Canterlot Castle Press Gallery.
28th January- 1882, 0900

A volley of flashes erupts in front of Princess Celestia, the chatter of a hundred lenses opening and closing. Celestia’s back straightens and she braves the onslaught of flashes as she stands before the assembled ranks of photographers and journalists who lean forward like hungry hunting dogs, eager to shred her words and sell their papers. She draws a deep breath, fixing her eyes upon the rows of cameras and journalists, all staring up at her expectantly. She forces her lips not to curl upward into a sour grimace at the hounds arrayed before her. She can almost see their jaws slavering. Ranks of cameras are arrayed like a firing squad, and not for the first time, Princess Celestia feels like a rabbit before the headlights of a speeding automobile.

“Thank you for attending this press conference.” Celestia steps forward, both hands resting upon the lectern. “We shall endeavour to keep this as short as possible. We’ve gathered this conference to discuss Equestrian policy in regard to recent developments in the Khanate. We are pleased to see that there is fertile ground for negotiations to de-escalate the tensions that have arisen between our nation and the Khanate.”

“Do you have any comments regarding Princess Twilight’s eventful arrival yesterday?” one of the journalists asks, and Princess Celestia treats him to an indulgent smile, the magic beneath her skin lurching as her anger surges. Interrupt me again, please. Princess Celestia suppresses the urge to smite the journalist with the practiced ease of the consummate stateswoman.

“Well, I must say it was quite a shock when I heard… but I can state with confidence that the Khan authorities will apprehend those responsible for the attack on Princess Twilight.” Certainly, Princess Celestia can say it confidently; truthfully however, is another matter entirely. “We consider Princess Sparkle to be an invaluable stateswoman, and we are confident in the capability of her bodyguard to resist an attack. We will not allow isolated incidents by dissident elements within the Khanate to alter our negotiating posture with the Khanate’s government.”

“But two attacks in two months, does that not constitute slightly more than ‘isolated incidents’?”
It does, and if Luna’s figures were more encouraging, you’d bet I’d be acting upon it right now. Celestia clicks her tongue softly before she voices her thoughts.

“Equestria is committed to peace and reconciliation. We are aware that, as a Princess, Twilight Sparkle is unlikely to be regarded favourably by a certain section of the Khanate’s population. We are regretful that that segment decided they wanted to allow their baser instincts to overcome their common sense. Currently, no evidence exists to state this is anything more than ignorant Khans thinking with their hearts rather than their heads.”

That’s strictly true of course. Ignorant Khans with power will act on all manner of idiotic impulses. It’s merely that these ones happen to be in high places.

“We come forward to say that Equestria will negotiate with the Khans, and we will work to defuse the current tension between our peoples to-”

_____________

“-foster a climate of peaceful co-existence.”

The tinny sounds of the wireless ring out through the bridge of the warship, almost lost in the hubbub of the crowd gathered upon the bridge of the experimental dreadnought. Blue uniformed Imperial Navy officers are sat at their stations, accompanied by scientists and engineers in coveralls and white coats. The chatter of teleprinters fills the air, along with the gentle rumble of voices and the tapping of morse-code machines. Luna glances up toward the wireless from her position in the captain’s chair, her hands closing around the onyx arms of the command throne.

Admirable sentiments Sister, but sometimes the hand of peaceful co-existence benefits from its sister gripping a sword. A smile spreads across her face underneath her mask. And what a sword this is!

Her hand closes around the left arm of her command throne a little tighter. The Umbra has been finished on schedule. Final testing has been completed, and now the hour of the Umbra’s launch draws near. Anticipation writhes below the Princess of the Night’s skin as she considers the thought. Sister… I wish you could understand this, our power. We wouldn’t have to debase ourselves to negotiating with these terroristic scum.

She gazes across the bridge, at Iron-Breast, who is standing in the middle of the chaos, directing sailors and engineers this way and that with all the authority of a born leader of men. Her voice carries effortlessly through the bridge of the super-dreadnought. Luna sits back in her throne, luxuriating in the feeling of power that flows through her veins. Her own power crackles through her veins, mingling with the power of the dreadnought. Finally she can unleash her carefully restrained, carefully metered power.

