• Published 1st Apr 2020
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The New Blood - Antiquarian



In the third year of the Crystal War, high casualties in the Equestrian Air Corps force the Wonderbolts to deploy green fliers. New blood, unlikely to survive. It’s down to a cynical Sergeant Lightning Dust to keep them alive.

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Object Lesson

The impression that many ponies get of their drill sergeants is that these inequine NCOs spend every waking moment considering how best to make their lives a living Tartarus. In reality, a lot of what we do is pretty mundane. Shuffling paperwork, reviewing records, signing requisition forms for new equipment, etcetera.

For example, I did not spend the minutes between dismissing the new blood and their return for drills selecting my favorite flogging post and putting fresh polish on my blackjack. No, as entertaining as that thought is, what I was actually doing was reading through their personnel files. With our logistics and communications currently being somewhat FUBAR, their files arrived with them, meaning that Dash and I didn’t get the chance to learn so much as their names before they got dropped on us.

I’d say it’s a Grade-A foul-up and demand somepony’s flank in a sling for that sloppiness… if not for the fact that I’m just glad the files made their way out here at all. We haven’t always been so lucky, and it really kills the ‘NCO from Tartarus’ vibe I’m going for if we have to go around and introduce ourselves like it’s some Celestia-blessed tea party.

Blue Boy’s real name is Fireball. Apparently, he’s distantly related to the famous/infamous outlaw-moonshiner-turned-Resistance-hero Fire Water. Not sure if that’s where his ego comes from, but whatever the case that scat won’t fly with me.

I was actually right about Silver’s name (and the fact that he’s Fireball’s wingpony). His full name is Silver Streak. No relation to Lieutenant Silver Streak from First Squadron, but the coincidence still makes me wince. Judging by Dash’s face, she feels the same way. Neither of us are the superstitious type, but unfortunately some fliers are. Hopefully they won’t see it as a bad omen that the kid shares a name with the first of the Old Bolts killed in this war.

The orange-and-green mare is named Autumnal Zephyr. It looks like Dash finds her name disturbing for an entirely different reason, because the moment I say the name ‘Zephyr’, Dash’s prosthetic eye startes twitching. The mages fixed the feedback problem months ago, so I doubt it had anything to do with the nerves misfiring. I’ll have to ask her about that some time.

Yellow/Blue Mare and Teal Stallion are Summer Sky and Cloudsen, respectively. High marks from their instructors, but notes that neither take the initiative we really want. Workable, but far from ideal, especially with the time crunch.

Girl-Who-Isn’t-Cocky-Or-Skittish is Angel Wings. Turns out that she almost washed out for a lack of aggression until news about the Bridlebrook Massacre came in. Her drill sergeant noted that she seemed… motivated after that. Not like “out for blood, revenge or die,” just determined to stop the war. If he read her right, that means she’s dangerous in a good way. If he’s wrong, well, that could be a problem. I’ll have to keep an eye on her just in case, but she struck me as having her head on straight.

Like Dash said, they all graduated with top marks.

And, like I said, that doesn’t necessarily mean jack. If they can’t integrate into the unit like pinions on a wing, all the talent in the world won’t keep them alive.

Which is why the first exercise when they get back takes us down to the training range, where a few dozen ponies from the 107th Artillery – mostly earth ponies with a few unicorns and a couple pegasi – have set up a scratch battery of light cannons. In place of standard anti-air artillery rounds (‘AAA’ in parlance), the artillery ponies have brought dum-dum rounds (Service-Speak for practice shells loaded with paint). Near each gun team is a dummy team of scarecrows and prop cannons – the targets for this exercise.

The object of this training is for the recruits to drop four dum-dum bombs, each the size of a grapefruit and weighted like a standard frag grenade, and take out as many gun teams as they can. And to get out without getting clipped, of course. Ordinarily, we’d also provide them with training flechettes, but those are one of the many things that didn’t make it up on the last supply train.

Dash and I lurk behind one of the gun teams so we can eavesdrop on the newbies as they arrive. As expected, they’re bellyaching. This time it’s Autumnal Zephyr making the most racket. “I don’t get it,” she gripes. “Why are we even bothering with these drills? It’s not like we’re amateurs. We’ve all proven ourselves at the Academy. Why are we here?”

Grumbles of assent follow her, even from the more skittish ones. Ordinarily, I’d step in to correct her, but their escort, Specialist Sandmane, has it covered. He gives a good-natured chuckle and says, “Get used to it, kid. Every new blood gets the same treatment.”

The newbies jump at his words, as though they forgot he was there. They probably did, honestly. It always amazes me how many of the newbies gripe in front of him, given that he outranks them, but I guess lots of fliers just see the groundcrew as being invisible. I know I did.

Zephyr doesn’t seem impressed. “All due respect, Specialist,” she says in a tone that’s not all that respectful, “We’re Academy graduates. We crushed the competition. We aren’t newbies anymore.”

Sandmane stops short, causing a pileup behind him. Half-turning his head, his easy-going smile not slipping in the slightest, he genially replies, “Hey, Orange Crush, you ever seen combat?”

The mare gapes at him. “W-what did you just call—?”

“—because out here, everypony is a newbie until they’ve seen combat,” he explains calmly, ignoring her outburst. “There are civilians on this base with blood on their hooves, while you’re all greener than a grass smoothie in springtime. Ergo, newbie. Clear?”

His tone is conversational, genial even, but the point gets across. “Clear, Specialist,” she growls.

“Great,” he says with a winning smile. “Now, let’s not keep the Iron Wing waiting.”

