• The new B5TV.COM is here. We've replaced our 16 year old software with flashy new XenForo install. Registration is open again. Password resets will work again. More info here.

Rangers Redux (fiction)

Mockery does inspire me, actually. Thank you both for lighting a fire under my rear end (in different ways, of course.)

I actually have a bit of trouble putting action scenes into words, so I'm slightly paranoid of what will happen when we finally get to them.

I also noticed that I made a huge, huge, huge boo-boo. But I'm not going to tell you what it is, because there's a chance I can fix it without you people ever noticing what it was.

:D

--

Singh appeared at the door, looking patched-up and perky. The intelligence officer now sported ill-fitting Liandra garb, but no Ranger pin; the tired, dark circles were absent from her eyes and peach fuzz had begun to form on her head, a sign that she had ceased to take the anti-hair growth pills that the Anla'shok intelligence community had lovingly nicknamed "baldies."

"Captain," she said, crossing the small room and offering her hand. "Thanks for seeing me."

Martel grinned, stood, and shook her hand firmly. "Of course. Do you need insignia?"

Singh shook her head, one hand flying quickly to just below her bare collarbone, where the signature Ranger pin would have normally resided. "No, no. Mine is being held back at HQ. I'd rather not wear a fake."

Martel, who stocked artificial insignia for this particular reason, blinked. "I'm sorry," he said, sighing. "We wear insignia on the Liandra. Stop by Tirk's on your way out, and he'll give you an artificial."

Singh bit her lip. Her hands joined, twisted together behind the small of her back. When she spoke, it was softly. "Do I need to remind you who's in charge here, Captain?"

In the space between his kidneys and liver, Martel reached a boiling point. He took a moment to re-arrange some flimsies on his desk, attempting to stem his desire to punch Singh in her pretty little nose.

"First of all," he said, gesturing for Singh to take the other chair, "my people know about the downed Whitestar in the convoy already, and --"

Singh's eyes broiled. "You didn't inform us of that," she said.

Martel's lips thinned in a humorless grin. "You didn't ask. Their exec's mate, Tafeek, was formerly of this very ship, and his wife is one of Na'feel's techs. But I left the information about the convoy out of the briefing, like you asked."

"You're counting on Malcolm to put it together, aren't you?" she said.

Martel paced. "He is rather good at that. And, while we're on the subject of who is -- or, rather, is not -- on the ball with this, I don't think I need to remind you that no matter what your position or dispensation with the Council is, if you haven't been given direct control of this vessel, mission ops still belong under my jurisdiction. Which means that you will wear insignia while a part of the Liandra's crew."

Singh sighed. "It's the Narn, isn't it?"

Martel raised his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

"Never mind," the intelligence officer insisted. "I came to discuss the incursion plans."

"What about my chief engineer?" Martel insisted.

"We're moving on, Captain," Singh said, gently.

Martel turned and faced his display. The pyramid, gloriously orange and hugely ornate, peered back at him. Light behind the edges moved and flirted with the shadows; his eyes narrowed as he caught movement towards the bottom of the pyramid.

"Yeah, I remember you," he said. "You were watching the pre-screening from the upper balcony when we all first came to Tuzanor. I distinctly recall you wearing a grey robe."

Singh nodded. "It's rather flattering. The incursion plans?"

"You weren't on Drazi Prime for five years," he said.

"Really, I don't see what my status as a member of the Council has to do with the incursion plans, Captain."

Martel bit his lip and turned to the display. He called up the plans that Na'feel had just deposited, three seconds earlier, into his general dump file. He picked up a pen, and pointed.

"Na'feel thinks that entering the system through the crew quarters would be best, but we believe that area to be exposed to vacuum, which would entail extra equipment that might become a problem if the shaft system is as precarious as it looks. Instead, Wheeler advised going down through the anthro lab's entry point. Or, we could just sit here and continue to squeak like the lab rats you apparently think we are. Or guinea pigs. I know -- Malcolm can do a pretty mean song and dance act."

Singh smiled softly. "You're a sonofabitch, Captain," she said. "Keep the news about the convoy under wraps -- that is, if you enjoy your job. Thank you." She rose, wiped her palms on her uniform, and excused herself.
 
