Viral

by AnchorsAway

Chapter 2: Contact Unknown

---

Canterlot had always been the “City of Order.”

Her alabaster towers glowed with the rising sun; their golden spires shone like wildfire. The new dawn’s ray stretched across the capital that clung to the side of the Great Canterlot Mountain, welcoming her residents to a fresh, new day. From their opulent residences and decorated homes, her citizen’s emerged.

They were Equestria’s bankers and lawyers, well-educated engineers, professors, and fashion makers: only ponies everypony should know. There were the members of the Royal Government – civil servants who served to help the Royal Sisters carry the load and maintain the ever-growing nation. Canterlot Castle beckoned them inside its flawless marbled walls, ushering them to their bureaucratic posts in the Ministeries.

But they were also mothers and fathers, colts and fillies guided by guardians toward Canterlot's prestigious centers of education. Along the carefully laid out streets and boulevards, her citizens congregated, grabbing coffee or the morning press as the city awoke from its slumber.

The scent of morning dew wafting from the world-renowned Canterlot Gardens mixed with the exhaust of overlanders, the arcana-powered wagons and their drivers hurrying to and fro with a purr from their engines.

Yet despite Canterlot’s calm, her serenity and order, the city contained a far more fervent core. For deep in the Royal Canterlot Bunker, hidden from the public beneath depths of dense rock, the only word that came to mind this morning was “chaos.”

“We’ve got a hit!” somepony called out frantically.

The call had come in less than a minute ago, and it was spreading like fire. It lept around the dim control center, the shouts bouncing from terminal to terminal as the rows of ponies in uniform furiously tapped away at their screens.

“Surveillance satellites are picking up a massive energy signature over Ponyville; possible explosion reported in the township,” a mare spoke into her headset, clacking away at the keys of her terminal. “All stations be advised, we have an unconfirmed strike," she warned. "Air defenses have been breached.”

“Can anypony confirm tracking telemetry? Did we pick up a launch?” another voice echoed over the headsets. Things were moving quickly now. They would not have long to respond.

“No confirmation from the radar stations,” another stallion called out an update.

“Where are you recon?” somepony demanded, his words coated with concern. “We need that silo report. Who is this?”

"Latest reconnaissance pass over Maretonia came in. No silo activity,” they answered. “Whatever this is, this isn’t Maretonian.”

“Yakoslavia is clear. No silo activity,” called another station.

“Saddle Arabia, clear.”

“Nothing coming out of the Griffish Isles. Military hangers are quiet.”

One after the other the calls came in, each a small relief for those listening – relief that was short lived. For the mares and stallions of the Royal Forces entrusted with Equestria arsenal knew that something was still amiss. Something had entered Equestria’s airspace, somehow bypassing her extensive monitoring system. Something had slipped past, and the list of potential suspects was quickly shrinking.

“All launch teams prep coordination with silo leaders.” The facility commander relayed the order over the telephone sitting reverently on his spotless desk. The desk was devoid of effects, personal or otherwise, save for the nameplate. “Commander Brass Buckle” it read in gold filigree –the pony in charge. “Tell the silo officers them to have the birds on standby until we know what this thing is. We might be looking at preliminary strike measures.”

Brass’s office was spartan, three walls of reinforced concrete laced with rebar, not a wall hanging to interrupt the faceless, grey planes. A stretching window behind him overlooked the blinking banks of servers and rows of ponies behind computers, the heart of Canterlot's defenses and the center point of coordination for all of her assets at home and afar. The operation ran day and night, the electronics cooled by the waters that flowed from the mountain rock and powered by the arcana reactor buried even deeper within the stalwart facility. Each troop movement, each plane, each ship and missile, defensive and offensive countermeasures: all were tracked and coordinated from the installation by the best of the Equestrian Royal Forces. And all was conducted under Brass's watchful eye.

“I’m calling in the Wonderbolts,” the drab grey stallion told the pony on the other end of the cherry-red phone. “Tell them to get the Rapid Response Wing in the air and jetting toward Ponyville, now! And have security teams get the royalty below decks immediately," he commanded before slamming the phone back onto its receiver.

