The Night Guard - Night Mares

by Georg

Testing the Metal

“Kudzu, am I a complete idiot?” Commander Peaks glared at the pile of paperwork sprawled across his desk, an implacable foe that had up until this time been his primary nemesis.

“No, sur,” responded his aide, scratching away on a series of notes at the side desk. “I’m quite positive huh Highness, Princess Celestia, would naught have placed you here if she had the slightest doubts about your qualification for the position.” He dunked his quill and returned to compiling his notes while his boss fumed.

“You could have fooled me,” he growled, lifting up a wing and morosely counting the number of damp feathers that fell out. “Look, I’m moulting. What a world.”

“It’s merely the stress, sur. Perhaps some reading will take your mind off your troubles.”

Four thick folders nudged themselves closer to ground zero of the paperwork explosion on his desk, and Snowy Peaks glared at the interlopers. “No. It’s just wasted time. Let’s just get the paperwork subdued for now and we’ll go out to the south gate in an hour. The older cadets are doing a cross-country run and I want to be there when they have to drag those out-of-shape losers across the finish line and out the front gates.”

“Good evening, Commandant!” The tan unicorn medic saluted as Peaks and Kudzu strolled over to the health station placed just inside the gates. No cross-country night run on mountain roads was complete without at least one cadet having to be dragged across the line with a broken limb, and it was good practice to treat the stretcher-borne pony as quickly as possible. This evening there were two medical ponies on duty, and Peaks raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“Blisters, it takes two of you now to treat a chipped hoof or a cut on our delicate little flowers?”

The other medic promptly proceeded to look every direction except for his, and Blisters scratched behind one ear. “Well, Commander. It’s like this. Princess Luna seems to be taking a real interest in this bunch, and we didn’t want—”

“Here they come, and ahead of schedule,” announced the gate guard. “Looks like we’ve got a stretcher in the back, but Chert’s got the rest all formed up.”

“Companeeeee-QUICK MARCH!” sounded a familiar bellow from out in the moonlit night. It was a voice that could not only peel paint cleaner than a sandblaster, but blister the primer beneath it and carve grooves in steel. Drill Instructor Chert was a solid chunk of raw red the color of hematite, topped by a black mane cropped so short it could have been a shadow. He was a legend in the Academy, which was exactly the reason Peaks had assigned him to the march. Rumor had it Chert had not been born, but instead was chiseled out of a vein of red granite by Celestia and carved into the most impressive form she could imagine. There were taller ponies, and a very few stronger ponies, but none of them could match the endurance of the stocky drill instructor, who could not only march a group of healthy young stallions into the dust, but do it backwards, shouting an unbroken string of obscenities all the way, and then march a second group into the dust an hour later, every day of every month as he had for over twenty years.

I still can’t believe he’s dating one of Pumpernickel’s sisters. The poor stallion.

Road dust had turned the marching cadets nearly a uniform shade of grey in the moonlight, but they were bellowing a marching cadence to the tune of steel-clad hooves and led by a deep but still distinctly female voice.

“Companeee… Halt! Right-face! Salute!”

Fifty dusty stallions — or at least he could not pick out the differences under the dust — saluted as the bulky form of Chert trundled forward.

“Commandant Peaks, I am pleased to report all the cadets have completed their run with only one minor casualty. Request permission to dismiss them for showers.”

“All of them, Drill Instructor?” His eyes scanned the rows of dusty figures, looking for any gaps or feminine differences that would stand out.

“Yes, sir.” Getting any kind of emotional reading off the impassive earth pony would have been as difficult as determining just how Mount Canter was feeling, so Peaks settled for grinding his teeth for a moment. “Cadets are to assemble in thirty minutes, full armor for inspection. Dismissed.”

An avalanche of heavy hooves stampeded for the barracks, leaving only three dusty figures carrying a fourth over to the medics, who met them half-way. At closer range, it was easy to pick out the forms of Miss Rose, who was holding one end of the stretcher, and the blocky form of Miss Banehammer on the other end. There was a pale green glow of magic around the patient on the stretcher, and Miss Grace kept a solid stream of information flowing to the medics as they worked.