Luna is distracted from the heady brew of anticipation by Admiral Iron-Breast turning to the command chair and the hubbub of engineers and navy officers fading into an expectant hush.
“We’re ready to begin when you are, Field Marshal,” Iron-Breast says, and Luna nods as though she’s been expecting the statement. She gazes forward, over the heads of the assorted staff, and out of the bridge’s forward windows, which give her an amazing view down the length of the entire battleship’s upper section, and beyond it, the towering walls of the dry dock which still hides the mighty dreadnought.

She can see the slanted upper armour plating, and the holes cut into it to accommodate the massive tri and twin barrelled long range guns that will rip apart the capital ships that make up the Umbra’s rightful prey. She can also see the fire-emplacements studded along the spine of the ship, where the smaller twenty and thirty millimetre cannon have been emplaced to shoot down the smaller and faster raiders that would traditionally prey upon ships like this. Traditionally, Equestrian ships of the line would not carry small guns beyond belt-fed Maxims in order to save on weight. Luna’s looking forward to running into the first Khan that decides to make the same assumption of the Umbra. She intends to leave very small pieces of him scattered across the desert.

“Do you have anything to say, Your Highness?” Iron-Breast asks, and Luna nods, rising to her feet.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, my sister speaks of peace and cooperation, of understanding and mutual friendship. I am not going to contradict her, peace and understanding are both desirable goals and we should all strive to make them our aim. However I subscribe to one particular understanding. Negotiations should be carried out from a position of strength and power. This, ladies and gentlemen, shall be our position of strength, an unassailable fortress from whence we shall entreat for Equestria’s future. This shall be our shield and our sword, to turn the blows of the aggressor and then open his throat in one stroke.”

Luna’s masked face slowly sweeps across the room, holding the assembled group of technicians and officers with her gaze. Beneath her mask, she smiles a wolf’s smile. “Now, in the name of Equestria, and by the grace of whatever name you call God, we shall begin testing. That is all, fall out to commence your duties.”

With that, Luna sits back down, squeezing the left arm of her command throne once more. As she squeezes tighter, she can feel the crackle of the conduits through the arm-rests of her throne, a faint tingling and prickling rippling up and down her arms. They draw upon the magic of a younger god, and only a princess is able to provide the massive amounts of magical power that can be trusted to reliably activate and charge the titanic propulsion drives that keep the huge ship airborne.

Luna pulls her white gloves off, stretching out her long, pale fingers and testing the strength of her connection to the ship’s core. She can feel the magical presence within the ship stirring faintly even now as various safeguards and interlocks are removed and the reaction drives are spooled up to begin testing. As she looks across the bridge, she sees red lights flashing into life, and deep beneath the deck, she can feel a deep thrumming as though the ship beneath her is taking a series of increasingly deep breaths.

Her mouth tightens into a thin line behind her mask as the power shoots like lightning beneath her skin. Beneath her feet, the gathering growl of the ship’s drives increase in pitch into a shrill whine.
The thrumming of the ship’s charging magnetic bottles pulses through the ship as the conversion cells continue to convert the limitless magical energy of a princess into the power required to fuel the mighty dreadnought. Vast cooling fans whirr as huge magnetic induction coils start to spin, subtly twisting Princess Luna’s magic and constricting it, as though taking the power that forms planets and sucking it through a straw.

“All systems nominal, cooling circuit pressure within normal limits!” one of the officers snaps, and Luna nods, her eyes flicking to the gauges spread out before her own control throne. All are in the green.

Now or never.

“Cast off lines!” Luna orders. Sweat blossoms across her forehead as she forces more power into the ship’s systems. The whine rises to a scream as the induction coils inhale yet more power, twisting and shaping it as the first flickers of blue light start to flicker and flash from the ship’s great engine nacelles. Behind Luna’s throne, thick cables start to gleam with a blue glow, casting a sheen over the room. Exhaust vents along the underside spine of the ship belch into life, as the massive cogitators in the core of the ship grind ponderously into life.

Upon the Umbra’s belt decks, crews of airmen sweating and swearing in their shapeless black overalls start heaving in the massive hawsers, each as thick as a man’s arm, that keep the Umbra lashed down. Meanwhile, in the deep cavernous dry-dock that houses the Umbra’s lower section, a deep thrumming noise starts to boom rhythmically, and flickers of blue light glitter and flash from below as the massive engines progress inexorably through their ignition process.

