The Three Hogs

A humanoid, cased head to toe in blood red armor, stepped out of a tunnel and onto a flattened section of mountain.

The figure’s helmet was stylized into the head of a wild Terran boar, complete with ears, snout, and wicked tusks. With both hands, the figure reached up and removed the porcine helm, revealing an older woman with a scarred, weathered face. She shook out her long, auburn but rapidly greying hair. With eyes closed, she inhaled deeply through her nose.

The woman then opened her eyes to look out over the landscape. Tall, hardwood trees with dark brown boles and fiery red leaves crowded the mountain’s flanks all the way down. At the bottom, the vegetation changed dramatically; something like a sea of dull honey encompassed the mount all the way to the horizon.

The woman glanced back to see another crimson figure emerge from the tunnel behind her. The newcomer removed its hog’s head to reveal a man, who tucked the helm under his left arm.

“Razorbacks, Colonel,” he declared, and threw the woman a crisp salute with his right hand.

“Razorbacks,” the Colonel replied, adding, “You know better than to salute officers in the field, Major. You trying to get me shot?”

“We’ve run all enemy off the planet ma’am.” the Major reported and lowered his salute. “There is no one left to shoot our exalted Queen B. Congratulations on your victory, by the way.”

“Eh,” the woman shrugged, “I won’t relax till we’re all off this ignorant rock. How goes the evacuation?”

“Headquarters and Support Companies have all been evacuated ma’am, with the obvious exception of us two.”

“You should have gone with them Major,” the Colonel protested, “Obviously, I’ll be last to leave. But if something unfortunate were to happen to… our exalted Queen B, as you so eloquently put it… my equally exalted Executive Officer could take over the battalion.”

“Three Razorback line companies remain on this world, ma’am. Without them, there’s no battalion for me to take over. Besides, as our highest-ranking man, you still need me to talk to the Elders.”

“Ugh!” the woman spat and shook her head. “These backward, Cro-Magnon troglodytes…!”

“Karen Winters,” Morris chided, smiling, “With all due respect, you knew damn well the Aramani treated their women like pets before you took their money.”

“Most people treat their pets better,” Winters hissed, “And you recommended the contract, Terry Morris!”

“I recommended this contract because I know how you love to fight for underdogs and the oppressed, as it makes you feel better about your chosen profession. Well, these people have inhabited this planet for centuries, and now they are being chased off their home by a greedy, soulless megacorporation.”

“I get why Carneia wants ironwood and prowheat. Ironwood is stronger than titanium, lighter than aluminum, and ultra-rare because it only grows on this planet’s active volcanoes. And 100 grams of prowheat flour provides all the nutrition an adult needs per day; or a kilo for ten days. Ideal for long starship journeys where space is at a premium.”

“Also, a cheap way for bureaucrats to feed soldiers,” Morris sniffed. “That’s one of the many reasons I became a mercenary. In the Praxis Campaign, the brass had the gall to feed us prowheat gruel breakfast, lunch, and dinner for weeks on end, and then punish us when we got mad about it.”

Colonel Winters arched an eyebrow, asking, “Didn’t you fight for the Ashanti Republic? The Ashanti are about the closest you can get to ‘good guys’ in all of Human Space.”

“Ugh,” Morris groaned. “Everyone wants to make the Ashanti out to be a flock of angels. The truth is, the Republic is a government, and when you fight for a government, you’re fighting to make a small group of people nowhere near combat far richer than they already are. Well, if I’m going to risk my life for money, it’s spacing well going to be my money!”

There was an audible rumble as the ground trembled beneath the two mercenaries. Both shifted their booted feet in a well-practiced dance to remain upright till the quaking ceased.

“Remember when that used to freak us out?” quipped Morris with a grin.

Colonel Winters felt her helm tremble against her. She glanced at Morris and realized he felt the same sensation. Without another word, both donned their headcover.