“…green fracture of the lower section of the splint bone with minor contusions to the olecranon, immobilized by spell and mechanical bracing within minutes of the fall. Hello, Commander Peaks. Medication administered: one standard unit of psuedoacetyl-para-aminophenol with magical stabilization, hydration, cold compresses, and I believe he specifically asked if Miss Thermal would ‘kiss it and make the boo-boo better.’ Is that correct, Cadet?”

Even under the dust, the young stallion blushed a brilliant red, still trying to make excuses as the medics trotted him off to the infirmary suspended in their mutual magical fields. Peaks turned his attention to the three dusty mares remaining and glared. “I see you three made it.”

Miss Grace stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, if we are to be ready for inspection in twenty-six minutes, we need to be dismissed.”

His glare did not reduce in intensity, but there was a distinct twitch around his throat as if several pithy comments had been strangled before they reached his vocal cords. Finally he asked, “Where’s Thermal?”

“She took the optional cross-country flight with the pegasi cadets, sir. She chose it rather than running because…”

Grace trailed off, looking somewhat uncomfortable, but Miss Banehammer cleared her throat and helpfully added in a somewhat raspy voice, “She’s still pumping for der young vun, und de running chafes her teats. Sir.” While Peaks spluttered, Banehammer calmly continued, “She said der armor is actually lighter den Standing Vatter, her foal, und doesn’t squirm about so much, so I vouldn’t vorry about her.”

“Dismissed!” Peaks waved frantically at the barracks. “Go! Go!”

“It’s supposed to be a three hour endurance flight, sur,” said Lieutenant Kudzu, trotting along behind his boss. “The furst cadets aren’t scheduled to arrive for fifteen minutes or so. Wouldn’t your time be better spent getting ready to review the graduating class?”

Peaks didn’t reply, but instead ascended into the air in a flurry of dropped feathers. There were four instructors standing around at the marking cloud, comparing clipboards and stopwatches when he dropped onto the platform and snapped, “Give me some binoculars, Major.”

Taking the offered pair from Major Turbulence, the officer in charge of Night Aerial Operations, he tripped the night-vision enchantment gem on the side and began to scan the returning cadet path. “I want to know the minute any of you see Thermal. The other three finished their cross-country run already.”

“So, Commander Peaks, how did Grandma do?”

Commander Peaks put his binoculars down and looked at the sleek grey Nocturne who was copying down a list of numbers. “Grandma?”

“Technically she’s not my grandmother,” continued Major Turbulence, still engrossed in the line of figures. “At best a third cousin twice removed by marriage into the Stratus clan, but a bunch of the guys used to hang out at their family house and talk shop after work. She made the best maple-alfalfa oatmeal cookies in Canterlot.” He looked up, taking the quill out of his mouth and wiping it off on his soft grey coat. “Sorry, sir. Saliva.”

“Miss Thermal? She can’t be much more than twenty.”

“Not her. You’re thinking of Milkmaid.” The Nocturne flipped over a nearby clipboard with one membranous wing and passed it over to the commander. “I hope you don’t mind us assigning her a handle. She was dripping a little yesterday and the title sorta just stuck. But don’t worry. We found a nice quiet office over at the MWR barn to stick her pumping gear in, complete with ice box.”

“Base this is Green Flight Alpha,” crackled a nearby communicator. “Leading elements are at the outer marker and incoming. What’s the twenty on Milkmaid.”

The Nocturne scooped up the microphone and responded, “Green Alpha this is Base. Milkmaid is over the line and taking a break in the barn, but don’t worry. She’s a good thirty seconds off your Academy score.”

“I’m not the one worried,” crackled the communicator again, “but you gotta break the news to Grandma if she breaks Dandelion's record.”

“Roger that, Base clear.” The Nocturne chuckled slightly as he put the microphone away. “Anyway, Commander Peaks. Dandelion married grandma way back when, and they kinda sorta adopted all the kids in the clan as we grew up, even the ones who weren’t their kids. There must be a half-dozen Dandelions named after him out there, and all of them are just as fast as their — Commander?”

Major Turbulence looked around, but Commander Peaks was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence he had even been at the observation station were a few loose primary feathers left blowing on the breeze.

