//------------------------------//
// Chapter 6 
// Story: The Mare in the High Castle 
// by ponichaeism 
//------------------------------//

	“You ever get the feeling you're stuck in a dream?" Thorny Bends asked.
“Every time I realize you're so popular, Thorn,” Freepony Young replied.
Twilight's gales of laughter rang out to the ceiling of her conapt. As she rolled around on her couch, she tried not to spill any cider out of the nearly full bottle she clutched in her fetlock.
“It seems there are these fighter jets out on maneuver,” Thorny said. “Apparently the Civil Force sent a memo around, but this is the first I've heard of it. And it got me thinking: you ever stare at something for so long you stop seeing what it actually is? You just take it for granted. Planes, right? All those hundreds of thousands of parts that have to work in absolute harmony to make them fly. All these technological innovations, built on top of each other. It's a miracle, really. And now they're talking about building cities on the moon? To me, it seems like only yesterday that hovercarriages were the latest thing. It's like....when did they start talking about building cities on the moon?”
“Since they came out with the Icarion-9 rocket engine.”
“I know that. But when did that happen? Was I asleep when they announced it? All the details seem to fly by, as insubstantial as a dream. And I wonder how I got here, to this place and time. Am I just sleepwalking through life?”
“Thorny, I think it'd be better for all of us if you got lost on your way to the studio once in a while.”
“Shut up, Freepony.”
Twilight was in the middle of another swig of cider. She snorted with laughter and felt the drink come back up through her nose. She hacked and couched, trying to get the burning feeling out of her nostrils. Cider was getting all over her couch, but she couldn't help it. It just seemed so very funny.
“Anyway. The River Runs Wild opens tonight at the Chariot, seven o'clock sharp,” Thorny said. “It's supposed to be some real knock-out stuff. Cynic DeKey's best work yet, or so the ad copy I'm looking at says. I don't know when I'll get to see it, but it sounds like just the place to get away from life's little hassles for a good, solid two hours.”
“Maybe I should go see it,” Freepony said. "I just remembered I'm on this show, and now I got this urge to get away.”
Drolly, Thorny said, “Ha ha. We'll be right back, folks, after a message from our sponsors: Eco-brand Billboards, for all your signage needs....”
As Twilight tuned the advertisement out, she went back to the stack of paper in front of her. She had come home expecting the ideas to fly from the tip of her pen down onto the page, but all she had were a few half-formed ideas, such as, 'wings = degenerate(?) look up history of griffons at work'. Not her most productive writing session, for sure. She felt the potent ideas swirling around her head, but she couldn't get them out right without breaking them into indecipherable fragments. She sighed and pushed the paper away. Plenty of time to work on it later, she thought, taking another mouthful of cider. I need to take a break. I need to get away from this a little while....
Get away....
Thorny's words came back to her. If she needed to get away, she should go see the show. It was knock-out stuff. She liked Cynic DeKey's musicals well enough, and with a bottle of cider to keep her company she might even enjoy it. This late, she probably wouldn't be able to get good seats, but the Chariot Theater was built to be huge and there was usually enough overflow and cancellation tickets to snag a spot. It was five-thirty now; if she hurried, she might be able to make it through the checkpoints in time for the show.
It was settled then. She would go out, clear her head, then start work on her magnum opus tomorrow. The musical might even give her some inspiration.
She slipped off her couch and stood. Suddenly the walls spun and she grayed out. She had drank more cider than she realized. Planting her hooves in the carpet, she leaned against the wall until the dizzy spell passed. Once she was steady again, she aimed a spell at her coat rank, but she missed and had to trudge over and grab her scarf by hoof and wrap it around her neck. Her saddlebag was on the floor next to the door. She grabbed it and strapped it around her middle. But when she headed for the door, she paused. I forgot something, she thought. Casting an eye over her shoulder, she saw the cider bottle sitting on the table. 
Twilight took it and shoved it into her saddlebag. Just in case.
Once she'd rode the elevator down and walked out of the lobby, she stepped outside. The wind was brisk and cool as it stung her cheeks, inbound from overseas. It pushed the smog out of the sky, revealing the occasional glimmer of the beautiful starlight overhead. Her hooves clapped against the concrete while she wound her way through the city to the Chariot Theater.


A fine layer of rotting debris seemed to cover every square inch of the ghetto, like dust. Every time Applejack looked away and then back, something else had broken to pieces and littered the ground. Nopony ever spent the time to tidy it up, nor did anypony care to. All the earth ponies were assigned to factories and work details in the other sectors, where the unicorns and their factories were, and when those weary pilgrims returned they ached far too much to tidy up their own home. They just let it rot and crumble to dust around them. The whole place was filthy and disgusting, in no fit state to be lived in.
