//------------------------------// // XXXV. Jannah Interlude: Last Ticket Home // Story: The Night is Passing // by Cynewulf //------------------------------// LUNA SONGBOURNE Luna looked at each of them in turn with pursed lips and hard eyes. Their perfect images were in disarray--nobility afraid and running, even as they stood. A pony didn’t need to run to flee, after all, not when they had power and money. They could throw others in harm’s way. They have the thing you spoke of, Sister, with your sardonic grin and your sweeping gestures. They have infinite money, the sinews of war. “Something must be done,” chattered Lord Dawn. He was fidgeting. No, that was a bit too kind. He was practically trying to hide in plain sight. Luna barely registered him as a pony at this point. She wanted to spit at him, for old times’ sakes. How the Lords and Ladies of old had decayed! Withered! They had been like steel in her day, good and bad alike, bold and capable. She thought, as she sometimes was wont to, of the children of Belle--the battle over the great crag where the progeny of that House went down screaming defiance in her face, refusing to be eaten alive by flame before their task was complete… And now they were like this. Mewling. “And what would that be?” Luna asked him. She raised a foreleg, and he flinched, only to snarl--not at her of course! Somepony like him couldn’t even meet her eyes when he was bold!--as she gently rested her head on her hoof. “We have… we have armies, don’t we?” “More like one army, subdivided by division and such,” Lord Iron said with a little smile. He seemed… bored. This failed to impress the Princess as much as Candescent Dawn’s mewling had. If one was withered, the other was a point--a tiny dagger with a smile and a shapeless ruin of worry. She didn’t trust him. She barely trusted him to be in this room. He was a snake, and Luna knew much of snakes from her long life. The real ones she had no fear for, not anymore. The ones who wore the faces of ponies, however, she still had a healthy caution about. “Quit your whining, Candy,” growled Lady Brigantine. Rowan-Oak. An old and illustrious house. Luna found the mare who led it to be a wholly distasteful personnage, but at least she had a spine. If there was one pony among her detractors whom Luna could see in any form as worthy of her respect, it was Brigantine. “Do not call me that,” hissed Lord Dawn. “You… Agh. This is pointless, you stupid bitch. You can insult me all you want, but I’m right. We can’t let them get any closer.” Brigantine Rowan-Oak shrugged and sat back. “It isn’t like we’re going to, ah, abandon you,” she continued. “So they’re here. All of them. We have artillery. Why offer battle afield when we can pick them off the whole way here? By the time they get here, one good charge will send those animals packing.” “You seem confidant in the new technology,” Luna said quietly. Brigantine flashed her a wolf’s grin. “Of course I do, your highness. I’m a pony of the Earth, and what we make works. I personally invested millions into the technology now guarding this city.” A challenge. Luna did not move to counter it. Instead, she nodded. “You have, Lady Rowan-Oak, and once again We are thankful for your efforts.” Brigantine huffed, but didn’t seem to be too put out. Luna watched her as the others spoke again. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up!” Dawn put hooves against his temples. “We have to send the army out there and keep them away.” Lord Epona coughed. “Candescent, if you need to calm down, I’m sure we can handle the next few minutes without your company.” Dawn glared at him. Luna waited for somepony else to intervene, and she was not surprised when Iron spoke. “It’s fine, Candescent. These are times to, ah, try pony's souls,” Lord Iron said with a smile, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. “Please, go and collect yourself.” Trembling, Luna watched Lord Dawn lose his last ties. When he had retreated wordlessly, Luna returned to the map on the table before them. Every House Major had gathered, with the exception of House Belle, who had been attacked sometime before dawn had come. Luna had only recieved the news as she was entering this meeting, and beneath the cold exterior she was squirming to get out. She had sworn. Her word was her bond, and she had sworn that Sweetie would be protected. She had sworn the same of Canterlot. So she grit her teeth and concentrated on the task at hand. “Lord Dawn’s plan is, of course, out of the question,” Iron said, when he was sure the noble was well out of hearing-range. “If you can call his panic a plan, that is. I’m sure you will agree, Princess, that our forces are best spent holding the high ground. My friend, Lady Brigantine, is quite right. I’m sure you see this.” “Yes,” Luna replied, ignoring the way he spoke to her. Like she was a child. She also resisted the urge to reply with a snort and an explanation that she had been young when the world was young, and she had seen more battles in a century of that time than he had seen in his entire life, counting every book and play he had experienced. “There is plenty of merit to controlling the high ground. However, I have certain concerns.” She