The prospect of meeting the living legend perks them up, and they enter the training ground without further grumbling. Dash chuckles and indicates Sandmane with a flick of her wing. “Smirks sure is a smooth talker,” she says, using his rather apt nickname.

“A smooth talker with a sharp tongue,” I add. “‘Orange Crush’ ain’t half bad.”

“Yeah,” agrees Dash with a smile. Then, grimacing, “Darn sight better than ‘Zephyr’ anyway.”

“Okay, seriously boss, what is your deal with that name?”

“Ask me when I’ve had a few hard ciders and I’ll tell you the story of the most obnoxious stallion on the face of the planet.”

“Sounds like a party,” I say as we step out in full view of the new blood. “Let me just demolish these shiny boys and we’ll hit the bar.” I adjust my voice to a proper NCO snarl. “Fillies and gentlecolts! I have the distinct pleasure of introducing you to our resident high-functioning pyromaniacs: 107th Artillery, Echo Battery, led by latent psychopath Lieutenant Earthquake. Say ‘hi,’ Earthquake.”

The hulking artillery pony waves, smiles pleasantly, and announces, “Get paint on my guns and I’ll eat your legs.”

There’s a nice shocked silence that follows that, as the newbies all eye each other, wondering if he’s kidding or not. Rainbow Dash manages to make it even worse by laughing like a madmare. “That’s an excellent point, Earthquake,” she chuckles. “I’m glad you brought that up. It is vital in this exercise that you hit only the prop guns with paint bombs. Otherwise Quake here will have you redefining the term ‘live ammunition’ in short order.”

Angel Wings swallows. “You don’t really mean he’ll shoot us out of a cannon, do you? That’s against regulations. Isn’t it?”

Oh, Celestia, that mare must be an easy mark for pranks.

As far as the exercise goes, it doesn’t matter if Earthquake’s threat is real or not; a pony who misses dropping a bomb on a run like this is a liability to the squadron, a point I rather loudly remind them of. Summer Sky, Cloudsen, and Angel Wings all seem to get that message, but the other three all look bored and act like they’ve heard it all before.

To be fair, they have. This is a standard drill at the Academy. What they don’t know is that this isn’t the whole drill.

“Now, I’m sure that even you airheads looked up from giving each other hooficures long enough to learn the standard strafing patterns,” I bark. “But combat isn’t like the firing range back at the Academy. Groundfire will come at you different every time. You could get hit, your wingpony could get hit, and you will still need to finish your run or else everypony behind you could die.” I let that sink in for a beat. “Now, given that you bruise easily, I’ll avoid actually beating you to simulate combat injuries.”

Not to mention I wouldn’t do that anyway, given that would make me a Bad Pony. Even if I didn’t care about that, the Uniform Code of Military Conduct is a Thing That Exists.

Details.

“However…” I continue, not bothering to hold back a predatory grin as I whistle for the today’s training assistant. A unicorn mare with specialist’s barding obediently trots up, pulling a cart of what I think of as training enhancements. “…that doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel like I’ve given you a good thumping.”

Pulling one of the harnesses out of the cart I hold it up for display. “This, little newbies, is a rather uncomfortable invention called an Equine Muscle Inhibition Harness, known affectionately as Corporal Cramper. The spells on it are designed to randomly select some way to make you unhappy. Maybe it will make your left wing crimp mid-turn. Maybe it will make your barrel stiffen on the right side like you’ve been hit. Maybe it won’t do anything to you at all… but your wingpony’s will do something to him. Nothing that experienced fliers like you can’t recover from,” they handled the Dizzatron after all, “but far from pleasant. Bottom line, as soon as Specialist Golden Glyph here activates the magic, Corporal Cramper will be primed to strike you at any time. You will need to roll with the punches and keep an eye on your wingpony and drop your payload on the dummy targets.” I gesture to a set of tall flagpoles that mark the edges of the training ground. “For obvious reasons you will need to stay above the flag marks in case crash teams need to save you from Cramper’s attempt to give you a Bad Day.” My smirk broadens. “So, who’s first?”

Not surprisingly, His Majestic Blueness Fireball and the uncomfortably-named Silver Streak are the first to jam those hooves skyward, with Autumnal Zephyr a split second behind.

‘A’ for enthusiasm, ‘F’ for reading the room. There’s no way I’d ever make it that easy. “Silver Streak, Fireball, Orange Crush,” I have to hold back a laugh at the horrified look on Zephyr’s face as I use her nickname, “thank you for volunteering to be wingponies for Sky, Cloudsen, and Angel Wings.”

Oh, Celestia, I love seeing those jaws hit the floor. Orange Crush and Silver just stare in mute outrage, but Fireball is a bit more vocal. “Wha- What?” he sputters. “But, Sarge, we—”

“Problem, sparky?” I ask, my voice low.

What he should have said next was ‘No, Master Sergeant.’

What he did say was, “Sarge, Silver and I are both AFCs. The only reason Silver’s a wingpony and not a lead is because he was the only one who could keep up with me.”

Hoo, boy. He’s gonna be one of those ponies, huh? I cock an eyebrow. “And?”

Again, smart play would be to shut up. He doesn’t. “I don’t think it’s fair to the other newbies to ask them to keep up with us.”

Wow. Just… wow. That one actually made me blink. Silver at least has the grace to look a little uncomfortable, but Fireball just stands there, so cocky, so…

I never used to see those looks, the ones like the other newbies are giving him. The hurt. The offense. The anger. And it’s not just them giving him looks; it’s every veteran in earshot. There’s a universal disgust that the loudmouth new blood doesn’t get it.

