//------------------------------// // From Above // Story: Blackacre // by Princess Woona //------------------------------// 25 December, Y.C. 969 Ponyville Donner Quick trimmed his wingtips, banking slightly with the wind. All around him, his wingmates did the same; flying with the wind made it easier to maintain altitude, and the longer they stayed at height, the long it was until they’d have to start the slow spiral back up to the top of the formation and start gliding down all over again. They had been running patrol for going on four hours now, along with a few thousand other pegasi, the better part of the Second, Third, and Fourth Wings. This was supposed to be a combat air patrol, but since there were so damned many of them, all they really did was fly around in circles and wait. It’s not like anything was going to sneak up on them; they had total control over a block of airspace running from Saddle Lake to well beyond the Remaregen Bridge, stretching up ten, fifteen thousand feet. It was a show of force, and everyone knew it. Didn’t mean it had to be so boring. He sighed slightly, banking with the breeze. Far below them, they had a pretty good view of the east bank of the river. Unlike the west bank, where an almost unbroken line of blue and yellow traced the tree line, the east side was crawling, little specks of green winding in and out of the scattered tree trunks. Within ten or fifteen feet of the riverbank, they couldn’t see anything at all, with the massive canopies of the deep forest trees covering almost everything, turning it into a sea of crystal-clear white. A few hundred feet back from the river, there were gaps in the tree tops. They couldn’t see into them very well, even at this altitude; the clearings below would have to be small ones, near vertical. It didn’t take a line of sight to know what those were, though. Though the forest on the Ponyville side of the river was both thinner and shorter, they had their own clearings, each one with a pair of party howitzers at the ready, zeroed in on the opposite bank. It might be just for looks, but show or not, there was plenty of force to go around. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement; one of his wingmates made a pair of hoof signals. At this airspeed, they could probably hear each other, but their orders were for silence. Look down, he was signing, look down. Crossing. Donner turned an eye downwards towards the bridge. Two pair of long black lines ran down its length, the railroad tracks poking up though the thin layer of snow. Towards the middle, a small green speck marked somepony on the Blackacre side of the line; on the other bank, a speck in blue and yellow was moving closer. There was movement to his right; Gun was signing something. Close, she signed — no, not close. About… and then time. Punctuated by a gesture which, while not in the official signbook, was easily recognizable as an, ah, intensifier. He made the obligatory signal for silence, but chuckled nevertheless. He couldn’t agree more. The sooner those two, whoever they were, reached an agreement, the sooner they could get on with their lives and get to more important things. Like, at the moment, getting something to eat. They crossed the path of another wing of pegasi, five of them in a loose flying vee. By the markings on the flanks of their uniforms, they were from the Second Wing; he gave them a friendly nod as they passed. Food would be nice. Four hours of patrol… well, it wasn’t heavy flying, but it still took a lot more energy than standing around like the army ponies down below. At least they were flying light; they were in full combat armor with a general-purpose load, but they didn’t have any tanks or provisions with them. Why bother, when the main grub hall was literally a stone’s throw away? Okay, maybe a stone’s throw meant a little more at six thousand feet than at ground level, but the fact remained: they weren’t wearing tanks. That alone was good enough; as a rule, they would carry tanks on even the most routine of patrols. Going light like this usually meant that either they were scrambled or on a short-range combat run. When your mission parameters involved flying around, looking important, and not much else… well, it was a welcome change of pace. He glanced back down at the bridge. The two specks were closer to each other, and he could make out the faint glow of a pair of shields, backed by thin tendrils stretching back from the ponies to opposite sides of the bridge. Hey, at least they were talking. Far below, he noted a particularly large tree, representing the edge of the patrol area assigned to them. He spun a hoof in a broad circle, banking a moment later. His four wingponies followed him into the turn; in a moment they were facing north again, drifting up the river, perhaps a hundred feet lower. A splotch of motion to the north; one