“We’re at ninety per-cent charge, we can begin lift whenever you’re ready, Highness!” Iron-Breast has to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the power flowing through the room, the light from behind Luna growing stronger and stronger whilst the hoses and pipe work running into the back of the throne continue to take the strain. Luna can hear crackling and hissing, but the empress of the Moon pushes herself harder to force the energy into the Umbra’s massive engines.

“Launch!” she orders, and at once the vibrations increase in intensity as levers are thrown and switches are released. Energy flows from the massive crystal repeater batteries that hold Luna’s magic to the drive coils, and just for a moment Luna feels a strange swooping sensation in her belly, as though she’s falling as her power is suddenly fed directly into the mighty engines.

“Umbra is rising,” a report whipcracks across the bridge, through the din and over the hiss of steam moving through pressurised tubes. Luna can feel the ship starting to rise beneath her, slowly and ponderously, but rising all the same as the drives reach full power, the repulsor coils taking the full strain of the ship’s mass and contriving through some mix of arcane science and magic to provide enough lift to over a hundred thousand tonnes of steel.

Outside, crowds of soldiers and engineers have gathered to watch the spectacle. Sirens warble and flash, only to be drowned out by the deep, throaty snarl of the engines as the ship lifts from its cradle, slowly and ponderously. Blue lightning dances along the conduits feeding the supermassive reaction drives as the ship slowly lifts free of its moorings. The five massive engine nacelles contract like the pupils of huge eyes. Deep within the ship, the snarl becomes a roar as the drive nozzles suddenly dilate, cones of azure energy erupting from within.

Onlookers snatch their hands to their eyes in an attempt to shield themselves from the blinding brilliance of the drive’s ignition, and others turn their backs, hands clasped over piercing eardrums. Still others are unable to divert their eyes from the vast machine that now rises from the ground before them.

Luna shivers, feeling pain starting to course up her arms as she pumps as much power as she dares into the machine. A little more, just a little bit more and we’ll be mobile, she thinks.

Sudden sheets of bright, unearthly fire leap across her vision, snatching away the sight of the world around her. Fire leaps up her arms and Luna barely muffles a startled gasp of pain and surprise, though it is almost inaudible through the crackling and hissing filling her ears as the sudden pain sinks its talons into her shoulders. Her back arches and she bites back another agonized gasp of pain. Her knuckles whiten, and sweat glistens upon her neck as she holds firm. She will endure. She must endure.

Her head is suddenly snapped backward with a sharp crack. Power is being pulled out of her now, faster than she can control it. She’s being drawn down through the raging rapids of her own power, losing control by the moment, and Luna is fighting desperately to resist the flow of energy being dragged out of her. Pure momentum drives the outflow, forcing more power through her hands and into the conduits. Her ears scream as pain spreads across her face, only to fade in the blaze of adrenaline leaping through her veins. White lightning dances between her fingers.

She can dimly hear raised voices through the maelstrom, and she can feel winds whipping at her skin. Voices seem to be coming and then going, snatched away in moments. Luna feels a sharp pain, and a wet heat blossoming across the side of her face as the sheets of white light seem to grow stronger and stronger, the roaring of sounds resolving into a deep resonant voice speaking words in ancient Equish.

All ye, weak and powerless, the strong and the mighty, all are as chaff before Me. Fall before My majesty. Embrace My will and Submit to Darkness. A chill of horror arrows down Luna’s spine. Beneath her mask, her eyes widen in pure unadulterated terror as the voice’s words resonate through her like the tolling of a bell.

Luna squints, closing her eyes behind her mask as a face starts to resolve itself in the swirling maelstrom. A flash of eyes of the deepest azure gleam in the Night Princess’ vision before the sheets of white light fade into absolute darkness. The last thing she sees is those flaming eyes, bright with an unholy fire, burning in the gathering darkness like a warning and a promise.

Suddenly Luna is looking around a bridge veiled in smoke, and dozens of members of the bridge crew gazing up at her in awe. Around her, she can hear whimpers and coughing and spluttering.

She blinks, feeling something hot and wet trickling down the side of her face. “Report!” she snaps groggily, sitting up from where she has slumped in her chair, and Captain Bugler’s voice comes back, as though from a great distance.

