Chapter 17
“I could very well ask you the same thing,” I said, pushing myself away from Square Basher’s strong grip and smoothing down the front of my messy, stained undershirt with my hooves on instinct. She let me go and stood there rather sheepishly, with her head bowed and her ears flat against her head in admonishment, though the relief in her voice was certainly palpable. Her re-capture by the enemy after a failed attempt to break me out of Camp Joy for a second time, assuming that Cannon Fodder’s version of events was correct, and presumed subsequent cocooning had not left her much worse for wear, unlike me; she was still built, as the common soldiery who affectionately nicknamed her ‘Marezilla’ would say, like a brick shithouse, and I assumed that being thrust back into the physically demanding job of unloading heavy boxes had allowed her to maintain her bulky physique. It did, however, raise one other alternative: “How do I know it’s really you?”
Square Basher blinked vacantly at me, and looked left and right to see if anypony other than Cannon Fodder, who stood guard and kept an eye for us, was listening in on our conversation; it was a fair question, given the nature of the enemy we had been fighting for the past two years of war, and that she looked much the same as she did before did send that particular alarm bell a-ringing loudly in my head. Lacking the use of my horn, I couldn’t very well cast that trusty little spell that I’d become so dependent upon, despite having thoroughly failed magic school, and so I’d have to rely on her telling me something that the real Square Basher would know, but the Changelings didn’t, and the only thing that I could think of was…
“In Camp Joy, sir,” she began, her eyes dipping down to the floor between our hooves, “you were alone in the basement, sir, and, well, we…” She trailed off, and her cheeks flushed red with uncharacteristic embarrassment.
I was not exactly enjoying this either, but there was only one way to be certain. “Go on, Sergeant Major.”
“We had a roll in the hay, sir,” she said meekly.
“Well, that’s a start,” I said. “Can you remember any specific details?”
The crimson flush to her cheeks grew more intense and she chewed on her lower lip. She made a sideways glance towards Cannon Fodder, who could not have demonstrated any less interest in the direction of this awkward conversation, then leaned in close to whisper in my ear, and as she did so it became readily apparent to me that she had not bathed in a considerable amount of time. “You rubbed my flanks and described them as ‘magnificent globes, cut from the finest marble by a sculptor whose skill was overtaken by his vigour’.”
It was my turn to blush. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?”
Look, I had been in solitary confinement for several days by that point, so my pillow talk was hardly at its very best, especially when the only pillows available at the time were made of stone. Given my partner for the night’s particular physique, I was also stepping quite far out of what I was used to when it came to nocturnal liaisons, so I could only work with what was presented before me. However, that at least confirmed that she really was Square Basher, or the same creature who I had slept with in that filthy basement, and that I admitted to saying something as thoroughly embarrassing as that ought to have confirmed my identity in her eyes. Still, I felt an immense amount of relief wash over me as a healing balm on a wound; something was going right, for once.
“Your turn, sir,” she said.
It was indeed my turn, and I stole a glance at Cannon Fodder, who remained thoroughly unperturbed by the racy turn this conversation had taken. I almost begged for a drone to come along and spare me the further embarrassment, but they were apparently distracted by something else. “You then flipped me over and returned the favour by striking me on the rear several times until I asked you politely to stop.”
“Sorry about that, sir, I got a little carried away.”
“I think we both did,” I said. “It’s good to see you again, Sergeant Major.”
“We tried to get to you,” said Square Basher, her voice hushed, barely audible above the noise of the ponies working all around us, and tinged with the shame of failure, “but there were too many of them and only so many of us. We were rounded up, put into those tube-things, and brought here to work on their airships.” She glanced around quickly again, and then, apparently satisfied again that no Changelings were listening and that we were unseen, leaned in closer still. “What’s going on, sir?”
In the darkness behind those heavy crates I explained in as much detail as I could cram into a few short sentences Dorylus’ audacious plan, and Square Basher listened intently. When I finished, she had been stunned into a shocked silence, as she seemed to be struggling to grapple with the immensity of what she had been unceremoniously dragged into.
“Well, sir,” she said, at length, “I can say if they land in Trottingham, the East End will be sure to give them a warm welcome. The bugs’ll never get as far as Celestia’s Head.” [There are several pubs in East Trottingham with that name, which I am still yet to decide is flattering or not, but Square Basher is probably referring to the one closest to the Tower of Trottingham.]
“I’m sure.” I wasn’t, really; while the roving gangs of ruffians and thugs there armed with lead pipes and incomprehensible accents might threaten slumming nobles and Neighponese tourists who have wandered off the safe paths, they would find the vast swarms of fanatical drones armed with muskets rather trickier to deal with.
The sound of work and of Changeling voices grew closer. Cannon Fodder waved his hoof in alarm, and we immediately affected to look as those the three of us had been struggling with a particularly heavy box, and fortunately there were many to choose from around here, as drones and slaves trudged past us too busy in search of further boxes to carry to notice us. This was fortunate, as I suspected the three of us would not have been nominated for any acting awards based on our performance, as the box we had selected was unusually light and whatever it was that had been packed in there shifted about as we pantomimed straining under its weight. The eyes and ears of the Changeling overseers were everywhere now, even though they were quite inattentive due to their apparent belief that pony slaves were somehow incapable of organising sabotage, still meant that the conversation I’d wanted to have with Square Basher was exceedingly difficult.