I never used to see those looks, when I was the one getting them.

I see them now.

“‘Not fair,’” I repeat, walking up to stand in front of him. I spend a little time looking at the sky, counting back from ten and reminding myself that the Uniform Code of Military Conduct is a Thing That Exists. “‘Not fair.’” Looking him dead in the eye, I ask, “Tell me, Airpony First Class Fireball, is the enemy obliged to play fair?”

He tilts his head in confusion. “What?”

“What, Master Sergeant,” I correct.

He narrows his eyes. “What, Master Sergeant?

“It was a simple question, Airpony First Class Fireball. I asked you if you think the enemy is obliged to play fair, yes or no?”

“No,” he says. I stare. “No, Master Sergeant.”

“That’s correct,” I say calmly. “Now, you may have been hot scat at the Academy but, as Specialist Sandmane pointed out earlier, you have not had the extreme pleasure of slaying the enemy for Princess and Country. I, by contrast, have enjoyed that pleasure.”

My eyes narrow. “I have been knocked out of the sky by shrapnel from a AAA shot because the pony in front of me missed her drop. I have had to stitch my own wounds shut with a loose thread from my uniform and a makeshift needle. I have had to crawl bleeding through the mud four hundred yards back to my own lines, pausing only to beat a stallion to death with my bare hooves because it was him or me.”

Sweat breaks out on his brow, but my voice doesn’t rise at all, even as I lean in. “You think you’re hot scat, but you don’t know the first thing about real war.” I’m now nose-to-nose with him. “So tell me, Airpony First Class Fireball, why should I give a fly’s fart in a windstorm what the buck a little pissant like you thinks is ‘fair?’”

He swallows and says nothing.

I asked you a question, airhead! I said WHY SHOULD I GIVE A BUCK WHAT YOU THINK?!”

“I withdraw my objection, Master Sergeant!” he barks.

“RIGHT ANSWER!” I shout. My eyes flash to the stoic unicorn who came with the EMIH rigs. “Specialist Glyph, get these newbies ready to fly! I am in the mood for fireworks!”

While Glyph harnesses them with Corporal Crampers, I move off to talk to Dash who is… irritatingly amused. She shuffles her metal wing when I get close. “Well,” she observes, her eyes on the newbies “he’s certainly bold isn’t he?”

“He’s reckless, arrogant, and insubordinate!” I snap. “He shoulda been busted down back at the Academy, not made lead pony!”

Dash gives me a sideways glance. “Sounds like somepony I know.”

Ouch. “You got a point to make, LT?”

She nudges me with a hoof. “Just be patient with them, Dust. We need fliers, and these are the best we could get.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, maybe we’d be better off going in short-hooved.”

Dash glances at me out of the corner of her eye. There’s a glint of steel in her gaze, and challenge in her voice as she says, “Then I guess my trusty wingpony had better sort their scat out, eh?”

Well, heck, when she goes full CO like that…

“Fine, boss,” I grunt. “I’ll fix the idiots. But only because you asked nicely.”

“Oh, is asking nicely all it takes?” she chuckles, her humor returning now that she’s made her point. “In that case, why don’t you pick up the tab when we hit Hooch’s later.”

“Dream on, Crash,” I say with a roll of my eyes before heading back for the newbies. They’re chatting as I close the distance, not seeming to care what Specialist Glyph hears, but they clam up when I’m in earshot. Judging by the looks the cocky ones are giving (or specifically not giving) me, I can guess what they were talking about. The two more skittish ones are borderline glaring at the first three, which is at least an improvement over fear. Angel Wings actually looks like she might be trying to be a middle ground. I mentally flag her for potential NCO material if that translates over to combat leadership.

And, you know, if she lives.

Speaking of. “Angel Wings, Orange Crush, you’re up first. Show us what you’ve got.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant!” they chorus, Orange Crush with anticipation, Angel Wings with a somber frown. They collect their paint bombs and head to the start point.

Once they’ve reached the start line up in the clouds, I glance at Glyph. “Ready, Specialist?”

“Ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, crash teams?”

Members of the groundcrew, mostly unicorns with slowing spells and pegasi with nets, are spread out in teams of four around the area. Each of them signal readiness to Sandmane, who reports, “Crash teams ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, Lieutenant Earthquake?”

“Let Celestia’s cleansing fire strike me dead if I am ever unready to fire my guns, Master Sergeant.”

I hoist a megaphone to my lips. “Commence Exercise on my mark! Three… two… one… mark!

Glyph’s horn flares, and the exercise begins. Angel Wings takes off at a dead air sprint, with Crush tucked in close behind. By keeping high, they make a small target for the cannons, with the added benefit of avoiding most archery and magic fire. The main drawback is that it’s a long drop to make. Plus, it only takes one cannon to ruin your day.

Of course, Angel Wings knows this, which is why she and Orange Crush go evasive not long after their initial sprint, shortly before Earthquake roars, “Commence Fire Pattern Rosepetal!

The guns speak in succession, spewing shot skyward. The dum-dum rounds explode in technicolor starbursts as gun teams try to blast the new blood from the sky.

It’s easier said than done. Orange Crush might be full of herself, but she’s a good flier. Angel Wings is no slouch either. They evade the incoming fire with the sort of finesse that I’d expect from top line graduates.

Right up until Corporal Cramper rears his ugly head.