“We’re receiving reports from engineering ma’am. All systems are performing as designed. We’re trying to isolate the cause of the smoke now!” Captain Bugler reports through a voice thick with smoke, whilst Iron Breast is barking orders for someone to open a shutter or do something to clear the wretched smoke. Luna nods, sitting forward on the chair, lifting her hand to her face, expecting it to reach her mask, but instead her fingers reach up and poke her in the eye… her actual eye.

Luna’s eyes widen as she presses her hand flat to the mask, and she feels the jagged edge where a chunk seems to have been ripped out of the mask. Her hand runs around the hole, against her skin, and then she pulls her fingers away, gleaming with her own silvery blood. Her hands start to shake as she gazes down at the tiny silvery effusion on her fingertips.

The mask is breached, the seals are breached. The mask is breached, the seals are breached.

Luna can feel her heart racing and her mind whirling, yet for some reason she’s able to approach the issue rationally and calmly. For some reason she can feel herself taking control and isolating the terrified parts of her mind, locking the rising panic into a box and sealing it down. She’s not sure how it’s happening but happening it is. Think about it later. Act now.

“A mirror,” Luna snaps, her voice slightly deeper as she rises to her feet, staggering slightly at the shifted centre of balance. “Bring your princess a mirror!”

At once, an impossibly young ensign clatters up the stairs, small makeup mirror in hand. She hands it to Princess Luna, bowing low as she does so. Luna takes the mirror without comment, flipping it open with one hand to inspect the damage.

One turquoise eye gazes back at her, the slitted pupil flickering faintly. For a moment a gleam of triumph burns in that turquoise eye, and it is as much to smother that fell glow as to stem the bleeding, that the Night Princess lifts her hand to her eye to apply pressure.

“Captain Bugler, you have command. You are hereby directed to begin truncated airworthiness testing with a view to completion as soon as practicable. We wish to be informed the moment these tests are complete. Doctor Freeman, we wish you to isolate whatever caused this reaction and report back to us as soon as practical. If there are any fluctuations or bleeds in the main drives, we wish to know at once. Admiral Iron-Breast, accompany me please,” the Princess intones imperiously, and Admiral Iron-Breast nods, falling in behind the field marshal apprehensively as the Princess of Darkness stalks toward the exit, her long black robe billowing like roiling thunderclouds behind her.

____

28th of January 1882, Ashad-Mar Base

“Turn that heretical twaddle off boy!” the armourer growls. His startled assistant whirls the tuning dial of the illegally acquired Equestrian-made radio, and the teenage Khan jumps backward from the hulking armourer as he stomps past, moving through the aisles of Ashad-Mar State Arsenal, one of Tarhen's larger military arsenals.

Nima watches the hairless armourer stomping up and down the rows of weapons, his rusty prosthetic left leg creaking and hissing under the strain of hauling his substantial bulk around. Whilst Chief Armourer Dadmehr Na-Arkaz used to be a fit Khan despite his baldness, years spent working in the State Armoury have added a spare tyre to the bull-shouldered Khan. This doesn't stop him from moving surprisingly quickly, chiefly whenever trainee Nima Awlawan is doing something that Na-Arkaz does not approve of.

“Boy! What have I told you about leaning on that fuckin’ desk! Now get over here and come help me!” Na-Arkaz snarls, and Nima puts down his quill, grabs his glasses and trots down the tiled aisleway, to where the large Khan is pulling rifles from the rack.

The young Khan slides his glasses onto his nose and looks up at the armourer. “What do you need, sir?”

“BOY! By Saint Alawaz' tits, how many times have I told you about calling me sir!? It's Chief Armourer, Boss, or Mister Arkaz!” the chief armourer thunders, turning around to poke Awlawan in the chest with a thick mechanical finger. “Anyway, give these guns a look over and make sure they're up to snuff,” Arkaz barks. “And look lively about it, we've got about a hundred to issue, plus stick-grenades, incendiaries and mortars!” Arkaz tosses the first rifle at Awlawan, who snatches it clumsily out of the air by its canvas sling.