It was not impossible, mind you. We stuck together, and carried on working as a ‘team’ shifting the assorted boxes and sacks from the cargo airship, catching very short and brief snippets of conversation each time we delved into hold. The constant and unending sound of work all around us, of idle chatter and of some sort of arcane machinery buzzing away elsewhere, provided us with some decent cover. Cannon Fodder acted as our lookout, and alerted us to approaching overseers by way of careful nudging.
“How many?” I whispered, as we pretended to be digging a particularly large box out. The other slaves and ‘volunteers’ milling about behind us, many, I noted, standing around aimlessly without direction, gave us sufficient cover from the severely outnumbered but armed drones.
“Four,” Square Basher hissed back, “plus me. The others took their chances with the partisans and ran to the hills.”
Not exactly a good basis with which to start an uprising, I thought. Still, I hoped that the others were well and making merry mischief with the Changelings in the Badlands, though I couldn’t help but be feel a little put out that only five of the ponies I’d met over the course of our imprisonment came back for me. Though it might have been the sensible option, now that I was thinking about it.
“What about the Badlands slaves?”
“Hundreds, sir,” she said with a sad shrug. “Not enough.”
That much was apparent, and I could see that she was starting to feel as hopeless about this situation as I was. Later, as the crowd had cleared and we had to relocate, we carried on our truncated conversation, during which I attempted something different, just in case my hushed whisper was not as secret as I’d hoped.
“I’ve pearly queen’d the quinine,” I said.
Square Basher gave me a long, vacant look that was halfway between being insulted or amused by my ridiculous attempt at Trottish Rhyming Slang, and could potentially tip either way. “You mean you got the beer in, sir?”
I nodded. That was probably what I meant, but I had to take her word for it. “They’re going to, uh…” Damnation, this was harder than the inhabitants of those smog-filled slums made it look. ‘Blow the place to Cloudsdale and back’ didn’t have a particularly easy rhyme, so I did my best to mime something exploding by bringing my forehooves together (I was sitting down for this, I should add) and then swinging them out again with exuberance, blowing air out of my pursed lips for an accompanying sound effect. Square Basher grinned so wide that I feared her face might crack in two, or that she had been Pinkie Pie this whole time and her most convincing disguise had finally slipped.
“Thank Luna, sir,” she said, which I bristled at - my Aunt had almost nothing to do with this, it was mostly me blundering into the right ponies and kirins, as usual. “The ships are all gassed up, but there’s storage in this building at the back, heavily guarded. Fuel too. Locked up tighter than a Breezie’s fanny, but I’ll send the word around, don’t you worry, sir. When the time comes, we’ll be ready.”
Of that, I had no doubt; like any good non-commissioned officer worth their salt, she would do the hard work of getting the great unwashed mass that made up the common soldiery of Equestria to do what the commissioned officer wanted by way of a combination of encouragement, coercion, very colourful language, and, if the situation called for it, which it almost always did with Square Basher, threats of and actual use of violence. Knowing her, after she’s had sufficient time to whip the slaves into a fully-fledged uprising, hopefully with any weapons that Cannon Fodder and I might be able to smuggle inside the docks, we might not need the assistance of nautical and/or aeronautical cutthroats and reavers after all. Still, far be it from me to leave something as valuable as my continued existence and my right to waste it in whatever decadent, trivial manner I see fit to mere chance, and so I would still have to try to enlist their help, somehow.
We were allowed a lunch break, of sorts, albeit one only just short enough for us to wolf down a bowl of something purporting to be congee, which at the time I thought was the sort of gruel my mother used to tell me I would be forced to eat at an orphanage should I prove to be enough of a disappointment to her that I would be disowned and expelled from the royal lineage. This was served out of large, steaming cauldrons that had been wheeled up to the loading dock, and dispensed by a bored-looking drone in a stained apron and armed with a ladle, which he used to pour servings of inconsistent size into enamel bowls for us. Thus, we ate in the shadow of the cargo ship, which in turn was shadowed by the monstrous warships that filled the rest of this enormous hangar. We ‘volunteers’, though we had been free to mix with the Badlands slaves as we worked, were kept apart from them during lunch. Though the Marelay ponies here complained to each other and to their guards about the quality of the food they were fed, and the guards simply ignored those complaints or threatened to take their lunch away and force them to work hungry, I observed the enslaved ponies from the Badlands, who sat a short distance away with Square Basher and the other Equestrian prisoners towering over them, almost gorge themselves sick upon this empty, flavourless meal.
Some of our guards, too, took this as an opportunity to have an impromptu break from their onerous duties of standing around and watching us do all the hard work. A group of four stood about not far from us, one leaning against a guard rail that was bowing slightly under his weight, chatting aimlessly about this and that. The tedious conversation, disconcertingly familiar in its all-too-equine banality, started to drift to a topic quite universal to all species.
“Hives, I’m starving,” said one. “How come the slaves get to eat and we just have to watch them? What’s the point in having them here if we can't all have a bit of their love?”
“They’re workers,” said another bluntly. “Not for feeding on.”
“They need their energy to work,” opined a third.
“Can’t we just have a little bit?” suggested the first. “I can feel the love radiating off them.”
“We all can, you twerp,” said the second. “You’re making me hungry now. Shut up about it and just ignore it like a good drone.”