Inside the helm, Winter noticed new data had been added to the HUD (Heads Up Display). In addition to GPS data, temperature, Standard time and date, and 360-degree sensor info, a certain symbol blinked, alerting her that an encrypted burst text had just been received. The list of recipients included only her and her Executive Officer; none of the other Razorbacks or the allied Aramani had been notified. Winters opened a panel on the side of her helmet and by well-practiced feel, fingered in the password that would decrypt the message. What she saw scrawling across the inside of her faceplate in glowing letters made her blood run cold.

“I must speak to the Elders,” she blurted, “in person!”

“Yeah, no kidding,” the Major agreed, and they both strode back toward the tunnel entrance, Morris careful to keep slightly behind his Commander.

Just as they were about to reenter the tunnel, another armored pighead in red, shorter than either of them, rushed out, forcing Winters and Morris to an awkward halt. Colonel Winters could tell by the markings on the armor that the soldier hailed from 4th Platoon, Bacon Company. She could also read the soldier’s name and rank, in this case, Private Worthy. The Private had no medals or even a campaign ribbon -- obviously a recent recruit.

Worthy came to rigid attention and snapped a salute at the officers.

“Razorbacks, ma’am!” cried a female voice from the Private’s armor.

“Razorbacks,” Winters and Morris chorused together, answering with their own salutes.

But then Worthy raced off her porcine helmet, revealing a gorgeous young woman in distress.

Winters felt a pang of jealousy at the beauty of Private Worthy, but then mused how she was at least as pretty at that age. But most people, specifically most men, had difficulty taking Private Winters seriously precisely because she was so young and attractive. Now that she was a seasoned veteran and a famous military commander, Winters realized she wouldn’t change places with the younger woman for any number of credits.

“Colonel Winters!’ Worthy panted, “Ma’am, I need your help! I…”

“Private!” Morris snapped. “Go to your Platoon Leader, and if he can’t help, then your Company Commander. It’s called the chain of command, Solider; use it before I beat you with it!”

“As you were, Major,” Winters ordered, removing her own helmet. “How can I help you, Worthy?”

“Ma’am!” Morris protested, “We don’t have time for this…!”

“I’m making time. Speak your peace Private but make it snappy. I really am in a hurry.”

“It… it’s my children, ma’am. All three of them!”

Winters was taken aback. Worthy didn’t look old enough to have one child, much less three.

“My… my husband just sent… he sent me a Notice of Separation…” here, a sob escaped Worthy’s throat and she needed a second or two to compose herself. “Sorry ma’am. He um… well, he wants out of the marriage with full custody of the kids. Plus, he wants me to pay for everything! I… I need to go home Colonel like… right now!”

“Private Worthy,” Morris hissed, “We have a Legal Department for exactly these issues. Report to Legal and leave the Commander alone!”

“Sir! I can’t let that cheating freeloading loser steal my babies!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have babies before joining a mercenary company?”

“Did you make that consideration?” the Private spat. “Does any man?”

“Enough!” roared Winters. “Major Morris, you forget yourself; she was talking to me. Private Worthy, Major Morris is a senior officer, and you will accord him the proper respect.”

“Yes Ma’am. Sorry Major.”

“Private, I’m a soldier, not a lawyer. Legal is far more knowledgeable about your situation than I could ever be. So why come to me with this?”

“Because where I come from, some off-world shyster pleading my case won’t cut it, ma’am. I must be there in person. Dirk… my husband… claims my absence alone is reason enough for him to have sole custody. I want out, ma’am. I love the Razorbacks, God knows I do. But this job isn’t worth my kids, and only you can get me out of my contract.”

“Colonel, she’s one of our Two-Years,” Morris reported, “Got a year left on her contract.”

“A year?!!” Worthy wailed. “I thought it was just six months!”

“You’re using your home world’s months,” explained Morris. “The Razorbacks use Terran Standard Time, like everyone else. Well, everyone who matters.”

“I’m sorry, Private Worthy,” Winters sniffed. “But I can’t let you go. The contract is the contract, and in our business, contract is everything.”

“But Colonel Winters, I…”

“Trust Legal, Private. Don’t worry. They are very good, and at this point they’ve seen it all.”

