Chapter 33: Royal Battle

God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,
Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
- Earl of Westmoreland, Henry V, Act IV, Scene 3

Colonel Robert Palmer felt a fillip of fear as he strode into his command bunker. Finally, he’d be able to prove himself in battle, but just like any number of warriors before him, he was entering the unknown and couldn’t be sure that when he reached for that “right stuff”, it would be there.

He removed and looked at the standard issue helmet with distaste – it looked like a high-tech version of the British Mark III “turtle” helmet from World War II, with various battlefield intelligence and communications features and an ability identical to the chameleon suits to adapt to whatever camouflage the local terrain demanded. A metallic shield dangled from it irritatingly, similar to Roman helmets, providing protection against side blows. He had to wonder why, with the implants every soldier had, he needed to fart around with the technology, as it seemed to just create additional weight without assisting the wearer – not realizing it backed up the AI should its ability to communicate be impaired or destroyed. Dismissing it as useless in the confines of the command bunker, he shoved it dismissively on a shelf and placed his kepi on his head instead.

“Tactical,” he commanded. He’d heard someone say that in a movie once. The board in front of him erupted with data, far too confusing for his untrained mind to make sense of. But it looked important, so he feigned wisdom as he regarded the mass of confusing lines and arcs. “All regimental commanders check in.”

“First Company, ready,” Boland advised from his command post.

“Second Company, ready,” Janke responded. To his annoyance, his excitement made his voice squeak. Beside him, his company waited by the two Leopards that would carry them into battle.

“Third Company, ready, aye, ready,” Whitefeather responded – the response that Canada had sent to the Mother Country in August of 1914, not that Palmer recognized the remark as being of historical significance. It was to Whitefeather and Hopson and possibly some of the men and women of the Third, that would have to do. Not realizing he was still broadcasting, Whitefeather added, “AI, ETA on the Swarm sphere?”

The colony defence AI responded with its usual lack of emotion. “As of last telemetry, we can anticipate hive sphere arrival in thirty-seven minutes, twelve seconds.” Everyone gulped at that.

“Fourth Company, ready, aye, ready,” Cho added, trying to imitate the professional, clipped tone and words of Whitefeather.

“Fifth Company,” Lacey said as his eyes scanned the trenches in front of him, “ready to light this dumpster fire.”

Whitefeather added additional checks. “All batteries ready?”

Cadet Sergeant Kerri Hopson looked at Callie Whitefeather, who stood behind her in Artillery Control. Callie nodded, and Kerri spoke into her headset microphone: “Artillery ready to respond. All cannon loaded, reloads ready.”

“We only get one shot per port,” Whitefeather reminded her, “so as soon as it cracks out the rounds, strike it below and move it to the next firing position. Don’t wait for orders, and don’t bother trying to reload at that station. Assume that the enemy has already got it zeroed in and is sending rounds that way.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

By the Panthers, Janke addressed his men. “We’ve still got some time. Check your gear and your buddy’s gear. We don’t want to miss a shot at a Swarmtrooper. Remember the ‘want of a horseshoe nail’ horseshit.”

His men snickered darkly, and for the umpteenth time double-checked every piece of kit they had. They were eager to come to grips with the Sa’arm.

They still had a lot to learn. As yet, only Sergeant Gregory McKell knew how much they didn’t know. He masked his fear as best he could.

Lieutenant William Whitefeather was now patrolling along the perimeter his unit was holding. For the thousandth time, he tried to think of something else he could do to prepare, something that would even the desperately long odds. Anything.

But try as he might, there was nothing. His bag of tricks was fully deployed. It rested on the training, the lessons he’d tried to impart on these men and women of the utterly misnamed, horribly undermanned half-battalion-sized “brigade”. He was reduced to cursing the immovable, foolish determination of the Governor to surrender the colony.

The Third Marine Brigade did not have long to wait.

“My old friend,” T’klikrooz ventured with a fear-induced trill, “I believe that company has arrived. There is a hyperdrive signature forming on the ecliptic, on the night side of the planet.”

T’kliktguul’s orbit was just coming up to the terminator from the day side of the planet, and therefore his view of the spot was blocked by the bulk of Atalanta. Before he could get into a viewing position, though, he heard a muttering from his old companion.

“Shit!” came the voice of Captain Singh. “Attention, Third Brigade Headquarters! They’re here! Hive sphere has just come through. No sign of any other ships, though.”

“Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, make an orbit around the battle station, best speed. Put that station between yourselves and that hive sphere!” barked Captain Becker. To his helmsman, he added, “Follow Guildenstern. Flank speed.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” With practiced speed, the helmsman set

T’kliktguul quickly broke orbit and peeled off. T’klikrooz cut his orbit rather fine against the planet’s atmosphere and pushed himself past the terminator, heading toward the day side, the battle station, and relative safety.

The hive sphere had no choice but to ignore the comparatively tiny, unarmed colony transports due to battle damage to its thrusters from CSS Barnard Castle. It could not remain long in orbit before it was incapable of landing safely at all. Instead, it slowed its tremendous speed by aerobraking, looking for any sign of organic and hydrological resources on the planet below as the atmosphere clawed away at its immense speed. By the time it was slowed enough to do anything to orbital spacecraft, all three Auroras were far out of range, and indeed out of sight.

A sonic boom echoed across the colony’s sparse defences, as a bright fireball arced overhead. All the defenders seemed to be chanting, “Burn, baby, burn!”