“You’ll get us all into trouble,” said the third. From that, they went on talking about some sort of show that was taking place that evening, which left me wondering just what Changelings actually did for fun when they weren’t trying to take over Equestria. From what I gathered from their conversation, it seemed to involve teasing slaves for personal amusement.
[The Changelings had a complex classification system for their pony slaves, ranging from merely foodstock, to manual workers, agricultural labourers, and clerks, who were low-level members of the Hives’ bureaucracy and administered portions of the slave population on their behalf, each with various grades between them. In practice, the distinction between them was often ignored in areas of the occupied lands, and became increasingly disregarded as the war situation worsened for them and the bureaucracy broke down.]
However, it was during this all-too-brief lunch break that I had my second run-in with Dorylus. I was forcing myself to eat this tasteless rice-based gruel, while resisting the urge to be facetious and inquire about the wine list from one of the armed ‘waiters’, when I noticed a sudden and startling change come over each of the Changelings around us. It was though a switch had been flicked in their brains, all simultaneously, and they immediately stood straight and tall; those that had been casually leaning against walls and precarious rails over precipitous drops, taking advantage of the break as much as I was, snapped to attention, and their own inane chatter and gossip was immediately silenced. Then I heard her voice rising from the quiet, like a shark’s fin breaching the still waters.
“...unacceptable, Dorylus,” said Queen Chrysalis. She stepped into view, her heavy hoofsteps ringing loudly on the metal gangway, like the tolling of a funeral bell, almost reverberating up my spine. There she was, standing not much more than half the length of a tennis court away from me, with a rather put-upon Dorylus who, had he a woollen cap, would have been wringing it with his hooves. She was surrounded by a section of ten drones, each wearing sturdy armour, lacquered purple, with elaborate spikes all over, and were armed with spears with just as extravagant and impractical blades. Most notable, however, were their decorative helmet horns, which certainly gave one the impression that they were compensating for something and made Celestia’s appendage look modest and stunted by comparison. I suppose that’s why they earned their rather unfortunate nickname when our forces finally encountered these absurd harlequins on the battlefield.
[The Queen’s Guard was one of several units dedicated to the personal protection of Queen Chrysalis, though their impractical armour implied that they were more for show and intimidation. However, they had a reputation in the Hives as her elite personal bodyguard for their fanatical devotion to the Queen and their brutality to her enemies. As Blueblood intimated here, when the Hives continued to run out of soldiers they were pressed into battle, where their distinctive armour earned them the nickname ‘Dickheads’ by amused Equestrian soldiers. They did not live up to their fearsome reputation.]
Chrysalis swept her hoof in my direction, seemingly singling me out. I stifled a yelp of surprise, as I felt raw fear wash over me like an all-consuming tidal wave upon a tropical shore, but soon realised she was only indicating the group of volunteer workers in general. Still, I dipped my head down in the hope that she would not recognise me. “Why are they sitting around eating?”
“Ma’am, the livestock need to eat in order to work,” said Dorylus. His voice was hushed, as though he was trying his best not to be overheard by said livestock consuming congee as devoid of taste as Rarity’s brief foray into country and western wear.
I dared to look up, and saw Chrysalis regard a sheepish Dorylus as I would a servant who has mislaid my evening shirts. Her eyebrow arched and she sneered down at him. “Do they?” she asked with faint amusement. “Are there not tens of thousands of able-bodied ponies in this city, each able to step in should any of these wretches starve to death?”
Dorylus stammered uselessly, and were it not for the ominous presence of Queen Chrysalis herself, I would have found the display deeply amusing. He bowed his head in pathetic supplication, almost bruising his chin on the filthy metal floor, and spoke to her hooves. “My Queen, Marelacca has yet to be fully integrated into the Hives system! We must tread carefully here, or risk a general uprising!”
Chrysalis’ laughter sounded like a cat choking to death, loudly. It rang out throughout this vast, vast hangar, echoing off the far distant walls all around, so it sounded as though it emanated from all around us. “A good joke, my dear Dorylus,” she said, grinning horribly with many sharp fangs visible. She cupped her hoof around her underling’s chin and guided him back to standing. However, the grin evaporated in the time that it took for me to blink. “But these delays,” she continued, “must cease. I have been patient, very patient, but we can afford these no longer.”
“My Queen, our patrols are recruiting as many ponies as we dare to without risking a revolt.”
Her head shook, which made her gossamer mane swish and float in the air like cobwebs. “All my Purestrains bring me are problems and excuses. I want solutions, radical solutions, that will bring me the final victory over Equestria.”
That she said ‘me’, as opposed to ‘us’ or even ‘the Hives’ was not lost on me; it was generally accepted that a bad ruler was one who saw the realm they were supposed to rule over as merely an extension of themselves, rather than a polity to guide gently. Now, I’m far from an expert at this sort of thing, after all, I have a butler to perform the onerous tasks of managing the small army of servants and maids I employ to maintain my many estates, but I could not help but notice that it didn’t seem to occur to them to put the drones sitting idle outside to productive use. I kept that thought to myself, I’m sure you’ll understand.
I saw Dorylus swallow hard. “We could…” he began at length, and received a few encouraging nods from his queen. “I mean, we could increase the quota of ponies picked up off the streets. They’ll complain, though.”
“I don’t need to know the details,” snapped Chrysalis with a dismissive wave of her hoof, like swatting a fly. “Just do it. Let them complain, they won’t dare to once my Blackhorns enact my order in their precious little city.”