Awlawan reaches for the toggle that pops open the closed cylinder, and smoothly flicks the rifle's six round revolving cylinder open. He quickly peers into the cylinder, flicking down the telescopic lenses on his glasses, which start whirring as they zoom in, taking in details as he examines the weapon, peering down the barrel and inspecting the rifling before checking the action, which clicks smoothly.

“What do we need these for?” Awlawan asks as he snaps the cylinder shut and puts the weapon on a waiting trolley.

“No one's fuckin’ told me,” Arkaz grunts. “I just got a telegram from Aznan's office telling me that a man identifying himself as Springbok will be coming by to pick up a bunch of weapons and ammunition.” Arkaz passes another weapon to Awlawan.

“I see,” Awlawan replies as he inspects the next weapon, noting the arsenal markings engraved just behind the rear sight. Yours not to reason why, he tells himself as he breaks open the next rifle, his glasses whirring once more. It’s slow, boring and repetitive work. KZ-62s are conscript rifles, designed to be maintained by idiots and so checking them for faults is likewise idiot simple.

Awlawan has just finished inspecting the ninetieth rifle, when he hears a sharp banging on the issuing hatch.

“Ugh... boy, go see who that is,” Arkaz growls, and Awlawan jumps off of his seat and goes scrambling down the aisles to the armoury's desk and issue hatch, the shutter of which is down.

“Hello?” Awlawan calls as he climbs up onto the issuing hatch chair, sitting up on his knees so that the teenager can sit properly at the desk.

“It's Springbok,” the harsh voice echoes within Awlawan’s tiny issuing desk-space, the tone prickling up the hackles on the back of Awlawan’s neck. “I'm here to pick up my guns!” The voice is speaking in Equestrian. Once again, Awlawan thanks his house-keeper mother for having taught him the language.

“Ah, we are just getting them ready for you, if you will give me a second I shall open up!” Awlawan says, trying to keep his voice cheery and professional as he reaches for the issue file. Arkaz will kill him (twice) if he doesn't make sure these weapons get accounted for. That's the big rule at Ashad-Mar, other State Armouries might be shoddy with their book-keeping but Arkaz is death on weapons that leave his arsenal without being signed and accounted for. Awlawan can practically recite his lecture by heart at this point.

“One day, boy,” Awlawan mutters to himself, “someone's going to do something fucking stupid with our guns, and on that day, if we haven't got the paperwork squared away saying the weapon was out of our custody...” He dips the quill pen in ink before sweeping a scattering of cartridges and a dead spider off the desktop with his forearm and pulling on the chain that lifts the issuing hatch. At once sunlight shines into the armoury, and Awlawan shields his eyes as they adjust to the light, his ears folding back, but then as his eyes focus he sees a human... tall with close cropped hair, a light beard, and battered features.

“Finally. Listen four-eyes, I haven't got all fookin' day here, so you just bring me the pieces and I'll be on my way,” the human snaps, glaring at Awlawan through the grating that separates the two of them, and Awlawan leans back, his heart beating fast. He's used to Khans, who can be just as rude as this foreigner, but they're rarely quite this loud. Still, Awlawan is anxious to make a good impression, and politeness is the mark of a child of the Divinity.

“Of course, we are just getting the equipment you requested ready. I just need you to give me your name and a signature, if you could?” The boy quickly writes out the consignment number and then spins it round for the human to look at it.

“What is this?” the human snarls as he takes the clipboard and gazes down at it incredulously.

“It is the consignment information,” Awlawan replies evenly. “You are signing the weapons out of the armoury, that is all.”

He blinks as the human tosses the clipboard back through the hatch, unsigned. “Let me tell you how this is gonna go, kid, you're gonna give me those guns, and I'm gonna leave. Nowhere in there does it say I'm going to sign for anything.”

“Well I am afraid I cannot do that,” Awlawan replies levelly. “I have to have a signature, otherwise I cannot give you these weapons.” The human's face turns an interesting shade of red. The human turns, obviously taking a firm grasp on his temper, and then turns back, his lips curled into a snarl that exposes his teeth.He jabs a finger through the bars at Awlawan.
“Listen you little furry fuck, I'm here on business for General Aznan-”

“AND I DON'T GIVE A SHIT IF YOU'RE THE SHAH'S OWN PERSONAL ARSE-WIPER, YOU'RE GOING TO SIGN FOR THESE WEAPONS OR YOU'RE NOT GETTING ‘EM.” The crash of Arkaz' voice is like a hammer blow, and Awlawan folds his ears back, shying as he smells the stench of cloying tobacco that hangs around Arkaz like a cloud. Awlawan turns to see Arkaz standing behind him, his tattooed, bald bulk looming like a mountain. The human scowls in reply.

