[ WP ] Write the Sci-fi version of a medieval battle .

With a flash the apparition flickered into reality. 
 
 Nearly 600 meters bow to stern, the ship's massive flank shone in the light of the systems star. Along it's length, drop ships nested like remoras. With the dull thud of unlocking docking arms, the drop ships uncoupled and turned towards the system's' lone inhabited planet. Their appearance did not go unnoticed however. 
 
 Lieutenant Friedrich Von Amling, second in line to the throne, marched into the darkened command room. Great banks of computers lined the walls while power and cooling cables crisscrossed the floor. The HQ was a bustle of movement. Adjutants ran back and forth, bearing documents and files to their officers. The young noble marched up to the senior officer in the command bunker and smartly saluted. 
 
 `` Lieutenant Von Amling reporting as ordered sir!'' The older man sketched a salute and then lowered his head back to the flickering holotable. His wrinkled eyes squinted into the harsh light blue of the holograms. `` Good morning son. Your brother Kurt is already with his unit. His mixed battalion of mechs and tanks will be positioned in the village of Dieppe. There they will engage the enemy as they land. With the city built into the mountain and AA batteries so heavy, they will need to take it by a frontal assault. Your lance will be held in reserve, to act as a reserve. More information will be sent to you as the situation develops. Any questions?'' `` No father, Sir.'' The man nods satisfied. `` Good. I suggest you see to your mech and your men. Dismissed.'' With another parade ground salute, the son exited the HQ, leaving the officers and their aides to their herculean task. 
 
 He makes his way to the hanger moving through the crowd of civilians. The outlying villages have been evacuated and the populace is being directed into the massive shelters dug into the mountain. The titanium ore that lured immigrants here left massive tunnels and caverns empty. Though it was a heavy tax, the installation of fresh air ducts and lighting along with water pipes is a godsend to the people, as are the massive blast doors installed. They can hold half a million souls in safety. Two hundred thousand more than the entire population of the continent. The builders were thinking ahead. 
 
 He arrives at the hanger and past the salutes of the MP's. Going into the ready room, he removes his uniform and dons his equipment. Ragged cargo shorts and an ancient t-shirt make up his combat clothes. A cooling vest and a neuro-helmet he also pulls out of his locker. Shrugging on the heavy vest, he makes his way into the main hanger. Sparks fly as mechanics and technicians make last minute repairs. The whine of power tools and smell of spilt oil and coolant fill the air. Forgoing a lift, he climbs up the flank of his mech manually and drops down into his seat. Plugging in his cooling vest and his helmet, diagnostics and other readings scroll forth from his screens. He checks the displays and adjusts the mech until the statuses are green. He rotates the torso to the right and left, nodding satisfied at the smooth motion. He aims his left arm, the mounted Rotary Autocannon follows his gaze. He rolls his right arm. The mounted mace does as well. He gives a thumbs up signal to the waiting mechanic, who then raises twin glow rods. Guiding the mech, he leads it out of the hanger and into the rising dawn. The battle has begun. 
 
 Six hours later. The tide has turned against them. The initial landings of the foe were one of disorganization and Friedrich's brother took advantage of the chaos, tearing into the dismounting forces. A running battle took place over the rich fields of corn and sugar beets. Numerous mechs and tanks fell or were otherwise forced to retire. The charred and burnt out remains dotted the plains for miles. Lieutenant Von Amling threw his lance into the fray, accounting for several mechs and many more vehicles. One of his own mechs was destroyed and another one crippled. There is a lull in the fighting, as both sides seek to catch their breaths and to rearm and regroup. His brother was taken to a hospital. Spalling from missile strikes struck him. It was a miracle he did n't bleed out in his cockpit. Now the enemy forces are gathering, preparing to mount the final attack to seize the city. The leader of the enemy can be seen in his mech, instilling the attackers with words of encouragement. His father is considering terms of surrender. The young noble will hear none of that. Ignoring protests he climbs back into his mech and walks it out of the underground hanger and into the later afternoon sun. 
 
 `` This is Baron Friedrich Von Amling, Lieutenant of the Duke's Own Camden Hussars. Who leads this force?'' A moment passes before the open channel crackles. `` This is Knight-Colonel Alan Samuel of Count de Bernham's host. I lead this action.'' `` Sir Alan. It is my intention to challenge you to single combat if you so choose to accept it.'' There is another pause. `` Very well Lord Friedrich. I accept. Do you wish to begin now or at later time of your choosing.'' `` Now if it would not inconvenience you sir.'' `` Very well let us begin.'' 
 
 They start a kilometer away from each other. Their two mechs walking slowly towards the other. Lieutenant Von Amling's mech has the greater range. Placing his target reticule over his opponent's mech, his thumb presses the firing switch, his rotary autocannon spits rounds downrange. Though plenty miss, enough find the foe and slam into armor, chipping away at plates. Another burst rips forth, more depleted uranium rounds contact with the enemy. Then the foe fires. Lasers scores across the young noble's armor, drawing angry red lines across the left torso. More firepower crosses the closing distance. Great swaths of armor of torn off from both opponents. The rotary cannon spins empty. His ranged weapon useless, he raises the massive four ton mace and charges in. The knight also has a melee weapon on his machine, a long and wicked two ton lance. He pours on speed. 
 
 The pair hurl themselves down the field, neither wavering, both intent on destroying the other. The lance of the foe finds purchase first, tearing into the Lieutenant's left arm, shearing it clean off. The amputated limb drops to the ground. Von Amling replies with a smashing blow that crumples the enemy's missile launcher. Secondary explosions from the ammo rip into the hull of the mech. Another mace swing collapses the foe's left knee. In return, the lance stabs deep into the torso of Amling's mech. Another mace swing connects with the foe's head, stunning the pilot. Lieutenant Von Amling takes this opportunity to unleash a torrent of blows. Hammering down on the helpless mech with a half dozen strikes. Armor is almost non existent on the enemy's mech. Eventual the foe breaks away from the melee and lowers his battered machine to the ground, powering it down in surrender. `` Baron Friedrich. I yield. The field is yours. Cease your attack.'' 
 
 The young noble wipes the perspiration from his brow. He is drenched in sweat. `` Very well, I accept your surrender. With respect to your bravery and skill at arms. I permit you and your men to depart this world peacefully. Any machines that can not move under their own power are to be left here, as spoils. Do you agree?'' `` I agree to these terms. Thank you. We will leave by nightfall. I congratulate you on your victory. It was well won.'' `` Thank you. Depart in peace. I hope we will not see each other again soon. Lieutenant Von Amling out.'' 
 
 The noble steers his battered machine back towards the city, to the waiting arms of its cheering people. Their young warrior has protected them for another day. Such is the price for his position in life. With his rank and status, he must shield the people from harm, with his own body is required. There is a reason for the statement, noblesse oblige. Nobility obliges. It is his duty.