Orange Crush is the first one to feel his wrath. The harness jacks with her left wing, sending her into a veering dive that puts her in the path of a dum-dum shell. She’s quick enough to fold in her wings and dive under the shot before it explodes, but she still gets a misting of marker dye on her back. Had that been a real AAA shell, she woulda gotten cooked a bit. Maybe she’d still be flying; maybe not. Depends on whether or not the shrapnel hit her or just the flame. For the sake of the exercise we’ll assume the latter, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe.

Crush manages to level off into a fast, semi-powered glide. A glide that’s just at the minimum altitude, far from her wingpony, and right in the path of the forward guns and infantry.

Angel Wings, seeing her wingpony in trouble, dives into a strafing run that’ll take her over the foremost guns and let her drop her payload before they can fire on Crush. It’s a good move if she can pull it off, but a rough angle to come in on that leaves no margin for error. If she had more experience, she might have made the run perfectly. As it is, two of her four bombs miss.

Still, two misses mean two hits, and the associated gun teams obediently fall silent. The remaining two forward guns line up on Orange Crush and fire, and the infantry unicorns fire stun blasts to fill the air between the shells. It’s a close thing, but through some exceptionally skilled (or exceptionally lucky) aerial acrobatics Crush makes it through untouched. The Cobalt Corkscrew is an impressive maneuver, especially with a half-numb wing, but it pretty well jacks up her attack run. She drops all four bombs, but all she gets out of it is a partial hit on one of the rear gun teams.

Then they’re through, no worse for wear but a little marker dye and, hopefully, a singed ego on Crush’s part. Not a bad run, but there’s room to improve.

“Endex, Endex, Endex!” I shout over the bullhorn, signaling an end to the exercise. The newbies touch down near me, Angel Wings looking embarrassed and Orange Crush swearing like a one-eyed lumberjack. “Problem, Airpony Zephyr?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant! This Celestia-darned harness—” I raise one eyebrow. Orange Crush swallows and shakes her head. “No, Master Sergeant. The harness operated exactly as it should have and I failed to work the problem.”

“Did you?” I ask. Crush doesn’t seem to have a response to that. “Airpony Wings, what is your honest assessment of Airpony Zephyr’s performance?”

Angel Wings snaps to attention. “Master Sergeant! Airpony Zephyr suffered a simulated injury which placed her in the line of fire of the battery! In spite of this, she managed to evade the groundfire and escape! I also believe her flight path acted as a diversion which enabled me to get in close and drop my payload with more precision.”

“That so?” I ask, allowing myself the barest hint of a smile at Orange Crush’s open-mouthed stare. Angel Wings made a good judgment call and a decent attack run, but she gave Crush the credit for it. Interesting. “Crush, you got anything to add to Airpony Wings’ assessment?”

Anything that might show that you’ve got her back too?

“I… think Airpony Wings did well to capitalize on my distraction,” says Crush. “She also opened a path for me to make my run. If I’d had full wing control, I think I could have hit those targets.”

“Mm,” I grunt. “Too bad you had a wing cramp.”

Crush swallows whatever cocky thing she doubtless wants to say. “Yes, Master Sergeant.”

I give them some pointers on what they could have done better, as well as a couple terse compliments about what they did well. “Not a bad run, either of you. Not great, but not bad. Good hustle on you, Angel Wings – you showed the right instinct going for your partner when you did.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant.”

Acknowledging her thanks with a noncommittal grunt, I order the gun and crash teams to reset for the next run. “Silver, Cloudsen. You’re up next. Let’s see if you can do better.”

They do better. And worse. I shake my head as two shame-faced ponies, one coated in paint, stand before me.

“Airpony First Class Silver Streak, do you think I like writing?”

He tilts his head in confusion. “Master Sergeant?”

“I asked a simple question, Airpony. Do you think I like writing?”

“Sarge, I… I don’t know, Sarge.”

“Specialist Sandmane, tell AFC Silver Streak how I feel about writing.”

“Negatively, Master Sergeant,” he supplies.

“Negatively,” I concur. “So why is it that you have forced me to write a letter home for you telling your parents that you flew head-first into a flak round?”

Silver swallows. “I have no excuse, Master Sergeant.”

“Darn right, you don’t. You had a brilliant run going, three solid hits and one partial, and then you got distracted by your wingpony and flew straight for three, whole, seconds while Quake was getting you in his sights. Situational awareness, Airpony. Learn it.”

Even beneath the paint, I can tell he’s blushing. “Yes, Master Sergeant.”

“And you,” I say, rounding on Cloudsen. “You also screwed up. You had a fine run, you adjusted when Cramper hit you, then you got grazed by that stun blast and you jettisoned your brains.” I point to a dummy gun that’s so garishly painted it looks Jackson Potluck threw up on it. “Is there a reason you felt the need to drop all four dum-dums on one gun?”

Cloudsen swallows. “I—”

“You’re maybe an aspiring modern artist?”

“Master Serg—"

“Because you got him, Cloudsen. You friggin’ got him. But that yelp you let out when you got clipped, your erratic flight path, and your severe overkill distracted your wingpony and got him splashed. You plan on choking like that again, newbie?”

“No, Master Sergeant!”

“I should hope not, because the Lieutenant here hates modern art almost as much as I hate writing.”

“It’s true,” says Dash. “Hate it.”

“See, you two idiots managed to take what should have been a great run and make both Dash and I think about things we hate. Now go sit over there and think about what you’ve done.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant!” they bark.

“Reset the course. Fireball, Summer Sky, you’re up next.”

While the crews prep the course, I have a few moments to watch the camp around me. Or, more specifically, one part of the camp. I really should be watching Fireball and Summer Sky before their run, but I’m distracted by seeing a group of ponies heading to Graves’ Registry. A big group, shepherded by a familiar chaplain.