“Would you like me to bring General Aznan down here? He needs these weapons, and I'm sure he'd be disappointed if I explained to him why he got brought down here.” Arkaz gently eases Awlawan out of the way, and sits down heavily on the chair.

“Hmmph... very well... one moment,” Arkaz says, and as the human leans forward, Arkaz jerks on the chain. The issuing hatch snaps shut with a crash and a howl of absolute fury from the other side, followed by a continuous string of multilingual curses. Arkaz frowns reprovingly, delicately placing his hands over Awlawan’s ears as the human rages outside.

“You can take General Aznan's name in vain all you want, you're not getting these weapons till you sign for them!” Arkaz bellows, before rising to his feet and releasing the boy’s ears after a moment.

“My sister’d never fucking forgive me if she found out that you’d been learning such words here, good job boy,” Arkaz says, and there's a smile on his face for the first time all day. “Let's give numbnuts twenty minutes or so to cool down.” Awlawan nods quickly, feeling a strange giddy light feeling as he heads back into the armoury while the angry human continues to blister the air outside.

Five minutes later, there is a sharp knock on the hatch, and Awlawan opens it to find that red-faced human standing there again.

“Give me the fuckin' board, I'll sign,” the human growls a little hoarsely, and Awlawan is almost able to conceal his grin of triumph and the self satisfied twitch of his whiskers, as he hands the quill and board over to the bearded human, who walks away with the clipboard and scrawls on it. Awlawan is about to ask him to return the clipboard when the human returns and pushes the clipboard through the slot.

“Weapons, or do you want me to sign somethin' else?” he snaps, but Awlawan is already getting down from the chair to get the trolley, stacked high with crates of weapons. He grabs the trolley and starts pulling, past the now closed door of Arkaz' office as the Khan behind it continues with his paperwork.

Awlawan reaches the issuing door and pushes the trolley inside before closing the shutter and walking back to his booth. He then opens the outer door, allowing Springbok to pick up his guns.
“This is everything?” the human asks, and Awlawan nods.

“As asked,” Awlawan says, and the human nods, dragging the trolley out of the closet before coming back to the hatch.

“Hey listen, we got off on the wrong foot man,” the human says, and Awlawan tilts his head a little suspiciously. Springbok then looks off to the side, before turning back and extending his hand. “Listen, sorry for snappin’ at you, I know you’ve got a shitty job, cooped up in that sweat box.”

Awlawan, without thinking about it, extends his hand in turn, and the human clasps his hand as though to shake it.

Awlawan yelps as he jerks savagely across the desk. His forearm wrenches outside the hatch. Beneath him, the desk screeches as the boy’s full weight lands heavily upon it. Before the Khan can pull back or back away, the human snatches the shutter and pulls down hard.

The shutter crashes down; pain lashes up Awlawan’s forearm. It lifts and comes crashing down once again, an awful crack as the humerus snaps. The Khan's shrieks of pain ring out through the Arsenal.

Springbok slams the shutter again and again and again, each time accompanied by a sickening snap as bone splinters and breaks like a splitting tree limb. Fragments of bone slice through the boy’s flesh, ripping muscle and sinew amongst his wailing screams.

The boy flails in agony, vainly struggling but being held in place by Springbok’s vicelike grip. Awlawan’s legs kick out fruitlessly, knocking his stool backward, where it lands on the floor with a crash. His fluffy tail lashes this way and that and his big green eyes are bright with pain and fear.

Through the sea of pain, he can hear Springbok barking curses:

“Fokenwil!” Crash! “Come on you little wimp!” Crash! “I thought you were a swingin’ dick here!” Crash! “Fuckin’ pussy!” CRASH!

The desk, just a table pressed up against the wall, suddenly gives way, splitting almost clean down the middle, with one final snap as his arm folds in the centre of the break, sending Awlawan crashing to the floor, a horrified scream wrenched from his lips, before the room becomes an echo chamber of his shrieks and Springbok’s mocking laughter.

