January 1882. 0450
Near Edwy-on-Meyer, the Equestria-Khanate border.
Aboard the Imperial Mail ship Glory.

The wall-eyed mail girl scrubs the sleep from her golden eyes as she trudges through the dimly lit steel passageway toward the issuing office, her hand rising up to brush her golden hair flat. Her slate grey woollen tunic is slung over one shoulder, and her white high-collared shirt is well worn, the golden crown of the Imperial Mail emblazoned upon one breast pocket. Steam rises slowly from the cup of hot and strong tea in her hand as her booted feet clump along the passageway.

“Another day for the Crown,” she mumbles to herself, before shrugging her woollen tunic over her shoulders and flicking her wings through the slots. Sleepy fingers grope for the brass buttons, and then starting to button the tunic up, the woman still half asleep as she mounts the stairs to the issuing office. The mail-girl yawns again, stretching her arms out and just missing a pile of boxes being carried by someone moving to overtake her on the stairs.

“Watch it, Bubblehead!” his voice barks, and the girl skips to the side, dropping her arms quickly.

“Oh, sorry!” the girl, Daisy Doo, says quickly, backing away from the hulking figure.

“Oi!”

Daisy twists, barely missing another one of the grumbling mail sorting attendants as he hefts a bin full of letters up the stairs. Face flushed with embarrassment, Daisy makes her way up the stairs, the rumble of many voices growing louder, along with the clatter of impact and telegraph printers. She digs in her pocket and pulls out her battered grey pill-box cap, tugging it out into shape and running her fingers around the lip, before slipping it onto her head as she reaches the upper deck, running into the telegraph room. The air is filled with the chatter of hurriedly stabbed keys clattering like the heartbeat of a dozen clocks, and voices are raised above the hubbub as mailmen argue and harried looking administrative assistants running around carrying paper back and forth. Daisy pushes her way through the hubbub, hunting for the door to the issuing office. Swerving around a pair of angrily swearing clerks, Daisy steps into a narrow hallway off to one side. However, as she steps onto carpet, and a more lavishly appointed hallway, Daisy frowns, scrubbing one hand through her hair. She's been aboard the Glory for two weeks now, but even so being turned around was nothing new - once she’d somehow managed to find herself in one of the huge mail sorting rooms that occupy one of the airship’s massive cargo halls. Nodding to herself, she turns on her heel and starts moving.

Scooting past mail-attendants and heavily laden loading assistants, and the occasional clattering six legged MLC-'Mule', Daisy starts moving faster toward the ship's issuing office. A quick glance at the wall-mounted chronometer posted every few feet tells her she's got plenty of time before she has to be at the issuing office, but Daisy knows better than to be late.

“Hey, Daisy!” a sharp voice calls behind her. Daisy turns to see Joyous-Harvest standing behind her, already dressed in her own uniform, with a bandolier of ammunition slung across her chest and a tri-barrel slung across her back. The tall and lanky red-head walks over to Daisy.

“Should have known I'd find you here, come on, we're gonna be late,” Joy says, her tone one of long suffering affection, and Daisy smiles sheepishly as she spots the time.

“Sorry,” she says, and Joy shrugs, her freckled face cracking into a smile of her own.

“'s all fine, besides, the boss likes you since you work hard when we actually get started, so he's prepared to cut you some slack.” Joy’s smile widens into a broad grin as she turns and gestures for Daisy to follow.

“So… uh, what’re we doing today?” Daisy asks. Joy digs in her pocket and pulls out a piece of crumpled, tea stained paper.

“Fairly straightforward, we're dropping some deliveries for the local distributors to handle... We're going to Edwy-on-Meyer, Kayson and Entleigh, then we're doing some local distribution to Bosmouth and Remingford,” Joy explains, her finger running down the list of places on the manifest in one hand.

“I see,” Daisy says happily as she follows Joy through the long gunmetal grey corridor of the ship. “So are we going by the issuing office?”

