Colonel South scowled. Civilians! Bad with intel, worse with pay, always screwing something up and getting my men killed!

 

He said none of these things aloud, though a perceptive man could have read them plainly on his face. His employer, Margrave Worcester-Cholmondeley ("Call me W-C!") was not a perceptive man.

 

"Oh, don't look so gloomy!" the margrave said, slapping him on his shoulder -- his bad shoulder. It stung even through the powered combat armor. "Today's the day, eh? Just swung by to watch the action, see what my money's buying, don'tcherknow."

 

South grunted. "Not much to see."

 

Mystification radiated from W-C's face. "You don't have a video display, one of those map thingummies?"

 

South shook his head. "Expensive. Besides, I can monitor better by sound. Computers can deceive you; they show you was, not is."

 

"What about watching? Directing battle from hilltops, kind of thing."

 

"If all goes according to plan, I won't need to." I've seen more than enough slaughter for one lifetime, he thought.

 

W-C frowned, moon face contorting behind his massive mustache. "Seems a waste, that. Still, things could always go wrong." He brightened a bit. South's face darkened.

 

An aide hurried over. "Sir, update from the ambush site. The lure worked. The killing ground is filling up faster than expected."

 

"Tell Petersen to use his judgment," South replied. That's what good officers are there for.

 

The aide scurried back to the radios, and W-C's brows creased. "If you're just going to let him run the battle..." he began.

 

"Then what's my job?" South forced a grimace that would have terrified small children, but the margrave saw only a smile. "When things go wrong."

 

"Surely it's if, not when."

 

South barked a brief laugh. "Not in my experience, Your Lordship. Something always—"

 

The rest of his sentence was drowned by sustained gunfire from uphill. The two men waited. Silence.

 

"Killing ground pacified," called the aide.

 

"Acknowledged."

 

The margrave's eyes went wide. "Surely, it's not over already!"

 

South shook his head. "No. From the dimensions of the ambush site, we estimated perhaps ten thousand of the insectoids would—"

Another blast of gunfire.

 

"Captain Petersen reports a second wave, smaller than the first."

 

South's eyes narrowed. "How much smaller?" The aide hesitated, and he snapped, "Ask him, dammit!"

 

"What—" began W-C, only to be silenced by a flapping hand.

 

"Fifteen hundred," reported the aide.

 

South cursed. "Tell him to disengage, forward element first, arming A-P mines behind them. Redeploy at second site, reinforcing both flanks."

 

"I don't understand," said W-C.

 

"They're not behaving like a mindless horde," South explained. "We expected either a retreat or a second, more ferocious wave. They sent a diversion."

 

Seeing incomprehension in the civilian's eyes, he went on. "Look, the first ten thousand failed, right? An animal's instinct would be to either run away or, more likely, send more, and faster. We'd planned to reuse this site to engage them at least five times, reducing their numbers by ten percent in total. Instead, they sent in enough to hold our attention but not enough to win."

 

"Which means..."

 

"They're aware of basic tactics. These creatures are more intelligent than we'd bargained on."

 

"But surely—"

 

Another burst of gunfire sounded, followed by several sharp explosive pops.

 

"That'll be another group to distract us, then their main force trying to flank ours." South scowled, thinking furiously.

 

"But they've never shown signs of intelligence before," protested W-C. "Just mindless wave attacks before every harvest."

 

"Yes, you said. Smart enough to collect the food before you sent it off-world, you'll notice."

 

"So, you knew—"

 

"The possibility occurred to me," South said, grinning his non-smile again. "That's my job, remember? When the enemy does the unexpected, I anticipate him." Gods, how I need a drink!

 

"Ah. You've already got a plan, then." The margrave was beaming again.

 

"Always. A lot depends on just how smart they turn out to be. Which, as you might have gathered, will depend on their next move. By now our force has redeployed in the second ambush position, and the insectoid troops will eventually advance, and run into the second trap."

 

He'd confused the poor man again. "I'll react differently based on how they advance," he explained further.

 

"Ah. I see," lied the margrave politely. "Well, then — is there anything I should be doing?"

 

South looked at him squarely. "I warned you two weeks ago to prepare for evacuation, just in case. Did you?"

 

"Well, I—"

 

More gunfire from uphill, long sustained bursts that went on and on, occasionally getting louder, then quieter. A few explosions punctuated the blasts. The two men listened, but only one of them truly understood. After a while, he frowned. A minute later, he sighed.

 

"That's what I was afraid of," South told his employer. "They're intelligent, all right, and we might lose this engagement. Prepare the evacuation."

 

"But... but surely there's something—"

 

"Not anymore," South snapped. "There was. When you hired us, you could have accepted my recommendation and brought in the full regiment. Instead, you decided to save money and only pay for two companies."

 

The margrave blinked soberly, processing the unpleasant information. "Not much of a savings at that, I suppose, if we lose the harvest anyway," he replied. "What will you do now?"

 

"Earn my fee."

 

As the margrave fled to alert his people, the colonel gave a signal to his staff. Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran to collect helmets and weapons.

 

South pulled out a small pewter flask and took a short pull, then a second. He capped it regretfully and set it down, then pulled on his helmet, attached it to his combat armor, and powered up comms.

 

"Shuttles one and three, prep for evac. You'll be coming in hot. Shuttles two and four... burn the crops in the fields, then join the evac team. Headquarters squad, assemble."

 

He changed the channel. "We're on our way, boys. Hang on; we're coming to get you."