The Day
Fire falls on Canterlot.
Not all at once, mind you. Not in the manner of a tidal wave or an earthquake, but . . . slowly.
Like snow.
Starbursts of ember, clots of cinder, whirling burrs of shrapnel; little comets, little trails of flame zipping this way and that. Little harmless pretty things, raining down from the blue, blue sky.
It's the first thing she sees and, for awhile, the only thing. Something about her has twisted unnaturally, and she's not sure what's up or down, ahead or behind. She feels at odd angles with the world. If only her head would stop spinning like that.
And the ringing in her ears—had she lost her balance, fallen down? She remembers her doctor warning her about light-headedness—even fainting—if she didn't shape up and start eating enough. Had she had breakfast this morning?
She stares at the little comet-trails of fire wending their way lazily through the sky and wonders. A little more so when she notices the smoke rising from just below her field of vision.
Toast, wasn't it?
She tries to lift her head to get a better look, and just as swiftly lets it fall. Nausea? Maybe she hadn't eaten. But if she'd fallen, if she's just lying there in the street—and she's almost certain she is—why hadn't anypony come over to help? She knows ponies, she knows they wouldn't just let her lie there if they'd seen something happen.
Maybe they'd fallen over too?
She's not at all sure. She'd like to think she knows her fellow mare, but maybe she's wrong. Maybe she's just lying here, as red, sooty snow falls around her, and no-one's coming to help. Or maybe she's just being paranoid, and someone will be there lickety-split.
No-one is. There is only the hard ground beneath her, and the wide blue sky above, and the soft little storm of fire raining down over her.
Nothing else.
Nopony else.
She's a little hurt by that—hurt that she's been left to fend for herself like this, hurt that she's hurting and nopony seems to care.
And she's not to be blamed, given what little she knows. Could she lift her head, she'd see the wreckage of the railcar she'd sat in not so very long ago, blistered and charring as it burned. Could she clear the ringing from her ears, she'd hear the screams of the ponies trapped within, and of those lying around her. Could she feel anything below her navel, she'd scream herself at the pain in her shattered hind-leg.
Could she know, she'd understand.
But she cannot, and so she just lies there on the hard ground, under the blue sky, and watches the fire fall.
'... an' apparently the Prench gov’nuh said "we weren't playing the same game as they were!" Ponies goin' in-an'-outta backrooms and what. An' you know what I said to me mates? I said "if they'd wanted to host the Equestria Games 'alf as bad as we did, theyd'a won it, wouldn' they?" Anyfin' else is just . . . poor sportsmareship or sumfin', innit?'
'Alright, gonna stop you there, Rufflefeather, thanks for stopping by the studio. We'll have more on that in a minute—the newly-appointed Regional Minister of Sport will be in to explain the selection of the Crystal province for this year's Games, and give us an idea of just what hurdles local government will need to overcome in order to best prepare for it.
'Just now, though, we have a traffic advisory. Weather Eye?'
'Yes indeed, Fast. We've just had a report of some kind of incident down near the railyard. Details are unclear at the moment, but Royal Guard detachments and the Fire Brigade are responding. Obviously, we'll keep you posted as things develop, but the first word from the Transit Authority has been to expect major delays. Residents and travellers alike are being asked to change any current travel plans, especially anything involving the southbound trains. Airship ferries will be made available to a number of destinations at no cost to ticketholders. Again, the Transit Authority says to expect major delays out of Canterlot Rail Centre this morning.'
'Thanks, Weather. As the mare said, we'll have more on this as it develops. This is Fast Talker, for Canterlot Radio One, your friendly voice from Mount Canter. Remember, we want to hear from you—letter, dragon post, magic-assisted remote voicing, we’ll take it all.
'We'll be back, right after this.'
::Market District to all Districts. What in Tartarus is going on this morning? Just came in on my shift and we're at Amethyst? What gives?::
::Weathermakers' to Market. Some kind of explosion down at the railyard. Did you not hear it on your way in? Over.::
::Market to Weather—not a damn thing. Anypony got eyes on? Have we heard from Command? Er, over.::
::Garden District. Nothing new on this end. Do we have anything on the cause? Somepony getting a little overzealous with fireworks before the summer solstice?::
::Amethyst-level for some fireworks? D'you really think th—::
::Command to all Relays: we're retaining Amethyst-level alert until further notice. Inform your Sergeants that all nonessential units are to be redirected to the Wards District railyard, south side, and to be on the lookout for any citizens acting oddly. Crown's not interested in another Green Wedding. Submit status reports to Lieutenant Pierce on the second link, keep nonessential chatter to the third. That'd be you, Market. Over.::
::Command, this is Garden. Anything else we can tell them to prepare for? Over?::
::Garden, Command. We're still working that out. Pauldron Street Station reported a heavy explosion from the railyard, probably originating from the inbound train.::
::Pauldron? Star Swirl's britches, they could see it from way up there, over?::
::Market, Command. Third link, Market, or go off-grid. Over.::
::Command, Market. Acknowledged, over.::
::All, Command. Do we have eyes on the railyard?::
::Command, Wards. That's a negatory. Two dark at the yard, one dim closer to the gate. Over.::
::Wards, Command, come back? Confirm you report two dark? Over.::
::Command, Wards. Affirmative. Secondary confirmation from flyover now—they were at the doors of the car that exploded, over.::
::Wards, Command. Car? Passenger car? Not the engine compartment? Over.::
::Command, Wards. Affirmative.::
::Command, Weathermakers'. What're we looking at here, Command? You don't think—::
::All, Command. Cut nonessential communication on all links. Retain Amethyst-level alert until further notice. Command out.::
'. . . we’ll take it all. We’ll be back, right after this.'
The coffee bar at Sugarcube Corner was unusually quiet this morning. The mixed rush of labourers and salary-ponies that always graced the little bakery at breakfast-time had ended a little early this morning, and all that remained of their passing was the occasional coffee stain or smattering of icing sugar from one of Mrs Cake’s prize jam doughnuts.
Pinkie Pie loved mornings like this, frankly—as nice as it was to be zipping back and forth, bouncing and pronking and being at her cheeriest-est for all the nice ponies that came in for a morning treat, it was also nice to just lean on the counter and watch them go by out in the street. She could tell so much from a pony’s gait, how quickly they walked, which shoulder they turned to spit their tobbacy over . . .
And it seemed like any other morning, in that regard. Berry Punch had staggered by at quarter to nine; Cherry, going the other way, already bedecked in her outsized aviator’s specs; Derpy, whistling tunelessly as she bounced off the hanging signs lining the avenue.
An average, perfectly harmless sort of day.
Which is why she wondered, vaguely, at the single little butterfly forming in her stomach after half-listening to that report on the radio just now. She smiled and danced around the shop, mop flitting across the floor, washrags akimbo, and in her heart of hearts she knew that something about today was going to be different. Not for the lack of customers—that was customary—or the Cakes’ mumbling exhaustion in the kitchen—that was children—or even the hurried gait of the last stragglers heading in to work.
That only left Spike, chin resting on his forearms beside the baked-goods case—half-asleep, his mug of cold hot-chocolate half-forgotten—and as she looked at him she felt the little butterfly turn over. The little dragon had come in alone that morning, saying something about being on his own for the day, ordered a mug of hot chocolate and a doughnut (extra sprinkles), and promptly fallen asleep at the counter.
He had seemed exhausted, and Mr Cake had made it clear when Pinkie asked that any friend of hers was welcome to stay as long as he liked—so long as he paid his tab—so they had left him to it.
