Marcel Vasseur was enjoying the privileges of rank. Being the senior NCO of his platoon meant he could pop out of the hatches of the landcruiser, as the metal behemoth made its way across the Swedish countryside.

To his left and right, more of the metal horde moved across the bare fields. Fifty feet long turtles of steel plating rolling on independent spiky wheels across the churning ground. In the distance, a few desultory flashes of light and smoke betrayed a small light cannon battery, trying a rearguard action to stop the advancing French forces. One of the side landcruisers was already heading toward the location; if the swede did not run away, it would soon discharge its troops to fall on the hapless battery.

The three dozen of Vasseur’s platoon remained huddled in the heart of the clanking carriage. The armoured assault carriers of the Sixth French Legion were huge beasts, warmed with Power Crystals against the cold of Swedish fall weather, but Vasseur much preferred not being copped in the tiny seats with the yellow lighting of Crystal lamps.

For weeks, he’d thought they were going to finally assault the rosbifs. All rumours were flowing as forces were mobilized, and he’d left sunny Carcassonne for the cold marches of Flanders. Then, the troop had started to move, but northward rather than across the Channel. And now, the Steel Type 3 wheels of the brand new assault landcruisers were churning Swedish fields as the tide of metal was moving relentlessly northeast.

“How far we are?” Marcel asked downward, to the driver.

The gruff veteran merely replied, “A bit closer than last time.”

Vasseur snorted, then returned to watching. More forest area coming up, which meant the cruisers would start to shuffle their line to pass through it. The enemy army had tried to stop them a few times during those manoeuvres, but failed, and Vasseur did not expect much problems there.

Although it would be good for the guys if there was an engagement and they’d pour out of the landcruiser to rush the opposition. Being stuck in a Vinci Beast was not the most comfortable place to be, even though it meant you were safe.

“Your Highness, the enemy has been sighted,” the messenger announced as Gustav IV, Monarch of Sweden was trying to eat one last meal in peace.

The man sighed, looking at his squirming marshals.

“I wonder if this how the Tsar felt when the French rolled on Moscow in the middle of winter,” he said, to no one in particular.

None of the assembly answered. Most of them looked like they’d rather be anywhere, doing anything, instead of being cooped in the Royal Palace to attend the King.

“Come on, you know it ends like that. When you found out the French was discharging so many troops on our land fast, before British warships could interfere… tell me what you would have done better?”

One of the marshals answered, “At least, your family is safe, my King.”

“And that’s the very first thing we did when we learned of the attack. My Frederica, my son, my daughters rushed on carriage to the west coast in Norway. Where hopefully a British vessel may yet carry them to exile. A good thing we did, before even a single shot having been fired.”

He finally dropped his cutlery and rose moving to the balcony overlooking the city. From there, there was no sign of the impending doom that would soon be rolling on the capital.

“The Crown will endure, your Highness,” another marshal tried to reassure his monarch.

“Well, it will. Like Spain, and Austria, and Russia, and all the others. I hear the gardens at the Village where Napoleon dumps all his royals near Versailles are nice. And restful. And peaceful.”

“We have plans to use the bridges of the city to…”

“I wonder why he decided to invade now. What opportunity or whim decided him to see Sweden added to his Dominion.”

The King sighed and turned, heading back into the Palace.

“Well, I may yet have the opportunity to ask him. Or one of his generals, at least.”