“Gotta be cheating with times like that,” grumbled Peaks as he touched down outside the Morale, Welfare and Recreation building and stormed inside, nearly trampling an earth pony janitor towing a mop bucket. “Where’s Milkmaid? I mean Thermal!” he snapped.

“Third floor, Room 301,” he replied, nearly tripping over the mop bucket. “But she’s—”

“I don’t care! Get out of my way.” He half-flapped, half-galloped up the stairs, muttering about proscribed substances and illegal wing enhancements until he reached the right door and kicked it open.

“Thermal!” he bellowed, pointing a hoof. “What did you do to get back so…”

His first impression was that the startling pink pegasus had been peeled, her sweaty training armor scattered across the floor, and some sort of torture device tied to her belly. Whatever it was made an obscene sucking and thumping noise, twitching in a way that he was certain would haunt his dreams for weeks. Miss (and there was no mistaking her gender at this angle) Thermal started, looking up with wide frightened eyes and simultaneously kicking out with one hind hoof. A nearby chair skidded across the floor, rebounded off the wall, and smacked into the back of the loosely held door, neatly slamming it into his face. He stumbled back into the hallway, his emotions a churning mess that matched the sharp throb of pain at the end of his nose.

“S-s-s-sorry,” called out a soft voice from inside the room. “S-s-sir. A-a-are you hurt?”

“No,” he growled almost out of an instinctual response. “I’m fine. I just wanted—”

One of the hardest lessons Peaks tried to teach the cadets was to think before they acted, and every lecture he had given on the subject promptly cascaded through his head. He had just gone pelting off across the Academy to accuse a nursing mare of using drugs or illegal enhancements to boost her speed, and once he applied even the smallest amount of thought to the concept, the charge was almost criminally stupid. Still, there was something familiar about her frightened attitude that matched his years of experience with other cadets, and as he considered, the various puzzle pieces began to slowly mesh together.

There was a minor disturbance from downstairs as he thought, and two familiar voices mixed in with the clatter of hooves echoing up the stairs.

“Grace, hold up. I’ve only got three of Daelia’s shinguards.”

“I’ve got the other, Sergeant. Now hurry up. We’ve only have a few minutes before assembly.”

The startled look on the two unicorn mares as they rounded the top of the stairs and saw him was priceless. Miss Grace and Miss Rose clattered to a halt in their cadet armor and saluted, still damp from their rapid shower and looking more than flummoxed at his presence.

“Sir! What are… I mean—”

“At ease. I see you brought Thermal’s armor?” He nodded at the violet dress armor of a pegasus trainee suspended in the two mare’s dissimilar magical fields, trying to ignore the various bumps and dents that defined a different gender than proper armor was meant to cover.

“Yes, sir!” Miss Rose held herself at rigid attention while the armor rearranged itself in their magical suspension, looking like some strange invisible pegasus standing to their side.

“Very well. She’s currently… indisposed, so just leave it here and go notify the drill inspector that they are to hold their inspection until I arrive. Dismissed.”

The two mares saluted and piled the armor quickly to one side before turning to leave. “Not you, Miss Rose. Stay.” Snowy Peaks waited until the clatter of descending hooves had died away and the fire door at the bottom of the stairs had closed before addressing the remaining mare.

“Miss Rose. At ease.” Peaks looked over the nervous middle-aged mare, seeming more fragile under the interior lights than she had been out in the darkness. “So. Why did you volunteer for this position? And don’t give me that ‘to serve Equestria and be the best I can be’ horseapples. The Royal Guard takes all kinds of raw recruits, and I’ve seen ‘em all. Drug addicts. Criminals. Farm ponies who haven’t ever seen more than two houses together in one place. You four are different, and I don’t mean your gender. If I didn’t know better, I’d think all four of you were running from something.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, sir.” There was a certain inevitability that slid down behind the mare’s violet eyes, making them look much harder than they had any right to be. Then again, Peaks had gotten used to dealing with snot-nosed kids who thought they were hot enough to be raised into the sky by Celestia every morning and put to bed by Luna at night. Rose was quite nearly his own age, and it took a mental shift to look at things from her experienced point of view. Most probably the last stallion to come after her with a blade held real steel honed to razor sharpness, and whatever had gone after her friend Miss Grace had shut her emotions up like a steel safe. Perhaps it was time to settle down with the four folders and do a little extra reading on his new cadets. Purely for curiosity's sake, that is.