Martel was amazed at how quickly his relationship with Singh had gone south. Granted, he thought, she wasn't the most pleasant person in the universe -- but she also lacked the most elementary grasp of professionalism expected of someone in her position.

Directly after their second conversation -- after Martel had discovered the caveat in his orders that placed Singh in charge of the expedition -- she began to obnoxiously pull rank in large matters such as the notification of his crew, and small ones, such as her dissatisfaction with her rooming assignment (third bunk in A2, under Na'feel and Samall). Her constant reminders that, appearances aside, -she- was the one in charge grated on Martel's nerves almost immediately, as did her total disregard for courtesy.

And this complaint about insignia, he growled, had been the straw that broke the camel's back.

Dulann would be ashamed of me -- if he had the slightest clue what was going on, Martel thought. He watched the door close behind Singh, angry at the intelligence officer, angry at the fact that out of emotion he brazenly used one of the aces up his sleeve -- now she'll go to Malcolm, of course-- without coming up with a better option for the win, and angry that he had been placed in this position by orders straight from the top.

He had been watching her for a day or two, racking his brain as to where he'd seen her face before. Mid-conversation, the answer hit: she had been one of the grey-suited administrative assistants flanking the members of the Ranger Council charged with overseeing Martel's wartime entrance trials. Ensconced on the balcony above the grand training hall in Tuzanor, Martel remembered, she had met his eyes only once before: when he stood with Dulann to take his final oath as a member of the Anla'shok.

Why he remembered this fact -- and forgot completely what he had eaten for breakfast that morning -- was incomprehensible, Martel thought.

 
AAAh! Bah. I read too fast. I've spent this morning reading through this thread. Excellent work, channe! I can't wait to see what happens next. :) You have so much more talent at writing in your little finger than I got in my whole body. lol Fanfics don't usually get me reading through a 7 page thread to see all of them. I gotta see more!!

You still having problems with ftp, btw?
 
Ok, I know a story is good when I find myself thinking about it during the day and I have to think about where I saw it, before realizing that I actually read it. Yes, it ain't perfect, but it's a damned good first draft, channe. :)
 
*blushes* Thank you, tygir. I'm very glad you finally got to read my little masterpiece.

FYI, readers: we have reached, as B5_Obsessed puts it, the second commercial break -- if we were talking TV scripts. (I'm not hard-wired, as JMS says, for 5 acts.)

But, yeah -- second commercial break. *twiddles thumbs*

And now back to your regularly scheduled programming. Make sure you know your Liandra lore. I have more details in my arsenal than you may realize. ;)

I was going to write a Redux entry to go along with this, but I got called away to a meeting, so I no longer have the time... later! later!
 
So it was on the third Tuesday of the month, in the five minutes he took for meditation sandwiched between Martel's meeting and a visit to Saroteg's guest chamber, that Malcolm made a vow to avoid Firell entirely.

It hadn't been working, of course.

On a vessel as small as Liandra, you ran into everyone at least two times a day -- not counting in the mess. Malcolm had already changed his meal schedule to reflect when Firell was slated for meditation and managed to shift his mandatory bridge duty to second watch, but -- he complained underneath his breath, as he strode down the cramped aft corridor towards the engine room -- keeping from getting the flu, breaking his leg, or finding himself in PPG crossfire was going to be distinctly more difficult.

Nevertheless, he walked with a lighter step, and felt the omnipresent tense feeling in his shoulders loosen slightly. He tried thinking about the mission, and failed -- tried bringing himself back into the moment by concentrating on the metallic clangor his boots were making on the flooring, and failed -- failed, failed, failed.

"Story of my life," he whispered, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Hell, the whole goddamn situation, he thought, attempting to take his mind off the way her voice hit those soft, musical scales during staff meetings.

Before Tafeek left the ship -- standing in the airlock, Tuzanor behind him, brown bag slung over his shoulder, a gesture that made his Minbari friend look almost human -- he had taken Malcolm aside. Half the conversation was the normal what-are-you-gonna-be-doing-on-the-Whitey, you-lucky-bastard type of conversation.