Several pegasus ponies flew past high overhead. Weather patrol, helping the wind along and clearing up the last of the smog, most likely. However, Applejack didn't want to take any chances with prying eyes, and raised her canvas cloak's hood and pulled it over her face. She sidled up close to a wreck, crouching in its shadow, and waited until they passed. 
The windshield of the autocarriage was broken and bashed in; its occupants had been dragged out kicking and screaming. The wreck had been left there for twelve years now, a relic of the Winter Rising. When the factory workers had joined the revolution, she dared to hope it would usher in a new age. That hope was quickly dashed when it turned out they were more interested in getting back at their bosses. Meanwhile, on the other side of the battle, the militias had been even more brutal than the Civil Force. Made up of soldiers home from the war, they were merciless. They were the ones who'd strung her mother and father up from the trees. Some small part of Applejack even thought her parents deserved it, despite how much she hated herself for feeling that way. But the mob her parents inspired had dragged the two ponies out of this autocarriage and beat them to death, maybe unintentionally, maybe on purpose. She couldn't remember their names, but she certainly knew who their daughter was. Life had a cruel sense of irony, because it was that mare who owned Rarefaction Industries, the company that worked her Granny Smith to death and then some.
Ah hate 'em, she thought bitterly of her parents. Who in their right mind could bring a foal into this kind a'world? Me an' Big Mac an' Apple Bloom, we're all stuck here a'cause a'them. Stuck livin' a life that don't give us so much as a speck a'dignity. How could they do such a thing? Livin' a miserable life an' bringin' a foal into it just a'cause ya want ta feel some love. Ah ain't never heard of a more selfish reason ta do a thing.
The skies were clear now. After a quick glance around the street she darted down a side alley. The garbage was piled against the walls like cliffs, leaving only a thin valley in the center to walk down. The windows were cracked and grimed with filth and the shutters and doors hung askew on their hinges. She craned her head back until she could see the High Castle under her hood. She imagined the princess of the night sitting down to a nice meal, grown from sun-starved soil by nothing but the sweat and tears of earth ponies with broken legs and broken backs. AJ, on the other hoof, had to do questionable things in the slim hope that things would get better one day.
It's for the family, she told herself firmly. It's all for the family.
She slunk up to the heavy wooden door reinforced with iron strips and took another peek back, then raised her hoof and knocked. The sound reverberated throughout the hallway beyond. A metal plate slid out of the way and a stone-coated pony's eyes narrowed. On the surface, he had the old familiar earth pony look she'd seen her whole life: the shaved mane and one ear weighed down by the earmark. But this stallion was different. He always had his easy, low-slung smile, like he knew something other ponies didn't.
“And who might you be?” he asked.
Applejack pulled her hood back. When it hit her earmark, a jolt of pain shot through the side of her head. He let loose an "Ah" in recognition and slid the plate shut. Applejack waited while he opened the door. Dim light from the other side spilled into the alleyway, and Caballeron stepped aside for her.
“Ah, we were just about to begin. Hammer, he is expecting you.”
She walked past him and into the shadowy hallway without a word. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and disused crates were stacked against the walls. The stylized logo of 'Magnum Smelting' was painted on the wall in faded paint. Once this had been a shipping dock, owned by the unlucky ponies who had perished outside. The Winter Rising was what caused all the unicorns to pack up and leave the area. What made it into a ghetto in the first place, that and the system of checkpoints and earmarks and passports that popped up after the Rising. 
In the meeting room at the far end of the hall, a single bare lightbulb hung from the exposed piping crisscrossing the ceiling. She slipped past Cup Cake and her husband, Carrot Cake, hard at work in what they jokingly called 'the bakery'. All these bright an' sunny names earth ponies give their foals, Applejack thought, tryin' ta add a touch a'class. As if a happy name will balance out the misery. The Cakes were the cooks, making their confection, only their sweets required a very specific kind of cookbook.
A voice came through the meeting room doorway: “Make sure those timers are working right. We don't want this thing going off in our faces.”
Hammer's voice was always more youthful and higher-pitched than AJ would've expected from a mean-looking pony like him. But she wasn't fooled a bit; he was as tough as they come. When he faced her, the light bulb make a shadowy valley of the scar running down his face, all the way from his shaggy black hair to the bottom of his white-coated muzzle, turning what had once been rugged good lucks into an ugly ruin. Half of his ear had been ripped off. Applejack couldn't say which she would prefer: being free of an earmark, or being able to pass checkpoints and pegasus patrols. For Hammer, though, the choice was already made, though whether he made it himself or if it was made for him was something AJ couldn't say. 