of the ground wings had just taken off. Donner watched with idle curiosity as they circled once, twice, and then took off at a hard climb, sprinting to gain altitude. Speaking of which… he checked the altimeter on his wrist and made a few quick calculations. They were keeping a good pace, all things considered; with a bit of luck, they would be able to make four or five more circuits before stopping for a few moments, stretching their legs, and doing it over again. Maybe next time around he’d take an apple up with him. The ground crews didn’t like that — it only took a few mistakenly dropped apples before they stopped letting flyers take them up altogether — but he knew one of the chow hall staff. She’d let him sneak one out. Besides, what was the harm? They were overflying forest and river; if something fell, it would either hit water or be deflected by a tree. Donner sighed, trimming his wings almost without conscious effort. At least the wind shifted in their favor, this time around. A few hours back, their patrols felt like flying upwind both ways…. Another trace of movement; he lazily glanced over to his right, but saw nothing. That was odd. Back on the ground, the two ponies were still talking. Up above, though… hm. He gave a quick whistle to get Gun’s attention, then signed to look up. All four of his wingponies turned as one, all frowning a moment thereafter. He still couldn’t get a bead on it, whatever it was. A small speck, really; if it had wings, they were tucked in; he saw no magical glow. Not that he could tell much; it wasn’t even big enough to make out anything but the fact that it was moving. He glanced to the side and realized, by the confused expressions on his wingponies’ faces, that they didn’t know either. He glanced back — and then down. Damn, but that thing was moving fast; he hadn’t even — It was directly above the bridge, and closing fast. “Break!” he shouted, peeling off into a dive. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good news. He was at five thousand feet now, punching through other patrol wings; he saw some of the wings below him start to take note of the moving object, but late, too late — Four thousand feet and he thought he could get a better look at it; he was closer, but it was hard to make out details at that range through the goggles. It almost looked less like a pony and more like a solid object, more like a metallic cylinder than anything else. Three thousand feet — artillery fire. He nearly smacked himself; of course! High muzzle velocity, high parabolic arc; they would never see it coming. He folded his wings entirely, keeping only the tips out to control his plummet. Two thousand feet and the wind whipped past his face like red-hot irons but he didn’t care; the only thing that mattered was getting to the shell first — A blossom of red in the center of the bridge. He popped his wings, wind screaming against them, and for a moment hung motionless as a plume of thick black smoke rose from far below. A half-second later, he heard the high keening of the sirens; back on their side of the river, somepony had given the command. There was only one way to get the attention of a wing of pegasi ten thousand feet up, but here there was only one signal to give. “Form up!” he shouted to his wingmates, just now joining him. No sloppiness in their flying now; every single one was on high alert, tensed to — One of them disappeared as a blast of pinkish energy lanced past. “Sitting ducks!” he cursed, breaking off into a dive. Out here, exposed to the unicorns…. Off behind the Blackacre treeline, he saw one of the gaps in the treeline flash orange, then another, then the whole damned set of them as artillery fire rippled through the air. Their own artillery counterfired; on the west bank, ponies scrambled to mount party cannon on the emplacements. A section of riverbank exploded as the shells started to fall. “Keep it close!” he shouted to the wingmates in his peripheral vision. They were at a thousand feet now, closing fast. They could hear the shouts from the ground below: Canterlot, Blackacre; it all blended together. At seven hundred feet, he was aware of a half-dozen other wings coming in right next to him. A glance at the other wingleaders; with a quick gesture they divided up the line. There was no room for error now. Four hundred feet. He instinctively grabbed a small globule attached to his chest harness. The magical bomb would explode on impact, giving him cover and momentarily distracting the enemy line. A hundred feet and the smell hit him, the sulphur and static of magic and high explosive. Fifty feet and he reached back, aiming his grenade; the shouts were louder, screams piercing the winter air, all mixed in with a pervasive metallic smell of fresh blood. He threw the grenade; it detonated a half second before he plunged his wing into the fray below.