew that already, but the confirmation never hurt.
“What about the other fork?” he asked, tapping another stream of blue.
“Patrons from the Ponyville crash site all the way down to the bridge,” he said with a nod. “For the whole length of the river, they’ve got eyes on the water.”
Gaston nodded, making a few more marks. It was mostly confirmation, but that was still worth something.
“They’re not just along the river, though,” said the courier. “Some of the flyers say there’s something strange in the water.”
He cursed, the sound loud enough to echo once. In a moment, Beatrix was at his side, papers fluttering about.
“What is it?”
“Frogponies,” he said, making a series of small marks alongside the Ponyville bank of the river. “Not that that changes anything.”
“It just doesn’t make any of it easier,” agreed Beatrix with a nod. “All right. So that means we’ve got to clear the river before a counterpush.”
“If it comes to that,” he said with a snort. “Patrols are still at strength. They’re not pulling back.”
“Of course they’re not,” she said. “I don’t suppose we’ve received a response to our statement?”
Gaston snorted.
“Didn’t think so. They judged us already, and all they think they need to do is come in, kick us around, and take what they want.” Beatrix paused. “Bastards.”
The moment the official report had come out — blaming, of course, internal radical dissidents taking refuge in Blackacre — Beatrix had released a statement of her own. Blackacre was perfectly capable of dealing with their own internal affairs, and their own internal investigations revealed nothing. No patterns of suspicious activity, no last-minute border crossings, nothing.
At least, nothing that implicated them in particular. From Ponyville, saboteurs could flee to White Tail, to the Unicorn Range, or just as easily take a train to Appleloosa, Las Pegasus, anything. There was no reason to believe they had gone to Blackacre. It didn’t even make sense; the negotiations had gone in Blackacre’s favor. What possible reason did they have to sink a favorable deal?
Not to mention that the sabotage took place in the air, not the ground. If someone had planted a bomb and jumped ship, they would never have even gotten to Ponyville. A sensible investigation would start at the last ports of call: Fillydelphia, where they had taken on personnel; the Unicorn Range, where the Mane was berthed; even Canterlot itself, where they had alighted to take on the royal delegation.
Of course, there was no sensible investigation. At least not yet. No, the masses had seen an explosion of green and black, as much a signature in the sky as a giant arrow would be. They didn’t remember the last-minute turnaround but instead the weeks and weeks of delay and waiting which, in all honesty, could be fairly pinned on Blackacre.
But not this. Not this at all.
They weren’t claiming anything, at least not yet. They didn’t need to; the committee findings as much as spelled it out. Under Possum Comitatus, the Princess could — and, here, did — call up the armed forces to aid in an internal investigation, when the regional forces were deemed to be unsuccessful. The Act was maddeningly vague on this point: Beatrix had argued that success was an objective measure requiring more than the Princess’ say-so, while almost everypony else in the country was simply seeing red, unable or unwilling to see the nuances in the jurisdictional argument.
Not that it mattered overmuch. Tens of thousands of ponies lined the regional borders; they would find a way to justify it. After all, who was complaining? Just the handful of ponies in Blackacre, and they would be pacified soon enough.
Beatrix cracked her neck slightly. Pacified. So they thought. Let them take their positions, their defensive formation. As if Blackacre had even a quarter of the ponies necessary to launch an attack. No, they would let the invader come in. Let them get deep into the forest, where the trees grew so tall the ground was dark even on a midsummer day. Let them sink themselves into the sand, the mud, the tar pits that lay just under a crust of leaves. Let them get nice and lost — and then strike.
Nopony knew the forest better than her troops. Nopony knew its secret passages, the right trees to climb, how to swing along on vines, how to burrow down in the tunnels. They had supply caches scattered all over the woods, from darkest caves to platforms concealed a hundred feet up in the treetops — the same treetops that would shield them from any attack from above. They might have a tenth the numbers, but the odds got a lot better once you took the Air Patrol out of the equation.
More importantly, that didn’t even take the non-pony assets into account. It was true that Canterlot had a few mules, some griffins, and maybe a handful of minotaurs. That was small potatoes compared to some of the more exotic members of the Blackacre rank and file. Beatrix wasn’t sure what the exchange rate was for twelve ursa minors and five majors, but it certainly worked in their favor.
And then there were the dragons. They might be over in the Badlands, but nopony took them lightly. How could they? Everyone remembered dragonfire. The scorched earth, the thousands dead… dragons were a factor nopony could discount. They hadn’t picked sides yet, but dragons didn’t so much fight with as not fight against; an alliance would be temporary at best. Still worth trying for, though — but that would have to wait for another day.
The first courier pony had long gone, but a fresh pegasus one came crashing through the hall’s doors to take his place.
“Urgent message for the m… for Beatrix,” said the courier, feathering his wings; he must have flown straight front the front.
“What is it?” she demanded, looking up from the map. Gaston paid him no heed; he was busy pushing around little figurines, playing out one of a hundred different what-ifs.
“The river,” he huffed. “The bridge. They sent a message over to our side of the bridgehead. They’re demanding to speak with… with a representative.”
“Who’s they?” she asked, eyes narrow.
“Major-General Eisenhorner,” he said, offering a tattered piece of paper. “That’s what Wheel says, based on his recon team’s notes.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, brushing it away. “So Pommel won’t come to see me myself, will he? So be it. Gaston!”
After a few moments of pushing around little figurines, the unicorn turned to her. “Yes?”
“It’s time,” she said. “Prepare your people and sound the alert. You there,” she added, sticking a hoof at the courier, “take a message back.”
The pegasus’ face fell for a moment; he was exhausted, and the thought of flying back wasn’t a pleasant one. Nevertheless, he steeled himself after a moment, flexing his aching wings for a top speed return.
“What should I tell them?” he asked.
With the slightest flash of blue, the papers in Beatrix’ hoof were gone, replaced by a sleek green helmet. As she hefted it, other bits of body armor floated across the room, assembling themselves around her.
“Tell them that, if they want to talk, I’m willing to talk. And if they want to dance?” She slipped into the helmet, nestling her horn into its padded cutout. “We dance.”