“No, we're going straight out to the flight deck, the skiff is already loaded to roll and I've already checked it. Everyone else is already there, all you need to do is get in and fly,” Joy says, clapping Daisy on the shoulder. Daisy nods quickly, trying to stop the drumming of her heart as they climb up the stairs. She digs in the pocket of her tunic for her flying goggles, trying to bite back her nerves. The growl of engines and raised voices washes over her as more mail-cutters arrive and depart from the Glory.

“You alright?” Joy asks, and Daisy forces herself to nod. She's always been a little nervous before things get started. Once they're in the air she's alright, relying on training and procedure to see her through, but she can’t shake a funny feeling in her stomach that seems a little different to the normal pre-flight jitters.

However, now is not the time to concentrate on funny feelings because they're now stepping out onto the Glory's hangar deck, one of the most dangerous parts of the huge airship. Long catwalks barely wide enough for three to walk abreast stretch out across a yawning chasm the length of a football pitch, and hanging in their docking cradles are four short mail delivery pinnaces. Empty cradles hang around them like the forlorn branches of autumn trees. Around the edges of the chasm, warning lights flicker. As her eyes adjust, she can just about make out the rolling plains of southern Equestria far below beneath the morning haze, then suddenly her legs quiver underneath her. Daisy snaps her eyes shut, her hands gripping tightly at the safety rail as she feels the familiar lurching in her stomach. She should be used to this, but there is no real way to get used to it, other than by drinking a lot of whiskey before bed.

“We're on pinnace four,” Joy says, and Daisy slowly opens her eyes, swallowing and then lifting her head and stepping forward after Joy along the catwalk, gripping onto the safety railing as tight as she can, and trying not to look down at the expanse of icy pre-dawn darkness roaring beneath them. “Elmo and Slim should already have us pre-flighted, all you need to do is get your own pre-flights and we'll be golden.”

“Uh huh,” Daisy says, nodding and trying not to squeak as the catwalk squeals beneath each step. After a moment of walking, they reach pinnace four. Holy Charity, so named, the joke goes, because only praying and charitable donations keep it in the air. Daisy sucks her teeth as she looks over the slate grey outer plating, noting the pitting and scoring on Holy Charity's outer hull, and the corrosion on the engine external housing. With a grim shrug, she walks over to the clipboard and signs for the ship, before gripping onto the gunwale and climbing up into the small boat, her nerves bubbling away in the back of her mind. A flight in Holy Charity is enough to make anyone nervous, but Daisy has flown in other decidedly squiffy pinnaces before and she’s flown Holy Charity several times, each time without incident.

Daisy clambers aboard the ship, over the gunwale and towards the stern of the small boat, before turning to look forward into the belly of the small craft. Elmo and Slim are both waiting, sat on two long torpedo-like mail drop crates towards the bow of the ship, wrapped up tight in their thick leather jackets and gauntlets.

“About time,” Slim grunts, and Elmo clicks his tongue, but then Joy clears her throat and both men shut up.

“If either of you jokers want to fly, just say the word and I'll happily put you forward for flight-qual,” Joy says, and both men clamp their mouths shut. “Thought so. Daisy, you're on.” Joy turns and swings forward, climbing over the crates of mail to get to the prow of the ship, and Daisy finishes her pre-flights, resting her hand on the folded mast as a support, trying to ignore the way Hope and Charity rocks in its docking cradle.

She reaches the flight seat, nestled as it is next to the ship's engine and power core. She takes her seat, strapping herself in, and unfolding the tiller and collective levers, before running through the start-up sequence. The dials in front of her jump as the ship's reaction drive turns on with a sharp cough, drawing power from the batteries. After a momentary inspection, Daisy nods to herself and then reaches up for the docking clamp release handle.

“All crew, secure cargo and prepare for launch!” she forces herself to loudly recite over the growl of the engine. Three thumbs up greet her, and so Daisy conducts one final look-round check, making sure that all the navigation beacons are on and functional, engine is operational and all other launch systems are green for launch. Daisy reaches for the fragile looking radio headset and tugs it over her head.

“Glory flight control, this is Four-Charity, requesting permission to launch.”

“Four-Charity, you are cleared hot for drop, burners at one thousand. Drop on my mark.”