Brass Buckle swiveled in his chair, eyes cold and distantly gazing at the radar feeds covering the projected map in the operations center. He bit his lip, nervously running a hoof through his thinning, yet close cut mane. In his line of work, he only dealt with absolutes. And without a clear picture, he had absolutely no idea who or what was descending upon them. One by one, he heavily weighed his options, none of them ideal. “I want to know what this thing is,” Brass Buckle whispered to himself, his eyes never leaving the radar feed. “So much for a quiet morning.”

---

“Stand by for donning!”

The flight director screamed to be heard over the symphonic rattle of pneumatic wrenches, his goggles sprayed with his own spittle. “Get those JUMPsuits on! We have green light for Rapid Response! Hop to it, Major!”

The wrenches echoed and reverberated throughout the dim, rocky cavern, the distant spotlights above the flight director dancing over the black tarmac.

Major Whiplash stood perfectly still in his flight cradle, the technicians – ponies in grease-stained coveralls – carefully lowering the sections of his flightsuit over him. Donning had to be precise, calculated. He knew there was no room for error, as did the techs. Wonderbolts could never accept error.

First came the flightsuit’s torso, the lightweight aluminum airframe contouring to his strong back and wrapping around his chest as it was placed. The sections sucked tight around him with a burst from the techs' wrenches. The bolts squeal as they were driven, sealing the mechanical airframe around the pegasus. Next, the wings lowered from the overhead rail system.

Whiplash slid his own wings into the airfoil as it snapped into place. The avionics lifted and rose as he flexed his feathers inside, the motors and sensors reading and copying the slightest movement down to the individual plumage. Everything was coming together now.

The engines had arrived, the centerpiece of every JUMPsuit – a mechanical heart of fire and metal. Like twin dragons, they could spew flame from their exhaust that would melt less refined alloys. The jet turbines slid under each wing with a heavy click followed by even more bolts. Exceptional powerplants were needed to achieve flight speed, and the Defense Coalition had not spared a single bit in development. The Major just wished they were a bit lighter, his knees bending to accept the added heft he had grown accustomed to.

Whiplash bore everything with his sturdy legs, keeping them planted tightly as he had been trained since the beginning of the JUMPsuit program. The engines might be heavy, but he would not have to carry their weight for long. Besides, he was far more concerned with the steel carts being wheeled under his wings.

Warning! Volatile! The letters were stenciled in bright red letters on the carts. Mechanical Arcana Generators.

“So what do you think would happen if you dropped one of those?” Whiplash yelled over the din of wrenches.

The technician looked up from the cart, the weighty device inside cradled in his hooves like a newborn foal. “You tell me what you think would happen,” the burly tech snapped back, carefully installing the device in a wing port while his counterpart did the same on the other side. “Just keep them pointed away from me,” the tech warned, closing the wing section and standing well and clear of the twin barrels now protruding from the airframe. “Alright, your armed. Wouldn’t even have enough left of me to bury anyway,” the tech added with a mutter.

“I’d be careful then.” The smooth voice butted in behind Whiplash, eliciting a preemptive groan from the already weary pegasus. It had been an early morning. “The Major is starting to show his years you know. You never know when his trigger might just slip,” the younger stallion behind Whiplash bemused.

“If I’m showing my years, then you’re showing your stupidity, rookie,” Whiplash sighed.

Clipper dropped from his flight cradle, the young apricot pegasus shaking and wiggling his flightsuit like a dog shedding water. It was snug, tight, the aircraft molded to him as if a second skin. When the DC built something, they built it right, not a bit held back.

“Sweet Celestia, Whiplash, are you going to take all day?” Clipper prodded his counterpart in the flank, eliciting a twitch and an unamused glare. “Hurry up, Feldwing and Thundercell are almost ready,” Clipper cajoled his older and more experienced leadpony. The young buck nodded towards the mare and stallion suiting up similarly behind him. “One of these days you’re going to get left behind,” he sighed impatiently.