Whitefeather didn’t believe in stupid chants, despite knowing his great-grandmother would have considered it heresy. Instead, he was a believer in getting real data and basing his actions on that. He subvocally quizzed the base AI, ‘Status of hive sphere currently entering the atmosphere? Will they be a threat when they land?’

“Sensors indicate the hive sphere will successfully land, with an eight-point-three percent probability of damage upon landing. Casualties among on-board crew, assuming the crew are Sa’arm, will be minimal. Conclusion: The crew of the hive sphere will be numerous and fully battle-capable; therefore, they will be a threat.”

Regrettably, the enormous globe’s landing rockets fired off at just the right position. It settled down on the far side of a nearby rille.

Whitefeather stayed subvocal. “AI, first, was the landing successful? And second, is the landing site in range of our artillery?”

“Leftenant William Whitefeather, the landing was successful. The landing site is just out of artillery range.”

Whitefeather’s heart sank. Now they’d have to fight. “OK, everyone, battle stations,” his voice rang out to the entire brigade. “They’ve landed, they’re out of range, and they’re going to start unloading.” He turned his attention to the artillery crews. As the youngest and least experienced, they’d need the most comforting. “Attention all batteries, don’t fire until ordered. Don’t give away your guns’ positions until it’ll do the most good.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” Callie responded. Beside her, Cadet Sergeant Kerri Hopson nodded fiercely in acknowledgement of Whitefeather’s order.

Young Lieutenant Janke wasn’t nearly as disciplined as the cadets were, nor were his men. Filled with youthful bravado and braggadocio, plus an unhealthy sense of their own immortality, all but Sergeant Gregory McKell. He’d been listening to Whitefeather’s lessons and watched several graphic documentaries of past wars. He had no desire to leave his two concubines widowed and their infants orphaned.

“We are scouting force!” Janke called to his men. “Right?”

The company gave an enthusiastic yell of agreement. McKell winced as he realized his commanding officer was about to do something so monumentally ill-advised that dit could cost the colony the entire company.

“Then let’s go scouting! Hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em low, hit ‘em now!” As the mob of barely trained airborne infantry growled as menacingly as they could, he added, “Mount up!”

The first hint that Whitefeather had of anything unplanned happening was the sound of Panther engines quietly growling. He was standing on the parapet of a nearby trench, so had a reasonably commanding view of the Panthers’ landing pads – an area that the irreverent referred to as “the litterbox”.

“Now what does that foul and pestilent congregation of vapours think he’s up to this time?” he pondered. “Leftenant Janke, stand down,” he ordered. “We’ll need you when the big show begins.”

“I’m the senior lieutenant, Lieutenant.” Whitefeather did a double wince. He preferred the Canadian pronunciation of his rank, plus to acknowledge that the cocky little spratling, a virgin at war, as being his superior was beneath the pale. Mere days ago, the tyro had been listening to his elders; now, he was pretending to be the elder. He’d learn soon enough when the enemy smacked his butt. Whitefeather could only hope that the little lordling and his men would survive the experience. It was a faint hope indeed.

“I’m going to save the base. See you soon!”

The two Panthers rose and darted down into the rille heading in a nap-of-the-earth flight path toward the Sa’arm landing site.

“Dammit,” Whitefeather bit back. “There goes our reserve.”

Sergeant Hopkins glanced at the Iroquois beside him. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Whitefeather nodded soberly.

Over the subvocal link, they heard Colonel Palmer’s voice. “Go get ‘em, tiger!!”

The Panthers sped toward their date with destiny, half of the company in the first with their commanding officer, the remainder in the trailing craft with the company’s senior NCO. It took almost an hour for the pair to travel down the rill to a reasonably close pop-up point near the grounded sphere.

The ground sensors relayed to the vessels the relative locations of the Panthers and their target. As they approached the point where they’d pop into visibility of the sphere’s occupants, Janke and McKell had their men charge the RLA-10 door guns.

“OK, everyone ready? Now!” And with those words Janke nodded to the two pilots, and the lead Panther popped out of the rille and charged arrow-like toward the hive sphere.

The sight was sobering. “My god, that’s big!” one private observed in awe.

The door gunners leaned out and started firing just as the trailing Panther popped out of cover itself. McKell had to agree with the anonymous private. The hive sphere was big. He had been so terrified on the trip out he thought he’d vomit, but now all thoughts of his stomach were subsumed in the need to concentrate on the task at hand.

The Sa’arm were now firing back, not only with whatever they were using as small arms but with larger ordnance as well. One fireball cleared the starboard door of Janke’s Panther, exploding inside and turning the entire craft into a giant incinerator. The men in the very back of the compartment didn’t even realize they were hit before they completely carbonized. Others fought to put out the flames consuming their bodies. Janke’s world vaporized around him as the Panther nosed into the ground and exploded.

McKell yelled out, “Turn us around! We’re going to hit them!” The pilots in his Panther managed to redirect the craft long enough to throw off the fire of the Sa’arm for a moment and managed to make it back to the comparative safety of the rille. They pushed the throttles as hard as they dared as they darted back along the low depression back home.

“You’re an atheist. How can you handle this much pain, this much death?”

He looked at her for a moment, pondering his next words. “You know me. I have a scientific bent. I need to see the truth, unpleasant though it may be. And the scientific method is the best way we’ve yet found to get that. Even the Confederacy has used and continues to use the self-same scientific method that put humans on the Moon, or at least their AI do. They discovered all the basic laws of the universe that we have, and more. A lot – a huge lot – of their scientific theories either are logical extensions of our own theories or are so close to those we’ve developed as makes no difference.”