“LT, we didn’t hit any action today, did we?” I ask.

Dash follows the line of my gaze. “No, we didn’t. Those troopers are probably guys from the 85th, back when we hit action at Marker’s Drift a couple days ago. Some of ’em got hit by that new shard shot the blasted Criers cooked up.”

I wince at the mention of shard shot and spit at the mention of Criers.

Not all of Sombra’s troops are brainwashed victims. Some – especially in his air forces – are mercenaries. Griffons mostly. But some of his troops, all too many of his troops, are ‘Acolytes’ as a certain Ranger captain calls them. The elite mages of these are called ‘Clarions,’ officially. Officers like fancy words, even when they’re good officers who save your tail.

I call ’em Cultists and Criers, and most of the troops – even the good captain – do too. Cultists are just the run-of-the-mill nutjobs that start worshiping Sombra, because some folks just like to spit in the face of the Maker I guess. Chaplain Trench says most of them don’t start off as nutjobs, but are ‘gradually seduced through little inroads of vice, becoming first bullies, then idealogues, then hardened killers.’ I don’t especially care. They worship a mind-controlling maniac of their own free will, they’re nutjobs.

The Clarions though, the ‘Criers’… those creeps are just cruel, sadistic, psychopathic sons of sin. They do some creepy… melding thing with Sombra’s magic; act as his signal boosters and evil hype ponies. When they’re not dressed in black robes spouting mystic bull scat to terrified townsfolk, they’re keeping Sombra’s control over his mind-controlled thralls strong no matter how far they get from the evil grand poohbah. And when they’re not doing that they’re R&D, War Crimes edition.

Shard shot’s one of their new nightmares – tiny, magical crystal shards that not only splinter and pierce like regular shrapnel, but also move around of their own accord inside a pony’s flesh. So far, our medics are having a Tartarus of a time digging them out. Even if you get the pieces, the dark magic effects have had time to hurt the victim and, well…

“Ain’t no small burial detail,” I say aloud.

Dash is silent for a moment before grating, “No it ain’t.”

There’s a pause before I spit and say, “Buck the Criers.”

“Buck the Criers,” she echoes.

War ain’t pretty, even when it’s justified. My job is killing bad guys and saving good guys. I accept that. Shrapnel does some pretty nasty things to its victims; so does a blade, a bludgeon, or a blast of magic. But some things oughta be off the table. Leaving something crawling around inside you, after it’s already taken you out of the fight and you’ve been lucky enough to live through the first hit? That’s just a step too far.

“Lieutenant Dash? Sarge?” calls Sandmane. We turn and see the field prepped and ready. “On your order.”

Horse scat! Went and got distracted again. Hard not to with dead brothers and sisters down there, even if I can’t say I knew even one of ’em. Family’s family. Still, gotta attend to the living, even if they are cocky scats.

Turning to Fireball and Summer Sky, I bark, “You heard the stallion. Get set for your run!”

“Yes, sergeant!” they snap back.

As they take off, I note their expressions. Summer seems leery of working with Fireball, but she’s working not to let it show. Fireball though…

There’s a gleam in his eye that I don’t like. Something’s up.

Without any way of knowing what that ‘something’ might be though, the only way to work it out is to watch.

Once they’ve reached the start line up in the clouds, I glance at Glyph. “Ready, Specialist?”

“Ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, crash teams?”

Each team signals readiness to Sandmane, who reports, “Crash teams ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, Lieutenant Earthquake?”

“My guns sing in symphony to the Maker and all that is good upon the earth.”

I hoist a megaphone to my lips. “Commence Exercise on my mark! Three… two… one… mark!”

The two pegasi set off… and immediately things go wrong.

Summer has barely begun to take evasive maneuvers and the guns are just about to fire when Fireball blitzes past her, dives, and goes for a low-altitude high-speed run.

Dash lets out a rather mild, “Well, Tartarus.”

My reaction is considerably louder.

“YOU STUPID B—”

*BOOM* roars the first cannon.

Earthquake’s crews know their stuff. As soon as Fireball splits formation, half the guns move to track him while the other half stay on Summer.

Summer, to her credit, recovers from the shock of her wingpony ditching her remarkably fast and shifts to follow Fireball in. I have no idea if she was planning a low-altitude run, but that’s what she’s doing now. She moves with speed and agility. Unfortunately, Fireball is faster, more agile, and has a head start.

He drops down to the lowest permissible altitude, ducking beneath that cutoff line more than once. The gunners have trouble tracking him, partially because of his skill, and partly because they don’t want to plaster him below the line. He makes his run, makes some impressive quick turns and jukes, and launches his bombs. Three clean hits and a partial.

But I only notice this distantly, because I’m watching Summer Skies. She did her best to follow Fireball in. Made it farther than I might have expected. But she was stuck on the backfoot as the second pony in, far behind the lead, and under the gaze of alerted gunners who missed their first target but are already on-line for the second.

Summer Skies doges five shots.

There are six.

Dum dum round hits her dead on.

I watch the crash teams catch her through red-tinted eyes. They know their stuff. Good troopers, my brain absently notes. But I have much more pressing feedback to give out.

I’m already walking towards where he’ll land before he starts his little unearned aerial victory flourish.

As he touches down, he looks at me with that blasted, cocky expression and says, “See, Sarge, I told you nobody could keep u—”

*Clang!*

I crack him over the helmet with a gauntleted hoof. Not enough to damage anything, but enough to hurt good and proper.