“And let you fly solo?” Whiplash let out a sharp laugh, detaching from his own cradle and snatching up his flight helmet. “Not likely. I wouldn’t sooner trust you picking up my dry cleaning than flying solo.”

“One time.” Clipper held up a hoof, his quirky smile molded into a stern frown. “I only lost it one time. I told you somepony must have snatched it out my saddlebags,” he insisted.

"Your head is in the clouds more than it's on the ground, Clip" the mare with a full white mane behind him added. "I wonder how much the sun has cooked that great big empty noggin of yours, rookie."

"Not funny, Thundercell," Clipper grumbled. "I wish you guys would stop calling me rookie."

"Oh, we will," Thundercell nodded, turning to her partner. "Right, Feldwing?"

"Yeah, we'll stop calling you rookie, Clipper," the ashy, lean stallion said, stepping onto the tarmac in his JUMPsuit. "When you stop acting like one." Feldwing looked over to Whiplash. "Should I tell him Major, or do you want the honor this time?"

"Tell me?" Clip wondered, forming up with the rest of the team. "Tell me what?" he asked, confused.

"The one thing you forgot of course," sighed Whiplash, trying to massage his neck beneath the airframe. Thundercell and Feldwing couldn't help but snicker behind him.

“Huh?” Clipper looked down at his suit, checking the connections yet finding nothing out of place. “Wha’d I miss?”

Whiplash shook the flight helmet in his own hoof for effect. "Do I have to beat you over the head with it to get you to realize, Clip?"

Clipper’s eyes grew wide, his face red. “Oh! Helmet! Forgot my flight helmet. Right,” Clipper gulped sheepishly, dashing back to his station to retrieve the forgotten equipment.

“And that right there is why I’m still leadpony, Clip. You'd lose your head if it weren’t attached to your thick neck,” Whiplash huffed, half joking.

Clipper still had a long way to go, but Whiplash knew with a little training (and a bit more belittling) he could make a lead pony out of him yet. He would need somepony to move up when he stepped down, a day that was fast approaching. Maybe another year or two, that would give Whiplash the time he needed to train him into a leadpony, and he could get a cushy Wonderbolt desk job. He might not be as old as the brass, but the rigors of flying flightsuits had sown many aches in him.

But Whiplash did not have the time to stand about and dream of days when he could sleep in his own bed every night or relax behind a quiet office assignment. They weren’t the Rapid Response Wing if they were not quick. Time was always their essence.

Whiplash slid his helmet on, the visor lighting up with the glow of the field display from within. Radar, flight systems, fuel levels, weapon targeting, blinked to life, everything he needed overlaying his peripherals. Cool air circulated through small vents, a low hiss against the muted commotion of the earthy hangar.

“Contact!” the voice of the goggled flight coordinator buzzed in his radio earpiece. They had the green light.

“Clipper, Feldwing, Thundercell, engines,” Whiplash ordered his team.

Slowly at first, the JUMPsuits came alive, like great metal beasts awoken from their slumber. Auxiliary batteries spun the hardened turbines of their engines to startup speeds.

Woosh!

Ignition – the four pegasi braced themselves on the tarmac against the explosive gases spitting from the jets’ exhaust, their tails whipping wildly just out of the reach of the scorching flames.

Each pilot faced the massive hangar door at the far end of the runway in turn, the flight director offset beside the runway. Their JUMPsuit engines were pumping, holding back, waiting for the explosive gush of fuel from the throttles. The cavern lights thrashed with the torrent filling the hanger.

The hanger door lowered with a heavy thud, a broad, golden beam of sunlight racing across the gloomy cavern to reveal the morning day outside: a ginger sky with hardly a cloud in sight. A perfect day for flying.

Whiplash was ready, his muscles tense, the gentle rumble of his engines the pulsing heartbeat of the flightsuit. A beating heart of jet fuel and metal melded with pegasus. It told him to run.

Whiplash took off down the runway at a gallop, the whine of his engines increasing with every step. Twenty yards, thirty yards. He could feel the suit getting lighter with each step.