“I’m losing my children,” Worthy quailed, tears in her eyes. “Have a heart, ma’am. Please!”

“You are dismissed. Private.”

“Razorbacks!” Worthy mewled before she snapped to attention, saluted, put on her helmet, and marched away.

“You were too easy on her,” Morris pouted. “We pay lawyers for a reason. If I were the Commander, I’d bust that idiot for wasting my time!”

“No doubt. But you are not the Commander.”

*

Winters and Morris burst unbidden into the torchlit Elder’s Chamber; a room carved from stone deep within the mountain.

There, seven old men glared at them, all seated around a polished table in thrones of ornate ironwood. Each wore long, embroidered robes and tall, conical caps. All except the man in the middle leapt to his feet and began shouting and spewing death threats in a cacophony of rage.

But the man in the middle, keeping his seat, slammed a wooden mallet down on the table with such a thunderous report, it silenced everyone.

“Major Morris,” declared the mallet man. “You saved planet Araman. Your death sentence is hereby commuted. The rest of you take your seats.”

“But Grand Patriarch!” one of the Elders brayed, the only one who hadn’t immediately sat back down. “How dare these filthy heathens…!”

“Silence, Elder Salim! He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important. Also, you’re either deaf or deliberately disobedient.”

Here, Salim sheepishly took his seat.

“Thank you, my Brother. Major Morris?”

“Sorry to disturb your Sacred Conclave Grand Patriarch…” Morris began.

“Take off those ridiculous pig helmets.”

The Razorbacks complied, and there were angry mutters at Winters’ revealed womanhood. The Grand Patriarch lightly tapped the table with his mallet, and the muttering died out.

“We’re leaving,” Morris explained. “An Earth fleet is coming. Old Earth, not the new one. Frankly, we must get out while we can.”

“But the Ashanti brought you to our world,” the Patriarch recalled. “Won’t they protect you?”

“The Ashanti contracted to bring us here and defend us from pirates in transit, not reignite a war with the single most powerful government in Human Space!”

“But we are not at war with Old Earth,” the Patriarch insisted. “Surely they will not attack us!”

“They won’t, but they ferry the Wolf Legion, providing them transportation and protection just like the Ashanti are doing for us.”

The Grand Patriarch took a deep breath and leaned back onto his throne before continuing.

“The Cleansers aimed to butcher my people, and you saved us,” he noted.

“With all due respect my father,” Salim sneered, “It was our own holy Army who sent the Cleansers packing, not these off-world unbelievers.”

“Your Army was trained and led by us,” Morris riposted, “as per contract. And it was we who defeated the Cleanser assault on this very mountain and saved every one of your lives!”

“This Wolf Legion,” mused the elderly Patriarch, “What will they do?”

“They want to capture the Elders – you -- and make you order everyone off this planet. Corneia Corporation has contracted transport ships to relocate your people.”

“And why would they do this?”

“Because Corneia wants your ironwood and prowheat. And they know they can only get the best yields from those crops in an environment that would be toxic to humans. It’s the same reason the Cleansers wanted you gone, except Corneia knows genocide is bad public relations.”

The supreme Aramani leader took another deep breath, this time leaning forward with his forearms on the table.

“Brother Morris. Can you defeat this… Wolf Legion?”

“No,” Morris asserted. “We are a single light infantry battalion. They are a brigade; two mechanized infantry battalions, one armored battalion, one field artillery, and one support battalion. We’re outnumbered five to one.”

“But you still have our Army, Major. With our righteous Warriors at your side, we can defeat these Wolves, just like we defeated the Cleansers!”

“With respect Grand Patriarch, the Cleansers didn’t have tanks or artillery. They’re also undisciplined, poorly trained pirates, while the Wolf Legion are professionals.”

“Professional mercenaries,” Salim growled,” just like you. We paid you to do a job, a job you evidently have not yet done.”

“We contracted to fight the Cleansers, Elder. Not the spacing Wolf Legion!”