“Forgive me, my Queen,” said Dorylus, his voice barely above a whisper and almost drowned out by the sounds of machines and work, but just audible enough for me to make out, “but the livestock can hear you.”
“So? Do you think I care about what ponies think?” Chrysalis shot Dorylus the fiercest death glare I had ever seen, and I’d met Princess Luna; were I the recipient of it, I think I would have been forgiven for voiding my bowels under its withering stare. She held it for a few seconds, while Dorylus looked around at anything but the smouldering, bright emeralds of his Queen’s eyes, and then let loose an exasperated sigh that sounded as though one of the airships nearby had just sprung a leak. “My dear Dorylus, you know what I truly care about; my drones, who starve without the love so jealously hoarded by the Equestrians. The news from the front is dire. Hive Marshal Chela is barely holding back the enemy, but you know she’s lost her touch. You are the only one of my Purestrains I can rely on. Do you understand, Dorylus?”
[It may be of interest to some readers if I briefly summarised the situation at the front line during Blueblood’s capture and subsequent escape, as he continues to keep his narrative to events that only affected him directly. The 1st Army under General Market Garden had fought two major battles during this time, the Battle of the Grey Wastes and the Battle of Coronet Hill, and several small skirmishes. Under orders from Field Marshal Hardscrabble, Market Garden had attempted to circumvent Chela’s war-swarms and cut the supply routes between the Queen’s Hive and the northern hive cities, but was surprised by a sudden attack in the open ground that resulted in heavy casualties on both sides. Market Garden did not withdraw, but manoeuvred to the south-east and attacked Chela’s defensive line in the Bleak Hills. The battles were inconclusive and no breakthrough was accomplished, but Chela could not afford the losses and would eventually retreat. This sort of back-and-forth attritional warfare would characterise this part of the Heartlands Campaign. There is considerable scholarly debate over whether the forces assigned to Operation: Sunburn could have turned the tide, forced a stalemate, or would only have delayed the inevitable.]
“Yes, my Queen,” he said meekly. “Perfectly. It shall be done.”
Not if I had anything to do with it, I thought wryly to myself. I considered, if I was lucky, I might be able to assassinate Queen Chrysalis while I was here, if I hurled this enamel bowl at her head with sufficient force to smash her skull, thus ending the war entirely at a single stroke. Then I would be lauded as the greatest hero Equestria had ever seen since Princess Twilight Sparkle did… whatever latest thing she had done to save the world, and be able to retire happily and never have to fight ever again. I would never be able to pull it off myself, given my rather lacklustre performance during the only time I had to face off against the all-powerful Queen of the Changelings, and I ought to focus on letting the kirin resistance and the pirates flatten the docks and these airships while making my daring escape, it did provide an amusing fantasy for me to indulge in as I carried on eating the last bits of my congee.
“What about Prince Blueblood?” asked Chrysalis, and I felt the icy grip of terror around my bowels again. I dared to glance up, trying to use my bowl of congealing rice porridge to conceal at least the lower portion of my face, which I liked to imagine was the most identifiable part of my visage, but that she wasn’t directly staring at me gave me hope that I still remained undetected.
“We are…” Dorylus trailed off again, clearly trying to figure out how to rephrase yet another failure that wouldn’t result in being shouted at again, or worse. “We are pursuing leads as to his whereabouts. He may already be on his way back to Equestria by now.”
“Then that wouldn’t be an issue, would it?” Chrysalis grinned again, and Dorylus seemed to shudder in response. “Because Operation: Sunburn will start before he returns to his stupid, weak Aunties, won’t it, Dorylus?”
He swallowed hard, and nodded his head with furious disregard for the health of his own neck. “Yes, my Queen.”
“Good! Now, I want to see my flagship again, Dorylus, with the cannons that will turn that trumped-up cad’s palace into a smouldering ruin.”
“My Queen, it’s still being assembled.”
“I know, but perhaps if they see me watching, the slaves may be motivated to work harder for their Queen.”
I doubted that very much; if anything, I find it tends to have the opposite effect if my servants knew that the master of the house was peering over their shoulders and offering directions on the dusting and the ironing. Speaking of my house, even I, a stallion known to challenge just about anypony to a duel over the most minor of insults, thought that it was a bit much to flatten it out of a fit of pique. After all, compared to, say, Shining Armour, Cadance, Twilight Sparkle, and even Cannon Fodder here, I’d done very little of actual worth in thwarting her devilish plots.
[My nephew is once again underselling his contribution to the Equestrian war effort here—directly and indirectly. From the beginning he proved to be a continual thorn in the enemy’s side, stymying their plots at nearly every turn. The myth of the Black Prince had become an exemplar of what all commissars should aspire to and was heavily exploited by the Ministry of Information. While reality could never match the increasingly absurd heights that propaganda had put forth, and Blueblood himself understands this, his efforts as described in these frank memoirs should not go unrecognised. It has since become clear that, aside from Chrysalis' obvious personal hatred for him, the enemy saw him—correctly—as a symbol of hope and pride for Equestria, and resolved to extinguish that hope to cow us into compliance.]