It was a dangerous life, living off the grid. From pretty much the moment an earth pony was conceived to the moment they died, the Bureau of Harmony kept detailed paperwork on their workings, their comings and goings, their movements, all coordinated through the checkpoint system and the ration system. A few ponies had tried to get around it and raise their foals in secret, but it was largely pointless. All earth ponies were required to have a fitness exam by the Bureau every month, and if they didn't go, that was the end for both mare and foal. Unless a pony ran, in which case she'd be running for the rest of her life. Hammer ran, for reasons only he knew. So far, he had made it, but he carried the scars with him still. We're all marked, Applejack thought. Some a little more'n most. And someponies, they're marked on the inside.
“You're late,” Hammer said bluntly.
“Had ta cash mah check,” Applejack replied. She took the meager pouch of coins out of her saddlebag and tossed it onto the table. "Unless ya don't want it fer the cause? 'Cause Ah could sure make do with a few more bits."
His eyes went to the wall, which was covered with maps and newspaper clippings and surveillance photos detailing their plan in all its foolhardy glory. He smoothed out a map of the city with every checkpoint marked in black type. Along the bottom was written the date, along with, 'Bureau of Public Works. CONFIDENTIAL.'
He asked, "The checkpoints?"
"Ah took a quick look on the way," she said. "Seems the map is legitimate. Although Ah wasn't tryin' ta get anywhere close ta the city center, a'course."
“Good,” Hammer said, smirking at the plans. “That'll make it all the sweeter when we pull this operation off right under their noses.”
“I wouldn't call it sweet,” she said. “Bitter, more like.”
“You getting cold hooves?” he asked sharply.
“A'course not,” she shouted back as she stared him down. “How could ya say such a thing? That don't mean we have ta celebrate blowing up a bunch of innocent folks, though.”
Hammer lowered his face. The overhead light made his scarred face into a mess of shadows. “They're not innocent. All of them conspire with each other to oppress us with everything they do, and worse, they've convinced themselves it's all perfectly reasonable and natural. If we want to win this war, we can't afford to be innocent.”
She scoffed. “War? Ah was under the impression 'war' was where ponies march out in uniforms and attack one another.” 
He jabbed his forehoof at her. “When the Equestrian Army invaded Grazembezi in 979, they thought they were in for another war like the Griffon war. A stand-up fight where they could roll in, take the capital, and conquer the nation. But that didn't happen. It was a capital in name only. There was no centralization in Grazembezi. After the laughable muster of the official military, the army's main opposition were irregular militias that rose up everywhere, struck like the wind, and then blended back into the villages they'd come from. For fifteen years, the High Castle bled troops and money into that sandpit with no end in sight. Every time they killed one militiapony, every single one of his relatives took up arms and joined the next battle. In response, the Equestrian High Command declared that the distinction between civilian and combatant was too blurred to have any meaning. Every civilian was fair game for the army. They rounded up entire villages to destroy the militia's infrastructure." His voice turned sour. "I've seen pictures of what they did to those zebra they captured, and even worse ones from when the army finally pulled out. So let me ask you: why shouldn't the same standard apply to the Equestrians themselves? These 'civilians' are the ones tacitly giving the military and arms companies like General Horsepower authority. They're not innocent, and we need to overthrow them by any means necessary.”
Applejack was tempted to point out that was the same justification the history books said the princess used to overthrow the alleged tyrant Solara Invictus in the first place. But she knew Hammer would react badly to that. So instead she said, “Shouldn't we be better than them, though?”
“The moral high ground isn't actual high ground, Applejack. You don't win a war by being nobler than your enemy, you win it by being more ruthless. As the zebra learned.”
Applejack turned to the coffee pot, took the handle in her teeth, and poured herself a cup. After she replaced it on the heater, she called over her shoulder, “What about all them earth ponies who'll be there?”
His voice darkened. “You mean the ones who sold our their race to cater to the unicorns? They justify our oppression by presenting a carefully fabricated personality to the unicorn hegemony. They're part of the system, and they deserve no mercy.”
“They're just tryin' ta get by in the world. Make a better life fer themselves.”
“Then they dug their own graves,” Hammer said. “Either an earth pony is conscious of their status, or they aren't. End of story.”
At the cold ferocity in his voice, Applejack started to shake. The coffee cup in her fetlock spilled its contents, which dripped onto her foreleg and burned her. She seethed and dabbed at the wet spot on her coat with a napkin. Then she sighed and called over her shoulder, “But why a theater, Hammer? Some folks just want to relax an' forget about their day--”
“Forget?” Hammer snarled. “Forget?! That's why they go into those theaters, Applejack. To drown themselves in fiction and forget about the consequences of their actions. But they don't get to forget what they do to us. And I swear, tonight will be a night at the theater to remember.”
Oh, I bet it will, she thought.