Along the blacktop, the two pairs of Wonderbolts raced, Whiplash with Clipper, Tundercell with Feldwing. Hooves thumped, and turbines buzzed angrily as solid ground quickly ran out before them. They were at the edge.

With great bounds, the Wonderbolts leaped into the empty air, their exhaust a thunder that rattled the rocky mountain face.

Plunging down toward the ground, his engines roared as Whiplash applied even more throttle, a grin etched on his face as he clenched against the acceleration. This was what he had always lived for: the speed, the G’s, the howl of the engines. It made the aches and pains getting out of bed every morning worth it.

They were falling, plummeting down the side of Canterlot Mountain, the palace’s majestic white and gold-tipped spires peeking just over the ridgeline behind the hangar, the great metal door fortified into the mountain itself. The rush of the mountain's winds battered and bucked, but Whiplash held firm.

The altimeter continued its wild descent, the numbers flashing across his visor as his airspeed continued to climb. They were terminal in no time, the valley rising quickly to greet them. It was time to pull up.

Major Whiplash tilted his wings, pulling his flightsuit out of its nosedive until he was skimming over the treetops of the valley floor. The canopy rippled and shook as the four jet-propelled pegasi shot past. Adjusting their trajectories, the Major and the team trailed a course toward their objective — Ponyville. The mission handed down from Command was straightforward: reconnaissance.

---

“Your Highnesses, this way. The Wonderbolts are going to be in position any minute,” recounted Brass Buckle, waiting to escort the two heads of state from the bunker main entrance. The monstrous door slid closed with barely a squeak, the locks and seals dropping with a low and final thump. If Brass had expected a grand entrance from the Princesses, he had been mistaken.

Princess Celestia stepped from the entrance platform with her younger sister, her golden shod hooves clattering heavily on the concrete. “Show me,” the pearly alicorn commanded, every word dripping with exhaustion as she squinted against the bright fluorescents. The alicorn was drained, as if her energy reserves had been tapped, run dry. Bags hung under her eyes, her mane a thin, tangled flurry that floated behind her, trailing like a used mop. Her coat was coarse, rough, a sickly grey undertoning its once pearl-white undercoat. Celestia, the pony who had kept control of the nation for over a thousand years before, laid both Sun and Moon across the heavens each day and night, was but a mere shadow of her former self. And her sister had taken notice.

“What doth we know so far?” Luna questioned Brass in her usual peculiar colloquial.

Luna could find no comfort within the thick, confining walls of the bunker. She could feel the cold concrete and rebar that sweat with humid condensation closing in around her, clawing its way across her lapis coat and burrowing into her skull. The alicorn tucked her wings in tight, fending off the frigid, recycled air. What was supposed to be a place of refuge, of safety, felt more akin to a tomb. No sunlight, no sky, only the hum of sterile fluorescent lighting against concrete and whitewash. It was enough to make anypony’s skin crawl. How Brass could stand being locked up down here most of the time, she could not fathom.

The grey-coated stallion who seemed to blend into the walls he was so grey lead the two sisters further into the maze-like facility. Luna knew its corridors could snake and double back on themselves only to come to a dead end at the slightest detour. But she could tell Brass knew the way like the bottom of his hoof. He rarely left the bunker from what she had seen, choosing to remain most of the time with the rest of the Royal Forces stationed inside. Brass was not the pony to be on edge, normally relinquishing himself to quiet observation in tense situations. But something serious must have been gnawing at him from his quick pace. She would see the case soon enough.

“At twenty minutes past six this morning, satellites picked up a massive energy disturbance above Ponyville,” Brass relayed to them, sliding around two officers galloping in the opposite direction. “We’re not sure who or what it might be. This thing slipped past everything we had watching, only picked it up when it was practically on top of us. It’s anypony’s guess right now who is behind it.”