Gah!” he exclaims, staggering back. “What the heck, Sarge, I—”

“Broke every rule in the Celestia-blasted book you scat-eating Blue Falcon!” I finish, jamming one hoof into the top of his uniform tunic and twisting to pull him close. Hard thing to do with hooves, but I’m motivated. “You flew below the cutoff, you took lead away from your partner, violating orders on both counts!” I’m breathing heavily, and force myself to slow it, to calm my voice to a low, grim level. “But your real, crowning, grade-A, first prize, accept-no-substitutes Blue Falcon moment was when you abandoned your wingpony. A wingpony who was, in fact, FLYING LEAD!

Incredibly, Fireball is either too arrogant – or too adrenalized – to back down. “I told you, Sarge, nopony is fast enough to keep up with—”

*Clang!*

He momentarily goes cross-eyed from the hit, and I grab him around the withers and haul him around to see the furious form of Summer Skies approaching, covered head-to-tail in paint. “Look at your wingpony, moron! Look at her!” I shake him hard. “You did that! You got her killed! When you broke formation and took lead, she followed you in, because she’s supposed to have your back, and unlike you, Blue Falcon, she has her squadronmates’ backs! You drew all the guns onto you, but half of ’em couldn’t shoot because you kept cutting below the bloody cutoff! You know who couldn’t cut below the line?I jab a forehoof at Summer. “Private Skies here! Who you led into a shooting gallery because you are too stupid and arrogant to get it through that thick skull of yours that this isn’t about you!”

I release him with a push that sends him sprawling into the dirt, more from shock than the force of the push. I address the groundcrew and snap, “Clean those two off,” gesturing to the two painted ponies as I start pacing.

What will get through to the idiot? How do I make it real to him?

How do I show him that his arrogance hurts the ponies who depend upon him?

How do I keep him from making The Mistake?

My eyes fall on the Graves’ Registry section of the base, and inspiration strikes. Glancing back at the group, I bark, “Do you all know what a Blue Falcon is?” Without waiting for an answer, I turn and start walking back to them, not deigning to look at Fireball. “A Blue Falcon is a Buddy Fowler, a selfish pig, one who hangs his buddies out to dry.” My gaze falls upon Fireball, a bundle of hurt and anger and defiance and – Maker-willing – shame. “Today, you were a Blue Falcon. Tomorrow, you will do better, or I’ll remove you personally.” Raising my eyes to the group, I ask, “Any one of you brave or stupid enough to call this Blue Falcon your friend?”

Not surprisingly, I don’t see many prospects for Fireball there. Summer and Cloudsen both look ready to throw Fireball a blanket party – a euphemistic phrase for an anonymous beating delivered in the dead of night by throwing a blanket over the trooper so he can’t see who’s administering the punches. Orange Crush looks disgusted, but also nervous; she’d been cheering for him when he began his run. Angel Wings frowns; she seems angry, but not as angry as Summer and Cloudsen. And Silver…

Silver raises his hoof. Not without angry glances at Fireball. Not without shame or nervousness. But he raises his hoof and says quietly, “I do, Master Sergeant.”

Fireball almost starts to smile, but the look on Silver’s face dampens that light quick.

“You do, Silver?” I press. “You call this Blue Falcon a ‘friend?’”

Silver swallows. “Yes, Master Sergeant. He… just got carried away, Master Sergeant.”

Privately, I’m proud the kid had the brass to stand by his buddy. But that’s not the point that needs making right now. “Yer darned right he got carried away, Silver. But that won’t be happening again. Fall in, class. We’re going on a field trip. On foot, to keep some of you more grounded in reality.” I look at Earthquake, who has watched the display with his usual equanimity, and say, “Good shooting, Quake.”

He bows his head slightly. “A pleasure as always to serve Her Fiery Majesty with you, Lightning Dust.”

“Show’s over, folks!” I shout to the other ponies present. “Pack it in! The six of you? Quick march!”

It’s a quiet march down to the Graves’ Registry. Especially as I try to gauge Rainbow’s mood without looking directly at her.

Throughout my whole dressing down of Fireball, I had avoided even thinking about Dash. I put my boss out of my mind. I can’t be distracted with whether or not the lieutenant will disapprove of the master sergeant’s methods. Sometimes I need her to rein me in, though usually she keeps her comments until later when other ponies are out of earshot, and she can correct me without doing it in front of my subordinates. Right now, I can’t think about that.

As she marches along quietly beside me, not so much as glancing in my direction, eyes straight ahead and face unreadable, I can’t help but wonder if some corrections are in my future.

Ah, well, the course is set. Might as well hang for sheep as for chickens.

I order the newbies to hang back a moment while Rainbow and I head up to the main tent of the Graves’ Registry. When we reach the tent entrance, we’re met by a familiar stallion. Army Chaplain Reverend Trench is thinner than when I first met him, not that he was ever heavy. Rations have been relatively steady these last few months, but he’s lost weight anyway. He used to fast from some of his meals and offer it as a prayer for the troops, but Celestia forbade him doing it, lest his health suffer. I know him too well to think he’d disobey her, but, still, he’s thinner. Stress, fatigue, and long, sleepless nights holding the hooves of dying ponies and giving them their Final Consolations would be enough to make anypony loose weight, I think. Just as well Celestia won’t let him fast; I’d hate to see what he’d look like if he did.

The thin, peach-colored stallion is wearing dirtied combat fatigues and that red scarf-looking-thing that chaplains wear that I can’t ever remember the name of. He adjusts his glasses and greets us, saying, “Lightnin’ Dust, Rainbow Dash. Ye two are lookin’ weal.” His Connemaras brogue is fortunately not as indecipherable as such things can often be, and I have little trouble understanding him as he lilts, “An’ these are yer new recruits, I wager?”

