8 July, Y.C. 970
Canterlot
“This so-called defensive action is nothing more than the wholesale slaughter of anypony who bothers to think for themselves.”
Aspia slowly lifted the mug to her lips. She took a single sip and replaced the coffee mug on the table, taking the utmost care not to show anything other than perhaps a mild distaste at the hours-cold beverage.
“There is no reason why we can’t settle our disputes the civilized way,” the diatribe continued, exchanging fiery anger for simmering disgust. “In fact, that had already happened; there was a deal on the table and everypony seemed happy enough. But for Canterlot’s kneejerk reaction, none of this would have happened.”
Outside, the faintest sound of voices. It was mid-morning on an otherwise unremarkable day, but there was more than just normal city bustle; they could make out the faint but unmistakable sound of chanting.
“All of this, on Canterlot’s orders. A deal they signed, a deal they scuttled; a war they fought, a war they lost. Is it any surprise, then, that Canterlot ordered this crime against nature itself, this genocidal cover-up?”
Aspia contemplated the mug. Mid-morning, not even early morning, but she still needed it. None of them had gotten any sleep last night. Not since the Times had pushed that special issue to press late yesterday. Had it only been seventeen hours?
“We could blame the Royal Army, blame the Air Patrol. We could blame those ponies who rain death — and worse — on the innocent, but we should not. They put their lives on the line, but they’re doing it for a lie, because they don’t know the truth. Why would they? Their job is just to do, and die. Somepony else has to reason why.”
Her stare bored into the mug, willing it to… to… to something. She didn’t know. It was a known quantity; better to stare at it than the wall. The way today had been going, the wall might burst into flame.
“But who? Who has the power to make up plans for invasion, plans for death and destruction, plans for genocide? Who drew them up? Who gave them the official stamp of approval? Who presented them, suggested them? Who could have stopped this at any time, but chose not to, chose to kill them all instead?”
The mug withered under her stare.
“None other than our Paragon of Death, our Secrepony of Defense,” finished Princess Celestia, barely masking her disdain for the titles, “Aspia McNamare.”
Silence.
The noise outside had resolved itself into a fairly complex chant, though it was too indistinct to make out words. Not that there was any shred of hope that it was pleasant. Such things never were; mobs never gathered in support.
“I think that’s an unfair shake,” said Aspia quietly. “Your skill at oratory makes the whole fire-and-brimstone speech a bit too convincing.”
“I hardly think that matters,” said Celestia, throwing the newspaper across the conference table, where it slid to a stop in front of Aspia with a dry rustle. “That’s how they’re going to read it, and that’s how they’re going to react to it.”
“Does it really say genocide?” she asked, reaching over to investigate the sheaf of paper more closely. “Charged word.”
“Along with war crimes, scorched earth, and mass murder, among other things, genocide is in good company,” said Celestia levelly, leaning back in her chair. “I quoted the choice bits, but in twenty-seven pages, the rhetoric does not let up.”
Aspia shook her head. “Couldn’t have imagined it would be this bad.”
“Especially not for you,” said Celestia neutrally. “My right-hoof pony. My paragon, apparently.”
Seventeen hours ago, the Times had released a two-page special issue, little more than a pamphlet, purporting to be an extract from a much longer, much more damning document. It leveled the now-familiar charges of genocide and war crimes, pinning them on the Princess’ paragon, the pony at the top of the chain whom everypony else looked up to as an example.
By their best guesses, the Times pushed the material out in the interests of drawing attention while they bought time to proof and typeset the whole document for publication, rather than risk someone else scooping them. They got their scoop, but the Herald beat them to the full publication this morning. There wasn’t even a regular paper; judging by the bundles pouring out of their printer’s, the Herald had the presses going round the clock on this document alone.
“What progress?” asked the Princess.
Obviously the Herald’s publication meant that they had gotten the text somehow, but the Times’ partial publication last night meant that they also likely had the full text. They wouldn’t risk going to press with a few pages if they didn’t have the whole thing, or if they knew the substance wouldn’t live up to the promise of the excerpt. Which meant that there were two potential leads to track down, two different points of contact.
Aspia shook her head slowly.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” she repeated. “It went straight to the editors-in-chief. Dead drops, yesterday at midafternoon.”