Luna rattled off a list of the usual suspects. "Rogue Griffish nationalists, the Maretonian socialists, Zebra nation zealots, or whoever is holding onto Saddle Arabia’s stockpile since the coup. It could be any number of them.” There was no short supply of those who might wish harm upon Equestria, those who saw the expanding nation as more foe than friend, a standard in the modern day geopolitical reality. Not at all like the rattling of swords and contained skirmishes of old Luna had known before her banishment to the moon.

“Tracking stations say no missiles were picked up on radar, but we definitely took some sort of hit. Not sure if it was a bomb or something arcane based yet. Couldn't have been a bird, we would have picked up a launch from satellites.” Brass continued. “I already gave the order to send in a recon team to investigate. They should arrive shortly. In the meantime, I have the rest of the Wonderbolts on hot-standby, ready to swoop in.”

"Let's hope we won't need those," Celestia grumbled, trudging behind them. Luna worried her sister was only half paying attention, Celestia barely able to muster the focus to plod in a straight line.

“And what be of Ponyville?” Luna inquired. “I assume thou has tried to establish some line of communication with them, get a grasp on the situation.” She paused, graciously accepted a large steaming cup of coffee from a passing servant. Two creams and plenty of sugar, just how she liked it. The simple gift was a comforting gesture amidst the turmoil, and she drank deeply from the mug.

"We've been trying to get in touch with some authority in town since we first got the call,” Brass recounted. “Town hall, the police station, Ponyville Hospital, even the Castle. Something seems to be interfering with our equipment, even the landlines.”

Together they trotted into the busy command center, a video feed greeting them as they arrived. It filled the large central display with what could be called grainy resolution at best.

The stations were still in a controlled state of turmoil, comms officers and launch operators shouting and barking into headsets while ensigns galloped to and fro. Static crackled over loudspeakers, making Luna’s ears tingle and ring. Celestia hardly noticed, absentmindedly looking around the chaos with little interest.

“Command, this is Wonderbolt Rapid Response. We’re coming into position. Approaching Ponyville,” the phantom voice of a stallion reverberated through the speakers.

Brass Buckle excused himself to one of the terminals, slipping a headset over his ears, baggy grey eyes fixated on the video feed. He hunched over the terminal, sliding in beside the comms officer.

“Give me the clearest channel you’ve got, tune out the interference best you can,” he instructed the seated pony. "This is Canterlot Command," Brass answered. His words were cool, his demeanor steadfast. “You're clear to proceed, Major Whiplash.”

Luna took up the spot beside him, charily watching the video feed. Celestia grabbed a chair instead, curling up inside it and resting her head.

“Be advised Command, entering restricted visibility. We’re flying by instruments here.”

A large cloud of dust engulfed the video feed, everything reduced to a swirling mass of brown and grey. Everypony could hear the Wonderbolt breathing heavily inside the helmet, his camera feed vibrating with the increased turbulence.

"Good copy," Brass advised. "Priority is recon, but weapons are authorized in the event of hostile interaction. Keep a sharp eye.”

“Authorized weapons?” Luna glanced at Brass.

“Merely a precaution, your Highness,” he assured her. “So there is no confusion on directives if they run into something.”

“Any idea what that something might be?”

"I'm sure we'll know soon enough,” he entertained. “The Rapid Response Wing is good at this. They trained to know the risks and weight them accordingly.”

“I sure hope so,” Celestia sighed.

“Engines running under performance. Heavy particulate material in the air,” the Wonderbolt advised, the pegasus struggling to maintain flight in the heavy air current.“I can’t see anything. We should be over the town now. Anypony got eyes?”

But all Luna saw on the monitor was more dust, the dense cloud blanketing every inch of airspace. It was dark, the sun, which she had seen Celestia herself struggle set on its morning path less than an hour ago, was obscured behind the darkness.

Flashes of light flickered on the screen like distant lightning, the video feed buzzing with faint static that arrived in pulsing waves.

“Are we getting more interference?” Luna asked Brass, the alicorn noting the artifacting on the feed.

“Downlink is mostly clear your highness. Interference should be tuned out,” Brass told her with a shake of his head, surveying the terminal. “See if you can clean it up any more,” he instructed the technician.