“I’m afraid my brother Salim is correct,” the Patriarch snapped. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Enough!” Winters roared, and it was as if the very walls of stone shook from her indignation. “I will not have my Razorbacks face five times their number to save a bunch of ungrateful backwater religious freaks who hate me for being born a woman!”

“Brother Morris!” Salim shouted as he leapt to his feet. “Why does this witch think she can speak in the presence of grown men?!”

“Yeah, you’re not helping,” Morris sighed.

“Major Morris we are gone!” the Colonel commanded.

But as she and the Major put on their helmets and turned to leave, if was the Grand Patriarch who stood to his feet, calling, “Colonel Winters!”

That made the Razorbacks pause.

“It’s been six months,” Winters noted, without taking off her helmet or turning to face the man speaking to her. “And that was literally the first time you’ve addressed me directly.”

“Colonel Karen Winters, have you forgotten the contract?”

“Excuse me?”

“In addition to defeating the Cleansers, you contracted to supervise the construction of a plascrete fortress on this mountain.”

“We have communications gear. We’ll supervise from space.”

“You’ll supervise in person, as the contract clearly dictates. The contract is the contract woman, and in the mercenary business, contract is everything!”

*

Winters, her head exposed, stood in a beehive of frenzied activity. Hordes of the planet’s turban wearing men scurried about in curious crablike machines. The segmented crab legs performed better than wheels on the steep mountain slopes, while the crabs’ “pincers” manipulated tools and building supplies. Plainly experienced crab pilots scampered about with remarkable speed and agility. The crabs clearly weren’t meant for combat – the pilot was almost completely exposed -- but oh, how they worked!

A vehicle the size of a double-decker city car, mounted on tank-like treads, groaned next to Winters. Crabs bearing buckets of ore dumped their loads into the machine. At the other end, dull grey blocks about the size of a family aircar were pushed out into the eager pincers of other crabs who seized the heavy bricks and rushed off to add them to a rapidly growing plascrete wall.

Winters turned to a fully bearded man dressed in the smart, professional uniform of the Aramani Army, a turban on his head and his chest bedecked with a colorful array of ribbons and medals.

“General Walid,” she spoke, “How soon before the fortress is finished?”

“About two weeks Standard, my friend,” the local replied.

“A simple wall ringing the mountain at this altitude constitutes a ‘fortress’ for contract purposes. You can finish the place up after we leave.”

“In that case, 21 hours. Maybe 19. But no earlier.”

“Colonel!” came a shout, and Morris approached without his helm, his face clouded with poorly suppressed fury.

“General, this is my Executive Officer, Major Terry Morris,” Winters announced, gesturing at the junior officer. “Major Morris, this is the new Supreme Commander of All Araman Military Forces, General Khalid ibn al-Walid.”

Morris made it a point to aim his salute at Winters, but it wasn’t so blatant that he could be called out for failing to salute the general.

“Colonel Winters ma’am, we have a way out,” he decreed.

“I told you we’re staying till the Outer Wall is done,” Winters growled. “You keep making me repeat myself and maybe I find another Executive Officer.”

“Check this clause of the contract ma’am!” Morris doggedly insisted and offered her a data slate. “We are authorized to abandon this campaign if we suffer 20% casualties or more.”

“But we’re down only eight percent of the battalion. Eight point three two, to be exact.”

“Ma’am, if the Wolves catch us on this planet, we will suffer 75% casualties easy!”

“The Wolf Legion is still 24 hours out, Major. Walid here tells me we’ll be done in 21 hours. That’ll give us three hours to vacate this rock!”

“Disease counts as a casualty ma’am, so if enough Hogs call in sick…”

“For shame Major!” cried Winters in horror.

“Sixteen hours,” Walid announced, his finger suddenly on his right ear.

“Excuse me?”

“The Old Earth Fleet is accelerating. Wolf Legion will be here in sixteen hours. And no, we can’t finish the Outer Wall before then.”

Morris barked an exasperated laugh. Careful to conceal that she was concerned to the point of genuine fear, Winters took a deep breath and queried,

“Surely, we can get more laborers to speed up this job. Tell them their world is at stake, because it is!”