looked at Brigantine, and spoke only for her. “Lady Rowan-Oak, I know that you invested heavily in Martel Foundries, but how knowledgeable are you on the specifics of their guns?” “I know enough. I couldn’t aim one of the damn things, if that’s what you meant. But I know which side the shell comes out of.” When she smiled grimly, Luna smiled back. Yes, there was something she liked about Brigantine Rowan-Oak. “No, I had in mind their effective ranges. I have been studying our defenses rather obsessively the last few months,” she said with what she hoped looked like a sheepish smile. “I am glad to see that the level of technology has returned at last to what it was before my fall. I had hoped to have more airships available in such a crisis, but time caught up with us. There are a few problems with artillery in general, effective as it is at controlling the tide of battle. The first is its weakness to assault on hoof by concealed forces. While that is a concern, our only method to counter that is to increase the guard on them. Would you be willing to lend the crown some of your forces to act as guards for Our guns?” “Of course.” “Good. Apart from that, I will show you why--panic or not--there is something worth considering in what Candescent Dawn was saying.” Luna placed several bronze markers on the map. “This was the disposition of the foe as of yesterday, roughly an hour before midnight. It is… ah, it is now nine twenty-four, if the clock on the far wall is accurate. The disposition of the enemy is now more akin to this.” She quadrupled the markers, pushing them into new positions. They had covered most of the distance to Canterlot already. They would be at the gates by evening. “How many? What is the scale?” Blueblood jumped in. “This is a bit abstract.” “I concur,” Epona added, leaning in. “My report was a bit rushed, understandably.” “Of course. We did the calculations based on several reports Ourselves on the way to this very room. Each of these may be as few as a hundred and as many as a thousand.” “Stars…” breathed one of the other nobles. “That is… discouraging,” Epona said. He sat back again. “Highly,” Luna agreed. “The lower estimates were made as dawn was breaking, and so are not as reliable as those made during the more lit hours. I have tried my best, but the sun may not give us as much light to work with as We would wish.” Brigantine and Iron seemed to doubt that it was that out of her control, but Luna ignored them. “They are moving fast, and more join them as they march. More than we had anticipated, crawling out of every conceivable hole and house between Ponyville and Canterlot. The raiders in the warrens, the remnants of the attacking force that was at Morningvale, have been reinforced.” “The warrens?” Epona spoke again. “What?” “Mines,” Brigantine cut in. “They’re old mines near Morningvale. Haven’t been used in ages, and folks say they’re full of monsters and such. It’s all a crock of shit, obviously.” “Yes,” Luna said, feeling less amused by her description than normal. Sweetie… I wish you would come through the heavy doors. And yet I don’t want you to. I could not see you now and maintain myself. I have already failed, and the battle has not yet begun. “The real problem of relying solely on the power of our long range guns is simply that they will have to aim at moving targets at extreme ranges. Effectiveness will be minimal until they are within sight, and by that time they will have scattered mortar teams close enough to answer.” “A few mortars--” Epona began, only for Brigantine to cut him off. “I get it,” she said. “We need them to slow down long enough for us to blow them to bits. So we send out a decoy. Dig in, keep them attacking a static front, and if they don’t break through immediately, we keep bombardment up.” “Yes. Also, I would be sending the First Air Fleet as support.” “It’s not ready yet,” Iron said quickly. “Neither are we,” said Luna, and sighed. “At all. Morale is low, lords and ladies. We have seen the despair in the eyes of our soldiers first-hoof, and that is more deadly than any volley of bullets or arrows. Committing the air fleet will no doubt cost us lives and material, perhaps even the fleet itself. But if it can deal enough damage, the carnage may give our sagging forces hope.” “A moral victory,” Brigantine said like she was spitting. “Yes, but more than that. An actual victory. Morningvale was a stalemate.” “I’ve got reports of soldiers out there, in strange barding. Do you know who they are?” Epona asked. Nervous now? Luna felt like a wolf. Weakness only made her want to lash out. But she did not. “We have suspicions,” she said. THE CANTERLOT LINE, CENTRAL Eyes front! Rifles up! comes the call down the line. Those who wait in the mud move slowly, not wanting to look over the edges of their hastily-dug defenses. Down the line, ponies are reared up on the hind legs next to rifles cradled by the earth. The cold is omnipresent, but not unbearable, not yet. Winter comes later for the central province. The earth is not pliant and soft as it is in the summer, yet it is not frozen yet. The Lunar Guard’s fortifications can barely be called such. Their bulwarks are mounds, most unsupported by wood. Their trenches are