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Rangers Redux (fiction)

Well, Lennier, I'm glad you and the others are still reading. I promised the other shoe would drop, and it's getting ready.

Thank you, RW.

-- -- --

He stood in front of the glass an hour later and everything melted from him.

It was always like this.

He liked to think that he had no past, except for this dead time a few days before liftoff, when he reached forward, touched the glass, and felt her presence in the cool brightness underneath his fingers.

He remembered the work, with Cara and the others, unlocking the glistening quantium-40 from the planet's underbelly. On Nesma, Sirkmorg, always with Cara, the days always the same, forgetting the stars existed, breathing into damaged lungs for months the toxic fumes snaking through porous crevices and forgotten caverns. The neverending darkness. The confining, neverending death of the interior, and Cara's eyes. Always returning to Cara's eyes and her body stretched beside him at night.

Standing here, he was not a Captain.

There were the desperate days during the Earth-Minbari war, in the bilges, scrubbing decks for pennies and passage, a lost and bleeding and half-dead child looking into the death-eyes of Minbari bloodlust and -

- the mines.

"David," he heard Cara say.

No, not Cara - she had been black-haired, darker than Q-40. The red-haired woman stepped up beside him.

"David - we need to talk."

He shook his head to free it of the cobwebs - and turned to meet the eyes of his weapons officer.
 
Ever hear of taking liberties? I'm taking a few here. (This might get edited, too... I'm doing this in the fifteen minutes before work.)

-- -- --

Maddox | Good evening, Mr. Bridges. This is Mr. Proud, and I'm Grayson Maddox. I trust this interview wasn't too much of an imposition on your impending mission countdown?

Bridges | Not at all, sir.

Maddox | Good - let's get down to it, then. You were on the bridge of the Enfalli when Captain Martel made the decision to stand down?

Bridges | Yes.

Maddox | For the entire battle?

Bridges | No - I was below, helping the repair crew get the secondary life support systems running.

Maddox | But you saw the decision.

Bridges | Yes, I did. I was there for the - for the last part of the battle. There were so many of them. There was nothing we could have done.

Maddox | Captain Martel gave the order to stand down - for whom? For himself?

Bridges | No, sir.

Maddox | For you? For Dulann? For Sarah Cantrell?

Bridges | For all of us, sir. Everyone on the Enfalli.

Maddox | I'm sure you didn't want to die.

Bridges | I am prepared to die for the One.

Maddox | Well, that sounds like a canned answer, Mr. Bridges, if I've ever heard one. Can you give me something that doesn't sound like you've just graduated from the Anla'shok Sunday School?

Bridges | If I can further the cause of peace by my own death, then I'm happy. The One desires nothing but peace. I desire nothing but peace.

Maddox | You aren't happy.

Bridges | Beg pardon?

Maddox | I said, you aren't happy, are you, Ranger Bridges?

Bridges | I don't see what this has to do with the incident on the Enfalli, sir.

Maddox | I'm going to guess that you weren't entirely happy with Captain Martel's decision, Ranger. You hoped that you would die.

Bridges | I choose not to answer that question.

Maddox | You wanted to die for the One. And yet, here you are. Do you trust Captain Martel, Mr. Bridges?

Bridges | With my life.

Maddox | Yes. So say your shipmates.

Bridges | We all agree on this.

Maddox | What did you do before you became part of the Anla'shok?

Bridges | I was an actor, sir.

Maddox | An actor! On Beta Colony?

Bridges | Shakespeare. Stage productions, mostly.

Maddox | Well, that's interesting. You must have had an interesting journey from the stage to the covert operations corps, then.

Bridges | ...Yes.

Maddox | Sounds like it was good preparation.

Bridges | Covert ops isn't like acting, sir.

Maddox | Really. I think it is. The audience is just different and the costume is easier to put on.

Bridges | Lives don't ride on the fact that you're in "Twelfth Night," Mr. Maddox.

Maddox | Right... do you know what your shipmates did before they joined the Anla'shok?

Bridges | That isn't important.

Maddox | It's very important to me. Do you know?

Bridges | Sarah - I don't know what she did - Firell was religious caste medical corps, did a lot of field medicine during the civil war. I've never asked about the others.

Maddox | Would you be interested to know what Captain Martel did before the Shadow War?

Bridges | Not necessarily, sir.

Maddox | He was a quantium-40 miner.

Bridges | Oh.

Maddox | You're not concerned?