“Labor is not the problem, Mrs.…”

“Colonel.”

“Friend. We have only one fabricator on this whole planet; this is a frontier world and fabricators are fantastically costly. This machine can’t make plascrete bricks any faster.”

Winters stroked her chin and looked out over the fire-leafed forest carpeting the mountain.

“Ironwood is stronger than titanium, correct?”

A smile lit up the general’s otherwise stern face.

“You think well for a woman,” he admitted. “Yes, I’ll bring in more workers and have a wall of ironwood logs and bunkers circling the mountain about half a kilometer down from the plascrete. We’ll hold the enemy at the wooden barrier until the Outer Wall is complete.”

Winters let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

*

Four hours later, Winters and Morris were bareheaded and seated on ammunition crates in a rough bunker made of earth and ironwood logs. There was another ammunition crate between them serving as a table. It supported a data slate projecting a three-dimensional map above it.

“What did Admiral Mensah say about remaining in orbit when the OEs arrive?” Morris asked.

“At first, he called me insane,” Winters admitted. “But he contacted the OE Admiral, and both admirals agreed to share Araman orbit without starting a war. They agree it’s a fight between mercenary companies; so they’ll stay out of it.”

“Sure, they’ll stay out of it… until some idiot gunner with an itchy trigger finger spaces us all. Honestly Colonel, we should…”

General Walid burst in, ducking his turban under the bunker entrance. The Razorback commander leapt to her feet, but Morris stayed put.

Winters threw Walid a crisp salute stating, “General?”

“Friend,” Walid responded, returning the woman’s salute, and then throwing a venomous glare at the seated Morris. “Bad news, my friends. Enemy fleet arrives in four hours.”

“What?!” howled Morris in despair.

“They’re accelerating,” Winters hissed. “They must know about our preparations and hope to get here before we’re done.”

“That is my assessment as well, friend.”

“Can even the wooden wall be finished before they arrive?”

“I’m afraid not. But take heart. We’re building a third wall further down the mountain.”

“A third wall? Out of what?”

“Sandbags woven from prowheat straw,” Walid announced, clearly proud of himself.

Winters gasped, stating, “General, we’re talking millions of sandbags!”

“My friend, we have been fighting on this world for the past six months. There are sandbag fortifications all over the planet, all made from cheap prowheat straw packed with dirt, and tens of thousands of my people bring them here to build a wall as we speak.”

“Thanks,” Winters sighed, nodding. “Quick thinking like that is how I know we’ll get through this.”

“Do you think the enemy ships will bombard us from orbit?” Walid inquired, worry creeping into his weathered, bearded face. “We have no weapons that reach so high.”

“I suspect Old Earth would like to maintain the fiction that this is a local issue, and that they’re just a taxi service. Also, their oncoming fleet is composed of destroyers, frigates, and a single medium carrier. That’s enough firepower to ward off pirates, but they’ve brought none of the cruisers and super-heavy battleships that would reduce your world to ash. Remember General, Corneia wants to steal your resources. Incinerating your ironwood and prowheat rather defeats their purpose.”

Walid visibly relaxed, unable to disguise his relief.

*

General Walid, Colonel Winters, and Major Morris stood in the middle of Walid’s portable command bunker. There, ten Aramani soldiers sat in office chairs behind monitors surrounding the three senior officers. Those three stood around a polished black table projecting a three-dimensional hologram of assault shuttles zooming down on a vast field of golden prowheat. The shuttle doors would open briefly as the vehicle set down, allowing the soldiers within to bound out and rush into tactical formations. Five seconds after landing, each emptied shuttle would lift off and zoom upwards into the pale blue sky.

"Those are heavily armored assault shuttles bristling with heavy weapons," Morris mused. "You'd think they'd stay to provide close air support."

"Nah, he can't risk them," Winters objected, shaking her head. "Too expensive."

Soon, the field was full of soldiers armored just like the Razorbacks, except their armor was black, and their helmets were fashioned into the heads of ravenous wolves.