"You know, I'm starting to doubt whose side you're really on," Hammer said.
"Yers, Hammer," she said with a sigh. "Ya know that."
"I wonder," he said, before turning to the map again.
"Is Caramel ready?" Applejack asked.
For a long moment, Hammer said nothing. She glanced over at him as he studied the map with quiet ferocity. Then, he announced, "Caramel's not doing it. You are."
She was so startled by the news that the coffee cup slipped from her fetlock and dropped to the floor. For a few moments she sputtered as she worked out something to say. She finally said, "That wasn't the plan, Hammer."
He turned away from the map and faced her, his eyes blazing with fury. He stated, "I'm changing the plan. You know it well enough to be the courier, so I want you to do it. And just so you know...." He took a few steps forward, stepping out of the bare bulb's light, his voice dropping into a menacing register. "....I'll be watching you every step of the way, Applejack. And you just keep in mind that I know exactly where your family lives. You understand me?"
Her mind raced frantically, trying to see a way out of this, but in the end she was trapped. She had no choice but to nod. She figured it was best to commit herself to the operation and do her best to allay Hammer's suspicions before he followed through with his threat. His wrath was a terrible thing to behold.
“Caballeron!” Hammer shouted, storming past Applejack.
“Yes, mon frere?” Caballeron asked, entering the meeting room. “What is it I can assist you with?”
“The papers.”
Caballeron went to a saddlebag slung up on a wall hook by its strap. He riffled through it until he pulled out a cardboard box that he laid on the table. He opened it, revealing a bundle wrapped in tissue paper inside. He carefully unwrapped the brand-new letter of transit from the High Castle. It authorized one earth pony to transport a load of sealed building material through checkpoints, with the proviso that the bundle was not to be exposed to air or tampered with in any way.
“It's mighty fine work,” Applejack said, admiring the detail that had gone into artificially wearing and tearing it. There was even a light coffee stain on one edge. It was the perfect fake precisely because it didn't look too new, or so it seemed to her untrained eye. “You trust this forger, right?”
Caballeron closed his eyes and waved a hoof, sweeping away her concerns. “My friend in low places, he is better at making papers than the High Castle itself. Unfortunately, his work does not come cheap, nor does his silence.”
In this world, Applejack thought, a pony's gotta make a living any way they can.
Hammer said, “I understand. Take him his payment, and tell him his business is appreciated, as usual.”
“Right away,” Caballeron said. “Au revoir.” 
He swiftly left the meeting room, leaving Applejack and Hammer alone in a deep and agonizingly uncomfortable silence until Cup Cake entered.
“The candy is all ready to go,” she announced. “Carrot is loading it into the empty sacks now.”
“Excellent,” Hammer said, taking the opportunity to walk away from Applejack. “Tell Thoroughbred to ready the cart. We're going to take this war right to the unicorns' doorstep.”
What's all this 'we' talk? Applejack thought. Ah'm the one yer forcin' ta go through wit' this, by threatin' ta do somethin' unspeakable ta mah family.


"Oh, I'm sooo jealous of your new dress," Lyra Heartstrings squealed.
"Of course you're jealous," Trixie snapped. She smoothed out the collar to make the dress appear even more beautiful to the other patrons standing at the little round tables surrounding them. "That's why I bought it, remember? To turn heads."
"I wish I could afford something so beautiful like that. And tickets to the show tonight, too! Where'd you get the money?"
"Ponies just recognize my superior work ethic," Trixie said with a shrug. She tried to think of how Blanche Shockley or Sally Lander would respond. "I don't know how it is where you work, but when a pony has my skills and - dare I say it? - fabulous good looks, she rises to the top like the cream of the crop."
On the stage at the rear of the music hall, which was draped in red velvet curtains and crowded with a full band, the lights went down as a slender mare in a gorgeous silk dress that shimmered in the limelight stepped up to the freestanding microphone in the center. She batted her long lashes and golden eye-shadowed eyelids at the audience. Trixie felt the heartbeat of every red-blooded stallion in the crowd double. 
"This one's for all the colts in the audience," she said with a wink.
The band began to play a popular ballad, infused with the proper tonality and achingly melodic. A counterpoint to the loose, sloppy swing they used to play in the discotheques when Trixie was young. The discotheques were popular, and Trixie had gladly taken part in that scene. Then the Civil Force shut them down and the Midnight Guard instead emphasized traditional music hall entertainment, tonal and melodic, instead of the discord of swing. Now, Trixie took part in that with the same enthusiasm. There were moments - not many of them, but a few - in the late hours of the night while she tossed and turned and tried to sleep where she wondered if she only liked whatever was popular and acceptable. Whatever society at large liked. If she even had an identity of her own.
