Chapter 26: Challenge Nothing but My Dukedom

“Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,
As being well content with that alone.”
- Edward, Duke of York, Henry VI Part III Act IV Scene VII

Lieutenant Christopher Janke marched into the officers’ wardroom sharp at 09:32 hours on this early May day. He discovered that all his fellow lieutenants were present and waiting for him, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the new arrival and smirks playing at the corners of their mouths. Only Lieutenant Whitefeather was seated, the rest standing behind him like acolytes. On the wall behind them, the range scores of the twenty platoons from the just-concluded April competition were listed in order, from highest to lowest. The bottom four platoons all belonged to Janke’s 2nd Company.

“What’s this?” Janke demanded.

“We had a little competition last month to see whose platoon was the best shot,” Lieutenant Cho explained.

Lieutenant Boland glanced at the list behind him briefly. “Doesn’t look too good for 2nd Company, does it?”

Lieutenant Lacey didn’t take his eyes off Janke. “Now that you mention it, no. In fact, it looks like they got quite royally skunked. None out of the bottom four.”

“In fact,” Cho observed, “it looks like Lieutenant Whitefeather’s Second Platoon took top honours, followed by his First Platoon.”

The rest of the platoons’ scores were tightly grouped together, slightly below the 1st Platoon, 3rd Company. Janke’s four platoons trailed distantly.

Janke’s face became suffused with purple. “What? Well, we’ll see about that. Is this competition still happening?”

Whitefeather’s grin grew. He remained silent, his eyes not breaking contact.

“Let’s,” suggested Boland. “Best platoon gets forty-eight hours off to wear out their concubines.”

“Oh, and there’s a new challenge this month, too,” Lacey informed Janke. “Grenade practice. Accuracy and distance.”

“You’re on!” Janke exclaimed. His voice became a growl as he stared back at Whitefeather’s dancing eyes. “You’re gonna lose so bad.” He stomped out of the wardroom he’d just arrived in.

“That boy is still seventeen years old,” Whitefeather murmured at the closed door as his fellow officers snickered. “And he acts like it.” He turned to the rest as they resumed co-ordinating their training schedules. “Hope he grows out of it soon, or his first battle will be his last.”

Colonel Robert Palmer was doing something he rarely did: go on an inspection tour. It spoke to his boredom more than any sense of duty.

He was discovering that in the four months since the last draft of men had arrived, the base had changed out of all recognition. In a few days the second dome would be ready to inflate – he didn’t understand why the delay, but at last that work would be done. The village’s once arrow-straight trenches had been modified into a zigzag pattern, with firing pits for machine guns and communications trenches in the same zigzag leading back to the colony proper. Three lines of barbed wire stood in front of the trenches, followed by a large bare area, smoothed, tamped and gently sloping away from the base. An automated machine about the size of an LSC-101 Corgi dune buggy was busily drilling metal poles and stringing barbed wire just outside this smoothed and sloped area, making a fourth row.

He didn’t know it, but this long, sloped area was loaded with highly explosive land mines, each capable of taking out the proposed new Rommel main battle tank. It was also capable of directing its blast in the direction of whatever had disturbed it, be it above or below ground. It could also go into wide-dispersal mode. What explosion it chose depended on a set of preprogrammed responses to stimuli. The mines weren’t self-aware, so the programming was quite rudimentary, but it worked to make the weapon much more lethal – and capable of taking on mining operations such as the Swarm were suspected of being capable of. And right now, they were set to “off”, making the minefield almost safe.

He jumped down into the trench in front of him. There were two alert men standing on the firing parapet who nodded at him as he landed, never taking their eyes off the horizon. The markings on their shoulders identified them as belonging to the Third Squad, Fifth Company – Lieutenant Lacey’s men. Lacey’s sergeant, Nicholson, approached him and saluted. Like his men, the sergeant was dressed in a chameleon suit and body armour.

“Sir,” Sergeant Nicholson said in low tones as he saluted. “All quiet and correct, Sir.”

Palmer looked at the trench. It looked neat and tidy and ready for inspection – or for battle. Before, the arrow-straight trenches had smooth sides. Now, purpose-built niches held a ready supply of ammunition, medical kits and stretchers sized for the standard Marine bulk. Duckboard had been fitted into the trench floor, providing a smooth base for the troops on picquet. A doorway, about half the height of a Marine, was inset into the side of the trench – the outer side, he noted, meaning that anyone trying to attack that bunker would have to come right up to the lip of the trench before being able to turn a weapon onto it.

“What’s in there?” he demanded.

“Assembly point Three-Three-Alfa-One-Two,” Sergeant Nicholson smoothly replied.

Might as well see what’s in there, he decided. “Let’s go in here.”

Down a few short steps, the stairs took a right-angle turn, then ran down a short corridor to another right-angle turn. He sensed he was now behind the trench. On his right was yet another hatchway, which opened into a large room. Two more doors, one opposite him and the other to the left, graced the room. A communications console with a couple of chairs occupied a corner. Ammunition boxes lined one wall, more medical equipment filled a corner, while another corner held a set of transporter nexuses and a control console.

“Over here, Sir,” Sergeant Nicholson offered. Beside the transporter nexus station, the circle of a lift glowed. It was larger than the standard lift in the pods, Palmer noted.

The lift lowered them to a second level, which proved to be the magazine. Enough laser rifles to equip a company graced the walls, shelves groaned with ammunition of all types – grenades, crystals for laser rifles, shells for mortars, 50-calibre rounds for the sniper rifles, and yet more.

“Each company has its own bunker?” Palmer asked, impressed.

“Each platoon, Sir,” the sergeant corrected politely. “There are three along each company’s stretch of trench, and a fourth in reserve along one of the communications trenches.”

“Oh,” Palmer nodded in comprehension. “Where do those other stairs go?”

Nicholson pointed to the hatch opposite to their entry point. “That one is along the primary trench. The other one connects to the communications trench.”

As he emerged into the daylight again, a boom could be heard in the distance.

“Wonder what that could be?” Palmer asked rhetorically.

Beside him, Sergeant Nicholson’s face took on a faraway look. “Sir, it’s coming from Range Poussée de Mons.”

“Oh, where is that?” For that matter, Colonel Palmer wondered, WHAT was that? Range WHAT?

“Sir, about thirty-four kilometres that way.” The sergeant pointed off in the distance. “The bunker there is equipped with a transporter nexus, if you are interested in checking it out.”

“Oh, I’m interested,” Colonel Palmer replied.

As he stepped off the transporter nexus in the bunker at Range Poussée de Mons, a cry came out. “ROOM!”

Palmer found himself saluting Lieutenant Whitefeather, Sergeant Bryce and a young girl he couldn’t identify. She was young and black, wearing the Cadet Corps green coveralls with a corporal’s chevrons on the sleeve. “Carry on,” he responded.

“Thank you, Sir,” Whitefeather responded politely. He turned to the girl. “Are we ready for the next test?”

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

“Colonel Palmer, you’re just in time. We’re testing the new gun/howitzer, with the auto reloader feature. You may recall that the last drone from Earthat contained these specifications?”

Palmer nodded, trying to look sage. Truth be told, he hadn’t even glanced at most of the updated equipment specifications – maybe he should do so in the future.

Whitefeather turned to the young cadet and addressed her with grave formality. “Corporal Hopson, you may begin the test.”

“Sir.” She moved to a control console near the large thick armoured glass that overlooked the firing point. A list appeared on the console, and she touched the first line with her stylus. “AI, is the range clear?”