“How are we seeing this?” Walid asked, voice full of wonder.

“Admiral Mensah is giving us an encrypted feed from orbit,” Winters explained. “Also, his techs have hacked the video in some of the enemy’s helmets. Technically, it’s cheating. But the OE’s haven’t caught on. Yet.”

“Who’s that?” the general continued, jabbing a finger at a taller Wolf with extravagant markings on his armor.

“That would be their commander,” Morris sighed, “General Michael ‘Big Bad’ Winters, the Big Bad Wolf himself!”

“Flamboyantly identifying himself as always,” sneered Winters, her voice dripping with contempt. “How that pompous fool hasn’t been sniped to death already is beyond me. What’s up, Mike? How’s the family?”

Obviously, “Mike” could not hear her.

“If we’re seeing this, why don’t we target them while they’re deploying?” Walid suggested.

“Target them with what?” griped Morris. “We don’t have artillery. Or air support. No orbital support, either.”

The view switched to the perspective of a sandbag bunker as voices speaking the Aramani tongue cut in over the feed. The general answered in kind.

“Enemy approaching,” he reported to the off-worlders.

“Rapier hover tanks,” Morris noted, commenting on the saucer-shaped vehicles skimming over the fields of gold. “The Wolf Legion’s armor battalion has two companies of heavy tanks and one company of those things. Lightly armored, but fast and maneuverable.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re trying to take out high value targets like leaders, bunkers, and special weapons while they spot for Wolf artillery at the same time. They want to soften us up before the main assault.”

Morris had not finished speaking before fountains of earth began erupting all around the Aramani positions with thunder. Meanwhile, the Rapiers cut loose with beams of brilliant blue light. One of them touched a sandbag bunker and it blew apart, spraying straw, earth, and body parts into the air, all of it burning. Even the dirt.

Walid yelled something that must have meant “fire”, because his soldiers opened up with splinter rifles and splinter cannons, filling the air with the wailing whoosh of razor-sharp ironwood splinters in their tens of thousands.

“That… Rapier you call it?” Walid asked, annoyed. “What did it just do?”

“The Wolf Legion uses plasma weapons,” the Major continued. “They’re considerably more expensive than the mag weapons we Hogs use. More effective, too.”

“You said they were lightly armored. But my men can’t hurt them at all!”

“Aim for the skirts,” Winter suggested. “The skirts aren’t as armored as the rest of the vehicle. If you disrupt the airflow of a hover vehicle, it’ll ground, and at the speeds they’re going...”

Walid nodded and began yelling more commands in the local language. One of the Rapiers bounced off the ground like a rubber ball, flipped into the air, and then landed upside-down in a ruinous heap. Another skipped four times across the prowheat like a pebble across a pond, only to explode in fiery glory on the fifth bounce. A third Rapier began spewing sparks and smoke from its rear, and as if on cue, all 12 surviving hover tanks swooped back, rapidly receding over the horizon.

The command bunker erupted in cheers. But Morris and Winters did not join them. Those two knew that, assuming the three-person crew of each destroyed Rapier had died, the Wolves had lost just 6 soldiers and two light tanks with an additional light tank damaged. In return, the sandbag wall had been breached in dozens of places while hundreds of Aramani were dead, thousands wounded, and worse was yet to come.

General Walid ordered a full retreat from the sandbag wall back to the wooden barricade. Wolf artillery rounds followed, raining down around the wall, whistling and booming. The wooden fortifications proved more resilient than the straw sandbags had been – indeed, the ironwood bunkers proved they could withstand any artillery but a direct hit from a bunker-buster shell. But most Aramani had no protection save the logs in front of them, so mid-air bursts swept sheets of hot, razor-sharp shrapnel down upon the hapless masses huddled behind the wall.

Behind the artillery barrage came General Winters’ main assault. Colonel Winters noted that rather than gather his heavy treaded tanks into a separate armored spearhead, Mike had opted to spread them out amongst his infantry formations so they could crawl along, providing fire support for the jogging, wolf-headed infantry.