“Copy, burners at one thousand,” Daisy intones, her mouth pressing against the microphone in an attempt to be heard over the growl of the engine and the roar of the wind. With that, red warning lights start to flash at the four corners of Charity's launch cradle, and a siren starts to warble. Daisy looks up, and makes eye contact with a man with a red flag in one hand, and the number four on the other. He waves his red flag once, and Daisy kicks the foot pressel, flashing her ship's warning beacons, before he gives her a thumbs up. He then turns his head, and lifts the red flag above his head.

Daisy reaches up and grabs the release handle with one hand, the other hand cupping the mic to her mouth. Her tone is more natural now as she submerges herself in the routine. “Four-Charity is dropping on your mark. I have visual on the indicator panel, standing by on release.”

The man with the flag nods and then chops it downward. At once, Daisy squeezes the twin release handles together. There is a sharp clank, and then they are free-falling, plummeting away from the Glory. Daisy can't help but allow herself a whoop, as the adrenaline pulses through her from the free-fall, though the adrenaline fuelled surge of delight is snatched away by the roaring rush of air as they're dropped out into the cloud-bank.

Daisy's hands tighten on the ship's twin control levers as the altimeter whirls around, steadily ticking down. The altimeter’s finger brushes a number, and Daisy nods and squeezes the lever built into the collective. With a sharp thump and a jolt, the mast snaps into the upright position, the booms carrying the solar sails snapping downward and locking into place with a clank.

At the same moment, Daisy twists the collective and flips the end of the tiller upward into her hand, and at once their downward momentum is arrested as their mass reaction drive bursts into life and sends them shooting forward, washing the speed out of their descent with its counter-gravity fins.

“There we go...” Joy says encouragingly through the headset clipped to her hat, giving Daisy a thumbs up from her seat at the front of the ship. “We're golden, good work Daisy... now start us moving to the first delivery area and we can earn our pay.” Daisy nods, turning her attention to her map-books and starting to scan through it and trying to relax into the routine even as her heart continues to beat a tattoo against her ribcage.

Three hours later, with several sites down on their delivery route, Daisy's jitters are starting to abate. They managed to make the first few drops before schedule, thanks to a little creative flying and even more creative navigation. Daisy is beginning to think that her nerves might just be little more than creative paranoia.

However as they're turning to fly onward to their next drop site, Joy spots something. “Hey, Daisy, I've got something off the nose... think it's nothing important but you may want to keep an eye on it... I'm seeing a fairly sizeable amount of smoke coming from just over that rise... maybe a grass fire near Sheltend.”

Daisy nods. “I see it Miss Joy, looks to be a very large fire... do you want me to contact Shelt docking control to see if they want any help?” Daisy says, then reaches for the radio book. It's very rare to need to get in touch with the air-control stations of the little hamlets, since so little passes through their air-space or needs to land at their landing fields, that often the postal cutters just land there without talking to docking control.

“They're normally pretty good about getting us on the horn if there's a problem, yeah, get them on the blower and we'll see if there's an issue at Shelt field.” Daisy opens the binder containing the radio frequencies, and after a moment spent clearing dust and dead flies from the pages, she flicks to the pages for Sheltend. It takes her only a moment to find and dial in the correct radio code.

“Sheltend control, this is Postal-Two One, we're visual on a plume of smoke on your heading, requesting landing advisories,” Daisy says into the radio, and then waits for a response. All she receives is static.

Daisy looks down at the radio, checking the lights. All indicate green, and so Daisy tries again.
“Sheltend control, this is Postal-Two One, do you copy?”

Thirty long seconds pass by, and Daisy glances at Joy.

“I'm getting nothing from Shelt control... this is really weird,” Daisy says after a moment, and Slim looks up from the penny-dreadful he's reading.

“Perhaps it's the Khans, we share a frontier with them and things aren't...”

“Doubtful,” Joy speculates. “If it was the Khans, or at least Khans in any significant numbers, the Imperial Navy would have quarantined this whole area and nobody would get in, least of all the mail.” Joy reaches for her tri-barrel and breaks it open. She slots two shotgun shells into the two upper barrels and a single fat rifle round into the lower barrel.