But something about it nagged at her particular Pinkie-Pie sensibilities. It wasn’t that he shouldn’t be left on his own—Twilight sent him on errands often enough—or that he was particularly worn out—Twilight kept him up helping her with research often enough—or even that he was choosing to spend his free time in Sugarcube Corner this morning. No, something about it felt off, but for the life of her she couldn’t quite put a hoof on what.
So she just smiled, and shoved those feelings down, down, as far as they would go, and turned up the radio—that wondrous new invention! that phonograph from afar!—humming along with the jingles they played between newsbreaks. Maybe she would wait and ask Spike when he woke back up. Or maybe she’d ask Twilight, the next time she saw her. Or maybe she just wouldn’t worry about it at all, and let the next song play.
And so engrossed was she in that, in the dancing and humming, the scrubbing the floor and her brain, that for the longest time she didn’t even notice the streets filling up again—not with ponies on their way somewhere, but with ponies standing and staring, pointing and whispering, their eyes locked on the distant spire of Mount Canter.
She should not have cried out.
She knew that—had known it as soon as the sound had passed her lips. However brief it had been, however natural a reaction, she had not been alone in her chambers when it burst forth, unbidden, to match the knife she’d felt twist into her heart.
No, it had been in the throne room, among her subjects, her courtiers, her chamberlains and guardsponies—there for all to see, as her bearing slackened, her gentle smile faltered, and that poison, that facade-breaking cancer, slipped from her. And a moment later, when the windows rattled, when the pillar of smoke belched forth for all to see, when the court exploded into a murmur of panicked chatter, what had she done? Had she maintained her air? Kept the stiff upper lip and rode out the storm?
No.
No, she had sent them on their way—the servants to their posts, the Guard to retrieve their captains, the nobles to do . . . whatever it was they were pleasuring themselves with this century. And then she had retreated to her chambers—here, to her solar—to send summons, gather reports, and issue orders—all very deliberately and obviously away from the prying eyes of her people.
She had showed them she was affected.
She had showed them there was a problem.
Stupid.
She could only spare single words to chide herself with, occupied as she was ransacking her mental library, so she tried to make them count. Thoughtless. Unbecoming.
‘Expected. Genuine. Understandable.’
Unbidden, the swirl of darkness solidified into its familiar (not-unwelcome?) shape—tall as she, and glaring at her with twice the reproach. The star-patterned nightcap atop her head, comically askew as it may have been, did nothing to offset the look in the eyes beneath it.
Celestia sighed, and let the eddies of paper swirling around her fall into a neat stack on the table in the middle of the room. ‘I made it clear you weren’t to be woken for this.’
Luna snorted. ‘You would do as well to halt the tide, or stop the stars in their natural courses.’ Taking the non-greeting as permission, she moved forward, levitating the nightcap distractedly off her head, and magicking it into nonexistence with a little pop. ‘We knew as soon as you knew. A mere thousand years’ absence hath not the power to disconnect us from our subjects so.’
‘You felt them, then?’ Blessedly, she had managed to swallow the lump.
‘Every one.’
‘Then you know—’
‘Yes.’
‘And which—’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet you can stand there and tell me that I was right to—'
‘Yes, Tia.’ Reproach still simmered in her blue eyes, but tempered now, softer. ‘And do not for a moment think that but one of two felt the pall enough to give it voice. You were simply out among them, where we were comfortably abed. Fine and sturdy walls indeed, to mask it from the maids’ hearing.’
She shifted a little, on her hooves. ‘Still, lest it concern you unduly—we took the liberty of reading the castle—the servants, the staff, the thrice-dam’ned nobility—not a one heard your distress.’ Her eyes flashed back from the floor to meet her sister’s. ‘Though, ‘twould not change a whit, had they. ‘Twould be a greater unkindness for our people to believe their goddesses did not care.’
Celestia grimaced. ‘I’ve always hated that word.’ She moved a few paces as she spoke, consciously or unconsciously putting the table between herself and her sister.
Luna was not the least deterred. ‘Tis the role we have always served. Even,’ and here she took special care to enunciate her words, ‘when aught occurs beyond our control.’
‘This should not have been.’
‘Twas, regardless.’
‘We could have waited longer—come up with more rigorous tests for the technology—’
‘You said the same of the ox-cart when first they divined it. Would you have them in straw huts and bear-skins, as well?’ Luna shook her head, deflecting the hard look Celestia shot at her. ‘’Twas an accident, Tia. Such are the words on every pair of sensible lips around the castle, every report that hath been dispatched. “A terrible accident”.’
Celestia stiffened, but not in response to her words. She turned to Luna with an unsettling and unfamiliar look.
‘Not every report.’
Luna blinked. ‘What—’ Then she, too, froze, as Celestia forwarded her the mental broadcast. Her eyes scanned unseen text, ears turning unconsciously at the crisp voice offering its report from the Guards’ Telepathic Relay. Her face darkened, and teal eyes locked silently on magenta.
They listened to the message twice more before Celestia finally broke the link. They stared at each other for a long minute—not speaking, not reading, not probing, just making sure they understood one another.
It was Luna who ultimately broke the silence, voice clipped and suddenly very husky. ‘We must to the Yard at once. Shall we await you there?’
Celestia blinked, and shook her head. ‘No. There’s too much I’ll need to coordinate here. I’ll keep you apprised.’
‘Do,’ said Luna quietly, and turned.
‘Luna?’
The darker alicorn stopped, but gave no other response.
‘I may have to return to the throne-room—they’ll only worry more if one of us isn’t there. It . . . might be difficult to get in touch.’
Luna nodded, curtly, and made once more for the door.
‘Luna?’
Luna’s head dropped, though whether from exasperation or exhaustion or some other, unknown thing Celestia could not tell. Still she did not turn.
‘Be safe.’
Luna nodded again, and, without waiting for her to continue, stepped out of the solar. There was a susurrus, as of many thousands of bat-like wings, and then she was gone.
Alone, at last, Celestia let herself slump against the table, bracing herself against it for support. The words of the Guard Relay still echoed in her ears: passenger car . . . non-magical . . . tore through the Guards’ warding spells like . . .
She closed her eyes, and let out a long, ragged breath. Too many unknowns—perhaps, too many knowns—and too many pieces falling into too unfamiliar a pattern. With a sigh, she forced herself upright, levitated the stack of pages back in front of her, and proceeded to flip through them as quickly and thoroughly as she could.
And behind those hooded eyes flitting back and forth across the page, four mental legs carried her back and forth through a millennia-old library, stocked with an equal time’s worth of accumulated histories, vague prophecies, half-forgotten legends. All that it had told her so far was the very thing she had been fighting to explain to herself from the first moment the anguished cry had left her lips that morning:
This does not happen in my kingdom.
Smoke rose over Canterlot.
Rainbow Dash and Applejack stood shoulder to shoulder on the little hill overlooking the orchards. Big Mac stood close by, Applebloom perched between his shoulder blades.
One by one, or perhaps all at once, they'd seen the thin pillar of smoke rising above Mount Canter. And, one by one or all at once, they'd all headed for the highest vantage point on the farm—AJ and Big Mac from the orchards, Applebloom from the kitchen table, and Rainbow from her accustomed spot on the cumulus over the house. Now they stood in a loose cluster, staring transfixed to the north—all eyes locked on the tiny grey pillar that rose like steam off a pond in the bright summer morning.
It was a while before anyone spoke.
‘Tartarus d'ya think's happening, Jacks?'
'Dunno. Some kinda accident, maybe? A fire?'
'Accident? Come on, AJ, accidents don't happen in Canterlot. How much did they beef up the Fire Brigade after the Changelings—' She stiffened, wings flaring. 'You don't think . . .'
'No, Ah don't think. Not even the Changelings'd be stupid enough to try that little trick again.'
'They're Changelings. Stupid's, like, their middle name or something.'