Now came lines of flashing plasma by the hundreds. Using the enhanced optics in their helms, Wolf infantry at the run were taking out targets who only exposed their heads over the wall or showed their faces in the firing slits of their bunkers. And they did this from beyond the practical range of Aramani splinter weapons. Worse, the tanks unleashed the terrifying roar of their main guns, eye-searing beams of azure vaporizing bunker after bunker.

In the hologram, Winters saw a frustrated squad of Aramani climb over the wall and rush to close the range, only for an airburst to crumple said squad to the ground like an invisible giant had stomped them.

“I have to go!” Winters announced and headed for the exit.

“My friend, where do you think you are going?” Walid demanded.

“General, I’m taking my Razorbacks out to fight!”

“But you are our last line of defense!”

“I know that was the original plan. But you people have nothing to crack those panzers and if we don't stop them, it's all over. Major Morris, you will remain here as Client Liaison.”

“Gee thanks, ma’am,” Morris sneered.

“Cheer up Major,” Winters quipped, forcing a grin. “If I get myself killed, you’ll be the new Razorback commander!”

“Colonel Winters, after today there will be no Razorbacks to command!”

*

Colonel Winters put on her porcine helmet as she sprinted from the Command Bunker to the Outer Wall.

“Bacon, Ham, Sausage!” she yelled after fingering the coms, hailing the three of her five Company Commanders still on planet, “This is Razorback 6! Take your commands to fighting positions!”

“Roger that Six, Ham acknowledges!” called a man over the coms.

“Sausage in motion, ma’am!” cried another.

“Good copy Six, Bacon on the way!” another shouted, this one a woman’s voice.

With that, three Hog companies rushed into their prepared bunkers in the plascrete wall. Their Aramani allies filled the other bunkers and lined up against the wall sections between said bunkers.

“Razorbacks keep contract, always and forever!” Winters preached, coming up with a plan. “Let’s show these Wolf bullies we aren’t afraid of them!”

A chorus of “Razorbacks!” answered their commander by the hundreds.

“What’s the plan, Colonel?” a Razorback wearing the rank of Sergeant Major asked as Winters entered a plascrete bunker. There, a squad of helmeted Hogs were already assembled, lined against the walls and aiming down the firing slits.

“Those tanks are killing us,” Winters panted, “We’ve got to take them out!”

“Roger that, ma’am. I’ll get Double A right on it.”

By “Double A” he meant the battalion’s anti-armor teams. Each team consisted of two soldiers operating a single Chimney missile launcher, and there was one such team per squad.

“No!” Winters insisted. “Not yet. Each of those monsters has a Tank Anti-Air Defense System that will swat any missile we shoot at them right out of the sky. With those TAADS active, we’ll just be wasting ordinance.”

“Understood ma’am. So… what do you want us to do?”

“Not counting the Rapiers, the Wolves are deploying 28 Tornado super-heavy tanks, yes?”

“Yes ma’am, that’s my count as well.”

“And we have 423 Hogs reporting for Duty?”

“425, ma’am.”

“Even better. That makes, um, a little over 15 shooters per tank!”

“Colonel?” asked the Sergeant with a voice that sounded like a raised eyebrow.

“Standby Hogs! I’m going to let the AI assign each of you by name till we have at least fifteen shooters per tank. All of you target the TAADS on your assigned tank with maximum power!”

Razorback guns fired slugs accelerated by magnetism with a setting from 1 to 10. The first setting was only lethal at close range and with proper shot placement, but it was totally silent. The tenth setting hurled the slug screeching through the air so fast friction made it glow, forming a blaze of light from shooter to target. Sure, this advertised the shooter’s position, but the increase in firepower was worth it. Usually.

“And optics only people, no sensors!” the commander warned. “These aren’t some broke homeless pirates, they’re spacing Wolves! You use your sensors; they’ll trace you back to the nearest millimeter!”

The Company Commanders acknowledged the command. But Winters, using the advanced optics in her helmet, saw that one of her Hogs, through inexperience, carelessness, or both, was beaming a sensor signature across the battlefield, plain as day.