The mare reached the chorus, and her voice soared. "And all through the years, I kept myself pure....for you. Only for yoooouuuu...."
Trixie marked the time as five-forty. She had to leave soon if she was to make it to the Chariot Theater in time. She scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar mane of Lightning Dust, yet she still hadn't arrived. She turned around, glancing towards the bar near the entrance, which was raised above the dining area. And behind the railing, her eyes found Major Dust, and another mare with a multicolored mane who wore mirrored shades. She had been dealing with the Shadowbolts long enough to recognize one, even if she was dressed in plainclothes. How dare Major Dust keep me waiting like this! Trixie thought. But Lightning Dust noticed her stare, and broke away from the other mare. The Major walked along the wall, inviting Trixie along with a look.
"Be a pal and get me another drink, would you?" Trixie said to Lyra. "I need a little fresh air."
"Wuh....uh....sure," Lyra said.
Trixie got up and walked among the little round tables and the ponies standing at them. The stallions were still enamoured with the sultry mare on stage, while the mares were torn between appreciation and annoyance. Trixie's first priority, however, was Trixie. She followed Lightning Dust down the back hallway and into what was marked as a storage room. A portly pegasus stallion moved to block her entrance.
"Sorry, staff only," he said.
"It's alright," Major Dust said. "She's with me."
The stallion let Trixie pass and enter the small safe house and observation post that took up the back of the club. Sitting at a bank of radio and recording equipment was a sweaty pegasus stallion with thick horn-rimmed glasses, a ruffled black mane, and a white dress shirt open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves. He looked up, a cigarette dangling from his lips, to watch Trixie pass in all her fabulous. He didn't look like he got out much. Past the bank of equipment and shelves full of technical gear, Major Dust waited at a table for her.
"Let's get started," the major said.
"Certainly."
Major Dust gestured at the technician, who turned to the bank of equipment and fiddled with it until a reel-to-reel tape recorder began to spin on its spindle. He nodded at Major Dust, who pulled a microphone sitting on the table over and placed it directly between her and Trixie. She gestured for Trixie to start. Trixie was an old hoof at this by now, and needed no prompting. 
"On Monday, Sparkle arrived at work a little late. Nine-ten in the morning, by my reckoning. I could tell right away that she had been at the sauce....that is, that she had been drinking, although she took great pains to cover it up and act like she was completely sober...."


"I kept myself puuuure.... only for youuuuuu!"
The band slowed down as they slid into the finale of the song, their instruments stuttering over the singer's rousing high note, until they ended in an upbeat staccato chord change. When it was over, the silence was quickly filled by every colt in the music hall whistling and stamping his forehooves on the ground in boisterous approval. But the Colonel stayed by the bar, as far away from the stage as she could. On the outside, she was ice. But those lyrics, 'I kept myself pure for you,' they cut her deep and twisted her up inside. She gestured for the bartender to bring her a drink. He knew what she drank, a gin and tonic with a twist of lime, and mixed it up for her right away; she had been the one to put this place on the Shadowbolt payroll, and he was eager to please her.
Pure, she thought with a scoff.
They called it 'racial degeneration' to mix races, even when it was between a pegasus and a unicorn. Whenever the Colonel thought about it, she couldn't help but feel like the unicorns were laughing at her and her race. Passive-aggressively calling them degenerates and making them feel like they were inferior. Her fetlock tightened around her drink until the glass threatened to shatter. We are the superior race, she thought. And it's about time the unicorns learned that. But with Spitfire still in the way, blocking her every move, it would be much too hard. She took a heavy gulp of her gin and tonic, steeling herself for what came next.
She nursed her drink for perhaps five minutes, well into the singer's next ballad, when Major Dust rejoined her. The Colonel glanced over the railing that separated the bar from the tables. Source Witchcraft walked back to her table and swiped a drink from the outstretched hoof of another mare. 'Source Blabbermouth' is more like it, the Colonel thought. 
She turned to Major Dust and asked, "Did Source Witchcraft have anything useful for us today?"
The Major gave her a decidedly sharp look. "Of course not."
The Colonel chuckled and went back to nursing her drink. After she had turned the glass around a few times, she said, "I think it's time we cut Witchcraft loose. She's sucking up our operational budget and giving us nothing of value."
"She's also the only agent we have that's relatively close to Sparkle. And Sparkle is the only lead we have to Shining Armor who isn't currently employed inside Obelisk House."
The Colonel's lips curled as she thought about Obelisk House, an antiquated palace dating from the Reawakening, when Canterlot became more than just a tiny castle town and transformed into a full-fledged city, named for the obelisk that stood in its courtyard.
Its courtyard! the Colonel thought, tensing.