Applejack sighed. ‘Yer overthinkin' it. Simplest explanation is, there's a fire that's got out of control, prob’ly in one’a the Lower Districts. And Ah'm sure the Fire Brigade'll take care of it.'
Rainbow scoffed, and turned away from AJ, flicking her tail dismissively. A simple explanation it was, and nicely rational, and everypony in the orchard knew it. And yet the tension remained—an unsatisfying explanation, an incomplete one. Fires didn’t burn out of control on Mount Canter, not when every other citizen was a Unicorn capable of summoning water at a whim.
A chill wind, too chill for the summer, whispered past them, and when it passed, the fur on necks and hackles stood perhaps a little more on end. Then Applejack shook herself a little, shivered her shoulders, and nudged her companions. Her eyes never left the expanding grey cloud as she spoke.
'Come on, y'all. Whatever's goin' on, we're not gonna do much good standin' here. Let's get back to the house.'
Wordlessly, the other three tore their gazes from Canterlot, and turned to follow her down the hill. Rainbow trotted a little ways ahead of the others, still resolutely showing her back to Applejack. Hence it fell to Applebloom, who'd slid off Big Mac's shoulders once they'd begun to move, to voice the question on everypony's mind.
'Sis?'
'Yeah, Applebloom?'
'Ya don't think anypony's hurt, do ya?'
Applejack turned at the note of concern in her sister's voice. 'Ah dunno, sugarcube,' she said gently, 'but Ah'm sure that if they are, everypony's doin' everything in their power to make it right.'
Rainbow scoffed again. ‘Yeah, right. Cuz they tooootally weren’t getting webbed up in green bug-snot this time in the spring.’
The next thing she felt was AJ’s hot breath in her ear. ‘You keep talkin’ like that in front of mah worried-sick, impressionable young sister, an’ yer gonna be spendin’ the night outside on yer cloud, ya hear?’
‘Loud and clear,’ Rainbow snapped back, likewise under her breath. ‘But doesn’t it worry you at least a little? I mean, usually when something like this happens, we’re right in the middle of it. Don’t you think we should’ve gotten a letter or something by now?’
She let the emphasis hang there for a moment, watching Applejack out of the corner of her eye. The other mare made no immediate reply, but slowed her steps long enough to let Big Mac and Applebloom pass. The littlest Apple tried to peek at the two around her brother’s massive legs, but with a gentle push and an almost-imperceptible nod to Applejack, Big Mac guided her gently away.
Applejack waited until they were well out of earshot, then turned to Rainbow, brows furrowed. ‘Alright, leavin’ aside the bitey rattlesnake talk, level with me—what’re ya thinkin’?’
‘Bitey rattlesnake talk?’
‘Goldurnit, girl, my mind’s already workin’ on the next thing, and yer sittin’ there fightin’ me on words. Gonna answer my question or not?’
‘Okay, okay—sheesh.’ Rainbow kicked a hoof through the loose clod of the yard. ‘I’m just saying—usually, when something like this happens, Twilight’s the first person we hear from. If it’s because there’s trouble, then off we go; if not, then not, but . . . how often do we just sit here and watch with no idea of what’s going on?’
‘Gimme yer best guess, then, sugarcube. Think the Elements are needed or not?’
‘I don’t—Jacks, c’mon. You know I’m not exactly the go-to girl on big decision-y stuff . . .’ She trailed off, meaningfully, and looked back over her shoulder at the very obvious plume still rising from the now-obscured mountain. ‘But, you know me. I wouldn’t be caught dead just . . . sitting around while Canterlot burns.’
‘Jess nappin’, Ah ‘spect.’ Applejack said, with the most pronounced of suppressed grins.
Rainbow leapt angrily into the air, wings flapping rigidly. ‘Oh, go buck yourself inside out, AJ. You wanna find out what’s going on or not? ‘Cuz you can sit there and work on the “next thing” all you want—I’m leavin’ for Ponyville in about ten seconds either way.’
‘T’find Twi, see what’s what?’
‘Yeah, that or Sugarcube Corner. They’ve got that new long-distance phonograph or whatever—maybe we could get something out of that.’
Applejack bit her lip, but after a moment’s consideration, nodded. ‘Gimme two shakes t’let the others know, and we’ll go, alright?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ huffed Dash, returning tersely to the ground. ‘Just make it quick.’
But as Applejack trotted back inside, hollering for her family, Rainbow turned back to the plume one last time, letting the mask of carefully-practised unconcern slide off her face for the first time since their little troupe had assembled in the yard.
She let her eyes flick once more over the plume turning rapidly to haze as it boiled from somewhere in the lower city—took in the shape of it, the colour. Her weathermare’s wings itched, but she made no move towards the empty, quiet sky.
Was that it? Was it just that it was so quiet? The ponies in town had said after the Wedding that even down here you could hear the clatter and the howls and the screams. Lightning strikes and forest fires made noise—the animals tearing away from them through the Everfree did too. So why had there been nothing . . . ?
A shiver ran through her, and this time there was no breeze for her to blame it on. She shook herself a little, and tore her eyes from the greying pillar.
‘Hope you’re right,’ she said huskily as she turned back to the house. ‘You’d better be right.’
‘This is Fast Talker for Canterlot Radio One, your friendly voice from Mount Canter, and we’re back in the studio. Again, major story this morning is the incident down at the Canterlot Railyard—something to do with an inbound train; we’ve got reports so far of bangs, maybe an accident. We don’t have all the details yet, but if you do plan to give us a shout this morning—stopping by the studio or anything, please, let’s not get hung up on wild mass guessing, alright? No wild Changeling theories, none of that ‘Green Wedding Part Two’ nonsense we had from that couple of flower-shop owners earlier. I had hoped we’d be able to get more letters in about the Equestrian Games this morning, given that big excitement, but it looks like that’ll have to wait.
‘Anyway, we’ve got Spring Step down on the scene in the Wards District. Spring, anything you can tell us?’
‘Good morning, Fast. Yes, it’s a bit of a dog-and-pony down here. I’m uh, taking shelter in a shop-front right at the moment, given the number of ponies just galloping about in the street. Lot of folk heading towards the railyard, lot of folk trying to get as far away from it as possible. We haven’t really heard any further details, but the smoke plume is incredible. I don’t know if you can see it from further up the mountain?’
‘Yeah, actually, we’ve . . . we’ve been kind of watching it through the window, here. Anyway, Spring—has there been any further word from the authorities down that way? Managed to flag down a constable, or a Guardsmare?’
‘Not a chance, Fast. Any of the first responders who can stop to talk are telling everyone to clear the roads and just get away from the Centre.’
‘And can you tell us anything more about the ponies coming out of the station? What’s going on there?’
‘Can’t get close enough to tell, Fast. I’ve heard folk going by talk about “walking wounded”, but so far no sign of them or any of the ambulance teams coming the other direction.’
‘Right, thanks Spring. Anything else happens, give us a ring back, then. Listeners—just to confirm what was just said, yes, latest we’ve had from the Transit Authority is that there’s been a “major incident” down the Canterlot Rail Centre, and they’re expecting major delays on any inbound or outbound trains for the foreseeable. Once again, stay off the rails, don’t try coming in to Canterlot just at the moment.
‘But! Tiddlywinks in the office is giving me the high sign that we have callers on the line, so let’s go now to Trample, East Wards. Good morning, Trample, how d’ya do?’
‘Morning, Fast. Been a listener for a good while, second time callin’ in—love this voice-castin’ spell-paper, great stuff.’
‘Right, good to hear from you. Tiddly tells me you were on a train leaving the Centre around the time of the incident, is that right?’
‘Oh, Celestia’s beard, Fast, yes.’
‘Oi! Language there, mate, or we’ll have to drop you. Come on.’