shallow and simplistic, just lines in the dirt. The levies do not help to dig much. They stand out like kicked-in teeth. A Lunar soldier grumbles under his breath that he is glad that they are so brightly arrayed--somepony has to draw the eyes of snipers away, after all. Celestialist clergy wander down the trench, chanting in time to their stumbling hooves. There are prayers that are incoherent to all but those who whisper them into the earth. The Supernalists have already come and gone. There are no other chaplains. To the rifleponies who wait, the priests are a sort of white noise, but a protective one. Surely they will not come in the middle of this last rite, or so they think. Surely not. This is a moment where one’s guard can be relaxed a bit. A unicorn carrying boxes of ammunition in saddle bags to the unwieldy gun-turret set in its own hole uses his magic to find a cigarette and lights it with a tiny brush of flame. It seems to ignite of its own volition. A few watch him, all Earth ponies, entranced by magic as they have always been. The unicorn reaches the small dugout separating the front trench from the gun emplacement. “This is what they gave me,” he grouses as he sits and unloads his cargo. “I told him it was enough ammo for a few minutes, maybe.” “If we live long enough, I’ll hold him so you can tickle ‘im with that horn of yours,” replies the smiling, manic Earth pony mare as her head emerges from the doorway. “What’s with these damn things anyway, Curry?” The unicorn takes a drag. “You really should be smoking ones with filters,” Curry, the gunner, says. “Yeah, they’re killing me, blah. Cliches ensue. Why does this thing have to be so fucking heavy? Why the shell?” “Because I’m a sitting duck in here,” Curry replies. She frowns. “You wouldn’t want me hurt, would you, Terry?” “Terra. For the love of Lyrae, please stop trying to change my name.” “But it’s so… well. Unless you like having a mare’s name. I mean, I don’t mind.” “I hate you.” “Yup!” Curry disappears in the gun. “If it makes you feel any better, you can hide behind the turret. Wouldn’t want you shot either, you know.” “Thanks.” Curry continues on amicably. “You just feed me those rounds, and I’ll keep ‘em off ya, Earthy. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it…” There are five turrets on the mile-long central trench, with one placed at each end where the dugout ends and natural boundaries begin. Hills and trees. Useful, if not as helpful as one would hope. They are spread out too far. Celestia was hesitant to approve their issuing at all. She told an aide once, in confidence, that she made them heavy because she didn’t want them to be comfortable or easy or convenient. Consequently, it takes so long to move them and set them up that by the time the last machine gun is operable and armed, the scouts sent out are returning. Only half of them return. The enemy has a skirmish line ahead of the main horde. But they take the bait. Of course they do. They must, really. If they try to go around, the Lunar Guard and the House Levies will wheel around and strike them from the flanks. Without machine gun support, yes, but rifles can kill just as well. A house levy, another unicorn, grips a pistol in his magic. His pike is laid at rest at the back of the trench. Old and new. How does one learn to use technology not tested in real conditions? So they mix and mingle and officers make orders and push paper and pikes rest in riflepits. The levy knows his job well. When the wave gets too close, the order comes and he sets the pike to impale the already charging foe on his own momentum. His pistol will swing over the trench and do the rest. And then he will cower in the dirt. The enemy has slowed. The great formless, shapeless horde is denser now. They will come in waves, testing at first, prodding, and then at last the time will come and they will burst from the treeline. Down from the hills between Ponyville and Canterlot they will come screaming and wailing, mortar shells flying overhead. Grown stallions will piss themselves at the noise before they cower at the sight. Rifles will crack and machine guns will pop and blood will water the fields and they know this in a distant sort of way. But care is far from their thought. These are not normal raiders and brigands. These are the legions of night eternal born again, with no Nightmare to lead them or shape their savagery. Curry hums an old tune to herself as she runs her hoof over the gun. It shoots 8mm Haybel cartridges at an effective range of just a hair over two hundred yards at a rate of roughly two hundred shots a minute. That is, of course, assuming that the gun doesn’t jam, which it does not uncommonly, and assuming that one survives long enough and doesn’t particularly have to aim, which she is beginning to suspect won’t be an issue. She is cheery and impetuous in the manner of those who do not fear death because they know it is certain. To be the machine gun in the middle of the line is to cover the retreat. Hastily put together military doctrine stipulates this rather clearly. She and the few rifles assigned to her squadron will be the last to abandon their posts. She fully expects to be gunned down and to bleed out in the