He nodded at the pile of armor before trotting down the stairs. “Stay here and help Thermal when she’s done with… her procedure. I’ll hold the inspection until all four of you are in ranks, but don’t expect me to do it again. Dismissed.”

“Don’t talk. Just deal.” Snowy Peaks dropped into the tattered chair and regarded the rest of the older poker players, who had all been laughing vigorously before he slunk into the room. Technically he was supposed to salute since both Night Commander Buttercup and Day Commander Swift Wings were his direct superiors, but the Ritual of the Saturday Morning⁽*⁾ Game was sacrosanct, and anypony caught saluting or discussing work-related policy had to chip in five bits to the kitty.

He dug into his coin purse and tossed twenty bits into the kitty. “Paying it forward,” he grumbled.

Police Commissioner Gourd chuckled, shuffling the cards in his magic while pouring Peaks a bourbon. “Our little angels giving you problems, Snowy?”

“Angels!” scoffed Peaks, lifting a wing and shaking it slightly, which scattered a few loose feathers across their poker table. “Demonic beasts from Tartarus, more likely. Look at this! Premature moulting, and at my young age. Make that bourbon a double, Gourd. Anything good in the ice box?”

“Despite my better judgement, the wife endeavored to recreate your lava-cheese dip recipe this evening,” said Commander Buttercup, opening up the icebox and using one wrinkled membranous wing to scoot a container of chili-topped goodness over to the Academy Commandant, who scowled at it viciously before pushing it back.

“Hedgeballs. Stick it back in. Better skip the bourbon too. My stomach hasn’t quit hurting since those four walked in the gates. Any cottage cheese?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” said Buttercup, his snow-white head still in the icebox. “There should be a number of Aunt Gloria’s snickerdoodles on the table. Allow me to see if I can procure something to calm your stomach while we take your bits.”

“Yeah,” said Swift Wings, making a production out of scooting his chair farther away. “As long as we don’t catch whatever’s making you moult this way.”

“What do you mean ‘we,’ Swifty?” Commissioner Gourd tapped his horn with one hoof. “And I don’t think Nocturne can moult, so that leaves…” Using his magic, he fanned out the cards in front of Swift Wings and grinned when the pegasus shoved them away.

“Laugh it up,” snapped Snowy Peaks. “There were six applications from mares for the Royal Guard Academy in my pile this morning, including a female Nocturne.”

There was a quite solid thump from the ice box and Buttercup emerged, rubbing his head. “Preposterous! None of our mares would leave the family clan structure and—”

“Clan Rye,” scowled Gourd, dropping the cards on the table. “The police academy got their first five female Nocturne applications yesterday, all from Pumpernickel’s family.”

All three stallions looked at Commander Buttercup, who had returned to the ice box and was carefully pouring a glass of milk. The Nocturne placed it in front of Snowy Peaks, and then poured himself a glass out the remainder. “He’s not my clan,” he smoothly stated, taking a sip of milk that soaked his ornate moustache and dripped a little afterwards, “but I’m getting an ulcer of my own from that obstinate bastard.” Buttercup deftly extracted a five-bit chip from his pile and tossed it into the penalty cup with a flip of one membranous wing.

“Gentlecolts. I offer a toast.” He raised his glass of milk high as his fellow poker players duplicated his stance. “To the Princesses, and the stallions who guard them. Long may they endure.”

“Here, here!” A general clinking of scotch and milk glasses later, the three old (and one slightly younger by comparison, as Snowy Peaks preferred to think about it) stallions settled down to the serious business of poker, mixed with what was listed on their schedules as ‘Weekly Intelligence Briefing with Heads of Military and Civilian Forces.’ Technically the topic was correct, because the activities of adorable grandfillies or the progress of hoofball teams could conceivably be intelligence matters, if the point was stretched. It was a strict rule that official conflicts were to be left outside the door, but as the rules of poker became somewhat fluid after two or three bourbons (or milks), so did the rules of the meeting/game.

Everything was going well, and about the time the serious topic was raised about the latest issue of Playcolt, and whether the ‘attributes’ of Miss July had been artificially enhanced, there was a short knock at the door.