“Guilty as charged, Rev,” says Rainbow Dash. Glancing at me, her gaze suddenly hooded, she says, “The sarge here has something she wants them to see.”

There’s a lot bound up in that tone – a tone that says I’ll definitely be getting some correction later – but that’s future Lighting’s problem. “Chaplain Trench,” I say quietly, not wanting the recruits to hear, “I… need the new blood to know their actions have consequences. I need… I need to show them the fallen. Today’s fallen.”

It’s a long, painful quiet while Trench stares at me. Eventually, he takes off his glasses, folds, them, and meticulously puts them in his pocket. “Lightnin’,” he says softly, “I can respect yer need ta teach these wee bairns tha true face o’ war…” he looks me steadily in the eye, “but I cannae jus’ let ya use these soldiers like that. They’re fallen comrades, nae a set piece fer a lecture.”

“Please, Rev. We’ll be respectful, I… just I don’t think they’ll get the message any other way. You knew these ponies,” I add, gesturing into the tent. “Isn’t there… isn’t there one of them who you think might have been willing…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

Fortunately, it seems I didn’t need to. Trench spends a long time studying the newbies waiting behind me, then sighs, scratches his head, and says, “A’right. Bring the bairns wit ye an’ follow me.”

Signaling the newbies to follow, we proceed into the tent after Trench. He leads us through row upon row of shroud-covered bodies.

Sometimes, you can guess what sort of pony lies beneath the shroud.

Sometimes, there isn’t even enough lying beneath the shroud to guess. Artillery’s a beast like that.

Eventually we reach the bodies that came in today. Trench goes around to the head of the body, where a scraggly brown mane is just poking out from under the sheet. He lays a fatherly hoof on the head and looks down with sadness, his eyes at a disfocus as he sees some point in time far away. “Private Tuft,” the chaplain introduces him. “He made mattresses before the war. Wanted to take over his da’s shop one day. Was sweet on a girl back ’ome. Played tha flute as a hobby, though ’e always said ’e was rubbish at it.” There’s a fondness in the stallion’s eyes, and he suddenly looks much older than his forty winters. What gleam of happy remembrance is there fades as he concludes, “Hit by shard shot artillery couple days ago. Survived the shrapnel what kilt three of ’is fellow troopers. Fought tha shards fer forty-two agonizin’ hours. Died this morning. ’E was barely nineteen.”

At that, he pulls back the sheet.

The docs must’ve needed to remove the bandages in a last, failed attempt to get at the shrapnel, and there was no point on putting them back on afterwards, so we can see the fallen warrior clearly.

Half of Private Tuft’s face is immaculate. Green-coated, healthy, with yet a bit of peach fuzz that might one day have become decent facial hair.

The other half of his face is a mess of flayed flesh and blood, traveling down his neck and chest.

“Oh Celestia!” half sobs a female voice behind me. I’m not sure if it was Orange or Summer or Angel Wings, and at that moment I don’t care. All I can think about is Private Tuft.

Forty-two hours. Kid was a fighter.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” manages another voice. This time I identify it as Summer Skies.

“Trash can, two rows down on your left,” I say. She speedwalks over to it and begins retching into it immediately. I’m pleased to note that, without prompting, Angel Wings follows her over and holds her mane out of her way while she pukes. Angel Wings is paler than usual, but she’s holding it together, if for no other reason than to take care of Skies.

The others have mixed reactions. Some are pale. Some look like they could be sick. Some are choking back tears. None can tear their gaze away.

But it's Fireball I watch the most. I watch the pieces finally start to fall together in his mind. Finally start to hit home.

I wait until Angel Wings and a rather shaky Summer Skies rejoin the group before I make my final point.

“There are a lot of things that can take you out of this game. Enemy action. Rogue storms. Freak accidents. Things you may have little or no control over can cripple or kill you.” I gesture to Tuft. “Private Tuft here was lucky in some ways. He was in the 85th. Sharp unit. Good soldiers. His buddies had his back, and he had theirs. If something was going to bring them down, it was going to be something they couldn’t control. He died with his face to the enemy, courageous in the face of enemy fire, and killed by the ponies we’re here to stop. Whoever writes his letter home will be able to say it was nopony’s fault but the enemy’s, and that he fought them with everything he had until the very end.”

I step closer and look each of them in the eye in turn, ending on Fireball. “But there’s no worse letter to write home than when it wasn’t enemy action that landed them on a stretcher, a gurney, or a slab, but the failure of a so-called ‘friend.’ None of us, no matter how good we are, can be lone wolves. Not me, not Lieutenant Dash, heck, not even Celestia works alone.” I point to each of them individually. “You all look out for each other; you for them, them for you. That’s how you come back alive. The weakest member of the team is not the one who’s physically weakest, or slowest, or least skilled. The weakest member of the team is the one who can’t be trusted to have everyone else’s backs. Because if you are that untrustworthy member,” I gaze at Fireball, then gesture to Silver Streak, “It will be your buddy on the slab.”

There’s a deep quiet as I let that sink in. “Do you all understand?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” chorus five voices as their users come to attention, eyes ahead.

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” murmurs Fireball, his voice barely a whisper as he stares at the dead soldier.

I tilt my head slightly and say, “I hear you say, ‘Yes, Master Sergeant,’ but we’ve already seen that the lesson doesn’t always take on the first run. So to make sure it sticks,” I glance at Trench, “You seem short-staffed here, Trench. Need extra hooves on burial detail?”