mud. Or, at least, she exepcts most of them will be. Perhaps she will live. Who knows? The world is wide and she is very small. She certainly doesn’t know. The first wave is disorganized and amorphous, bursting from the treeline as was expected. Few of them held back to fire at all--they are here to maim and devour. Hoofblades cut the grass under them as they run. Fire from the Lunar trenches cut down charging raiders left and right. The machine guns come to life, inefficient, laborious, but still effective against a wall of flesh. The guns on high Canterlot perches begin their introductions. You hear a shriek like a riding valkyrie, a crash like lightning, light and thrown earth. The shells dig up the trees and the open earth, unmaking all that is made. The wave falters in its rush, still a hundred yards or more away from the line of firing guardsponies. The crazed wave breaks upon the rocks. The spell is lifted. The painted masses stream in every direction, screaming--their screams were for victory before but now they are for survival. They just want to go. Anywhere but here, anywhere but hell. Machine gun fire destroys limbs. Rifles find anything that stays still for more than a moment. There is nothing to do and nowhere to go. Where do you run from artillery that blankets several square miles with constant fire? You cannot hide, or you’ll be shot. You cannot run, because there is nowhere to run. You are in No Man’s Land. The inexperience of the gun crews becomes obvious. A shell drops too close to the trench and opens it to the new no man’s land. One of the panicked, fleeing raiders finds his way inside, where he latches to a levy armed with a rifle and kicks at him until his face his gone, blind to everything but the idea of escape. Another levy with a revolver finishes him. Their officer is furiously trying to get the division HQ on the line, correcting their aim. The radio is a newish invention. It is, of course, not working. He punches it, knocking the radio from the table it sits on in the dugout behind the line. One of the support mages who can scry is brought to him, and he makes his plea. WE ARE PARALLEL TO THE TREELINE MARKED CLOVER AT THREE HUNDRED YARDS. OUR ARTILLERY IS CRAWLING A BARRAGE RIGHT AT US. FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE STOP IT. In Canterlot, the words are scrawled in fire in the air of the division HQ. The guns fall silent again, adjusting their aim. High above all these things, the First Fleet sails through the air. Clouds pass by just above them, thick and ponderous like great bears wanting only to sleep. Admiral Clover grimaces as she looks downwards with her field glasses. She hardly needs them, really. The movement of pony and material is obvious and dismaying. There were so many. She had seen the first wave fail in the center, but it was only a tiny fraction of the force gathering in the valley. It was barely a fraction. It was a scouting party. “Number one,” she grumbled. The little stallion snapped to attention beside her. “Ma’am?” “I’m assuming that the picket ships have yet to find the enemy guns.” “Uh… yes, they’re hiding them well. If they have them.” “They do.” “Yes, ma’am.” Her first officer had been with her since she had sailed the open sea. He had seen her guess the plans of Zebra pirates before they could even make them. “This is a terrible idea,” she added, as much to herself as to him. “Shock and awe my colorful ass.” “I’m sure they’ll find any guns on the ground, ma’am.” “If they survive long enough,” grumbles the admiral. “Of course.” The second wave is larger and denser. The guns start before it comes, and they do not let up even when it has passed. They must draw out the enemy. Destroy, yes, but enrage the nest and you draw out the hornets and that is what Luna wants as she sits on the walls of her city, listening to the thundering. Fire, she thinks, glaring at the vista before her. Fire. Try to reach out and touch my walls and reveal yourselves. I will find you. Third wave. Curry screams in frustration. The gun is jammed. Terra is there as she backs out of the turret, falling flat against the mud behind her as a cursing unicorn unjams the gun with magic. Above and around her is the sound of gunfire, incessant and endless. Someone throws a grenade. She can tell by the sound of the explosion. She would flinch away, but her body simply refuses to budge. Moving would require effort, and Curry is exhausted. It is amazing how tired one can be, sitting in a chair or leaned against a wall. Feeling the rattling, the kick of the gun firing again and again, the way ponies hundreds of yards away fall. They fall in so many different ways. Like snowflakes. Where is her canteen? Did she lose it again? She feels so thirsty. Above her, the clouds blocked out the sky. The sun is gone, like it doesn’t want to see what is happening. Curry feels a very distant anger. Shouldn’t she witness this, the Sun? Shouldn’t she stay and see what it is like when you pull out the Cornerstone? This is what happens when you vanish. The third wave and fourth wave come so close together that they are barely separated. Terra yells for Curry to come back, the gun is unjammed, she needs to get here quick and pick up the