‘Sorry, Fast. Anyway, yeah, we was on the outbound to Ponyville, an’ just as we was pullin’ out of the station, we felt some almighty bang—whole carriage jumpin’ an’ all. Everypony ducked, and there was screaming, an’ we could hear . . . things clatterin’ off the roof.’
‘What things? Wood, and such? Hooves? Metal shrapnel?’
‘Dunno, mate. Some of that, prob’ly. But there was also—’
‘Alright, so you heard the explosion—did you see where it came from?’
‘O-only once we was off the train, Fast. Big plume of smoke comin’ from up near the front of the train. Looked like it musta been the engine or summat.’
‘Once they got you off the train? Were you waiting long?’
‘Nah, mate. Fifteen minutes, tops. They had these big Horses—I mean, big blokes—comin’ out with rope an’ things and carryin’ folk to the station in twos and threes.’
‘Yeah? And what about you, mate, they carry you off?’
‘Aw, c’mon, Fast, whaddaya take me for? Got down on me own four legs and scarpered. There was stationmasters and what, standin’ around the platform, tellin’ us not to run, to evacuate quickly but not run—so obviously everypony ran.’
‘Heh. Well, I can understand that. Accidents are . . . well, they’re frightening things, rare as they are. And this sounds like a pretty bad one.’
‘Too right, Fast. Heard you talkin’ with that reporter about the smoke? Oh, it’s all over the place down here—like you walked straight out of a dragon nest in one’a them vulcan-o’s, right? Absolutely covered, forelock to fetlock in soot. An’ last I saw over me shoulder, the train was still on fire, too. Looked like it had a lot of carriages to go through before it was done.’
‘Good to know. Well, thanks for your time, Trample, hope you call in again under better circumstances.’
‘Aye t’that, Fast. Thanks.’
‘Right-o, another caller in. This time it’s—oh, good night—one Missus Crumplebottom of Nag’s End. You’re on the line, ma’am, how d’you do?’
‘Well, dear, obviously we’ve all had better days, my goodness. But I can tell you that I was at the kiosk when that whole awful racket started. Saw the whole thing, I did!’
‘Really? Well, what can you tell us, please?’
‘Well, dear, I was standing there in the queue, waiting to get a ticket back to Hoofington—my old stomping grounds, you know—and then there was this great boom like somepony had just let off a firework, and this great cloud of fire and wood and smoke went up. I tell you, that almost finished me off there and then!’
‘Oh, but you sound quite alright to me, ma’am—many moons young and all that. But your coat, your bag—I’m sure they’re absolutely covered in soot now.’
‘Oh, no, no, they sheparded us away quick as you like—pouring out of everywhere, they were. Never seen so many constables and Royal Guard in my life. But—oh, it was the strangest thing. You know how these trains work, don’t you dear? Got a big coal-fired something-or-other up front? Well, I swear to you that after that explosion went off, I saw that big engine go flying off into the stoppers at the end of the track, pretty as you please. All the cars behind it on fire, it was horrible, but the engine itself? Not a scratch!’
‘I . . . Well, uh . . . thank you, Miss. I suppose we’ll have to wait to hear from the, uh, the Fire Brigade to know what that’s all about.’
‘Any time, young man. You keep doing Celestia’s work with that whoozit you’re broadcasting from up the hill. Ta!’
‘Of course. Well, listeners, that’s . . . quite a lot going on at the moment, obviously. We’ll be keeping you apprised of any new information as we come across it. The latest is that the explosion and fire down that the Canterlot Railyard is now being treated as a “major incident”, end-quote. I also understand that Our Lady Luna, Princess of the Night, will be arriving in the Wards momentarily to assume command of the Guard detachments there.
‘We take you now to Spring Step, with another live report from the scene . . .’
She landed without incident.
The avenues of the Wards were nearly deserted now, blessedly—only a few stragglers remained, those too old or feeble or interested to evacuate the streets as quickly as their fellows. She eyed them, carefully, and the speed of their retreat seemed to imperceptibly increase.
Still, this was better than the panicked rout she had prepared herself to find. The trampling crush of a spooked herd was still a very real threat, she knew, even after thousands of years of civilisation; some things seemed hard-wired into the genetic memory of her people. She would have to commend the Guard on maintaining order and clearing the streets.
Ah—the Guard, yes. She would need to alert them. Lifting her horn, she tapped into the Guard Relay and broadcast on the wide-band.
::Attention all Districts. We, Luna, Princess of the Night and Maintainer of the Vigil, hereby assume command of this investigation. Our Nightwatch will supplement your teams at all locations.
Prepare for our arrival.::
In return she received a ragged chorus of assent and acknowledgement—many of the Relays, it seemed, were too fatigued or preoccupied to do more than send a ping of recognition back to even their diarch. She glanced up at the nearest clock-tower as she started in the direction of the Railyard.
A little over a half an hour—that was how long it had taken for all of this to unfold. A little over a half-hour since the explosion, a little over a half-hour since she had woken with a start with a searing pain in her chest, and her sister’s silent scream echoing through her waking mind. A little less than half that since she had burst into Celestia’s solar, and perhaps ten minutes since she had burst forth from it.
And now here she was, drawing closer to the source. She wondered a little at how much room there was in her mind to track the progress of such thoughts. To be sure, she was not the Celestia of a half-hour before, very obviously running down her mental catalogues to find out whatever she could about the risks of rail travel, or what-have-you; but neither was she the quietly-calculating Luna from the previous night, who by rights ought to have worked out a guilty party and the exact charge of negligence an accident such as this would entail.
But no. All that came to her, then, was the quiet, slow insistence that she simply walk down the avenue and arrive at her destination—to do what must be done.
And it was only when she drew level with the wrought-iron gates that her steps slowed.
As she rounded the corner of the last building, the surreal tableau was laid bare before her. White-grey flecks of ash blanketed the area like snow, and the smoke, though clearing now that the fires in the wooden carriages had been extinguished, still hung over the scene like an unearthly, stultifying fog. The carriages themselves—there was no question whence the explosion had come. The pastel-painted engine was almost pristine—the body perhaps a little warped from the heat, but otherwise unscathed. The first and third cars were badly burnt, almost blackened husks, and those further down the train in almost as poor of shape, but the second?
There was a massive hole in the side of that carriage, nearly three-quarters the length of the entire car—its edges jagged, and uneven. In nearly the same proportion, the roof of the car had peeled back in all directions from a point near the hind-end, looking more like the petals of a flower than anything made by the work of hooves and horns. Complementing the image was the sheen of drying water on nearly every surface: the charred wood of the carriages, the warped metal of the engine, the patterned pavers of the platform—a blackened bloom, in a freshly-watered garden.
And on the platform—
Luna let out a long breath through her nostrils, her eyes sweeping over the one thing the royal pages, the updates from the Guard—even the news report she had caught the tail end of on her way out of the castle—had glossed over.
Luna was no stranger to death. She had survived—endured? conquered?—millennia of war, of savagery, of devastation—the worst the Old World had to offer, the worst a thousand years travelling the Planes could subject her to. To say that this was somehow different . . . ?
No; that it simply was not.
The bodies simply lay there, mundane as any warzone, exactly where they had fallen, where they had been thrown. Some were moving; some were not. Some were crying out; some were not. Some were attended; some were not. Some were whole; some were . . . not. She knew, that if she gave it just a moment’s consideration, she could calculate the exact trajectory each one had taken as they were thrown from the cracked, charred carriage—even calculate the odds that any given pony, on any given trajectory, had survived.
And perhaps, she thought dully, therein lay the issue. Perhaps it was less important that this be somehow phenomenal to her, than how fully problematical it was that it was not.