“This is what I get out of bed for in the morning,” Springbok mutters, before shoving the ruined arm through the hole in the wall and slamming the hatch shut. “Stupid fookin’ cat cunts.”

He whistles a jaunty tune as he walks away, pushing his trolley, laden with supplies.
____

General Aznan's Garden.

The wind whispers through the weeping willows at the far end of the garden as General Aznan gazes down at the bed of crocuses and irises blooming in mournful splendour. Aznan enjoys being out in the garden in the early evening, with the setting sun beating down upon the back of his neck and the scents of the winter flowers in bloom. Behind him, he can hear approaching feet and his mouth twitches faintly as he recognizes the soft tread of Hassan Zafwan, along with the heavier booted steps of Springbok.

“Good evening gentlemen,” Aznan says, rising to his feet and brushing the dirt off of the knees of his trousers. “I trust we have made progress on the small matter of the prison?” he asks, and Zafwan flicks a nervous glance at Springbok, before shaking his head.

“No sir. We know there was a shooter who fired a single round at the princess from within the prison perimeter but we have not been able to get the shooter's firing position, or whether he was a member of the prison guard,” Zafwan says grimly, his tail twitching in anticipation of Aznan's toungue lashing, however Aznan's smile broadens until he is positively beaming at this little bit of news.

“I see. Obviously Princess Twilight isn't quite as popular as we had thought... Continue looking into the matter, and we'll try and identify who our mysterious benefactors are. Zafwan, do you have any word from your contacts with the PVU?”

“They do not appear to be all that cooperative with our aims,” Zafwan says with a shrug. “Apparently the Tsar in Exile wants to focus his attention upon the Reds and the Blues rather than honouring his agreements with us. I did not believe it was worth trying to convince him otherwise.”

“He's a fool then. Very well, I trust your judgement,” Aznan says, rising to his feet and shaking loose fragments of grass out of the folds of his plain cream working shirt, before he hears a faint tap upon the front door. Aznan's smile turns slightly predatory at the sound, and his ears prick up whilst his whiskers twitch.

“Right on time, unusual for a Federal,” Aznan frowns, before turning to Springbok. “I believe now would be a good time to make yourself scarce, as we are about to have guests.”

“Aznan,” a voice calls from the doorway into the house a moment later, and Aznan turns to see the housekeeper approaching with a human that Aznan has met before. The human is short in human terms, with a thin hatchet-like face, watery blue eyes and round spectacles that give him the appearance of a particularly bothersome librarian. The lamplight glistens off his slicked back, oily black hair. Aznan doesn't know the spy's name, but he knows better than to ask.

“I hope I haven't arrived late, gentlemen,” the man says, his accent quite clearly Federal. Zafwan shakes his head.

“What news does Caine bring?” Aznan asks, and the spy shrugs.

“You'll be pleased to hear that the Federation is nervous about Equestrian expansionism. While an open conflict with the Empire would not be in the Federation's interest at this time, we'd be more than happy to assist you with creating a casus belli and provide you with more material support when the time comes... You won't need to worry about trying to bump off this Princess anymore, I can guarantee what my superiors have in mind will get you your war, General Aznan.”

Aznan nods slowly. Whilst he's quite fond of the strategy of getting the princess killed, he's also aware that there have been at least two attempts on her life so far, and attacking her in transit will be impossible with the ring of steel that now surrounds her, and if there's an easier target, then Aznan would be a fool not to explore it.

“Do tell?” Aznan asks, and the Federal Spy smiles.

“We've managed to get a link with your faction of the Valorossiyans. They're willing to supply you with weapons. You just need to supply civilian airships. You'll fly these airships to any major city you like; Hoofshire, Stalliongrad, Canterlot for all I care, and then you bomb that city. Airships with Khanate civvy markings bombing a city... it's a nice little excuse for Equestria to invade. Hey presto, you got yourselves a war. In order for that to happen though, you need to open up trade links with the freaks again.”

“Slight problem there,” Zafwan says. “What about international opinion?”

“International Opinion my ass, there are only three big players at this table; you, us and the freaks. International Opinion will be what we say it is.”

“I see... well that looks to be a practical solution, what say you, Aznan?”