They had joined hands as the airlock attendants called for Tafeek's hasty exit.

"You should be going," Tafeek had said. "You deserve this far more than I. And Samall -- Samall is not pleased."

Malcolm, not terribly adroit at such matters as counseling, had muttered something about Samall being a Ranger too, blah blah blah, you're not going anywhere dangerous, we'll be back on Tuzanor before two months are out, it's a short tour -

"I am worried about you," Tafeek had said, his eyes quickly noting the angry attendant.

"Get on," Malcolm answered.

Tafeek, hestitating, nodded - bid him a goodbye, turned on his heel, walked out. The door slammed.

And now he's dead, Malcolm thought. The bastard's dead.

He reached Saroteg's door, and paused, his hand hovering right above the keypad. He punched the code, slowly. Obtuse Drazi academics weren't his idea of a good time.

And in a way, Malcolm was glad.

Tafeek, arguably Malcolm's closest friend on Liandra, had been the only one to guess. There had been no confrontation. And, hopefully, Tafeek had left before he had time to express his concerns to anyone else.

Because Malcolm was sure that he could keep it under control. Control was his business, after all. It was his life. Every fiber of his being screamed for control.

No need to get anyone else involved -- he could take care of this Firell thing by himself.
 
channe, you talked awhile back about a site were redux will end up so its easier to read, is it close to completion yet?
Btw, I so knew Malcolm and Firell had something going on when I saw LOTR. I'm glad I'm not the only one who saw this.
 
I had a design and was all set for implementation, but discovered that the update was going to be hell. So I decided to go for a re-design. And then I wanted to do some editing. I was re-designing when another opportunity to give Redux a happy home outside of threadville came up. That's in the works right now. ;) :D
 
BTW, Nancy -- before you jump to conclusions, remember that you've never seen the world from Firell's perspective. She's appeared in others' scenes and conversations, but never had her own...

:):)
 
Yeah, that's true. :(
I get my hopes up, and you smash 'em down. :( :D
So...when are we expectant readers gonna read Firell's perspective on the world? :p
 
'K, there was plenty for the 'shippers before -- now, here's something for the tech heads. I hope.

--

Because the Liandra lacked a jump engine of its own, Martel had been forced to order a departure from hyperspace at Beta Durani 7's local jumpgate. Here was where flying an "assault-class" ship became an oxymoron, the captain thought; even with her new stealth capabilities, it was incredibly difficult to slip the Liandra past defense systems meant to detect more advanced, small-box jump-capable ships such as the Whitestars to even get to the assault in the first place.

Coming into the system through the local jumpgate, Martel could sense the tension level in his bridge crew rise almost imperceptibly. This, of course, had been the location of the final showdown between the Liandra and the Hand cronies; as they grew closer, Martel knew, someone would detect what was left of the minefield that Sarah had so quickly dispatched. And, then, finally, Beta Durani 7, around which would be the remains of the Valen (as, he reminded himself, the salvage team certainly didn't.)

He called up a diagram of the Beta Durani sector on the main viewer. It popped into view -- stars hung, blazing in miniature, where empty space had been only moments before. Behind them, Kitaro's head nodded as the navigator plugged away at keeping the Liandra on track.

"Kit, I need to borrow you for a second," Martel said.

"Yes, sir," said the navigator.

Martel pointed. "There's the planet," he said, circling the fourth planet from the star. He circled the jumpgate, nestled 38 degrees below and a half-day's journey out from the planet. "There's us. Assume that the planetary defense systems are still working. How do we get there and land on the planet close to where we need to be?"

Kitaro tilted his head to one side. "Disable the defense systems?"

"Nope," said Martel, shaking his head. "Assume they're still up and there's no one on-planet to stop the pulsecannons from sending us to hell."

Kitaro's brow furrowed. "But the colony was destroyed, sir. There should be no planetary defense system."

Martel leaned forward and sat down. "Think of Earth's, Kit. The main facility is located in Geneva, sure. But if the Geneva controls are destroyed, it's all shunted to St. Petersburg, and Dallas. No different here."

"Right," Kitaro said, hastily. His eyes reflecting the light of the Beta Durani star, he began making calculations.
 
