//------------------------------// // Souring the Fruits // Story: Armor's Game // by OTCPony //------------------------------// “Mr Blueblood expects you in the garden.” “Thank you, Cordwainer,” sighed Radical Road. The de jure leader of the Parliamentarian movement stepped through the mahogany double doors of the mansion and into the entrance hall. He hated this. He hated all of it. He might continue to moralise in Parliament against the war and demand reform, but he had ceased to be leader of the Parliamentarians months ago. No, the leader was now the amber-maned white unicorn who sat at his right hand in every Parliamentary session and could now summon him at will like a loyal dog. Even the butler seemed to be above him now. He did not even look down at him as he led him from the entrance hall through the gallery that ran the width of the Blueblood Mansion. He just maintained his usual impassive air of dignified servility, which right now struck Radical Road as nothing more than barely-concealed condescension. At the end of the portrait- and pot plant-lined gallery was an expansive conservatory. Cordwainer, however, turned left and led Radical through a set of glass double doors onto a portico that ran the length of the rear of the mansion. They trotted down a set of steps down into the mansion’s grounds. They were impressive, Radical Road had to admit. On a mountainside city like Canterlot, space was at a premium, and even for a pony of Blueblood’s wealth, large tracts of land in the city were beyond the means of almost anypony. However, running up to where they sharply ended at the cliff-face of the Canterhorn, the medium-sized gardens were immaculate. Emerald-green lawns were cut just to the right length; paths of snow-white gravel flowed elegantly from the shining marble patio; crystal-clear water babbled gently from pair of marble fountains; and a hooful of exquisitely-cut topiaries added a touch of class without being too garish. Standing in the middle of the lawn, a mallet held in his magic, was Blueblood. Next to him was another pony with his back to him who Radical didn’t recognise. They were absorbed in a game of croquet. Do ponies actually play that? he thought, disbelieving. He’d always assumed that it was just a ridiculous stereotype of the rich that he’d laughed at but had never really believed. “Ah, Radical,” said Blueblood happily. “Care to join us for a game?” “Ah... I never learnt it, actually.” “Of course not.” Radical ground his teeth together. “Why did you ask me here, Blueblood?!” “To see if you wanted a game. Do you think I spend all my time shut up in that office plotting? Also, I’d like to introduce you to our greatest ally in the coming days. I believe you’re familiar with Newsprint?” “I think we know each other buy reputation,” said the media baron. His voice was flavoured with a Horsetralian accent. He turned to present a lined muzzle, with a mane that had turned grey and begun to thin years previously. A pair of black-framed glasses sat over penetrating brown eyes. He wore an expensive yet unremarkable suit jacket, and on his flank was a cutie mark of a stylised globe. “So,” asked Newsprint genially. “Decided against trying to steal my company from me, eh, Radical?” “Ah... I,” stammered Radical Road. “What my leader means,” said Blueblood coolly. “Is that times have changed. For all of us.” “Indeed they have. Shall we show him?” “Yes. Please, Radical.” Blueblood led them over to an iron-frame table on the patio, where Cordwainer had laid tea. A pile of newspapers sat next to the silver tray. “These’ll be out tomorrow morning,” said Newsprint, spreading the papers over the table. “A certain principled whistleblower has been very kind to us at News Equestria, and to the Parliamentarian movement, of course.” Radical Road stared, astonished, at the devastating headlines before him. Newsprint’s broadsheets were reserved in their reporting. The Canterlot Chronicle carried the header VALNEIGH: A MILITARY DISASTER? The Baltimare Times proclaimed DEFICIENT GUNS KILL PONIES IN LYNX TERRITORIES: ARMY POORLY EQUIPPED. His sensationalist rags Sun and Moon and the News of Equestria aimed for the heartstrings: OUR COLTS AND FILLIES MARCHED TO DEATH: HORROR ON THE ROAD TO MANEDEN, trumpeted the former. The latter declared, GENOCIDE DOWN SOUTH: WHAT IS SHINING ARMOR’S PLAN FOR THE CHANGELINGS? “All these stories are reprinted in some form in each of the other papers,” said Newsprint matter-of-factly. “By tomorrow morning I daresay three-quarters of Equestria’s population will have seen these.” “And I daresay confidence in Celestia’s government will be considerably undermined,” said Blueblood. “Misleading Parliament; procuring equipment leading to soldiers’ deaths; working with the barbaric Lynxes to commit genocide; it’s all very scandalous.” We killed those soldiers, thought Radical Road miserably. I good as held the knife. “I suppose you’ll want me to give a few speeches tomorrow?” “An excellent idea, yes.” Radical stared at him. “Well?” “Well what? Do you expect me to give them to