“And you did more investigation than that,” asserted Celestia, still holding neutral.
“There’s only so much we can do,” said Aspia with a helpless shrug. “Nopony saw the Herald drop, and though we have a witness on the Times drop, all they could tell us was grey unicorn with grey mane.”
“And you laid out a dragnet,” she said, with the slightest trace of irritation.
“Of course,” she bristled. “Between black, shades of blue, and anything that could pass for grey, we found one thousand seven hundred ponies matched that description who passed through the city gates over night.” She shook her head. “That’s assuming our target didn’t leave before we started looking.”
Celestia’s lips tightened.
“And that’s also assuming they weren’t disguised in any way,” she continued, waving a hoof in the air. “Magic screen, mane dye, body suit, rolling around in dirt… color and species isn’t much to go on.”
“Perhaps you didn’t understand my request,” said the Princess, in a louder tone suggesting neither that it was misunderstood nor that it was a request. “I want this pony found, I want them arrested, and I want them interrogated until I learn exactly how —”
“It’s too late for that,” said Aspia, drawing a sharp look with the interruption. “We can’t unring that bell.”
“You can’t unring it,” shot the Princess. “In the popular consciousness, you’ve just been christened my paragon, whether you like it or not.” She tilted her head slightly. “I’m surprised you don’t feel more strongly about this.”
A moment of silence; Aspia gave a resigned shake of her head.
“What can I do?” she asked. “This… this paragon paper soaked me and my office in kerosene and lit it with a blowtorch. I’m burned. You know it, I know it, everypony in Equestria knows it. Or will, soon enough.”
The alicorn said nothing.
“That crowd out there is expecting a resignation from me,” she said quietly, jerking a hoof at the window to the council chamber. “And if they don’t get it, things are going to go from bad to worse.” She sighed. “I don’t know how they got that information, but it all checks out. You know that. And if they got those documents, there’s no telling what else she might have stored away.”
Celestia turned slightly and fixed her with an unblinking stare.
“She.”
For a minute, Aspia said nothing. She met her ruler’s eye, held it, and after a long while gave the slightest shrug askance.
“A guess,” she said evenly. “I figure a stallion would just out and deck me, if they felt that strongly about it.”
A moment more — and when Celestia nodded, it was because she knew.
And in that moment, Aspia knew it was all over.
“I’ll accept it, of course,” said the Princess after a while. “I can’t afford not to. Burning you is the easy out, but I’m not keen on that.”
“It gives you an excuse, though, and given the latest reports, I don’t see any other way.”
“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “I’d like to keep you around for a while yet. There’ll be an interim, but I think we both know I can’t replace you overnight.”
“Of course,” conceded Aspia. “Won’t leave the building. I’ll have to requisition a clerk or two to settle my affairs.”
“As you wish.”
“It shouldn’t be hard,” she said with the slightest laugh. “I’ll want some light cargo, but the disposition is mostly ‘sell everything.’”
“You have plans already?” Celestia raised an eyebrow. “How prepared of you.”
“Not preparation,” she corrected. “Desperation.”
“Fair.”
Another long silence.
The chanting below had broken down into a three-syllable mumble, still incoherent from this far away, but distinctly angry.
“Where?”
Aspia smiled sadly. She felt uncountable conflicting emotions. It shouldn’t be this way; this was wrong; this was right; this was… was a thousand different things. She felt so many things that, at this moment, right here and right now, she felt nothing. Like being pulled in every direction at once, she was at a dead standstill.
She had felt this way once before, and though her decision then was the right one, it had always felt wrong. Well, this time she had a chance to make up for it.
“Stalliongrad.”
Celestia gave a drawn-out nod. She understood.
“I’ll arrange your transport,” she said. “You’ll have a hard enough time of it as is without worrying about making it unrecognized.”
“Thank you.”
The chanting continued, tuneless but loud.
“The editor-in-chief assures me there’s nothing more,” she said abruptly. “We should get this over with.”
“Are you ready?”
She thought for a moment.
“No.” The smile returned, a sad one. “But it’s not going to get any easier.”
Princess Celestia nodded, one last time.
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too.”
A last pause.
“Can we —” asked Aspia, stumbling over the words. “I’d like to keep in touch.”
“Me too,” said Celestia, returning the smile. “Come on. Let’s finish this.”