The Shadowbolts were formerly the intelligence wing of the Civil Force, but had been split off into their own agency in 951 and tasked with keeping track of the waves of pony immigrants and Griffon visitors during the uneasy friendship of the Griffon Kingdom and the just-founded Empire of the Moon. For their headquarters, the High Castle had commissioned a featureless stone building on Firefly Street. It was part of a new wave of architectural design, the 'bedrock' movement. A lot of fancy, and almost invariably unicorn, hot shot architects designed it and contemporary buildings like the Bureau of Harmony headquarters to 'reflect the foundation pegasus ponies build for society', was how they put it. It had the look and personality of a stone brick. Normally that wouldn't bother her. But ten years later, when the Midnight Guard was founded to maintain the High Castle's official ideology in the face of devastating war with the Griffons, the High Castle had simply given them the disused mansion. Like they were snubbing the Directorate by making their headquarters look pathetic when compared to the grandeur of Obelisk House, despite the Directorate being the older of the two agencies.
Because it was headed up by Major Shepherd, she thought.
Major Shepherd had been head of the Civil Force's intelligence wing, and the highest ranked pegasus in the Equestrian history. He had saved the life of some high-ranking official from an assassination attempt and been rewarded with an officer rank, a first for a pegasus pony. When the Shadowbolts split from the Civil Force, rather than bring in a whole new cadre of unicorns to be the officer corps, Major Shepherd had insisted he be promoted to the head of his own agency. And the rest of Equestria had never forgiven him for daring to rise as high as a unicorn.
"Obelisk House," the Colonel mumbled. "If only we could get an agent inside there, I'm sure we could find out who's sabotaging the Directorate."
Lightning Dust raised an eyebrow. "Spitfire will never, ever sanction an operation to get inside Obelisk House. She will shoot it down the instant the proposal crosses her desk. And there's no way you could pull an op like that off without access to agency support and agency funds."
"Exactly." The Colonel raised her glass to her lips. "Spitfire will never sanction it."
"What are you getting at?"
The Colonel finished off her gin and tonic, then dropped it on the bar top. The bartender came up to her and asked if she wanted another, but she waved him off. "I'm on duty right now, thanks," she said. When the bartender walked away, she turned to Major Dust and nodded at the exit. They both got up and left the music hall, the music, and Source Witchcraft behind. 
"I just got back from a dead drop," the Colonel explained. "My source inside the Earth Pony Liberation Front left me a message. It says the attack is a go. It's going to happen tonight, at the Chariot Theater."
"And....?"
They went to the designated hovercarriage parking spaces. Once they climbed into the Colonel's staff hovercarriage and shut the doors, the Colonel smiled at Major Dust. The gin and tonic made her feel bold. "And I say we let it." While she warmed up the rocket engines, she said, "Think about it: an earth pony terrorist cell attacks the heart of Canterlot. We swoop in at the last moment and save the day, but not before a whole bunch of unicorns see the fireball go up right in their faces. Let them feel the heat on their muzzles." The engines finished cycling. The Colonel checked the radar and then, with a tap of the thrusters throttle, the hovercarriage lifted off the ground and swooped forward. "Then we go on the offensive, telling the Defense Council all about how we could've stopped it, if only Spitfire hadn't blocked us at every turn. If only Spitfire recognized the threat when we brought it to her attention. It's perfect. Spitfire already gave us all the evidence we need to prove she's derelict of duty. Remember that memo that went around last month, telling everypony to prioritize the capture of Changelings?"
"You want to pull off a putsch and depose Spitfire?" Major Dust said, sounding somewhat impressed. "Have long have you been nursing this?"
"The thought struck me when my source first brought the possibility of an attack to my attention. Come on, Major. Yes, we both joined the Directorate at the same time. Yes, Spitfire was there for us at the beginning. But nowadays she's hopelessly out of touch. You know that and I know that. She won't even listen anymore. She is letting both us and the city down. The unicorns are playing their elitist game to sabotage us, and she won't let us strike back. But we have a higher loyalty than to Spitfire. Our loyalty is to the High Castle itself, and the pegasus alicorn who rules from it. She tasked us with keeping the state safe, and that includes from the unicorns and their power plays."
"Tell me what you need me to do."
"The way I see it, there needs to be three of us. I used a cutout, disguised as a disaffected clerk from the Bureau of Public Works who needs a few bits, to sell them a map of today's checkpoint configuration. They'll limit their route to the one with the fewest roadblocks, to minimize the risk of detection. And I drafted that map myself to make sure that's the March of Triumph." She gestured out the window with one hoof, at the magnificent arch below, in the center of an enormous roundabout. A wide and tree-lined cobblestone pathway went across the grassy circle. "There's only one checkpoint on that route. One of us needs to be waiting at it for the bomb to come through, and then shepherd it through the city. The second one needs to be in place at the Chariot, to wait for the bomb to arrive. And the third needs to babysit a tactical team at the EPLF staging area in the ghetto. We'll use one of our own teams."