Blinking in surprise, Trench manages, “I, er, yes mum.”

“Then it’s settled. You six are assigned to burial detail for the remainder of the day.” Eyes widen with horror, which I take as a good sign. Better chance of remembering the lesson. “I trust you’ll be respectful.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” they shakily chorus.

“Good.” Turning to Tuft, I throw him a salute and say, “Thank you, Trooper. You rest easy. We’ll take it from here.” I nod gratefully to Trench, and he gently covers Tuft back up.

After covering up poor Tuft, Trench gathers the newbies, asks them to follow – even though he’s technically an officer, the Rev seldom issues orders – and leads them outside to begin the burial detail. I follow close enough to monitor reactions, but not enough to be in the way. From the doorway of the tent, I watch the chaplain instructing them in the proper manner of laying the fallen to rest.

The lesson should sink in. If the lesson sinks in, he won’t let his buddies down. If the lesson sinks in, he won’t be second-guessing himself for the rest of his life.

If the lesson sinks in, he won’t see his friend down there and know it was his fault.

Dash steps up beside me. She doesn’t say anything. Heck, she doesn’t even look at me. But I can hear her loud and clear.

“That needed to happen,” I snap.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies.

“Seven days’ drilling won’t make a darn bit o’ difference if they can’t learn to put the unit first.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“If I didn’t step on him like that the others might have thought it was okay!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

If he can’t shape up he’s gonna get somepony killed!”

Dash finally looks at me. “Lightning,” she says calmly, “I didn’t say anything.”

My chest heaves as though I’ve just flown a hundred laps. Horsefeathers, when did I start breathing so heavily?

Once I’ve brought my breath back under control I say, “You give me a lot of leash, LT.”

Dash flexes her organic wing. “Well, these days you usually make the right call.”

These days. Yeah. “You think I went at him too hard?” I ask.

“I didn’t say—"

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t say anything.” There’s a silence between us for a moment. “At least I didn’t kick his tail up between his ears,” I say finally.

Dash shoots me a glance that says ‘that really shouldn’t count as a victory’ but doesn’t say so out loud. Instead she says, “You’ve still got a lot of paperwork on your desk right now, don’t you? Why don’t you go take care of that while we wait for them to finish?”

She doesn’t phrase it like an order. She doesn’t say “and cool off while you’re at it.” But neither of us are under any illusions what she actually means.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” I say. I turn to leave, thinking that’s the end of it, but her voice stops me.

“Lightning Dust.” Her tone is deceptively quiet. I look back and see…

Ah, darn it all, that’s sympathy in her eyes!

“Yeah, boss?”

“This isn’t your first time dealing with ego, recklessness, and stupidity,” she says. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you lose your cool like that.”

“What’s your point, LT?”

“Who are you really angry at, Lightning Dust?” she asks. “Just something to think about.” While I’m still processing that, she adds, “Dismissed, Master Sergeant.”

Author's Note:

Intelligence Summary: Unit Profile, the Crystal War Wonderbolts

Section: Squadrons of the Equestrian Aircorps' Wonderbolt Interceptor Wing.

Wonderbolt Wing, callsign 'Whiskey Whiskey' or 'Doubleshot'

Wonderbolt Able Squadron (Whiskey Able) – Vanguard

The oldest and most decorated of the Wonderbolt Squadrons, Whiskey Able was the only squadron composed entirely of active-duty Wonderbolts when the war broke out. After the Battle of Seaddle in the opening days of the war, the squadron roster was reshuffled to place active-duty Bolts throughout the other squadrons to give Baker, Charlie, and Dog more veteran fliers. Their slots were filled by the most promising fliers from amongst the Academy-trained Reservists, including then-AFCs Midnight Strike and Star Hunter. Throughout the war, Whiskey Able has continued to receive the first pick of replacements. This decision is based on tactics rather than favoritism; First Squadron is the vanguard of the Bolts in virtually every engagement and receives the broadest mission profile, making them the elite within the elite. While they are not without critics, no one can honestly deny their combat effectiveness. Whiskey Able is the most decorated squadron in the entire Equestrian Air Corps, with more successful sorties and kills than any other air unit of its size in Equestrian military history.

However, their success has come at a heavy cost. Having fought on the frontline in every major engagement of the Equestrian First Army, they have been called upon time and time again to perform the impossible. They’ve managed, but many Bolts have given their lives for victory. Of the original twenty-four members of First Squadron, only nine are still alive, only eight remain un-crippled, and only four remain in First Squadron.

Captain Spitfire has managed to hold the unit together through some of the worst aerial combat the war has seen, leading them to victory after victory over the Imperial Royal Air Force. She and her fliers consistently outperform all others, and she has come to be heralded as one of Equestria’s greatest heroes.

Publicly, she is the very symbol of professionalism and determination in the face of overwhelming odds. Privately, the strain of losing so many friends and comrades weighs heavily upon her, and the fact that she’s been forced to order young replacements into combat before they’re ready has come to torment her. Rumor has it that she can’t sleep at night without a double shot of whiskey to put her out, but it is unknown if this is true. Certainly she has no tolerance for drunkenness amongst her fliers, and she’s never been seen imbibing past her limit, so most ponies are content not to press the matter.

Her executive officer, Commander Soarin, has a reputation as an approachable stallion whom the rank-and-file feel comfortable seeking out for guidance, arbitration, and, when needed, comfort. The unflappable Wing Sergeant Solar ‘Icemane’ Flare helps maintain order in the high-stress environment of the squadron.