A warzone, in the city she had served for a thousand-thousand generations, and all she could do was linger there in the shadow of the gate that welcomed ponies to it, and stare at the corpses of her people.
There was nothing within her in that moment. No tears, no rage, no sick feeling, no sense of palpable loss. Nothing but the dull sense of mortality—a number, a list, a tally, a scorecard.
Almost unconsciously, her legs carried her forward. Almost unconsciously, she joined the bleary-eyed Knight-Captain in charge of the scene, and almost unconsciously asked him for his report, almost unconsciously nodding as he told her the exact figures. Almost unconsciously, she issued orders to the Guard, the Brigade, the Hospitallers—prioritising treatment, setting patrols, skimming the wreckage for more survivors. Almost unconsciously, she walked among the survivors, healing where she could, leaving the field surgeons to their work where she felt no need to intervene.
And there, as she didst bestride the wreckage, she felt something build within her—around the grey flakes of ash, the black-charred carriages, the twisted bodies; around the shouts of the Guard, the screams of the wounded, the hiss of the smoking wood; around the metal tang of blood and flesh, the sharp unfamiliarity of ammonia and stench—around and through and beyond it all, she felt the beginnings of an echo. A single, piercing sound from across the ages, from every battleground, every killing field, every shallow grave, shrinking to a point across the vast histories of her life, half-lost as it touched her heart once more.
And then something else—firmer, closer, pleading—brushed against her consciousness, and she turned.
Smoke rises from Canterlot. The embers have clotted—heavy, and thick, and billowing in great bursts and clouds from somewhere just beyond her sight. The rain is gone, yet the thunderheads swell; the sun climbs, and the skies grow dark.
Clarity is still elusive. More than once, heavy blackness has assailed her, and, more than once, her leaden eyelids have fluttered closed against the sting of ash and weight of effort. Easy, too easy, to slip away, but each time she does, the pounding in her chest pulls her sharply back again. A cycle, a dance—a gentle fade and the harrowing rush of return, twisting her, pulling . . .
Pulling?
Pulled?
Is she pulled?
Or pushed?
She struggles—flails on the edge of consciousness. She is adrift on inky waters, splashing and paddling and fighting the sucking tides. She breaks the surface; she is dragged under again. She gasps for breath; air and bile fill her lungs. She tears her leaden limbs from the ground, the water, the empty gap of space; she lies almost perfectly still.
The cycle continues, again and again, and then . . .
She becomes aware of something at once nearby and unutterably distant; warm as company, cold as starbeams. Faint, but shimmering, on the edge of consciousness: a light? No—a vibration through foetid air; a sound. Mounting, yet at the edge of hearing, as the crashing of waves on distant cliffs.
An echo.
She reaches out—recoils. It is cold. Cold as ice, cold as death and hatred and undertow, and burials in dark earth. She recoils . . . and so does the echo. It turns, a star now, a white light in murk, the cold retreating in favour of something . . . else? A question, softly, a mirror to hers.
She tries to lift her head, to see if it is who she hopes, she thinks. She feels the muscles of her neck resist; fatigued, leaden—not up to a task as complex and involved as lifting a whole head.
But she pushes, and it listens.
She lifts her head, disturbing the ashen blanket she finds herself wrapped in. She takes in something more than the ashen sky, the grey-black clouds assailing her sense of place—she takes in a train-carriage-smoke-wreckage-bodies-constables-platform in the single moment before she locks eyes with the star, the echo, the cold-and-warm—eyes shining like turquoise, like deep and depthless gems.
The eyes flick away, give a shout, flick back and move rapidly towards her—expanding, expanding to fill her whole vision with something very much not cold.
Turquoise eyes . . .
But—that’s wrong. Everything about her is wrong—she can see that now, as the eyes and the things around the eyes charge forward. The wrong face, the wrong shape, the wrong colour, the wrong . . .
Wings?
Her vision swims again, as she swims again on the inky sea. Something in her neck spasms wetly, under the skin, and she feels her strength finally leave her. As her head falls to earth, and consciousness flees her one final time, she again sees the last, earnest look of concern her friend had ever worn.
. . . the matter? . . . look like you’ve just seen a gh—
Sugarcube Corner was quiet. No merry rumble from the ovens, no hiss of water from the dish-washing taps. Not even the quiet chatter of the accustomed mid-morning rush—the stay-at-home fathers and mothers, come to pick up their baking for the week; the second-shift workers, preparing to start their days at noon.
The plume of smoke rising from Mount Canter had cleared, but the haze it left lingered—brown, cloying, murky. Palpable, too, settling on the town as it had. Not a soul was there to be found in the store, on the street, in the square. Not a soul out for some shopping, or a friendly visit, or even a quick bite at the cafe. Every so often, a head would poke out of an upstairs window, or around the frame of a painted-wood door, casting a brief glimpse up the mountain again, but those heads retreated quickly, and no other part of a pony followed.
It seemed strange to Applejack, as she frowned out the window of the empty bake-shop, that a town so often visited by disaster could still find itself so wrong-hoofed by them. A crowd might gather, and the murmurs of speculation might build, yes, but in the end everyone would just quietly go back to their homes and workplaces. Was it terror? she wondered. Or was it simply that singular provincial desire to leave well enough alone?
She sighed, and shook her head, looking over her shoulder at the two ponies (and the sleeping dragon) clustered near the till.
Mrs Cake, heeding the hard-won wisdom of the self-made mare and calling it quits on the day, had closed down the store properly not long after. Then, perhaps sensing that the girls needed Pinkie to themselves, she had shooed her husband upstairs to care for the infants, and the three had been left alone.
They had chatted a little, exchanged pleasantries. Pinkie had filled them in on what news there’d been from the radio; Rainbow had shared her concerns about the Elements. Applejack had frowned on hearing the problem had originated at the railyard, but said only that she couldn’t remember the last time there’d been an accident on the Ponyville line.
No-one had heard from the other three girls, and all eyes slid studiously off the snoozing dragon whenever they were mentioned.
They had waited awhile, then, snacking on breakfast sundries Pinkie had whipped up from the kitchen. The newscast droned on, repeating the same tired admonition to avoid travel to Canterlot, and though at least three ears were constantly pricked in its direction, the tinkling bell above the door did not chime.
After a quarter hour’s solid pacing, Rainbow had announced she was going to go and retrieve the others, and Applejack had offered to keep watch on the window for her return. Fluttershy had arrived some few minutes later, looking characteristically uncertain and apologising profusely for not somehow divining she was wanted, but Rainbow was nowhere to be seen.
That had been half an hour ago, and Applejack’s eyes were tired from watching the sky. She walked back over to the counter, and hefted herself awkwardly onto one of the high stools next to the counter. Pinkie’s eyes locked with hers as soon as she was settled, and Applejack had the unpleasant feeling they’d been boring into the back of her head since Rainbow had left.
‘It’s been almost an hour, Jackie,’ she said quietly. Her eyes were wide, in their accustomed manner, but nowhere in them was the usual innocent twinkle to be found. ‘Shouldn’t we wake him up?’
There was an air of finality to the question that made Applejack uncomfortable. She shifted her shoulders a little, noncommittally. ‘Ah say we let the lil’ man sleep long as he wants. It’ll be hard enough tryin’ to explain this to the young’uns when we do have all the facts; Ah don’t fancy tryn’ to pull somethin’ covincin’ outta my hat without ‘em.’
Fluttershy nodded vigorously, but Pinkie still wore that same wide-eyed look, half-pleading, half . . . what? ‘Jackie, I reeeeeeally think we should ask him about Twilight. She doesn’t usually leave him unattended like this unless she’s going to be out of town, and even then he’s usually over at Carousel Boutique mooning over Rarity, but . . .’