The two trotted off, their guards scurrying along behind them in a sort of awkward gait that implied that their extravagant uniforms were terribly uncomfortable to wear, and it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into a great fit of nervous laughter. It was rather hilarious in hindsight, I must admit, to be sitting there close enough for me to spit at Queen Chrysalis’ head if I felt the need to descend so low, covered in dust, wearing a kirin’s stained old undershirt, and with my flanks crudely painted over, and for them to simply not notice me. I could only imagine they did not see through my lace-thin disguise because these docks were the very last place that they expected to see Hive Enemy Number One. However, there and then, the outburst I fought so hard to repress, bordering on bringing tears to my eyes, was merely the attempted release of all the tension and anxiety and fear I’d felt. I held my breath until Chrysalis and Dorylus disappeared from view, stepping down one of the very many flights of stairs, and then breathed an immense sigh of relief that merited a queer look from the nearest drone, who presumably chalked it up to a strange pony thing and left it at that.
With that over, our bowls were taken from us, regardless of whether or not we had finished our meals and with Cannon Fodder demanding a second course. It was back to work then, and the thought of having to do more of it when I’d already done a few hours that day felt downright criminal. I suppose it was, actually, but the enemy didn’t particularly care for the niceties of fair treatment of civilians, princes or otherwise. Still, at least I was allowed the opportunity to spend more time with Square Basher, catching small snippets of conversation in between moving boxes from ship to loading area.
“How are they treating you?” I asked. The overseers were distracted by some incident or other, which I took to be either a local of Marelacca or perhaps even a Badlands slave protesting this unfair treatment, and judging by the noises I could hear, these reasonable complaints were being answered with beatings.
Square Basher shrugged her broad shoulders. “Not great, sir, thank you for asking,” she whispered back. “Don’t you worry, sir. Like I said, we’ll be ready. I’ll keep them fit for you, even the Badlands slaves. They’ll be wanting a pop at the bugs.”
I nodded. “I’ll see if the ‘beer-in’ can get some weapons for you.”
“They’re getting lazy,” she said, commenting on how the drones were standing about chatting instead of watching us. She shot them a sideways glance over her shoulder. “They think they’ve already won, sir. We’ll show ‘em.”
“Becoming complacent, I see,” I said with a shrug, while attempting to extricate a particularly buried sack from a small mountain of boxes. I was getting rather tired by this point, despite not putting in too much more than the most minimal amount of effort I thought I could get away with. Muscles that I generally don’t have to use very often had been exerted for several hours without adequate rest, and registered their complaint with considerable pain. “When do we stop for tea?”
Square Basher shook her head. “Changelings haven’t heard of tea.”
“Heathens.”
“Yes sir,” she agreed heartily, with a sage nod. “We’ll be ready for your signal.” Square Basher paused, frowned slightly, and said, “What is the signal, sir?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Indeed, I was making it all up as I went along, more or less, and saw no reason to stop. “When something big catches fire, I suppose.”
***
The rest of our ‘shift’ passed without much in the way of incident. I don’t know how much longer it had taken, but it was starting to get dark by that point and I was about ready to give up, curl up on the floor, and accept whatever beatings and abuse the overseers would see fit to inflict on me if it meant I wouldn’t have to work. The ordeal finally ended, and I could only make a guess based on what I’d seen of the expansive but poorly-maintained bureaucracy of the Changelings, when some other put-upon middle manager of sorts, also in a uniform starched so stiffly that it must stand up on its own without anypony in it, strutted onto the scene with the air of a drone eager to prove his meagre authority, and declared loudly that we, the Marelaccan ponies, had worked ‘overtime’ by seventy-four minutes and must be released back into the wild immediately.
This, however, brought him into conflict with our overseers, who insisted that the job had yet to be completed (and despite having at least four dozen ponies that I could see working on unloading this airship, it still had yet to be fully emptied of its cargo. Again, I was starting to see that slave labour was not all that it was cracked up to be). Nevertheless, the new drone had a piece of paper with him that proved it, somehow, and the overseers acquiesced to the authority of the piece of paper and grudgingly let us go. And when I say ‘released back into the wild’ that is not too much of an exaggeration of what happened; we were all as a group escorted back along the gangways, down to the ground floor where I was finally relieved of that inhibitor ring (I would not have put it past the Changelings to conveniently ‘forget’ to take it off), and were then taken back to the front gates from which we first entered the docks and told to go home. The gates were slammed shut behind us and we were all left to our own devices. I suppose showing us the way ‘home’ was a bit too much to ask of an oppressive occupying regime, but I was at least relieved to be free of that wretched place. A feeling that was marred somewhat by remembering that Square Basher was still in there.
The locals seemed to know where they were going and immediately wandered off, complaining to one another about the unjust treatment they had just suffered and the wasted day, from what little that I could understand. I, however, had to rely upon my special talent to show me the way ‘home’, as it were. The city was rather well-ordered, though the streets did not follow quite the same level of unnatural neatness as Manhattan's ridiculous grid system, so the old special talent didn’t have to work as hard as, say, when I would have to go crawling through the mercifully unused sewers of Griffonstone, but that’s a story for another time. After all of that I was terribly hungry, and so was Cannon Fodder, as, though he didn’t show it by any outward means, the sound of his stomach rumbling had been loud enough to muffle the sound of my covert conversations with Square Basher in the hangar and convince a few of the more imaginative guards that there could be monsters lurking in the bowels of the ship. That the street food vendors were out, filling the air with the heady aromas of exotic spices and the sounds of conversation and laughter, only made it worse, and I lacked the funds with which to buy anything. I certainly was not about to take up petty theft.