Bridges | No, sir.

Maddox | Not in the least bit? He worked as part of Nixiam Industries' front-line team. For five years straight, he had constant contact with unrefined quantium-40.

Bridges | But that's illegal, sir. One year is far too long to be exposed to Q-40 without adequate recovery time.

Maddox | I thought covert ops personnel were recruited for the easy way they're able to detect a lie, Mr. Bridges.

Bridges | What?

Maddox | I mean - the lies, Ranger. I mean Nixiam Industries and Carroll-Fanning and Madgadel. Rotating the underground front-line teams is costly and time-consuming in both transit costs and training costs. Men like your Captain were put below and forced to work for months straight in the darkness, exposed with only minimal protection to the maddening effects of unrefined quantium-40. Tell me you're not in the least bit concerned.

{{silence}}

(to be continued)...
 
Thanks Channe ... but be careful ... don't burn yourself out by writing too much too quickly while you're settling in to your new place / new job. We love having your chapters but we can wait if need be. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif

And did you come up with that idea bout Q-40 mining? I like it ... but I was wondering if JMS mentioned it or if that's one of your brilliant little bits. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
 
Quantium has been described as rare, volatile and really expensive. For the younger races, it has also been described as the basis for interstellar travel, needed to build jump gates.

Logic says that people would go to great lengths to obtain it. In poorly arranged legal systems, those mining it might easily see lousy conditons, exploitation with little reward.
 
Loadhan -

Yes, that was one of my brilliant little bits. Except for the superstructure (the universe, basic Ranger philosophy, and some Minbari-do-not-lie jokes) it's all mine.

That's right. JMS might look at my Martel, tilt his head, and say, "Who the frell is *that?*" And wait until you see what I have in mind for - ooooh, but that would be telling!

Lennier has the right idea. Think Nike in Indonesia.
 
Marcus and his family owned a Quantium 40 mine on Arisia 3. The Shadow attack on the mine is described in book #9 'To Dream in The City of Sorrows' by Kathryn Drennan.
 
Just like real life, there are the companies who do it by the book - like Marcus' family mine. And then there are those that hired a younger, more desperate David Martel...

...but I'm getting ahead of myself, here.
 
Quickly...

-- -- --

Bridges | What are you saying, sir?

Maddox | I am saying nothing. I'm simply letting you know some facts that, as the covert operations officer, you should be aware of.

Bridges | The Anla'shok would never have let him enlist if he were suffering from quantium mania.

Maddox | Are you absolutely sure?

Bridges | Pardon, sir?

Maddox | Think, man! Think! At the height of the Shadow War, death had become the Rangers' greatest assurance. Why are the eldest Rangers so young? The Minbari that had served under Anla'shok Na Lenonn were consumed by Shadow-fire under the erroneous command of your very own Entil'zha! They weren't about to sort through those who sought to enlist! Before Sinclair was killed, he took them all into the fold - as he took a raving, delirious David Martel. You remember the Shadow War.

Bridges | ...yes. I do.

Maddox | The early days, Ranger Bridges. The early, desperate days. Choose not to believe me, then, to your own detriment. But do one thing for me when you return to the Liandra. Check with your healer.

Bridges | I already know she certified him completely fit for command.

Maddox | Really.

Bridges | It's in the files.

Maddox | Can you be more naive, man? How long has Ranger Firell been on the Liandra?

Bridges | Seven months.

Maddox | And how long have you known her?

Bridges | Two years, sir.

Maddox | This is her first assignment in the Anla'shok?

Bridges | Yes, sir.

Maddox | Who brought her aboard?

Bridges | Martel did, sir, on... my recommendation. Oh, God.

Maddox | Now you're seeing it, Ranger.

Bridges | This was her first assignment. No Minbari command wanted her because of her role in the Civil War...

Maddox | Are you seeing it?

Bridges | Shit.

Maddox | Yes, Ranger. Another one that's betrayed your trust.
 
Standing with her back to the wall, Sarah was a black hole against the impossibly white Minbari excuse for wallpaper, the light encroaching on the curve of her shoulder and the embroidery on the collar of her uniform. She was looking at him from just across the small gallery, her eyes as unreadable as ever.

"Thought I'd find you here," she said.

Martel nodded. "You know me. Can't stay away."

"They asked me about you," she said, approaching Martel where he stood at the viewscreen. "Very interested to know what I thought of your leadership abilities. Personal qualities."