She trailed off meaningfully, but Applejack just shook her head. ‘No. No, Ah ain’t gonna wake him up for . . . this.’
‘But Jackie—!’
‘No, Pinkie. We’ll wait for Rainbow to get back with the girls—or not.’ She cast Pinkie a shrewd look. ‘Why? Somethin’ about this settin’ off that dad-blamed sixth-sense’a yours?’
Pinkie shifted a little behind the counter. ‘Since this morning. An eeny-weeny little spiny-shiver while I was clearing up after the breakfast rush, then a twiddle-tweak tail in the lull, and now just . . . kind of a sick feeling in my tummy,’ she finished quietly.
Applejack sighed. ‘Ah reckon we’re all feelin’ that about n—’
The door to the street slammed open, and they all jumped. Rainbow Dash swept in with all the force of a gale, brows drawn together in a dark frown, and kicked the door closed behind her.
‘They’re not there.’
‘Neither’a them?’
‘No.’ Rainbow was breathing hard, and Applejack could see the muscle working in her jaw. ‘Golden Oaks, Carousel Boutique, Town Hall, Zecora’s, the little outdoor number they sometimes grab lunch at . . . nothing.’
‘Who’re you talking about?’ yawned a new voice from beside the counter.
They all turned to find that Spike’s head had come up off his elbows. He worked his shoulder with a claw before yawning again, regarding them with an almost wistful smile. ‘Gosh, I guess I must’ve slept a lot longer than I planned to. What time is . . .’
But he trailed off, the smile sliding from his features as he got a better look at the four mares around him. ‘. . . what? What is it?’
Applejack started, but Pinkie Pie cut in before she could even take a breath. The look of intensity she had worn not seconds before was gone, to be replaced by a warm and motherly smile. ‘Heya, Spikey-wikey!’ she cooed, noogieing his crest with a hoof. ‘Can’t believe you fell asleep up here at the counter—and with me talking to you and all!’
Spike grinned, a little sheepishly. ‘Ahh, sorry, Pinkie. Twilight had me up really early this morning helping her pack for her trip.’
Applejack shared a look with Rainbow Dash, but if Spike noticed, he said nothing.
‘Trip?’ said Pinkie Pie, eyes wide and enthusiastic. ‘Ooh! You know how I love trips. What kinda trip?’
‘Oh,’ said Spike, cocking his head a little. ‘Didn’t she tell you? She and Rarity were supposed to go up to Canterlot today. She was going to meet up with an old friend of hers from before she moved down here—Moon Dancer. And Rarity said she needed to pick up some new fabrics for a commission.’ He sighed, dreamily. ‘Then they were going to grab lunch and catch the train back down to spend the afternoon in the library with tea.’
‘Spike—’ Rainbow Dash began, but again Pinkie Pie’s squeal of delight won out.
‘Ooh, tea! Ooh, that’s just so refined, isn’t it? Just like Rarity to want to put together a nice afternoon like that for Twilight. Well, you’ll be needing all sorts of goodies for that, I’ll bet my hoof on it!’ She waved it for emphasis. ‘Tea-cakes and petit-fours and biscuits, oh my! Whaddaya think the girls would like, hmm? A Canterlot treat? Or d’you think they’ll have filled up on that by the time they get back?’
‘No, I think we’re—’ Spike started, then snapped his fingers. ‘Actually—that’s right, part of the reason I came in this morning was because we’re out of sugar. How’d you know?
Pinkie Pie merely winked. ‘A baker never reveals her secrets, Spikey-wikey!’
‘Well, uh, I guess—could you put a pound-bag on my tab then, please?’
Pinkie didn’t even bat an eye. ‘Yupperoni! Two shakes!’ She disappeared into the store-room in an instant, then poked her head around the jamb, winking at Spike again. ‘And don’t you even think of moving, Mister!’
Spike chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Pinkie. I’ve still got this awesome doughnut to finish!’
Said pastry was halfway to his mouth before he’d even finished his sentence, clutched protectively into two tiny claws. Taking a healthy bite, he looked back around at the others, as if suddenly remembering they were there.
‘So, why were you looking for Twilight and Rarity, anyway?’ he asked, voice slightly muffled by the thick wad of dough.
But nopony seemed capable of answering him. Pinkie’s words still hung heavy in the air between them, and no-one seemed ready to contradict a syllable. Fluttershy simply looked stricken, Rainbow Dash had ducked behind a wing she was now furiously trying to groom, and as for Applejack . . . ?
‘Hold that thought, Spike,’ she said, trying very hard to keep her voice level as she tossed her hat on the counter and made her way around it, towards the swinging door Pinkie had disappeared through. ‘Ah’m gonna help Pinkie with the sugar. Gal keeps sayin’ the lid’s gettin’ stuck, and she’s already had a rough mornin’ as it is.’
She gave Rainbow Dash a quick, firm look, and just long enough to see her return it from behind her wing, then turned, and shouldered open the door.
To her credit, she managed to keep her voice and her hoofsteps even and untroubled until she had shut it behind her. But as she approached the pink mare humming merrily in the corner, she could feel every inch of her body trembling with suppressed anger.
‘Pinkamena Diane Pie, what in Tartarus was that?’
‘What was what?’ Pinkie turned, hoof-scoop poised over the sugar-bin.
Applejack spat savagely on the ground between them, forcing Pinkie a step back. ‘What, ya gonna make me explain it like yer a foal? As if ya don’t know!’
‘I really don’t, Jackie.’ Her aspect had changed. Gone was the bubbly tweeness she had used with Spike, and back again was the look she had worn earlier—pleading, yes, but also . . . forlorn?
Whatever it was, Applejack didn’t care. ‘“By the time they get back?” How dare you? Lyin’ to the boy like that, and makin’ him think— think that—!’
‘That everything’s okay?’ Pinkie said, quietly. She let the scoop fall back into the sugar, and turned, sighing. ‘Well, you know me, Jackie. Can’t let anypony go without a smile on their face.’ She shrugged, mane bobbing about her like so much candy floss. ‘If we treat it like it’s no big deal, like we shouldn’t be worried about it, then it won’t seem as scary to him when we do tell him. That’s just how ponies work, silly.’
‘But it is a “big deal”. You lied to him.’
‘Oh, really? For all we know, everypony made it off that train and is sitting around in their fancy cafes swapping stories about the adventure.’ She laughed, hollowly. ‘And I have to say, what a laugh, coming from the mare who didn’t even want to wake him up a few minutes ago.’
‘A’fore we knew it was personal?’ Applejack hissed. ‘Yer damned right. But it is, Pinkie. Ain’t no denyin’ that now. You and Ah both know just how many trains leave Ponyville fer Canterlot that time’a mornin’.’
‘We still don’t—’
They were interrupted by the creaking of the door. Fluttershy stood there, white as silk and weaving gently on her hooves. ‘Girls . . . the radio. You need to hear this.’
‘. . . an’ all I’m thinking about now is getting to work in one piece, sitting down at my desk and havin’ a stiff cuppa.’
‘Of course. Joking aside, alright, have some coffee, put double the sugar in, and stay safe, won’t you?’
‘Will do. Thanks, Fast.’
‘Spring Step’s back in the studio. Spring, what can you tell us, please?’