“We're getting close, I'll try them again on the radio,” Daisy says, as much to deny the inevitable as anything. She takes a deep breath and then puts out another call to Sheltend control, and the reply is once again nothing but static.

“We shouldn't be here,” Elmo says nervously, and Joy nods.

“I'm beginning to think that way myself, Daisy, divert to Shetlend and give us a single overflight and we'll assess the situation. We’re the only link to civilization some of these people have,” Joy says grimly, and Daisy sweeps the aircraft round, bringing it in closer on a long slow flight path toward the billowing plumes of smoke.

As they roar in closer, Daisy feels her hands grow clammy on the controls, and her heart starts to pound, but they continue their steady descent. Roiling plumes of thick grey smoke curl through the air around them, and Daisy lowers her goggles to stop her eyes from watering, but she can still practically taste something else. A strange, sickly sweet stench strong enough almost to taste, a greasy smell that clings to the nostrils and the taste buds.

Daisy's hands tighten on the tiller as they fly over the small hill that is obstructing the base of the smoke pillars from her view, and her heart suddenly lurches. The smoke is not coming from grass-fires near the village, but from the village itself. Flames dance among the small frontier shacks, and great holes have been torn through the walls, as though an angry giant has been unleashed upon the community. Tattered market awnings flutter like battle-flags, ripped apart by the rushing typhoon of battle.

Daisy shivers as she catches sight of the bundles scattered around the village, bundles of clothes with limbs sticking out of them at odd angles, mostly clad in rude frontier garb, but there are some in waistcoats and spats, traders from out of town. Daisy's heart jerks in her chest as she catches sight of the smaller bundles clustered around the school-house, and she tries not to think of her own daughter currently safely in school in Ponyville.

“Get the Navy on the horn,” Joy's voice seems very distant, muffled almost. “We need to pass this up the chain as quickly as we can...”

Joy's words fade into a faint buzzing white noise that seems indistinct next to the sights far below, the pockmarked, blood spattered walls and the smashed up, torched houses. As Daisy stares down into the village, new horrors greet her... Men spread eagled upon their carts, knives pushed through their wrists and ankles to hold them in place. Women slumped against the walls of buildings, their legs spread and the backs of their heads decorating the walls behind them.

“Daisy... hey, Daisy, listen to me...” Hands are clasping at the postal pilot's uniform tunic, and she shakes her head quickly to clear it. She looks up from the tableau of horror below to see Slim, his face pale and his eyes narrowed behind his goggles.
“We need to get out of here Daisy, can you do that?” he asks, his voice soft and kindly. “Turn us around nice and easy... we'll get out of here and then we'll get in touch with someone...” His hand lingers on her shoulder. Daisy nods slowly, turning the pinnace around and starting it moving, opening up the tanks and sending it roaring away into the blue sky, frantically squealing on every frequency it can reach as it starts to fly away. It should only take an hour to get back home, and once they do…

The engines of the tiny pinnace open wide, howling as the pinnace accelerates madly away.

_____

Far below, in the ruins of Sheltend, a lightly bearded man watches the mail-pinnace leave through his field glasses, his eyes distant and a satisfied smile on his face. Right on time.

“I can take it now boss,” one of his men growls, peering through the sights of the anti-material rifle. “It's not too far away yet, I think a vanished skiff might-”

“If that thing disappears from their scryers, we’ll have the Imperial Navy all over us in twenty minutes or less, moron,” the bearded man replies coolly, lowering his field glasses and wiping away the blood dripping from a set of scratch marks on his face. “Right now we’ve got an hour at most, so let’s make use of it. Get some more red paint for the graffiti, finish up what you're doing and then we'd better make tracks. I reckon the Imperial Navy will be crawling over this place before long,” he grunts.

“Reckon we've got time for a little more close proximity with the locals?” Weynin, the one Khan among the group asks, and the man turns and casts a critical eye over the choking, sobbing crowd of women and girls.

“That's an excellent suggestion,” Springbok says, turning toward the crowd of prisoners, and undoing his trousers.

Next Chapter: Chapter 10: Tipping Point Estimated time remaining: 3 Hours, 16 Minutes