“… they’re small … well, big for lizards, but small compared to us,” Rembrandt was explaining. “I’d put them at roughly half our height, judging from the few we’ve seen.”
“Weapons make them taller,” the commander commented grimly. “You’re sure Do-Wop is all right?”
“As sure as we can be without having him checked over by a doctor,” Brandy said. “It was like he got hit with an electrical jolt. It knocked him out, but doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage. Mostly he’s hollering to rejoin the company.”
“Let’s keep him out of it for the moment. We don’t know for sure if there are any hidden aftereffects yet, and there’s no point in risking him unless he’s really needed.”
“Right.”
“Any word from Armstrong?”
“He’s still with the team escorting the miners back to the settlement,” Rembrandt reported. “He wanted to break off and rejoin once they were a kilometer out of the area, but the way I understood your orders you wanted the miners under our protection all the way back to the settlement.”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant,” Phule said. “Until we know for sure how many of them there are and where they are in the swamp, we have to keep the miners covered.”
Though it had been proposed that Armstrong supervise the holding action while Rembrandt commanded the miners’ escort, Phule had decided to reverse those assignments. Armstrong was clearly the better combat commander of the two, which to Phule’s thinking made him the logical choice for escort duty in the event that another group of aliens was encountered during the miners’ withdrawal. Rembrandt, on the other hand, had a better feel for the normal swamp terrain thanks to her earlier sketching expeditions, which made her a valuable asset to the scouting and information-gathering efforts.
“Has the settlement been alerted yet?” Brandy said, sneaking another look at the dormant craft.
“Goetz was with me when the call came in,” the commander supplied. “He’s standing by for further information from us as to what we’re up against. In the meantime, he’s pulling in all off-duty officers so that they’ll have manpower ready to mobilize if things get rough.”
“How rough is rough, sir?” Rembrandt pressed. “We’ve already had one person shot.”
“After he opened fire first,” Phule pointed out. “What’s more, from what you tell me, he’s unharmed. There hasn’t been any more shooting, has there?”
“No, sir … as per your orders,” the first sergeant said hastily. “There was a bit of activity around the ship a while back, but no firing from either side. I think they saw us, but I can’t be sure.”
“What kind of activity?”
“Spartacus reported it. Hang on, you can ask him direct.”
Before Phule could comment, Brandy gave a low, attention-getting whistle, then beckoned to the Sinthian to join their huddle. The Legionnaire came skimming across the open ground, his body compressed low so he looked a bit like a bean bag draped over the glide board.
The nonhuman would not have been the commander’s choice for a scout, since the swift motion of his glide board would tend to catch and hold the eye more than would the slow, stealthy movements of his human teammates. Still, it was more maneuverable over water, and apparently he had completed his mission without drawing attention, or at least without drawing fire.
“Tell the captain what you saw, Spartacus,” Brandy ordered. “He wants to know what the aliens were doing around their ship.”
“Well, Captain,” the Sinthian began, “they opened a panel on the side of their vessel and tinkered around inside for a while … I couldn’t see exactly what they were doing. Then they sealed it up again and retreated back inside.”
The nonhuman’s voice, as supplied by the translator he had hung diagonally across his body, was high and musical, almost like the tinkling of a bell. Try as he might, Phule could not escape the impression that he was receiving a military briefing from a Munchkin.
“Did it look like they were arming a weapon?”
“I … I don’t think so, sir. There was no opening or fixture on the outside of the panel to suggest a firing capacity.”
“Did they see you?”
“A few of them looked my way from time to time, but they were looking all around, not just at me. I don’t think …”
A flicker of motion to the rear of their position caught Phule’s attention, and he held up a restraining hand which silenced the Legionnaire in midsentence. There was a tense moment, then a small group of figures appeared, moving carefully from cover to cover.
“What are they doing here?”
It was Brandy who voiced the muttered question, though it echoed the thoughts of everyone in the huddle, as well as those Legionnaires positioned near enough to note the group’s approach. The answer was forthcoming, as one figure detached itself from the group and crept forward to join them.
“Sorry to take so long getting here, Captain,” Major O’Donnel said, nodding a curt acknowledgment to the others in the huddle. “We hadn’t expected to need our full combat gear for a simple honor guard assignment, and it took us a while to get it all unpacked and issued.”
He paused to survey the Legionnaires within his line of vision, then shot a glance back at his own Red Eagles.