‘Okay. Full report that’s come from the Guard so far; we got this out of Withercove within the last two minutes:
‘At approximately half-past eight this morning, the Royal Guard and Fire Brigade were called to Canterlot Rail Centre to respond to an incident on the inbound Ponyville train. All available emergency services, including several detachments of Celestia’s Hospitallers, are currently at the scene. It’s too early at this stage to state what has happened, but there have been multiple, corroborated reports of an explosion originating from one of the passenger cars near the front of the train. Again, it is too early to say what might have caused these explosions, but the Royal Guard is working closely with Transit Authority officials to determine what occurred. There have been upwards of fifty casualties reported at the scene, but most are confirmed to be walking wounded. Many have already been identified as Canterlot natives, but a small number of Ponyville residents have also been confirmed, among them two Pegasi and a Unicorn. Triage and medical operations will be taking place at the nearby St. Hestia’s Clinic, Lower Wards. Residents are encouraged to avoid the immediate area to prevent disruptions to necessary medical services.
‘We . . . we have also been told that, in addition to the wounded, the Guard has been able to confirm some fifteen to twenty fatalities resulting directly from the explosion. None of the victims have yet been identified, but anyone with information or questions regarding passengers is encouraged to speak to their local constable or any available Guardspony.’
'And all of that was directly from the Guard?'
‘It was just given to me now, yes.’
‘And the official word remains the same?’
‘Yes: the Guard is advising everyone to stay home, stay at work, stay wherever you are, and avoid travel if at all possible. Once again, all rail service to and from Canterlot Rail Centre has been cancelled this morning. It—’
‘That’s cert—’
‘Fast, please. I know this . . . this is uncommon, and obviously it’s not coming from the Guard, but . . . everyone listening, if you’ve got loved ones expecting you today, and you’re safe, it’s probably worth getting word to them, because . . . let’s face it, it’s going to be on everypony’s minds this morning.’
‘. . . thank you, Spring. I know that if I could get in touch with my wife right now, I’d want also to know she were safe. Celestia be with everypony, today—and Luna tonight.
‘This is Fast Talker, for Canterlot Radio One.’
‘. . . c’mon, girls. We’re going to Canterlot.’
‘But Jackie—’
‘Ah don’t wanna hear it, Pinkie. Y’all grab whatever ya might need on the way.’
‘Applejack?’ A slight tremble.
‘. . . what is it, Spike?’
‘They only . . . they only said “a Unicorn”. Wh-what if—?’
‘Hey. Don’t . . . don’t you worry none, sugarcube. We’re gonna get up there right quick and figure out what’s goin’ on just as soon as we can, alright?’
Sister.
I’m here, Luna. What did you find down there? Anything that might explain what happened?
Aught, mayhap. Aught near the carriage smelt familiar—brimstone, or battlefields. We have tasked the Guard to investigate further. Regardless, ‘tis not the reason for this dispatch. You . . . you are needed here.
Needed . . . ? Luna, I told you before, I cannot leave the court—too many of our citizens are already hurting and afraid. If I were to suddenly disappear . . .
Celestia . . . the Elements. Two were aboard—the Unicorns. One have we from the wrack retrieved, and seen to the healers of St. Hestia’s. Her pain was . . . incredible. ‘Twere strong enough alone to call out to us and beg answer.
One?
. . . aye.
‘AJ, I could fly on ahead, try and get to the clinic first, if—’
‘Not a chance in Tartarus. We’re stickin’ together ‘til this thing’s through. That goes for all’a y’all, ya hear?’
‘Yeah yeah, loud and clear. But you’d better have a real cunning plan under that hat of yours for getting us to Canterlot. No trains, remember?’
‘Agh, of all the Celestia-damned . . . no. C’mon, y’all. Somepony in this one-jalopy town’s gotta have a balloon, or a flyin’ chariot, or . . . sumthin’.’
Then, the other . . . ?
She . . . she was among those we felt from the first—‘twere too great a distance to hear her voice distinctly among the throng, but . . . we came upon the body. I’m . . . sorry, Tia.
. . . I will be there shortly. Did you . . . did you find a dragon? Among the living, o-or . . . ?
The child, Spike? Nay . . . nay, we didst not. Knight-Captain Bore confirmeth.
Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you knew him.
By sight alone. Were he not consort to an Element . . .
Of course. But—thank you. That . . . that’s good to hear. I’ll tell the girls where to find you. They’re resourceful, they’ll . . . find their way up there, especially once . . . once they hear. If you haven’t heard from them soon, let me know; I’ll send the Guard down to collect them.
We will await their arrival, then. Tia?
What is it?
. . . be careful on your way down.
‘What about you, Pinks? Any brilliant ideas?’
‘Well, I could get out my whirligig, but . . . it only seats one. Aaaaand it’s kinda slow. Unless you’d rather take a ride on the wild side with my party cannon?’
‘Yeah, pass. But what about that trick where you strap a bunch of party balloons to your—’
‘Wait, balloons! Twilight still has that balloon that we used to catch Dash when she got all—hyeurk!’
‘Woah, nelly! . . . what’s it say, Spike? Is it from Twilight?’
‘N-no . . . no. It’s from Celestia. She wants us to head to that clinic they mentioned on the radio. She says to come as quick as we can. S-she says . . . Luna is going to meet us there.’
‘Then what are we waiting for? I say we get Twilight’s balloon, do whatever hot-air doohickey nonsense we need to to make it work, and then Fluttershy and I drag it to Canterlot.’
‘No arguments here. C’mon, y’all. Daylight’s burnin’.’
::Command to all Relays. It is two hours to Apex. Your reports, please.::
::Weathermakers’ to Command—all quiet here, Captain. Everypony’s been following the evacuation orders, staying off the streets. One patrol had to talk to a couple of folk watching the rescue effort from the avenue, but nothing serious. Over.::
::Wards to Command. Fires doused in all carriages, engine secured. Rescue efforts proceeding apace. All survivors cleared from wreckage. Continuing work with the b— . . . With those that didn’t make it. Over.::
::This is Knight-Captain Bore, at St. Hestia’s. Princess Luna has ordered room cleared in the street for a single airship—civilian model, likely single-engine. Four to five occupants, top-priority personnel. Direct them to St. Hestia’s as soon as they land, escort if necessary. Acknowledge, over.::
::Wards post acknowledges, Knight-Captain. Over.::
::Garden, Command. All quiet, over.::
::Market to Command. Nothing here, either. We had one—sorry. We had one Guardsmare in our detachment formally request leave to visit the hospital—apparently she knew someone on the train. Sergeant granted her request. Noth—nothing else to report, over.::
::All, Command. So noted, on all reports. ::
‘By yer leave, Highness. We came as quick as we could.’
‘Ye are all here, then? ‘Tis no small blessing, given the chaos we had to face just getting in the door. And nay, nay—thou needst not bow, scion of Orchards. We stand not on ceremony in times like these.’
‘Alright then—Celestia’s note said we had to show up here right away. What’ve you got for us?’
‘Rainbow Dash, you—!’
‘Nay, ‘tis a question fair spoke. What hast thou been told?’
‘Only what we managed t’get outta the radio, Princess. And Spike here told us Twilight and Rarity were headed up to Canterlot today, and that would’ve been the only train, so . . .’
‘Twilight and Rarity, yes.’ A sigh. ‘Yes. Prithee, follow. And keep ye close—many and quick do the gurneys run through these halls, and not always with regard to who might be in them.’
::Command, Garden . . . was there something else, Captain?::
::All, Command. Yes—apologies. Knight-Captain, you’ll want to hear this as well. But . . . before I say anything else, I want to thank each and every one of you for your service. You are a credit to the Armour, to the Oath, to the Crown. You have served with distinction, and the work you and your detachments have done today has demonstrated just how right we were to trust you with the responsibilities of the Guard.
But . . . what I’m about to ask of you, what I’m about to ask you to share with your Sergeants, will be the hardest thing you’ve done today.::
It was the longest walk of Spike’s life, and yet—somehow, all he could register of it were the flashbulb portraits they passed. Two stallion doctors running with a gurney, hooves thundering, white coats whipping behind them. A lone foal, kicking its heels against the seat of a chair. Three ponies in silhouette behind a curtain, their heads bowed. A mare, scant moons older than Applebloom, clanking down the corridor in full Guard regalia.
