“Not a chance,” someone put in from one of the poolside tables. “Did you see the general’s face when he got back on the shuttle? The captain’s still in the doghouse as far as Headquarters is concerned.”
“I don’t know.” The original questioner scowled. “Hey, Top! What do you think’s going on?”
Brandy, the unit’s Amazonian top sergeant, was sprawled at one of the poolside tables, filling the seat and her swimming suit more than amply. She was holding a drink in her right hand and a sidearm in her left, her favorite pose these days, and loosed an occasional shot downrange from where she sat, abandoning neither her seat nor her drinking for the exercise.
“Why ask me?” She shrugged, one strap of her suit slipping from its precarious hold on her shoulder. “Stripes or no, I’m just a grunt like you. Nobody tells me nothin’ until it comes to passing out orders. Why don’t you ask our fearless leaders?”
The Legionnaire who had asked the question shot a glance at Rembrandt and Armstrong, the company’s two lieutenants, but those notables were engrossed in a conversation of their own at the far end of the pool, so he simply shrugged and returned to his original discussion.
One table away, a massive figure bent forward to confer with the figure barely half his size sharing the table with him.
“Gnat. You think Captain will accept transfer?”
Super Gnat, the company’s smallest member, turned her attention to her Voltron partner. It was only recently that Tusk-anini had started taking part in the poolside gatherings, as the bright sun hurt his marblelike, nocturnal eyes and the odor given off from his hairy chest, back, arms, and head when wet was, politely put, less than pleasant even to himself. However, by steering clear of the water and utilizing a pair of jury-rigged sun goggles, he was now able to join in on the more social pastimes of the company.