“Pardon me, but I just need to—” Miss Grace came to an abrupt halt half-way through the door, her wide-eyed look of shock lasting slightly less time than her former boss or any of her upcoming bosses. With a sudden squaring of her shoulders beneath the cool steel of the Night Guard armor, she saluted so perfectly that all four stallions followed suit.

“Pardon me, sirs! I just need to retrieve something from the ice box. Request permission to continue, sir!”

“Grace!” bellowed Snowy Peaks, dumping his cards on the table and flinging another five bits into the penalty cup. “What in Tartarus are you doing here?”

She saluted again. “Not interrupting your poker game, sir!” Her eyes wandered over the piles of chips, the cards, and then back to Peaks’ reddening face. “I’m sorry, sir, but under the Regulations of the Royal Guard, Section 17, Subsection B, gambling is against the rules, and will have to be reported.”

Without even a pause, Miss Grace saluted again. “Commandant Peaks, I would like to report a poker game ongoing in the MWR building, room 301. It appears three members of the Guard are involved, along with a fourth individual who did not identify himself.”

“Stop screwing around, Grace. Just get whatever you needed out of the icebox and get out,” growled Snowy Peaks.

“Thank you, sir!” A soft green aura opened the ice box and an empty bottle floated out, which Grace observed with minor consternation. “Um… Are there any more bottles of milk in there? Miss Thermal said she had pumped a full bottle last night so Standing Water could be bottle-fed during the examinations tomorrow night.”

“Milk?” said Commander Buttercup, his flowing white mustache seeming a bit whiter in the room’s lighting as one pearlescent drop of milk dripped onto the floor.

“Thermal,” said Peaks in a dull monotone, looking at the thin ring of white at the bottom of his empty glass.

The perfectly straight lines of Miss Grace’s face wrinkled the tiniest fraction of an inch as she looked back and forth between the two senior officers. Her cheeks twitched, one corner of her lips turned up, and both eyes squinted most of the way closed in order to hold back a tidal wave of laughter. “Permission… to be… excused sir!” she managed to splutter out, darting out the door at Peaks’ sudden glare and nod.

Even through the closed door, her explosion of laughter could be heard echoing up the stairwell until the thump of the fire door three stories down mercifully cut it off.

“I’ll be damned fourteen ways to Tartarus,” said Commissioner Gourd. “The Ice Queen can laugh.”

“Ice Queen?” Snowy Peaks dropped several chips into the kitty. “Spill it.”

The police commissioner took his time gathering up the cards again in his magic and shuffling, only continuing once he was sure everypony had refreshed their drinks and after pouring fresh ones for his two embarassed colleagues.

“Well, it’s not mentioned in her file, so it’s no wonder you don’t know,” started the commissioner. “She’s had a lot of nicknames in the force. Windigo, Yeti, Whiplash, Ice Plot, and a bunch I really shouldn’t repeat. Her work is exemplary, but I couldn’t put her on patrol because her partners kept requesting transfers, calling in sick, or retiring.” He paused to refill his bourbon and shuddered. “Nopony deserves what happens to any stallion who tries to get a date with her. They say it’s like talking to a stack of frozen notecards. She sees everything, doesn’t forget anything, and her special talent lets her visually play back those memories like some slow-motion recap of every embarrassing event she’s ever witnessed.”

“So why pawn her off on us?” growled Snowy Peaks, taking a miniscule sip from his bourbon.

“It’s… complicated. Suffice it to say, do you remember about two months ago when the force caught that stallion who had been abducting and murdering little colts?”

“I remember reading about that in the papers,” said Buttercup with a huff that made his snow-white mustache quiver. “I’ve got a unicorn grandcolt about the age of the victims. Can’t say I approved of the way his arrest was bungled, but I can’t say I disapprove either.”

“Wasn’t that the case where the suspect was killed while resisting arrest?” Commander Swift Wings waved a hoof and then brought it solidly to his chest. “Stabbed through the heart, if I remember right.”

“I can believe that,” groused Snowy Peaks. “She’s deadly with those damned little knives.”

“She didn’t stab him with a knife,” said Gourd. “That’s how she chipped her horn.”