It seemed to me that we hadn’t long before curfew would be imposed, and that the oppressed inhabitants here were trying to eke the most amount of joy they could before the Changelings could put an end to it, as if in microcosm of what was happening to this colony as a whole. I crossed foals playing in the street, stallions and mares arguing over prices of baubles and food in the market, becoming more scarce with each day under occupation, and all under the watch of the Blackhorns, who stood poised to swoop in and put an end to all of this.
I carried on, hunger hollowing me out from the inside with each step, but adrenaline was enough to keep me going; every time I accidentally made eye contact with a uniformed drone sent an electric shock down my spine, forcing me to snap away and keep on walking. Despite only having had that bowl of congee for lunch and nasi lemak for breakfast I felt the urge to vomit rise and rise until the bile burned the back of my throat. There came the intrusive thought that I was walking much too unnaturally, and that my gait would somehow give me away as a stallion of regal bearing who had been forced as a colt to march up and down corridors balancing books on his head or he’d receive a beating if he dropped one. Yet thinking about it only made me half-stumble, half-run, almost tripping over all four hooves. I slipped into the crowd, Cannon Fodder just behind me, and hoped that the press of bodies would shield me.
The crowds, however, thinned as we passed through the dockworkers’ homes, and in the suburban streets here I felt terribly exposed. There were fewer patrols, and most paid very little attention to two little ponies wandering the streets. One helpful drone shouted at us in Ponish to get home before the sun set, and I could only smile, nod, and wave as though thanking him. I wanted to run, but I felt that would have only brought more attention, so I carried on in this awkward, stumbling half-trot, until I finally found myself face-to-face with Spring Rain’s front door.
The door swung open just as I raised my hoof to tap on it. An irate-looking Spring Rain peered out in the gap, sparks dancing over her horn momentarily before dying. “Ah, what took you so long?” she said. “You got lost, lah?”
It wasn’t quite the warm welcome that I expected. She invited me inside, stepping out of the way, and with leaden hooves I dragged myself inside and fell upon her creaky old sofa; I never thought I’d be quite so relieved to feel its hard lumps pressing into my back, but it kept the weight off my tired hooves. Cannon Fodder followed and curled up in the corner to likewise rest, having not uttered a word of complaint throughout this entire ordeal.
“Sorry, the Changelings kept us a bit long,” I said. “Were you worried about us?”
“No!” She meant yes, of course, but wouldn’t admit as much. Spring Rain closed the door, shrouding the room in a gloom lit dimly by the orange glow of the setting sun through drab windows. Disappearing through a door to what I presumed was the kitchen, I heard the sound of something catching fire, a few loud expletives in a mixture of Marelay, Ponish, and a dialect of Cathaynese, and then the reassuring sizzle of something being stir-fried. Minutes later, during which I had an all-too-brief nap, she returned with two bowls of steaming hot fried rice, which she demanded that I eat immediately.
I hardly needed to be told, and ate it all far too rapidly. She watched me intently, having loaded it with sufficient spices to incapacitate a dragon, apparently expecting me to burst into flames. However, a foalhood spent in Coltcutta had prepared me for this, so I got away with only drenching my coat and the undershirt I still wore with so much sweat that I looked as though I’d been thrust into a pool of water. Cannon Fodder, on the other hoof, seemed perfectly fine, and had consumed the entire bowl’s worth in half the time it took for me to wallop most of it down.
“Did you find what you wanted?” asked Spring Rain, taking up position on a bamboo chair close to me.
“Yes,” I said, my mouth full of rice. “My comrades are in there. They’ll help.”
She nodded her head, and that’s when I noticed a dark ring around her left eye, which had also become swollen. Her cheek too had been cut, then scabbed over and washed, so it left a thin red line. Neither had been there when I last saw her that morning.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing!” said Spring Rain, much too quickly for it to be truly ‘nothing’. She turned her head away from me, which only drew more attention to her wounds.
“Was it those collaborators?”
“Ah, never you mind!” she snapped. “You don’t need to pretend to be concerned about me. Equestrians always have to make everyone else’s business theirs. You just want to go back to Equestria and leave us for the Changelings, lah.”
Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong on that account; the sooner I was out of this sweltering, humid heat and back in Canterlot, telling awestruck ladies the gallant tale of how I survived the myriad horrors of a Changeling torture camp (one must exaggerate these sorts of stories for one’s audience, of course. They didn’t need to know that I spent most of that time drinking wine, reading Daring Do books, and rutting my way through the on-site harem), the better. However, I also couldn’t say that I was entirely dismissive of her plight; contrary to what some ponies have said about me, I am not completely without empathy, and I felt some responsibility for what had happened to her, given that it was for my benefit that she had put herself in this much danger.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and she shot me a look as though I’d spontaneously sprouted a pair of feathery wings. I imagine those two words must sound odd coming from me.
“They roughed me up a bit, that’s all,” she said with a defeated sigh. “Nothing they haven’t done to any other kirin or pony here who embarrassed them in front of the Changelings, lah. At least they didn’t steal my cart.” Spring Rain shook her head and stared out of a grimy window at the setting sun. “I want them to go away and never come back. That’s why I’m helping you.”
“And for your family?”
Spring Rain snapped her head around to glare at me, and she held what amounted to an amateur’s attempt at replicating Luna’s infamous death stare for a few seconds until she relented. “You don’t know, lah?”