Martel snorted. "Like what? Whether or not I eat flarn on the bridge?"

"That's against regulation, and you know it," she replied, laughing. There was an uncomfortable moment in which Sarah shifted, turned towards the glass, and slid her hands into her pockets. "No," she continued, in a voice that barely echoed the laughter of a moment before. "No, David."

Ice plummeted down Martel's esophagus and took up residence in his stomach.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, here," he said, lamely.

She paused, rocked back on her heels, and instantly returned to the casual mannerisms of the Sarah he was used to. the vast Minbari graveyard spilled out before them, behind the glass. "Well, for one," she mentioned, "they seemed very interested in whether you were fit for command."

"Hell," Martel said.

"I don't know what they think is going on up at the Liandra - have no idea where they're getting their sources - I mean, it's just ludicrous..."

"And the point, here?"

Cantrell paused diplomatically. "They seemed interested to know how far I'd go to protect you. And whether we were -"

Another diplomatic pause.

"Continue..."

Sarah coughed out the word. " - Close."

His insides clenched. Of all the stupid, idiotic - Jesus, to think that I would - COULD even -

"Oh, for Valen's sake," Martel responded. Instantly, he felt a headache coming on. No, a migraine. Blast that - he'd better go to Firell to get checked out for a brain hemorrhage. "What kind of ship do they think I run, a Centauri cruise liner? Hell. Sindell should have cashiered me when he got the chance. Even Arisia would have been better than this!"

Sarah, uncomfortably, shifted left, muttered a slightly disinterested affirmative, and looked towards the interior of the gallery. Nauseous, Martel realized what he had said.

Arisia. Of all the things I could have said, I had to -

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." he said, stopping mid-sentence before he opened up yet another Pandora's Box of problems. The headache roared.

"That's fine," she replied.

"I crossed the line there, didn't I?"

Cantrell shrugged. "Yeah, but it's fine, David. Don't worry about it."

Martel shook his head, returning his gaze to the vista on the other side of the glass. He reached out, once more, and touched the thin surface that separated him from the oh-so-Minbari graveyard.

Of course I worry. I worry about all of you.

"...How far would you go, Sarah? What was your answer?"

Sarah paused, pushed herself off from the wall, and regarded him with a pointed gaze. "Let's hope we never have to find out."
 
918 page-views. In the past three days, only 7 or 8 of the past 35 were mine...

How many people are actually reading this thing, and are there any lurkers?

...just wondering.

Just for those of you who are watching from the peanut gallery, I'd like to reiterate the way I write this (because of a certain PM I just recieved; you know who you are) and why this, at times, doesn't seem to be up to 'professional' standards. (Why you think I would lie to you about what I do for a living, I have no clue.)

I have a framework. I have a beginning, a middle, and an end, and I'm trying to follow the arc while staying as true to the story as humanly possible. The framework is right in front of me, taped to a wall frame. I follow it religiously, except when I need to convene a Vatican II (which I've done twice so far, heh heh).

I'm simply far too busy to edit this in the way that's proper, the way the stories in Asimov, The New Yorker, and even the smallest webzines are edited. This isn't because I don't want to - I already write at least nine hours a day, and there's the electric bill to think of...

That's right, folks, I'm doing this for the sheer love of the story.

I had to compromise. Most of these entries, although planned ahead, are written pretty quickly and stay as-is. Think Harlan Ellison in a bookstore. For the most part they remain unedited - except for fixing errors in continuity, and I have only done that twice.

This is not Channe shirking the story. This is Channe being as practical as she possibly can while still giving you something that's quality.

So, if it's not up to the standards you expect from a professional writer, that's why.

And I think I've done well with it, for what it's worth.
 
Kudos to you my dear! I think you are doing a great job! /forums/images/icons/smile.gif

Reading your story, I can picture David, Sarah, Malcom, and the others just like this were really a Ranger series episode or part 2 to "To Live and Die in Starlight". /forums/images/icons/smile.gif

As to the comments about this not being professional, don't let negative comments get you down. You should know better than I do that all writers have critics, but what makes that writer a great writer is that he or she can take those comments in stride and still do an excellent job. It seems to me that you are beginning to grasp that concept, and I think you should remember that each time you are faced with critics. Not everyone will like what you write, but you just keep on writing what your heart tells you, and you will be just fine. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
 
Thanks, RW.

Oh, don't worry - that PM didn't get me down. I'm not divulging who sent it, because that would just be a low blow on my part.