‘Your Highness! Princess Luna!’
Luna had been studying the middle distance intently, but her eyes snapped into focus at once. ‘Aye, Guardsmare, what news?’
‘Message directly from Command, Highness,’ the mare wheezed. ‘Marked urgent.’
‘Very well—receipt is acknowledged, as is your service. About thy business.’
‘Aye, Highness.’
And she was gone. Luna tucked the missive away under a wing, and it disappeared from view.
To Spike’s left, Applejack coughed, politely. ‘. . . beggin’ yer pardon, Princess, but are ya sure ya don’t wanna—’
‘Nay. Not afore we have seen this through.’
They came to a door at the end of the hallway, and Luna’s steps slowed. Spike’s heart—already racing, beating in the back of his throat from the moment Applejack had slapped him on her back and taken off full pelt for the library—did another backflip in his chest, and he felt his claws begin to shake.
‘In here,’ said Luna, quietly, and stood aside to let them pass. Spike looked from mare to mare around him, but all eyes were fixed intently on Applejack’s back as she walked forward with uneven steps, and put a hoof to the door. It swung open at her touch, to reveal—
A hospital room. A room like any of the others they had passed. A small window, admitting the near-noonish air; a hanging light; unfamiliar machines; a table; and, in the far corner . . .
‘There’s only one bed,’ breathed Fluttershy, behind him, almost to herself.
One bed. And in it, one mare, her breath rising and falling slowly, evenly—but obviously, and without assistance. Her violet mane was draped over the pillow like water, her face was dirty with soot, but she almost looked . . . peaceful? Even the stiff plaster of the cast on her left-hind leg could not break the illusion of a girl floating in a sea of linen cloud.
But there was only one bed.
Slowly, agonisingly, they turned. Slowly, agonisingly, Applejack’s pale face locked eyes with Luna.
‘P-princess . . . where’s Rarity?’
And for a moment, just a moment, Luna looked less like a creature of immortal age and regal bearing, and more like the portrait of one—something seen through glass, through water.
Then she closed her eyes, and told them.
For a moment, there was only silence in that little corner of the packed clinic. Then there came to Spike’s ears another sound—unearthly, keening. A piercing, atonal scream, louder than anything in his life, that seemed to echo and refract through every pair of the blank and staring eyes around him, around the suddenly-engulfing pink fur into which he found himself thrust, overwhelming, crushing.
It took him a few minutes to realise that the throat giving voice to the scream was his own.
::Just under an hour ago, we received the results of the forensic screen performed by the lasses down at Withercove. Trace samples of an unknown substance were recovered from the scene early this morning and, at the direction of Princess Luna herself, were sent for a thorough analysis. The report indicates that the substance was a fine-powder mixture of ammonium nitrate, coal dust and aluminium.
I know what you’re thinking, because I asked the same question when the report was presented to me—why wouldn’t those substances be present on any coal-fired train in Equestria equipped with a lavatory?
What I was told, and what I need you to impart to your Sergeants, is that according to Withercove, the sample was too pure, too finely mixed, to have been naturally occurring—and, that it caught fire in the lab when exposed to strong light. No spark, no external impetus. Withercove is calling it a ‘highly unstable reactive agent’, and believes that in sufficient quantities, any exposure to a trigger factor could result in a ‘self-sustaining dragon-tongue explosive reaction’. In other words, what we’re looking at here is a—::
Luna unfurled the crisp vellum of the report, and let her eye fall blankly over it. The boy’s howls were muffled behind the closed door of the room behind her, but she felt no less empty than the sound that tore from his lungs like fire.
It took her three passes to fully absorb what she was seeing, and the words she mouthed next were one she had not given a second thought to for nearly twelve-hundred years.
. . . bears an uncanny resemblance to a—
Rainbow trembled next to Applejack, her eyes wide, staring at Twilight’s matted, soot-flecked coat. Applejack just barely caught her words, over Spike’s wails, Pinkie’s sobs, Fluttershy’s sniffling tears.
‘Celestia, Jacks, look at her . . . she looks like she just jumped on a—’
::—bomb.::
‘A bomb.’
‘ —ports are referring to it as a bombing. Obviously, we’ve—’
‘Mummy, what’s a “bomb”?’
. . . calling it a bomb, Tia . . .
‘Haven’t ever heard of such a thing—what rubbish! A “bomb”. Honestly . . .’
::So that’s it, then? A bomb, right here in the capital.::
‘A bomb.’
‘A bomb.’
‘A bomb.’
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Oh, good grief...that's literally all I can say right now...I mean, seriously, this is like reading the MLP version of the Boston Bombing...
RIP Rarity... :(
Christ almighty.
I wanna hate you for writing something like this, but I can't from the care and skill you've put into it.
~Skeeter The Lurker
9/11 Pony style.
9/11/01. I'm sorry I read this. The quality was very good, I, however, want escapist fantasy. Not this. AT ALL! I can't favorite this. I can't give it a thumbs up as much as it deserves it. I'm just going to do my best to erase it from my MLP experience.
Wow, the way this story plays with words... all that uncertainty, suspense...
It's stunning, to see what a good writer can do with just ideas and words. How they can convey the entire spectrum of emotion with what is essentially blots of ink on a white surface; a feat to be admired. Just stunning. Can't think of anything else to say; words escape me, clearly unlike this writer.
So, what's the culprit in for? Banishment? Imprisonment? Imprisonment in the place that s/he's been banished to? To the Moon?
...
Execution?
I'm just glad that Twilight survived. I wish that Rarity had, too, but one survivor is better than zero, right?
... But on the flip side, one fatality is way worse than none.
My favorite character is Twilight (and Fluttershy), so the fact that Rarity died instead of Twilight makes me relieved, but then that feeling of relief males me feel bad. Rarity is really as important as Twilight, so... conflicting feelings, in a nutshell.
Oh god oh god oh god
You have mastered the art of suspense.
I was wondering is it
Twilight or Rarity
Twilight or Rarity
Sounds like the 7/7 bombing in London. Train and all.
Lest we forget.
That insulted me.
But that's not changing my view of the story.
I had the feeling that this was some sort of terrorist attack for a long time.
Trains don't just... explode, you know?
The explosion originating from a passenger car at the front just confirms that feeling.
Why would anyone do this? Who would do this?
9724762
Alright. Dude. We have Discord for this, and have a long history of sending one another dissertations on things of this nature; I can't think of a single reason you would need to drop a story-length response here, other than perhaps to crowd all the other comments out of sight and make some kind of point in so doing. Etiquette also dictates that editorial comments like these (many of which, I'm sorry, are flat-out wrong) be shared with the author privately to give both parties the opportunity to review and establish whether they are appropriate or necessary to the story.
So I'm sorry, but whilst I'll be saving the content for my future perusal, this wall of text doesn't get to monopolise my comments section. PM me next time if you want a conversation like this over FiMFic.
I know this is not exactly the point of the story. Beause I did not realize until I read it. But, the theme and story is a little curious; with Luna being Nightmare Moon long ago?
After all what did Luna think would happen to everyone? This moment or rather the moments, after would have made this especially interesting if explored.
On a side note, I understand this is not the point of the story, so their is that.
An excellent story, with only the faint hint of AppleDash keeping it from my favourites list for reasons of personal conviction... and later chapters may override that.
10634628
I don't understand what you were trying to say here...
9725342
With it being deleted, I can't tell if this is applicable, but when I leave long responses publicly, it is so others might have the enjoyment and edification (or at least mental stimulation if I am in error) of them, rather than only the author.