I shook my head. “I think I have enough to figure it out myself,” I said, “but you know what they say about making assumptions, and all that.”
“The first thing the Changelings did after they kicked out the Equestrians was take hostages,” she explained, her voice level and low, and her expression flat but tensing up with the exertion of keeping her emotions in check. She picked up a framed picture, which had hitherto been resting face-down on a table, and held it in front of me; it showed her standing with another kirin, male, and with a wispy thin moustache and goatee, and held in her forehooves was a kirin foal, not much younger than the Cutie Mark Crusaders. “My husband and my son, Blazing June and Bright Spirit. Other families too, kirins and ponies. For their own protection, they said, but we all know it’s to keep us all in line. I haven’t heard from them since, lah. No letters or messages at all. Don’t know where they are or if they’re safe. Uncle says there are camps outside the city, and some are being taken to the Hives to work or be food.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated; there wasn’t much else I could say to that, and I was scarcely good at this sort of thing anyway. It was unimaginable to me. Then again, even Twilight Sparkle would have struggled to come up with any appropriate words of comfort in a situation of this monstrous cruelty.
“Aiyah, no need for you to be sorry! You will stop the Changelings, yes? I promised I’ll help you and I will.” Energised by the thought of vengeance, Spring Rain picked up a folded note from a wicker table with her magic and thrust it in my direction. Naturally, I accepted it, and found that it was stained with what I assumed was soy sauce and Faust knows what else she’d used in her day job. When I unfolded it, I saw that it was filled with hastily scribbled Cathaynese writing. “The pirates agreed to meet you,” she explained, seeing that I was struggling to decipher an already difficult writing system made all the more incomprehensible by the stains and clumsy horn writing. “Tomorrow. They have a hideout in the jungle. The kirins will take you there.”
“Pirates,” I muttered, partially to myself.
“Yes, lah. Pirates.” Spring Rain peered over at my bowl and scowled. “Aiyah, you haven’t finished your rice? It’s crying, lah!”
“Pirates,” I repeated in resignation of the absurdity of the course I had found myself set upon. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this.” I returned the note, and set about shovelling the scant few grains I had left into my mouth. “This will either go brilliantly or brilliantly wrong.”
Stats
Page generated in 0.018 seconds
Total duration
956 users online
438,285 hits today, 1,872,792 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
Damn I love this series
I would love to see this elaborated on. Maybe after the Changeling War saga is over, you could do an anthology series of one-shots in the style of the various Cain short stories.
"I’m sure.” I wasn’t, really; while the roving gangs of ruffians and thugs there armed with lead pipes and incomprehensible accents might threaten slumming nobles and Neighponese tourists who have wandered off the safe paths, they would find the vast swarms of fanatical drones armed with muskets rather trickier to deal with.
Do not underestimate the criminal element when defending its own turf, especially when they have the backing of the rest of the population. Longarms and tight formations are great when you have open fields and a general idea where the other side is. In cities those vanish, replaced by ambush and close quarters combat. In those circumstances gangs can be downright deadly. They know the terrain intimately, are comfortable with violence, and worst of all have absolutely no concept of "unfair". Its every building is a possible bunker, every street a likely kill zone, and every single object a potential boobytrap. There is a reason the Imperial Guard recruits entire regiments from the gangs of hive worlds.
Plus the changelings would find that all their tricks (all two of them) are pretty much useless against the gangs. They're too decentralized to for a few infiltrators to compromise and too paranoid/ trigger happy to not smash a sap into the head of somepony who acts even slightly off. Thus infiltration is pretty much useless. As for overwhelming numbers? War is full of accounts of small forces beating back and bleeding much larger armies dry. Themopalye, Agincourt, Chosin Resevior, the American Embassy in Saigon, etc. Cities are some of the best ground for that sort of thing - full of choke points, hidden avenues and sewers, and literally composed of ready-made strongholds.
Just the thing I needed after a week of utter stupidity from people who are supposedly adults (and I use the term very loosely). Poor Bluey have Ciphas's luck - Caine had Sulla, he gets Square Basher, Ondata and Twilight. Poor stallion is so screwed.
I want to read that story about the Griffonstone sewers really badly.
The amount of potty humor in it will be incredible!
Ok. So now Blueblood got an officer and five of his soldiers to whip up a rebellion. Or at least an organized strike with objectives. And like Blue pointed out, they will need weapons. Good thing Blueblood got rough numbers to pass along.
But even then they would need more people on the inside. Ideally, they need recruit the local conscripts as well. And with what Chrysalis said about giving orders to her Blackhorns when fleet is to set off, I bet it will be something along the line of finishing to subjugate the town in love batteries or something even more stupid like taking the hostages and burning the town. If Blueblood can get proof of Chrysalis plans and release it to the public, he might be able to create what Dorylus fear, a full on revolt.
However, that lead to other problems like all the hostages that were taken. I believe the Kirin might have at least located and scouted the prisoners camps and perhaps already have plans in places to spring peoples out. Probably need a distraction or maybe taking the chance of having less Changelings guarding the place like when the fleet is leaving.
The Changelings have gotten complacent and Chrysalis is actively making things worse with her orders so Blueblood have at least that going on for himself.
As for the Pirates... well, I don't expect a unified group. More like multiple bands of various sizes and numbers of ships of various makes and species. They could work together but they would need to agree to a single leader but unless there is someone they already bow to or respect enough, you would need something akin to the Pirate code in Pirates of the Caribbean movies where a council vote for a leader.