you?” Blueblood took the papers in his magic and thrust them towards Radical. “Away and write. The leader of the Parliamentarian movement can’t be having his speeches just given to him.” Radical cursed and swept away. “You sure you’re not pushing him too far?” asked Newsprint. “He may act like he hates this but the stallion’s a coward,” said Blueblood decisively. “He loves the limelight too much and he loves having the public’s ear. You watch.” And besides, if he betrays me, we both go to jail, he thought darkly. “If you think so. See you at my place for dinner still?” “Indeed.” Blueblood inclined his head. “Newsprint.” “Blueblood.” The media baron trotted away. He would leave by the servants’ entrance and be driven away in an unmarked carriage. Blueblood picked up a cup of tea in his magic and sipped gently. After a moment he looked up at the butler standing warily next to him. “Something on your mind, Cordwainer?” “It concerns the estate’s finances, sir. Considering what you’ve been paying my brother, your latest investments, donations to the movement, and the usual expenses...” “Your salary is perfectly safe if that’s what you’re worried about,” interrupted Blueblood sharply. “All I mean to say is, sir, no pony expects stock in Fancypants’ businesses to go anywhere but up.” Does he really believe I tell him everything? “Of course they do,” said Blueblood. “Your brother will see that they are wrong.” *** “Soldier, eh?” asked Mine Overseer Charcoal. “What brought you here?” The stallion wearing high-visibility coveralls and a hard hat raised his left hoof to reveal a nasty scar. “Weapons are dangerous, even your own ones, apparently.” Charcoal winced in sympathy. “I’ve seen some nasty injuries on our boys down here. You sure you’re okay with this?” “Anything’s easier than the army.” “Yeah, I suppose.” Charcoal turned on his hooves and led Twist Turn down the gallery driven deep into the Unicorn Range. Pit props lined the pitch-black walls and the only illumination came from firefly lanterns hung from the ceiling. Ponies occasionally raced past dragging carts heaped with freshly-mined coal. “It’s a good time to go into mining,” Charcoal was saying proudly. “War’s meant that demand for coal for the supply trains is higher than ever, and Toffeenose Mining is at the forefront of it!” He nodded at the emblem of three gold crowns on the sleeve of his coveralls. “We ain’t as glamorous as the gem-miners, but without us, Equestria grinds to a halt. Guys like you are going to be vital if we’re going to expand, and old Fancypants knows it.” Twist Turn tried to go along with the old miner’s rambling. “So he’s a good boss, then?” “Oh yeah! Pay’s not bad, vacations are good, and we get paid sick leave too. I tell you, I’ve heard some scary stuff about some other mines. I wouldn’t want to work for that plothole Blueblood!” Blueblood pays me more in a day than what you’ll earn this year, thought Twist Turn, as Charcoal led him into another drift off the gallery. “This is yours: Drift 12.” Twist Turn looked around. A dozen heavily-muscled stallions stood at the end of the tunnel, hammering away at the coalface with picks while a dozen more shovelled coal into waiting carts that were swiftly raced away to the surface. Hung on the walls were emergency pumps should the mine flood, fire fighting gear, lifesaving equipment, and a collection of sealed brass oil lamps. Descending from the roof was the outlet for the ventilation system. “Three times every day you’ll need to check these vent pipes for leaks,” said Charcoal. His voice was deadly serious. “If the pressure drops, we could get a build up of firedamp. We don’t use candles down here, but any build up is potentially poisonous or could be ignited by anbaric equipment, or even a spark from a pickaxe.” He pointed at the oil lamps. “Detector lamps. If the concentration of firedamp gets high enough, it’ll pass through the gauze in the lamps and they’ll glow red-hot. If that happens, you extinguish the lamps and tell everypony to get the buck out of here.” “We use flames to detect a flammable gas?” asked Twist Turn, shifting uncomfortably on his hooves. “Yeah, we used to use canaries. Then some Pegasus down in Ponyville got her tail in a twist about animal rights. I don’t know why; they were all volunteers. But anyway, here we are.” He saw the look on Twist Turn’s face. “We’ve never had an accident. I’ve been down here for fifteen years and I’ve only seen the vents leak twice.” “Yeah, okay,” said Twist Turn uncertainly. Charcoal laughed. “I remember my first day. You’ll relax sooner or later. You haven’t really got a choice if you want to stay sane!” Twist Turn nodded slowly as the old miner went on and on. Of course he’d known about safety procedures, the ventilation system, and the detector lamps. Blueblood had told him exactly what needed to be done, and had forged the necessary qualifications to get him employed by Fancypants’ company. It was a fine job Blueblood had got for him. It was just that he was here to do exactly the opposite of what Charcoal had told him.