“If you just fill me in on what you’ve got so far, I’ll get my troops disbursed. Then you can pull your force out a few at a time while we cover you.”
“Excuse me, Major,” Phule said coldly, “but what exactly do you think you’re trying to pull here?”
“Pull?” O’Donnel was genuinely puzzled. “I’m not trying to ‘pull’ anything. We’re simply taking command of the situation.”
“By what authority?”
“Oh, come now, Captain. Isn’t it obvious? Dealing with a new alien race, particularly one which is potentially hostile, is much more in the Army’s line than the Legion’s.”
“I don’t think it’s all that obvious.”
“Do you mean to say you think …”
“In fact,” the Legion commander continued, raising his voice slightly to cut off the major’s protests, “what’s obvious to me is that the Legion has been contracted to protect Haskin’s citizens from whatever dwells in or comes out of these swamps, and that you and your force, Major, are interfering with our operation. Now, while I appreciate your offer of help, and would love nothing better than discussing military protocol with you, we’re rather busy at the moment. Would you kindly take your force and retire?”
“You want authority?” O’Donnel said tightly, fighting to control his temper. “All right. I’ll play your game. Pass me one of your communicators and I’ll get authorization for you.”
“I’m sorry, Major. Our communication network is for Legion personnel only. I’m afraid you’ll have to hike back to the settlement to find and open—”
“Damn it, Willard!” the major exploded. “By what right do you have the gall to try to give orders to a unit of the Regular Army?”
“Well, Matthew,” Phule said softly, “how about because at the moment we have you outnumbered by roughly ten to one?”
O’Donnel was suddenly aware that most of the nearby Legionnaires were listening to their conversation and that an uncomfortable number of weapons were now pointed in the general direction of the Red Eagles rather than at the alien ship.
“Are you threatening us?” he hissed, still watching the Legionnaires’ weapons. “Would you actually order your troops to open fire on friendly forces from the Regular Army?”
“In a minute,” Brandy said levelly.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Phule snapped. “As to your question, Major … Lieutenant Rembrandt?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Do we have any hard evidence that the aliens are not capable of shape changing or low-level illusionary mind control?”
“No, sir.”
“So for all we know, they may have the ability to disguise themselves as humans, even a people we already
know, to infiltrate our positions?”
“Well … I guess so … sir.”
“There you have it, Major. If necessary, I would feel more than justified in allowing my troops to defend themselves from any intruders, even if those intruders happened to look like a Regular Army unit.”
“But …”
“And especially,” Phule continued, dropping his voice, “if they were conducting themselves in a manner inconsistent with known behavior patterns. You’re losing it, Matthew. Cool down and we’ll try it again … from the top.”
O’Donnel wisely followed the advice, taking and releasing several long breaths before resuming the conversation.
“Am I to understand,” he said at last, “that you are refusing to relinquish the situation to the Regular Army?”
“That is correct. Major O’Donnel,” the Legion commander confirmed. “In my opinion, it still falls within our contracted services and is therefore our responsibility and ours alone. Simply put, it’s our fight, so back off.”
The major glanced at the waiting Eagles again.
“Seriously, Captain, are you sure you wouldn’t like to have my boys around—at least as a backup?
Phule wavered. There was no denying the benefits of having a team like the Red Eagles around.
“Would you be willing to serve as a reserve unit under my command?”
O’Donnel straightened slightly and saluted.
“If that’s the only way we can be included in this waltz, then yes, sir! Reporting for duty, sir.”
It was far from an unconditional surrender, and everyone present knew there would be a reckoning later on. Still, if O’Donnel said he would take orders from the Legion, then his word would be good … at least until the engagement was over.
“Very well, Major,” Phule said, returning the salute with equal formality, “then I want you to take your force and pull back about two hundred meters. I’ll let you know when and if we need you … and thanks.”
“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 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 th
e 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.”
Qual found himself wondering, not for the first time, if the crew he had been assigned was, in fact, part of his punishment.
“Well, are they operative now?”
“Almost, Flight Leftenant. Of course, to effect those repairs, we had to—”
“I don’t care what it takes! Just get those scanners working! We’ve got to find out—”
“Leftenant! The scanners are working!”
The conversation as well as the niceties of rank were forgotten as the two officers joined the rush to the viewscreens, treading on more than one tail in the process.
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 24