Our tac teams may be only a fraction of what the Civil Force can muster, the Colonel thought, but they were created to keep sensitive operations in-house, and that pompous buffoon General Mace just loves to stick his muzzle into things that don't concern him.
"When it's close to the deadline, we hit the staging area and use what we find there as a pretext for evacuating the theater. Then, when everything comes before the Defense Council, I say I had a lead that Spitfire shot down. I went behind her back and authorized the operation anyway, and it's a good thing I did, because hey! Bombing."
"What if they don't promote you? Director Shimmer might block it."
"Sunset Shimmer also wants the Shadowbolt Directorate to fail. She'll support my promotion because it would give her the utmost pleasure to undermine me. She thinks I won't be able to cut it, like Spitfire. And General Mace may be a racist, but he's easy enough to predict. He favors actions over words. When the attacks happen, he'll demand Spitfire's head. If and when she tries to blame us, he'll ignore her. But he appreciates competent and duty-driven pegasus ponies, and when he hears all about how I saved those civilians, he'll support my promotion too. The other two, the Director of Firefighting and the Director of Public Works, will go with whatever those two decide. And then I'll be the new Director-General of the Shadowbolts, and Colonel Lightning Dust will be the new Head of Internal Security, given free rein to go after the unicorns dragging our Directorate down into the dirt."
"You've put a lot of thought into this."
"It's my job. And I love my job."
"Who's going to be the third?"
The Colonel dipped the hovercarriage down towards the parking lot of Firefly House. She said, "Fleetfoot, hopefully. I know she's just as unhappy with Spitfire as we are."


“I'm not so sure about this,” Fleetfoot whispered. She raised a foreleg, as if to step backwards.
As the Colonel finished donning her Shadowbolt uniform again, she leaned around the corner and glanced down the hallway. Framed in the door to the bullpen, Director Spitfire hovered over Soarin's desk, reading his report on Changling physiology, ideal cocoon environment, and prime targets for nests. A very dry read, the Colonel knew from experience. There was no telling how long it would hold the Director's attention, and even with Major Dust standing on lookout, there wasn't much time to win over Major Fleetfoot and still pull off the operation. The Colonel turned her attention back to the Major, whose ears had folded flat against her skull.
“You said it yourself,” the Colonel said, jabbing a hoof at the other mare. “Spitfire doesn't have her head in the game anymore.”
Fleetfoot slumped her shoulders and let her head drop. “Yeah, but....a coup d'etat?”
"We're not overthrowing the state, we're protecting it. If we don't do this and do it now, then Canterlot will crash and burn around us. And all the while Spitfire will be peeking under every little pebble for Changelings.” Snorting, the Colonel stepped forward violently, making the other mare jump. “You think this is easy for me? Spitfire took me under her wing and trained me since I was a rook. But she's lost her edge, and no amount of sentiment will cover that up. We're not kicking her out, she's already left us behind. Us, and the whole Directorate.”
“The High Castle vested her with authority,” Fleetfoot said. “They want her to lead.”
“That's just it: she's putting on an act for them. Telling the High Castle she's getting results. We're the only ones privy to how much she's letting our mandate from the High Castle fall apart.”
“So we kick her out by....violating our mandate to protect Canterlot ourselves?”
“I don't know if you've realized this yet, but this job is all smoke and mirrors. Secrets and shadows. Spitfire fabricates one lie to flout for the Defense Council's benefit, so we fabricate another to expose that first lie to them.”
Fleetfoot gave a disdainful little wrinkle of her muzzle. “And two wrongs make a right."
“No. Two wrongs cancel each other out. Or, more accurately, they course correct. Spitfire is leading us all off course. This little lie we make will put us right back on the straight and narrow.” The Colonel softened her voice. “Look, I'm not asking you to lead a mutiny. All I'm asking you to do is to put a tactical team on standby at a set of coordinates. That's all. And when the inquiry happens, you tell them I had reliable intel on a threat. I brought it to Spitfire, who shot it down as unfounded, and so I confided in you behind her back. Which is one hundred percent true, in a way. Just not a chronological way. You're absolutely shielded from any of this going awry, so long as you keep your muzzle clamped until the inquiry.”
A set of hooves clacked on the linoleum. They both launched into an improvised conversation about possible Changeling sympathizers in Canterlot. The Colonel glanced over at the intruding pony casually, but it was only Lightning Dust, and she raised her hoof to silence Fleetfoot.
"Spitfire's in her office again," Major Dust said. "We need to get this moving. It's almost six o'clock."