Aznan looks the Federation man clear in the eye, his eyes gleaming as he fixes the human with a gimlet stare. Aznan is tempted, sorely tempted. It'd be just what the Equestrians deserve after all, and in terms of casus belli, it would be a very effective one. It'd definitely start a war, but it would start it on the Federation's terms, rather than his own. There's also another matter.

“Aerial bombardment of one of those cities would definitely start a war... however it would certainly also result in large scale civilian casualties,” Aznan says. “The fact that you're talking about using Valorossiyan bombs also suggests there is something special about these particular munitions... Are civilian casualties an objective you have in mind?”

“The messier the better,” the man confirms, and Aznan nods.

“I suspected as much. Very well, in that case I must respectfully decline,” Aznan says, and the spy blinks in stunned surprise.

“Hey, think about this guys, this could be your big chance!” he protests.

Aznan scowls and shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I will start a war my own way, if it is all the same to you. I wish to see the Royal House of Equestria brought low, but I do not have a quarrel with the average citizen of Equestria. I will spill their blood for a cause, for an objective beyond the slaughter, but I shall not make slaughter an objective in its own right.”

Zafwan glances up at Aznan, shock printed upon the elderly commissioner's face. “Aznan, you've been talking about the need to get even for years... this could be exactly what we need to do so.”

Aznan takes a deep breath, his mouth curling downward into a grim line. “Call me a traditionalist, but my quarrel is with the Princesses. My quarrel is not with the common people of Equestria and I have no desire to see them slaughtered wholesale just to trigger a war.”

“But you're happy to kill a Princess-”

“A princess, exactly. She decided to come here of her own volition and so anything that comes her way is on her head. Likewise, Equestria does not conscript its menfolk so any fighting men we kill chose to accept the risks when they put the uniform on. Killing civilians in job lots sits poorly with me.”

“Ugh, fine... well, if you change your mind then the bombs are there and you can go pick 'em up to use against whatever you feel like.” The spy reaches out and places a bit of paper on Aznan's garden table.

“Thank you for your consideration but I doubt we will,” Aznan replies. “Please, allow me to escort you out.”

As Aznan watches the spy walking up the garden path to the secret door out of his compound, he curls his lips into a grimace. It would be so simple and clean to do what the spy suggests, get the bombs, point them at the target and unleash them... but clean for whom?

“That wasn't wise, Aznan,” Hassan Zafwan says behind him. “Out of all the time I've known you, I've never known you to be a philanthropist, particularly where the Equestrian mutants are concerned.” He growls, and Aznan shrugs.

“I'm not... walk with me,” Aznan says darkly, turning and walking through the garden. The policeman follows in the general's wake, head tilted in confusion. As they step through the balmy Tarhen evening and the wind whispers through the fronds of the weeping willow at the rear of the garden, Aznan leads Zafwan out across the grass.

“Right... in simple terms, I'm not nearly as concerned about the wholesale butchery of Equestrians as I am about that butchery being rather neatly laid upon our hands. The United Federation would have a hold on us, a hold that is both incontrovertible and deadly, for it would not take much for that hold to become a crushing grip... Zafwan, I hate Equestria but I fear the Federation. I do not trust the Eternal Princesses for much, but I can at least trust them to negotiate in good faith. I cannot trust the Federation even that far,” Aznan explains, gazing thoughtfully at the tree, scratching his chin.

Zafwan shakes his head. “You're thinking about this too much, I still think you made the wrong decision but you're the leader. Aznan, can you think about this offer please, for me?”

“I suppose I can, for the sake of an old friend,” Aznan says after a second. “I will have plenty of time to think about it over the next week or so when I shake the dust of this miserable city off my sandals and go back home for a few days. I have to say the notion of Canterlot in flames appeals to me, perhaps more than it should.” A faint predatory smile spreads across Aznan’s lips.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to shrug off the Federation’s generosity… Zafwan, I’ll give you a concrete answer in a couple of days, I want to think this one through. It’d get us our war, but it’d also let the feddies set the tone, and I’m not sure I want that.”

Zafwan nods and shrugs, before reaching for his cigarette case. His eyes linger on Aznan as he sticks a cigarette between his teeth, and flicks open his lighter.

“It’s your revolution.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 9: Forcing the Issue Estimated time remaining: 3 Hours, 29 Minutes