slack. Curry picks herself up. How long has it been? An hour? Two? She doesn’t know. Time flies when you’re having fun, she thinks to herself in the kind of way one thinks about hallucinations. She enters the turret when Terra leaves. She calls for more ammunition and begins firing again. Ponies die. She knows they are dying. When Terra comes back she makes a joke, some petty gallows humor which she forgets as soon as she makes, and jams another clip in. Clips. The griffon machine guns have big drums for their guns. Stupid stupid stupid. A stupid design with a stupid turret killing ponies stupidly running straight for her. That is when the mortars start. The first few minutes don’t do as much damage--they land harmlessly in front of the trenches, a few dozen meters away. But the barrage gets more accurate with adjustment. The guns fall silent from High Canterlot as the mortars find their targets. A few rain in and strike the floors of the trenches. One hits the machine gun dugout. The turret waivers as the blast dislodges it. Inside, Curry is thrown against the wall. She never wears her helmet. It is in the dugout, buried now in mud and Terra’s blood. He scrambles for the turret and finds Curry crawling out, trying to speak. Her eyes are unfocused. He pulls her out with his magic. His heart is racing. He hears it in his ears. He doesn’t hear much else--having busted eardrums is a hell of a thing. He clings to her weakly struggling body. Damn her! Damn her for not wearing her Luna-fucking damn helmet. Fuck it. Fuck. He props her against the wall of their dugout and tries to get her to speak to him, look at him. Anything. She stares up at the sky. He loves her. He doesn’t have time to wonder if she even knows that. Of if she would even care. He looks over his shoulder. The mortars are slowing down the rate of defensive fire. If they can’t keep up the withering wall of bullets, the trench is lost. The guard is outnumbered four to one, if the rumors are right. He secures his helmet, bandages Curry hastily, and returns to the gun. He has to keep them away. He will keep them away. He will keep every single bastard out of this fucking trench and away from the fucking stupidest mare he knows and the only one he likes even a little bit. Curry stares up at the sky. Sound returns in the whine and applause of mortar shells, the rolling snare of rifle fire, and in the rush of a sudden breeze over the top of her hole in the bloodied ground. Her thoughts are a mess. She is not quite undone, but she is stunned. Up above, dark shapes move along the darkening clouds. Fire blossoms in the sky, and she watches slack-jawed as the First Fleet begins its bombardment. Terra is calling to her. What is he saying? She tries to focus. “--running! Whole lot of ‘em running like a bitch with its tail between its legs!” “What?” “Fleet drove ‘em off! See them come after all that, by Lyrae.” Terra was leaning out of the slightly damaged turret with a cigarette and a grin. “The Fleet’s here. The bastards are running for now. If we’re lucky, they’ll pull us back.” “Lucky,” she echoed. “Ah, right. We’re never lucky.” He laughed and crawled out into the dugout. The Fleet above had found enemy guns moving through the woods along an older road. They pursued with cannon and the front lines of Canterlot’s defense did not see as they dueled with the guns of Ponyville and the mages below. Nor did they see the airships begin to fall from the sky, one by one. The day went on, and no one was lucky. Wave after wave crashing against the rocks, bullets spent and blood spilled. The Admiral pulls the fleet back when the last gun falls silent. The mages weren’t a shock, but their number had been dismaying. The whole picket was gone. The pegasi troop carriers had been empty, but now they were gone too. They were going back through all of that arcane fire. She grins. Despite it all she has done what she came to do. She had plunged her dagger right in and watched them squirm--she had attacked like a Griffon did. One did not punch with claws spread but with a fist. Rockets and shells rain down. They crush and splinter the trees. They tear up the ground. They destroy ponies running in all directions, snuffing them out like a candle in the range of God. The remnant of Equestria's first and last air fleet sells itself dearly. The mages have done what they can below, but no magic they possess can turn back mortars and howitzers. They cannot fight with the iron scorn of the Valkyrie. They run just as the mindless savages do. The soldiers in their barding who follow the Manichean have already dug in, and they stay put in their holes and dug outs. All around them, there is death, but they are not overly dismayed. There are more of these mindless fools, the brainwashed and the gullible, the ones given over to despair but not strong enough to embrace it. They were the strong ones. They knew this. They were no brainwashed mass, they all thought together, not like those. They all had the same thoughts and felt the same pride. They were the new wave, the final wave. A final empire in freedom. Let the decadent past burn them with fire, and it would only be the dross that they destroyed, leaving at last their own glorious revolution.