"How will we know if we're needed?" the major pressed, ignoring the offered thanks.
The Legion commander looked around, then raised his voice slightly.
"Tusk-anini!"
"Yes, sir?"
The large Legionnaire came crawling on his elbows at his commander's summons.
"I want you to go with Major O'Donnel and the Red Eagles while they take up a reserve position. We'll use your wrist communicator to send instructions if we need backup."
"No, sir!"
"What?"
Phule was momentarily stunned by the refusal.
"No send away. I work hard... train hard. Have much right anybody be here for fight. Send someone else... Please, Captain."
At a loss as to how to deal with the Voltron's obvious sincerity, the commander glanced about, seeking someone else to take the assignment. None of the other Legionnaires would meet his eyes, however, everyone suddenly developing intense interest in the alien spacecraft.
"All right, Tusk. Then give me your communicator."
"Sir?"
"Give it to me, then get back to your position."
After a moment's fumbling with the straps; Tusk-anini handed over his precious wrist communicator, then went squirming across the ground to resume his post.
"I thought he was supposed to be a pacifist," O'Donnel said, watching the Voltron go.
"So did I," Phule acknowledged absently as he worked the communicator's settings. "All right, Major. I've keyed this thing for a beeper cue so it won't give your position away when it goes off. Three beeps means we need you, then press this side lever here to go into talk/receive mode for specific instructions. Except for that, don't touch any of the controls. If you're not familiar with the unit, you might end up making noise at someone's else's position by mistake. Clear?"
"Got it." The major nodded, accepting the communicator. "We'll be waiting if you need us."
"All right, get moving. And Major... thanks."
O'Donnel threw him a wry salute and scuttled off to join the Eagles.
"Do you really trust him, Captain?" Brandy said skeptically.
"Just a moment... " Phule was busy working his own communicator. "Mother?"
"Com Central here, Captain."
"Major O'Donnel and the Red Eagles are now on the network using Tusk-anini's communicator. Do not-repeat, do not-allow him to make any calls outside this area. Also monitor his position and inform me immediately if he starts moving. Copy?"
"Got it. "
"Jester out." Phule shut down his communicator and turned to Brandy. "In answer to your question, Sergeant, of course I trust him. Trust is the cornerstone on which intra-service respect and cooperation are built."
"Right, sir. Sorry I asked."
"Now then, returning to the original reason for this party"-the commander flashed a quick smile-"I think we've learned about as much as we can about our visitors from watching them. Spartacus, I'm going to have to borrow your translator."
"My translator?" the Sinthian chimed.
"That's right. Then switch your position to where you're close enough to Louie for him to translate for you if necessary."
"Excuse me; Captain," Lieutenant Rembrandt said, scowling, "but what do you need a translator for?"
"I'm going to try to open communications with the beings in that ship, and I don't think it's safe to assume we speak each other's language."
"But that's... I mean... do you think that's wise, sir?"
"I figure it's wiser than opening fire on them if there's a chance they're friendly... or cooling our heels out here while they get ready to attack if they're not," the commander said. "One way or the other, we've got to find out what their intentions are."
"By setting yourself up to be a duck in a shooting gallery?" Brandy frowned. "Don't you think it would be better to send someone out who's a little more expendable than you are, Captain? We really don't need our chain of command blown apart on the first salvo."
"Lieutenant Rembrandt will be in command in my absence, however temporary or permanent that may be. Besides"-Phule flashed his smile again-"I don't intend to be completely vulnerable out there. How far did you say Do-Wop was from the alien when he squeezed off his shot?"
"About fifty meters. Why?"
"That means they can't be sure of the maximum range of our weapons. It's my intention to try to set up this little powwow well within small-arms range. Believe me, I won't mind having a little extra cover while I'm out there. Now pass the word... I'm going out in five minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"And Sergeant? If you don't mind doing me a favor, double-check to be sure everyone has his safety on. I'm not that wild about being downrange of this trigger-happy bunch."
Obviously I am not privy to the personalities or procedures present in the alien force we were facing, so this next portion is pure speculation as to the goings-on in the alien craft. Two things, however, lead me to believe my reconstruction is not totally inaccurate.
First, of course, is the eventual outcome of the confrontation.
Second is the logical observation that, since the humans and their allies had never encountered this race of aliens before, the alien force were as far or farther away from their home base as we were. That is to say, it is doubtful that those chosen for such an assignment were viewed as elite or exemplary by their own hierarchy.
Flight Leftenant Qual of the Zenobian Exploratory Forces was far from pleased with the situation. If anything, his frame of mind was closer to blind panic as he felt any chance of personal redemption slipping away from his grasp with each new report. It had been his hope that the success of his mission, if not the length of its duration, would mollify the annoyance of the part of Second Supremo Harrah which had led to this assignment. Zenobians were not supposed to be a grudge-holding race to begin with, so how long could Harrah remain upset with one little lapse of judgment... really? Besides, could a lowly leftenant reasonably be expected to be able to distinguish between a 2,000-cycle-old antique urn and a fancy receptacle for the disposal of bodily wastes? Especially after an entire evening's drinking at a mating reception? That particular social blunder, however, was rapidly being eclipsed by the current disaster.
"How could you be so stupid as to shoot an intelligent alien, Ori?" he hissed at the crewman before him. "Didn't it even occur to you that it was a flagrant violation of our standing orders to avoid direct contact with any alien cultures we might encounter?"
"But Leftenant, they shot at me first!"
"That in itself is an indication of intelligence on their part. "
"Excuse me, Leftenant," his second-in-command said, joining the conversation, "are you saying that the aliens' possession of weapons and uniforms is a sign of intelligence... or their specific choice of Ori as a target?"
"Both," the leftenant retorted heatedly. "But don't note that, Masem. In fact, none of this conversation should be entered in the log."
"But sir, the completeness of the mission log is one of my specific duties, and I would be negligent if I-"
"Scanning for signs of intelligent life before we landed was one of your duties, too!" Qual interrupted. "What happened to your sense of duty there?"
"If I might remind the leftenant," Masem said, unruffled, "the scanners were inoperative at the time. In fact, they were partially dismantled in an effort to comply with the leftenant's order to repair our communications gear at any cost."