You must remember that I am journalist, hear me roar, and as such am usually considered to be the lowest of the low, right next to the Neanderthal or the algae-eater in your fish tank.

Never criticize a journalist. We have backbones the size of Mount Everest. And we love what we do. The combination of the two is dead-lee, man.

Also let me reiterate that I *do* welcome constructive criticism. If I didn't, I wouldn't be a very good writer. However, I won't listen to you if all I get is the equivalent of "you suck!"

I want to know *what* sucks, not *that* I suck. The former is useful. The latter is not, because the following question is always "Ok, what sucks about me," which is the equivalent of the first thing we talked about - so why don't we just cut to the chase, people? /forums/images/icons/smile.gif

Thanks for your concern, RW, and I'm really glad you're enjoying this!
 
You are welcome. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif

And thank you for writing it. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
 
I'm here ... still reading. I actually just caught up on the last few entries. I admit that it is a bit of an adjustment to read something like this but you really have some things dangling in front of us that I am interested in seeing where you take us with.

I don't have many criticisms since I know it is a rough draft or written as is a lot of times. Heh, besides ... you should know my one gripe so far. Walter? /forums/images/icons/tongue.gif

Just kidding, I am here for the long haul. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
 
Yeah, don't let anyone get you down ... not even yourself, heh. If you're anything like me, you are your own biggest critic. Maybe it's because when I write something I can see it clearly in my head so I know that what I just wrote didn't convene it properly ... but I guess others don't have that curse when they read it, heh. You're writing well; it's coming out good; and I've always been an advocate of the story first, the pretty wrapping paper later. So it might have a few errors / typoes (I don't know - I haven't been reading it looking for them; my "see-typo" mode is usually turned off when I'm on message boards ... I make enough myself) ... that doesn't detract from the plot ... which is very good and interesting.

Thanks again. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
 
My name is Ozymandias, King of kings -
Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!

Anyway, I'm good at dialogue. I'm good at description. I'm just not good at filling in the body movements between the dialogue... so, here we are...

-- -- --

Martel sighed. "Evasive, insinuatory, and vintage Sarah Cantrell," he replied, casting one last look into the graveyard. He stopped, as always, drawn to the space three stories up, row five, casket eight, at a fifty-three degree angle from eye-level. "Dulann out yet?"

He caught Cantrell's brief glance out the gallery, following his gaze, and her hand moving up to scratch the back of her neck. "Far as I know, no. They're grilling Malcolm as we speak."

Martel grimaced. "Hate to think what they're asking him."

"He can handle it," Cantrell replied, her voice lending a questioning tone to the statement. "Nervous?"

"Of course not."

"You're nervous," she pressed, grinning. "You're not going to get canned, David. You have G'Kar's say-so."

"But that's the trick," he replied, turning to face her. "You don't know how frustrating that is."

"Oh?" Skeptically, she crossed her arms across her chest and waited.

Taking a deep breath, Martel explained. "Prove him right. Prove him right - doing what?"

"Taxi service for Drazi ambassadors with skinflake."

"Shush," said Martel, grinning.

"They have skinflake," Cantrell said, laughter threatening to overwhelm her slight grin. She leaned closer. "You saw."

He couldn't help it. A grin escaped his lips. "Respect is a virtue, Sarah," he affirmed, half-laughing himself. "Rangers don't -"

"The pictures were hilarious, David. Admit it. Even Malcolm was about to laugh."

"Of course he was," he said. He paused. "Tirk didn't see, did he?"

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "He was laughing."

"He was not laughing."

"He was."

"No," Martel said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I didn't know he laughed."

Sarah grinned again, but this time it was shorter, less amused. The light dropped from her eyes. "You're not getting canned," she said, returning to seriousness. "Our stories check out. Malcolm will say what Dulann says. Dulann will say what I said. And you know we're always behind you, David."

"They won't ask Dulann if he and I are having a secret affair in the weapons pod," he quipped, turning on one heel to exit the gallery.

She followed, and her voice moved into a more serious tone in less than a heartbeat. "They'll use your friendship with Dulann against you. And I think that would be a fantastic place to have an affair."

He pushed open the door to the long, white hallway. "Dulann won't let them trap him into admitting anything that isn't true," he ruminated. "He's too smart for that."
 
Mmmm, just got around to reading this last installment. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif Keep em coming when you have a chance to spit them out. /forums/images/icons/wink.gif
 
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