The Colonel bored her eyes into Major Fleetfoot. “Moment of decision. Are you in or not? We can't pull off this operation without you, Fleetfoot.”
For a long moment nopony spoke. The heavy silence weighed on Fleetfoot's shoulders. Her lips quivered, like she wanted to burst out crying. Then, squeezing her eyes shut and curling her mouth into a grimace, she nodded rapidly. The Colonel put a hoof on her colleague's back, to her lend her strength.
“We won't forget this, Fleetfoot. Now giddy up and get going. You remember the coordinates, right?"
"The old Magnum Smelting place in the ghetto."
"Right. There's a great observation spot not too far from there. A ten-story tower. You'll know the one I mean. Let's go over it again: you task Squad C for backup, because if there's one captain who will follow orders and won't ask questions, it's Captain Rapid Fire. You tell them I sent you to follow a lead. When the time comes, you radio them and say you saw suspicious activity and order them to raid the place. You go in, take one look at the place, and send out a general alert that there's a bomb threat at the Chariot. We'll take care of the rest."
Fleetfoot nodded in understanding, but she couldn't quite meet their eyes.
"One more thing," the Colonel said. "If, for any reason, we need to abort, I'll use the phrase 'ten seconds flat'. That'll be our cue to roll up the operation like it never existed. Fleetfoot, you move on the staging area immediately, while Major Dust and I will take the courier into custody and isolate the bomb." The other two Shadowbolts nodded at the Colonel, but Fleetfoot's was a little more hesitant than Lightning Dust's. "Major Dust, you go with Fleetfoot. Make sure she gets settled in properly." And doesn't have a last minute change of heart, the Colonel thought to herself.
"What about my secondary position at the theater?" Dust asked.
"We know what time they're going to set the bomb to go off, and I'll be shepherding it the whole way. Plenty of time for you to finish with Fleetfoot and hightail it to the theater. When you get to the secondary position, you'll radio me and say, uh...." Her wandering eyes fell on a glass display case full of athletic awards for the annual interdepartmental competitions. Her own trophy for the aerial relay caught her eye. 'Fastest speed on record', it said. “The code phrase will be, 'That's a new academy record for....' something. I dunno, we'll wing it.”
“It's what we do best,” Lightning Dust said with a grin.
“You said it. And remember, the abort phrase is 'ten seconds flat'."
“Got it.”
"Then get going."
The Colonel's two subordinates nodded a final time and took off for the stairwell, towards the tactical teams' ready room. The Colonel watched them go and readied herself for the operation to come. But a set of hooves in the hallway behind her made her turn. A shadow fell on the wall near the corner, heralding a pony approaching from the direction of the bullpen. It was Director-General Spitfire who rounded the corner.
“Colonel Dash,” she said. “I've been looking for you. What's the status on the Changling in custody?”
Thinking quick, the Colonel replied, “It hasn't been very chatty, ma'am. But something about its silence seemed very, ah, smug. Like it knew something was about to go down.” She tried to work a hint of dismay into her voice; Spitfire might've been going soft, but she'd been working with the Colonel long enough to know how she would react. “Ma'am, I'd feel better if I was out there, on patrol. Helping keep this city safe. I just don't feel very....useful in these conditions.”
Spitfire gave her one sharp, piercing look, then said, “Alright, fine.”
“Thank you, ma'am.”
The Colonel stiffly walked away from Spitfire. She almost made it to the door when the Director called out her name. The Colonel froze at the tone of Spitfire's voice; the brusqueness had softened, and a trace of genuine emotion had seeped in.
“I'm worried about you, Colonel,” she said.
The Colonel turned her head just enough to stare at her superior out of the corner of her eye. “You shouldn't be, ma'am.”
“Yes, I should be. This little obsession with Shining Armor and the Midnight Guard is leading you down a very dark path. Come back to us, alright? Because if you keep this up, I'll be forced to dismiss you. And I've worked with you long enough to know that civilian life wouldn't agree with you.”
After rolling some barbed retorts, fortified with irony, around on her tongue, the Colonel finally settled on a safe and simple, “We can agree on that, at least.”
“Think about it,” Spitfire said, before walking back to the bullpen.
The Colonel raised a foreleg to open the door. But her hoof hovered near the handle. It's not too late to abort, she thought. Just wait a half-hour, then radio Lightning Dust and whisper those three little words: 'ten second flat'. You don't have to go through with this.
She dismissed it as foalish sentimentality, and in one smooth motion she placed her purple beret back on her head. Her feelings towards Spitfire were confusing her rationality and objectivity. A true pegasus lets nothing get between her and her duty, she thought. Absolutely nothing. She pulled the door handle down and entered the stairwell, fully committed to the operation.