Humm. 🤔 Blueblood might be facing multiple kinds of pirates as well. Yak Viking's, Privateers working for other nations that targets specific other nations ships and would play the political landscape (Zebra, Parrots, Abyssinian, Minautors, etc), careful Corsaire who chooses their target (Griffon), Buccaneers filled with social outcast full of political and religious refugees (maybe a bit like the melting pot of whatever all those creatures were in Klugetown).
I am doubting Blueblood is dealing with a Miss Zheng Yi Sao with a fleet big enough to rival an army because the Changelings would have been aware and their movement kept in consideration when acting. But since the bugs don't seem concerned whatsoever, I don't think it's a case like that.
11617593
I wonder if he could recruit the city gangs to help kick out the collaborators and the Changelings in this case?
Things are going smoothly; perhaps too smoothly. They're in the walls! Or the boxes! Or they are the boxes!
I think it's interesting that Blueblood made a point to specify in his recounting that it was at least "the same creature" he had slept with back at the PoW camp. Chela, mayhaps? The idea has come up a few times.
Speaking of, Square Basher saying the changelings have gotten complacent fails to note how complacent she and Blueblood have gotten too. They still know changelings can take the form of inanimate objects, so standing in shadows with no drones in sight is no guarantee of being isolated and unobserved. Granted they did try to use some Trottingham slang to obscure some of their conversation, but they identified each other by rank and status.
It always comes down to who makes the least mistakes. Hopefully this isn't one.
11617632
I imagine they'd be extremely suspicious and untrusting of a foreigner suddenly appearing and trying to organize them against a race of shape-shifters. That has 'entrapment' written all over it.
11617631
Never know. These changelings are obviously so indoctrinated with bigotry that they might just dismiss even a huge organized pirate fleet out of hand.
Oh to be the fly on the wall when Dooflus got word that "degenerate pony brigands in row boats" had just pillaged his oh so precious air ships.
11617808
Ironically it the queen who the most impatient, without her presence blueblood would have already been caught and the changeling wouldn't be pushing the locals to rebel, this queen is her own worse enemy
Silly Blueblood, it can go both brilliantly and brilliantly wrong at the same time!
11618123
Thinking on that, the locals revolting wouldn't be that big of a problem. The changelings are occupying a relatively isolated area, since word hasn't gotten to Equestria yet that it's been conquered. The only thing the changelings are currently using the city and citizenry for is the proximity to Equestria and pressganging a couple hundred reluctant laborers.
Every citizen is a potential source of food or labor, and the changelings have been complaining about the shortage of love quite a bit. With all the troops that have been mustered for Operation: Sunburn milling about and barely even bothering to keep watch, they have the operational capacity to just start capturing ponies and kirin en masse. Shove them in cocoons and ship them back to the hives which are in desperate need of sustenance, and keep some for local use. The ones without much love, likely the most self-focused and unattached ponies, can be convinced to be productive laborers out of self-preservation by demonstrating the effects of changelings feeding off some unruly examples.
An actual uprising by the populace would be used as an excuse to legitimize the changelings taking prisoners under the guise of "investigating" and stamping out active resistance. The fence sitters will cling to any false promises that these are temporary measures and restrictions will be lifted once the 'rebels' are neutralized, and they will in turn put pressure on other ponies to submit without resistance. By the time the remaining ponies see through the deception, the majority of the population would have already been removed.
Keep in mind the kind of life ponies in the hives have, and that the changelings were willing and able to use poison gas against the Equestrian military first. They don't need to hold the town and it would be very difficult to defend due to the distance from the hives. An uprising would benefit them.
11618799
Normally a uprising would be no problem, but it be perfect chaos for blueblood to wreck the airships and make his escape and definitely guarantee equstria victory in the long run
Pirates and seized airships? This is going to be just like Tails Spin!
11618849
You're conflating the perspectives of the characters in the story with our perspective as readers. The changelings don't know about Blueblood's presence, let alone any possible sabotage attempts he may be working towards. And if "normally a[sic] uprising would be no problem", why would the Queen be "her own worse[sic] enemy" for demanding swifter results on a plan she thinks will win the war? Also, as I laid out, it wouldn't be chaos, let alone "perfect chaos"; the changelings have far more troops in the city than would be needed to garrison it, and the changelings gain nothing from the town operating as normal anyway. "Chaos" would benefit shape-shifting infiltrators far more than it could benefit a population in uprising, and would actually make it much more likely for them to catch wind of Blueblood's presence and intentions, especially by replacing anyone taking action against them in order to root out cells of resistance.
I have several questions and concerns.
In any case, the pieces are falling into place. Largely of their own accord, but Blueblood's role as courier, catalyst, and rallying flag can't be overstated. Also, it really is astonishing to see just how bad Chrysalis is at her job. I especially appreciate Blueblood's professional disgust at her mangling the fundamentals of leadership. Looking forward to the meeting with the pirates. I'm sure it'll be an event to remember for one reason or another.
11618437
Assuming XOR can lead to all kinds of !!fun!! outcomes.
I think what makes me saddest when reading this series is that it's established that Blue Blood is dead and gone by time to reading, and that he died hating himself and the praise he received for his service.
Great chapter as always, glad to see Celestia defending her nephew. Can't wait to see the place blow up in a spectacular fashion.
Better not. They may replace her with someone competent.