Just for Nancy.

Firell noticed the subtle shift of direction taken by the Liandra with mild annoyance as she was preparing to enter the third stage of one of the experiments lined up in the Liandra's tiny lab.

This particular experiment -- attempting to force a mutation on the Minbari DH23A gene -- was by far her pet project; it excited her to think that her research here on the Liandra could be used to help victims of Loran's Syndrome (and, perhaps, get her a publication credit in the Alliance Journal of Medicine, maybe, just maybe.)

The door chime ruined her concentration just as she was about to lift the radiation level one notch. She tried not to let the interruption bother her, but inside, a little part of Firell screamed its annoyance in a shrill tonality.

If only people didn't enjoy interrupting me during the most important part, Firell thought. Where's my staff? Don't I have a staff?

"Please enter," she called, flipping up the dial on the machines and bringing equipment back to a stasis point. "Stay in the anteroom until I am finished here. You are very lucky you came right now and not five minutes from now."

Firell recognized very early during her primary education that she prized the time when she could be alone and concentrate on her work. During medical school, talking to others became a necessary evil that came between the diminutive Minbari woman and her desire to learn. She attempted to take as many individual studies as possible and became a veritable legend among her classmates, who often wondered if they had ever heard her voice.

Her teachers, however, had been quick to note Firell's excellent grades and antisocial tendencies -- and, although the Minbari were slightly antisocial as a rule, they saw Firell's condition as being very, very close to the abyss. They believed that a doctor so completely divorced from contact with others could not be an effective healer of sentient bodies and souls.

Her teachers convinced her to complete her practicum among the Order of Valen brothers and sisters on Nesma, who ministered to the Nixiam and Madgadel Q-40 miners working the planet. Here, they thought, she could live the solitary lifestyle that she craved -- the Order of Valen took vows of silence and held up meditation as one of the highest and purest goals -- and, more importantly, they hoped that Firell could find a balance.

Firell did more than simply find her balance -- she took to the Order's lifestyle like a mik to water. They taught her ways to temper community life with solitude, ways to deal with patients, and, most importantly, their methods of meditation. In meditation, Firell found, she could quiet her inner demons and find a peace that helped her in her interactions with others.

After graduating with high honors, she entered the Order as a novice. She could have stayed there forever, she thought, a shiver running down her spine, had it not been for the Shadows -- and Dulann.

"Firell!" someone called. She pushed open the door to the lab to find Malcolm and Tirk supporting a convulsing -- and decidedly unconscious -- Saroteg.
 
She could have stayed there forever, she thought, a shiver running down her spine, had it not been for the Shadows -- and Dulann.
Click to expand...
Gasp! :eek: This better not mean Firell has a thing for Dulann! She's supposed to like Malcolm. :( mmm... I think I'll have to brainwash channe. *Starts chanting, Firell likes Malcolm, Firell likes Malcom, etc.* Oops, did I say that out loud?! :D
 
Nancy, you warm my grinchy little writer's heart.

You 'shippers are almost making me want to leave out certain sides of the story for now so I can torture you further.

The truth is in the story. Nancy, Firell's current attitude towards others has been summed up quite nicely in the previous entry, and that's all I'm going to tell you.

But, as we all know, change is the only constant thing in life.

I like being obtuse.
 
If you want a preview of what Redux is going to look like, check out the "Redux: Preview Thread" in this same forum. Or, rather, read the first few entries in the series first, and THEN go read the preview thread and note the differences.

I'm taking out one thread that went absolutely nowhere and cleaning up the transitions between this'n'that and inserting conversation pieces that really should have been there in the first place but I wasn't too sure of how everybody was acting around one another quite yet.

But the story is staying EXACTLY the same. After all, that was the point, wasn't it?

*pantpant*

So get over there already. ;)
 
Bad news: you may have noticed that I haven't posted here lately.

Good news: I made some pretty substantial (well, to me) edits to the front part of Redux this month and the posting of such edits (which are happy, happy edits!) is completely not up to me. ;)

Shouldn't be long now...
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Latest posts

Members online

No members online now.
Total: 47 (members: 0, guests: 47)

Share this page

Back
Top