“Bacon Company Hog!” Winters bellowed over the comms, “Optics only, damn it! Turn off that spacing sensor suite before…”

Too late. One of the Tornados speared a blinding blue beam from its main gun, and the offending signature vanished.

“Razorback down!” Bacon Commander called, “Private Worthy is hit!”

Winters gasped in horror. Was that the same Private Worthy who had begged for early release?

“Is she okay?” Winters asked anxiously.

“Worthy’s dead ma’am. Gone from the waist up; all that’s left is legs. She was pretty, too. What a waste.”

A sudden weight crushed down on Winters’ heart. Worthy’s husband would get the kids after all, and with a hefty Razorback Survivor Pension to boot. Shake it off!

“Alright Hogs!” she declared, “we’ve only got one chance to get this right. Scrap those TAADS… now!”

424 Razorbacks unleased shrieking beams of light, converging on the Tornados. There were fifteen for each tank, except four targets received sixteen. The Wolf tanks glittered like diamonds in the sun as the slugs, even on maximum power, mostly burst on their impenetrable armor. Mostly. Some found their marks as TAADS shattered from multiple impacts, spewing sparks and smoke in the optics.

Winters checked her HUD. Only seventeen of the 28 Tornados had lost their TAADS. Disappointing. Meanwhile, Wolves were flooding in through gaps blown through the wooden wall, driving a panicked Aramani herd before them, cremating their unarmored foes with plasma shots.

“Chimneys fire!” Winters roared.

The Razorbacks’ anti-armor teams launched. Each missile streaked toward its target.

But before they could get there, the tanks retaliated with dazzling spears of blue. 22 of 42 Razorback-occupied bunkers were not hit at all. Fifteen only received one hit apiece, causing no casualties. But the other five bunkers received two or three hits each. The ones that received two hits saw bits of plascrete flying about the interior, wounding and killing the Hogs within to the tune of 30 to 40% casualties. As for the bunkers that received three hits, the superheated plascrete flowed like water, and all within were incinerated. Razorbacks wear superior body armor, but under these conditions it simply meant they got to feel it.

Then the Chimneys arrived, popping up at the last moment to slam down through the roof of the tanks where the armor was thinnest. 28 Hog missiles were erased from the sky by active TAADS before they could strike. But ten Tornados burst into flames and then slowly ground to a halt, now raging funeral pyres for their doomed crews. Four more tanks erupted into towering mushroom clouds with a sound like the planet had cracked open, and witnesses could feel the shockwave wash over them. In a matter of seconds, General Winters had lost half his tanks.

Here, Wolf infantry threw themselves to the ground. With Razorbacks firing on them, they finally began to take some losses. Even the Aramani on the plascrete wall managed to get their licks in. Local weapons were mostly useless against Wolf body armor, but the sheer volume of fire caused the occasional splinter to find a Wolf’s armpit or neck.

After lying on the ground for a few seconds, the Wolves jumped to their feet – and began to fall back by squads, dragging their dead and wounded with them. Then the enemy commander broke into an unencrypted, neutral comms frequency, asking, “Karen?”

“What’s wrong Mike?” the Colonel taunted. “Ready to surrender?”

“The Wolf Legion dies, it does not surrender,” Mike snarled. “But would you please consider letting us go? For old times sake?”

Karen Winters sighed wearily. There was no animosity between the Wolf Legion and the Razorbacks. They were all professionals doing a job. In future contracts they might fight on the same side, or if they fought each other again, maybe that time Mike would have the upper hand. It simply doesn’t pay to hold grudges in the mercenary business.

“Go Mike,” she spat. “But don’t forget; I whupped your Big, Bad butt today! Razorbacks, cease fire. Cease fire!”

Winters’ Soldiers stopped shooting. But the locals kept right on spewing splinters till the Wolves were out range, though their fire was mostly ineffective. And then Major Morris broke in over the net.

“Colonel Winters,” spoke he with unabashed awe. “Had I not seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. Congratulations on your victory, ma’am!”

“Yeah Morris? You’re fired.”