“Conditions degrading. We have some sort of electrical activity up here,” the Wonderbolt on the other end warned.“Everypony watch your instrument error.”

The helmet feed was vibrating, shaking up and down as the flashes of light grew brighter and more frequent. It was an eerie, otherworldly display; Luna had never seen anything like it before. It was mesmerizing, the flashing a rhythmic array of deep purples and dark hues.

“Heavy downdrafts,”the Wonderbolt seethed, trying to keep his trajectory steady.“Thrust continuing to fall. We may have to pull out here soon, Command.”

Suddenly the pegasi broke through the dust, a hoof shooting up in front of the camera to block the intense light that erupted from the sky. Not the sun, Luna realized, her eyes growing, but something much more foreign than she could fathom.

Overhead, high above Ponyville, the atmosphere bubbled and roiled like a pot, a blanket of purple sparks arching through the air from the mysterious source. It was black, an empty void hovering over the town, a giant gaping mouth that pulsed with blinding light erupting from its lightless core: a singularity.

“What in Tartarus be that?” Luna breathed. Everypony in the center gasped, transfixed on the display.

Specks barely visible on the ground were frozen where they had stopped, pointing upward. Others were running.

“Wait, something is happening…”

The disturbance was shrinking, the torn fabric of the sky slowly stitching itself seamlessly back together against the strobing luminance. It was closing, the eye of the etherial storm collapsing until it was merely a speck against the storm surrounding it. Then, in a flash, it was gone, the disturbance disappeared in entirety. The tear vanished, exploding in a ball of sparks and lightning. If Luna had blinked, she would have missed it.

Boom!

“Pressure wave inbound. Everypony brace!”

The shockwave hit the Wonderbolts, the lead pegasus supplying the video feed pitching and bucking like a tidal wave.

“Recovery positions!”somepony shouted over the comms.

“Energy readings are off the charts. I’m getting a flight system warning!” another Wonderbolts yelled through her headset. The mare words were coming in quickly now. “Flight radar is offline. Instruments are in critical condition.”

The display crackled with interference, the picture and sound breaking in rapid bursts.

“I’ve got decreased thrust in my number two engine. Having to pull her back,” called out another. “Whiplash,what was that thing?”

“I don’t know. Everypony keep your eyes open. We have a confirmed detonation, Command,” the camera operator rattled off before training the camera down over Ponyville. “There is damage below. Sweet stars—”

Ponyville had sustained the full force of the pressure wave, roofs were blown off their buildings, their shingles torn away like the peel of an orange from the detonation. Other structures were nothing more than piles of wood and brick. Trees lay felled in the streets, windows on cars and homes shattered from the event for miles. Luna watched with frozen eyes.

"Sister, what do we do?" she breathed, hardly able to form the words.

Celestia’s mouth worked, but only one word came forth. “No,” she whispered, barely audible. “No.”

Luna turned instead to Brass. Her sister would be in no condition to help now. “Brass?”

“Already on it. Major Whiplash, set up a recon sweep,” Brass Buckle relayed to the Wonderbolts, watching the events unfold before him, the wave still propagating outward, tearing up everything in its path. “Fall back and take up recon—”

“Two contacts!” interrupted a shaken stallion over the radio. “Coming – hot. Tracki–twoair ta––ets o–rada–––”

The transmission skipped and chattered. With a final ear-splitting pop, the connection broke, everypony covering their ears in pain from the electronic screeching.

Luna pulled her hooves from her ears once it had finally stopped, cracking open a wary eye. The video was gone, the feed replaced with a blinking error message.

Connection Lost.

Everything else was dark, the power and lights vanishing in a pop of sparks, leaving them surrounded by uncomfortable, encroaching darkness. Darkness that even the Princess of the Night was no friend to.

They were gone.

Comments

[AnchorsAway]

Special thanks to everyone who helped with this story. I couldn't have done it without you.

[Samellan]

The premise sounds interesting. Going to add it into RIL folder and host some more chapters before reading it in one go)