There was a stunned silence as the other three stallions considered his statement. Other than the occasional historical reenactor who practiced the dangerous sport of Full-Contact Tilting, unicorns treated their horns with great respect. After all, any serious injury to it could easily keep a unicorn from using their magic for months, if not years.

“Anyway,” continued Commissioner Gourd, “until the investigation is over and the newspapers find something else to occupy their time, I needed something to get her out of my mane. Look at the bright side, Snowy. You have a Night Guard cadet with more kills than about ninety five percent of your serving guards.”

“Wonderful. I’ll add it to my ulcer collection.” Snowy Peaks rolled his eyes and pushed the remaining glass of bourbon away with a snarl. “Are the other three just as murderous? Because you know they’re supposed to guard a Princess of Equestria! Remember? The one who raises the moon every night!”

“Her Highness spoke directly to all four of them,” rumbled Buttercup, settled deeply into his chair and with a petulant look of stubborn determination encompassing his entire being. “If any are a danger to those around them, she would know. Although I must admit my own curiosity as to what kind of rejects we are receiving from your force, Gourd.”

“They’re sure not rejects,” explained Gourd, flipping the deck over and sorting cards across the table with little flicks of his magic. “If you had drawn a hoof full of hearts and the ace of spades like this, you would want to discard the ace and see if you can draw another heart to make a flush. They’re each darned good at their jobs, but they just don’t fit into my department the way they should. Sergeant Banehammer returned from early retirement when we needed more patrol officers and has been the best officer on the street I’ve seen in years, but she’s garnering a string of excessive force complaints that are troubling Internal Affairs. Lieutenant-Commander Grace graduated from Celestia’s school egregia cum laude and could walk straight into any educational institution as a professor, as long as she didn’t have to deal with students or coworkers. Heck, she could do my job as long as she didn’t have to interact with anypony. And Sergeant Rose Petal used to be the best damned interrogator we had. Lock a suspect up in a room with her and if they don’t confess after an hour, we might as well let them go because they’re innocent. But lately she’s become withdrawn, doesn’t go out on cases unless forced, and won’t even touch domestic violence cases for some reason she refuses to speak about.”

There was a somewhat lengthy pause where three Royal Guards waited impatiently for their companion to fill in remaining information, and Commissioner Gourd feigned innocence. Finally Commander Peaks could not hold himself back. “Thermal’s the worst, isn’t she?”

“Well,” started the commissioner with an uncomfortable roll of his eyes, “she’s got this damned habit of wrapping everypony around her little pink hoof. It’s not even her special talent, but…” He trailed off with a snort and gathered the milk-stained glasses together to put them in the sink before continuing.

“She started as a sky glider⁽¹⁾ in Canterlot as a runaway back before she even got teats. Used to come in with the vice squad every time she needed a good meal and an unoccupied bed for the day. They practically adopted her as a decoy. Just set her up and watch the criminals flock to her. That’s her natural color, by the way. Shocking Pink and Oh-My-Stars Orange. Under the right streetlights, she practically glows.”

Commissioner Gourd sat the bourbon to one side and poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip before continuing. “She had some sort of incident on the streets about three years ago, wound up spending a lot of time in the office. Before I knew it, one of the young colts from Larceny had sweet-talked her into the police academy and a wedding ring. I sure as Niflheim didn’t expect her to graduate with honors, but then she turned up pregnant and her brand-new husband fled to Vanhoover. She’s out of sick and annual leave with her foal, so I bumped her to lieutenant about five minutes before I signed the transfer papers. I thought it would at least justify us giving her a few more weeks of administrative leave when she got kicked out of your program.”

“Well, that should be tomorrow,” growled Snowy Peaks. “They’re sitting for the final exam with the rest of the graduating class tomorrow evening. They haven’t had a chance to study, so there’s not a chance they’ll even come close to passing.”

Peaks determined that Commissioner Gourd had a very ominous laugh.

(*) Scheduling for a regular poker game for the Commander of the Day and Night Guard, the Academy Commandant, and the Police Commissioner was a convoluted mess, but Saturday morning had been decided on nearly a century ago, and nopony had bucked tradition since.

(1) Sky gliders are much like street walkers, only in the pegasus section of town.